The Fall Of Celene (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 2)

by A. Evermore

  The Histanatarns were not in league with Baelthrom as such, but they never fought the Immortal Lord or his armies and so they were of no threat to the Maphraxies. They would be made to submit to Maphraxian might when the Immortal Lord extended his reach westwards to the Uncharted Lands. Something that would be a lot easier now without Keteth. The Histanatarns were almost too feral, too animalistic, to really be allies to the Maphraxies. It would be like trying to form an army out of goblins. They only answered to their own leaders and did not have the brains to make any deals with outsiders.

  They probably do not even understand immortality, Hameka snorted at the thought.

  The Dread Dragon turned in circles out of reach of the harpoons, though there appeared to be no danger since the Halanoi were too deep in battle to notice. There were other Dromoorai in the sky also circling the battle below. The Dromoorai was clearly waiting for its next orders.

  ‘Are the Dragons hungry?’ Hameka asked, rubbing his smooth freshly-shaved chin.

  ‘Yes,’ was the simple reply.

  ‘Then feast,’ Hameka smiled, ‘they are too busy and out-numbered to man the harpoons.’

  The Dromoorai circled down followed closely by the other Dread Dragons. Flames spewed forth from the Dread Dragon’s mouth and for a moment the bloodstone was filled with fire. Hameka could almost feel the searing heat in his cabin.

  The tall masts of the enemies’ ships exploded into pillars of flame and the turned into sheets of fire. Dragon fear swept over Feylint Halanoi and Histanatarn alike. The chaotic brawl of battle became still. Hameka smiled, even from here he could see big armoured men shaking. Their sharp and shiny swords looking small and pathetic in the face of a Dread Dragon. I wonder if their chain-mail jingles and rattles whilst they shake?

  The Dromoorai circled up and around for another attack. An armed enemy had to be killed before they could be feasted upon. The world spun from sea to sky and back again. Hameka blinked and rocked in his seat, suddenly feeling sick. He steadied himself against the desk as the Dread Dragon angled down for another attack. Flames filled its open mouth, vivid red orange captured between black fangs as sharp and thick spears. But the flames did not explode forth and instead the Dragon seemed to falter in confusion and the flames extinguished in its mouth as it circled upwards again.

  ‘What is happening?’ Hameka demanded, ‘Kill them all now!’

  ‘Spy, an Infected,’ the Dromoorai breathed tonelessly and emotionlessly.

  ‘Where? Show me.’ A Maphraxie spy?

  The Dromoorai pulled on the huge chains and the Dread Dragon came low beside one ship. There, sprawled face down on the deck, was a big man and as Hameka squinted into the bloodstone he saw the familiar red hue surrounding his body. An aura that was invisible to all who had not imbibed the Elixir of Immortality. The aura of an infected human, infected by a Maphraxie, to become the Immortal Lord’s unwitting spy.

  Hameka could not believe his luck. So, their attempts at infiltrating the Feylint Halanoi had not failed completely. That was good news, very good indeed. Baelthrom would be pleased. It had been Hameka’s plan from the start and now it seemed to have some use. Though their victories were won faster through the brute force of numbers rather than spying, it was not without its merits. Through the eyes of the spy they could know where the enemy was and what they were planning. It was how the necromancers were able to “see into the future,” of sorts, or at least just outmanoeuvre the enemy.

  All Maphraxies were forbidden to kill their own spies. The Dread Dragon could not have destroyed the man even if it had wanted to. They would leave him alive and feast on the others. It was highly doubtful he’d survive on a wrecked ship so far from land but there were other spies wandering through the Feylint Halanoi. Perhaps it was time to create more spies, Hameka mused.

  ‘Finish the job,’ Hameka ordered with a yawn. The entertainment was swiftly growing dull.

  ‘Yes, Commander,’ the Dromoorai wheezed.

  Hameka ended the communication through the Key Stone and let it dangle upon his chest. It grew dim but still glowed a little. Lord Baelthrom had seen everything through the Shadow Master, Hameka was sure of it, and a part of his Lord’s consciousness still watched somewhere.

  After a while Hameka got up and went to his hammock. He turned off the lantern and settled down to sleep, the amulet still glowing faintly in the dark.

  Chapter 22

  King Marakazian

  MARAKON wandered through a sea of mist; he could just make out the sandy ground beneath him, a few rocks scattered here and there, dust, not a blade of grass. He was shirtless and his trousers were nothing but rags that flapped in the wind. His leather boots were in tatters. It was not cold, but he felt exposed and vulnerable without a shirt, and my sword and armour! He neither knew where he was nor how he had gotten here. His memory of pretty much anything was blank.

  Have I died? Is this a dream? Wake-up!

  But he didn’t wake up and besides it felt too real to be a dream. He didn’t feel dead, but then what does being dead feel like? Was this one of those places between worlds? Though between Maioria and what else I don’t know. He thought about the Shadowlands and shuddered. He stomped on the ground, it felt solid enough, not insubstantial. If only the mist would clear he could see more. But it swirled all around him and blanketed the sky so the only thing he could see was the barren ground. At least he did not appear to be in danger.

  If he kept walking he would get somewhere, or the mist might clear. It could be worse, he could be stumbling through a baking hot desert or the frigid tundra of some Draxian island, or starving to death or horribly wounded. Praise the goddess for small mercies, he thought a little sourly.

  After a time the mist did begin to clear and became patchy swirls of haze drifting upon the barren landscape. He walked along an endless, flat and dusty plain. He squinted into the distance, there seemed to be rocks ahead marking a change in the landscape. He went to lift up his eyepatch but it was not there. Had he dropped it? No, he never had it on in the first place. So long he had worn it he couldn’t tell when he didn’t wear it.

  He covered his good eye and stared with his left. The rocks in the distance were still far away and blurry. I have my normal sight back! But then he immediately missed his wounded far-sighted left eye. Still, at least he didn’t have to worry with that bothersome patch. An awful feeling stole over him. I’m dead aren’t I. What happened, how did I get here? I don’t remember dying. Still, he felt pretty good and quite alive. Not so bad being dead after all. Wherever here was it had to be somewhere. He stood up tall and purposefully headed towards the rocks on the horizon.

  He felt he could walk for days, his legs were not weary, his throat was not parched, he was not even hungry. All those things only made him worry more that he might be dead. The flat barren landscape became a path through dark terracotta coloured rocks and into a craggy valley with steep cliffs rising hundreds of metres high on either side.

  Dotted within the cliffs were crumbling doorways and windows, pillars and intricate decorative carvings that looked like animals and people, adorned the cliff-face. People had lived here once, in this ancient landscape, carving out their homes in the very rock, he thought, and judging by the hundreds of doorways it seemed the people positively thrived here. Perhaps he walked the river-bed of a long dried up river and everyone left when the water went. Whatever had happened the people were gone now, how or why only the rocks themselves knew.

  The valley led towards flatter land again and he came to the banks of a vast lake or sea; he could not see the horizon because of the mist that hung above it. He started in surprise when he saw the intricately carved boat beached and tilted on the sand. The prow was carved into the head of a sea-serpent or dragon and in its mouth it held a lantern. Within the boat sat a huddled grey figure. Their back was to him and they did not move.

  Perhaps he or she was asleep, he thought hopefully. Thank the goddess there is someone else here in this cursed pla
ce. He trotted over to them eagerly.

  ‘Hey there,’ he called.

  He’d meant to say it quietly and jovially but his voice echoed loudly. What if they are armed? His hand strayed to his side where his sword should have been. Well, he could still fight hand-to-hand if needed. The figure stirred slightly at his approach but otherwise remained still, face concealed within a deep grey hood. Marakon stopped beside the boat.

  ‘Hello?’

  After a moment the figure spoke in a slow old man’s voice.

  ‘Who is it that walks the Valley of Death?’

  Marakon looked around him, The Valley of Death? The name sounded familiar. Had it always been a valley of death? he wondered, thinking on all the houses in the rock. Suddenly they too seemed familiar. I don’t want to know what happened here, he felt unnerved.

  ‘Who is it that walks the Valley of Death?’ the old man repeated in the same tone.

  ‘It is I, it is…’ Marakon stuttered and then found the words falling from his lips, ‘I, Marakazian…’ he frowned. That was not his name, he was Marakon, and yet Marakazian was also his name, his real name.

  ‘Marakazian? Cursed King of the Banished Legion, the fallen Knights of the Shining Star?’ the old man asked, surprise tinged his voice.

  ‘Yes…’ Marakon began before he could stop himself. He shook his head in confusion, ‘But I was not always called that. I was… I was King Marakazian, a Knight of the Shining Star…’ He trailed off, wiped the sweat from his face. If he felt unnerved before he felt positively scared now. ‘I have spoken these words before, a thousand times before. But I don’t remember when… I don’t remember why… What is happening to me? What is this place?’

  The hooded figure said nothing and only nodded slowly and slightly. Marakon realised then that he was waiting for the old man to say something important. There was something this old man should say, I know it, I feel it! He suddenly felt as if they were acting out some play on stage, their lines rehearsed and remembered many times before.

  ‘What is it you seek, Cursed King of the Banished Legion?’ the old man asked quietly.

  Marakon was keenly aware of the stillness, nothing moved, not the water upon the shore, or the wind, or the man before him; all was silent, waiting for his answer. It was like a great burden was about to be lifted, the smell of freedom on the wind for a lifetime as a slave. Redemption and forgiveness for a terrible crime committed. He knew the words he had to speak, must speak, had waited a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes to say.

  ‘I seek a passage to my people. The sentence is served, the millennia have passed, and the time has come.’

  The figure was still for a while. Marakon knew in the heart of his soul that the words he had spoken had never been uttered before. Slowly the old man nodded his head once more.

  ‘So soon... So quickly the time has passed in my realm. Very well, Marakazian, Cursed King of the Banished Legion, you must answer this question correctly to prove your right of passage to the Land of the Banished. Who is it that you serve?’

  Marakon licked his dry lips. He did not know the answer to the question because the answer had never been known, could not be known, not until now. It seemed the silence deepened and the sun overhead grew hotter, burning everything around him with a terrible oppressive heat. The heat spread over his skin and burned in his throat as he breathed.

  A shadow passed overhead and memory flashed before him. He looked up and saw a raven set in stark contrast to the brilliance of the sun. As he stared at the raven the sun turned from yellow to blue surrounding him in its cool dark light. The raven raucously called to him. The answer was his.

  ‘I serve the dark moon… I serve the Night Goddess Zanufey,’ his words were loud in the stillness and fell like stones dropping into the stillest pond. The earth rippled beneath him and then was still.

  The old man straightened his back in surprise, ‘The answer is… different. You have not said those words before. The dark moon of Zanufey has indeed arisen upon Maioria… Perhaps then it is she who can cleanse the darkness from your soul, Cursed King Marakazian. The change has now come... So be it, King Marakazian, leader of the Banished Legion. Perhaps the price has been paid, the sentence fulfilled.

  ‘Now the hands of the clock turn once more and the hour is near. I will take you to the Banished Lands, but only you can find your people. You must find them and return to me before the time runs out. If you do not you will be forever lost, doomed to walk a Lost One in the endless Land of Shadows along with your Banished Legion. This is the final task to complete before you and your knights can become free. Do you accept it?’

  ‘I accept it. How can I not? I will return in time. Take me to my people,’ the words caught in his throat as emotion rose and threatened to overwhelm him. My people. He felt as if a great weight had been pressing down upon him and was now lifting.

  ‘What is this place?’ Marakon asked.

  ‘An ancient land. They called it Unafay. Once a place of life and beauty until the people made the Dark Rift and dark things came. Here the Demon Wars were fought and the land was desecrated. In the Valley of Death terrible things happened.’

  ‘The Demon Wars? They were fought thousands of years ago but no one knows where,’ Marakon started.

  ‘There is much you do not remember, King Marakazian, but you are an old soul. One of the oldest. And memory will come in time,’ the old man said softly. ‘You will not find this place within the mortal planes of Maioria anymore. It was flooded, it sank, and now it lies somewhere between the Murk and Maioria.

  ‘It is no surprise that Keteth created his Shadowlands where he did, between the Uncharted Lands and Frayon, where this land once existed. The place where thousands of souls died. Access to the world of the dead taught Keteth many things that had long been forgotten. Perhaps it can be made whole again, perhaps it can rise back into Maioria. But until then it is a place where the cursed come. Cursed people to a cursed place. Even they do not stay, cannot stay,’ the old man said.

  Marakon waited for more but there was none.

  ‘Why are you here, then?’ Marakon raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  ‘You are not the only one who is cursed.’

  Marakon considered that for a while. I am cursed? How? What have I done and what is the curse?

  ‘And besides, we have always met here, when death is close at hand. In fact, you are rather late,’ the boatman said.

  ‘Am I dead?’

  The hooded face turned to look at him but despite Marakon’s peering he couldn’t make anything out within the hood apart from an ancient wrinkled neck. The old man gave a low laugh. Though there was only humour there Marakon felt irritated.

  ‘Look, I don’t remember anything. I just remember walking. I don’t know how I got here, I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what this curse is. I…’

  An old wrinkled hand lifted up, asking for peace.

  ‘You got here because your spirit is linked to this place. You are not dead. Not fully. But you are near death. It is always hard for people such as you to understand this. Better explained as a dream, only a real one, and you are your soul walking here. Just as in a dream.’

  People such as me? ‘Where, then, is my body?’

  ‘Where you left it.’

  Marakon gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘But do not worry,’ the old man said, ‘where we go now your body will also follow, for it is simply a vessel for the consciousness. And in reality, it is the soul, the consciousness, that leads the body, and not, as you have it in your world, the other way round. I know this because I am the boatman and I traverse the oceans between worlds.’

  Marakon frowned deeply, confusion making him suddenly weary. The old man pulled out an hourglass from a sack in the bottom of the boat. His hands were shaking and Marakon noticed how old and shrivelled they were, older than old, as if his body had died long ago but something inside still lived on. He set the hourglass in a holder at the bow of th
e boat. Tiny grains of golden sand began to trickle through the narrow centre into the empty bottom.

  ‘Is that the time I have?’

  The old man nodded once. Marakon chewed his dry and cracking lips.

  Slowly the boatman raised a hand and pointed at him. Unseen hands gripped Marakon and lifted him easily into the boat. Cautiously he sat down facing the figure. The boat uprighted itself and slid into the water of its own accord. The boatman took up the oars and began to row. Marakon was about to offer to row instead but the old man shook his head before he could speak and so he let it pass. They moved out upon the water to where the mist became a thick fog so dense Marakon could no longer see the boatman.

  “I am the boatman and I traverse the ocean between worlds…” What did he mean? A great weariness he could not fight descended upon Marakon and he fell into a deep sleep.

  Marakon awoke abruptly, choking. He spluttered and coughed out sand and salty water. Water rushed over him and he coughed and spluttered again. He lifted his head higher, gasping and blinking through the stinging salt. His whole body aching and complaining from the effort.

  This is more like what being alive is, he thought sourly, pain, cold, wet and just plain hard work!

  But being alive, even in this state, brought with it a certain amount of relief. He blinked again trying to see. Salt and sand trapped under his eyepatch washed into his left eye. Strangely it didn’t hurt or sting that eye.

  He was lying face down on a small horseshoe shaped beach. A large piece of wreckage that looked like half a keg, thumped against his leg. His arm was draped over the other half in a rather painful position. The waves washed over him and he struggled to his elbows to get his head above it. Everything hurt like a demon and some parts of his body, especially below his ribs, burned with the fire of more serious wounds. He tried to ignore the pain and get his bearings.