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

by A. Evermore

  At first he thought a death hound was busy inside the closed stable, the way it was rocking. The wood noisily cracked as if under strain, and there came the snorting of some furious beast. But the door was still whole, the metal door latch still intact and slotted shut. He stepped cautiously towards the stable. Then a frenzied scream was followed by splintering wood as the door exploded outwards.

  Out of the flying wood a huge black devil of a horse burst, headed straight towards him. The whites of its eyes were shining crescents and its mouth frothed with rage or terror or both. Hameka hurled himself to the left, narrowly missing slashing hooves. The demon-possessed horse deliberately tried to strike him!

  Then it must have seen a death hound finishing its meal, for it wheeled back around and hurtled towards Hameka again. He rolled to his left, pounding hooves struck just inches from where he had sprawled. He tried to sit up and watched in a daze as the devil horse galloped away.

  A hulking death hound lolloped around the corner in front of the horse, its growl was so deep and loud it rumbled the ground upon which Hameka sat. It lunged for the horse’s throat but missed as the horse reared. The horse screamed its own fury as it took the full force of the hound on its side.

  Together they fell, a tumbling mass of snapping teeth and lashing hooves. The horse rolled to its feet, reared, and drove its front hooves down onto the hound’s head. There was a sickening crack as the death hound’s skull fractured and spilled its dark bloody contents onto the grass. With another scream the horse reared into a gallop, hooves spraying up great clumps of earth as it tore away and disappeared out of the fog and into the trees.

  Hameka stood up and brushed himself down, shaken but furious at this charade, especially with his master watching. He looked around but the raven was still nowhere to be seen and his smouldering fury deepened.

  ‘Forget the bird,’ Baelthrom said, there was no anger in his voice, only a subtle pondering.

  The stench of butchery was rich in the windless fog and the sound of snapping bones and tearing flesh soon overcame the remaining horses’ death screams as the hounds devoured them.

  Hameka watched the bloodshed in grim detachment. It had not gone well so far, he would make sure the inhabitants would not be as troublesome as the animals had been. At his command the Maphraxies regrouped, barking their guttural orders back to each other, and moved as one dark mass towards the castle. A cloud passed overhead, reminding Hameka of the Dread Dragons’ presence. They too needed feeding. Beneath them circled the smaller shapes of harpies; Hameka grimaced with distaste.

  The first person they came across was an old maid hanging out the washing in the servants’ gardens. She was too deaf to have heard the commotion at the stables and did not see the death hound that jumped her from behind, severing her neck in a smooth fluid motion. She was dead before she hit the ground.

  Hameka stepped over the feeding hounds and blood soaked sheets, vivid red in the green gloom, and into the rear of the castle. That would be all that was left of her, the death hounds would devour everything and not even her bones would remain.

  Only servants were met at this early hour. They scurried away from the Maphraxies like terrified mice but they could not outrun the death hounds. Even though he knew it would be easy, Hameka was still surprised at how easy it was, these people were woefully unprepared for an attack, he had yet to come across a guard or soldier. The inhabitants on the sacred Isle of the Goddess never suspected Baelthrom would strike so small a target so far south.

  Maphraxian blades cut down those that slept in their beds, old and young alike. Hameka wondered if the Maphraxies could tell the difference and decided they probably couldn’t even tell the difference between day and night. Hopefully they would be careful not to kill a dark-haired girl, but any girl matching her description was yet to be found.

  Hameka moved from room to room with increasing speed, searching for her, the amulet burning bright on his chest. Finally he came to a large bedchamber more richly decorated than the others with its four poster bed, heavy velvet drapes and ornately carved dressing table, but the chamber was empty.

  ‘The lord and lady of the castle are not here and what of that wizard the harpy mentioned?’ Hameka murmured, half to himself, half to Baelthrom. But the amulet was a silent glow. With a roar of frustration he gripped the side of the dressing table and hurled it over. The contents of the table top and drawers spilled out onto the floor, silks and cottons tumbling together with gold and silver jewellery and gems. Worthless and of no interest to Hameka.

  He whirled away and stalked out the door. All the rooms were swiftly ransacked, and the cellars crawling with Maphraxies, yet still nothing was found. They had to be somewhere! He made his way to the courtyard at the front of the house where a small collection of prisoners was forming.

  ‘Magic wielders,’ a dark dwarf spread his hand wide towards a smaller group of people separated from the rest. Three shaking and sobbing young maids, and two beaten-unconscious young male guards.

  Hameka snorted, as if such young people could wield that much magic. But then the Elixir worked its own magic in the most mysterious of ways, making the most useless novice in magic able to wield huge amounts of black magic. The dark dwarf was eyeing the maids with a loathsome lust.

  ‘These are not for you, as well you know. Bind and gag them, their snivelling is more than irritating,’ Hameka commanded. The dark dwarf scuttled away.

  There were ten other people, five men and five women ranging from late teens to early forties and all in a similar state to the potential magic wielders, snivelling, shaking, beaten and bloodied. They were servants, cooks or soldiers. The unfortunate spoils of war. Half lay unmoving, the other stared in terror at the ground. Yes, we do make quite an ugly sight, Hameka grinned at the thought.

  He looked at each of the women and of the four dark-haired ones; one was too old, one was too young, and the two obvious sisters were too short, barely taller than the dark dwarves themselves. None of the women matched her description. He sighed. The dark dwarves looked as hungry as the death hounds, their eyes already devouring the terrified maids. Hameka found the dwarves revelling in debauchery pathetic and weak and he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he always did when they invaded towns and villages.

  The men would be fought over by the harpies, and if they survived that they would be taken back to their nests. Harpies had many ways to ensure no man denied them their offspring, it was the only way they could reproduce for all harpies were born female. Once the act was done the men, having served their purpose, would be devoured. The witch-birds were already circling low and their eager cackles grated his ears. Hameka almost felt sorry for the men. The women would be fought over by the dark dwarves and finished off quickly, they had it easier, he thought.

  ‘Finish the job,’ Hameka sighed as he turned and walked away to scan the horizon. He didn’t want to hear, see or smell it. But not hearing it was hard when the harpies cackled so loudly in glee.

  Chapter 26

  Enemy On The Doorstep

  THERE came a sudden prickling on the back of her neck and the heavy feeling of being watched. Cirosa’s attention whipped back to the present. Her eyes came to settle on Arla, the bothersome child that she was bound by oath to look after. She stood in the doorway of her office looking pale and grubby as always.

  ‘What is it Arla?’ she snapped, ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  The girl raised her eyebrows slightly, as if to say that pacing the floor and clenching fists was not really what one would call busy. She glared at the child. Arla’s robes were covered with grass stains, her knees muddy and her fair almost white hair tangled with leaves.

  Filthy feral child, she thought, disgusted. Despite numerous scoldings the child refused to take notice of her superiors and moments after washing and donning clean clothes she somehow managed to cover herself in all manner of forest matter.

  She had changed little from the girl they found wandering the eastern
shores of Celene in nothing but rags several years ago. The old High Priestess of Celene, Mielan, had found her and taken her in. Mielan claimed she had seen the child in a vision, though the girl’s purpose had not been made clear to her. Mielan never found out what her vision of the girl meant for she died six months later from a wasting sickness that had been eating away at her for years.

  No one from the villages claimed the child as theirs and so she became one of the Temple novices. It was fairly common for the temples to take in abandoned or runaway children that came to them. It could be the girl was washed up on the shore from a boat that had wrecked upon the rocks.

  But they never thought this child would be their saviour did they? Cirosa grimaced inwardly. Back then the girl did not speak and did not even know her own age. Though she was small and frail and stunted, both Cirosa and Mielan suspected she was much older than she looked, though she still showed no signs of adolescence. Maybe she is permanently stunted.

  Though Mielan had always acted wary of Cirosa, she clearly did not trust her, always hiding away her notebooks in which she recorded her dreams and visions, speaking to others of her thoughts but never Cirosa, there was no one more suitable to run the Temple of Celene when she was gone. The few trainees they received were far too young and unprepared; something that Cirosa had carefully ensured. The young girls could never pose a threat to her obvious succession as High Priestess of Celene.

  Mielan was going to die soon anyway; it was only a matter of time. A few crushed roots here, a sprinkling of herbs there, the old priestess didn’t even notice it in her dinner; it only served to speed up the process and lessen her suffering of course.

  But unfortunately Cirosa was forced to take care of the child by a binding oath Mielan made her take on her death bed. The girl was blessedly silent and absent most of the time but despite her placid nature Cirosa was wary of the girl to the point of being afraid, a fear that she kept hidden. She had the feeling that Arla somehow suspected her plans, knew her innermost thoughts and desires, even knew about the roots and herbs she had given Mielan to speed up the death process. But the girl never said anything, only watched her when she was not looking with large unblinking eyes.

  ‘Why do you stare so child? Answer me!’ Cirosa demanded irritably, but Arla said nothing and continued to stare up at her as if she were looking straight through her. The girl was prone to going into a trance, Mielan had thought this important but to Cirosa she was just a simple child given to daydreaming. The child still did not respond. Cirosa began to feel nervous.

  ‘Arla, what is it?’ she asked more gently, feeling the patience drain from her. The child’s serene face turned to a mask of shock and her eyes opened wide with fear, her bottom lip quivered. Cirosa bent down taking her firmly by the shoulders, ‘Are you sick, child?’

  In a female voice too old to be her own the child spoke, ‘The beast is slain, retribution comes. Too late to flee, betrayer, too late!’ Arla screamed and collapsed.

  Cirosa trembled as she grabbed the girl and part carried, part dragged her into the leather chair. The girl lay unconscious and floppy like a rag doll. Cirosa chewed her fingers and her heart pounded. Her eyes came to rest on the bottom drawer of her desk. The girl is talking gibberish nonsense as always. She laughed aloud, hoping to rouse the girl and still her pounding heart but the fear ate at her. How could the child possibly know the beast is dead?

  ‘Arla?’ she chanced and took a hold of her skinny shoulder, ‘Arla, wake up. It is safe now.’

  The girl moaned and blinked as she came around. She took the glass of water Cirosa gave her in both hands and drank it noisily. Sweat still shone on her pallid face.

  ‘What did you see Arla?’ Cirosa asked, keeping her voice level.

  ‘I don’t remember it all, High Priestess,’ the girl replied in her normal childish voice. ‘I don’t always understand the things I do remember seeing. There were many black shapes shining like insects. They moved in a green mist bringing terror and destruction before them. There were huge black dragons that brought fire. People were dying and screaming. I called to the goddess but she could not reach us, I... I don’t know why,’ she stammered.

  Never before had Cirosa seen the girl exhibit any other behaviour than complete serenity, not since Issa arrived at least. The wench has unsettled everything and everyone!

  ‘But I saw another thing in my dreams last night,’ the girl’s worried look turned hopeful, ‘I know that the White Beast has been slain, High Priestess. I am sure the goddess has not abandoned us and her Raven Queen comes to save us,’ the girl gave a rapturous smile.

  Cirosa’s stomach lurched and the room spun around her. The blood drained from her face and she clung to the table to keep from falling; she closed her eyes against the spinning room. She desperately willed the child to be wrong but knew she was never wrong. The rage began to grow within her.

  ‘Leave me child’ she said hoarsely, her eyes clamped shut.

  The girl made a small noise as if she were about to speak but clearly thought better of it and left. Cirosa heard the door shut and stayed very still. Issa gnawed away at her like an infected sore. Could she trust the bloodstone, trust whoever or whatever had spoken to her through it? That Keteth had been slain by her was just too awful to believe and she had desperately been trying to deny it. She needed some air, some time to clear her head.

  She stumbled outside struggling to breathe for the air itself seemed thick and solid. To avoid being seen she slipped around the back of her office building, staggered against the hard wall for support and then ran towards the trees. Following the tree-line she stumbled towards the narrow path that wound through the trees towards the cliff’s edge where it zigzagged down ancient steps cut in the craggy rock to the beach far below.

  The wench was like poison in her veins, threatening to ruin a lifetime of hard work and carefully laid plans. So, she had succeeded in destroying Keteth, it did not mean anything more than that. She gripped the hand-rope tightly as her feet carried her down the stone steps. Her legs were like jelly and her breath came shallow and fast.

  The prophecies were still no more than the wistful gibbering of mad men and women, they did not dictate the truth, did not dictate the future and the lives and actions of people that did not yet live. The Maphraxies would come for Issa, the voice in the amulet said they would, and then Issa would simply disappear. Problem solved. There was nothing to worry about and everything to look forward to.

  Cirosa smiled feeling a certain amount of calm return to her as she stepped onto the white sand. She smoothed back her hair, took in a deep breath and walked to the shore where the waves gently lapped the sand. A mist covered the sea out upon the horizon and it grew thicker and closer even as she watched. Bad weather heading this way in an hour or so, she reasoned. She slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot in the waves watching the white froth cover her neatly trimmed and polished toenails. She considered her future gains.

  She would be the Oracle, nothing could change that, nothing. The Maphraxies wanted Issa and nothing more. They were welcome to her. She would tell the bloodstone amulet everything about the foolish wench.

  Lost deep in thought and staring at her feet in the waves she did not notice the wreckage of a boat lying in the sand at the water’s edge until she was almost upon it. She looked up in surprise and stared at the sky blue painted bow of the wrecked boat. It seemed then that the world stopped turning as she reached to trace the remaining swirling black painted letters;

  …e Skies.

  ‘Blue Skies,’ she said aloud the familiar name of the boat. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart faltered. Rance’s boat!

  ‘Rance,’ she gasped. ‘No, it cannot be,’ she shook her head as tears of denial filled her eyes. He had to be around here somewhere. But looking around her the beach was empty, there was not even any body lying on the beach. She felt sick. It could be someone else’s boat but his was the only one painted sky blue. She looked closer at wher
e the wood was splintered and couldn’t help but notice the holes in the wood, about ten or so deep punctures forming a neat crescent the size of a small shield.

  Keteth. Rance is dead… She knew it to be true.

  Dimly she was aware of a high-pitched whistling and only when she collapsed to her knees and the noise stopped did she realise it was her own screaming. Gasping for air, quivering with weakness, she gripped the splintered wood and pulled herself to standing. The place was as silent as the grave, even the waves seemed to be silent as she stared at the broken boat of the man she still loved.

  She did this. The thought was a blank statement, free of emotion, pure as logic.

  She did this. You knew where she had gone, you fool! You thought you could help her? Anger flooded through the pain.

  ‘You chose to go to her instead of me!’ she shouted uselessly at the wreck. ‘She has bewitched you! Now you are dead. Dead!’ The sobs came in great shudders as she clung to the cold wood of the boat.

  There came an intense burning sensation on her thigh. She frowned, reached into the pocket of her priestess robes and pulled out the rag-bound amulet. I do not remember putting it in my pocket! But in her pocket it clearly was. She stared at it awhile.

  She did this.

  Issa was to blame for his death and she must be punished. She would pay in kind, a life for a life. Her face suddenly burned hot with a feverous hatred. She would kill the bitch herself. She stroked the sky blue paint of the bow and laid her forehead against it. Issa had destroyed the only thing that she had ever been able to love in all Maioria.

  Cirosa knelt beside Rance’s wrecked boat for a long time. The sobs slowly subsided as her grief turned to thoughts of revenge. She would have stayed there for hours, uncaring of the changing weather; the thickening fog, the slow pattering of rain, but a shadow passed overhead bringing her back to the present.