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

by A. Evermore

  Hameka nodded, his own request dying in his throat in the face of his Lord’s anger. ‘I will do as you command, my Lord.’

  The Key Stone turned dark and lifeless. Hameka slumped, weary too now. He got up from his desk with a sigh and looked down at the woman. She might become one of us but not without a good dose of pain! The minutes were ticking by, I wonder how many she has left before the poison works its grand finale?

  He bent down and searched her robes for the Shadow Stone and any weapons. He found the stone and a small knife and put them on his desk. As an after-thought he yanked off her robes, girdle, shoes and small silver bracelet, which he dumped in the corner of the room. It was possible her robes and jewellery were enchanted and it was far better to have no surprises.

  She looked rather weak, pale and puny in only her underclothes, slumped unconscious against the door of his cabin and tip-toeing on the edge of death. But then all the goddess’s creatures are weak and puny. He took a hold of the dart lodged in her shoulder, searched for the pin-prick of a button that would retract the barbs and clicked it. The dart came free easily with a spurt of fresh, bright red blood from her shoulder.

  He moved her a little to the left so she sat on an angle making the blood run down her arm and onto her underclothes, rather than drip onto his clean cabin floor and make a mess. He picked out a medium-sized bottle of the green fluid antidote from his desk drawer and stared thoughtfully down at the woman.

  ‘In a few minutes you will be dead. But I,’ he swung the bottle lazily before her, knowing she could hear him, ‘am your saviour. You will be grateful to me for saving your pitiful life.’ The woman remained unconscious. He grabbed a hold of her head and poured a slosh of the antidote into her mouth. She swallowed in reflex.

  ‘There,’ he soothed, ‘enough for a full recovery, just as our Immortal Lord commanded.’

  He let her head flop back. It would take a few minutes to work, and a whole week to recover completely. He noticed a mark on her chest just showing above her slip. He pulled the neck of her undergarment down a little to reveal a faint tattoo; a yellow circle within which were three crescent moons; one white, one orange and one blue.

  ‘Oh how very interesting,’ he mocked, ‘the symbol of the Great Goddess,’ noticing Maioria’s sun and three moons, ‘it has been a while since I have seen that cursed thing. One of those moons should certainly not be there,’ he scowled. There was a little colour returning to her face. ‘So, you worshippers of the pathetic goddess mark yourselves as such. I’m sure we can create for you our own mark,’ he smiled indulgently, thinking of the mark of the Maphraxies, the three peaks of the mountains of Maphrax, that he had scrawled with a knife into the cold dead skin of that other blonde woman.

  The woman suddenly gasped as the antidote took hold. She struggled weakly, trying to to sit up but could not for her hands and legs were bound. She shivered and blinked, her face deathly pale and dark circles under blue eyes. Her yellow hair was damp with sweat and plastered to her face. She stared up at Hameka in confused fear, her breathing fast and ragged. Fresh bright red blood trickled from the dart, wound down her shoulder and over her chest. She touched it and winced, tried to stem the flow with shaking fingers.

  Hameka smiled at her and she shrank under his cold gaze. He let the rage and frustration of the past few days swiftly consume him. The blood pounded in his head and his face grew hot.

  ‘Where is the girl?’ he shouted so loud she jumped and cowered. When she did not reply immediately he struck her hard across the face, leaving a bloody welt on her cheek. ‘Where is she!’ he bellowed again. She seemed too shocked to answer. He reached down and grabbed her by the shoulders, dragging her to standing. He shook her like a doll and she flopped uselessly in his grasp.

  She started to speak, her voice a quivering whisper, ‘I… I do not know... I...’

  He threw her back against the door. She slid down it weakly, noisily sucking in air, ‘I do not know where she is but I can help you find her,’ she spoke rapidly, gasping, and closing her eyes as if she were about to faint. ‘I am the High Priestess of Celene, I can find those that know her. I can help you destroy her.’ He bent close to her and she cowered, ‘please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,’ she begged over and again.

  ‘Begging is good, especially from a human,’ he approved, finding his anger and frustration receding somewhat as she continued to plead. ‘But what is this?’ he asked softly, ‘what is this? A high priestess turned to begging? Your goddess must have abandoned you, my dear, otherwise you would not be here,’ he brushed the hair away from her face, enjoying it when she flinched and trembled at his touch. But he felt unclean having touched a goddess worshipper and wiped his hand upon his trousers.

  ‘So you, a worshipper of that whore, would help us, your hated enemy? Why should I believe that you would willingly help us?’ he asked in a flat voice.

  ‘Because she is a fraud... and a... murderer!’ the woman hissed and then gulped, as if the bout of anger had cost her greatly. The hatred in her voice was raw, raw to the point of madness. That was good, he thought, Baelthrom is right, her hatred can be channelled and used.

  ‘You would join us to help find and destroy her?’

  ‘I will do anything to destroy her,’ she breathed heavily, her nostrils flared, her face a glistening sheen of sweat. Her eyes were dilated wide, partly from the poison, partly from hatred.

  ‘Either you help us or you die.’ He grasped her again by the shoulders, this time less roughly, and lifted her once more, holding her against the door. ‘We have ways to bind you to your word,’ he whispered, his face inches from hers. You will worship the Immortal Lord now, the One True God. You will become one of us, an immortal. Baelthrom will give you powers you cannot fathom.’

  The priestess’s eyes flared wide as he spoke. So she was greedy for power too, that is also good.

  ‘I will worship him, the Immortal Lord, I will..’ she dropped her eyes from his and nodded. He released her and she slid weakly to the floor again. He reached into his drawer and drew out a small knife which he used to cut the cords binding her hands and feet.

  Cirosa rubbed the sores where the cords had been and tried to smooth her damp matted hair back from her face. Her hands still shook despite her struggle for composure. She stared dully at the floor where her own blood lay drying. She had renounced the goddess, and though she felt gut-wrenching fear for what she had done it was soon washed away by the thoughts of power that the Immortal Lord could give her. Real awesome power that she had only briefly touched.

  Was he not far more powerful than the goddess? Was he not winning this war? The goddess was weak, if she was there at all, and no gifts had she ever bestowed upon her. Cirosa smiled inwardly as a glimmer of hope sparked within her. This was a new start; a greater stronger power awaited her. She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘You will be irreversibly bound to the Immortal Lord,’ the man said matter-of-factly and held before her the golden amulet that the harpy had given her. The Shadow Stone transfixed her easily in her weakened state. But this time she did not resist and willingly stared into it as it turned dark.

  A black cloud as dense as soot oozed out from it and surrounded her. It filled her eyes and nostrils making her choke as she was forced to breathe it in. She closed her eyes and would have fallen but the black cloud held her fast. She felt the amulet pushed upon her chest hard atop her mark of initiation into the High Priesthood of The Order of The Great Goddess.

  ‘A new mark,’ Hameka hissed from far away, ‘the mark of the Maphraxies!’

  The smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils moments before the searing pain hit. It felt like a bolt of lightning tearing through her chest. She arched her back in agony. The black soot from the amulet infiltrated every cell in her body. As the pain receded she felt a power she had not felt before and she lusted after it.

  The amulet was taken away and the pain stopped. She fell against the door. There was no
black soot or any evidence of it. She stared down at the new mark upon her chest. With a shaking finger she traced the bloody and swollen three peaks of the mark of Maphrax.

  ‘Baelthrom owns you now,’ he said. As soon as he spoke another pain started, only this time it grew from within and it burned cold, deathly cold. Her body was freezing from within, each cell filled with black soot turning into ice. She clenched her eyes shut and screamed against the pain but behind closed lids a huge black raven watched her, knowing what she had done and condemning her. From far away she heard the awful man speak.

  ‘Now you go for your final trial and your greatest glory. The Elixir of Immortality is a great gift from our Lord.’

  A door opened and she felt huge cold hands grasp her roughly and drag her away. There was a horrible dull ache on her chest where the mark of Maphrax was, a pain she would later come to realise that would never go away.

  Hameka sat there thoughtfully tapping his chin after she had been taken away to consume the Elixir of Immortality. It was still early evening and he was not tired yet. There was another prisoner he could have fun with this evening. He opened the cabin door and spoke to the remaining Maphraxie outside.

  ‘Bring me the dark-haired one.’

  The Maphraxie nodded and lumbered away. It was time to work on some interesting interrogation techniques, he thought, and smiled in anticipation.

  Chapter 33

  Sands Of Time

  MARAKON woke a little before dawn, having slept solidly since dusk. The rain made a soft pattering on the bamboo and leaf roof overhead. He wondered how on earth there weren’t leaks and drips everywhere through the leaves but there was not even drop. The air was cooler this morning, blessedly, and his wounded side no longer stung so much. I would have died had I been alone, he reasoned, for sure.

  The old boatman came clearly into his mind, the whole exchange came rushing back to him. I had been whole and uninjured there, even my eye was healed, yet it seemed as real as now. I should be dead already. Twice he should have died. The hourglass and its draining sand flashed though his mind. So let’s say he brought me here, to the west, as far west as one can go, and I am here to find something, though I don’t know what. The reasoning sounded ludicrous, yet it felt exactly true.

  He looked for his sword in the corner of the room but it was gone. Well, either someone had stolen it, which seemed unlikely since there was nowhere to run to with it and it seemed they had plenty of their own weapons anyway, or it was best to assume they were cleaning it. He laughed at the unlikely thought and swung his legs out of bed. Another cool shower would be most welcome. Perhaps Jarlain would bring it back by then.

  Jarlain returned without his sword and not knowing where it was but she did have breakfast; a generous platter of exotic fruits. An orange skinned fruit was so large and full of juice it was heavier than his sword. She left him to eat and went to speak to the Elders.

  An hour later when he had left Jarlain’s house and was about the explore, he met a tall, lean and wiry man with one of those long bows and a wide knife at his belt. He was bare-chested and wore light slim trousers tucked into dark skinned leather boots. His long black hair was tied back, and his eyes were a rich golden brown. Marakon guessed him to be of a similar age to himself, maybe slightly older. He carried another pair of boots and spoke in a quick voice with the same lilting accent.

  ‘The Elders have requested that I take you to the Drowning Wastes. You will find your answers there, is all they said. We will go in a group for safety. I must warn you that no one ever goes there. It is a terrible and sad place, more than sad, it will send you mad if you stay for too long.’

  Questions crowded Marakon’s mind, he now had so many it seemed pointless to ask any of them so he simply nodded.

  ‘Jarlain will be one of our group if she wishes,’ the man added as she came to stand beside Marakon. ‘Here, you will need these,’ he passed Marakon a pair of soft leather boots. ‘Protection from viper thorns and deadly snakes deep in the jungle,’ he explained.

  Marakon swallowed at that as he slipped them on. The Drowning Wastes, viper thorns, deadly snakes… well it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do! And always in the back of his mind he could see the hourglass with the draining sands of time. The pang of urgency struck again, like butterflies in his stomach but far more intense. Would he find what he was looking for in the Drowning Wastes? The strange cryptic Elders seemed to think so.

  ‘Is it far?’ Marakon asked.

  ‘Not really,’ was all he got back.

  ‘I am Marakon, what is your name?’ he asked, didn’t anybody introduce themselves here? Were they so keen to get rid of him that they didn’t even want to know his name? But the man looked surprised rather than irritated as he glanced at Jarlain. Perhaps they were not in the habit of introductions, as if names were somehow not important.

  ‘I am Shufen, Leader of the Hunt. Come, we must travel as far as possible whilst it is light,’ he said, and started walking away along the path that led through the village.

  Jarlain had seen Marakon’s confusion once more. ‘We only ask another’s name when we know who they are. When they are friends,’ she explained.

  ‘How do you know who someone is without knowing their name first?’ he frowned, feeling that the question was actually rather stupid. Jarlain’s laugh confirmed it.

  ‘A name is not who we are,’ she smiled, nothing but laughter sparkled in her eyes.

  Marakon looked away. Perhaps I am the uneducated barbarian.

  ‘I guess not,’ he mumbled as they turned to catch up with Shufen. He noticed then Jarlain also carried a thick curved blade at her belt in its brightly beaded sheath.

  Two more men joined them as they walked past the central well, running and smiling to catch up. One was surely only a teenager and the other a man about ten years older than Marakon. All had bows and sheathes packed with arrows. They each grasped the other’s arm, hand to elbow, in greeting and only nodded at Marakon. He decided not to ask their names this time.

  It was still early so there were not many people about. But those that were up waved in greeting at the group of five. It certainly seemed that everybody knew everyone and where they were going. Once they entered the dense jungle the village was quickly lost from view. The younger man came over to Marakon and passed him a long bundle within which was his sword.

  ‘You will need this no doubt’ he said with a smile.

  ‘My thanks,’ Marakon said, taking the sword suspiciously. It was remarkably shiny and clean.

  ‘We do not allow outsiders to carry weapons within the village,’ the boy explained as Marakon tied the sword and belt securely to his waist. He immediately felt comforted by its familiar weight. ‘And besides, it was pretty badly notched, someone took a beating,’ he grinned, ‘so you might find it a little sharper.’

  Marakon stopped short in his tracks. They had not only cleaned it but sharpened it too!

  ‘Thanks again,’ was all he could think to say. The boy shrugged.

  Though they walked on level ground, dense foliage made it tiresome as they clambered time and again over thick tree roots and vines. The further they got from the village the thicker the foliage became. It wasn’t long before Marakon was drenched in sweat in the humid heat whilst the others merely perspired a little. He cursed his human heritage for that; elves did not sweat half as much. The trees provided protection from the sun but they also seemed to keep the moisture in. It rose in great curls of mist, soaking everything it touched.

  The trees were so tall he could not make out their tops. Animals and birds rustled around in the undergrowth but darted away before he could really see them. Only the monkeys seemed to hang around, laughing at the humans from the safety of their branches. They appeared to live a life of constant play, swinging through vines, rolling over each other and pulling each other’s tails.

  The other things that moved were insects. The butterflies were huge with luminous indigo, green and yell
ow wings the span of his hand. They were so big they flapped their wings like birds. The red ants were almost the size of his finger and they scurried in long orderly lines up tree-trunks and under branches, completely oblivious to gravity. He tried to avoid the ants but an unfortunate and horribly noticeable crunch came underfoot every now and then that made him cringe. And what he thought was a dead mouse, on closer inspection, turned out to be a spider. Marakon jumped away in horror. Jarlain looked at him.

  ‘Insects are my least favourite things, after Maphraxies. Probably before Histanatarns,’ he said scowling in revulsion and slapping at a fly tickling his sweaty neck. ‘They should not be allowed to be that big,’ he pointed at the spider. Jarlain grinned.

  ‘They get smaller the further north you go, but are far less tasty.’

  Marakon’s stomach lurched. They didn't, did they? But Jarlain had turned away. He didn’t want to think about it. His side was becoming sore with all the clambering and he picked up a sturdy thick stick to help him, breaking off the smaller branches as they walked. It did offer some help but the wound was deep. Maybe he would always have a weakness there.

  As the day wore on the humidity dropped and the mist clouds dissipated. It would be nice to dry out but there was no chance given how much he was still sweating. They stopped briefly to eat the food the others had brought in their sacks. Brown nuts, some kind of bread or maybe dried meat, Marakon didn’t ask, if it was spider he didn’t want to know. It was very salty but tasty and that was all that mattered. Dessert appeared to be the large pink fruits from the forest floor, the same fruit he had “discovered” a day or so ago.