Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (19 page)

‘Thank Arkus for that,’ said Bel, coughing; his throat burned. He quickly drank some ale to wash it down.

‘Be wary, Blade Bel,’ came a creaky voice from beside him, and the smell of stale brittleleaf wafted past his nostrils.

‘Troop leader,’ Bel acknowledged.

‘We have a long ride tomorrow,’ said Munpo, ‘and I’ve seen the aftermath when men try to match a Saurian at drink. It isn’t pretty.’

‘Bah,’ reiterated M’Meska and moved away, bobbing birdlike on her hind legs. A barmaid with a drink tray had to sidestep quickly to avoid her swinging tail.

‘Can I buy you a drink, sir?’ said Bel.

‘You may, soldier.’

Again Bel gestured to the bartender. Munpo took out his brittleleaf pouch and began to make himself a roll. ‘What did you think of today?’ he asked.

‘Seems like a good troop, sir,’ answered Bel. ‘I’m glad to be part of it.’

‘Mmm-hmm,’ said Munpo, sealing the roll over his lips. ‘And you did well in the bouts.’

‘Sir.’

‘But you lost to me,’ said Munpo, putting the roll in his mouth and lighting it. Smoke issued over the counter. Munpo nodded to the bartender as his ale arrived. ‘Any ideas why?’

Bel licked his lips. He was feeling a little foggy from the drinking, and the question irritated him. ‘You’re a quick man, sir,’ he said after a moment. ‘And a skilful fighter.’

‘True,’ said Munpo matter-of-factly. ‘But those aren’t the reasons. I saw you fight Hunna and Keit. I know, just as Keit does, that you could have beaten him sooner than you did. I imagine he’s thankful that you didn’t injure his pride as you did Hunna’s, but he doesn’t deceive himself. That said, I know he would not refuse you a rematch.’ For the first time Bel saw Munpo smile, a dry enigmatic smile that tweaked the corners of his mouth then dropped away quickly. ‘I almost thought you were going to let him win,’ said Munpo.

‘I thought about it.’

‘Mmm. Now, why did you lose to me?’

‘As I said, sir –’

‘No, blade, that’s not it. You lost because you underestimated me. I’m not saying you would have won if you hadn’t, but you certainly lost because you did.’ He took a swig from his glass. ‘You’re not invincible, lad.’

Bel was openly annoyed by that. ‘I never said I was, sir.’

‘Your expression did, after I beat you. You couldn’t believe it, could you? You, young and strong and full of juice, losing to a tired old scrap like me. Well, I tell you this, blade: you underestimate someone like me on the battlefield and you don’t get to have an expression afterwards. You’ll be face down in the dirt with your eyes seein’ nothin’.’ He stared Bel hard in the eye. ‘Now you listen, lad. You’re good, we can all see that. Corlas warned me, and now I’ve seen you for myself, I might just agree with him. But don’t let your skill go to your head. The battlefield is no training ground. There’s no one on one, no control. It’s unpredictable and fast. You make one mistake out there and you’re dead. You underestimate one opponent because you don’t respect him and you’re dead.’

He sucked his brittleleaf, letting Bel digest his words.

‘You’re young and untried in a dangerous world. I’ve seen skilful, brave and arrogant men die more often than I care to remember because they didn’t keep their wits about them. Don’t go letting someone like me rile you up so much that you fall for a simple trick. And remember, Bel, if a soldier is young, it just means he ain’t been killed yet. If he’s old, it means he ain’t been killed a long time.’ Munpo winked. ‘But enough for now. You’re doing well. Even M’Meska seems to have taken a liking to you. Word of advice though – don’t accept any more drinks from her. It won’t do my pontificatin’ much good if tomorrow you fall off your horse and break your neck because you’re still drunk.’

There was that fleeting smile again and Munpo moved away. Bel felt vaguely patronised, but he could see the point of what had been said. Nonetheless, he was bothered. How could he be expected to lead the light to victory if he couldn’t best an old man? When he’d been young and they’d told him about his destiny, it had made him feel invincible. His was to be a life of adventure and greatness, and if he was to change the world, surely it was preordained that he would survive at least until then? Was any risk really a risk? Once he had stood at the edge of a building, wondering what would happen if he threw himself off. Would some miracle save him, ensuring he could go on to meet his destiny? He’d asked Fahren, who had said it didn’t work like that, but couldn’t really explain how it did work. The encounter with Munpo, while it hadn’t been about life and death, had certainly showed him to be fallible. Feeling unsure of himself was an alien and unpleasant feeling. He took a big swig from the bloodfire, and spluttered immediately.

‘That more like it!’ said M’Meska behind him.

At evening’s end, Bel glanced a final time towards the Soldiers Bar entrance. He hadn’t really expected her to come, but had hoped nonetheless. They’d planned to meet in The Wayward Dog that night, before he’d received his orders for Drel. He’d left a note at the tavern asking her to join him here instead, but a criminal – and he was pretty sure she was one – would not lightly enter the barracks of the Open Halls. Yet excitement about the mission had not purged Jaya from his mind. The night they’d spent together had been something outside his experience. When morning had come it had been hard to part. He didn’t want her thinking he’d abandoned their plan to meet.
Why hadn’t she come to find him?

Gods
, he thought,
been waiting my whole life to join a troop; now all I want is something else
. Pushing back his seat, he rose from a table long abandoned by his comrades.
Ah well. Tomorrow is going to be a bright new day.

Sixteen / Before the Council

Sixteen

Before the Council

Before the Council

Kakurd glanced around, searching for his friend Peasa. He spotted the old Graka about halfway up the throne room, standing next to the long window.
Typical of him to choose a place with the wind at his back
, thought Kakurd. He also spied the Arabodedas entourage, who were standing as close to Refectu as they could jostle. Kakurd had recently relinquished his title as Counsellor of the Arabodedas, and was now merely an advisor, like Peasa. Also like Peasa, he did not feel the need to stand with his main party, as there would always be time later for the younger representatives to haughtily discount what wiser old buggers had to say. As he made his way through the assembled council towards his friend, he wondered how long it had been since such a gathering had filled the throne room. Perhaps it had been when Battu had called them all together after the assassination attempt at the beginning of his reign, to let them see he was still in charge.

Peasa inclined his hairless ebony head as Kakurd arrived. ‘His dark lordliness has not yet arrived,’ he lisped quietly, forked tongue flicking out over pointy little teeth. ‘Look, there’s the boy, by Refectu.’

Kakurd followed his gaze. The blue-haired boy was standing by the dais, an empty circle around him into which no council member trod. The Arabodedas representatives were making a show of looking him over then talking behind their hands. The boy appeared not to notice and stood silent and still, his eyes moving about the room slowly, almost imperceptibly.

‘You’ve heard the rumours?’ said Peasa.

‘Yes,’ replied Kakurd. ‘As have the rest of the Arabodedas. They aren’t pleased.’

‘Why not? The boy is a man, is he not?’

‘Not an Arabodedas, Peasa.’

‘He’s as pale as one.’

‘He is paler. And he was born in Kainordas. Most don’t know what to make of him. They have no faith in the prophecy.’ He considered the Arabodedas entourage from under grey eyebrows. ‘Besides, they’ve already picked their favourite.’

Peasa ground his stony bat wings together. ‘Roma?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ The Graka grinned. ‘About time there was some excitement round here. I remember when the throne room was a lively place.’

‘Before Battu,’ muttered Kakurd.

‘Speaking of the great one, I think he’s arriving.’

The goblin aide Turry made his way down the middle of the room, snapping at people to clear a path. He arrived at Refectu and turned, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Welcome, members of the Shadow Council!’ he called nasally. ‘Prepare to receive the Shadowdreamer!’

The council fell silent as Battu appeared through the archway, followed closely by Tyrellan. The dark lord barely glanced at the assemblage as he made his way up to the dais, where he turned to stand before the ancient throne.

‘Greetings, council members,’ he said, though his tone did not imply much respect. ‘You are called because I have an announcement to make. I would like to introduce to you my student Losara, who has recently come of age. Step forward, Losara.’

Losara did so, allowing everyone a good look at him. He even smiled politely at a few of them.

‘As many of you know, I have seen to his care and tutelage since he first arrived at Skygrip,’ continued Battu. ‘He is the child of power, born of prophecy to overthrow the light.’ Battu paused, casting his gaze slowly around his audience. ‘I intend to name him Apprentice.’

Low talk broke out. Battu sat down on Refectu, his black cloak melting into its crevices, and smiled smugly.

‘Look at him,’ Peasa whispered. ‘He
desires
a challenge.’

‘It’s better for the Apprentice if there is one,’ said Kakurd. ‘To display his suitability.’

Battu leaned forward and the scattered talk ceased abruptly. ‘I will hear any discussion on this matter.’

From the Arabodedas camp, Counsellor Tysek cleared his throat cautiously. He was a middle-aged man with curly black hair, a bit on the tubby side. ‘My great lord,’ he said, bowing deeply.

‘Counsellor Tysek,’ acknowledged Battu.

‘My lord, the Arabodedas are not convinced that this boy should inherit the mantle of rule.’

‘The mantle of rule?’ said Battu, raising an eyebrow dangerously. ‘It will be a long time before
that
is passed on, I can assure you. Perhaps not in your lifetime.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ amended Tysek hastily. ‘I only meant that it has always been understood by the council that the one named Apprentice is the Shadowdreamer’s heir.’

‘It still remains the council’s responsibility to choose a new Shadowdreamer when the time comes,’ said Battu.

When the time came, in fact, the title went to whomever had the strength to crush all opposition.

‘The one chosen by you,’ said Tysek, ‘will be the one to journey across the Black Sea, my lord.’

Battu frowned vaguely, but nodded. ‘As you say.’

Tysek continued. ‘We feel, Shadowdreamer, that there is someone more . . . appropriate . . . to your tutelage, who would serve Fenvarrow better. And he is a native of our land, lord.’

‘And he has courage, which I admire,’ said Battu. ‘It is not a faint-hearted thing to challenge the child of power.’ He let his words sink in, then: ‘He is here, no doubt?’

The Arabodedas called Roma stepped briskly forward – further forward than Tysek – and sank to his knee before Battu. He was a young man, Losara’s age, wearing a black vest over a green shirt. His black hair was pulled back in a shiny ponytail and streaked with red dye, as was the fashion in the Arabodedas capital of Afei Edres. ‘I am Roma, my lord,’ he said.

‘Roma, my lord,’ echoed Tysek quickly, attempting to cover the youth’s spirited forwardness. ‘It is he whom we present to you. His talent for magic and his affinity with the shadow have been clear to all from an early age.’

‘Who trained him?’ asked Battu, staring hard at Roma.

‘Memtas, my lord. She claims he is the most powerful mage out of Afei Edres in all her years of watching.’

‘She has seen many years,’ said Battu. ‘I don’t discount the opinion of Memtas lightly. Rise, Roma, and tell me why you deem yourself worthy to challenge my selected Apprentice.’

Roma rose, straight and proud, and spoke in clear and pompous tones. ‘My great lord,’ he said, and gestured to the silently watching Losara, ‘forgive me if I doubt
this
to be the result of prophecy. We have all heard the stories of his miscreated birth. If they are true, then he is only half the man he was supposed to be.’

He made a show of staring down Losara, who held Roma’s eyes calmly, his face a mask of neutrality.

‘I do not doubt him to be a mage of ability,’ Roma continued, ‘otherwise a leader as wise as yourself would not vouch for him. I only ask to prove that I, of whom my lord was not previously aware, be allowed to prove myself better.’

Battu smiled. ‘My young Roma, never presume to tell me of what I am aware. If I know how many pork pies the soldiers in the Open Halls eat each day, I can certainly find out what’s happening in my own lands.’

Roma was sensible enough to look abashed.

‘Your use of water in magic is particularly artful, I must say,’ continued Battu. ‘Some of your coastal displays have been very impressive. But are you up to the challenge so far from the sea?’

Roma shot Losara another malignant glare. He’d been taught to intimidate his opponent psychologically; a lesson, it seemed to Kakurd, that Battu had not taught Losara.

‘I am more than up to it, lord,’ said Roma.

‘Very well,’ said Battu, clapping his hands triumphantly. He stood and, with great drama that he obviously enjoyed, announced: ‘To the duelling cavern!’

•

Despite the passage to the duelling cavern being disused and cramped, the air that flowed through it was fresh and clean. This passage didn’t divide into others, but led to only one destination.

The duelling cavern had once been a large natural cave, but when the sides of Mount Mokan were carved away during the shaping of the castle, the cave had been cut in half. Now it existed in the side of Skygrip like a puncture wound, its mouth facing south across Gravewood. In the centre of the chamber was a lowered square cut into the floor, thirty paces wide. Standing at each corner were columns carved with runes: once activated, they contained any magic cast within the square. Outside observers were protected, and the mages within could battle with all their strength. There was a faint sense of energy in the chamber, perhaps from the powerful wards in the columns, or the blood of many mages soaked into the floor.

The council filed along the passage and then moved towards the square. Some vied for the best positions, while others, less trusting of the protective columns, hung back. All were excited. Shadow magic was not a strong defence against shadow – there was none of the natural oppositional force of light – so fights between shadow mages were famously fast and brutal.

Battu strode to an elevated stone seat facing south across the square. Losara walked behind him with Tyrellan. On the other side of the square, Roma was leaning nonchalantly against a column, without yet having stepped into the depression.

‘Be careful,’ said Tyrellan quietly as he and Losara parted ways.

I’m going to build you a world of pain,
came Roma’s unbidden thought in Losara’s head.

Losara knew he was expected to reply. Battu had given up trying to teach him posturing, but Losara felt that, in the spirit of any good fight to the death, he should try.
I’m . . .
It was no good. Threats were meaningless to him.

I’m going to build you a grand house,
he sent instead.

Sensing Roma’s confusion, he stepped down into the square, not pausing on the edge as Roma had. On seeing this Roma stepped down quickly too.

‘Hold, mages!’ called Turry. ‘Do not start without the order!’

Battu waggled his fingers and chanted softly and the runes on the columns began to pulse blue. ‘The square is sealed,’ he announced. ‘Neither magic nor mage will leave it until there is a victor. Begin on my mark.’

He raised his hand. ‘Begin!’ he said, his hand thumping down.

Roma attacked the moment the command was given. A flick of his fingers and a bolt of blue energy slammed into Losara’s shoulder. Losara’s cloak flapped around him as he sailed off his feet, arms flailing. He hit the ground flat on his back, the air audibly forced from his lungs.

Cheers went up from some of the council as Roma strode towards Losara’s sprawled body. The mage raised his arms as he went and tendrils of darkness curled out of the ground around Losara, forming snake-like heads and snapping downwards. Losara screamed as one reared back with a hunk of bloody flesh and shredded cloth hanging from its shadowy mouth.

He struggled to sit, managed to raise a hand at Roma and send an energy bolt back across the square. Roma leaned sideways while
pushing
at the air and the bolt veered away, smacking into the invisible barrier between the columns and sputtering to nothing. Meanwhile, snake after snake darted in to bite Losara, each one pulling back with a mouthful of flesh. Losara screamed and struggled as snakes wound round his limbs, pinning him down. Roma made a snake shape with his hand, taking direct control of one of the biting heads. As he plunged his hand up and down, the shadow snake echoed his movements, plunging into Losara’s neck, tearing loose trailing windpipe. Losara went still, though the snakes continued, and a giant pool of blood spread across the floor underneath him.

The council gave a great cheer and Roma turned to face them, smiling fiercely. Battu sat forward in his seat, staring shocked at the pulpy body of his Apprentice. Tyrellan, at his side, was still enough to be frozen in time. Roma forced the smile from his face and bowed low before Battu.

‘As I thought, my lord,’ he said. ‘This was not even taxing. He was only half a man.’

‘Not even that,’ said Losara.

There were gasps as Roma spun, eyes wide. Losara stood in the shadow of a column, hands clasped before him. Roma glanced at the body on the floor, which was fading. As Losara stepped from the shadows, it disappeared completely.

‘That was quite ferocious,’ Losara said. ‘I must admit, I was curious to see what you intended for me.’

‘An illusion,’ spat Roma. ‘The stuff of street magicians.’

‘I’m trying to find a level that befits you,’ said Losara. He was quite proud of his attempt at ridicule.

Roma bellowed in anger, both hands extending towards Losara, crackling forth twin streams of energy. Losara made a small gesture and the streams slammed into a flat circle of rock hanging in the air. He had cut it from the ground and floated it in front of him like a shield, so quickly that none had actually seen it happen. He moved a hand forward and the circle hurtled towards Roma, who flung his arms over his head. An unseen protective wall went up around him and the rock smashed to pieces against it. Roma lowered his arms as the dust settled, glowering at Losara.

‘Snakes, was it?’ said Losara, and clicked a finger. A black tendril whipped out of the floor, knocking Roma from his feet. The next instant he was pinned to the ground by the same writhing shadow snakes he’d previously conjured. His hands moved in a flurry, disintegrating the snake heads one by one. More grew in their place, hovering over him, poised to strike, but waiting.

‘I could have killed you by now,’ said Losara.

Roma furiously channelled power. There was a blue flash around him and the snakes dispersed like smoke. He leaped to his feet again, summoning an attack.

‘Looks like I’ll need a bigger snake,’ said Losara.

He raised both hands and a huge mouth erupted from the ground beneath Roma, seizing him by the waist as it powered upwards. Murmurs of amazement arose from the council. The huge shadow snake climbed twenty paces into the air, then looped back around itself to send its head slamming into one of the columns. The head broke to smoke against the stone, but Roma did not. He crashed against the column and fell, landing heavily on the hard ground, where he lay groaning on his side.