Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (42 page)

Losara broke free, himself again, spinning in the air, feeling faintly sick, watching his other disappear. The dream swirled again.

•

He was himself once more, although not quite – rather some future possibility of himself, whose emotions he experienced as he had done with Bel, but whose actions he was powerless to direct. He settled back behind his own eyes, watching, becoming . . .

Lalenda trailed along after him, chatting away happily about something wholly unrelated to their present situation. He heard her words on the surface somewhere, but mostly her voice just pleased him as a reminder of their companionship. It was amazing how her mind could wander, how she could talk about some silly story she’d once read about a woman who fell in love with a statue, when their situation was so serious.

They walked along a raised ridge that overlooked the Fenvarrow army. More had arrived, but still Losara wasn’t sure it was enough. At least they could choose to fight in their own land, where his – and the other mages’ – power would be stronger. Even Battu had the sense not to be goaded into crossing the border.

He stopped suddenly, causing Lalenda to bump into him. She giggled and put her hands around his waist. He stood very still, sensing something.

‘My statue,’ she whispered.

The wind picked up, rustling his cloak, and it was a cold wind indeed. Something was wrong.

‘There’s a storm on the way,’ she said, snuggling against his back.

He turned to look south, where the horizon was darkening. He stared at it until he realised it was a great fall of water, blocking out everything beyond. Something was very wrong.

‘Losara!’ came Battu’s bark, and Lalenda yelped. From the rocks billowed a shadowform, which seemed for a moment like a shark, but wavered and resolved into the silhouette of Battu. ‘Can you feel it?’ asked the dark lord.

‘Yes,’ said Losara. ‘It is as if the shadow has . . . weakened.’

‘Something has happened at Skygrip,’ said Battu distantly.

The rain came faster than any natural storm. In moments it was falling on them like a great wave breaking, and moving on towards the camps.

‘This is our enemy’s doing,’ said Battu. He sounded groggy, as if he had been dealt a grave blow. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘My body’s going to be all wet when I get back to it.’

Losara turned to shadow so quickly that Lalenda, who had been clutching him, almost stumbled off the ridge. Up he went, streaming through the raindrops, up and up into the Cloud. He sensed the spell immediately, permeating in all directions, cancerous, reaching through the Cloud like myriad bright fibres. A sort of dazed wonder came over him, and he thought vaguely that perhaps he was missing a reaction that his other would have felt in this situation.

Without hope he attacked the spell. He let his shadow self spread thin, wiping out bright fibres with his darkness. He rushed through the Cloud as broadly as he could, leaving cured paths behind him . . . but the spell seeped back in. There was no heart to it, nothing central that he could target. Worse, the spell drew power from the light above the Cloud, where the sun shone unhindered. All his mighty power was not enough. It could not even buy moments.

What should I be feeling?
he wondered.
Despair?

The dream swirled.

•

The goblins standing guard atop Skygrip felt the rain beginning to ease, and the flood that poured off the roof slowed to a trickle. From the sky came a lightening, and they cursed as they covered their eyes. Rays of sun hit the roof, bathing its glistening tar skin in light, warming the exposed black stone from which the Breath of the Cloud had once issued. Feeling a horror that ran to their bones, the goblins quickly fled from the roof, back into the darkness of Skygrip.

By the edge of the roof, a small shape rose. It was a butterfly, with wings of pure white edged by sky blue. It set down, and a moment later a clawed hand reached from below to hold it tightly. Sunlight touched the claw and it stopped moving. As the hole in the Cloud above expanded, the light found Tyrellan hanging by one hand from the edge of Skygrip Castle. He stared dully over Fenvarrow, seeing other spots where the rain was clearing and rays of sun were falling upon land they hadn’t touched for a thousand years. Light reached Mankow and, even from this distance, he heard a collective wail of disbelief. For a time he could not seem to find the will to pull himself up the last short distance to safety.

He cannot stand to see Fenvarrow like this
, thought Losara sadly.
Does he consider letting go?

‘No,’ growled Tyrellan, as if in answer to the question. ‘Not until an end finds me.’

The butterfly flapped its wings and rose, pulling Tyrellan up into the light.

The dream swirled.

•

At the top of the Teeth of Grakvak, the snow stopped swirling. On the peaks, ice began to melt. The Graka shrieked and retreated to their caves, which would soon begin to warm. Their leader told them they would be safe here, high as they were, even if the rest of Fenvarrow fell. He was later proved wrong, when Zyvanix wasps took a fancy to the elaborately carved caves.

•

In Swampwild, Mire Pixie children turned to stare at the sun. Even so young they instinctively feared it, crying as their parents bundled them up and dragged them inside huts. As they stared out of windows and through doors, the full light of day made Swampwild look strange and alien. It wasn’t their Swampwild any more.

The mud began to dry.

•

Deep in the mud, Mireforms grew dimly aware that something above was wrong. They buried deeper and hid for years, until all the mud above them had hardened; dim presences trapped in the earth.

•

The army of Fenvarrow fell in to chaos. Battu strode high and tall, bellowing orders and trying to keep order. Much as his people quailed before him, they quailed even more as the sun shone upon them. Even the steely Black Goblins quivered as heat touched their skin.

The Kainordas horde came charging across the Stone Fields, light glinting from swords and axes. At their head rode a blue-haired warrior, and, though Fenvarrow had its own blue-haired champion, he was nowhere to be seen.

Battu knew desertions would start soon, if they hadn’t already, and he raged at all to stay focused on their purpose. He could not instil as much fear as he once had, however. His connection to the power of Skygrip was broken and the strength of the shadow was fading.

It was something Losara felt as well, as he sped back to the army, travelling less easily now that sunlight shone everywhere. He erupted into form next to Battu, and even that small effort drained him.

‘Where have you been, you fool?’ growled Battu. ‘The troops need to see you, lest they break in all directions!’

Battu pushed him and he stumbled forward, dazed. He had burned so much of his power chasing the spell hopelessly through the Cloud, and now there was little shadow in his surrounds to draw on. He wandered through the ranks, letting the soldiers see him . . . but could think of nothing to call out, no encouraging words to give them hope. He stared blankly at them and they stared blankly back, their eyes hooded against the blazing light.

As the Kainordas army came onwards, Battu screamed for aerial attacks to begin. Graka rose from the ground carrying cauldrons of acid, and war engines hurled rocks and flaming balls. Archers rained arrows as the enemy got closer, and then the armies broke against each other. Losara knew a moment of pride as brave Fenvarrow folk threw themselves screaming into the fray.

He led his mages in a charge. He tried, time and again, to summon the great power he’d once possessed, but he couldn’t seem to find it anywhere. It felt as if he was missing a limb. Around him his mages fell screaming to yellow bolts or fireballs.

Scores of Fenvarrow soldiers were breaking ranks, fleeing back across the Stone Fields. Swarms of Zyvanix buzzed overhead, culling the skies of Graka and peppering the ground with needle-like arrows. Just ahead of him a great scorpion burst through a line of Black Goblins, its huge stinger juddering back and forth to spear them through, while the Saurian riding it loosed off arrows. Mireforms raged with flying tendrils and stabbing claws, and he knew that they, at least, would fight to the end. He chanced a sight of his other – the muscular man moving with amazing agility, ducking and weaving and hacking and slashing, forever untouched by blows aimed at him.

Nearby, the Shadowdreamer sent out blue lightning, frying whole troops of Varenkai, sizzling the wings from Zyvanix, melting scorpions inside their exoskeletons. The light mages turned their focus upon him, advancing and beating back rippling waves of his power, suffusing him with light. He screamed as it came from all sides, and caught fire. Losara shuddered.

Lalenda
, came a thought, and he collapsed forwards to spill into shadowform. He moved through cracks in the ground while soldiers fought above him, winding around bodies and pools of blood. He forgot about the raging battle – all that mattered was finding her. He searched and searched, until he found her shape in a corpse on the ground, and trickled around her, unable to believe. A mighty sadness welled up inside him and he pooled beneath her. He lost track of time.

He came back to himself suddenly when he realised there was silence. The slaughter had subsided and there was no doubt within him who had won the battle. Nearby came a crunching of feet and he turned his shadowy gaze to peer up from Lalenda. A short distance away stood a man in gold armour and his other. The man took off his helm and Losara recognised the Throne.

‘Cowards,’ spat Naphur. ‘To flee in such numbers.’

‘Let them flee,’ said Bel. ‘Soon there will be no corner left in this land to hide in.’

The Throne grunted in satisfaction. ‘So, we continue?’

‘Yes,’ said Bel. ‘We continue.’

•

In the following weeks, the sun wrought many changes on Fenvarrow. In Swampwild, humptoads died in dry stream beds. The blue grasses that had grown so widely lightened as they withered, and green invaders took over. The Vorthargs retreated deep into their underground lakes, where one day they would be found and cornered. Shadowmanders along the border grew disoriented, wandering from their homes until they were too weak to go on. Even on the Isle of Assedrynn, light found the tiny blue flowers that grew out of the rocks. Their petals began to curl.

Losara never returned to his physical form, for he feared the tears that would fall. As a shadow thing he wandered, slipping quietly from place to place, watching his people suffer as their homeland faded away. The slaughter wherever the light’s forces found them was complete, regardless of sex or age. After a time he could stand it no more and he dwindled away to the delta at the Dimglades, where he recalled that things lived in harmony. There he waited, until the war was truly over and the Dark Gods were no more. He felt the moment when their Great Well broke – the end of shadow magic, and the end of him. On that day, in the comfortable shade of a willow tree, he too faded away.

Off in the east, Bel stood over a fallen Arabodedas with his sword raised to kill, while behind him Afei Edres burned. It was one of the last cities to stand against him, and had fallen too easily to truly excite him.

As Losara died, the sword fell from Bel’s hand and he dropped to his knees with empty eyes. Their soul, divided in life, was united in death.

It didn’t matter. He had served his purpose.

The light had won.

•

Losara awoke with a start. Snuggled at his side, Lalenda stirred but stayed asleep. Carefully he disentangled himself from her. Around them the delta was loud as the sun set, full of frogs and insects chirping. He looked up to the Cloud and there it was, high in the sky. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

‘What is it, my lord?’ came Lalenda’s sleepy voice.

‘I know the reason for my pilgrimage,’ said Losara. ‘I know why I needed to see the land, the beauty that will be destroyed if they triumph. I appreciate now the price of failure. I understand that there can be no peace. I must fight my other and I must win.’

She was sitting up now, her eyes glistening in the dark. He bent down and cupped her cheeks in his hands. She smiled.

‘I have something to do,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be back before you know it. Sleep, my flutterbug.’

She closed her eyes and his touch evaporated. In shadowform he sped towards Holdwith. There, in the cobblestoned tower, he found a whelkling chained to the wall.

‘Fly home with a lighter load,’ he told it, and disintegrated the chain.

From there he went north, through Kainordas and all the way to the Open Halls. He circled around the wards to find the point closest to the Open Castle, then broke through the resistance. He knew somewhere alarms were sounding and mages and soldiers would be rushing to find him, but they would never be fast enough. He sped to the Open Tower and up to the Throne’s chambers.

It was a familiar scene. The Throne stood silhouetted by the open end of his quarters, a large glass of bloodfire in his hand. The sun was low in the sky to the south, and the liquid caught its rays brightly, casting a red wash back over the rest of the room. Losara knew Naphur waited for his other, was going to give him the order to charge, to put him on the path.

Gathering himself into physical form, Losara stepped from the darkness and placed a shadowy hand on Naphur’s chest. Naphur gasped as Losara froze his heart.

The door to the room opened and Losara turned to see Bel and Fahren enter. At the sight of him, Fahren’s hands shot up, suffusing himself and Bel in a defensive light.

‘You!’ said Bel, his jaw dropping open.

For a moment the two of them stared at each other. There came the sounds of other feet and Losara knew he had best not tarry – he was not at the height of his powers here. He pulled his hand back from the Throne, who slid lifelessly down the wall. Bel’s cheeks heated and he drew his sword.

Losara smiled thinly. ‘I think perhaps you’d best check the path before you strike me,’ he said.