Sam Bowring - Prophecy's Ruin

Hope flared within him. Elessa had found a way of negating him, and because he genuinely could not think of anything to counter it, he could continue struggling to grasp the child without breaking the rules of servitude. He increased his efforts to strengthen his grip, hoping it was part of her plan.

The child opened his mouth and screamed, cutting through the storm with pure terror.

‘Let him go!’ Elessa shouted.

The screaming grew louder.

The child thrashed in the mud, his limbs twisting as if in the throes of a violent seizure. His scream rose and fell with the wind, continuous and seemingly without need of breath. Then, with a final gasp, his back arched and his muscles went taut and stiff. When his eyes opened, agony and fear danced through them hand in hand. About his neck, the Stone shone strangely in the grey light of evening.

Great pressures imploded inside the child, forming two sinkholes of terrible force. Both wrenched at him with equal strength, at his body, his mind …at his soul. Both pulled at him from within. His component parts strained in their places and began to come loose, his very being ripped to pieces. Some parts went into the dark sinkhole, others took off into the bright light. Through the madness, his tortured mind wailed with thick, distorted horror as it came apart at the seams. Then suddenly, mercifully, his consciousness shattered and he was gone.

A shock wave of power erupted outwards, jolting Elessa and Fazel backwards, jarring their teeth and fizzing in their sinuses. It was a power neither recognised, and it had little regard for their defences. An object shot out of it – the Stone – and sizzled away to land somewhere outside the clearing. Then, as the white noise ringing in their ears subsided, they heard the sound of crying.

It had two voices.

In a smoking crater blasted free of puddles, the ground spitting with residual charge, they lay together, side by side, wailing to the sky.

Two boys with blue hair.

From the trees above, she watched it all, a great rage burning inside her. This had never been her purpose in giving the Stone to Mirrow! It had been supposed to serve her people, many years from now, as a weapon. Instead, it had ripped the boy apart, just as Assedrynn and Arkus had ripped apart the souls in the Great Well. And those two, curse them, were openly interfering. This place was her sanctuary – they had no right! Yet they were strong, as they had always been, and they ruled the skies above. Clouds were sent to cover the moon; lightning flashed down to light up the world. She had done what she could against them, but it hadn’t been enough. The spirit wind she had sent after the goblin in the hut had drawn their combined attentions and they had sent her whirling, dispersed. The old agreement held little sway, it seemed. Now all she had the strength to do was watch.

How had these interlopers even found out about the child she had created? It had never been her will that the child’s hair turn blue, but when it had she had thought it a sign that her cause was good. She had certainly never intended to fulfil someone else’s prophecy. With cold realisation, she understood that she had created champions for her enemies! The child who should have been born of Old Magic was sundered, divided into light and shadow. For the second time in her long existence, the Lady Vyasinth saw a breaking of balance.

Swords clashed again, and Dakur cursed – this was taking too long. It had been minutes since Elessa had cried out for aid, but this Black Goblin was proving a formidable opponent. Only last year Dakur had won the Spring Tournament, beating the former titleholder decisively, and it had been easier than this. This little bastard was quick.

He’d dodged Dakur’s initial surprise swing – if indeed it had been a surprise – spinning out of the sword’s path like a whirligig. He was all claws, gleaming fangs and a treacherous flashing blade wielded with such fluidity that it would have been awe-inspiring to watch had Dakur not been so focused on keeping it well away. The goblin fought in a confusing flurry, ducking and weaving, gliding in and out of Dakur’s reach, sometimes disappearing behind a tree or rock only to leap out again from an unexpected direction. More disturbingly, the creature fought in total silence, never a grunt or a threat or a laugh. Just the unknowable stare of his orb-like eyes.

Dakur deflected defensively, waiting for an opportunity to lash out in return. So far his offensives had met only empty space, his opponent preferring to wheel out of the way than actually meet his steel. Their swords only connected when the goblin attacked. It was infuriating.

The creature leaped up onto a rock and Dakur avoided lunging at him, waiting instead for the inevitable disappearance into the undergrowth. Instead the goblin sprang at him bodily, batting Dakur’s blade aside while in the air and crashing against his chest, knocking him down. The goblin dropped his sword to grab Dakur’s sword arm and pin it to the ground, using his other to slip a dagger from his belt. As the dagger flashed down, Dakur’s free hand shot up to catch it a handspan from his throat. For a moment they lay locked, the goblin so close that Dakur could smell his earthy breath. He tried to twist his sword arm free, but the goblin dug his claws in harder, forcing Dakur to drop his blade. He gritted his teeth as he pushed back on the dagger.

‘Strong for a little fellow, aren’t you?’ he grunted.

In a painful movement, he wrenched his pinned wrist free to crack the goblin across the jaw, spattering the black chin with his own blood. The force of the blow knocked the creature off him, dagger and all. Dakur rolled for his own sword but the goblin leaped on his back. He elbowed the creature viciously in the face and staggered to his feet, sword in hand. With a bellow he spun around.

On the low-lying branch of a tree some paces away, the goblin sat watching, his sword stuck upright in the wood beside him.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Dakur said. ‘Had enough, have you?’

The goblin slowly uncurled a claw. Dakur frowned, but looked down to where the goblin pointed. As his gaze fell, he let out a cry of surprise. Protruding from his belly was the hilt of a dagger.

Giddiness swept over him. He fell to his knees, pawing at his ruined stomach in disbelief. Then, with a bark of anger, he yanked the dagger free, raising it for retribution.

The branch was deserted.

There was a soft footfall on the leaves behind him.

Elessa was tiring and the wound in her side was agonising. Whenever she moved, pain coursed up her abdomen. Despite her magically stemming the blood loss, the wound still needed to be attended to and Elessa knew that time was running out. She thought of Kessum, and the shining heart flower, and how she had planned to send him one in return when she got back to the Halls. And so she would! She would not die tonight!

At her feet the babies bawled. She hadn’t believed her eyes upon seeing the pair of them, but there wasn’t time to think on it now. Her opponent still faced her, and his body mended itself, whereas hers would not survive another of his spells. Miserably she felt her power failing, felt his darkness penetrating her defences in many places. She pushed it back, but it was like pushing back a glacier. Slowly and surely, it came. Death came.

And then …

Tyrellan crept to the tree line. The blade had taken longer to kill than he’d anticipated and he had no idea of what had occurred between Fazel and the Varenkai bitch in the meantime. He was vexed to see that Fazel had not disposed of her yet, but it didn’t look like long now. She was hunched over, no doubt due to the dagger wound, and her outstretched arms shook with effort. Fazel, however, looked just as he usually did, and Tyrellan could see his dark magic creeping towards the girl, snuffing out her light as it went.