Sam Bowring - Prophecy's Ruin

Rhobi didn’t know much about babies, and certainly not Varenkai babies. The only thing he’d thought to do was build a fire, which he now wished he hadn’t placed right in the centre of the available space. As a source of warmth and light, it offended his sensibilities.

‘You’ll have to get used to the damp and cool soon enough, little Varenkai,’ he sneered at the child.

That, however, was a concern for the Shadowdreamer, and in the meantime the last thing Rhobi needed was for the stupid creature to get sick and die on the way home. He hadn’t reached his current rank by taking chances.

He heard a twig crack and his head snapped towards it. Just a bird. If it had been Tyrellan, Rhobi mused, he probably wouldn’t have heard a thing.

Ah, Tyrellan, he thought. Your guts will hit the ground before you do. How the glory will be mine when I return the sole survivor of this mission, bringing the Shadowdreamer his treasured prize. I don’t see how he could refuse to make me First Slave.

When would he kill Tyrellan? His finger stroked his dagger absently, almost obscenely. Part of him knew it would be better to wait until they were almost over the border. Whatever else Rhobi thought of Tyrellan, his commander was a survivor, and united they stood a better chance of returning home. He also knew that Tyrellan might kill him , especially if he suspected the hatred that brewed in Rhobi like fermenting poison, as he surely must by now. If Tyrellan was in any way suspicious, he’d think nothing of murder to quell his doubts. Also, Rhobi didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to control himself. Tyrellan might do something to push him over the edge, and the idea of a head-to-head confrontation made him greatly afraid. There were reasons why the First Slave had lived so long with his title. There were reasons why hardly a creature living in Fenvarrow didn’t treat him with fearful deference.

So, Rhobi was decided. He would find the first opportunity after Tyrellan rejoined him, something very low risk. A dagger while he slept or walked ahead. No drawn-out death. Although Rhobi lusted for it, he’d leave nothing to chance. As he thought about it, he knew he was right. Tyrellan wouldn’t leave anything to chance either, would he?

No, he would not.

A dagger wheeled out of the bushes and sank into the side of Rhobi’s neck. He gasped wetly as Tyrellan stepped from the foliage, watching him impassively. The First Slave bent down in front of his soldier, batted Rhobi’s bloodied hands away from the wound and wrenched the weapon free. Rhobi stared back with hateful eyes, a black stream pumping from his neck. He tried to speak, but the blood filling his mouth made for a burbled mockery of words.

Tyrellan arched a hairless eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

Rhobi fumbled for one of his own daggers with shaking hands.

‘This?’ asked Tyrellan, reaching to draw a dagger for him, then plunging it through the other side of his neck. He withdrew his hands and rested them on his knees.

‘Next time,’ he said, ‘serve the darkness half so well as you serve yourself and you may not return to it so quickly.’

Rhobi gurgled and died.

Tyrellan wiped the daggers on his tunic, taking Rhobi’s to replace the one he’d flung into Elessa. He scowled at the fire. Smoke would be seen for leagues in these flat grasslands, and they were still close to Whisperwood. He set about piling earth on the flames, sending glances towards the baby boy. Who was watching him.

It was fortunate that the Halls wouldn’t know, for a while at least, that this second child existed. Without witnesses to tell them otherwise, they’d assume that their blue-haired boy was the only one. Nevertheless, Tyrellan was bothered. He had a good working knowledge of magic, despite not being able to wield it, but he had no idea why there were two boys. It was a puzzle, he decided, for the Shadowdreamer. He simply had to deliver the boy he did possess.

The fire was out. Tyrellan understood why Rhobi had lit it, but his subordinate was far too limited in his thinking. While he found such physical contact deeply offensive, Tyrellan knew that the best way to keep the boy warm without alerting others to their presence was to huddle against him while they slept. Not that Tyrellan ever really slept.

With nothing to do save wait for the cover of night, he turned his attention to the child. The boy lay still, but strangely alert. His eyes followed as Tyrellan crouched over him, brown pupils set in the clearest whites the goblin had ever seen. His blue hair was a limp mess of strands atop his head, and his skin was almost ivory. Tyrellan reached down to poke him in a stomach devoid of the usual chubby fat. Suddenly the boy smiled and caught Tyrellan’s poking claw with a tiny hand. Tyrellan started.

Many shadow creatures were pale in their looks. The Arabodedas, hard men of the south, had skin pale from generations spent in the absence of sunlight. This boy was even paler than they were, though his face seemed to hide a darkness behind it, like a mask. Tyrellan grew lost in admiration, even forgetting for a moment the disturbing sensations the cursed mage-bitch had left in his gut. It was a strange thing, that a creature born so far from Fenvarrow would have such a dark aura about it. It had troubled Tyrellan that his master sought a child who should, by rights, have been strong in the light. He’d assumed Battu intended to turn the child somehow into a creature of shadow. Now he had a feeling that this babe needed no such conversion.

Tyrellan decided the boy was blessed, and thus his safeguarding was a grave honour and responsibility. He silently swore to watch over the boy always, protecting him as he grew to power.

In Whisperwood, at the base of a blackened tree, ashes stirred as if there was a breeze. Floating low across the ground, they began to collect around pieces of scorched bone.

Borgordus was the northernmost of the five states of Kainordas. A fertile region of hill, farm and wood, it was said that here the sun passed closest to the land, as it rose from behind the Morningbridge Peaks. It was also here that the Thrones kept their stronghold, the Open Halls.

The Halls were built on a green plateau above the capital city, Kadass. Both Halls and Kadass were enclosed by stone walls: two great circles connected by a corridor that provided protected passage in a time of war – though no enemy army had ever penetrated that far. The Halls themselves were a collection of white buildings great and small, but all constructed without roofs. In buildings over a storey high, many of the outside walls were missing as well. These skeleton structures were open to air and light and the lazy breezes that rolled in from the Shallow Sea. An ancient enchantment diverted rain from falling into these roofless dwellings, and a form of subtle magnetism kept anyone from falling from high open places or exposed stairwells. The only way to fall was to be pushed, or to leap deliberately. The Halls were quiet too, for the enchantment stopped sound floating freely out of rooms for all to hear, and blurred the vision of anyone who tried to peer directly into another’s home. The High Mage Fahren called the enchantment the ‘Essence of Walls’.

To the west stood the Open Castle, a huge block some thirty levels high. It wasn’t a beautiful building by any means, looking from a distance like a white brick riddled with holes. Inside, however, was plenty of colour and garish excess, and a bustling menagerie of brightly feathered courtiers and nobles. On the castle’s roof was the Sun Court and the great seat of the Thrones, Borgordusmae.

To the south of the Halls stood the barracks, surrounded by training fields for soldiers. In the east, student mages were schooled at the Academy of the Sun. Overlooking it was the Open Tower, which was missing so many of its outer walls it looked as if it should topple. The Tower was home to many mages, including the High Mage Fahren, whose chambers lay at the very top, the highest point of the Halls. It was here that Fahren tossed and turned, water squeezing from between clenched eyes. He jerked awake, forehead slick with sweat. Outside, the sky was lightening.