Sam Bowring - Prophecy's Ruin

Tyrellan bared his fangs. ‘Get him!’ he shouted, and the Graka dived.

Bel held his ground, knowing he could not leave Fahren exposed. He drummed this fact into his head repeatedly, forcibly stopping the path of his sword as it tried to lead him away, resisting the urge to dance amongst the whirling bodies. Instead, he rooted his feet to the ground and let them come to him, each breaking against his steel. As the last Graka fell into the pile of bodies before him, Tyrellan watched him, still and silent.

‘Knotty fellows you have around here,’ Bel said, and poked a dead Graka with his sword. ‘I guess they mark the line. Step over them and die.’

Tyrellan padded forward, halting just shy of the heap of dead Graka. ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘Here is as far as I may tread? Very well.’

His hand moved deceptively and suddenly a dagger flashed towards Bel, heading between his legs towards Fahren’s back. Bel flicked his sword, managing to swipe it out of the air, sending it clattering away over the stone. He lashed out, but Tyrellan didn’t move, and the sword passed a hair’s breadth from the tip of the goblin’s nose.

Tyrellan sneered. ‘Seems you were right,’ he said. ‘That is indeed the line.’

He turned his back and walked casually across the roof to retrieve his dagger. Behind Bel, Fahren’s mumbling got louder and energy crackled.

‘Hurry up, High Mage,’ Bel hissed.

Tyrellan stooped to pick up his weapon, then was suddenly charging with daggers flying. Three points of steel and a sword tip came at Bel as Tyrellan leaped. Bel managed to turn all three daggers aside with a well-timed arc, while catching Tyrellan’s sword on his breastplate with a juddering clang. Tyrellan hit the ground and rolled, his sword flashing at Bel’s feet. Bel jumped and slashed, but confusion seized him. He could not find the right path for his sword to travel and kill this target, only to defend himself. Another dagger came from a new angle and he kicked it, with his boot just a handspan away from Fahren’s face. It spun into the Breath and he didn’t hear it land.

Tyrellan came at him again, slashing and then darting away, staying out of Bel’s self-imposed reach. After the fourth pass Bel roared, ‘You’re not one with time to waste, goblin!’

‘It is done!’ cried Fahren. ‘The spell is cast!’

Bel felt a wet spray hit his back. Now , urged his frenzy, you no longer need to protect the mage . With a roar he charged forward, his sudden change in tack catching Tyrellan off guard. The goblin was smashed backwards as blades fell so thickly that each combatant seemed to possess more than one. The butterfly fluttered between them, and Bel’s blade rebounded from it as solidly as if it hit iron. He took no time to wonder at such strangeness, and a moment later their swords locked. Bel reached out with his free hand, seized Tyrellan under the arm and hurled him away across the roof. The goblin landed not far from where Fahren lay, exhausted. He raised his orb eyes to the funnel of the Breath, blinking as raindrops fell on his face. Above them, the Breath seemed to be misting away, losing its shape.

‘What have you done!’ howled Tyrellan, leaping to his feet.

The rain grew heavier, a sheet of water expanding outwards, while torrents of water began to cascade off the roof. Lightning cracked, making Tyrellan’s fangs gleam as his face twisted to pure hate.

‘In a storm you were born,’ he hissed. ‘In a storm you will die.’ He sprang towards Bel.

Time seemed to slow and, finally, Bel could see the path. Calmly he bent his knees, then brought his sword up to meet the goblin’s. As soon as he felt the downward pressure of Tyrellan’s blow, he pushed upwards from the ground, lifting his opponent. As the goblin passed overhead, Bel pushed up with his sword and simultaneously punched a hand into Tyrellan’s stomach. The goblin turned head over heels, his sword falling from his grasp as he reached to snatch at a spire as he sailed past – but he was too far away. He made no sound as he travelled out over the edge of the roof and disappeared into the downpour.

Bel stared after him for a moment, finding it oddly bittersweet that such a challenging fight was over. Then he shook his head and started coming back to himself.

‘Fahren!’ he called, running to the mage’s side. ‘Are you all right?’

There was a crash from inside the doorway – those on the other side had managed to pull down the door. Rocks began to shift from the top of the pile.

‘I will be,’ wheezed Fahren. ‘Just have to catch my breath.’

‘Call for the whelkling,’ said Bel. ‘Do it now.’

Fahren smiled. ‘Already did.’

A booming sounded out of the rain and the whelkling skidded to a stop on the wet roof.

‘Good man,’ said Bel, and hoisted Fahren onto its back. ‘Now tell it to take us back to Holdwith.’

The whelkling clumped to the edge of the roof and slipped off just as the last rocks fell free of the doorway. It dropped sickeningly and Bel felt his gizzards rise into his mouth. He clutched desperately to the harness as they scythed downwards, the rain hammering them solidly. In his hands the leather was slick, and Fahren had a grim grasp around his waist that dragged at him. The onrushing wind sprayed water in his eyes, and he only just managed to keep his grip as they levelled out and began a broad curve upwards. Ahead he saw the wall of advancing rain, moving too quickly for them to overtake it. A moment later the water thickened and he could see nothing at all. He knew that this time Fahren might not have the strength to magically aid the whelkling’s flight, so he wrenched off his chest piece and let it fall. After that, there was nothing to do but hunker down, grip the harness as tight as he could and pray that they would make it back to the border.

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.