Storm Holt (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 3) (28 page)

MARAKON drifted and awoke many times in the journey across the Sea of Opportunity, as the boatman called it. His knights and their horses all dozed too, most slept now whilst others blinked blearily across the ocean. Nobody spoke, it seemed wrong to break the silence. Something about the place, the smooth silent travel across calm waters, the hypnotic glittering ocean and the perfectly timed rhythmic rowing of the boatman, made a sleep steal across you before you even knew you were tired.
 

‘Are we near yet?’ Marakon whispered, leaning forward to Murlonius in front of him.
 

‘Only you can decide when we are there, Marakon,’ Murlonius replied without breaking rhythm.

The cryptic answer initially annoyed him. He wasn’t inclined to mysteriousness and demanded clear answers as any commander might. But then he remembered the boatman’s words,
“the destination depends upon those I carry.”
 

‘But what if we all choose different places?’ Marakon asked, then he noticed the old boatman’s hands were no longer wrinkled and aged, but smooth and pale like an elf’s. ‘What trickery is this?’ he started, and his hand instinctively dropped to his sword.

‘No trickery, Marakon.’ As the boatman turned to look at him, the hood fell back from his face. Marakon gasped at the man’s smooth features and strangely long skull. Murlonius continued without breaking the rhythm in his rowing. ‘We’ve simply left the physical planes of Maioria and now my true image, the body I had before I was cursed, is revealed.’
 

Marakon shook his head in disbelief. The elven ancestry was definitely there but this man was indeed . . . ‘An Ancient.’

‘I told you I was cursed, and I’m cursed to never set foot upon Maioria. I am indeed an
ancient
Ancient, as you people call us,’ he chuckled. ‘After Baelthrom destroyed my people, he bound me with magic I could not break. Never able to die, but trapped forever here in this… place.’

‘Where is this place?’ Marakon asked

‘This is no place. It is simply the space between places, and I have been here for eternity,’ Murlonius said. The weariness in his voice made Marakon feel tired, and he let go of his sword feeling a little ashamed at himself. ‘And regarding your original question, who ever calls me decides upon the destination. You want desperately to see your Rasia and to go where you are needed most, so that is where we are headed. And now, it seems, we arrive. Look there.’ The boatman raised a hand and pointed ahead. ‘The mist clears.’

Marakon stared ahead as a dark patch of clearing formed in the mist. The sea began to lose its sparkle and the waves became choppy, waking the knights and horses up. Marakon squinted through the mist, trying make out what was beyond it. Then all at once the mist disappeared and a cloud covered scene took shape.
 

On the horizon a hump of land rose above dark ocean. The sky was filled with heavy clouds and rain began to splatter on his face. He shivered. Though it was the end of summer, this place felt frigid compared to the heat of the southern Uncharted Lands.

Marakon glanced at the boatman. The man had his back to him as he continued to row, but his hands… They were changing from smooth pale skin to what they had been before, shrunken and shrivelled and covered in age spots.
A man as cursed as I am.

‘Is there any way to end your curse?’ Marakon asked.

He shook his head. ‘Only when Baelthrom is dead and gone can we be free.’

‘ “We?” There is another?’ Marakon frowned. The boatman nodded but said no more.
 

The boat began to pitch and roll in the unsettled water, and Marakon’s attention turned back to the scenery unfolding around him. The familiar pale grey cliff of Wenderon Bay stood out against the darker grey cliffs that bordered it. The cliffs undulated up and down the north west coast of Frayon for miles. A lump formed in his throat. Rasia was here, and his boys, just the way he’d left them. Finally, after so long at war, after going through hell and back, he’d come home.

‘We arrive at dusk, but there will be no sunset this day,’ the boatman said looking up at the heavy sky. His old man’s voice was weak and raspy, and he’d pulled his hood low over his face.

A few lights of the town glinted in the dullness. The town nestled into a dip in the cliffs and Marakon fancied he could see their house at the highest point at the back of the village, a light in the window still on, though it was really too hard to see that far ahead.

They neared the shore from the south, following a fast flowing current. Marakon couldn’t stop staring at the town. He searched everywhere for a glimpse of Rasia or the boys amongst the grey buildings, but he couldn’t make anyone out, the people were probably all huddled inside away from the wind and rain.

When the boat touched the sand of the southern most beach, it was no longer an ornately carved masterpiece with a sea serpent’s head at the bow. Instead it had become an over-sized aged and warped boat that barely kept the water out. He was keen to jump off the creaking old thing. He came close to the boatman as the knights disembarked.

‘Thank you, Murlonius the Ancient. If I ever survive long enough to lift my curse, I’ll do everything I can to help you lift yours.’

The boatman’s face was hidden in his hood, but Marakon heard a smile in his voice.
 

‘May you have what you seek, Marakon Si Hara. I look forward to when the rest of your days are filled with peace and light.’
 

The mist came, and with an oar Murlonius pushed his shrinking boat back into the sea. Marakon watched him disappear with sadness in his heart. The man who was cursed to live in no place for eternity. Hope, both a poisonous thing and a saviour. When there is no other choice hope was the only thing to cling to. He wasn’t sure if he liked hope.

He turned back to his knights. Ghenath’s face turned to horror. She pointed northwards out to sea. Marakon whipped his head back towards the ocean and his stomach lurched.

‘Maphraxies, lots of them,’ Marakon growled, taking in the familiar spider-like shapes of the ships speeding towards the shore. There were four that he could see clearly, their black masts splayed wide and their thin hulls slicing through the surface.

‘These are the Maphraxies you told us of?’ Cormak asked, gripping the haft of his axe. Marakon nodded grimly.

‘They’re coming in fast, we should raise a warning,’ Lan said, and mounted his horse.

‘Ready yourselves for a long a bloody battle. Spare no enemies, they are not alive anyway,’ Marakon said, and pulled himself into the saddle. ‘Especially protect the children, they’ll want them for their Black Drink. And for goddess’s sake do not get captured.’

The knights galloped along the sandy beach to the harbour. Marakon was hoping to be stopped by a guard or town’s officer, but there were only two fishermen sorting through their nets. They turned to look at the fast approaching knights and their white horses. The first fisherman fell back from Marakon as he pulled hard on his reins to a walk.

‘We mean no harm,’ Marakon cried out before the man turned to run.
 

The fisherman hesitated and then stayed, eyeing them nervously as Marakon came closer. Rain ran off the man’s grey beard, his wide yellow hat was unable to keep the weather completely out. His younger apprentice came to stand beside him, hugging his long yellow coat tight around his neck to shield against the wind.
 

‘There’s danger, you must go from here immediately.’ Marakon pointed back towards the black ships approaching. The fisherman’s eyes went wide in horror.

‘How many?’ he gasped.

‘Four, at least. That’s far more than we and the whole of Wenderon can fight,’ Marakon said. He had no idea how they could possibly fight four ships full of Maphraxies, but he had to warn them, and he had to get Rasia and his boys safe. ‘Go now, tell everyone to run, or fight if they wish.’

The two men ran off, shouting their warnings to the other fishermen. Marakon turned back to the ships, there looked to be five ships now, gangly spiders looming close.
 

‘We’ll protect the townsfolk as best we can, but in the end we will flee,’ he said.

Ironbeard nodded. ‘Then let’s not make it easy. Lan, Drenden, Meyer - help me close the port gates. The rest can spread the warning.’
 

Marakon nodded his approval, remembering the dwarf was always quick thinking. The four knights galloped off towards the port. Marakon and the rest cantered through the cobbled streets, the sound of their horses’ hooves echoing loudly.
 

The fishermen managed to spread the alarm quickly, and soon scared and bewildered people began to flood out of their houses, shops and taverns, clutching their children and belongings to their chests. The knights weaved their horses amongst them, yelling their warnings. Their cries were taken up by the people, and soon screams of “Maphraxies” and “run” filled the air as panic brought the whole town to life. Those who were young and fast were already running to the hills, or bareback on horses and donkeys, whilst others locked themselves away in their houses and basements.
 

Those who stayed would not survive, Marakon knew, but he could not force people from their homes. The situation was hopeless enough as it was. All the while he shouted warnings, his eyes travelled to the east of the town where the hill rose, and where Rasia would be with his boys. He had to get them out and get them out now. A glance behind him told him the ships had reached the shore. It would not be long before he’d be face to face with his most hated enemy once more.
 

He felt it moments before the shadow engulfed the town. A shiver of deathly cold ran up his spine, his heart skipped a beat, and all the noise and mayhem dimmed to silence. His white eye throbbed and his hands trembled. His horse pranced to the left and slipped on the wet cobbles, almost throwing him off. The other horses reared, the fleeing people stopped in their tracks and fell to their knees.

Marakon could do nothing as the dragon fear gripped him in terror. A screeching roar ripped through him and wind gusted as great wings beat down from above. His horse suddenly bolted. All he could do was grip the reins until the fear strangling his body loosened its hold. His white eye throbbed so painfully that even when the fear began to subside he couldn’t think or see clearly.
 

‘Slow, calm.’ He shouted the words to his horse as soothingly as he could, and began to regain some control over himself and his mount. He brought his horse to a shifty stop behind the back of an old barn on the edge of town. He was stood alone in a dark dead-end alley, the screams of people came from somewhere ahead. He blinked through the rain, struggling to get his bearings in the growing dark of dusk.
Rasia.
 

He moved along the alley and turned a corner. Spewing fire of a Dread Dragon lit up the town, igniting several houses despite the soaking rain. At least it gave him enough light to see where he was. He couldn’t see any of his knights, but they would be far better prepared and armed than the townspeople. The town rose high ahead and to his left. He’d have to go forwards and take the main road, that was the quickest way home from here.

Thirty yards ahead was a wide cobbled high street lit by street lamps. People were fleeing up it and a few Maphraxies followed them, running in their lumbering gait. Even as he watched more Maphraxies filled the street. Behind was a dead end, the only way was forwards. With a deep breath he urged his horse forwards fast into a gallop and drew his sword. At the last minute he spotted a tiny alley to his left and took it. It was so narrow his boots scraped along the walls. The alley came out into the town square. People fled in a wave of screams and panic as Maphraxies spilled into the square. Lots of them. Their disgusting nets drawn at the ready. This was a raiding party and they were here to collect mostly children.
 

Rage, made stronger by the dull ache in his white eye, coursed through Marakon’s veins and he charged into two Maphraxies. His horse’s hooves slashed at the undead as he hacked his sword down, half beheading one and slicing the hand off another. Black blood oozed from its wound. The shocked Maphraxie had no time to raise its mace as Marakon’s sword thrust straight through its throat. It convulsed to the ground, blood spewing from its twisted mouth.