Storm Holt (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 3) (35 page)

The old warehouses were smaller than the newer ones that had stood to their right, but the old ones were made of solid stone, and unlike their inferior part-wooden replacements they had withstood time and the attacks of Dread Dragons. He peered inside. It was cool and dimly lit by as many candles and lanterns as could be salvaged. There were windows, but these were covered in moss and dust from age and lack of use.
 

 
The warehouses were filled with people, young and old, injured and walking. Those that were well enough were tending the wounded. Moans of pain and hushed voices filled the air. A few people had sheets of blankets drawn up over their faces. These were quietly being carried away through a door at the back of the room that led into the next warehouse.

‘Only days ago a similar scene was before me,’ Marakon whispered, remembering the Elder’s house filled with wounded Gurlanka.
 

‘Come,’ Oria retook his arm when he hesitated, and led him further into the building.
 

He darted his eyes over the women tending the wounded. No one had the copper curls or the cherub-like smiling face that matched his Rasia. Oria led him through the half of the room where the injured women were. Some had terrible wounds, and blood soaked the sheets that covered them. He tried to keep his face a mask though he knew they would not see the day through. Beyond the more seriously wounded were those sleeping. His eyes rested on a woman whose copper curls flowed over the pillow, her face was turned away.

‘Rasia,’ he gasped and ran to her.
 

She shifted at his voice and as he looked down into her pallid face she opened her eyes.
 

‘Marakon?’ she blinked, her eyes were big and brown just as he remembered them, but there was pain in them, and deep circles under them.

‘Yes, it’s me. I’m here,’ he took her cold hand when she raised it and kissed it tenderly.

‘Marakon,’ she breathed and began to cry. She repeated his name many times. He bent down and hugged her gently, trying and failing to stop the tears flood from his own eyes. ‘I missed you so much. You came back to me. Don’t leave me again.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised and stood up, stroking her hair back from her face.

‘I tried to…’ she said the last part so quietly he couldn’t hear her. Her lips were blue and she looked so weak. Her eyes fluttered and he thought she was going to fall back asleep.
 

‘Tried to what, Rasia?’ he bent closer.

‘Tried to save them,’ tears ran down her cheeks. Marakon gripped her hand and held his breath.

‘They came for them. They didn’t want me, but I fought them. There were eight of them and two of us. I killed two before they struck me down. We chased after them, but it was too late. A building collapsed on me. I made him leave me and take a horse to chase them down. They took our boys, Marakon,’ she trailed off into weak sobs.

Marakon gripped her hand and hung his head. ‘My children are gone,’ he breathed. His utter hatred of the enemy rose to poisonous levels. Rasia began to cough - a cough that shook her whole body, forcing his attention back to the present.

‘Rest, Rasia,’ he soothed, but her coughing only got worse. ‘Do you want some water?’ Whether she nodded or shook her head he couldn’t be sure. He tried to hold her as the coughs racked her body. Blood patched on the sheets above her stomach where she’d been wounded. Healer women hurried over and helped her sit. Blood flecked her lips and the nurses wiped it away as best they could, glancing at each other with concern. He stood their horrified and useless as they helped Rasia drink water, and laid her back down to sleep.

Marakon stayed by her side for hours, listening to the rattling of her breath, opening himself to the blessed numbness of grief that stole over his weary body. Everything he did in his life was a failure. His curse was not over, his life was still filled with misery.

About mid-day Rasia came round again, and she seemed stronger than before. There was a little more colour in her cheeks, and her lips were more pink than grey. She smiled at him, her brown eyes warmed his soul, just like they always used to when they awoke together in the morning. At least he still had his Rasia. He returned the smile and for a moment he felt the shadows inside draw back into the darkness. He took her hand and held it against his cheek.

‘You look terrible,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘I’m not the one in a sick bed.’

‘True,’ she smiled. ‘But you should get some food and rest. I’ll be fine right here. Has he returned yet?’ she asked faintly, as if speaking exhausted her.

‘Has who returned?’ he asked, but she seemed to be drifting. Did she mean the children or had she found herself a new lover? He couldn’t bear to think the last. ‘Rasia, who fought with you to save the children?’

She roused again and looked up at him. ‘Bokaard. He came back. He’s alive.’

Marakon stood up straight, stunned. It took him several long moments to put it all together. ‘That’s incredible,’ he said.

‘No more incredible than you surviving,’ Rasia smiled. ‘I think he knew you weren’t dead. He longed to see you. Maybe he’ll return with the children. Go now, eat and rest.’

‘I’ll not leave you again,’ Marakon said firmly.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She shook her head. ‘And I need to sleep myself. I’ll still be here when you return. Go, I insist.’

Marakon felt the exhaustion as a physical thing dragging him down, but he didn’t want to leave Rasia’s side. She was right though, she needed to rest peacefully without him worrying beside her. His stomach rumbled. She was already asleep when he reluctantly turned to go. He decided to get some food and take an hour’s rest at most.

The townsfolk had gathered food from the few surviving stores and placed it in the smaller warehouse next door. There he found Ghenath and Cormak. They talked about what had happened as he made a meal of seed bread, apples and a vast array of pickled and salted items. To his empty stomach it tasted like a meal fit for a king.
 

Afterward he took off his armour and found a quiet place in the corner of the storeroom atop a pile of hay. He immediately fell into a deep sleep and did not awaken for several hours.

When Marakon finally awoke Rasia was gone. They had moved her body to the next warehouse where the other people now lay in permanent rest.
 

‘It is often the way,’ the old female nurse smiled at him sympathetically. ‘It’s as if their soul knows. They live just long enough to say goodbye to their loved ones, and leave when they are free to go.’ She squeezed his arm gently, and then left him alone with his wife’s body.

 
Rasia’s once tanned face was now grey-white and her lips a shade of slate. He stroked her cheek. It was so soft under his hand, and so horribly cold. He didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that flowed down his cheeks.

‘You told me you would still be here,’ he whispered, ‘but it turns out you had to go.’ He knelt down beside her and buried his head into the sheets, letting the grief consume him.

Marakon stayed there for a long time, stayed even when the tears had gone and the grief turned to numbness once more. Slowly he stood up. There was no point staying here, Rasia was not here, she was gone never to return. There was no point to anything anymore. He gently drew the sheet over her face, a face he would never see again.

Marakon left the warehouse of dead and wounded, and stood outside in the fresh air. His knights were gathered beside the harbour wall. They had eaten, rested and cleaned their armour. It gleamed in the sunlight that fell now and again through the clouds. They were only eight now, four were gone and he doubted he would ever see them again either. The knights smiled at him, concern and sorrow shared in their faces.

‘We’re sorry, Marakon,’ Lan said. ‘We did what we could, but there were too many of them.’

Marakon said nothing, but gripped the big man’s shoulder and squeezed.

‘We cleaned your armour and tended your horse,’ Ghenath said. He thanked her. They looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to tell them what to do, what their next task would be, but he had nothing to tell them. He had no desire to do anything.
 

‘The Maphraxies will not return, not immediately anyway,’ he said, his voice hoarse and cracked. ‘So you may as well stand down and rest and help the people here. Where’s my horse? I need some time alone…’

They brought his cleaned and rested horse to him. Luckily his horse’s wounds were little more than a few grazes on its hindquarters. He put on the saddle and bridle, but left the armour where it was on the stable floor along with his own freshly cleaned and fixed armour.
 

He eased his aching body into the saddle, and trotted along the coast road leading north out of town. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. He couldn’t just sit in that destroyed town. He had to feel the wind in his hair, the sun on his face, and perhaps, for a moment, he thought he could outrun his life.
 

The road ran upwards and along the cliff edge with thick forests to the right. There was no one on it as he galloped along, and he focused on nothing else but the ride. The sun was beginning to set through the clouds, turning them orange and pink. The air was fresh and filled with the smell of the sea. He came to a high point on a cliff that jutted outwards and stopped to give his horse a rest. He patted his neck and stared out to sea for a few minutes.
 

He’d just started off again when he saw a dust cloud in the distance coming towards him. Marakon slowed his horse to a trot. He wore no armour, but he still had his sword.
No Maphraxie rides a horse,
he laughed and let his hand drop from the pommel. The other horseman closed the gap between them, dropping to a trot as he neared. His face was covered with a scarf to keep the road dust out.

‘Marakon?’ a muffled voice came from behind the cloth and he pulled it down.

‘Bokaard?’ Marakon said in shock as he looked back at his friend.
 

He’d only half believed Rasia when she’d spoken of Bokaard surviving. He’d thought she was delirious with sickness. They dismounted and embraced roughly, laughing like they used to do over a beer in a tavern.

‘Praise the goddess, you white belly, you’re alive. I knew it.’ Bokaard grinned.

Marakon shook his head. ‘You would not believe my story even if I told you.’

‘Well, you’re gonna tell me, you lucky bastard, and then you can disbelieve mine,’ Bokaard said, his grin infectious and white teeth gleaming.
 

‘I’d like that. Over a beer of course,’ Marakon nodded.

‘They came by surprise, destroyed the town.’ Bokaard dropped his smile and became serious.

Marakon reached over and gripped his shoulders. ‘My children. Rasia said you chased after them. Did you find them? Did you see anything?’

Bokaard looked away and shook his head. Marakon suddenly saw the man’s exhaustion. Blood soaked his leather jerkin from a wound.

‘I tried,’ he grimaced and blinked back tears. ‘I have not stopped riding until now. Searching for them, though I knew it was helpless. They destroyed the house, came right for the children. We fought them, Rasia and I, but there were far too many. We chased them, then Rasia was trapped. I would have stayed with her, but she made me go after the boys.
 

‘I took a horse and found them again, but then was attacked. I lost them going right out of the town. I followed where they might have gone. I thought maybe the boys could have escaped and run away. I thought the knights on white horses might have freed them. I thought and hoped for many things, but I never found the boys again.’

Marakon dropped his hands from Bokaard’s shoulders. It had been a poor hope at best. ‘You did what you could, you have my deepest gratitude.’

‘Did you find Rasia?’ Bokaard asked.

‘Yes, I found her. They were looking after her and I…’ he trailed off as a painful sob caught his throat. ‘She is gone, Bokaard.’

‘Oh no,’ Bokaard stared out to sea, his black skin seemed to grey then. ‘I promised myself to protect her, to protect them all.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Marakon tried to appease the anguish in his friend. ‘We arrived too late to do much. There were too many of them. They came here with purpose, and many Maphraxies. That anyone survived should be considered a miracle.’ His own words of consolation sounded hollow in his ears.
 

‘Come, let’s find a beer and talk.’

In silence they rode back to the smoking ruin of Wenderon.