Broken Prophecy Read online

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Steve – another guy who has his priorities straight.

  Author’s Note

  Dear anyone who picked this book up for some damn reason,

  This is a work of (albeit very dry) satire. I hereby swear by all the gods I don’t worship that I will never, ever take Chosen Ones or multicoloured hair seriously (no offence to anyone who likes anime). I also generally despise prophecies.

  People have told me I should write more humour, as opposed to the dark and gritty material I’m generally known for. Contrary to what those books might suggest, I actually do have a sense of humour, and this is the second satire/parody I’ve published – the other one being The Land of Bad Fantasy, for children. Anyone who has read that book will spot something in this one which may be a tad on the familiar side.

  Typically for most humorous works, I wrote this one while I was very angry.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by K.J. Taylor

  Copyright

  One

  ‘Once, long ago, the Land of Flowers was happy.’ The storyteller paused to look meaningfully at his audience. ‘Yes, very happy,’ he added. ‘But then the demons came. One day the sky went dark and the Nine Mountains erupted, with fire and smoke pouring into the sky. The land went dark and lava flowed over the earth, and the demons came crawling out of the ground – thousands of them, with burning eyes and metal teeth. They spread everywhere, killing everyone they found, destroying villages and towns, spoiling everything.’

  The storyteller’s voice rose dramatically and his audience, mainly children, listened expectantly. Around them other people were half listening. Adults relaxed in the shade after a long day’s work, and a young woman was singing for tips in the background. She provided a rather nice soundtrack.

  ‘Today, the Nine Mountains are home to the nine demon lords,’ the storyteller continued, ‘and they send their minions out to oppress anyone living too close to the ruined lands they’ve taken for themselves. One day, perhaps, they will spread through the whole of the land and the human race will be wiped out.’

  ‘Or maybe they’ll bore themselves to death first,’ a lazy voice put in from somewhere behind the audience.

  ‘But there is still one thing that can stop the demons and put everything right again,’ said the storyteller, ignoring the interruption.

  ‘The Chosen One!’ a small girl piped up. Around her, the other children buzzed excitedly.

  ‘Fifty years ago, when the demons first came, it was said that someone would come with the power to drive them away forever,’ the storyteller nodded. ‘A special warrior, with a special weapon.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ the heckler from up the back shouted.

  The storyteller glared in his direction, and went on doggedly. ‘Some say this destined one hasn’t been born yet. Others believe he is already here, and that one day, any day now, he’ll appear to begin the fulfilment of his great destiny. For all we know, he could be here today. He could be one of you, and you don’t even know it yet.’ He smiled at the fascinated children.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it, kids,’ the heckler threw in.

  ‘When will the Chosen One come?’ a boy asked.

  ‘Nobody knows,’ said the storyteller. ‘That’s all I know. But maybe, one day . . .’

  ‘Maybe one day people will stop wasting time on fairy tales,’ said the heckler.

  ‘Will you shut up?’ the storyteller finally snapped.

  The young man lounging on a rock by the wall of the town tavern only grinned at him, and when the other adults nearby muttered ominously, he grinned at them too. The singing girl took the opportunity to sing a little more loudly, and was rewarded with a faint rattle of demon eyes thrown into the bowl at her feet.

  Seemingly realising he wasn’t going to win this particular confrontation, the storyteller pushed his red-striped hair away from his face and turned his attention back to his listeners. ‘If you want to know more about the Chosen One, the monks in the valley are the people to ask,’ he said. ‘They know the prophecy, and they can recognise the Chosen One. Many people go to them asking if they’re the one, but all of them have gone away disappointed.’

  ‘I want to go and see them!’ a small boy said immediately. ‘I want them to teach me how to fight demons!’

  ‘That’s definitely something you can find there,’ said the storyteller. ‘The monks are always happy to take on new apprentices.’

  The boy glanced proudly at his friends, golden eyes shining with excitement.

  ‘Oh goody, let’s all go and get ourselves killed,’ the heckler muttered. ‘Why is everyone letting this old goat tell their kids what a great idea it is to go and fight demons?’

  ‘And I suppose a coward like you would tell them they shouldn’t?’ the storyteller threw at him.

  ‘I’d tell them to make up their own minds, is what I’d do,’ said the heckler, idly rolling the shaft of a spear over his palm. ‘That’d be why you’re the popular one, right?’

  ‘Well, I’m not too scared to go and see the monks,’ the golden-eyed boy told him.

  ‘That’s because you’re a stupid kid,’ said the heckler. He winked at the singer, who had stopped singing and was now eyeing him with interest. ‘Hey, sweetie, want to see my spear?’

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’ someone else asked. ‘I’ve never seen you around here before.’

  The heckler shrugged. ‘I’m just passing through.’

  ‘Going anywhere in particular?’ the man asked.

  ‘Trying to work out where I’m going at the moment,’ said the heckler, resting one long leg on the other and stifling a yawn. He leaned his spear, which was a shabby thing with its shaft bound with leather, against the wall beside him.

  ‘One of the Dispossessed, are you?’ said the storyteller.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ the stranger growled.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Giving everything names,’ said the stranger. ‘It’s obnoxious. I’m not a Dispo-whatever; I’m a traveller. Labels are unnecessary. And right now I’m way too sober, so fare-thee-well, grandpa.’ He stood up, heaving a heavy pack onto his shoulder, and sauntered off into the tavern, snatching the spear along the way. The singer glanced around and followed him.

  Next morning the traveller woke up. He immediately regretted it. He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow of the bed he’d hired, but it was too late; he was awake now, and apparently stuck with it for the time being.

  ‘Ugh, who turned up the sun?’ he mumbled.

  Beside him, the singer stretched and smiled at him. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ he said immediately. ‘Please kill me and throw my corpse in the river.’

  She giggled. ‘Do you even remember anything you did last night?’

  ‘Yes, I got drunk,’ he said. ‘I may also have done some singing of my own before we wound up here. What’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘Selwa,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

  The trav
eller rolled over and sat up. ‘Er, I’m Ambit,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Was I any good in bed, by the way?’

  ‘Terrible,’ said Selwa.

  ‘Thought so. I suppose I should get going before I meet anyone a second time. The first time is usually enough to make the second time a bad idea. You’re not married, are you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘not that you cared last night.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ Ambit said, dragging himself out of bed. ‘Thanks for the company.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Selwa. ‘You’re interesting. We don’t get many interesting people around here. Where are you from?’

  ‘Nowhere that exists anymore,’ said Ambit.

  ‘Then where are you going?’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ he answered, looking around blearily for the water jug. He found it and tipped the entire contents over his head, then shook it, spraying droplets everywhere, before ruffling his blue-spotted hair with his hands.

  Selwa got up and started to gather her clothes from the floor. ‘So you’re a wanderer,’ she said. ‘That sounds interesting. Are you hunting demons?’

  ‘No,’ Ambit said shortly.

  ‘But you’ve fought some, haven’t you?’ she persisted, looking at the spear which he had left propped up in a corner.

  ‘A few,’ said Ambit. ‘You can’t go anywhere these days without impaling something or other.’ He had found his trousers by now, and managed to put them on after a couple of attempts.

  Selwa watched him, noting the scars on his arms and legs. ‘Is it scary, fighting a demon?’

  Ambit picked up his shirt. ‘Have a look at one and make an educated guess,’ he said. ‘Have you seen my boots anywhere?’ Selwa picked one up and hurled it at his head, but he caught it an inch away from his nose and sat down to put it on. ‘Thanks.’

  Selwa finished dressing and made for the door. ‘Good luck on your journey. Come and see me if you’re ever in the neighbourhood again.’

  ‘Will do,’ he said. ‘Er, what’s this place called again?’

  Selwa rolled her eyes. ‘Spotswood. Goodbye, Ambit.’

  Ambit finished lacing his boots, and picked up his pack and spear. Downstairs in the tavern room, the owner was waiting with an irritated expression at the ready. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Are you leaving today?’

  Ambit was already on his way to the entrance. ‘Don’t worry. I’m gone,’ he said, ‘and I hardly puked on your floor at all, so stop scowling at me.’

  The tavern owner’s face went from dark to thunderous. ‘You’d better not show your face in here again, you –’ he began, but Ambit was through the door before he’d finished throwing out the witty insult he would no doubt come up with. Ambit considered throwing one out, too, but his brain wasn’t up to it just then, and the moment he went outside the sun sent shafts of hot pain into his eyeballs and rendered him speechless.

  Blinking and grimacing, he put his head down and walked off, out of the town of – what was it called again? – Spotswood. A very clean and wholesome place, clearly, full of happy children and colourful houses, with flowers everywhere, between the buildings and in open spaces, before the fields appeared.

  Ambit waded through them without looking back, spear slung over his shoulder. He followed a river whose waters shimmered in the sun, beautifully clear, cold and clean. The sand at the bottom was black, and so were the rocks, and there weren’t that many fish about, but it was clean and pretty enough. Ambit paused, looking at it, then dumped his bag and spear, stripped off and jumped in.

  While he was crouching neck-deep and scrubbing himself with a handful of sand, something moved through the trees not far away. A clump of nodding daffodils suddenly wilted, and then shrivelled under a blast of heat and something black emerged like a blot on the beautiful landscape. Glowing red eyes narrowed into evil slits, and a faint hiss snaked out from between shining metal fangs.

  The creature waddled out of its hiding place, claws digging into the ground, spikes leaving blackened scratches on a nearby tree trunk. Its tail dragged behind it, the tip flicking.

  It went as close to the water’s edge as it dared, still hissing balefully, and then turned its attention to the spear left lying on the bank. It bit at the leather-wrapped shaft, managed to get a grip, and slowly started to drag the weapon away.

  Ambit heard the spear bumping against the tree roots where he’d left it, and turned around to look. The weapon had wedged itself in place and the demon was hissing angrily as it tried to pull it free.

  Ambit swam back to the edge and rested his arms on the bank. ‘Need a hand?’ he asked.

  The demon let go of the spear and waddled over to glare at him. ‘It’s going to rust if you leave it in the mud. Where were you all night?’

  ‘Resting. I was tired,’ said Ambit. ‘And that spear can’t rust, remember? Not that I care.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be taking care of it,’ said the demon, waving an accusing claw at him.

  ‘I am taking care of it,’ said Ambit. ‘I’m way too hungover for your nagging, Snarl.’

  ‘You humans and your beer,’ said the demon. ‘I’ve never understood the attraction.’

  ‘Sometimes I can’t either,’ said Ambit, pushing himself away from the bank and rolling over to let the water cover his head.

  Snarl waited impatiently while he finished his bath and climbed up the bank. ‘Can we go now?’ she asked while he was pulling his shirt on.

  Ambit picked up his spear and pack. ‘All right, all right, let’s go. The river should take us the rest of the way. What were you doing all night, anyway?’

  Snarl waddled along beside him as he started to walk downriver. ‘Digging for rocks,’ she said. ‘I was hoping this place would have some worth eating, but fat chance. I won’t get a decent meal until we’re in demon country again.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I think there’s a patch of it between us and there,’ said Ambit. ‘Then it’ll be your turn to have a good feed and I’ll be the one stuck with nothing to eat.’

  ‘It’d be about time,’ said Snarl.

  ‘Hey, you’re lucky I don’t pull your eyeballs out and spend them,’ said Ambit, idly kicking a stick out of the way. ‘I’ve thought of it more than once.’

  ‘Try it if you want your nose bitten off,’ said Snarl. ‘Remind me – why are we going to see these monks again?’

  ‘To hear this stupid prophecy granddad told me about, remember?’ said Ambit. ‘So we know what not to do. So we can piss off somewhere and do what we like, without worrying about it coming true. I don’t know why you’re complaining. You’re a demon.’

  ‘I’m complaining because I don’t trust you,’ said Snarl.

  ‘Why, because I’m human?’

  ‘Because you’re an irresponsible moron,’ the demon informed him. ‘That is why I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Now that’s just unfair,’ said Ambit. ‘I have many other fine qualities as well, y’know.’

  Snarl growled to herself and waddled on ahead. She was a small demon, not much larger than a child or a large dog. Like a dog she was four-legged, with double-pointed claws and jagged spikes festooning her back and tail. Thick stone plates protected her spine and the top of her skull, and a large blue gemstone sat between the tips of her curved horns. Like all demons she had gems for eyes, glittering red in her coal-black face. Her curved fangs gleamed like polished steel, because that was exactly what they were.

  Behind her, Ambit strolled along with his spear resting on his shoulder. He was a tall man, but not in a noble or dignified kind of way – more in a way that made him look as if his body had been stretched out like hot toffee, leaving him with a slouch, as if his spine couldn’t quite manage to hold his chest up. Like most people in the Land of Flowers he wore colourful clothing – blue, green, yellow and pink – but layers of dirt had done a lot to make it less conspicuous.

  Not that he would have been very noticeable in the countryside he was crossing now – the lan
d by the river was lush with grass and decked out with hundreds of flowers, which bloomed all year round in these parts. Gradually, the flowers started to fade and disappear as the day wore on and the river led out of the farmlands around Spotswood. The grass took on a drab look and patches of bald earth began to appear. Even the river looked less shiny.

  Not long after that the grass ran out altogether, in bits and pieces, and bare, dark rock took its place. The trees had long since disappeared, and Ambit and Snarl walked on to where a seemingly endless expanse of stone took their place. The colours disappeared; there was nothing but browns and greys dominated by the dull black of hardened lava, which had flowed down into the river. It turned into strange, sharp shapes where water had hardened it, and the bottom of the river had been replaced by stone. Here and there, as the travellers entered the wasteland, cracks had opened up in the earth. Smoke drifted up from them, and every now and then a puff of fire would billow into the sky.

  Ambit hesitated a little before going into this bleak landscape – he had only been in demon territory once or twice before. Here, with his bright-ish clothes and blue-spotted hair, he stood out like an orange in a cherry salad.

  Snarl, however, bounded off over the rough ground very happily, her black back and yellow-tipped spikes blending in perfectly. Sometimes, when she was at the right angle to hide her flame-orange belly, she was almost invisible.

  ‘Keep a lookout for other demons, will you?’ Ambit called to her.

  ‘Will do,’ she answered. ‘Does the map say how big this patch is?’

  ‘Not really, and it’s probably wrong by now anyway,’ said Ambit. He held his spear out in front of him, braced for trouble. If a demon attacked him, he might well not see it until it was right on top of him. The creatures were notorious for ambushing people and, here, the advantage was with them.

  For now, though, everything looked quiet. Ambit kept his eyes open, watching Snarl as she went on ahead. She looked like a moving patch of the lava waste, and sometimes he lost sight of her altogether, but if there was trouble she would be the first one to know.

  They were a good way into demon country and had lost sight of the greener pastures they’d left when Snarl suddenly came back. She appeared from behind a crag, darting over to Ambit’s side.