A moth in the flames, p.1
A Moth in the Flames, page 1
part #5 of Kingdom of Durundal Series
Contents
Acknowledgments
By S.E. Turner
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
About the Author
Main Characters
Copyright S. E. Turner 2018
The right of S. E. Turner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Acknowledgments
Cover by Black Widow Books
Proofreading and Formatting by Nancy Stopper
Beta Reading by Suzanne Pollen
Illustrations by Daisy Jane Turner
My friends and family for their enthusiasm and
encouragement.
My three daughters who continue to inspire me.
By S.E. Turner
The Kingdom of Durundal Series
Book One: A Hare in the Wilderness
Book Two: A Wolf in the Dark
Book Three: A Leopard in the Mist
Book Four: A Stag in the Shadows
Book Five: A Moth in the Flames
Sorceress of the Sapphire: Book 1
Sorceress of the Sapphire: Book 2
Sorceress of the Sapphire: Book 3
www.kingdomofdurundal.com
'Whatever you read now you must believe. I will tell you things that seem impossible and highly improbable. But remember that we live in a world where everything is decided by what we can see and what we touch. If we can't see it or we don't understand it, then we perceive that it doesn't exist. But it does exist, and what may seem impossible here, is in fact highly probable in another world.'
'We are all connected.'
Prologue
The morning air was dark with the smell of rain, and the dragons peered out from their stone surroundings as if they were looking directly at Cornelius. A cloud seemed to hang over him today, ragged and black as his cloak. He paced about restlessly, muttering to himself, and the crenel of witches trembled when he brushed past them. He was agitated about something—he did not know what. He just knew that he needed a change. After three years of living in the cave, something had to change.
Outside, waves crashed against the jagged rocks, eager to get past the entrance of the cave's mouth. The wind picked up its pace and threaded its way through the canyon into the dome of gargoyles where it curled round the hundred faces and breathed energy into them. The fire glowed with the life-giving elements and rose higher, burning brighter with every passing minute. He caught his breath for a moment, unsure of what was happening. He heard a rustling, and then an even fiercer light bloomed.
He shielded his eyes and felt his breath caught in his throat. One hand gripped his neck and the other protected him from the glare. The roar of power settled down, and then went pitch black.
'What witchcraft is this?' his voice quivered.
All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing: loud, anxious, agitated. He calmed himself. The light returned, and out of the flames stepped a life form. He didn't know what it was. He backed away, stumbling, slipping, falling. Hot coals ignited the being. The black charcoaled image stood there burning, as ashes around its feet lifted in a frenzy and swirled around the body before disappearing into the orifice of a throat. The blackened skin became young and even skin-toned. Long golden hair grew from the crown of the head. Though shrouded in a fine gossamer, the face was beautiful, and the body was perfect. A naked woman stood before him veiled in plumes of smoke. Fiery amber eyes pierced his own and didn't stray from their focus.
'Cornelius, I have watched you grow into a man. I have seen the change in you. But I know you are about to leave this place and embark on a journey.'
Cornelius pinched himself. He shook his head, not quite believing what was in front of him or what he had just heard.
'You are not the frightened little boy anymore. You are strong, and you are courageous. I can help you become even stronger.'
'How?' his voice was small and weak.
'The gods of darkness protect you and I can give you immortality.'
Cornelius laughed out loud.
The fire soared, the wind howled, and the amber eyes glared. 'Do not mock me!' She bellowed.
He swallowed the laugh and spoke quietly. 'Why would you do that for me?'
'Because I want something in return.'
He braced himself, fearful of what she would request from him.
'What can I give you?' He heard the whisper.
Her eyes burned brighter, the plumes of smoke clung to her curves. The breeze curled around his torso.
Her gaze bore into his very soul.
He turned away.
'Look at me Cornelius.'
Their eyes met.
'It is written that a warrior will charge through the kingdoms and seek vengeance for those whom have been slain and tortured. This warrior will be born from the seed of the living and the womb of the dead.'
He dropped his head sideways in astonishment.
'Her name will be Sansara, and her purpose will be to bring peace. She will be able to take many forms, but in this life, it will be of a human.'
His rhetoric was mocking. 'That is impossible. There is too much evil out there for one person to take care of. Even a ten thousand strong army of powerful bowmen and a well-established cavalry cannot do what you propose'
The fire blinded him. The wind froze him to the spot.
He frowned.
'I want you to father that child... with me.'
She saw the pink cavern of his mouth.
'If you do this for me, then I give you my word: no ordinary man will take your life.'
'How do I know you are speaking the truth?'
The fire roared again, the waves snarled foam around the cavern, and the wind raced through the gloom.
'How can you take care of a child? What will you do? Where will you go?' He continued, despite the wrath.
'That is not your concern. The child will be mine and given everything she needs, I can assure you of that.' Her voice grew thin 'But I grow weak in this life form... I am tiring... now do we have a bargain?'
Chapter One
Travellers used to speak of an island, unknown to many, that was kept hidden from the outside world for thousands of years. Ships would pass its sandy shores, but few would ever stop there, for the island offered nothing for them.
The inhabitants lived in scattered pods around the island. It was said that these people could talk with animals, make spells, summon storms, and make men think they could fly. Seafarers kept well away from this place, expecting lightning bolts to come down from the sky like shards and incinerate them on the spot.
But one ship load of looters did not heed the warnings and launched an attack on the peaceful community, desecrating monuments, destroying artefacts, and burning scriptures. Worshippers were hacked down as they prayed in the sacred lake. Others were cut down as they worked the land. They screamed and raised their hands in defence. Some pleaded, many tried to lay curses, but the result was the same. After the slaughter, all surviving animals were rounded up, the village was set alight, and the men urinated in the sacred water. They say the sea ran red for months, the rain fell like tears, and the winds never stopped howling. When the ship set sail again, it ran aground in the storms, and all on board were lost to the sea.
For years the island lay empty, fragile, barely breathing.
Now, the birds have begun to sing once again, and an old woman lives there with her three daughters. She is easily recognisable because of her long woollen robe. She walks barefooted. Her grey hair ends at her waist, her face is slightly wrinkled, yet her body is lithe and firm. Her three daughters are beautiful: tall and sculpted. The very epitome of a goddess. They have smooth olive skin, their hair is plaited with delicate orchids, they speak with the wind, and are told things by the elements.
They see cruelty spreading, and they see cities burning and people running. They see the hatred in young men's hearts and know the killing will go on until the winds can change things. They hear a girl calling to them, a boy cries out for help, and a mother weeps for her dead baby. They feel their anger, their weakness, their danger. The old woman talks to the storms and sends them with full force to eradicate the poison. The gale tries desperately to swallow the evil, to clean the slate and pave the way for love and light. But all it does is delay things for a while, and the hatred and the burning and the running continues.
The women don't like intrusion, and they don't like visitors, until the day the wind tells them of a change—bad things will happen to those who come to their island uninvited.
Apart from the giant, that is.
Once a year, when the weather is warm and the conditions are right, a giant oval emerges from the
On Mawi's Island, many have met their doom already, a few have survived and cannot speak of what they have seen, but the crone is ready for anything. She has nurtured her brood. She has watched her hatchlings grow. The island will never fall again. For this woman is a sorceress of the highest order: a witch, an immortal being who has born three daughters from mortals—men chosen for their courage and virtue, for their integrity and strength. One of these men has fallen to the sword, another has fallen to the ocean. The crone did not choose well.
But one survives.
Now it is time.
Chapter Two
Sansara was dreaming. She was walking naked down a long secret passage, a winding tunnel of dampness and fragility tinged with the scent of rose petals and jasmine. She followed the aroma through the dark twisted maze until she found herself descending a narrow set of marble stairs hemmed with an intricately carved bronze rail. The staircase swooped downwards and still the scent was leading her into the eternal abyss—an everlasting decent. At the foot of the stairs were three doors. One was oak, one was ruby, and one was lapis lazuli. Unknowing which one to choose, she reached out intuitively and turned the old gnarled knocker before opening the wooden door. It creaked and groaned, unwilling to share its secrets. She didn't know what to expect, and the endless minutes ticked by like a recurring nightmare. The room was musty, and a small beam of light fell on a richly decorated granite tomb. On the top, a man and a woman lay next to each other. They both held swords to their breasts, and they both wore crowns. She noticed the relief of a hare and a stag on the side of the coffin alongside some names that she couldn't decipher. Sansara trembled as she ran a finger across the woman's smooth porcelain face. She imagined she saw her take a sharp intake of breath when she felt a line carved into her cheek. Sansara recoiled instantly and her gaze fell on the man at her side. A trickle of red blood ran from an arrow wound in his heart. The weapon was still protruding, the blood collected in whirlpools at the base of the tomb and towards her feet. She wanted to run but her legs wouldn't move. She wanted to scream but nothing came out. The aqueous liquid continued to form blood-red petals that merged together as blooms, and a chaos held her suspended as she tried to break free from the suffocating mire. In the distance, voices and shuffling footsteps were getting nearer. She became confused and disorientated. Fear gripped her.
Her sister touched her arm gently. 'Sansara, wake up. You are having another nightmare.'
Sansara flared her eyes wide open and heard herself panting. She looked around, glad of the kind face and familiar voice. Steadying her own, she took hold of her younger sibling's hand.
'Are you okay, Sansara? You were thrashing about a lot more this time.'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.' Her voice was sincere.
Ellis cradled Sansara tenderly and brushed away the tears.
'I keep having the same dream, every night it's the same, and every time I am held in a state of panic as I cannot move.'
'I know this dream is a burden, I know you are in turmoil. But know that you are safe—you are always safe with us.
A wisp of hair fell onto her cheek.
Her elder sister came over and sat on the edge of the bed. 'You must talk to mother. She will know what it means.' Phoebe pushed the hair from her face and wrapped it behind the back of her ear.
Sansara dabbed the tears with the back of her hand and sniffed back a runny nose. 'Yes, I must. I will do that this very day.'
The most used room on Mawi's Island was the kitchen filled with sounds and smells that contributed to a feeling of love and security. This kitchen was huge, with low beams over a floor of polished driftwood tiles. It had ovens and kettles and huge pots and pans, with ladles and serving spoons as big as plates. As a small child, Sansara and her sisters watched as their mother kneaded the bread dough with strong firm knuckles and diced up vegetables with a long, curved knife. Best of all was when mother made honey cakes and lemon biscuits and the girls would scoff them all with huge mugs of dandelion tea. Herbs and plants would be brewed and fermented to ward off evil spirits and bring continued peace to their solitary island. The girls would sit at one end of the long heavy worktable watching their mother work her magic and chant ancient words. Mawi knew by smell, taste, or a simple touch when each potion was just right and stored them in jars and vials and earthenware pots. There was a certain divination about her, a knowledge and power that surpassed any mortal being. She was tall, with long grey hair turning white at the crown, and speckled flecks that glistened by the firelight and shone in the sun. Sansara loved those strands, for they looked like silver raindrops that changed every day, and when her mother kissed her goodnight, she could always see another silver strand that rewarded her mother's higher instinct and exceptional skills.
Outside lay an arrangement of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes. A small coal pit was in the centre of the yard surrounded by the smell of heather and a green scent of pine drifting over the hills.
By the time Sansara was ten years old, she knew the medicinal content of every single plant. She could identify those which could heal wounds, those which could cure ailments, and those which could kill pain. She knew the poisonous ones, the ones that could cause a mere tummy upset, and those that could be fatal.
Her favourite memories were when mother took them out for the day… into the meadows burgeoning with life.
'I want to find lots of plants today, especially spinach and radishes, because they calm inflammations and viral infections. We have run low on those, so I need you to get some for me.'
Nimble fingers and keen noses sought out the hidden apothecary amongst the vegetation, naked to the ordinary eye but a life support to the ardent explorer. And as if conjured up by magic, a blanket of herbaceous flowers waved their vibrant blooms urgently in the south westerly breeze.
'Which plants heal?' asked Ellis, running ahead, hungry for knowledge and new skills.
'Yarrow is the most valuable healing remedy, and we need a lot of those, so look for its feathery leaves, strong stems and broad white flower heads.'
'What is this one?' asked Phoebe, foraging amongst the stalks and colours.
'That's oregano. It's a very good aid against poisonous insect bites. And this one is thyme which is excellent for tummy aches.'
The barrage of questions continued from Sansara. 'What about these pretty yellow flowers?'
'Those are marigolds that can heal skin wounds, burns, and eye inflammation. And this is mint which is very good for digestion.'
But they also knew the effects of aconitum, of hellebore, of white snakeroot and wild iris. Of blanket weed and laburnum, for these were some of the most powerful plants, and a simple concoction was always close to hand.
A chill sliced the air that morning. The doves cooed outside and the rooster heralded the start of the day. Sansara came downstairs, carrying a heavy heart and a weight on her shoulders. Her sisters watched as she went into the kitchen, and when they saw she had not changed her mind, they each took a bucket of grain to feed the chickens and doves.
