by B. J. Beach
Eyes wide, he lifted his hand in a gesture of accomplishment. “Bardilan and Corlian!”
Baffled, Symon stared at him as though he had uttered a mouthful of nonsense. “Say that again!”
Karryl stood up and patted the book. “Bardilan and Corlian! Don’t you remember them? When we were in Naput, by the river Koona?”
Perplexed, Symon’s brow furrowed. Karryl almost danced with exasperation. “When they were talking to each other, this is the language they were speaking! It’s Mirikani!”
The little magician’s mouth formed a long silent ‘O’. Eyes fixed on the book he paced slowly into the room. He plonked himself heavily on Karryl’s chair then reached across the desk to run his small slender fingers over the neat closely written pages, realisation spreading slowly across his round face.
His voice barely rose above a whisper. “Don’t you see? That would explain so much!”
Karryl perched on the edge of the desk. “Such as what?”
Hands clasped together, Symon looked up at Karryl as if he were a disappointing pupil. “The reason why the Mirikani are involved at all, for a start. We only became aware of their involvement in this when they attempted to kill us in that mountain village.”
Karryl eased himself off the edge of the desk and wandered across to the window, his hands clasped beneath his chin as he lost himself in thought. Symon waited.
Still gazing out the window, Karryl voiced the question the little magician had been anticipating. “Why did the Mirikani try to kill us? We never got a full explanation from Bardilan and Corlian did we?”
Symon gave Karryl a rueful little half smile. “Not to my personal satisfaction, although I have since developed a theory of my own. It just remains to be proved.”
His interest roused, Karryl turned away from the window. “Let me hear your theory. Maybe we’ve come up with the same one, because I also have a theory.”
Symon raised an eyebrow. “I’d be very surprised if you hadn’t. Now, don’t you think it’s likely that Keril thought the artefacts would be safer if they were separated?”
The Mage-Prime struck the air with his forefinger. “Exactly! And I also believe they’ve been moved more than once.”
Symon nodded. “Yes. But somebody got greedy, and thought that with us out of the way, they could take possession of all the artefacts and the power they were supposed to have.”
The expression on Karryl’s face was grim. “I wonder if Ghian did some kind of deal with the Mirikani twins. Perhaps we could find out somehow?”
Symon shook his head. “Not yet. Although we both arrived at the same conclusion, any further investigation will have to wait. What is more important now is getting the rest of Keril’s book translated. If my calculations are correct we still have ten weeks before the astral conjunction, but that is no reason for complacency.”
It seemed as if Symon’s words had filled Karryl with a sudden dread. Moving across to his desk he picked up the book, his dark eyes troubled as they traversed the closely written words.
He spoke without looking up, an edge of tension in his voice. “In the name of D’ta, where are we going to find a way to translate Mirikani, if that’s what it is? I’ve exhausted all the relevant spells. They were of no use on the scroll, only made matters worse.”
Symon moved round the desk to stand beside Karryl. “I agree. But you haven’t tried those same spells on the book. You may just have better luck with that. It’s worth a try.”
The memory of yesterday’s abysmal failure of the spells to reveal anything even remotely understandable on the scroll still gnawed at Karryl’s brain, while a tiny flame of recollection flickered and danced just out of reach. With something less than his usual enthusiasm, Karryl nodded in agreement as he placed the open book in a clear space on his desk. Symon edged closer. His grey-eyed gaze fixed on the neatly written pages, Symon waited. It seemed as if the very room itself held its breath, not willing to mar the charged silence. The spell completed, Karryl removed his finger from the page and stepped back, glancing sidelong at Symon. Briefly shifting his gaze the little magician returned the glance. As if waiting for that split second of inattention the words covering the thick pages began to transform.
Pushing his face forward, Symon squinted slightly. “Now we shall see.”
Line by short line the tight and angular Mirikani script shimmered into a decorative curving script flowing across the page, punctuated by tiny curlicues and short ranks of angular marks above and below each line. The two magicians stared at the magically translated pages, Symon rubbing thoughtfully at one bushy eyebrow, Karryl struggling to capture the elusive vestige of recognition flitting through his memory. A light tapping on the study door failed to elicit any response.
It was only Magnor’s familiar rolling baritone which jolted them out of their intense concentration. “How’s it going?”
Karryl gestured towards the open book. “I’m not sure whether we’re any further forward. Come and look at this. In a way there’s something familiar about it that I just can’t pin down.”
Magnor crossed the room and stood peering over Symon’s shoulder. Much to the consternation of the two magicians, the Grrybhñnös elder began to chuckle softly as he reached round Symon and lifted Keril’s ancient book carefully off the desk. Slowly he turned the remaining pages, glancing briefly at each one before handing the book back to Karryl.
A triumphant gleam in his amber-flecked eyes he grinned, giving Karryl a hefty pat on the shoulder. “Congratulations. This shouldn’t take long.”
Catching Magnor’s infectious grin, Symon patted his palms together and looked up at an undisguisedly surprised Karryl. “There you are. I said it might be worth a try.”
The Mage-Prime’s own boyish grin spread slowly across his face, raised eyebrows adding emphasis to his question. “So, don’t keep us in suspense. What is it?”
Magnor looked hard at Karryl. “You are really going to kick yourself when I tell you. There’s a good reason why it seems familiar. It’s written in Dahri.”
Karryl’s grin slithered off his face, to be replaced by a puzzled frown. “Where do they speak that ?”
Raising one thick eyebrow, Magnor took a pace nearer and peered into Karryl’s face, their noses almost touching. The Grrybhñnös elder’s grin was uncharacteristically gleeful. “It’s the ancient language once spoken by both Vedrans and Jadhra when they were still one race. Now it is all but dead.”
Karryl slapped his hand against his brow as he dropped into his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I knew I’d seen something like it somewhere before! In the temple at Vedra.” He looked hopefully at Magnor. “Can you translate it into Albitan?”
A tense grimace replaced the Grrybhñnös elder’s smile as he nodded. “Yes, and from what I’ve glimpsed so far, the sooner I do it the better.” He fixed a level gaze on Karryl and Symon in turn. “I hope I’m wrong, but I think we may have a problem. Anyway, let’s have a look and see how far I get.”
Exchanging a quick glance with Symon, Karryl placed the blocky volume in Magnor’s huge hand.
Translating directly from Keril’s book into modern Albitan, Magnor finally stopped reading at the bottom of the twelfth page, laid the book to one side and rested his chin on his folded hands. Karryl’s heart was pounding, but his blood was beginning to run cold. A frisson of uncharacteristic panic sped down his spine. Now stored indelibly in his memory, the words spun round in an endless and ever accelerating chain, filling him with a deepening dread.
Gripping the arms of his chair, he seemed frozen with shock as he stared wide-eyed at Symon. “I don’t know how, but we have to contact Miqhal, and quickly. Going by Magnor’s translation, the scroll should be with the Navigator. Gods! I should have given it to Miqhal. Why didn’t Keril say so? If Miqhal doesn’t have this information the whole thing could turn into a disaster.”
A weak little smile carried Symon’s response. “Keril did say so. Magnor’s just read it. It�
��s clear to me that the translation of the book should have been completed first.”
Magnor closed the book and moved round to the front of the desk, leaning the backs of his thighs against it. “Have you considered the possibility that Miqhal may already be aware of it, and this is just by way of a back-up?”
Pursing his lips, Karryl’s head-shake was emphatic. “Not possible. Miqhal and I worked together retrieving the artefacts from the tunnel. He would have told me if he had any further information about them.” His dark eyes glistening with undisguised distress he looked at each of his companions in turn. “He can’t possibly know there’s still some pieces missing! Worse still, we don’t know what or where the others are!”
Magnor shook his head. “Even if we did...where is Miqhal?”
A heavy stunned silence fell over the room and its occupants. For many minutes no-one spoke, each lost in their own thoughts.
The silence was broken eventually by Magnor’s deep rumbling voice. “We only know he is out in the desert beyond Vedra.” He gazed long and hard into the middle distance before shifting his gaze to Karryl’s worried face. “You could try a mind-call. The distance shouldn’t be a problem. You called me when I was in Alith. Remember?”
Karryl looked blank. “Alith?”
Magnor gave a wry smile. “Much, much further away than the Nebiri deserts.”
The light dawned. Karryl gave Magnor a sheepish grin, and Symon chuckled.
Karryl stood up and moved across to lean against the desk beside Magnor. “It’s worth a try; especially if we join forces.” He grinned. “It could upset a few folks if we’re a bit loud though.”
Magnor grinned back. “It’ll be worth the risk if we succeed. If not, I have another idea.”
An hour later, mentally drained, Karryl sat with his head in hands as he listened to Magnor outline his alternative plan. He would travel to Naboria, while Symon and Karryl tried to discover what and where the missing pieces might be.
48 - Companions
A sharp gust of hot wind tossed clouds of red dust into the air. Hand raised like a shield across his eyes, the black-clad desert dweller stopped and looked about him. Other travellers on the same road took care to avoid the stern-faced Jadhra who strode so purposefully towards the city of Nebir. Magnor concerned himself little about the attitude of his fellow travellers. Rather he welcomed it. He had not felt comfortable in this guise when Miqhal took him and Karryl into Vedra, and felt even less so now. It would serve its purpose for the time being, but the sooner he could adopt another form the happier he would be. Considering the information he had so far managed to glean regarding the current situation in Vedra, the chance of running across another Jadhra was remote. However, the longer he maintained his present form, the greater the chance became.
Like a well-drilled troop of soldiers, thoughts and ideas marched and wheeled through Magnor’s organised mind. Each one was reviewed and given a new position until, by the time the hazy outline of Nebir appeared on the horizon, the metamorphosed Grrybhñnös had devised a completely new plan. He knew it would take every last vestige of his skills and ingenuity, but he was certain it would work. Based on a sound carried to his acute hearing on the surging wind, the only thing which troubled him about it was that he had no way of informing Karryl of what he intended to do. Deep down he felt that not only should the Mage-Prime know, but that he should be in complete agreement.
Pulling a fold of black fabric across his nose and mouth, Magnor pushed the niggling thought into a subordinate position and leaned into the buffeting sand-laden hot wind. Ahead of him the sprawling city loomed and shimmered on the horizon, appearing and disappearing through swirls of pink-hued sand. He glanced up, grimacing at the dull red disc glaring balefully down from an ochre sky. Thankful for the benefit of its temporarily diffused heat, Magnor powered through the strengthening gusts, barely relieved by the knowledge that he would at least be in Nebir by mid-day. Once he had found somewhere to rest and had eaten, he could begin to set the stage for the next part of his plan.
Less than a mile from the city he sensed a change in the heat and the force of the wind, his sensitive eardrums detecting not only a subtle shift in pressure, but something else. Instinctively he knew this was not a natural storm. Regardless of who had woven and worked it, he had only minutes to reach the comparative shelter of Nebir before the storm struck with full force. In the guise of a Jadhra warrior on foot, his chances were slim. Sand now remained airborne, driving into every fold of his clothing, scouring his cheeks, his forehead and his unprotected hands. He now had no choice but to implement the next part of his plan considerably sooner than he intended. Concealed by the rapidly fading light and clouds of spinning flying dust and sand, Magnor crouched low, thrusting down his hands and feet for anchorage in the slowly shifting surface. Had any stranger been in a position to observe, they would have seen little more than an amorphous form which wavered and rippled before transforming into an indefinable shape only marginally darker than the sands which held it.
His six limbs shaken free, the Grrybhñnös set off in a long-paced lope towards the darkly looming shape of a low building directly ahead. The Qibli had other ideas. Rapidly increasing in ferocity it powered against him, relentless in its efforts to send Dhoum tumbling helplessly into oblivion. He decided enough was enough. If he lost his life to this storm, then all his efforts would have been in vain, the purpose of his mission lost. He dropped to the ground, folding his mid and rear limbs and burrowing deeper with his forelimbs until his belly lay flat. He knew that while he was in this position the rapidly approaching storm would scarcely touch him. The drawback was the amount of time and effort it would take to rid his thick fur of millions of grains of itchy sand.
He closed his eyes and ears. A hundred yards from the first building of Nebir, where open desert suddenly confronted civilisation, a small un-shifting dune began to form. Dhoum pushed his muzzle out, waiting for a brief pause in the gyrations of the screaming sands. Seizing an opportunity he took a deep breath and closed his nostrils. Head lowered, he allowed the hissing tide of swirling grains to bury him.
* * *
Three hours later, a lurid blood-red-streaked orange sun cast eye-straining rust-coloured light over new, re-shaped and shifted dunes. From a pocket of deep shadow, a paler shadow flowed like a grey ribbon, soft and silent towards the darkening streets and alleyways of the city. Now in a final form which he could safely utilise, and the last available of the maximum of six any Grrybhñnös could assume, Dhoum slipped around the back of a small house and into a narrow alley. Giving himself a vigorous shake, he wriggled with satisfaction as small heaps of sand fell around his feet. Settled on his haunches, he used some of the time to perform a last check of his new form while he waited. The wiry grey-brown hair covering the long lean body was mottled and streaked with black, a short but deep mane adding further depth to the already broad shoulders. Slanted yellow eyes gazed intelligently above a long broad dark grey muzzle toning to black, matching the long muscular legs and four broad paws, currently wrapped around by a long, bushy, white-tipped tail.
Somewhere nearby a sharp questioning bark split the thickness of the heated air. Dhoum’s large, alertly pricked ears flicked and twitched to catch the nuances of the sound. Quickly he established the voice was female. Satisfied with his final check-over, he let his mind run quickly through his vocabulary of Naborian desert wolf. Long muzzle raised to the darkening sky, the deep richness of his tone answered the call in a long, throaty yodel. Surprised and gratified by his new vocal alacrity, he repeated his response, not from any particular desire to attract the female, but because he could already see certain potential advantages arising from the contact. Standing up, he shook himself vigorously, shedding another cloud of dust and sand as he checked over his new body. Satisfied with what he could see, he set off once again in a steady muscle-rippling lope towards the city. The female barked again. His keen senses traced her to the end of a narrow alleyway snaking b
etween blocks of two-storey houses fronting a sand-strewn sparsely cobbled street. Sleek and fine-boned, bushed tail wrapped neatly round her paws, she sat on her haunches and gazed appraisingly at Dhoum.
Golden eyes shining in the semi-darkness, her tongue lolled humorously over small white teeth. “Not often we see the likes of you in these parts.” With a hint of coyness she lowered her muzzle slightly. “You…er…just passing through?”
Moving close enough to appreciate the full scent of her, Dhoum stretched out his front paws and dropped slowly to his belly, his pose loose, unthreatening and companionable. “Unfortunately, that is how it has to be.”
The female cocked her narrow, long-eared head to one side. “Unfortunately? Do you like it here then?”
Smiling inwardly, Dhoum slowly beat his tail a couple of times on the hard-packed ground. “Not the place so much. Something else has caught my attention though, which is a great pity as I must move on very soon.”
The female’s neck stiffened, her shoulder muscles tense beneath her smooth grey coat. “What are you called, stranger? I am Shika, lead female of my pack. They are waiting not far from here.”
Russet flecked mane spreading, Dhoum slowly sat up. “I am called Dhoum. Of necessity I travel alone.”
Shika sat unmoving for a while, appearing to consider this information. “It is not a name that translates in our language. What means it?”
Dhoum settled his mane and pondered. He could not tell her the true meaning of his name and then expect to live much longer in this hostile country. “I suppose the closest I can get is ‘far traveller’.”