The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1)

by David Tallerman

  Cullglass propped himself upon a stool, which only served to make him look like a ragged rook perched on a branch. “Here you are, my young adventurers! It seems an age since last we were together. Have you missed each others' company? Have you craved a chance to prove your worth? Then you'll be glad to know that our Head Tutor has selected for you just such an opportunity. Because the quest I have for you is one that very few—and certainly no students of Black River—have ever dared attempt.”

  Cullglass considered the four of them appraisingly, as though they were gladiators about to duel and he was wondering where best to lay his bets. “After all,” he said, “how would they have? It's no small thing even to see a unicorn, never mind to confront one.”

  5

  N

  ot all things are what they seem to be.” Cullglass's squinting eyes roved their faces, seeking perhaps for some acknowledgement of the truth in what he'd said. “Take, for example, unicorns. The epitome of grace and beauty, yes? A symbol of peace and quietude, of reclusiveness and modesty.” He sighed, as though in disappointment at his own words. “Would that the truth should be so straightforward.”

  Durren found himself wondering where precisely this could be leading. For his part, he'd never had any opinion on the subject of unicorns, except to know in theory that they existed; Luntharbour had as little time for magical beasts as it did for wizards. Curious as to what the others were making of Cullglass's speech, Durren tried to glance surreptitiously from face to face. To judge from Hule's features, the fighter was thinking nothing at all, and Tia hid her reaction as perfectly as she always did. Arein, however, was certainly showing a response: her eyes were wide and Durren could have sworn she was trembling.

  “In the end,” continued Cullglass, “a unicorn is a beast like any other. Most are good. A few are not. They have their territories, and they resent seeing them trespassed upon. Being beasts beyond the natural, they are capable of more than mere animal cunning. One might even say that they understand how to be cruel.”

  Arein was looking more uncomfortable than ever. “No,” she murmured, “that's not right.”

  She seemed not even to have realised she'd spoken until Cullglass's gaze fell on her.

  “I mean…” she stammered. She took a great gulp. “What I mean is, unicorns are good creatures.”

  Cullglass's expression was solicitous. “As I said—yes, most are good, without a doubt. A few, though, a very few, are not. Every barrel must have its bad apple.”

  “No, I see that,” Arein agreed. “Only…” But she didn't seem to know how to finish her sentence.

  “These are ugly truths, my dear, but ones we must face today. Areinelimus, I must ask you to trust in this matter to the wisdom of your elders, which in this instance means myself. Because what I'm trying to tell you may well prove to be the difference between life and death for you and your young companions. Do you understand?”

  Arein squeaked something that might have been yes, and stared hard at her own feet.

  Cullglass took a deep breath, as though the diversion had disrupted his carefully ordered thoughts. “What, in the end,” he asked, “is a unicorn but a horse with a spike upon its brow? An intelligent beast with its weapon always drawn? Therefore, the unicorn that has tasted blood is a dangerous creature indeed.”

  Durren dared a glance at Arein's downturned face. She was biting her lip and her face was scrunched, with the effort of not crying or not arguing, or perhaps both.

  “Still,” concluded Cullglass, “I have faith in you, my young students. I believe that together the four of you will be more than up to the task.”

  Suddenly it occurred to Durren that, as far as Cullglass was concerned, this was the matter settled. “Wait,” he said, because no one else seemed about to speak up, “what exactly is the task?”

  For an instant, Cullglass looked puzzled. Then, speaking deliberately slowly as though afraid that Durren might otherwise fail to comprehend, he said, “Why, to capture a unicorn, of course.”

  Cullglass had been right. For all the care with which he'd pronounced the words, Durren still wasn't certain he'd heard right. “You want us to…” he began. Then, realising that simply repeating what the storesmaster had said wasn't going to make the idea any more plausible, he shut up.

  “The beast in question, you see,” Cullglass finally explained, “has been behaving in a most malicious fashion. It has made repeated incursions upon nearby villages, goring and trampling their hapless residents. In short, it seems to have grown quite mad—or else, an infinitely worse possibility, grown wicked. Unpleasant though the prospect is, such things will happen. And perhaps we need not look too downheartedly upon the matter, for this gives the four of you a most unusual opportunity to prove your worth.”

  Abruptly, Cullglass hopped down from his stool, as though he'd decided he would come and help subdue the unicorn himself. However, all he did was stand and gaze distractedly at one set of shelves, eyes darting back and forth as though seeking a particular item.

  “As you may imagine,” he said, “unicorn-catching is a specialised business. I asked Head Tutor Borgnin if you might exchange your present equipment for something more appropriate to the task, but I'm sorry to say that he was not amenable. Rules, it seems, are rules, however grave the circumstances.” Cullglass smiled, an expression his angular face wasn't altogether suited to. “Still, I have every confidence that you'll improvise successfully.”

  He took a step closer, raised both hands in a placating gesture. “There is, however, another minor difficulty—though one I've no doubt your combined ingenuity will be more than a match for. Your observer will not be able to transport back the four of you as well as a unicorn. Therefore, I'm afraid that you'll be walking.”

  Durren cringed inwardly. The prospect of spending a couple of hours with these three was quite bad enough, but who knew how long walking back from whatever distant destination they were being flung to might take? Were they talking hours or days? At this point, he'd hardly have been surprised if they were expected to spend the next few weeks blundering through the wilderness with a captured unicorn in tow. And all the while he would have to deal with Tia's stubborn silence, Hule's lunkheaded observations, Arein's crippling fear of the one thing that made her useful. By comparison, the idea of subduing a blood-crazed unicorn no longer seemed so bad.

  Cullglass clapped, a sharp crack that startled Durren from his reverie. “I do believe that's everything,” he said. “Unless anyone has any further questions or concerns?” His eyes lingered on Arein as he said this last.

  Durren felt a bloody-minded urge to ask the storesmaster something really difficult. But it wasn't his fault that they'd been handed such an extraordinary and potentially fatal quest; more likely this was Borgnin's way of punishing them. And Durren sensed that, despite all his bluster and long-windedness, Cullglass was genuinely concerned for their safety.

  Anyway, Tia and Hule were already halfway to the door. Durren fell into step behind them and Arein trailed after, her attention still focused entirely on her own feet. Moments later they were back in the corridor, the door thudding closed behind them. Unlike Dremm, Cullglass clearly didn't see the need to escort them either to the room where their rucksacks were stored or to Hieronymus's transportation chamber—and Durren hadn't the faintest idea of how to get back to either.

  Fortunately, Tia seemed to have a better memory than he did, for she took the lead without waiting for discussion. A dozen turns later, just as Durren was beginning to doubt her confidence, she stopped at a door that he recognised and shoved it open. Within was the small room of high shelves where they'd first gained their equipment. There were even more gaps now, where parties that had come after had made their selections. And there was another difference, as well: the shelves of backpacks had been labelled with names. Durren hunted out his own pack, opened the flap to confirm that, yes, his coil of rope was still in there.

  Only then did it occur to him that the room was u
nguarded. Aside from the other three, who would know if he should decide to change his useless first choice of item for another that was more practical—or at least lighter? But something about the notion of such blatant cheating made Durren uncomfortable, he wasn't certain he trusted the others not to report him, and anyway, mightn't this quest be the perfect opportunity to prove the rope's worth?

  Before he could consider further, Tia was drawing their attention with a sharp clearing of her throat. Durren had no choice but to follow her once more, with a last, wistful glance towards the walls of potentially more useful items.

  Minutes later and they'd come to Hieronymus's room. When Tia knocked, his reedy voice called back, “Come in.”

  Within, Hieronymus was sitting exactly where they'd left him. Did he sleep and take his meals in that chair, Durren wondered? At any rate, he did not look pleased. “You took your time,” Hieronymus grumbled. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait on you, eh? I, a twelfth-level wizard?”

  Durren was half ready to point out that they couldn't possibly have got there any faster, and in any case, it was Cullglass's verbosity that had delayed them. But before he could, Arein said meekly, “We're very sorry.”

  That seemed to appease the old wizard. “Just don't let it happen again,” he grumbled, but this time there was no bite to the words. “Well, don't stand there letting the cold in. Do you want to go on this quest or not?”

  No, Durren thought, I've no desire whatsoever to go. In fact, I'd struggle to think of anything I'd less like to do. But he trooped with the others down the single step to the lowered region in the centre of the room.

  When he glanced back to Hieronymus, Durren was startled to notice that one of the pockets of the wizard's robe was wriggling. Plunging a hand into the baggy depths, Hieronymus murmured, “It seems that at least one individual is pleased to see you back here.” When he withdrew his hand, his fingers were clasping an observer—presumably the same one as before, though how anyone was expected to tell one floating eyeball from another was beyond Durren's imagination.

  Arein, however, appeared to have no doubts. “Hello, Pootle!” she cried out, with genuine pleasure.

  Perhaps it was only Durren's imagination, but he felt that in turn there was something affectionate about the way the small creature blinked back at her. Pootle sped over and took up a position at the centre of their small group, rotating steadily as though attempting to watch them all at once.

  “Are you ready?” Hieronymus asked, and had already begun to chant and gesture before they could possibly have replied.

  Just as before, minuscule, dazzling lights began to flare, and to pop like greasy bubbles. Where they burst, the scene beyond looked softer, less clear. More and more the air sparked and smudged, until abruptly it was running like wet paint in a rainstorm, streaking in lush, nauseating purples and pinks and reds—and Durren was falling, though his feet insisted he still stood upon cold tiles.

  No, not tiles: long grass, lapping about his ankles. Once again Hieronymus's chamber had vanished, and once again there was nothing to be seen in any direction but trees. Durren found himself wondering if all their quests would see them transported to dark forests in the middle of nowhere. Now that his vision was beginning to steady, his eyes reported a clearing much like the one they'd materialised in the last time: dark boughs all around and a solid canopy of foliage above.

  As the scenery finally stopped swirling, however, and as the urge to regurgitate his breakfast passed, Durren began to notice that there were differences. For one thing, it was quieter here. Asides from his own laboured breathing and the faint sough of the wind, he could hear nothing. If he'd had to pick one word to describe that quiet, he would have chosen deathly—and the thought made him shudder.

  Remembering their last quest, Durren sought for a patch of clear sky above. Here, however, there were no telltale columns of smoke. He listened again, ears hunting for any distant sound that might hint at nearby civilisation; but he was met with only the same unfathomable silence.

  Arein, too, was concentrating intently. “Didn't Cullglass tell us that the unicorn had been attacking villages?” she murmured. “I don't think there are any villages around here.”

  “He also told us that a unicorn's basically just a horse,” Durren pointed out. “It could be travelling for miles around in every direction. Maybe it just wanders from place to place, attacking anyone it finds.”

  Arein looked doubtful. “A unicorn is much more than just a horse.”

  “All right, I know. It's a magical beast, and that makes it special.” A thought suddenly occurred to Durren. “Does that mean you're able to find it? Can you…you know…sense its magic?”

  “Probably,” Arein admitted. But nothing about the way she said the word suggested she had any intention of doing so.

  “Look,” Durren said, “a quest is a quest. We don't get to pick and choose. You obviously have strong feelings about this, but if people are getting hurt, then don't we have a duty to do something about that?”

  “I've never heard of a unicorn hurting anyone,” Arein said. “They're afraid of people—and with good reason. A unicorn's horn is one of the most magical objects in the world. They must have learned centuries ago that they were a lot safer if they only stayed hidden.”

  “Cullglass had a point, though,” Durren suggested. “In the end, magic or no, a unicorn's basically just another wild animal. Maybe it's sick with something? You know, like a unicorn version of rabies? A dangerous beast is still a dangerous beast, however magical or peaceful or timid it might normally be.”

  “I told you, it's much more than just an animal.” But Arein sounded less sure of herself.

  Tia had been watching their discussion from the shadows of her hood. Now she cut in, “We can't go home empty-handed. Either we find the unicorn or we spend the rest of our lives in this forest.”

  Durren, a little surprised that she hadn't already wandered off to track down their target alone, added, “I promise, Arein, we won't do anything hasty. We won't harm it if it leaves us a choice.” He threw a sidelong glance at Hule, but if the fighter understood Durren's implication, then his face hid the fact well.

  “All right,” Arein said softly. “I'll find it. If I can.”

  She had already been standing still, but now she became utterly motionless. The moment passed. Then, eyes closed, Arein reached out her palms towards the ground, as though feeling for something that none of the rest of them could see.

  Durren couldn't help thinking of how wizards were dismissed as charlatans back in Luntharbour. But he knew better than that now, for unless the rat-kind had set fire to their own roofs—and there was some perfectly rational explanation for how the four of them had travelled leagues in an instant—he had more than ample proof that magic was real and that it worked.

  Without warning, Arein's outstretched hands began to rove. At first she appeared to be feeling out the shape of some unseen object. Then her head tilted upward, to gaze sightlessly into the distance, and she raised her left hand, palm rigid, as if pressing upon an invisible barrier.

  Arein opened her eyes. “This way,” she said. “There's…something.”

  “Something?” Tia made no effort to hide the doubt in her voice.

  “Magic,” Arein corrected. “Magic that feels…strange. Not like anything I've known before. It's so raw. I think this might be the unicorn.”

  Tia didn't look any more convinced than Durren himself felt, but one thing was certain: Arein was their best, indeed their only, option. When she began walking, picking a course through the trees, Durren stayed close. Tia drifted away to one side, but kept her course in line with theirs, and Hule wandered along behind, giving no impression that he'd followed any of what had just taken place.

  As they walked, Arein would pause every so often, to close her eyes and turn slowly on the spot until she once more seemed sure of her direction. These delays grew more and more scarce, as Arein became increasingl
y sure of herself. Eventually she announced, “I think we're close.”

  Only then did it occur to Durren that he hadn't thought beyond this point. In fact, he'd been deliberately trying not to contemplate what came next. “So how exactly do we go about catching a unicorn?” he asked. “I mean, presumably it's not just going to come with us because we ask nicely.”

  “Hule will punch it,” Hule said, and slugged the air to illustrate.

  “No, you won't. We promised Arein, remember?”

  “Hule promised nothing,” the fighter grumbled.

  “I'll think of something,” Tia said, as though there could be no question but that the task would fall to her.

  “I have a rope,” Durren pointed out. But no one paid him any attention, and he didn't feel like pressing the point. He thought about trying to tie a lasso in advance; hadn't they covered the correct knots in one of his lectures? Only, he couldn't quite recall the details, and he didn't much like the prospect of having the accidental strangulation of a magical creature on his conscience.

  Arein had already begun walking again, picking her steps more carefully this time, drifting from tree to tree with at least the semblance of stealth. It seemed that once again they'd be going in without even the hint of a plan.

  Because didn't that just work out brilliantly for us the last time? Durren thought.

  The part of the forest Arein had led them to was particularly dense and ancient-seeming, the gnarled boughs coiled with ivy and mistletoe like garlands at a festival. However, Durren could see from the way the light grew stronger that somewhere up ahead the trees began to thin. For the first time, he could hear a sound other than the wind and their own muted footsteps: the steady tinkle of running water, from off to their left.