Nature's Peril - the Complete Edition

by Duncan Pile

  “Perhaps they had good reasons,” Rimulth inserted, but Lydia was having none of it. She glared at him, thrusting her fists against her hips.

  “Don’t even start with that Rimulth,” she spat. “Taurnil lied to me. We are soulbound, and the soulbound do not lie to each other, no matter what the circumstances!” She rounded on Hephistole. “We must catch them,” she said, clearly expecting him to follow her lead.

  “It’s not that simple,” Hephistole said, shaking his head.

  “Yes it is!” Lydia said shrilly. “They can’t have gone far!”

  “I’m afraid they have gone far,” Hephistole said with a sad smile. “One of the pieces of my enchanted amulet has gone missing. I checked as soon as I found out Voltan and the others had gone. They have gone ahead with the plan and transported to Arkright.”

  “But there’s another piece of the amulet right?” Lydia said, her voice getting louder and even more shrill. “Send us after them!”

  “That may not be a good idea,” Hephistole said quietly, a hint of steel in his voice.

  “What do you mean by that?” Lydia demanded. “You have to do it!”

  “I really don’t,” Hephistole answered abruptly.

  “Yes you do!” Lydia responded wildly. “What’s the matter with you? Just get the amulet and…”

  “YOUNG LADY!” Hephistole barked, sitting bolt upright in his chair and placing both hands firmly on the desk in front of him. “I will not be spoken to like that in my own office!” Lydia looked shocked and angry at the same time, but she didn’t say anything more. “Now please just listen for a moment,” Hephistole continued more softly. “There’s something you don’t know.”

  Emmy listened in growing horror as he spoke of the trail of shattered stone left in the wall of the city, and all over the exterior of the tower. He spoke of the sighting of a demon that could only be the Darkman, and how it had left again without killing anyone. He explained his suspicions that it had been sent to kill Gaspi, and that he had only just transported out in time. He said he couldn’t in all conscience send them into its path, however much they felt it was their place. Emmy objected to that, worry for Gaspi overriding her hurt, but Hephistole wouldn’t have any of it, and when he finally dismissed them, it was with folded arms and a closed expression. The chancellor was clear; he had already sent one student to his death in the last few months, and he wasn’t about to send three more!

  …

  “Hephistole has lost his backbone,” Lydia said, shoving her cup angrily away from her and slopping tea all over the table. Fortunately, the tables in the Traveller’s Rest had seen much worse over the years, and another stain would hardly make any difference.

  “He’s not himself, that’s for sure,” Emmy responded.

  “He’s been getting worse for weeks,” Rimulth interjected. “Gaspi says he’s still blaming himself for Everand’s death.”

  “Well he’ll be blaming himself for Gaspi and Taurnil’s death too if he doesn’t let us join them,” Lydia said.

  “What do you mean?” Emmy asked, panicked. “Did you see that?” All she could think about was how close the Darkman had come to catching Gaspi.

  “No I didn’t see it,” Lydia said. “But think about it. Last year the elementals were crystal clear that we have to stick together. Even Hephistole had to back down. But they’re not here now and Hephistole has to make this decision on his own, just when he’s lost his nerve.”

  “To be fair to him, it’s a hard decision,” Rimulth said. “We’re asking him to send us into the path of a powerful demon.”

  “Don’t defend him Rimulth!” Lydia snapped. “Taurnil needs me and I’m stuck here! That’s all I care about. Hephistole needs to grow some stones and let us go.”

  Emmy winced inwardly, hoping Rimulth would back down. The tribesman’s calm and knowing manner sometimes rubbed Lydia up the wrong way. He was extremely fair in all things, and his quiet questions often presented a challenge to Lydia’s headstrong opinions. In this case, however, she hoped he didn’t stand his ground. The news that Taurnil had gone off without her had shaken Lydia out of the state she’d been in for the last few weeks, and this definitely wasn’t the time to argue with her. She also happened to agree with Lydia on this occasion. There was no way she was going to let Gaspi go off on a dangerous mission without her. What if he got injured and she wasn’t there to heal him?

  “Fair enough,” Rimulth responded, leaning back in his seat and frowning thoughtfully. “I suppose we’ll just have to pester Hephistole until he lets us go.”

  “Day and night,” Lydia said, and it was clear to Emmy that the gypsy girl meant exactly what she said.

  …

  Gaspi trudged wearily through the forest behind Voltan. The warrior mage was planning on acquiring some mounts as soon as possible, but until he did so, they had to make progress on foot. It wasn’t that he minded walking as such, but it was a long way to Pell, and the sooner they got some horses the better. Taurnil walked alongside him, and the rest of the group followed behind, with the exception of Talmo, who’d taken on the role of scout. Just at that moment, the tribesman emerged from the trees ahead of them and dropped in beside Voltan to report. He talked quietly with the warrior mage, and then fell back a few paces to join Gaspi and Taurnil.

  “Hi Talmo,” Gaspi said. Taurnil mumbled something incoherent, which was surprising. The two guards had become friends over the last year, and Taurnil was usually pretty comfortable around the taciturn tribesman. Gaspi looked at his friend, and saw that he was flushing from his chin right up to the roots of his hair. Perhaps he too was having reservations about deceiving Rimulth.

  “He will not thank you, you know,” Talmo said without preamble.

  “You mean Rimulth,” Gaspi said.

  “Yes,” Talmo responded. “Among our people, he is a man and a warrior. In the face of danger, and even death, a man makes his own choices. You have taken that away from him.”

  “To protect him!” Gaspi insisted. “Surely he will understand that!”

  Taurnil interrupted, speaking quietly: “Do you think we did the wrong thing Talmo?”

  “I do, but it is not my opinion that matters. You will have to ask Rimulth when you next see him. Perhaps he will not share my view.” Taurnil looked greatly troubled. “Don’t worry Taurnil,” Talmo said. “I will not hold it against you. We are brothers you and I, and nothing will change that, but I would not be your brother if I failed to tell you my feelings about this. The same goes for you Gaspi.” With that, the tribesman took his leave of them and jogged ahead of the party into the trees, bow in hand.

  “Sheesh,” Gaspi exhaled when Talmo was out of earshot. “Way to make a person feel bad!”

  “I dunno,” Taurnil responded uncertainly.

  “Look, we had a choice to make, and we made it,” Gaspi insisted, but even as he said it, he could feel a niggling doubt. They walked on in silence for a while. Gaspi wrestled with his uncertainty, telling himself that Lydia couldn’t have made the journey, and Rimulth and Emmy needed to look after her, but in the end, he couldn’t quite convince himself. Lydia definitely couldn’t have come along in her condition, and Emmy should be there to look after her, but there had been no real need to leave Rimulth out. If he’d asked the tribesman if he wanted to come along on the quest, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. Leaving Rimulth behind had been his choice, and it wasn’t his to make.

  He sighed wearily. “Maybe we made the wrong choice.”

  “Maybe we did,” Taurnil repeated. They walked on, lost in their thoughts, and neither of them said anything else for a good while.

  Six

  The door to Ferast’s cell creaked as it swung inwards. He opened blood-rimmed eyes, peering at the hem of Shirukai Sestin’s scarlet robes. “Master, please, no more,” he croaked, pain shooting through his body as he spoke. Since Ferast’s catastrophic failure at the Measure, Sestin had tortured him physically and mentally every day and every night. Ferast knew
it wasn’t just for the sake of chastisement. The renegade took pleasure from causing him pain, revelling in every blood-soaked moment. He’d been at death’s door several times, begging for the end to come, but Sestin was a master, using his unparalleled knowledge of the mind and body to keep him dangling there, hanging over the abyss by a single thread. However much Ferast pleaded, that thread never snapped.

  He gasped as healing power flooded into him, dulling the sharp edge of his pain and then washing it away entirely. His bloodied vision cleared, his bones knit back together, and before long he was completely restored.

  Ferast stayed where he was. He’d learned the hard way that it was better to wait for Sestin to tell him what to do – even something as simple as getting to his feet. His only strategy for survival was to show his compliance in every tiny matter; even his own torture.

  There was no point getting up anyway. Sestin only healed him so that he could begin torturing him again. Sometimes he got bread and water, but more often than not the pain started as soon as his wounds were fully healed. Ferast braced himself, waiting for the inevitable agony, but it didn’t come. Sestin just stood there, looking at him.

  “Do you think you have served your penance?” he asked.

  Ferast feared to answer. Sestin was almost certainly teasing him with hope – a hope he didn’t dare to contemplate, for when it was wrenched from his grasp, the pain was all the worse.

  “Do you think you have served your penance?” Sestin repeated. The palpable threat in his voice told Ferast he had no choice but to speak.

  “If you believe I have,” he responded, cursing himself for a fool as he felt the tiniest glimmer of hope flicker into being inside of him. He lay there in petrified silence, listening to the rasp of his own ragged breathing.

  “A good answer,” Sestin responded eventually. “Stand up.” Ferast stood up, facing his master. Any moment now, Sestin was going to plunge him back into agony. “I have decided that you have paid the price for your failure,” the renegade said. “Do not doubt me – it is over. Furthermore, it is time for you to undertake your next duty.”

  Ferast would have fallen to his knees in relief, but Sestin had told him to stand up, and Ferast had lost the ability to do anything except what his master told him. Weeks of torture had forged him into Sestin’s creature through and through. He craved his master’s approval more than anything, more than magic itself! “Anything master,” he said, and he meant it.

  “The Darkman has been thwarted,” Sestin continued. “It has not been defeated, but somehow the Nature Mage escaped it just when it had him in its clutches. It will continue to pursue him, but the Nature Mage is many miles distant as yet, far to the north. The Darkman will kill him eventually, but with the delay comes risk. Hephistole has been seeking my location for some time. If he discovers I abide here in Ruined Elmera, there can be no doubt he will attack.”

  “What would you have me do, Master?” Ferast asked, bowing his head.

  “I am sending you to Namert to recruit men who would fight for me,” Sestin responded. “The city is a law unto itself, a den of murderers and violent men. Raise me an army of a thousand such men, and I will reward you greatly. You shall be their general, second in command only to me.”

  “As you will, master,” Ferast said. He could barely keep up with what was happening – one moment he was the subject of Sestin’s experiments and the next he was being named second in command – but it was inadvisable to show hesitancy. “What shall I pay them with?” he asked.

  “You’ll think of something,” Sestin said. “Steal some gold, coerce them with magic. Do whatever you like, but whatever you do, bring me an army within three months. Once they are here in Ruined Elmera, they won’t need money anymore.”

  “As you will,” he said once again.

  “It appears you have learned your lesson well,” Sestin said, scrutinising him with glittering eyes.

  “Thank you master.”

  Sestin left the room, turning around to face him from the corridor. “Get yourself ready. You leave today.”

  …

  Hephistole couldn’t sleep. Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to sleep properly for weeks. He felt like he was trying to make sense of an inconceivably complex puzzle, but he just couldn’t make any of the pieces fit together. It was overwhelming, and while he struggled with it, his head was as clogged up as Main Street on Feastday. He was so consumed by fruitless thoughts that he hid away in the Observatory, avoiding the company of others. Worst of all, he seemed incapable of making even the simplest decisions. Every waking moment of each long day was filled with the same thoughts, circling around and around in his brain without ever finding resolution – Ferast, turned renegade; Everand, dead by Ferast’s hand; an immortal elemental, destroyed; and as far as he could see, it was all his fault.

  If only he had reached out to Ferast before the young mage lost hope in his mentors and fled the city, then all of this could have been avoided. Ferast’s corruption had been the first tumbling stone, without which the avalanche could never have happened. Hephistole couldn’t even claim ignorance as an excuse. He’d received several troubling reports from the boy’s mentors, but he’d delayed for too long, and by the time he got around to addressing the issue, Ferast had fled. That was Hephistole’s unforgivable act of negligence – he was a teacher, and caring for his students should always be his highest priority, regardless of which ones he liked the best. Hephistole knew he had his favourites, and while indulging himself in Gaspi’s development, he’d neglected the boy who needed his guidance the most.

  Gaspi! Hephistole thought to himself with sadness. Who’d have thought the boy would have taken it into his head to go ahead with the quest? And Voltan had been complicit in it! The warrior mage had been his friend and trusted advisor for over twenty years. Hephistole would bet his life on Voltan’s loyalty, which led him to an uncomfortable conclusion – their confidence in him had been destroyed, and they’d felt the need to take things into their own hands.

  As he sat there reflecting, Hephistole reasoned that perhaps he’d got exactly what he deserved, but admitting culpability didn’t help him with other matters that were being rammed down his throat. Emea, Lydia and Rimulth, for instance, were bothering him at every conceivable opportunity with talk of pursuing the questors into the wilds. Indecisive he may be, but there was no way he was going to send even more young people into danger. Not after what happened to Everand!

  Around and around the same thoughts circled, never resolving themselves and always causing more damage to Hephistole’s fragile mental state. Lying in bed, the chancellor stared hopelessly at the ceiling, hoping that exhaustion would at least numb the edges of his pain, but it didn’t help.

  BOOM! Hephistole sat bolt upright. What in the world was that?

  BOOM! Was someone banging on the Atrium doors? The sound must be echoing up the field of variable density. Hephistole sprang out of bed, pulled on a thick dressing gown and slippers, and hurried to the shaft. He wanted to get down there first before any of the students went to investigate, but using the plinth was too dangerous. He didn’t want to just appear in the Atrium without knowing what was happening down there.

  He reached the shaft and threaded magic into the field, forming an invisible platform. He stepped out onto it and began to drop. He let himself fall rapidly, the various floors of the tower passing by in a blur, and just before he reached the Atrium, he tightened his fist, slowing and then stopping his descent. Crouching down, he altered the balance of densities once more, dropping ever so slightly until he had a full view of the Atrium. It was empty.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Hephistole nearly jumped out of his skin. Someone really wanted to get into the tower. Well, there was nothing for it. He hurriedly lowered himself to the plinth at the bottom of the field and stepped off onto the floor. Summoning fistfuls of power, he stepped towards the door.

  “What’s going on Hephistole?” a voice said from behind him. It was Professor
Worrick, arriving on the eighth plinth in his nightclothes.

  “Stay back Antonius,” Hephistole said, and took a step towards the doors. “Who goes there?” he called.

  “I’m here for Hephistole,” a voice growled from the other side of the door.

  “This is Hephistole,” the chancellor responded. “Who is this? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “Just let me in!” the voice said in a tone that spoke more of irritation than of threat. There was something familiar about that voice.

  Taking uncertain steps towards the door, Hephistole reached out and grasped the handle, sending a thread of magic through his fingertips to unlock it. He turned the handle and pulled the door open, taking a step back and drawing even more power to his fists in case he needed to defend himself.

  A huge shadow filled the doorframe, the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man. The shadow stepped through the door and into the revealing glow of Hephistole’s magic. Arcane light reflected in startling green eyes, shaded with every hue of growing things under the sun. A well-tanned face was framed by dreadlocked hair as tangled as a forest thicket.

  Hephistole stared at the wild-man in disbelief. “Heath!”

  …

  “That’s no way to greet a visitor,” the druid said, eyeing the balls of power encircling Hephistole’s fists distastefully.

  Hephistole glanced at his summoned power as if in surprise. “Right, sorry,” he responded, the light winking out, and leaving them in sudden darkness. Moments later, a globe light appeared, hovering in the air between them.

  “What are you doing here?” Hephistole asked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The druid was a hermit, and profoundly uncomfortable around people. Helioport was just about the last place Hephistole would ever expect to see him.