Maverick

by Curtis, Greg

  Darkness, true, peaceful darkness was clinging to him, pulling him down into its easy embrace, and he so wanted to go there. Moments later he got his wish.

  ****************

  Chapter Twenty-Two.

  The infirmary wasn’t a place that Marjan wanted to be, even if it was his old cottage, but there was little he could do about it except lay in his bed like a lazy slug and suffer the endless attentions of the healers, so many of them, and all so infernally conscientious in their duties. They picked him up and moved him about whenever there was even a faint chance he was becoming comfortable, bandaged and re-bandaged him seemingly every hour whether he needed it or not, uttered strange spells over him and poured stranger potions down his throat, most of which tasted as though they’d been made from the remains of the kraken. But he had to weigh that up against the fact that he was alive, which was considered all but a miracle.

  At least he was allowed visitors, and they came night and day.

  Essaline would sit by his bed all the hours of the day if he let her, which was why he had to order her away every so often, to get some rest and attend to her other students, and of course her duties which sadly had now become so many more since she had to do what she could of his as well. He felt shamed by that, by the fact that he couldn’t do what he should, and from time to time he tried to help with them anyway, instructing Soren in her potions and lore when he could from his bedside, answering the elder’s questions as well, though there was little he could tell them of what had been.

  Bearabus was even more determined than Essaline, and she did not take instructions at all, so she lay by his side day and night, and often she slept on his cot with him, keeping him warm, while the healers muttered endlessly about having to bring food for an animal into their infirmary. But Marjan didn’t mind that as he found his companion’s attentions more than welcome. Whoever had sent her to him he decided, could not be thanked enough, even if at the best part of sixty or seventy pounds she was a heavy weight on his chest. What she’d be like when she was fully grown, five or six hundred pounds of furry, smelly, slobbering bear lying on his chest, he didn’t want to find out. But he wouldn’t complain either, though the bed might not hold her and the linen would need a lot of washing.

  Master Silas had shown up at one point, to tell him about Dimeter who was once more locked away, his magic finally bound, and to apologise for his student, again. If anyone looked sick it was he as his student continued to shame him. As for Kyran his body had been completely destroyed, burnt to dust so that it could never be raised again, and the wraith banished to whatever dark realm such things came from. The priests had performed a cleansing ritual and they promised it would not return.

  That was good, but still troubling. Blood wraiths were an ancient evil, an assassin raised by dark wizards and darker priests thousands of years ago to punish those who had done harm to another. They were an assassin’s tool, an agent of vengeance, feared not just because of what they could do, but because they were unstoppable by the victim, the most powerful wizards among them. Had the wizards not jumped in at the last, Marjan knew he would have suffered the worst imaginable death. Now that the body had been destroyed and the wraith banished, that was no longer a worry, for him. But if one could be raised again after all these years, then so could another, and while he had no others to blame him for their deaths, others might not be so lucky. It would be horrible to think that there could be more of these ancient evils out there. Somehow he was sure the wizards were thinking the same, and they wouldn’t be alone.

  More interesting to Marjan wasn’t what Master Silas said, it was what he didn’t say. Things that Master Argus had muttered under his breath with one of his colleagues while he thought Marjan was asleep. Little questions like how could a student, a mere adept, be casting such powerful magic. First summoning a kraken, it might have been stupid but it was also extremely strong magic, far beyond what someone of his years should know. Then a blood wraith, an evil not heard of in a thousand years, and the more common undead as well.

  Ancient knowledge, and powerful casting beyond his years, the boy had help from somewhere. Still Master Silas said nothing of such matters and Marjan didn’t ask him. The man had enough troubles on his mind.

  Besides the important question for Marjan wasn’t where the boy had gained such magic, it was where had he found such evil and such knowledge of him to use it against him? The knowledge of Kyran and his crime could only come from the Guild, which suggested to him that the boy had been allowed to return, his crime forgiven. That was something that Marjan would never want to tell to his student. The evil though, that was something else. People could hate, they could become powerful in their hatred, but Dimeter had moved beyond that to absolute evil. Having converse with the underworld, that didn’t come from the Guild. That was something wizards fought not practiced or studied. Dark priests, ancient blood religions, that was where such evil knowledge abided if it did any longer.

  More than that, how was he still using powerful magic when all such magic was now bound to the Lady? There was something distinctly strange there, and he suspected it was something of the magic of faith rather than that of the mage. The boy had found a sponsor, possibly a demon. He had become a follower of some ancient underworld nightmare. He suspected Master Argus had guessed the same. It explained his strength and his knowledge where nothing else could, and the fact that he could defy the Goddess.

  It was a bad thought, and worse though he doubted he could have explained it to Dimeter, for the young wizard. Priests of the Gods generally found health and happiness in their service. Priests and followers of the few fallen gods and demons they knew of, were generally not so fortunate. In particular those who followed the demonic were often slowly consumed by their service. Demons ate everything they could, that was their nature, which was why anyone insane enough to work with them, always had a contract of some sort, something to protect them. Even in their madness they had some sense of self-preservation. Dimeter, he suspected, had no such thought. He had let his anger and hatred guide him.

  The price for his power and his ability to strike at Marjan would be his flesh, his life and his soul.

  It was a sad thought, though not so sad as it once would have been. But Dimeter was still his brother, and the thought of him being slowly consumed by such dark evil, was not something to enjoy. It also wasn’t something he could stop. The boy had made his deal and his demon would not be denied. The most they could do was banish the demon, something the priests would do, perhaps should already have done, except that that would kill Dimeter too and banish his soul to the demon’s realm, there to be consumed eternally.

  What he still didn’t understand was the boy’s hatred. He had never done anything to him, never harmed him, and the only time he had even spoken against him was at his trial when it had been demanded. Yet Dimeter had hated him from the first, and with a passion not normal.

  It would probably be a mistake, and he surely wouldn’t be allowed to do it anyway, but had he the chance he would have wanted to go to Dimeter, to ask him those questions, and maybe to explain to him just how much danger he was in. Of course Dimeter would have wanted that even less than everyone else.

  And so instead of doing something useful or worthy, he just lay there day after day, letting the same terrible thoughts circle around in his mind, waiting for the day when he would be released and he could return to his duties, and somehow wash away the darkness.

  “Beloved?” He opened his eyes, unaware that he’d even nodded off, and was rewarded with a vision of pure beauty and joy sitting beside him on the edge of his cot. He reached out a hand and quickly had hers in it, and the knowledge that she was with him, that was all he needed as it drove the darkness away.

  “Beloved.” Marjan kissed her hand, as always surprised by how warm and delicate her fingers were, and how they always smelled of flowers and fresh grass on a dew filled morning. “Is it time for Soren’s lesson?” He was uncomforta
bly aware that the sun was already high in the sky and he would have hated to have missed her.

  “No.” Essaline giggled happily, probably at his foolishness. “Soren is with the healers today, learning some basic roots and flowers. You know that.” And he did, he’d just forgotten. It was easy to forget these days as the endless hours of boredom and questions rolled by.

  “And you are right. That girl will one day become a fine apothecary. She has the talent. And maybe too she will join the temple.” Essaline’s smile grew broader and not just because she would welcome another convert. Marjan couldn’t help but smile some as well.

  “Oh you’d like that my beloved. Another wizard torn from her books. But the calling is not so easily put aside my lovely Essaline. Mage or wizard, she has the gift.” Of course he was only joking, they both were. It mattered to neither of them which path Soren chose as long as it was right for her. But they both pretended it did, simply so they could argue a little, teasing each other playfully, about who’s was the best path, and then agree that they were both wonderful. Bearabus, lying on his feet, didn’t even blink an eye at them. She’d heard it all before and sleep was important to a bear, especially one who grew far too slowly, and who refused to hibernate. The other patients didn’t seem to care either.

  “Yes, and she will be welcome in the temple with it. And after all my poor husband to be, she is a pretty girl, full of life and spirit. It would be a terrible shame to see her withering in great manses of dry and dusty tomes. She needs fresh air and sunshine and to live her life.

  “Ahh but to have to spend her life on her knees – surely that is too much to ask of a young girl who wants to run free!” Of course the priests and priestesses didn’t spend much time on their knees, that was just a bard’s myth, and it made Essaline smile.

  “And yet it seems to Marjan my lovely man, that you could spend a little more time on your knees in quiet contemplation and a little less annoying the elders with your wild escapades!”

  “I don’t annoy them, - much! And this wasn’t my fault!” He suddenly felt the need to defend himself, if only because there was some truth in her words, and it hurt when he could hear the other patients sniggering away quietly. It was worse when the elders themselves said much the same thing. But as he saw her smile grow he knew he’d just fallen into her trap.

  “Of course not my love. No one thinks that this is your fault at all. But still some time spent in quiet contemplation, reflecting on your actions and the will of the Goddess will grant you some peace. And I will be happy to help you find that peace. You do want my help don’t you?” She smiled so innocently at him, eyes wide in a simple question that could only ever have one answer, and he knew he was trapped. He spluttered for a little after that, desperately trying to think of a way out and knowing that there wasn’t before finally giving in.

  “Of course sweet Essaline.”

  “Good!” Suddenly the smile was spreading across her face as she knew she’d won. Not that there’d ever been much doubt. When it came to a battle of wits she would always outclass him. “Then when you’re recovered you can join young Soren at the grove from time to time. I’ll even make sure to bring a cushion or two for your tender knees!” Marjan groaned, as he knew he’d been manipulated again, while Essaline all but glowed with happiness and triumph, and all around the other patients started coughing awkwardly as they tried to cover up their laughter. It wasn’t the first time.

  “Enough idle chatter. Since you’re obviously awake, its time I think for your exercises mage Marjan.” The curtain being pulled open to reveal the somewhat serious, though Marjan suspected he was really just trying to hide his own laughter with the stern expression, face of Master Leonia, one of the leaders of the healers, and instantly he forgot about his argument as he remembered the torment that was coming. Once he had thought of healers as truly decent people, committed to the care of their patients, often vowed to their Gods, but these past few days he’d discovered that that view was a complete delusion. They were monsters bent on causing pain, and as he saw the two young adepts heading towards his bed with the apparent aim of lifting him out of it, he couldn’t help but know a few moments of pure panic. He would have fled if he could, but sadly the same infirmity that they were treating prevented him from doing that.

  Before he could do anything more than panic a little, the two youngsters were on both sides of his cot, their arms already lifting him up into a sitting position, before they wrapped their other arms around his lower back and started pulling him all the way out of bed. The pain as ever was terrible, the feeling of muscles being torn apart, and he barely stifled the scream that tried to rip its way loose from his throat. No matter how many times they told him that it was about moving the muscles to prevent them from becoming stiff and weak and getting the blood flowing to the injuries, he knew the truth, it was about punishing him for some imagined crime. It must have been a truly terrible crime.

  Still he didn’t resist as they carried him out of the cabin and into the garden which he was pleased to see someone was tending, and then started the usual routine of torture, getting him to walk of his own volition, at least a little, helping him with bends and stretches, twisting and turning him in directions that no human body had ever been meant to make, and through it all he kept his silence as best he could, and tried to think of other things. But all he could come up with was the fact that Dimeter, still sitting in his cell, recovering from his wounds, would probably take pleasure in learning of his suffering. The hatred that the boy had for him was something beyond normal, and without cause. He still didn’t understand why.

  In all his life he’d tried never to hurt people, and yet it seemed people still hated him enough to try and kill him. First Kyran who’d been jealous of his strength and angered by the way he stood up to him, then Dimeter. It made no sense to him, and yet as he considered their hatred, he knew one thing, the two were much alike. Dark of soul, short of compassion and even simple decency, and they obeyed the guild laws only as long as they had to. But if and when they thought they could get away with it, they would throw away those laws, and try to kill him. At least this time though, Dimeter wasn’t dead. The weight of that sin was not on his shoulders.

  The boy was suffering for sure, the healers had removed his arm just above the elbow, they had to, and what remained was covered in poultices for the pain and to keep away the fever demons and hopefully encourage healing. But they were worried that they might have to cut deeper, something about his contact with the undead had meant that he no longer healed as he should. It was one of the commonly accepted prices that fools paid for necromancy. The living should not have converse with the dead as they said. Of course there were other prices too. Things like the corruption of the wizard’s life force, and necromancers after a while tended to resemble those they raised, looking like walking corpses. And as for their souls, stained with darkness and death, that was too horrible to consider. Which made him wonder anew, just why anyone, why Dimeter would do such a thing.

  Was his hatred for him so terrible that he would go to any lengths, suffer any malady just to kill him? Could his hatred be that great? Could anyone’s? Or was it something worse, and as he had to remind himself, the boy had despised him from the moment he’d set eyes upon him, maybe even before. It was almost as if he was a blood enemy, a killer of his kin. But Dimeter had no family as far as he knew, few wizards did, and the only human Marjan had ever killed was Kyran, and they were of different cities. They couldn’t be related.

  Yet they were, somehow. The longer he thought on it, thought on the likenesses between the two young wizards the more he knew it to be true. They were connected somehow. United in their hatred of him, and united in their evil. And somehow united in their knowledge. Dimeter had somehow known where to find Kyran’s body, known of what had transpired as well. But that wasn’t something the guild wizards would share with their students. Besides, Dimeter had not been back to the Guild since meeting him, and even if he
had, he would have had no access to records.

  There was more. Kyran’s strength had been as a summoner, and he had drawn through beasts that others couldn’t, including unfortunately the hydra that had killed him. And Dimeter had called forth a kraken, despite the fact that according to Master Silas his magic was not of that kind or level. Dimeter was a simple elementalist and enchanter like him, yet somehow he had pulled through the most powerful summoning in years as a mere adept. That made no sense. Unless he had somehow gained that knowledge from Kyran after his death, which would in turn mean that he had been practicing the dark arts long before he had raised the fallen wizard.