Nature's Servant

by Duncan Pile

  “Good to see you Emea,” he announced roundly. “How are you today?” Temalia reddened, glancing at her defensively. Emmy had long suspected that Temalia had feelings for Everand, but the popular, athletic boy didn’t show that much interest in return.

  “Bored,” she answered honestly. She smiled disarmingly at Temalia, who visibly relaxed and smiled back. She was really quite pretty when she smiled, and Emmy couldn’t understand why Everand didn’t fancy her. Last year he’d fancied Emea, but everyone knew she was with Gaspi, and Everand seemed to have accepted that some months ago, so there was no obvious reason why he wouldn’t go out with Temalia.

  “You know how to play?” Matthias asked.

  “Taurnil showed me,” she responded. “But you might have to remind me of the rules as we go.

  “Okay sure. Let’s play,” Matthias squeaked, and dealt out the cards.

  …

  The game ended two hours later, and Emmy was about to make her excuses and go looking for Lydia again when Temalia laid a slender-fingered hand on her arm.

  “Why don’t you come with us to the Rest?” she asked in her gentle, breathy voice. Emea looked at the expectant faces, and found herself hesitating. Yes, Gaspi had made up with Everand, but they weren’t best friends or anything. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt, as if by hanging out with them she was being disloyal to him. She hesitated a moment longer, but then she shook off the feeling. All that was in the past now, and she really needed the company.

  “I’d love to,” she answered. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Good,” Temalia responded, sliding her hand into the crook of Emea’s elbow. “I bet you’re missing Gaspi,” she said, leading her out of the room.

  …

  By the time they reached the Rest, Emea had convinced Temalia that she was fine and had moved the conversation away from Gaspi. She separated herself from her and followed Everand into the pub’s dim, lamp-lit interior only to be hit by a wash of evocative smells. The oil lamps used to light the common room gave off a kind of smoky smell, which combined potently with the odour of floor polish and ale to remind her of Gaspi in a heady rush. She’d spent many memorable hours with him in here, and more than anything else so far, the unmistakable smell of the Traveller’s Rest made her miss him. Her eyes swimming with tears, she made an excuse and went to the girls’ privy.

  Closing the door behind her she wiped her eyes furiously. Why was she feeling so emotional? Gaspi was gone and she just needed to get on with things. Blinking rapidly until there was no evidence of her tears, she took a deep breath and went back out to join the others. They were falling about laughing at something, and she slipped in quietly without drawing attention to herself.

  It took half an hour or so but eventually Emmy found herself distracted by the conversation, and even began to enjoy herself a bit. After that, the rest of the afternoon passed easily enough, and when they went back to the campus to eat, she was feeling much more like herself. Everand walked alongside her on the way back, making conversation about what he was learning and asking her about her studies. She was surprised at how pleasant his company was, and found herself enjoying the conversation. As they parted, Everand said he was going to use Gaspi’s enchanted device and create the koshta pitch in the morning, and all the boys were going to play. Genuinely excited, Emmy gave him a hug and walked back to her room, humming to herself. If she kept busy like this, maybe things wouldn’t be too bad after all.

  …

  Ferast sat alone in his room, seething. He’d seen Emea with Everand earlier that day. He could see what was happening. As soon as the Nature Mage was out of the picture, Everand was making his move. Maybe she’d even fall for it! Everyone was always so impressed by Everand, but not him! He could see right through him. The pompous, strutting peacock had always been his inferior but had been too interested in his own reflection to know it. Ferast was more intelligent than him, quicker to learn than he was, and a more powerful magician than him. What’s more, he had ambition. Whatever it took, he was going to leave these half-talented children in his dust, and climb to unknown heights of power.

  The bird-thin boy was self-aware enough to know that he would get there quicker with a bit of help, but who was going to guide him? Voltan seemed to favour Gaspi, and the chancellor had never shown him more than a moment’s recognition. They were probably jealous of his power, of who he could one day be. Emelda had passed him onto another healer for mentoring. The fat woman had never been comfortable with him, but that suited him fine. He could learn better from someone less sentimental. The problem was that his new mentor seemed to be suspicious of him too. He wouldn’t answer Ferast’s questions about using healing magic as a weapon, and would only teach him about cuts, bruises, and broken bones. The idiot lacked any kind of imagination.

  For what must be the hundredth time, he thought back to the letter Hephistole had sent out to the students. According to the chancellor, the mastermind behind the attack on the college was a renegade magician called Shirukai Sestin. Once chancellor of the college, Sestin had been cast out from the magical community on account of some dark, neuromantic experiments he’d been caught conducting. He may well be the college’s enemy, but something about the renegade had caught Ferast’s imagination. To get a glimpse of his genius, all you had to do was count the number of magical inventions he seemed to have mastered: he had enhanced natural wolves, turning them into those terrifying wargs; he’d managed to find a way to transport people over vast distances; he could control demons. Most impressive of all, he seemed to have prolonged his own lifespan. Ferast thought hungrily of all those advances, of the power this rogue magician controlled. Now there was someone worth learning from! He wouldn’t refuse to answer Ferast’s questions, not when he’d been exiled from the magical community for experimenting in ways the college hadn’t the imagination to allow. And he had the exact same combination of magical strengths as Ferast – healing and neuromancy.

  He followed his line of thought further. What if the restrictions at the college meant he no longer had a reason to be here? Maybe he should go and find a more worthy master. Maybe he should go and find Shirukai Sestin.

  …

  Rimulth felt self-conscious. It was the first time he’d been allowed in the men’s circle. Crossing his legs in imitation of the older men, he looked around at the faces of the tribesmen; iconic faces that had dominated his childhood, lit right now by the flickering light of the fire. He wondered if they had also felt like a pretender when they’d first joined the circle, and almost snorted out loud at the thought. There was no way Balkrist had ever felt the way he did now. The ageing warrior looked as comfortable squatting by the fire as a rock does on a mountainside. He glanced at Balkrist’s scarred face, the knotted bunches of the muscles on his forearms, folded over his broad chest. The warrior’s tattoo written across his face was faded, folding into natural creases along the expressive lines of his weathered cheeks.

  Rimulth looked at the other silhouetted figures around the circle. Hesketh, the Clan Chief, his bear-skin cloak of office making him loom in the light of the fire. Younger Talmo, staring down his hooked nose into the flame, implacable as a mountain. And then there was the Dag-Mar. Of all the men in the circle, he was the one Rimulth was the most scared of. Every inch of his skin was marked with tattoos none of the other men could ever wear – the tattoos of a shaman. Each design represented a spell the shaman had mastered. Of all the shamans Rimulth had seen in his short lifetime, the Dag-Mar had by far the most. He was the principal shaman of all the tribes, a master spell-caster and the head of his order. Rimulth looked at the colourful glass beads woven into his grey, braided hair, and the many bracelets he wore around his stick-thin wrists and ankles, hearing in his mind the musical clack and rattle the shaman made as he moved.

  As if sensing Rimulth’s scrutiny, the Dag-Mar turned his head to look at him. He couldn’t look away, frozen by the shaman’s piercing scrutiny. Even the Dag-Mar couldn’t look into an
other man’s thoughts could he? He felt as if he were being examined inside and out by that cold, piercing gaze. The shaman looked away at last, leaving him feeling shaken. He felt like a cloth doll, picked up and shaken by a large dog, and discarded just as easily. Strangely, he could have sworn that a ghost of a smile passed across the shaman’s face before he looked away.

  Rimulth had certainly picked a portentous night to join the men’s circle. The men were talking heatedly about some kind of creatures that were attacking the villages. They sounded horrible – dark, bulky creatures that absorbed all light and heat and that couldn’t be attacked with swords and knives. Some people were saying they were demons.

  Demons - even the word sent a shiver down his spine. But it wasn’t him who should be worried about them. It was the Dag-Mar. If what the men were saying was true, these creatures only attacked shamans, draining them of their powers as they killed them. Perhaps it was the draining itself that killed them. Who knew? But whatever it was that took their lives, the shamans died in agony and overwhelming terror.

  Rimulth looked at the Dag-Mar again, but this time in a different light. Was he afraid? Did he wonder if he was to be the next victim? He dismissed the thought straight away. He didn’t imagine anything could beat the Dag-Mar, and maybe the Dag-Mar didn’t either. He certainly didn’t seem to be afraid. If that time came, he certainly didn’t want to miss the fight. The Dag-Mar would show these demons what it meant to face the tribespeople of Eagle’s Roost. Turning his gaze to the shadows beyond the firelight, Rimulth looked for their demonic enemies, almost willing that they come and fight them. With the Dag-Mar present, they had nothing to fear.

  Eight

  Gaspi watched Hephistole drive the cart away, knowing he wouldn’t be back for three months. Once he was out of sight, Heath looked down at him, and with some trepidation he looked back. The druid’s eyes were unlike any Gaspi had ever seen. They seemed to be coloured every shade of green under the sun, dotted with glinting, golden flecks. There was a light in them that was half wild; fierce as a storm and calm as a millpond at the same time.

  “Follow me. No talking,” Heath said in a voice that was as rusty as his handshake, and stalked off into the trees. Gaspi watched as he walked away and shrugged. What choice did he have? Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he followed his strange new mentor into the forest. Heath set an even pace, following some kind of path that Gaspi couldn’t even begin to detect. Many times it seemed as if they’d run into impassably dense tangles of foliage, only for Heath to turn or duck and find a way through that Gaspi could have sworn wasn’t there previously.

  They walked for about an hour until Heath came to a sudden stop. He looked at Gaspi for long moments before speaking.

  “I have never brought another person here,” he said, a tone of warning in his voice. “The spirits play freely in the clearing. They know you are coming, and have promised not to harm you.” Gaspi’s stomach was suffused with a nervous tingling. What harm might they do him if they hadn’t promised? “Don’t approach them or speak to them,” Heath added, and fell silent, watching him intently.

  “Okay,” Gaspi answered when he was sure that a response was expected. Heath nodded gruffly and started walking again.

  Moments later they emerged into a clearing that was filled with glimmering light. It shone from dozens of diaphanous bodies of green and blue, soaring and gliding through the air. The spirits, for that was surely what they were, had jewel-like eyes and exuded a beauty and joy that made Gaspi draw in a sudden breath in wonder. Startled by the sound, they vanished into the trees and under rocks in the time it took to blink. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume he imagined them.

  Heath growled out an amused chuckle. “You’ll have to earn their trust,” he said and tramped across the clearing towards what could only be his home. Gaspi stared at it in amazement. It was unlike any structure he’d ever seen. The majority of the “house” was formed from a massive tree root, extending from the foot of an enormously broad tree. Its trunk was as wide as a barn and bare of branches for many feet. The giant root grew out from the base of the trunk, starting well above his head and curling around in a broad circle until it tapered off and disappeared into the ground. Heath had taken advantage of this natural, encircling structure and made his home within it.

  He had made a thatched roof out of reeds that covered over half the area the root contained, and within the shelter were some of the normal signs of habitation. There was a bristly pile of rushes that could only be a bed, a fire pit, blackened from much use, and several bits of wooden furniture that looked as if Heath had made them himself. Most of the house seemed to be an expansive kitchen. A couple of large hams and several strings of sausages hung from hooks Heath had set into the root-wall, surrounded by hanging bunches of garlic and onions. The few pieces of furniture Heath had made looked like they were mostly given to the preparation and storage of food, and the part of the house that was unprotected by the thatch covering was used as a vegetable garden, separated from the rest of the clearing by a babbling brook that cut a sinuous track through the grass. Fruit trees grew round the edges of the clearing, their boughs hanging heavy with their late summer loads. Wildflowers had sprung up through the grassy carpet of Heath’s home, growing thickly round the borders of his house and along the path of the brook. The gurgling stream glinted with lights that Gaspi suspected gave away the spirits’ hiding place.

  As he looked around, appreciating the natural beauty of Heath’s incredible home, he lost much of his apprehension. It was as beautiful as something from a child’s fairy-tale. Heath pulled a large bundle of dried rushes from behind a cupboard and dumped them on a clear patch of floor.

  “Don’t just stand there gaping!” he said gruffly, but Gaspi thought he could detect a hint of pleasure at Gaspi’s obvious enjoyment of his home. “That’s your bed,” the druid said. “You can put your belongings against the root behind it.”

  Gaspi walked over and put his bag down. “Thanks,” he said, looking at his host with different eyes. No-one who made a place like this could be too scary.

  Heath nodded, some of his gruffness dissipating. “I’m going hunting for dinner,” he said.

  “Can I come?” Gaspi asked.

  “Not this time,” Heath answered with a shake of his head. “Explore the clearing and the woods around it. Get a feeling for it. And don’t use any magic.”

  “Why can’t I use magic?” Gaspi asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

  “Just don’t,” Heath responded, some of his gruffness returning, and without giving Gaspi a chance to respond, he grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows and left the clearing.

  …

  Gaspi made good use of the time while Heath was away. He explored the clearing, hoping the spirits would come back out, but there was no sign of Heath’s elemental companions. He walked around the surrounding woodland, getting a feel for the lie of the land. Returning to the house, he inspected the rows of vegetables and herbs growing in the garden. He was crouching down, rubbing the tiny leaf of an herb he couldn’t identify between his thumb and forefinger when a rustle caught his attention, and he turned to find Heath striding out of the forest, carrying a brace of rabbits.

  “Dinner,” he announced, dropping them onto a large tree stump in what Gaspi was already thinking of as the garden. “Do you know how to gut them?” the druid asked. Heath didn’t speak much, but Gaspi thought he could detect some cultured tones beneath the cracked sounds of disuse.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I might be a bit rusty but I’ll give it a go.” Anyone who grew up in Aemon’s Reach knew how to gut and clean game, but if he was honest, he didn’t enjoy it very much. There was nothing particularly appealing about a handful of slimy guts, but as Jonn always said, if you couldn’t handle gutting it you didn’t deserve to eat it.

  “Good,” Heath said with an approving nod. “I’ll leave that to you then.”

  Gaspi got on with the job, braving him
self against the unpleasant feel of viscera sliding through his hands. The skins came off easily enough. You could peel them off like gloves, with a few hearty tugs at the stubborn bits. Then came the unpleasant bit; separating the animal from its organs and bowels. It was unpleasant but he pushed on through until it was done.

  Heath picked up the carcasses, scrutinising them carefully. “Not bad,” he said, and bent down to wash them in the stream. “Do you know how to cook?” he asked when he was done, raising a bushy eyebrow in enquiry.

  “Er…no,” Gaspi answered honestly.

  “You’ll learn that here,” Heath said. “Watch,” he instructed, placing the meat on the large tree stump and going to one of the pieces of furniture in the portion of the house Gaspi thought of as “indoors.”

  “First we prepare the meat,” Heath said, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out two small leather sacks that had a shiny, waterproof kind of look. He reached up and pulled a garlic bulb from the bunch, as well as taking a couple of onions from a barrel. He dragged a small table across the ground until it stood next to the tree stump.

  “Bring the chair over,” he said, indicating a crude-looking piece of furniture constructed from large pieces of foraged wood.

  Gaspi dragged the heavy chair out into the garden and placed it in front of the table. Heath was digging around in the soil of the vegetable patch, grunting as he pulled up two large carrots. He ferreted around in another patch of soil, coming up with a handful of potatoes. He washed the vegetables in the stream and made a final trip indoors, returning with a thick, stoppered flask, which he placed on the table next to the vegetables. The flask didn’t look like Heath had made it himself, and Gaspi had to presume that the druid had at least occasional contact with other people to trade some goods.