by Duncan Pile
“The time has come for you to be tested,” the Dag-Mar said without pre-amble. That simple statement set every nerve in Rimulth’s body jangling. He felt sure that he wasn’t ready, but how do you disagree with the Dag-Mar?
“I haven’t done any preparation,” he said honestly.
The Dag-Mar looked at him with something akin to understanding. “I know you don’t believe you have the gift, but after today you will see things differently,” the old shaman said.
Rimulth didn’t feel he was being given a choice. He had two options. He could either face this like a warrior, or give in to fear.
“If you say I have the gift, I will take the test,” he said bravely.
The Dag-Mar smiled, his face wreathed in a mass of wrinkles. Rimulth couldn’t help noticing the way those wrinkles distorted the blue lines of his heavily tattooed skin, turning his face into an incomprehensible tangle of lines and patterns. Those patterns framed two glimmering, black eyes, which were beaming with approval.
“You will do well,” the Dag-Mar said.
“What do I have to do?” Rimulth asked. If he was going to face this head on, he may as well know as much as possible about what he would be facing.
“Preparation won’t help you,” the Dag-Mar responded. “The test is designed to reveal your magical ability.”
Rimulth had far too much pride to ask further questions, and let the matter drop. It would be what it would be.
The shaman led them back towards the village, speaking only to tell him that he was to be tested as soon as they arrived. His stomach was turning summersaults as they walked.
On arrival at the village, the Dag-Mar called the men’s circle together. They gathered at his call, taking their seats around the fire pit and waiting patiently for him to speak. As was his habit when thinking, the ageing shaman was drawing on the ground with a stick, staring intently at the pattern he’d created. No-one said a word, waiting respectfully for him to speak. Finally the Dag-Mar stopped drawing. He nodded, as if reaching a conclusion, and erased the pattern with a sweep of his hand.
“It is a great honour to be the Dag-Mar,” he began. “I’m older than most of you, so few of you will remember the shaman who held the post before me. He was not of this tribe, and neither was he of my blood. He was an old man who knew in his spirit that his time was drawing to an end. In the same way, he knew I was the one to become Dag-Mar after his death. The title of Dag-Mar is not won, or earned. It is given to whomever is chosen, and that choice is made by a higher force than any living shaman. It is time for me to train the inheritor of this title, and that my friends, as you already know, is Rimulth.” The men glanced at Rimulth appraisingly, and he flushed at the attention.
“How has this choice been made?” Chief Hesketh asked, running heavy fingers through his thick, grey beard.
“I have been told by the Great Spirit,” the Dag-Mar responded, and the chief nodded reverently. “There is no doubt. Rimulth is the one I shall pass my mantle onto, and now it is time for him to step into his inheritance.” The Dag-Mar reached into the layers of skins he wore and pulled out a long pipe. It was made of white thornwood and was marked with painstakingly burned patterns. He reached into his leathers again, and brought out a small pouch and some shrivelled, dark red berries. Rimulth drew in a sharp breath, knowing what he held. They were vornberries - a sacred fruit that, when smoked, created powerful visions. Only shamans were permitted to use it. There were other berries and plants with milder effects that the tribes-folk occasionally ate or smoked, but the vornberry was said to be sacred, transporting the shaman to the spirit world.
The Dag-Mar picked out three of the berries and put the rest back inside his leathers. He broke them into fragments in his fingers before mixing them with the tabac and poking the mixture into the bowl of the pipe with his index finger. Pulling a long, dry reed from his pocket, he held it out to Rimulth, who leant across and took both it and the pipe in trembling fingers.
“Light the reed, hold it to the bowl, and draw in the smoke,” he said. “Hold in each breath and try not to cough it out.”
He knew there was no going back. Vornberry smoke had been a legend to him as he’d grown up. As part of a childhood game, he and the other children used to make believe they’d smoked it, going on imaginary journeys that were as fantastical as they could make them. But now he was about to draw the substance into his lungs, and who knew what would happen after that? He looked into the Dag-Mar’s eyes and saw understanding there. The shaman nodded gravely, and Rimulth lifted the pipe to his lips.
His hand shook as he lit the reed and brought it back to the pipe. He held it over the bowl for a moment. Once he’d drawn the smoke into his lungs, there’d be no going back. Despite his fear, he knew that there was no point doing this half-heartedly. Firming up his resolve, he placed his lips over the stem of the pipe, pressed the burning reed down against the tabac, and drew in a long breath. It seared as it went down, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep it down. The smoke was expelled from his lungs in a riotous cloud as he spluttered and coughed.
“Keep going. Smoke it all,” the Dag-Mar said firmly, and he drew in another breath. It hurt to hold the searing smoke in, but he managed to keep from coughing this time. When he released his breath, he was swamped by a wave of dizziness.
“Don’t stop!” The Dag-Mar’s voice seemed to come from a distance, but it was enough to cause him to raise the pipe to his lips once again. He took two more long draws before it fell from his hand. Waves of dizziness were crashing down on him, his head spinning as nausea rose from his stomach. He leaned to the side and threw up until he felt his guts were going to come out.
He was distantly aware of men scrambling back from him, but he didn’t care. He slumped back, sweat breaking out all over his body as he lay on the ground, the cool grass against his cheek the single sensation that grounded him in a dizzying swirl of disorientation. A voice was speaking nearby.
“Just give him a minute and he’ll be alright,” the voice said, though Rimulth didn’t think that could possibly be true. He’d never felt worse! But then the nausea began to ebb, and the dizziness to lessen. The next thing he felt was someone’s hand in his, drawing him to his feet.
“Take him to the sweat hut,” the voice said, and several arms snaked around him, guiding and supporting him over the rough ground. A door opened and he was led inside and placed gently on the floor. “Leave him be,” said the voice. “He’ll come out when the test is complete.”
The door shut, leaving him in alone in the darkness.
Alone?
His mind snagged on the word. It echoed through his brain. What did it mean? Was there another state? He drifted aimlessly then for an indefinite period of time. He felt like a mote of dust floating through infinite space, and though he was aware that it hadn’t always been this way, he wasn’t able to remember what had come before.
The floating stopped, and he could tell that he was somewhere. His feet appeared to be resting on something solid, and though he couldn’t see anything, there was a stillness in the air that spoke of being contained. Rimulth felt suddenly anxious. Where was he? The air was damp like a cave. He looked around, squinting into the dark for any sight that might help him orientate himself, and saw faintest smear of brightness in the distance. He paced cautiously towards what looked like a diffuse leakage of light, so faint it was barely visible. As he drew near he was just about able to see by its dim radiance, which lit a small portion of damp, rocky ground. As he’d thought, he was underground.
His heart started to pound insistently as a single memory came back to him. As a boy he’d been caught by a rock-fall, and it had taken the villagers a whole day to dig him out. He’d been lost and afraid, calling for help for hours before anyone heard his desperate cries. Once the villagers found him, they had to dig him out with great care, in case shifting a stone caused the whole rock-fall to shift and crush him. He remembered the terrifying hours of waiting while ea
ch rock was carefully lifted away. Many times the mountain of stone above him had groaned, and he’d been sure he was about to die, buried beneath its weight, but somehow, the villagers had dug him out alive. Ever since that day, he had feared being trapped more than he feared anything else.
He tried desperately to see where the light was coming from. That was where he wanted to be – up there in the light, out of the smothering darkness. It seemed to be coming through several tiny chinks in the rocks. A rock slide must have plugged the way out. Infused with a sense of urgency, he scrabbled at the tumbled stone until his fingers became bloodied, surges of panic heaving through him with increasing frequency. A few smaller rocks tumbled loose, and the chink of light became a beam.
Heartened by his success, he pulled at the remaining rocks with all of his might. They stubbornly refused to yield and he heaved at them even harder. All of a sudden they gave way, cascading around him in a rush of noise and bounding, bruising stone. He covered his head with his arms as his body was pelted with stones of all sizes. A large rock crashed heavily against his leg, pinning him to the floor. He screamed in pain as his leg snapped. Other rocks slithered down over his body, encasing him in a cold, damp cocoon. The slide slowed and stopped, leaving him caught beneath an almost unbearable weight of rock. His shoulders and head were free, but his body was pinned in place.
His barely restrained panic threatened to overwhelm him, and it took everything he had to resist it. The pain in his leg was unbearable, but screaming and wriggling would cause the rock-fall to bury him completely. He controlled his breathing, keeping it slow and deep until his heart rate began to slow too. As the panic receded he tried to think of a way to get out of this situation.
His arms were still free, so he could try and carefully pick some of the smaller stones off him one by one, but that didn’t explain how he was going to get out from under the large rock that had crushed his leg. As if summoned by the thought, pain from his leg lanced through him, causing him to cry out. The slightest shift of position caused that sharp, hot pain to knife through him, so he tried to keep his lower body still as he began to lift the smaller rocks off his torso. The pain slowed him down, hindering him at every stage, but he worked with a fierce determination until his upper body was almost clear of debris. Sweat ran freely down his face as he tried to move a larger rock that was trapping his hip. He pushed it to one side, trying to roll it off his body. For long moments it teetered, but finally, with one last push, it rolled off him.
His moment of triumph was swamped by a fresh surge of terror as the rocks above him began to shift again. They had been held in place by the rock he’d just dislodged, and before he even had a chance to close his mouth, the bulk of the remaining rock-fall slid down over him, trapping him completely. Rimulth spit dust out of his mouth, yelling in anger and fright. What was he going to do? He was completely helpless. He shouted for help until his voice was hoarse, fighting back the waves of panic that threatened to engulf him once more. And then suddenly, his panic turned to anger. He didn’t want to die. This was a stupid way to go! What a waste of his life! He was furious at the futility of it. The rocks didn’t care that he was trapped under them. If only they would just move!
Two things happened simultaneously. One was that he felt a surge of something unknown, something powerful, rising from deep within him. The other was that a whole layer of rocks cascaded down the pile, rolling off onto the floor. He could feel them rolling over him, and the pile above him seemed perceptibly lighter. What had happened? They seemed to roll off at exactly the same moment he’d felt that unfamiliar sensation. And that sensation had occurred when he’d thought that the rocks should just move. Again, the unfamiliar sensation flowered in his belly, and more rocks cascaded down over him.
He was stunned, unwilling to believe. Could he be controlling this? What was this feeling in his belly? It seemed like a crazy thing to do but in his desperate situation, anything was worth a try. He summoned his will, imagining the rocks rolling off him at once, and spoke a single word:
“Move!” he said through gritted teeth, trying to put all of his willpower into the command. The unfamiliar sensation surged up from his belly, far more potent than before, and all around him rocks tumbled away. He was so surprised he almost lost his concentration, but he caught himself in time, keeping his will focused as the rocks fell off him until the last layer rolled away, and he was left exposed to the air. The heavy rock that was pinning his leg down was the last to move, and as it did so he felt a spike of agony so severe that black spots swam in front of his eyes. He tried to hold onto consciousness but the black spots came in a storm until his vision was completely obscured. Swamped by darkness, he passed into unconsciousness.
…
Rimulth came round to find himself lying on the floor of the sweat hut. He sat up in confusion, trying to orientate himself. He wasn’t in a cave, and his leg wasn’t broken, which was a mercy. And then it all made sense. The underground cave, the rock slide, it had all been part of his test – a test designed to bring out magical ability. Rimulth frowned. He’d certainly used something that could only be magic to move the rocks off him, but hadn’t that just been in his imagination? Did this mean he had the use of magic in reality? He didn’t know how to check.
Picking himself off the floor, he walked out of the sweat tent. He blinked rapidly at the bright daylight. It was so blinding to him that all colour was leeched out of the landscape. He shaded his eyes, waiting for them to adjust, and when they did, he saw the Dag-Mar waiting for him by the fire. He was smoking from his personal pipe, a much smaller and more ordinary version of the ornate one Rimulth had smoked from earlier. Rimulth walked over and took a seat opposite him on the ground.
“Tell me about your test,” the ageing shaman said in the abrupt manner Rimulth had come to expect from him.
“It was frightening. But surely you know what happens in it?” he responded in bemusement. If all shamans had to take this test to release their magical ability, then the Dag-Mar had also once faced the same challenge.
“In principle but not in detail,” the Dag-Mar said. “The berries have the power to create strong illusions, but it is your mind that crafts the vision itself. I had already woven spells around the sweat hut to make sure your vision would make you fearful and angry. The surest way to release magical talent in someone is to put them in a situation so dangerous that they call on their hidden reserves of magic in a moment of desperation.”
“It was horrible,” Rimulth said, shuddering at the memory of all that imprisoning rock.
“Yes it always is,” the Dag-Mar said sympathetically. “It was necessary, but you will never have to do this again.” Rimulth nodded in acceptance. It wasn’t his place to question the Dag-Mar. “Tell me of your test from start to finish. Don’t leave anything out.”
He did as he was asked, describing every detail, including his overwhelming fear. He would normally be ashamed to reveal such emotions, but as the test was designed to draw those feelings out, he wasn’t embarrassed. The Dag-Mar nodded in understanding as he spoke, stopping to ask a few clarifying questions, and when he described how he made the rocks move with his mind, the shaman smiled in satisfaction.
“You have the talent,” he said.
“But wasn’t all that just my imagination?” Rimulth asked.
The Dag-Mar smiled knowingly. He scooped a pebble up from the ground, holding it before Rimulth in his open palm. “Take it,” he said. Rimulth reached out his hand. “No!” the Dag-Mar admonished. “With your mind, as you did in the vision.”
Rimulth looked at the stone, trying not to sceptical. He focused on it, imagining a band of power like a curled finger and thumb encircling it, holding it in place. At first nothing happened, but he maintained his focus, willing it to happen. Suddenly, that unfamiliar rush of power stirred in his belly, uncoiling like a wild beast awaking from its winter sleep. It rushed up through him, eager to obey his command, flowing out along his thought and e
ncircling the pebble. Without uttering a word or moving a muscle, he used the power flowing through him to lift the pebble off the Dag-Mar’s hand. It floated, unsupported by anything except magic.
He was so surprised that he lost his concentration. The flow of power faltered and the pebble fell to the ground. The Dag-Mar reached over and clasped one of his hands, and he was shocked to see tears standing in the old shaman’s eyes. “You have taken your first step on the path of magic, Rimulth. From this day onwards, your life is not your own, but will be lived in service to the Great Spirit and to your people.”
Fifteen
Ferast sat exposed on the barren peak of Sailor’s End. It was a huge island, battered by the clashing tides of Widow’s Grief Cape, and only accessible by a single shale beach on the western side. Every year, many a vessel was driven against its sheer cliffs by storm-tossed seas, and the waters were said to be littered with the skeletons of a thousand sailors.
Ferast sat alone, preserved from nature’s bite by a cocoon of protective magic. His spell-work might be able to keep the elements at bay, but it had no power to preserve him from self-doubt. He grimaced, considering his predicament. When he’d first set out from Helioport, he’d been so confident that he would find Shirukai Sestin. It had seemed so simple - inevitable even, like destiny - but months had passed and he was still no nearer to finding the renegade magician.
His first destination had been the Bottomless Sands, but when he’d arrived there, it hadn’t taken long to realize that Shirukai Sestin was not in residence. It was just a dangerous stretch of inhospitable desert, separating two well-travelled trade routes from each other. Ferast’s magic had preserved him from the sucking sink-holes that kept other people out of the area, but after travelling the length and breadth of the arid region, looking for signs of the renegade magician, he’d been forced to conclude that there was nothing there except sand and a few stunted trees.