by Duncan Pile
“Darkgems,” he muttered to himself. It resonated. Without even looking at the carcass of the horse, he turned and walked out of the forest.
…
Ferast sat in the corner of the tavern, sipping carefully on his watered wine. He hated everything about bars, from their sawdust floors that stank of piss and puke to their drunken, staggering clientele. But tonight he didn’t mind being in the bar at all. He was filled with a tingling anticipation so exquisite that he barely noticed the irritations that would normally make him boil with anger. He was on the lookout for his first human subject. He thought back to the dissatisfaction of his first kill. The cat had died far too quickly. The spells had held perfectly, but in his excitement, he’d been a bit heavy with the knife and the cat had bled to death before he could heal it.
Since then, he’d displayed what he considered to be admirable restraint, and prolonged his experiments with increasing success, exploring the limits of pain and mind control. During his last experiment he’d discovered the secret of making Darkgems, and it was that discovery that had finally convinced him to use a human subject. If killing a dumb beast released so much energy, what power might he be able to capture by killing a human?
Despite making that decision several days previously, some indefinable belief had kept him from acting it out. It was as if some hidden part of him was interfering with his plans, holding him back from greatness. It was telling him that there was no going back once he’d taken this step, but he didn’t want to go back! He struggled to understand why that would be the case. He’d taken human life before, but perhaps there was still a distinction to be made. Poppy had deserved to die, but he was contemplating taking a stranger’s life, unprovoked, for the purposes of magical experimentation.
After wrestling with himself for several days, he’d finally come to a compromise. He’d choose the most worthless, down-and-out specimen of humankind he could find; someone whose existence was so miserable it would be a mercy to take it from them. And so there he was, in the seediest, filthiest bar in the river-side town of Derolac. The town sat on the river Mercy, a deep trade channel leading ultimately to the Western Ocean, and like all river towns, it attracted a lot of human refuse. The docks were filthy and rat-infested, and the Sailor’s Fancy was just the kind of hole both human and four-legged vermin found appealing. Five minutes in the place had told Ferast all he needed to know, and he’d settled in to make his choice from among the deserving crowd.
After watching the seedy clientele for several hours, he’d settled on two candidates: a grossly obese man slumped over his arm at the bar and a stinking vagrant near the door, who must have managed to beg or steal enough money for a beer. Either was a worthy choice, but he didn’t think he could stand the smell of the vagrant for more than a few minutes, and the fat man was a monument to ill-discipline. There were few things Ferast hated more than ill-discipline, and the man at the bar was not only fat but dead drunk too - two offences against decency in one go. Not only that, but his fleshy bulk reminded him of Emelda, a thought that would bring him much satisfaction as he carved him up. He took another tiny sip of his watered wine. The fat man it was then! He was about to stand up when the tavern door slammed open and two men staggered in, already very drunk.
He watched with glittering eyes as the taller man called out for ale. The two of them took a seat nearby. He was initially irritated by the interruption to his plans, but as he listened to the new arrivals’ conversation, he decided to wait a bit and see if they were even more worthy candidates than the fat man, who didn’t look like he was going anywhere very fast anyway. The taller man was loudly boasting about things he’d almost certainly never done. He had the frame of an athletic man gone to seed, his once-handsome face masked by pouchy flesh and a double chin. He still had enough vanity to try and fit into his old clothes, but every button of his shirt strained over his belly, and though he carried a sword, its pommel was spotted with rust.
As he listened to the drunken man boast, and the smaller man fawningly agree with everything he said, Ferast realised who this man reminded him of: Everand. He sat up straight, filled with a sudden thirst for violence. There was no-one he hated as much as Everand. The privileged boy had only hung out with him for as long as he continued to agree with him, and flatter his already over-inflated ego. He had put up with it because it gave him a certain implied importance, and people had deferred to him most of the time, but he’d always had to pretend to be less powerful than Everand, decreasing the potency of his spells in order to appear weaker than the popular boy. When Everand had realised that Ferast was in fact more powerful than him, he’d not liked it at all, and when the conflict with Gaspi happened, and Ferast’s manipulations had been revealed, Everand had dropped him like a bad egg.
Ever since, Ferast had hated him with a passion. Everand was the only person he’d ever considered a friend, and he’d betrayed him. This drunken fool was what Everand would be like in twenty years; still pompous, still self-important, and utterly pathetic. Ferast no longer had any doubt about who he would experiment on that night. He had his first human subject.
He sat and waited for hours, watching the tavern’s patrons get steadily more drunk until they began to peel off in ones and twos as closing time came around, staggering back to whatever hovels they’d come from. He’d learned through listening to his chosen subject’s conversation that his name was Markus, and the smaller man was called Bevic. When they finally stood up to leave he followed them out of the door into the pouring rain. He used a basic force shield to repel the water; a trick he’d discovered pretty quickly when sleeping outdoors. Adding a second layer of spell-work, he made himself hard to see, just as he had when sneaking out of Helioport. Anyone who looked at him would find their eyes sliding off him, and they’d have to have a really good reason to focus on him to push past the compulsion.
The two drunks had pulled their coats over their heads and were splashing through the rain-soaked streets, complaining as they went. Ferast stalked quietly behind them, the knowledge of what was to come causing a heady rush of excitement. He felt powerful, deadly. Bevic took off down a side street before long, leaving Markus to weave his way through the puddles on his own. Ferast sped up, drawing up behind him as they walked past a large, empty warehouse. He looked around him, checking that no-one was about, and sent out a compulsion.
…
Markus shook his head in confusion. Why had he stopped? He couldn’t figure it out. He’d just suddenly felt like he had to stop. He looked down at his legs.
“Now come on legshh,” he slurred. “Why did you shhtop?” He tried to lift his right foot but it was as if it were stuck to the ground. “Dammit,” he said, frowning. “Mushht be drunk.”
“You are drunk,” a sibilant voice whispered in his ear, causing him to jump. Or at least, he would have jumped if his feet weren’t glued to the floor. “I can sort that out for you,” the voice said from the darkness. Markus peered into the pouring rain, looking round for the speaker. He felt sure he should have been able to see the speaker. The lamp-lit streets were dim, but not that dim.
“Who ish it?” he said. “Show yourshelf!” Suddenly he felt a cool wave pass through his mind, and the fog of drunkenness passed in an instant. Inexplicably clear-headed, he felt a thrill of alarm. “What the heck?” he said shrilly, his heart pounding. “What’s going on?” A figure appeared before him as if some kind of skin had peeled off him. It was just a boy, or maybe a young man. He was small and stick-thin, black hair hanging lankly round his sallow face. Markus was sure he’d seen him in the Sailor’s Mercy. He immediately lost his fear. He could snap this boy in half.
“Well done,” the figure said. “You saw through my compulsion. Pretty impressive really, for a man like you.”
Markus was filled with rage. “WHAT?” he spluttered. “It’s time for pain, boy” he said, reaching out to take hold of the insolent lad, but the boy held out a palm and he was suddenly unable to move his arms. In fac
t, he couldn’t move a single muscle from the neck down. Fear reached up and gripped him by the throat. Magician! he thought to himself.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he heard himself say, his voice whiny and desperate. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
The magician smiled, his black eyes glittering with a feverish light. “No, but you can do something for me,” he said. “It’s quite a privilege really. Now be quiet and follow,” he said, walking into the black spaces of the warehouse. Markus tried to shout, but found his mouth wouldn’t open. Unable to stop himself, he walked after the young magician, his heart beating so hard he thought it might stutter and fail. When he reached the far corner of the warehouse, the magician looked him up and down shrewdly.
“Well that won’t do at all,” he said, flicking a single finger at him, and Markus felt his pounding heart slow down, subdued magically he supposed, though he still felt consumed by fear.
“Yes that’s right,” the magician said. “I can keep your heart beat stable, and you can still feel fear. Clever isn’t it?” The conversational tone, more than anything else, let him know this boy was clearly insane, and unless he was very much mistaken, he was going to kill him.
In that moment, Markus felt terrible regret. He’d been handsome once, and a good soldier. He’d had a chance at promotion, but he’d screwed it up. One drunken brawl too many had seen him discharged from service, and he’d spent the rest of his life working as a mercenary for trading caravans, spending all his money on whores and booze. He’d had a chance to settle down once too, but Julia had been far too good for him, and he’d ruined that too. Life had handed him opportunities and he’d squandered every single one of them, spending his years in a drunken fog.
“I can read your thoughts Markus,” Ferast said. “You think your life has been wasted, and you’re right. You think I’m going to kill you, and you’re right. You’re going to die, right here in this warehouse. What do you think about that?”
Markus felt his jaws loosen as the magician released his hold on him, and was filled with a sudden rage. “If you’re going to kill me, then kill me and get it done with,” he snarled.
“Oh no,” the magician said conspiratorially, leaning in towards his face as magic gagged him once again. “You will die, but you will die slowly, and before it is done, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Markus looked into the eyes of insanity and knew absolute, bone-numbing terror. An opaque magical blade appeared in the magician’s hand, gleaming in the faint light as he slowly stepped forwards. Fear consumed every other thought or feeling. If he could have done so, he would have screamed till his lungs gave out.
Nineteen
Gaspi stood in the centre of the clearing, facing Loreill, a water spirit, and the elusive fire and air spirits. It was time for the ceremony to begin. He stared at the fire and air spirits with undisguised curiosity. Until that moment, the fire spirit had remained within the flames of Heath’s constantly burning fire pit, and the air spirit had stayed in the skies above, soaring in the autumn breezes, but now he had the chance to see them up close for the first time.
The air spirit’s arms and head were grey and opaque, and its eyes were the colour of a gathering storm. Its torso was a spinning vortex of wind-driven, moisture-laden cloud, flickering with bursts of lightning. The fire spirit’s body was a swirling ball of black smoke and flickering flame. Its head and arms were coal black and shiny, facetted like a gemstone with hard planes and angles, and its eyes were like smouldering coals. Like all elementals, their torsos tapered away to nothing, and they floated effortlessly above the ground.
The spirits were looking at him, their attention riveted, and he in turn was waiting for Heath to speak. The druid had his eyes closed, preparing himself in some final way for what was to come. He’d been meditating for the past hour, stilling himself as deeply as he knew how, but now the moment had arrived. Heath opened his eyes.
“This ceremony marks the willing sacrifice of these four spirits, who’ve chosen to embrace bodily form and serve humanity,” he said in sombre, ringing tones, and his grave manner made Gaspi wonder if he knew all there was to know about the ceremony. “Great Spirit,” Heath continued, “we ask for your blessing on what we now do, and for wisdom as each elemental chooses their form. Magic of this type requires a sacrifice, and we ask that you provide that sacrifice to assure us of your blessing.”
Gaspi waited silently for long moments, not sure what to expect, but then a rustling sound came from the far side of the clearing and a doe stepped out from among the branches. Gaspi’s breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful. Her soft pelt was golden brown, her liquid eyes large and clear, her movement graceful as she stepped lightly across the clearing on delicate legs. She stepped up to him, her eyes heavy with acceptance. She held his gaze, and without knowing why, Gaspi’s eyes filled with tears.
“We thank you for your sacrifice,” Heath said, his voice husky with emotion. The doe tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck, and Gaspi suddenly understood what was meant by sacrifice. He opened his mouth to protest, but Heath gave him the fiercest of looks, and he held his tongue. Surely this couldn’t be right? Heath drew a wooden bowl from within his leathers, and a stone knife from a sheath on his hip. Stepping forward, he cut the doe’s jugular in one stroke, thrusting the wooden bowl under the flow of life blood as it gushed out. The bowl filled with the precious liquid, but such was the flow that it spurted out over his arms and splashed widely around him. As its life blood drained away, the doe fell to the ground, and within moments it was dead.
Gaspi was filled with anger. What kind of ceremony was this? Why did an innocent creature have to die? But then he remembered the look of acceptance the doe had given him, and he knew the reverence druids had for all living things. Looking at Heath, he thought that he’d never seen a person look quite as pained as the druid did in that moment. If the elementals thought it was necessary, and Heath thought it was necessary, and the doe had come willingly, who was he to question it?
Heath turned to Gaspi, dipping his fingers deeply in the bowl of blood. “Gaspi, do you accept the doe’s sacrifice?”
“I do,” Gaspi answered, still upset but willing to trust. Heath looked at him with sombre approval.
“And do you accept the service of these four elementals?”
Gaspi looked at the four spirits. He could feel love pouring from Loreill, a love that told him to go ahead and accept what he was being offered.
“I do,” he whispered, overwhelmed with emotion. Heath withdrew his fingers out of the bowl and placed them, widespread, against Gaspi’s forehead.
“Then give yourself to them, and let the transformation begin,” he said, trailing his fingers down his face. Gaspi could feel the trails of warm, sticky blood dripping down his cheeks even after Heath removed his hand. Repulsed, he looked at Loreill, trying to gain some comfort in the midst of what had become a frightening ceremony, but Loreill was gripped in the throes of powerful magic.
He only had the briefest moment to wonder what was happening to Loreill before that same magic ripped into him like a gale, so powerful he thought he would be consumed. It was elemental magic, fierce as a storm. Despite the tidal wave of power rushing through him, he didn’t try to take control, knowing instinctively that to do so would be the death of him. Instead, he opened himself completely to its flow and force, yielding himself to its control.
Throwing back his head, he released a full-throated scream, somewhere between ecstasy and agony. It only lasted for a minute but it seemed to take an eternity, and then the energy fled him, the spell complete. He only had a moment to catch his breath before the magic ripped into him again. Even in midst of the soul-scouring moment, he could detect a difference in the source of the power, and realised he was acting as a channel for each elemental in turn. The thought of having to do this twice more was too much to contemplate, so he shut down all thought and abandoned himself entirely to the magic.
&nb
sp; It happened a third time, and then a fourth, and when he was finally released from the magic’s grip, he slumped to the floor, utterly spent. All he wanted was to lay his cheek down against the cool grass. A furry muzzle nosed at him and he wrinkled his face at the ticklish invasion. He tried to push it out of the way when it kept on nudging him, seeking his attention. Why wouldn’t it let him sleep, whatever it was? When the inquisitive nose continued to bother him, he finally forced his eyes open a crack. His vision swam for a moment and came into focus on a small furry face with green, twinkling eyes and a handsome set of whiskers. He was confused, befuddled by exhaustion, but he’d recognise those eyes anywhere.
“Loreill?” he asked, and then blackness swamped his vision and he knew no more.
…
Gaspi tossed and turned in his sleep, dreaming of furry faces that wouldn’t leave him alone. They kept nudging at him so that he couldn’t get any rest.
“Leave me…alone,” he said aloud, and then his eyes flew open. He was lying on his bed.
“Loreill!” he exclaimed as memory flooded back to him. A furry face lifted itself besides his head, peering at him intently with deep green eyes. “Loreill, is that really you?” he asked. In the part of him where he could feel Loreill’s feelings, he clearly sensed the elemental’s affirmation. “I didn’t imagine it,” he whispered, reaching out a hand to feel the elemental’s soft fur.
Loreill’s bodily form was very much like a ferret. Its fur was pure white and its eyes the same deep shade of green they’d always been. They were no longer faceted as they were in spirit form, but the depth of purity and intelligence were a dead giveaway that this was no normal creature. He rubbed at Loreill’s furry head, delighted by his little, pointy ears, and Loreill rubbed his face against his hand in pleasure.