Nature's Servant

by Duncan Pile

  Taurnil stepped past him and took over. “Younger Talmo, Rimulth. Will you share a meal with us and our guardian? He is a warrior and one of the guards here in the city.” Gaspi thought his friend’s manner was unnecessarily formal, and not even delivered with a smile, but strangely it seemed to relax both tribesmen. Taurnil was clearly better at this than he was.

  “We will come,” Younger Talmo answered with a nod of his head. Taurnil waited while they picked up their weapons, and led them out of the room. The air spirit took to the skies as they departed, returning to its natural haunts with a bleak-sounding cry. Taurnil led them through the winding corridors of the Warren, until they reached the plinth. Younger Talmo looked distinctly unhappy at the prospect of being transported by magic, but Taurnil urged him to get on and the tribesman complied. His jaw was clenched and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Gaspi gave the command and they were magicked down to the Atrium. When they got off, Younger Talmo shuddered, patting himself all over as if to check he was still in one piece. Rimulth looked almost as disquieted, glancing nervously back at the transporter plinths until they were out of sight.

  Gaspi made an attempt at small talk as they walked, asking about the tribesmen’s journey to Helioport, but after a couple of single word responses from Rimulth and no response at all from Younger Talmo, he gave up altogether. Emmy put a hand on his arm, offering a sympathetic glance, and after that, they walked in silence. Freezing gusts of air made him shiver. Winter was well under way, and although it hadn’t snowed, the wind was icy and cut through even the warmest clothing. Emmy had complained about the cold so much he’d lent her his enchanted cloak on what was probably a permanent basis, and he hadn’t got around to attempting the enchantment on another cloak yet, so he just had to put up with being cold.

  When they reached the Rest, Taurnil pushed the door open and they stepped into the familiar warm, smoky environment. The door closed behind them, shutting out the chill winter wind. They didn’t stop to get a drink, passing through one room into the next, where Jonn was waiting for them at a large table. He stood up as they entered, extending a hand to Younger Talmo.

  “You must be Younger Talmo,” Jonn said. “I’m Jonn, guardian to these young people.”

  Younger Talmo nodded, grasping his hand and shaking it. “Call me Talmo,” he said. “Elder Talmo isn’t here, so he is unlikely to object.”

  “Talmo it is,” Jonn said. “And you must be Rimulth,” he said, turning to the younger of the two tribesmen. Rimulth nodded and shook his hand without saying anything in response.

  “Please, take a seat,” Jonn urged, indicating the chairs around the table. “I’ll go and get everyone a drink. What will you have Talmo? I’m really sorry but I have no idea what you drink in the mountains. Beer? Wine?”

  Talmo’s face broke into the tiniest of smiles, the first Gaspi had seen from him. “We make beer from ferns. Whisky too but that’s for the men’s circle. Beer is fine.”

  “And for you Rimulth?” Jonn asked.

  “The same,” he answered, and Jonn left to go to the bar. There was no need to ask the others - it was always the same. Gaspi and Taurnil would have beer, Emmy would have watered wine and Lydia would have her wine un-watered.

  While Jonn was getting the drinks, conversation dried up around the table, making Gaspi feel increasingly awkward. Embarrassed by the prolonged silence, he opened his mouth to speak, but Taurnil trod on his foot, clearly telling him to stay quiet. What was with these close-mouthed mountain people? How was he supposed to make friends with them if they never spoke and didn’t respond when he made the effort. It was like being with Heath all over again, only worse!

  “I see you’re an archer,” Taurnil said, eyeing the ash longbow strapped to Talmo’s back. “May I see your bow?”

  Talmo’s stern mask relaxed a little as he reached over his shoulder and drew his longbow out of its harness. He handed it to Taurnil, who took it with exaggerated care, running his thumb along the light, attractive grain of the wood.

  “Beautifully crafted,” he said.

  “I carved it myself,” Talmo said with obvious pride. He drew a hand back over his shoulder, pulling an arrow out of its quiver. “I fletched these too,” he added. Gaspi thought the feathers were beautiful. They were a light golden colour, tipped with flaming amber. Talmo must have caught him looking at them. “Firehawk,” he said, holding Gaspi’s gaze with light hazel eyes that contrasted with his dark complexion.

  “I like the colours,” Gaspi said, sounding stupid in his own ears, but thankfully Talmo was distracted by Jonn, returning with the drinks. He put the beers down in front of the two tribesmen and went back to the bar for the rest.

  “Are you a warrior Taurnil?” Rimulth asked, watching the way he ran his hands reverently over the bow.

  “I suppose so,” Taurnil answered. “I’m a guard. So’s Jonn, but he’s a better fighter than me.”

  “You have the look of a warrior,” Talmo said as if that was all that needed saying. “So does Jonn,” he added as Jonn sat down.

  “So does Jonn what?” Jonn asked.

  “You have the look of a warrior,” Talmo answered.

  “Oh, thanks,” Jonn said. Gaspi tried to shrink into the background. He was clearly the only male in the room who didn’t look like a warrior in any way whatsoever.

  “What do you do here…Gaspi?” Rimulth asked, fishing his name out from memory.

  “I’m a magician,” he answered, “but I can use a knife!” He winced inwardly at his stupid statement, but thankfully, Rimulth didn’t let the conversation linger there.

  “A magician?” he asked, showing real interest in him for the first time. “Like a shaman?”

  “Yeah I guess so,” Gaspi answered. “I use magic, just like you.” Suddenly he felt a whole lot better.

  “Not like me,” Rimulth responded dejectedly. “I only just started training to be a shaman before…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “Well you’ve come to the right place,” Gaspi interjected quickly, trying to move the conversation on from what was clearly a painful memory.

  “But how will I learn?” Rimulth asked, voicing his doubts. “Chief Hesketh says you have our shamanic rites recorded, but I can’t read letters.”

  “Professor Worrick will find a way,” Lydia interjected. “You shouldn’t worry. It’ll all be fine.” The tribesmen looked at her in surprise. “I’m a magician too,” she explained.

  “A shaman?” Talmo said in shock.

  “Er, yes. A magic user like Gaspi,” she said.

  “A woman?” Talmo asked incredulously.

  “Don’t you have any female shamans in Eagle’s Roost?” Jonn asked.

  “No,” Talmo said disapprovingly. “All shamans are men.”

  There was a long, painful silence, which Lydia eventually broke. “Well that’s not how it works here,” she said firmly. “Women are magicians too and are treated with the same respect as men. Emea is a magician too,” she finished, gesturing in her direction. Emmy flushed, uncomfortable with the attention.

  “There’s a lot to get used to but you don’t have to do it all in one day,” Jonn said, steering the conversation away from rocky waters. “Talmo, would you like to join the guards? Rimulth will begin his studies tomorrow and you’ll need something to do. I’d be happy to recommend you to my superior.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Talmo answered. He looked back at the girls. “I’m sorry. You have been very kind to us, and I have been disrespectful. I will try not to be so quick to judge.”

  “That’s fine,” Lydia said and Emmy nodded emphatically in agreement. There was a perceptible lightening of the mood.

  Talmo nodded and lifted the beer to his lips. The first mouthful made him grimace, but he swallowed it without a complaint.

  “So Gaspi,” Rimulth said. “Can you explain what that hawk is? Something happened back there that I don’t understand. It’s almost like I can…feel it.”

  Gaspi laughed
and took a sip of his beer. “You’d better get comfortable. This could take a while.”

  Thirty-Two

  Shirukai Sestin stood at the large curving window of the observatory, looking out over the Ruined City of Elmera. Decaying opulence spread itself below him in faded hues of pink, grey and yellow. The broken domes of palaces, shattered by time, gaped darkly at him like a hundred hungry mouths. His attention was drawn to the distant movement of something huge and lumpish humping its way along a broad boulevard - the Spirit of the Ruins. He allowed a thin-lipped smile of satisfaction. The power he had enhanced the Spirit with had turned out to have some surprising results.

  Snatchers usually stole the living body of a new victim when the one they inhabited was too rotten to hold together any longer. The new host died instantly, leaving the demon free to use its corpse for as long as it held together. Sestin had given the Spirit of the Ruins the power to meld the body of its new host into that of the old, and the way the spirit had used that ability had certainly been worth watching. Several more travellers had wandered into the city since that time, and like all before them, they’d not escaped the demon’s clutches. It had absorbed each corpse into the swelling mass of its body, shaping that body as it expanded. Its bloated mass of dead flesh was centred around the massive form of a man taken by the Snatcher just before Sestin gave it new powers - a man called Olaf. All of its victims since the fat man had been subsumed into its bulk, but what Sestin hadn’t expected was that the spirit seemed to be using the life force of its fresh victims to preserve the corpses of the older ones. Though partially rotten, the enormous man’s body seemed to be frozen at an early stage of decay. The Snatcher spoke with his voice, and even seemed to have retained some of his memories. Most interesting of all, it actually called itself by his name.

  The Snatcher had also used its powers of preservation to maintain the rotting face of another man - the horrified visage of a long-jawed man that stared out from the middle of its broad, flabby chest. The face, which Olaf referred to as Rekkit, had also retained a basic sense of self, preserved by the magic of the enhanced Snatcher. It sat in its fleshy mooring, caught forever in the last, blasted emotion of its life. As the Spirit roamed the city, Rekkit’s eyes flicked from left to right, stretched wide with fear and a terrible kind of confusion.

  Sestin hadn’t known exactly what the Snatcher would do with the powers he’d lent it, but he was more than satisfied with the outcome. The Spirit now had greater powers to preserve its own existence on this plane, and its appearance was so terrifying it added new levels of horror to the last minutes of the lives of anyone straying into its domain. Though huge and apparently cumbersome, it moved with surprising speed, propelling itself on misshapen limbs grown from the flesh of its victims. Every time someone entered the Ruins, Sestin took the time to savour the last delicious moments of their life. He couldn’t have a better guardian of his privacy than the Spirit of the Ruins.

  He drew back from the window, turning his thoughts to the Darkman. He had felt the loss of each Bale-beast as they were overcome by the surprisingly resourceful savages. Those damned demons had a crippling weakness when it came to fire, and even non-magical people could overcome them if they knew that secret and possessed sufficient courage. He’d almost despaired when all but one of the Bale-beasts had been destroyed, but only moments later he’d felt the emergence of something immensely powerful and had rejoiced in his success. A Darkman had entered this plain of existence! When a Bale-beast had drunk enough magical force it collapsed in on itself, and it was from that melting pot of stolen energy and demonic matter that a Darkman emerged.

  Sestin had laid binding spells on the Bale-beasts so that if any of them achieved that transformation, the Darkman would be coerced to return to him as soon as it emerged. The demon had resisted his compulsion all the way. It held out against his will for a time, travelling in the opposite direction, killing and maiming at will, but even its considerable strength of mind was no match for the magical force that contained and drove it, and in fits and starts, it gave in to the compulsion and travelled towards Sestin’s lair. The compulsion lessened when it complied with his will, and each time that happened, it had started resisting again, but inevitably, bit by bit, it was drawing nearer to its rightful master.

  Sensing it was only a few days away now, Sestin curled his fingers in anticipation. When it arrived it would try and kill him, but he was not afraid of that confrontation. He would have to break it completely, teaching it unquestioning subservience to him before he could unleash it on the Nature Mage. The breaking process might take some time, but his many years of exile had taught him a kind of murderous patience. He’d show the Nature Mage suffering beyond his worst nightmares, but only when he had full control of the powerful demon. Filled with eagerness for what lay before him, Sestin sent out his thought into the night, calling the Darkman to hurry to his service.

  …

  If he were less self-controlled, Sestin would have prepared the Darkman’s cell in a rush of fevered excitement, but impatience was not the mark of a master summoner. He could sense the demon’s nearness, less than a few hours away, and he needed to be fully ready for its arrival. He wondered how long the Darkman would resist his lordship. He had spent decades developing his ability to control other beings, and he was sure he could evoke levels of agony that would make even a Darkman yield to his mastery, but it was still a higher demon, and he was no illusions that victory would come quickly.

  Breaking its will could take weeks or even months, so the first task was to imprison it. He’d selected a cell deep in the bowels of the largest warg den because the dens were a place of blood and death, which left a kind of resonance that strengthened his own brand of destructive magic. The cell was right in the heart of the den, the sounds of brutal competition permeating its walls. The air was thick with the snarls and painful cries of young wargs fighting each other for pre-eminence in the heartless, lightless existence they were born into. Sestin had chosen this den in particular because it lacked a den-chief. He’d killed the last one for its part in the failed attack on Helioport, and the remaining wargs were currently vying for pre-eminence. Aggressive under normal circumstances, this den of wargs was a frothing orgy of violence as they killed each other indiscriminately in a bloody fight for survival.

  He cast a critical eye over the binding spells he’d laid on the cell, examining the lines of power that would contain the Darkman after it had been captured. Any attempt to cross those lines would result in insufferable agony, even for a higher demon. The very walls of the room were enchanted to confuse and bewilder its occupant. The demon should struggle to place itself, and find it impossible to focus on any single thought. Its mind would slide off thought after thought without ever landing anywhere solid for even a moment. That was a difficult neuromantic enchantment to lay, and it had cost him dearly to cast it, but it would save him the trouble of having to hold extra layers of spell-work in place while breaking the demon’s will.

  As a precaution, he’d decided to take the spells he would normally have to sustain during the torture of a subject, and to bind them to the room as enchantments. Normally, he prided himself on being able to juggle the multiple spells needed to control a subject, but he’d never tried to control a higher demon before, and it was too important an event to risk success for the sake of pride. The enchantments laid on the room itself combined to make the cell a multi-layered trap for the Darkman: It would physically contain it, confuse its thoughts, urge it to give in to Sestin’s control, and negate its own magical abilities. It was in this environment that he would torture the demon, binding it to his cause.

  As he understood it, a Darkman had several strengths: Unlike a Bale-beast, it was a physical being. It was incredibly fast and strong, its appendages as deadly as the most finely honed weapons. It secreted a natural poison, which meant that any wound it inflicted would lead to a painful death. It had some of the Bale-beasts’ innate qualities - inspiring fear and
dread into the heart of anyone in its proximity, but more dreadful than the Bale-beasts, who could only drain life from magical beings, the Darkman could feast on the souls of its victims. Left to its own devices, it would drink the life force of those it killed, whether magical or not. It absorbed their very essence, increasing its physical strength and presence in this plane. If it was destroyed, the souls that kept it anchored to this plane would be set free, but until they were freed, they were trapped in a state of endless horror.

  Content that his enchantments were correctly embedded in the walls of the cell, Sestin placed a small device in the centre of the floor, completing a design he’d painted in warg-blood earlier that day. Stepping backwards, he nodded in satisfaction and withdrew another device out from within his robes. Channelling a thread of power into it, he depressed a button in its centre and instantly disappeared, reappearing in the middle of his study. Walking to the window, he stood in silent vigil, waiting for the Darkman’s arrival.

  …

  Sestin stood motionless at the window of his Observatory, watching the dark and empty streets of the city. The Spirit of the Ruins was nowhere in sight. His lips curved in a mocking smile - it must have sensed the approach of a demon more powerful than itself and chosen to stay out of sight.

  The streets were silent as the grave. There wasn’t even the slightest sign of movement, but he could sense the Darkman drawing nearer. Despite the failure of any of his magical senses to pinpoint its exact location, he could have sworn it was already within the city limits. There was one conclusion he could reach – the Darkman could hide itself from magical sight. Spurred into action by some keen instinct, Sestin spun around, throwing out a magical net. It spun out across the room, expanding just as the door exploded inwards and an apparition from Hell burst through. Decades of experience kept him moving when hesitation would have resulted in his death. He pulled the magical net tight around the demon, binding it with suffocating force. It fell to the floor, writhing madly in an attempt to escape, jagged bone thrusting from its wrists as it tried to slice through the net.