Nature's Servant

by Duncan Pile

  Jonn’s eyes widened as he listened, his expression open and full of hope. “Emmy, do you think you could do it again?”

  “Yes I think so,” she said. Jonn nodded slowly, as if he’d come across something of extreme importance.

  “When we get back, I want to introduce you to someone who’s very important to me,” he said. “You might just be able to change her life.”

  “Who is it?” Gaspi asked in astonishment. Jonn hadn’t told them he was seeing anyone. In fact, Jonn didn’t see anyone!

  “She’s called Adela,” he said. “Let’s just say she has had a very hard time, and if Emmy can heal her, even just a little bit…”

  “Okay Jonn,” Emmy said, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “We’ll see her as soon as we leave Arkright.”

  “Thanks,” he said, placing his hand over hers and giving it a grateful squeeze. With that he stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the courtyard.

  …

  Voltan decided to wait for Jaim, Everand and Baard to return before transporting to Helioport, which gave the young magicians a chance to ply him with questions about the day’s action. In particular, they wanted to know about strikes they’d never seen before.

  “So what was that white misty strike Remstracht used against you?” Gaspi asked.

  “It’s not a strike in the true sense of the word,” Voltan answered with a sneer. “It’s called the Arcane Grip. It’s intended to pit a magician’s full strength against another’s.”

  “How does it work?” Emmy asked.

  “If the other magician can’t contain the energies within, they would be significantly drained, but if they can contain and compress them, as I was able to, the caster would suffer instead.”

  “You don’t think very much of Remstracht for using it do you?” Rimulth asked.

  Voltan pulled a disapproving face. “I don’t have much time for anyone who claims to practice the ancient art of sword and sorcery and then reduces the intricacies of combat to what is basically a magical arm wrestling contest.”

  “I still need to know how to defend against it,” Gaspi said.

  Voltan shook his head decisively. “We don’t have time for that. But you don’t need to worry. It’s devilishly difficult to cast, and most magicians will feel as I do about it. I’d be very surprised if anyone else uses it.”

  “Fair enough,” Gaspi said. “But why did Remstracht use it when it’s clear you’re a pretty powerful magician? I mean, wasn’t it likely to fail?”

  Voltan shrugged. “In the heat of battle you only get a split second to make your choices. Remstracht made a bad one.”

  “Can you tell us about poison strikes?” Emmy asked.

  “They’re very complex and equally dangerous,” he explained, “though for reasons I fail to understand, not technically illegal. The Arcane Accords only forbid necromancy and demonology outright as illegal practices. All other forms of destructive magic are to be judged on a case by case basis.”

  Gaspi frowned, struggling to remember what Professor Worrick had taught them about the Arcane Accords. In a dusty corner of his mind, he could just about recall that they were a treaty signed by the heads of all the magical orders in Antropel at the end of the Thirty Year War.

  “After years of study,” Voltan continued, “it is possible for a master poisoner to understand how different toxins work against the body, and to replicate that in magical form. When the spell enters the body, it works directly against its healthy organs, breaking them down in accordance with whichever natural poison the spell is mimicking.”

  “Is it something I can defend against?” Gaspi asked.

  Voltan shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. As far as I understand it, the only way to gain the intimate knowledge of the human body required to be a poisoner is to train as a healer, and as you well know, I have no affinity for healing whatsoever.”

  “What?” Emmy exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. “Poisoners are healers? Sthycass was a healer?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Voltan answered grimly.

  “But that’s disgusting!” she stated. “How can any healer use their gift to take life?”

  “I understand your distaste,” Voltan said. “but for the purposes of this tournament, if Hephistole and I decide Gaspi is to continue to compete, and if another magician is unscrupulous enough to use a poison strike against you, I suggest you duck.”

  “Thanks,” Gaspi said dryly. “So what about the death strike?” he asked quietly, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Voltan’s expression stiffened. “The death strike is not just illegal because it kills, but because of what it takes to cast one. To cast a death strike, a magician first has to take life, soaking up the pain and suffering of their victims and storing their death energies in some kind of enchanted device. When they cast the strike, the energy is drawn from the device and used to form the strike.”

  “What kind of device?” Emmy asked, horrified.

  “It can be anything, and they can be used in different ways, but they are known generally as focii. It would have been stored about Sthycass’ person, hidden in his clothing. They can be tiny, and he could have had many of them. I can only say, Gaspi, that ridding the world of a magician who is willing to murder others to supply himself with such a weapon can only be a good thing, and the same goes for his allies.”

  Gaspi nodded, comforted by the thought. It helped him feel better about killing the Skelkan warrior. He was further comforted by the spirits’ decision to kill the spider-mage. He knew the elementals were benign, working to maintain the balance of nature, but when it came down to it, their justice was unforgiving.

  The murderous intent of the spider-mage got him thinking. Shirukai Sestin wasn’t the only dark magician in the world, and there could be unnumbered others out there willing to use magic in horrific ways for their own purposes. There certainly seemed to be truth to the stories of the Skelkans and their dark religion.

  “Voltan?” he ventured, uncertain that he even wanted to voice what he was thinking.

  “Yes Gaspi?”

  He took a deep breath. “So you really think the Skelkans were on a mission to kill me?”

  Voltan looked at him gravely. “I won’t lie to you Gaspi. I think they were, or more specifically, they were trying to kill a Nature Mage.” Gaspi opened his mouth to ask another question, but Voltan stalled him with an upheld palm. “I don’t know any more than that, but that’s what I will speak to Hephistole about. Perhaps I will come back with more insight, but for now, try to put it out of your mind. They are dead, and there are no other Skelkan competitors in the tournament, so you are no longer in any immediate danger. Put your mind at ease, young mage. You have acquitted yourself admirably in the face of a grave threat, and that threat is no more.”

  Looking back on the battle, Gaspi remembered Sthycass’ hateful, satisfied expression when he launched the death strike and he knew that Voltan was right. The spider-mage had been out to kill him from the start.

  …

  When Jaim and the others returned, they were bubbling with news, and launched into a blow by blow account of Everand and Baard’s match.

  Voltan didn’t wait around to listen, transporting back to Helioport to speak with Hephistole as soon as Everand started talking. Gaspi felt a warm glow of satisfaction as he listened, glad that Everand was finally relaxed around him again. When it came down to it, and you got past the arrogance, he was a likeable enough person.

  The handsome boy told his story with good humour. Their first bout had been the shortest of the day. Baard had run right through a force strike and flattened the magician they were fighting. The warrior surrendered right away.

  “How did you get through a force strike?” Emmy asked Baard.

  “I dunno. Something clever-clogs here did,” the ginger-bearded giant said, jacking his thumb in Everand’s direction.

  “I enchanted his armour to surround itself with a force shield
when power is channelled into it,” he said with a grin. “As soon as the fight started, I poured energy into it and Baard ran right through the strike.”

  “Nice work Rand,” Gaspi said, genuinely impressed. If you had a fighter like Baard on your team, who relied purely on his enormous strength, then why not play to that strength?

  “Thanks,” Everand responded. “The second bout was harder. It was a fairly even fight between me and the magician, but Baard got the better of the warrior quickly enough and charged the magician down. You’ve never seen someone’s hands shoot up so fast.”

  Everyone laughed, but no-one harder than Everand. “You’d think Baard would have stopped eh?” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

  “You ran into him?” Emmy asked, surprised.

  “I was going a bit fast,” Baard said with a sheepish grin. “Ran right over him. Helped him up after though.”

  Everand broke into hysterics, followed by the rest of the room. Even Emmy thought it was funny.

  “So how did Ferast do?” Gaspi asked when everyone had quieted again.

  Everand sobered immediately. “He won, easily. I don’t think I saw a bigger trouncing all day. He was much more powerful than he used to be. I don’t know where he’s been all this time but he’s clearly learned some tricks.”

  “Tricks? Like different types of strikes?” Gaspi asked.

  “No, he stuck rigidly to the book, but they were really strong. He made mincemeat of his opponent - just blasted through their shields as if they were nothing. The only person I’ve ever seen summon strikes that powerful is you.”

  Gaspi thought Everand must be rattled. That was the second time in a single day he had acknowledged Gaspi’s superior strength. Even so, he had to assume he was exaggerating. It was impossible for a normal magician to match him in strength.

  “We’ll just have to deal with Ferast when the time comes,” he responded.

  “That’s if you get to compete,” Jonn said.

  “True,” Gaspi said. “I hope Voltan gets back soon.”

  …

  Hephistole looked intently at Voltan, weighing up the warrior mage’s words. He’d known Voltan for years, and he was rarely this concerned. He couldn’t ever remember him wanting to back out of a fight before!

  “Are there any more Skelkans in the competition?” he asked.

  “No,”

  “What about in the crowd?”

  Voltan thought for a moment. “I can’t be sure but I don’t think so. They are pretty distinctive.”

  “And you say they want to carry on fighting?”

  “Taurnil does - I’m not sure about the others.”

  “What about Gaspi? He must be shaken up.”

  “Strangely, he’s not. He was very disturbed, as you might imagine, but then Emea used some instinctive combination of neuromancy and healing to make the memory less shocking without actually removing it altogether.”

  “That’s sophisticated magic, and possibly a real breakthrough!” Hephistole said, sitting upright. “Those young magicians from Aemon’s Reach are quite something! We’ll have to look into that when she’s back. So you’re sure Gaspi is okay?”

  “Thanks to Emea, I’d say so, yes,” Voltan answered. “If he wasn’t I’d send him straight back for attention.”

  “Amazing,” Hephistole said, staring thoughtfully into space.

  “So what do you think?” Voltan asked. “Do we let them compete or bring them all back?”

  Hephistole considered their options carefully and came to a conclusion. “This Skelkan threat needs looking into. I struggle to believe it is a coincidence that they tried to kill Gaspi. I’ll start researching their religion - the archivists will know where the relevant information is stored. As for the Measure, if there was any evidence of an immediate threat, I’d pull you all out straight away, but it really does seem that the danger has been dealt with.”

  “So you think we should carry on competing?” Voltan asked.

  “Only those who want to, but if they really want to see it through, why should we stop them doing it? There’s also the matter of the college’s reputation. We have a long association with Arkright, and if we can avoid making a scene, it would be preferable.

  “As you say,” Voltan said, but he was clearly still ill at ease.

  “You don’t agree that the danger is over?” Hephistole asked.

  “I can’t explain it,” Voltan said. “I just feel uneasy about continuing, but that’s why I’ve come to speak to you. If I was confident that we should withdraw, everyone would already be back.”

  “Let’s give them the chance to continue, but keep your eyes open. I trust your instincts Voltan. If you really need to, just get everyone together and pull them out at any time.”

  “There’s something else you ought to know,” Voltan said.

  “Oh, and what’s that?” Hephistole responded.

  “Ferast is competing in the Measure.”

  “Ferast? Really? Did you speak with him?” Hephistole asked.

  “Yes,” Voltan answered, grimacing with distaste. “I extended an invitation to return to the college, but he refused outright. His manner was unpleasant.”

  “That’s…regretful,” Hephistole said, chagrined by what he heard.

  “You still blame yourself for Ferast leaving the college,” Voltan said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I do,” Hephistole responded heavily. “I consider it to a considerable failure on my part. He was in my care, Voltan, and I must take some responsibility for whatever has happened to him.”

  “You know my thoughts on this matter,” Voltan responded. “You are too hard on yourself. There is no way of knowing whether or not Ferast would have listened to you.”

  “I should at least have given him the chance,” Hephistole said. “Who is he competing with?”

  “Some hulking mercenary called Bork. An unsavoury brute, made a mute by force.”

  “How did he perform today?” Hephistole asked.

  “I don’t know,” Voltan responded. “Some of the others will have watched him fight but I haven’t had a chance to speak with them yet.”

  “Keep a close eye on him,” Hephistole said. “You never know, we may get another chance to win him over.”

  “It won’t happen, but I’ll do as you ask,” Voltan responded.

  “That’s all I can ask of you,” Hephistole said. “Right then! It’s time for you to return to your charges. If you have any other causes for concern, just come on back and we can discuss them further.”

  “Right you are,” Voltan said, standing up and pulling the amulet from his pocket, making a face as he prepared to transport. “This is never pleasant,” he said.

  “Best to get it over with then,” Hephistole said with a wink.

  “Transport to Arkright,” Voltan said, and disappeared.

  Fifty-Four

  Adela sat on her narrow bed, hugging her knees against her chest and rocking gently back and forth. She missed Jonn. The thought shocked and pleased her at the same time. Her emotions, always complicated these days, were particularly mixed when it came to her rescuer. Men had stolen every good thing she had known, crushing them with their lusting, grasping hands. She had lost her family, her home and her innocence. The rapes had left her unable to imagine that anyone would ever want her again, and she hated men for that. Despite his innocence, Jonn represented all of that just by being a man, and sometimes when she was with him she wanted to do nothing more than run from him screaming. Other times she wanted to make him pay, and found herself speaking in a way that was deliberately hurtful. His endless patience only infuriated her more, and some of their conversations had ended very badly, but he always came back.

  Therein lay the problem. Jonn never gave her any reason to mistrust him. He was unfailingly kind, respectful and gentle, and bit by bit, almost against her will, she found that some of her barriers were coming down. She’d started looking forward to his visits, and once or twi
ce had found herself laughing in his company, happy for those brief moments in a way she’d never believed she would feel again. The re-awakening of her feelings gave her hope, but hope was dangerous too. If you could hope you could build a life and have it all ripped away from you again, and she didn’t think she could survive that a second time.

  In Jonn’s absence, she’d come to realise how much she missed him. Lonely for companionship, she’d ventured outside for the first time that day, buying a loaf of bread from the baker only two doors away, but then she’d panicked and ran back to the tiny room she lived in, wishing Jonn were there to comfort her. She’d come to rely on his persistent gentleness, and in that moment, she felt guilty about how hard she made him work just to be near her. She remonstrated herself for her unfair treatment of him, and determined that she was going to be nicer to him when he got back. Softened by the thought, she lay back on her bed and sighed, sliding her slender arms under the pillow behind her head.

  Her heart almost leapt out of her chest when the door smashed open, splintering on a hard, hob-nailed boot as it was thrust into the room. Scrambling back to the corner of the bed, Adela screamed. Another kick slammed the door back on its hinges and two men entered. Sheer terror made her writhe and twitch when she recognised Belash, following quietly behind the brute that had kicked her door down. She screamed again, over and over until the brute walked up to her and cuffed her hard across the head. She fell back on the bed, frozen in terror.

  Belash stepped across the room, walking carefully around the debris of the door. He bent down, leaning in close. He placed a hand under her chin and tilted her face towards his, a small smile playing across his lips. Tears spilled silently from her eyes as she stared into a flat gaze utterly devoid of kindness.

  “I won’t lie to you,” he said quietly, as if divulging a secret. “Life was never going to be very good for you, but now I’m going to make you pay, along with the thief that stole you from me.”

  …