The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1)

by Beach, B. J.

  Reaching down, he placed his hands flat on the stone beside him to steady himself and looked round to see how far he would have to go back. Although it was only about twenty feet, it still seemed a long way from where he was standing. He decided to keep going. Through the clear water he could see the stream wasn’t getting any deeper, so straightening himself up again, he began to push forward. In a few moments the water was once again ankle deep and he had arrived at the opposite bank. Finding there was no strip of shingle on this side, Karryl grasped a sturdy over-hanging branch and pulled himself up until he stood amongst the shrubs and foliage, about eighteen inches above the water. Shivering, he stamped his bare feet on the leaf-litter, beating his arms against his body while he looked around him. For a moment he felt tempted to go straight back again, but the prospect of stepping back down into the chilly water proved too much of a deterrent. He pushed on into the under-growth.

  Stems and foliage swayed and rattled in the strengthening wind, and whichever way he turned, leaves and branches touched his face and tapped at his arms and shoulders. He was now beginning to regret leaving his boots, finding it necessary to stop quite frequently to extricate a variety of thorns and prickles from the soles of his feet. Moving slowly forward through the heavy close-knit growth he caught occasional glimpses of old stonework. It was only when he drew close enough to peer between the gnarled trunks of a pair of scrub oaks, that he could clearly see the timbers and masonry of an old cottage. Confident the place was abandoned, Karryl added some urgency to his pace. Clambering over leaning trunks, he pulled aside whippy branches which slapped at him as he released them, as if indignant that their peace should have been disturbed. He finally managed to push through the trees and shrubs growing close-ranked against the old building and place a hand on the weathered stone of the outer wall. Shadows in the hazy sunlight told him the afternoon was already well advanced.

  Standing with one hand on the stonework he looked upwards, then right and left. He could now see he had arrived at the end wall of a small cottage, obviously long since left to go to ruin. The windowless wall offered him no easy access. In an effort to locate the front door he turned to his left and began to push and scramble through a tangle of Rhododendrons and Laurels intertwined with tough wiry cables of dead and dying Bindweed. Pushing aside a head-high clump of dry and rattling Hogweed, he was surprised to find a window with most of its many small panes still intact. Hands cupped around his eyes, he peered into the dim interior. Unable to see anything but a few dark, vague shapes which appeared to be old furniture, he backed away from the window and continued his battle through the mass of tenacious greenery and dying weeds. Stung, bitten and scratched, he arrived at the front door.

  To his further surprise, the wooden plank door still hung on its hinges. The latch was fastened, although the bottom of the door bore clear evidence of rodent activity, along with the dry rot beginning to work its way gradually upwards. As he reached for the rusted thumb-latch a sudden strong gust of wind set the leaves and branches around him thrashing and rattling. Looking up at the small patch of sky visible through the canopy, he saw it had turned a dark, leaden grey. Shivering, he realised the air had turned colder, and the evening would soon start drawing in. Symon would probably be back by now and wondering where he was. Looking first towards his return route, then at the closed door, he stood beset by indecision. Eventually curiosity gained the upper hand, and Karryl grasped the rusty latch.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The door didn’t open easily. Karryl had to press hard with both thumbs before the old latch reluctantly grated free. With a loud creak of protest the door swung ajar. Bending down, he pulled away long pale tendrils of light-starved ivy which had crept along the ground through the rat holes, to continue their struggling growth in the darkness inside. With a determined shove, Karryl pushed the protesting door fully open. He stepped inside and stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the gloom, then began to look around him.

  There wasn’t much to see. A large wooden table, liberally scattered with dead leaves and rat droppings, stood in the middle of a stone flagged floor strewn with patches of dusty brown debris. Beside the table, a couple of plain wooden chairs bore the unmistakeable evidence of woodworm activity, while to one side of the chimney breast sat a heavy looking, iron-bound wooden chest, its gnawed corners declaring it a clear favourite with the rodent population. A pile of mildewed ash and half burned sticks lay in the fireplace, and the air was rank with the miasma of neglect and decay. Karryl sneezed as the debris he had disturbed sent its tiny motes swirling through the dank musty air to irritate his nostrils.

  He was already beginning to feel depressed. The touch of the cold and dirty stone floor beneath his bare feet made him feel like this old cottage; alone and neglected. Overcome with a sudden and overwhelming desire to be back in the warmth and comfort of Symon’s cosy tower, Karryl headed for the door. He paused, his glance falling once again on the iron-bound chest. His resolve rushing away like the waters of the stream, he moved slowly towards it. Like the table, the flat lid was covered with a layer of leaf debris and droppings. A large iron hasp was looped over a rusting staple, but held no lock. Crouched down in front of the chest, Karryl sneezed again before taking hold of the hasp. To his relief it moved quite freely over the staple. His fingertips tucked under the edge, he cautiously lifted the lid, letting it fall back until it leaned against the cobweb festooned wall.

  Surprise, disappointment and the thrill of discovery all made war with each other as Karryl stared into the chest. The rats had not managed to chew their way in. The interior was perfectly clean and almost devoid of contents, but tucked into a corner he could make out what appeared to be a small, dark wrapped bundle.

  Reaching hesitantly into the chest, Karryl stretched out one finger and pulled the bundle towards him. With some trepidation, he eased his hand under it and lifted it out, finding it was rather heavier than he had anticipated. As he stood up and carried it to the table, he realised what he was holding was in fact a soft leather bag. A length of thin raw-hide was wrapped several times around the neck and tightly knotted. With the sleeve of his now very grubby and torn tunic over his hand, he swiped his arm across the table in an effort to make a clean space. He placed the bundle down, and began to pick at the knot which fastened it. Immediately, his fingers began to tingle, his skin prickled, and a wave of nausea swept over him. Snatching his hands away he staggered back from the table, the pies and pastries he had eaten at the palace that morning threatening to return. Leaning against the grimy stonework, he struggled to remain upright as the walls and floor seemed to ripple and tilt. His head buzzing, he stumbled over to the doorway and peered out, suspecting that perhaps Symon was nearby, using his magical powers to find him. Taking a few deep breaths he squinted into the dense foliage, relieved to discover the tingling and nausea had left him almost as quickly as it had arrived.

  With a shrug of his shoulders he turned back inside, crossed to the table and began to pick at the knot again. Almost immediately his fingers tingled, his skin began to prickle and once again nausea flooded over him. Once again he snatched his hands away, then leaned heavily on the back of one of the chairs and waited, suspicion dawning. As the skin prickling and nausea once more subsided he moved back to the table. Taking another deep breath, he picked up the leather bag and held it across the palms of his hands, taking care not to touch the thong around its neck. Nothing happened, and Karryl allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He now knew what was going on here. Symon had told him about something similar only a few days ago. Although the subject under discussion was the fastening of doors and portals, Karryl realised that this was another application of the same type of spell. The bag was warded. Therefore it almost certainly held some kind of magical artefact, and the only thing to do was to take it to Symon, who would undoubtedly be able to discover its secrets. Not wanting to tuck the bag inside his tunic in case the fastening came into contact with his skin, Karryl looked
around in the vain hope he would see something in which to carry it.

  Finding nothing suitable inside the cottage, he stepped outside and found to his dismay that dusk could be no more than an hour away. His feet were sore and bleeding, and he felt sure it would take him longer to get back to the other side of the stream than it had to get here. Looking round in desperation for something which might serve to carry the leather bag, his eyes fell upon a tangle of bind-weed stems, twisted into a tight cable round the branches of a low-growing tree. With the bag placed carefully on the ground, Karryl started to pull the wiry lengths away from the branch, laboriously unwinding them from their host, until he had two good lengths. However, he found the cords of vegetation almost impossible to break, and spent precious time snapping each individual strand of the tough twisted climber until eventually he had what he needed. Making two large loops, he slipped them over the bag and drew them tight. With the ends threaded through the wide leather belt of his tunic, he tied them together so the bag sat snugly against his hip. Satisfied with his handiwork he took one more look about him. He then began the potentially arduous struggle back through the waist high tangle of dying weeds and into the overgrown shrubs which covered the first part of his route home.

  It was only a matter of minutes before Karryl began to realise the return trek was proving a lot easier than he had anticipated. With a curious mixture of concern and relief he noticed the overhanging and tangled branches seemed to be moving out of his way before he even had chance to touch them, and his bare feet weren’t being assaulted by sharp prickles and biting things at every other step. Not in the mood to give it much further thought, he thankfully hurried through wherever he saw a gap appear. Before long he had reached the top of the low bank above the stream. Breathing a long sigh of relief, he saw the comforting sight of his boots, right where he had left them, snugged high into the dry tussock on the opposite side.

  Sitting down on the leaf littered bank, he prepared to ease himself into the chilly water. It was then he noticed that the first of the large flat-topped stones which lay across the stream, was within stepping distance. He studied the row of stones for a few moments before deciding an inch of cold water around his feet was far preferable to being up to his knees in it. A quick shuffle along the bank brought him into line with the first stone. Once he had checked the leather bag was still secure, he stretched out his feet and, with a little wobble, eased himself upright onto the stone. Soft green blanket weed squished unpleasantly between his toes, and he felt something wriggle under his heel. With a shiver of revulsion, he moved hesitantly forward until he arrived at the second stone, barely half a pace distant from the first. Confidence boosted by his initial success, he stepped across the gap. By the time he arrived at the last stone he was almost running, his feet making slapping, sucking noises and sending globs of green slithery weed rushing away in the fast flowing water.

  Too late he realised the gap between the last two stones was about half a pace wider. In a split second of hesitation his rhythm broke. Landing wrong-footed on the edge of the stone, he teetered, arms frantically wind-milling in a desperate effort to retain his balance. Seemingly of their own volition, his feet took two skittering steps before skidding on the slick green surface. With a startled yell, Karryl pitched forward. As if time itself had slowed down, he was able to view with horror the small round boulder lying in the shingle at the water’s edge as he tumbled inexorably towards it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Since leaving Karryl to make his own way back to the tower, the little magician had spent the remainder of the morning flitting here and there, making a few discreet enquiries, others not quite so discreet. His impromptu arrival in places which had previously been considered the hallowed halls of business, did cause a certain amount of consternation and bluster, but on the whole it turned out to be a very successful venture. Feeling very pleased, both with himself and the results of his morning’s work, Symon headed for the Writers’ Guild shop.

  Scrollmaster Andir’s normally unshakeable composure was jolted rather severely as he looked up from his book to find he had company. He was absolutely certain that the door to the Guild Shop had not opened, and indeed, the small bronze bell above it hung completely motionless. Nevertheless, there in front of him, his expression inscrutable, stood Symon the Court Magician. Closing the book and replacing it on a shelf behind him, Andir used the moment to recover.

  He turned slowly and, hands clasped at waist level, made a slight but respectful bow. “Good day Master Symon. It’s good to see you again. How may I be of service to you?”

  Symon raised one eyebrow slightly as he noted the faintest tremor in the Scrollmaster’s voice. With a smile verging on the conspiratorial the little magician took a pace forward. “Forgive my unorthodox entry, but I had no wish to be seen entering your most esteemed premises. I am here on an errand of the utmost secrecy.”

  He tapped the side of his button nose with a forefinger.

  Nodding his understanding, Andir moved round from behind the counter to stand closer to his visitor. “Then you may have no fear. What passes within these walls will be no-one’s concern but ours.”

  Symon inclined his head in acknowledgement of the reassurance, and lightly placed a hand on Andir’s sleeve. “The reason I am here is to purchase a present for Karryl’s birthday at the end of next week. I believe you have, that is if you haven’t already sold it, something with which he was quite taken when he was in here recently.”

  Andir rubbed his long chin as he thought for a moment, then struck the air with a slender ink-stained finger. “Of course. The quill knife. Yes, I still have it. Your young apprentice seemed quite crest-fallen when I told him the price.”

  Symon feigned surprise. “Indeed? What price, then, were you asking?”

  “One hundred and twenty shillings. After all, it is Naborian. But if you were to make the purchase I would be happy to give you a special price.”

  A smile crossed Symon’s face and his grey eyes sparkled. “That is indeed most accommodating of you. May I see the knife?”

  From a pocket in his dark blue robe, Andir produced a tiny key and walked across to a small glass-topped display cabinet. Carefully unlocking it, he opened the lid and lifting out the knife, handed it almost reverentially to Symon. The magician was genuinely surprised. Quite heavy for its size, the knife was beautifully crafted. The design worked into the ivory handle was distinctively Naborian, both in its boldness and the colours of the semi-precious stones with which it was set. This, however, was not the thing which had surprised him. As Andir laid the knife across the palm of his hand, Symon had felt an unmistakeable tingle, telling him the object had been endowed with magical attributes.

  “It is indeed a beautiful thing.” he dissembled, placing the knife carefully on the counter. “I think it will prove to be a most suitable birthday gift. Now, how much do I owe you?”

  Andir reached up to a shelf and took down a narrow rectangular wooden box, lined with deep red velvet and, seemingly unaffected by the knife’s magical qualities, placed it inside.

  As he fastened the lid with a small bronze hook, he looked at Symon, his expression slightly apologetic. “I’m afraid I can’t ask any less than one hundred shillings.”

  His eyebrows lifted in silent query. Symon nodded, giving the Scrollmaster a broad smile as if well pleased with the transaction. From a pocket inside his robe, he counted out five coins before tucking the box into a concealed pouch.

  Having settled the pouch the little magician straightened his robe. “Just one more thing. Could I trouble you for a small cup of water? This has been quite a busy day and I’m a little dry.”

  Andir’s smile was sympathetic, and he indicated a chair in a corner of the shop. “Of course. Take a seat and I’ll go and get it for you.”

  As he turned towards the heavy curtain concealing the door to the rear of his premises, he suddenly gasped, and with a long drawn out groan, leaned forward, his hands over his fac
e.

  Symon hurried round the end of the counter, and placed a supportive hand on the Scrollmaster’s back. “What is it? Are you feeling unwell?”

  Andir’s hands dropped limply to his sides, revealing a face which had turned ashen, his eyes staring in horror as he turned to look at the little magician.

  Appearing almost panic-stricken he gripped Symon’s upper arms. “Someone close to you is in danger, maybe hurt.”

  Aghast, Symon looked up into Andir’s tormented face, undecided as to which to take more seriously; the unexpected declaration of impending disaster, or the possibility that the seemingly unassuming and innocuous Scrollmaster was an undisclosed Seer. Gently releasing Andir’s gripping hands, Symon guided him to a nearby stool and eased him onto it, at the same time focussing his gaze on the door until he heard the click of the lock.

  Quickly deciding that it would be far more politic to establish the reason for Andir’s distress than to conduct an untimely inquest into his apparent breach of the law, Symon regarded him sternly. “Tell me Scrollmaster, what it was that you saw or sensed.”

  Andir began to wring his hands and gave Symon an agonised look. “It was no more than a brief glimpse, along with a very real sense of danger. Somehow I knew it was someone close to you.”

  His face contorted with distress, he stared over Symon’s shoulder into the middle distance. Thick with emotion, his voice hardly rose above a whisper. “He was falling. Then there was nothing, just blackness.”