The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1)

by Beach, B. J.

  Nodding his understanding, Symon sat for a while, lips pursed, deep in thought. Eventually he looked up. “It will be a constant regret that I fell out of touch. I must admit that I have made a concerted effort to keep the continent of Gamdonia, and Naboria in particular, far to the back of my thoughts.”

  Kulas leaned back in his chair. “That’s hardly surprising. I however, am allowed no such luxury. Although I am no longer active as a magician, I am still a member of the Council, and as such am obliged to attend the twice yearly meetings in the capital.”

  Symon nodded, thoughtfully turning his beaker between his fingers. “So, Gamdonia has a new imperial line. Perhaps I left too soon. I should have stayed to watch developments. All I was concerned about was the country of Naboria. Please tell me your new emperor outlawed the Vedric discipline; that would in itself have made all our efforts worthwhile.”

  Kulas straightened up, stretched, and with a slight push of his foot, started swinging gently. He grinned at Symon. “In that case you will be relieved to hear that the official, and I stress ‘official’ discipline of Gamdonia, is now Rhamnic, although any magician who was trained in Talmion is free to continue. Vedric has, as you wished, been totally outlawed for many years now, on pain of death. Despite this, there are enclaves out in the desert vastnesses that still practice.”

  He paused and regarded Symon with dark, troubled eyes. “Rumour has it that the ancient city of Vedra still lies out there somewhere, hidden among the dunes, impossible to find without a guide. It is there that these dark practitioners are said to hide themselves, and consort with the kind of foul beings we can only begin to imagine. Be that as it may, I think we have little to fear from them, although it is also rumoured that they have a new leader, and the winds of change sweep over the desert.”

  “On occasion, the Emperor sends out armed search parties, but so far without success. His Imperial Majesty is quite an accomplished magician, and has about a dozen of the best magicians in the land in permanent residence. Nevertheless he despairs of his son who appears to have no talent at all. All his hopes are pinned on his daughter, his first-born, who apparently showed talent at a very early age.”

  Symon chuckled, and gestured with his beaker. “I have an apprentice whose talent did not emerge until he was nearly sixteen. He is now turned seventeen, and at the rate he is progressing, I fear he will leave me far behind before too many years have passed. However, we digress.”

  “Ah. You noticed.”

  Symon let that pass, satisfied with his decision not to reveal the full extent of Karryl’s potential. He finished the last swallow of his drink before speaking. “Please rest assured that I have not come here with any desire to involve you in anything that would put you in danger. Nor will your magical skills be required in any way. This is more by way of an information gathering exercise. Something at home has been brought to my attention, and it started what I call my ‘worry bump’ tingling, and that hasn’t happened for years.”

  Kulas leaned back, cradling his beaker against his chest. “You intrigue me. I will certainly give you all the assistance I am able, if there is no danger to my family, and my powers are not required. That is, if I still have any!”

  Symon gave him a knowing smile. “Believe me, if you had been deprived of your powers, you would have known. At the very least you would have been informed. But, considering the promptness with which you came out to greet me, I would guess that you are still able to sense the use of magic.”

  Kulas smiled, and inclined his head in acquiescence.

  Symon gave a satisfied little nod. “I thought so. Now, let me relate to you the events that have made my visit necessary.”

  The fiery orb of the tropical sun had dipped behind a range of distant mountains by the time Symon had finished relating the events and coincidences which had spiked his curiosity and roused his concern. The actual telling had taken very little time, but Kulas had been full of questions which Symon had done his best to answer. They also spent some considerable time engaged in speculation and conjecture as to the significance of the rumour of a new Vedran leader. On this occasion Symon decided it would be prudent to be somewhat economical with the facts. Eventually their discussion turned to lighter matters, and they settled to enjoy the supper which Kulas’ wife Melana had prepared before she left for her day of visiting.

  Appreciatively, Symon eyed the varied dishes.”Did you know I was coming? This is a spread fit for a king!”

  Kulas chuckled, a deep throaty sound, and his dark eyes sparkled. “Melana always prepares too much on her days out. I think she imagines me starving at death’s door when she returns. Now, fill the inner man, then we will discuss how best to conduct this investigation. Let us hope it turns out to be nothing more than trade, which will concern us hardly at all.”

  After they had eaten, Kulas swung himself out of his chair, and moved softly around in the twilight, touching a taper to the tall, elaborately crafted brass oil lamps which stood in each corner of the room. In the friendly and reassuring glow of their light, the two continued their discussion, surrounded by the strange and varied sounds of the nearby jungle’s nocturnal residents.

  It was only when he glimpsed the white disc of the moon gleaming through the window that Symon dropped lightly to his feet. “The time has come for me to take my leave. I have a multitude of things to do when I return. There are certain things I have to collect after my short stay at the palace. It left me feeling quite homesick, but hopefully I will have everything back in order by the end of the day.”

  Kulas accompanied him out into the moonlit garden. “I gather that your departure will be as unconventional as your arrival. Do you wish to be alone while you prepare?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Symon looked up at the impressively towering figure of his old ally. “That is very considerate my friend. However, at the risk of sounding complacent, no preparation is necessary. It has taken many years of study and practice, but I now have the procedure, I believe the saying is ‘down to a fine art.’”

  Kulas once more uttered his deep, throaty chuckle. “Then with your permission, I will observe …er…from a distance.”

  The two shared a double handshake. Kulas then turned and stepped back onto the long verandah. Making his way to the spot on which he had arrived, Symon turned and gave his old friend and ally a final wave. His hands folded in front of him, he stood perfectly still. The air around him began to shimmer. Despite Symon’s reassurances, Kulas’ heart was in his mouth as tiny swirling motes of light streamed outwards and upwards before suddenly winking out. The tall Naborian watched a small patch of distorted air quiver like a floating soap bubble before it spread sideways and faded quickly away.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Tanned sinewy arms resting on the ship’s rail, Ghian looked down at the rushing churning water. The green orb of a palm fruit danced and bobbed its way along the waterline. He smiled. They would be making landfall soon. Then, all the planning and hard work would, like the pliant and versatile palm tree, finally bear fruit. Standing upright, he stretched. Taking a last look out across the choppy ocean, he turned and crossed the heeling deck.

  Making his way down the companionway to his large comfortable cabin, he gave a quick glance up towards the deck before closing the door behind him. Reaching under his bunk, he pulled out a small, brass bound wooden chest. He was about to open it, when a knock came at the door. Cursing under his breath, he hurriedly pushed the chest back out of sight. The knock came again.

  Ghian sat on the edge of his bunk, rested his elbows on his knees, and rubbed absently at the palm of his hand as he focussed on the door. “Enter!”

  The door flew open and admitted a figure Karryl would have recognised as the one he had seen in the scrying bowl. “I wuz lookin’ fer you. One of the sailors said you wuz on deck, but by the time I got there you’d gone.”

  Ghian rubbed his hands over his face, and knuckled his eyes. “I thought I’d come down and try and get some rest. In
case you hadn’t noticed, this voyage has been rather rough, even for me, and I haven’t had much sleep recently. What do you want?”

  The other pulled out a wooden chair from the kneehole of a built-in desk, and sat his small wiry body down in front of Ghian. Any closer, their knees would have touched.

  Ghian eased himself backwards, as his uninvited guest thrust a sharp nosed, thin lipped face into his own. “I just thought I’d come and give ‘ee a friendly reminder that you ain’t paid me yet. We’m only a day from landfall, and unless you’m considering taking me on as yer right-hand man …”

  Tilting his thin-haired ball of a head on its scrawny neck, he let the rest of the sentence fall as he showed Ghian a set of uneven yellow teeth in a feral grin.

  Ghian’s hand shot forward to grasp a handful of the man’s grubby shirtfront and jacket. “Listen to me, you smelly misbegotten bilge rat. I’ve paid for your voyage, provided you with a comfortable cabin, and all the liquor you can pour down your skinny throat. I owe you nothing. As far as I am concerned, the item you brought me was included in the price, and I’ll ask no questions as to the nefarious means by which you came by it. Now get out!”

  He shoved the man away from him, toppling him backwards from his chair and onto the floor. His scrawny visitor leapt to his feet, grabbed the upturned chair by a leg, and hurled it across the large cabin before striding to the door. His hand on the latch, he turned, his thin face a mask of rage.

  He hissed through clenched teeth. “You ain’t ‘eard the last of this. I got friends you know. You won’t be safe anywhere.”

  Fuming, he stormed out of the cabin, nearly crashing the door off its hinges as he slammed it behind him. The sound of Ghian’s derisive laughter followed him up to the deck above. Retrieving the chair, which appeared to have suffered little from its rough treatment, Ghian replaced it carefully and precisely beneath the desk. He crossed the cabin and slid the heavy brass doorbolt home, before dropping onto his bunk and lying back, one arm across his eyes. He gave the recent incident a moment’s cursory thought before dismissing it as of no consequence. He was close now to achieving his goal. His good looks and charisma had carried him through some rough patches. Hard work, a singular lack of conscience when using other people as a means to an end and, it would seem, a fair amount of what could be loosely termed divine intervention, had done the rest. He settled his long lean body into a more comfortable position. The shout that they were approaching harbour could not come soon enough. Nor could the summons to return, to fulfil his destiny in the dark environs of the desert-bound city which had become his home.

  * * *

  The change in Ghian’s fortunes was brought about initially by his being shipwrecked off the coast of Gamdonia. After spending days sprawled across a broken hatch cover, chilled to the bone at night, and broiled by the fierce tropical sun by day, he had finally been rescued. Dehydrated, burned and salt-blistered, he had been hauled out of the water by the crew of a fishing dhow. Taken to the bustling port of Nebir, second city of the desert country of Naboria, he had been dumped at the local free hospital and his injuries attended to. Upon discovering Ghian’s nationality, an Ambassador from the Telorian Embassy had been summoned. The man turned out to be extremely helpful and spared no effort in arranging temporary accommodation for him while he recovered. He would then have time on his hands while he waited for a suitable ship to return him to his own country. He had drifted far off course during his days in the water, and his route home would not be as direct as he could have wished.

  Once Ghian was sufficiently recovered to get out and about, it wasn’t long before his lively personality and attractive looks began to open doors for him. A new way of life began to beckon, far removed from travelling by sea for weeks on end, searching the world for wines and liquors for his father’s warehouse. He reached out to embrace this new life, accepting invitations to lavish parties and hunting trips. Not being the sort who would look a gift horse in the mouth, Ghian availed himself of all that life in this vast and seemingly wondrous land had to offer, even on one occasion making the arduous week long trek to the teeming capital city of Negon.

  The true turning point of Ghian’s life came during the return from a successful hunt across the undulating sun-seared Plain of Nebir, a vast arid area of struggling stunted scrub interspersed with broad tracts of coarse yellow grass, which became progressively more sparse as it gave way to the unforgiving and seemingly endless desert, far to the west of the city. Ghian and a few companions were walking their lathered horses to the rear of the main hunting party who had moved ahead, eager to return to the city with their trophies.

  He had stopped to dismount, take a drink from his waterskin, and to pour a little on the dozens of bites and small scratches which covered his bare legs and arms. Replacing the stopper, he noticed clouds of dirty white dust hanging in the hot dry air. The half dozen fellow hunters who had elected to walk back with him had mounted up and were riding off in some haste. Turning to glance behind, Ghian shielded his eyes with one hand and squinted.

  The shimmering, heat-distorted form steadily approaching out of the sun, resolved itself into horse and rider. Dressed only in black billowing trousers and an intricately folded black head-dress, a walnut-skinned, hawk faced man of about thirty years of age, rode slowly up and reined in beside him. The hard muscles of his flat stomach rippled as he dismounted, dropping lightly to the ground on narrow, softly booted feet. Looping his horse’s reins around one sinewy arm, he touched the fingers of his free hand to his forehead and chest, before dropping to his haunches.

  Not looking directly at Ghian, the new arrival spoke, his voice huskily quiet but confident. “Would you share water with one who only wishes to serve?”

  Although he had only been in the country a few weeks, Ghian recognised this as a ritual greeting of strangers. Racking his memory, he gave the accepted reply. “Water is life. I will not deny you life.”

  The dark skinned stranger looked up at him, reaching out a hand for the water skin. Ghian dropped to his haunches beside him to place the precious water in his hand. After the man had drunk, he replaced the stopper and handed the waterskin back.

  Ghian nodded briefly, and placed it on a small patch of parched and stunted grass beside him. “How would you serve me?”

  The ritual now complete the stranger nodded, his smile bearing all the warmth of a snake. “I am called Miqhal. I am a warrior of the Jadhrahin. I can take you to those who will bring you to the fulfilment of your powers.”

  Ghian frowned and looked hard at the man. “What powers? I am only a visitor to your country. Hopefully I’ll soon be returning home. I have no influence here.”

  The Jadhra chuckled, a sound which Ghian found a little unnerving. Standing up beside his horse, the warrior deftly unfastened straps and reached into a heavily embroidered and capacious saddlebag. He felt around for a few moments.

  Having found what he was looking for, he dropped to his haunches again beside Ghian. “You misunderstand me Telorian. I speak not of the powers which status or wealth can bring, but of those which lie within. That is how I found you. As I followed the hunt, I sensed your presence. You had a wild power surging. You did not recognise it, nor do you yet have the skills or knowledge to use it.”

  Opening his right hand, he held out a small bundle of dark red silk. With the fingertips of his other hand he carefully unwrapped the fabric to reveal what appeared to be a shiny smooth black pebble about three inches in diameter. “Please, hold out your hand.”

  After some hesitation, Ghian held out his hand. The Jadhra warrior placed the pebble in his palm.

  Peering at it, Ghian frowned.”What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Nothing, just wait.”

  Ghian studied the unremarkable stone, turning it over in his palm, then gave the man a long flat stare.

  He was rewarded for his trouble with a wry smile. “You must be patient. It should not take long.”

  As he sat gazing a
t the stone in his palm, Ghian’s head began to pound. His ears started buzzing, and he began to feel hot and sick. Suspecting he had been out here long enough, he felt desperate to return to the cool interior of the house which had been provided for him near the outskirts of the city. There he could bathe and change, then later share in the adulation the hunting party would enjoy.

  Suddenly he let out a roar of pain and fell to his knees, clawing frantically at his hand. Despite all his efforts to remove the stone, it clung to his palm, as if it would burn its way through to his very bones. Intense and exquisite pain brought large beads of perspiration starting out of his forehead, to trickle hot and stinging into his eyes. In vain, his strong fingers gripped and pulled at it as he struggled to get to his feet. He was almost upright, when a surging through his entire body dropped him back to his knees and he vomited onto the parched grass. To his anger and dismay, he discovered he had also lost control of his bladder.

  He knelt for a few moments gasping and dry retching, then crawled away from the rapidly drying patch of coarse grass. The acrid odour of urine and vomit assailing his nostrils, he collapsed in a hunched and groaning heap, gulping for breath until he was able to slowly push himself upright. Sitting back on his heels, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes burning with fear, and a new hatred growing for the brown-skinned desert dweller.

  Miqhal had used the long minutes of Ghian’s suffering to unwind part of his unusually elaborate black head-dress. His head and lower face were now covered by the finely woven cloth. The remaining length wound loosely round his neck to drape over his left shoulder, the trailing end tucked into the wide waist-band of his billowing black trousers. Now settled in a crouch, one foot in front of the other, his dark eyes betrayed no emotion as he watched Ghian struggle to regain breath and recover his dignity.