The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1)

by Beach, B. J.

  Miqhal reined in beside him, and looked down, his lips curled in derision. “There is no escape for you, Telorian. The desert holds many secrets and is unforgiving. Now you have only two choices. Follow me and fulfil your destiny, or remain here and die.” He revealed even, slightly yellowed teeth, as his lips parted in a malicious grin. “It will save me the trouble of killing you myself.”

  Ghian nodded, his indignity in defeat further compounded by the carelessly wound head-dress falling over his eyes and trailing in the sand. He fumbled it out of the way as he painfully pushed himself to his feet, and stood swaying slightly, his shoulders hunched, squinting up at the Jadhra.

  He screwed up his face and whimpered. “I don’t want to die.”

  Miqhal graced him with another mirthless grin. “It is to be hoped you will learn the remainder of your lessons more quickly. I will give you no more chances. The next time I will strike your head from your shoulders and leave your corpse as a delicacy for the Vuqhlari. Their hooked beaks and strong talons would make short work of such soft flesh. As is our custom, I would open your skull and eat your brains. Yet I fear it would be a worthless morsel.”

  Ghian gagged. With a contemptuous smirk and a jerk of his head, Miqhal indicated he should remount. Not waiting to see the object of his scorn struggle into the saddle, Miqhal turned his horse’s head. The Jadhra rode on across the inhospitable plain.

  Ghian did not remount immediately. Knowing his horse would follow, he took a long moment to pour more water into his parched throat. He then carefully rewound the long dust-cloth more securely round his head and neck. Only then did he scramble gracelessly into the saddle. Urging his mount into a trot, he eased it to a matched pace as he drew alongside his black clad escort.

  For long hours they rode in silence, the Jadhra warrior easy and comfortable, Ghian riding a few paces behind, constantly scratching and fretting at the weals from the cactus. Gritty dust penetrated his less than adequate clothing to mingle with his rapidly drying sweat. The scattered tufts of coarse grass and stubby cactus became fewer and fewer, the arid plain grudgingly giving way to the desert proper, until all around them there was nothing but mile after mile of seemingly endless sand.

  Ghian felt cowed by this desert, fearful of its vast emptiness, but surprised at its continually changing surface. At times it felt hard and unyielding, as the horses clattered across it. A few paces further on it would become soft and resilient, the pink-hued sand sliding and shifting back to reclaim voids left behind by hooves.

  Staring apprehensively at a massive ridge of windblown sand which appeared to lie across their route some distance ahead, Ghian reached for his waterskin as he had done quite frequently that morning. Tipping it to his mouth, he was rewarded with a warm dribble, hardly enough to wet his tongue. Frustrated, he slapped the empty skin against the pommel of his saddle, then dashed it from his hand, letting it dangle uselessly from its leather thong. Urging his horse forward, he drew alongside Miqhal, knowing he would have to be the first to break the long silence. There had been plenty of time to think as they rode. He had begun to realise that his only chance of staying alive lay with this tall hawk-faced desert warrior, comfortable in his familiarity with this hostile environment. Swallowing the small portion of pride he had remaining, Ghian lowered his eyes.

  His voice emerged as a tremulous croak. “Would you share water with one who only wishes to serve?”

  The Jadhra kept his eyes on the desert. “Among my people, when one who is known asks as a stranger, he places himself at our mercy. Do you seek forgiveness?”

  Ghian’s shoulders drooped. “Yes.”

  “Water is life. I will not deny you life.”

  Without reining in, Miqhal reached beneath his padded blanket and handed Ghian a half-full waterskin. The water tasted sweet, and was surprisingly cold. He held it for a moment in his parched mouth, before gratefully swallowing. Handing back the waterskin, he nodded his thanks to Miqhal.

  The Jadhra tucked it back under his blanket, then turned to rest his dark-eyed gaze on Ghian’s sunburned and dust caked face. “How would you serve me?”

  Finding himself unable to meet that basalt stare, Ghian looked away into the distance, and thought about his answer.

  He remembered the traditional reply, and turned to look directly into Miqhal’s eyes. “As benefits all.”

  The vestige of a smile twitched the corner of the Jadhra’s thin-lipped mouth, then as if nothing had happened, he raised an arm and pointed towards the distant sand ridge. “We must take shelter. A Qibli comes.”

  Beyond the ridge, the sky had turned a dark and sickly looking yellowish brown. Turning his horse at right angles to their path, Miqhal urged it into a swift, ground-eating canter, heading out towards the seemingly wide open desert to their left. Without any prompting, Ghian’s horse followed, keeping close on the heels of its fleeing mother. As they dashed across the hard-packed, wind-scoured sand, a persistent high-pitched keening assailed their ears as the air around them seemed to vibrate like a plucked string. The noise increased in volume and ferocity, and the sun’s cruel glare was swiftly obliterated by a deep brown gloom. At that moment, Ghian realised they were going downhill and Miqhal seemed to be disappearing into the ground. Giving his horse its head, he hung on to the reins, allowing the faithful animal to follow its dam’s lead.

  CHAPTER FORTYFOUR

  Ghian found himself in a narrow gully, barely wide enough for one rider. It sloped sharply downwards, walls of hard packed sand towering above his head, closing him in. He could see nothing ahead, only darkness. Slowing his horse to a walk, he let the sure-footed animal pick its way, as he peered through the deepening brown-hued gloom. The ear-splitting shrieks of the desert wind gradually faded behind him, the further in he went. The narrow gully continued downward, following a gradual curve to the right and Ghian soon found himself surrounded by pitch blackness. Sensing he was underground, his heart beat a panic tattoo in his chest, his mind conjuring up horrific images of being buried alive. Letting go the reins, he stretched out his arms to the sides, slowly leaning first to the left and then to the right. The fingertips of each hand in turn touched hard surface. There was no room to manoeuver and he was riding blind. His blood turned to ice. The only sounds he could hear were his own rapid breathing, and the plodding thud of no other horse’s hooves but his own.

  After many more minutes, during which he frequently suppressed the urge to call out to Miqhal, he felt the ground level out. Breaths of slightly stale air began to drift against his face. Realising he could now see his horse’s ears, relief flooded through him. He was riding towards light. Soon it became bright enough for him to see that the tunnel was widening, and curving to the left. Yellow and flickering, the light made dancing horse and rider shadow pictures on the wall. As he round the final curve, Ghian let out a great sigh. He reined in his mount, and sat staring in disbelief. A large rectangular chamber cut from solid rock filled his gaze. Set into sconces carved into the walls, half a dozen blazing torches provided the light. Ghian dismounted and paused to massage his sore and saddle-cramped legs, before walking forward into the chamber.

  He called out softly. “Miqhal?”

  A dark shadow detached itself from the far wall. “We will rest here until the Qibli has passed. Tonight we will continue our journey.”

  Ghian nodded, his attention elsewhere. He was finding it difficult to believe what he was seeing. Awestruck, he gazed around him. He estimated the ceiling above him was at least the height of three tall men. Its surface was polished smooth, a shining and striated geological symphony in black, white and subtle tones of grey. It was like no rock he had ever seen, and for all his worldliness, he found it beautiful. He moved nearer the centre of the chamber and looked up again. Turning round on the spot, he tilted his head back almost as far as it would go. His neck began to ache, and after a last long look, he turned his attention to the walls. Every square inch of the striated rock was intricately worked in deeply incised relief.
Masterly carvings, sympathetically depicting intertwined foliage and flowers, were inhabited by realistically portrayed and highly detailed forms of birds and animals. Interspersed with these were various geometric shapes which he was at a loss to identify.

  Ghian moved up close to one of the walls and ran a finger over the wealth of carving, feeling the perfectly finished surfaces, exploring the exquisite workmanship, and pondering on the identity of such a skilled craftsman. The flickering light of the torches seemed to imbue the elaborately detailed figures with a life of their own. Leaves and flowers fluttered and twined, animals peered out with curious eyes. Carefully depicted to the last perfect detail, birds turned tiny heads, and shook flecked and banded feathers. Spinning round, uncertain where to look next, Ghian’s eyes fell on the opening through which he had first entered the chamber.

  Once more he was overcome with amazement. The frame of a massive doorway had been carved from the solid rock, its square pillars deeply incised with perfectly executed vertical grooves, from floor to ceiling. However, it was the deep wide lintel which held his gaze. From end to end, three lines of words in a strange script were inscribed, the alien forms inlaid with what appeared to be solid gold.

  Ghian felt himself trembling. “What is this place?”

  His footsteps soundless, Miqhal moved to stand beside him. “We believe it to be a house of the dead, but the dead have yet to claim it.”

  Ghian’s head snapped round. “You mean it’s a tomb?”

  “I believe that is what you call it; yes.”

  “It can’t be! Why would someone go to all this trouble, in a place where no-one can see it?”

  “You and I have seen it. There may have been others.”

  Ghian looked towards the entrance and frowned. “How far down are we?”

  The hawk faced Jadhra warrior dropped to his haunches and looked up at the ceiling, as if his gaze could penetrate the solid rock above them. “Maybe seventy cabat, perhaps a little more.”

  Ghian did a quick calculation. “By the gods, that’s just over a hundred feet! Are you sure we aren’t trapped? The storm might have filled that gully we rode down. By the way, how did you know it was there?”

  Miqhal’s black eyes glinted. “Do your people never tire of asking questions? We are not trapped, although the gully entrance is almost certainly filled with sand. The secrets of the desert you may discover in time, perhaps if you achieve immortality. But there is no mystery here. I have been here frequently. It is fate that has allowed you to set eyes upon it, for I was intending to pass by. The Qibli arose, and this chamber has become our shelter. Now, let us eat and rest. You will find your horse carries food and a sleeping mat.”

  Effortlessly he rose to his feet and crossed to the far right-hand corner of the chamber. Ghian watched in disbelief as the desert warrior vanished through the wall. Before he could gather enough wit to investigate, Miqhal had reappeared in the chamber, carrying his embroidered saddlebag and thick padded riding blanket. His curiosity fired, Ghian watched until the Jadhra had spread his blanket on the smooth stone floor, then cautiously approached the far corner. As he reached the end of the wall and peered into the shadows, he could see how it was done. Where the walls appeared to form a right angle, there was a gap separating the side wall from the end, and it was through this gap that Miqhal had seemed to disappear. Beyond it lay a small natural cave.

  A pungent odour assailed Ghian’s nostrils, and he winced, turning his face away. “Shall I put my horse in there too?”

  The reply was terse. “That would be one of your less foolhardy decisions.”

  Immune to sarcasm, Ghian strode across the chamber and set about searching through his saddlebags for food and the sleeping mat. Leaving these in a small pile on the floor, he led the horse across to the corner, guiding it with some apprehension through the gap between the walls. Miqhal’s mare whickered a greeting through the semi-darkness, moving to stand close to her offspring. After removing the saddle and very minimal bridle, Ghian returned to the main chamber. Miqhal was sitting cross legged on his blanket, facing the entrance, his gaze fixed on the strange golden glyphs which embellished the massive lintel of the doorway.

  Ghian grabbed his sleeping mat and dropped down beside him. “Can you read what it says?”

  The Jadhra continued to gaze. “It is the language of the gods. It is not given to us mortals to unravel the meaning. When the time comes, it may be revealed to us. Until then we are thankful for its protection.”

  He turned his basalt eyes on Ghian. “Before we continue our journey I will speak to you of the gods and how they made our people. Perhaps then you will understand why you are here and will journey onward with a more willing heart. But first, let us eat and then rest. There is yet a long way to go. It could be perilous if you are weakened by hunger or tiredness.”

  Surprised by Miqhal’s change of mood and apparent acceptance of him, Ghian chose not to argue or question. He merely nodded his agreement. Unwrapping the small package of food, he selected what appeared to be some kind of round and flattened hard cake and began to eat, joining with the Jadhra warrior in his silent contemplation of the strangely inscribed lintel. When Miqhal closed his eyes and bowed his head, Ghian turned away. Even he accepted that another man’s religion was entirely his own affair.

  * * *

  “We are resting in the Chamber of Memories.”

  ‘Have there been any problems?’

  “Once, at the beginning.”

  ‘Tell us.’

  “He is fearful and rebellious. It was necessary to make a loop in the fabric of time, otherwise he would have walked to his death.”

  ‘Is he of the Blood?’

  “He is. It flows strongly in his veins. However, he is ignorant of his heritage.”

  ‘What have you discovered?’

  “He has concern only for himself and his own needs and desires. Any attempt to force him to adapt to our ways would be futile. He feels remorse when shown the error of his ways, but this is shortlived.”

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  “He can be bought. His desires are material. Go in to his inner thoughts, as I have. It is possible that his power will surpass mine.”

  ‘We find that difficult to contemplate.’

  “It remains to be seen. If he accepts his training, he could be a formidable opponent. I would rather he were an ally.”

  ‘We understand.. You have done well.’

  “I simply serve for the greater good.”

  * * *

  After they had eaten, Ghian turned to Miqhal. “These gods of yours. Are they different to ours?”

  Miqhal gave him a long look before replying. “Of that, I am not certain. They could well be the same, but you may have named them as suits your tongue.”

  Ghian nodded and made a face, as if Miqhal’s words made no sense to him. He looked up at the golden glyphs above the doorway. “Can you read that?”

  His companion gave him an enigmatic smile. “I can, but it is not permitted for me to utter the words. One will come who will be given knowledge of the time to do so. Then the gods will return to us and lead us to our destiny.”

  Ghian frowned. “Return? Where did they go, then?”

  The Jadhra rested his hands on his splayed knees. “That is not for you to know. All I will tell you is that the gods have a mighty plan, and when it is fulfilled, this world as you know it will be gone forever.”

  Ghian gave him a sidelong glance. “Is that why you’ve dragged me out here? You think I’m part of this plan?”

  Miqhal shook his head. “Only the gods can decide. My task was to locate one who could be brought to the fulfilment of his powers. Nothing more. The outcome is not in my hands.”

  Ghian spoke through clenched teeth. “And suppose it turns out I’m not the one. What then?”

  The Jadhra shrugged. “Then you will die and my task would begin again.” He rose to his feet and looked down at Ghian. “But I know deep within me, that my
task is almost complete. Now it is time to rest.”

  Giving him no chance to reply, Miqhal picked up his padded blanket and moved it against the wall. Using one of his embroidered saddlebags as a pillow, he lay down, folded his hands under his armpits, and went to sleep.

  Ghian sat for a few moments, gazing at the glyphs, trying to make some sense of them, but without success. He turned and looked at Miqhal sleeping against the wall, and toyed with the idea of slipping out. Then he remembered the heat and the sand, and the horse which wouldn’t go where he wanted it to. With a sigh he scrambled to his feet and grabbed his saddle. Following Miqhal’s example, he used it for a pillow, rolled himself in his blanket, and settled down to sleep.

  Miqhal’s booted toe jerked him into wakefulness. “Come. We must leave. I will fetch the horses and feed them. You may relieve yourself in there, when they are out.”

  Ghian rubbed at gritty eyes, scrambled to his feet and peered about in the gloom of the dying torches. He watched as Miqhal led their mounts back into the chamber, then ambled across into their now somewhat malodorous, stabling quarters. The light was poor, and so was his fortune. He let out a scathing epithet as his foot found one of the piles which evidenced their visit. Scraping off what he could, he did what he had to do, then made a hasty exit, and crossed to the spot where he had laid his sleeping mat. Picking up his saddle which he had been using as a pillow, Ghian settled it on his horse’s back .

  He bent to tighten the girth. “How exactly are we going to get out of here?”

  “There is a way. You will see.”

  With the horses fed, everything cleared away and the saddlebags repacked, Miqhal mounted and looked down at Ghian. “There will be no light. You must stay close and have no fear. Your horse will follow mine, but you must have trust in me and your horse.”

  Ghian straightened his stirrups, gathered the reins and climbed onto his horse’s back. “Sounds ominous. Can’t we take a torch?”