The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1)

by Beach, B. J.

  Not bothering to reply, Miqhal moved forward towards the massive portal, making a brief gesture with his hand as he passed under the golden words on the lintel. Ghian followed close behind as the desert warrior turned right, back the way they had come. Soon they were riding once more through pitch darkness. He felt, rather than saw, the turn to the left and realised this must be another passage he wouldn’t have seen on the way in. The sound of their horses’ hooves set up a ringing echo in the high walls of the narrow passage as they walked steadily on, and Ghian lost all track of time.

  The air was thick, the darkness absolute, and his eyelids began to feel heavy. Despite Miqhal’s assurance, he did feel afraid, and only his fear prevented him from falling asleep in the saddle. His meagre supper and no breakfast had left him with a stomach that was beginning to growl in protest. Added to that, he had no water and was beginning to feel sorry for himself. He was about to call out to Miqhal to see if he would give him some of his, when his horse came to a halt. A soft scraping sound reached his ears. He flung his arm up in front of his eyes as torchlight flared and burst open the darkness.

  The Jadhra was standing against a sheer wall, a few feet away from his horse, and holding the torch aloft. “We will stop here.”

  Ghian dismounted and looked about him. They were in another chamber, smaller than the one in which they had spent the night. Although it seemed to be cut from the same striated rock, it lacked the intricate carving on the walls or the smoothly finished surface to the ceiling. Turning to look behind him, Ghian noticed the same style of portal carved into the rock, and although not picked out in gold, it bore the same triple row of strange angular glyphs. Miqhal pushed the torch into the single wall sconce before crossing to the far side of the chamber. To Ghian’s surprise, he knelt down and seemed to be kissing the floor. It was only the faint rippling sound reaching Ghian’s ears which made him realise that the desert warrior was drinking.

  Striding over to stand beside the kneeling Jadhra, Ghian looked down in amazement. “You knew this was here?”

  “Of course. That is why we have stopped.”

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Miqhal stood up and gestured to the small dark pool. “You may drink, then fill your waterskin. After that, bring the horses to drink. This is the last until we reach our destination.”

  Ghian dropped to his knees and drank greedily, scooping the chill water several times into his cupped hands. When he had finished he wiped his wet hands over his dry, stubbly face, then stood up and went to fetch his horse and the empty waterskin. Watering finished, the two travellers sat down on the bare stone floor and ate the last of their small supply of food, supplemented with clear cold water collected from the spring.

  As they mounted once more Ghian turned to Miqhal.”Shall we be spending much longer down here in these tunnels? I don’t think it’ll be much longer before I go blind and start growing fur!”

  Miqhal seemed to find that amusing. He grinned at Ghian and shook his head. “When we come out onto the desert once again, the sun will be setting. The next morning, we will be where we are going.”

  Ghian swung his horse’s head round to follow Miqhal’s lead. “And where might that be?”

  “The City.”

  “Well, has it got a name?”

  “Indeed it has many names, but none would mean anything to you, even if you could say them with your unschooled tongue. Among those who have found themselves inside its walls, it is known as Vedra. Now, enough talk.”

  The Jadhra rode on.

  The passage they now followed was arrow straight. They moved along it for quite a while until the light from the single torch left burning in the chamber no longer reached them. As the darkness intensified, Ghian felt the ground gradually rising, along with a lengthy curve to the left. They had been riding in darkness for about an hour when a welcome touch of cool air wafted across the top of his head.

  He called forward to Miqhal. “I can feel fresh air. Are we near the surface?”

  “There are many tunnels here. The air flows through them. You will know when we are near the surface. You will see daylight.” To Ghian’s surprise he chuckled. “Unless there is another Qibli.”

  Another hour of riding brought a significant change. The tunnel appeared to widen as it sloped more steeply upwards, the gloom beginning to give way to the glowing, rosy gold light of a setting sun. Fresh warm air drifted across their faces as Miqhal urged his horse into a long paced trot. Emerging from the side of a massive sand dune, they gazed directly into the sun’s final blazing glory, before it dipped below the distant horizon. Reining in, Miqhal sat up tall and looked around him, sniffing the air. Seeming to be satisfied all was as it should be, although Ghian could see nothing but sand in every direction, Miqhal reached beneath his saddle blanket for his waterskin. Taking a long drink, he wordlessly offered the skin to Ghian.

  He took several gulps, then stood up in his stirrups for a moment to ease tense muscles. “Are we going to stop here for the night?”

  The Jadhra turned his body. Resting one hand on his horse’s rump, he gave Ghian a long flat stare. His voice was scornful. “You know nothing of the desert. We ride until morning. There is a warm robe in your saddlebag. Take it out ready. At night the desert will quickly draw the warmth from your bones. As the sun rises we shall see the city.”

  With that he turned. Gathering up the reins, he headed straight out into the desert. The sun’s final glowing segment dipped out of sight.

  CHAPTER FORTYFIVE

  Heeding Miqhal’s warning, Ghian slipped into his woollen jacket then pulled the robe from his saddlebag before following on. Deciding there was nothing to see, and trusting his horse to follow its mother, Ghian relaxed in his saddle and began to doze. A couple of times he woke with a start as they plodded through the featureless waste. Taking a break from his slumbers, he gazed at the brilliance of the myriad stars piercing the darkness. However, they soon lost their appeal for him. Letting his chin drop to his chest, he allowed sleep to overtake him once more.

  He woke shivering, to find his hands locked with cold to reins which glittered with a light rime of frost in the pale glow of a newly risen moon. The freezing air seared his lungs and bit viciously at his lips and nose. Draped across his saddle, the robe crackled in its folds, and Ghian let out a stream of curses at his own stupidity. Reining in, he unclamped frozen fingers and eased himself stiffly to the ground.

  Gritting his teeth, he shook out the robe. Hurriedly pulling the semi-frozen fabric over his head, he thrust his thoroughly chilled arms into the cuffed sleeves. Gratified to discover the robe had a hood attached, he pulled this over his head. Hitching the voluminous skirt above his knees, he scrambled back into the saddle. Surprised at the almost instant warmth the soft robe seemed to generate, his spirits rose. He peered across the sandy moonlit vastness, but could see nothing of Miqhal. Trusting his horse to follow her dam, he urged her into a canter, determined that this time he would not allow himself to fall asleep.

  A further half hour’s riding brought a change of surroundings, and he began to take an interest once more. To his right, the desert stretched out, featureless and seemingly unchanging, but to his left huge domes and misshapen obelisks of rock cast deep impenetrable shadows as they thrust their solid bulk skywards from the desert floor. Weird and fantastic wind-formed shapes loomed above him, as if born from the fevered imagination of some crazed sculptor. Veering abruptly to the left, his horse headed through a wide gap between two massive columns of rock. Ghian found himself in a narrow canyon, hemmed in on all sides by gigantic piles of jumbled boulders. Huge menacing shoulders of rock seemed to lean towards him. Shut away from the meagre comfort of the open desert, he shuddered, overcome by a deep sense of loneliness and abandonment. The feeling was further compounded when his horse turned to the right to stop some ten yards away from a sheer rock face towering fifty feet above his head. There was no sign of the Jadhra.

  In the desperate need to hear an
y sound other than that of the constant wind and thudding hooves, Ghian thought out loud. “Horse, why-ever in the name of the gods have you come this way? It’s a dead end!”

  Pushing back the hood of his robe, he turned in his saddle and looked about him. As the first agitated flutters of panic began to make themselves felt, he turned again to look at the sheer wall in front of him.

  His jaw dropped as Miqhal’s eyes glinted in the frosty moonlight. “Well, I’m damned!”

  Miqhal walked up to stand beside the horse’s head. “That is quite possible. Walk towards the wall.”

  Ghian looked at the wall, then down at Miqhal. “This is some kind of trick isn’t it?”

  “Yes. A very good one. Walk towards the wall.”

  “But it’s solid rock!”

  Placing a hand on the horse’s muzzle, Miqhal whispered softly in its ear and the horse took a pace forward.

  Startled, Ghian yelled “Hey! What are you doing?” and kicked his feet out of the stirrups.

  With the speed of a striking snake, Miqhal’s hand closed round Ghian’s wrist. The effect was immediate. Finding himself unable to move or speak, Ghian could only stare in abject terror as his horse continued to walk forward. Closing his eyes tight, he steeled himself for the impending collision. He didn’t see the dark face of the rock warp and shimmer in front of him, nor was he aware of the moment when he, his horse, and Miqhal left the narrow canyon cold and empty in the moonlight.

  Finally realising that his horse was still walking, he was able to move, and he hadn’t been thrust bodily into a painful collision with tons of solid and immovable rock, Ghian cautiously opened his eyes. The Jadhra warrior was fifty yards ahead of him, walking beside his horse through a flat sandy plain studded with rocks and boulders. Far ahead, the horizon was an undulating line, a series of massive dunes partially obliterating the blanket of stars. Shaking his head in disbelief, Ghian nudged his horse into a trot until he drew alongside his desert companion.

  He looked down at the black-clad figure. “How did you do that? One minute I’m heading for a solid rock wall, and the next, here we are, out in the desert again. What did I miss?”

  The Jadhra said nothing, merely reached under his saddle-blanket for his water skin, unstoppered it and handed it up to Ghian. The only part of his face visible, the Jadhra’s dark eyes spoke volumes. He remained silent until Ghian handed him back the waterskin, and he had replaced it under his blanket. Gathering his reins he sprang lightly to horseback.

  Pulling the covering from his nose and mouth he gave Ghian a long, hard look. “As always in the desert, you should have kept your eyes open. You will learn these things if you survive. Now, we must hurry. Sunrise is almost with us, and we must enter the city at dawn. Ride, and keep up.”

  The Jadhra warrior set off at a canter, Ghian close on his heels, lost in troubled thoughts. Miqhal’s words had jarred a nerve. What had he meant ‘if you survive’? He pondered on it for a mile or so, then decided he would have it out with Miqhal. Having already avoided a couple of encounters with death, he didn’t feel at all inclined to be facing it again in some strange city hidden in the back of beyond.

  Opting for an approach which he hoped would disguise his gnawing anxiety, he pulled alongside the Jadhra warrior and looked across at him. “This city we’re going to. Vedra. Is it your home?”

  Miqhal favoured him with a sidelong glance. “My home is the desert. The Jadhrahin have no need of walls. I go to the city only when my services are required. When I have done what has been asked of me, I return to the camps of my people.”

  Ghian was confused, and he frowned. “But if your people live in the desert, who lives in the city?”

  Miqhal gave him a long look, as if debating with himself whether he should answer the question. Ghian stared back at him, mentally urging him to answer. Another long moment passed.

  The Jadhra warrior made a small gesture with his hand, as the first rays of morning sun cast long dark shadows in front of their horses. “The Guardians live in the City. The Grelfi.”

  They rode on, until Ghian realised that the long dark smudge he had noticed on the horizon was not as he feared, another storm. As they drew closer, the smudge rapidly began to take shape and form, resolving itself into massive black walls which loomed and glowered in the lurid light of a newly risen sun.

  Miqhal reined back until he was knee to knee with Ghian.”Stay close and ride forward. You will not yet understand what you are seeing, but you must control your fear and keep moving. No questions. We enter the City.”

  Letting his gaze travel along the enormous curving length of the wall, Ghian could see no gateway, or anything that even resembled an entrance. He was soon forced to tilt his head back to see the top of the walls, but Miqhal gave no sign he was about to turn aside. Ghian remembered the sheer blank rock face in the canyon, and the way the Jadhra warrior had suddenly appeared from nowhere. Determined not to make a fool of himself again, he steeled himself in readiness. At about four horse-length’s distance, a broad section of the wall began to shimmer, resembling sunlit water flowing smoothly over blue tinted glass. Ghian gasped. Fists clenched over the reins, he kept his eyes wide open as his horse followed Miqhal’s through the translucent portal.

  They reined in. Stretched out before them was a place quite unlike anything Ghian had ever seen. Yet to him it seemed somehow familiar. Struck with a sudden and over-whelming sense of belonging, he dismounted and looked around him. He felt as if he had come home. They were standing on a wide paved platform, looking down onto the roofs of the city, spread out for miles in front of them, and to either side. At frequent and seemingly regular intervals, tall wide crenellated square towers thrust their way up towards the yellow tinted sky. Ghian looked down over the edge of the platform at a large open area with high stone walls which shut it away from the rest of the city.

  He let his gaze travel slowly outwards, until he was squinting into the hazy distance. “This is an amazing place! But, why do I feel as though I know it already?”

  Miqhal’s expression was inscrutable. “Because you are of the Blood.”

  “What ‘Blood’?”

  “The Blood of the Grelfi. Many generations past, many of our children were stolen. Some were slain, others were taken to distant lands. Once, sometimes even twice in a generation, one returns.”

  Ghian stared at the Jadhra warrior. “You’re not saying that I’m one of them! I can’t be! That must have been hundreds of years ago!”

  “Maybe so, but at least one of your ancestors was of the Blood. Sometimes, the bloodline breeds true. You have the Blood.”

  Ghian thought about that for a while, his dark brows knitted in a fierce frown. “How do you know?”

  “Again the questions. For what it may mean to you, only those of the Blood have the power of the Blood. It shows in no other. That is how I found you. The marking stone was the final proof. All Grelfi bear the mark.”

  Ghian suddenly remembered something. “The message that was left stuck to my door. That looked like the mark.”

  “It was. A young Jadhra submitted himself to the Grelfi. He failed the final test. He was killed.”

  Despite the heat, Ghian’s blood ran cold. “Suppose I fail?”

  The Jadhra warrior’s black basalt eyes gave him a long look, as if seeing into his soul. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You will not fail. Now we must move. It is time to go down into the City.”

  CHAPTER FORTYSIX

  With only one day remaining of the Winter Holiday, Symon knew that he had much to do before Karryl returned to the tower. He had spent the greater part of the morning in his study, contemplating not only recent events, but also his long and fruitful conversation with Kulas in Naboria. He finally came to a decision. Now was as good a time as any to unite book and medallion.

  Arriving unobserved in a sparsely populated area of Vellethen, Symon slipped into a narrow high-walled alley which led gently downwards. The magician approached the heavy, iron
-hinged and studded door set in deep shadow at its end. Behind it lay the basement of Vellethen’s museum, an acre or more of rooms, alcoves and bays protecting hundreds of valuable and rarely seen artefacts. It was also home to many priceless treasures which seldom, if ever, saw the light of day. Reaching up to an ornately wrought bell-pull just visible in the deep, almost subterranean gloom, Symon gave it a hefty tug and took a step back. As befitted its underground location, the note of the bell was deep and echoing. Symon waited. Long moments later, the harsh drag of old stiff bolts being drawn halted his train of thought. He stepped forward to greet whoever might be behind the door.

  A thick mass of long silky hair, in the approximate centre of which was a pair of pale soulful eyes appeared, apparently disembodied, round the edge of the door. “Yes?”

  Symon tried to stifle a grin. “Good day to you. I am Symon, Chief Magi…”

  “I know who you are. What do you want? We’re closed for the holiday and I’ve got work to do.”

  Unaccustomed to such brusqueness, Symon raised an eyebrow and swallowed the sharp retort he had been tempted to make. His reply was civility itself. “I have come in the hope of liberating an artefact loaned by me to the museum some years ago.”

  The mass of hair grunted and disappeared, projecting its voice from behind the door, which slowly opened wider. “You’d better come in then.”

  Symon dodged inside. The door thumped shut behind him, and Symon turned, curious as to what manner of form the ball of hirsute chaos was attached. He determined then and there to add his observation to the list of things he would, in all likelihood, never see again.

  The creature, for Symon was reluctant to call it a man, looked him dolefully in the eye. Had it not been bent almost at a right angle from the waist, the little magician would have had a good view of the creature’s chest. A grey nondescript robe hung from its shoulders and back, forming a kind of humped tent, beneath which, Symon thought rather incongruously, he himself could have ducked away quite easily. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the corridor, Symon’s reluctance to think of the creature as a man was justified, for from the sides of the oversized ball of surprisingly sleek red-brown hair, protruded a proportionally oversized pair of curiously convoluted, blunt-pointed ears.