by Beach, B. J.
Nevertheless Karryl was fascinated, and managed to spend a considerable amount of time in their company, finding them to be for the most part, friendly and helpful and quite happy to share their knowledge. To Symon’s constant annoyance, wherever the pair travelled Karryl deliberately sought them out, so he was hard pressed to convince Symon that some events were not really entirely due to his, as Symon put it, ‘unhealthy curiosity’.
A little more than two years into their travels, Karryl and Symon found themselves over halfway round the world, at the far northern end of Ingalia. As winter tightened its grip on Teloria, leaving Albita temporarily cut off from the rest of the world, the mountain village of Xatchiclan, in the temperate Ingali highlands, basked in the gentle warmth of late spring sunshine. It had been their intention to pass through the village and travel higher up into the mountains. Somewhere up there, Symon had been told, stood an ancient and reputedly beautiful temple dedicated to one of the country’s major deities. Neither Symon nor Karryl recognised the name, but Karryl wondered whether it might possibly be D’ta.
Expecting a sleepy village populated by only goat-herders, and possibly a few weavers and basket-makers, the two magicians were surprised to find the village teeming with life. The babble of voices, the lively but haunting music of reed pipes, and the eye-wrenching variety of vibrant colours came as a welcome and timely relief. The long trudge up the narrow and stony mountain path from the previous village, though spectacularly scenic, had been tiring and leg-aching.
Hitching his pack higher onto his shoulders, Symon patted his palms together. “I’m beginning to think we could both benefit from a couple of days relaxation.” Grey eyes sparkling, he glanced up at Karryl’s eager face. “What do you think?”
His fellow magician responded with a nod and a wide grin, then dodged nimbly to one side of the road as a small flock of thin-legged, floppy-eared goats clattered past, a brown-skinned boy in a brightly coloured poncho chirping and hollering behind them. Symon and Karryl followed on. Their newly invigorated steps soon took them among the lively clamour and exotic aromas accompanying an event which appeared to have enveloped the entire village and its inhabitants.
Arriving at the first of a dog-legged row of stalls which higgled and piggled through the only street of the village, Symon ducked under the welcome shade of a brightly coloured blanket serving as an awning. “It appears we have been fortunate enough to arrive on market day.”
Karryl unhitched his pack and placed it on the ground between his feet, then looked around him. “It all looks a bit too settled in to be just a one day thing. Perhaps it’s all part of some kind of festival.”
He rubbed at his shoulders, shook dust out of his now shoulder-length hair, and wriggled a tiny but annoying pebble out of one of his thick-soled sandals.
Retrieving his pack, he slung it over one shoulder and gestured down the bustling row of stalls and stockpens. “Let’s move on a bit. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.”
Reactions to their presence were mixed. As they made their way slowly through a corridor of craft and produce-laden stalls, brown weathered faces greeted them with gap-toothed grins. The younger ones favoured them with suspicious frowns and sidelong glances.
Nudging Karryl’s elbow, Symon pointed ahead and to his left. “I can smell something really good, and I think it’s coming from that big stall over there, with the yellow awning.”
Before Karryl had chance to reply, a high-pitched strongly accented voice spoke up from behind them. “You could do worse, gentlemen. The spicy fried chicken is very good.”
Karryl and Symon both looked round. Not seeing anybody who was paying any particular attention to them, Karryl began to move away. Then he saw Symon was looking down, his face beaming with delight. Karryl followed his gaze.
A tiny figure skittered lightly up to them, raising a small, golden-skinned hand, jewels glinting from every finger. “I, Morchelas, would be most pleased to have your acquaintance, yes?”
Fascinated, Karryl tried hard not to stare, but he realised that even with his best effort, he wasn’t making a very good job of it. Even much later, he was never able to say what it was that amazed him most about the curious character who had appeared in front of them. Green cloak thrown back, blue eyes sparkled up at them, bright and alert as a tiny bird’s. A thick tumble of silver-white hair curled over the narrow shoulders of a richly embroidered dark green jacket. Barely reaching the height of the cord round Symon’s waist, the wide brim of a soft, green felt hat shaded a small, goatee-bearded and bronzed face. Until now Karryl had been rather concerned their own style of dress was making them rather conspicuous, but the flamboyance of the character they had just met dispelled all his concerns. Despite his lack of physical stature, Morchelas eclipsed them both by an order of magnitude.
Extending his own small hand, Symon instantly found it in the enthusiastic grip of Morchelas’ bejewelled one. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Master Symon, and this is Karryl my apprentice.”
The diminutive character gave Symon’s hand a vigorous shake before releasing it. Not immediately offering his hand to Karryl, instead he studied him intently from eyes which had darkened in the shadow of his hat’s wide brim. “Apprentice is it?” His full lips curved in a knowing smile. “Fortunate to travel so far with his master. You learn much, yes?”
Bending down, Karryl returned the smile and held out his hand. “Indeed, and it is a pleasure to meet you Morchelas.”
Almost hesitantly, the little man reached up, briefly grasped Karryl’s outstretched fingers, then spun round to gesture towards the busy food stall. “Eat now. Need full stomach for much travelling.”
He scurried away, leaving Karryl and Symon to follow, Karryl’s eyebrows knitting in a puzzled frown.
Easing through the jostle and clamour of colourfully dressed mountain villagers, along with their sheep, goats and laughing round-faced children, Karryl almost had to shout at Symon to make himself heard. “I can’t say he’s the strangest character I’ve met so far, but he’s certainly unusual.”
Symon smiled his agreement. “I don’t recall ever meeting any of their race before, but I believe him to be Mirikani.”
A high reedy voice piped up from beside Karryl’s left elbow. “Is right. Indeed are Mirikani. Very good. Smart magicians we meet.”
Slipping between them, he danced backwards, sunlight glinting on brass buckles as his tiny, black high boots kicked up small flurries of dust. “Food ready for new friends. Come, much enjoy.”
There were no seats and no cutlery. Their elbows being continually jostled, Karryl and Symon eased themselves into the space between neighbouring stalls. With undisguised enthusiasm Symon dipped his fingers into the contents of the round, yellow glazed grey earthenware bowl. Popping a chunk of something coated in a reddish coloured sauce into his mouth, he then scooped out some brown rice mixed with vegetables and sent it after the chunk.
Chewing appreciatively he gestured towards Karryl with the bowl as he mumbled round his food. “Mmm….very… mmm…tasty.”
Looking up from his bowl, he realised Karryl’s attention was focussed elsewhere, his dark eyebrows drawn together in deep frown. “That wasn’t the same…what d’you call ‘em…Mirikani? That wasn’t Morchelas.”
Following his gaze, Symon looked across the bustling street. Trying not to stare he studied the highly animated movements of the little man engaged in deep conversation with a colourfully clad native trader.
Symon’s frown mirrored Karryl’s. “Are you sure? He looks the same to me.”
Karryl shook his head. “His boots are different. And his cloak is a slightly lighter shade of green. There’s two of them.”
His conversation with the trader finished, the subject of their discussion glanced in their direction, his little pointed face contorted in a grin of avaricious glee. Raising his tiny hand he vanished.
Staring at the spot where the Mirikani had been standing, Karryl’s frown deepened. �
�Why did he do that?”
His bowl of food held firmly, Symon gave a little smirk as he looked up at his apprentice. “Perhaps he’s playing a trick on you.”
Karryl grimaced. Something about the Mirikani’s expression had started his worry bump tingling. His mind only partly on the food, he turned back to the stall, began to reach for his bowl, then stopped. He watched with interest as a series of concentric circles trembled and rippled across the surface of the untouched broth.
Symon touched Karryl’s sleeve. “I believe there is something here of more interest than food.”
The two magicians exchanged glances. A gentle but insistent vibration began to tickle the soles of their feet, making its way up through their calves. In no more than a few seconds the sensation had invaded every part of their bodies.
Placing his bowl of barely tasted food on a makeshift table, Symon watched with increasing trepidation as the two bowls gravitated towards the edge. Like some gigantic subterranean beast regurgitating its last meal, a long ominous rumbling reverberated under and around the tiny isolated mountain village. The surrounding mountains echoed and re-echoed to a loud and resounding crack from somewhere above and behind them. Gritting his teeth, Karryl shuddered as his skin prickled and tingled with an intensity far greater than any he had previously experienced. To the accompaniment of a noise like giant marbles on a bass drum, clouds of choking grey dust burst upwards to foul the clear mountain air. One by one, the tiny stone-built cottages hugging the feet of the mountain cracked apart and toppled in a tangled mess of torn thatch, broken timbers and jumbled granite blocks. The two magicians spun round, dodging for the protection of the swaying food stall.
A flock of panic-stricken sheep hurtled through the market, filling the dusty air with a cacophony of distressed bleating and clattering hooves. Seconds later, villagers, traders and travellers were running in all directions, pushing and colliding, yelling at the tops of their panic-stricken voices. A few feet away Morchelas stood rigid, his small face contorted in a grimace of abject terror. Fists clenched to whiteness, only his eyes moved, first to Symon and Karryl, and then to a foot-wide crack which now bisected the ground between them.
With Symon close on his heels, Karryl leaped the steadily widening gap, grabbed a handful of Morchelas’ robe and pulled him away. The abandoned bowls of food joined the cook’s stall in a jumbled heap on the tormented and trembling ground. Quivering blue and silver, the dust-filled air shimmered as Symon shifted the three of them to a broad ledge on the far side of the valley gorge. Only hours before, the two magicians had stopped there to take a breather and admire the impressive view. Now, looking down at the once picturesque village, Karryl’s thunderous expression swiftly changed to one of appalled disbelief as he watched the terrifying scene unfold.
Like a huge hand closing on captured prey, the peak of one of the looming mountains opposite folded over. Collapsing in on itself, half the mountain’s colossal bulk hurtled down with a crashing roar. Slithering, tumbling and bouncing, a tidal wave of massive chunks of rock, broken and uprooted trees, soil and boulders overwhelmed everything and everyone in its destructive path. Where, only minutes before, a thriving Northern Ingali village of grass-thatched stone-built homes, colourful inhabitants and livestock had stood, only dust and rubble now remained. Entire livelihoods had been swallowed by a hungrily gaping mile-long maw.
CHAPTER FIFTY
From the comparative safety of the distant plateau, the two magicians and one Mirikani stared in horror and disbelief at the scene far below. The entire village had vanished, dropped into a massive crater to be then obliterated by tons of debris tumbling from the shattered mountain. Like a mocking smile, a bright golden sun filtered through dense clouds of choking dust. Swirling and billowing high, tainting the once clean mountain air, plumes and wispy tendrils of dirty brownish-grey smoke snaked up from dark crevices, odours of charred timber mingling with the ominous and nauseating odour of blood and seared flesh, not necessarily animal. The pitiful bleating of a goat, lying somewhere injured and unseen amongst the chaos, pierced the oppressive silence which now hung over the devastation. A tortured jumble of shattered rock, broken trees and mangled debris was all that remained of the small but thriving community. A narrow road which had once led further up into the mountain range, had broken away. An inaccessible two hundred foot escarpment now loomed like a huge sentinel at the far end of the chasm.
Karryl shielded his eyes against the mocking sunlight, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, fraught with pain and shock. “There are people up there, and animals! They’re trapped!”
Placing a steadying hand on the young magician’s dusty sleeve, Symon followed his gaze. He thought for a long moment then shook his head. “It’s not likely they are trapped. There are a number of paths through these mountains. They’ll be safe enough.”
Turning his back on the scene of devastation, Karryl fought to control his trembling body as he took Symon to one side. “This was no natural occurrence. Did you feel it?”
Symon nodded, his round face pale with dust and dismay. “I felt something. At the time I thought it was part of what was happening.”
Karryl’s face was thunderous. “Part of it! It was the cause of it!” He looked over his shoulder to the niche in the rock-face, where the Mirikani cowered trembling as he stared with tear-filled eyes at the scene on the far side of the gorge below them. “D’you think he had something to do with it?”
Symon shook his head. “If he did, judging by his reactions things didn’t go according to plan.”
Karryl grimaced. “I’m going to have it out with him.”
As Karryl approached, the little man looked up, his lips and chin quivering. His hands wrung and twisted as he shrank back against the rock.
Almost choking on his words, he sank to his knees, a pathetic frightened, dust strewn specimen. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. It wasn’t meant to be like this.”
Grabbing him with both hands, Karryl lifted him into the air, tightening his grip as he held him at eye level. “What d’you mean, it wasn’t meant…”
The Mirikani hung limp in Karryl’s hands, only his eyes moving as tears streamed down his face. “My brother…down there. Please, must find Morchelas. Please.”
Disgusted and infuriated by the duplicity of the Mirikani, Karryl began to shake him unmercifully. “I just knew there were two of you.” He thrust his face up close. “If Morchelas is your brother, who in the name of D’ta are you?”
Through choking sobs he stuttered “C…C…Conjiber. We twins.”
Resisting the urge to throw the little man bodily over the edge of the gorge, Karryl glared as Symon came to stand beside him. “Put him down, Karryl. It’s not helping.”
Reluctantly and none too gently, Karryl lowered Conjiber to the ground before turning to Symon. “You heard what he said. That was magic we felt, and powerful magic at that.” He glowered down at the terrified figure of Conjiber. “After all this, do you really expect us to help you, brother or no. That was meant to kill us, wasn’t it?”
Shoulders drooping, the Mirikani wrenched his gaze away from Karryl’s furious glare. Shuffling to the edge, his hands clenched and unclenched as he surveyed the scene far below.
Croaking and quivering, the sound of his voice barely reached Karryl’s ears. “Only you two. Not all village. Not children, not sweet, helpless animals. Such disaster!”
He sat down with a bump on the stony ground, clamping his hands over his face as his narrow shoulders shook. For almost a full second Karryl felt sorry for him. Grabbing him by the collar of his cloak, the young magician roughly hauled him to his feet. “We’ll go down and try to find your brother. If he’s dead, too bad. If he’s alive we’ll want a full explanation.
Symon’s voice, stern and tight with concern, came from behind them. “We’ll want that anyway, sooner rather than later. What we will do is begin by searching for anyone who might have survived. If we find your brother while we’re at it,
all well and good.”
Feeling a brief tingle across his skin accompanied by a tiny surge of power, Karryl raised a questioning eyebrow.
Symon gave him a tight smile. “He won’t go anywhere we don’t want him to.”
Dropping to his knees, Conjiber peered down over the rim of the ledge. Once again resisting the compulsion to send the little man hurtling downwards, Karryl knelt beside him.
He made no attempt to disguise the loathing and disgust, along with a welter of other emotions that he felt churning inside him. “What do you see?”
Morchelas sat back on his tiny black boot-heels. “See much. Nothing good. Nothing move.”
As if sensing Karryl’s ambivalence, he turned reddened eyes up towards Symon. “Can go down, please? Look for brother. Find Morchelas.”
In a perverse kind of way, Karryl began to feel some sympathy for the tiny man who only a short while ago had been so full of high spirits, even if for all the wrong reasons. One eyebrow raised he looked over at Symon for a decision.
The little magician nodded, but as Conjiber leapt to his feet, Symon raised a forestalling hand. “You will wait here. That way we shall know where you are. Whether or not we find your brother, we have some very serious questions for you.”
Self-pity, petulance and resignation fought for dominance of Conjiber’s face. He gave a little shrug as he scrambled to his feet. “Can’t go anywhere. Famous magician prevents. Must stay here.”
Magician and apprentice exchanged glances. Symon looked hard at Conjiber. “It would be best if you did remain here. Can’t have you falling into a hole, can we?”
The Mirikani looked as if he was about to stamp his foot. “No more likely than you. Just smaller hole.”
Karryl patted him firmly on the top of his head. “Exactly. That’s one of the reasons why you stay here.”
Without waiting for any further argument, he picked up his shoulder pack, stepped over beside Symon and the pair linked arms. As the blue and silver motes sparkled and swirled, Conjiber did stamp his foot, spat into the air and cursed, loud and long. None of this was part of the plan. He watched, disgusted, as his captors emerged from behind the huge toppled and tilted monolith which had once been part of a mountain. Their raised voices as they called out for survivors, drifted up to him. He nurtured a combined hope that they would find his brother, and that he wouldn’t say too much, too soon. Finally he sat down near the rim of the ledge and spent a while cursing Symon for the spell which kept him confined. Then he turned his attention to other matters.