The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1)

by Beach, B. J.

  To conserve power, he focussed on a spot near his feet, letting the ground take the extra weight. Physically fatigued, he found the process did not come easily to him. It seemed to take forever, but he persevered, perspiration trailing pale streaks down his dusty face. The complex spell concluded, with the final surge of completion the last of his power drained away. He sank to his knees, his fingers closing thankfully over the reassuring tangibility of the coil of thin rope now lying beside him. Almost reverentially, the three Ingalis crouched down beside him.

  Awestruck, Qetzi touched the rope. “Is it real?”

  Karryl nodded. “As real as those clothes you’re wearing.”

  Lifting the end of the coil, he hefted the rope, running the narrow grey length through his fingers. “I opted for strength rather than thickness. It might only just be long enough, but it’ll hold.”

  Urged on by an excited babble, Qetzi’s eager fingers dextrously knotted one end of the slender cord round the tree trunk lying horizontally across the hole. He watched as the remainder of the coil tumbled downwards then turned and gave Karryl an approving nod.

  CHAPTER FIFTYTWO

  Lying across the arms of the Ingali villager, the tiny body hung limply, his once smart clothes and white blonde hair now grey with dust. The young magician picked his way carefully over the rubble to where the man stood, and passed his hands over Morchelas’ body. He felt nothing. With the help of some of the rescued Ingalis, Karryl cleared a reasonably level space among the tumbled stones. Oblivious to the awed and astonished expressions of the onlookers, he took the Mirikani from the man’s arms and lowered him carefully onto the ground. Forced to try traditional methods rather than magic, Karryl looked about him.

  He called out. “I need my pack. Could someone bring it please?”

  The pack was quickly found and placed eagerly in his hands. He stared. Undeterred by the experience of its village collapsing into a massive hole, a hardy goat had chewed a large chunk out of the shoulder strap. It had already begun to sample the flap and its fastenings when it was disturbed. Karryl grimaced, then shrugged. Watched closely by a huddle of battered survivors, he unbuckled the soggy straps and delved into one of the many inner pockets of the capacious pack. The unwillingness of those rescued to move away from the scene of so much loss and distress hardly surprised him. He suspected that if he was able to restore Morchelas, at least to showing some signs of life, these simple people would instantly elevate the two magicians to near god-like status. With some apprehension Karryl realised that if that should happen, they would be expected to perform miraculous acts far beyond the scope of their powers.

  His scrabbling fingers made contact with the tiny black glass bottle. Easing out the cork stopper, he palmed the bottle before drawing his hand out of his pack. Leaning over Morchelas he held his hand just below the Mirikani’s nostrils for a few seconds. There was no response. With a slight shake of his head, Karryl slipped the bottle of pungent crystals into the pocket of his tunic and sat back on his heels. He felt suddenly tired and defeated. Rubbing his hands over his dry, dusty face, he looked around for some sign of Symon. All he saw was ruin and destruction in shades of brown and grey. Hope in their dark eyes, anxious faces looked down at him.

  He smiled weakly up at them. “I shall have to think of something else.”

  From behind the small group of men who stood watching, a young woman stepped forward, clutching a battered tin bowl. Thick strands of her long black hair had escaped from their shell combs, her embroidered skirt was torn, and she was missing a sandal. Picking her way quickly past the unmoving form of Morchelas, she crouched down in front of Karryl and offered him the bowl.

  Her voice was soft and reassuring. “Perhaps, young master, this will help.”

  A sigh of relief escaped from Karryl’s lips as he saw what the bowl contained. Glinting cool and clear, it was almost two-thirds full of fresh water. With a grin of gratitude, the young magician raised the bowl to his lips and allowed a small amount to trickle down his parched throat.

  He looked up to see the woman standing and smiling down at him. “Give some to the Mirikani.”

  Before he could answer, the woman had turned away and slipped back behind the watching men-folk. It was only when he took another swallow of the water that Karryl thought he detected a slight trace in the air of something which hadn’t been there before. Carefully balancing the bowl with its precious contents, he lurched to his feet and scrambled across the tumbled stones. He looked behind the men and outwards in every direction. There was no sign of the woman. With a brief shake of his head, he dismissed the idea and picked his way back to kneel beside Morchelas’ unmoving form.

  With some repugnance, he pushed his fingers between the Mirikani’s thin lips and slowly eased the perfect white teeth apart. Holding the bowl close to the small mouth, Karryl fed in the water one slow drop at a time, watching for any sign of life in the tiny body. After half a dozen drops, he drew back and settled on his heels. The onlookers had shuffled nearer. He could feel their closeness as they too waited for some kind of response. Time crawled agonisingly by.

  Morchelas coughed. Karryl started. The men shuffled hurriedly backwards.

  The bowl of water held steady, Karryl slipped his hand behind Morchelas’ head and lifted it away from its stone pillow. Placing the bowl against his half open mouth, Karryl tipped it gently. The Mirikani spluttered, dribbled, and swallowed. His eyes opened. With one look at Karryl, the tiny golden-skinned face screwed up in dismay and he began to cry.

  “Shut up!”

  Karryl looked up in surprise, then realised that the sharp authoritative voice was his own. Equally surprised, Morchelas swallowed hard and ceased his howling. With one hand firmly on the little man’s chest, Karryl turned and looked up into the distance to the broad ledge where they had earlier taken refuge. The young magician allowed himself a wry smile. He could just make out the figure of Conjiber prancing and capering up and down the ledge, waving his arms furiously in the air. Silently Karryl gave thanks for Symon’s spell of restriction, then turned his attention once more to the agitated Mirikani’s twin brother.

  Almost grudgingly, Karryl pushed the bowl of water towards his captive. “Here, drink a drop more, don’t guzzle it. There’s others here who need to drink.”

  Both tiny hands round the bowl, Morchelas took one deep gulp before releasing it back into Karryl’s hand. His voice was a thin, nervous squeak. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  The young magician’s reply was accompanied by a dark frown. “Stay there and don’t move.”

  Karryl pushed himself wearily to his feet and held out the bowl of water to a nearby Ingali woman. She grabbed it and drank greedily before passing the bowl to the man next to her. After the fourth man had drunk, Karryl held his hand out for the empty bowl. The villager who was holding it shook his head, took a deep swig, wiped his mouth and handed the bowl down to an elderly couple huddled together on the ground. From that angle, Karryl could see into the bowl. It was still two-thirds full of fresh, sparkling water. Eyes closed, he rubbed his hands over his face to hide the inappropriate grin which had suddenly bloomed. For a few seconds his eyes stung with unshed tears. Pulling himself together, he opened his eyes and turned to Morchelas.

  Reverting to the Albitan language he asked “Are you injured?”

  The Mirikani made a show of feeling about his body. “No, young master. Not hurt. Can help you now, yes?”

  Karryl crouched down and glared at him. “You’ve done enough for one day. These people know nothing of your involvement in this…as yet. If you want things to remain that way, I suggest you stay exactly where you are until we’re ready to leave.”

  Moving closer until their faces were almost touching, Karryl softly murmured a few more words, before standing up. He looked down at Morchelas.

  A thin smile of satisfaction crossed his face as he studied the trembling Mirikani. “Remember what I told you.”

  His expression despondent, the
little man nodded. Hugging his knees, he watched as Karryl and a small group of village men-folk, one carefully cradling the bowl of precious water, scrambled away, heading towards the centre of the disaster area. Over half the inhabitants of the once bustling village were still unaccounted for. There was still much to do.

  * * *

  About two hours and many thankful rescues later Symon returned, looking clean, refreshed and with a twinkle in his dove-grey eyes. “My hunch was correct. Help is on its way.”

  Looking across to where a sore, scraped and sullen Morchelas sat hunched beside a boulder, Karryl’s dusty face split into a grin. The grin remained as he glanced at Symon. “Yes, I know. She arrived some time ago. What kept you?”

  Symon gave an uncharacteristic shrug and made a show of removing a chip of stone from his sandal. “Oh, just…things.”

  Poised to ask half a dozen questions, Karryl was checked by Symon’s raised finger. “And we have orders to keep our distance. I suggest we remove these good people and their animals to safety, then do the same for ourselves.”

  He frowned across at Morchelas. “Have you put any restraint on that creature?”

  Karryl shook his head. “No need. I simply threatened to turn him into a lizard if he as much as moved.”

  Symon raised an eyebrow. “When did you learn to do that?”

  Using his hand to shield his mouth, Karryl lowered his voice. “I can’t… yet …but he thinks I can. And these people consider baked lizard quite a delicacy.”

  The little magician gave a snort of mild disgust. “Yes. Well, you can maintain the pretence for a while longer until we’ve finished questioning the pair of them.”

  He opened his mouth to say something else. Instead he swallowed hard, grabbed a handful of Karryl’s sleeve and pulled him around to face the newly formed escarpment which loomed at the far end of the village site. Surrounded by a few dozen villagers, a cluster of squealing children and a motley flock of sheep and goats, the two magicians in unison murmured a prayer of thanks. Smooth and seamless as woven silk, a broad, arrow-straight band of shimmering blue light cut through the air. From the edge of the escarpment, it soared over the top of the tumbled ruins, the end coming to rest a scant yard from their feet.

  Karryl took a pace backwards. “That was close. Seems she’s in a bit of a hurry.”

  In the fading light he could make out people milling about on the top of the escarpment. He pointed in their direction. “They don’t know what it is.”

  Patting his palms together, Symon’s eyes glinted with resolve. “Then we shall have to show them.” He gestured behind him. “Grab a goat and an able bodied man and follow me.”

  Not certain his various talents would stretch to the successful capture of a skittish goat, Karryl explained what Symon wanted to the little group. After a short discussion in a local patois which left him way behind, one of the men casually hauled a rather fierce looking billy goat out of the small rescued flock and nodded wordlessly at Karryl.

  Two magicians, one man and a goat stepped warily onto the edge of the broad blue lane. It felt firm and steady beneath their feet. Confident in the power of his goddess, Symon strode forward. Reassured, the man let go of the goat, turned, and beckoned to his people. Karryl leapt forward, just managing to wrap his arms round the animal’s neck before it toppled over the edge. Cursing it for its stupidity, he stripped out the cord which laced the front of his tunic, made a loop and slipped it over one of the goat’s huge curved horns. Hauling the somewhat reluctant goat behind him, he started after Symon who was already over a quarter the way along. A quick glance back and down assured him that the Mirikani was closely encircled by the crowd of villagers who now followed after.

  Seeing what was happening, the people high up on the escarpment put their suspicions and fears aside and begun to hurry down towards them. Twenty minutes later, those stranded on the mountainside, rescued villagers and magicians all met about three-quarters of the way up the divinely manufactured road. Tears rolled down dusty faces as children were hugged, those thought lost were greeted effusively, and words of sympathy flowed in a respectful and steady murmur. All this done to their satisfaction, every villager’s attention turned to Symon. Not having studied or spoken Ingali as recently as his apprentice, the little magician found himself struggling to explain that the magical road was not of his making.

  Still towing the goat behind him, Karryl pushed forward and tapped Symon on the shoulder. “Should I tell them the truth?”

  Symon gave an emphatic nod. “Definitely. Just leave out the involvement of Conjiber and Morchelas for now. I don’t want them mobbed into pieces until we’ve got to the bottom of this whole disastrous business. There’s a few other things D’ta wants you to tell them as well, so listen carefully and translate exactly what I tell you.”

  By the time Symon had finished, they were completely surrounded by villagers and livestock, and Karryl thought his brain was going to burst. His broad brow furrowed. “What do they call her in these parts?”

  Tinged with some amusement, a soft melodious voice tickled Karryl’s hearing. “In these parts I am called Sirimina-makeli-lo. As I am through all of Ingalia.”

  Karryl looked at his feet as he felt his face begin to redden. “Sorry. I didn’t realise that was you.”

  The goddess chuckled. “Just be careful how you pronounce it when you’re explaining the situation to them. It only needs one slip to make my name mean something completely different.”

  Karryl grinned. “I think I’ve already worked that out. There’s a bit of difference between ‘the one who brings light’ and ‘she who washes stones.’ Although, I can’t see any reason why anyone would want to wash stones.” He paused for a moment. “Why that particular name?”

  D’ta’s frown transmitted itself through her voice. “It’s an old legend. I’ll tell you about it sometime. At the moment, those kind of thoughts are quite irrelevant. It hardly matters what I am called. What matters is that these poor people understand what has happened and that they will receive all the help they need. And speed it up a bit. Grandfather is working very hard to maintain the stability of this road.”

  Puzzled, Karryl nodded as he turned to Symon. “Can you hear D’ta?”

  Despite the circumstances, the little magician’s expression was almost blissful. “Oh. Yes. Every word. Now, I suggest you make a start, and tell these people what’s going on, and what they need to know.”

  His mouth set in a determined line, Karryl thrust the goat’s tether at Symon before raising his arms high in an effort to quieten the calls and murmurs of the excitable crowd of Ingali villagers.

  Once he had their attention, he turned to Symon. “Can you cast an amplifying spell? Some of these people are still nearly half a mile away.”

  Cocking his head to one side, Symon’s grey eyes twinkled as he looked up at Karryl. “No need. Just speak. Our friend will take care of it. They’ll hear you.”

  The majority of those who had escaped or been rescued were now gathered on the broad blue ribbon of light. Only a handful remained standing or crouched fearful and distrustful among the rubble of their devastated village.

  Karryl’s fists clenched at his sides. “They’re edging closer. It looks as if some of them could get nasty.”

  Symon hissed. “Get on with it then.”

  The advantage of height allowed Karryl to focus on a point just beyond the increasingly restive crowd. Locking his fingers together, he began. “First, we have to express our deepest regret for what has happened here. We are sorry for those who have lost homes and loved ones…”

  “If you hadn’t been here, it would not have happened! We would be as we have been for hundreds of years.”

  Karryl looked right and down, in the direction of the voice. One of the men standing among the ruins was looking up at him, his face and one arm streaked with bloody dust, his expression dark with anger.

  “Can you bring the dead back to life, magician? Can you give me ba
ck my eldest son, magician? Can you rebuild the homes where we have dwelt for generations, magician?”

  Picking up a chunk of stone, the man swung back his good arm and flung the missile high in the air. Instinctively, Karryl ducked. Gasps and excited murmurs reached his ears and he straightened up. Symon’s face was a mask of angry determination. The eyes of the villagers were fixed on a point above Karryl’s head. He looked up. The stone hung in the air, still spinning from the force of the throw.

  Symon nodded at Karryl. “Catch!”

  Slowly the stone tumbled end over end. As it found the safety of his hands, Karryl felt the heat of the arresting spell’s energy dissipate through his fingers. Giving it no more than a brief glance, he pitched the stone over the edge of the lane of light, hearing it clatter onto the rubble below. A lump formed in his throat as he stared down at his would-be assailant. He and Symon had spent hours struggling to help these people out of a situation for which only Conjiber and Morchelas were to blame. He felt like grabbing the Mirikani and throwing him down after the stone. He clenched his jaw, swallowed, and turned to face the stunned villagers. His tone was hard and cold.

  Any sympathy he felt for these distressed people had drained away with the warmth from the hurled stone. “Get yourselves and your animals off this road. It is given to us by the goddess, and she will soon remove it. She knows that what has happened here is no fault of ours.”

  Before he could say anything else, he felt a firm handgrip on his arm. Glancing down he saw Symon pointing into the distance in the direction of the escarpment.

  The little magician gave him a wry smile. “It would seem we are no longer the centre of attention.”