Nature's Servant (17 page)

Ferast made up his mind. He would go to all three places if necessary but he would start with the
Bottomless Sands, which was closest to Helioport. If he didn’t find Sestin there, he’d travel south to Sailor’s End, and then back up north-west to the Haunted Citadel. It was a journey of many hundreds of miles, and he’d have to traverse wild terrain to get there, but nothing was going to stop him from finding Shirukai Sestin and claiming his destiny.

…

Late that night, when most people were asleep, Ferast slipped out of the Warren. Hidden by a spell of secrecy, he passed unnoticed through the campus. The spell was a neuromantic invention of his own, massaging the mind of anyone looking his way, encouraging them to ignore his presence. He passed several late night revellers unnoticed, but the real test of his spell would be at the gate. It was easy enough to persuade the mind of a passer-by to ignore him, but it was much more difficult to overcome the mind of a person who was deliberately observing their surroundings. The main gates would be closed at that time of night, so he’d have to go through the smaller door built into the gates themselves. There would be guards posted on either side of the gate, all of whom should be alert for trouble, so this would be the moment his compulsion would be most rigorously tested.

As he neared the gates, he cloaked himself even more deeply in magical secrecy, his spell-craft sending whispers out into the night, urging onlookers to ignore him, to forget him, to see nothing. As expected, there were two guards on the inside of the gate, but he could tell from their posture that they were half-asleep, propped up and dozing against their spears. He stepped carefully to the small doorway and gave it a gentle tug. It was bolted shut. Feeling suddenly nervous, he steeled himself and slid the bolt free inch by inch. The heavy iron housing was well-oiled, and the bolt shifted without making any noise, but it was taking far too long. Every long second wracked his already taut nerves, and he kept glancing at the guards on either side of him, looking for any sign that they were rousing from their doze. When the bolt finally slid out of its socket, he grabbed the door handle and pulled. It swung soundlessly on hinges as well-oiled as the bolt had been, and neither guard reacted. He stepped through, looking quickly right and left at the guards on the other side of the gate. The left guard was staring into space, paying no attention to him at all, but the other was peering in his direction. He looked befuddled, trying to focus his eyes on what was in front of him.

Ferast’s heart was thumping in his chest. He drew more deeply on his power, spinning out a web of manipulation. His magic extended towards the guard, wrapping him in comfortable lies, urging him to relax and stop trying to see. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief when the guard’s eyes glazed over and he resumed his stance, turning back to look out into the night. He pushed the door shut, closing it as silently as he could. He considered using magic to try and slide the bolt back home on the other side, but he couldn’t see what he was doing, and it might end up making enough noise to break his spell altogether, so he left it as it was. The guards would notice it of course, but by that time he’d be long gone, and they’d probably just assume it was a mistake. He glanced one last time at the guards, making sure they were still wrapped in his web of suggestion, and when they continued to ignore him, he stepped away from the gate and out onto the road. Within fifty paces he was well out of the glow of the city’s lamps, and he let his spell fall away, breathing a quiet sigh of satisfaction. What had he been worried about? The ordinary guards of Helioport could never resist the magic of a skilled neuromancer.

He ran over his plans as he walked. He didn’t intend to walk very far. At the very first opportunity he would steal a horse and head
west, using his powers to his advantage every chance he got. Lesser people had to work for things, to scrimp and save, but he could just take whatever he wanted, and the owners would let him walk away with their most prized possessions. Such power was evidence of his greatness, a greatness that he was fully intent on exploring. Without looking back on the city that had housed him and where he had first learned to use magic, Ferast journeyed into the dark, embarking on the first stage of the search for his new master.

…

Rimulth was just dropping off to when a loud cry pierced the camp. He sat up with a start, confused by the lingering entanglement of drowsiness. He pushed himself out of bed, grabbed a spear and stepped outside in his nightclothes. Other members of the tribe were also stepping out of their huts, armed with whatever weaponry was at hand. The Dag-Mar, dressed only in a loin-cloth and a thousand tattoos, stood before the fire in the centre of the ring of tents, peering out into the night. It was he that had made the cry, rousing the tribe from their sleep.

Over the last few weeks more tribes had been attacked by demonic beasts, their shamans drained of all power, their lives snuffed out. None had yet prevailed, but reports had been spread throughout the mountains that the demons could be damaged by fire. On learning that, the Dag-Mar had decreed that every tribe should keep its fire burning constantly, day and night, in case of attack. His decree had been sent out by messenger, and now all the tribes kept a fire burning perpetually, ready to defend themselves against the demonic invaders.

Rimulth looked at the nearly-naked Dag-Mar. He was skinny and wrinkled, but he radiated such an aura of power that it was impossible to perceive him as weak. He looked around the camp. “Ready your weapons,” he commanded, sensing something that was beyond Rimulth’s perception. 

Since discovering the demons could be hurt by fire, the tribe had prepared for the inevitable conflict by wrapping arrow and spear heads with oil-soaked cloths, ready to be set aflame. If a demon attacked, they would make it feel pain, even if they died in the process.

Rimulth’s heart was thumping in his throat as he went back into the hut to grab some arrows. As he reached out for them he saw that his hands were shaking. He reprimanded himself as he ducked back out of the entranceway. What kind of warrior was he, to shake in fear when an enemy comes? As he stepped outside again he stumbled into Balkrist. The older warrior put a steadying hand on his shoulder, causing him to wither in shame as the older warrior noted his shaking hands. The hand on his shoulder tightened noticeably, and the other grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet the experienced warrior’s gaze.

“All men fear,” he said. “It is facing your enemies despite that fear that makes you a warrior.” Rimulth stilled, calmed by Balkrist’s words. “Fight well, and do yourself honour,” the warrior said, and moved on to speak to another tribesman.

The Dag-Mar hissed, holding a hand up, and the tribe went silent. He pointed out into the night. “We are attacked. Light your weapons.”

Along with twenty other warriors, Rimulth walked to the fire and dipped his cloth-wrapped spearhead into the flame. The warriors spaced themselves broadly around the camp, digging the butts of their flaming spears into the ground. They were to use the arrows first, and only pull out the spears when the supply of arrows was exhausted. They stood silently, faces lit by the flickering flames of their burning spears, waiting for the attack. Rimulth could still feel the pulse in his neck, but he felt something else too - a growing desire for the enemy to attack, for the waiting to be over. Something fierce was rising up in him, something that was ready to kill.

He caught a glimpse of movement in the darkness and lifted his bow in readiness. A large crow hopped out of the darkness into the light. He lowered his bow. The crow’s black plumage was marred by a white patch on the top of its head. This clearly wasn’t the enemy they were fearing, but something about the creature was unnerving. It swivelled its discoloured head, peering with a beady eye around the camp. When it saw the Dag-Mar, it opened its beak and cawed hoarsely, a sound that disturbed Rimulth to the depths of his soul. An arrow flew across the clearing, missing the crow by inches. The large bird cawed once more and hopped back out of the circle of firelight, sounding its grating caw from the safety of darkness.

The tribe waited in uneasy silence, disturbed by the behaviour of the strange bird. Rimulth opened his eyes as widely as he could, trying to see anything at all. Was that another movement within the darkness? Was it the crow? Was he just imagining it? And then a nightmare emerged, a living horror that glided heavily into the fire-lit circle. It was as if it was made of darkness itself, a dense black mass with a bulky head and shoulders, and a body that tapered away to nothing. Its head swivelled from right to left, taking in the sight of the fire and the burning spears.

The Dag-Mar began to chant, gathering power around him as he did so. The demon turned its black eyes on him, swirling vortices of dark power that burned with insatiable hunger. It opened its maw and roared, the horrific sound turning Rimulth’s bowels to water. Dropping his bow and arrows, he desperately slammed his hands over his ears, trying to cut out the noise that felt like it was pushing him over the brink of madness. It was then that he felt the cold. Frost was spreading over the grass, reaching his toes and assaulting him with a bone-numbing chill that made him shake all over. It inched up the shafts of the burning spears, the freezing air dimming the flames that had been burning brightly only moments previously. The flames flickered and threatened to go out.

Other warriors had also dropped their weapons, but Rimulth could see that Balkrist had not. The ageing warrior was railing at the demon, standing between it and the Dag-Mar, feinting at it with his barely burning spear. Filled with a sudden fury that this creature could terrorise them so, Rimulth took his hands off his ears and yelled out in fury, a primal display of defiance that erupted fiercely from his lungs. Snatching up an arrow, he lit the oiled cloth that was wound around its tip. He nocked and drew it in one swift motion, fixed his sights on the demon and fired. The flaming missile roared through the air, blazing a trail of light across the clearing before burying itself in the demon’s chest.

If the creature’s first howl had been disturbing to hear, the second was doubly so, but Rimulth’s action had set the other tribesmen free from their stasis. More arrows flew across the clearing, piercing the demon’s dark bulk. It howled once again, but this time it sounded pained, and it doubled its efforts to reach the Dag-Mar. It rushed at Balkrist, who buried his spear in its side before it reached him, but it knocked him aside with a single swipe of its arm. Balkrist fell to the ground and didn’t get up again.

Rimulth was yelling hoarsely, using his rage to overcome fear as he sent arrow after arrow flying at the demon. It was peppered with the burning missiles now, its roars filled with pain and anger, but still it struggled to reach the Dag-Mar. The shaman summoned a glowing ball of power and flung it at the demon. It exploded against the creature’s chest, snaring it in a magical trap. For a moment Rimulth thought the Dag-Mar’s spell would hold it captive, but the demon slowly absorbed the magic of the spell and the trap dissipated. Seeing its quarry only feet from it, the demon howled in triumph, and surged forward, arms outstretched.

Acting as one, the warriors pulled up their spears and ran at it, whooping fierce battle cries as they attacked. The demon paused, arrested by the sight of twenty burning spears rushing at it. It opened its mouth to howl once more, but before it could make a sound, it was pierced twenty times over from all sides. It writhed and fought, trying to pull away from the painful flames, but it had nowhere to go. Rimulth could feel its muscular wriggling through his spear head. He pulled the flaming weapon out and plunged it back into its body again and again, yelling in fury as he sought to destroy the enemy that dared to attack his home. His fellow tribesman did the same, the demon writhing and shrinking under the onslaught, and then all of a sudden, with one last howl of agony, it was gone.

…

Rimulth sat in the men’s circle later that night, feeling for the first time that he had a right to be there. He had fought for his tribe, and they had won. He looked around at the familiar faces, seeing the same look of sombre satisfaction in each of them. The entrance to the Dag-Mar’s hut flapped open at the edge of his vision, and Balkrist came hobbling out. The warrior had been wounded in some way by the demon’s touch, and the shaman taken him into his hut and performed some kind of healing on him as soon as the battle was over. He was clearly still debilitated by the after-effects of the attack, but Rimulth was cheered to see him up on his feet.

Supported by a fellow tribesman, Balkrist walked slowly over to the men’s circle, and took his customary seat next to the Dag-Mar. The shaman had been staring into the flames for the last few minutes, and didn’t even look up. Chief Hesketh sat on his other side, and once Balkrist was in attendance, he held his hand up for attention. The circle quieted, waiting for him to speak.

“We meet tonight in victory,” he began. “So far we are the only tribe to have defeated one of these creatures. If we had not received word from other tribes, whose shamans have perished for us to have the knowledge that these demons can be hurt by fire, then we too would have been defeated.” Heads nodded around the circle, some reluctantly, but no-one disagreed. Hesketh’s eyes flicked briefly towards the Dag-Mar. “If we had lost, it would have been at great cost to all our people. The tribes of Eagle’s Reach would have lost their Dag-Mar.”

Mutters sounded from around the fire. Rimulth was taken aback. The Dag-Mar had always seemed invincible, and to see him as vulnerable shook one of the immovable pillars of his world. Chief Hesketh fell silent, looking at the Dag-Mar expectantly. The old shaman poked at the fire with a stick, staring at it in silence for so long that when he did start to speak, it made Rimulth jump in shock. Embarrassed, he looked around furtively, but no-one seemed to have noticed.