Nature's Servant (22 page)

             
His heart started to pound insistently as a single memory came back to him. As a boy he’d been caught by a rock-fall, and it had taken the villagers a whole day to dig him out. He’d been lost and afraid, calling for help for hours before anyone heard his desperate cries. Once the villagers found him, they had to dig him out with great care, in case shifting a stone caused the whole rock-fall to shift and crush him. He remembered the terrifying hours of waiting while each rock was carefully lifted away. Many times the mountain of stone above him had groaned, and he’d been sure he was about to die, buried beneath its weight, but somehow, the villagers had dug him out alive. Ever since that day, he had feared being trapped more than he feared anything else.

             
He tried desperately to see where the light was coming from. That was where he wanted to be – up there in the light, out of the smothering darkness. It seemed to be coming through several tiny chinks in the rocks. A rock slide must have plugged the way out. Infused with a sense of urgency, he scrabbled at the tumbled stone until his fingers became bloodied, surges of panic heaving through him with increasing frequency. A few smaller rocks tumbled loose, and the chink of light became a beam.

             
Heartened by his success, he pulled at the remaining rocks with all of his might. They stubbornly refused to yield and he heaved at them even harder. All of a sudden they gave way, cascading around him in a rush of noise and bounding, bruising stone. He covered his head with his arms as his body was pelted with stones of all sizes. A large rock crashed heavily against his leg, pinning him to the floor. He screamed in pain as his leg snapped. Other rocks slithered down over his body, encasing him in a cold, damp cocoon. The slide slowed and stopped, leaving him caught beneath an almost unbearable weight of rock. His shoulders and head were free, but his body was pinned in place.

             
His barely restrained panic threatened to overwhelm him, and it took everything he had to resist it. The pain in his leg was unbearable, but screaming and wriggling would cause the rock-fall to bury him completely. He controlled his breathing, keeping it slow and deep until his heart rate began to slow too. As the panic receded he tried to think of a way to get out of this situation.

             
His arms were still free, so he could try and carefully pick some of the smaller stones off him one by one, but that didn’t explain how he was going to get out from under the large rock that had crushed his leg. As if summoned by the thought, pain from his leg lanced through him, causing him to cry out. The slightest shift of position caused that sharp, hot pain to knife through him, so he tried to keep his lower body still as he began to lift the smaller rocks off his torso. The pain slowed him down, hindering him at every stage, but he worked with a fierce determination until his upper body was almost clear of debris. Sweat ran freely down his face as he tried to move a larger rock that was trapping his hip. He pushed it to one side, trying to roll it off his body. For long moments it teetered, but finally, with one last push, it rolled off him.

             
His moment of triumph was swamped by a fresh surge of terror as the rocks above him began to shift again. They had been held in place by the rock he’d just dislodged, and before he even had a chance to close his mouth, the bulk of the remaining rock-fall slid down over him, trapping him completely. Rimulth spit dust out of his mouth, yelling in anger and fright. What was he going to do? He was completely helpless. He shouted for help until his voice was hoarse, fighting back the waves of panic that threatened to engulf him once more. And then suddenly, his panic turned to anger. He didn’t want to die. This was a stupid way to go! What a waste of his life! He was furious at the futility of it. The rocks didn’t care that he was trapped under them. If only they would just
move
!

             
Two things happened simultaneously. One was that he felt a surge of something unknown, something powerful, rising from deep within him. The other was that a whole layer of rocks cascaded down the pile, rolling off onto the floor. He could feel them rolling over him, and the pile above him seemed perceptibly lighter. What had happened? They seemed to roll off at exactly the same moment he’d felt that unfamiliar sensation. And that sensation had occurred when he’d thought that the rocks should just
move.
Again, the unfamiliar sensation flowered in his belly, and more rocks cascaded down over him.

             
He was stunned, unwilling to believe. Could he be controlling this? What was this feeling in his belly? It seemed like a crazy thing to do but in his desperate situation, anything was worth a try. He summoned his will, imagining the rocks rolling off him at once, and spoke a single word:

             
“Move!” he said through gritted teeth, trying to put all of his willpower into the command. The unfamiliar sensation surged up from his belly, far more potent than before, and all around him rocks tumbled away. He was so surprised he almost lost his concentration, but he caught himself in time, keeping his will focused as the rocks fell off him until the last layer rolled away, and he was left exposed to the air. The heavy rock that was pinning his leg down was the last to move, and as it did so he felt a spike of agony so severe that black spots swam in front of his eyes. He tried to hold onto consciousness but the black spots came in a storm until his vision was completely obscured. Swamped by darkness, he passed into unconsciousness.

…

Rimulth came round to find himself lying on the floor of the sweat hut. He sat up in confusion, trying to orientate himself. He wasn’t in a cave, and his leg wasn’t broken, which was a mercy. And then it all made sense. The underground cave, the rock slide, it had all been part of his test – a test designed to bring out magical ability. Rimulth frowned. He’d certainly used something that could only be magic to move the rocks off him, but hadn’t that just been in his imagination? Did this mean he had the use of magic in realit
y? He didn’t know how to check.

             
Picking himself off the floor, he walked out of the sweat tent. He blinked rapidly at the bright daylight. It was so blinding to him that all colour was leeched out of the landscape. He shaded his eyes, waiting for them to adjust, and when they did, he saw the Dag-Mar waiting for him by the fire. He was smoking from his personal pipe, a much smaller and more ordinary version of the ornate one Rimulth had smoked from earlier. Rimulth walked over and took a seat opposite him on the ground.

             
“Tell me about your test,” the ageing shaman said in the abrupt manner Rimulth had come to expect from him.

             
“It was frightening. But surely you know what happens in it?” he responded in bemusement. If all shamans had to take this test to release their magical ability, then the Dag-Mar had also once faced the same challenge.

             
“In principle but not in detail,” the Dag-Mar said. “The berries have the power to create strong illusions, but it is your mind that crafts the vision itself. I had already woven spells around the sweat hut to make sure your vision would make you fearful and angry. The surest way to release magical talent in someone is to put them in a situation so dangerous that they call on their hidden reserves of magic in a moment of desperation.”

             
“It was horrible,” Rimulth said, shuddering at the memory of all that imprisoning rock.

             
“Yes it always is,” the Dag-Mar said sympathetically. “It was necessary, but you will never have to do this again.” Rimulth nodded in acceptance. It wasn’t his place to question the Dag-Mar. “Tell me of your test from start to finish. Don’t leave anything out.”

             
He did as he was asked, describing every detail, including his overwhelming fear. He would normally be ashamed to reveal such emotions, but as the test was designed to draw those feelings out, he wasn’t embarrassed. The Dag-Mar nodded in understanding as he spoke, stopping to ask a few clarifying questions, and when he described how he made the rocks move with his mind, the shaman smiled in satisfaction.

             
“You have the talent,” he said.

             
“But wasn’t all that just my imagination?” Rimulth asked.

             
The Dag-Mar smiled knowingly. He scooped a pebble up from the ground, holding it before Rimulth in his open palm. “Take it,” he said. Rimulth reached out his hand. “No!” the Dag-Mar admonished. “With your mind, as you did in the vision.”

             
Rimulth looked at the stone, trying not to sceptical. He focused on it, imagining a band of power like a curled finger and thumb encircling it, holding it in place. At first nothing happened, but he maintained his focus, willing it to happen. Suddenly, that unfamiliar rush of power stirred in his belly, uncoiling like a wild beast awaking from its winter sleep. It rushed up through him, eager to obey his command, flowing out along his thought and encircling the pebble. Without uttering a word or moving a muscle, he used the power flowing through him to lift the pebble off the Dag-Mar’s hand. It floated, unsupported by anything except magic.

             
He was so surprised that he lost his concentration. The flow of power faltered and the pebble fell to the ground. The Dag-Mar reached over and clasped one of his hands, and he was shocked to see tears standing in the old shaman’s eyes. “You have taken your first step on the path of magic, Rimulth. From this day onwards, your life is not your own, but will be lived in service to the Great Spirit and to your people.”

Ferast sat exposed on the barren peak of Sailor’s End. It was a huge island, battered by the
clashing tides of Widow’s Grief Cape, and only accessible by a single shale beach on the western side. Every year, many a vessel was driven against its sheer cliffs by storm-tossed seas, and the waters were said to be littered with the skeletons of a thousand sailors.

Ferast sat alone,
preserved from nature’s bite by a cocoon of protective magic. His spell-work might be able to keep the elements at bay, but it had no power to preserve him from self-doubt. He grimaced, considering his predicament. When he’d first set out from Helioport, he’d been so confident that he would find Shirukai Sestin. It had seemed so simple - inevitable even, like destiny - but months had passed and he was still no nearer to finding the renegade magician.

His first
destination had been the Bottomless Sands, but when he’d arrived there, it hadn’t taken long to realize that Shirukai Sestin was not in residence. It was just a dangerous stretch of inhospitable desert, separating two well-travelled trade routes from each other. Ferast’s magic had preserved him from the sucking sink-holes that kept other people out of the area, but after travelling the length and breadth of the arid region, looking for signs of the renegade magician, he’d been forced to conclude that there was nothing there except sand and a few stunted trees.

He’d quickly departed, and travelled south to Sailor’s End, hoping his second d
estination would turn out to be Sestin’s hideaway. He’d placed a local sailor under a compulsion, forcing the helpless old sea-dog to ferry him out to the island, but after scouring the barren rock from end to end, he’d found nothing once again.

Squatting on the cold, hard rock, Ferast battled to
overcome a rising sense of desperation. What if Sestin wasn’t in the Haunted Citadel? What if he never found him? Fear reared up from within, threatening to destroy his resolve. Furious with himself for such weak-mindedness, Ferast pushed his doubts aside, stood up and began to stride down off the peak. He would get back in the boat, sail back to the mainland, and head north to the Haunted Citadel, where he would find Shirukai Sestin. He should have gone there in the first place. It was reputed to be haunted by evil spirits, and after Sestin’s attack on the college the previous year, Ferast knew that the renegade had an interest in demons. Any lingering doubt melted away in the fierce heat of his conviction. Yes, he would find his new master in the Haunted Citadel.

…

Gaspi was excited. In two weeks’ time, Hephistole would arrive to pick him up and take him back to Helioport, and more importantly to Emmy. He had grown to appreciate the taciturn druid and the profound lessons he taught, but as the time to go home drew near, his waking moments were most often filled with thoughts of the girl he loved. He just couldn’t wait to be with her again. A small part of him worried that she might not have missed him as much as he missed her, but whenever that thought arose, he banished it straight away. He’d learned a painful lesson the previous year about giving in to his insecurities, and Emmy gave him no reason to distrust her. 

It seemed like his time with Heath was coming to a natural end anyway. The druid had explained that once you knew the basics, and started to use elemental magic, you could only build on that knowledge through years of practice. Druidry was, after all, more of a relationship than a science; a relationship with nature and with elemental spirits. It was all about mutual respect and the willingness to yield your power and control. Since Gaspi had bonded with the earth spirit, Heath had slowly introduced him to more complex healings. When healing trees and plants, he worked exclusively with the earth spirit he had bonded with, but when healing birds and animals, he worked with water spirits. Heath had said something about living bodies being made mostly of water, but Gaspi hadn
’t really understood what he meant, and the druid couldn’t explain it beyond what his experience and instincts told him.