Nature's Servant (51 page)

“That was an unbelievably brave thing to do,” Trask said, scratching at his grizzled beard. “I’ll have to send in someone to verify your story, but I believe you Jonn.”

“Thank you,” Jonn said, gratified that Trask had taken him at his word.

“I know my men,” Trask said and stood up to leave. “Just one question though. What were you doing drinking in the Thieves’ Quarter?” he asked. Jonn didn’t want to expose his weakness to Trask. He admired the drillmaster and wanted to keep his reputation intact in his eyes. Masking his discomfort, he just shrugged.

“Just seeing what was going on.”

Trask looked at him intently for long moments, as if searching for something specific. “Jonn, if you need to talk about anything, you know where I am okay?” he said in a tone that was somewhere close to fatherly. Jonn almost spilled his guts right there and then, but just he couldn’t do it.

“I know,” he said simply. “Thanks.”

“Alright,” Trask said. “You rest up. Take a few days off, and come back when you’re ready.”

“Thanks Tobias,” Jonn said. Trask made a gruff noise and left the room. Jonn wondered exactly what Trask suspected about him. He might consider talking to him about his problems, but for now, unless he failed to find a way to deal with things, he wanted to keep his difficulties to himself. Pushing dark thoughts aside, he felt an overwhelming desire to see the girl he’d rescued. What was it Petr had said? She was “wounded in the mind?” Perhaps there was something else he could do for her. Sleep beckoned, pulling him down with irresistible fingers, and Jonn didn’t fight it, but his last thoughts as he drifted off were of the woman who looked so much like the wife of his youth, a wife he’d failed to save from the hands of cruel men.

…

When he awoke he felt strong enough to get up. A pile of his clothes sat neatly at the end of the bed, and he figured that Trask must have sent them up from the barracks. A bowl of steaming water sat on a small brazier in the corner of the room, along with a section of guerny root and a small pot to spit the juice into. He washed as quickly as he could and chewed vigorously on the root, spitting out the almost minty juices once he was happy that the furry texture in his mouth had been scrubbed away. He pulled on his clothes and left the room, which was neither guarded nor locked, and stepped out into the corridor. There were five similar rooms next to his own, all unoccupied. He figured that they were cells for injured criminals who needed tending to before the normal procedure of arrest and incarceration could begin. Once they were healed they’d be transferred to Helioport’s prison, an ugly building set against the city’s outer wall. As was the case across the continent of Antropel, magicians were forbidden from interfering with the rule of law, so their presence didn’t serve as a deterrent to crime. Just like any city of its size, Helioport had a criminal underworld, and its fair share of seedy and dangerous districts.

He wandered down the corridor towards the larger rooms he’d seen on previous visits to the infirmary, looking for the woman he’d rescued. A healer walked past him, but instead of asking for help he just walked on, looking into each room as he passed by. For some reason he wanted to find her on his own. He finally found her in a large private room near the main entrance. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed and her arms neatly tucked into her sides. The perfectly smooth bed sheets showed that she hadn’t moved in some time.

He walked tentatively through the open door and over to the bed. His breath caught in his throat as he looked at her. He saw now why he’d thought that she was the woman he’d once called his love. She had the same shade of pale blond hair, the same high cheekbones and strong, well-defined nose. Her lips were fuller than Rhetta’s had been and her ears smaller, but apart from that, they looked exactly the same. He pulled up a chair and sat down, mesmerised by the young woman. How old was she? Twenty? Twenty five? Certainly no older. She was beautiful too, and not just because she looked like Rhetta. He doubted one man in a hundred would think otherwise.

He sat there for a long while, wondering who she was, why she was with those men, and what had brought her from far-flung lands. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt that this young woman was a lifeline for him. Maybe if he visited her every day until she awoke, whenever that was, it would preserve him from introspection, and when she came around, he would do anything he could to help her. That is, if she would let him.

Gaspi sat at the desk in Hephistole’s office, waiting for the unusually business-like chancellor to speak. There wasn’t much of the normal sense of fun evident in his manner as he leafed through loose sheets of heavily annotated parchment.

“Sorry to keep you waiting Gaspi,” he said, flicking him a momentary glance. “Pour yourself some tea and I’ll be right with you.”

Gaspi picked up the ornate silver teapot sitting on the desk between them and poured a steaming cup of the amber liquid into a cup. From its fragrance, he knew it was Hephistole’s “thinking tea,” a drink that helped focus the mind, which certainly helped explain the chancellor’s mood.

He took a large sip of the tea, which was still much too hot to drink. Making an open circle with his mouth, he frantically sucked in mouthfuls of air, rolling the scalding liquid around his tongue until it had cooled down. Hephistole looked up from his papers, watching him with an amused expression.

“Bit hot is it?” he asked innocently.

Gaspi swallowed the mouthful of tea. “Not at all,” he answered with a straight face. Hephistole released a single burst of his bark-like laughter and pushed the pile of parchment into the centre of the desk.

“I want to talk to you about the Measure,” he said, “along with a few other things you may wish to be made aware of.”

“Okay,” Gaspi said.

“Firstly, there is the matter of transport,” the chancellor continued. “As you well know, travelling through the countryside can be dangerous these days.” Gaspi nodded vigorously, remembering the Snatcher that had attacked them on the road to Heath’s forest home. “And you’ll also know I’ve been working on some new developments in magical transportation, based on the enchanted device the Warg used to escape us last summer.” Again Gaspi nodded. He thought he saw where this was going.

“I have an old friend, a colleague shall we say, who lives in a village less than ten miles from Arkright,” the chancellor continued.

“Arkright?” Gaspi asked. The name rang a bell but he couldn’t quite place it.

“It’s the site of the Measure,” Hephistole answered. “One of the oldest towns in the whole of Antropel. It’s not big by modern standards but by ancient tradition it’s always been the site of the Measure. I’ve discovered a way to link enchanted objects so they can act like a lodestone – one will always transport to the other. About a month ago I sent a runner to my friend, carrying one of a set of four linked devices. We can use it to transport you straight there, and straight back again afterwards!”

“Oh,” Gaspi said, a bit disappointed.

Hephistole looked at him quizzically. “You don’t approve?”

Gaspi thought for a moment. “No it’s not really that. I mean, Heath wouldn’t approve. He’d think it was unnatural, zipping over hundreds of miles like that. But that’s not what bothers me.”

“What
does
bother you?” Hephistole asked, clearly baffled by Gaspi’s reaction to what he considered to be a great advance in the field of magical transportation.

Gaspi shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I just like travelling,” he said. “If we just appear at Arkright, we’ll miss out on all the stuff in-between.”

Hephistole looked at him blankly for a moment and slowly broke into a smile. “I think your reasons are more similar to Heath’s than you might realise.”

Gaspi thought about that for a moment and nodded. “I guess so.”

“There’s wisdom in what you say Gaspi,” Hephistole said, “but in this case it is too dangerous to expose you to the dangers of travel, for reasons you know about and one you do not.”

“What’s that?” Gaspi asked, unnerved by the sudden gravity of Hephistole’s tone.

Hephistole took another sip of tea. “As well as studying transportation, I’ve spent much of the last year acquainting myself with the quite foul topic of demonology,” he said with obvious distaste. That made sense. After last year’s demonic incursion, and the attack of the Snatcher on the road, it was obviously something they needed to know about.

“Most reputable institutions destroy any books on such matters,” he continued, his natural storyteller’s voice low and hypnotic, “so there have been many dead ends, but due to a combination of persistence and no small measure of luck, I’ve finally managed to get hold of a tome that led me to discover the nature of the demons we faced last year.” He opened a desk draw and retrieved a pair of thin leather gloves. After pulling them on, he removed a large book from another drawer, placing it carefully on the table between them. Gaspi leaned away from it, instinctively repulsed by its scaly, flaky appearance. It may once have been pale in colour but after centuries of grease and grime, it was a mottled, dirty shade of brown.

“You’re right to be wary. I’m afraid to say it is written on human skin, and bound in the same,” Hephistole said flatly. “It is a foul thing, written in blood by a madman under horrific circumstances I won’t go into. There are some things a young mind doesn’t need to imagine,” he said, and for once, Gaspi’s curiosity was not in any way piqued.

He repressed a shudder, and looked away from the hideous object. “What did you learn from it?” he asked. Hephistole placed the book back in the drawer and peeled off his gloves, dropping them in a waste basket at his feet.

“The creatures that attacked us last year are called Bale-beasts, demons from the underworld whose sole purpose is to drain the magical energy out of any human with magical talent. They hunger, driven to feed and then to feed again, until they cannot feed anymore.”

“What happens when they’re full?” Gaspi asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“They enter a kind of pupa state, much like certain insects encase themselves in a cocoon while they prepare for their final manifestation. The Bale-beasts transform into a much more deadly kind of demon known as a Darkman. If the Bale-beasts are foul, they are nothing compared to the Darkmen they can become.”

“That’s what happened in Rimulth’s village,” Gaspi hissed in realisation, shuddering once again as a numbing chill ran up from the base of his spine all the way to his skull.

“Indeed,” Hephistole said. “A Darkman is already in this plane.”

“What can it do?” Gaspi asked quietly.

“A Darkman is the ultimate assassin,” Hephistole answered through tight lips, as if unwilling to speak. “Its body has natural weaponry – bony blades that spring from its wrists. It is stronger than any man and moves like a striking snake. Any wound it deals is infected with a deadly poison that destroys both the body and the soul. If the writer of this dark tome is to be believed, a Darkman’s victim will not move on after their death. Their soul is corrupted by the Darkman’s touch, and they are doomed to haunt the living forever, unable to pass through to the afterlife, whatever that might be. They live in torment, in a permanent state of corruption and spiritual decay.”

“But that means the warrior the Darkman killed in Eagle’s Roost is still trapped,” Gaspi said, horrified.

“That is something I suggest we keep from Rimulth,” Hephistole said gravely.

“But what if we kill the Darkman?” Gaspi asked urgently, gripping the arms of his chair with whitened knuckles. “Won’t that reverse it?”

“We can certainly hope that is the case, but it would be inadvisable to seek out this demon, even in pursuit of so noble a cause.”

“But we have to try!” Gaspi said loudly, angry that Hephistole showed any kind of reluctance.

“Patience Gaspi,” Hephistole said. “I commend you for your compassion, but if we run at this head on we may end up failing in everything we are trying to do. I do not think we will be able to avoid this demon forever. If Sestin has gained control of such a creature he will turn it on us sooner or later, of that you can be assured. We will get our chance to destroy this Darkman, but for now we need to carry on with what we’ve planned. We need to be ready when the time comes.”

“But won’t Sestin send it straight away?” Gaspi asked.

“He is unlikely to have full control of it yet,” Hephistole said. “The Darkman is a powerful being. According to the writings of our madman, it will resist becoming his slave with all of its might. But eventually, if it cannot kill him, it will probably give in, if only in the knowledge that doing its master’s bidding will eventually lead to its return to the underworld.”

“But why would Sestin ever let it go when he could keep it as a slave?” Gaspi asked.

“It will take powerful magic to control a Darkman. I imagine Sestin will use it for a specific purpose and then let it go,” Hephistole explained.

Gaspi sat back in his chair, taking in what Hephistole had told him. All in all, with a deadly killer demon on the loose, was this the best time to go running off to fight in a tournament?

“I’m just not sure if we should be going to the Measure,” he said, voicing his doubts. “What if this Darkman attacks the city when we’re not here to help defend it?”