The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (29 page)

Karryl’s brow furrowed. “Suppose I’m never ready. Suppose I fail my final tests.”

The little magician gave an enigmatic smile. “Don’t worry. You won’t fail.”

At that moment Karryl knew that somewhere, sometime, Ghian had heard those same words. He pushed his hands into his pockets and, crossing to the window, stood looking out through the bare branches of the great oak to the winding stony lane and the rooftops of the distant barracks. Like a small ember being fanned into a flame, a deep resolve began to burn within him as he thought of all those who had been instrumental in helping him to reach this moment. His jaw set with determination that Ghian would find in him a more than worthy adversary, he turned away from the window, to see Symon with the grey cat on his lap, both watching him intently.

He gestured towards the door of his room. “You might say I have a bit of studying to do.”

Symon nodded. “I quite agree and I think a fresh cup of tea will help the process along nicely.”

With the cat cradled in his arms he stood up and headed for the kitchen, his agile mind already plotting the new course Karryl would be following for the next few years.

Succumbing to a most persuasive argument from Symon, his old friend, court magician and advisor, King Vailin had agreed to give over a large but unused dining hall in an older part of the palace. There, Karryl spent a part of most days in practical work, sometimes accompanied by Symon, but more often than not on his own. Much of his time was taken up practising the casting of spells, formulating constructs and spell-weaving, but his agile mind also enabled him to introduce modifications and improvements to some of the older spells. He flew through his second and third year exams, in one case quite literally, much to the great consternation of his more traditional and dyed-in-the-wool examiners.

After almost three years of studies and examinations, Symon decided his young apprentice ought to see more of the world on which he seemed destined to have some effect. To that end he took him travelling.

The urgency and euphoria of that epiphanic New Year’s night, and the year which followed, gradually slipped into the deeper recesses of Karryl’s memory. In the company of Symon, he continued to gain the strength and knowledge his mentor insisted he would need for the task which lay before him.

Together they travelled the length and breadth of Teloria, even journeying down into the cold white wastes of Altanica, and across to the colourfully diverse southern regions of the Ingalian continent, meeting and working with other magicians, learning new spells, and different slants on old and established ones. Karryl even discovered to his surprise, that some magicians, working completely independently of any of the four recognised disciplines, made quite a handsome living from practising what they called ‘free magic’.

Symon expressed his disapproval in no uncertain terms. “They’re wilders, as you once were. If they were in Albita, they would be made to conform or banished, and I would suggest, for what I hope are obvious reasons, that you have nothing to do with them.”

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.