The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (32 page)

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 back 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.”

All around them, both on the shimmering roadway and amongst the rubble below, the villagers, regardless of any injury or discomfort they may have been suffering, had dropped to their knees. Foreheads pressed to the ground, they remained unmoving as their voices filled the air around them with a high-pitched yet melodious keening.

The two magicians remained standing, as they gazed into the distance. Eventually Symon inclined his head in a brief but respectful gesture. Karryl followed suit, then they waited.

From within the protective circle of a dozen heavily armed Ingali warriors, a tall figure emerged. Even at distance and with night falling, the clear mountain air afforded Karryl a good enough view to be impressed.

The muscular body shone with gold. A cape of white, black and golden feathers hung loosely from the broad shoulders to the narrow hips. The left hand gripped the gold haft of a spear, longer than he was tall. As he moved it, the last rays of sunlight drew glints and flashes of pure white light from its glittering head.

Karryl’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Is that spear-head what I think it is?”

Symon suppressed the urge to pat his palms together. Folding his hands inside the sleeves of his robe he squinted up towards the Ingali king.

A hint of yearning coloured his reply. “We could be looking at the world’s largest cut and polished diamond.”

Coloured with a vengeful bitterness, a powerful voice carried across the valley, booming off the mountaintops, and echoing and re-echoing around the sides. To Karryl’s surprise, the words were in ancient Ingali. Then he remembered what Kimi had told him. Only those of the royal houses spoke the ancient tongue. He concentrated on the king’s words, translating for Symon at the same time.

“Hear me, my people! This thing that has befallen you is not of the gods’ doing. I Qitzaqli alone among you know who has caused it. They shall be punished according to our laws.”

A great sigh of approval rose from the still kneeling crowd. Karryl began to feel more than a little uncomfortable as the Ingali king continued. “Let those responsible for this cruel deed be brought before me.”

Karryl tensed and Symon drew in power, as most of the Ingali men rose to their feet and headed towards them.

The king’s voice stopped them in their tracks “No! They shall not be harmed.”

Quickly the men turned and fell to their knees once more. Qitzaqli’s voice thundered in Karryl’s head. “You will bring forward the Mirikanis, magician Karryl.”

Startled, Karryl bit his tongue, instantly feeling the metallic tang of blood against his palate.

Qitzaqli sounded amused. “It should be of no surprise to you, that I know you, magician Karryl. Kimitan-paridi-na is eldest of my brother’s sons. Release now, the Mirikani on yonder ledge, and bring the pair to me. Together we will discover the reason for this atrocity.”

Karryl had no time to reply. Another voice, softer and more urgent, entered his mind. “You have to get these people off the road, Karryl. Grandfather needs to release it.”

Surprised at his own audacity, Karryl raised his voice, the melodious yet slightly guttural ancient language rolling easily off his tongue. “Great king, pure of blood, strong of heart. First allow your people to reach safety. Sirimina-makeli-lo wishes to remove the road of living light on which they stand. It’s time is almost over.”

It was the Qitzaqli’s turn to be surprised. “You have the ear of the goddess?”

“Yes, and she’s beginning to get rather concerned.”

With a gesture to his phalanx of guards, the Ingali king stepped to one side. Resplendent in feathered head-dress and bronze arm-bands, one of the guards strode through the small crowd to stand at the edge of the escarpment. Spear raised high in the air, he beckoned those still remaining on the road to move forward. Able-bodied carried or supported injured as the survivors headed in a stumbling run for the escarpment. Karryl looked round for Morchelas. The Mirikani was standing motionless a few feet behind him, abject terror drawn large on his tiny face.

Symon flicked a finger as he gave Karryl a nudge. “You go on up with the villagers. I’ll take care of the twins.”

Unable to curb his curiosity, Karryl stepped up to Morchelas and waved a hand in front of the Mirikani’s face. The little man neither flinched nor moved. With a shrug, Karryl turned, flashed Symon a grin, then hurried forward to gather up a bawling, dirt-streaked child in tattered clothing. The child’s mother, a young woman with a babe in arms, gave him an anguished half-smile. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she hurried along beside Karryl towards safety.

* * *

Less than a dozen people remained near the top of the road of light when the lowest few feet began to disperse. Karryl watched it gradually melt away a few inches at a time, revealing the rubble and broken ground below it. Last off the road was the old man hauled from the shaft on Karryl’s magically crafted rope. Clutching a torn blanket around his thin body, he hobbled painfully, blood seeping out of a gash in his lower leg. As soon as he had both feet on solid ground, the road vanished. The ensuing awed silence was intermittently broken by the shuffle of feet, an involuntary sob or a dusty cough. On the far side of the escarpment, Qitzaqli consulted quietly with a counsellor, also resplendent in feathered headdress and armbands of highly decorated and polished silver. The counsellor would occasionally look across at Karryl and nod, as if in agreement with something his king had said.

Pretending not to notice, Karryl looked across to the far side of the valley. He could just make out the ledge where Conjiber still moodily prowled, restricted by Symon’s containment spell. As if on cue, Symon materialised at the far end of the ledge. He stood, one hand slightly raised as Conjiber scurried towards him.

Karryl let his gaze wander over the destruction below. A tongue of orange flame danced briefly above a jumble of broken timbers and shattered stonework, to be followed by thin curling wisps of dark grey smoke. Karryl’s chest tightened, his throat constricting with grief and anger as his memory called up vivid images of the unspoilt mountain village as it had been only hours before.

“Magician Karryl. Attend me.”

His attention diverted by the commanding tones of the Ingali king, Karryl turned, suppressing a grimace. Taking advantage of a high, flat-topped outcrop, the king now stood surrounded by his courtiers, overlooking his subjects and the devastated valley. A phalanx of stern-faced warriors stood below, spears aslant from an outward facing semi-circle. Feeling Qitzaqli’s eyes on him, Karryl strode forward, keeping a tight control on his rapidly rising anger. The villagers hurriedly shuffled backwards to let him through, their bedraggled ranks closing behind him again as he passed.

He sensed their confusion and despair, seething inwardly that no provision was yet being made for their comfort. Fists clenched against his sides, Karryl stood in front of the semi-circle of Ingali warriors and looked defiantly up at this petty king. At that moment the Ingali’s attention shifted to focus on a point somewhere to Karryl’s rear. The young magician turned. Closely followed by a grim-faced Symon, the two Mirikani moved slowly and reluctantly towards him. Unable to suppress a satisfied smile, Karryl returned his attention to Qitzaqli.

With the speed of startled deer, the Mirikani twins turned, dodged round Symon, and bolted. Immediately, a well-rehearsed move brought the guards surging forward to surround the two magicians. His line of sight blocked, Symon could only stand helpless as the Mirikani sprinted towards the edge of the precipice.

Karryl, a good head taller than any of the guards, grasped the little magician’s arm. “They think the road’s still there!” His eyes wide with anguish, he threw his head back and bawled up into the air. “D’ta! DO something…please!”

A loud crackle of power flew from Symon’s hands, sending the Ingali guards staggering backwards. Symon began to run. In half a dozen long-legged strides, Karryl had overtaken him. The Mirikani were scant yards ahead. Obscured by a wide band of blue light, the edge of the precipice began to shimmer. Almost as fast as they were running, it began to spread downwards, its edges rippling and flaring. The Mirikani were almost on it.

Horrified, Karryl yelled after them. “No-o-o! Stop!”

The leading edge of the road wavered and dipped. Joining hands, Conjiber and Morchelas sped across the rim of the precipice. The half-formed road of light rippled, shuddered violently, then began to fold along its length. Skidding to a halt, Karryl stared aghast. Ragged holes appearing in the road now revealed the devastation a hundred feet below. The twins staggered to a walk, stopped, and turned. Beneath their tiny booted feet the blue surface wavered, thinned, and vanished. Still holding hands, the Mirikani fell, their high-pitched screams echoing and re-echoing from the sheer walls and shattered peaks. Directly below them, a wide crevice gaped at the darkening sky. As if steered by the relentless hand of doom, the Mirikani hurtled down into the dark, shadowed maw. Kneeling on the edge of the escarpment, the two magicians watched the final act in stunned silence. Preceded by a deep and prolonged subterranean rumbling, the stressed jaws of the crevice shuddered, slipped, and grated ponderously shut.

Karryl’s anguished eyes questioned. Almost imperceptibly, Symon shook his head. Hot, thirsty, dirty, and near exhaustion, the young magician scrambled unsteadily to his feet. He reached down and hauled Symon up, the effort almost bringing him to his knees again. Slowly, the pair turned round. A hundred yards away, the Ingali king stood unmoving on his flat-topped rock. Glancing off his gold ornaments and diamond sceptre, the flickering light of a dozen torches turned him into a fire hued demon. A more immediate threat stood directly in front of the two magicians. Spear points once again in line with their throats, they found themselves trapped between a dozen or more Ingali warriors and the edge of the escarpment. Casting protocol to the winds, Karryl lifted his arms high and wide, his face a study in bitter disbelief.

Raising his voice, he addressed the Ingali king directly. “Qitzaqli, the deed is done! Nothing anyone can do, save the gods, will bring back who and what is lost. These people,
your
people, need food, rest and a place of shelter. There is a time for all things, and the time for retribution is not now.”

Karryl softened his tone a little. “There will be time enough later to discover the truth and dispense justice. The goddess has seen fit to provide these people with a means of escape. Would you insult her by demeaning her work and prolonging their suffering?”

From the corner of his eye he saw Symon move up close beside him, but his gaze remained firmly fixed on Qitzaqli.

Symon gave Karryl’s elbow a nudge as he hissed “You can’t do this. You’ll get us killed.”

Karryl’s gaze never wavered as he dropped his voice to a murmur. “I’ve said what I had to say. I may be no diplomat, but let’s see what sort of a king he is.”

A dozen spearheads slowly moved uncomfortably close to Karryl’s throat. Refusing to flinch, he lifted his head higher and locked eyes with Qitzaqli. Like glistening shards of black basalt, the Ingali king’s steady gaze threatened to pierce Karryl’s brain.

Vibrant with the timbre of controlled fury, his voice surged into the young magician’s mind, the archaic strength of the ancient language adding potency to the words. “There is some truth in what you say. Even so, the matter will be resolved according to our customs.”

Karryl’s brain screamed a protest, but Qitzaqli’s mental strength forced him down. The Ingali king paused, and Karryl struggled to overcome the bitterness and contempt projected into his mind. Still, he held that dark gaze.

Qitzaqli went on, as in tense and awestruck silence, his people watched and waited. “It is my belief that some malevolent power guided you here with intent to destroy you. The attempt has failed, but my people have been made to suffer as a consequence. Despite the efforts you have both made to help my people, you will be punished according to our laws.”

Karryl opened his mouth to protest vocally. A sharp pain stabbed him between his eyes, destroying his train of thought. Qitzaqli’s cruelly handsome features loomed enormous in his vision. His head suddenly felt hollow and his mouth was dry. The Ingali king’s piercing gaze moved briefly from Karryl to Symon before he turned and murmured something in the ear of his counsellor. The man nodded. Silver bracelets glinted as he stepped forward. Raising his right hand, palm forward, he addressed the space above the magicians’ heads.

His voice carried in the clear air, echoing from the surrounding mountain peaks. “For those who bring death to our people, the only fitting punishment is death.”

His expression inscrutable, Symon remained perfectly still, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. Cocking his head to one side, he flicked a sidelong glance up at the Ingali king, then shifted his glance to the looming guards.

From the side of his mouth he murmured “The best thing we can do is get away from here as soon as is humanly possible.”

Sliding his hands out of his sleeves, the little magician bowed to Qitzaqli. The Ingali king remained stone-faced and unmoving. His dark eyes once again locked onto Qitzaqli’s, Karryl gave him a brief twisted smile. Bowing insolently low to the Ingali king, he turned and firmly gripped Symon’s forearm. The king signalled, the warriors lunged. Their viciously barbed spears found only empty air.