A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (16 page)

Leaving Megan to graze on the grasses which had colonised a long low mound of soil, the remains of an old landslip, Corlin delved in the saddlebags for something to eat. Armed with a chunk of bread that was a little dry at the edges, the last small piece of hard cheese and an apple, he made himself comfortable on a large flat sun-warmed rock.

He almost dropped the cheese as a voice called out “You did well!”

Instantly on his guard, Corlin looked round for the owner of the voice. With the sun in his eyes it was a moment or two before he spotted the man standing beside his horse on the far side of the river about fifty yards distant. Corlin was certain there was a braided leather band round the man’s wide-brimmed hat.

Determined to find out who this obviously accomplished traveller was, Corlin stood up on the rock, waved and called “How do I get over there?”

Hat-band pointed to his horse, then to the water in front of him. “You can walk across.”

His curiosity roused, Corlin turned and slithered down off the rock. When he looked up, hat-band and horse had disappeared. After finishing his frugal lunch at the river’s edge, Corlin walked slowly along the length of shingle, his brow furrowed. Looking down into the shallow but fast-flowing water, at last he saw what the man meant. Lying about a foot deep, and set into the river bed, was a road. Slabs of blue-grey stone, each about a yard square, had, in an age long past, been laid closely together across the river in three rows. Time and the power of the water had shifted them from their original straight course, leaving some of the slabs tilted and cracked, but even so the ancient causeway was useable, with care.

Back in the saddle, Corlin let Megan set her own pace as, sure-footed as ever, she picked her way over the water-riven stones. Only when they were safely on the other side was he able to see how hat-band had managed his disappearing act. At the back of the shingle beach, an outcrop of rock concealed a stony track leading away from the river and into a narrow gorge running at right-angles to it. Cut off from sunlight by the sheer walls of the gorge, Corlin followed the track as it wound upwards on a shallow incline for about a mile before suddenly emerging from deep shadow into sunlight and onto an open windswept plateau. In the far distance he could see a broad saddle-backed ridge, and beyond that the brown tell-tale scar of a wide but tortuous road leading into the looming peaks beyond. There was no sign of the rider with the braided hat-band. Pulling his own hat firmly onto his head, Corlin kneed Megan forward, and with the meagre warmth of the late winter sun on his back, headed towards the mountains.

By the time the sun had set, the deep grooves and ridges of the rocky plateau had been navigated without much difficulty and Corlin was well on his way across the saddle-back. A keen north-westerly wind cut constantly across it and he was eager to get off the ridge with its vertiginous drop on either side and onto the mountain road. Another half hour of riding brought him, in near darkness, to the end of the ridge. Ahead of him, a broad upward sloping field littered with rocks and massive boulders lay spread around the foot of a towering peak of naked rock. His heart sank. The mountain road was no longer visible, and he knew that moonrise was still a few hours away. Some distance ahead and slightly to his right a light flickered and died. Corlin reined in, and sat staring at the spot. The light flickered again, but this time it flared and expanded, dancing and leaping in the darkness like some demented mountain sprite. Someone had lit a fire. Then he saw something he had seen before. Quietly and steadily it floated towards him; a Grollart light orb. Not sure what to expect, he eased Megan forward, the floating light keeping pace a few feet ahead, occasionally changing course as it led the way over the rocks and through clumps of stunted windswept shrubs.

Crouched beside the fire was a Grollart. Like Browd, he wore a cloak of skins from small furry animals, but Corlin suspected that this Grollart had only used rabbits. There was also no sign of ornamental gold discs and, like Browd, his face was adorned with long moustaches but unlike Browd, he had no beard.

Corlin reined in a yard or two away and raised his hand in greeting. “Well met, friend Grollart.”

The Grollart raised his own hand but didn’t stand up. “Well met, traveller, but only if you have something for us.”

The minstrel leaned forward over his saddlebow. “Now, that depends on what it is that you want.”

Seeming reluctant to leave his place behind the fire, the Grollart beckoned. “Come down from your horse, enjoy the fire and we can talk about it.”

Corlin felt uncomfortable. There was something about the way the Grollart spoke, as if he was having difficulty forming the words, that put the minstrel on edge. He reached down and loosened the strap holding the staff given him by Alexander’s magician, eased his left foot out of the stirrup...and froze. For just an instant the Grollart’s body seemed to quiver and distort. Megan trembled and Corlin blinked.

His eyes reflecting the flames, the Grollart smiled up at him. “You are tired, traveller. Come down and rest.”

Corlin shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but...”

In the time it took Corlin to draw breath, the Grollart changed, his body expanding outward and upward, his limbs transforming to lashing tentacles as his bloated form rose into the air. Sucking the flames of the fire inwards until they became part of him, he hovered over Corlin, an unearthly screech of pure hatred issuing from a misshapen black void which served as a mouth for the flame-engorged creature. Corlin could see the rock face through parts of its body, but he was in no mood to hang around and admire the scenery. Yanking Megan’s head round he kicked her into a gallop, her hooves drumming over the rocky field, the wind roaring in his ears as he urged her towards the saddle-back ridge. Expecting any second to be swallowed by flame or dragged from the saddle by writhing tentacles, Corlin kept low against Megan’s neck. A coruscating bolt of brilliant blue light speared out of the darkness ahead and streaked past him towards the screeching apparition. The air around him quivered and for a second his breath was denied him as shadowless light, brighter than the mid-day sun, obscured everything around him in a flat featureless glare. A split second later the deafening crack of detonation threatened to lift him from his saddle as it momentarily assaulted his eardrums. He barely heard the hoof-beats alongside until an arm reached out to grasp Megan’s bridle and bring them to a halt.

Ears ringing and eyes half-blind with after-glow, Corlin gasped as he stretched out a hand towards his mysterious ally. “What
was
that? Gods! I thought...” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what I thought.”

The man with the braided hat-band turned both horses round and headed back across the rock field towards the lurid glow still pulsing feebly at the base of the mountain. In the darkness Corlin was unable to see what the man did, but the glowing lump jerked, uttered a high-pitched squeal and vanished in a streak of acidic-yellow smoke.

His voice low, his tone tense, the man turned to Corlin. “That was a Morghel. It takes some serious magic to summon one and compel it to serve.”

Corlin sighed and squinted as he tried to adjust his vision. “So why did it pretend it wanted to help me?”

The reply followed a short hoarse chuckle. “The item you have cannot be taken by force. It can only be handed over willingly. However, it was something else that you carry which proved to be his undoing.”

Corlin frowned into the darkness. “I thought you did that.”

There was a hint of satisfaction in the other’s voice. “I just finished him off. You bear the item that revealed him. Now, stop for the night and get some rest.”

Before the minstrel could reply, a small dot of light appeared, hovering in the air and growing larger until it was the size of a child’s fist. It gave just enough light for Corlin to see the man with the braided hat-band sitting his horse a few feet away.

The man gestured towards the base of the mountain. “There’s a cave over there. It contains no creature comforts but it will be safe enough. You’ll have long enough to get settled before the light dies.”

Corlin looked towards the cave entrance, barely visible in the soft glow of the magical light. Relieved that Megan had at last stopped trembling, he swung down from the saddle and turned to thank the man for his help. He also wanted to ask whether he had seen any sign of Otty, but both man and horse had vanished. A few sparkling blue motes swirled briefly in the air before they too winked out. Suddenly Corlin felt very tired and a little confused, but the hundred questions whirling round in his brain threatened to keep him from sleep. He hurried Megan into the cave. True to his word, hat-band’s light faded out just as Corlin had Megan unsaddled and both of them settled for the night. As he rested his head on the saddle, it never occurred to him to wonder why the cave was so comfortably warm. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

A number of things conspired to ensure that Corlin was awake. A depressing grey daylight and the hiss of a torrential downpour carried with them the rapid clatter of hooves. These were closely followed by the bustle and hurry of a man leading his horse into the cold gloomy refuge of the cave. Instantly alerted by the noise, Corlin had grabbed his staff and scrambled to his feet.

With the staff gripped in both hands across his body, he relaxed a little as the dark figure framed in the cave’s entrance stepped towards him. “I hope you weren’t planning to use that.”

Corlin forced a grin as he leaned the staff against the cave wall. “Only if you’re about to turn into a thoroughly nasty fire-swallowing thing with whips for arms.”

Otty’s mouth gave a wry twist. “Give me a bellyful of corn liquor and I might.”

Corlin gave a short bark of a laugh and ducked out of the cave to ease his bursting bladder over a nearby clump of stubby grass. Glad as he was that Otty was safe, Corlin wasn’t sure he was all that pleased to see him. Already the minstrel was hoping that the stocky man would go on ahead or perhaps turn back. Dodging back into the cave he was relieved to see that his gimalin was still secure behind Otty’s saddle, and was now wrapped in some kind of what he took to be animal skin instead of the blue cloth. He stood beside him, shoulders hunched, and the pair watched the rain hammering down, turning hollows in the ground into pools which overflowed and streamed away in bubbling rivulets over the tiers and ridges. Finding the sight too depressing, Corlin folded his saddle-blanket into a cushion and sat on the floor, his back against the cave wall.

He looked up at Otty who was still watching the rain. “So, where did you spend the night?”

The stocky man gestured out across the rock-field towards the distant dark hazy mass of the pine forest. “In the middle of that forest back there. It got too dark to see where we were going, so I had no choice. There was plenty of bedding though; all those pine needles.”

Corlin allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. “You didn’t see anybody then?”

Otty turned and shook his head. “Not a soul after I left Tallard. Anyway, how did you find your way here? It took me ages to find the track.”

There was something too casual about the question, and Corlin made a snap decision. He wouldn’t mention the cat. “Once I found the way up, I relied on Megan and kept my eyes open. Anyway, you made good time. None of it was what you’d call easy.” He changed the subject. “Did you find out anything about what happened in Tallard?”

Otty gave him a long look, turned away from watching the rain, and crouched down beside him. “Nobody wanted to talk very much, but there was one old man who told me the story. It’s a bit hard to believe though, and a big chunk of the city is sealed off. I had to go back out and go in again through the south gate.”

The minstrel sensed that Otty was getting a little side-tracked. “So, what did the old man tell you?”

Otty rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head. “The more I think about it the more unbelievable it seems; all that talk of monsters and magic.”

An image of the fiery Morghel flickered unbidden into Corlin’s mind. “Well, you know as well as I do that magic exists.”

His companion gave him another long and unreadable look. “Yeah; but monsters?”

His patience wearing thin, Corlin spread his hands. “What monsters? When?”

Otty took a deep breath. “Well, the story is that a great magician had taken refuge in Tallard. He had something that another magician wanted but he refused to part with it. He was offered loads of money and when he refused that he was threatened with all sorts of horrible things.”

Corlin was by now keenly interested, although he couldn’t have explained why. “So, where do the monsters come in?”

Otty shrugged. Corlin turned away to hide a little smile. He had missed Otty’s shrugs. “Well, the way I see it, the magician who wanted whatever it was, got tired of waiting. He set fire to the city and conjured up a horde of monsters to kill the magician and the people who were helping him.”

Corlin frowned. “So, who put the fire out? Somebody must have, or the whole city would be in ruins.”

Otty nodded and raised a finger. “You’re right. According to the old man, it was the first magician, the one who’d taken refuge, who brought the whole messy business to an end. He made the monsters disappear, and it’s said that there’s a curse on the ruined part of the city, so it was sealed off and left to rot.”

Corlin pushed himself to his feet and stretched. “And what happened to the magicians?”

Otty shrugged again. “The old man wasn’t sure, but at the time there was a rumour going round that the first one destroyed the other one, and then escaped and took whatever it was with him. That’s all I could get the old man to tell me. He seemed pretty frightened, even though it happened a long time ago.”

The two men stood at the cave entrance, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually Otty looked across at Corlin and grinned. “I managed to buy some food while I was there. You got any left?”

Corlin shook his head. “Only some nuts I bought off an old woman by Tallard wall.”

Reaching across to Egg’s saddle, Otty untied a soft leather bag and handed it to Corlin. “We can share some of what’s in there, for now. It looks as if the rain’s easing so maybe then we can get going.”

Neither of them said much as they broke their fast on the usual travellers’ fare of coarse bread, spiced sausage and apples. While he ate, Corlin wondered how long magicians lived. Could one or both of them still be alive? Was one of them the maker of the clock, the object of his quest? Was he the one who had called up the Morghel?

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that, when Otty asked him a question he was almost caught off guard. “What did you mean earlier about a fire-eating thing with arms like whips? Have you had problems?”

Corlin hesitated. “Er...no. Just something in a bad dream.”

His companion gave him another long look. “Yeah? Alright.”

It was quite obvious that Otty wasn’t really convinced, but Corlin hoped he would let the matter rest. Like piecing together a broken pot, the minstrel was just beginning to make some kind of sense of everything, but he knew there were still some pieces to find.

Conversation turned to more inconsequential matters as the two men gave Megan and Egg some time to graze on the clumps and patches of grass which clung tenaciously in the windswept rocky crevices. The next half hour was spent saddling up and reorganising. The saddlebags, one half full of nuts, went back to Otty, and Corlin was glad to have the gimalin behind his own saddle again. The cloth bag of nuts he tied to his saddlebow, and hitched his staff to make it easier to pull free if he needed it in a hurry.

Ever curious, Otty had delved into the saddlebags and pulled out a handful of the large round nuts. He frowned. “What are these?”

Corlin looked up from checking Megan’s hooves and taking another look at the strangely marked shoe. “Walnuts. Squeeze two together between your hands and they’ll crack open. They’re quite tasty.”

Cuss words were proportional to failures, but once he had the knack, Otty was chewing with enthusiasm and littering the ground around his feet with discarded shells. His snack finished he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stamped the shells into tiny pieces, watching them blow away on the rising breeze.

He raised an eyebrow at Corlin. “So, how did you come to buy those then?”

The minstrel climbed into the saddle and looked down at Otty. “I realise you want to know what’s going on, but I’m looking for answers too. When I get some, you’ll be the first to know. Until then, we’ll just have to take each day as it comes.”

It was a sullen and disgruntled Otty that followed him off the rocky plateau and onto the mountain trail.