Nature's Servant (43 page)

Resting a careful hand on its shoulder, he retrieved the transporter device from within his robes and depressed the button.

“The Dens,” he said loudly, and disappeared. When he appeared again, he stood in the centre of a deep canyon, a great gash in the land miles distant from the city, high in the hills of the Barren Wastes. No-one lived for many miles around, terrified by tales of vicious creatures that prowled the area. The stories were not fictional, as it was here, in this grey, blasted canyon that Sestin bred his wargs. Five enormous caves opened onto the canyon, black gaping mouths that promised to swallow you whole if you stepped within them. Selecting the cave mouth furthest to the west, he strode purposefully into the dark opening, drawing the suspended body of the Darkman behind him.

All light soon disappeared as the broad cavern narrowed, twisting and turning into the hillside. With a thoughtless flick of the hand, Sestin flung a red globe-light in the air, casting a sullen glow against the slick walls of the passageway. As the magician and his captive progressed back into the depths of the hillside, the sounds of the den increased around them: The mewling of pups, the menacing growls of competing adolescents, the loud snapping of teeth and lupine cries of pain. Sestin smiled with pleasure, the edge of his bad mood blunted by the sounds and smells of blood and fear. The den was alive with the competitive drive to survive the bloody fight to become den-chief. The weaker creatures would hide behind the stronger while they fought for dominance, but if one of the stronger wargs was killed, its followers would be ripped to shreds in a frenzy of blood. 

He would wait until the leader of one band of wargs emerged triumphant, and then he would begin the dark enchantment that would lend the creature intelligence and enhance its size and strength. That time hadn’t yet come about for the fifth den, and for now, the murderous chaos suited his purposes.

After several minutes of walking he reached the deepest, darkest cell in the den; the cell he had laced with binding wards in preparation for the breaking of the Darkman. With a precise flick of the fingers he sent the demon’s suspended body floating across the chamber. It passed through the lines of power designed to keep it from escape - they were empowered to keep it from passing through them in one direction only. Once it was in the centre of the cell, Sestin snapped his fingers and it collapsed heavily to the floor and the net dissipated into the air. With another snap of his fingers he woke it and the demon surged to its feet. It leapt in his direction faster than thought, the serrated bony protuberances it used as blades thrusting from its wrists, but it was forcibly halted at the edge of the pentagram, thrown back in a blaze of red light as the ward resisted its advance.

He watched as it slowly rose to its feet, staring with hateful intent at its captor. It turned full circle, examining the wards that contained it, peering intently at each juncture of the pattern drawn on the floor, looking for errors that would allow it freedom. Moments later it stopped and turned back to face him, and as he took in the burned appearance of its skin, the obvious strength of its lean musculature, the deadly, venomous edge of its natural weaponry, and eyes that somehow combined murderous hate with infinite patience, Sestin knew that it would be hard to break this creature’s will.

It was intelligent. It didn’t fling itself again and again at the wards, wearying and damaging itself in the effort. It tried something once and stopped to evaluate. It must have understood already that there was no breaking out of the cell, and had abandoned any effort to do so, focussing all its attention on the being that had imprisoned it. Sestin knew that he would never be able to relax in the demon’s presence - the tiniest mistake would mean his death, and much worse than death. Chilled by that knowledge, but undeterred from his plan, he smiled coldly. He was up to the challenge, but he would have to be fully focussed every step of the way. He was weary from the anticipation of the demon’s arrival, and the tense battle he’d fought to contain it, so the torture would have to wait until tomorrow. He stepped back and closed the cell door, sealing it with an extra ward, and walked out of the den.

Over the course of several weeks, Taurnil and Talmo forged a quiet understanding, meeting regularly to spar and to teach each other their specialist weapons skills. Talmo never had much to say for himself, so much so it made Taurnil look talkative. It gave him an insight into what some other people must feel like around him, as he was usually the one with the fewest words. Talmo didn’t seem uncomfortable with silence though, so he’d decided to be comfortable with it too. Since making that decision, the two of them had got along just fine, and had developed a good sparring rapport.

             
Some of the other guards had not taken so well to Talmo. Even in armour he looked different, with his strong features, braided hair and swarthy skin. They seemed to take his reluctance to talk as a sign of superiority, and when not on duty, he wore his traditional skins and furs, which only emphasised that he wasn’t a local. There were plenty of foreigners in Helioport but not so many among the guards. For some reason, the guards were mostly drawn from the city’s local residents, some of whom nursed a bitter dislike of outlanders. It made Taurnil scratch his head in amazement. How could anyone live in a river city full of foreign traders and magicians and still think like that?

             
Among the guards, there was one group in particular that were distinctly unfriendly towards Talmo. The most influential member of that group was a long-serving guard called Brill, a swordsman who’d fought in the Tournament the previous year. Taurnil could well remember the fight between Brill and Sabu, and the dazzling display of swordsmanship that had knocked Brill out. Brill was a strong fighter, and his friends had bet heavily on him to win the Tournament, but Sabu was a master, and they’d lost every penny on that one fight. Taurnil had picked up from barracks gossip that though Sabu had earned the admiration of the city, he’d also acquired the enmity of Brill and his gang of friends. Despite his public popularity, the dark-skinned blademaster was still isolated among the guards, wilfully ostracised by those who chose to follow Brill’s lead. Despite the open taunting, Sabu maintained a quiet dignity, going about his business with his head held high. In the absence of any kind of gratifying reaction, Brill’s taunting had gradually dropped away, and he eventually lost interest altogether.

             
Brill’s waning interest was a good thing for Sabu, but not such a good thing for Talmo, whose recruitment as a guard made him the next in line for abuse. The rudeness had started on the very day he’d joined up, and by becoming friends with the tribesman, Taurnil had apparently volunteered for the same treatment. Brill and his gang of friends pointedly ignored them, and often stopped talking when they walked into the room. They hadn’t yet picked a fight, but Taurnil was pretty sure it was going to escalate into a confrontation. Talmo didn’t have Sabu’s equanimous nature. He was a tribal warrior, and was likely to respond to taunting with violence. Not only that, but Talmo was only just settling into life in the city, and if these idiots started giving him grief he might just revert to his original view of “plainsdwellers.”

On that particular day, however, there was no sign of Brill and his cronies, and they were practicing their bow skills, shooting at a series of practice dummies positioned at varying
distances across the arena.

Taurnil was starting to seriously covet Talmo’s longbow. The city armoury stocked crossbows, which you just had to wind up, point and shoot, but he much preferred using a proper bow. When he drew back the string, he could feel the tension in the wood, telling him exactly how fast the arrow would fly when he let it go. The strain in his muscles was mirrored by the creaking of the wood, and when the arrow took flight, he was rewarded by
the sudden release of tension.

He wasn’t bad at it either. He wasn’t even close to being in Talmo’s league, but increasingly, he seemed to hit the right area of the target most of the time. He was taking to it so well that he’d decided to spend his next pay chit commissioning a longbow of his own, al
ong with a dozen arrows.

He watched Talmo land another shot in the head of the nearest dummy, and then it was his turn again.
He took the bow and withdrew an arrow from the quiver. He nocked the arrow, lifted the bow and drew back the string, feeling its satisfying resistance as it yielded to his strength. The arrow slid back along his finger until the tension was just right. Tilting the bow upwards, he breathed out, paused before inhaling, and released. The arrow sped out of his hands with a gratifying twang and hiss, drawing a graceful arc through the air. It reached its zenith and began to dip, speeding down towards the dummy and landing right in the centre of its chest. Realising he hadn’t breathed in again yet, he sucked in a lungful of air, grinning in satisfaction at the shot.

“That was good,” the taciturn Talmo said, offering rare praise. “For a plainsdweller,” he added. The slight smile on his face told Taurnil that Talmo was actually making a joke. That was a first – the tribesman must be starting t
o get used to life in the city.

“Thanks,” Taurnil said, still grinning.

“Let’s go for the next target,” Talmo said. They’d set up three dummies, each further away from where they stood.

“Sure,” he said, eager for the challenge. He was pretty sure the last shot had been in part a fluke, but he wanted to stretch himself. “You first,” he said.

Talmo took the bow and nocked an arrow, drawing it back with practiced ease. He lifted the angle of the bow, made tiny adjustments with his fingers and froze in a moment of perfect stillness before releasing the arrow. Taurnil watched as it sailed in a perfect arc through the air and landed dead centre in the dummy’s head.

“Were you aiming for the head?” Taurnil asked. Talmo looked at him flatly. “Of course you were,” he mumbled apologetically, taking the bow off the tribesman. He nocked another arrow and drew back the string, trying to gauge the extra tension needed to give it that extra twenty feet of flight. He lifted the angle of the bow a little higher too, pulled the string back an extra inch and released. The arrow sped away from him, soaring up just as Talmo’s had done, but he knew straight away that the trajectory was too low. It dipped too early and came to ground before it even reached the dummy, sticking into the arena floor five feet short of the target.

“Again,” Talmo said, handing him another arrow. Taurnil adjusted for extra height and shot once more, but this time it sailed over the target. Wordlessly, Talmo gave him another arrow and Taurnil nocked it. This time he chose an angle in-between the last two attempts, drew back the arrow, breathed out and let it fly. He froze as he watched it, sure he’d got it right this time. The arrow rose and fell exactly as Talmo’s had done, but to his frustration, it flew to the left of the dummy, missing it by a matter of inches. He frowned and reached out for another arrow. Talmo took the last one out of the quiver and held it suspended over his hand.

“Don’t rush,” he said, holding his gaze. “It’s the moment before the shot that counts. In that moment, a bowman feels everything, sees everything. Occupy that moment and your shot will be true.”

Taurnil nodded in understanding. He’d watched Talmo release an arrow hundreds of times, and there was more to that moment than breathing out and staying still; the tribesman was still as a millpond, calm inside and out, in perfect control. He let go of his frustration and drew and released a deep breath. He nocked the arrow, drawing back the string until the tension in his muscles felt just right. Drawing a bead on the target, he lifted the angle of the bow. He breathed out and chose to stay relaxed, tuning into the moment as best he could. He became aware of several things at the same time; the tension in the bow, the strain in his arms, the readiness of the arrow, and the space between him and the target. Drawing all that together in one single moment of consciousness, he uncurled his fingers and let the arrow fly. It wasn’t a perfect moment; desire to hit the target still nibbled at the edges of his consciousness, but it was much closer to what he saw in Talmo than the frustrated, tense state he’d been in before. Time seemed to slow down as the arrow flew. It rose on a steady arc, hit its zenith and began to drop gracefully. It sped down towards the dummy and landed with a thunk in the outer part of the torso.

Talmo put a hand on his shoulder. “Much better,” he said and went to retrieve his arrows.

Taurnil was elated. That wasn’t an easy shot and it was well beyond the range of a crossbow. He’d have to improve of course, but he felt like he’d learned something really important. There was something about that calm state that mattered - something that went beyond archery and would translate into other disciplines. He grinned to himself when he realised he was starting to sound like Gaspi, who was always going on about meditation. He made a mental note to speak to him about it, and went to help Talmo collect the arrows.

Rimulth sat at his desk, frowning at the letters on the parchment in front of him. Since arriving at the college he’d taken surprisingly quickly to the study of magic. He supposed the Dag-Mar had prepared him well for being open to the flow of arcane power. He could summon globe-lights and basic shields and strikes with ease. He’d even managed to perform simple enchantments, but learning to read and write continued to evade him. It was very frustrating. He didn’t come here to learn all kinds of plainsdweller magic - he came to study the shamanic rites of his people and to return to the mountains to restart the tradition that had almost been wiped out. Much as he appreciated the friendship Gaspi and the others had offered him, he wanted to learn what he came here for and return to the mountains where he belonged. But that was the one thing he couldn’t do until he learned how to read.