A dagger was held point down over his heart, and with his last strength the warrior reached up with his remaining arm, joining his hand with Hesketh’s, and the two of them thrust it downwards, bringing the warrior’s nightmare to an end.
Later that day they had taken what remained of Balkrist, along with the Dag-Mar’s corpse, and had burned them, as was their custom, in the Sacred Place of the Dead. Rimulth had not learned the Rite of Passing, and so they had to make do with a few simple words from the chief. As he watched those two important figures go up in smoke, he felt like his childhood was being burned with them; his childhood, his life, everything. He stared dry-eyed at the pyres until they were completely burned out.
…
The next day he arose to a cold, misty morning, and his first thought was that the time had come for him to leave Eagle’s Roost. He would leave the mountains that had always been his home and travel to a plainsdweller city where he would finish his training as a shaman. It felt like some kind of fever dream come true, but he knew it was cold, hard reality. Nothing would ever erase the shadow of the last few days from his mind.
The only small mercy was that he wouldn’t be going alone. Chief Hesketh had asked the tribe for a volunteer to accompany him on his journey, and Younger Talmo had stepped forwards. Rimulth had to admit that he would feel safer with the experienced warrior alongside him. More importantly, he wouldn’t feel as completely separated from home as he’d imagined.
And so it was that Rimulth found himself at the boundary of the village with Younger Talmo, saying goodbye to everyone and everything he’d ever known. The farewells happened in a blur, and all he could think about was the absence of his parents. They would respect the importance of the duties he has chosen to shoulder, but it would still break their hearts to find out he had left without having the chance to say goodbye. The only individual parting words he would remember afterwards were from Chief Hesketh:
“Go with our blessing, Rimulth, and do your duty. Keep the mountains in your heart and bring back to us the ways of the shaman.”
Rimulth could only nod his agreement, choked by emotions that rendered him tongue-tied. Shouldering his small pack and picking up his spear, he turned his back on the village and began the long journey down the mountainside with a heavy heart.
Ferast watched the fight unfold with interest. He’d been riding north on his latest stolen horse when he came across three men overpowering a travelling merchant. A single guard lay dead in the middle of the road. Ferast could hardly believe the stupidity of the merchant. What kind of idiot travelled with valuable goods and just one man to guard them? The merchant looked like a fat man starved of food, his once-fulsome flesh hanging in sagging folds of excess skin. He was dressed in clothes that may once have been fine but which had been patched and re-sown far too many times.
Ferast sat well back on his horse, watching from a distance. He wanted the robbers to know that he had no intention of interrupting. They dragged the merchant away from his wagon, his girlish screams turning to blubbering sobs as they deposited him in the middle of the road. Rising to his knees, he looked at the robbers with watery eyes, his jowly face animated by fear.
“Please don’t kill me,” he pleaded, looking from face to face. It was then that he caught sight of Ferast, sitting at a distance. “Sir! Help me. I’m being robbed.” One of the robbers cuffed him across the face and the merchant fell silent. The robbers looked over at him, waiting to see what he would do, but he just sat there impassively, saying nothing.
“’Ere,” the shortest of the robbers called angrily. “What d’yer want?” Ferast said nothing. “Bugger off!” the robber next to him shouted. “Unless you want a beating too.” When Ferast still didn’t move, two of the robbers left the merchant in the hands of the third - a tall, fearsome looking man who watched the scene unfold before him without expression. When the merchant made to wriggle out of his grip he cuffed him brutally across the face without even looking at him, and the merchant fell to the ground, unconscious.
Ferast waited as the robbers advanced on him. Both held long knives, stained with the blood of the guard they’d killed, but Ferast didn’t feel any fear whatsoever. With a flick of his finger he invaded their minds with a thread of power, stopping both men in their tracks. It wasn’t that they physically couldn’t move. Ferast could achieve that with a strong shield, but such things were so crude. Why use all that force when a simple suggestion would stop a person? The two men looked at each other in surprise, trying again and again to move their legs, but they were frozen to the spot. The shorter man looked back at Ferast, showing the first glimmer of fear.
“Hey! Let us go,” he said.
“Shh!” Ferast said, lifting a gloved finger to his lips. The short man opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out. His mouth continued to open and close in panicked urgency, but to no avail.
“We don’t mean no ’arm,” the second robber said. “Please, just let us go.”
“I think not,” Ferast said, slashing at the air with his hand. Both men fell to the ground, forced into black unconsciousness by the strength of his spell. Ferast felt a thrill of excitement as they collapsed like puppets whose strings had been cut. He’d jolted their minds so invasively that they’d blacked out, as he’d known they would. It was possible to resist neuromancy of course, but most people were weak-minded and incapable of defying him.
Ferast looked at the last robber with curiosity. The man hadn’t moved since striking the merchant. He’d watched flatly as Ferast had dealt with his fellow robbers, and now, in the face of someone who clearly had the power to do whatever they liked to him, he showed no fear at all. He was a tall man, with flattened features, a wide mouth and narrow, slitted eyes. A long scar ran down from his left ear and all along his jaw line. Ferast noticed the numerous smaller scars marring the skin of his hands, and understood that this was a man of violence.
“Why didn’t you attack me?” Ferast asked. “Or try to run?”
The tall man shrugged his broad, muscular shoulders. Opening his mouth wide, he pointed at what the stump of what had once been his tongue. The man was a mute, made one by force.
Ferast was amazed that the man still showed no fear. “Do you think I will let you live?” he asked. The tall man looked at him long and hard, and nodded. Strangely he felt that the robber was not just trying to save his neck, but actually meant it.
“Why?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. The mercenary slapped his sword and went down on one knee. It was a simple but eloquent enough message. This man was offering him his service. Ferast didn’t know what to make of the offer. He didn’t need protecting did he? His powers placed him above almost all other men, but what if he didn’t see someone coming? No amount of magical power could protect him from a knife in the back. He looked again at the robber, considering his aspect. He exuded violence like no-one he’d had ever met. Any other response would have led to the man’s death, but by placing himself so clearly as his inferior he’d made an interesting proposition. Acknowledging that he could always kill him later if it didn’t work out, Ferast made his mind up.
“I accept,” he said. The tall fighter stood up. “This is how it works,” he continued. “I’m in charge, and you’re here to protect me. You do what I say, and the first time you don’t you’re dead. Okay?”
The mute nodded once more, clearly unperturbed by the threat of death. Ferast’s appreciation of the fighter ratcheted up another notch. “So what do I call you?” he asked. The mute reached into his clothing and pulled out a filthy old bit of cloth with faded markings on it. He approached him, holding it up so he could see.
“Bork,” Ferast read out loud. “Okay Bork,” he said as the fighter put the scrap of cloth away again. “Load these men up on the wagon, and let’s get off the road. I want to show you what happens to my enemies.” Bork leant down and grabbed the unconscious form of one of his former allies by the waist. He flipped the inert robber up onto his shoulders without obvious effort and started back towards the wagon.
Lydia knocked on the door to Professor Worrick’s study.
“Come in,” the professor called, his voice muffled by the thick, oaken door. She gave it a shove and it swung open on protesting hinges. Professor Worrick was sitting at his desk, surrounded by such a scattering of books and papers it looked like he’d been burgled, but Lydia knew better of course. The professor was disorganised to the point of chaos, but what he lacked in orderliness he made up for in curiosity and intelligence.
“Oh! Is it that time already?” he asked pleasantly, taking off his glasses and waving her inside.
Lydia looked forward to her weekly tutorials with the professor. He was a good mentor, keen to help her discover her own magical passions rather than push her in directions he thought she should go in. Their discussions were mostly dictated by her own interests, and on that day she wanted to talk to him about something which had been bothering her for some time.
“Hello professor,” she said, taking the high-backed chair on the near side of the desk. Putting his papers aside, he smiled amiably at her. There was nothing remarkable about the professor’s appearance. In fact, Lydia reflected, he was the very picture of ordinary. Of middle years, he was neither young nor old, neither ugly nor attractive. His evenly spaced features were plain to the point of forgettable. He was of middling height, and his medium length hair was exactly the most average shade of brown. It was as if a hundred people had all been compared, their features melded and averaged, and Professor Worrick was the result.
As far as she was concerned, he was the perfect dean of the college. Hephistole was drawn to remarkable students like Gaspi, and Voltan was naturally inclined towards the more powerful students, but Professor Worrick was interested in everybody. He noticed the shy and the quiet without failing to pay attention to the loud and the confident. It was precisely this fair-minded disposition that had earned Lydia’s admiration. She was not a flamboyant person herself. Okay, she dressed in rich colours but that was just the gypsy way. She listened more than she talked, and only shared her opinion when she really thought it mattered. She had no interest in being popular, and let her more talkative friends fill all the gaps in conversations. More than anything else, her choice of boyfriend showed what she valued most in a person. Taurnil was a rock - dependable, trustworthy, and happy to live in the shadow of more outgoing friends.
“We seem to have finished our series on Ancient Enchantments,” the professor said, leafing through his notes. “So where does that leave us?” he asked. “I have some ideas but if you have something you’re itching to study, perhaps we can do that first.”
Lydia had got a lot out of the series on Ancient Enchantments. History fascinated her, and the unexplained mysteries of the past never failed to grab her attention. The wall which surrounded the college, which had played such an important role in defending them against the demonic invasion the previous year, was a perfect example. No-one understood the nature of its enchantment, and the many attempts to replicate it had resulted in failure. There were other important and powerful relics scattered throughout the continent, the origins of which were buried in the mysterious realms of the unrecorded past. Among the most interesting was a temple to an unknown god in distant Pell which contained fragments of a broken alt
ar that purportedly had the power to destroy all but the most powerful demons. Ten years previously, the monks who guarded the site were brutally murdered by ogres, and the temple was now deep within the expanding boundaries of the Ogre Nation. If anyone wanted to go there now, they’d have to get past ten thousand vicious enemies. Lydia loved delving into these mysterious matters, but however fascinating she found them, she was much more interested in what she wanted to study next.
“Professor,” she began. “I want to study the sight.”
Professor Worrick raised his eyebrows with interest. “But Lydia my dear, you know as well as I do that the sight is not a skill to be developed. It is a natural gift that comes and goes at its own direction, and not at the choice of the seer.”
Lydia frowned in frustration. “I know,” she said, “but I used to get visions all the time. I came to the college because of that gift, but since getting here, I’ve seen almost nothing. I thought that studying the sight might reawaken it in me.”
Professor Worrick pursed his lips thoughtfully. “As you know, I also have the sight, and my gift can become inactive for long periods. I don’t think it’s something you should worry about.”
“But I
like
being a seer!” Lydia said, surprised by the petulance in her own tone.
Professor Worrick smiled sympathetically. “Before you began to practice other forms of magic, you used to have the sight more frequently, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“This is just a theory, but let’s say that at that time, magic was bubbling inside you, eager to get out. Consider that the sight was a natural way for your magical ability to escape, and it did so often, like a steam vent releasing pressure. But now your powers are regularly exercised, and perhaps the sight is less common because that pressure no longer exists, and your powers have many other forms of expression.”