Nature's Servant (14 page)

As if sensing Rimulth’s scrutiny, the Dag-Mar turned his head to look at him. He couldn’t look away, frozen by the shaman’s piercing scrutiny. Even the Dag-Mar couldn’t look into another man’s thoughts could he? He felt as if he were being examined inside and out by that cold, piercing gaze. The shaman looked away at last, leaving him feeling shaken. He felt like a cloth doll, picked up and shaken by a large dog, and discarded just as easily. Strangely, he could have sworn that a ghost of a smile passed across the shaman’s face before he looked away.

Rimulth had certainly picked a portentous night to join the men’s circle. The men were talking heatedly about some kind of creatures that were attacking the villages. They sounded horrible – dark, bulky creatures that absorbed all light and heat and that couldn’t be attacked with swords and knives. Some people were saying they were demons.

Demons - even the word sent a shiver down his spine. But it wasn’t him who should be worried about them. It was the Dag-Mar. If what the men were saying was true, these creatures only attacked shamans, draining them of their powers as they killed them. Perhaps it was the draining itself that killed them. Who knew? But whatever it was that took their lives, the shamans died in agony and overwhelming terror.

Rimulth looked at the Dag-Mar again, but this time in a different light. Was he afraid? Did he wonder if he was to be the next victim? He dismissed the thought straight away. He didn’t imagine anything could beat the Dag-Mar, and maybe the Dag-Mar didn’t either. He certainly didn’t seem to be afraid. If that time came, he certainly didn’t want to miss the fight. The Dag-Mar would show these demons what it meant to face the tribespeople of Eagle’s Roost. Turning his gaze to the shadows beyond the firelight, Rimulth looked for their demonic enemies, almost willing that they come and fight them. With the Dag-Mar present, they had nothing to fear.

Gaspi watched Hephistole drive the cart away, knowing he wouldn’t be back for three months. Once he was out of sight, Heath looked down at him, and with some trepidation he looked back. The druid’s eyes were unlike any Gaspi had ever seen. They seemed to be coloured every shade of green under the sun, dotted with glinting, golden flecks. There was a light in them that was half wild; fierce as a storm and calm as a millpond at the same time.

“Follow me. No talking,” Heath said in a voice that was as rusty as his handshake, and stalked off into the trees. Gaspi watched as he walked away and shrugged. What choice did he have? Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he followed his strange new mentor into the forest. Heath set an even pace, following some kind of path that Gaspi couldn’t even begin to detect. Many times it seemed as if they’d run into impassably dense tangles of foliage, only for Heath to turn or duck and find a way through that Gaspi could have sworn wasn’t there previously.

They walked for about an hour until Heath came to a sudden stop. He looked at Gaspi for long moments before speaking.

“I have never brought another person here,” he said, a tone of warning in his voice. “The spirits play freely in the clearing. They know you are coming, and have promised not to harm you.” Gaspi’s stomach was suffused with a nervous tingling. What harm might they do him if they hadn’t promised? “Don’t approach them or speak to them,” Heath added, and fell silent, watching him intently.

“Okay,” Gaspi answered when he was sure that a response was expected. Heath nodded gruffly and started walking again.

Moments later they emerged into a clearing that was filled with glimmering light. It shone from dozens of diaphanous bodies of green and blue, soaring and gliding through the air. The spirits, for that was surely what they were, had jewel-like eyes and exuded a beauty and joy that made Gaspi draw in a sudden breath in wonder. Startled by the sound, they vanished into the trees and under rocks in the time it took to blink. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume he imagined them.

Heath growled out an amused chuckle. “You’ll have to earn their trust,” he said and tramped across the clearing towards what could only be his home. Gaspi stared at it in amazement. It was unlike any structure he’d ever seen. The majority of the “house” was formed from a massive tree root, extending from the foot of an enormously broad tree. Its trunk was as wide as a barn and bare of branches for many feet. The giant root grew out from the base of the trunk, starting well above his head and curling around in a broad circle until it tapered off and disappeared into the ground. Heath had taken advantage of this natural, encircling structure and made his home within it.

He had made a thatched roof out of reeds that covered over half the area the root contained, and within the shelter were some of the normal signs of habitation. There was a bristly pile of rushes that could only be a bed, a fire pit, blackened from much use, and several bits of wooden furniture that looked as if Heath had made them himself. Most of the house seemed to be an expansive kitchen. A couple of large hams and several strings of sausages hung from hooks Heath had set into the root-wall, surrounded by hanging bunches of garlic and onions. The few pieces of furniture Heath had made looked like they were mostly given to the preparation and storage of food, and the part of the house that was unprotected by the thatch covering was used as a vegetable garden, separated from the rest of the clearing by a babbling brook that cut a sinuous track through the grass. Fruit trees grew round the edges of the clearing, their boughs hanging heavy with their late summer loads. Wildflowers had sprung up through the grassy carpet of Heath’s home, growing thickly round the borders of his house and along the path of the brook. The gurgling stream glinted with lights that Gaspi suspected gave away the spirits’ hiding place.

As he looked around, appreciating the natural beauty of Heath’s incredible home, he lost much of his apprehension. It was as beautiful as something from a child’s
fairy-tale. Heath pulled a large bundle of dried rushes from behind a cupboard and dumped them on a clear patch of floor.

“
Don’t just stand there gaping!” he said gruffly, but Gaspi thought he could detect a hint of pleasure at Gaspi’s obvious enjoyment of his home. “That’s your bed,” the druid said. “You can put your belongings against the root behind it.”

Gaspi walked over and put his bag down.
“Thanks,” he said, looking at his host with different eyes. No-one who made a place like this could be too scary.

Heath nodded, some of his gruffness dissipating. 
“I’m going hunting for dinner,” he said.

“Can I come?” Gaspi asked.

“Not this time,” Heath answered with a shake of his head. “Explore the clearing and the woods around it. Get a feeling for it. And don’t use any magic.”

“Why can’
t I use magic?” Gaspi asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Just don’
t,” Heath responded, some of his gruffness returning, and without giving Gaspi a chance to respond, he grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows and left the clearing.

…

Gaspi made good use of the time while Heath was away. He explored the clearing, hoping the spirits would come back out, but there was no sign of Heath’s elemental companions. He walked around the surrounding woodland, getting a feel for the lie of the land. Returning to the house, he inspected the rows of vegetables and herbs growing in the garden. He was crouching down, rubbing the tiny leaf of an herb he couldn’t identify between his thumb and forefinger when a rustle caught his attention, and he turned to find Heath striding out of the forest, carrying a brace of rabbits.

“Dinner,” he announced, dropping them onto a large tree stump in what Gaspi was already thinking of as the garden. “Do you know how to gut them?” the druid asked. Heath didn’t speak much, but Gaspi thought he could detect some cultured tones beneath the cracked sounds of disuse. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “I might be a bit rusty but I’ll give it a go.” Anyone who grew up in Aemon’s Reach knew how to gut and clean game, but if he was honest, he didn’t enjoy it very much. There was nothing particularly appealing about a handful of slimy guts, but as Jonn always said, if you couldn’t handle gutting it you didn’t deserve to eat it.

“Good,” Heath said with an approving nod. “I’ll leave that to you then.”

Gaspi got on with the job, braving himself against the unpleasant feel of viscera sliding through his hands. The skins came off easily enough. You could peel them off like gloves, with a few hearty tugs at the stubborn bits. Then came the unpleasant bit; separating the animal from its organs and bowels. It was unpleasant but he pushed on through until it was done. 

Heath picked up the carcasses, scrutinising them carefully. “Not bad,” he said, and bent down to wash them in the stream. “Do you know how to cook?” he asked when he was done, raising a bushy eyebrow in enquiry.

“Er…no,” Gaspi answered honestly.

“You’ll learn that here,” Heath said. “Watch,” he instructed, placing the meat on the large tree stump and going to one of the pieces of furniture in the portion of the house Gaspi thought of as “indoors.”

“First we prepare the meat,” Heath said, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out two small leather sacks that had a shiny, waterproof kind of look. He reached up and pulled a garlic bulb from the bunch, as well as taking a couple of onions from a barrel. He dragged a small table across the ground until it stood next to the tree stump.

“Bring the chair over,” he said, indicating a crude-looking piece of furniture constructed from large pieces of foraged wood.

Gaspi dragged the heavy chair out into the garden and placed it in front of the table. Heath was digging around in the soil of the vegetable patch, grunting as he pulled up two large carrots. He ferreted around in another patch of soil, coming up with a handful of potatoes. He washed the vegetables in the stream and made a final trip indoors, returning with a thick, stoppered flask, which he placed on the table next to the vegetables. The flask didn’t look like Heath had made it himself, and Gaspi had to presume that the druid had at least occasional contact with other people to trade some goods.

“There’s only one chair,” Heath said, taking his seat in it without offering an apology. Gaspi wasn’t offended by Heath’s lack of manners. He figured that any social niceties he may have once known would have dropped away during the many years he’d spent isolated from human company

Heath started preparing the food, explaining in brief sentences what he was doing. As he watched, Gaspi found he was enjoying himself. There was something natural and relaxing about what Heath was doing. The druid poured some clear oil from the flask onto the meat, rubbing it in with his hands. He took salt from one of the small sacks and pepper corns from the other and dropped them into a heavy, hardwood bowl. He picked fresh herbs from the garden, crushed them in his hands and added them to the salt and pepper. Taking a short, stout length of polished wood, he ground the contents of the bowl until they were mixed up, and rubbed them into the oiled meat. He explained as he went along that the oil stopped the meat from burning and the seasoning added flavour. Having finished that, he placed the meat back on the tree stump and washed his hands off in the stream.

“Always wash your hands after touching uncooked meat,” he said as he re-took his seat.

“How come?” Gaspi asked.

“You can get very sick if you don’t wash your hands after touching it,” Heath said.

“Very sick?” Gaspi asked.

“Trust me,” Heath answered with a pained grimace. Reaching within his leathers, he removed a much smaller knife than the one he wore on his hip – more evidence that Heath engaged in some small degree of trade - and used it to chop the carrots and onions. Using the heel of the knife, he smashed open the garlic bulb, crushing several of the cloves, which he put with the chopped onions and carrots. Lastly, he quickly peeled the potatoes and set them alongside the other produce.

“We’re ready,” he said. The druid levered his long frame out of the chair and walked over to a large stack of firewood he kept indoors. Picking out a selection of logs and kindling, he dumped them by the fire-pit. “You know how to make a cook-fire?”

“Sure,” Gaspi answered, thinking that this would be a good time to show Heath his powers. He placed the logs in the pit haphazardly, as he had no intention of making fire the normal way and didn’t need to stack them as carefully as he would if making a fire from scratch. Heath watched with a critical eye but didn’t say anything. When the wood was stacked, Gaspi reached out with his senses, drawing on the warmth in the air, forcing it to a narrow focus above the fire-pit until the air began to glow with the bottle-necked energy.

“STOP!” Heath barked. Shocked, Gaspi released his power, turning to Heath in bewilderment. “You are not to use magic!” the druid said angrily.

“But why?” Gaspi asked incredulously.

Heath looked furious. “If you’ve come here to argue, you can turn around and get out of here,” he said, his eyes glinting with barely restrained anger.

Gaspi felt a surge of resentment rise up in him. Who was this person to shout at him and order him around? Everything in him wanted to snap back at him, but with a great effort he held his tongue. Whatever Heath behaved like, he’d promised Hephistole to learn what he could from the druid, and he didn’t think getting sent home on the first day would go down very well.

He released a pent up breath, subduing his anger. “I won’t use magic,” he said, unable to fully suppress the sullen tone in his voice.