Foundling Wizard

by James Eggebeen

  WHAT’S NEXT IN THE SERIES?

  YOU’RE READING: Foundling Wizard

  UP NEXT: Wizard’s Education

  Then: Master Wizard

  Prologue

  Vorathorm entered the secret chamber where he planned to make his sacrifice. Motes of dust danced in the single shaft of sunlight illuminating the bloodstained altar. He stood before it, fidgeting in anticipation, his bony hands itching to reach out and start the ritual.

  A statue of a young woman dressed in ceremonial robes cradled the sacred blade against her throat. Beneath her, a small rabbit lay trussed upon the altar. Its legs were bound with a leather thong. It had cried out in fear as it caught the scent of blood from its predecessors.

  Vorathorm rested his hands on the animal to quiet it. He imagined that it were a young wizard upon his altar, not a field animal. He visualized himself performing that sacrifice. Plucking the knife from the arms of the maiden at the precise moment the sun struck the blade, he’d make one smooth, quick motion, cutting a single slice across the boy’s throat.

  The power of the boy’s magic would be his tenfold, to add to his growing personal reserve.

  A shadow fell across the altar, blocking the shaft of sunlight, breaking his reverie.

  Rage boiled within him, as he turned to face the intruder. “How dare you interrupt!” he cried out. “Who could be so insolent as to disturb my sacrifice?”

  The interloper stood there, calmly. He was tall and thin with a shaved head that highlighted the shape of his skull and accentuated his birdlike beak of a nose. His long black robes were trimmed in gold, swirling the dust as he moved.

  “Sulrad,” Vorathorm said slowly. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  He controlled his breathing and reduced his heart rate as he’d been taught. Sulrad would not have made the trip to Veldwaite needlessly; something extraordinarily disconcerting must have happened. Vorathorm wasn’t sure he wanted to know what, as it never meant good news for him.

  “I have located a pair,” Sulrad said. He stated it simply, without a trace of emotion, as if it happened every day.

  “A pair?” Vorathorm asked, though he knew what Sulrad meant. A pair of wizards. One wizard, one sorceress. Discovery of a pair was the worst news Sulrad could have uttered. Vorathorm stared at him unblinking.

  “Yes, a pair,” Sulrad confirmed. “I sensed them some time ago. A boy and his sister…from what I could tell. Very young.” He casually walked around the altar, looking down at the preparations Vorathorm had made for the sacrifice.

  “What did you sense? Where are they? Who are they?”

  “Slow down.” Sulrad hopped up and seated himself on the altar, arranging his robes as he did. Only he would dare such a sacrilege.

  “You must have a plan,” Vorathorm insisted.

  “I have a plan, but it is you who will carry it out,” Sulrad said. “We can’t allow a pair of wizards to come into their power. Thank Ran they’re brother and sister. At least we have that in our favor.”

  As brother and sister, the pair would be somewhat restrained in their union. At least, Vorathorm hoped they would. He shuddered at the thought of them being otherwise.

  “Where are they now?” Vorathorm asked, secretly hoping Sulrad would allow him to take the power from them both. That kind of power would send him to the top of the temple hierarchy—maybe even above Sulrad himself.

  “To your great fortune, they’ve already been separated,” Sulrad said. “The boy is fleeing. The girl remains at home with her family.” He picked up the sacrificial knife and fondled it. Then, he used it to trace arcane figures in the thick, dried blood staining the altar.

  “What have you planned?” Vorathorm asked. He wished Sulrad would get to the point. There might yet be time to complete his sacrifice and claim the creature’s power, no matter how insignificant it might be.

  “We’ve captured the boy. Even now, he lies trapped, safely out of your way. You must act without delay. Kill the girl while he is helpless.”

  “Is he that strong?” Pairs were so rare that Vorathorm didn’t know what to expect.

  “He is,” Sulrad said.

  “Strong enough to stop us?” He didn’t want the boy interfering as he drained the magic from the girl.

  “Yes, he’s that strong,” Sulrad said. He placed the knife back in the statue’s hands. “Don’t worry about the boy. He’s safely out of your way. Once you finish your part, we’ll deal with him appropriately.”

  “What am I to do then?” Vorathorm asked.

  “Travel to their homestead outside of Mistbury and dispose of the girl. Once you’ve done that, come back and report to me.” He gestured to the statue. “Don’t forget your knife,” he said with a smile as he turned and walked out.

  Vorathorm looked at the sunlight just about to illuminate the rabbit. He would have just enough time to make his sacrifice. He smiled and approached the altar with a renewed sense of purpose.

  Vorathorm anxiously waited until early afternoon to begin his mission. The men would be in the fields, preparing to drive the kine back from the high pasture for the winter. The house would be empty, except for the girl and her mother.

  Vorathorm carefully prepared the traveling spell that would take him to their homestead. He’d faithfully built up his reserves in preparation for a chance like this, and executed the spell flawlessly. The temple disappeared to be replaced instantly by a farm, where the smell of manure and swine almost overpowered him.

  He made his way through the fields to the house. Then, quietly pulling the door open a hair, he peered inside.

  A middle-aged woman labored over a rudimentary wood stove, standing with her back to him. She held a towel in one hand, and a large carving knife in the other. The smell of freshly baked bread still lingered in the air, overlaid with the scent of diced onions that was just beginning to fade into the rich aroma of the evening’s meal.

  Vorathorm stepped in quietly, then leaned against the heavy wooden table and cleared his throat.

  The woman turned with a start. “What are you doing here, priest?” she spat. She raised the knife and took a step back.

  “I’m here for your child,” he said. He gathered the magic to drive the spell he’d begun weaving for her. He traced a figure in the air and spoke the words that gave the spell its form.

  “He’s not here,” she said, relaxing somewhat. “You’re too late. He’s already gone, you filthy swine.”

  Vorathorm laughed. “I’m not here for the boy,” he said. The girl was in the house. He could sense her magic.

  “You’re not touching my daughter!” she said. “Onolt, run!”

  She took a step forward and swung the knife at Vorathorm. Now, it was Vorathorm’s turn to step back. He raised his hand, shifting his fingers to make the final signs that would release a paralysis spell. But she was too quick for him as she slashed again. His arm erupted in pain as the blade sliced through his heavy robe and into his flesh.

  Vorathorm continued back, trying to complete the spell as she advanced once more. “It won’t do you any good,” he said, trying to sound calm and in control. “I’ll get you in the end.”

  “Not before I slice you up like a prize swine.” She slashed at him once more, this time narrowly missing his chest.

  He threw himself to the side and grabbed a chair, thrusting it between them for protection. She was easily as strong as him, and fueled by rage. He ducked beneath her next swing before he finally completed the spell he had been preparing.

  Her arms fell limp to her sides as the paralysis spell took effect. Vorathorm stood and faced her directly as she tried to speak but could not.

  He pushed her into a sitting position on a chair next to the table. He snatched the towel fr
om her hand and used it to bandage his bleeding arm. Once done, he went looking for the girl. She was still inside. He could feel her magic emanating like a beacon.

  It led him to the bedroom, and he found her hiding behind the bed. She held onto the bedpost and screamed as he reached for her, but she was weak. With little effort, he dislodged her, and dragged her back to the kitchen where he stretched her out atop the sturdy table. Her frozen mother could only watch as he bound her daughter’s hands and feet securely before leaning back to admire his handiwork.

  Satisfied that the girl was properly bound, he drew his staff from his back and held it over her using the jewel in it to focus the subtle magic he brought to bear on her. He smiled as she responded to the pain that followed the staff’s movement.

  “You, my dear, are an emerging young sorceress,” he said. He could sense the subtle nuance of her magic even stronger now with the help of his staff. He pulled the memories of her brother from her mind and cackled as he discovered the truth of her origin.

  Her name was Onolt, and her brother Lorit had turned her into a sorceress by infusing his own magic into her, inadvertently setting in motion the very thing that was about to get her killed.

  Onolt struggled against her bonds. “I’m no sorceress!” she protested. “I’m just a girl.”

  He passed his staff across the length of her.

  “If only I had you upon my altar,” Vorathorm said wistfully. “We could watch the sunrise together, and then, I could take your powers for my own.”

  Vorathorm felt it would be a waste to kill her, but Sulrad had insisted she be removed as quickly and efficiently as possible. Sulrad cared nothing for the magic the girl possessed. Did he expect Vorathorm to waste such a gift? Spill her magic into the ground? He couldn’t transport the girl back to Veldwaite by magic, and the boy might escape and interfere if they undertook the long journey overland. Much as he hated it, he resigned himself to wasting her magic.

  He pulled the sacrificial knife from within the folds of his robe. “If I can’t take your magic, at least I can take a little pleasure from you.” He pressed the edge of the knife against Onolt’s exposed skin and drew a long, thin red line with the blade.

  The girl screamed in pain.

  Vorathorm smiled in satisfaction.

  After a while, he stepped back to admire his work. The symbols he’d carved in Onolt’s flesh matched those on his altar. He coveted her magic; a clean fresh power like hers was rare. It was a pity to waste it.

  Maybe there is another way, he wondered.

  Chapter 1

  Far off, in Trickby, Lorit lay ensnared in the web that had been cast over him. He was tightly bound, unable to move. He experienced the pain of each cut the priest of Ran made on his sister. It seared deep into his soul, infusing him with anger at each new stroke of the knife. He struggled to escape or to reach out to her.

  He had to save her from the priest.

  He renewed his struggle, consuming the last of his energy recklessly, but unsuccessfully, trying to break free until he could only lay there, exhausted. The pain went on for what felt like an eternity. Lorit felt every cut the priest made, but he was powerless to do anything about it.

  Anger raged up in him. He kicked at the marble tomb, trying to break free. He cast about, looking for any source of power he could use to help Onolt. There was nothing he could use to power his magic.

  The pain abruptly abated.

  He reached for the connection he’d shared with Onolt since her illness had brought them so close.

  It was gone. All he was left to do was think about how he wound up here, restrained and alone, unable to do anything as his poor, beloved sister suffered. All thanks to him…

  One year earlier…

  The fever had already taken two of Lorit’s cousins. It came on with no warning. One day they were laughing and playing without a care in the world. The next, they were deathly ill, burning with fever. Those taken by fever quickly wasted away and died. Now it had Onolt. The priests said it was punishment for some wrongdoing. The doctor said it was a disease the swine carried and had crossed over to humans. Whatever the source, it had taken hold of Onolt.

  Onolt had been an annoyance to Lorit for most of their lives together. She was the baby girl in the house and always underfoot. She had followed him everywhere when she was little. Shyenn said it was because she adored her older brother. Lorit thought that was what mothers were supposed to say. He’d often thought his life would be better off without her, but he didn’t want her to die. Just to leave him alone once in a while.

  Lorit heard her groaning and went to comfort her. He navigated the house in the dark, making his way to her bed. He leaned over her, listening to see if she was awake or just calling out in her sleep. She’d cried out in her sleep often enough in the last few days.

  “Lorit? Is that you?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He reached for a match and lit the candle on her dresser, then sat on the bed beside her. Thick covers were heaped on top of her until she was almost lost amidst them. He reached out and touched her forehead. It was ablaze with the fever.

  “I’m so thirsty,” Onolt said. She shifted beneath the mound and reached for him.

  “I’ll get you some water.” He found the pitcher his mother had filled before they retired for the evening. He poured the rest of it into her cup and held it out to her. She grasped his hands in hers and guided it to her lips. Even her hands were burning up as she quickly downed the entire cup.

  “More,” she said simply when it was gone, panting from drinking the entire cup without a breath.

  “I’ll have to get some more.” He started for the door.

  “Leave the candle,” she cried out weakly.

  “Why? Are you suddenly afraid of the dark?” he asked, setting the candle back on the dresser. There was enough of a moon that he could make his way to the kitchen and back without the aid of the candle.

  “No. It’s the dream. When I close my eyes all I see is someone coming after me. They tie me up and throw me in the fire. It’s horrible. Don’t let them get me.”

  “It’s just the fever,” Lorit said. “No one’s going to get you.”

  “I know… But it feels so real. Lorit, I’m scared.” He could see that she was genuinely afraid. She was a pest, but she was also his sister and Lorit felt sorry for her.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back, and I’ll sit up with you,” he said. He made his way to the kitchen and pumped the pitcher full of water. It felt cold as ice coming from the cistern in the dead of winter. It was winter that made the fever so bad. You couldn’t open the windows and let fresh air into the room. It was far too cold.

  “Here,” Lorit said as he filled another cup for her. Her small hands burned his skin after handling the cold water. Lorit took the cloth from beside the bed and dipped it into the bowl of water his mother had left on the dresser. He wrung out the excess and placed it on her forehead, gently guiding her to lie down.

  “Lorit, it burns,” Onolt said weakly.

  Lorit held her hand in his. He didn’t say anything. He let the heat of her skin soak into him until his hands were sweaty. He saw his sister lying there, not sick and burning with fever, but healthy and full of energy, the way she usually was. He focused his entire being on recalling how she ran and played in the yard on a sunny day. He recalled how she was quick with a joke and how she was always following him like a puppy dog.

  Night after night, Lorit sat up with her like this. Most of the children had succumbed to the fever in just a few days. None had lasted more than a week. Onolt held on for almost three weeks, drifting in and out of her fevered sleep. Lorit sat with her quietly, talking about the farm, and how he wanted to see the world, and what he wanted to do and be when he grew up. Constantly he poured his thoughts out, visualizing her as healthy and vibrant once again.

  He sat with her and woke her when the dreams came. He washed her forehead with water and brought her a cup when she was thirsty.
Their mother cautioned Lorit that few children survived the fever, and he should not get his hopes up. It made him all the more determined to sit with her, until the end, if that was what was coming.

  One night, Lorit felt her skin cool down. The fever broke, and she started to sweat profusely. She threw off the covers, kicking the heavy blankets back. This time he needed a dry towel to soak up the sweat, and he knew she was going to make it.

  A few months later, Lorit and Onolt worked their way to the high pasture to count the kine so they could prepare the barns for the herd where they would all have a warm place for winter. Lorit reached into his pack and pulled out a large green apple. He took a bite. It was juicy but sour.

  “I wish the red apples were ready,” he said.

  “They’ll be ready soon,” Onolt said as she carefully polished her own apple. “It won’t be but a few weeks. By the time we gather the kine in, they’ll be ready. They always are.”

  “I can’t wait,” Lorit complained. He sat back against the old oak tree and closed his eyes. “I really miss the taste. Just imagine it, Onolt. You grasp that shiny red apple in your hand. I can see the skin. It’s almost smooth enough to reflect your face, like a mirror. The dimples on the bottom make a perfect stand for all that crispness. The curve of the stem with its little knobby end, where it was picked from the tree, pokes out of the dimple on the top.” He smiled at the thought of it, describing every delicious sensation as if that would make it real.

  “You take your fist bite, and as your teeth break the skin, the sweet juice rushes into your mouth. You don’t so much hear it crunch as feel it through your whole body.”

  “Lorit,” Onolt screamed. “What are you doing? What’s happening?”

  Her sudden panic pulled at Lorit, who was still lost in his reverie. Thoughts of the juicy red apple fought him as he opened his eyes. He could faintly see Onolt looking at him in stark fear. She was unclear, somewhat fuzzy around the edges. She pointed excitedly to the blanket in front of him.