Foundling Wizard

by James Eggebeen

“We eat,” he said with a smile.

  Lorit produced a knife and quickly dressed the lizard. He sliced it along the belly and gutted it. He pulled out the entrails and tossed them onto the matted-down Plains Grass, saving only the heart and liver for their dinner. He skinned the thick tail and sliced the meat into steaks.

  He soon realized that there was much more meat in the lizard tail alone than they could consume in several meals, and he had not even started dressing the giant snake.

  “I’ll pack some of this in the salt barrel,” Chihon said. “There’s enough to keep this meat, so we won’t have to use up all of our supplies.”

  “Good,” Lorit said, “I was worried I’d be living on fish for the last leg of our journey.” He grimaced at the thought.

  “I cook,” Mu’umba said, taking several slices of the lizard tail steaks from Lorit.

  Mu’umba found one of Lorit’s pots and deftly sliced the meat into it. He came back for the heart and carefully dissected it. “Heart make strong,” Mu’umba said as he placed the meat in the pot that was already simmering.

  Lorit continued to dress the lizard while Chihon packed the steaks into the salt barrel. When he finished the lizard, he dragged the carcass to the edge of their protective matting and shoved it into the grass with his foot.

  Lorit started to skin the snake. Mu’umba had found enough meat in one hunting session to last them all the way to Veldwaite and beyond.

  Mu’umba emptied his bag of strange-looking roots and vegetables. He deftly peeled, sliced, and otherwise prepared them, tossing them into the pot. Mu’umba sat over the fire, humming a tune to himself. He added various pinches and sprinkles of spices and powders from his pack into the pot. He stirred the mixture and occasionally tasted it while it cooked. The stew was beginning to emit a pleasant smell, even though Lorit did not recognize many of the spices that Mu’umba added.

  After a while, Mu’umba spooned out a generous portion of the stew for Lorit, handing it to him. He filled a second bowl and handed that to Chihon before he filled his own. He took a seat cross-legged on the Plains Grass, forgoing the smooth blanket that Lorit and Chihon used to protect them from the razor-sharp blades beneath him.

  “Thank you for hunting for us,” Lorit said. “We will be well provisioned for the rest of our journey.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Chihon added. “I can always use a break from the cooking duties.” She held the bowl up to her nose and inhaled deeply. “This smells wonderful.”

  Lorit carefully tasted the dark brown offering with reserved judgment. It definitely smelled delicious. It was pungent with unusual spices but tasteful. “This is very good,” Lorit said, taking another liberal spoonful.

  Chihon followed suit. She blew carefully on the stew as it steamed heartily. She gingerly took a small taste. “This is excellent. Very good, Mu’umba. Thank you,” she added, smiling at the short, stocky tribesman.

  “Mu’umba good cook,” he said, beaming. “Great hunter,” he said. He looked at Chihon intently. “Great husband,” he added, nodding his head vigorously up and down.

  Lorit looked over at Chihon. She’d turned her face away from Mu’umba and looked shyly down at the grass. He looked back at the smiling, enigmatic tribesman who sat there, grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head up and down.

  Despite all the talk of pairing, Chihon was just a girl he’d picked up along the way. They could do magic together, but there wasn’t anything beyond that, so why did the smiling tribesman make him uncomfortable?

  Chapter 16

  Late one morning, the grass started thinning. The long, razor-sharp blades were interspersed with patches of common meadow grass, and the sled bumped along, banging over the uneven ground until, finally, Lorit called a halt.

  Eldon appeared in the distance as a dark haze at the foot of the looming mountains. The peaks stretched into the sky. They were topped with brilliant caps of snow; the white peaks were blurred by the wind throwing snow from one mountaintop to another. Lorit shuddered at the thought of having to cross through that and hoped that they were late enough in spring so that the pass would be open.

  By early afternoon, Lorit could make out the walled city of Eldon. He’d never seen a walled city before. Eldon sat on several key trade routes and was the center of commerce for the area. Every caravan and trader had to pass through Eldon, no matter the destination. It was rumored to be a very rich city.

  The road wound toward a gate in the wall flanked by twin towers. Lorit could see guards stationed inside. They were perched inside narrow openings that widened on the inside, to let them target anything on the road with their arrows.

  They were the only travelers on the road as they approached the gate. Two guards stood before the open gate, barring the way.

  “Where from and where bound?” the first guard demanded.

  “We’re out of Trickby by way of Nebrook, headed to Veldwaite,” Lorit said.

  “If you’re staying in our city for more than a moon, you’ll need to register with the Magistrate,” the guard told Lorit. He stepped aside and motioned them through.

  With the help of a few locals, they quickly located a livery that dealt in lizards. The livery was similar in design to Kinem’s but not as clean and well kept.

  “Welcome, weary travelers. My name is Fallor,” the proprietor said, extending his hand to Lorit. “You’re the first travelers to come out of the Plains this spring. Usually it’s half a moon or so before anyone emerges.”

  “We’re looking to trade in our sled and lizards for transportation that will get us to Veldwaite.”

  “Veldwaite, is it?” Fallor said. “Are you heading over the pass or around the mountains?”

  “Is the mountain pass open already?” Lorit asked. “Will that save us time over going around?”

  “For sure. You can save about two moons by taking the pass. It’s open already. We just had our first group from there about a week ago.”

  “What do we need to get over the pass?” Lorit asked.

  “You’ll be needing pack mules to make that trip. I have just the pair for you.”

  Lorit followed him into the stables to inspect the beasts. The pack mules were scruffy looking and unkempt, but they were all he had. Lorit suspected that the proprietor was a little lax in caring for his animals.

  “What will you give us for our rig and lizards?” Lorit said, indicating the lizards that stood there quietly, tongues darting in and out. “We just purchased them in Nebrook a few weeks ago.”

  “I can give you two hundred for the lizards and fifty for the sled,” he said slowly, as if Lorit was dragging the numbers out of him.

  “Two hundred and fifty!” Lorit sputtered. “We just paid four hundred for them.”

  “I can only offer you a hundred each for the lizards, and fifty for the sled,” Fallor said. “I’ll throw in another five for the rest of the rigging. I presume you have protective gear?”

  “How about the provisions?” Lorit asked. “We have plenty of provisions for the trip. I’m willing to throw them in, too.”

  “Sorry,” Fallor said with a shrug. “I’m taking a risk that someone comes along who wants to make the trek across the Plains soon. It’s not all that common a route. I could be stuck with these lizards quite a while.

  “Provisions…I don’t deal in those. They have no value to me. Maybe you can sell them in the market,” he added. “Lizards eat a lot,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  “I guess we have no choice,” Lorit said. “Do you have a wagon we can use to transport the supplies to market? On loan,” he added, as Fallor’s eyes lit up at the thought of an additional sale.

  “I suppose I can loan you a wagon for a day or so,” Fallor said resignedly. “The mules can pull it to market so you can sell your provisions.”

  They pulled the sled around to the wagon indicated by Fallor. Lorit and Chihon jumped down and inspected the wagon. It looked sturdy enough for what they needed. Fallor unhitched the lizards and
departed with them.

  “Mu’umba,” Lorit called. “We’re going to move the supplies from the sled to the wagon.”

  “Mu’umba strong,” he said. “Mu’umba help.”

  The tribesman hefted a barrel by himself that Lorit would have been unable to budge. He carried it over to the edge of the sled and set it down. He jumped to the ground and once again grasped the barrel. He hefted it over his head and placed it on the wagon, which creaked under the weight.

  “Thank you for your help,” Lorit said. He and Chihon levered each remaining barrel onto its edge and rolled them to the side of the sled where Mu’umba plucked them up and lugged them to the wagon. Lorit was happy to have such a strong helper for this task.

  Fallor returned with the pair of pack mules. As he rounded the stable and saw the tribesman, he stopped and stared, his eyes wide, his mouth slowly opening. “What is that?” he demanded. He pointed with one hand, the other still grasping the reins of the mules.

  Lorit looked around for the subject of Fallor’s inquiry until he realized he was pointing at Mu’umba. “Who is that?” Lorit said. “This is Mu’umba. He’s our guide and companion from the Plains tribes.”

  Fallor took on a defensive posture. Standing straight and tall, he pointed to Mu’umba and shouted. “Get that out of here.”

  The tribesman stopped his labors and walked up to Fallor. He came to the middle of the taller man’s chest. He looked up at the proprietor. “Mu’umba strong,” he said. “Mu’umba guide,” he declared, as if that would explain everything.

  Fallor took a step back and brought his hands up as if to ward off Mu’umba. “Get it away,” he shouted.

  Chihon stepped up to Mu’umba. She put her arm around his broad shoulders and leaned in to whisper to him. “I think he’s afraid of you. Let’s go outside until Lorit’s done,” she added. She gently guided him out of the stables.

  “Mu’umba is not an animal. He’s our guide and our host,” Lorit explained, as Fallor visibly relaxed with Mu’umba safely out of sight.

  Lorit quickly concluded the deal with Fallor and mounted the wagon. He turned it around and headed out of the stables. Once outside, he stopped to pick up Chihon and Mu’umba.

  “We may have trouble finding an inn, if that man is any indication,” he said.

  “What do you think set him off like that?” Chihon asked.

  “He was definitely not comfortable with Mu’umba,” Lorit said. “Once you left, he calmed down and was almost reasonable.”

  Mu’umba stayed in their room while Lorit and Chihon headed over to the dining room in the Weary Pony Inn. Lorit was worried about the way people treated Mu’umba. He’d received the same reaction from the people in the market. They feared him and didn’t want to sell him the winter clothes he needed to make the trip. He feared that having the tribesman with them would make it hard to find a trustworthy guide.

  He located a table in the center of the dining room and sat down. He motioned Chihon to take the seat across from him. She pulled out the bench and sat, resting her arms on the table.

  “Do you think we can find a guide here?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. Doesn’t every good quest start at an inn?” He caught the eye of the serving girl and nodded at her that they were ready.

  “Surely someone here will know where to start looking,” Chihon said.

  “Depends on what you’re looking for,” the serving girl said. She was young and slightly pudgy, but cute, with a long blond braid flopping from beneath the red kerchief she wore over her head.

  “Name’s Mosil and I know everyone worth knowing around these parts,” she bragged. She flipped her long blond braid and plopped herself on the bench next to Chihon. “What can I help you find?” she asked confidently.

  “We’re looking for a guide who can take us over the mountains to Veldwaite,” Lorit said.

  “That should be no trouble at all,” she said with a smile. “They’ve been cooped up all winter, and every guide in town is eager to get a commission now that the snow is receding. You want a good guide or a cheap one?”

  “Good and cheap,” Lorit said.

  Mosil stood up and once more flipped her braid. “What will you have while I rustle up a guide for you?”

  “How about two mugs of mead?” Lorit asked.

  “Be right back,” she said and departed.

  Mosil quickly returned with their mead. She set the mugs on the table, plopped herself down next to Chihon, turned to Lorit and said, “I’ll have you a guide by the time you’re done eating.” She looked at Chihon. “You are eating, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Chihon said. “What do you have tonight?”

  “We have fowl pie and roast lamb,” Mosil said. “I prefer the fowl pie,” she added with a wink. “Fowl pie and bread go for a silver each. Mead is five coppers a mug. You really want the fowl pie,” she said with a smile.

  “Fine, we’ll take the fowl pie then,” Lorit said.

  “I’ll just fetch that for you,” Mosil said as she stood up wearily and headed for the kitchen.

  A few moments later an older version of Mosil arrived with their dinner. “Here’s your fowl pie,” she said and placed the plates on the table. She was balancing a loaf of bread and a bowl of butter on her arm. She set them on the table alongside their dinner and plopped herself down on the bench next to Chihon.

  “I see you’ve already met my daughter, Mosil. She’s out to get you a proper guide,” the woman said. “She should be back in a while.” She levered herself back into a standing position. “Enjoy your dinner,” she called over her shoulder.

  Just as they finished their fowl pie, Mosil returned with a scruffy looking man who stood nearly a head taller than Lorit. He wore a thick fur coat, which he shed in the warmth of the inn. He straddled the bench next to Lorit.

  Mosil plopped herself down next to Chihon once again. “This is Ostai. He’s the best guide you can get for any price. He can get you safely over the mountain pass, even this early in the year.”

  She pushed herself up and turned toward the kitchen. “I best get back to work,” she said and lumbered off.

  “Nice girl,” Ostai said. “She tells me you need a guide to Veldwaite.”

  “We do,” Lorit said. He picked at the remainder of his dinner, finally pushing the plate away. He centered the mug where the plate had rested. He idly turned it, letting it twist around in a circle as the edge caught the table.

  “You don’t sound too sure,” he said, leaning forward. “Do you need a guide to get you over the mountains?”

  “We have a rather strange traveling companion,” Lorit said, avoiding eye contact with Ostai. “Are you the kind of man who’ll have a problem with someone a little different, or can we count on you no matter what?”

  “How strange?” Ostai asked. Before Lorit could answer, Ostai waved his hand in the air. “Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter to me,” he added with an air of pride. “I’ll take you over the hill for a fee. Who or what you bring along with you, is your business.”

  “How much to guide us over the mountains?” Lorit asked.

  “Two golds,” Ostai said.

  “Are you a man of your word?” Lorit asked him.

  “Man of my word? I’d rather die than break my word,” he said. He made a gesture as if stabbing himself in the heart. “I’ll take you over the hill. No matter what,” he added, leaning back.

  “Good,” Lorit answered. “You’re hired, then. Tell me what it’s like to cross the mountains this time of the year.”

  “It’s pretty early but not as early as some years,” Ostai said. “The pass is already open all the way down from Mistwind. We had a feller came out of the pass yesterday. He’d wintered over up top. Pretty happy to be home, he was.”

  “Why is that?” Lorit continued to play with the mug until Mosil returned with a pitcher of mead.

  “You going to drink that or just play with your mug?” she asked.

  “One,” Lori
t said, and then checked himself. “Make that two.” He indicated Ostai’s vacant place.

  She poured his mug full and pulled an empty from her apron, which she filled and placed before Ostai. Lorit fished in his pocket and found a silver by touch and tossed the coin to her. She caught it deftly and pocketed it before turning for the kitchen, her braid almost catching Lorit in the face as she did.

  Chihon stood up and leaned over to whisper softly in his ear. “I think I should get back and keep Mu’umba company.”

  “I’ll see you there as soon as we finish up here,” he said.

  He watched her depart with her dinner. Lorit worried about the tribesman. The short, enigmatic, smiling tribesman was supposed to be there to help, but it looked so far like he was nothing but trouble.

  Ostai cleared his throat. Lorit returned his attention to him. “I’m sorry,” Lorit said. “You were saying?”

  “Mistwind is a great place, don’t get me wrong, but spending the winter on top of the mountain is a little more time than I’d care to spend in the place,” he explained.

  “How far is Mistwind?”

  “It’s about four days’ hard climbing,” Ostai said, making a gesture of the mountain rising up as he talked. “Once you get past Mistwind, it’s all downhill,” he laughed. He looked up at Lorit’s wondering face.

  “Downhill is the hardest part,” he said, as if that explained it.

  “What’s the climb like?”

  “The trail is pretty good. You have pack mules?”

  “Yes,” Lorit said. “We have a pair of them.”

  “Good,” Ostai said. “You should be just fine, then.”

  “How about the weather?” Lorit asked as he took a swallow of the mead. He was worried about the snow on the mountain. It was getting toward spring on the flatlands, but the mountains could harbor storms much later in the year.

  “There’s always a chance of snow. I know how to deal with that,” he said, winking at Lorit. “Don’t you worry none.”

  Ostai stood up and extended his hand to Lorit. “First thing in the morning, then?” he asked.