"Wood. Chop." Morg shoved Zhimosom around the barn. Several cords of wood were stacked against the wall. Strewn about the yard were logs cut to lengths of two spans. In the middle was a patch of hard dried earth and an ax.
"Split these like those and stack them up." Morg pointed to the logs, then to the stacked wood. "You should be able to finish these all by day's end."
Zhimosom took the ax in his hands. It felt right, as if he'd used it before. He glanced at the blade. It was as fine as a sword blade. It glimmered in the sunlight and had an edge like a razor.
He turned a log on end and swung the ax with all his might. The trick was to build momentum and let the ax do the work. He felt the weight of it as the ax circled his head and impacted the log directly at its heart.
With a satisfying crack, the log split in two and fell away. Zhimosom picked up the halves and stood them on the hard packed dirt. He swung the ax again. It whistled through the air and struck the wood with a thud, sending the split pieces flying.
Zhimosom wondered about the woman at the table. Her face looked so familiar. Her image haunted him as he worked. Memories floated just behind the veil of the drug. Somehow, she fit into the story that was locked away at the edge of his memory.
He completed the task and sat down to rest. Zhimosom stared at the late afternoon sun as it shifted color from brilliant yellow to a mellow red. The breeze picked up and dried the sweat from him before the chill of the evening set in.
Morg came along and roused him from his reverie. "Time to head back to the barn."
Zhimosom followed him, hopeful of a repeat of the noon meal, but Morg led him back to the room full of straw where he had awakened him that morning. As they reached the door, Morg grabbed Zhimosom by the shoulder. He reached around and clamped a cloth over Zhimosom's face.
Zhimosom struggled, but Morg was too powerful. He couldn't breathe at first. When he thought he was going to pass out, Morg released his grip just a little. Zhimosom gulped in air. He felt the acrid, bitter taste of the drug and darkness took him.
Zhimosom awoke to a sharp pain in his side. Someone was standing over him with a whip. The man was of average height, but easily twice as wide as any normal man. He was built of muscle overlaid with a thick layer of fat. He had a scar that ran from his forehead, across his permanently closed eye, and across his cheek.
"Come on. Get up."
"What's going on?"
The man reached down and grabbed Zhimosom by the drab iron collar that circled his neck. "I got no time for this today. Get up and get to work."
Morg jerked Zhimosom out of the room and handed him a fork. "Muck!" he said.
"What?" Zhimosom asked.
Morg turned back and grabbed Zhimosom by his shirt, lifting him off the floor. His brown eyes flared with anger. "I said get to work. I'm tired of this same babbling every day. You're a slave and you do what you're told. Now get to mucking the stalls out before I use my whip on you."
Morg lowered Zhimosom back to the ground and shoved him towards the horse stalls. A fork stood there awaiting his attention.
Zhimosom looked at the fork.
"You remember how to muck out a stall, don't you? I don't have to start teaching that to you every morning, do I?"
"No." Zhimosom reached for the fork. There was a small cart parked outside the barn. The cart was spattered with manure and straw. He assumed that was where he was meant to put the muck, but didn't dare to risk the ire of the behemoth standing there, hands on his hips, with a whip in one hand.
"Good. You do remember." Morg turned to leave. "I'll come get you for the noon meal. Have this all done by then."
Zhimosom labored at the task, pondering why he couldn't remember anything. He knew there was something amiss, but he was not sure what. He reached for memories and found a wall in his mind. Not a wall of brick or stone, but of mist and confusion. He felt its flavor. It was thick and dark. He pushed at it, trying to drive the darkness out, but he could not.
The best he was able to do was to clear away enough fog for one image. The image of a woman. She had brown hair that fell to her shoulders in waves. In his memories, she smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with life. This was someone important, someone close to him. Someone he was connected to.
The clanging of the bell roused him from his meandering thoughts. Morg showed up and dragged him to the table for the mid day meal. Standing next to the table, staring off into space, was the woman.
Zhimosom recognized her.
He tried to remember her name, but the mist and clouds clung to him, blinding him, as he searched his memories for her. He felt it, like a lingering taste on the tip of his tongue. She was special. Special not only to Zhimosom, but important somehow.
As he struggled to remember her, a strange feeling came over him. He heard thoughts in his head; not his own, someone else's. The woman's. She was trying to talk to him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You can hear me!" She had a nice voice. She sounded scared, but confident ... confident in him.
"Do I know you?" Zhimosom thought back to her.
"Zhimosom. Try harder. You'll remember."
Zhimosom dug deeper for the memory. He did know her. She was ... she was ... "Rotiaqua." Zhimosom said out loud.
"Shut up and eat." The gruff voice of Morg broke his concentration.
"Rotiaqua." Zhimosom said again. He felt the power inside him surge. He was a Wizard. She was a Sorceress. He felt as if he were inside the shell of an egg that was slowly cracking open, allowing his memories to come came back to him. She was the Baron's daughter. They had escaped the Priest in Frostan. They had been drugged.
Drugged!
Zhimosom searched for the drug in his system. He felt it now. It was there, blunting his senses, keeping him dulled. He examined it with his magic. Power surged in him. It came from Rotiaqua. He accepted it and combined it with his own magic.
He located the powder and the spell that drove it. He felt the magic in the iron ring that circled his neck. They suddenly became as nothing to him. He dismissed them both.
The ring snapped open and fell to the ground.
He reached out to Rotiaqua and broke the spell that held her in a collar like his own. Hers snapped open, too, and clattered to the ground.
As the powder's effects faded, Zhimosom recalled everything. How they had been taken in by that fake Wizard and how they had been sold into slavery.
He stood up.
"Not so fast." Morg reached for his whip. He snatched it off his belt and uncoiled it in one smooth motion. "One more step and you'll feel the bite of my whip."
Zhimosom smiled and reached his hand out, palm up. He called fire. It was exhilarating. The fire wound itself into a tight ball and started to spin. The faster it spun the more Zhimosom felt alive.
Zhimosom laughed.
"I have nothing against you. You have not truly mistreated me. I don't want to harm you, or anyone here."
Morg lowered the whip. He stared at Zhimosom, his mouth open, eyes wide.
"That's the smart choice." Zhimosom motioned to Rotiaqua. "Go get a couple of horses."
Zhimosom turned back to Morg. "We'll free the horses once we get back to town, where I have a score to settle. The horses will come home on their own."
Morg lifted his empty hands and backed away.
Rotiaqua trotted up on a chestnut mare and led a buckskin gelding.
Zhimosom released the fire spell. The crackling die out as the flames faded. He glanced once more at Morg, grabbed the reins and jumped onto the gelding. Zhimosom snapped the reins and sped off down the lane, never looking back.
Zhimosom kept his word and freed the horses when they reached the outskirts of town. Zhimosom and Rotiaqua wound their way through the narrow streets until they came to the Apothecary's room. The room was empty.
A fire burned in the stove, beneath a kettle of water. "He must have stepped out," Zhimosom cautioned Rotiaqua.
"Let's get our things a
nd be gone before he returns," Rotiaqua said. She ducked behind the curtain that blocked off the sleeping quarters. Zhimosom heard the stairs creak and rushed behind Rotiaqua. "He's coming," he whispered.
The door creaked open and the false Wizard entered. He stood over the kettle boiling on the fire and rubbed his hands together, dropping powder into the water. Zhimosom smelled the rich aroma of pine needles and something sweet; the sleeping powder.
Zhimosom feared the sleeping powder would soon affect him, so he pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the kitchen to confront the Apothecary.
"What are you doing here?" the false Wizard demanded when he saw Zhimosom.
"We just want our things and we'll be on our way."
"You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"
"Yes, I do." Zhimosom raised his hand just in case the man decided to start a fight.
The Apothecary reached into his pocket and pulled out a fist full of powder. He inhaled deeply just as he'd done before, but this time Zhimosom was prepared.
He raised a spell that deflected the powder back to the man.
The false Wizard's eyes glazed over. He took a step towards Zhimosom and flung his hand wide. He struck the stove, and sent the kettle flying, knocking the shelf down.
Powders spilled all over the stove and flew through the air. The fire flared with a brilliant blue flame and filled the room with the smell of rotten eggs.
Zhimosom caught the man as he fell. He lowered him to the floor.
"Search him," Rotiaqua said. She turned and went into the sleeping chamber and reemerged with a battered pack that they'd found while cleaning a storage room. She rummaged through it.
"Looks like everything is here. What little we have."
Zhimosom searched the man's pocket and found Rotiaqua's Golds. They were Frostan coins, embossed with the likeness of her grandfather. He handed them to her.
"Let's get out of here,” Rotiaqua said.
"What about him?"
"Leave him to burn." Rotiaqua turned to leave as the flames from the stove licked at the ceiling and the thatched roof caught fire.
"We can't just leave him here." Zhimosom tugged at the man's robe. "Help me carry him down."
Rotiaqua stood staring at Zhimosom, hands on her hips. "He sold us into slavery. If he were in Frostan, my father would have him tortured to death. Burning is too good for him."
"No. No one deserves to die like this. Help me carry him downstairs. They will blame him for the fire. Let the townspeople take it out on him. We're not killers."
Rotiaqua scowled but took the man's feet. She lifted them up and backed towards the stairs as the roof caught fire and smoke poured out the door.
They dropped the fake Wizard at the bottom of the stairs and ran as the fire broke through the roof and flames shot into the air.
Recruit
Sulrad recovered slowly from his fight with Zhimosom and Rotiaqua. He kept to the Temple and concentrated his efforts on building up the faithful and influencing the citizens of Frostan. He needed power to find Zhimosom and Rotiaqua, and the only way to do that was to restrict himself to using as little magic as he could.
One day, Sulrad heard rumors of a young Wizard living in Frostan. They said he was a leather worker who had just reached his twentieth summer. It shouldn't be that hard to find him. There were not too many leather workers in town.
Sulrad waited until early afternoon, when business would be slow, and walked the streets of the craftsmen district. Here, coopers carefully crafted their barrels; candle makers boiled the fat from the butchers. The mix of smells was almost overwhelming as he scoured the streets until he found the cobbler's shop.
There was a crude sign hanging over the door, visible from the narrow cobbled street. It sat next to the tannery and shared the same foul odor with it.
The cobbler was a strong young man with short sandy brown hair and brown eyes. He sat behind a shoe held together with wooden clamps. He carefully tapped nail after nail into the sole to secure it before pausing to look up.
Veran's eyes widened when he saw Sulrad standing in the doorway. Sulrad had gotten used to the stares wherever he went. He barely noticed it any longer.
"Can I help you?" Veran asked.
Sulrad leaned against the door post. He reached out with his magic to see if he could sense the man's power. It was weak and shielded, but it was unmistakable.
Sulrad didn't answer the question; rather, he just pushed a compulsion on the man. He felt Veran resist it.
"So it's true, then," Sulrad said.
"What's true?" Veran stood, still grasping his hammer, and started towards Sulrad.
"That you're a Wizard." Sulrad stood his ground.
"Wizard?" Veran took a step closer and raised the hammer. "I think you'd best be along now. I don't need your type of trouble here."
Sulrad pressed the compulsion spell even harder. Veran faltered, slowing as he came, and then he froze in mid stride.
Sulrad smiled. The compulsion had taken hold. He probed for shields. Sure enough, they were there. They were crude, but effective. That must be how the man had kept himself hidden for so long.
No matter, he was caught now and Sulrad would soon have him on the altar.
"Stand there." Sulrad pointed to the corner.
Veran lowered the hammer and let it fall from his grip. He stood still where he was. Sulrad felt him struggle against the spell, but it did him no good.
Sulrad sat down at the workbench. He searched the drawers until he found a small piece of parchment and a quill and ink. The ink was almost dry, so he spit in it and stirred it with the quill.
To Baron Rieck.
The Cobbler Veran has accepted a position in the Temple as one of my trainees. As our agreement states, I have taken possession of his cobbler shop, but have no interest in operating it. I ask that you find some deserving craftsman and convey the property to him.
Sulrad signed it with a flourish and blew on the ink. He found a small cache of sand and sprinkled some on the parchment.
Sulrad stepped outside the cobbler shop and saw a boy of about ten summers in age.
"Boy. Come here."
"Sire?"
"Do you know the way to the castle?" Sulrad asked.
"Yes."
Sulrad handed the boy the parchment. "Please take this to the castle for me. When the Guards ask what you're doing, tell them you have a message for the purser."
The boy stood there, looking at him.
"You know what a purser is?"
"Yes, Sire."
"What are you waiting for?" Sulrad wanted to get the cobbler back to the Temple, but he had to make arrangements for the cobbler shop. He couldn't just abandon it.
Sulrad looked at the boy. He wore threadbare homespun clothes and nothing on his feet.
Sulrad reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of coppers. He handed them to the boy. "Run along now."
"Right away, Sire."
The boy ran off down the street and Sulrad returned to the shop. He smiled as he motioned to Veran. "We're going to have such fun, you and I. Come with me."
Veran turned and followed Sulrad down the shadowy alleyways and streets that took them back to the Temple.
The days of torture had not been gentle to Veran. He was gaunt and thin, and his hair had fallen out in clumps. His face was red and blotched with bruises. Sulrad had spent every day and much of each night with the cobbler for the last five days. He wanted to expose Veran's power before he attempted to take it from the man. He usually calmed his victims so that they relaxed before the sacrifice, but Veran was different; he had shields.
"Where did you learn shields?" Sulrad passed his staff over Veran, watching him tense up at the pain as it traveled along the man's body. Sulrad moved the staff back and forth from head to toe in a smooth motion. He was tempted to dwell in one spot more than others, but he resisted. He felt Veran fight back, strengthening his shields even as Sulrad poured the pain into him.
>
Veran remained silent. He clenched his teeth as the staff passed over him, but he didn't cry out.
Sulrad saw the man was starting to fade. He might very well die from the torture before Sulrad could break his shields. That would be a waste.
Sulrad relented, leaving Veran tied to the altar. He had removed the compulsion spell earlier and secured the cobbler with stout ropes instead. Sulrad sat and pondered his next move. He probed Veran, finding the shields still in place and as strong as ever. Clearly, this was not the right approach.
Sulrad needed a little more power to defeat the shields. He knew he was close; Veran was about to break ... or die.
"Don't go anywhere." Sulrad looked into Veran's bloodshot eyes and laughed. "I'll be right back. I have something in mind to help with your shields."
Veran just stared at him through tortured eyes.
Sulrad fetched a mini dragon that he'd received from one of the wealthy merchants in return for assuring that the man's firstborn would be a boy. The animal was in bad shape, having been caged for weeks, but its magic was still intact.
Veran's eyes widened when he saw the mini dragon. His brow furrowed and his breathing quickened. He followed it as Sulrad brought the mini dragon to the altar where he trussed it up next to Veran. "This is a mini dragon. It is a creature of magic that is going to give its life to me. I will take its power and use it to break your shields."
Sulrad stepped back. Why was the cobbler so interested in the mini dragon? "You recognize this?"
Veran nodded ever so slightly.
"You want this?"
Sulrad saw the excitement on Veran's face. The cobbler wanted the magic of the mini dragon. He wasn't the innocent that Sulrad had thought he was.
Sulrad raised his staff and pushed the spell on Veran once more. The cobbler tensed up in pain as the staff passed from head to toe. Sulrad thought Veran was going to snap, he strained so hard, but then he relaxed. Veran lay still on the altar. His breathing calmed.
Wizard Pair (Book 3) Page 15