Wizard Rising

by Toby Neighbors

  Branock left the group and went into the small home. He took his time, studying anything that seemed interesting. There was much to learn. The home was neat and efficient with two small bedrooms leading off the main room. There were typical fixtures around the home, cooking utensils, beds, well-crafted wooden furniture. But what Branock found most interesting wasn’t what he found, it was what seemed to be absent from the home. There was no sign of anything feminine in the entire house, no flowers, no hair brushes or aprons or dresses of any kind. Branock made his way back out into the cold winter sunlight.

  “The captain’s men have found the boy’s trail,” Cassis sneered. “Now that you are finally finished inspecting the house, we can go after him.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps we should split up,” Branock suggested.

  “What? Why?” Cassis asked.

  “You can obviously ride much faster than we can,” Branock said, indicating Wytlethane and himself. “Take your soldiers and range ahead. We will follow as quickly as our decrepit bodies will allow.”

  “Just get on your horse,” Wytlethane said.

  “Tell me you aren’t sore,” Branock replied. “Tell me you can ride through the night and all day long tomorrow.”

  Wytlethane looked at Branock for a moment and there was the barest hint of indecision. He wasn’t sure if he could trust his colleague, but he had no desire to sit on his skittish horse a moment longer than he had to.

  “All right,” Wytlethane said. “Ride on, Cassis, and pursue the boy. But do not engage him without us.”

  “That’s right, Cassis, you’d just get yourself killed,” Branock added, his voice grave as if he cared only for the younger wizard’s safety.

  “We’ll see about that,” Cassis sneered. “Come on, Captain, you heard them. Let’s ride.”

  The younger wizard kicked his horse and galloped away, the mercenaries following along behind.

  “Why did you do that?” Wytlethane asked.

  “I didn’t want to listen to him complaining constantly.”

  “Surely you don’t think Cassis could control himself. He’ll kill the master’s prize.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Why, because he caught us by surprise? Cassis is impatient and impetuous, but he is no fool. He’ll be ready the next time they meet.”

  “I’ve no doubt about that,” Branock agreed. “But I doubt he’ll find the boy. His mercenaries are not woodsmen. They’ll lose the trail and wander aimlessly through the night. Zollin and his father will head north, into the mountains.”

  “And you think we’ll find them?”

  “Yes, eventually, but not tonight and not tomorrow, not even if we could ride without rest. They are hunted and scared. They won’t stop moving, and in the end our patience will win out. They’ll be exhausted and beaten down when we find them. Perhaps the boy will simply agree to come with us without a fight.”

  “Perhaps,” said Wytlethane, his deep voice unconvinced. “Perhaps not.”

  Chapter 8

  They rode single file, urging their horses to move as fast as possible through the trees and over the rough, uneven ground. They did not speak. Quinn rode in the lead, followed by Mansel, Brianna, and finally Zollin. It was a bright and beautiful winter day. The sky was clear and the sunlight would have been welcome, but stark branches over their heads seemed to filter any heat that might have warmed them. The forest floor was covered in leaves, but they were packed down and stuck together from the snow that had fallen on them from the branches above. The horses moved almost silently, their normally heavy steps muffled by the decaying leaves.

  Zollin noticed all these things, the way the wind seemed to find every opening in his cloak, the way the leather saddles creaked as they rode, the smell of damp foliage all around them. He tried to think of anything except the events of the morning in Tranaugh Shire, but his mind kept reliving the awful moment when Todrek had died. He saw the sword flashing as it swung down. He saw his friend’s clumsy attempt to block the stroke, then the blood, dark crimson as it arced up after the sword. Todrek had seemed to fall in slow motion, dropping his sword and grabbing his throat in a useless attempt to stop the blood. He had dropped to his knees and then toppled backward on the brown winter grass.

  It was worse than a nightmare; it both terrified him and filled him with grief. He had cried, trying desperately to do so without making a sound. Fortunately his horse, a veteran of countless journeys, knew to follow the animals in front of it without any direction from its rider. Zollin spent most of the day hunched over his saddle, his head close to or even resting on the big horse’s neck. He watched the ground, numb to the sparks of magic that represented the three wizards of the Torr who were surely following him. He wished he had just stepped up and gone with them. What would it have hurt, he argued to himself. He was planning on leaving anyway; if he had gone with the other wizards, no one would have been hurt. Now his best friend was dead and it was Zollin’s fault. The truth of it was so bitter in his mouth that he felt he would retch.

  Just a few yards ahead of him was Todrek’s widow. He wondered how he would ever be able to look at her again. Why had she come with them? he wondered. He had sat up once, trying to shake off the black mood that possessed him, but Brianna’s lingering perfume had wafted to him, standing out from the smell of the damp earth and rotting vegetation of the forest around him. It stirred feelings within him, natural feelings, but feelings he hated all the same. He hated himself and wished he could die. When they stopped for a very brief rest to share the food from his pack, he couldn’t bring himself to eat. At some point during the day he had dozed off. He was lucky he hadn’t fallen from the saddle. But when he finally opened his eyes, night was falling.

  Quinn finally reined his horse to a stop. There was a small clearing near a noisy stream, and the riders all came together and dismounted, letting the horses drink. Quinn moved quietly to Zollin and took him aside.

  “You need to tell me everything,” his father whispered.

  “About what?” Zollin asked.

  “About you, about this magic, how long you’ve been practicing it, everything.”

  Zollin stammered for a moment. He felt so awful; the weight of his guilt was overwhelming. He told his father about the day they were framing the inn, about the tool bag and later the fireplace. He told him how he had discovered the willow tree and his staff. He told the truth about the traveling illusionist and how he had won their horse, Lilly.

  “Who else did you tell about this?” Quinn asked.

  “I told Todrek,” Zollin admitted, feeling ashamed for even speaking his friend’s name aloud. “He panicked and said all magic was evil sorcery. So I didn’t tell anyone else. After he was engaged to Brianna, I was going to leave, but he asked me to stand with him. I’ve told no one else, except Brianna.”

  “Brianna,” Quinn called to the girl.

  She moved toward them, her slim form moving carefully. She was obviously very saddle sore.

  “All right,” Quinn said as she arrived. “We have to know how these wizards knew about us. Zollin said he told you he could use magic. Did you tell anyone?”

  “No,” she said, her large eyes looking directly into Quinn’s as she spoke. “I doubt anyone would have believed me if I had.”

  “Didn’t you and Todrek talk about it?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” she said, her eyes dropping for an instant when Quinn mentioned her husband’s name.

  Zollin felt a lump rising in his throat, and although he didn’t think he could cry anymore, his eyes burned and blurred with tears. He wanted to run away, to lose himself in oblivion, to find a hole, crawl inside it, and die.

  “I mentioned it once, but Todrek would not speak of it,” Brianna said.

  “Did he tell anyone else?” Quinn asked.

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it. He acted like he didn’t want to acknowledge it.”

  “All right, so then the only other person who could have told them about you
was the illusionist.”

  Zollin nodded. He wished he hadn’t revealed himself to the traveling entertainer, but he could think of no other way to get the man to take him seriously. Now they were all paying for his mistakes.

  “Well, there’s no way to know if they’re following us but—”

  “They are,” Zollin interrupted. “I can feel them.”

  “You can what?”

  “I can feel them. It’s like a sense of dread, or like when someone is watching you.”

  “That’s just paranoia,” Quinn said matter-of-factly.

  “No, it’s different. I can sense magic within people and things, like the willow tree or my staff. I can tell if someone has magic in them. I’ve been feeling the wizards approaching for the last few weeks. I can feel them getting closer—the feeling is growing stronger.”

  “How close are they?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell how close or where exactly, just that they’re getting closer.”

  Zollin could tell his father was frustrated, but he didn’t know what else to say. There was a long, awkward silence before Brianna finally spoke.

  “Can we make camp here for the night? There’s fresh water and plenty of wood for a fire.”

  “No, we need to press on,” Quinn said sadly. “If Zollin can feel the other wizards, it’s a safe bet they can feel him, too. They can probably track us by it, so we need to put as much distance as we can between us. Go ahead and get out some food. We’ll eat, then move on.”

  Brianna nodded then shuffled away. Quinn stood looking at his son; Zollin looked down at the ground. He couldn’t imagine what his father was feeling, and even though he was sure it wasn’t good, at that moment he really didn’t care. He was numb, and his grief raged like a stormy ocean in his soul. He was overcome by it, unable to cope with it, much less control it.

  “I know it’s hard,” Quinn said softly.

  Zollin looked up, surprised at hearing his father speak. Quinn was only a little taller than his son, his hair going gray at the temples, his face lined with age and too much time spent in the sun, but his body was still solid. There wasn’t much excess fat on him, and his arms and shoulders were well rounded with muscle. He looked as comfortable in armor with a sword at his waist as he did with a tool bag over his shoulder and a sturdy piece of timber in his hands.

  “I lost my best friend, too, you know,” he said.

  Zollin looked up, surprised and hopeful, until he realized that his father was talking about his mother. It was almost more than he could stand. He knew his mother had died giving birth to him, and the guilt pushed his emotions over the edge.

  “I’m sorry,” Zollin said, his voice cracking as tears flowed down his checks. He sobbed, his knees buckling beneath him. His father caught him, and they both ended up on the damp ground. “I didn’t mean to kill her,” Zollin managed to say between gasps for breath.

  “Her?” Quinn asked. “You mean your mother?”

  Zollin nodded.

  “Son, I don’t blame you for your mother’s death.”

  But Zollin couldn’t take any more. He didn’t want to hear anyone rationalize about how this wasn’t his fault, or that he wasn’t to blame. It was his fault. People were dead and it was because of him. If he stayed with his father and Brianna, they would probably be killed, too. In fact, if his father was right and the wizards from the Torr could track him, then his presence was putting them in danger.

  He pushed away from his father and rose to his feet on shaking legs. “I’m leaving. You’re better off without me.”

  “No, son—”

  But Zollin wouldn’t let him finish. “If they’re after me, then you should go as far from me as possible. Take Brianna with you and keep her safe.”

  “No, I’m not leaving you. Not now, not like this.”

  “Go back to Tranaugh Shire. Tell everyone I’m sorry. Tell Todrek’s parents that I’m sorry.”

  He was crying uncontrollably. He started to turn away, but his father grabbed his arm. Before Zollin knew what was happening, his father had spun him back around and slapped his gloved hand across his son’s face. The impact was jarring and made Zollin gasp at the pain. After a moment of surprise, a white hot anger sprang up. His father hadn’t struck him in years and never like that. His face throbbed from the impact.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.

  “You mad?” his father shouted back.

  “You’re lucky I don’t…” he let the thought trail off.

  “You listen to me, boy,” Quinn said stepping close, his face mere inches from his son’s. “I know you’re hurting but we need you. I know you feel guilty and you blame yourself, but you didn’t kill Todrek. A mercenary killed your friend. Do you know what that means? It means cold-blooded killers are chasing us. It means that those wizards who want to carry you away are still out there right now. You want to blame someone, blame them. We need you. If you run off on your own, you’ll be playing right into their hands.”

  “But I don’t know what to do!” Zollin said, his frustration making his voice harsh.

  “We’ll learn as we go,” his father assured him. “Right now we need to get to safety. The winter snows will be here soon, and then we’ll have time to plot our next move. But for now we need to keep moving, stay ahead of those mercenaries, keep Mansel and Brianna safe.”

  “Keep moving where?” Zollin asked.

  “We move north. Hopefully we can make it into the mountains before the snows hit. That way we’ll be safe for a while. We can find shelter and sit out the worst of the winter storms. And hopefully in that time we’ll come up with a plan.”

  “Have you ever been in the mountains?” Zollin asked, his anger and grief receding.

  “Yes, once, before you were born. I worked for a while in a small village called Brighton’s Gate. It’s on Telford’s Pass through the mountains, and if we can get there I’m sure some of the townsfolk will give us shelter.”

  “Can we make it? How far is it?”

  “It will be close, but I don’t want to go south. Too many people, and we won’t know who to trust.”

  “Can we trust the people at Brighton’s Gate?”

  “It won’t matter. We’ll all be snowed in for the season. The passes fill up with snow so there’s no way to leave. When the passes reopen, we’ll move on.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Zollin said.

  “Have you got any better ideas?” his father asked.

  At first Zollin thought that Quinn was simply asking a rhetorical question, but his father waited, obviously expecting an answer. There was a strange look of respect on Quinn’s face. Zollin had expected the question to simply end the argument, but it seemed as if his father genuinely wanted to know if he had any ideas.

  “No, sir, that sounds like a good plan.”

  “All right, then,” Quinn said, “we press on. Let’s get something to eat.”

  Zollin started to protest, but then his stomach growled. He couldn’t imagine enjoying a meal, but he could at least fill his stomach. They walked back to where Mansel and Brianna were sitting on a fallen log. Mansel was chatting amiably, seemingly oblivious to the danger that was pursuing them. Brianna, Zollin noticed, didn’t seem distraught. He had avoided her all day, expecting to see anger and grief over Todrek’s death, but she seemed fine. In fact, she had prepared food for him and motioned for him to sit beside her.

  It was physically painful to see how beautiful she was. Even though she had been riding all day long, her face and hands pale from the cold, her eyes drooping slightly from exhaustion, she was still captivating. Zollin remembered how thrilled Todrek had been to have won her hand in marriage. She had inspired his friend to greatness, to achieving all that he could, and Zollin could see why. But her beauty was like an open wound to him. He wouldn’t let himself feel the giddy sweetness of being close to her. He willed himself at that moment to never love her, no matter what. She was Todrek’s and he coul
d not betray his friend’s memory.

  “So what’s the plan?” Mansel asked.

  “We head north,” Quinn said and then took a huge bite of bread.

  “Well, we won’t last long on these rations. We’ll have to find more food. I would have laid out some of the dried meat but there just isn’t much left.”

  “I can provide some more food,” Zollin said. He walked over to the stream, which was shallow but wide. The icy water was clear, and after a moment, he spotted a big trout resting behind a large stone from the swift current. Zollin took a firm grip on his staff and concentrated on the fish. He had done this at home, but now he had an audience. He closed his eyes and directed the flow of magic. The power from his staff mingled with the magic of the willow belt and flowed through him. He felt it move out into the water until he could feel the scaly skin of the fish through the connection. Then he lifted it up out of the water. It took all his concentration to hold onto the wiggling fish. In the small stream near the magic willow tree, Zollin had dropped more fish than he had caught, and none of them had been the size of this trout. But he had this one, and he was determined not to lose it. It thrashed madly, flipping back and forth, trying to escape and return to the safety of the stream. Zollin moved it over to the bank and laid it gently on the rocks. It jumped but was too far from the water to return on its own.

  “That’s a handy trick!” Mansel called out excitedly.

  “True, but I don’t think we can risk a fire,” Quinn said, his voice heavy with frustration. “We’re going to need to move on soon, and the smoke from a fire would lead them right to us.”

  “I can take care of that, too,” Zollin said. “Mansel, would you clean it?”

  The older boy, normally taunting Zollin and making life miserable, responded happily, as if he wasn’t running for his life from powerful wizards but rather was on a family picnic. Quinn frowned and pulled Zollin aside again.

  “We really don’t have time for this.”