The Sorceress: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 3)

by James Eggebeen

  “No, sire,” Zhimosom said. He stood quietly, waiting.

  Sir Draveri looked Zhimosom over. “You don’t look much like your pa.”

  “He’s not my pa...”

  “Ha! Bastard, are you?” the knight interrupted before he could finish explaining. “I thought so.” Sir Draveri grabbed Issula around the waist. “You look like a loose woman. I thought that the minute I saw you.”

  Issula struggled to escape his lecherous grip, but he was too strong. He pulled her close, grabbing at her clothes, trying to rip them from her.

  Zhimosom took a step back and grabbed the half full bucket. Without thinking, he threw the ice cold water at the knight. It splashed on his armor and ran beneath it to soak him from head to toe.

  Sir Draveri stood up. The bench went flying. He drew his sword free of its scabbard with one hand and upended the table with the other. He stepped forward and raised his blade.

  “How dare you!” He advanced on Zhimosom. “I am a soldier of the realm! No peasant is going to make a mockery out of me.”

  Zhimosom raised the empty bucket to fend off the inevitable blow.

  12

  Rotiaqua sat back and released the flames. The fire died down to its usual gentle crackle, the scent of burning oak filling the room with its sweet aroma. The air was warm, even inside the massive stone walls of the castle. The memory of the boy she had contacted haunted her. Since arriving at the castle, she had no longer been able to use her magic to seek out her one friend in the fire, but this boy, for he was a boy, just the age when magic awakens, had managed to defeat whatever her father had done to prevent magic from functioning in the castle. Did that mean he had a strength that even Sulrad lacked? She had not spoken with Sulrad in ages. Not since leaving the estate, and not often even then. There was something about Sulrad that bothered her, something she could not put a name to, but he felt dirty, contaminated. Not in a physical sense, but his magic. It felt wrong. Not this new boy. Not Zhimosom. His magic was clear and pure.

  He was a serf on her father’s land, and when he found out who she was, he’d been frightened. It made her sad to think someone who had magic as she had would be afraid of her. She wanted to contact him, to reassure him, to learn more, but tonight, she couldn’t find him.

  She called up the image of the fireplace where he’d appeared the night before, but he wasn’t there. She caught a glimpse of the old man slumped over the table, asleep, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Rotiaqua!” Odray shouted at her. “What are you doing? You know better than that. What would your father think if he knew you were doing magic?”

  Rotiaqua let the image of the sleeping man fade and turned to Odray. “Father doesn’t have to know. I can’t find him. He’s gone. I’m worried.”

  “You know better than to talk to small folk; they’re nothing but dirty, thieving cowards, good for field work but little else. Next thing you know, one of those folk you keep calling up will step through that flame and kill you, just to get to your jewelry.” Odray snuffed the flame from the candle with her fingers.

  Rotiaqua reached out with her magic and re-lit the candle without lifting her hands from her lap. She knew she was showing off, but she was tired of Odray’s constant scoldings. She didn’t see how a little gazing was going to hurt anyone.

  “Stop that.” Odray looked at her with her brows all knotted up the way she got when she was angry. She snuffed the flame once again.

  Rotiaqua reached out once more with her magic and re-lit the candle, watching the flame rise to a height of several digits, then quickly snuffed it out, all without lifting so much as a finger. When that didn’t get a reaction from Odray, she did it again.

  “I’ve had enough of this.” Odray walked over, took the candle out of its holder, and stuffed it into a drawer. “You know how your father feels about magic.”

  “He’s gone,” Rotiaqua said and jumped up. She grasped Odray by the shoulders and shook her gently. “I can’t find him back!”

  “That’s probably for the best.” Odray squirmed but didn’t manage to break free. “Queue. If your father finds out you’re practicing magic, and that I witnessed it, he’ll kill me.”

  Rotiaqua sobered at the thought. Odray was taking a huge risk protecting Rotiaqua’s secret from the baron. He truly would have her head if he found out. That wasn’t something she was willing to risk, was it?

  She tried to calm herself, but the thought of the boy connecting with her was just too exciting. “He can see me, like I can see him. That means he has magic, too. I have to find him back.” She shook Odray, trying to infuse her with the excitement she felt.

  “Haven’t you risked enough?” Odray shook off her grasp and turned toward the bed. She started fluffing the pillows and straightening the covers. “You know how your father treats wizards. If he finds that boy, he’ll have him burned. He has a wizard in the gaol right now, one of those vagabond itinerant frauds that travels around causing trouble.”

  Odray fussed with the bed-coverings, talking to Rotiaqua without looking at her. “You know the type. They sell remedies that don’t work to folks who can’t afford them, then run off before anyone realizes their remedies are a bunch of murmurings. The baron has him locked up awaiting trial.

  “He’ll be hung tomorrow after spending the day in the stocks. That’s how your father treats wizards.” Odray shoved Rotiaqua toward the chair. She pulled a brush out of the same drawer where she’d stashed the candle. “Sit down, girl ... The stocks and burning are what will happen to that boy if you keep this up. The baron won’t stand for it. The boy will be hung, and me right along with him for keeping your secret.”

  As Odray brushed out her hair, Rotiaqua gazed out the window as Odray fiddled with a particularly tough knot, finally working it loose.

  A wizard. She wondered who it was? Was it one of the two she had contacted in the fire? Would he have a familiar? Perhaps a mini-dragon. She had hoped to see another of those creatures one day. “Does the wizard in the gaol have a mini-dragon?”

  “No, he does not. If he did, your father would have killed the beast and let the wizard die in agony without his familiar. This wizard is a down-and-out swindler, just like the rest.”

  “Is that why Father has been so agitated as of late?” Rotiaqua asked.

  “No. He’s worried there will be war.”

  “Will there be?” Rotiaqua asked. “A great war?”

  Odray tugged at another snarl. “Who knows? There’s always something going on. The knights don’t feel like they’re men unless they’re off fighting somewhere. One of the knights returned home yesterday with stories of fighting up north.

  “He said that a merchant caravan had passed through one of your father’s villages, and one of the merchants had his way with a maid who lived there. It started a fight with the locals, and by the time it was over, they’d burned down the village and put the small folk to the sword.

  “Your father’s men happened upon them and ran them off before they could fire the fields. They caught and killed the fool that started it all.”

  She paused and waved the brush in the air, emphasizing her words. “Turns out the man they killed was the eldest son of some nobleman, and you know how much trouble they cause if someone touches one of their precious offspring.”

  Odray tugged out one final tangle and placed the brush on the dresser. “That won’t help the relations between the king and your father.”

  “Father is always complaining about King Omrik. He says they grew up together, and the king was a spoiled brat from the start. Father doesn’t think Omrik will do anything to harm us, though.”

  As if to put a lie to her words, the sound of a horn split the air.

  Rotiaqua ran to her window to see a knight and his squire riding up the road. They carried her father’s banner and rode their horses without a care toward their wellbeing. The lead knight rode toward the castle, heedless of bystanders who might be in his way. He came close to trampling
a small child who wandered into his path, but the toddler was snatched up by her mother at the last instant.

  Rotiaqua saw him jump from his horse and dash for the audience chamber. She raced for the door, eager to hear what he had to say.

  “Where are you going, girl?” Odray reached for her but was too slow. Rotiaqua escaped the woman’s grasp and sped off, taking the stairs two at a time. She arrived at the audience chamber just as the knight entered.

  She knew better than to intrude, but she was curious. She hid behind a pillar and watched. She had to hear the story; no one ran like that with good news.

  The knight entered and knelt before the baron. “Your Lordship. The king has sent his army against us.” He struggled to his feet, hampered by the weight of his armor and injuries.

  “Out with it!” the baron demanded.

  Rotiaqua shared his impatience from her hiding spot.

  “We were on routine patrol around the towns and villages, when we ran afoul of the king’s men.”

  As the knight told the story of what had happened, Rotiaqua saw the action in her mind’s eye, just as she did in the fire when she was dreaming.

  Nalua and his men rode along the dusty road that split the golden fields of wheat. The men were proud knights, their armor clean and well maintained, their horses strong and disciplined. The baron’s banner flew from the staff carried by Nalua’s squire to alert the townsfolk that noblemen were coming.

  Off in the distance, a thread of smoke rose from behind a hill. It was thin and light at first, the kind of smoke one expected to see from a village, but it grew thicker and darker as they rode. “I don’t like the looks of that.” Nalua gestured to two of his men. “Go ride up ahead and see what’s going on.”

  A pair of knights spurred their mounts on and soon crested the hill, lost from sight.

  As Nalua neared the town, the smoke thickened, until billowing clouds of black obscured the sun overhead. The gentle breeze carried with it the acrid odor of burning flesh mixed with the tar that made up the homes and hovels of the village. It was time to hurry. Nalua spurred his horse on, hoping to reach the town in time to save lives. But he was too late. As he and his men crested the hill, they saw the full impact of what had transpired. The town was ablaze, fire leaping from building to building as the breeze carried sparks from the raging inferno to those areas as yet untouched.

  The two knights that had gone ahead lay in the road – dead. Nalua reined in his horse and jumped from the saddle. He rushed to his men and knelt down. They had been pierced by short quarrels, the shafts sticking out of their armor where they’d penetrated the shiny plate.

  “Who dares to attack the baron’s men?” Nalua screamed. He looked up to see a line of men standing beside the road, crossbows loaded and ready.

  A knight wearing King Omrik’s colors sat atop his steed. “I do,” the knight said.

  Nalua rose and drew his sword. “Who trespasses on the baron’s land? Give me your name.” He looked warily at the crossbowmen, wondering if the baron’s banner was sufficient to stay their hands.

  “The king considers these his lands. They are only granted to the baron by royal decree. We commit no trespass here.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Nalua demanded.

  “A lesson!” the mounted knight said.

  “A lesson? What sort of lesson?” Nalua waved his arm at the two who lay in the road behind him, then at the smoking remains of the village.

  “A lesson in manners and court etiquette,” the knight shouted. “Perhaps next time the baron sends men after the king’s tax collectors, they won’t be so hasty.” He snapped the reins of his horse and charged straight at Sir Nalua.

  Nalua barely had time to raise his sword and fend off the first blow. He glanced back at the crossbowmen, worried that they would fire on him as he fought. But there was no time to worry about that. He quickly turned to meet the attack as the rider circled back for another pass.

  Nalua slashed at the rider. His reflexes betrayed him. The man’s sword drew across his chest. The metal in his armor gave way with a screech. He reeled under the impact, trying to get his bearings before the rider bore down on him once more. This time, he was better prepared, even though he was still dazed from the previous clash.

  The king’s knight lashed out, and Nalua caught the oncoming sword on his blade. He slid it upwards and jerked it around. The blade struck home. It contacted the rider on the side, driving the mail into his ribs with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

  Nalua steeled himself for another clash, but the rider kept going until he was behind the line of crossbowmen. “Let him and his aide live, but kill the rest,” the rider called out.

  The air was filled with the sound of crossbow quarrels striking plate armor. It was a sickening sound that turned Nalua’s stomach. He’d fought with these men for summers uncounted. Some of them he had raised up from young nobles who were almost unable to wipe their own bottoms, and turned them into fighting men. It was his fault that these men were dead, but more so, the king’s. Omrik had no right to treat the baron’s men in such a manner. He would pay one day, and if there was any justice in the world, Nalua would be the one to exact that payment.

  “You’ll pay for this!”

  Crossbows turned toward Nalua. The king’s knight raised his hand. “Hold there. Someone needs to convey this message to the baron. If we have to kill you, who will carry that message? Tell the baron that the king will burn ten towns as a punishment for his misdeeds.”

  Rotiaqua could clearly see the evidence of that fight. Sir Nalua was soot-stained and bore a large gash across his chest where his opponent’s sword had struck him. He was fortunate to have survived the encounter, or perhaps he had indeed been spared in order to carry this message to her father.

  As the knight finished his story, the baron jumped up from his throne. “A lesson?” he sputtered. “A lesson?”

  He paced back and forth across the dais. “Some uncultured son of a swine gets out of hand in one of my villages and I am to pay the price?”

  He strode over to the table and picked up his chalice. He took a heavy swig of wine and looked back at Sir Nalua. “How many men did you lose?”

  “Nine, Your Lordship.”

  The baron threw his chalice at the wall. It hit with a clank and splattered wine against the stones before it clattered to the floor. He turned back to Sir Nalua. “And the village? How many were there living in that town?”

  “Thirty, Your Lordship.”

  The baron kicked the chalice, sending it careening off the walls until it finally came to rest beneath the heavy red curtains. He walked to the window, kicked the chalice out of his way, and looked down on the city.

  “That arrogant swine! This time, he’s gone too far.”

  Rotiaqua drew her head back behind the pillar. She knew when her father was in such a mood that it was safer to be absent. The king had attacked her father’s men and set fire to one of his villages, and according to the tale Nalua told, King Omrik was going to keep going until his men had destroyed ten villages. This was war. A war she wanted no part of.

  She crept back to her room and blew out the candle. That night, she had nightmares of knights on horseback with crossbows, and burning villages.

  The next morning, Rotiaqua was invited down to breakfast with her father. He was cross and short with her as they ate, responding to her with terse grunting answers when she attempted to engage him in conversation. She soon gave up and ate in silence.

  As the meal ended, the baron turned to her and said, “I think you should be in the audience chamber today. There are a few petitioners that you may find entertaining and educational. Join me this morning.”

  She hated it when he did that. It always meant that he had something particularly gruesome or sadistic in mind. She felt as if he secretly wanted her to share in his perverse enjoyment of the suffering of others.

  “Yes, Father, I’ll gladly join you,” she answered. “
I always find it interesting. What do you have planned?”

  “A wizard.” The baron pushed his chair back and stood. He walked around the table and helped Rotiaqua up. He took her arm and escorted her to the audience chamber. There, he seated her on the smaller of two over-sized ornately carved chairs that were a permanent fixture of the room.

  “Bring him in,” the baron said as he took his seat. He reached over and patted Rotiaqua’s hand. “You may see something interesting today. They tell me this wizard is special.”

  The wizard was a man much like any other, totally unremarkable. He was tall and thin, almost birdlike with his large nose and gaunt cheeks. His hands and feet were bound by short chains. His cloak was muddied and torn. He looked like he’d been in the gaol more than simply overnight.

  The guards dragged him before the baron and shoved him to his knees on the hard floor. He looked up with an air of defiance that Rotiaqua had never seen before in a petitioner, especially not one in chains. Most petitioners begged for mercy or tried to talk their way out of trouble by flattering the baron, but this one remained silent.

  His gaze fell on her.

  His eyes widened.

  She almost didn’t recognize him. It was Sulrad. Had he come here to find her? The last time they had spoken, he was in Amedon, but that was so long ago. She had lost contact with him when she came to live in the castle. She had all but forgotten about him, and now he was right here. Standing before her father.

  “Well. What do you have to say for yourself?” the baron demanded.

  “I have nothing to say on my behalf.” The wizard looked the baron straight in the eye. “I am the voice of Ran. I speak on his behalf.”

  “And who, pray tell, is Ran?” The baron leaned back in his chair and relaxed as Rotiaqua had often seen him do when he thought the petitioner was a little off in the head.

  “He is the one true god, My Lord.”