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

by James Eggebeen

  Rotiaqua perked up. Who was this Ran he spoke of? Why had he never mentioned it before? She had been educated in the local customs. Ran was a minor deity worshiped by peasants who believed that their suffering earned them some bright future after their deaths. She thought it preposterous. Was that why he had never mentioned it to her?

  The baron laughed and slapped his palm against his leg. “The one true god? So, you expect me to believe that there’s only one god? And you’re his personal spokesman?”

  “Yes, My Lord. He has sent me to help you.”

  The baron waved his hand at the guard. “I’ve heard enough. Take this fool away. Put him in the stocks for the day and then hang him.”

  As the guard advanced, Sulrad cupped his hands. When he pulled them apart, there was a ball of violet light spinning between them. He shook his arms, flipping the short chain around. It slipped into the ball of brilliant color. As it entered the spinning ball of sparks, the rusty chain flared and disappeared.

  Rotiaqua was temporarily blinded by the glare.

  Sulrad stood and extended his hand, holding out the fireball for inspection. It slowly grew more radiant.

  Rotiaqua gasped in disbelief.

  Sulrad stretched out his hand to the baron. “I said I was here to aid you as I can. But it is not something I will speak of in public.” He shook his hand, and the fireball bounced up and down, distorting slightly as it came in proximity with his skin. It spit sparks into the chill air as it swirled tightly in a ball about the size of an apple.

  He cupped his hands together again. Violet light shone through his skin until the fireball faded away. He spread his empty hands apart in supplication. “Surely you will not refuse the help of a god.”

  The baron sat forward in his chair. His eyes narrowed and his nose wrinkled as he stared at the wizard. “How would you help me, you and your god?”

  “I propose to deal with your problem as a demonstration of the power of Ran. If I fail, you can always burn me later. If I succeed, all I ask is that you do me the honor of allowing me to continue serving you.”

  “I am no friend of wizards. Why should I trust you?” The baron moved his hand to the hilt of his sword as he spoke.

  “Because you have no other choice,” Sulrad said. “Have I not demonstrated that I am here because I choose to be here, not because of your chains and your guards?”

  “I’ve had enough of your talk.” The baron nodded to the guards. “Take him to the stocks for the day. I’ll decide later if we hang him, take his head, or let him go. He can enjoy the hospitality of the townsfolk while I’m deciding.”

  The guards flanked Sulrad, who stretched his arms wide. He turned both palms up and immediately twin fireballs appeared, twisting, turning, and sputtering in his hands.

  One of the guards took a hesitant step toward him. Sulrad tossed one of the fireballs gently into the air, sending it floating slowly toward the guard.

  The guard immediately backed away.

  “I think I’ve had enough of this myself,” Sulrad said. “Are you willing to allow me to serve you? Do you wish me to bring the power of Ran to bear against your enemies or not?”

  The baron raised his hand. “I could have you shot where you stand.” He nodded at the archers that flanked the room.

  “You could try. It would only serve to demonstrate the power of Ran. Please go ahead.” Sulrad turned toward the archers. He tossed one of the fireballs lazily up and down in his hand.

  As he did, Rotiaqua felt a surge of power. What had he done? It was as if there was something about the castle that had been suppressing her own magic, but now it was gone. She grew dizzy as her magic exploded within her. She glanced up at Sulrad.

  He was just standing there, arms outstretched, fire burning away.

  The baron waved his assent to the archers, who let fly.

  Arrows streaked for Sulrad.

  Halfway across the room, both arrows burst into flames and vanished into small clouds of ash.

  “Now can we talk like civilized men?” Sulrad asked.

  13

  Being pressed into farm work was not something Zhimosom desired. Being attacked for protecting someone’s honor was just unconscionable. Zhimosom raised the bucket to fend off the attack aimed at him. He had no illusion that a mere bucket was going to do much of anything, but what else could he do? He had to try something, and the bucket was the only thing close at hand. He tensed up as the knight lunged at him, swinging wildly, hating the thought of dying away from his own home among strangers.

  The sword caught the edge of the bucket and lodged itself deep in the waterlogged wood. The knight pulled back to free the weapon, jerking the bucket out of Zhimosom’s hand, relieving him of his only hope at a defense.

  Zhimosom dove behind the table as the sword came at him again.

  This time, it hacked splinters off the table. It would only be a moment before the knight found a path to Zhimosom and then it would all be over. But before the knight had a chance to attack again, the sound of a horn split the air, once, twice, three times. The blasts were clear and crisp even inside the house.

  “Lucky you.” The knight sheathed his sword. “I have more important matters to attend to.”

  He ran for the door just in time to crash headlong into his squire.

  “Sir, they’re attacking!” the boy said.

  The knight thrust his squire out of his way, sending the young man sprawling across the dirt floor of the house.

  The squire picked himself up and ran after his master.

  Zhimosom crouched behind the table to catch his breath and waited until the knight had put a little distance between them. He didn’t know what the sound of the horn meant, but it had saved his life.

  Issula helped him up. “Thank you for your gallantry,” she said. “But that was a foolish thing to do.”

  “I know.” Zhimosom straightened his shirt and rearranged his clothes to make himself a little more presentable. “I just couldn’t stand to see that son of a dog take advantage of you, especially on my account.”

  “You were brave, but foolish,” she said. She turned to the cupboard and reached for a sack of rice and a few chunks of hard white cheese. She placed them in a sack and handed it to him. “Better get out of here while you can.”

  Zhimosom bowed his head. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  He stepped out of the door and carefully looked around. Down by the field, Sir Draveri was engaged in a battle. The opposing knight wore the baron’s colors and fought well. The knights hacked at each other, landing blow after blow on shields that grew more and more ragged with each strike.

  Another of the king’s knights came running from the field he had set afire. He joined the fight, slashing at the baron’s man, who soon withdrew. The horn sounded again, and a squadron of the baron’s men crested the hill.

  Draveri turned and ran for his horse, calling for his squire as he fled. The baron’s knights gave chase, but not before the king’s men had set the wheat field ablaze along the road.

  The fire was spreading fast.

  As the baron’s men thundered out of sight, Zhimosom rushed back to the house.

  It, too, was burning.

  He couldn’t get near it; the heat was too intense. Flames engulfed the doorway, trapping the family inside. Zhimosom heard screams as the roof collapsed, and then there was only the sound of the crackling flames and smoke twisting into the still air. He rushed for the house, but the fire was too hot. He couldn’t get close. His face burned with the heat of it. The hair on his arms was singed away.

  Zhimosom screamed, “Curse you. Why would you do such a thing?” He felt power rise up in him to match his rage. His chest tightened.

  He would find these men and bring them to justice.

  As he watched the flames lick away at the house, he pondered how he might bring retribution to the king’s men but soon came to realize, he had no idea who they were, and even if he did, who was he to rail against the nob
ility?

  He watched the last of the beams fall and turned to leave. No point in remaining here. From the sounds of it, there was no one left to save even if he could. He felt a twinge of shame for having survived when the others had not, but had he really? The fire was spreading quickly through the dry fields, and white billowing smoke filled the air. Zhimosom was transfixed, soaked in sweat and covered in soot and ash from the burning crops. He had to move. The fire was closing in. If he remained here, he risked being trapped by the advancing flames.

  He ran for home, hoping to outrun the smoke and flames. It was the only thing he could think of. He rushed down the road, able to stay out of the path of the fire, but only by running hard. If he faltered, the fire would have him.

  His valiant efforts soon failed, and the flames and smoke overtook him. Fire licked across the path ahead, threatening to cut off his avenue of escape. Smoke obscured the sun, making it hard for Zhimosom to see his way.

  A wall of flame rose up, completely blocking his path. There was no way around it. The air was growing thick with it.

  Zhimosom fell to his knees, breathing hard, laying his head against the dry dirt.

  Close to the ground, the air was slightly less clogged with smoke and he was able to catch his breath.

  Was there a way out?

  Magic?

  Zhimosom reached for the fire, just as he’d done as he sat before the hearth in his home. This time, the fire was wild and untamed, yet there was no malice in it. It was just fire.

  Maybe he could use that. He reached for the power in the flames and embraced it, drawing it into himself, just as he had done with the fire in the hearth. He felt the traces of magic in it, let it fill him. He became one with the flames. He directed their movement around him.

  For half a heartbeat, nothing happened, but slowly, the smoke and flames parted.

  It was working.

  Zhimosom stood up in the crisp, clear air squeezed between walls of raging fire. The smoke and flames swirled about him as if he were inside an empty grain bin. Walls of smoke and fire extended up to the sky above. But they did not press in on him. He was safe from them.

  He moved in the direction of his farm, taking one tentative step toward the flames. As he did, the walls of smoke and flame moved with him.

  He was elated over his newfound ability, but his joy was crushed when he crested the hill leading to his home. The smoke cleared to reveal a horrible sight. The fields were burned to the ground, leaving the scattered remnants of blackened stalks lazily throwing spindly threads of white smoke into the air. The house had collapsed into a pile of smoldering, ashen logs.

  Zhimosom rushed through the field without a thought to his own safety.

  He had to find Zheet.

  He circled the smoldering pile of logs that had once been his home, searching for signs of his father, but he found none.

  He probed the fire with his sharpening magical senses. The furniture inside the house had been thrown together in a pile that supported the remains of his home. Under the table, something lay huddled in a tight ball.

  A body.

  Zhimosom felt his breath catch. Was this the end for Zheet? His father had been strict and brooked no rebellion from his son, but he had been fair and compassionate. This was not the end Zhimosom had imagined for his father. It had been the two of them since his mother and brothers had died. Zhimosom knew it was hard for Zheet to raise a son alone, but he had made the best it. And now he was gone.

  Zhimosom pulled at the burning wood, but it scorched his hands. He reached out and embraced the fire with his mind as he had done earlier in the field. He let it fill him, soaking in its rage. He held his hands out and envisioned the charred logs flying apart.

  The blackened wood flinched, hesitated, and then exploded outward, leaving the table standing clear amongst the ashes.

  Zhimosom raced over and pushed the remnants of the table away, revealing not his father, as he had feared, but a charred, blackened mass of flesh that used to be a dog.

  If his father had not been killed in the fire, where was Zheet? Not here, that much was certain. Zhimosom knew he could not stay here. There was no shelter and nothing to eat. The fields had been burned to the ground, and the livestock slaughtered in their pens. Without Zheet and the farm, what would he do? The thought of leaving his home, even though it was a pile of ashes, saddened him.

  Where would he go now?

  What would he do?

  Maybe Zheet had survived and headed to the castle.

  It was the only place left to go.

  If Zheet had survived, he would have waited for Zhimosom to return, but he was not here. That could only mean the baron’s men had taken him. But why? Had he been pressed into service as a foot soldier, as his sons had been? Zheet was a bit too old for that, wasn’t he? So why had they taken him? There was only one way to find out.

  Zhimosom shook the soot and dust from his clothes and started on his way.

  He would go to the castle and demand answers.

  He hadn’t gone far, when he crested a hill and saw a tree ahead. It was bereft of foliage, burned black and barren save for someone hanging from one of the lower branches. He ran to the tree to see if he was in time to save them. The figure had been strung up by his arms and left to die of starvation or the elements. What barbaric torture those men had leveled against a commoner. Was it their intent to start a war? Who treated commoners in such a manner?

  Zhimosom’s heart raced as he ran to help.

  As he grew close, the figure became clear.

  His stomach turned.

  It was Zheet.

  Zheet’s arms were bound together behind his back. They had been tied with a thick rope that ran over the branch and down to the ground. The end was staked in the dirt holding Zheet in the air, his feet dangling a span from the ground.

  Zhimosom raced over and yanked at the rope.

  The coarse hairs burned his hands as they slipped in his attempt to wrestle the stake from the ground.

  It was stuck fast.

  Cut the rope.

  Zhimosom felt for his knife.

  It was missing.

  “Zhim, is that you?” Zheet’s gasped for breath between his words.

  He was alive.

  Zhimosom was frantic.

  He had to get the rope loose.

  He had to save Zheet.

  He searched for something to cut the rope.

  There. A stone that had been split by the sun and the frost.

  He grabbed it and drew the rough edge across the rope.

  Tiny filaments severed and curled away, but the rope held fast. The stone was no use.

  There had to be a way.

  Zhimosom racked his brain.

  How to sever the rope without a knife?

  Fire. He could use fire. He commanded fire, didn’t he? What use was there to magic if he couldn’t use it to save his father?

  He focused his attention on the rope, willing it to catch fire. He recalled the flames that had so recently menaced his path and called the flames into being around the rope.

  A small tongue of fire sprouted right where Zhimosom had scored the rope.

  Zheet moaned.

  It was taking too long. He renewed his focus on the flame. Willing it to intensify.

  It blazed up.

  The rope smoldered. It was just about to part, when Zheet moaned again.

  Zhimosom looked up.

  How could he have been so foolish? Zheet would come crashing to the ground when the rope parted. His hands were tied, and even if they were not, he was in no shape to catch himself.

  Zhimosom raced to position himself beneath his father, just in time to hear the rope whip through the tree.

  Zheet came crashing down and Zhimosom was barely able to break his fall. Together, they tumbled to the ground. Zhimosom recovered himself, untied Zheet’s arms and legs, and rolled him onto his back.

  Was he too late? Zheet was alive. That was good, but wha
t if he needed a healer? Zhimosom knew nothing about healing. He’d have to take Zheet somewhere, but where? And how much time did the old man have?

  He knelt down beside his father.

  Zheet was breathing, but only just.

  “Father!”

  Zheet wheezed and sucked air heavily through clenched teeth. He shook his head slowly from side to side, grimacing with pain.

  What else had they done to him?

  Zhimosom examined his father. His side was bruised and battered. It looked misshapen. Zhimosom felt the break in his father’s ribs. Both sides had been brutally snapped. No wonder Zheet was wheezing.

  He needed a healer, but he was in no shape to walk.

  He’d have to be carried.

  Zhimosom searched for something to place his father on so he could drag him. It would be bumpy, but at least Zhimosom could get Zheet to a healer. He needed a healer. And quick.

  Failing to find anything to drag Zheet on, Zhimosom decided he could carry his father. He fetched the rope.

  “Sorry, but it’s all I have.” Zhimosom bound his father’s hands. He looped the rope under Zheet’s arms and shoulders until there was enough of a loop to allowed Zhimosom to hoist Zheet onto his back. As Zhimosom picked Zheet up, the old man screamed in pain.

  Zhimosom flinched. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his father more pain. He lowered Zheet back to the ground. The old man quieted down. That was a mercy. Zhimosom let Zheet rest before he tried again. Maybe if he carried the old man in his arms. This time, Zheet stopped breathing and choked when Zhimosom picked him up. Zhimosom quickly lowered him back to the ground.

  This wasn’t working.

  He stood over his father, panicking. He couldn’t leave him there, but his attempts to move him so far had failed. Zheet gasped, his breath catching as he drew it in. He didn’t have long. Zheet would die without help.

  Zhimosom reached down and hefted his father onto his shoulders once again.

  He knew it would hurt, but there was no choice.

  Zheet cried out in pain.

  Zhimosom winced. He listened carefully. Zheet continued breathing, if labored.

  That was a good sign.