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

by James Eggebeen

  Garlath fetched another copper and tossed it into the jar. “For your kindness,” he said.

  “Much appreciated, and good luck with your apothecary. Hope fate smiles on you.”

  “Same to you.” Garlath took a bite of the bread, letting the crispness of the crust crunch between his teeth as he set off to find a place to set up shop. He quickly located a place with plenty of space for his own work and a room where he could train a couple of young wizards. He was certain the two he sought would arrive, eventually.

  They had to.

  If dragons were involved, the young couple would be drawn here. This was where the Dragon Master lived. If he still lived. His existence might be no more than rumor. The records in Amedon were less than complete, particularly when it came to wizards who chose not to live in the wizards’ city.

  He would have to search out the Dragon Master before the young wizards arrived. No point in fumbling around searching aimlessly and causing doubts about his abilities.

  He felt confident that this was the place. Uskin’s visions had made it clear that something was happening to the dragons, and Tustow played a role in it. Using a spell of affinity and the bone of a dragon Garlath had secreted from the library in Amedon, he found a trace. Just the merest hint of dragons, not far from the outskirts of Tustow. It was close enough that he could easily walk the distance.

  He followed the spell as he made his way across the dry and lifeless plain until he came to a rocky outcropping.

  According to the spell, this was the place, but did the Dragon Master still live?

  He let his senses roam the area.

  The magic of the Dragon Master was strong, but the house nestled amongst the rocks looked rundown, almost as if it were abandoned.

  Without the scent of magic, Garlath would have mistaken it for the abode of some decrepit hermit.

  He stepped up to the warped and weather-worn door and knocked.

  No one answered.

  He knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  He tried the door.

  It was unlocked.

  “Guest in the house,” he called out.

  He ducked his head and entered to find an old man asleep in a chair that sat in the main room of the small house. It was rude enough to enter a man’s home without being invited, ruder still to awaken him from his rest. He would let the man be, but he needed information. He could wait.

  Garlath settled into an empty chair and let his gaze take in the abode, certain he was in the right place. The interior was decorated with dragons. Dragons everywhere. Dragons were carved into doorposts and lintels. Dragons perched on shelves. Dragons formed the legs of every chair and table in the room. Even the massive chair in which the old wizard sat snoozing was formed in the likeness of a dragon.

  The old wizard snored loud enough to wake any dragons that might have been nearby.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Garlath decided to wake the wizard. Courtesy was all well and good, but he needed answers.

  “Em’hin! Are you Em’hin?” Garlath asked.

  When the old man didn’t answer, Garlath shook him gently. “Are you Em’hin?”

  The old man slowly opened his eyes. They were deep blue and milked over with age.

  He sat up slowly. “What ... Who are you?”

  Garlath wondered what those ancient eyes had witnessed over the ages before they had clouded over. The old wizard must barely be able to make out that Garlath stood before him. “Em’hin. I need your help,” he said.

  “Help?” Em’hin struggled to sit up.

  “I come from Amedon.”

  “Amedon, you say? I haven’t been there in summers. How is the place? Still crawling with young wizards hoping to make their mark on the world?”

  Garlath laughed. “Much the same.”

  “Why do you disturb an old man’s rest?”

  “I need your help. The wizards’ council has located a pair. A wizard and a sorceress. They are somehow wrapped up with dragons. I expect them to show up here.”

  “Dragons,” Em’hin mumbled. He reached out his hand. “Help me up, sonny, there’s a staff over by the fireplace.”

  Em’hin struggled to his feet and hobbled over to his kitchen, where he stumbled about preparing tea. He felt his way around the kitchen more than saw it.

  Garlath wanted to help, but Em’hin pushed him out of the way.

  “I’m used to taking care of myself,” he said. “What makes you think I can help you?”

  “You’re the Dragon Master. You’re the most knowledgeable man alive when it comes to dragons.”

  “So?” Em’hin placed his hand over a pot of water that immediately began to boil. He stirred in the tea and spices and placed the pot on the table.

  “Uskin had a vision about this pair and the dragons. She sensed that they are somehow tied up together. Their fates are intertwined. There’s a scent of dragon in their magic.”

  “You don’t say?” Em’hin turned his milky eyes on Garlath. “Seems to me I spoke to one of them lately.”

  “You spoke to a dragon?” Garlath thought the dragons were all gone. How had Em’hin spoken to one?

  Em’hin motioned Garlath to sit and lowered himself onto the bench. “Yep ... he said there would be a couple of young wizards along ... That’s probably the ones you’re talking about.”

  “This pair. They are key to the vision Uskin has had. They will need your guidance. I wish to bring them here.”

  Em’hin held up his hand. “How do you know these are the ones?”

  “The vision...”

  “Not so fast. I don’t need a couple of young wizards showing up and poking around here. You keep them away from me until you’re sure. You hear me?” He jabbed a gnarled finger at Garlath. “The only way I want them here is if the dragons sent them. Not unless. If they tell you a dragon sent them, you bring them to me right away. Otherwise, keep them away.”

  “I will do that. But what can you tell me about the dragons? So little is known about where they are today. What is going to happen? Do you know?”

  Em’hin’s eyes filled with tears, but he remained silent, gazing off in the distance.

  “What’s wrong?” Garlath reached across the table to take the old wizard’s hand. He felt him shake as he spoke.

  “It will not end well ... That I should live to see this ... after all my long years.” Em’hin sniffled and wiped his tears away with his gnarled hand.

  “What do you mean, ‘it won’t end well’?”

  “Not for the dragons and not for the wizards.” He shook his head. “So many deaths.”

  “Please tell me more. What’s going to happen?”

  “I can’t say. It’s too painful. Go. Please leave me alone. I wish I had not lived to see this day.”

  Garlath tried to get more out of the old wizard, but he refused. Em’hin just covered his face with his hands and wept.

  Garlath left Em’hin to his tears and returned to the room he’d rented above the cobbler’s shop. He sat in his most comfortable chair and let his mind wander. He thought of Uskin and reached out to contact her. She welcomed his presence into the lounge where she and Alwroth sat contemplating the afternoon’s fire.

  Uskin was in her formal dress, her robe of rich brown accented by the fire. The crown on her head was a thick braid of multicolored ropes and studded with gems. She must have come from a formal meeting and not had time to take it off.

  Garlath had known Uskin for nigh on forty summers, but she still looked as if she were a woman of eighteen. The only signs of age on her face were tiny wrinkles that framed her eyes when she smiled.

  “I’ve just come from Em’hin,” Garlath said. “He says that things will not end well for the dragons, or the wizards. He was broken up over it. I could see that he felt it deeply.”

  Uskin’s brows wrinkled. “My visions hinted at something similar. Did he give you any details?”

  “No, he just said it was a tragedy, and that he
wished he had not lived to see it.”

  The sparkle was gone from Uskin’s eyes. She motioned to Alwroth. “We will have to search the library, see if there is anything in the prophesies or the histories of old that might shed some light on what’s about to happen.”

  “Why do you think something bad is about to happen?” Garlath asked.

  “The visions are stronger. Now more than ever before.” She gestured to the empty air. “Something has happened that set this in motion. Don’t you not feel it?”

  Garlath tried, but he sensed nothing. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there. “Em’hin was most distraught by the thought of the wizard and sorceress visiting him. Yet he insisted I bring them by. He insisted that I make sure they had been sent by a dragon.”

  “How will you know?” Uskin asked.

  “He said that only when they told me about the dragons should I bring them to see him. That I must say nothing, not a hint, not a word that might influence their behavior.”

  Uskin nodded. “Garlath, please be careful. These two are the center of a great storm ahead.”

  “I will exercise the utmost of care.” Garlath relaxed and let the connection drop. Once more, he was alone in his room with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.

  27

  After their battle with Sulrad, Zhimosom and Rotiaqua fled the baron’s lands. They slept only briefly each night under trees or alongside hedges in their rush to escape. Zhimosom foraged, gathering nuts and berries. When he thought he could get away with it, he snuck into a field to grab vegetables. It was hardly fare fit for royalty, but it kept them going until, one afternoon, they waded across the river that bordered the baron’s land.

  As he set foot on the far bank of the river, Zhimosom breathed a sigh of relief. “This is it,” he said. “The border. We’re no longer on your father’s land.”

  “Do you think we’re safe?” Rotiaqua asked.

  Zhimosom paused. Were they safe? Sulrad was no longer a threat, but did that mean they had a truce? Had he given up his plans to make Rotiaqua his priestess? Zhimosom wasn’t so sure of that. They might be safe for now, but they would have to keep an eye open for trouble. People like Sulrad never gave up. They just waited for a more opportune moment to strike.

  “I don’t think we’ll ever be safe as long as Sulrad lives,” he said. “But we’re safe enough for now.” He turned to Rotiaqua to find her staring across the river. “What’s wrong?” Zhimosom asked.

  “I may never see my home or my father again, or Odray.” She turned to him, eyes red with a single tear trickling down her cheek.

  Zhimosom had come to terms with being an orphan. He had no family. No one that he cared about. No responsibilities, especially with Brill gone. How could he have been so insensitive? Rotiaqua had left everyone she knew. Her entire family. He wished he had words to comfort her, but all he could think of was, “You never know what the future holds. You may see your father again someday.”

  “No. He disowned me. Even if Sulrad were gone, Father would not take me back. I’m just as much an orphan as you are now.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. My folks are both dead. Your father is still alive. While he lives, there’s hope that he’ll change his mind.”

  Zhimosom wanted to distract Rotiaqua from thoughts of home. But it was he who needed a distraction.

  He hopped down from the bank and found a spot where the river flowed through a small jumble of rocks. Several silver fish swam in the shallows. That would do just fine. “Come over here,” he said. “Let me show you how to catch our next meal.”

  “What meal?”

  “Fish. I’m going to show you how to catch them. It’s easy.”

  He plunged his hand into the chill water and held it still, waiting for the fish to approach. When one drew close, he gently tickled its belly to pacify it, then grabbed it and tossed it onto the bank. He did it twice, then moved over and let Rotiaqua try.

  She caught on quickly and was particularly adept.

  Before long, she had five nice-sized trout resting on the grass.

  “You have a knack for this,” Zhimosom said.

  “I’m getting tired of roots and berries. Fish sounds delicious.”

  For Zhimosom, roots and berries were more than enough. At times, it was all he could scrounge, but she was accustomed to so much more. He couldn’t imagine what it was that she was missing.

  “Tonight we dine in style.” He made a small fire and placed the fish over the flames to roast. It was the best meal he’d had in days. “I think we should follow the river for a few days,” he said. “We can catch more fish along the way. I sure wish we’d had a chance to provision a little for the trip. It would make the journey easier.”

  “Journey where?” Rotiaqua asked. She perched on a rock near the fire, turning the fish as they roasted, carefully flipping them so they didn’t burn.

  Where were they going? Zhimosom had only planned so far ahead. He had no idea where to go. To Amedon? The wizards’ city? That seemed reasonable, but where was Amedon? Perhaps she knew.

  Before Zhimosom could pose his question, a large shadow flicked over them.

  Zhimosom looked up but didn’t see what had made it. There were no clouds in the sky. How strange. He searched the sky, squinting against the low sun.

  “There.” Rotiaqua pointed to a dot off in the distance.

  As he watched, the dot grew larger. It was headed their way. Soon it became a bright red splotch in the sky, like fire. Sometimes clouds played tricks like that, catching the rays of the setting or rising sun, but this was no cloud. It grew larger and larger until it was unmistakable.

  A dragon.

  “Run for cover!” Rotiaqua abandoned the cooking and dashed for the protection of a rock outcropping beside the river.

  Zhimosom followed close on her heels.

  A dragon?

  How could that be?

  He’d never imagined dragons were real. They were a myth, long gone from the realm of man.

  To see one up close was terrifying.

  He peered around the edge of the rocks as the dragon passed overhead once more.

  This time, the beast flew perilously close to the ground. So close, the odor of rotten eggs and swamp gas was overwhelming.

  Zhimosom ducked back behind the boulder as the dragon wheeled in the sky and headed back.

  This time, as the dragon drew near, it spread its wings and dropped to the ground.

  Its massive claws dug into the soft earth beside the stream.

  Zhimosom held his breath. He had never imagined such a creature. The dragon stood easily three times his height. Its great overlapping red scales were the size of dinner plates. When the dragon moved, the sound of the scales scraping across each other was easily noticeable. It had horns on its head that were longer than Zhimosom’s arm, and it smelled of rotten eggs and brimstone. Yet it commanded a presence that drew Zhimosom to it, even knowing it could gobble him up in a single bite and not even begin to quench its hunger.

  The dragon paused, tilted its head, and looked straight at Zhimosom.

  “Tustow,” it rumbled.

  “You can speak?” Zhimosom asked.

  “Of course I can speak.” The dragon focused in on Zhimosom. “Tustow. Find the wizard.”

  Zhimosom’s heart raced. The dragon had spoken to him. “Then what?”

  “Find the wizard in Tustow. He will guide you.” With that, the dragon turned toward the setting sun, took a few lumbering steps, spread its wings, and lifted into the still of the evening air.

  “What was that all about?” Rotiaqua shuddered, grasping Zhimosom’s arm.

  “It said we should find the wizard in Tustow.”

  “Can we trust it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen a dragon before, have you?”

  “A mini-dragon, but not a real dragon, no.”

  Zhimosom had never heard of a dragon with ill advice. If nothing else, their advice was at t
imes chillingly accurate, but he had never heard a story of a dragon misleading a human. “I think we can trust it. It’s not as if we have a real destination. Tustow is as good as any place.”

  Zhimosom peered off into the distance where the dragon had disappeared. There was nothing left but blue sky and a few puffy clouds. “How far is Tustow?” he muttered. His knowledge of geography included the farm and the road to the castle and not much else.

  “It’s almost a moon’s journey from here. I had to study maps when I was a little girl. Father said you have to know the terrain like the back of your hand.”

  It took them the better part of two moons to travel to Tustow. Along the way, Zhimosom taught Rotiaqua how to live off the land, where to find roots, which types of berries were edible, and which were not. He was constantly surprised at how little she knew about how to survive on her own. But when he was being honest with himself, he had no idea of how to behave at court. He would be just as lost in her world as she was in his. He promised himself that he would put forth the effort to teach her, and he did. She grew more comfortable with the outdoor life each day, and by the time they arrived in Tustow, she was confident in her own abilities. Not only had she become adept at foraging and hunting small game and fish, but the farther they got from the baron’s land, the more lighthearted she became.

  In the evenings, they practiced magic, strengthening their shields and developing new and useful spells. Zhimosom was beginning to see a pattern to some of the incantations they were able to devise. It was as if magic had rules that drove it, and if one could discover those rules, he could do almost anything. The more Zhimosom learned, the easier it became.

  And he was not alone in his growing abilities. Rotiaqua had devised a spell that helped them forage fruits and vegetables from farms along the way without being seen.

  Occasionally, they stopped at a farm where Zhimosom lent a hand with the work to earn a few coppers. On those occasions, Rotiaqua helped out in the kitchen and even, on one occasion, the laundry. “I don’t see why we have to work so hard for a few coppers,” she complained after one particularly grueling day.