Foundling Wizard (Book 1) (35 page)

“How strange?” Ostai asked. Before Lorit could answer, Ostai waved his hand in the air. “Don't tell me. It doesn’t matter to me,” he added with an air of pride. “I’ll take you over the hill for a fee. Who, or what you bring along with you, is your business.”

“How much to guide us over the mountains?” Lorit asked.

“Two golds,” Ostai said.

“Are you a man of your word?” Lorit asked him.

“Man of my word? I'd rather die than break my word,” he said. He made a gesture as if stabbing himself in the heart. “I’ll take you over the hill. No matter what,” he added, leaning back.

“Good,” Lorit answered. “You’re hired, then. Tell me what it’s like to cross the mountains this time of the year.”

“It’s pretty early, but not as early as some years,” Ostai said. “The pass is already open all the way down from Mistwind. We had a feller came out of the pass yesterday. He’d wintered over up top. Pretty happy to be home, he was.”

“Why is that? Lorit continued to play with the mug until Mosil returned with a pitcher of mead.

“You going to drink that or just play with your mug?” she asked.

“One,” Lorit said, and then checked himself. “Make that two.” He indicated Ostai's vacant place.

She poured his mug full, and pulled an empty from her apron, which she filled and placed before Ostai. Lorit fished in his pocket and found a silver by touch, and tossed the coin to her. She caught it deftly and pocketed it, before turning for the kitchen, her braid almost catching Lorit in the face as she did.

Chihon stood up and leaned over to whisper softly in his ear. “I think I should get back and keep Mu'umba company.”

“I’ll see you there as soon as we finish up here,” he said.

He watched her depart with her dinner. Lorit worried about the tribesman. The short, enigmatic, smiling tribesman was supposed to be there to help, but it looked so far like he was nothing but trouble.

Ostai cleared his throat. Lorit returned his attention to him. “I'm sorry,” Lorit said. “You were saying?”

“Mistwind is a great place, don't get me wrong, but spending the winter on top of the mountain is a little more time than I’d care to spend in the place,” he explained.

“How far is Mistwind?”

“It's about four days’ hard climbing,” Ostai said, making a gesture of the mountain rising up as he talked. “Once you get past Mistwind, it’s all downhill,” he laughed. He looked up at Lorit's wondering face.

“Downhill is the hardest part,” he said, as if that explained it.

“What’s the climb like?”

“The trail is pretty good. You have pack mules?”

“Yes,” Lorit said. “We have a pair of them.”

“Good,” Ostai said. “You should be just fine, then.”

“How about the weather?” Lorit asked as he took a swallow of the mead. He was worried about the snow on the mountain. It was getting towards spring on the flat lands, but the mountains could harbor storms much later in the year.

“There’s always a chance of snow. I know how to deal with that,” he said, winking at Lorit. “Don't you worry none.”

Ostai stood up and extended his hand to Lorit. “First thing in the morning, then?” he asked.

Lorit took his hand and shook it. “First thing in the morning, then. We’ll meet you by the stables.”

Lorit joined Chihon in the room, where she had shared her meal with Mu'umba. “I’m worried,” he said as he sat at the table, looking over at Mu'umba.

“Why?” she asked, joining him at the table. Mu'umba had curled up near the foot of the bed and looked to be fast asleep.

“Something about him bothers me. The reaction from everyone is so strong,” he explained in a whisper. “There must be something to all of it, don't you think?”

“He seems harmless,” she said.

“I’m not sure how much he understands,” Lorit said.

“Du'ala was very insistent that we had to take him along and that he was going to be of some help,” Chihon said. “She must have something in mind.”

“I know,” Lorit said. “I’m just not sure what help he can give, or even if we want his help.”

“Have you discussed it with Zhimosom?” she asked. “He sure came in a hurry when Du'ala summoned him.”

“I know,” Lorit said. “That’s part of what worries me.”

Lorit waited until nightfall, after Chihon and Mu'umba were asleep, before attempting to contact Zhimosom. He sat quietly in his chair, focusing on the candle flame.

The familiar wizard’s study materialized out of the fog surrounding Lorit. He found himself seated in a chair by the Wizard's table. Next to Zhimosom sat Rotiaqua, looking much the same as Lorit had seen her last.

Zhimosom looked up at Lorit and said, “You are here, good.” He opened the large book before him and smoothed the pages, then absently looked up and around the table.

“Are we not expecting another to join us?” he asked.

Lorit looked around, wondering who the Wizard was referring to. Before he could say anything, Rotiaqua held up her hand, she closed her eyes and relaxed for a few moments. Lorit waited patiently to see who would appear in response to her summons.

Slowly, a mist appeared above the vacant seat and then started to coalesce. As the form solidified, Lorit recognized Chihon. She sat quietly there, blinking sleep out of here eyes.

“So we are all here,” Zhimosom said as she appeared. “Shall we get started then?”

Rotiaqua nodded to Zhimosom, who continued, “You have questions about the Arda'um, that is clear. These questions cause you concern, do they not?”

“Yes. Why does everyone hate them? Why does our magic not affect them?” Lorit blurted out. “How can they survive in the Plains of Grass?”

“The Arda'um are an ancient race,” Zhimosom explained. “They are feared because they are different in appearance, and infrequently seen outside of their own country.

“Why they are immune to our magic and how they survive, is an area of study you can undertake once you reach Amedon. I will not go into that now.

“You have one of them with you as your companion, is that correct?” Zhimosom asked.

“Yes, Du'ala insisted that Mu'umba accompany us. She said he would be of some help during the coming conflict,” Lorit explained.

“Do not count on direct assistance from him,” Rotiaqua interjected. “He was sent along more to observe and witness than to assist you. He will bear his impressions back to Du'ala, but you cannot count on any direct assistance from him.”

“Then why is he accompanying us?” Lorit asked.

“Du'ala thinks he will be of some help. We have also divined that he has some part to play in your adventure, but nothing direct,” the Wizard explained. “Your success is enhanced by his presence at this point, but what part he plays in the future is still a mystery.”

“So you agree that we should take him with us,” Lorit remarked.

“That is what the divination says,” Zhimosom replied. The Wizard fidgeted with the book before him. “Can we continue to discuss your plans?”

“Please, continue,” Lorit said, as he settled back in his chair. If the Wizard wasn’t going to explain about the tribesman, he wasn’t going to push it any further.

“We’ve done quite a bit of divination, and retained the assistance of certain individuals. We have been able to gather critical information that will aid your quest.

“There is a strong connection between Sulrad in Quineshua and Vorathorm in Veldwaite,” he explained, looking up at Lorit. “This means that once you start your attack on Veldwaite, Sulrad is sure to know immediately.

“What his response may be is still hidden from us.” Zhimosom flipped the pages in his book as if seeking answers. “You must be careful.”

“What can we do against Sulrad if he intervenes?” Lorit asked. “For that matter, what can we do against Vorathorm?”

“This, you will come to understand,” Zhimosom said, “I cannot advise you in this. I will relay the information that we have gathered so you can take full advantage of it.”

“You can’t tell us how to defeat him, but you’re sure that this is what we must do?” Lorit asked.

“Of this, I am certain,” Zhimosom said. He looked confidently at Lorit.

Lorit was skeptical about the Wizard’s words. He had a growing feeling that Zhimosom didn’t always tell him the whole truth.

“Does your divination say anything about our chances?” Chihon asked. She leaned over the table, peering at Zhimosom's book.

“Your success is not specified, only that you will be challenged and that it will be a difficult test.”

“So we have no choice?” Chihon pressed him.

Zhimosom laughed and stroked his long white beard.

Rotiaqua smiled at the girl. She reached out and touched her hand. The ancient and spotted hand of the Sorceress contrasted with that of the young girl. She spoke reassuringly. “You always have choices, dear. Your choices may be limited to which path you may take, and at times it may look as if all paths lead to the same destination, but you always have a choice.”

“This is all we can say at this time,” Zhimosom said. “Get some rest. Tomorrow your quest truly begins. You are well prepared, but you will be tested. Do not fail us.”

With a wave of his hand, Zhimosom and Rotiaqua disappeared.

Alone in his study, Zhimosom turned to Rotiaqua. “Are they truly ready for this?” he asked.

“Is anyone truly ready?” she asked. “Were we?”

She rose from the chair to sit on the table, rustling her robes around her as she did. “I see you decided not to tell then anything about Mistwind.”

“Some things are better left for them to discover on their own.” He straightened up and made a show of organizing his desk, closing the book he had been researching and placing it neatly atop the stack growing next to him.

“It’s all set,” the priest told Sulrad as he stood before him. Word had gotten around that often messengers sent to Quineshua failed to return.

“Please explain in more detail,” Sulrad said. He wanted to know exactly what the priest had done, so he could decide if he was going to send the man home, or elsewhere.

“We contacted the guide Lorit hired to take them over the mountain. He was easily subverted. He has a family, a daughter in Veldwaite that he cares for. He will do as we ask, I assure you.”

“I should hope so. Did you explain that it must look like an accident? I don’t want the Wizard getting suspicious.”

“Yes, Father. He understands. He knows the mountains well. He can arrange something.”

“You’ve done well,” Sulrad said. “You may return home to your duties.”

The priest bowed his head deeply. He straightened up and looked around the study as if searching for something.

“What are you waiting for?” Sulrad demanded. Did the fool think he was going to expend power to return him to his home? “The door.” He pointed to the door that lead to his assistant.

“Father?” the priest asked.

“Yes,” Sulrad had little patience left. He considered ashing the man just avoid the inevitable conversation.

“How am I to return home?”

“I suggest you get walking. It’s a long way.” Sulrad looked down at the papers on his desk hoping that the priest was gone so he could get on with his work.

Swion Mountains

Despite wanting to get an early start, it was mid morning before Lorit finally pulled the pack mules out of the city gates and headed for the mountain pass. Ostai led them along the road that wound through low rolling foothills. By early afternoon, the foothills had turned to sharp peaks that cut into the sky as they navigated along the narrow valleys formed between the jagged rock outcroppings.

Sharp rocks and stones littered their way making it difficult to navigate with the mules. Occasionally one of the switchbacks would open into a wide valley, where Lorit could see how far they’d already ascended, and what a long fall they would have should they be so unfortunate as to slip.

The crisp spring air seemed to grow colder as the day progressed. Lorit didn’t know if they’d already climbed that high, or it was just that the sunlight was unable to reach into the deep crevices through which they trudged.

Early in the evening, Ostai called the procession to a halt. “This is as far as we go today. There are no reasonable camp sites for about a day's journey. Least, none that you would want to spend the night in.”

Chihon stood at the edge of the outcropping where they had halted. Lorit stood next to her, looking down into the valley filled with jagged rocks, cut through by a rushing stream. The sound of the stream reached them even at their height.

“You can't see the sunset,” Chihon said. She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and shivered.

“Just the rocks,” Lorit agreed. “The sun must be setting about now. He pointed to the clouds that were slowly turning a deep umber.

“It sure is cold,” Chihon said. “We must be getting high up.”

“Ostai said we’re only getting started. It will get much colder as we get closer to Mistwind,” Lorit said. He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm.

“I think the fire is ready,” Chihon said.

Chihon and Lorit crowded close to the fire to take advantage of its warmth. Mu'umba remained stooped behind one of the mules, out of the wind.

“He looks cold,” Chihon said, nodding towards the tribesman.

“Mu'umba, come sit by the fire,” Lorit called.

Mu'umba remained where he was, huddled next to the mules, until Lorit led him to the fire, sitting him down on a broken log. He seemed to relax a little as the fire warmed his scaly rough hands.

By the time they had set up camp and finished dinner, it was full dark. The wind howled through the canyon walls with a wailing sound that reminded Lorit of wolves in the distance, howling at the moon. The cold winds occasionally brought a shower if ice crystals swept up from some distant peak and carried to higher altitudes.

The next day they rounded a switchback that took them to the edge of a deep chasm filled with snow. Lorit looked down onto the white blanket covering the floor of the canyon where occasionally a barren treetop protruded.

“Careful over there,” Ostai said. “That's deep powder, down there. It may look like a nice soft cushion of clouds, but if you fell into that, you'd drop straight to the canyon floor, and dash yourself on the rocks below. It has no substance at all.”