Wizard Pair (Book 3)

by James Eggebeen

  Zhimosom jumped up, pocketed the stone, and ran after his father. He swung the scythe back and attacked the fragile golden stalks, cutting them as close to the ground as he could. The trick was in the rhythm. Swing the scythe back and forth and it takes almost no effort. Fight with the tool and he'd be exhausted in no time.

  The blade swept through the stalks of wheat as if they were made of butter. It sliced them cleanly almost at ground level leaving nice neat shocks of grain, and short prickly stubble that looked like an old man three days after a clean shave. Zhimosom swung the scythe back and forth, imagining the blade sparkling in the sun like the sword of some knight. It seemed to slip through the grain with greater ease as the day wore on and the sheaves stacked up.

  Early in the afternoon, a shrill whistle wafted across the field. Zhimosom searched for the source. The sheaves of tied wheat stood tall like soldiers on parade, marking a long straight column all the way to the road. The women and girls worked behind the men, gathering the shocks into bundles and tying them tight to keep the wheat off the ground so it wouldn't spoil if the rains came before it was all packed into the barns.

  The cart trundled through the field they'd harvested the day before. A lethargic ox pulled it slowly along, as several young boys picked the sheaves up and stacked them on the cart as it lumbered through the field, leaving dark tracks in the golden stubble.

  A pair of horses in fancy harness, pulling an over-sized four-wheeled wagon, plodded up the road. The wagon was half full of wheat, the golden sheaves straining at the wooden stays.

  The driver reined the horses to a stop beside one of the carts that had just exited the field. Curious, Zhimosom headed towards them, but Zheet grabbed his arm and stopped the boy.

  "Stay right here, son." Zheet turned his back on the wagon and tugged on Zhimosom's arm, urging him to do the same.

  "What's going on?" Zhimosom looked over his shoulder at the wagon. The man who had dismounted was talking to the one who guided the cart.

  "That's the Baron's man, here to collect his due."

  "But there's hardly enough wheat to feed the townsfolk all winter. Why does he have to take his due before we have enough to eat?"

  "That's the way it is, son. The Baron owns the land. We only get to live on it so long as we give him the first third of every harvest."

  "Why does he own the land?"

  "His father owned the land before him and his father before him, all the way back. It's always been that way, and it always will be. Just stay out of it."

  A sharp whistle called again. Zhimosom looked over his shoulder. The Baron's man was pointing at him.

  "What should I do?" Zhimosom turned to his father.

  "Ignore him. Pretend you didn't hear anything. Keep looking away."

  Zhimosom saw the man striding towards him and turned his head away from the road. A tingle made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned just in time to see the driver of the wagon stop and draw his whip.

  The pain of the whip burned the back of his legs. He clenched his teeth and bit down hard to stifle a scream. He turned slowly, aching, wanting nothing more than to drop to the ground and cry out in pain.

  "When your betters call, you come running. You understand me, boy?" The man coiled the whip.

  "Yes, sir." Zhimosom bowed his head. He tensed up waiting for another blow, but none came.

  "Get up in that wagon and stack those sheaves - neatly.” The driver pointed out how the sheaves were arranged in overlapping rows. “See how the first load was put down? Follow that pattern. You think you can do that?"

  "Yes, sir." Zhimosom climbed into the wagon. The men offloaded the cart and the sheaves of wheat came sailing over the stays. Zhimosom caught them and stacked them carefully in the alternating patterns he'd been shown. The breeze had died and the afternoon sun was hot, raising a sweat that made the chaff stick to him as if it were paste. The pain in his legs grew worse as he worked, making the job even more unpleasant.

  Soon the cart was empty and the Baron's man jumped up on the seat to examine Zhimosom's work. "You do nice work, boy. Yes, you do." He motioned Zhimosom to sit. "You stay on the wagon; I have another farm that should fill her up, and I can use a hand like you."

  The Baron's man gave a snap on the reins and the wagon started off, bouncing along the dusty dirt road. Zhimosom looked back at Zheet standing in the field. His father would have to finish without his help, and Zhimosom was in for a long hard day and an even longer walk back to his hovel after he was done.

  The Baron's man worked Zhimosom until the boy was ready to drop. He finished filling the wagon just before sunset, when the driver abandoned him without so much as a word. Zhimosom approached the farmer whose wheat had been taken, and begged a place to sleep. He could not make it home before it grew too dark to be out on the road.

  "Be gone, you thieving rogue," farmer Falk said.

  "Please, kind sir. You know my father, Zheet. We live a few farms down the lane. I was taken from the field and pressed into service. You can see the Baron's man cares not for me. He has abandoned me here without a way home ere the night falls."

  Zhimosom had seen small children scurrying about the farm. He knew the farmer could not count on them for much help yet. He looked around until he spied a broken section of fence that had been hastily repaired.

  He pointed to the sagging rails that were in peril of falling apart at the insistent nudging of the pair of underfed sheep within. "I will repair your fence if you will but feed and shelter me for the night."

  The farmer glanced at the fence and back to Zhimosom, tapping his foot on the rocky ground. "You look strong enough to swing an ax. We don't have enough meat to go around, but I can offer you bread and some cheese." He looked down his nose at Zhimosom. "Mind you, not a lot of cheese. We don't have much of that to spare either."

  Zhimosom bowed his head. "I am grateful for whatever you can spare me. I'll fix your fence in the morning and then I'll be on my way."

  The farmer nodded and Zhimosom followed him inside.

  "This is Issula," Falk said, introducing his wife. He gestured to the oldest daughter. "My daughter Ewora and the rest of the brood."

  The children swirled around him, asking questions and talking incessantly, as children do, while Issula prepared the evening meal.

  "Children, please let our guest have a moment's peace and quiet," Issula said.

  She shepherded the smaller children onto the bench across from Zhimosom, and served them their dinner on well worn wooden plates. They quieted down as they dug into their meager stew.

  Ewora spread a threadbare cloth on the table in front of Zhimosom and deposited several pieces of heavy dark bread and a lump of hard white cheese on it. "Sorry for the setting. We don't often get company." She averted her eyes as she spoke.

  "I'm just grateful for the shelter and a meal. The Baron's man plucked me from the field and pressed me into service this afternoon. I wasn't sure when I'd be going home or even if I'd be going home."

  Issula clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Those men are bad. They take more than's their due and don't mind that we've nothing to feed our children come winter."

  "We do all right," Falk interrupted. "I've heard tales of some folk driven off the land and into the cities where they get pressed into working for the rich folk until they tire out and die. We're fine here. There's enough land to feed the family and sometimes even a little extra to get something nice."

  The next the morning, Zhimosom repaired the fence and was ready to start the long walk home when a pair of men on horseback rode up the dusty lane and into the yard. One was a knight and the other his squire. The squire held a staff with strange colors on it. These were not the Baron's men.

  As they drew close, Zhimosom saw that the knight's armor was stained and dirty, and battered. It had a sword slash across the front that should have cost the wearer his life. The knight was dirty and looked as if he hadn't bathed in a moon. These men must have been in a
battle recently.

  He reined in his horse. When he caught sight of Zhimosom, he leaped to the ground and handed the reins over without looking directly at the boy. "Water my horse and feed her. I've had a long ride and she's tired.

  "You." He pointed at Falk. "We need a meal - a good meal. I'm hungry."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but we are poor. We barely have enough to feed the family. I have nothing to offer you save bread and cheese."

  The knight scanned the farm, laying eye on the pen that sheltered the sheep. Most farms had one or two of them, as their milk was used to made cheese, and their wool to make winter clothes.

  The knight drew his sword and stabbed the closest sheep in the neck. A bright crimson spurt erupted. The sheep faltered, stumbled, and bleated out its death throes, splattering blood on the freshly repaired fence.

  Zhimosom saw farmer Falk ball his hands into fists, but the farmer just stood there, silent.

  "There, now you have meat. Get to work." The knight wiped the blood from his sword on the wool of the sheep and sheathed the blade. "Do you have any ale?"

  "No sir, we have water. Only water, sir."

  "Fetch some for me and my squire." The knight turned and strode arrogantly off to the house.

  Zhimosom lead the horses to the watering trough and tied them. He lowered the bucket into the well and filled the trough. The horses drank thirstily.

  He rubbed the knight's horse down and stroked its neck as the animals drank their fill. He didn't know much about horses, but he could tell these had been ill treated. They were thin from lack of food and had the skittishness of animals that had constantly been overtaxed. The knight was in for trouble if he didn't take better care of these horses.

  Zhimosom drew another bucket of water and hauled it to the house. Issula stood over the table, slicing chunks of meat from the haunch that Falk cut from the murdered sheep. Falk left to dress the animal and butcher it properly, trying to salvage something for his family.

  Issula cried silently as she cut the meat into pieces. She threaded them onto green branches that had been stripped of their bark, and handed them to Ewora, who placed them over the open flame to cook. The smaller children cowered silently in the corner.

  Zhimosom set the bucket of water on the table and ladled out a cup for each of the men. He set one in front of the knight and the other in front of his squire.

  The knight looked up at him. "Do you know who I am?"

  "No, Sire," Zhimosom kept his eyes lowered, as he'd been cautioned. Zheet had very little to do with the Nobility or city folk, but he'd taught Zhimosom how to behave, should he ever come into contact with them. Zhimosom must have been a little too slow.

  "I'm Sir Draveri. Knighted by King Omrik himself. I've come from the war, boy." He slapped his hand on the table. "I've been out in the field protecting the likes of you, and I demand a little respect and gratitude for my efforts. That's not too much to ask. Is it?"

  "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, making growling sounds.

  Zhimosom took a step back, still clutching 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 and 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.

  Castle Keep

  Rotiaqua had never connected with anyone who could see her before. It had always been one way. She could see people, but not interact with them, and they never saw her, or even noticed her watching them.

  That night she had been casting around, not looking for anything in particular, leaving her mind blank, roaming, open to anything that might catch her fancy. The boy in the hovel had appeared as plain as if he'd been in the room with her.

  His name was Zhimosom and he was a serf on her father's land. They had talked, but when he found out who she was, he'd been frightened. She wanted to contact him to learn more from the only other person she knew who had magic, 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!" Oadry 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 in the fire fade and turned to Oadry. "Father doesn't have to know. I was just gazing, nothing dangerous."

  "Who was that?" her maid demanded. "You know better that 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." Oadry reached out and snuffed the flame from the candle with her fingers.

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

  "Stop that," Oadry repeated looking at her with her brows all knotted up the way she got when she was angry. Oadry 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 Oadry, she did it again.

  "I've had enough of this." Oadry came 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 jumping up from her chair. She turned the woman to face her, grasping her by the shoulders and shaking her gently. She looked into her maid's eyes as the woman struggled in her grasp. "I can't find him back!"

  Oadry tried to free herself, but Rotiaqua held her tight.

  "That's probably for the best." Oadry continued to squirm but didn't manage to break free. "Rotiaqua. If your father finds out you're practicing magic, he will kill me, and disown you. You know how he feels."

  Rotiaqua sobered up at the thought. Oadry was taking a huge risk protecting Rotiaqua's secret from the Baron. He would have her head if he found out.

  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 Oadry, trying to infuse her with the excitement she felt.

  "Haven't you risked enough yet?" Oadry shook off her grasp and turned towards 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 hanged. He has a Wizard in the gaol right now, one of those vagabond itinerant frauds that travel around causing trouble."

  Oadry 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 in the gaol.

  "He'll be hung tomorrow after spending the day in the stocks. That's how your father treats Wizards." Oadry shoved Rotiaqua towards the chair. She pu
lled a brush out of the same drawer where she'd stashed the candle. "Sit down, girl ... The stocks and hanging 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 her maid brushed out her hair, Rotiaqua questioned her about the Wizard. "Why does father hate Wizards so?"

  "Because you're a girl." Oadry pulled at her hair with the brush, yanking it to get the knots out. "Your father wanted a son. He paid a Wizard for a charm to make sure he had one, but here you are, a girl."

  Oadry fiddled with a particularly tough knot, finally working it loose. She continued brushing Rotiaqua's hair. "It was a Wizard that earned you that." She pointed to Rotiaqua's arm where the long pink scar lay.

  Rotiaqua had clear memories of the incident, even though she was just a child when it happened. She remembered the creature clearly. It was like a weasel with leathery wings and tiny spiral-shaped horns. Its coat was shiny and smooth. It had flown in her window and settled on her arm and sat there purring softly like a kitten. She stroked its fur and talked to it. She wanted to keep it as a pet.

  Her father had walked in on her. He screamed and drew his sword, striking out at the creature even as it sat on her arm. The sword sliced through the animal and slashed her skin. It was not a deep wound, but the blood rushed forth to mix with that of the mini dragon.

  That was the sole memory she had of the event. She'd been told that the mini dragon belonged to a Wizard who was visiting the castle. It had been his familiar and when her father had killed the mini dragon, the Wizard had died along with it.

  "Does the Wizard in the gaol have a mini dragon?" Rotiaqua asked. She hoped to see another one of the creatures one day.

  "No, he does not. If he did, your father would have killed the mini dragon and let the Wizard die in agony without his familiar. This Wizard is a down and out swindler, just like the rest. He showed up today saying there was going to be a great war and that he could help your father win.