“Oh, my,” said the innkeeper. He hurried over and looked down. “Did you kill them?”
“Only one,” he said. “The other two are just unconscious. I’d lock them up somewhere and lose the key.” Quinn sat back down at the table with Zollin and the others and took a long drink of his ale. Mansel was slow getting back to his feet, but soon he was drowning his pain and humiliation with more ale.
The townspeople finally came to life. Some gathered around Ollie and her daughter, who was sobbing quietly. Some of the others began dragging the three men out. A few even came over to congratulate Quinn and Zollin.
“Never seen the like,” one man said.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” another asked.
“I thought you were a dead man,” said yet another man, which was followed by a chorus of agreement and laughter. The ale was flowing again, and the room was filled with cheerful voices. Buck the innkeeper came and took a seat beside Quinn.
“Those men all work with Trollic in the mines,” said the innkeeper. He refilled Zollin’s mug and continued. “These three run supplies back and forth. They were in town earlier today, and I figured they’d be back. They run up big tabs and never pay, they terrorize everyone, and we’ve had no way to stop them till now.”
“Why didn’t you band together and run them off?” Zollin asked.
“Trollic’s got a large crew a hard day’s ride from here.”
“So where are the King’s soldiers?” Quinn asked. “Shouldn’t they be patrolling on the north side of the river?”
“We haven’t had a patrol in several years,” Buck explained. “We just don’t get raided often enough.”
“But there are raids,” Quinn said. “Didn’t you send a delegate to the King to request protection?”
“Of course, we sent one twice. The first one returned without aid, so the town council sent the head councilman. The King had him beaten for insolence, saying that his word was final and that we should know better than to ask twice.”
“That doesn’t sound like King Felix,” Quinn said.
“It was the Prince who did it,” said Buck. “King Felix’s been ill for some time, and the Prince has been governing in his absence.”
“Prince Dewalt?” Quinn asked.
“No, his younger brother, Simmeron. Dewalt’s the ambassador to Osla.”
“Well, that explains your poor treatment.”
“It doesn’t solve the problem, though,” Zollin said. “We may have put the town at risk if this Trollic decides to retaliate.”
“I doubt he would do that,” Quinn said. “Brighton’s Gate is his only source of supplies. Besides, no one seems to think that what we did was wrong.”
Quinn waved his cup and some of the men nearby gave a cheer, but Buck’s face was pinched, as if he knew something he didn’t want to say.
It had been enough excitement for one night, so Zollin took a slice of bread and returned to his room. He lay down on the soft mattress and thought about his day. He was excited about learning from Kelvich, but he knew it would be several days before the weather would allow him to travel back out to the sorcerer’s cottage. He would probably have to endure several days working with his father and Mansel. There were weighty topics to occupy his mind, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting back to Brianna. He saw her in his mind, tall and regal, sitting on her horse with snow falling softy around her. His heart ached as he saw her face, shocked at his rudeness and filled with frustration, but he hadn’t asked her to care about him. He replayed their conversation outside the stable. He wondered why he had given her the ring. Was he protecting Todrek by giving her the ring, or was he showing deeper feelings, things he hadn’t been willing to admit even to himself?
This internal argument swung back in forth in his mind as he ate his supper. The bread was good, but his appetite was ruined. When Mansel finally stumbled into their room, Zollin pretended to be asleep. He didn’t want to talk or pretend that everything was fine. He lay there in the dark, listening to the lonely wind blowing the snow against their window. The room was chilly, and he pulled his blankets around him and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. He was miserable, but it couldn’t be helped. He had made his vow and he could never break it.
Chapter 18
It was snowing again. Branock was sick of the cold, sick of the wet snow that seemed to cling to him and chill him. He had fully restored his body and even managed to remove most of the scarring on his face, but had not been able to regrow his hair, and his left eye was still a milky white color. He didn’t care about the disfigurement, but his head was cold. And he was still walking. He knew that the passes into the mountains would be closed, and although he was certain he could find a way into the Great Valley, he had decided to wait for spring.
He was heading south, and in the distance, he could see the smoke of a farmhouse rising up into the sky. The smoke was a dirty gray color against the falling white snow. He was hungry and tired, but he needed to keep moving. He had wasted so much time already.
He pondered his next moves as he walked through the fields toward the small home. Wytlethane was still a factor, although he doubted the elder wizard would be trying very hard to accomplish his mission. It seemed to Branock that Wytlethane was content to let others do the work as long as he could take credit. Clearly the elder wizard had expected Cassis to bring Zollin in, at which time Wytlethane could rejoin his colleague for their triumphant return.
But Cassis was dead, and Wytlethane was probably recalculating his next moves. Branock was also sure that his master had felt the battle between Zollin and Cassis. Branock could vaguely remember a time when magic was abundant in the Five Kingdoms. The subtle pulses and currents of power were everywhere. A battle or magical birth would be hidden from those not close enough to witness the scene among the richness of power all around. But now that the landscape was barren of power, only the simplest magic users could exist undetected and therefore unmolested by the Torr’s quest for ultimate power. His master would know they had failed, and he would turn to other means to see that this new threat was eliminated, Branock was certain of that. He would have to turn the situation to his advantage.
He was almost at the farmhouse now. He saw the farmer emerge from the small barn, his arms full of supplies he was carrying toward his home. When he saw Branock, he stopped and waited. Then a look of terror crossed his face and the farmer ran inside. It was to be expected, Branock thought. He wasn’t a hideous sight, but his face was certainly damaged enough to frighten most people. He would take what he needed from the farm and leave—he had no wish to share their company. When he arrived at the home, he could smell food cooking. The door was sturdy and bolted from the inside. Branock could have blasted it to splinters, but he was in a generous mood. He visualized the thick beam used to lock the door and lifted it free of its place. He heard it clatter to the floor, the only warning he would give the farmer.
He swung the door open and entered the little home. He was in a common room, a combined kitchen and sitting area. A fire was crackling brightly, warming the room nicely. There were pots and pans hanging from a rack in the ceiling. A wash tub was full of water, and freshly baked bread was cooling on a small table in the corner. Over the fire was a kettle of stew. The simmering meat and vegetables made the wizard’s mouth water. He found a good-sized wooden bowl and ladled out a generous portion of the stew. He tore off a chunk of the bread and settled himself on a small wooden stool. The stew wasn’t quite finished: some of the vegetables weren’t cooked all the way through, and the meat was still tough, but Branock didn’t care. The bread was soft and warm, the stew hot. It was the first civilized meal he had eaten in days. He wolfed it down, not noticing or caring about the taste. Once he had finished, he left the bowl on the table by the bread.
He went back outside to the barn. The snow was falling heavily, but Branock dismissed it. There would always be snow, and he couldn’t let that keep him from his task. There was on
ly a short farm horse in the stable, obviously more accustomed to the plow than to the saddle. But there was a saddle in the barn, and Branock put it on the horse. He still had his own saddle bags, which he laid across the horse’s rump behind the saddle before leading the horse outside. He went back into the farmhouse and refilled the wooden bowl with stew. He took two whole loaves of bread and uncovered a mound of sharp-smelling cheese. He cut the cheese in half and wrapped it in a threadbare towel, then packed the cheese and bread into his saddle bags. There was a bottle of wine which the couple had obviously been saving. He took that, too. He took the half-eaten loaf and tore it into chunks which he dropped into the bowl of stew he was taking. There was a thick blanket folded neatly on one of the wooden chairs near the fire. He wrapped it around his shoulders and picked up the bowl of stew. He was about to walk out the door when a small flicker of pity fought for life somewhere in his conscience. He started to snuff it out, but something stopped him. It wouldn’t hurt him any to help this poor family. He was leaving them destitute after all. He reached into the coin purse that was bulging under his tattered and singed robes. He pulled five gold coins out and stacked them neatly on the table where the bread had been. It was probably more money than the couple had ever seen, and it meant nothing to Branock. The master would call this weakness, he thought to himself. But he didn’t care. In fact, it made him happy to defy his overlord. It was the first smile to touch his scarred face in a long time.
***
The next day in Brighton’s Gate, the snow continued to lightly fall, although the blizzard was over. The people began to dig out from under the heavy snows, which were as high as a grown man’s chest, the drifts taller than most of the little cottages and shops around the town. Paths were formed leading to all the homes and shops. Despite the weather, people were genuinely happy. With more time on their hands, they would gather at the Valley Inn to drink and talk.
For three days, Zollin helped clear the Gateway Inn of debris so that it was finally ready for the restoration work to begin. There was a mill not far downriver, and they took another day to help clear the road. Finally, they took a day to rest and stayed around the inn. Brianna was spending most of her time in her room, but with Quinn sleeping off a late night spent drinking with some of the other townsfolk, she was driven out of hiding by the carpenter’s snoring.
Zollin was sitting alone at one of the long tables when she entered the common room. It was early and there weren’t many people around, but she joined Zollin anyway. It was awkward at first, but neither of them felt like keeping up pretenses. When Ollie, the innkeeper’s wife, appeared with bowls of oatmeal, Brianna looked at Zollin questioningly.
“What?” he asked.
“Where’s your friend?”
Zollin shrugged. “I’m assuming you’re referring to Ellie, and the answer is I don’t know. She hasn’t been around much since the blizzard.”
Brianna frowned. Zollin expected a cutting remark or even a rude suggestion, but Brianna seemed to be thinking. Finally she spoke her thoughts aloud, but in a hushed tone meant only for Zollin.
“Don’t you find it strange that no one seems to be concerned about the miner coming into town to see about his men?”
“I’ve wondered about that. Perhaps they’ve found their courage.”
“Perhaps,” Brianna said thoughtfully. “Or perhaps they’ve found their scapegoat.”
“I doubt that,” Zollin said.
“It’s possible. If this Trollic shows up, they can claim we’re responsible and hope that he directs all his retaliation at us.”
“The people of this town are good people. They wouldn’t do that to us.”
“I agree, they’re good people, but we’re the outsiders. We don’t have any ties here, any history. We’re expendable.”
“I just can’t believe that.”
“You’re too trusting,” she said, but there was kindness in her eyes.
She took a bite of her breakfast and Zollin watched her. His heart still beat faster when she paid him attention. She made him feel like a child with sweaty palms and weak knees. He decided to take a chance.
“I’m going to the hermit’s house today,” he said tentatively. “You want to join me?” he said as nonchalantly as possible.
She stopped chewing and looked at him. There was a question in her eyes, and Zollin plowed ahead before he lost his nerve.
“Look, Todrek was my best friend. I’m really glad you’re here, and I want to be your friend. No strings, no agenda, just friends.”
Brianna’s look was both hopeful and hurting. Zollin couldn’t believe she wanted to be with him. He told himself it was just a lack of options. Perhaps the trauma had tied them together in some way. But he knew he couldn’t stand the thought of her hating him—he hated himself too much for that. She had shown mercy when she should have hated him. It was his fault that she didn’t have the happy little family in the cozy little home his father had built for her. Still, she was here, and he didn’t want them to be angry with each other. All he needed to do was control his emotions. He could do that, he told himself.
“Well, okay,” she said.
He smiled. “Great, I’ll get the horses. You leave a note for Quinn and Mansel.”
Half an hour later, they were riding through the narrow pathways of snow that lead out of Brighton’s Gate. Zollin hoped that the horses could plow through the snow until they were far enough out of town that he could use magic to clear the way before them. Before he felt that they had reached that safe distance, they came to a neatly made trail in the snow. It was only wide enough for one horse to pass at a time, but Zollin had an idea who had made the trail, so they followed it.
It took about twenty minutes to reach the tree line, but the trail led them further into the forest. They crossed into the trees, and from there they could see a little cottage in a small clearing not far away. There was a neat stack of firewood and a small chicken coop at the rear of the cabin. Unlike the structures in town, which were built mostly of stone, this little house was made of logs with a thick, white, muddy substance filling the gaps in the walls.
“Is this it?” Brianna asked.
“I think so,” Zollin said. “I’ll see if he’s home.”
“Of course I’m home,” came a voice behind them. “What took you so long to get here?”
“I’ve been working,” Zollin said as he turned to see Kelvich.
The sorcerer was wrapped in animal skins with the fur on the inside. He was short with a thick stomach like most older men had. It was obvious he was fond of his ale. His face was ruddy with the cold and he wore thick mittens on his hands.
“Ah, well, we shan’t waste any time then. Young lady, there is a pot of broth heating over the fire. Please slice the vegetables and keep it boiling.”
Brianna looked at Zollin in surprise, but the young wizard simply shrugged. He hadn’t known what to expect, and perhaps bringing her here was a risk he shouldn’t have taken, but he had done it impulsively. So she needed to go inside and cook. Zollin thought that was reasonable enough.
She sighed and threw her reins at Zollin before walking toward the cabin.
“I hope she doesn’t poison us,” Kelvich said.
“Oh, she would never do that,” Zollin said defensively.
“A woman will do whatever she thinks is right, reason and loyalty be damned,” Kelvich said in a merry voice as if he were talking about baiting trout with an old friend. “Let’s walk a bit. You can tie your horses to that tree,” he said, pointing to a towering pine whose branches, heavy with snow, were forming a natural shelter.
Zollin led the horses over, tied their reins to a tree limb, and rejoined the sorcerer.
“Tell me what you can do,” said Kelvich.
“Well…” Zollin was a little unsure. He had never thought of what he could do. “I can lift things. I can start fires. I can even cook things. I can blast people with my staff.”
“Go on,” said Kelvich.
“Well, that’s about it. Oh, I can block spells, too.”
Kelvich looked at Zollin thoughtfully, “Tell me what you know about magic.”
“Only what I’ve told you about.”
“No, what I mean is the history of magic, the classifications, basic lore, that sort of thing.”
Zollin returned Kelvich’s look as they walked through the trees with a blank stare.
“You’re saying you know nothing?”
“Sorry,” Zollin said, shrugging his shoulders.
“We’ve lost so much,” Kelvich said, but he was merely speaking his thoughts aloud. “I’ll start at the beginning. Do you know where magic comes from?”
“No...” Zollin said, thinking about the question. “But I can sense the different kinds. Like my staff seems to be filled with magic that I think it acquired when the tree was struck by lightning. I can tell that certain plants have properties that are healing. I’ve sensed magic that seemed dark or evil.”
“That’s good. It seems you are very sensitive. Most wizards can sense magic in others but not usually the orientation. Magic is a mysterious thing. No one knows where it comes from or why some people can use it and others can’t. It seems clear though that it is supernatural, yet a proper understanding of the natural world only enhances it. I’ll explain that more later. Magic in most people, as well as things, resides in them. Religious people talk about humans having a soul, an immortal part of who they are that resides unseen within them. If this is true, then I would say that wizards and sorcerers, warlocks and the like have an invisible part of who they are, a sort of magical reservoir. But the magic itself is not a part of us, not like a person’s soul. It only dwells within us, empowering us with certain skills and abilities. Do you follow me?”
Wizard Rising Page 15
