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

by James Eggebeen

  Zhimosom set off along the road. The neighboring farm might have something he could use to drag Zheet to the healer.

  Zheet’s cries stopped.

  Zhimosom panicked for a moment, but took heart when Zheet’s breathing continued, although labored.

  Zhimosom straightened up, teetering under his father’s weight as he started off.

  He would make it. He had to.

  Before he knew it, he had crested the gentle hill that hid the neighboring farm. The field had not been burned. That was a good sign. The farmhouse was untouched. Good. There would be help.

  Zhimosom quickened his pace but slowed down when Zheet groaned. He wanted to run, get this over with as quickly as possible, but it pained him to hear Zheet struggling to breathe. The measured pace was torture, but it was either take it slow or risk Zheet dying on the trek. He could endure. He had to.

  As he entered the yard, he called out. “Ho, neighbor. Is anybody home?”

  No one answered.

  Zhimosom dragged Zheet to the shade beneath a tree and propped him up as best as he could.

  The old man gasped for breath, his parched lips moving, but he made no sound.

  “Rest here. I’ll get you some water,” Zhimosom said.

  He rushed to the well and lowered the bucket until he heard the splash from below. He raised it up and detached it from the rope. He looked around for a cup or a mug. There was nothing. He’d have to carry the whole bucket.

  He let the water slosh out as he raced back to Zheet. He knelt down and dipped his hands into the chill water, raising it to Zheet’s lips. “Here, drink this.”

  Zheet drank one swallow and started to choke.

  Zhimosom held his father’s head up to relieve the pressure on his chest. It seemed to ease his breathing, but not enough to let him drink. What now?

  Zhimosom settled back on his knees to think, but before he could come up with a plan, something jabbed him in the back. It was sharp and cold, like a sword or the blade of a scythe.

  “Don’t move,” came the voice of a young boy or girl, too young to make a difference.

  14

  Zhimosom slowly turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. A young girl held the scythe blade against his back. She was about ten summers in age, dressed in deerskin pants and shirt. She had shoulder-length dirty-brown hair that was wet and matted. He could never remember the names of the children who lived on the neighboring farm. Zheet was not much for socializing, and Zhimosom never had an interest in the affairs of others.

  He raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “My father’s been hurt. He needs a healer. Are you a healer?”

  “I’m not a healer. There’s no healer around here. Why did you bring him here? I have enough trouble already.” The girl pressed the blade deeper into Zhimosom’s back. He felt the pain of the point, but it did not break his skin.

  “Please. He needs help. We live just up the road. Bandits struck our farm. They burned everything. They strung my father up in a tree and left him for dead. Please, let me help him.”

  The blade withdrew. Zhimosom turned his head to see the girl standing alert, prepared for a fight.

  He moved slowly, lifting a handful of water to Zheet’s lips.

  They were blue and still.

  Zheet did not respond.

  Zhimosom shook his father. “Zheet. Father!”

  Nothing.

  He placed his ear next to the old man’s mouth and listened. Let there be the sound of breathing.

  Nothing.

  Zhimosom shook Zheet. “Father!”

  Nothing.

  He beat Zheet’s chest, hoping to start his breathing again.

  Still nothing.

  He sank to the ground, tears welling in his eyes.

  Zheet was gone.

  Zhimosom was an orphan.

  He stared at Zheet, hoping by some chance he was wrong, hoping against hope that the old man would gasp and breathe once again, but nothing happened. Not even a twitch. Now what? Where was he to go? No home. No family. No work. How would he feed himself?

  A small hand grasped his shoulder.

  “He’s gone,” the girl said. “Just like my folks and my brothers and sisters.”

  “What do you mean, like your folks?” Zhimosom asked. “Did those men hurt your folks?”

  The girl’s face clouded over. She nodded slowly, but she didn’t shed a tear. “They killed my family.” She pulled at his hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  Zhimosom stood up and let her lead him.

  Now he remembered.

  Her name was Brill.

  Her hand was small in his as she led him around the house.

  He froze at the sight of it. How could anyone be so cruel? Hanging from a tree in the farmyard was a man, a woman, and several children. The children ranged in age from twelve summers down to only three. They swung from a sturdy branch, just as Zheet had.

  Zhimosom rushed to them, but there was no one to save.

  They were already dead.

  Brill turned to him and grasped him with her scrawny arms until it hurt. She buried her head in his chest and wept.

  When she stopped crying, Zhimosom took the scythe from Brill, cut the ropes, and lowered the bodies to the soft grass. He found a shovel in the barn and dug a series of shallow graves. It was going to be a lot of work, but it was all he could think of. Bury the dead. That was a task he could take on. Something he could do to feel useful. For most of the afternoon, Brill watched in silence, occasionally bringing him water from the well when he grew too hot.

  He didn’t want to stop until the job was done.

  Brill stood by the tree, watching him dig. Every now and then, she went and stared at the bodies.

  She cried when she did.

  That would never do.

  Zhimosom asked her to fetch blankets from the house and covered the bodies.

  That helped with the crying, but not with the digging. It was evening before the graves were ready.

  Zhimosom carefully lowered the bodies into the dark earth.

  He tucked the blankets around each one before shoveling dirt on top.

  “Do you have any words to say?” Brill asked as they stood beside the open grave that held Zhimosom’s father.

  “No.” Zhimosom leaned against the shovel, eager to get on with the task.

  He looked down on the lifeless body of his father.

  “Goodbye, Father.” His final words sounded weak in his ears, but it was all he could think of.

  He tried to think of more words, but he was at a loss. He had cried when his brothers were killed in the war. He cried when his mother died in the fire. He wanted to cry, but the tears didn’t come. Was it because it was Zheet? Or was Zhimosom becoming hardened? Or perhaps he didn’t want to look weak in front of Brill. No matter. He shoveled dirt into the grave, knowing that it would soon be overgrown with pasture grass and lost. There were no markers, no remembrances, just shallow graves that would soon be forgotten.

  Zhimosom stood looking down, reluctant to leave.

  “Why are you crying?” Brill asked.

  As if her words had broken his resolve, Zhimosom crumpled to the ground, sobbing. He was alone now. Mother dead in a fire, brothers killed in the war, and now Zheet murdered by the king’s men, for what? What was he to do now? Where would he go?

  He sat in the fresh dirt, head in his hands, and let it all come out. The tears finally came. As he sat there crying, small arms encircled his neck.

  Brill leaned heavily in on him.

  The wet of her tears ran down his neck and Zhimosom knew he was not alone. The girl who seemed so strong when he first arrived was just as alone and afraid as he was.

  He remained still for the longest of time, but when the chill of the evening breeze touched him, Zhimosom knew it was time to move on.

  He dried his tears.

  Brill followed his example.

  She was a mess. Tear streaks cut furrows through the dirt
on her face.

  He put his arm around her shoulder and tried to sound strong. “Come on, let’s see if there’s anything left to eat in the house.”

  He was hungry. He needed to eat before they slept. In the morning, they would rise early and head to the castle. He could find work. Keep himself fed. He couldn’t stay on the farm with the specter of the dead hanging over him. And he could find someone at the castle to care for Brill. She must have relatives in town. Most folk did.

  Zhimosom and Brill scoured the house for food. They found a few chunks of hard dried cheese and a jug of mead tucked behind the bed. Zhimosom salvaged a small pool of molasses syrup from the remains of a jug. The cattle had been taken by the invaders, but there were a few fowl that managed to take refuge in the field. They’d come home in the evening looking for food and water, only to provide Zhimosom and Brill with their first meal of the day. Zhimosom made a small fire and roasted one of the fowl. He set it in front of Brill and sat down to eat.

  “How did you survive?” Zhimosom asked.

  “I was in the field, chasing down a lost fowl. The bird got out of the pen. I ran after it, but it kept running away. When I saw the men come, I knew something was wrong. I hid in a tree in the field and watched.”

  She started trembling and Zhimosom moved to sit beside her. He placed his arm around her and waited until she stopped shaking. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said.

  She sniffed back the tears. “I have to say. So someone knows.” She dried her runny nose on the back of her sleeve.

  “The men ... they ... beat my pa. I saw them drag him over by that tree and throw him to the ground. Then they stomped on his chest over and over again. Then they tied him up and hoisted him up in the tree. After that, they went back in the house for the rest.”

  She buried her head in his shirt, sobbing.

  Zhimosom stroked her hair.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “Try not to think about it.”

  When she had quieted, he found a knife and carved the fowl. He placed some on the plate before her. “You should eat. We have a long walk ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “I’m not hungry. I’ll never eat again.” Brill pushed the plate away.

  “Yes, you will.” Zhimosom pushed it back. “We’re going to walk to the castle tomorrow. You have to eat to keep your strength up.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “What are you going to do? Stay here and farm all on your own?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re coming with me. I’ll find someone to take care of you once we get there. I’ll get someone to take you in. Most folks prefer to take in boys, but they may make an exception for you. You don’t have any relatives around here, do you?”

  “My aunt lives in the town near the castle. Maybe she’ll have me.”

  “We’ll find her, then. Tomorrow morning.” Zhimosom continued to rip the flesh from the fowl, stuffing it into his mouth even as he talked. He was hungry and tired. He just wanted this day to end.

  The next morning, Zhimosom and Brill set off for the castle. They walked all day before rounding a low hill that hid the town. The castle stood stark in contrast to the natural rock outcrop that elevated it above the gently rolling hills. A dark stain bore evidence of a long-ago attack on the castle that had been hastily repaired.

  The town sprawled out from the base of the castle. The stone-walled houses were universally roofed with dry, dirty, and tattered thatch. Smoke drifted from every chimney, mingling together as it rose to join the cloud of gray haze that hung over the city and castle alike.

  “It doesn’t look very friendly, does it?” Zhimosom said.

  “Have you been there before?” Brill grasped at his arm and pulled him back, almost as if she unconsciously wanted to restrain him from entering.

  “I was here twice with my father. We came once for the birth celebration of his brother’s firstborn, and once to buy blades for the scythes and a new head for the axe. It was quite a while ago, but I remember it well. The town was crowded. We made our way to the market, bought what we needed, and departed immediately. My father never liked the town. He told me everything he needed was on the farm, save the blacksmith’s shop. Said there was trouble for the unwary in town. Trouble you can’t get into on the farm. I never understood what he meant by that.”

  “Do we have to go there?” Brill pulled at this arm.

  “Yes, we do.” Zhimosom patted her hand and gently removed her fingers. “I need to find work so we can eat, and you need to find your aunt, or some other nice family who would be willing to take you in.”

  “Can’t I stay with you?” Brill hugged him, shaking with fear. Her arms clutched him tightly.

  The poor child was terrified.

  Why?

  Zhimosom was confident that they would find her aunt or some other suitable home for her. She had nothing to fear, did she? He stroked her hair. “I can’t take proper care of you. I don’t even know how I’m going to take care of myself. But, until I find you a home, I’ll look after you.”

  She looked up at him with glistening eyes, blinking back tears. “Promise?”

  “I promise. Come on. We need to find something to eat if we can. The cheese is almost gone.”

  As they entered the city, the streets grew busy. Zhimosom and Brill had to push their way through the crowd. As it turned out, they were not the only refugees. People jostled to enter. Some pulled carts piled with their meager possessions. Others carried stuffed packs.

  Zhimosom led the way to the market, shoving between folk who seemed to stand wherever they had been when they finally gave up hope. Surrounding the market was a barrier, a fence waist-high made of wood and wire. Refugees crowded against the barrier. They were dirty, unwashed. They wore ragged clothes that were smudged with smoke and stained by ash. Some of them carried bags of provisions, others nothing. None of them carried a purse or wore any jewelry that could be used for trade.

  They cried out, but guards had been stationed around the perimeter barring their way.

  A young woman held her hand out to the guard, begging, “Please, my children are starving. Please let me have just one loaf of bread. Just one loaf.”

  The guard looked cross with her. “Show me your coin.”

  She extended her empty hand.

  The guard thrust the butt of his spear at her, knocking her on the shins.

  She crumbled to the ground.

  The guard kicked her. “Come back with coin. No beggars allowed.”

  Zhimosom took that opportunity to sneak past the guard, but he was noticed. The guard turned to Zhimosom and lowered his spear. “Halt. What brings you to the market? What coin do you have or what goods do you trade?”

  “I ... I have none.” Zhimosom searched his person mentally, taking inventory. There was nothing he could claim as a trade good. He wished he’d have kept the scythe blade. A nice shiny blade like that would fetch a few coppers, maybe even a silver. Before he could come up with anything, Brill released his hand, ducked beneath the guard’s spear, and disappeared into the crowded market.

  “Hey, come back!” Zhimosom started after her, but the guard barred his way.

  He shoved the spear out of the way. “Let me pass. I promised to take care of her.”

  The guard raised his spear once more.

  Zhimosom grasped the shaft and shoved it aside. “She has no one else.”

  The guard fished a whistle from his pocket and blew three short blasts. Immediately, more guards appeared as if out of nowhere. They grabbed Zhimosom. “Where did she go? Where was she headed?” they demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Zhimosom struggled, but they held him fast. “I just met her yesterday. Her family was killed. I told her I would bring her here … to town … so she could find her relatives.”

  Zhimosom twisted and tried to break free.

  One of the guards jabbed him in the gut with the blunt end of his spear.

  “Thi
eves work in pairs,” the first guard said. “She’s probably your sister, trained to steal while you distract us. We’ve seen more than enough of your kind lately.”

  He grabbed Zhimosom by the chin and looked him in the eyes. “Last chance.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” Zhimosom said.

  “Liar.” The guard let go of Zhimosom’s chin and slapped him across the face.

  Pain shot through him. He spat blood. Things definitely were not going his way.

  “Bind him and take him to the gaol,” the guard said. “Once the headsman returns, we’ll take off his hand.”

  Take off his hand!

  Zhimosom struggled. He wasn’t about to go quietly.

  It didn’t matter.

  The guards were too strong. The larger one jabbed him in the gut once more, taking the wind out of him. He bound Zhimosom’s hands behind his back, drawing the rope tight.

  “Come on, you. Don’t make me carry you all the way to the castle.”

  The guard grabbed Zhimosom by the ear and turned him toward the street that led to the castle.

  15

  The gaol was little more than a pit dug in the mud beneath the castle wall. It was dark and damp and cold. It smelled of rat droppings and mold. Someone had thrown straw in one corner that did little to soak up the mud, but it gave Zhimosom someplace to lie down and contemplate how he had come to be in this place.

  Why had Brill run off? He had promised to find her family, hadn’t he? Didn’t she trust him? Did she think him a liar? He was no liar, and he was no thief.

  He rubbed his wrist.

  Would they really take his hand?

  He lay down and closed his eyes. Not that it mattered.

  After a while, he thought a rat must have crawled up on his chest. He grasped at it, feeling the sensation grow, but there was nothing there.

  He tried to ignore it, but it grew stronger.

  It was as if his heart were stirring. Well, not his heart. The other side of his chest. Something was definitely different. A heat arose and swirled inside his chest.

  He placed his hand over it, but there was no actual movement, just a feeling of heat and motion. Was this magic? What that what he was feeling?