Was that it?
What had happened?
Alwroth breathed a heavy sigh.
No time to worry about it. He turned his attention to Uskin.
She was still alive, but her breathing was shallow.
Uskin opened her eyes weakly and blinked.
Alwroth heard her voice in his head telling him not to worry. It was just like her, to tell him not to worry while she lay there in agony.
Another voice came to him. Someone was trying to concoct him.
It was Rotiaqua.
“Alwroth. What happened?” she asked.
“We were attacked by dragons. Three of them. They came at us just before dawn. They’re all dead.”
“Who’s all dead?”
“Everyone. Everyone but Uskin, and she’s badly burned. I don’t think she’s going to survive.”
“Guide me there. I want to help,” Rotiaqua said.
“No. I have to get back to her. She needs me.” Alwroth cut Rotiaqua off. He touched Uskin’s face, caressing the skin that the fire had spared. He infused her with what little power remained to his reserves.
Uskin opened her eyes and looked up at him.
He could hear her voice in his head, weak and distant.
“It’s too late. I’m sorry.” He felt the sadness in her voice.
“No. You’re not going to die.” Alwroth delved deep in himself for all the power he could find. He was connected to the sorceress; their magic was intertwined and linked. As long as he was alive, he could send her power. She would live. She had to.
“Our time is at an end.” Uskin smiled at him through cracked and bleeding lips. “There is a new pair now. They can carry on where we cannot.”
“Don’t say that.” Alwroth wanted to argue, to encourage her not to give up, but she was fading, and so was he. It was too late. The last of the magical reserves in his body drained away. There was nothing left. He was no longer a wizard. He was just an old man.
He had no magic to sustain him.
None to save Uskin.
Her breathing stopped.
Alwroth’s heartbeat became erratic, then stilled.
His magic was gone.
His partner was gone.
His life was over.
He stroked Uskin’s face one last time as the darkness took him.
40
High up in the mountains, Zhimosom watched the dragon disappear into the sky. What now? How was he going to get back to Amedon? The thought of sitting out the conflict grated on him. Where was he? High mountains were visible all around. The air was clear and cloud free. A chill breeze washed over him, sending a single shiver up his spine. No songbirds called out here. Only the wind whispered in his ear, reminding him he was alone.
He turned toward the buildings he had seen on his arrival.
Everything seemed quiet and peaceful until the sound of a bell pierced the air, once, twice, three times.
It paused, then rang again, three more times.
In response, people came running from the buildings. Men and boys in orange robes flooded the square and bowed their faces to the ground. They lined up in neat rows as if they had practiced assembling.
Each one of them muttered quietly until it became clear they were all chanting the same thing.
Zhimosom had no idea if they were praising him, welcoming him, or condemning him.
He stood dumbfounded as the orange-robed men filled the square. Finally, when it felt as if the entire town had turned out, the bell rang out four times. At the final stroke, the men stood, their heads still bowed. One of the orange-robed men separated himself from the crowd and approached Zhimosom.
“Dragon Lord,” he said.
“Not me.” They thought he commanded the dragon? “I do not command the dragons. I was brought here against my will. The dragon attacked my friend near Frostan. He killed him and carried me here.”
Zhimosom looked at the man. Old and bald, he stood straight and tall as if he were a young man wearing a mask of advanced age.
“Dragon Lord,” the man repeated. “The dragon spoke to you.” The man tilted his head to one side.
There was no arguing with that, but Zhimosom had no time for pleasantries. He needed to find a way back to Frostan. “Where am I?” he asked.
As if he had not spoken, the man peered into Zhimosom’s eyes and continued his inquiry. “What did the dragon say?” The man’s dark eyes were penetrating, the kind that demanded an answer.
“It asked me to save it,” Zhimosom replied almost absentmindedly. “What is this place?”
“You are going to save the dragons?” The man smiled, eyes sparkling, the wrinkles radiating from them piling up even deeper.
“A dragon attacked us. I was in Frostan, where it killed my friend and carried me away.” Zhimosom pointed to the sky where the dragon had flown off. “I need to get back to Frostan. The wizards are counting on me.”
The old man grabbed his arm and pulled him up short. “What did the dragon say to you?” he demanded.
Zhimosom yanked his arm free. “Why does it matter? Sulrad, the wizard, has discovered a way to summon and command the dragons. I saw him kill one of them to power his spells. He is going to trap them all and bend them to his will. They will all be killed or turned into his slaves.”
The ancient man paused, his face becoming slack as if the horrifying news had no impact on him, but his voice wavered, if only slightly. “And what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know yet.” Zhimosom leaned down and looked into the old man’s eyes. He tried to appear as menacing as he could. “Where am I and who are you?”
“My name is Darort. Would you be so kind as to accompany me back to the temple? We can be comfortable there while we talk.” The old man held out his hand. It was bony and weathered, but his grip was strong.
Darort led Zhimosom to the temple. It was constructed of stone hewn from the mountains and decorated with red and gold hangings. Rich tapestries hung from the high ceiling with a strange form of writing on them that did not appear in any text in Amedon. The room they entered was large, with pillars supporting the ceiling high overhead, but they did not remain there. Darort gestured to a smaller side room.
In that room, there was no furniture, save a low table. Darort retrieved a pair of thick pillows from the corner and slid them toward the table. He crossed his legs and lowered his ancient form onto the pillow, sliding himself up to the table.
Zhimosom did the same, wishing he were as limber as the old man.
Another man came in wearing the same universal attire, an orange robe tied in the middle with a rope. He carried a tray laden with a small brazier, a pot, and several small cups. He placed the brazier on the table and lifted the pot onto it, centering it above the coals. Zhimosom fidgeted while the man set a cup before him and then another before Darort. He bowed his head and backed out of the room.
“So tell me. Do you think you can defeat this wizard?” Darort asked.
Zhimosom held back, uncertain that he could trust the man. “I’m not sure.”
“You say this Sulrad commands the dragons?” Darort asked.
“Yes, he does. The wizards from Amedon have gone to make war on him. I need to get back to them.”
“If he commands the dragons, then is it not he who is the Dragon Lord?”
“I suppose so, but they do not serve him of their own volition. He commands them by magic.” Zhimosom was getting angry at the man’s evasiveness. “Where am I? Who are you people?”
“You are in Mistwind,” Darort said. “We are the last of the brotherhood of the dragons. We served them when they were in this world and we have waited for their return these many summers.”
“You served the dragons?” Zhimosom asked. How could they serve the dragons when the dragons had left so long ago?
“Yes, we served them. We have preserved their lore and history, waiting for them to appear once more.”
“What happened to them
?”
Darort ignored his questions. He spoke to someone off to the side and soon a man in orange robes entered carrying a thick book. He set the book on the table and slid next to Zhimosom on the floor.
“The dragons of old were never plentiful. At most, there were only a hundred of them spread across the whole of the land, but even those few made a big impression. They were the mentors of men. They brought wisdom and knowledge. It is said that they made man what he is today, that, before the dragons, man was no more than a beast of the field. No matter the beginning, they were the mentors of the wise and the terror of the foolish. They guided kings and punished the wicked until, one day, a wizard learned how to bend them to his will. He never was able to command more than one or two, but even so, he made them commit acts of unimaginable atrocities. The dragons decided that it was no longer safe for them here. They had taught all that man was capable of learning. It was time to leave. So they opened the veil and crossed the void, pulling the curtain shut behind them. They left our world long ago, but we have waited. We knew that when the time was right, they would return.”
“They have not returned. They did not want to come. They were summoned here by a wizard,” Zhimosom explained.
“And they brought you here.” He nodded his head to the unseen men once again.
“Yes.”
“How do we know you speak the truth?” Darort became agitated. “How do we know you are a friend of the dragons? Is it not true that the dragon breathed fire on you?”
“Yes, but why would I lie to you?”
“Why did the dragon leave you here?”
“He was under Sulrad’s command. Sulrad wanted me out of the way while he attacked Amedon. You have to help me get back to Amedon.”
“How do we know you are not working against the dragons? If they brought you here, they must have had a reason. We must see who you really are. We must expose your soul.”
Someone grabbed Zhimosom from behind. The men that held him were strong. Too strong. He tried to free himself, but he could not break their grasp.
“What are you doing?”
“We have only your word that you are a friend of the dragons and that Sulrad is their enemy. Is there any evidence you can offer to prove you are who you say you are?”
“I am not your enemy. I’m trying to help the dragons.”
“Yet one of them has delivered you into our hands. He must have had a reason. You will be put to the test.”
Darort waved his arm, and the men hauled Zhimosom from the room. They dragged him back to the square where the dragon had deposited him. While they talked, the orange-robed men had assembled a wooden platform with a solid post in the center. It was piled with branches and brambles and smelled of oil.
“What is the meaning of this?” Zhimosom demanded.
“Trial by fire,” one of the men said.
“What for?”
“You said you were a friend of the dragons, but they abandoned you here. You admitted to fighting the wizard whom they serve. We don’t know what to believe, so we’re going to find out.”
Zhimosom squirmed and eyed the pile of branches. “How does this prove anything?”
“If you are a friend of the dragons, they will save you. If you are their enemy, the fire will consume you.”
Zhimosom struggled as the men hauled him to the platform, drew his arms around the post, and bound his hands together.
The smell of the oil was strong.
“The most holy of creatures has borne you into our midst and handed you over to our trial. You have admitted to working magic against the holy master of the dragons and threatening him with death. To prove yourself, you will undergo the ancient trial by dragon-fire. The fire symbolizes the cleansing magic of the dragon. If you can bring it forth, you are a friend of the dragons and speak the truth.”
Darort nodded to the men holding torches. “If you cannot call forth fire, you are guilty and you will be burned at the stake.”
“I told you I am trying to save them.” Zhimosom struggled against the bonds. He tried to raise magic, but the dragon had depleted him. He knew he would not be able to withstand the fire long enough for it to burn itself out.
He tugged on the ropes, but he could not get his hands free. What was he going to do? If only he had the tiniest bit of magic. He panicked, twisting his body around, trying to get free as the three men with torches slowly stepped forward.
Zhimosom felt the bump in his pocket and recalled the vials Alwroth had given him.
He pulled and tugged to get his hands into the shallow pocket and extract the vials as the monks approached.
He managed to free and open the vials, spilling their contents onto the platform.
He hoped it would work.
“I am a friend of the dragons,” Zhimosom shouted. “I can call forth fire.”
He heard the sizzle as the powder ignited and felt the flames warm his legs.
The men holding torches backed off.
Zhimosom looked up as the fire started to spread. “Well. Let me go!”
Darort smiled. “If you are innocent, the fire will not harm you.” He started to chant a short phrase that was quickly picked up by the others. “Sit spiritus eius reveletur,” they chanted in unison, over and over again.
The oil-soaked wood caught fire. It was as if a hot wind had blown in off the desert. An acrid stench clutched at Zhimosom. Smoke curled around him, making its way into the clear sky. He braced himself for the pain, but the fire did not touch him. He was not being consumed. The heat swirled around him, maintaining its distance from his body as if afraid to touch him. He thought back to the burning fields and how he had absorbed and channeled the power of that fire. He reached out, pulling the fire’s energy into his drained and depleted body.
The smoke swirled faster and faster, twisting around Zhimosom, wrapping him in a protective cocoon before wafting into the air overhead.
He breathed easier.
It was hot, but not too hot.
He grasped the power in the flames and drew it to himself, infusing his body with it.
His magic returned, more powerful than before.
Refreshed, he reached out and seized the magic of the pools in Rohir and drew on them too, joining his own magic with that of the fire and the water. The flames leaped high into the sky, and with one mighty whoosh, the entire pile of wood and brush was consumed.
Lacking fuel, the fire died out. All that remained was ash and wisps of smoke.
Zhimosom stood in the middle of it all.
The surrounding crowd gasped in unison, the men bowing their heads to the ground in silence as Zhimosom strode through the ashen remains of the fire. He walked over to where Darort lay prostrate.
“Do you believe me now?” He was tempted to reach out and give the man a taste of fire for his insolence, but he refrained. No good could come from making an enemy.
“You have spoken truth. The dragon’s fire has blessed you,” Darort said.
Zhimosom scowled at the man, but Darort was still his best hope of gaining further insight into the dragons. He allowed the man to lead him back to the temple, guarded at first, but as the wizened old man spun tales of the dragons and their ancient wisdom, Zhimosom was drawn in. He listened until he could stay awake no longer. One of the men showed him to the inn where he could rest up and recover. Zhimosom was glad for the day to end. He fell asleep and dreamed of dragons and dragon-fire.
Zhimosom awoke the next morning and returned to the temple to break his fast with Darort. He was still slightly wary of the man, but he had no choice other than to accept his hospitality. Zhimosom needed their help to understand the dragons if he was going to save them or the wizards. He had contacted Rotiaqua during the night to learn that all the wizards who had gone to Frostan had been killed. He could hardly keep his mind on the meal and conversation, so great was his frustration.
“We need to free the dragons from Sulrad’s spell. I need to know as much as you can tel
l me.” He looked at the old man, hoping the wizened one had some knowledge that would truly help.
“You have met one of the dragons,” Darort said. “It came to you, it spoke to you, and it cleansed you in its fire. You may be able to summon it if you concentrate.”
“And then what?” What would Zhimosom do if the dragon came? Would it have answers?
The old man laughed. “Ask it how we may free its kind.”
“The dragon never told me much before. Why would it answer me now?”
“You may have formed a bond with the dragon that will allow it to come to you when it is not being actively commanded by this Sulrad. Do you recall what the dragon looked like? Did it give you its name?”
“It did not give me its name,” Zhimosom answered. “But I will never forget what it looked like.”
“Then you should be able to summon it.”
Zhimosom was not sure he wanted to meet the dragon again. His last encounter had not ended all that well, and he had only just recovered his full strength. “What will I do if it comes?”
“Talk to it.” Darort laughed.
Zhimosom could not help but like the old man when he laughed. He had an infectious humor and laughed heartily at almost everything. Perhaps he had judged the man too quickly. What did he have to lose? After the morning meal was complete, they made their way to the open square. Zhimosom had to rush to keep pace with the old man. He was certainly more spry than he appeared.
They reached the square quickly, arriving just as it was beginning its daily transformation into the marketplace. Vendors were setting up carts and erecting shelter from what would become the heat of the sun, but most of the square remained free of people.
Darort stopped in the center of the square and sat.
“Imagine the dragon in your mind,” Darort said. “Picture its face, hear its words, draw it to you.”
Zhimosom tried, even though he half believed it would not work. He relaxed and reached out for the dragon. He could sense the old man’s excitement that the dragon might come.
“It’s there.” Zhimosom felt a connection to the dragon. It was distant at first but grew stronger as he held it. No words were exchanged, but he sensed the dragon’s power, saw its face, and felt the heat of the fire it had washed him with.
The Sorceress: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 3) Page 29
