Wizard Pair (Book 3) (19 page)

"What's going on?" Zhimosom asked.

"We really going to do this every day?" Morg asked. "That Wizard's powder really hits ya hard, don't it?"

"Wizard's powder?" Zhimosom's mind was foggy. He felt like he should remember, but his head just wouldn't cooperate.

"Come on." Morg poked him in the ribs again. "I got no time for this. Get out of bed and get to work."

Zhimosom surveyed his surroundings. He had been asleep on a pile of straw in a room off to one side of the stables. He could smell the scent of hay mixed with horse dung. He inhaled deeply and caught the scent of a fowl house nearby.

"Come on. Horse stalls aren't going to muck themselves, and after that, there's wood to cut." Morg nudged Zhimosom with his foot. "Get at it."

Zhimosom followed Morg to the stables. He was given a wooden fork and told to clean the stalls. The muck was to be taken to a small cart parked just outside the barn. "Get this all done and then there's the mid day meal. You missed your morning meal sleeping in like you do. I warned you about that."

Zhimosom tried to recall what had happened. The last thing he remembered was the Wizard and his powder. Powder! The Wizard had drugged him. They must be keeping him drugged. That was why he couldn't remember anything.

He tried to reach inside himself with magic and search for the source of the spell that affected him. It was weak, almost undetectable, but he felt the drug. It was keeping him off balance, barely awake. That was probably why he was so tired.

He tried to use his magic to defeat the drug, but it was too strong, and he was too weak. All he managed was to clear his head a little.

He worked at the stalls all morning. He was just finished when Morg returned. "Come on. You eat with the rest of the slaves today."

Morg led him to a table that sat beneath a tree in the yard. It was covered with a cloth tied down at each corner. The table had platters piled high with roast meat, bread, and vegetables. Zhimosom tore into it, hungrier than he had ever been.

"Slow down, you'll make yourself sick." Morg shoved a mug in front of Zhimosom. "Have a drink to wash that down. I don't want you choking on your food. I need you alive after the meal for wood chopping."

Morg motioned to a woman standing beside the table. She was shorter than Zhimosom and slightly pudgy, with curly brown hair that hung to her shoulders. She stared off into space, as if asleep.

She slowly walked over to him and poured him a mug of watered down ale, then backed away to take up her station once more. Something about her nagged at Zhimosom. She looked familiar, but surely, he didn't know a serving girl in this strange house.

He eyed her while he ate. She didn't look like the other serving girls. Her skin was clear even though she was smudged from work in the kitchen. She stood straight, unlike the others. Something about her screamed that she didn't belong with the rest of the girls, but Zhimosom couldn't say what.

Zhimosom looked at the others at the table. They appeared dazed and slightly confused. He shook his head, trying to remember why he was here. Had he always been here? Where was here? He just couldn't remember.

A clanging sound came wafting on the slight breeze. "That's it. Time to get back to work."

Morg grabbed Zhimosom by the collar and lifted. It choked him as he rushed to stand, abandoning his partially finished meal. He wished he could take the remainder with him to satisfy his lingering hunger.

"Wood. Chop." Morg shoved Zhimosom around the barn. Several cords of wood were stacked against the wall. Strewn about the yard were logs cut to lengths of two spans. In the middle was a patch of hard dried earth and an ax.

"Split these like those and stack them up." Morg pointed to the logs, then to the stacked wood. "You should be able to finish these all by day's end."

Zhimosom took the ax in his hands. It felt right, as if he'd used it before. He glanced at the blade. It was as fine as a sword blade. It glimmered in the sunlight and had an edge like a razor.

He turned a log on end and swung the ax with all his might. The trick was to build momentum and let the ax do the work. He felt the weight of it as the ax circled his head and impacted the log directly at its heart.

With a satisfying crack, the log split in two and fell away. Zhimosom picked up the halves and stood them on the hard packed dirt. He swung the ax again. It whistled through the air and struck the wood with a thud, sending the split pieces flying.

Zhimosom wondered about the woman at the table. Her face looked so familiar. Her image haunted him as he worked. Memories floated just behind the veil of the drug. Somehow, she fit into the story that was locked away at the edge of his memory.

He completed the task and sat down to rest. Zhimosom stared at the late afternoon sun as it shifted color from brilliant yellow to a mellow red. The breeze picked up and dried the sweat from him before the chill of the evening set in.

Morg came along and roused him from his reverie. "Time to head back to the barn."

Zhimosom followed him, hopeful of a repeat of the noon meal, but Morg led him back to the room full of straw where he had awakened him that morning. As they reached the door, Morg grabbed Zhimosom by the shoulder. He reached around and clamped a cloth over Zhimosom's face.

Zhimosom struggled, but Morg was too powerful. He couldn't breathe at first. When he thought he was going to pass out, Morg released his grip just a little. Zhimosom gulped in air. He felt the acrid, bitter taste of the drug and darkness took him.

Zhimosom awoke to a sharp pain in his side. Someone was standing over him with a whip. The man was of average height, but easily twice as wide as any normal man. He was built of muscle overlaid with a thick layer of fat. He had a scar that ran from his forehead, across his permanently closed eye, and across his cheek.

"Come on. Get up."

"What's going on?"

The man reached down and grabbed Zhimosom by the drab iron collar that circled his neck. "I got no time for this today. Get up and get to work."

Morg jerked Zhimosom out of the room and handed him a fork. "Muck!" he said.

"What?" Zhimosom asked.

Morg turned back and grabbed Zhimosom by his shirt, lifting him off the floor. His brown eyes flared with anger. "I said get to work. I'm tired of this same babbling every day. You're a slave and you do what you're told. Now get to mucking the stalls out before I use my whip on you."

Morg lowered Zhimosom back to the ground and shoved him towards the horse stalls. A fork stood there awaiting his attention.

Zhimosom looked at the fork.

"You remember how to muck out a stall, don't you? I don't have to start teaching that to you every morning, do I?"

"No." Zhimosom reached for the fork. There was a small cart parked outside the barn. The cart was spattered with manure and straw. He assumed that was where he was meant to put the muck, but didn't dare to risk the ire of the behemoth standing there, hands on his hips, with a whip in one hand.

"Good. You do remember." Morg turned to leave. "I'll come get you for the noon meal. Have this all done by then."

Zhimosom labored at the task, pondering why he couldn't remember anything. He knew there was something amiss, but he was not sure what. He reached for memories and found a wall in his mind. Not a wall of brick or stone, but of mist and confusion. He felt its flavor. It was thick and dark. He pushed at it, trying to drive the darkness out, but he could not.

The best he was able to do was to clear away enough fog for one image. The image of a woman. She had brown hair that fell to her shoulders in waves. In his memories, she smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with life. This was someone important, someone close to him. Someone he was connected to.

The clanging of the bell roused him from his meandering thoughts. Morg showed up and dragged him to the table for the mid day meal. Standing next to the table, staring off into space, was the woman.

Zhimosom recognized her.

He tried to remember her name, but the mist and clouds clung to him, blinding him, as he searched his memories for her. He felt it, like a lingering taste on the tip of his tongue. She was special. Special not only to Zhimosom, but important somehow.

As he struggled to remember her, a strange feeling came over him. He heard thoughts in his head; not his own, someone else's. The woman's. She was trying to talk to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You can hear me!" She had a nice voice. She sounded scared, but confident ... confident in him.

"Do I know you?" Zhimosom thought back to her.

"Zhimosom. Try harder. You'll remember."

Zhimosom dug deeper for the memory. He did know her. She was ... she was ... "Rotiaqua." Zhimosom said out loud.

"Shut up and eat." The gruff voice of Morg broke his concentration.

"Rotiaqua." Zhimosom said again. He felt the power inside him surge. He was a Wizard. She was a Sorceress. He felt as if he were inside the shell of an egg that was slowly cracking open, allowing his memories to come came back to him. She was the Baron's daughter. They had escaped the Priest in Frostan. They had been drugged.

Drugged!

Zhimosom searched for the drug in his system. He felt it now. It was there, blunting his senses, keeping him dulled. He examined it with his magic. Power surged in him. It came from Rotiaqua. He accepted it and combined it with his own magic.

He located the powder and the spell that drove it. He felt the magic in the iron ring that circled his neck. They suddenly became as nothing to him. He dismissed them both.

The ring snapped open and fell to the ground.

He reached out to Rotiaqua and broke the spell that held her in a collar like his own. Hers snapped open, too, and clattered to the ground.

As the powder's effects faded, Zhimosom recalled everything. How they had been taken in by that fake Wizard and how they had been sold into slavery.

He stood up.

"Not so fast." Morg reached for his whip. He snatched it off his belt and uncoiled it in one smooth motion. "One more step and you'll feel the bite of my whip."

Zhimosom smiled and reached his hand out, palm up. He called fire. It was exhilarating. The fire wound itself into a tight ball and started to spin. The faster it spun the more Zhimosom felt alive.

Zhimosom laughed.

"I have nothing against you. You have not truly mistreated me. I don't want to harm you, or anyone here."

Morg lowered the whip. He stared at Zhimosom, his mouth open, eyes wide.

"That's the smart choice." Zhimosom motioned to Rotiaqua. "Go get a couple of horses."

Zhimosom turned back to Morg. "We'll free the horses once we get back to town, where I have a score to settle. The horses will come home on their own."

Morg lifted his empty hands and backed away.

Rotiaqua trotted up on a chestnut mare and led a buckskin gelding.

Zhimosom released the fire spell. The crackling die out as the flames faded. He glanced once more at Morg, grabbed the reins and jumped onto the gelding. Zhimosom snapped the reins and sped off down the lane, never looking back.

Zhimosom kept his word and freed the horses when they reached the outskirts of town. Zhimosom and Rotiaqua wound their way through the narrow streets until they came to the Apothecary's room. The room was empty.

A fire burned in the stove, beneath a kettle of water. "He must have stepped out," Zhimosom cautioned Rotiaqua.

"Let's get our things and be gone before he returns," Rotiaqua said. She ducked behind the curtain that blocked off the sleeping quarters. Zhimosom heard the stairs creak and rushed behind Rotiaqua. "He's coming," he whispered.

The door creaked open and the false Wizard entered. He stood over the kettle boiling on the fire and rubbed his hands together, dropping powder into the water. Zhimosom smelled the rich aroma of pine needles and something sweet; the sleeping powder.

Zhimosom feared the sleeping powder would soon affect him, so he pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the kitchen to confront the Apothecary.

"What are you doing here?" the false Wizard demanded when he saw Zhimosom.

"We just want our things and we'll be on our way."

"You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"Yes, I do." Zhimosom raised his hand just in case the man decided to start a fight.

The Apothecary reached into his pocket and pulled out a fist full of powder. He inhaled deeply just as he'd done before, but this time Zhimosom was prepared.

He raised a spell that deflected the powder back to the man.

The false Wizard's eyes glazed over. He took a step towards Zhimosom and flung his hand wide. He struck the stove, and sent the kettle flying, knocking the shelf down.

Powders spilled all over the stove and flew through the air. The fire flared with a brilliant blue flame and filled the room with the smell of rotten eggs.

Zhimosom caught the man as he fell. He lowered him to the floor.

"Search him," Rotiaqua said. She turned and went into the sleeping chamber and reemerged with a battered pack that they'd found while cleaning a storage room. She rummaged through it.

"Looks like everything is here. What little we have."

Zhimosom searched the man's pocket and found Rotiaqua's Golds. They were Frostan coins, embossed with the likeness of her grandfather. He handed them to her.

"Let's get out of here,” Rotiaqua said.

"What about him?"

"Leave him to burn." Rotiaqua turned to leave as the flames from the stove licked at the ceiling and the thatched roof caught fire.

"We can't just leave him here." Zhimosom tugged at the man's robe. "Help me carry him down."

Rotiaqua stood staring at Zhimosom, hands on her hips. "He sold us into slavery. If he were in Frostan, my father would have him tortured to death. Burning is too good for him."

"No. No one deserves to die like this. Help me carry him downstairs. They will blame him for the fire. Let the townspeople take it out on him. We're not killers."