Wizard Pair (Book 3) (5 page)

Zhimosom stood up in the crisp, clear air that surrounded him. The smoke and flames swirled about him as if he were inside an empty grain bin. The walls of smoke and fire extended up to the sky above, but they did not press in on him. He walked towards his farm and the walls of smoke and flame moved with him.

Zhimosom was elated over his new-found ability to control the wild fire until he crested the hill leading to his home. The smoke cleared to reveal a shocking sight. The fields were burned out, leaving the scattered remnants of blackened stalks lazily throwing spindly threads of white smoke into the air. The hovel had collapsed into a pile of smoldering ashen logs.

Zhimosom rushed through the field without a thought to his own safety. He had to find Zheet.

He was too late. Zhimosom circled the smoldering pile searching for signs of his father but he found none.

He probed the fire with his sharpening magical senses. The furniture inside the hovel had been thrown together in a pile that supported the remains of his home. Under the table, something lay huddled in a tight ball; Zhimosom sensed a body.

Zhimosom pulled at the burning wood, but it scorched his hands. He reached out and embraced the fire with his mind as he had done earlier in the field. Zhimosom let it fill him, soaking in its rage. He held his hands out and envisioned the charred logs flying apart.

They flinched, hesitated and then exploded outward, leaving the table standing clear amongst the ashes. Zhimosom raced over and pushed the remnants of the table away, revealing not his father, as he had feared, but a charred, blackened mass of flesh that used to be a dog.

If his father had not been killed in the fire, where was Zheet? Zhimosom knew he could not stay here. There was no place to live and nothing to eat. The fields had been burned to the ground and the livestock slaughtered in their pens. Without Zheet and the farm, what would he do? The thought of leaving his home, even though it was a pile of ashes, saddened him.

He sat beside the smoldering ruins of his life. Where would he go now? What would he do?

Maybe Zheet had survived and headed to the castle. Maybe he would find him there. Zhimosom scanned the area once more, and finding nothing, turned towards the castle. It was the only place left to go.

Zhimosom trudged along, his heart heavy. He crested the hill and saw a tree ahead. It was bereft of foliage, burned black and barren save for someone hanging from one of the lower branches. He ran to the tree to see if he was in time to save them. The figure had been strung up by his arms and left to die of starvation or the elements.

Zhimosom's heart raced as he ran to help.

As he grew close, the figure became clear.

It was Zheet.

Zheet's arms were bound together at the end of a thick rope that ran over the branch and down to the ground, where it was staked in the dirt. Zhimosom raced over and yanked at the rope.

It was stuck fast.

He felt for his knife but it was missing, lost in the fight with the knight, or his mad dash through the fields. He heard moaning and knew his father was still alive. He had to get the rope loose.

He was frantic. He searched for something to sever the rope. He found a stone that had been split by the heat of the flames. He grabbed it and rubbed the rough edge against the rope. Tiny filaments severed and curled away, but the rope held fast. The stone was no use against the thick strands.

Finally, it hit him. He focused his attention on the rope, willing it to catch fire, recalling the flames that had so recently menaced his path.

He called the flames into being around the rope and a small tongue of fire sprouted right where he had scored it with the stone. Fire licked the air, sending up a thread of white smoke.

Zheet moaned. It was taking too long to burn through the rope. Zhimosom pushed his focus on the flame, willing it to intensify. It blazed up. The rope smoldered, the strands springing away as the fire cut through them. It was just about to part when Zheet moaned again.

Zhimosom looked up. Zheet was too far from the ground. Zhimosom raced beneath his father just in time to hear the rope whip through the tree. Zheet came crashing down and Zhimosom was barely able to break his fall. Bearing the brunt of the impact, he tumbled to the ground. Zhimosom quickly untied Zheet's arms and legs and rolled him onto his back. Zheet was breathing, but only just.

"Father!"

Zheet wheezed and sucked air heavily through clenched teeth. He shook his head slowly from side to side, grimacing with pain.

Zhimosom examined his father. His side was bruised and battered. It looked misshapen. Zhimosom felt the break in his father's ribs. Both sides had been brutally broken. Zheet was wheezing and strained to draw each tortured breath.

Zhimosom looked around for something to carry his father or drag him if it came to that. He had to get the old man to a healer and quickly. He searched for anything that would help and finally settled on the rope that had been used to hang Zheet from the tree.

"Sorry, but it's all I have." Zhimosom bound his father's hands. He looped the rope under Zheet's arms and around his shoulders until there was enough to lift the old man onto Zhimosom's back. As Zhimosom picked Zheet up, the old man screamed in pain.

Zhimosom lowered Zheet back to the ground. He seemed to be in less pain lying on his back. Zhimosom let Zheet rest and tried again. This time Zhimosom heard Zheet stop breathing and choke as he picked the old man up, and quickly lowered him back to the ground.

Worried that Zheet would die without help, Zhimosom reached down and hefted his father on his shoulders once again. Zheet cried out in pain, but he continued breathing. Soon, his cries stopped, but Zhimosom took heart that Zheet's breathing continued, although it was labored.

Zhimosom teetered under the weight of his father, but he was able to walk as he set off in search of help.

Beyond the crest of a gentle hill was a field of wheat that had not been burned. Off in the distance, the farm house was untouched. Zhimosom quickened his pace, but slowed down again when he heard Zheet groaning. The measured pace was torture, but he knew he had to take it slow or risk Zheet dying on the trek.

He entered the yard and called out. "Ho, neighbor. Is anybody home?"

No one answered, so he dragged Zheet to the shade beneath a tree and propped him up as best as he could.

"I'll get you some water." Zhimosom headed to the well and lowered the bucket until he heard the splash from below. He raised the bucket and detached if from the rope. He looked around for a cup or a mug that he could use to serve water to Zheet, but there was nothing.

He carried the bucket to his father and knelt down. "Here, drink this." He held the cool water up to Zheet's lips with his cupped hands.

Zheet drank one swallow and started to choke on it. Zhimosom held his head up to relieve some of the pressure on his chest. It seemed to ease his breathing, but not enough to let him drink.

Something jabbed Zhimosom 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.

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 kids who lived on the neighboring farm. Zheet was not much for socializing and Zhimosom never had interest in the affairs of others.

Zhimosom 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 is 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 sat up and shook Zheet. "Father. Father!"

Nothing.

He placed his ear next to the old man's mouth and listened, straining to hear the sound of his breathing or feel Zheet's breath on his ear.

Still nothing.

Zhimosom shook Zheet, but it did no good.

"Father!" Zhimosom beat Zheet's chest hoping to start his breathing again, but it didn't help, and he sank to the ground, exhausted. He was an orphan.

Zhimosom stared at Zheet, hoping by some chance he was wrong, that the old man would gasp and breathe once again. He felt a small hand on his shoulder.

"He's gone," the girl said. "Just like my folks and my brothers and sisters."

"What do you mean, like your folks? Did they do something to your folks?"

"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.

Zhimosom followed her around the house. 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. He 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.

Zhimosom took the scythe from Brill, cut the ropes and lowered the bodies to the soft grass beneath the tree. He found a shovel in the barn and dug a series of shallow graves. Brill brought him water from the well when he got too hot. He didn't want to stop until the job was done.

Brill stood by the tree, watching him dig, and now and then she went and stared at the bodies. She cried off and on. Finally, Zhimosom asked her to fetch blankets from the house and covered the bodies. By evening, 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. Do you?" Zhimosom leaned against the shovel that he'd used to dig the graves. He was eager to get on with the task.

He looked down on the lifeless body of his father. Since Zhimosom's mother and brothers had died, Zheet had been constantly dissatisfied with life. Zhimosom thought that Zheet brought much of his bad luck on himself.

He shoveled the dirt into the grave, knowing that it would soon be overgrown with pasture grass and lost. There were no markers, no remembrances here, just shallow graves that would soon be forgotten.

Zhimosom stood looking down at the fresh grave. "He was never someone I could respect. Not since my mother died."

"Then why are you crying?" Brill asked.

That did it. 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?

He sat in the fresh dirt, head in his hands, and let it all come out. Tears streamed down his face as he cried as he had not done since they buried his mother.

Small arms encircles his neck. Brill leaned heavily in on him. He felt the wet of her tears on his neck and knew he was not alone. The girl who seemed so strong when he first arrived was just as alone and afraid as he was.

After he had cried himself out, he dried his tears and sat up. 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 had to find something to make a meal before they slept, and then it was off to the castle, where he could find work and keep himself fed. He couldn't stay on the farm with the specter of the dead hanging over him.

Zhimosom and Brill scoured the house for leavings that the marauders had missed. They found a few chunks of hard dried cheese and a jug of mead tucked behind the bed that belonged to Brill's parents. They salvaged a small pool of molasses syrup from the remains of a jug that had been cast against the wall.

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 roast 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, placing his arm around her. He waited until she stopped. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

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 in the tree first. They went back in the house for the rest."

She buried her head in his shirt, sobbing.

Zhimosom stroked her hair. "That's enough. Just try not to think about it."

He found a knife and carved the fowl, placing some on the plate before her. "You should eat something. 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 before her. "We're going to walk to the castle tomorrow. You have to eat to keep up your strength."