The Wiz Biz (9 page)

Four: Beyond the Fringe

Wiz woke from a dream of home to rain on his face.

Judging from the sodden state of the campfire, it had been raining for some time, but the water had only now filtered through the leaves of the tree they had slept under.

He spluttered, rolled over and wiped the water out of his eyes.

“Awake at last,” Moira said. She was already up and had her pack on her back with her cloak on over everything. “Come on. We need to get going.”

“I don’t suppose there is any sense in suggesting we hole up someplace warm and dry?”

Moira cocked an eyebrow. “In the Wild Wood? Besides, we have a distance to travel.”

Wiz pulled his cloak free of his pack. “How long is this likely to last?”

Moira studied the sky. “Not more than one day,” she pronounced. “Summer storms are seldom longer than that.”

“Great,” Wiz grumbled.

“It will be uncomfortable,” she agreed, “but it is a blessing too. The rain will deaden our trail to those things which track by scent.” She looked up at the leaden, lowering sky.

“Also, dragons do not like flying through rain.”

Thank heaven for small favors.”

Their breakfast was a handful of dried fruit, devoured as they walked. They picked their way through a gap in the ruined wall and struck off into the forest.

It rained all day. Sometimes it was just a fine soft mist wafting from the lowering gray skies. Sometimes it pelted down in huge face-stinging drops. When it was at its worst they sought shelter under a tree or overhanging rock. Mostly it just rained and they just walked.

At first it wasn’t too bad. The rain was depressing but their wool cloaks kept out the water and the footing was. However as the downpour continued, water seeped through the tightly woven cloaks and gradually soaked them to the skin. The ground squished beneath their feet. The carpet of wet leaves turned as slippery and treacherous as ice. Where there were no leaves there was mud, or wet grass nearly as slippery as the leaves.

At every low spot they splashed through puddles or forded little streamlets. Wiz’s running shoes became soaked and squelched at every step. Moira’s boots weren’t much better.

Wiz lost all sense of time and direction. His entire world narrowed down to Moira’s feet in front of him, the rasp of his breath and the chill trickle down his back. He plodded doggedly along, locked in his own little sphere of misery. Unbalanced by the weight of his pack, he slipped and fell repeatedly on the uneven ground.

Moira wasn’t immune. She was also thoroughly soaked and she slipped and slid almost as much as he did. By the time they stopped for a mid-afternoon rest they were drenched and muddy from falling.

Unmindful of the soggy ground, they threw themselves down under a huge pine tree and sprawled back against the dripping trunk. For once Moira seemed as out of breath as Wiz.

Under other circumstances—say as a picture on someone’s wall—the forest might have been beautiful. The big old trees towered around them, their leaves washed clean and brilliant green. The rain and mist added a soft gray backdrop and the landscape reminded Wiz of a Japanese garden. There was no sound but the gentle drip of water from the branches and, off in the distance, the rushing chuckle of a stream running over rocks.

Abstractly, Wiz could appreciate the beauty. But only very abstractly. Concretely, he was wet, chilled, miserable, exhausted and hungry.

“Fortuna!” Moira exclaimed. Wiz looked up and saw she had thrown back her cloak and pulled up her skirt, exposing her left leg and a considerable expanse of creamy thigh lightly dusted with freckles.

“Close your mouth and stop gaping,” she said crossly. “I hurt my knee when I slipped crossing that last stream.”

“How bad is it?” he asked as he scrambled over next to her.

Moira prodded the joint. “Bad enough. It is starting to swell.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Of course it hurts!” she said in disgust. “But more importantly I will not be able to walk on it much longer.”

“Maybe you should put some ice on it.”

Moira glared at him.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“What I need is a healing poultice. I have the materials in my pouch, but they must be boiled and steeped.” She looked around and sighed. “We are unlikely to find dry wood anywhere in the Wild Wood this day.”

There are ways of finding dry wood even in a rain.”

Moira looked interested. “Do you know how?”

Wiz realized he hadn’t the faintest idea. His apartment didn’t even have a fireplace and his method of starting a barbeque involved liberal lashings of lighter fluid followed by the application of a propane torch.

“Well, no,” he admitted. “But I know you can do it.”

“That I know also,” Moira snorted. “Were I a ranger or a woodsman I would doubtless know how it is done. But I am neither, nor are you.”

“Can’t you use magic?”

She shook her head. “I dare not. A spell to light wet wood is obvious and could well betray us. Besides, I threw away my fire lighter.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I can walk for a while longer. As we came over the last rise I saw a clearing that looked man-made. We shall have to go in that direction and hope we can find someone who will grant us the use of his fire.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Less dangerous than using magic, if we are careful. We will approach cautiously and if aught seems amiss we will depart quietly. Now, give me your hand.”

Wiz pulled the hedge witch to her feet and for a brief tingling instant their bodies touched down the whole length. Then Moira turned away and started off.

Mercifully, the going was easier in the new direction. There were no hills to climb and the rain gradually slacked off. Moira started to limp, but she refused Wiz’s offer of assistance.

As afternoon faded to evening, they threaded their way through the dripping trees until at last Moira motioned Wiz to stop and eased forward carefully.

There, in a rude clearing hacked into the forest, stood a cottage. Some of the felled trees had gone to build the dwelling and some into the split-rail fences around the field. Knee-high stumps still stood among the crops. The cottage was roofed with shingles and the chimney was stone. A thin curl of smoke hung low over the field. It was crude and Spartan, but to Wiz it looked beautiful.

“Hallo the house!” Moira called without entering the clearing.

“Who calls?” came a man’s voice from the cabin.

“Two travelers seeking a fire.”

“Show yourselves then.”

Moira limped into the clearing with Wiz following. Ostentatiously she reached up and threw back the hood of her cloak. She nudged Wiz and he did the same.

The householder stepped into the door of the cabin. He was a stocky middle-aged man with a full black beard shot with streaks of gray. Wiz noticed that one hand was out of sight, possibly holding a weapon.

“Advance then, the two of you,” he called. Wiz and Moira picked their way across the field to the cabin door.

The man stood in the door, just inside the threshold. “I will not invite you in,” he said stolidly. Moira nodded and stepped forward. He backed away to let her enter.

She turned and they both looked at Wiz, but neither Moira nor the householder bade him enter nor made any motion to him. They looked and Wiz looked. Finally he got tired of it and stepped inside.

“Welcome,” said the peasant, smiling. “Welcome, Lady.” He nodded to Wiz. “Sir.”

The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end. There was a ladder leading to the loft and at the loft trap Wiz saw three wide-eyed children peeking down.

The furniture was plain and obviously home-made, built to last rather than for comfort. A spinning wheel stood in the corner next to a bag of wool. The smell of smoke and wool oil filled the house.

“Seat yourselves, please.” Their host gestured to a high-backed bench to one side of the fireplace.

“What was that all about?” Wiz asked as they sat down.

“What?”

“The business at the door.”

“There are things which can take human form and deceive all save the most clever. But few of those can enter a house unbidden. In the Wild Wood only the foolish or very powerful invite a guest within.”

“Umm,” said Wiz.

The cottager settled himself on a similar bench across from them. “I am called Lothar,” he said.

“I am called Moira, a hedge witch. He,” she jerked a nod at Wiz, “is called Sparrow. We thank you for the use of your fire. I have injured my leg and wish to brew a healing poultice, if you will allow it. If you or any of yours have ills that I may treat I will be happy to do so.”

“You’re welcome to the fire, Lady, but none of us are in need of healing.”

Moira looked skeptical but said nothing.

“You are also welcome to spend the night within if you so wish,” Lothar said grandly.

“Thank you, Goodman. We would be most grateful.”

Moira produced the small bronze kettle from her pack and Lothar called the children down from the loft. He sent the oldest, a boy of about ten, to fetch water. While Moira laid out her kit on the rough plank table the other two children, a boy and a girl about eight and six respectively, watched in awe.

When the water was fetched, Moira selected several leaves and roots from the packets in her pouch and put them to simmer over the fire. Meanwhile Lothar bustled about fixing a meal.

They dined on venison, tubers and vegetables and Lothar served up a pitcher of beer to wash it down. It was a delicious change from trail food and Wiz wolfed down his portion.

As they ate the twilight deepened to night. The only light came from the fire crackling on the hearth. The smell of pine smoke filled the room. Outside the crickets began to sing.

After dinner they retired to the fireside. Although Lothar had said little while they were eating, he began to pump them for news as soon as they were seated. Since he was mostly concerned with the happenings around his old village of Oakstorm Crossing, and since that village was fairly far from Moira’s there was little she could tell him. She answered as best she could and Wiz and the children listened.

“How fare you, Goodman?” Moira asked when she had run out of information.

Lothar smiled and Wiz saw two of his front teeth were missing. “Well enough, Lady. Well enough.”

“You are far from neighbors here.”

“Aye, but I’ve good land. And more for the clearing.”

“Did you not have a farm where you were before?”

“Well, you know how it is on the Fringe. Farms are small and the soil is worn thin. It’s hard to make a living in the best of times, and when the crops aren’t good, well . . .” He shrugged his massive shoulders.

“My grandsire talked of this land,” Lothar told them. “His father’s father lived near here. So when things got bad in our village, we came here.”

“It is dangerous to lie this deep in the Wild Wood,” Moira said noncommittally.

Lothar smiled. “Not if you keep your wits about you. Oh, it was hard enough at first. Our first two crops failed in a row and the cattle were stolen. Then my wife died and my daughter had to look after the little ones. But we stuck it out and here we are.” His smile widened. “Secure on a farm the lutes of which. I could never have had back on the Fringe.”

Moira smiled back tightly and the tension grew thick.

“It looks like a nice place,” Wiz said.

“Wait another few years,” Lothar told him. “Next year I will clear more land and erect a proper barn. Then we will expand the house and add storerooms. Oh, my grandsire did not lie when he called this land rich!”

“I wish you good fortune,” Moira said neutrally.

“Thank you, Lady. But you make good fortune. It takes hard work and planning, but if you give it that, you will have all the good fortune you could desire.”

Moira looked uncomfortable, but she nodded as if Lothar had said something wise.

“Well, it looks like you’ve done all right for yourself,” Wiz said, trying to break the tension.

“Thank you sir. We have. It’s not easy, running a farm and raising four children without help, but it’s a good life none the less.”

“Four children?” Wiz asked and then shut up when he caught Moira’s glare.

“There’s my oldest daughter, Lya,” Lothar said hesitantly.

“She’s gone to nurse an elf child,” the youngest child piped up. Her older brother poked her sharply in the ribs and Moira and Lothar both looked embarrassed.

“They offered us their protection,” the man said simply. “Since then things have been better.”

###

Kar-Sher, late a brown robe of the League and now the Master of the Sea of Scrying, hurried down the corridor, his sandals padding softly on the uneven floor of black basalt. At every turning and each intersection he paused to listen and peer around corners.

It had all been so easy when Xind had done it,
he thought as he strained to catch a sign that he might be followed. Now the North was stirred and the Watchers of the Council were blocking him at every turn. Clear sight of the North was hard to come by these days and the Dread Master grew ever more impatient. He wondered if he had been so wise to undermine Xind when he did.

Well, that is a deed done. It raised me high in the League and with a bit of fortune I may rise higher yet.

Satisfied there was no one behind him, he continued down the corridor.
I have power of my own now. I am no longer a brown robe, I am an ally to be courted.
A rough hand reached out of the darkness and clasped his shoulder in an iron grip. Kar-Sher jumped and squeaked.

“Quietly, you fool!” Atros whispered, dragging him back into a shadowed alcove.

“You, you startled me,” he said looking up at the hulking form of the League’s second most powerful wizard.

Atros grinned mirthlessly. “You should be more alert. Now, what have you?”

“Only this: The Dread Master—”

“The old crow,” Atros interrupted.

“Eh?”

“He is an old crow. Soon to be no one’s master, dread or otherwise. You should learn to call him so.”

“Yes Master,” said Kar-Sher. “Ah, as I said, the—old crow—stays close to the City. There is no sign of new magic further south.”