Wizard Pair (Book 3) (42 page)

He controlled his breathing and slowed his heartbeat as he’d been taught. Sulrad would not have made the trip to Veldwaite needlessly, something extraordinarily disconcerting must have happened. Vorathorm was not sure he wanted to know, as it never meant good news for him personally.

“I have located a pair,” Sulrad said. He stated it simply, without a trace of emotion, as if it happened every day.

“A pair?” Vorathorm asked. A pair of wizards. One wizard, one sorceress. Discovery of a pair was the singularly worst news Sulrad could have uttered. Vorathorm stared at him unblinking.

“Yes, a pair. I sensed them some time ago. A boy and his sister… From what I could tell,” he added. “Very early.” He casually walked around the altar, looking down at the preparations Vorathorm had made for the sacrifice.

“What did you sense? Where are they? Who are they?”

“Slow down,” Sulrad said. He hopped up and seated himself on the altar, arranging his robes as he did. Only Sulrad would dare such a sacrilege.

“You must have a plan,” Vorathorm insisted.

“I have a plan, but it is you who will carry it out,” Sulrad said. “We can’t allow a pair of wizards to come into their power. Thank Ran that they’re brother and sister, at least we have that in our favor.”

As brother and sister, the pair would be somewhat restrained in their union. At least he hoped they would. Vorathorm shuddered at the thought.

“Where are they now?” Vorathorm asked. He secretly hoped Sulrad would allow him to take the power from both of them. That kind of power would send him to the top of the temple hierarchy. Maybe even above Sulrad himself.

“To your great fortune, they’ve already been separated. The boy is fleeing. The girl remains at home with her family,” Sulrad said.

He picked up the sacrificial knife and fondled it. He used it to trace arcane figures in the thick, dried blood staining the altar.

“What have you planned?” Vorathorm asked. He wished Sulrad would get to the point. There might yet be time to complete his sacrifice.

“We’ve captured the boy. Even now, he lies trapped, safely out of your way. You must act without delay. Kill the girl while he is helpless.”

“Is he that strong?” Pairs were so rare that he didn’t know what to expect. He feared that these two were developing rapidly. They would soon be a threat if they weren’t stopped.

“He is,” Sulrad said.

“Strong enough to stop us?” He didn’t want the boy interfering as he drained the magic from the girl.

“Yes, he’s that strong,” Sulrad said. He placed the knife back in the hands of the statue. “Don’t worry about the boy; he’s safely out of your way. Once you finish your part, we’ll deal with him as appropriate.”

“What am I to do then?” Vorathorm asked.

“Travel to their homestead outside of Mistbury, and dispose of the girl. Once you’ve done that, come back and report to me.” He gestured to the knife cradled in the arms of the statue. “Don’t forget your knife,” he said with a smile as he turned and walked out.

Vorathorm looked at the sunlight just about to illuminate the rabbit. He would have just enough time to make his sacrifice. He smiled and approached the altar with a renewed sense of purpose.

Vorathorm anxiously waited until early in the afternoon to begin his mission. The men would be in the fields, preparing to drive the kine back from the high pasture for the winter. The house would be empty, except for the girl and her mother.

Vorathorm carefully prepared the traveling spell that would take him to their homestead. He’d faithfully built up his reserves in preparation for a chance like this. He executed the spell flawlessly. The temple disappeared to be replaced instantly by the farm, where the smell of manure and swine almost overpowered him.

He made his way to the house, quietly pulling the door open. He stepped quickly into the kitchen.

A middle aged woman labored over the stove, with her back to him. She had a towel in one hand, and a large carving knife in the other. The smell of freshly baked bread still lingered in the air, overlaid with the scent of just-cut onions that was just beginning to fade into the rich aroma of the evening’s meal.

Vorathorm rested against the heavy wooden table and cleared his throat.

The woman turned with a start. “What are you doing here?” she spat. She raised the knife menacingly and took a step toward him.

“I’m here for your child,” he said. He gathered the magic to drive the spell he’d begun weaving for her.

“He’s not here,” she said, relaxing somewhat. “You’re too late. He’s already gone, you filthy swine.”

Vorathorm laughed. “I’m not here for the boy,” he said. “I’m here for the girl.” He was confident that the girl was in the house. He could sense her magic.

“You’re not touching my daughter!” she said. “Onolt, run!”

She took another step and swung the knife at him. He stepped back and raised his hand, moving his fingers to make the final sign that released the spell. She was too quick for him as she swung the knife. His arm erupted in pain as she slashed through his heavy robe and into his flesh.

He backed away from her, trying to complete the spell as she advanced once more. “It won’t do you any good,” he said, trying to sound calm and in control. “I’ll get you in the end.”

“Not before I slice you up like a prize swine.” She slashed at him once more, this time narrowly missing his chest. He threw himself back and grabbed a chair, thrusting it between them for protection. She was easily as strong as he was, and fueled by rage. He ducked beneath her as she took another swing at him before he finally completed the spell he had been preparing.

Her arms fell limp to her sides as the spell took effect. Vorathorm stood and faced her directly as she tried to speak but could not. He raised his hand and hit her with all his might, the slash in his arm throwing blood spatters across her dress. He struck her repeatedly until she would not have been able to speak even if he released the spell.

He pushed her into a sitting position next to the table. He took the towel from her hand and used it to bandage his bleeding arm. Once that was done, he went looking for the girl. He knew the homestead had only one door. She was still inside; he could feel her magic like a light violet mist directing his search.

He quickly located the girl hiding behind the door in the bedroom. She held onto the bed post and screamed as he reached for her, but he soon dislodged her. He dragged her back to the kitchen and stretched her out atop the sturdy table. He bound her hands and feet securely before leaning back to admire his handiwork.

Satisfied that she was properly bound, he passed his staff over her. He smiled as she responded to the pain that followed the movement of his staff.

“You, my dear, are an emerging young Sorceress,” he said. He could sense her magic through his staff. He pulled the memories of her brother out of her mind and laughed out loud.

Lorit had turned his sister into a sorceress by infusing his own magic into her. He’d inadvertently set in motion the very thing that was about to get her killed.

The girl struggled against her bonds. “I’m no Sorceress,” she said. “I’m just a girl.”

He passed his staff across her once again. If only he were allowed to take her to the temple. There, he could prepare her properly. He would take her magic for his own and then, later, her brother’s to add to it.

“If only I had you on my altar,” Vorathorm said wistfully. “We could watch the sunrise together, and then I could take your powers for my own.”

Vorathorm felt it would be a waste to kill her, but Sulrad had insisted that she be removed as quickly and efficiently as possible. He couldn’t transport her back to Veldwaite by magic, and the boy might escape and interfere if they undertook the long journey overland. He resigned himself to wasting her magic.

He pulled the sacrificial knife from within the folds of his robe. “If I can’t take your magic, at least I can take a little pleasure from you.” He pressed the edge of the knife against her exposed skin and drew a long, thin red line with the blade.

The girl screamed in pain.

Vorathorm smiled in satisfaction.

After a while, he stepped back to admire his work. The symbols he’d carved in her flesh matched those on his altar. He coveted her magic; a clean fresh power like hers was rare. It was a pity to waste it. Maybe there was another way. He pondered that thought as he resumed his ministrations.

Wizard's Education

Zhimosom prepared the spell that would take him to the confrontation he'd avoided for far too long. He'd scoured his library, brushed up on incantations he might need, and committed to memory anything he thought would give him an edge in the battle to come. He mixed and packed the special ingredients that would power the more arcane spells and breathed a heavy sigh.

"You're committed to this, then?" Rotiaqua asked. The Sorceress sat across from the Wizard. Her long white hair mirrored his own just as many of her mannerisms did. He was constantly moving his flowing beard out of the way of his preparations.

"I am." Zhimosom pulled at his robe and settled into his chair. He leaned over the table, folding his aged hands on top of the book that lay before him.

He spread his palms and an image appeared above the book. It showed a young man in his twentieth summer, tall and strong with a serious look on his face the belittled his age. He held a Wizard's staff in his hand. Beside him, stood a woman of similar age. She wore her hair in long curls that dropped to her shoulder and had a far less stern expression.

An aura of magic surrounded them, a light purple mist emanated from each of them to wrap around the other. It was the bond of magic between a paired Wizard and Sorceress. It was a bond Zhimosom knew well. It was the same bond he shared with the Sorceress Rotiaqua.

He knew Rotiaqua was fond of them by the way she looked at their image. She had taken the girl, Chihon, under her tutelage and had become a fast friend to Lorit almost since Zhimosom had first sensed the lad's powers awaken.

"They need to come to Amedon, and undertake the trials." Zhimosom looked up at Rotiaqua. "We've waited far too long for another pair to form. We can't afford to lose them to a traitor. It might be yet again four hundred summers before another Sorceress like her arises at just the right time to pair with a Wizard like him."

Rotiaqua reached out and patted his hand. Her hands were old, but not quite as bony and thin as his were. Her long years had done little to destroy the well fed appearance or dim the ever present look of mischief from her face. She still reminded Zhimosom of the girl he'd met in his youth.

"I thought the Temple was behind their troubles?" Rotiaqua asked. "Did you find something else?"

"There is a Wizard working in league with the Temple." Zhimosom waved his hand and the image of the youngsters vanished. "I am convinced of it. I can feel it in the residue left in their wake. It's not just the Temple any longer." Zhimosom sat back in his chair. "There is nothing to do but confront the traitor directly."

"Do you think that's wise? What if he does have Temple magic at his command?"

"I have my own sources of magic to draw on," Zhimosom said.

"I trust you will be careful. You know how I depend on you."

"I will take all due care, but if I don't confront him now, he will only grow stronger. It is best done quickly."

Zhimosom closed the book and stood. He was committed to his course of action, but he was apprehensive. Meeting another Wizard in his own domain was always fraught with peril.

He looked at Rotiaqua once more. "Wish me luck," he said as he invoked the travel spell.

As the disorientation cleared, Zhimosom found himself in a study much like his own. There were books and Wizardly paraphernalia strewn about the dusty room in a haphazard manner. Some Wizards liked a nice clean workspace, but Zhimosom wasn't one of them, nor was his adversary.

Zhimosom always said he knew exactly where everything was from the last time he'd used it. Putting things away would only require him to remember not only where he'd used the item last, but also where he'd stored it. That was simply too much to bother with.

"Welcome," a voice spoke out of the darkness. "Glad you could make it."

Zhimosom peered into the gloomy corner of the room. He could barely make out the form sitting in the chair behind the desk. He removed his glasses and cleaned them, replaced them on his face, and squinted to get a better look. The figure waited patiently.

"That's better," Zhimosom muttered. "There's no use hiding in the shadows. Let me see you."

The Wizard rose from his seat and stepped into the light. He was young, barely a hundred summers in age. His hair was dark brown and thick, his beard neatly trimmed, and he wore the robes of a senior member of the Wizards' Council. His dark and foreboding eyes were ones that Zhimosom recognized instantly from many a Council meeting. "So it's you, then?"

"Yes, it's me."

"I believe you have taken it upon yourself to interfere with one of my students," Zhimosom stated. "A young Wizard named Lorit."

"Why would you say such a thing?" He took a step towards Zhimosom. "Are you accusing me of treachery?"

"Yes. He's been plagued by the Temple since the power awoke in him. It was only lately that I sensed that someone was aiding the Priests against him."

The Wizard shrugged.

"Do you deny it?"

The Wizard moved closer and Zhimosom stepped back, trying to keep the separation between them optimal, for the battle he knew was coming.

"Deny it? Why should I deny anything?" The Wizard raised his hand to reveal a ball of violet light that spun rapidly and shed sparks. He looked at it almost lovingly, then back at Zhimosom. "The Temple has granted me access to power, more power than I ever dreamed of - enough to defeat even you."

Zhimosom stood his ground and raised a shimmering wall of protective magic around him in preparation for the assault. He wished he were just a hundred years younger as he called upon the depths of his magic, summoning it to him, focusing it, bending it to his will.