EXILED Wizard of Tizare Page 7

  Plano groomed the top of his head, as if ready to deliver some official pronouncement. “I have need of a messenger to go to Lord Rhow, in the great city of Tizare.”

  “Why not use the official messengers?”

  “I’m afraid my lord and I don’t place the same degree of trust in the messengers that you do. My message requires the highest discretion. It can not, must not fall into anyone’s hand but Lord Rhow’s.”

  “And so you come to me—an outcast—to help.” Falon put his cup down. Already the tea was turning cold and tasteless. “I don’t understand.”

  Plano gathered up his discarded cape and tossed it towards Falon, “Here, put this on. It will keep you warmer. As you see, I have plenty.” Plano watched while Falon picked up the heavy material. It was a skin of some kind, but tanned to an almost incredible softness. “You are alone, Falon. Unloved and unwanted. The options for your loyalty must surely be open.”

  Falon pulled his new outer garment close. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said cautiously. “Still, Tizare is a long, difficult journey to the south—”

  “More difficult than you imagine since you must, for security’s sake, avoid the roads and travel near the abandoned city of Fahl.”

  “You’re not exactly selling me on the proposal.”

  “I think,” Plano said smiling, “that you’ll do it.” He opened a small flask and poured an amber liquid into the teacup. He tilted it towards Falon, offering him some.’

  But Falon shook his head. He had long ago decided that he’d surely go mad if he started taking solace in spirits. If he started that, then someday the clansmrem would come up the hill and find him half frozen, an empty bottle in his hand, and the herd-beasts vanished.

  “You’ll do it, perhaps, for the gold.” He Hung a small satchel to him. “With much more awaiting you when you reach Lord Rhow. Or you’ll do it to escape this mountain.” He leaned forward, close enough to the fire that Falon thought he smelled the stench of singed fur. “After all, how many cold seasons do you think you can last?”

  Plano downed his cup, and then curled up close to the fire, apparently ready to sleep.

  “Or,” he said, his eyes shutting, “you’ll do it for the honor, my friend. Your honor ...”

  •

  Falon had trouble sleeping.

  While his guest snored away, curled close to the fire, all he could do was stare at the dwindling flames and wonder about the older mrem’s proposal.

  Falon knew he could, of course, ignore it. He was a highlander, and the strange customs and perverse ways of the lowland cities were not for him. The ways of his people were more ancient than the latest rules promulgated by the King of Tizare.

  He belonged here ... on Mount Zaynir.

  But his fingers kept going to the fine cloth that he now had draped over his shoulders. There was no denying the rich, luxuriant feel of the cloth, or the way its muted shades of gold and red complemented his own coloring.

  And there was this Plano, this ‘counselor’ to Lord Rhow. The fact that this mrem looked like him affected Falon in deep, confusing ways. He had lived for so many years as one apart, accepting the virtues and difficulties of his differences. But now, to see another—well, it made him question so many things.

  I am a highlander—or am I?

  I belong to the mountains—or do I?

  He kicked at the fire, encouraging it to spit into flame for a few minutes more.

  He curled as close to the flame as possible, enjoying the heat on his face as it warmed the fine layer of fur and whiskers.

  “COME, COME, your beasts are bellowing for you. The morning is already well advanced. And my bones do ache so.”

  Falon blinked awake. His head was almost resting in the black soot of the now-dead fire. The stale smell of the burned wood filled his nostrils.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t singe your whiskers, young friend. Your coloring is distinctive enough without adding a few burned spots.”

  Plano laughed, and then coughed, clearing his throat. He spit off to the side.

  Falon stood up. It was a cold morning and he was glad that he had the extra cape. “I didn’t sleep well last night—”

  “Last night? I’m surprised you can sleep here any night.” Plano came close to him and gave his shoulders a great squeeze. “I haven’t felt this horribly uncomfortable since I went with the old Lord Rhow on an excursion to the Eastern City of Kayne. Sandstorms all day, losing mrem and bundor to the weevils. But at night, ah, there’s nothing like sleeping on a freezing desert, the sand ripping right through your tent. Some of our troops went mad ... just couldn’t handle all the cold and racket. Still,” he said grinning at Falon, “last night was none too pleasant.”

  “If you’re hungry there’s some fruit ... off in the corner there.” Falon indicated the spot where the old mrem had just expectorated.

  “Oh,” Plano said coyly. “Breakfast, eh? So sorry….”

  Falon walked over and dug out a bunch of orange gradle berries. “Not quite ripe,” he said, offering the bunch to Plano. “But they should hold you until you get back to your estate.”

  He watched Plano take them eagerly, pulling off a dozen or more before returning them to him. “A tad bitter. By the All-Mother, I can’t tell you how great this ‘roughing it’ is for me.” He grinned, then clapped a hand on Falon’s back. “Feels absolutely wonderful.”

  Falon munched on the berries, which, along with herd milk and the occasional unwary rodent, made up a good part of his diet.

  “So you slept poorly, you say?”

  He nodded.

  “Been thinking about my proposition?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve decided ...”

  “I don’t think I can do it. This is my home. Those beasts down there are my responsibility. My lot in life,” Falon said with a smile, “may not be so wonderful. But things may not always be this way.”

  Plano shook his head. His eyes flashed and his ears seemed pointed right at Falon. “Don’t be so foolish. What will you do? Languish the rest of your days on this horrible hill, listening to those dumb beasts conjuring their foul magic? I’m offering you a life, Falon. Danger, perhaps, but also a chance to see more wonders than you ever dreamed of.”

  “But what of my beasts?”

  “I have already arranged everything. There’s a peasant orphan who will live here and tend to their needs—be they as they may—until you return. If you don’t return, the simple fool will be more than glad to warm his hide by the small fire of your cave in return for what little your clan may give him.”

  Falon turned away, looking out towards the opening. It was a gray morning, chilly and uncomfortable. On most days, about now, he’d lead the herd to a new spot on the slope where they could graze on some fresh grasses and shrubs, while their lowing filled the wind.

  Plano came behind him, and rested his hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s something else, isn’t it, Falon? You are worried about an even greater disgrace.”

  Falon nodded.

  “I can only ask you to trust me ... no matter what happens, no matter what you see. Trust me, and I will tell you this: Greater honor awaits you than any highland mrem has ever dreamed of. It is not too much to say that you will play an important role in the future of the mrem.”

  Then, as if in disagreement, the lead buck snorted. “He’s calling me to move the herd on.”

  Plano patted him. “Do so. Your replacement will be here by midday. I will stay with them until he arrives. Move your herd, and then carry my message to Lord Rhow.”

  Falon crawled out of the chilly cave, stood up, and looked at the herd.

  “What do you say?”

  The young mrem turned and looked at Plano. “I’ll do it.”

  An enormous grin broke on the old mrem’s face. He went to
Falon and encircled him, crushing him with tremendous and surprisingly powerful hugs. “Wonderful. You’ll not regret it, Falon. A great adventure awaits you, a fabulous adventure. I only wish that I could be with you to show you my old city.”

  Falon pulled away, and began gathering his belongings. His sword, bow, and quiver filled with arrows. A small pack, including a light kilt for the warmer climate that lay ahead. Lastly, he picked up the satchel of gold Plano had tossed to him the night before.

  “Come,” he said, starting toward the uxan. “I’ll move the herd—and then I can be off.”

  Plano hurried to keep up with him.

  •

  Falon looked around, back up the hill. Plano looked entirely out of place, standing on a hill overlooking the herdbeasts. Plano waved, a final cheery good-bye.

  And good-bye to the mountain, Falon thought with no regret.

  Already it was warmer as he trudged down to the base of the hill. The winds were less fierce, and Plano had warned him that, before long, he’d have to remove his capes.

  The herd-beasts seemed to sense that something was up. Instead of their normal lazy munching, their heads were off the ground. A few scuffles broke out and the lead buck had to jab at the combatants.

  Plano had written out directions, using a deft mixture of pictures and simple words written in the highland dialect. Falon could read and write, but his command of the language was far from masterly. Already, the striped mrem worried about meeting the hundreds of accents that were sure to fill the city of Tizare. The message for Lord Rhow was cleverly sewn between layers of the cape that Plano had given him.

  As he descended, the mountain ended abruptly, tumbling into a wide, bowl-shaped marsh area. To the left was the main road that passed his village and continued on, past other highlander strongholds, before leaving the cooler steppes for the plains. Every day’s journey along that route would bring more and more travelers—merchants making the great yearly route to sell their wares in each of the cities, disgruntled highlanders out to improve their lot in life, soldiers, priests, dancers, and messengers. That way would bring him much company. After the isolation of the mountain, companions would be welcome.

  But Plano had been very clear in his instructions. He was to skirt east, passing quite close to the old city of Fahl, a place some of the village elders said was not abandoned. From there, he could cross the gentle hills to the west and move to Tizare.

  “How long will it take?” he had asked Plano.

  “Beats me, Falon. Along the roads, given good weather, it’s a journey of a week or so. But you’ll be traveling through the Eastern woods, over narrow cart trails.” He grinned then, already enjoying Falon’s ‘wonderful adventure,’ “Move quickly and don’t dawdle,”

  At least his backpack was light. He wished he had been able to get better sleep the night before.

  The day stayed overcast, darkening even more. It was hard to tell when night would fall and, with the forest just ahead, he’d soon be making his way in a gloomy light.

  No matter. Falon would be sure to use the last few minutes of light to build some kind of shelter. Tonight he’d sleep.

  Falon hummed as he neared the great forest. While it was circled with hardy, squat parra trees, the forest was filled mostly with great stands of scratch trees, so named for the nasty thorns that girded and protected the bark.

  The mrem sang a song from his youth, one he had learned while helping his father turn the soil of their small farm. It was a song of the mountains, of people who live away from the cities, a song of the highlanders. But he found he had forgotten some of the words, repeated a verse, and finally was left humming the simple melody.

  It was the only sound Falon heard as he entered the great forest.

  It wasn’t long before it was so dark that the blue-green leaves looked black, and the narrow trail disappeared before his eyes.

  “Enough for today,” the messenger said to himself. He looked around for something that would give him some shelter. There were the trees, but no loose limbs he could fashion into something to keep the dew off. To the right, though, he spied a great chunk of rock. Not much of a home, but he could build his fire near it and lean against the heated stone.

  Falon snapped off some low-lying branches of the fresh wood, hoping it would burn. His belly rumbled, and he wished that he had brought more than the meager items in his pack. Tomorrow, as he hiked, he’d have to keep his eye open for some small game. Perhaps some tasty rodent to be grilled over his fire would hit the spot.

  The highlander busied himself with lighting a small fire, then eating—with slow, deliberate bites—some of the gradle berries and chunks of tough cheese whose smell must surely rival his own.

  A slug of water from his pouch washed down the meal.

  Falon looked up. No stars could be seen through the roof of the trees. It was probably still overcast, he imagined.

  The fire began to fade, but he was too tired to care. He groomed his face, then his ears, before laying one outstretched arm over his eyes and falling fast asleep.

  That night Falon had the first nightmare.

  At first, the mrem thought he had awakened in some unfamiliar place. It was a narrow corridor, with a ceiling much too low for a mrem, and walls that pressed ill tight.

  How did I get here, he wondered.

  And, more importantly, how do I get out?

  Then, he heard the sound, coming down the darkened shaft. Strange, rustling sounds, accompanied by a slithering noise, growing louder.

  I have to get out of here, he thought. But there was no way to turn around ... all he could do was back up, slowly, tortuously as the sounds came closer and closer.

  He knew it was a dream then. He knew he was someplace else, perhaps back on the hill snoring loudly near the herd-beasts. Soon, I will wake up.

  It was near him now, and Falon’s panic grew, his fur bristled, and his claws were ready. The slithering shape was almost upon him, almost in the small pool of light. He kept backing up, faster and faster.

  Until he felt something grab him—from behind.

  He howled in his dream, a horrible sound in the narrow tunnel.

  Then he howled out loud, waking himself.

  He had rolled away from the stone, his capes sprawled on the dusty ground. He shivered. He looked up.

  The clouds were gone, and though it was still dark, a hint of rosy color to the east signaled that dawn was not long away. And there, just at the horizon, was a pale crescent moon.

  He gathered up his capes, wrapped them around his cold body, and lay there, eyes shut but not sleeping, until the first rays of light lit the treetops.

  •

  After waking, Falon wasted no time getting back to the small trail. He was still upset by the nightmare and he checked the ground for footprints. He saw nothing that indicated that anyone else had been on the trail recently.

  Though, as an outcast, he was used to being alone, it was still unpleasant to make his solitary way through these old woods. His only company was the shrill hoot of a trumpeter fowl. And that was a noxious noise he knew too well from chasing stray herd-beasts that wandered down into the valley.

  He was lonely.

  And then the mrem heard the screaming.

  The sound cut through the woods with its shrill sound of total panic. Falon’s claws closed quickly around his short sword.

  He ran at full speed. The sound was just ahead, right on the narrow trail. He heard the voice bellowing for help, barely intelligible with so much high-pitched squealing and wailing.

  What could be causing so much commotion?

  The highlander rounded a narrow curve in the trail, around a thick old tree that seemed to be guarding the path. The trail emptied out into an open space—a perfect site for a campground.

  Then he saw it. An uncommon sight, to say the least.


  It was a Rar, an animal that some city dwellers liked to believe was extinct. An ancestral enemy of the mrem. It was said that the beast traveled on two legs, like the mrem. But the highlander hunters who spotted the occasional Rar knew better. It ran, like any other beast, on four legs, rising on its hind quarters only to attack. Its claws were only for traction, but its long snout and canines were designed to quickly rip an opponent apart.

  The opponent in this case hardly seemed a fitting match for the Rar. It was a chubby mrem, With dull, gray fur. He had added splotches of blue and yellow to his otherwise bland markings.

  He was hanging, dangling really, from a tree limb, while the Rar reared up and growled out its intentions.

  “Please, my friend, help me-e-e-e-e!” Despite the mrem’s claws being completely dug into the flaking bark of the parra tree branch, it was obvious that gravity was going to dump the mrem at the feet of the Rar momentarily.

  The creature turned, and seemed to sneer at Falon.

  Back off, it seemed to say. This juicy morsel is mine. One of the mrem’s claws slipped, and his tail dangled close to the Rar’s open maw.

  The Rar, standing on its back legs, towered over Falon. And the mrem wished that his sword was longer. He took a step toward the growling creature.

  “Oh, thank you ... thank you. ...” the mrem in the tree wheedled.

  “Don’t thank the All-Mother yet....” Falon said.

  The Rar went down to all fours, and then turned. It advanced slowly, almost carefully, perhaps, Falon thought, not wanting to lose another lunch to a tree.

  No fear of that, Falon thought.

  I don’t climb so well.

  Falon brought the blade out in front. It looked so terribly small. The mrem in the tree slipped a bit more, and one hand came completely free. “Oh, no!” he yelled.