EXILED Wizard of Tizare Page 9

  It had been a while....

  The roaring sound of the water grew. And, as he reached the crest of the small hill, he almost didn’t see what was wrong.

  Caissir’s moan snapped him out of his reverie, and brought his attention to the river.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The bridge, you dim-witted highlander. The bridge!”

  “What bridge?” he asked.

  Caissir fixed him with a withering glance. “Exactly. There is no bridge. Perhaps it washed away—”

  “More likely, the bandits tore it down.”

  He looked at the water. It was rushing torrent, frothing and spitting as it traveled quickly below them. A few large boulders sent the rushing water into the air.

  It didn’t look appealing in the slightest.

  “Well, I guess we have no choice,” Caissir offered. “I can take us west and pick up the main road.”

  Yes, Falon thought. And Fahl would be days away by the time they got across the river and came back east.

  “No ...” he said softly. “We’ll cross the river.”

  “What! Are you crazy? A highlander and a wizard are going to cross—that?” Caissir pointed at the river as though it were a living thing.

  “Yes.” He turned and looked at Caissir. Such an unlikely companion for such adventures. “There are mrem who travel the great Southern oceans. This is just ... a little stream.”

  The wizard’s hair seemed to stand on end. “Yes, there are madmen who sail the oceans. And I hope they’re paid well. But how do you plan on crossing this?”

  Falon smiled, actually amused by the absurdity of the thought.

  “Why, we’ll make a raft.” He draped an arm around Caissir. “A nice big one, so that neither you nor I get wet.”

  “THERE’S NO way you’ll catch me traveling in that. Not in this life.” Caissir turned away from the makeshift raft.

  Falon examined the odd-looking fruit of his labors: the roughly lashed vines, brittle branches, and twisted tree limbs.

  Even he had to admit to being less than enthusiastic about taking it across the river.

  The highlander dragged it close to the water, as if girding himself for the great adventure to come. There, he thought. Now all that they needed to do was just sail it across.

  “No, I’m not interested in continuing our relationship any further....” Caissir’s speech degenerated into grumbling and mumbling. Falon heard bits and pieces about how he had been “better off facing the Rar.”

  Could be true, friend, Falon thought. The more he looked at the water, the sicker he felt. Water! It was so horribly wet! The spooky tales the old village she-mrem told about the liskash even said that they would immerse their whole bodies into water ... even lay their eggs in it.

  And this river was very noisy, gurgling and sputtering so close by.

  Falon walked over to the wizard, noticing how his fur seemed to be all on end. He draped an arm over his shoulder. “I won’t say you have to come, Caissir. Though having dispatched a Rar, I could certainly bring some pressure to bear. And I won’t even mention that you might this very moment be inside the belly of the Rar, if not for my timely arrival. Let me simply say this.” He fixed him with his golden eyes, hoping that he could be more persuasive the thundering roar of the river. “I need help. I lost something in that cape that was entrusted to me. And I want to get it back. With your help, I just may have a chance.”

  Caissir’s eyes went all filmy, like Falon’s herd-beasts’ when he scolded them, prodding them along to their next piece of mountain.

  Caissir hesitated. Then—“But look at that! Just look at that!” He pointed at the raft. “What kind of craft do you call that? It will fall apart with the first lurch.”

  Falon gave his shoulder a squeeze. “The river is a mere six spans across. A few minutes, and we’re off.”

  Caissir stepped cautiously over to the raft. He gave it a rough shake, obviously hoping that all its bonds would fall apart. But after a few rough jiggles back and forth, it seemed to be all of a piece.

  “There!” Falon said. “I may be a simple highlander, but when I build something it stays together.”

  Caissir shrugged. “Very well. If the All-Mother should decide that my allotted time is up, so be it.” He sniffed. “Come, if we’re to do it, let us begin.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Falon pulled the raft closer to the water, edging it in. The trick here was to have it far enough in that a good shove would get it launched. But not so far that he’d have to step into the water.

  He pushed it into the river until he felt it start to be caught by the current.

  “Quickly! Step onto it!” he yelled at Caissir. Falon watched the raft sink into the river muck as Caissir crawled onto it. He gave it an added push, getting most of the raft floating. Then he turned and grabbed a long stick. It should, he figured, be enough to pole his way across.

  “Here we go, wizard. Let me know if you sense any danger.”

  Caissir merely grumbled some more.

  He gave the clunky raft a shove, and he felt it sliding across the sand. Then it was floating freely on the water, moving quickly out to the current.

  “Do jump on!” Caissir yelled, afraid that he might be left alone on the raft.

  Another hefty push, and Falon stepped into the water. The water was just as cold and uncomfortable as he could imagine.

  He held his stick tightly as he jumped on.

  For a second he thought he was going to go flying right over the raft, so strong was his leap. But instead he landed on top of Caissir.

  “Ooph! You clumsy fool.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  Falon felt water reach his claws. The whole raft was precariously tilted.

  It was going to flip right over!

  The highlander threw himself off Caissir. He rolled back over the rough surface of the raft and sat up.

  I’ve still got my stick, he thought.

  “We’re moving downstream fast, Falon. Will you please do something!”

  Falon stuck his makeshift punting pole into the river. And he felt no bottom. He thrust it down as far as he could. His claws touched the water, but the stick just dangled freely.

  “Well,” Caissir barked at him. “Give it a push!”

  “Sure,” said the young mrem,

  What next? The raft was holding together just fine. A most seaworthy craft, all things considered. Except that he had absolutely no way of directing its course.

  It started picking up speed.

  “Come on, then, move us to shore.”

  Falon looked at Caissir. He withdrew the useless stick from the water. The water was bubbling and churning even more eagerly.

  “I—I—” he started to explain.

  They hit something. Some half-submerged rock or boulder banged into the fast-moving raft. The raft stopped suddenly, with a sickening jolt. Without thinking, Falon let his claws emerge and dig into the splintery wood of the raft.

  Caissir’s reflexes didn’t serve him nearly as well.

  One second he was there, bleating at him to get them out of the river.

  Then Caissir was gone, knocked right into the water.

  “No ...” Falon said quietly. The raft was free now, spinning in crazy circles. He searched the surface for some sign of the wizard.

  I should have let him leave, Falon thought. He didn’t want to come, and now he is about to drown.

  Caissir’s ears popped to the surface, then the puffy face. He was gasping for air. The sound coming from him made Fallon’s insides go all funny. He was too far away from the raft, Falon thought. There was no way he could grab him, pull him closer….

  The ears sunk under the water.

  Now, like most mrem, Falon did not know how to swim. The very i
dea of swimming was repulsive. The highlanders thought the stories about mrem sailors—mrem who actually spent their lives on the water—were just that: stories.

  But, if nothing else, his being alone—on the hills, traveling through the valleys—had given him time to watch the wild creatures that were his only companions.

  And Falon thought that he understood at least the idea of swimming.

  The highlander searched the spot where Caissir had just been.

  No ears or tufts of fur surfaced.

  Falon took three breaths, cursing the stranger that called him off his mountain, and cursing himself for listening.

  “Ya-a-a-owww!” he yelled, leaping into the water.

  Then everything was silent. And wet. And cold.

  He started scratching at the water, as if there was a way to claw out. He opened his eyes.

  There’s no way I’ll find him, he thought, if I just bob around blindly!

  It looked as bad as it felt. Murky brown—worse than any early morning fog. He tried to force some pattern onto his wild kicking at the water. Up … I’ve got to get up!

  He felt his ears break the surface. Soon his head was up and he gulped the air. Then down, once again, into the gloomy water.

  Falon didn’t see anything.

  But he felt something. Big and lumpy.

  He closed his claws around it. If it was Caissir he was acting pretty much like he was dead already.

  He got to the surface. He looked around quickly, struggling to hold onto Caissir as the current tugged on him. The shore was mercifully nearby.

  I can do this, he thought. I can get him over there, and get him and me out of the river.

  The roar of the water, just ahead, sounded different. There was a shift in the sound ... a new openness. As if—

  He choked the air down, sometimes taking in equal amounts of water. The roar grew.

  He felt the bottom.

  Never have I felt such joy, he thought. Nothing could equal this moment.

  I’m alive.

  He wasted no time getting completely out, even if Caissir’s body grew increasingly leaden as he tugged it out.

  He knelt down by the wizard’s head. His eyelids were shut and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Falon shook the body.

  Come on. Come on. I saved you! You can’t die on me now. He brought his muzzle down to Caissir’s. He breathed into him, felt the swell of the puffy chest. He pushed down hard on his chest. And again. And again—

  Until he was rewarded with a spray of river water and partly digested berries. Caissir curled up, coughing violently, grabbing at his throat.

  Caissir was still hacking when Falon went down to the water. He certainly wasn’t eager to get back into it, but anything would be better than the stench of Caissir’s last meal.

  Falon was splashing at his face and chest when he finally heard him.

  “You mangy fool—you nearly killed me!”

  Falon paused in his cleaning up. “Such gratitude ... Once again, I save your life, and this is how you talk to me?”

  “If I ever get back to—”

  The striped mrem looked downstream. Standing there at the water’s edge, he saw now what had made the roar.

  A white fog rose up from the water, a misty cloud that whirled above a waterfall.

  How close! Another few moments, and they would have tumbled over the edge.

  He looked at Caissir and raised his hand.

  “We’re both lucky to have survived, my friend. And now, if you’re well enough, it’s time we moved on.”

  Caissir shook his head, cleared his throat, and then stood up, so wet and uncomfortable looking it almost made Falon laugh.

  •

  The young kit crouched down and watched them carefully.

  He had to be careful ...

  Ashre knew he was not as big as they were. Not yet ... nor as old ...

  The concealed kit knew that, as he scurried through the abandoned streets of Fahl, his sleek gray fur glistening even in the gloom. His tiny satchel of precious items was strung close to him.

  But without them, the loud ones who yelled and fought as they ate in the big old hall at the center of the city, he could not live. They brought in food, and water, and something more.

  It was a game. Like those he remembered playing with his mother. Something fun, without danger and without fear. A game. Often he tried to see just how close he could get to them, while they counted their gold pieces.

  They saw him, many times, scurrying along the stone balconies that overlooked the great hall. Some would even chase him, their eyes flashing angrily in the glow of the candlelight.

  No matter. He’d howl, and dash away. Always swifter ... always getting away just in time.

  I am Ashre. Son of the Dancer, Kaarina.

  I am fast and I am smart. So she had told him.

  And something more. Something that kept the ugly thieves from ever catching him. His mother, so beautiful with her pale green eyes and so-thin coat of white fur, would rub his head with her hands ... whispering to him to say nothing of the strange feelings he sometimes had.

  He had remembered that. Remembered, and said nothing.

  And when he saw his mother killed, cut down like the great fields of grain they used to walk through, he stood there. Waiting ...

  For them to come and get him.

  But the soldiers rattled past him, as if he wasn’t there. Ignoring his crying, his howling.

  He went over to his mother, crept up to her body. Already it felt cold, unfriendly. Her bright eyes were pale and empty. He touched it once, before running away from it.

  He watched the others leave, some sneaking away, some in chains, led out toward the great desert.

  But he had no place to go ... no one to take care of him.

  So he stayed, stealing from them, watching them, learning all the tricks of the bandits who came to the deserted city.

  Tonight, he took his normal route inside the great hall.

  Up the side of the building, using the heavy brick wall as if it were a staircase.

  When he reached the highest window, he climbed in, sending the small mynts running away. Then he walked down a pitch-dark hall until he reached his special place. It was a stone platform, just big enough. From there he could see them, and not be seen.

  And if he was seen?

  He’d know it in plenty of time to back away and run back down the corridor, out to the dark side streets of Fahl that he knew so well.

  For now, he could simply look, waiting for a chance to snatch some dinner as the robbers drank, and ate, and fought.

  •

  “There it is,” Caissir said. “The city of Fahl.” He turned and looked at Falon. “Never a great city, to be sure, and once it fell, it was abandoned. The Eastern Lords apparently shared that feeling. Once its main defensive wall was reduced to rubble, they abandoned it as well.”

  Falon looked out at the city. It was a dark hulk on the horizon. Almost on the edge of the desert, Fahl could only be reached by the neglected trail that they had just taken.

  “I expected more lights.”

  He felt Caissir looking at him.

  “Lights? This is not Ar, Falon. Even in its prime it was just an out-of-the-way rest stop. That’s all,”

  Falon kept on staring at it.

  “It’s my first city.”

  Caissir shook his head. “More’s the pity. Still, you’ll see your share of wonders when you reach Tizare. That, my friend, is definitely a going concern.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Falon said. “Let’s get going.”

  “What? Now? I really don’t think that we want to enter a city of thieves, and worse, in the middle of the night.”

  Falon laughed. “When better? When the sun finds them all alert a
nd angry? No, we’ll go in now, catch them with their bellies full of gradle wine.”

  He stood up, and a cool breeze gently ruffled his fur. . “Come, Caissir. It’s cold.” He laughed. “And I want my sword and cape back.”

  IT WAS no problem finding where everyone was in the city. Except for a few small lights in scattered buildings, all the noise and bright lights came from one place.

  “It used to be the palace. The lord fancied himself a king. But then, they all do. Everything in the city was made of the cheapest material, including his home. When it was overrun, entire buildings were burned. From the looks of things, only the Great Hall survived.”

  They were in the shadows, down one of a dozen narrow alleyways that spilled out into a large courtyard before the shell of a palace.

  Falon studied the odd assortment of mrem standing outside. They had bottles in their hands and were laughing and talking loudly, but they also all wore heavy swords. Drunk or no, they could prove to be dangerous.

  “Well, there’s no way we can just walk in there,” Caissir said.

  Falon tried to think. There had to be some way to find the bandits who robbed them ... if they were even here.

  “Not for me, my friend.” He turned and looked at his all too-reluctant companion. “I’m just an angry highlander, better dead and quickly. You, though, are someone of interest.”

  Caissir started to sputter. “What do you mean?”

  Falon edged closer to the light of the courtyard. “You can present yourself as a traveling magician ... someone willing to trade a few prophecies for a mug of wine, and some sliced uxan.”

  He heard Caissir lick his lips. “But if the bandits see me—”

  Falon shook his head. “They’ll remember nothing. We were just an unimportant stop on their way here. If you’re worried, just keep smiling and moving.”