Foundling Wizard (Book 1) (11 page)

The temple guard pulled a long knife from his belt and sliced through the ropes that held Lorit’s feet together. The circulation resumed with a tingling prickly pain. They hoisted him to his feet and set him down. The pain was almost overwhelming. Lorit fell to the ground, his sleeping legs unable to support his weight.

They jerked him up by his arms, and half dragged him up the stairs and down a hallway much like the one Lorit had secretly visited in Mistbury Tye. Down, near the end of the hallway, was a heavy oak door flanked by two more guards, who pulled the door open as Lorit arrived in tow.

Inside the room was a rustic bench made of old splintered oak. It was set against the back wall with chains draped across it. They were attached at one end to the solid rock wall. The free end of the chains contained heavy shackles that were quickly and tightly placed around Lorit’s wrists and ankles.

After securing Lorit, the guards turned to leave. Before closing the door behind him, the guard turned to look back at Lorit. “Have a good night’s rest, boy. Tomorrow will be a big day for you.”

The door closed, and the room was plunged into darkness. Lorit was unable to lie down due to the length of the chains. All he could do was sit with his back against the cold stones and try to rest.

As uncomfortable as it was, Lorit managed to go to sleep long after they left him alone. While he slept, he felt the contact from Zhimosom. This time it was fuzzy and immaterial. He could barely make out what the wizard was saying.

“You have managed to get yourself into trouble. Haven’t you?” the wizard asked.

“It seems so,” Lorit replied. He lifted his arms to illustrate the predicament he was in. “What can you do to help?”

“I can do nothing directly,” Zhimosom replied. “They have shielding in place at the temple that’s particularly effective. Were it not for the rapport we already have, even this conversation would not be possible.”

“How will I get free of this?” Lorit implored.

“That is entirely up to you. You have all the tools you need to escape. Just remember, while you can shield your image from the guards, it will not work on the priest.”

“Do you have any ideas about what to try?” Lorit asked. He was frustrated that Zhimosom wouldn’t come right out and help him free himself. He was certain that Zhimosom would not have had any trouble getting free of the temple.

“Consider the structure of your prison,” the wizard answered. “That will be the key you need to free yourself.”

The image faded from view and Lorit was left alone in the cell once more.

“Get up,” the guard yelled, poking Lorit in the ribs with the blunt end of his spear. “Can you believe this? The kid can sleep in the dungeon!”

The other guard unlocked the shackles from his feet, then his wrists. They brought out a short chain and shackled him again. The only way to proceed was for Lorit to shuffle along, stooped over, taking short steps that came up sharply, as he reached the limits of the chains binding his feet.

They proceeded down the hallway Lorit had seen the previous night. They turned part way down the hallway and entered a chamber lit with a single torch in a holder on the wall. In the middle of the room was a table with more shackles fastened to either corner.

The guard freed Lorit from his chains, bound him to the table and left him there exposed.

Soon a priest entered the room and bent over Lorit. “Good Morning son, my name is Danthon. What’s your name?” he asked in a smooth voice.

Lorit remained silent, glaring at the priest.

“How impolite,” Danthon said. “I’m sure your mother would be disappointed in you.” He raised his staff placing the knobby end next to Lorit’s head. There was a warm, tingly feeling in his temple, and Lorit felt a slight tugging sensation.

“Yes, Shyenn would be so disappointed in you, Lorit. Wouldn’t she?”

Lorit struggled against the bonds that held him to the table. All he accomplished was to bruise his wrists.

“Who’s been helping you, boy?” Danthon demanded.

“What, you can’t pull that from my head?” Lorit asked. He’d feared that his every memory was exposed to the priest. Now he knew that some were still safe.

“Not at the moment, but there’s always tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that,” he remarked. “I’m a patient man.”

Danthon pulled up a stool. He leaned on his staff and peered into Lorit’s eyes. “We’re going to have plenty of time together.”

He raised his staff and passed it over Lorit from head to toe. As the staff passed over him, Lorit felt waves of excruciating pain, as if he were being seared with a red hot iron.

“I may not be able to pull it from your mind,” he continued, “but I wager I’ll eventually get it through your parched lips, if only to relieve the pain temporarily.” Once again, he passed the staff over Lorit’s body and again the wracking pain followed its course.

Lorit bit down hard and stifled the scream he wanted to release at the pain. He knew that showing weakness was not going to help him, and would probably just cause more pain.

The torture went on for the entire morning, until Lorit lay there twitching and convulsing from the pain and the anticipation of more. Suddenly Danthon pushed he stool back and rose. He turned to the guard and spoke, “Clean him up and feed him. See that he gets decent food and plenty of water. I want him recovered by this afternoon, so we can begin again.”

He strode from the room without looking back.

The guard released Lorit from the bonds. He helped him sit up and offered him a cup of cold water. It tasted like the finest wine Lorit had ever had.

They escorted him back to his cell where a table had been added beside the bench. This time the guards shackled his feet, but left his hands free so he could eat. On the table was a platter of fresh bread and roasted fowl with a few boiled root vegetables.

Lorit ate eagerly. They had not fed him before the morning’s session, and he was famished. He finished the bread and fowl and most of the vegetables before they came to re-shackle his hands and take the food away.

The guard closed the heavy door, plunging him into darkness once again. Zhimosom instructed him to examine the structure of his prison. He did so as he sat there, recovering from the morning’s torture.

The temple was shielded, that he already knew. There was a long avenue lining the entrance to the temple where the supplicants arrived. It was lined with torches, large bowls on top of sturdy stands. Each bowl was filled with oil and lit at sundown.

Lorit pondered these things. How could these be the key to his escape?

He recalled the lesson Rotiaqua had taught him in the inn. He could draw on the fires along the avenue to strengthen what he conjured. But what was he supposed to conjure that would be the key to his escape? He worried that the anticipation of the evening’s session was clouding his thoughts.

He examined his prison carefully. There was a hole in the bench near the back wall. The bench was splintered and rotted with the knothole almost all the way through it. The chains were embedded in the between rocks which were cemented together. The shackles locked to his wrists and ankles were made of iron, and each was locked with a sturdy brass lock. When the guard entered the cell, the keys jingled from his belt.

They came for him while Lorit was contemplating his prison. They hauled him to the room again and bound him to the table. It was dusk now, turning to full dark. Lorit could hear the priest calling out the Evening Prayer, when the idea hit him. The key he was seeking was indeed there already. It hung from the guard's belt, jingling as he walked. All Lorit had to do was make a copy of the keys and he could free himself.

Lorit reached out with his senses. He could feel the fires burning in the torches along the avenue. He could feel the fire burning in the kitchen not far from where he was bound. He focused his attention on recalling the knothole in the bench in his cell. He visualized the keys to his cell and shackles forming in that knothole. He connected his effort to the fires both along the avenue and those in the kitchen. He felt a surge of power that quickly subsided and he knew he was successful.

From his perch on the tower, the priest might have noticed a slight blinking of the fires along the avenue, but Lorit hoped that he was otherwise occupied.

Shortly after Evening Prayer ended, Danthon returned. He once again pulled up the stool and sat.

Danthon raised his staff once more and passed it over Lorit’s body. The pain was no less severe, for his having endured it all morning.

Lorit screamed in agony as the staff passed over him time and time again, but he held his peace. He was not sure how many times he could endure this without being compelled to divulge everything he knew, but by the end of the session, he felt he’d scored a victory for today.

When they dumped him in the cell, he reached inside the knothole with his senses and found the keys. He tried to reach the key, but came up short as the shackled didn't permit him that much movement. He reached for the key with his senses, slowly lifting it from the knot hole. As it approached the lock, he excited and lost his focus. The key fell to the floor with a pronounced clatter. He breathed quietly, calmed his nerves and tried again. Slowly the key rose from the floor as he guided it to the lock. It inserted itself and gave a quick, sharp turn. The shackled sprang open freeing his wrists. He reached down and unlocked his legs and rubbed them to restore the circulation. He waited until he could be sure it was night outside before he retrieved the door key he had conjured and carefully unlocked the door.

He found one guard asleep with his back to the wall next to the door. Carefully he closed the door and raised the shield that would prevent anyone from seeing him as he made his way out of the temple.

He stopped at the chamber where Danthon had tortured him. Sitting there, in the corner, were his staff and pack. He shouldered the pack and leaned on the staff as he made his way out of the temple. He rounded the corner that led toward the exit only to stumble upon a guard. The guard was lying across the hallway. Lorit, in his haste, had not noticed him until his foot came in contact with the supine form.

The guard woke with a start. Lorit tried to maintain his shield, but felt the power drain from him. The guard looked straight at him as he came fully awake. Lorit panicked and reached for the power to renew his shields. He pulled from the flames that lit the avenue and the fires in the kitchen. He pulled the power with all of his might and raised a shield that would make him invisible and protect him from the guard.

The guard shook his head and lay back down. Lorit carefully stepped over him and headed for the door. He stepped outside of the temple to a darkened street; the fires that normally illuminated it had all been extinguished. He grasped his staff as he headed out into the chill night air.

Strotailye River

Chedel followed Rotiaqua through the dense woods. Chedel was gazing up into the trees and bumped solidly into her when she raised her hand and stopped abruptly. She caught her balance and recovered before she tumbled to the ground beneath his spindly frame. She pointed to a small clearing in the woods and said, “This is where we’ll make our camp.”

Chedel dropped his pack and spread out his blanket. He sat heavily down and looked up at Rotiaqua. “What are we going to eat?”

“Lessons first,” she replied, following suit. She shook out her bedroll and gracefully lowered herself to the ground. She faced Chedel directly and stretched out her hands, palms facing him.

Chedel was looking off into the woods aimlessly. She reached for her staff and gave it a slight twitch. Chedel responded as if he’d been hit solidly on the head with her staff. He turned to look at her.

“Have your attention, do I?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Maestra,” she reminded him.

“Yes, Ma’am... I mean Maestra,” he replied, lifting his hands to match hers. He held them palms out, about two digits away from hers.

“Focus, Chedel. Clear your mind and imagine a cool mist in front of you.”

“I’m trying.”

“Quiet, I said clear your mind, not talk,” she scolded him.

Rotiaqua strained to feel his energy as he attempted to clear his thoughts. She was just able to discern the power rising as he focused. When she felt it was strong enough, she softly whispered, not wanting to break his concentration.

“Form a pillar of mist between our hands, just like on a rainy day after the storm is over and before the sun shines full. Just a light mist is all you need.”

She projected some of her own power into him to encourage him. Slowly, a light wisp of mist formed between their outstretched hands. “Good, now try to focus on the image of a small leaf, just like the ones you see around you all day,” she continued.

The mist congealed into a rough outlines somewhat like that of a leaf, before it dissipated entirely.

“That was very good, Chedel.”

“Really? I thought I could feel it this time.”

“You did well,” she said. “Now let’s try again.”

They practiced a while, making several more attempts. Eventually, Chedel was able to conjure something like a small leaf shaped object that stayed solid long enough to flutter to the ground, before vanishing.

The city of Ruton End appeared on the prairie that replaced the forest. Ruton End was larger than Mistbury Tye or even Moriver Tye. It housed several thousand residents and provided the main trade route for the lake boats. Larger ships sometimes made their way upriver and into the lake to dock there.

The wharf district was almost as large as the entire town of Mistbury Tye. It was populated with sailors from all over the Southorn, Gritton and lands farther away. Along with the sailors, were dock workers and merchants. They were so thick; it was as if every day was market day.

As Rotiaqua and Chedel made their way through the crowded streets, she reminded him, “Stay close to me, there are a lot of folks down in this area of town that would take advantage of you faster than you’d notice something was wrong.”