Wizards of Fyre (Island of Fyre Book 3) Page 3

  Mecador laughed. “Are you regretting her leaving? Don’t worry. You’ll have a chance to win her. If you are the lucky one, you can watch me show her how to please a wizard.” He wheeled and strode from the room.

  Even after he heard the door close Arton remained standing. Anger propelled him to the necessary. Though his feet dragged and he had to use his hands on the foot of the bed as a guide, he reached the bathing room. Inside he set the huge basin filling with hot water. He pulled off his robe. After sliding into the water, he washed his body and thought longingly of Lorana’s gentle touches.

  His teeth clenched. Mecador couldn’t have her for any lessoning. Arton knew he would find a way to stop that.

  Once he pulled himself from the basin and dried, he donned a dragon skin tunic and trousers. In the bedroom he pulled on his dragon skin boots. Though tired he sat at his work table and took one of the wythes and mounted a white stone at the tip. He tested the wand and smiled. His encounter with the fyrethorn poison had increased his ability to call and direct power. An idea of how to save Lorana started to form. First he had to build his physical strength and stamina.

  Arton stared at the stones on the leather tray. A single white remained from the legacy of his mentor. At least the stones hadn’t been seized by the council when his rightful seat had been denied. He touched the colored stones and felt their latent power. Again the question arose. Could their power be released and what could he achieve by experimentation?

  He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for experimenting. As a fledgling, any new use of the stones would be seized by the council. Until he became a member he must keep his thoughts and ideas secret. What if…? His forefinger lingered on one of the yellows. He gave into temptation and mounted the gem to the end of a wand. If he had the chance to be along he would test his theory. He retreated to his chair and rested for a time. Then he left his suite and walked the corridors knowing exercise would build his strength.

  For the next four days Arton balanced exercise with wand practice. He ate his meals at the candidates table, avoiding any heated discussion with his rival. He ate every scrap of food on his plate. Cregan’s glares held a warning. Arton wondered if any of the council members had chastised Cregan for the poisoning.

  At the end of the third meal on the fifth day Mecador rose. “Tomorrow a group of council members and a hand of guards will leave for the fall clan gathering. Cregan and Arton will accompany us. There, they will face their second challenge. Instead of the guards competing in the bouts, our senior fledglings will win slaves for trade when the ships arrive. The one who wins the most will earn a point toward the three needed for the seat.” He pointed to Arton. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Arton said. “My pack is prepared.”

  “Have you learned how to control your wand?” Cregan asked. “I’ve noticed you in practice. I also saw what happened after the poisoning accident. I’ve never seen such a violent discharge of energy as your wand produced.”

  Arton pulled a wand from his belt sheath. When he saw the white stone at the tip he drew a deep breath. “Would you like to test my control?”

  Mecador pounded the table. “There will be no premature duel. The two of you will compete as I direct.”

  Arton returned his wand to the sheath. “I hear and obey.”

  Cregan scowled. He thumped into his seat and finished his meal.

  Arton swallowed. He had to remain cautious if he hoped to win the reward.

  * * *

  The steam from the heated pool freed Dragon’s frozen joints, especially those of his wings. Cautiously he spread them on the water. He gazed up and watched steam spiral through the small opening in the dome. In the far side of the large cavern an opening allowed water to leave the pool. At the front edge, flat rocks of various sizes jutted from the wall.

  Once again he heard the sorrowful voice crying for help. The sound was clear enough for him to discern the distance. The woman was in the citadel, once the home of the dragon riders of his line. He sought her and touched frissons of fear. The woman struggled to reach him. Around her he sensed the closed minds of the wizards.

  Before he could help her, he must regain his strength. He lumbered from the pool and shook the water from his body. Time to hunt. Time to eat. He slowly made his way through the corridors past as series of caves to the outer one. He sniffed the air. Autumn and the animals were fat in preparation for the coming winter. He braced himself, stepped forward and pumped long unused wings. After a shaky start he soared. He fled until he found a herd of roe deer.

  After pumping his wings to gain height, he wheeled and plummeted like an arrow. His claws snatched his prey. He spread his wings and skimmed over the trees. At the cave he settled and feasted. He recalled the days when the men and women riders butchered the meat and added thorns and berries to the food. A blend of the two made flying easier and increased the distance he could cover.

  Once his appetite was sated he crawled into his lair and dozed. His dreams weren’t his own. He dreamed with the woman. Fear and anger colored the moments. He saw her fears and her desire to escape a place where she felt like a prisoner. He saw the faces of three men. Two had the coloring of those who had destroyed the dragons. The third had hair with the colors of fire in the strands.

  ‘Come to Me.’ He sent the message. ‘Come to the hills. There is a place where you can live.’

  He couldn’t go to her yet. Being seen by the wizards could mean his death. He wanted to live and see them destroyed.

  * * *

  ‘Come to me. Come to the hills. There is a place where you can live.’

  The voice Lorana had heard before filled her dreams. She sat up. Was there a dragon here? Had one struggled over the mountains seeking her? In the years since she’d arrived at the citadel, she’d heard stories of the wizard’s cruelty and destruction of the dragons. She’d also seen how her father had killed dragons and sold their hides until few dragons lived.

  ‘Escape.’

  If the dragon existed, with his help she could win her freedom. All she needed was the right time. How far would she need to travel from the citadel to the hills where the she believed the dragon waited? She wondered if they could cross the mountains.

  With her eyes closed she sought this dragon. Questions filled her thoughts. ‘Dragon, how far away are you? I’ll need to plan how much food I’ll need to carry.’

  ‘I do not know the distance in time or length. I spent eons in a hibernating sleep. I will lead you by thought until you reach a place where it is safe for me to land. Sleep now.’

  Lorana obeyed.

  The next night when the women of the hareem slept, she crept to the storeroom and explored the shelves seeking items to help in her escape. She gathered them in her basket. She found a pair of cloth trousers and tunic, but she really wished for clothes made from dragon skin. They lasted forever. She tucked her gleaning in the deep recess of a shelf near the escape tunnel.

  The next evening she sat at the table in the common room and listened to the gossip. Tales and stories flowed like water cascading over a rocky hillside. Lorana hoped to learn something of value.

  “The wizard candidates leave with some council members and guards to travel to the clan gathering.”

  Lorana bowed her head. She dare not let her glee show. Hag Mother would set a watch on her. She finished her meal and ran to the courtyard to fill the last jug of poison needed for trading.

  That night she made another visit to the store room. She added dried food, cheese and a water flask she had filled. She slid around the last row of shelves and pressed a stone with a dragon carved in high relief. The wall slid open. She grabbed her basket and entered a dark tunnel. The opening closed leaving her in darkness.

  Since she had been here before, a single deep breath calmed her galloping thoughts. With one hand on the wall and the other holding the basket, she made her slow way along the tunnel. The air held a musty aroma that spoke of little use. She finally reached
the wall blocking the end. Slowly she pressed the dragon carvings using the triangular pattern she had discovered. The wall opened and she stepped outside.

  Clouds covered the moon. She ran the distance to the fyrethorn tangle, where many bushes entwined their branches. After catching her breath, she found the way to the center. She pushed the basket ahead of her taking care not to snag her clothes on the thorns.

  Several times she was jabbed by the spikes. She felt thankful for her immunity to the poison. She studied all she’d gathered and felt hopeful she would manage to find one of the travel packs.

  She made her return trip and crept into her room without being discovered. As she lay on the cot, she waited for her pounding heart to slow. She opened her thoughts to Dragon.

  ‘I am nearly ready to travel.’

  ‘Leave now and listen to my voice.’

  ‘Not yet. I must wait until many of the wizards leave the citadel. They travel to a clan gathering. If the full council is present, they can trace me with their wands.’ She closed her eyes.

  The next morning sounds in the common room stirred her awake. Hag Mother shouted her name. “Rise. Dress. Come to the courtyard. The wizards are leaving.”

  Lorana changed her wrinkled gray dress for one of brown. She stumbled after the women.

  The line of men faced Mecador. Arton and Cregan stood behind him. The chief wizard approached the grille and beckoned to Lorana.

  She clasped her trembling hands behind her back. What did he want?

  “Young woman, your industry pleases me. You are the perfect reward for one of these young men. While we are at the clan gathering they face another test. Think kindly of them. When they return they will face at least one more test.”

  Lorana stood with her head bowed. She refused to look up lest she give away her plans to escape. She had to remain calm. She didn’t want to be held a prisoner in the cells below.

  The gate opened. Nine wizards plus the senior fledglings marched through the gate opening and joined six guards leading burden beasts. The sleek four-footed equines with mottled coats in gray or brown bore packs. The council members, the wizards of second rank, the younglings, and a group of guards remained.

  As the men marched away, the taste of freedom tantalized.

  * * *

  Though Arton hadn’t completely regained his strength he followed the other wizards through the open gate. He glanced over his shoulder and studied the gray stone structure. Three towers jutted above the high walls. He joined three of the elders who had been his mentor’s friends. At the head of the procession, Cregan strode beside Mecador.

  The path they followed had been covered with paving stones now turned to rubble. On the other side grass spread. In the distance Arton saw cattle gone wild. He helped the elderly men as best as he could. Their labored breathing troubled him. Why hadn’t Mecador ordered burden beasts for the aged to ride? Did the chief wizard hope the trek would kill the elderly and allow their sons to take their places on the council? The empty seat being contested for should have been his, but the lack of blood ties between Arton and his mentor had been the reason he had been denied the automatic rise to the council. If Arton had been granted the council seat, Cregan would have had to duel with his father or face being banished for a year and returning as a second ranked wizard.

  Arton considered the coming test. He and Cregan were to be judged on how many clansmen they defeated. Each one meant a slave to be traded for supplies.

  He left the elderly men and joined the guards leading the burden beasts. Perhaps they could help him. He had always treated the guards with respect. Cregan hadn’t. “About these fights. Are there any tips you can give me?”

  One of the men nodded. He ran his hand through sun-bleached hair. “When we camp tonight we will go aside and show you how the clansmen fight.”

  “Do you think I have a chance?”

  The man shrugged. “All life is chance. You are quick and wiry. With some tricks we can teach you there is a chance you will have some wins.”

  Arton smiled. “Why are you helping me?”

  The guard’s dark eyes showed concern. “You are nothing like Cregan. With him on the council Mecador can set his plans in motion and change all our lives.”

  “What plans?”

  “To completely rile the clans and turn the men into an army.”

  Arton swallowed. Why would the chief wizard need an army?

  That night Arton began his lessons. He stripped to his breechcloth and faced a guard who was similarly clad. Arton circled the man who grabbed him and flipped him onto his back.

  Arton struggled to his feet. “I don’t stand a chance.”

  The guard chuckled. “Stevos will teach you step by step how this is done.”

  For two nights Arton learned the moves. On the third evening they camped near a mound of rocks. The ground had changed from grass to rock-strewn soil. For the first time that evening he managed to defeat Stavos.

  The training continued for the next two nights. Both times they camped near rock formations. When they set out the next day, the rocky soil had become sand. By late afternoon Arton saw trees in the distance. They approached the oasis where clusters of tents were pitched. Some bore red stripes and others yellow.

  “What do the colors mean?” Arton asked.

  The guard at his side halted. “Colors mark the clans. There are two missing this year. They are red and green.”

  “What can that mean?”

  “Many things. Rebellion. Dry water sources. Disease and death. Life on the desert is hard.” He strode away.

  Mecador walked toward the clustered wizards. “Two clans have failed to arrive. When the council is full we will deal with the ones who show disrespect.” He folded his arms.

  What did he mean? Arton helped the guards erect the massive gray tent where the wizards would sleep. He heard mutterings from the guards. When the tent towered over the smaller clan dwellings, Arton carried his pack inside. He chose a sleeping spot at the rear of the structure.

  The chief wizard strode back and forth in the confines of the tent. His anger erupted in bursts of speech. Arton’s skin prickled when he saw Mecador draw one of his wands. Would the man start trouble?

  A stream of clansmen dressed in hip length robes and flared trousers carried kettles and platters of food. Arton heard one of the wizards speak in a near whisper. “No beauties to serve this year. These slaves need a lesson.”

  “Not with a divided council,” a second said.

  Arton swallowed his question. Was this why Mecador had refused to grant Arton his mentor’s seat? He strode to the offerings and filled a plate. After eating he retreated to his mat. The conversations lulled him to sleep.

  At sunrise he woke. He removed his trousers and tunic. He looked at the newly arrived offerings of food and chose some slices of tart fruit. He washed them down with water dipped from a pail. Then he left the tent.

  Cregan strolled in front of the tent flexing his muscles and posing for the women strolling past the tent. He gazed at Arton and grinned. “You’re rather scrawny.”

  “I’ll hold my own.”

  “I bet I get two to your every one.” Cregan walked over to watch the guards. His pale skin showed beads of perspiration. When one of the guards offered to cover Cregan’s body with an oily substance Cregan shook the man off. Already the sun shone in a bright cloudless sky. Cregan would regret not accepting the oil. His skin would burn since he never worked outdoors unless he was fully covered.

  The blare of a horn signaled the games were about to begin. The wizards left the tent and formed an escort for Arton and Cregan. They marched to the cleared area where two circles marked where the bouts would take place. Arton noticed men standing in each circle. A blue flag stood in Cregan’s circle and a yellow in Arton’s. The same number of fighters waited in each. With care Arton gauged his opponents. There were both wiry and thick bodies.

  Five of the men stepped from the ring, leaving one of the he
avy-set men behind. Arton stepped over the barrier and circled his opponent. The man moved and attacked in the way Stavos had. Arton knew the counter moves. He sidestepped and swept his leg at the man who stumbled and fell to end the bout.

  The second opponent took time to defeat. Arton sucked down some water and felt proud of himself. He glanced at Cregan’s circle in time to see his rival’s adversary fall to the ground.

  Arton’s third bout found him on the ground. So did the fourth. His rival’s crow of victory spurred Arton for his next battle. He won. He wished he knew how many bouts Cregan had won.

  He stepped into the circle to meet his last opponent. He was exhausted and knew he had to draw strength from the air to complete this for a win. When the bout ended he could barely remain standing. Four wins. Was that enough to manage a tie with his rival?

  His steps dragged as he walked to the tent. He pulled off the breechcloth, filled a pitcher with water and poured the water over himself. He repeated the soaking, dried, and dressed.

  Cregan stormed into the tent. His fiery red skin spoke of the day’s burning rays. “You must have been given the easy opponents.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You won four. I only beat two. How did you manage?”

  Arton looked up. “I trained with the guards every evening when we camped.”

  Mecador entered. “Arton is the winner of the second challenge. He brings four slaves to the citadel. You are now tied for the vacant seat.”

  Arton slipped from the tent. Hunger gnawed, but he had no desire to eat with his companions. He sought the area where some of the men and women had set small stalls were food and crafts were sold.

  He purchased meat on a skewer and handed the woman a yellow fyrestone. She dropped gold bits on the counter for change. He scooped them up and ate the meat as he strolled along. He stopped to buy fruit and two pasties, one filled with meat and the other with fruit.

  At a display of jewelry, he found a ring of braided gold with a dragon forming the center. When he won the competition he would present the ring the ring to Lorana. An orange stone from his pouch brought a smile to the seller’s face.