Foundling Wizard (Book 1) (36 page)

“It looks so beautiful,” Chihon said standing next to Lorit, looking over the sparkling blanket of white.

“Beautiful, but dangerous,” Ostai said. “Keep close to the rock wall along the path up ahead. It's tight and the mules will just be able to make it through,” he added, pulling at the lead mule.

They started off along the narrow ledge that wound around the sheer granite walls forming their path. It was steep and strewn with rocks and gravel that had been pried from the cliff face by freezing water in winter and the scorching sun in the summer.

The path was slippery, with the occasional root sticking out from a crevice in the rocks. When the path was steepest, they grasped on to these roots to help them along their way.

Lorit stumbled over an unseen crack in the narrow path. He grabbed for a root that stuck from the cliff wall. Just when he felt he had a firm grip on it, it tore free of the rocks and sent him slipping and sliding, grasping for a new handhold.

He dropped to his knees landing solidly on the path, his left knee striking the rock that had tripped him up. He grasped for a handhold until his hand fell on another tree root at the edge of the path. This one was strong enough to support him as he clung to it breathing heavily, relieved that he’d come to a halt safely.

“Are you alright?” Chihon asked. She turned back to help Lorit back to his feet.

“I slipped on a rock,” Lorit said. He limped, favoring his left leg. “I almost went over the side.”

“Let me help you,” Chihon said. She retrieved Lorit's staff and handed it back to him. She pulled his arm around her and helped him as he limped along.

Mu'umba trod closely behind them, guiding the trailing mule. He was bundled up in his furs with the cap pulled tightly down over his ears. On top of his fur coat, he had wrapped two layers of blankets so that his usual stocky frame had expanded to become a round ball of fur. He struggled along as if oblivious to the danger that had befallen Lorit. The tribesman shivered and pulled his blankets tighter around him.

They continued to climb the mountain, twisting and turning around the paths. At times, they had to flatten themselves against the rock wall, and guide the steps of the mules, as the path grew narrow.

The valleys below were consistently full of snow, only occasionally opening up to reveal a running stream that cut through the drifts. Occasionally, they could hear the running water as it cut beneath the crust of snow, but of the water, nothing showed.

As they rounded a sharp turn, they heard the sound of falling rocks followed immediately by the voice of their guide calling out, “Watch out up ahead, there’s a landslide that has cut away part of the ledge.”

Just as they reached the narrow part, the lead mule bolted and backed into the trailing one. Startled, the second mule took a step to the side and slipped near the edge of the path.

Mu'umba reached out and grabbed the bridle to try to steady her, but she bucked once more and slipped towards the edge. The tribesman flailed his arm striking but not grasping any of the protruding roots. The mule bucked again, pulling the tribesman further away from the rock wall. With a loud bray, the mule lost her footing and disappeared over the rocky ledge.

Mu'umba was jerked along behind the mule. He extended his feet trying to catch the edge, but the momentum of the mule was too great. He was pulled over the edge.

Chihon screamed.

Lorit rushed to the cliff face.

He could see the hole in the snow where they fell, but of the mule and the tribesman there was no trace.

Lorit reached out with his senses. He could feel where the tribesman and the mule had landed. The animal was crippled and broken on the rocks below. Mu'umba landed on top of the mule and bounced off to strike a tree buried beneath the snow. He was sitting with his back to it, but he wasn’t moving.

“I can sense him down there,” Lorit said. “I think the mule is lost, but Mu'umba is still alive.”

“We have to get him up,” Chihon said. “He’s hurt, I can feel it.” She grabbed Lorit’s hand and reached out to the tribesman. Lorit could feel the cold clamminess of her skin, and the power that flowed out of him and through her, as she did.

Lorit felt her trying to raise Mu’umba from the ground below, but nothing happened. It was if the tribesman wasn’t there at all. Their magic had no effect on the Arda'um. They couldn’t rescue him using magic.

“It’s not working,” Chihon said. Lorit could feel her desperation as she fought to reach their companion and failed.

“We’ll have to climb down and get him,” Lorit said. He recalled that Mu’umba had told them at their first meeting that their magic would not work on him. Lorit wondered what it was that made them immune.

“How will we get down there?” Chihon asked.

Ostai worked his way around the lead mule and back to where Lorit and Chihon stood looking down on the snow. “I have some rope that we can use. We can lower it down and pull your friend back up. That is if he can grasp the rope. I don't think we can get down there if he’s unable to help himself up.”

“He won’t be able to hold on,” Lorit said. “He’s still alive, but he’s hurt pretty badly.”

“You can lower me down on the rope. I can tie it to him,” Chihon said. “Once you pull him back up, you can throw the rope back down for me.”

Ostai pulled the coil of rope from his pack and handed it to Lorit. He looked around for a suitable point until he located a smooth rock outcropping that could be used to guide the rope. He tied a loop in one end of the line and handed it to Chihon. Lorit took the other end of the rope and looped it several times around the rock He pulled it tight and nodded to Ostai to grab on and help.

“Go ahead,” Lorit said.

Chihon inched towards the edge carefully, looking over. She turned to face Lorit. “Don't let me fall,” she begged as she stepped over the edge.

Lorit could feel the slack go out of the rope as she descended the sheer cliff. He and Ostai slowly played out the rope in fits and starts until finally it paused. Lorit looked over the edge but could see nothing but white.

In his head, he heard the faint voice of Chihon saying, “Give me some slack, I can't see anything, but I’m getting a sense of where he is.”

Lorit let out more rope, waiting for some indication from Chihon.

“I can feel him,” Chihon's voice came through. “He's hurt very badly.”

They waited anxiously until there was a tug on the rope, followed by Chihon's ethereal voice saying, “Slowly, I’ll walk with him to the cliff wall. From there, you’ll need to pull him up.”

They pulled slowly until the load increased dramatically. “I think he’s at the wall,” Lorit said. “Ready to lift?”

“Pull,” Ostai said and grasped the rope. They pulled steadily inching the rope across the outcropping, pulling the tribesman slowly up the rocky wall.

They took it slow to spare Mu'umba any further damage. Eventually, a large fur ball appeared at the ledge. Lorit crouched over and helped Mu'umba back onto the path.

They laid the tribesman out on his back and examined him for any breaks or other visible damage. His breathing was shallow, and he moaned in pain as they moved him. His leg moved unnaturally as Lorit attempted to straighten him out. He moaned loudly as Lorit grasped his leg and pulled it straight.

“Lorit,” came the voice of Chihon in his mind. “How is he?” she asked.

“He looks bad,” Lorit replied in his mind.

“Pull me up. Let me help,” her voice came again.

“Let's get Chihon back up here,” Lorit said. He untied the rope from around the tribesman and lowered the end back down the cliff. When Chihon was ready, they pulled her slowly up.

She examined Mu'umba carefully, paying particular attention to his damaged leg. “We’ll need something to bind this up, so we can carry him without any more damage,” she said.

Ostai returned with two straight sticks from the firewood bundle. He handed them to Chihon, who placed one on each side of Mu'umba's leg. She pulled her belt knife, cut strips from the blanket to make bandages, and tied the branches to the tribesman's leg to hold it still.

“We’ll have to get him up on the mule,” she said as she finished and stood up.

“I think there’s a wide spot ahead,” Ostai said. “We can drag him up there. There’s enough space to work there in safety.”

They folded the blankets up and fastened them to the mule. Ostai led the mule along the path while Lorit followed behind to guide the tribesman's body as they navigated the narrow path.

After a while, the path widened out enough that they could safely stand astride the mule. They pulled Mu'umba into a sitting position atop the beast and tied his hands in place. He moaned but did not wake as they carefully pulled and pushed him into a stable position.

They made their way up the mountain, twisting and turning with the path as they went. They stopped twice to eat and rest, but pushed on until it was too dark to continue.

Through the night, Chihon sat up with Mu'umba. She made hot black tea and tried to get him to eat. He moaned in pain whenever she touched him. Late in the night, he awoke enough to eat a little and even talk.

Lorit woke to a hear Chihon and Mu'umba whispering quietly.

“Drink this,” Chihon said. She lifted the cup to his lips, taking his head in her hand to support him.

“Mu'umba, hurt,” Mu'umba said.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Mu'umba strong,” the tribesman said. He swallowed and reached for the cup, but grimaced in pain.

“You just rest,” she said. “We’ll take good care of you. We’re only another day from Mistwind.”

Mu’umba perked up at her words. “Mistwind?”

“Yes,” she said, “We’re almost to Mistwind.”

“Mistwind good. Mu'umba happy,” he said with a smile as he slumped back into a slumber.

Chihon gently lowered his head back onto the furs that kept him warm.

Mistwind

By the time they arrived at Mistwind, Mu'umba was no longer able to sit up, even with help. Lorit and Ostai had slung him across the back of the remaining mule and tied him in place like a pack. He bumped along quietly, only occasionally moaning and mumbling in his delirium.

Mistwind appeared out of the clouds and swirling snow. It was a walled city, but the enemy the walls protected against was the snow and not some threat of attackers. They entered the city gates, and Ostai led them to the Welcome Traveler Inn where Lorit engaged the proprietor.

“We’re looking for a room for four with a fireplace,” he said, “One of our companions has taken a fall in the snow. He needs warmth.”

The proprietor searched through his book, as if looking for a suitable room. He looked up and said, “We have only one room open at the moment. It may be a little small for all four of you, but it does have a nice warm fireplace,” he added. “All our rooms do.”

Lorit looked at Ostai, who just shrugged. “This is the only inn in Mistwind; we’d better take the room and get your friend in front of the fire. Maybe something else will open up later.”

“We’ll take it,” Lorit said.

While Lorit settled their account with the proprietor, Chihon and Ostai struggled to get Mu'umba into the room. Lorit walked in to see the fireplace stacked with wood and Chihon reaching out towards it. “Incendo,” she said, causing the fire to burst to life.

She carefully unwrapped the tribesman in front of the warm fireplace, stripping away the layers of blankets and furs until his scaly shimmering skin was exposed to the fire. He seemed to respond to the fire, as he started to move slightly and moan more often.

Chihon prepared a mug of strong black tea and spiced it with herbs. She held it to her lips and blew on the brew until it was warm but not hot. She took Mu'umba's head in her hand and gently raised it to his lips, encouraging him to take a drink.

Slowly, he sipped at the tea, taking small, tentative sips at first. Mu'umba seemed to grow more alert, until soon, he was taking large gulps of the tea. Chihon turned from him, heading back towards the fireplace, when he weakly called to her.

“Smoke,” he said, looking up at her plaintively.

Chihon searched through his pack until she found his pipe. She smelt the contents of the bowl and brought it to him. “Lorit,” he said weakly.

“You want me to smoke?” Lorit asked.

Mu'umba nodded ever so slightly, looking at Lorit. His eyes were glassy and tired looking, but his intent was clear.

Lorit placed the pipe in his mouth and drew on it without using a match. It lit, and soon the acrid smoke filled his lungs. He took several draws and handed the pipe to Mu'umba.

“No,” Mu'umba said. “Lorit,” he repeated.

Lorit continued to smoke the pipe. His thoughts became fuzzy, his extremities numb. Shortly, he no longer felt the pipe in his hand, and then the room itself faded. He was sitting in a hut just as he had with Du'ala, except this time it was Mu'umba sitting across from him.

“I have failed you, friend,” Mu'umba said clearly, sitting before Lorit in the hut.

“Why have you failed me?” Lorit asked. “You will soon be better than ever, and we’ll continue on.”

“I’m afraid that will not be so,” Mu'umba said. He glowed with a golden glow that shifted towards red and back to gold as Lorit watched.

“You will not continue with us?” Lorit asked.

“I will not live much longer,” Mu'umba said. “I have been injured. There will be no recovery for this body.”

Lorit tried to stand in protest, but he was unable to rise. “Why do you say that?” he demanded. “There must be something we can do for you!”

“There is nothing you can do for me, not in this body,” Mu'umba said. “It has run its course and soon I will leave it behind.” He waved his hand in protest to silence Lorit.

“Tonight I will leave this body to make my home in another. I want you to find the monks who honor tradition. There you will witness a fight between two tiny competitors. The winner of the battle will be the body I will inhabit next. Secure that individual and carry it with you. Keep my spirit close.”

“I don't understand,” Lorit said. “What’s going to happen?”