Lorit and Chihon mounted the sled and watched the strange little men as they carefully folded and stowed the gear. One of the men quickly hitched the lizards to the sled and took hold of the reigns pulling the lizards behind them. They lined up single file and headed off into the grass with the lizards and the sled behind them.
“I guess we’re going with them,” Lorit said.
They bumped along for most of the morning without catching sight of their captors. The men were short enough that the only thing Lorit could see was the rustling of the Plains Grass as they forged ahead of the sled. They set a pace almost as fast as the lizards could make on a run, and kept it up.
Early in the afternoon Lorit could make out a rough clearing ahead. Suddenly, they were in a large area where no grass grew. The dirt was a rich black and smelled strongly of dung. There were several dozen huts made of Plains Grass arranged haphazardly around the clearing. Between the huts, the ground was freshly tilled and planted with the seedlings that looked like corn and vegetables.
Each of the men headed for a different hut as they entered the clearing. The leader and the man holding the reigns of their lizards stood their ground. Another man came out and unhitched the lizards. The men departed, each pulling a lizard behind him.
The leader turned to Lorit and Chihon. “Safe now,” he said, pointing to the ground. “You get down.”
Lorit stepped down from the seat of the sled and onto the dark earth. The leader motioned to him and said, “You come.” He looked back at Chihon and beckoned to her saying, “Both come.”
He led them to a large hut near the center of the clearing. The man pulled back a braided rug made from the same Plains Grass used in the hut’s construction. He gestured to Lorit. “You in,” he said.
Lorit had to duck to get into the hut without hitting his head on the doorway. He crouched inside as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior. The hut was carpeted with a rich, colorful mat that looked like it was made of silk. Seated opposite of the door, was a short, squat woman, her skin glistening in the light of the window just as the man’s had when they’d first seen him.
She motioned Lorit and Chihon to cushions placed close in front of her. “Sit.”
Lorit and Chihon sat cross legged in front of the woman. They still towered over her, even seated, but it didn’t seem to matter. She was the obvious leader, from her actions. “Du’ala,” she said, pointing to herself.
“Mu’umba,” she said, pointing to the man with the golden circlets on his neck.
She pointed at Lorit, “You?”
“I’m Lorit. This is Chihon,” he said, gesturing to Chihon as he spoke.
“Lor’it,” she said. “Chi’hon.” She looked intently at Lorit.
She reached out and firmly grasped his chin, turning his face towards her. “Your eyes,” she said.
She was stronger than Lorit expected. Her hands were rough and calloused, her grip firm.
“Wizard,” she said, releasing him. She repeated the process with Chihon. “Both,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Yes, we’re both wizards,” Lorit said.
“Wizard no magic on Arda'um,” she said defiantly.
“We mean you no harm,” Lorit said.
“You say,” she said. She sat upright and reached into a small basket. It was made of woven Plains Grass, as was almost everything in the camp. She pulled out a battered pipe and a clump of something that looked like a clod of horse dung. She broke off a piece and stuffed it into the pipe. She looked up at Mu’umba, who bowed and stepped out of the hut.
The old woman sat there, pipe in hand, examining Lorit and Chihon, as if waiting for something. She didn’t say a word or make a single gesture. Lorit didn’t feel compelled to try to make conversation. He suspected that his attempts would’ve been met with silence, or a one word response, if he tried.
Shortly Mu’umba returned carrying a small brand with its tip on fire. He approached Du’ala, extending the flame towards her. She leaned into it, sucking the flame into the pipe until a thick stream of white smoke finally erupted from her mouth. She released the pipe which immediately started to emit a steady stream of pungent white smoke.
She took another puff, holding the smoke in her lungs then extended the stem to Lorit. “Smoke,” she said, gesturing for him to take the pipe from her.
“No thanks,” Lorit said, “I don’t want any.”
“You smoke!” she demanded, shaking the pipe at him. “No smoke, no truth.”
Mu’umba came alert at her words. He lifted his spear and stepped towards Lorit.
“I think you should smoke,” Chihon said to Lorit. “I think it would be bad manners to refuse. It looks like we’re on trial here.”
Lorit took the pipe from her and placed the stem in his mouth. He carefully drew the smoke into his lungs suppressing the urge to cough at the pungent, acrid taste of it. It smelled worse than burning horse dung to him, but he tried to be a polite guest and refrain from coughing it up.
He handed the pipe back to Du’ala who held up her hand. “Both,” she said pointing at Chihon.
Chihon followed Lorit’s example and drew heavily from the foul smelling pipe.
Lorit started to feel light headed. His eyes became heavy and he had a hard time focusing on Du’ala. She appeared to draw nearer to him and move farther away, both at the same time. The colors in the hut shifted and shimmered. The colors of the carpet shifted rapidly before settling down entirely out of order.
After a while, things calmed down slightly. Lorit looked at Du’ala, who appeared transformed from the squat, hardened old woman. She seemed to glow with a green light and appeared as a young girl sitting cross legged on the carpet before him. He knew it was still Du’ala, but somehow transformed into this new form by the smoke.
He heard a voice in his head, not spoken, and without a trace of accent. She said “Wizard, why have you come here? Why have you disturbed the peace of the Arda'um? We have honored the agreement. We keep to the Plains of Grass and stay away from your world.”
“We did not come to disturb your peace,” Lorit answered in his vision. He could feel his words form, but his lips remained still. “We’re just passing through on our way to Veldwaite,” he continued.
“You are a mighty wizard on the path to war,” Du’ala said. “You promised that there would be no more wizard wars. We kept out promise. Why don’t you?”
“We’re just passing through,” Lorit said, “We didn’t even know you were here. We were told that no one inhabited the Plains of Grass.” He still felt light headed and the colors shifted, but Lorit was beginning to feel more comfortable conversing with Du’ala in this manner.
“You lie,” she said. “You are on your way to make war.”
“We’re on our way to make war. I oppose the temple priests, and I’m on my way to make war on them,” he explained. “Yes, we’re on our way to make war.”
“That is truth,” Du’ala said. The green light about her shifted to a dark blue light that seeped around the edges of her image as she talked. “That is truth,” she repeated. “Why do you make war?”
“The temple captures young boys and kills them to take their magic,” Lorit explained. He leaned forward blinking his eyes briefly in an attempt to get the image of Du’ala to settle down long enough to focus on her.
“That is forbidden,” she said. “We agreed. No more war. No concentration of powers. No taking of the awakening ones. We agreed. Why have not kept the promise?”
“They killed my younger sister, Onolt, and my mother.” Lorit tried to control his emotion. He could see the colors surrounding him shift wildly.
“You plot revenge,” Du’ala said. “I see the anger in you. You make war.”
“I’ve done nothing,” Lorit replied angrily. “The temple is doing these things. I’m trying to stop them.”
“You tall ones are all the same. The temple, you, all the same,” she said, waving her hand to take in Lorit and Chihon both.
“We’re not the same. I’m trying to stop the temple.”
“Tell me who you are,” she said.
“I’m Lorit. I come from a small farm in Nyhagid. I came into my powers and have had to run from the priests ever since. Zhimosom found me. He’s been helping me learn to control my powers. He’s been helping me find and rescue young boys before the temple gets to them.”
“But you go to war,” she said.
“We go to war,” Lorit said, “to stop those who take the lives of young boys, just to take their powers.”
“Tell me about this Zhimosom,” she asked. The deep blue glow surrounding the woman turned to a light sky-blue shade as she spoke.
“He’s an old and wise wizard,” Lorit said. “He contacts me, in dreams at first, now more directly. He’s in Amedon, in his study, when I see him. Once he came to me in Nebrook. Sometimes, there’s a Sorceress with him. They’ve been teaching us,” Lorit continued, struggling to explain.
“These two?” Du’ala asked. She waved her hand in the air. The colors swirled wildly, settling into the image of Zhimosom and Rotiaqua. Lorit examined them closely. They were the same, but much younger than he knew them.
“Yes, those two,” he answered.
“They encouraged you to make war on these temple priests?” she demanded.
“Yes… No… Yes. They encouraged me to make war,” Lorit answered. “Zhimosom encouraged me to take on the temple in Veldwaite. He thinks this is the way to win the war.”
“You can bring him here?”
“Bring him here?” Lorit asked. He wasn’t sure what she was asking. “I can contact him when I need, but I cannot bring him here.”
“Contact him, then,” she said. “I want to talk to him,” she demanded.
“I’m not sure that he’s available.”
“Try,” she demanded. “Now.”
Lorit reached out to Zhimosom, struggling through the fog of the drugs. He could vaguely discern the touch of the Wizard. Lorit could tell that Zhimosom was there, but he did not respond. Lorit pushed harder to get in touch with the Wizard and felt him push back.
“I cannot get him to respond,” Lorit said. “I can feel him, but he’s not open to my attempt to reach him.”
“Allow me to try” Du’ala commanded. The glow around her changed to a bright orange as she reached her hands out to grasp Lorit’s.
“I’m not sure it will help,” he said, reaching for her. As his hands touched hers, Lorit could feel her unique power. The Arda'um woman had a strange power to her that surged through Lorit, reaching out to Zhimosom.
Lorit could feel the Wizard resisting his attempts at communication, but when the power of Du’ala reached out through him, the Wizard looked up, startled. Suddenly, Zhimosom appeared inside the hut, seated alongside Du’ala. He wore a look of surprise on his aged face. When he turned to see the Arda'um woman, his face relaxed, and he smiled.
“Hello, my old friend,” he said to Du’ala, “It’s been a very long time since we last talked.”
“Greetings, Wizard,” Du’ala replied. “It has indeed been a long time.”
“This wizard is one of yours?” she asked, pointing at Lorit. “And this one?” She pointed at Chihon.
“They are friends of mine,” Zhimosom said, extending his hand towards them.
“Why do you bring Wizard War to the Plains of Grass?” she demanded.
“We are not bringing the war to you,” Zhimosom explained. “These two young folk are on their way to Veldwaite, to deal with a Wizard who breaks the covenant.”
“A tall one,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at Zhimosom.
“A tall one, yes,” Zhimosom said. “He breaks the covenant. Several of them do. We are concerned and taking action to stop them.”
“You promised me. No more wizard wars,” she reprimanded him.
“We are going to prevent that.”
“You need help,” she declared. “I will send Mu’umba with your young friends.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Zhimosom said. He gestured to Lorit and Chihon. “They can handle this on their own.”
“Then he will watch,” she said.
Zhimosom raised his hand in protest, but before he could speak Du’ala stood up, and he vanished.
The fog covering Lorit’s mind immediately cleared, and the young woman transformed back into the short, squat old woman she'd been at their first meeting. “Truth,” she said to Lorit. “You come.” She walked towards the door of the hut and lifted the curtain.
Lorit followed her outside to find the whole tribe lined up on either side of the doorway to the hut. They formed a walkway from the hut to the sled. The lizards were hitched, and everything was ready for their hasty departure.
“You go now,” Du’ala said, looking at Lorit. “No war,” she admonished him, giving him a slight shove towards the sled.
As Lorit and Chihon mounted the sled, Mu’umba came out of his hut. He carried a leather bag tied with a rope that he deposited on the sled. He walked to the lizards and looked each of them in the eye. He lifted one foot then the next, and rubbed the soles of his feet with a rag he held in his hand.
He held the cloth to the nostrils of each lizard in turn, grasping their jaw and looking into their eyes. As he released the second lizard, he turned towards the high Plains of Grass and started to run. The lizards lurched into a run behind him, with their ambling gait and swishing tails. They were soon all that Lorit could see in front of him. Of the Arda'um tribesman, they could see nothing.
An hour before sunset, Mu’umba led the lizards in the circle to flatten a resting spot for Lorit and Chihon. He motioned to Lorit with his hand to indicate putting something into his mouth. “I catch,” he said, “you eat.” He disappeared into the long, razor-sharp grass without making a sound.
Lorit arranged their gear and prepared the fire while Mu’umba was gone. He was concerned about what the tribesman would return with for their dinner, but willing to wait and see. Just as the fire was ready, and Lorit had decided to prepare something from their stock, Mu’umba returned. He had a lizard draped over one shoulder and a thick snake coiled over the other.
He dropped his catch on the grass beside Lorit’s gear.
“We eat,” he said with a smile.
Lorit produced a knife and quickly dressed the lizard. He sliced it along the belly and gutted it. He pulled out the entrails and tossed them onto the matted down Plains Grass, saving only the heart and liver for their dinner. He skinned the thick tail and sliced the meat into steaks.