The great black tower loomed over the town. Fashioned from the blackest stone, it was several stories taller than Azerick’s own tower in North Haven and twice as big around. It was the only building he had yet seen that did not have hard-eyed men loitering around its walls and was not surrounded by trash.
Azerick chose a tavern near the tower that had a stable. A tough-looking youth with a split lip and a black eye shuffled lazily out to take Horse’s reins. Before the lad took Horse away, Azerick pulled the magic bag out of his saddlebag and pulled out the large bag of oats. He returned the sack to the saddlebag, strapped it down tight, and cast a simple locking spell onto the buckles that would keep anyone from being able to open it.
“Feed him a double handful of oats twice a day, brush him down, and make sure his water is fresh. Do not try to get into the bags. You cannot and I will know if you try. He and all my gear had best be here when I return,” Azerick told the youth firmly and handed him a gold coin.
Azerick held up a second coin. “You will get this when I return and you have followed my instructions to the letter. If I find you have not…” Azerick left the threat hanging and stalked off into the tavern.
He kept his staff close at hand, which brought some covetous looks his way from the rough-looking men and few women in the bar as he took a seat at one of the rickety tables facing the door. Dressed in his dark clothes and black cloak probably made him resemble one of the Black Tower wizards well enough that no one felt overly compelled to challenge him for the obviously valuable weapon.
He sat at his table sipping at the swill they served for ale and pondering how best to approach the tower and its occupants. He had not yet determined precisely what course of action he was going to take. Azerick knew that he was a formidable spell caster given his level of experience, particularly wielding the staff, but he was under few illusions that he could take on an entire enclave of wizards that likely boasted at least a few archmages, several adepts, and an untold number of lesser wizards.
He thought about lying in wait and ambushing one of them and extracting the information he wanted, but that plan was wrought with several pitfalls. Assuming he could capture one of the leading wizards without getting himself killed or bringing on the wrath of the entire enclave, he could not be sure that the one he captured would have the information he sought.
Perhaps he could infiltrate the tower as a student or colleague. He could casually ask questions and search for answers once he was inside. Azerick drummed his fingers on the rough and cracked tabletop. Those thoughts had barely crossed his mind when two young men dressed in black robes strode into the bar with the self-assured arrogance that announced them as untouchable.
The pair brought a few hostile glares from some of the seedy patrons but most looked quickly away when the two wizards looked their direction. It did not take long at all before the young man with the magnificent staff drew their attention. One leaned toward his companion, speaking to him in hushed tones while looking between Azerick and the staff he held in the crook of his arm with most of its length concealed under the table.
The two stood up as one, confidently strode toward Azerick’s table, and sneered down at him contemptuously. One looked about Azerick’s age, the other a few years older and apparently the senior of the two.
“That is an awfully nice staff you have there,” the older of the two told Azerick, “much too nice for the likes of you. You steal it from your master?”
Azerick looked up at the speaker and replied flatly. “No, it was made for me by friends.”
“You are not from the Black Tower, we would know, but I can tell you are a mage. Trying to pass yourself off as a Black Tower wizard in this town is a crime punishable by death.”
“I am not trying to do any such thing, though I do have business I would discuss with the tower. One of the masters, not one of their lackeys,” Azerick told the speaker, leaving no doubt as to whom he was referring.
Both of the young men’s faces turned scarlet at the insult. “Are you looking to join the tower? Give me the staff and I will see that you get to meet one of my senior associates alive. Otherwise I will take them your dead corpse to do with as they please.”
“Dead corpse? Your redundancy gives credence to your stupidity. I suggest you and your girlfriend leave me be while you still have lungs with which to draw breath,” Azerick warned them in a hard-edged voice that matched his glare.
“You dare insult and threaten wizards from the Black Tower within the tower’s very own shadow?” the overconfident young wizard shouted down at the still seated upstart.
Azerick could hear the screech of chairs being pushed back by their occupants as they sought to remove themselves from the line of fire. Both young wizards’ hands darted into their pocket or pouches, no doubt reaching for a spell component to unleash their wrath upon the man that insulted them.
“No, I insult and threaten two foolish little apprentices who are too stupid to recognize one of their betters,” Azerick growled.
“I am an adept, you fool, and I will show you whom is who’s better!” the brash young wizard shouted in rage, spittle flying from his lips as he and his companion jerked their hands out from under their robes and began casting spells that would tear this upstart to shreds.
The moment the two wizards made their move, Azerick brought his legs up and shoved the table into the thighs of both wizards, causing them to stumble back and foul their castings. Free of the table, he leapt, spun his staff, and in one fluid movement, thrust the arcanum spear through the talkative wizard’s chest. Azerick sent a burst of energy through the staff so powerful that it blew a hole clean through the wizard’s torso large enough that Azerick could look through it and watch as the dead man’s heart slapped against the wall behind the bar close enough to the shocked bartender that it spattered his face in gore.
With his left hand, he released an invisible blast of force that sent the other wizard sprawling several yards across the floor, fetching up against the bar, and trying to draw breath. Before he was even able to take a full breath, fear helped propel the Black Tower wizard onto his feet and out the door, giving the lethal stranger a wide berth. Azerick did not attempt to stop him. He was a small fish in a much bigger pond and posed no threat now.
Azerick looked about the room to ensure that nobody else was foolish or reckless enough to try and lash out at him. Nobody was. One did not survive long in Rapture who was not smart enough to know when they were clearly outmatched.
Well, I am certain that will get the attention of some of the tower masters, Azerick thought to himself. Probably more than I need right now, and made his way slowly toward the door.
***
Krendall had just gathered up his traveling supplies and was crossing the spacious bottom floor of the Black Tower on his way out when a voice called out to him, a voice that made him hunch his shoulders in irritation.
Gods, it is like pulling the entrails from a living imp, the wizard thought as he turned around to face the one that hailed him.
“Yes, Shakrill?”
The mage strode down the wide winding stairs toward the other wizard.
“Krendall, what is the status on Dundalor’s Armor? That general of yours has had plenty of time to recover it by now I think. You have practically delivered it into his hands. I fail to see why it is taking so long,” Shakrill demanded in her shrewish tone.
“I was just on my way to pay him a visit, Shakrill. My agent already reported to the general that he had recovered the helm and was on his way to deliver it. I have had a difficult time scrying or making contact since then so I am going to see to it personally. The general is probably waiting for me to retrieve it at this very moment, unknowingly camped with his men in an area that interferes with such magic,” Krendall replied, forcing his voice to remain neutral.
He had no love for the temperamental wizard, as few if any did, but he was not foolish enough to provoke her.
“You had best hope
he has it, Krendall. You parted with a great deal of the tower’s treasures to pay for its acquisition, foolishly in advance I might add,” Shakrill snarled down at Krendall.
“Do not worry yourself. The general is too honorable a man to deceive us and intelligent enough that he sees the inherent risks of possessing such a highly desired object. I will return in less than a fortnight with it, I assure you.”
A young senior apprentice burst through the tower door at that moment, barely able to draw enough breath to explain his panicked state.
“M-master Krendall, there is a strange wizard at the tavern!” he rasped out. “He, he, killed Paul! He blew his chest clear out of his back and sent me halfway across the bar like I was nothing but a novice!”
Shakrill heard the senior apprentice’s fearful recitation and shouted. “Anthony, Sasha! Come to the atrium, now!” she shouted, lacing the command with magic that would carry it to the other wizards no matter where they were in the tower.
“Slow down, Jarred; right now you sound like a novice,” Magus Krendall told the youth. “What happened?”
“Paul and I went into the bar up the street and saw this guy about my age, sitting at the table with a powerful-looking staff. Paul marked him as a wizard but obviously not from the tower and we confronted him. He stabbed Paul through the chest and blew him to the abyss and sent me sprawling before we could even begin to cast a spell.”
“What does this wizard look like?” Krendall asked.
“He is my age, brownishbronze hair, dressed in dark clothes with a black cloak, and is carrying a silver and blood-red staff, spear thing,” Jarred explained anxiously.
Two more full wizards came rushing down the steps at Shakrill’s command.
“Krendall, take Anthony and Sasha and bring me this wizard who dares flout the tower’s authority and attacks its members. Preferably alive if at all possible,” Shakrill demanded.
“Of course, Shakrill, it is not as though I have anything else to do but jump at your commands,” Krendall replied, giving her a mockingly obsequious bow.
Shakrill glared at the wizard. “You have taken your sweet time thus far, Krendall; a few more minutes will not matter.” When I command this tower that will be another one that I will enjoy licking at my feet, the dangerous wizard thought to herself as the three mages departed the tower.
Krendall spied the man that Jarred had described hustling across the street within plain view of the tower and pointed him out to the others who quickly fanned out to the sides to avoid them all being caught with a single spell. He sent a lightning bolt arcing out at the young spell caster without warning. Only fools and soon to be dead fools openly challenged another before striking.
Azerick’s skin prickled in warning. He spun just in time to see three, black-robed wizards spreading out before him. The one in the center released a powerful blast of lightning just as he spun to face them. Azerick stuck his staff out and absorbed whatever energy had not been deflected by his wards. It was a convenient, if inefficient way, to recharge his staff’s power without casting any of his own spells into it.
Azerick created several illusionary duplicates of himself while he sprinted across the large open square. The wizard named Anthony foolishly sent a volley of magical bolts lancing out at him that his wards easily absorbed although it did serve to destroy three of his duplicates.
Sasha sent a massive fireball that erupted just behind Azerick’s running form. He smelled burning hair, cloth, and his exposed skin reddened and burned, but his wards and dodging protected him from being burned to a cinder. The nearby building was not so fortunate. Its wooden walls burst into flame like the dry tinder it was.
Azerick tucked into a roll as the fireball sped his way. He rolled into a crouch and let loose a powerful blue and white ray, crackling with energy, at whichever wizard was unfortunate enough to be in his sights. The beam struck one of the male wizards in the chest.
Anthony’s wards flared brightly as the spell overcame the protection they provided. The beam burned deeply into his chest and sent a jolt of electricity running through the wizard’s body so powerful he broke his own spine as his muscles contracted, arching his back in agony.
Earthen hands erupted from the ground, grabbing at his ankles and wrists. The large sandstone hands wrapped around both his ankles and left wrist just as he released his spell at the now dead wizard. Runes flared on Azerick’s staff as he brought it around with his free hand and struck the hands with its arcanum sphere. The moment the gleaming orb touched the grasping arms, they burst apart into useless sand.
Azerick cast another spell and stone spikes erupted beneath Sasha. The wizard screamed in surprise and pain as one of the spikes penetrated her wards and slashed a deep wound in her thigh. The force of the stone thrusting up beneath her struck her magical shield hard enough to lift her up and throw her several feet.
Azerick brought his staff around to bear on the only wizard still standing—the one that had summoned the hands. Before he could release another spell, a second pair of massive hands erupted out of the earth and tried to grab him. Azerick rolled aside and leapt to his feet, pointing his staff at Krendall, thinking he had avoided the grasping hands. He felt himself struck hard in the side and went tumbling, his staff knocked from his grip.
Azerick turned his head and saw that these hands were not anchored to the ground, that they were in fact floating a few feet above it and were rushing toward him. He tried to dodge them but the huge hand slapped him down once more. Azerick sent a lightning bolt into one of the hands, tearing huge chunks from its form but failed to destroy it. The hands spread apart then slammed into him from each side as if he was a bug to be squashed. His wards shattered with a flash and he heard several ribs crack and his left arm hung limply and painfully to his side, refusing to follow any of his mental commands.
Azerick called his fallen staff to his bruised, battered, but still functional right hand. He jabbed the bright sphere into one of the hands, instantly turning it to dust as an earth rune flared brightly, but before he could face the wizard, the remaining hand wrapped itself around him and squeezed, pinning his arms to his sides and crushing the air from his lungs.
Azerick forced his brain to think past the panic of not being able to breathe and to find a way out of this predicament, but his vision was quickly narrowing to a pinpoint as his oxygen-starved brain slowly suffocated. He watched as the male wizard walked toward him smiling in satisfaction.
“You are probably going to wish I had killed you long before Shakrill gets finished with you,” were the last words Azerick heard before the roaring in his ears drowned out all other sound and his vision faded to black.
CHAPTER 9
Due to the sporadic appearance of new students over the last few weeks, no one took particular notice of the children that Ellyssa had rescued from the former Lord Potsworth’s estate and simply joined the classes to which Magus Allister assigned them.
The classes were run far differently than they were at The Academy in Southport. History of magic and magical theory was shelved for the time being. The students that could read well were put directly into an accelerated course of applied magic and this was the source of Allister and Rusty’s argument.
“I cannot believe you, of all people, are supporting this crazy plan of Azerick’s,” Rusty said to the old magus in frustration. “By skipping magical theory and history we are failing to instill the basic wisdom every responsible wizard needs to safely and wisely wield magic. Without it, we are doing nothing but creating a bunch of hedge wizards and setting them loose on an unsuspecting populace!”
“Franklin, I am just as surprised at the stance I am taking as you are, and in any other situation I would fully agree with you,” Allister replied calmly to Rusty’s vehement objections. “However, these are not normal times. Azerick has already been attacked once in these very halls, and we could well come under attack again. Azerick has gone through a great deal, more than most, certainly more than yo
u can fully appreciate. He wants his students to be able to defend themselves.”
“From who?” Rusty shouted, waving his arms around over his head. “Don’t you think it’s possible that because of everything Azerick has gone through that he may be the one not looking at the situation objectively, that his own experiences have clouded his judgment?”
“Franklin, the reality is that there are reports of large roving bands of marauders harrying the countryside. They started in the south and have been methodically working their way north and west. There are disconcerting rumors out of Southport of strange doings and an increase in the size of Ulric’s military.”
“Rumors, Allister, and from what I have heard, Ulric is the only one who has even had the stones to confront these raiders! It only makes sense that he is building up his troop strength so that he is not plucked like a winter fest goose like these other towns.”
Allister stroked his long white beard. “It does appear that way, at least on the surface of things, but I have lived in Southport and known Ulric far longer than you have, and I have never known that man to do anything out of the goodness of his heart. If there is an altruistic bone in his body, he stole it off the corpse of someone he killed.”
Rusty sighed and tried to appeal to Allister’s logic. “Look, even if the raiders came this far north, they would have to have a much bigger force than what has been reported to attack North Haven, and who would attack what is by most accounts an orphanage?”
“They may well find enough allies to attempt to invade North Haven. Southport is too large and Ulric has too many forces for anything other than a true army to attack. However, North Haven has no army and less than two thousand men on the city watch. Even calling in the militia only adds another three thousand. Three thousand spears with less training than the watch! It is not a secret that a certain ‘wizard’ has started an orphanage, pumped a considerable amount of gold into the city’s economy, and started a very successful trading company. If these marauders are after plunder then a rather wealthy orphanage is quite a tempting target.”
The Sorcerer's Vengeance (The Sorcerer's Path) Page 13
