Wizard Heights - Book 1 - The Legend of the Sorcerer King

by Alexander Scott

  "You mean," said Charlie, "the bright light—"

  "That was a holding spell." Miss Lovelocket stepped out of the crowd and regarded Charlie without emotion. "And although the spell did not bind the beast, it may have saved your life..."

  Charlie's hands reached involuntarily to his neck. His heart beat profoundly within his chest. "You mean—" he gulped.

  "You would almost certainly be dead at this moment were it not for Miss Lovelocket's spell," said Lord Sharak gruffly. "So be grateful for it. The spirit of an Egyptian Sorcerer King used you to gain entrance to this crypt, and having succeeded in that endeavor, did intend to do away with you."

  Charlie's heart practically froze. "You mean Whitstable," he said, casting his eyes about at them, "...is a Sorcerer King?"

  The assembled magicians murmured concernedly amongst themselves.

  "No," replied Lord Sharak. "His body is merely a host for the spirit of the Sorcerer King. That spirit took possession of Whitstable's body so that he could break into this tomb and reunite itself with its mummified body."

  "Just as it took possession of Whitstable's grandfather," said Miss Lovelocket.

  "That was the Sorcerer King's first victim," said Count Mongovia. "I shall explain; a year ago a delegation from this city traveled to Egypt in a search for the sorcerer king's mummified remains. As to why that expedition was undertaken, that does not concern you. Suffice to say that the mummified remains of the Phaoraoh were indeed discovered within the Valley of the Kings. After the bones were exhumed, they were transferred to a paddle steamer, which would bring them back safekeeping in this city. Alas, upon the return voyage, Professor Bourgamund’s curiosity led him to investigate the Sorcerer King's sarcophagus. When he did that, the spirit of the Sorcerer King overcame the professor's body. However, the professor is a man of great fortitude—his body was not easily controlled. In time, the Sorcerer King needed to find another victim."

  "Whitstable…" breathed Charlie with sudden understanding.

  "Indeed," replied Miss Lovelocket. "Since the Sorcerer King already inhabited Professor Bourgamund’s body, it did not find it at all difficult to control an additional, younger, less resistant host. Namely the professor's nephew—Whitstable Augustus Febulant."

  "But why?" asked Charlie.

  "The reason is simple," replied the Count. "The spirit of the Sorcerer King wishes to reunite itself with its mummified body. Only then can it regain its full strength. However, in order to do that, it knew that it must steal into this tomb and break the enchantments upon the sarcophagus. To gain access to this crypt it needed to clothe itself in a body that was nimble and could evade capture, and it needed an accomplice; that, young man, was you. With you at its side, the spirit of the Sorcerer King was able to pass less detected in the city and break into this crypt."

  "Praise be that it did not come to pass!" declared Lord Sharak, lowering his eyes.

  "Tell us boy," said Count Mongovia, fastidiously perusing Charlie through a monocle. "What did the spirit do? Did it tempt you with gold and riches?"

  "No," replied Charlie. "He just said that he wanted to be my friend. And that's when everything started to go wrong. He changed my parents and he melted my school. He even moved into our house!"

  The assembled magicians murmured concernedly.

  "You mean to say," said Miss Lovelocket, "that you actually had the Sorcerer King living in the same house as you?"

  Charlie nodded sadly. "But I didn't know that he was the Sorcerer King until now," he said. "I didn't like him and I certainly didn't trust him. He always seemed so strange—talking in old fashioned ways… He told me that he wanted to rescue the Idol of Thebes and set his grandfather free."

  Again, the assembled magicians shared concerned looks, and it seemed to Charlie that they were considering very carefully whether to tell him something. Then Count Mongovia spoke for them all. "There is no Idol of Thebes," he said. "That was just a ruse that the Sorcerer King used to make you his willing accomplice. As for the old-fashioned manner in which he spoke to you, that no doubt was drawn from the childhood memories that the Sorcerer King extracted from the mind of Benjamin Bourgamund—Whitstable’s grandfather—his first victim. It has many sorcerous powers, you see."

  "That explains the magic that Whitstable used in Wizard Heights the other night," said Charlie, "and the things he's done to my parents and my school!"

  "Precisely," said Miss Lovelocket, "but these conjurations are mere trifles to him. You see, the Sorcerer King intends to do much more than simply ruin your life, Charlie. Legend has it that he seeks to fully rise from the dead—to stalk the land—and most particularly to raise an army of skeletal followers to aid his cause. It is precisely for this reason that his heavily-sealed tomb was transferred here, stone by stone from Egypt, for in all the world, only here in this magical city are gathered minds of such wisdom and magical prowess to contain him. Alas, that was our plan—until the spirit of the Sorcerer King escaped."

  "But what now?" asked Charlie. "Now that we’ve stopped the Sorcerer King from raising its mummified body, what will it do?"

  "Undoubtedly," replied Count Mongovia somberly, "he will seek revenge upon those who have thwarted him." He regarded them all sternly. "Until the spirit of the Sorcerer King is captured," he said, "each person here must consider themselves a target for reprisal. None of us will be safe."

  "And what about me?" asked Charlie. "He hates me too!"

  "You, young man," said Count Mongovia, "must take measures to protect yourself. Undoubtedly the Sorcerer King will seek retribution against you, and when it does you can be sure that it will be swift and completely without mercy."

  Charlie’s heart pounded in his chest. "But," he said, casting about at the assembled magicians, with pleading eyes, "you can't just leave me alone to face that beast! You've got to help me!"

  Count Mongovia shook his head sadly. "Alas, young man," he replied, "that we cannot do. There are numerous decrees which expressly forbid us to interfere in matters such as these. It would be a violation of conduct for a magician to use a spell outside this city, except in a specially prescribed situation."

  At this moment there came a stifled cough, and a voice from the back of the group said, "If I might interrupt..." The magician's parted and a man passed between them.

  He was about sixty years of age, with pepper dark hair that fell about his eyes. He wore a white suit and a panama hat and he held a walking cane.

  Charlie recognized him instantly. "You're the man who rescued me from the old man and the hounds in the forest..." he gasped.

  The gentleman smiled gently and offered his hand. "Julian Cleveclees esquire, at your service," he said.

  Charlie shook his hand, and the gentleman turned to the assembled magicians.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "since no one has volunteered, I propose that this boy's safety be entrusted to me. These are perilous times and this city is no safe place for an outsider."

  Miss Lovelocket regarded him with disdain.

  "But surely you can't be serious?" she responded. "You don't even belong to the Grand Order..."

  Someone else said, "Why should we entrust him to a man who is known to consort with gypsies, cavern pirates, and Arabs?"

  Mr. Cleveclees cast astute eyes at the commenter. "They are no lesser men than the rest of us," he said.

  And that drew snorts of derision from many of the tuxedo wearing magicians and ballgown adorned enchanteresses.

  Nevertheless, no one seemed to have a better idea, and so it was left to Count Mongovia to speak for them all. "I see no harm in entrusting the boy to Mr. Cleveclees for a day or so," he said. "After all, what harm can it do? Besides, it will take us that long, I am sure, to scour the Imperial Library and discover the best way to protect ourselves from this beast."

  Despite regarding Mr. Cleveclees with some measure of disdain, the other magicians agreed to this plan and dispersed. Once they were gone, Mr. Cleveclees turned to Charlie. "
The first thing that we've got to do," he said, "is check on your parents and make sure that they're safe." Charlie agreed and so they left the mansion in the pale light of dawn and trudged down the long gravel driveway. At the end of it was parked an elegant, beetle black old fashioned cat-like motorcar—one of smooth lines, roaring headlights, and the charm of the nineteen thirties. Its name was the Vanderbilt.

  Mr. Cleveclees cast suspicious eyes and lowering his voice, addressed Charlie. "Young man," he said, "As you may have already deduced, there is more to this Egyptian business than meets the eye. Indeed, there may in fact be a plot afoot that may bring down the Magi Council—that is, the body that governs this city. Unwittingly, you have become embroiled in this affair. Now don't be afraid. I know that this is a lot to take in at one time. Why don't you let me take you home and then I can explain."

  Charlie agreed and so Mr Cleveclees opened the passenger door of the Vanderbilt, affording him entry. Charlie climbed into the vehicle and found that, despite the vehicle's antique exterior, fine leather dashboard, and mahogany wheel and gear stick, the dashboard was festooned with cryptic symbols that glowed to life. Mr Cleveclees touched one of them, and in response the engine awoke with a gentle purr. He then he took a firm grip upon the steering wheel and they roared down the driveway and out into the city.

  On the way, along the pre-dawn cobbled streets, between overhanging three story wattle and daub and Victorian houses, Mr Cleveclees explained. "The conspirators of this plot may involve the highest authorities of this city. I am part of a small coterie of magicians who have been monitoring these developments. Under normal circumstances I would not speak of this conspiracy to an outsider, but since you have become involved, you must know the truth."

  He regarded Charlie with sympathy. "All of this is a lot for a young mind to fathom, I know," he said. "Nevertheless, it is important that you understand it, for your life may indeed be in danger as a consequence of these details, but first things first—we must ensure the safety of your parents." And with that he swung the Vanderbilt through open gates and they passed down the hill toward the City of Pleasant Valley.

  Half way down the hill, Charlie stared down into the valley with a distraught expression. "Pull the car over!" he said to Mr. Cleveclees. "Quickly!"

  Mr. Cleveclees brought the Vanderbilt to a tire-screeching halt.

  Disembarking the vehicle, they both stared as if entranced at the valley beneath them. What they saw there was not the old Pleasant Valley at all—this valley’s skyline was now choked with smog from factories that spewed industrial waste high into the sky. It had a liquor store on every corner, casinos dotted here and there, and police helicopters buzzing overhead looking for criminals in the streets.

  "This is not how Pleasant Valley is supposed to be!" said Charlie half-dazedly. "The Sorcerer King has changed it! He's not happy ruining my family. He's ruined my hometown, too!"

  "You're right," replied Mr. Cleveclees, grimly staring out over the sea of burger joints and malls that cringed beneath a cloud of choking smog.

  "And Charming Lane," said Charlie with concern. "What will the Sorcerer King have done to that?"

  "I don't know," replied Mr. Cleveclees, "but we'd better find out. Come on, I'll take you home."

  * * * * *

  By the time they reached Charlie's neighborhood, they found that it was far from the suburban idyll that it had once been. The Pleasant Valley Estates was now a crime-infested ghetto, full of ramshackled, graffitied housing. Wrecks of cars were parked her and there, while gangs of angry-looking youths gathered on every street corner. As they passed, the youths yelled obscenities and threw tin cans at the car—one of which bounced off the roof.

  "I guess that they've all lost their jobs," said Charlie, unhappily recognizing some of his new neighbors. But there was no time to discuss it further, for Mr. Cleveclees turned the steering wheel sharply. "Hang on, Charlie," he said grimly, "it's Charming Lane."

  And that’s when Charlie saw the street that he lived on. Only it wasn't exactly the street that he lived on at all. Now all of the expensive new houses were as run down as all the other streets in the Pleasant Valley Estates. The neatly trimmed lawns and manicured flowerbeds were filled with garbage, and everywhere Charlie looked he saw graffiti. Even the Charming Lane sign had been covered with graffiti. Now it simply read,

  Yo Blood!

  As Charlie drew close to his home, he saw that a crowd of neighbors was gathered near his front lawn. Dressed in nightshirts and dressing gowns, they were watching events unfold, and it was the last type of show that Charlie would ever want to see.

  Chapter 12

  It was Charlie’s parents. They were fighting on the front lawn and the whole neighborhood had gathered around to watch.

  "And you can take this, too!" said Mr. Goodfellow, appearing in the doorway beneath a pile of designer clothes which he threw onto the lawn. "See if I care!" he said.

  The lawn was in complete disarray. It was strewn with miscellaneous household items—handbags, expensive coats, sofa pillows, a line of designer luggage, name-brand kitchen accessories, curling irons, high-heeled shoes, non-stick cookware, air purifiers, even a small color TV.

  On the lawn, Mrs. Goodfellow hobbled about indignantly in her high heels, carrying Emily. She wore a skimpy, tight-fitting, leopard-print skirt, a similarly immodest blouse, and the most garish lipstick that Charlie had ever seen.

  "Roberto and I are going to start a new life!" she yelled. "A life free of bits and bytes and hard-disk drives! Roberto is a real man—a hairdresser!"

  Charlie saw an immaculately dressed, Italian man sitting in an open-topped sports car beside the curb. He wore designer sunglasses and admired his looks in the rear-view mirror.

  "Come on, darling," he called, honking the horn impatiently. "We haven't got all day!"

  Gathering up the last of her possessions, Mrs. Goodfellow stomped to the sports car. She climbed inside, buckled Emily in the back seat, and slammed the door. Then, with a screech of tires, they sped off down the street.

  "That's my mom's hairdresser!" said Charlie, turning to Mr. Cleveclees with dismay. "Roberto!"

  Mr. Cleveclees shook his head in disbelief. They watched as Charlie's father stood on the doorstep for a few moments before turning about and staggering back into the house.

  "We should investigate," said Mr. Cleveclees. "Come on. Let's go and see what he's up to."

  They found the house in a similar state of disarray as the front yard. Most of Emily's toys littered the floor and the carpet hadn't been vacuumed in some time. Charlie's dad was asleep on the floor. He had passed out—from drunkenness, Charlie assumed. They passed around, looking at the wreckage of the house; a broken picture here, a shattered vase there, and as they did, Charlie began to feel a strange sense dawning upon him.

  "Something feels wrong," he said, "It's almost as if—"

  "...someone's been looking' about...." said someone, completing Charlie's sentence.

  Charlie and Mr. Cleveclees whirled about. Standing before them was Ratman, and behind him, two Victorian assassins, one of whom threateningly thumped a cudgel into the palm of his hand, and the other who idly picked his fingernails with a sharp knife, and flicked wicked eyes up at them.

  Ratman sneered at Charlie.

  "I told you not to meddle in our business," he said. "Din't I? Folks what stray into the city has to pay the price."

  From his belt he withdrew the long, Victorian, rusty knife.

  "Oh lord," said Charlie, his eyes widening, his mouth dry. "It's just as Whitstable said..."

  "The boys not for you," said Mr. Cleveclees, stepping forward and sternly pulling Charlie behind him.

  "Silence!" ordered Ratman. He raised his dirty palm, and a bolt of light sent Mr. Cleveclees hurtling across the room, and crashing into a picture, which shattered. He slumped to the ground, half dazed.

  "That's what I should have done to you the first time," the Ratman said to Cleveclees, with a serve
s you right nod of the head. "Now," He tipped his head sinisterly as he advanced upon Charlie. "time to pay the piper. Get him, boys,"

  And with that, the thugs advanced, one weighing a cudgel in his hands, the other, his tongue lounging from his mouth, flicking the knife.

  They were stopped in their tracks by the clearing of someone else's throat.

  "I advise you to put that boy, down," came a woman's stern voice.

  Charlie whirled around and Mr. Cleveclees looked up sorely.

  It was Miss Lovelocket, standing in the doorway in a gown of pure silver.

  His eyebrows beetling, Ratcatcher sneered at her.

  "On whose authority?"

  "On the authority of the Magi Council," she declared. Advancing with terrible eyes, she threw aside a staff and they were thrown against the wall, where they were pinned with expressions of less or greater agony.

  Finally, she released them and, groaning, they fell to their knees, doubled over in pain.

  "Go now," she sternly ordered them, and they slunk from the house, swearing dark revenge beneath their breaths.

  Once the coast was clear, she turned to Cleveclees and helped him up.

  "Are you quite alright?"

  "Yes," said Cleveclees, brushing himself off and awkwardly standing up. "They just caught me unaware, that's all." He rubbed the back of his neck and, wincing, placed his Panama hat back upon his head. There were no bones broken as far as he knew.

  "I should have known better than to have let you escort this boy alone," said Miss Lovelocket. "In these dark times, it was a fools errand."