The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4

by Brock Deskins

  “Why did you go back for your books, Az?” Will asked.

  “They are very important to me. They are like my family; the only family I have left,” Azerick replied.

  “Well I guess I just don’t understand ‘cause I can’t read. Besides, now we’re your family, so you have more than just books to keep you company.”

  “You can’t read?”

  Will and Beth both shook their heads and Patrick said he could read only a little. This shocked Azerick because he could not imagine not being able to read. In fact, he could not remember a time when he was not able to read.

  “I’ll teach you if you like. I remember most of the lessons my first tutor gave me that got me started. Most of the books I have are pretty advanced, but I have a book of stories my mother used to read to me to get me to go to sleep. That should be easy enough once you get your letters down. Then we can start on ciphering!” Azerick exclaimed, thoroughly excited at the prospect of being able to share his love of reading with someone.

  “Really? That would be so great, Az. Can we see your books?” Patrick asked.

  “Sure, I’ll even read a story or two from my story tale book.”

  Azerick scrambled up, went into his private sleeping area, dragged out his bag, and showed off all of his books to his eager audience. They all loved the storybook and the history book. Patrick and Will were amazed with the drawings on engineering. The last two were well beyond the comprehension of Beth, but she played along and was excited as well.

  Such became the routine for the next several months. The winter came all too soon. It was cold and wet and with seemingly endless rain. It snowed only a few times. This being a southern land and lowly elevated, it simply did not get the frequent winter storms that dumped several feet of snow in the northern cities.

  On days that were too miserable to go outside, Jon and the others taught Azerick how to pick pockets and lift small items necessary for their survival. First, from a dummy made of old clothes stuffed with rags. They tied bells near the spot that carried the pretend purse and eventually on the purse itself. Once Azerick had mastered the dummy, he practiced picking the pockets of various members of the family.

  They also taught him how to avoid the Watch and pick locks. They taught him about blending in with a crowd and hiding when need be. While he learned the tricks of the trade, they all said he was a very fast learner, he taught William, Patrick, and Beth to read. Beth surprised them all with how quickly she caught on and was soon reading Azerick’s storybook to everyone else in no time at all.

  Spring came and started to open up into summer without anyone catching a serious illness thanks in large part to the blankets and clothes Azerick’s money had purchased. Such was not the case for some of the more unfortunate homeless people. It was not uncommon for a body to turn up in an alley or near one of the abandoned buildings, dead of exposure as often as a blade thrust between the ribs. They were all busy plying their trade trying to eke out a living in these hard times.

  Azerick and the others did not always steal to support themselves. They took jobs whenever they could find work, but with the large number of conscripts returning now that there was peace on the border, there were far more people than jobs. This great imbalance between supply and demand reduced the already pathetic wages unskilled labor brought. While most men congregated about the docks hoping to get jobs scraping barnacles from hulls, sanding and calking ships, unloading cargo, or stacking it in warehouses, Azerick, William, and Patrick split up and looked for any work opportunities around the middle and upper class sections of the city.

  It was pure luck that found Azerick walking in front of a fine manor house not so dissimilar to his own former home, when a fat man wearing the apron and the tall hat of a cook shouted to him from behind the iron bars of a gate closing off a flagstone courtyard.

  “You there, boy, come over here!” the man demanded sharply.

  Azerick crossed the clean, well-maintained street to see what the man wanted. He had to be weary. Youths his age were prone to disappearing, favored by the slavers who haunted the streets and lured victims into their clutches with promises of work and then getting clubbed or drugged. They would often awake aboard a ship heading south to a Sumaran slave market or tied and gagged in the back of a wagon to be sold to one of the more unscrupulous men of means around the kingdom. The fat man was on the other side of the closed gate, and it was broad daylight so the risk was small. Besides, he could not afford to pass up the opportunity to earn enough coin for a couple loaves of bread.

  “Yes,” the man said as Azerick drew near, “you are just about the right size I think. You are here looking for work, yes? You certainly do not live around here.”

  Azerick ignored the implication of the man’s words and look of disdain. “Yes, sir, I’m looking for work.”

  “Excellent, I have recently discovered a rat problem within the manor that must be taken care of before the master realizes the severity of the infestation. I will pay you a copper for every rat you kill—discretely. You do know what that means don’t you, boy?”

  “Yes, sir. It means to judge or act on one’s own initiative while displaying judicious reserve or acting without pretension or ostentation,” Azerick replied before remembering that people like the fat cook did not appreciate excessive wit or intelligence in the help.

  The cook narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Yes, quite right. You will need to crawl through the crawlspace in the ceilings as well as hunt down the vile vermin in the cellar. I hope you do not take issue with dark or enclosed spaces.”

  “No, sir, no problem there.”

  The cook motioned to a liveried man nearby, and the gate opened wide enough to admit Azerick inside. He followed the sweating, waddling cook to the kitchen entrance where the man handed him a burlap sack and a long wooden rod slightly shorter than his own height and as big around as a man’s thumb.

  “I suggest starting in the cellar where you may remain out of sight.”

  Azerick descended the wooden stairs down into the cellar armed with his stick, bag, and an oil lamp. He immediately saw rats scurrying away from the light of his lamp and heard them squeaking their protest at his intrusion into what they considered their domain.

  Azerick hung the lantern from a peg in a ceiling beam and began chasing after the swift-moving rodents, laying them out with his stick whenever he got within reach or was able to corner them. The work was brutal, slow, and exhausting, but Azerick’s bag was filling and getting heavier by the hour. He was often forced to sit perfectly still for up to an hour, waiting for the vermin to work up the courage to come out of their hiding spaces and renew the process all over again.

  By late evening, Azerick earned twenty-eight copper pieces and was told to return first thing in the morning. There was indeed a severe rat problem in such a fine home. Most people not living in the streets would scoff at the handful of copper, but it was enough to buy bread for the entire family. The cook had also fed Azerick from the kitchen. The food alone was worth the work. The bits Azerick stuffed into his pockets when the cook was not looking were a bonus as far as he was concerned.

  Azerick returned to the mansion in the morning. He had set out several improvised traps designed after similar setups he had read about in one of his books written to educate someone on the tricks of wilderness survival. The guard at the ornate wrought iron gate expected the rat catcher’s return and let him in with instructions to go around to the kitchen entrance. The smell of fresh baked bread, fried sausage, and eggs hit Azerick’s nose like a physical force as he neared the kitchen door. The door swung open when Azerick was only a few feet away as the cook burst through to dump a pot of dirty water out onto the ground.

  “Good, you’re back. Come on in then,” the cook commanded.

  The cook saw the rat boy, he did not remember his name nor did he care to, eyeing the small loaves of bread he had just pulled out of the oven for the master and his family’s morning meal.

  �
��You’ll be fed when you get some work done; not before,” the cook said brusquely and handed Azerick his stick and sack.

  Azerick did not comment on the cook’s rudeness. He had quickly learned the man did not possess a kind disposition and seemed to enjoy abusing the position of power he held over most of the other servant staff.

  He lit the lantern using a burning twig from the kitchen stove and crept down the cellar stairs. A smile split his face as he looked upon the success of his traps and snares. Snares made of fine wire strangled the creatures when their heads passed through the loop. Drop traps crushed rats beneath a heavy object that fell when the rat pulled on a piece of bait tied to a lever holding a weighted object directly above it. Simple box traps captured rats beneath them.

  Azerick had almost half the number of rats he caught yesterday before he even started work. By noon, he figured that the cellar was nearly clear with only a few left in hiding. He set up several traps before leaving the cellar and dumped his haul outside under the watchful eye of the cook who kept careful count, certain the rat boy would cheat him if given the chance.

  After a simple lunch, the cook showed Azerick to a ceiling hatch giving him access to the crawlspace above. It was dusty and only afforded about two feet of space through which to work. Since swinging the stick in these confines would be nearly impossible, Azerick constructed a small, trident-like gig using a large fork attached to the end of his whacking stick.

  The young exterminator found that, unlike the wealthier manors in the city, this one’s walls and ceiling were made of wooden slats plastered over and sometimes covered in a thin veneer of marble or granite to imitate the higher-class mansions. They were cheaper to build and held the heat better in the winter, but the hollow walls and ceilings provided excellent homes for rats and other vermin if not kept in check.

  It was difficult to chase the rats down in an area that was far better suited to their size than Azerick’s. He was going to have to set several traps up here tonight to have even the slightest hope of clearing the creatures out. At least it was not cold like the cellars had been. Heat from the rooms below penetrated the slat and plaster ceiling, trapping the warmth in the crawlspace.

  Azerick knew the cheap construction would provide little protection from the summer heat like the solid stone homes did and would soon turn the crawlspace into an oven. The mild spring weather was already trapping enough heat to make it uncomfortable as the day neared late afternoon.

  Azerick began setting numerous noose traps along the most likely trails the rats marked with their scent and baited drop traps made of heavy, flat stones he hauled up. It was getting late, and he could hear the master of the house entertaining dinner guests just below in the dining room. As he lay on his back running a cord over a beam for one of the noose traps, an ominous cracking of wood sounded directly beneath him.

  Azerick immediately went perfectly still and held his breath. He let out sharp bark of surprise as the beams below him gave way and sent him plummeting in a shower of rotted timbers, chunks of white plaster, and dust. He struck the top of the long dining table with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs, but he was otherwise uninjured in the fifteen-foot fall.

  “I’m okay,” Azerick wheezed to the wealthy guests all staring in disbelief at the sudden intrusion of the filthy boy, “I think the roast goose broke my fall.”

  The fat cook ran into the dining room as the master roared, “What is the meaning of this?”

  Azerick sat up, looked from the large hole in the ceiling to the crushed goose, and then to the master of the house. “Sir, I would recommend leaving the rats alone and hope they eat the termites that have invaded and seriously undermined the integrity of your home.”

  The lean, well-dressed master with his quill-thin moustache quivering in livid anger shouted at the red-faced cook. “Get this creature out of my home, and have him whipped!”

  Azerick tried to roll off the table and flee, but his battered and bruised body protested and resisted his sudden movement. Moreover, the cook was rather swift despite his great bulk. Azerick felt the cook’s vice-like grip encircle his upper arm, dragged him off the table, and forced him through the kitchen. The cook frog marched him to the stables where a slovenly, gap-toothed man in filthy leathers was pulling a bale of hay from the loft with a long gaff to feed the horses.

  “Baldric, the master demands this boy be whipped. See to it,” the cook commanded. “I would take the pleasure myself, but I am far too busy at the moment.”

  The stableman grinned with cruel delight at the cook’s order, grabbed a set of leather reins from a peg in one hand, and Azerick’s arm in the other. To ensure the groom properly carried out his order, the cook lingered despite his assertion that he was busy. Azerick tried to pull away and cursed both men with every foul expletive in his considerable vocabulary, but the groom’s grip was every bit as strong and unbreakable as the cook’s had been.

  The thick length of leather whistled as it cut an arc through the air and cracked like a bolt of lightning when it struck Azerick’s back, buttocks, and legs. Fire erupted in thin lines across Azerick’s body as the groom gleefully lashed him repeatedly. Azerick changed tactics when he realized he was not going to be able to pull away. Seething anger inundated Azerick’s soul and a strange tingling walked feather-light fingers over his skin. The static continued to build until a bright, blue arc of electricity sent a jolt up the groom’s arm. He released his hold with a bark of surprised pain.

  No longer constrained, Azerick lunged toward the leather cord-wielding man. He lashed out with a hard kick to the man’s groin and sent him to his knees. The leather lash dropped uselessly to his side as he clutched his abused privates with both hands and vomited from the intense pain.

  The cook reached for the rat boy, but Azerick dove forward out of his reach and scooped up the set of reins in one hand. He spun around and lashed the cook across his enraged face with the leather straps. The cook cried out as the leather raised a bright red welt across one corpulent cheek. Azerick darted past the cook and raced across the courtyard toward the gate.

  The cook shouted to the lone guard watching the gate and ordered the man to stop the fleeing urchin. The guard drew a shortsword from the sheath at his hip and stood before the gate, feet spread in readiness to arrest the boy’s flight. Azerick skidded to a stop a few feet from the guard and whipped the stout length of leather at one of the man’s legs. The reins wrapped around the guard’s ankle like a bullwhip. Azerick yanked on his end of the cord with all his might and dumped the surprised guard hard onto his rump. Before he could recover, Azerick sprinted past, threw the catch on the iron gate, and disappeared into the streets.

  Once Azerick felt certain he was beyond any pursuit, he slowed to a walk and fumed in anger at the abuse he had suffered through no fault of his own. Now that his mind had time to relax, his aches throbbed even more, which only added to his fury.

  Whip me will you? I will make you all pay for this! Azerick swore as he returned home empty-handed.

  The realization that the cook had cheated him out of a full day’s pay made Azerick even more determined to enact his justice against those that had wronged him. Jon’s words regarding the price of revenge rang hollowly in his young, stubborn head. Had he not been so lost in his anger and humility, Azerick may have pondered the strange electricity that had coursed along his body and expended itself on the stableman.

  CHAPTER 6

  Azerick returned to the abandoned building he and his adoptive family were currently calling home. It was after dark, and he was the last one to arrive. Patrick was just outside the door standing watch when Azerick stomped toward him.

  “Hey, Az, working late again, eh,” Patrick called out as his friend approached.

  “Yeah.”

  Azerick entered the large room where everyone sat eating whatever meager fare they had scrounged up. They each glanced up from their bowls as he entered and greeted him warmly.

  “Out la
te again, lad?” Jon said. “Did ya bring us a good bit of coin again then?”

  Azerick sat cross-legged on the floor and scooped up a bowl of stew and replied, “Not exactly.”

  “What happened, lad?” Jon asked.

  “I did not get paid.”

  The others looked at the boy sympathetically. It was not the first time one of them had been cheated out of their earnings. Unscrupulous men knew there was little recourse a vagrant could take against them, so it was not an unheard of event. Ryan and a couple others muttered curses under their breath.

  “It happens, lad. Don’t let it get you in a twist. We’ll be fine,” Jon assured him.

  Azerick did not tell the others what happened. He was angry and embarrassed by the beating he had received and did not want to talk about it. He especially did not want any of the others to try to avenge the wrong and get themselves into trouble. Azerick would take care of it himself in due time.

  He knelt next to his pallet and prayed to any god that would listen to give him the strength and the courage to avenge the wrongs inflicted on him. Azerick fell into a fitful sleep that night, waking up every time he rolled over and aggravated the welts crisscrossing his back and legs. Again, that mysteriously seductive voice called to him.

  Azerick, you must not let them get away with this. How many times will you allow others to hurt you, punish you, before you strike back?

  Azerick bolted upright and hissed into the darkness of his small room. “Who are you, what do you want from me?”

  You know who I am, and I want what you want—blood. Blood for blood, that is our way. Blood owed your father, blood owed your mother, blood owed to you.

  “What am I supposed to do? How?”

  Kill them, kill them all! The voice faded from his mind with a gleeful laugh.

  Azerick was shaking. He was far too lucid to be dreaming. Was the voice really Sharrellan? Why would the goddess of death and vengeance be speaking to him, a street rat? Sleep did not easily return, and when it finally did it was not particularly restive.