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

by Brock Deskins

  “And what is your master’s intent?” Brother Paul asked shrewdly.

  General Baneford’s argument was stopped in its tracks. He could not honestly say Ulric’s possession of Dundalor’s armor was for the greater good of the realm regardless of what the Duke told him. Then another thought occurred to him.

  “What makes you think I have not come for the armor on my own behalf? Surely you recognize the breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets I wear,” General Baneford countered, displaying the infinitely black pieces of armor chased in gold.

  “It is my opinion that you wear the armor to achieve an end. You are not the kind of man to abuse its power and commit evil for the sake of personal gain.”

  “Maybe you misjudge me, priest.”

  “Perhaps you misjudge yourself, warrior,” Brother Paul countered serenely.

  “Enough of this talk! You will show me where the armor is, or I will order my men to make you talk!”

  “That would not be possible. We have all taken the vows and will not betray the secret with which we were entrusted.”

  “Damn you, man! Don’t you realize I have a hundred men with swords who will cut down every last one of you unless you tell me what I want to know?”

  Brother Paul bowed his head. “We do not fear death. Such threats will avail you nothing but blood that may be washed from your blade, but will stain your souls forever.”

  “I will find what I came for. I will tear down your precious abbey and every building here brick by brick. Save yourselves such needless destruction and just tell me.”

  Brother Paul simply smiled up at the General. “They are only stones. We will rebuild.”

  “Damn your stubborn hide, man!” He turned to his men. “Search this place from top to bottom. If you do not find what we came here for then we will tear the place apart!”

  His men spurred their mounts toward the waiting buildings, half of them heading toward the large abbey in the distance. Baneford’s men entered the smaller buildings and began a very thorough search. The sounds of shattering pottery and overturned furniture reached General Baneford’s ears.

  “You could save yourself and your brothers a great deal of grief if you would simply tell me where it is.”

  “The next bell is the call for supper. I invite you and your men to dine with us in the abbey’s dining hall. It is a simple fare, but quite good. Goat stew I believe; one our better stews. You arrived at a fortuitous time. Most often it is only rice and vegetable stew.”

  General Baneford ground his teeth in frustration at the insufferably kind monk. Rage made him want to backhand the priest in his smiling face, but it was an empty fantasy. The General had to contend himself with spurring his horse forward and riding toward the abbey. He was certain the armor would be found somewhere within those walls, if it was here at all. The monk had not actually said it was here on the grounds much less in one of the buildings. For all he knew, some monk hundreds of years ago carted the thing to top of one of these peaks where he still holds it in his frozen hands. No, it is here, he was certain of it.

  General Baneford entered the abbey and heard a similar ruckus going on within its vast halls and cathedral ceilings just as he heard in the smaller domiciles outside. Although there was little to break within the abbey since the monks lived a rather austere sort of life, his men managed to create a significant amount of havoc.

  He walked into what was obviously the chapel or prayer room from a side door. A massive sun made of what must have been gold-plated iron or bronze given its size, was suspended high above a white marble altar at the front of the large hall. There were no benches, but the floor held scores of thick, wool mats lined up in rows where the monks knelt and prayed.

  A huge stained-glass window occupied an enormous section of the eastern wall opposite the large golden sun. General Baneford surmised that when the sun rose and shined through the window, the polished golden disc shown with the radiance of a small living sun itself.

  “Stop!” the General shouted at one of his men who was about to throw a brazier through the stained-glass window. “We are here to find the armor, not cause unnecessary damage.”

  “Yes, sir; sorry,” the soldier replied sheepishly.

  “Go and spread the word. I don’t want any more damage done than necessary; especially to things that may be irreplaceable.”

  The soldier snapped a salute and sped off to pass on the General’s orders.

  “That was most kind of you, General. We would have all mourned the loss of Solarian’s eye,” Brother Paul’s voice came from behind him.

  General Baneford spun on his heel. “If he had destroyed it, it would have been because of your obstinacy!”

  The small brother shrugged his bony shoulders. “One man’s obstinacy is another man’s duty.”

  Baneford strode past the aggravating brother with a growl and helped direct his men in the search. After three fruitless hours, a loud bell tolled from the tall tower above the chapel.

  “Ah, supper time at last,” Brother Paul said with a smile. “You and your men need only follow one of the brothers to find the dining hall. I hope you will join us, General.”

  Brother Paul bounded down the hall with as much haste as his priestly decorum allowed. General Baneford watched several more of the brown-robed monks pass by the open door of the room he was in, presumably on their way to the dining hall. He was going to continue searching the abbey, but the thought of eating actual food instead of dry trail rations changed his mind.

  “Lieutenant, tell the men to fall in behind the next monk they see and follow him to the dining hall for chow.”

  “Yes, sir!” his subordinate replied gleefully; also anxious to have some warm food for a change.

  There’s plenty of time to search this place. No one is trying to kill us, and it’s warm. Besides, the men deserve it, the General thought as he followed the slapping sound of a monks sandals down the hall.

  The general entered a large hall where several long tables were set up with backless bench seats to sit on. A large cauldron was suspended over a low fire in a huge fireplace at the front of the hall. General Baneford saw Brother Paul waving him over to a table set nearest the fire and the cauldron of stew.

  “I took the liberty of ladling up a bowl for you,” the monk said as General Baneford took a seat next to him. “The meat tends to sink to the bottom, and the first bowls usually get the best pieces,” Brother Paul said with a smile and pushed the clay bowl with a wooden spoon over to the General.

  General Baneford eyed the stew warily. He saw that everyone took from the same pot, so it was unlikely it was poisoned. Then again, he did not see his pulled from the communal pot.

  “Would you rather have my bowl, General?”

  General Baneford scowled at the smiling monk, snatched the offered bowl, and ate heartily. The stew was so good that at that moment he did not even care if it was poisoned. At least he would die with a full stomach.

  ***

  Just as she was about to put this wretched human out of his misery, the dark wizard felt the power she had gathered slip away. Her master’s voice sounded in her head and ordered her to stop. She looked toward the special box seats where hers and the human’s master sat together. Lying in the dirt much like the human at her feet, was a crumpled silk kerchief. Knowing the kind of punishment her foe was likely to receive for not only losing, but also for his master conceding the bout to spare his life, she considered granting him mercy by crushing his windpipe with the heel of her boot.

  Nevertheless, she obeyed her master’s command and let the sorcerer live. She hoped they would meet in the arena once again when he recovered and grew in experience and power.

  Delinda heard her master’s furious voice fill her head as she sat worriedly next to Braunlen inside the trainer’s room fearfully awaiting the end of the match. Every time the crowd cheered, her heart raced and her stomach twisted not knowing if they were cheering for her beloved or his opponent.

&nb
sp; Then Lord Xornan told her that Azerick had been defeated and needed aid immediately. Terror gripped her heart as she raced up the ramp toward the open gate at the top leading into the arena.

  The first thing she saw when she burst through the gate was the form of a lithe, impossibly white-skinned woman standing over her husband. She ran to him as fast as her legs would carry her, for a moment thinking to tear this creature to shreds with her fingernails. She discarded the idea immediately knowing Azerick needed her right now and that such an action would likely result in both of their deaths.

  The abyssal elf took a step back as Delinda pulled out the silver flask filled with the potent healing potion she had been distilling for over a month. She cradled Azerick’s limp head in her lap and gently placed the flask’s stem between his lips. She dribbled the contents down his throat as quickly as she dared. It seemed to take an eternity to empty the entire flask’s contents.

  Delinda prayed fervently to every god she could name for her love’s life. She wept openly as she rocked Azerick’s head in her lap and waited to see if the potion was strong enough to overcome such terrible injuries. Her heart soared and she cried even harder when Azerick’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “He is a talented sorcerer. I am glad you were able to save him,” the abyssal elf’s sultry voice said from behind her.

  Delinda ignored the woman’s words and took out another metal vial. “Here, drink this, my love,” she told Azerick as she raised another healing potion to his lips.

  Azerick did as Delinda bade and felt the effects of the potions as they ran their course through his body. His muscles burned and his bones ached where the elixir forced them to heal at an unnaturally rapid pace. Delinda was gladdened to see Braunlen running toward her with his short, bow-legged gait.

  “I am Teraneshala. Remember that name, human, so you may warn the denizens of the abyss of my eventual coming should you see them before I do,” the abyssal elf called out as Azerick was half-carried out of the arena to Lord Xornan’s waiting transport.

  Lord Xornan was furious beyond anything Delinda had ever seen. Azerick sat half-dazed, gritting his teeth against the lingering pain of his partially healed wounds.

  I should make you walk back to my manor for your utter failure even if it takes you all night to drag yourself across the city! The psyling raged.

  The tension inside the palanquin was palpable the entire way back to the tower. The bearers gently set the palanquin down when they finally arrived. Lord Xornan hurriedly stepped outside and ordered his retinue away; an order with which they were glad to comply. The psyling glared at the exhausted young sorcerer standing before him.

  Do you have any idea what you have cost me? The price for saving your miserably useless life in treasure and dignity alone is likely beyond your comprehension! I warned you that the price for your next failure would be severe. You have left me no other choice.

  Azerick braced himself as best he could for the expected mental onslaught. However, instead of a barrage of torturous mental images, he felt Delinda stiffen as she held tightly to his arm. He looked over at her and held her as her eyes rolled back until only the whites shown and let out a small grunt of pain. Azerick gently guided her to the ground as her legs buckled beneath her.

  “No, stop! Do to me whatever you wish, but leave her alone!” he begged.

  Thin rivulets of blood ran from her nose and ears as she shuddered and let out a last gasp of air. Azerick pressed his ear against her breast but heard no heartbeat or sign of breathing.

  “No, no, you would not kill her,” he denied in anguish. “She was useful to you. This is just another of your sick mental games to punish me,” he said more to himself than to his master.

  I assure you, this is all quite real. Unlike my previous lessons from which you were quickly able to recover once the images ceased, this lesson you will remember and feel for a very long time. You will continue to feel the pain and loss of your loved one, and the little bastard whelp growing within her, for a very long time!

  Azerick felt as if he had been dealt a mortal blow at the revelation that his beloved had been pregnant. He was cradling her head against his chest and stroking her hair but froze at the words of his vile master and let out a deep groan.

  Do not let your emotions for your loss distract you from your training. I have invested a great deal of time in you, and I still have enough confidence in your ability to grow in power to redeem yourself. If you please me, I will get you a new female, a prettier one even.

  Azerick heard none of these words as the world around him vanished. An unending expanse of intense whiteness replaced the mauve stone of the courtyard and tower. He was once again floating in the void of nothingness. The only difference was that this void was one of pure white rage instead of the blackness of pain. He frantically searched for the fracture he had discovered the last time he was lost inside the recesses of his own consciousness and quickly found it. He saw it as a black, jagged slash out of the corner of his eye. Azerick willed himself to fly to it as fast as his mind would allow.

  He slammed into the weak spot with as much force as he could muster. When that failed, he began kicking, pounding, and clawing at its edges in furry, but it refused to yield to his assault. The grief-maddened sorcerer stood back from the fissure as rage and loss suffused his soul. The death of Delinda and his unborn child burned in his heart with the intensity of every loss he had ever suffered—his parents, Jon Locke and his extended family, his flight from the academy, his slavery, and all the senseless deaths in the arena all combined and then magnified tenfold.

  He released all the grief and emotional torment in an ear-shattering scream of fury and anguish. From his mouth erupted a roar that carried the power of every ounce of love, hate, fear, and pain raging within him and augmented by the raw power of the Source. He pulled and pulled from the Source as he never had before and used all these emotions to shape and direct it in this one massive assault.

  The fracture quavered under his emotional charge then shattered under its intensity. Azerick’s world returned with a flood of light, color, and sound. Lord Xornan took a step back in shock as his former slave stood up and looked balefully into his liquid black eyes. The psyling tried frantically to regain control of his servant, but Azerick was far beyond his power. An impenetrable mental fortress now blocked the psyling’s every attempt to reassert his dominance.

  Azerick drank in the Source like a man dying of thirst gulps down water. Crackling arcs of excess power swirled around the sorcerer, giving him the appearance of some terrifying, vengeful god. He pointed an accusing finger at the terrified psyling and released an awesome bolt of lightning that struck with such intensity it burned a hole clean through his former master’s chest large enough to shove his arm through without any of the gore touching his sleeve.

  Lord Xornan’s lifeless corpse flew backward and landed prostrate on the flagstone courtyard. Azerick leapt atop of the body with a feral roar and began pummeling the bulbous head of the psyling with his fists. Gore soon covered his hands and spattered his body and face as his former master’s head split open like an over-ripe melon. The enraged sorcerer barely heard the shrill cry of brass horns blaring across the courtyard.

  Breathing heavily, Azerick looked up from his assault and spotted several minotaur, human, and orc guardsmen running at him through the open gates. With another bestial roar, he raked a stream of lightning across the line of charging guardsmen. The smaller humans and orcs were thrown back into smoking piles while the heavier minotaurs were brought tumbling down onto the flagstone avenue.

  More clarions were ringing in the distance and were drawing nearer. Azerick knelt beside his beloved Delinda and stroked her hair. He took the small knife Delinda always wore for trimming plants and chopping herbs and cut off a lock of her long, dark hair. He then lifted the satchel she carried and looped it over his shoulder. He turned and saw more guards nearing the gates. With a few words and gestures, stone spikes erupted acr
oss a large expanse of the courtyard, impaling several of the guardsmen and effectively keeping the rest from gaining the inner grounds.

  Azerick knew he only had a few minutes at best before the guardsmen negotiated their way past the obstacle and psylings were sent to deal with the deadly rogue sorcerer. He stepped back a few paces and said a short prayer and farewell to his wife and child. He then raised both of his hands and drew deeply from the Source once more.

  A jet of intense flame erupted from his outstretched hands and engulfed Delinda’s small body in a magical pyre. Azerick poured more power into the relatively simple flame spell than was normally possible. His rage fueled the engulfing flames by drawing an unsafe amount of magical energy into himself, but he would not leave their bodies in this world. He would send their ashes to Solarian borne upon the winds.

  In less than a minute, only ash covered the heat-cracked stones where Delinda’s body had lain. Azerick looked up at the sound of the shouting guardsmen who were slowly picking their way past his stone spikes. With a last look at the vaguely human-shaped burn mark on the ground, he ran into the manor.

  “What’s going on out there, son?” Zeb asked as Azerick burst into the foyer and dropped a heavy crossbar across the thick, wooden doors.

  Azerick turned and saw Zeb and several of his former crew looking at him from the large gallery beyond the foyer. “He killed Delinda, and I killed him.”

  “Killed who, lad? Who did ya kill?” the old captain asked, his voice laced with sorrow at the news of Delinda’s death.

  “Lord Xornan. We are free now, but we need to get out of here. There are guards and psylings coming. Go round up as many of our people as you can, and get them to the top of the main tower. I will meet you all up there. Grab what you can, but do not delay.”

  “They’ll have us trapped up there, lad. It’s suicide. We need to escape out one of the side doors and try to vanish into the city, or maybe take one of their boats and sail out of here,” Zeb argued.