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

by Brock Deskins

“Do you know if there are rooms available?” Azerick asked.

  “Oh yes, milord! The Golden Glade always has the best rooms available. Except during winter festival, as they tend to fill up rather quick round the holiday,” the groom replied helpfully

  “What is your name?”

  “Peck, if it pleases milord.” The boy then grinned broadly. “Of course Peck ain’t me real name, but that’s what everybody calls me on account of how small I am.”

  “Well, Peck, take good care of Horse for me.” Azerick slipped a gold coin into the boy’s small, grubby palm. “Brush him down real well and give him the best oats and feed you have. I will probably be staying for several days at the least.”

  Peck looked at the small fortune in his hand. It would likely take him a year or more to save up that much if he did not spend a single copper on such necessities as food, clothes, or shoes.

  “Aye, milord, I’ll take special care of him I will!” Peck shouted excitedly until Azerick put a finger to his lips and looked pointedly at the two older boys watching from the rear of the stable.

  “Oh aye, milord, I catch yer meaning,” Peck replied cautiously.

  Azerick had lived in the streets long enough to know that if a smaller boy came into any kind of wealth he would likely lose it rather quickly to anyone big enough to take it away from him, and it looked as though Peck knew such things as well.

  Peck took Horse to one of the open stalls, removed his saddle and tack, filled the manger with fresh hay and oats, and began vigorously brushing the animal down. Wally and John walked over to the stall where Peck was busily brushing down the pauper’s mangy horse.

  “So did the raggedy man tip ya, Peck, or did he stiff ya?” Wally asked the smaller boy.

  Peck gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just a single. Better than nothin I guess.”

  “Ha, a single copper! I told ya the guy was a bum, Wally,” John said and elbowed Wally. “I can smell a cheapskate a mile away I can. Those are the ones we give to Peck!”

  Peck just smiled as he brushed several hundred miles of traveling out of Horse’s coat.

  Azerick stepped through the solid yet decorative door at the front of the inn. A few well-dressed patrons watched him warily as he entered and approached the bar.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the innkeeper asked casually.

  “I need a room for a few nights; maybe longer,” Azerick replied.

  The man behind the bar looked at Azerick’s clothes and the trail dirt covering his face. “I have a few vacancies, but you might find the rates in this part of the city a bit exorbitant. There are quite a few decent places in the lower quarter that can be had for a fraction of what I have to charge. I’d be happy to recommend a few of the more honest places if you like.”

  Azerick dropped a short stack of silver swords capped with a gold crown onto the highly polished cherry wood bar. “No thank you. I think this will do just fine. If you could point me to my room, I would like to get settled in. I would also like a hot bath drawn and directions to the nearest tailor.”

  The innkeeper’s face became even friendlier at the sight of the coins stacked on his bar. “Of course, sir! We’d be glad to have you at the Golden Glade,” he cajoled as he swept the coins off the bar and into his hand.

  An hour later, Azerick had eaten, bathed, and gotten directions to a clothier. He purchased a few well-made outfits of dark material and set off toward the bank. Now dressed in his new clothes and having discarded his tattered garb, he received a much warmer reception at the bank than he had at the inn or the clothiers.

  An attractive woman stood behind a marble-topped counter running the entire length of the back wall. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes. I would like to exchange these for coin,” Azerick replied and dropped two small diamonds, an emerald, and a sapphire the size of his thumbnail onto the counter.

  The woman’s face flushed in excitement at the gorgeous, glittering gems lying on the counter in front of her.

  “Of course, sir. Just one moment please.”

  She turned and walked back to a man seated at a workbench visible through an open door behind the long counter. The man got up and walked out to where Azerick patiently waited.

  “Good day to you, sir. Let me see what you have here, if I may.”

  He held each gem up to the jeweler’s loop he pressed into his right eye. He held the gems up to the light and studied each one in detail with his magnifying lens. “Very nice, no inclusions, good color and clarity,” he mumbled half to himself as he studied each gem.

  The jeweler and Azerick haggled on the value for a few minutes before coming to an agreement. The woman exchanged the gems for a pouch of coins once they finalized the deal.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Yes, is there anything kept for safe keeping for me? It should have been left here for me by a man named Zeb,” Azerick informed her.

  “One moment, sir, and I will check the vault.”

  The woman returned with a heavy pack Azerick immediately recognized. He paid the fee for his precious books, happier now than he had felt for some time, and returned to his room at the inn. He set up his books on a shelf built into the wall of the furnished room he rented, pulled one out at random, and passed away the hours lost in its pages.

  When Azerick looked up from his book and saw that the sun had set some time ago, he closed its pages, picked up his staff from where it was leaning in one corner, and left the inn.

  He retrieved Horse from Peck who got him saddled and bridled for him, and headed for the eastern gate. The large main gate was still open to traffic as a few people came and went. One of the guardsmen held up a hand as Azerick approached.

  “Good evening, sir. Will you be returning tonight?” the guard asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” Azerick replied.

  “If you do and the main gate is locked, just pound on the sally port there and we’ll let you in.”

  Azerick thanked the guard for the information and rode out through the gate. He pointed Horse to the northeast where he rode until he could just make out the shape of the tall, main tower of the ruins. He dismounted and tied Horse to the branch of a maple tree before proceeding on foot.

  A chill ran up his spine and his hair stood on end as he drew nearer the ruins. Azerick came upon the first tumbled blocks of stone once comprising a section of the outer wall and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  He quickly turned his head, but he did not see anything there. The sorcerer walked through the breach in the wall and saw several buildings in various states of disrepair. Some stood nearly intact while others were open from one or more collapsed walls. None had a roof any longer. The timbers once supporting them had long ago rotted away and turned to mulch.

  Another flash of movement caught his attention, but whatever it was disappeared in the fraction of a second it took him to look that direction. Azerick picked through the ruins of what had once been a smithy. A rust-covered anvil still rested upon a granite block, an aged, steel sentry left as an icon to the inevitability of decay.

  He left the ruins of the smithy and worked his way past various buildings. Few of them left him any clues as to what purpose they once served. Azerick slowly walked toward the open maw of the central tower looking like the large, black mouth of a huge, stone beast.

  Another flicker of movement drew his attention away from the fallen remains of the heavy wooden doors once securing the entrance to the tower. He spun about in an attempt to spot the elusive figure, but he saw only more stone blocks and deep shadows. Azerick turned back toward the tower entrance, released a strangled cry, and took an involuntary step back as a wispy, lucent figure hovered in the dark entranceway.

  “My children! Where are the children?” the plaintive voice cried out.

  Azerick stood dumbfounded and his blood turned to ice water in his veins. His heart pounded in his chest and his hands shook. Th
e apparition looked like a woman in flowing, ancient robes. The once colorful patterns were nothing but washed-out shades of grey. She floated perhaps two feet above the ground, her hair flowing about her head as if she were under water.

  “Where are my children?” the specter begged.

  Azerick cleared his throat in an attempt to loosen his tongue. “Lady, your children are no longer here. It is time for you to go.”

  The ghost moved forward a few feet toward him. “Where are the children? I must protect the children!”

  “Your children are gone, Lady, as you must do. You must leave this world of the living if you are to ever find them.”

  The specter appeared to think for a moment, and then a look of pain and rage rippled across her ghostly countenance.

  “I want my children!” the spirit wailed in a voice filled with fury and torment. Its appearance twisted to match its rage. The face and eye sockets elongated, the fingers lengthened into wicked claws that she stretched toward the creature who dared to mock her pain with its warm, living blood. Her hair became a tangled, writhing mass that seemed to have a life of its own.

  Azerick stumbled back under the mind-numbing assault of the banshee’s wail. He clapped his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the mind-rending pain of the dreadful shrieking. It took all his concentration to reach out to the Source and shape the spell that was his only chance at surviving the sonic attack. His nose bled and his vision began to fade under the terrible assault. With a final burst of will, Azerick enveloped himself in a blissful sphere of absolute silence.

  He stumbled back to his feet, saw the banshee, and staggered away. Azerick could feel the air grow colder around him as his silenced footfalls pounded against the ancient flagstones of the keep’s courtyard. He bolstered his resolve and forced himself to run faster as the air grew even colder. The air he drew in and forced from his burdened lungs came out in thick, vaporous clouds. Icy pain flared across his back when the clawed fingers of the vengeful spirit raked across his living flesh.

  The certainty of death if he did not escape fueled his sprint as he pumped his legs ever faster. It seemed only seconds had passed since he faced the spirit when he finally reached Horse, who was chomping contentedly on the grass growing around the tree to which he was tethered. Ripping the reins from the branches, he vaulted into the saddle, spun the surprised Horse about, and put his heels into his mount’s flanks.

  Azerick rode Horse at a gallop until they reached the gates of the city a few minutes later. One of the guards must have seen or heard him coming, because the sally port opened for him as he brought Horse to a walk just before the gates.

  “Ho there, sir! You look like you seen a ghost!” the guardsman called out to him jovially.

  “You have no idea the truth of that statement,” Azerick responded as he let out a deep breath.

  Azerick ducked his head as he rode Horse through the smaller gate and left him in the capable hands of Peck upon reaching the inn a short time later. Azerick let himself in through the small side door opening to the stables.

  He ascended the stairs to his room and fell upon the soft bed without bothering to undress. It would appear that if he was going to make the citadel his own, he was going to have to fight for it. Could he fight without destroying? Azerick desperately wanted a home that was his, but could anything be built upon the ashes of destruction without eventually falling to the same fate?

  Everything he was and everything he had was built upon someone’s loss, usually his own, but also the lives of others. Not this time. Azerick would build something that meant more than what he could take by force. Somehow, he would find a way to put the spirit at peace and to allow him to make his home in the tower. Several minutes passed before he worked up the will to kick his boots off and stared up at the dark ceiling until sleep finally took him in its embrace.

  CHAPTER 15

  General Baneford sat in his command tent coddling a bottle of strong spirits. It was something he found himself doing more and more often. The longer this tedious campaign continued, the more he sought solace by imbibing in the mind-numbing brew. The General was well into the dregs of his bottle when a sharp rapping sounded on the pole next to the tent flap.

  “What?” the General bellowed.

  A young, wiry rider stepped smartly into the tent and gave the inebriated general a sharp salute. The intoxicated Baneford threw up his hand and let it drop back to his side in return.

  “Sir, I have a missive from His Grace, Duke Ulric,” the rider informed the General and handed over a folded sheet of paper sealed in wax bearing the Duke’s crest.

  General Baneford snatched the message out of the rider’s hand and dismissed him with a wave. He staggered over to the small field table and sat down heavily. The General used his dagger to break open the seal and began to read the contents through his bleary eyes.

  General Baneford,

  I am swiftly coming to the conclusion that the rather simple retrieval task I have set you upon may be beyond your ability to handle. While you and my men have been roaming seemingly aimlessly across the kingdom, others are busily making moves of their own and the King becomes more tightly ensconced upon his throne. Your reward hinges upon the successful completion of the mission I have set you on. For several years you have rode out with a large force of my cavalry, and more often than not, returned empty handed and with fewer men than you departed with! I have allowed you to wear my armor to facilitate your success, but even with that help, you fail me and continue to lose more of my men. You have one last chance to prove to me that you are not completely inept before I replace you and have you digging the privy trenches. If I have not obtained that which I seek by the end of summer, you are finished! Return with my armor, or do not return at all!

  Your Lord and Master,

  Duke Ulric Stanbury III

  General Baneford read the scalding missive twice more before he set it down on his field table. He knew it was never wise to respond to such insults, particularly to your superiors, while in a rage or intoxicated. Doing so often resulted in saying things you will likely regret whether you actually meant them or not. However, General Baneford’s anger served to burn off much of the effects of the liquor. He grabbed his quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and carefully and deliberately penned his response.

  He would have to speak with his men after this and make plans. General Baneford knew he could rely on the support of those with him. He was a good commander and respected by the vast majority of the soldiers under him. The General would have to act fast and put together the finer details of his plan later.

  For now, he just needed to set this first part in motion. He blotted and sanded the ink so it would dry then sealed it with his mark. He then called for one of his most loyal men. A few minutes later, his man stood at the position of attention while General Baneford gave him the letter addressed for Duke Ulric’s eyes only along with several verbal instructions. The soldier took the letter, put it in a waterproof tube, saluted, and departed camp immediately.

  General Baneford sat back down as soon as the messenger left his tent. He imagined the Duke’s response upon reading his reply and chuckled. Quietly to himself at first, but it quickly built to a loud, belly-shaking bout of hysterical laughter. He looked at the liquid in his glass, saluted the empty air, and downed the remains.

  The rider rode through the gates of Southport without slowing. The guards had no trouble making out General Baneford’s colors and made no attempt to stop him. He rode hard until he reached the stables where all of the Duke’s cavalry horses were stabled. The lieutenant had strict orders from the General and hastened to ensure he carried them out.

  “Remove the tack from this animal and prepare me a fresh mount!” the lieutenant barked at the stablehands who jumped up to meet the rider.

  Lieutenant Desmonde strode into the barracks where he looked for the men General Baneford told him to seek out. He found two of the officers playing cards and motion
ed them over where they could converse privately. After relaying the message from General Baneford, the two officers ran off in search of the other men on the General’s list while Lieutenant Desmonde headed for the Duke’s treasury minister.

  He found the minister in his office pouring over tally sheets and accounting slips. He busily flicked the beads of an abacus as he wrote the sums in a thick ledger. When the minister finally looked up from his accounting book, Lieutenant Desmonde handed the hawk-nosed accountant the funds request signed and sealed by the General. The minister broke the wax seal and read the contents. His bushy grey eyebrows rose as he came to the sum requested.

  “That is a rather substantial amount, Lieutenant,” the treasurer said.

  “His Grace is anxious for the General to complete his mission, and General Baneford requires these funds to do so. His Grace was most adamant in his latest missive, but if you wish to delay me, the General, and the Duke even further with your dallying then let Ulric’s wrath fall on your head.” Lieutenant Desmonde showed him the angry letter Duke Ulric had written, clearly displaying his impatience.

  The clerk looked over the second letter and made his decision. “Please wait here. I will get the gold the General requires.”

  The clerk returned with two men carrying an ironbound chest. He opened the chest with a large key that he produced from the inside of his shirt and lifted the heavy lid. Lieutenant Desmonde could not hide his look of surprise at the amount of gold the chest contained.

  The treasury minister began piling gold crowns onto a large balance scale by the handful then set very precise weights on the other end until it balanced perfectly. The minister wrote the number down in his ledger, dumped the coins into a strong, canvas sack, and then repeated the process several more times until he pronounced that the entire requested sum had been distributed.

  The Lieutenant signed for the withdrawal, and with four small but heavy sacks of gold tucked under his arm, returned to the stables where he found nearly a hundred men mounted and ready to depart. He distributed the gold between the two other officers before handing another sealed letter to one of the stablehands.