“You are to ensure the Duke himself gets this letter no sooner than one hour from now,” he ordered the groom. “If you cannot deliver it yourself, then get one of the Duke’s pages to bring it to him, but no one but the Duke is allowed to read it. I have men watching you. If you try to deliver the message before an hour has expired, I have given them orders to kill you. Do you understand?”
The groom swallowed hard and nodded. The young man sat down nervously, and the soldiers rode out into the night. The stablehand waited nearly two hours before he moved from his stool just to be certain enough time had passed.
He walked slowly to the castle where a pair of guards stopped him at the large door leading inside. One of the guards called for a page and waited. Within moments, a young man came to the door where the groom gladly passed along the letter addressed to Duke Ulric.
The page sprinted down the corridor with the missive in hand until he came to a stop in front of the Duke’s study. Taking a deep breath, he rapped loudly three times on the dark mahogany doors and waited for permission to enter. The page pulled down on the brightly polished brass door handle and walked in. Duke Ulric stood in front of a large stone fireplace burning brightly and filling the study with its warmth. Another man was standing nervously a few feet away.
“My Lord Duke, I have a message for you from General Baneford,” the page recited formally.
Ulric motioned for the page to bring it to him and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. As soon as the page left and closed the door, Duke Ulric turned back the travel-worn man.
“Now explain to me exactly how you and your men bungled a simple kidnapping,” the Duke demanded menacingly.
The bandit leader cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Everything was going exactly to plan, Your Grace. We disabled the coach and killed most of the guards within seconds, but then a wizard attacked my men and me. We tried to slay him as well, but he was exceptionally powerful, and he killed nearly all of my men with magical lightning and hellfire.”
“Get out of my sight, you useless sack of excrement before I lose what little patience I have left and have you strung up and beaten to death!” the Duke seethed.
The bandit leader made a hasty bow and fled from the room.
Duke Ulric hoped the General was going to tell him his mission was almost complete. He was in far too foul a mood to read anything else. He broke the wax seal and read its contents. The more he read the redder his face became. By the time he reached the end of the message, his hands shook and his eyes bulged in rage.
The guard raced down the hall in search of the Duke’s chamberlain. He pounded furiously on the chamberlain’s door until it opened.
“What is all this commotion?” Alton demanded.
“Milord, the Duke is in a rage, and we do not know what to do,” the guard stammered.
“What has happened?”
“I know not, milord. The Duke received a missive, and since then we have heard only shouting and destruction from within His Grace’s study.”
Alton lifted the hem of his robe and walked as swiftly as his old legs would carry him toward Ulric’s study. As he drew near, he could hear the Duke’s shouts of outrage and fury and the crashing of furniture. Lord Alton reached out tentatively for the door handle when the door suddenly swung inward with a crash. Duke Ulric stalked out, cursing, tearing down tapestries, paintings, and kicking over planters as he unleashed his rage down the hallway.
The chamberlain crept into the study and gasped in shock as he beheld the level of destruction. Not a single book remained on the shelves. Several of the bookshelves themselves lay toppled onto the floor amidst the scattered books they once held.
The curtains and tapestries once decorating the walls were all torn down, paintings had been slashed, and the furniture had been hacked apart with one of the decorative weapons that once hung on the walls but were now strewn about the destroyed study. Lord Alton saw a piece of parchment bearing a broken seal sticking out from under a pile of books and pulled it out. He quickly recognized it as a missive from General Baneford.
Duke Ulric of Southport,
For fifteen years, I have been your ever-loyal commander of forces. In that time, I have carried out every command you have issued without failure or question, no matter how dubious that order may have been.
For the past six years, my men and I have scoured the countryside on your orders so that you may ascend the throne and rule over all of Valeria. I have raided tombs, delved through caverns, and killed the King’s own guards to recover your precious armor so that you may usurp the King for his throne. I have watched many of my men die valiantly in the name of your cause, yet all I have ever received from you was complaint after complaint for how long it was taking me to secure your throne.
Well, no more. No more will I squander the lives of my men. No longer will I trek about swamps and wastelands for your cause. I am close to completing the suit so that its full power may be used, but it will not be for your benefit. You want to be king? You are welcome to that headache, but you can do it on your own merits, without my help and without your precious artifact. I will use the power the armor provides to carve out my own little fiefdom. The only way I will ever give you Dundalor’s armor is if I come back to Southport and shove it up your arse one piece at a time!
General Ronald Baneford
Commander, Baneford’s Brood
Lord Alton covered his mouth with a trembling hand at the words written on the parchment. He could not believe the General had turned his back on his lord and master like that. He also never knew the General had such an artistic talent, for at the bottom of the page were several detailed sketches of the General carrying out his final threat. The likenesses were quite uncanny, although the chamberlain knew them to be physically impossible.
Lord Alton ordered the guards to round up some servants to clean and repair the study as best they could and warned them all to avoid the Duke at all costs for the next few days until he was able to speak with His Grace. Even Lord Alton was not about to approach the Ulric while he was in this state. The chamberlain sighed, stepped over the mounds of destruction, and went to mitigate whatever damage he could.
EPILOGUE
Six dark figures dressed in black robes with hoods concealing their features sat around a circular table somewhere deep underground. Crypts lined the walls holding the bones of those who had once walked the lands a very long time ago. The air was dry and full of dust, and the only sounds were those made by the six gathered around the raised stone disc.
“How much longer must we live with this abomination upon the throne?” one of the cloaked figures demanded.
“Patience, all is continuing as planned, albeit not as fast as we had hoped. These things cannot be rushed. All of the pieces must be gathered for a smooth transition,” another replied.
“I am growing less certain of Duke Ulric’s ability to accomplish his task. What of General Baneford? His man holds several pieces of Dundalor's Armor. What is to keep him from acquiring the entire set and seeking the throne himself?”
“His Grace has assured us that he has the General’s utmost loyalty. Besides, without the backing of the church, any claim he attempted to make would be wrought with strife even with the artifact. Nor does he have the army needed to try to take the throne by force.”
“With the armor he would be an army unto himself, if the legends hold true.”
“The armor does not make one as invincible as the legends make it sound, although he would most certainly be a formidable force. Obviously, the last person to don the armor was defeated, hence it ordered scattered throughout the realm. No, the greatest difficulty would be if General Baneford withheld the armor for ransom, and considering what is at stake, it should be no problem to grant whatever he wished, within reason. The General is a commoner, and anything he would desire would likely be common as well. Gold, women, a title of nobility; these things would be a small price to pay, and given his years of f
aithful service in fulfilling his task, I see no reason not to grant it. We might convince the Duke to preempt such treasonous thoughts by hinting at the rewards awaiting him upon completion of his task.”
“But how much longer must we abide this bastard king? He is an embarrassment to the kingdom! What if Duke Ulric fails? What if we cannot find the final pieces? Are our men in place to take the throne by force?”
“We have multiple agents already in place. We will continue to replace men loyal to the King with our own as swiftly as we can. When the time comes, the transition should be relatively bloodless as long as Ulric succeeds on his end. Should he fail, the coup will be more difficult, and much more blood will be shed, but it will be a small price to pay for our kingdom’s dignity.”
“Despite a few minor setbacks, we will accomplish our goals. It is the will of our sun lord.”
“Speaking of our shining lord’s will, what of these tales of undead? Many claims have now been substantiated by our own people and can no longer be dismissed as folk tales.”
“Indeed. Begin sending out our members trained to deal with such things. In the coming times, it is more important than ever for the people to see us as a symbol of strength and reliability.”
“Blessed is the light of Solarian,” everyone around the table chanted in unison.
The End
Book 3
The Sorcerer’s Legacy
CHAPTER 1
Azerick grasped the bars set in the wooden door of the cell, screaming and wrenching on them with all his strength as the man advanced upon his father, knife in hand.
The door gave way and Azerick rushed in to find the room in the grips of an inferno. Flames licked at nearly every surface of the wooden structure. Terrified screams caught his attention, and he turned to find Jon and the others huddled in the far corner of the room.
Azerick called for them to flee, but when he turned back around, the door was shut tight and refused to open. He threw his shoulder into the barrier over and over as the flames consumed everything in the room.
The door finally surrendered to his abuse and he crashed through it into another room where the drunken sailor was about to plunge a knife into his mother. He tried to run but moved as if he were in waist-high water. He threw himself at the man, but instead of barreling into him, Azerick flew up into the air, leaving the city far below.
Azerick flew so high that the city was lost in the darkness of the night. A bright white brilliance put everything into stark contrast and nearly blinded him. An enormous blast leveled everything for miles around. Azerick felt the force of the explosion strike him like a wave of water, but instead of the expected thunderous boom, he heard the death cries of thousands of souls. Azerick awoke to those cries mixed with the faint sound of a woman’s laughter.
Had anyone ever experienced so much, suffered so much, and lost so much in so few years? In the last few years of his nineteen—or was it twenty now—years of life, he had lost his home, family, more friends than he cared to remember, and his wife and unborn child. He was possibly wanted for murdering the son of a powerful nobleman. Was it murder? Did it even matter whether or not it was? Certainly not to Travis and probably not to his father Lord Beaumonte.
The young sorcerer had been enslaved and turned into a pet to fight for the pleasure of a powerful and sinister creature imagined only in the most horrifying of nightmares. He managed to escape the psyling’s control but at the cost of his wife and child.
He had also found stalwart friends in the men he sailed with and who he helped lead to freedom. He found friends in the dwarves who took him in and exchanged knowledge. Now he had a home, but not only was it a decrepit ruin, it was haunted by a spirit mourning for the loss of her family.
All these thoughts led to Azerick’s uneasy sleep that night. The faces of friends and family, both living and dead, haunted his dreams. It made him question what he really wanted in his life. Until recently, that answer had been easy—revenge. But his stay with Duncan and even the year he spent teaching herb lore to Anna had shown him that a life of peace and learning could be had. It could even be rewarding. Perhaps he should let go of the past; it only seemed to bring more pain and destruction.
Azerick climbed out of his bed, sore and stiff. His back ached as he removed his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. The shirt showed no signs of damage even though four long, dark stripes decorated his back where the spectral claws had raked him. His lungs burned whenever he took a deep breath as if they had been frost burnt. Azerick now knew the extent of what he faced. Now came the tricky part of figuring out what to do about it.
He could simply fight the undead creature, but his mind thought of Delinda and their child she had been carrying. He knew the loss holding the spectre here in the world of the living and could not help but sympathize with her. He spent a good amount of the day pouring over his books in search of information that may help him solve this dilemma without having to destroy the distraught mother. Azerick found a few references to ghosts and haunting spirits, but the information they contained provided little insight to a solution.
He finally gave in to his stomach’s incessant demand for food and went down to the common room just in time for lunch. The inn was busy with its lunchtime customers appearing to be comprised mostly of the more prosperous storeowners and businessmen. With his new clothes, Azerick did not look completely out of place and drew no more stares than would any stranger to a new town. The woman who came to his table and took his order was older but still managed to maintain enough of her good looks that Azerick could see she was once a true beauty in her prime.
After a warm lunch, Azerick got directions to the only public library in the city. He made his way across the quarter and found the building easily enough. It was one of the grander structures even in this upper-class part of the city. Huge fluted columns lined the front, and sculpted sphinxes stood guard at the foot of the wide stairs leading up to the polished brass-plated doors.
Azerick was enthralled the moment he entered the grand building. Although he could espy some small, private reading rooms through arched doorways, the vast majority of the three-story structure was dedicated to books. Thousands of books and tomes sat in row after row upon shelves lining every inch of the colossal chamber. Polished wooden ladders set on casters allowed access to the higher shelves. A grand central stairway set in the center of the room spiraled up to each of the upper floors.
“You look a bit overwhelmed, young man. Perhaps I can assist you if you are looking for something in particular,” an aged voice croaked to his right.
Azerick turned and saw an old man in well-tailored robes, slightly hunched over, and staring at him through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
“This library is unbelievable. I thought the library at the Academy was extensive, but this is just incredible!”
The old man laid a withered hand on Azerick’s elbow and chuckled softly. “It has that effect on everyone who appreciates books the first time they lay their eyes on my library.”
“This is all yours?” Azerick asked incredulously then felt like a fool the instant the words left his mouth.
“Oh no, not mine personally, but I have been here since I was a boy even younger than you are now, young sir. I have been the master librarian for sixty-three years now, so I tend to refer to it in a possessive form. No, the library belongs to all who appreciate knowledge. Our Duchess’s great grandfather started it within the first few years of his reign, and it has been growing ever since. Of course, those of us with a bit of inside knowledge of certain original letters know that the true force behind its creation was his wife. You said you have seen the great library at The Academy did you?”
“Yes, sir, I was a student there for a short time,” Azerick replied.
“You seem strong enough for the Martial Academy, but I detect a brilliant spark of intellect in your eyes that suggests you were a student of the Scholar, or perhaps even the Magus Academy,” the librar
ian deduced.
This time it was Azerick’s turn to laugh politely with the old man. “You have a keen eye, Master Librarian. Were you not a scholar you likely would have made an excellent magistrate.”
The old man laughed hard enough to draw a few stares. “Oh I can just see me now, hunting down criminals in the streets of the rougher districts, wielding a sword in one hand and a book of law in another!” he cackled as he flourished his ebony cane like he was dueling a brigand. “Oh thank you, young man. I have not had a good laugh in some time. I fear I am becoming either senile or rude in my dotage. I am Morvic, Morvic the Master Librarian. Sounds impressive does it not—Master Librarian? My title and a few copper coins will get me a fresh baked roll on just about any street corner in the city.” Morvic chuckled once more.
“I am Azerick, Master Librarian, and you are most certainly not rude, and I sincerely doubt a speck of senility,” Azerick returned graciously.
“So tell me, young Azerick, and please call me Morvic, is that old coot Allister still grumbling about the Academy’s proud halls?”
“Yes Mas—er, Morvic. He is the one who pulled a few strings allowing me to attend, but he is not, well I mean to say that…” Azerick stumbled over how to respond politely.
“You mean he is not as old as the decrepit old fool with whom you are speaking?” Morvic cackled again and poked Azerick in the chest with a gnarly old finger. “That man was old when I met him seventy years ago when I was just an apprentice librarian, so don’t let him go and fool you! Anyway, enough of my babbling. I’m sure you came here for more important things than listening to me carry on.”
“Well, I was hoping to find some information on ghosts or restless spirits.”
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 66
