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

by Brock Deskins

  Ellyssa, Wolf, and Ghost sat around the large, flat-topped rock that served as Wolf’s dining table and licked the last of the apple filling from their fingers.

  “I can’t believe we ate that whole pie,” Wolf said.

  “I can’t believe you ate over half of it by yourself,” Ellyssa replied.

  “It wasn’t that big of a pie, and Ghost had a pretty big piece.”

  Ellyssa arched her eyebrows. “You ate half a chicken just before the pie!”

  “So, what magic has Azerick taught you?” Wolf asked, changing the subject of his eating habits.

  Ellyssa’s face lit up at the chance to talk about magic. Wolf knew Ellyssa would drop just about anything for a chance to talk about the things she had learned. Wolf often used it to get her to talk about something else when the current subject was distasteful to him.

  “Watch this!” Ellyssa exclaimed.

  She waved her hand, spoke some spidery words of magic, and the sticky filling and crumbs disappeared from her hands and face as if she had just washed.

  “Pretty neat, huh?”

  Wolf looked at her unimpressed. “I meant if you knew any useful magic. You just made yourself clean. I hardly call that useful.”

  “You wouldn’t, but you could sure use it,” she told Wolf, wrinkling her nose at his filthy countenance. “Fine, you want to see some real magic, stand back!”

  “I thought Azerick told you not to use magic without him being around?” Wolf knew how she got when she was riled up. Anything that made Wolf nervous was definitely a call for concern.

  “Azerick is just a worrywart. It’s just a little snowball spell.”

  Ellyssa found a lone tree in the midst of the clearing and began casting her spell. With a shout, she whipped her arm forward as if she was throwing a rock. A flickering orange sphere the size of an apple flew from her hand straight at the base of the tree standing ten yards in front of her.

  The moment Ellyssa released her spell she knew something had gone wrong. Instead of the ball of ice that should have splattered harmlessly against the tree trunk, it burst into a bright flash of fire.

  “Nice going, you set the tree on fire!”

  “It was an accident! It was supposed to be a ball of ice!”

  “You are going to be in so much trouble when Azerick finds out.”

  “You better not tell on me!”

  Wolf crossed his arms defiantly. “Or what?”

  Ellyssa glared at the half-elf. “Or I’ll use my cleaning spell on you!”

  Wolf’s jaw dropped open, aghast at the threat. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “And I’ll tell Azerick you started the fire cooking up some rat you caught.”

  “I don’t eat rats, and I don’t set trees on fire when I cook!”

  Ellyssa crossed her arms and turned away petulantly. “He will believe me over you. I’m his apprentice, not you.” She stuck her tongue out at him over her shoulder.

  “He’ll believe me because I saved his life once, and he knows you are a big fat liar!” Wolf shouted at her back.

  “No he doesn’t!”

  “Yes he does, he told me. And he said you were ugly.”

  Ellyssa spun around and glared at Wolf. “No he didn’t, now you’re lying!”

  Wolf turned away and put his back to her. “Yep, he told me he bought you because he thought you were a monkey in a dress and it made him laugh.”

  Wolf heard her shout some unintelligible words and felt a tingling all over his body. Frightened, he looked at his hands and bare arms and felt his face.

  “You cleaned me!” he shouted in horror.

  “You needed it. You smell worse than a midden heap,” Ellyssa said nastily.

  “That’s it, I’m telling!” Wolf threatened and began running toward the tower with Ghost loping at his heels.

  “You better not!” Ellyssa shouted and chased after him.

  The young wizard had no chance of catching the fleet-footed half-elf much less getting to the keep ahead of him. It did not matter. As Wolf ran past the wall, men were already running toward the fire, which was now a blazing inferno rising above the treetops, with shovels, pickaxes, and buckets of sand.

  ***

  King Jarvin sat in his study, his highly agitated state obvious to his two senior advisors. The few years of his contentious reign was evident in every grey hair on his head and the deep creases in his face despite having just reached the dawn of his fortieth year.

  “What news have we of the acquisition of Dundalor’s armor?” Jarvin asked his advisors.

  “Ours or theirs?” Bishop Caalendor asked his liege.

  “Either!” the King barked in frustration.

  “I have received word from one of my more remote monasteries that a large contingent of armed men did indeed find and take the piece entrusted to them.”

  King Jarvin’s face turned scarlet. “A piece was in one of YOUR abbeys and you did not tell me?”

  It was the portly head of the church’s turn to flush. “Your Majesty, I did not know. Such information was never recorded by order of King Archibald himself when he commanded the pieces scattered. It is that fact that has us chasing after rumors. There simply is little else on which to go.”

  “Then tell me how the blazes this man found out about it!”

  The bishop shrugged. “He had a better rumor.”

  The King ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, flicking several loose strands to the floor. “Do we know who these men were; who led them?”

  “Not with any certainty, Your Majesty. The description fits General Baneford, Duke Ulric’s man, but I have not been able to confirm this.”

  “Ulric again. That man is beyond contemptible. What of our men inside his castle, can they confirm anything? I would be loath to provoke a battle with the Duke even with evidence. Without it, such is not even an option.”

  The bishop shook his head again. “Our spies have reported nothing. The few correspondences they have seen have not even hinted at any attempt to recover the artifact. General Baneford has not been seen in Southport in several years, so even if it were him seeking the pieces, Duke Ulric can deny any involvement. I imagine the General’s discharge papers were signed and placed on file long ago.”

  The King turned and addressed the other man in the room. “What of The Academy? Have any of the magi there been approached for aid in seeking out the armor?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Magus Illifan replied.

  “Forgive my skepticism, Magus, but what kind of cooperation do you think I or one of my agents would get from The Academy, seeing as how it is under the thumb of the man most likely to oppose me?”

  Magus Illifan cleared his throat before answering. “The Academy maintains its neutrality despite its location. It is an institution for all of Valeria after all.”

  “As is the Church,” the Bishop chimed in.

  The king wheeled on the Bishop. “Speaking of the Church, some rather disturbing words have reached my ears.”

  “What words would those be, Your Highness?”

  “Tales of the dead rising and terrorizing my citizens, and if that weren’t bad enough, your church has been laying the blame at my feet! Explain that to me, Bishop.”

  The clergyman had the decency to look contrite before answering. “There are indeed dark tidings across the land, Your Majesty. The peasants are quick to place blame, largely following local superstitions.”

  “They are repeating the words of your priests! They are claiming that my heritage is the cause!”

  “The teachings of Solarian tell us that man is the blood of the world, and if the blood of man is tainted so shall it taint the land. The king is the ultimate representative of the land. The priests may interpret Solarian’s words one way, while the peasants may interpret the same words or even the words of the priests, another.”

  “And what do you say, Bishop? What do you counsel your flock and priests regarding my blood?”

  “Your Maj
esty, I have been your faithful advisor since your coronation and your father’s for two decades before you.”

  Jarvin sighed and nodded. “Forgive me. This is all most distressing. Please have your priests remind the people that I am born of a man and a woman just as they are, and my father was the king before me. That is all the legitimacy I and the land require.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me what the Church is doing to combat this undead issue, and what can I do to assist?”

  “I have sent as many priests out as I can spare to consecrate the cemeteries. I have also sent out teams of Solarian’s Light to the most affected areas to lay any undead back to rest. Unfortunately, there are more burial sites than I have priests, and even fewer of Solarian’s Light, so it will take some time.”

  “Do what you can, Bishop.”

  “Of course, Highness. If you no longer need me, I shall go attend to my duties.”

  Jarvin nodded and turned to the magus when the priest left the room. “Aeger, can you petition The Academy to send wizards to help the Church put down any undead uprisings?”

  “I will certainly send the request, but the ranks at the Academy are rather thin. The war with Sumara has devastated their members to the point it could take decades at the very least to recover a shadow of their former numbers.”

  “Do what you can, and tell them that any help is greatly appreciated. It is bad enough I am plagued with usurpers, I don’t need my people living in fear of something like this as well.”

  The weight of responsibility and treachery was heavy upon his shoulders. It was no secret that someone was actively pursuing his throne, but whom, and how many, was still a mystery. Jarvin knew that he could probably execute ten of his ranking nobles and be confident that eight of them were guilty of actively plotting his overthrow. Some kings might do exactly that in his position. But he would not. He would show his people that he was a man of decency who would lead with honor and integrity, even if it killed him, which it probably would.

  What was even more nerve-wracking was the absolute failure of his most skilled and trusted people in finding a single piece of the fabled armor that helped establish the first line of succession. Many expeditions had not even made it back to report on their failure. Given the secrecy surrounding these expeditions, this spoke of traitors within his castle and very close to him. Jarvin set his glass on the small table next to him and scrubbed his face with his hand. He massaged his temples, ran his hand through his hair, and sighed exhaustedly.

  “Aeger, I fear there are spies highly placed within my castle and command. It is inconceivable that so many parties of such skill and loyalty seem to vanish.”

  “I am sad to say you likely have the right of it, Jarvin,” the senior counselor replied, taking a cue from his liege that formalities of title were not necessary.

  “So what shall I do? How do I know whom I can trust? How do I go about ordering these expeditions without half the castle knowing about it?”

  “I do not know, Jarvin. Even within your most elite of guards and soldiers, there are chains of command, supply requisitions and such that anyone even close to your inner sphere can pass on to your enemies. The only way around that is to create a small, special group of highly skilled soldiers who are completely unaffiliated with any of the castle staff and who operate with complete autonomy. The problem there lies in the fact that it would be nearly impossible to find enough people with the requisite skills and whose loyalty is unquestionable. Anyone pulled from your current pool of elite guards could be a traitor, and we simply do not have the time to train a group with no affiliations.”

  Jarvin tapped a finger against his lips as he thought. “When I was growing up, I loved to listen to the stories of heroes and adventures. They were always few but managed to achieve greatness beyond belief. They slew dragons, delved into crypts haunted by things of nightmare, yet they always managed to triumph. Whatever happened to those, Aeger?”

  “Well, I would first tell you that beyond belief is likely the right of it. You know how stories grow with each retelling. As for the real adventurers, they died out long before even I was born. The lands are settled, its mysteries largely uncovered. There’s likely not a square mile of the kingdom that hasn’t been trod upon. To put it bluntly, no one has done that sort of thing in over a century.”

  The King sighed. “I suppose you are right. It is a shame. I could really use someone like that right now.”

  ***

  “I’m startin’ to have real doubts about this whole adventuring thing,” Borik said over the top of his mug.

  Borik Deepstone was, at first appearance, your typically squat, dour, strong-armed, hardheaded dwarf. He kept his long, reddish brown beard tucked into his broad belt from which hung a large assortment of weapons and smaller tools. He had only two facial expressions that even his closest companions ever saw: thoughtful and contemplative or perturbed and grumpy. Right now, as was his favorite, he was perturbed and grumpy.

  “What do you mean?” Maude asked.

  Maude was an unusual woman. She drank, fought, and cursed as well as any man, often going to great lengths to surpass them in these pursuits. When not encased in her armor, she had a plain face, thick neck, broad shoulders from which sprouted lean but very strong arms, a surprisingly narrow waist that quickly expanded into broad hips and muscular thighs.

  Her name was Maudeline Ballister though some referred to her as Maude Ballbuster, but those who knew her never said it within her hearing. Any drunken louts who made the mistake of allowing her to overhear the nickname soon found themselves leaving with far fewer teeth than when they had arrived.

  “I mean nobody does this kinda stuff anymore, and I’m startin’ to see why. It's been four months since we've had so much as a whiff of a job! That kobold den we flushed out didn't even turn up enough loot to pay for food and damage to our weapons. We been running around like idiots for more’n three years, and the only thing we’ve found remotely interesting is that!” Borik complained, jabbing a stubby finger at the elf, Tarth.

  “You leave Tarth alone!” Maude warned. “He is special and part of the team and I like him.”

  “He’s special all right, kicked in the head by a mule special.”

  Tarthanalis Moonglow was a thin elven wizard who was unusual even for his reclusive race. He was tall and lean, dressed in flowing robes of colorful silks, and walked the world as though in a semi-dream state. He lined his eyes in coal and often powdered his face due to his extreme vanity. He was currently engrossed in coloring his long fingernails. Using his magic, he touched his index finger to a fingernail and held it out for study. He often used his magic to color coordinate his hair and nails with whatever outfit he was wearing. Both were currently sea green. Tarth looked up at the mention of his name then went back to his accessorizing.

  "Give me some time, dwarf! Do you think there's treasure just lying in some cave a day’s walk in every direction sitting there waiting for someone to find it?" the big warrior woman asked heatedly.

  "As much as I am loath to agree with the dwarf, he is right. We need to come up with something before winter sets in. I hate adventuring in the freezing cold and rain on an empty stomach," Malek chimed in.

  Malek Barthalis was a cleric of Solarian, god of morning, bringer of light, destroyer of shadows. His shoulder-length blond hair, fair skin, and deep blue eyes had been the primary factor in the nearly sixty percent increase in attendance of church services by female parishioners while he attended seminary. As much as the elder priests appreciated the renewed interest in their churchgoers during religious sermons, they did not appreciate the increased attendance of private services the young novitiate gave in the evenings and often throughout the day as well.

  This led to his elder brethren to send him on sabbatical upon completion of his seminary schooling with the primary assignment of ridding Valeria’s alleged plague of undead and the secondary job of bringing the word of Solarian to th
e masses. And bring word to the masses he did; particularly the female masses.

  "What do you think, Tarth?" Maude asked the mage.

  "I think my slippers do not match my fingernails," the elf said dreamily, holding his slipper-shod foot up near his hand on the barroom table.

  "Wow, thanks for that insightful input, Tarth. I don't know what we would ever do without your contributions to our talks of impending financial crisis," Borik said, at which Tarth simply tilted his head and smiled vacuously.

  Maude ignored Tarth and turned her attention back to Borik. “What would you have us do, Borik? You want to return to your mountains and dig tunnels all day? Maybe you want to get a real job working the docks or something?”

  “I’m not saying anything like that! I’m just saying nobody does this anymore and this is why.”

  “Of course people still do this. If no one still does it, why is there an adventurer’s guild?”

  “Guild, ha! A run down tavern where half a dozen old drunks tell each other lies about stuff they never did. That’ll be us one day, sittin’ around, drinking cheap swill, and telling a new bunch of idiots the same lies we heard. Bah!”

  "Pardon me, my Lords and Lady, but did I hear you say you were adventurers? Heroes like in the tales?" a comely serving girl asked the group.

  Malek put on his most charming smile. "I am a hero, my dear lady, while they are mere adventurers. What can we do for you?"

  She looked around furtively before answering. "It's the laird of our poor town, sirs. He is an evil man who taxes us into poverty and jails and flogs those who cannot pay. Mayhap you can rid us of the evil beast?"

  "If he is the legal laird of Duskshire, then there is nothing we can do. We are not assassins," Maude explained.

  "But he is most foul and has lived an unnaturally long life. I think he practices dark magics that surely the King frowns upon."

  "Aye, he's an evil one for certain," an old crone shouted across the common room. She stood up and hobbled over to where the four companions sat. "He practices magic most foul, magic that requires the blood of goats, sheep, and sometimes men, women, and children."