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

by Brock Deskins

  “Where’s the coach?” Azerick asked, his words heavily slurred. “Peck? Peck!”

  The clattering of hooves and the squeaking of the carriage heralded Peck’s arrival. “I’m here, Master Azerick. I had to move the coach around to the side of the tavern.”

  Azerick waved off his explanation and tried to get in the coach but kept missing the footstep. “Damn it, Peck, hold the bloody coach still until I get in!”

  “Here, lemme help, Az,” Rusty offered and pushed him hard from behind.

  Azerick tumbled face first onto the floor of the coach, his legs hanging out of the door kicking as he dragged himself the rest of the way in. Rusty climbed over Azerick’s sprawled form and sat down heavily onto the seat. Azerick decided to stay right where he was, not trusting his balance with the rocking and spinning coach. The motion got even worse as Peck actually started the coach moving and took the two mages home.

  The Rook watched the sorcerer’s escapades and laughed to himself thinking how much easier his target was making it for him. He retrieved his mount, a spirited, solid black stallion with white around his ankles. The assassin rode well behind the coach. He knew where they were going, so he did not need to keep them in sight.

  The Rook had made a few discreet inquiries and found that the magus ran some sort of orphanage or school. He pulled off the road when he heard the coach come to a stop and tied his mount in a stand of trees. He could just barely make out the dark silhouette of the keep and its surrounding wall as he moved closer through the woods.

  Peck jumped down from the driver’s bench and opened the coach door.

  Azerick looked up at Peck from where he lay on floor. “Oh, hi, Peck. Shouldn’t you be driving?” the intoxicated sorcerer asked.

  “The coach is stopped, Master Azerick, and we’re home.”

  “It is? We are? It does not feel like it, Peck. Are you trying to trick me?”

  “No, Master Azerick, we’re in front of the door.”

  Azerick sighed. “All right then, I’ll get out.”

  Azerick slid out of the door like a snake, head first, and tumbled down the two iron steps and onto the cobblestones. Rusty laughed hysterically and nearly joined his friend on the ground, but quick reflexes and a lot of luck enabled him to grab onto a handle and keep himself from falling the entire way down.

  Rusty got his feet under him, as well as Azerick’s hand, and stumbled toward the door. Peck grabbed Azerick by the arm and helped lift him up off the ground.

  Azerick stared Peck in the eyes and smiled. “Oh, hi, Peck. Are we home yet?”

  “Yes, Master Azerick.”

  “Oh, good. You’re a good kid, Peck. You’re like the—the—stableboy I never had,” Azerick said and burst out laughing. “Just kidding, you’re a good kid.”

  “Look at you two! You should be ashamed of yourselves,” one of the nursemaids scolded them as they stumbled into the keep. “You both wait here while I go get someone to help you to your rooms.”

  She returned a few moments later with Jansen. “Take these two upstairs,” she instructed the bodyguard.

  Jansen slipped one of their arms over each of his shoulders and half-carried them up the stairs.

  “Hey, where we going? My room is down here,” Rusty slurred.

  “Not tonight it’s not,” the nursemaid informed him. “Your wife is exhausted and asleep right now. I’ll not have her disturbed by her drunken husband. You can sleep it off in your man’s room.”

  Rusty tried to protest, but it was too hard to form a coherent argument, so he just let Jansen help him upstairs. Jansen dumped Rusty onto his bed before helping Azerick to his room. Azerick assured him he could make it the rest of the way once they reached the door. Azerick pushed open the door, staggered toward his bed, and fell across it sideways with his legs hanging over the side.

  ***

  The Rook watched the keep for another two hours before he stalked closer to the walls. There were no guards, not that he thought an orphanage would bother unless to keep the children from running off. He found that the wall was not even complete. Parts of the wall were newly built and expanded much further out than the original wall had. Apparently, to make room for the newer buildings he saw in various stages of construction.

  The assassin pondered the best way into the keep. He preferred going in through windows. His magical gloves and shoes made scaling the walls almost as easy as walking a flight of stairs. The problem was that whoever built this keep must have had the possibility of wall-climbing intruders in mind since all of the windows were rather narrow.

  There were also a large number of people on the grounds that could make a great deal of noise if they saw him. Fortunately, no one sees the Rook unless he wants them to. Most of them seemed to be housed in the outbuildings and not in the keep itself. It was not a large place compared to castle Brightridge or any of the other castles belonging to the other dukes of the kingdom.

  It should not be difficult to find the wizard. They always warded their doors, which only served to keep out riffraff and to alert other magic-wielding people of their presence. There was not a ward made, at least that he has encountered, that could keep him out.

  The Rook crossed the open ground, sticking to the shadows cast by all of the new buildings and sidled around to the kitchen entrance. The door was barred from the inside but was not warded. It was a simple obstacle to overcome. The Rook slipped a thin, flexible piece of metal from inside his cloak and slipped it between the door and the jam. Just as he had hoped, it was a simple drop down crossbar. He eased the metal slat up and felt the bar rise above its bracket and gently pushed the door open, being careful not let the bar fall and make a racket.

  The Rook pushed the door back shut and gently laid the bar in its cradle. Three doors led off from the kitchen. The first one probably led to a cellar, the second would be the kitchen staff’s quarters or a pantry, and the third should lead to a hallway or a dining hall. These deductions were easy to make for the Rook. He knew that keeps and castles were generally built to maximize space, and one could discern the general layout by studying the outside shape of the building.

  He crossed the room and cracked open the door, peering through before opening it wider and entering. The assassin found himself in the dining room. The kitchen had been completely dark, but here and there, a glass globe shone with a soft light. It did not flicker like an oil lamp, so it must be magical. The Rook did not require such a telltale as that, his luminous azure eyes could discern most traces of magic with a glance.

  He exited the dining hall and stepped into the large entrance hall. It too was dimly lit with the glass globes surrounding two large chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. An open passage with stairs descending to the basement stood off to his left. The far door on the other side of the room probably led to the outside. A large staircase spiraled up on this side of the entrance hall further to his left leading to the upper levels of the tower.

  A slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The assassin froze and slowly turned his head until he could make out what he had seen. To his left near the fireplace lay a dog watching him intently. At least he thought it was a dog. If it was, it was the ugliest damn beast he had ever seen. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows. The dog dropped its head back onto its paws and closed its eyes, apparently not terribly interested in the intruder.

  The Rook crept toward the stairs, discounting the likelihood of the wizard residing in the basement and spotted another door just beyond the stairwell. There was a good chance that could be the wizard’s chambers and crept closer.

  The assassin pictured the shape of the keep in his mind. From this, he was able to construct a rough floor plan. This should be the largest room in the citadel and would normally belong to the master of the keep, but it did not radiate any wards.

  The door was unlocked, and the Rook’s unnatural eyes pierced the darkness. There was a single form lying in the bed under the blankets as well as anoth
er on a pallet near the wall. A crib, bassinette, and a cradle also decorated the room. He could see the bundled form of the infant lying in the cradle. It was not the wizard’s room. It must be Cossington’s room. Either the woman made her man sleep on the floor for being drunk, or it was possibly the nursemaid.

  The assassin mounted the stairs and began ascending them. The infants made him nervous. He had heard in the tavern that the woman had just given birth to them earlier today, and they would wake up squalling all through the night. That meant he needed to be done with this job all the more swiftly.

  His boots also helped keep his movements unheard as he hurried up the stairs. There were two rooms on the first landing, but neither was warded, so he passed them by. There were two doors on the third landing, and one of them tingled with the obvious effects of a ward. The ward was not as strong as the one on the headmaster’s window, but it was cleverly done. The wizard must possess great skill for what should be rather limited power given his age.

  The Rook bent his will to the task of disabling or disassembling the ward on the door. It was only set to secure the door and warn the wizard of anyone entering without permission, but its construction was unusual. The assassin had made wards a major focus of his magical studies, but this one was crafted completely different from any he had dealt with before. It did not matter in the end. No ward could keep the Rook from his chosen target.

  Within minutes, the assassin managed to unravel the ward in a manner that should not have alerted the mage who was hopefully inside. He cast a globe of silence around himself but not to mask his movements but to prevent the wizard from being able to cast most any spells in which to defend himself just in case he woke before the assassin could take his life.

  The Rook eased inside, stepping cautiously out of habit even though his globe of silence would mask any sound he made no matter how loud. He found the mage sprawled sideways across the bed deep in a drunken stupor. The assassin sighed, almost feeling disappointed that the fool had made it so easy on him.

  I believe it is about time to retire, he thought to himself.

  He had peaked. He had become such a master assassin that there was no longer even the slightest bit of challenge. Even his hanging crossbow shot that killed Brightridge’s chamberlain barely got his blood pumping. The Rook slid his knife from its sheath and approached the unconscious wizard.

  I cannot even get him to look me in the eye before I kill him, he thought despondently.

  He raised his blade, aiming at a point between the ribs so his knife would pierce the heart. Just as he was about to strike, an incredibly sharp pain in his right kidney area dropped him to his knees with an inaudible hiss of agony. A gnarly, calloused hand wrapped around the assassin’s mouth as a needle sharp blade pierced the back of his neck at the base of his skull.

  Cerulean sparks crackled along the magnificent blade that Azerick had given him as it easily slipped through the formidable magical shields in which the assassin wrapped himself.

  Oblivion washed across the most deadly assassin in the known world. It was probably fortunate that his death came almost instantaneously, for had he known that he, the ever-feared Rook, had been brought down by a lowly goblin, his soul would likely have languished in undeath for an eternity.

  “Mustn’t disturb the master,” Grick whispered as he pulled his wonderful blade out of the back of the assassin’s neck. “You one heavy rat,” the goblin complained as he dragged the assassin out of his master’s bedroom by the legs.

  ***

  Azerick woke the next morning to a massive headache and a queasy stomach. Nothing a little tea and a bit of healing draught will not cure, he thought as he got up and stretched out the kinks in his muscles.

  He stood near the end of his bed and bent down to touch his toes. A large red spot on the floor, like spilled wine only darker, caught his eye and he took a closer look. Straightening back up, he walked a bit unsteadily down the stairs and into the kitchen. Agnes and several other women and young girls were preparing meals for everyone to break their fast. Azerick was surprised to find Grick eating at the small table in the kitchen.

  “Good morn to you, Grick. I am surprised to see you still up this late,” Azerick greeted the little goblin.

  Grick grunted. “Very busy last night.”

  “Grick, did you see anything unusual last night?”

  Grick grunted again and shrugged his shoulders. “Big rat give Grick some trouble.”

  Azerick forced his angry, rebellious brain to work harder despite the pain. “Was the big rat in my room?”

  “Yeah, but not four legged kind—two legged.”

  “And where is the big, two legged rat now?”

  A shrill cry came from upstairs. Azerick figured it was one of the housekeepers.

  Grick took another sip of his coffee. “Put in Grick’s room. Too heavy to take outside. Grick get big human help to drag to trash heap when finished eating.”

  “How about you and I go take a look at him after I have some tea,” Azerick told Grick who simply shrugged and drank his coffee.

  The cleaning woman bounded down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. “Master Azerick, there is a dead man in the—in his room!” the woman exclaimed, barely able to keep from shouting hysterically.

  “It is all right. I am aware of it, and Grick and I are going to take care of it. Why don’t you sit down and, once you are calm, go ahead and take the rest of the day off.”

  The woman took a seat on a stool next to one of the kitchen counters while Agnes poured her some tea and tried to calm her down. Azerick was already feeling better by the time he finished his potion-spiked tea and had Grick lead him upstairs to his room where he had stashed the body.

  “What can you tell me about what he did last night, Grick?” Azerick asked as he examined the body.

  “Grick see him come through dining hall. He go in baby room with mother and nurse woman, but come back out quick. Then he go upstairs and do stuff outside your door,” Grick explained, waving his long arms and wriggling his fingers in a parody of spell casting. “Then he go in master’s chambers and look at you. He pull big knife out and make to stab you. His eyes glow all blue, then Grick stab big rat man inna back then inna neck with pretty blade master give Grick. It go all sparkly when Grick stab him, and then his eyes glow no more. Grick do good for master?”

  “You did very well, Grick. You saved my life.”

  The goblin bobbed his head up and down. “That good. Grick like job and nice room with much food to eat.”

  Azerick gave the goblin’s scrawny shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Grick will always have his job and nice room for as long as I am master of this tower.”

  “Good, Grick work extra hard, make sure master not get killed for long long time.”

  Azerick gazed at the face looking up with sightless eyes from within the dark cowl. The man had a thin, almost gaunt face with a sharp patrician’s nose and a narrow chin. The eyes that once blazed with an azure aura were now a lifeless yet still sparkling ice blue. Azerick cast a minor spell and examined the assassin’s body and belongings.

  Several items radiated with an aura of magic that only the sorcerer’s temporarily augmented sight could detect. He stripped off the man’s shoes, gloves, and cloak and searched through his pockets. Other than a strange black gem, he found little else other than a few thieving implements. His knife, cloak clasp, and a few rings also glowed with an aura of magic, all of which Azerick would deposit in his vault for later study.

  Once he was finished, he went and found a few workers to take the body outside and cremate it far away from the citadel grounds. Rumors of the dead not staying buried made burning a much wiser course of action. Azerick sat at the dining table drinking tea and nibbling at a piece of fresh bread, lost in thought. He heard the wail of his godchildren as they demanded to be fed.

  He was in their room last night, Azerick thought angrily. They could have been hurt or Colleen or Rusty because this man wante
d me dead for some reason.

  Azerick could tell that the man was a hired professional. The killer himself likely had no interest in him beyond completing a job for which he had been hired. Who hired him and why? Azerick could not bear the thought of any of his friends being hurt or killed because of him. He had lost far too many people he cared about over the years, and he was not going to lose any more.

  Did it have anything to do with the artifacts his father had been killed for? Azerick thought of the man his former master had been talking with before he fled The Academy. He was in search of the artifacts. Was it the same man? Were they connected? There could be a link, and the only way to find out would be to confront Devlin, his old master.

  ***

  General Baneford strode before his newest troops, looking them over and finding most of them thoroughly undesirable, but he would change that. He had spent a great deal of the winter holed up in the ruins of an old citadel that looked over the stony plains just a day’s ride from the badlands.

  Once the weather became more favorable, he sent men out to the towns looking for recruits. He had thirty-four horses that needed men to ride them, but he was not so desperate as to hire just any petty thug or bloodthirsty mercenary.

  “You men were approached and chosen by my officers for two reasons; you knew how to fight, and you looked like you had enough discipline to follow orders. If either of those attributes does not accurately describe you, then you had best leave now, because lacking in either one will most assuredly get you killed; the former by your enemy and the latter by me!

  “I am a fair man and a disciplined man, and I demand the same from my men. We are not a band of cutthroats, rapists, and murderers. I am a professional, my men are professionals, and you will all conduct yourselves as professionals. My justice is swift and severe, and I play no favorites. Many of you may have worked as mercenaries. We are not mercenaries, and we are not for hire. You will be paid according to your rank and time in service as well as a percentage of any spoils we may acquire.