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

by Brock Deskins

  Somehow, Azerick knew that his teacher was telling him the truth. It would be illogical for Sumara to support the overthrow of the King who ended the war between them and their northern neighbors.

  “Then I have come to a dead end,” Azerick said despondently.

  “Not necessarily, and I am severely loath to tell you this, but you have a right to know. I have discovered someone who is betraying your king and helping those that would usurp him. If the assassin is working for the same men, then he probably has at least some of the answers you are looking for.”

  “If you know who he is, then why have you not stopped him, or at least told King Jarvin?”

  “It is political, Azerick, and politics are a dangerous and sticky thing to work in. Sumara is enjoying the improved relations that Jarvin has brought about between our two kingdoms, and we would like to see him maintain his throne. His lineage is of no consequence to us. However, if we actively work against those who wish to depose Jarvin and they succeed anyway, that puts us in a very embarrassing and potentially damaging situation.”

  “Who is it? Who is betraying the crown and dragging me into this mess?”

  Devlin took another deep breath and told him. The revelation nearly floored him. How could he? He had defended Azerick several times. Azerick could not believe he was a traitor, but he looked into Devlin’s eyes and saw that it was the truth. This man had answers to his questions, and he would get them one way or another.

  “I cannot tell you what to do, Azerick, nor can I intercede. I can tell you to be careful. He is a wizard at the height of his power, power that few mages ever realize.”

  Azerick stood and crossed the floor, turning back at the door to face his mentor. “I am glad you were not the traitor, Master Devlin.”

  Azerick descended the stairs and stormed down the halls like a fearsome black cloud about to unleash torrents of rain and an onslaught of lightning bolts on everything in his path. He passed several students and two instructors, but none of them attempted to stop him. His grim demeanor destroyed any greetings or questions anyone may have had before they passed their lips.

  The sorcerer bounded up the stairs of another tower with no hesitation in his steps. When he came to the door there was no question of whether or not to knock. Headmaster Dondrian started in surprise when the door to his office slammed open and looked up fiercely from the scroll he was reading.

  “What is the meaning of—Azerick, is that you?” the Magus Academy’s headmaster asked. “Where in the world have you been?”

  “Where I have been is not important, Headmaster. Who are you working for? Who has you looking for the artifacts that cost my father his life?” Azerick demanded.

  “What in the blazes are you talking about? Have you gone mad?”

  “I know you are a traitor to the crown, Dondrian. I was standing outside the door when the man came here seeking help in locating them.”

  This was true even though it was not the headmaster’s door he had listened at, and it was not him that Azerick heard being bribed.

  Dondrian’s face flushed red, but whether it was in anger or in guilt Azerick could not say. “I don’t know what you are talking about, and if you think the magistrate will take your word, the word of a killer, over mine, then by all means go and summon him. I will summon him for you if you like.”

  “I suppose you don’t know anything about the assassin that paid me a visit either.”

  A flicker of fearful recognition crossed the headmaster’s face. It was fleeting, but Azerick’s sharp eye caught it immediately.

  “That’s right, Dondrian. I know about your pet assassin. He will not be filling anymore contracts in this world.”

  “I had nothing to do with the Rook!” the wizard insisted as beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.

  “Who does, Dondrian? Does he have a go-between? Tell me!” Azerick demanded. “There are others who know of your dealings within The Academy!”

  The Headmaster raised himself from his seat in a trembling rage, his hands pressing down onto the desktop as he leaned forward. “How dare you speak to me that way? Who in blazes do you think you are?”

  Azerick pointed his staff at the Headmaster and channeled one of his spells through it. Dondrian flew back and struck the bookcase standing against the wall several feet behind his desk. He realized that he had probably just made a serious mistake in attacking the elder wizard, but he was beyond caring.

  This man knew something, and he knew the assassin that tried to kill him. There were far too many pieces fitting together linking the death of his father and the attack on himself, too much to be mere coincidence, and he would get answers one way or another.

  Azerick’s spell kept the wizard pressed against the bookcase, but only for a moment. A grim smile spread across Dondrian’s face as he easily severed Azerick’s spell. A few muttered words and the waving of a hand brought up the wizard’s own protective spells.

  “You foolish child,” Dondrian sneered derisively. “Do you truly believe you can match your magic with mine?”

  Without bothering to answer, Azerick released a powerful blast of lightning that fizzled out the instant it struck the headmaster’s shield. Another look of utter contempt crossed Dondrian’s face as he countered with a spell of his own. Half a score of brilliant orbs of pure energy slammed into Azerick one after another, mercilessly pounding him until he fell back against the door.

  Azerick’s vision swam before him as he tried to focus through the intense pain. The sorcerer cast one of his newest and most powerful spells. A dazzling green beam shot from the end of his staff, its power increased by the extraordinary weapon. Azerick saw the beam penetrate the wizard’s wards, but the intensity of the ray that managed to strike his target was a dim shadow of what it had been.

  Dondrian snarled in pain as the beam burned through his robes and blistered a large red welt across his chest. “You little fool! Is that the best you can do? Let me show you the power of a true archmage!”

  If Azerick’s back had not already been against the door, the spell probably would have hurled him clear through it and suffered extraordinary damage if it did not kill him outright. As it was, it felt as though a titan was pushing him through the iron-reinforced portal. Motes of diaphanous lights swam across Azerick’s narrowing vision as the archmage’s spell lifted from the floor with its unseen force.

  “You pathetic little worm! Did you truly believe you could fight me? I was wielding power you cannot even fathom when your grandfather was in swaddling clothes!”

  Azerick focused the last of his rapidly dwindling strength into one of his first and most simple spells. He fought with all his strength to resist the choking unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm him. He released his spell with a strangled shout an instant before his vision went black.

  The sundering spell worked its will on the supporting beams under the stone floor, rotting the wood and turning the mortar to dust. Dondrian looked down at his feet in surprise as a loud crack of wood and stone sounded beneath him. He looked up and met Azerick’s eyes just as the floor gave way beneath his feet.

  Azerick slipped to the ground gasping for breath as the wizard disappeared with a resounding crash and a billowing cloud of dust. His vision cleared as he drew in several gasping breaths. The sorcerer regained his feet and cautiously stepped toward the large gaping hole that now adorned the middle of the headmaster’s office. Azerick spoke a word of command, and a rune of air and spirit flared brightly for an instant on his staff. He stepped out over the hole and gently floated down the twenty-five feet to the floor below.

  The headmaster lay in a pile of broken timbers and rubble. The jagged edge of his broken leg thrust up through the flesh just below his knee. A bloody pink froth ringed his mouth as he took ragged, wheezing breaths. Azerick stared down at the dying archmage without a trace of pity or sympathy.

  “You are dying, Dondrian. Tell me who you are working for.”

  The wizard’s eyes
focused past the looming young sorcerer. “Go to hell,” the headmaster rasped.

  “In due time, Dondrian, but you are going to get there long before me so, before you go, tell me who you worked for. Who sent the assassin?”

  Blood spattered the wizard’s face when he tried to spit at Azerick due to his diminished lung capacity. Azerick looked up at the sound of footsteps pounding down the hall. Magus Florent, Magus Bauer, Magus Morgarum, and several curious students all came running down the hall and across the large chamber to investigate all the noise.

  Azerick saw that Magus Morgarum clutched a large flask of what was probably one of the alchemy teacher’s potent healing potions. Knowing that Dondrian would never tell him what he needed to know, Azerick raised a long row of stone spikes across their path, flipped his staff around, and plunged the spear tip through the headmaster’s heart. If Dondrian would not give him his answers, then he would make sure that the headmaster would answer for his crimes.

  “By the gods, what have you done?” Magus Bauer shrieked in alarm and outrage.

  The novice instructor ordered the children to their dorms while Magus Florent dispelled his stone spike spell.

  “Azerick, is that you?” the kindly alchemy teacher asked as he and the other mages drew near.

  “What have you done, Azerick?” Magus Florent asked.

  Azerick glared at the academy instructors. “I think that is rather obvious.”

  “Why, Azerick? Why did you do such a thing?” the portly Magus Morgarum begged.

  “Because he is a cold-blooded murderer!” Magus Bauer shouted. “I told you all that when he murdered young Travis Beaumont, and now you have seen him kill the headmaster with your own eyes. Do you doubt the fact now?”

  “No!” Azerick shouted back. “Dondrian was a traitor to the crown. He was selling information to a group bent on usurping King Jarvin’s rule. The same people he informed were involved with the assassin that was sent to kill me and likely murdered my father as well. He needed to pay for what he has done, and I was not going to allow you to save him.”

  “Do you have evidence of this, Azerick?” Magus Florent asked softly.

  “No, not with me, but I suspect I will find something in Dondrian’s office,” Azerick replied and began walking toward the stairs.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Magus Bauer shouted. “You will remain here under our guard until the authorities arrive!”

  Azerick spun around with a look of such menace that the three Academy instructors took an involuntary step back. “No, I will not, and you had best not get in my way!”

  Magus Bauer was the first to regain her composure. “Do you honestly think you can stand against three Academy masters?”

  “I do not know. Dondrian did not think I could stand against him.”

  Devlin’s voice came echoing across the hall. “I doubt the boy could fend off the power of you three, but I am confident I can.”

  All heads turned toward the elder sorcerer as he stalked across the marble floor toward them.

  “Your student is fatigued, and you are but one against us three,” Magus Bauer said contemptuously.

  “But how many of you spent the time readying your spells today in preparation for battle, hm?” Devlin asked as a fiery shield erupted around him and arcs of raw power danced between his spread fingers. “I will testify as to Dondrian’s illicit activities. I have long known of his betrayal and duplicity.” Devlin looked at his former student. “Go and find what you need. I will take care of this.”

  Azerick gave his former master a nod of thanks and bounded up the stairs despite his pain and fatigue. He searched the headmaster’s desk first then went to the bookshelf behind it. He pulled out a thick tome that looked far older than the others did. Azerick found slips of paper marking several places in the large volume.

  He flipped to each of them, quickly reading the entries in their entirety before skipping to the next one. The third entry marked in the tome spoke of precisely what he was looking for. It described the location of Dundalor’s helm in some ruins in the desert just two days ride across the border of Sumara. The last entry spoke of Dundalor’s boots just three days ride southeast of a town called Sandusk. Without a map, Azerick could not be certain, but he felt confident that this town would serve as a good staging point for both pieces of the artifact.

  Azerick took the book, but not for himself. He used the power of his staff once more to drift down to the hall below through the cavity he had created in the floor. Devlin still faced the three archmages in a standoff, neither side really wanting to engage in a battle.

  “Dondrian marked the locations of at least two pieces of Dundalor’s armor in this book. There may be more evidence that he sold this information to enemies of the crown in his rooms,” Azerick said as he handed the tome over to Devlin.

  “I will see that the magistrate learns of this and will personally assist with the investigation,” Devlin assured his young protégé.

  With this newest information firmly secured in his memory, Azerick departed The Academy and retrieved Horse.

  “Milord, what was that awful din in the Academy halls?” the groom asked excitedly when Azerick returned for Horse.

  Azerick looked down from Horse’s tall back. “That was the sound of the headmaster’s retirement.”

  “Must have been one heck of a party.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Maude’s Marauders arrived in Sandusk late last evening. It was one of their less pleasant journeys in the last few years. They found Sandusk aptly named when one of the frequent sandstorms blew in and turned the formerly bright morning into a brown, dusty twilight. Maude had been eager to continue on to the temple after a bath and a night’s sleep, but several locals had talked her out of leaving for at least another day. They said they could feel the sandstorm coming, and even Maude reluctantly agreed that something was making the fine hairs on her arm stand up.

  The party rode out the storm in the common room of the inn in which they were staying. The inn had a vestibule system in place, a system often used on military command tents so that one door could be opened during the night while the second door remained closed so no light would spill out while entering or leaving.

  The Sandy Bottom inn did not use the system for light discipline however. It was in place to try to control the amount of sand blown in with each customer coming or leaving. Even with these precautions, dust covered every surface and one could feel the grit wash down their throats as they drank their beverages of choice.

  The sheer boredom of waiting out the storm was momentarily alleviated by the local bully picking a fight with another man over a seat at the bar even though there were several open stools available. After the bully sucker punched the apparent trespasser and pitched him halfway across the common room floor, he sent several leering looks Maude’s way, followed by a look of contempt after Maude gave him a rude hand gesture and used her thumb and index finger to indicate that he lacked sufficient equipment to interest her.

  The tough likely would have made a scene, but even with his two cronies, he was not interested in tangling with three well-armed individuals. Of course, there was also Tarth, but it was unlikely anyone saw him as a threat whatsoever. Besides, there was plenty of easier prey in the inn, and he and his friends passed the time making the other locals miserable.

  It was late afternoon by the time the sandstorm finally blew itself out. Maude decided it was too late in the day to start out for the temple, so they slept one more night at the inn before heading out just before first light. A layer of fresh sand covered the street running through Sandusk, sometimes a foot deep or more where buildings and other obstructions allowed it to pile up like a snowdrift.

  The party rented a camel to use as a pack animal to carry extra food and, most importantly, water. It was perhaps a six-day journey round trip, but they carried enough for two weeks if rationed properly and they did not share too much with the horses. No one in the party was fam
iliar with camels, but the man they had rented it from talked them into taking the camel instead of another horse since it did not need to consume nearly as much of their precious water during the trip.

  Maude could understand that sort of reasoning, but she quickly started to wonder if the man had not played a joke on them. The camel was the crudest and most cantankerous beast she had ever seen, and that included the Borik. It made a mule appear biddable by comparison. It even spit a huge sticky glob of some foul goo at Borik when he took a switch to the creature’s flank to get it moving. The glop struck him square in the chest and splattered into his beard where its pungent scent still lingered.

  Since that moment, Tarth always maintained a twenty-yard berth around the spitting, grumbling beast lest it ruin his robes. The elf was bundled in fine linen robes of tan, white, and gold with a white towel-like head covering streaming just past his shoulders. A gold band in the shape of a striking cobra coiled tightly around his head and secured the headdress replete with a silk veil.

  As much as Maude wanted to scorn the vane elf’s fashion-minded ensemble, she had to admit it looked light and airy. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Tarth’s getup was becoming even more appealing as she and the other armor-wearing people in her party began baking from the intense heat and chafing from the sand.

  “I think it is time to doff all this metal before we overheat and pass out,” Maude suggested.

  “Gonna be defenseless if we run into anything hostile,” Borik grumbled.