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

by Brock Deskins

  Fazheel walked briskly away instead of running, his heart heavy with fear. He was afraid of displeasing the demon, but he also feared leaving the goats unattended. What would happen to him when his mother went to make tea and found the honey gone? How was he going to explain? Would his mother and father understand, or would they think him a madman, or worse yet, a liar?

  This was by far the worst day in young Fazheel’s life, a short life that had very little prospect of becoming a long one. If the demon did not kill him, his parents likely would.

  It was nearing dusk, and Fazheel needed to herd the goats into the pen near the city wall. He was glad it was his cousin’s night to guard the animals and not his father. Feriche was lazy and sloppy, and he would not bother to count the goats as he brought them in. The goat that the demon ate would not be noticed for a few days but, after Feriche’s stand, it was his uncle’s week to guard the goats at night, and he was nearly as dutiful and staunch as his father was. Someone would have to answer for the missing goat, and that someone was most likely going to be Fazheel.

  What had he done to draw the attention of the gods that they would send this evil creature to torment him? Was it because he was napping when he was supposed to be watching the goats? It was only a short nap! That must be it. The gods were teaching him a lesson on duty and remaining vigilant. He swore he would never take his eyes from the herd ever again if he lived long enough to fulfill the vow.

  Just as he thought, Feriche did not bother to count the goats as Fazheel herded them into the pen, simply assuming that if anything had happened his cousin would tell him. He certainly wasn’t going to do that but, eventually, he was going to have to either find a way to explain the missing goat or replace it.

  What if the demon ate more of his goats? That actually might be a solution. He could not be held responsible if the demon went on a binge. That way his father would notice without him having told him and incurring the demon’s wrath. He would be awake this time, so father could not blame him for sleeping when the attack occurred. Of course, that would be very expensive for the family, but it was a small price to pay for keeping his hide intact.

  Fazheel walked into the mud brick house his family shared with his uncle’s family and smelled goat stew and fresh bread wafting from the small kitchen. His mother, an obvious psychic since she always knew the precise moment he or his father stepped into the house despite not having made even the slightest noise, called to him from the kitchen.

  “Fazheel, check the cellar pantry for a jar of honey. The one that was in the kitchen has disappeared,” his mother ordered.

  He knew the honey was not in the cellar just as he knew where the pot from the kitchen had gone, but he went down to check anyway, now dedicated to the lie.

  “No, Mother, there is none down here,” he called into the kitchen as he walked back up the short steps to the ground floor.

  “Well that is odd,” his mother mused. “I could have sworn we had some left after this morning’s tea. Have you seen the pot it was in?”

  Sweat beaded on his tawny brow. He was not one for lying, especially to his mother. Her psychic sense always detected when he was not telling the truth; that or he was simply a lousy liar, which was certainly true. His father broke that habit long before it ever got a chance to form.

  “Not lately, Mother.”

  “Hm, well, run to Maleek’s and get another before your father comes home.” His mother dropped a few coins into his hand. “And be quick in case he comes home early today.”

  Fazheel ran from the house and over to the small shop, one of the few that often carried the sticky, sweet luxury. Well, this solved the problem of where to get another batch for the demon tomorrow. But how would a second missing pot of honey be explained? He would have to be sure to remember to bring the empty pot home this time.

  If he could find the first pot, he could put it under Feriche’s bed and blame him for eating it all while everyone was out during the day! It would be so easy, especially since Feriche usually just lied around all day when he had the night duty. Besides, he had done plenty to earn himself a beating that no one else knew about. It would simply be delayed justice finally getting around to him.

  But would that not also add to his bad karma? What would the gods do to him for not only lying to his mother and father but also framing his cousin? Pfft, they had already sent a demon to torment and abuse him, how worse could it get? Besides, he would not have to go through all of this if it were not for them, so it was their fault. Fazheel’s justifications did little to mollify his sense of guilt seeing as how he doubted that the gods could be held accountable for anything.

  Fazheel quickly ate his supper then spent the rest of the night avoiding his family, claiming he was tired from watching the goats all day in the sweltering heat and went to bed early.

  The next morning, he waited until everyone finished their tea and went their separate ways before secreting the jar of honey into his lunch sack and heading out to the pens.

  Feriche was waiting impatiently by the gate as he walked up. “You’re late, scat.”

  Feriche always called him scat, after the goat droppings. Fazheel wondered if he was able to lure his cousin out to the oasis then dump the honey on him if the demon would eat him. He doubted it. Even a demon probably had better taste than that. Besides, he was cursed enough as it was. It was doubtful the fates would turn a blind eye to wickedness of that magnitude.

  Before Fazheel could make up an excuse, Feriche stormed off without waiting for his cousin to make a count of the goats as he was supposed to. He counted, out of habit, and came up one short just as he had when he brought them in last night. He could just blame the missing goat on Feriche since he did not get a count last night or this morning. No, the demon expected him and knew where he lived. He would need to find another way out of this.

  The goats needed little prodding to herd them toward the grassy oasis. However, as he drew nearer, the memory of yesterday’s events caused a few complaints and hesitation. Hunger won out over fear, and the contrary beasts started chomping on the tough grasses. Fazheel caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see glittering gold scales dive below the sands between him and the large dune a ways off.

  Even knowing the demon was coming, he cried out in fear when it burst out of the sand a few feet from him. The shepherd dropped to his knees in supplication and offered the small pot of honey. The creature nearly pounced on the jar with barely contained desire. It flicked the lid off with one large claw and ran its long, forked tongue into the amber delight. After a few licks, the demon looked up at him and purposefully cleared its throat.

  Fazheel knelt next to the creature with a sigh and began dutifully rubbing its hard scales with handfuls of sand.

  “Did you sigh?” Sandy demanded. “You should be grateful for the blessing I have bestowed upon you. It is a very rare few who are granted the honor of polishing a sand dra—demon’s scales.”

  “Yes, great one,” Fazheel replied subserviently.

  Sandy let out a rumble of contentment. This is how it is supposed to be, tasty treats and a dutiful creature to polish my scales and rub my sore muscles. Nasty little goats, I should eat another one on principle.

  It was a hollow threat and she knew it. The goat did not taste as good as smoked ham, and they kicked too hard. She only ate the thing out of spite for having been abused in the hunt, the greatest damage being to her enormous pride.

  After she finished the jar of honey, she allowed Fazheel to continue his ministrations for another twenty minutes or so before she became bored and decided that she would be gracious and let the human go on with his duties.

  “You may go now, goat boy. You have done well, and I am pleased. I shall retire to my den and see you tomorrow.”

  Sandy wondered if perhaps she was letting this newfound power go to her head but quickly dismissed the idea. It was all in good fun. Besides, it was not that much more than her due.
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  Ancient memories flashed through her mind of enormous, ancient, and powerful dragons being worshipped almost as gods. She saw the ranks of humans, orcs, goblins, and even elves bringing gifts of gold, jewels, and magnificent feasts to please the mighty dragons that claimed dominion over all that lay within their vast territories.

  Then newer memories came forward, memories of dragons mad with power and disdainful of the lesser races. Horrible massacres committed by dragon-kind against those they had subjugated and the retaliation of the lesser races, particularly the cunning humans and the wise elves. She saw the eggs of dragons stolen and used in dark magic that formed a living link between the tiny embryo that grew inside the dragon egg and the implanted essence of an elven mother.

  Then, an even darker memory took hold, something evil and beyond the power of even the mighty dragons. A faceless master they hated almost as much as they feared.

  Yes, little dragon. We are vanquished, but do not despair. Soon we shall return and, once again, you shall take your rightful place at our feet.

  Sandy shuddered. She knew that last thought was not an egg memory but something dreadful speaking to her. It took all of her stubbornness to shake off the ancient memory. That was a long time ago, she told herself. It is not as if she was enslaving the goat boy or was going to eat him. He probably tasted worse than the goat. She just wanted something sweet and something to do other than lie around in the sand and read all day. It was Azerick’s fault for not taking her with him or at least leaving her with some sugar cubes.

  Speaking of food, she still had a chunk of goat haunch that needed finishing. Mama always told her never to let food go to waste, especially if it had been live prey. With a wistful sigh, she plunged deep below the sand, brought up the haunch, and began eating, more out of a sense of duty than any pleasure.

  Stupid, nasty old goat, she grumbled.

  Fazheel watched his herd with raptor-like attention, never taking his eyes off them for even a moment. The only thing that occupied his mind other than the security of the herd was how he was going to get out of this predicament but, so far, no solutions were forthcoming. He figured he could buy himself one more day by setting up his worthless cousin but, after that, he was clueless. The only good thing was that he found yesterday’s honey pot only half-buried in the sand thanks to a calm night. That was good luck indeed, for the desert could bury a wagon in a day during the windy seasons.

  The sun sank below the horizon, and Fazheel still had no answer beyond tomorrow. He would have to follow Solarian’s scriptures and not worry about tomorrow. Let tomorrow worry about itself for there were plenty of things to worry about today. That was certainly true enough.

  He rounded up the goats and herded them back to the pen near his home. His jaw dropped and his breath caught in his throat when he saw not only Feriche, but also his uncle and father as well, all standing next to the pens. The pens suddenly turned into a set of gallows and his family the hangman, the constable, and the emir. His knees almost buckled, but he saw no malice in either his father’s or his uncle’s eyes and only the usual contempt in his cousin’s.

  “Another quiet day, Fazheel?” his father asked as he herded the goats into the pen.

  “Same as yesterday, Father,” he replied and tried to hurry toward the house.

  “Fazheel, come back here,” his father called after him.

  “Yes, Father?”

  The family patriarch furrowed his brow and pursed his lips as he looked over the goats more carefully, but his count came up the same as the first. Fazheel often wondered how his father was able to count nearly a hundred goats in less time than it took him to run them into the pen. He suspected his father shared a similar psychic ability with his mother.

  “There is one goat missing.”

  The boy’s face burned and his lungs refused to draw breath. He feared he might pass out at any moment. Better yet, maybe he would simply die right here on the spot. Could the gods be so merciful to the poor shepherd boy? No, as soon as he thought about dying, his lungs took in a big breath of air. No quick and merciful death for poor Fazheel.

  “What do you know about this?” his father demanded.

  His father never yelled. Fazheel wished to the gods he would yell, but he was always so serious, even when beating him with the horrible lash that was supposed to be used for herding the goats into the chute when it was time to sheer them. It was always inside the house, leaning in a corner where it stood as a stark warning against defying the rules.

  “Well? If you are going to stand there with your mouth hanging open, put it some use other than a place for flies to land.”

  “I—I don’t know?”

  Oh gods, he made it sound like a question! What an idiot he was. I don’t know? What kind of moronic answer was that? Did he think maybe the goat grew wings and just flew off? Even that would have been a better answer than I don’t know! Curse you vile demon for ending poor Fazheel’s life in a most painful manner! Why could you have not come and tormented Feriche? He was the bad one, always shirking his duties, lying, cheating, and stealing. Fazheel was the good one! Did not people always say there goes Fazheel; he is such a good boy. So polite and honest, and he works so hard tending the goats. That scoundrel Feriche could learn from his cousin’s example.

  “You do not know? How many goats did you take out with you this morning?”

  Of course! He was short a goat this morning already, and stupid Feriche did not count them coming in or going out. He was saved! Fazheel told the truth, his heart slowing just enough that he was certain it would not explode in his chest.

  “The same as I brought back today, Father.”

  His father turned to Feriche. “How many goats were brought in last night?” His father did not bother to ask Feriche how many went out. He knew his son did not lie, not since the first time when he was five.

  Feriche swallowed hard. “I do not know, Uncle. I forgot to count.”

  Even Feriche was smart enough not to lie to his father.

  “You did not forget, you were lazy, just like you were too lazy to count them this morning.”

  Feriche was getting the eye by both his uncle and his father, and he blanched under their glare.

  “Fazheel, how many goats did you bring in last night?”

  Oh damn, damn, damn! There goes his heart again! Come on you stupid lump of flesh, explode already! How much could the thing take? Apparently, it was a lot. Fazheel gave his heart a good thirty seconds to blow up and, at the several hundred beats per minute it was going, that should have been plenty of time, but he was cursed with an inhumanly powerful organ.

  Okay, all he had to do was tell his father that he had all the goats last night. It was only a small lie, and that stupid Feriche deserved a beating far more than he did. His heart slowed, he opened his mouth—and told the truth. Damn! Even his brain was bent on causing him a cruel and painful death.

  “Where did the goat go?” his father asked in a slow cadence.

  Fazheel could only shake his head, dislodging a spray of sweat that continued to run down from his scalp in a veritable torrent of salty rain. There was a good chance he would dehydrate and die before making it to the house. The thought filled him with hope.

  “Go in the house, both of you.”

  Fazheel and Feriche walked a death march back to the house while his uncle stood guard over the goats. He could feel his father walking a short distance behind him, his presence like an invisible force shoving him forward with the power of a team of horses. Although he was terribly thirsty and felt dizzy, dehydration failed to take him, and he cursed the fickle gods once more for their lack of mercy.

  His mother came out immediately, her psychic sense telling her the exact moment her family stepped across the threshold, either that or she could hear his heart beating clear in the kitchen, which was certainly plausible. He could hardly hear himself over its incessant pounding.

  “What is it, what has happened?” his mother asked, k
nowing something was wrong.

  “We are missing a goat, and your son does not seem willing to explain it.”

  “Fazheel, what is the matter with you? Tell your father what happened to the goat,” his mother ordered as she took his lunch sack that he had completely forgotten he still clutched in his hand.

  Oh great merciful gods, if you ever favored Fazheel, or any poor shepherds, you will not let her open that sack! Of course, his mother read his mind with her psychic powers and immediately opened the sack and let the two honey pots, completely licked clean, fall onto the table.

  “Fazheel, what are you doing with these? Have you been stealing my honey and eating it out at the oasis? How greedy can you be?”

  That was the tipping point Fazheel needed. His heart finally ruptured, and his brain split in twain as his knees buckled and the floor raced up to meet him. He did not even feel himself strike the packed earthen floor. Already dead, his spirit floated peacefully into the arms of whatever god had finally taken pity on him.

  Surprisingly, it must have been Serron, god of the sea, because he suddenly felt as if he were drowning. His lungs heaved and expelled the water threatening to drown him. He opened his eyes and saw his mother standing over him with a bucket, the last of its contents dripping onto the floor. He realized he had not died but had merely passed out. Fazheel tried valiantly to press his nose into the spilled water and take it back into his lungs so that he could serve the god of the sea for eternity, but the parched dirt floor absorbed every drop before he had the chance. All he ended up with was a wet head and a muddy face.

  “Get up, boy,” his father commanded without a hint of pity.

  Fazheel got shakily to his feet and nearly feinted again when he saw the evil switch in his father’s hands. The goat switch was the most sadistic of all implements of torture ever devised by man or demon. It was five feet long and supple, made of willow tightly wrapped in leather. Fazheel felt a welt rise on his backside just seeing it.