A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback

by Mitchell Hogan

  “Technically, he’s a rogue, not a member of the guild. But there was no doubting his skill. Talented and well-trained, more so than many of us. And in forbidden knowledge, destructive sorcery. The only thing worse is coercive sorcery.” His tone became serious. “Which brings me to something I’ve been avoiding, though it’s best to get it over with. I do not relish this,” he said with distaste. “But you already know what we face. Our task as Protectors is to guard against the uses of destructive and coercive sorcery, to bring to justice those who practice it, to destroy knowledge of it when we find it. Such knowledge can’t be spread. There are always individuals so weak, so lusting after power, that they would abuse their abilities. The trials of an apprentice weed out such people, which is why we, as Protectors, choose sorcerers when their apprenticeship ends. We know much more about a person’s character, their moral fiber, after a few years. Now you have seen what’s possible with destructive sorcery, albeit a small portion. We can’t have knowledge of this leaking out. The Sorcerers’ Guild has spent hundreds of years building its reputation, the reputation of all sorcerers, so we are viewed in a good light. We can benefit all people with the good works we do. Few know the other side of sorcery… and that’s how it has to stay. Do you understand?”

  Caldan swallowed nervously then gave a short nod. He knew what was coming, why the master had said he was now ‘bound’ to them last night. “What does that mean for me?” he asked anyway.

  “It means the same as it does for me, for all Protectors. We protect all citizens against rogue sorcerers like the man we encountered last night, and in turn we are protected by the emperor. We have a singularly powerful position. None save the emperor or his councilors stand higher or can countermand our orders, though we keep a low profile. But with such power comes responsibility.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Last night was… like something I’ve never seen. The power in the sorcerer, the confidence in his ability. I can’t help but think I’m not ready.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ve seen and you know too much.”

  “Only because you told me!” protested Caldan. “And took me along last night.”

  “I did what I thought I had to do. This isn’t a game we play. The very empire is at stake. I saw something in you, and after last night I’m sure I was right to bring you in, to make you one of us.”

  “But I’m not one of you—”

  “There is no stopping it now. It’s done. You can’t deny you have some unique abilities that make you useful.”

  “Do I? I can’t see how I’m different to any other sorcerer.”

  “I have some information that might help you, but another time perhaps. Now, all you need to know is that you are one of us. Once you’re raised to journeyman status we can let you know more.”

  “And what if I don’t want to be a Protector?” demanded Caldan.

  Simmon smiled. “The emperor is harsh with those who want to leave the Protectors. I’m sorry. Usually we give people time to decide if they want to spend the rest of their life with us. With you… well, I don’t think we could afford to pass up someone with such talent. More than talent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll need to consult with a few other masters, and maybe a few texts in our library. Suffice it to say, I’ve heard of someone with some of the abilities you’ve shown— smelling sorcery, the flashes of speed and strength. Someone who was more dedicated to the cause than the Protectors, if that’s possible. But that’s all I’m willing to say until I’m sure.”

  Caldan stood and paced the room, nibbling his bottom lip. He wanted to know more. More about the Protectors, more about sorcery, more about his own supposed talents. Most of all, he wanted to continue learning and smith-crafting his own creations. His visit to the clockmaker had opened up areas of possibility he hadn’t thought achievable before. Becoming a Protector would offer all this, though with strings attached. He snorted. Strings or chains, depending on how you viewed the situation.

  He sighed deeply, pacing and worrying while Simmon watched him. It didn’t sound like he had any choice in the matter anymore. Comparing his situation to when he first arrived in Anasoma, he had landed on his feet, lucky to have found himself at first apprenticed and now raised to journeyman rank so soon. He couldn’t think of anywhere else he could go, and being hunted by other Protectors or the Quivers didn’t hold any appeal. And what happened to Protectors who knew too much and wanted to leave? He pushed that thought to the back of his mind to go over later. He didn’t think it would be pleasant.

  “All right,” he found himself saying to Simmon’s visible relief. “I still have much to learn, and that’s why I joined the guild. As long as there aren’t any repeats of last night any time soon.”

  Simmon laughed. “Last night was an exception in more ways than one.” He gestured towards the door. “Go. Rest and leave me to get some as well. I’ll find you tomorrow. We need to go over the process of having you raised. Don’t worry, it’s not overly complicated.”

  Caldan strode through the darkening streets of Five Flowers. He walked briskly along the paved main road, shops on both sides closing their doors, while others put out lanterns or sorcerous crafted globes for the night’s custom.

  Clutched in a hand was a bag filled with craftings the clockmaker required.

  Caldan was relieved the shop door stood open. Inside, the clockmaker rubbed his hands and smiled seeing the bag Caldan carried.

  A short while later he left, the bag bulging in different places as the contents had been replaced.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Amerdan could barely stand. The street shifted under his feet, like the deck of a ship in a storm. His hands gripped the edge of a barrel, his back against a wall for stability. It would pass. It always did.

  A shopkeeper in an apron approached cautiously. It was his barrel.

  “Sorry, good sir,” Amerdan mumbled. “A slight… dizzy spell. I’m sure it’ll pass soon.” He wiped a forearm across his sweaty brow.

  The shopkeeper nodded curtly and went back behind his stall, keeping an eye on him.

  Amerdan sucked in deep breaths. The world swam again before righting itself. A gentle breeze blew over his damp skin, cooling and raising bumps. His strength returned in a rush, as it always did. Blood pumping hard, he stood up straight. He had no idea what caused these weak episodes, but he wished they would stop. They were more frequent after he absorbed someone; they tailed off but never went away totally.

  His hands brushed his vest and tugged at the hem, straightening his shirt. He bent his neck to one side, then the other, stretching tightened muscles. The shopkeeper had finished with his customer and was staring at him. Amerdan ignored him and strode off into the crowd.

  The stench of this part of the city assailed his nostrils. Forgotten in his rare moment of weakness, the stink came back multiplied. He fished about in a pocket for a perfumed kerchief, which he held to his nose. A plain looking woman on his right sneered at him.

  If only she knew, he thought. Sneers come cheap. She wouldn’t be sneering under his knife. He looked away. She wasn’t worth it. A no talent peasant. A nobody, destined to mediocrity and a squalid life. The thought cheered him greatly.

  He liked to come here, despite the smells, the seediness, the nastiness that was the slums. Every city had them, these pits of foulness where people of no consequence lived until they did the only useful thing of their miserable existence and died, usually young, before they could add too much misery to an already miserable world. Anyone worthy lifted themselves above such a place, as he had long ago.

  Dust stirred in the street, dirtying the bottoms of his pants. Paint on buildings was cracked and flaky. Threadbare washing hung on lines crossing the street, strung from windows. Drops of water fell into the crowd.

  For hours Amerdan had walked here, as was his wont. It was good to remind yourself of your origins, lest you lost sight of how far you’d come.


  Twenty yards in front of him, a head peeked out from an alley. Tangled blonde hair framed a dirty face. A young girl. Amerdan moved to the side of the street and pretended to examine the clumsy pottery wares of a street vendor. He waved the vendor’s offers of assistance away with a frown and picked up a teapot.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the thin waif sidle around the corner and look around the street with trepidation. Her gaze kept returning to the stall next to the pottery, where Amerdan stood. A herbalist. Bunches of herbs with various medicinal properties lined the table, as well as glass jars filled with ground powders and a weighing scale. The fat woman behind the stall stood chatting to another woman.

  Really, this teapot was shoddily made. The spout and the handle didn’t line up.

  The girl glanced warily around her then weaved through the crowd. Not much of a challenge for one as small as she was. Around her, hands moved to secure purses as she stepped past. Amerdan could tell that wasn’t what she was after.

  And the glaze, who would choose brown for a pot they planned to sell?

  The girl’s shoulders hunched in her baggy gray smock as she tried to make herself look smaller, less noticeable. Ah, little one, haven’t you realized no one notices those less fortunate than themselves. No one cares.

  Inept, too, the streaky brown glaze. Patches of fired clay poked through holes.

  The girl approached the herbalist’s stall. A few paces away, she stopped, hesitant. Her grubby face was tear-streaked, and she bit her bottom lip. Her hands clenched into fists. She stepped forward.

  A price was written on the glaze of the pot in black chalk. A whole silver ducat, for this piece of crap. Perhaps the pottery vendor was trying to pass it off as the work of a known local artist. The vendor edged closer, warming to the idea that Amerdan was interested in the teapot. Amerdan caught his eye.

  The girl furtively snatched some herbs and a glass jar. A bunch of mint and… chamomile tea in the jar, unless he missed his guess. Unlikely. Strange herbs for a girl to be stealing, unless she had an upset stomach, but that’s not an ailment worth risking the labor camps for. The herbalist paused in her conversation and turned towards her table.

  Amerdan dropped the teapot, which smashed on the cobbles. Broken shards struck his shin. Heads turned towards the sound. The pottery vendor’s face went dark. The herbalist frowned in his direction. The thin, dirty, blonde-haired girl disappeared into the crowd.

  “Oops,” said Amerdan.

  Muttering rose around him as the pottery vendor approached, his face angry. Amerdan pulled out a silver ducat and held it up. The man smiled, and all was forgiven, as it was with these types of people and coins. The shopkeeper reeked of days’ old sweat and onions. Amerdan resisted the urge to smash his head into the wall. He handed the ducat over and walked off without a word. Twenty paces up the street he turned into the alley the girl had disappeared down.

  It didn’t take long before he caught up with her. She scurried quickly down alleys and lanes, not bothering to lay a false trail or double back, making a beeline for somewhere. She cast a furtive look behind her now and again to confirm she wasn’t followed. Her bare feet slapped on the cobbles.

  She disappeared inside the entrance to a wooden tenement, the type Amerdan knew well. Falling apart, probably abandoned by its owners as a derelict and taken over by local toughs, who rented cheap rooms to the desperate and needy. From his vantage on the rooftops, Amerdan could see through some of the windows. There was barely any furniture in sight, mostly scraps of rags, rickety cots and one chair.

  The girl hadn’t thought to look up, though if she had she wouldn’t have seen him stalking her. He was too good to get caught.

  He looked down into the street. Empty. He stepped off the roof and plummeted the three floors to the cobbles, landing on his feet. He grinned. His new self always kept him impressed.

  He stepped inside the dark doorway, eyes adjusting instantly to the lack of light. He took the steps three at a time, following the scent of mint the girl carried, to the first floor and down a corridor.

  A door opened and a burly man stepped out. Half a head taller than Amerdan, with skin like tanned leather and a graying beard, he looked surprised to see him, and his dark eyes narrowed.

  “Ain’t see you around here afore,” his gravelly voice rasped. He took in Amerdan’s fine clothes and trimmed hair. “Best you be leaving, ’less you want a beating.”

  He folded muscular arms across his chest as his eyes moved to the purse attached to Amerdan’s belt. Through the open door to the apartment, empty bottles of cheap liquor littered the floor.

  Amerdan smiled. “I’m looking for a little girl around so high.” He held a hand at waist height. “Blonde hair, thin. Seen her?”

  The man stroked his beard, and a cunning look came into his eyes. “Maybe I have, and maybe I ain’t. What’s it worth to ya?”

  “A ducat. Silver, of course,” replied Amerdan.

  The man grunted, scratching an armpit. “For a silver I know where she is; for two you can spend a little time with her. Been keepin’ an eye on the lass. She’ll be a beauty, that’s for sure.” He leered at Amerdan.

  He doesn’t know me at all, but how could he? I barely recognize myself.

  Amerdan’s hand shot up and clamped around the big man’s throat. He squeezed as the man struggled, cutting off his breath. He battered at Amerdan’s arm in a futile attempt to break his grasp, feet leaving the floor as Amerdan lifted him through the door into his room, kicking it shut behind him.

  With a crash, he slammed the man against a wall, which shook with the force. Old timbers groaned, dust drifted down from ceiling beams. Amerdan pressed hard against him, stopping his legs from flailing out. The man’s face turned an ugly shade of red. His stench was an assault on Amerdan’s senses.

  “You think you know me?” hissed Amerdan, as he squeezed tighter. The man whimpered, his pounding fists grew weaker, heels scraping futilely against the wall.

  Amerdan punched the man twice in the chest above his heart with the force of a hammer striking an anvil. Ribs cracked, blood dribbled from the man’s mouth, his heart beat once, twice, then stopped.

  Amerdan released his grip and the corpse slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. Five red finger marks lay deeply gouged in the man’s neck, already purpling to bruises.

  He left the room without a backward glance.

  Stopping at the door across the corridor, he sniffed. No. A few steps to the neighboring door and he stopped again, sniffed. He rested his forehead on the rough door. This one.

  He tested the doorknob. Locked. He twisted, and with a shriek of metal the lock broke. He pushed the door open and strode into the gloomy interior.

  There were no windows, and the only light filtered in through cracks in the old timber walls. A few larger cracks were stuffed with rags, presumably to keep the wind out. He could hear breathing from two different sources, through a doorway to the right.

  At the doorway he stopped. The little girl knelt next to a bed in which lay a boy breathing in shallow, hurried gasps. Sweat poured from his skin.

  Both were filthy and clad in rags. A cockroach ran across the floor into the corner.

  The girl didn’t look up at Amerdan as she busily shredded mint leaves into a cup. She stopped tearing the mint then opened the jar of chamomile tea, pouring a teaspoon’s worth into the cup. From a clay jug beside her, she filled the cup with cold water then gave the mixture a stir with her finger.

  “There,” she whispered. “I got you some medicine, Pieter. You’ll get better soon.” She lifted the cup to the boy’s lips and poured. Most of the mixture dribbled down the side of his face. “Drink, please,” she said between quiet sobs.

  Amerdan knelt beside her on the dirty floor. He removed the cup from her hand.

  “Little miss,” he said gently. “I don’t think those are the right herbs to make Pieter better.”

  He felt the boy’s brow. He was burning up and Amer
dan judged he had damplung. Nothing to worry about if you were rich, had a nice place to live, and plenty of ducats for a physiker. But here, with the cold, the malnutrition, the lack of medicine to ease the symptoms, it would be fatal.

  The girl ran the back of a hand across her face. “He’s my brother. I… I don’t know what to do.”

  “Shh, there, there.” Amerdan patted her shoulder. “Don’t be sad. I’m here now.” He looked around the room. As bare as a larder at the end of winter. “We have to take him to… get some real medicine.”

  “We can’t leave. We have to wait for Da.”

  From the look of the place— and the smell of their clothes— Amerdan guessed they’d been waiting for some time. No chance they would be missed for a while, if at all. He turned the girl to face him. Tears ran through the dirt on her face, leaving trails of cleaner skin. “I’ll make sure your da knows where you are when he gets back, I promise. What’s your name?”

  She tilted her head and stared at the floor. “Annie.”

  “Listen, Annie, we’re going to take Pieter to my house, where he can get better. Soon he won’t suffer anymore, but I need you to be strong for him. Can you do that?”

  Annie nodded once, hands clenched tightly in front of her dress.

  “Good. Now, I need you to gather up what belongings you have.” She frowned and looked puzzled. “Your… stuff,” he added. “Clothes, whatever you have of value.”

  Annie nodded. Patting Pieter on the hand she shuffled off to a table.

  Amerdan slid an arm under the sick boy and lifted him off the bed. Pieter moaned, though his eyes remained closed. Amerdan cradled him against his chest with one arm. Annie returned carrying a comb made from bone. She looked at him expectantly.

  “That’s all?” he asked.

  She looked around the bare room for a few moments then nodded.

  Amerdan placed a hand on her back and gave a gentle push. “Good. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Forty-Four