The Sorcerer's Legacy (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  “That’s fine, Orville, thank you, you’re a life saver,” Rusty replied.

  The carpenter fished the key back out of his pocket, opened the big iron lock, and pulled the chain out of the thick door handles. Azerick and Rusty followed Orville inside the large woodshop. It was quite dark inside until Orville lit a few oil lamps. The shop smelled of fresh wood and sawdust. Cabinets, dressers, beds, wardrobes, tables, and chairs filled a large portion of the shop in various stages of completion.

  Orville crossed the workshop, rummaged around in a rack of large cubbyholes built into the wall, and began selecting the precut pieces that he needed to build the cradle. He took the pieces to a worktable and laid them all out.

  “If you lads are in as big a hurry as I am you can help me sand the pieces down,” Orville said and pointed to a bin that contained pots of sand of various coarseness and a few sanding blocks.

  The two mages grabbed a sanding block and a pot of sand and took them over to the table. After a quick demonstration of proper sanding techniques, all three got busy sanding down the pieces. It took them nearly half an hour before Orville declared them smooth enough and began tacking them together with ornate brass nails with large rounded heads.

  “Well, there’s your cradle. I’ll get busy on that crib for you tomorrow but this should keep you and the wee ones for the nonce,” Orville declared. “And now I am thirsty.”

  The three men loaded into the coach. Orville gave Peck directions and they quickly arrived at the tavern where Orville’s friends were waiting. It was a large tavern, not seedy, but not pretentious either. It was located in the heart of the artisans’ district so most of the clientele were working people with respectable incomes, particularly now that Azerick employed a large number of them.

  A group of four men at a large round table waved to Orville as they entered. A deck of playing cards yet to be dealt sat in the middle of the table as the four men sipped at their mugs, obviously waiting for the carpenter to arrive. Everyone knew Azerick, at least by name, and warmly welcomed him to the table. Azerick introduced Rusty who got an equally warm reception once Orville told them what had delayed him.

  Azerick flagged down a serving woman and ordered a round of whatever the men were drinking. “All right, gentlemen, Rusty and I should be getting back. Enjoy yourselves.”

  “Hold on now,” one of the men said. “This is a special occasion. Sit and have a drink with us.”

  “I don’t know, we should really get back,” Rusty said uncertainly.

  “And do what? The little missus is exhausted and probably sleeping and I’m sure ya got a nursemaid or two watching the babes,” the man urged. “You’re gonna be plenty busy for some time so ya may as well enjoy a drink while ya can. Besides, we ain’t toasted ya. It’s tradition!”

  Rusty and Azerick looked at each other and shrugged. “I suppose we can sit for a drink.”

  “That’s the spirit! Hey, missy, two more ales!” he shouted.

  Each of the men toasted Rusty in turn. Word quickly got around that Rusty’s wife had just given birth to twins and others within the tavern wanted to toast him and his family as well. Azerick and Rusty drained their mugs long before the toasts were complete so they ordered another round and drank to each of the well-wishers.

  Feeling exceptionally festive after his fourth cup, Azerick stood on his chair and demanded everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, my best friend Rusty just gave birth to twins! I mean his wife gave birth to twins, not Rusty, that would have hurt, and I am pretty sure they are his even though they are awfully cute,” Azerick joked to a chorus of laughter.

  “Tonight we toast him and his lovely wife and his beautiful son and daughter who are also my godchildren. May the gods watch over him and his family, keep them safe and prosperous, and hopes to hells they grow up to look like their mother!” Azerick shouted, his tongue feeling thickened and slurring his words.

  The crowd roared their approval although not as loud as when Azerick had announced the drinks were on him tonight. The tavern was alive with celebration; many of the patrons even came by to shake Rusty’s hand and personally wish him congratulations and luck. Only one person in the tavern did not share in the festivities although he too was feeling a bit joyful himself.

  The Rook skulked in a shadowy corner at a small table to himself.

  So, you are Rusty. Then that must be your friend Azerick. How incredibly fortuitous, the Rook thought to himself. It would seem the fates have given you two babes but at the cost of your dearest friend. This may be the first time one of my targets ever bought me a drink before I killed him.

  No one heard the soft chuckling of the assassin’s amusement.

  Two hours and several mugs of beer and ale later, the two friends stumbled out of the tavern and into the street.

  “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,” the boy explained.

  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!” Azerick complained bitterly.

  “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 own 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,” Peck informed him.

  “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 loudly. “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 towards 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 at his own joke. “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 up 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 towards 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. He saw that 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 intruders scaling the walls 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 back 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 crossing through. 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 rose 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 instantly 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 towards 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 another 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. Must be Cossington’s room then, and 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 swiftly 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 it was unusually made. 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 that was hopefully inside. He cast a globe of silence around himself, not so much to mask his movements; he needed no such protection, 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 in the kitchen 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 in reply. “Very busy last night.”

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

  Grick grunted 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 last night?”

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

  “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.”