The Sorcerer's Vengeance (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  Maude could not argue with the mage’s explanations but she could not fully banish the nagging feeling of unease that lingered in the shadowy recesses of her mind.

  As the party rode through their second night of travel it seemed to Maude that Azerick was even more aloof than usual, answering any questions with the briefest of answers but otherwise remaining silent. Borik was happy when he found that they were not out of beer after all.

  The dark silhouette of stone ruins projected out of a low, rocky hilltop on the distant horizon, breaking up the clear starry night sky. Just before they reached the first sand-scoured, tumbled down blocks of former buildings, Azerick reined in Horse and dismounted.

  “This looks like a good place to rest up. It will be nice to have some shelter from the wind for a while,” Azerick told the group.

  The others followed Azerick’s lead, swung off their own mounts, and proceeded to walk deeper into the ruins. They found a small roofless building with three walls still standing that made a good stable for the horses, using a length of rope to cordon off the open end.

  “With luck, there will be another structure somewhat intact that will provide us with some decent shelter,” Azerick told them as he walked further into the ruins.

  A creaking sound to the right drew Maude’s attention. A few yards away an iron crow’s cage swung from a pole. Maude thought that it contained a pile of clothing and bones until she saw a long-fingered, delicate hand slip through the bars. Maude crept closer and gasped in shock as the cage gently rotated in the breeze and she saw the gaunt face of the prisoner inside.

  “Tarth!” Maude shouted and ran at the cage. “Oh, Tarth, what happened to you? Are you all right?” Maude cried and grabbed the hand that was thrust through the bars.

  “Oh, Maudeline, it is awful!” Tarth wailed. “I have not had a bath in days, my robes are torn and soiled, and my fingers have the most awful cuticles—cuticles, Maudeline! I think my arm may be broken too but I have been unable to focus on such an inconsequential thing.”

  Several men chose that moment to separate themselves from the shadows of the ruins ahead and to each side of them. Maude, Borik, and Malek immediately drew their weapons and prepared to defend themselves.

  Azerick spun and dropped a ward of silence on the cleric and followed it with a binding spell, paralyzing all three adventurers before they even had the chance to understand what was happening. Rage burned through Maude as she realized Azerick’s betrayal.

  Gritting her teeth, she forced her muscles to move and broke free of the invisible chains that seemed to freeze her in place. With a savage snarl, she ran at Azerick, sword held high. A rune flared brightly on Azerick’s staff and Maude was thrown painfully onto her back. Before she regained her feet, stone pillars surrounded her in a makeshift cage.

  “You traitorous bastard!” Maude shouted as she pounded on the stone rods with her gauntleted fists.

  Azerick reached into his bag and pulled out the gleaming black helm, its edges outlined in gold, as a large man wearing the armor that obviously went with the helm approached. Azerick casually tossed the helm to General Baneford as he walked forward, his face split in a wide grin.

  “You have done most excellently, changeling,” the general pleasantly congratulated. “I’ll admit that I know very little of your kind, but I had thought that you could only mimic your victim’s appearance, not their abilities. I see from the way you handled these fools that I was mistaken.”

  “Actually, General, you are quite correct in your understanding. A doppelganger would not be able to steal a spell caster’s ability to wield magic,” Azerick informed the general.

  General Baneford furrowed his brow, taking a second to comprehend exactly what this creature meant.

  This is the wizard not the changeling!

  Before he could even shout an order to his men, runes flared brightly on the staff in the sorcerer’s hand. Stone spikes and towering walls of flames encircled the small area in which they stood, separating the general from his men.

  “Now, General, you will tell me who has you collecting these artifacts and who hired the assassin that tried to kill me; a man known as the Rook,” Azerick told the man.

  General Baneford shook his head and chuckled without a hint of mirth. “You stupid, young fool, you have no way to force me to answer any of your questions,” he said as he donned the helm.

  General Baneford felt a powerful surge suffuse his body. He felt stronger, faster, and invincible. He began to second-guess his bargain with the black wizard. With this armor, he could keep the gifts that the wizard had given him as well as Dundalor’s armor and no man could ever take it away. No man, no army could stop him! With a concerted effort, he suppressed his sudden power-hungry greed. He made a deal and gave his word and he never went back on his word, unless the one he had given his word to betrayed him. And so far the wizard had dealt fairly with him.

  “You just gave up the only chance you had of overpowering me,” General Baneford said, his voice sounding hollow from within the confines of the helm.

  He drew the magnificent sword that the wizard had given him along with the other arms and armor and stalked toward the sorcerer.

  “You are a powerful young man,” the general said to Azerick as he slowly stalked toward the spell caster. “Join me and I promise you a place in my command, otherwise I will have to cut you and these other fools down where you all stand.”

  “No chance, General. Tell me who the wizard is or you will not live to enjoy that armor or any other,” Azerick shouted defiantly.

  The fearsome-looking general laughed again as he continued stalking toward the young mage.

  “Bad choice, General.”

  The hard stone suddenly opened beneath General Baneford’s feet. His hands went up and out in an attempt to arrest his fall but the smooth sides of the shaft gave him no purchase. He struck the bottom perhaps ten feet down. General Baneford looked up and saw the grim face of the young sorcerer peering down at him.

  “Now that I have your undivided attention, General, tell me who hired the assassin and who sent you after this armor.”

  “You cannot maintain that fire forever and when it goes out my men will cut you down!”

  Even now they could all hear the shouts of anger from the men on the other side of the flaming barrier.

  Azerick shook his head. “You are at my mercy, General. I can kill you long before those flames disappear and be long gone. Now tell me what I want to know.”

  “You cannot harm me, not while I wear this armor! I am invulnerable to your magic and your weapons!” General Baneford shouted his defiance.

  “General Baneford, do you consider yourself a good student of history?” Azerick asked in a conversational tone.

  “What nonsense are you spewing now?”

  “I myself am quite fond of history. So much can be learned from our forefathers. In fact, it can almost be said that one well versed enough in history can foretell the future. Do you recall anyone throughout history by the name of King Bertrand or Emperor Bertrand?” Azerick quizzed the angry general.

  “No, and why in world would I care?”

  Azerick smiled down at the trapped general. “Lord Bertrand managed to steal Dundalor’s armor from King Archibald through a rather audacious plot to overthrow his rule and replace the Ollander bloodline with his own,” Azerick continued. “Now if he were truly invincible, as the armor purports the wearer to be, why was he never king?” Azerick asked and waited for General Baneford’s reply.

  If Azerick could have seen through the glossy black helm, he would have seen the general’s face pale as he quietly replied. “He failed. He had the armor but he still failed.”

  “That’s right, General, he failed. Do you know how he failed?”

  Azerick saw the general shake his head in the negative.

  “Lord Bertrand and his men were lined up on the south bank of the Crook River at Ballinger’s Bridge. King Archibald arrayed his own troops
on the north bank of the river before Bertrand could get his men across uncontested. Now Archibald knew he could not defeat Bertrand and his soldiers and Bertrand knew that he could not get his men across the contested bridge without suffering horrendous losses, if at all. His intent was to march his forces to a wide natural ford several leagues downstream, but that would take days of marching and Archibald’s troops could reach it just as fast as he could and he would still be forced to fight at a disadvantage though not nearly as great as crossing the bridge. Are you still following me, General?” Azerick asked his captive audience. “The most important part is coming up.”

  “Yeah, I’m listening to your drivel!” Baneford yelled up at the arrogant young spell caster.

  General Baneford had never shown fear in the face of an enemy and he would certainly not do so in front of this whelp, but something in the young wizard’s voice and demeanor greatly unnerved him. Coupled with the fact that he was stuck in a hole and completely unable to anything about it was beyond maddening.

  “Archibald knew he could punish Bertrand’s troops at the ford but he could not defeat them. So against all common sense, King Archibald strode out onto the center of the bridge and challenged Bertrand to single combat with undisputed rule of the realm as the prize. Lord Bertrand laughed all the way to the center of the bridge where he gladly accepted Archibald’s foolish challenge. Most people were quite aware of the power of the armor that Dundalor had crafted; its history still fresh in most people’s minds.

  “In an even more bizarre move, Archibald stripped off all of his armor except for his breastplate and gauntlets, loudly proclaiming that Bertrand was a pathetic usurper who relied on magical armor to see him to victory because he was too weak and too stupid to achieve it by his own strength and wits.

  Bertrand was furious and attacked Archibald before he was even set to begin the battle. But Archibald was a master swordsman and narrowly deflected the cowardly attack and quickly set himself to receive Bertrand in a test of arms. Lord Bertrand, thoroughly incensed, thought to use the greater strength his armor provided him to overwhelm the king’s skill. He also had no fear of being struck because he knew that Archibald’s blade could never harm him.

  “Now Bertrand’s tactic would have worked just as it had several times before in his many battles, but Archibald was canny and was just as aware of Bertrand’s advantages. The battle raged fiercely. It was several minutes into the fight, both men were near the rail of the bridge, their sword hilts locked together as Bertrand’s magical strength was slowly shoving Archibald to his knees when the king looked up into the eye slits of the black helmed warrior and smiled. With a surge of strength, the valiant king shoved with all his might and sent them both over the rail and into the muddy waters of the river below.”

  General Baneford continued to look up at the young sorcerer’s recitation, seemingly compelled to hang on his every word, and swallowed nervously as he looked upon the young man’s smile, the very smile he imagined that King Archibald wore just before he threw them both into the frigid river.

  “I think you see where this is going, General. Archibald quickly shed his breastplate and gauntlets and swam to the distant shore. Bertrand was not seen again until Archibald’s men managed to dredge his corpse out of the river several days later. The king knew that the armor was too dangerous to leave intact so he had his most trusted wizards scatter the pieces throughout the realm. Now tell me, General, how long can you hold your breath?” Azerick asked, his smile sliding from his face to be replaced with a cold look of unchallengeable purpose.

  Azerick raised his staff and a dwarven rune for stone and water flared. The solid granite at General Baneford’s feet suddenly lost all cohesion and flowed over the tops of his boots.

  “What do you want from me!” he shouted, suddenly feeling more vulnerable and helpless than he ever had in his life.

  “I told you what I want, General. It is a very simple request really.”

  General Baneford sighed in frustration. He hated to tell this wizard or demon or whatever the hell he was anything, but he had never actually pledged any sort of loyalty to the Black Tower wizard as he had Ulric. He had fulfilled the spirit of their bargain to the best of his ability. Perhaps if he gave him the Black Tower he would not continue to pry.

  “I don’t know who sent the assassin, but I do know the Rook is affiliated with the Black Tower wizards who are the same ones that asked me to get them the armor,” the general told Azerick truthfully.

  Black tower wizards. A great deal was starting to make sense to him now. The Black Tower wizards were an order of wizards bent on reclaiming the power they once wielded in the realm. Even the king treaded lightly where the black wizards were concerned. The slow but inevitable attrition of wizards that were able to attain truly powerful levels of magic eventually allowed the good people of Valaria to cast them out of the kingdom. They rebuilt their great black tower in a city a few days ride southeast of Langdon’s Crossing in Sumara.

  The Rook was affiliated with the Black Tower who had his father attempt to smuggle a piece of the armor into the kingdom. He gets caught and the tower sends the Rook to silence him. But why did the Rook come after him? He had nothing to do with the armor or the politics behind its acquisition.

  The attack on Miranda was no mere hold up. Could it have been a kidnapping and was it linked to all of this? The bandits had failed because of him. It was possible someone had sent the Rook in retaliation. Whatever the reason, it appeared that someone in the Black Tower would have answers.

  “Tell me about Darius Giles and his murder.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “He was a prisoner in Southport. He had one of the pieces that I assume you recovered somehow,” Azerick explained. “Someone killed him in his cell. I am surmising it was the work of the Rook as well.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I haven’t stepped foot in Southport in nearly eight years. I was told to recover the gauntlets from some king’s men around that time and that was a hundred miles from Southport. Now get me out of this blasted hole or leave so my men may retrieve me, we had a deal!”

  “I am well aware of our deal, General. I am a man of my word, are you?” Azerick asked.

  General Baneford shed his ebony and gold helm. “I am a man of my word, wizard.”

  “I will free you but you must order your men to stand down and leave us all in peace. You will take your men wherever you please but you will not trouble Valaria and her people any longer,” Azerick commanded.

  “I will do as you say. Now get me out of here,” General Baneford insisted.

  “First you must remove the armor—all of it,” Azerick told the general.

  The general’s eyes went wide at the order, but with a huff and a curse he tore at the priceless artifact and shed it like an old skin. He was soon standing on top of the jumbled mass of armor in his sweat-stained padded doublet, glaring up at the audacious young man that had him at his mercy. Azerick lowered the end of his staff into the hole and struggled to pull the larger man up and out.

  Once the general was clear, Azerick raised his staff then pointed it down at the bottom of the pit. The armor clanged loudly as it fell another twenty feet when the ground below it suddenly disappeared. Azerick repeated the spell and the armor fell another twenty feet. Twice more Azerick caused the pit to deepen until the armor was nearly a hundred feet below the surface. His efforts were quickly tiring him but he was not finished yet.

  As General Baneford looked on in a sort of fascination, a dozen runes flared brightly on the sorcerer’s staff. Runes of stone and fire blazed so brightly that it made the light from the wall of flames appear no more than a candle next to a forest fire. As the general’s eyes blinked away the glowing dwarven runes swimming in his overwhelmed vision, he saw an orange glow radiating up from the bottom of the deep pit. And as he watched he saw that it was growing nearer.

  It reminded the general of a piece of steel heate
d white hot, ready to be forged by a blacksmith. As the glow reached the surface, General Baneford finally recognized it for what it was. Magma, the molten rock he had heard sailors and scholars describe that shot from mountains and fissures on some far away islands near the southern tip of Lazuul. Azerick was bathed in sweat and it was not from the heat of the lava that was slowly bubbling up to the surface like some glowing, boiling brew from a witch’s cauldron.

  Once the nearly white-hot magma reached the surface, Azerick stopped its rise and allowed it to simmer. He did not know if the molten stone would destroy the armor, but anyone that sought to retrieve it was going to have a very difficult time digging it out. When he could sustain the magma no more, he released the flow of power he was pouring into the stone from both his staff and himself. As the molten rock began solidifying, Azerick cast a few spells of his own below the surface of the rock. The wards would make the stone all around highly resistant to mundane pickaxes and hammers as well as magical detection and destruction.

  “Tell your men to put away their weapons and I will lower the flames,” Azerick told the general, leaning heavily upon his staff.

  General Baneford strode as close as he could to the wall of flames and shouted to his men on the other side.

  “Captains, can you hear me?”

  “Aye, sir, we hear you. Have you slain the wizard?” one of his officers shouted back.

  General Baneford thought a moment before answering. “We have reached an accord. Sheath your weapons. There will be no further battles here today.”

  The moment Azerick dropped the flames Baneford’s men began threading their way through the stone spikes and converged upon their commander.