The metal creature felt its impending demise and launched itself forward with one final, vicious swipe of its razor-sharp sword. Khalar sprang back, scimitars held wide, arcing forward, and sucking in his stomach to get as much clearance between his precious vitals and the blade seeking his life as he could.
Khalar landed with a cat's grace several paces back while the dread lord collapsed face down, brought low by its ruined leg. Brellion threw down his shield and swung his longsword with both hands, putting all his strength and weight behind the overhead chop. Sparks and marble flew as his blessed blade sheared through the dread lord's squat neck and bit into the marble floor.
"That was a close call at the end, Khalar," Brellion commended his friend. "We would have lost many more men if not for you bringing this fell creature down."
"It was closer than you think, my friend," the dark-skinned Sumaran replied through gritting teeth. "I fear that Khalar the desert cat is no more."
"What do mean?" Brellion started to ask before he saw the thin line of blood across his friend's stomach turn into torrent of dark red that heralded his death. "Vanier, to me!" Brellion called out desperately as he threw down his blade and knelt at his friend's side, futilely trying to hold in his companion’s lifeblood.
The cleric rushed over and inspected the dying man's wound and let out a sigh when he realized the inevitable outcome. "I'm sorry, Brellion. It is beyond my power to heal."
"No! You speak to a god. Nothing is beyond a god's power. You must call upon him to save him!"
"God's are often fickle, Captain. Some prayers they will not answer, some they will answer but only to the greatest of their Chosen. Perhaps one day I shall prove my devotion and he will grant me such a request, but not now, not today. I am sorry."
"Damn you and damn your gods too! What use are gods if they allow good men to die when they can prevent it! What good is being able to talk to your god if he won't answer?"
Khalar spoke weakly through blood-covered lips. "Do not blame the priest, my friend. He is right. Do not be angry with his god either. It is simply their way. If the gods were to answer all of our prayers, then what use would be our own free will? Of what value would a swordsman be if instead of studying for years to perfect his fighting skills he could just ask the gods to grant it to him?"
"It's not fair, Khalar. We won. We succeeded in our quest, and you should be there when the King bestows his gratitude on us."
"Who is to decide what is fair? Besides, it is not the King's gratitude I fight for. It is the honor of fighting beside my friend." A wracking cough shook his body and specks of blood sprayed from his lips. "To have died saving the lives of my fellows and my best friend is the greatest death a man can ask for. I spent my life well. May the gods keep you safe, my friend."
The Sumaran let out a final rattling breath and closed his dark eyes forever. Brellion stayed on his knees, grieving for his lost friend. "Go see to the others, Vanier."
The young cleric tended to the other wounded. He was able to mend three more guardsmen with serious wounds but was unable to save two others. That was five more guardsmen lost in the main hall. Over half of their original number had paid with their lives since coming to this forsaken citadel.
Vanier walked over to where Alleel lay. Her body was still crumpled in a heap where it had fallen, and he feared the body count had increased to six. He was relieved to find that, although unconscious, the lady wizard was still breathing, albeit weakly.
He opened her robes and examined the deep purple bruise covering nearly her entire chest. It was fortunate he had directed the healing spirit to her immediately, or she likely would have succumbed to her injures. The cleric could feel the sharp edges of several broken ribs through her pale skin. He prayed over his charge as healing energies filled his body. Vanier poured that energy out into the broken mage and watched as bones knitted back together and the great purple bruise covering her chest grew a few shades lighter.
Brellion approached the exhausted cleric. "Vanier, I want to apologize for attacking you. We would have had several more dead and many more wounded if not for you. Please forgive my shameful behavior."
"There is nothing to forgive. You are man in mourning and pain. No one should hold a hurting man’s words against him."
"Thank you, Vanier. We’ll rest a bit while I pull off that breastplate and then head for home."
"That sounds like a very good idea."
The party had no way of carrying all of the fallen back to civilized lands and had no desire to bury them anywhere near the goblinoid lair, so Brellion had them laid out within the great hall and sealed the doors to their makeshift tomb. It was a struggle to carry the wounded men, mage, and artifact out of the caverns. Brilliant stars and a luminous half-moon greeted the battered and exhausted squad as they exited the citadel.
"We'll walk as far as we can tonight. Hopefully, our horses are still at the glen where we left them near the river," Brellion said just as an arrow caught him high in the right side of his chest.
The stalwart leader fell to the ground, coughing up blood. He could hear the bubbling of air escaping from around the wound every time he breathed. The sounds of screaming and battle filled his ears and rage filled his mind over his own impotence as he lay upon the cold ground slowly dying.
Vanier had nearly exhausted his repertoire of divine spells and had no time to call upon his god anyhow as the ambush unfolded around him and his companions. With a cry to his god, he charged the cowards who dared attack an already bloodied group on a righteous mission for their king.
Two arrows caught the cleric in the body; one in his chest and another in his abdomen. A third then took his leg out from him and he toppled to the ground. A man dressed in black ran at him with a short-sword in hand to finish him.
The brave cleric rolled to the side as the man stabbed down at his prone form, then rolled back swinging his hammer and shattering the assassin's knee. The man fell with a cry of anguish at his ruined knee before Vanier crushed his skull. A new pain filled the cleric as another form ran up behind him as he struggled to stand and thrust a spear deep into his back. The cleric’s empty eyes looked skyward as his soul flew into the arms of his awaiting god, leaving his companions and the worries of mortal men far below.
The other members of the group were quickly being cut down by swords and spears or slain by arrows as they valiantly but futilely fought back. Outnumbered, ambushed, and too wounded and exhausted to overcome their enemies, they did not die without inflicting some retribution on their attackers.
Alleel recovered consciousness shortly after falling to the ground as those who had been carrying her unceremoniously dropped her in their rush to defend themselves. As she lay on the ground, she wove an incantation and launched a tiny ball of light into the air. The ball then turned into the shape of a falcon and flew swiftly over the trees and out of sight. Half a dozen arrows sprouted from her prostrate form before she had a chance to launch another spell.
A figure strode up to where Brellion lay gasping for breath. "My master would like to convey his appreciation to you for retrieving his prize for him. You saved us a lot of trouble," General Baneford said as he bent down and picked up the shimmering black breastplate from where it lay on the ground near Brellion's fallen form. “I am sorry the only thing I can offer you in repayment is a swift death,” he said just before thrusting his sword into the warrior's heart.
CHAPTER 8
Azerick fenced his jewelry and was able to buy oil and lamps he then attached to the walls of his new home. He purchased a bed cover that he was able to fill with straw and made himself a decent pallet upon which to sleep. He also bought himself several tools that he was not able to steal and made a shelf for his books. He then bought some carpets and stole a couple others along with materials to begin fixing and replacing the various traps throughout his underground lair. Azerick made sure he was able to bolt the doors from the inside so no one else might stumble upon one and invade his n
ewest sanctuary.
He had found six exits leading out into the city. Two opened into the sewer, one into the warehouse he first used to exit, another, surprisingly enough, opened into the old tannery where he had first met Jon and the others. This brought back a fresh feeling of loss and loneliness, but he did not weep for them again. From now on, he would wear his pain like armor, and he would let no one and nothing hurt him again.
The last exit was a small door he had to crawl through on his hands and knees to navigate. It opened into the dark basement of one of the shabby inns in the common quarter that butted up against the squatter’s district. He liberated several bottles of wine, a small cask of ale along with a couple mugs, and got thoroughly drunk for the first time.
Azerick woke with a splitting headache and decided that drinking was not as enjoyable as some people made it out to be. He did not like the way it made him sick the next day and how it interfered with his ability to think while he was drunk.
He wondered if this was how stupid people like that Hugo character and his friends went through life; all slow and dull-witted, unable to form coherent thoughts or speak in complete sentences. Then he wondered what happened to their brains when they were drunk? Did they get smarter? If they lost the same amount of intelligence he felt while drunk it was inconceivable that there would be enough rudimentary brain function left to support basic life support, like breathing.
Azerick did not bother to ponder this little mystery for long. He soon turned his thoughts to the future, a future of vengeance for those he lost. He would avenge his father, mother, Jon and the others. He did not know where to begin concerning the murder of his father and mother, but he did have a lead on at least one person he was sure was responsible for the death of his foster family. Just thinking about the man from the thieves’ guild, with his hard face and cruel eyes, sent a shiver up his spine and set his stomach to tingling. Anger quickly replaced his fear and Azerick was determined to get his justice from the man and all those responsible.
Once he settled into his new shelter, he once again started plying the streets. He became increasingly good at lifting a purse and even breaking into homes in the dead of night. He usually made off with silver serving dishes, small rugs, and anything else small enough to make off with that might bring him a few silver coins from the fences. It was on one of his fencing jobs that the fates stepped in once again.
“Good morning to you, Azeel,” Azerick said as he walked into the seedy-looking store at the edge of the merchant quarter.
Azeel was a swarthy man originally from one of the cities located in the Great Desert, or Great Wastes as most called it. Azeel had dusky-brown skin, a great black mustache, and eyes as black as coal. He wore a red silk vest over a white linen shirt and always had a smile for his customers.
“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite customer,” Azeel replied. Everyone was Azeel’s favorite customer, Azerick quickly learned. “What for me do you have today?”
“A bit of the usual silver, but very nice.”
“Hm, more silver. My shop is full of silver, but for you I will give a good price anyway because you are my favorite customer.”
“Azeel, you know darn well you are going to offer me a terrible price; the same terrible price you offer all your favorite customers, so let’s cut to the chase.”
“You wound me, young sir. I am an honest businessman, and where I come from haggling is not only a courtesy, it’s almost the law. It is not my fault most of you northerners don’t know how to do business.”
Azerick dumped his bag on the counter and out of it poured two silver goblets and enough silver flatware to make six place settings.
“Now I know this is worth at least fifty silver swords to you, but because you are my favorite fence, I’ll let you have them for forty-five.”
Azeel looked over the silver adorning his counter with an appraising eye. “No good. The goblets are both stamped with the household crest. They’ll have to be melted down. They’re only worth their weight in silver, and they look like they were made of a silver of poor purity. The flatware looks like it was made of the same metal, maybe even worse. Twenty-five swords is all I can give, and that is being generous because I like you.”
“You may think I am no more than a boy you are trying to take candy from, sir, but I know good silver when I see it, and I’ve even supped from such fine silver often enough and not so long ago. Because I like you and would not want people to say, ‘there is that Azeel, watch out for him, he steals from poor homeless boys and kicks puppies’, forty pieces of silver.”
Azeel’s hand flew to his chest and reeled back as though physically struck. “I am insulted! I have never kicked a puppy in my life. Nevertheless, I will not have my fine reputation tarnished by a young man’s slander even if I have to take the food out my family’s mouths to pay his extortion. I will give you thirty-two silver swords. Even now, I hear the stomachs of my children rumbling from their missed meals. Too bad I cannot feed them your greed; they would be as fat as noblemen.”
“And I can see the honest folk crossing the street before they walk in front of your store so that they will not be robbed whilst they pass by or have their beloved pets booted like a child’s rag ball. I think thirty-five pieces of silver will be sufficient to make you an honest man and lover of small, furry puppies.”
“It is slander of the highest sort and blackmail of the worst kind. Very well, you will have your extorted coin. I do not know how you sleep at night,” the merchant said, finalizing the deal.
“I will sleep with a full belly thanks to your unwavering honesty and generosity,” Azerick said as Azeel counted out the silver coins bearing a sword stamped on the face.
“It looks like not all you northerners are so ignorant in the ways of honest business and good haggling. Good days and profitable nights to you, young sir. I look forward to the next time we conduct our business.”
Azerick turned toward the door and pulled the same moment as someone else was pushing his way in.
“Pardon, sir,” Azerick said as the man pushed past him.
“Watch out, you little street rat, before you get eaten by the big dogs,” the man rudely snarled.
Azerick glanced up and looked straight into the eyes of the man from the thieves’ guild. He was shocked into immobility as he stared into those hard angry eyes—the eyes of a killer.
“What’s the matter, boy, you deaf or just dumb?” he growled. “Must be both,” he answered himself and pushed past Azerick, striking him with his shoulder hard enough to force him to take a couple steps back.
Azerick pulled the door open and ran blindly down the street. He ran several blocks before he pulled himself up and stopped to think. It was him! I can’t run from him. I have to watch him.
He forced himself to turn and run back the way he came. As he reached the street of Azeel the fence, he approached cautiously, keeping a wary eye out for the guild man. Azerick continued to walk down the street toward the fence’s store but on the distant side until he came to an alley just across from the storefront. He ducked inside, cloaked himself as best he could in the shadows, and waited for the man to emerge.
He did not have to wait long. The hard-eyed man emerged from Azeel’s a few minutes later, tucking away a coin purse. Azerick did not see him carrying anything in to fence, although it could have been something small like jewelry. More likely, it was protection money or some tax the guild forced the shopkeepers to pay. Azerick followed the man, but not so close he would take notice. Not that he was likely to notice even if he followed him as close as his own shadow. He walked the streets with the confidence of a man who knew no one dared lay a hand on him.
Azerick shadowed the man the entire day and into the evening. He watched as the man entered various shops and always walked out with a purse of coins. He was definitely collecting some sort of payment from these merchants and service providers like smiths, potters, coopers, and wainwrights.
As the day waned into d
usk, the guildsman entered a seedy, smoke and noise-filled tavern. A few minutes later, Azerick slipped into the same tavern as unobtrusively as he could. He immediately realized that stealth was not necessary. No one would have noticed him if he set his clothes on fire until he had set half the common room ablaze.
Azerick stepped away from the door and followed along the back wall, scouring the crowd with his eyes until he saw the man sitting at a table with two other men. One looked as hard as the man he had been following, but he carried half again the weight and about eight extra inches of height. His nose looked to have been broken numerous times and a heavy, brutal-looking cudgel hung from his belt as well as a long knife.
The other man looked like a shaved weasel with a man’s legs. He had a thin, ratty mustache and darting eyes that seemed to look everywhere at once. All three seemed to be enjoying themselves with the coin his man had procured from the merchants. They drank cup after cup of wine and ale. Just the thought of drinking wine made Azerick queasy as he vividly remembered the awful hangover he had the morning after his own indulgence a few months ago.
A large man staggered past their table on his way up to the bar, interrupting their revelry. Whether he tripped over the weasel-looking man’s foot or the man had tripped him on purpose, Azerick did not know. What he did know was that there was going to be trouble—big trouble. The hard-faced man and his two friends jumped up as the large man went sprawling across their table, knocking over their drinks and nearly the entire table as well.
The man Azerick had followed and the big man he was with grabbed the inebriated oaf by the collar, hauled him up, and pushed him backward into the bar.
“Watch where you’re going, you big dumb bastard!” the guildsman cursed as he shoved the drunken man toward the bar.
“Your rat-faced friend needs to check his overgrown feet! I oughta break his skull for that!” The clumsy man squinted at the guild man and recognition dawned on his face. “Oh, it’s you, Merik. I thought I smelled Daedric's men. Either that or someone lost control of their bowels in here.”
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 12