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

by Brock Deskins

  Laughter, more disconcerting than the eerie whispers had been, filled the dank passage. Only Kaleesh’s unspoken threat kept the men behind him from running away and fleeing back up the ladder.

  Azerick watched the first man who attempted to climb down the treacherous ladder strike the ground, landing on the ward he had created. The narrow, secret passage behind the wall hid far more the traps, ready to unleash their hidden death upon anyone unfortunate enough to find their triggers. When the second slaver triggered the crossbow and dropped atop his associate, Azerick’s fear at the intrusion became anger then a grim sort of amusement.

  When the dark-skinned man threatened him after hearing his spooky warning, he could not help but laugh at the fear the man tried desperately to conceal. His friends were even worse at hiding their emotions than their apparent leader was. He could smell the sweat rolling off their normally pungent bodies. Fear sweat had an altogether different odor to it than the stale stench of poor hygiene.

  Azerick watched through small holes in the wall revealed by simply pulling out a stone not mortared in place. He saw the swarthy man take the lead and move like a man who knew something about the art of thievery and trap setting. His movements reminded him of the way the guild thieves moved, careful and precise, spotting and avoided the trigger plates that would spell his death.

  It was obvious this man was too skilled to trip any of the traps hidden along the floor, so Azerick was going to have to take a more direct course of action. When Kaleesh stepped past another trigger plate, Azerick simply pulled the trigger on the crossbow himself. With a speed and agility that shocked Azerick, the man dropped to the floor as the bolt clattered off the wall just above his head.

  Cursing, Azerick grabbed the handle of a short spear and thrust it through a murder hole in the wall, stabbing the man directly behind Kaleesh low in his side. Azerick drew the spear back and stabbed again as the man cried out in pain but was silenced by the second thrust piercing his left lung. The other two men behind him shouted out in terror and turned to run despite Kaleesh and his threats.

  Before they could move, Azerick was already tugging on a rope near the bottom of the wall and ran through a pair of pulleys before disappearing again into the ceiling. The rope pulled the stoppers from two clay jugs filled with lamp oil. The oil poured through the cracks in the ceiling and rained over the two men at the rear of what was left of the raiding party. Slipping in the oil, the two men turned and sprinted back toward the metal ladder.

  “Stop, you fools, or he’ll kill you both!” Kaleesh shouted at the fleeing men, but his words fell on deaf ears.

  With their shoes soaked in oil, climbing back up the ladder was proving difficult. Shins banged into the metal rungs as their feet slipped, but fear lent strength to their arms and they managed to pull themselves up. Just below the empty space where the slip-bar dangled, a square hole appeared in front of the lead slaver to reveal an angry pair of hazel-green eyes lit by the yellow light of a lamp.

  The eyes vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Azerick thrust a flaming brand through the opening in front of him, igniting the intruder’s oil-soaked clothing. The slaver emitted a terribly keening as his garments burst into flames. In his terror, the slaver released his hold on the ladder and fell right onto his partner desperately trying to clamber up the ladder past him, setting his own combustible clothing aflame.

  Both men fell screaming as twin, flailing balls of fire, landing in a writhing, screeching pile upon the corpses of Jonah and Raheem. Kaleesh pressed his hands over his ears in an attempt to block the horrible screams the men made as they flailed about the floor for one or two agonizing minutes before they finally fell still.

  Kaleesh’s nerves were worn to the breaking point. He knew he could not flee. The hell-spawn of a boy would not let him. He would not leave this place alive unless he killed the boy. He focused his thoughts and knew he could do this.

  “Do you think you have won, boy? Those men were all fools, but I am no fool! I am of the Faslum fee Sariq, the most feared group of thieves and assassins in all of Sumara! I will not fall for your tricks! I will find you, and I will gut you. To the abyss with the reward! Delivering your corpse with the skin flayed from your body will be my reward! Do you hear me, boy? I am Kaleesh, and I swear this to you!”

  Kaleesh ignored the deranged laughter reverberating from behind the wall and echoing through the passageways. He knew where the boy was hiding now, and that would allow him to avoid his tricks and traps. Then he would find him and drag him out of his little cubbyhole.

  So wrapped up in his thoughts of vengeance, Kaleesh almost missed the obvious trigger plate just below his hovering foot. Kaleesh smiled, extended his leg beyond the trap, marveling how those other fools would probably have stepped right on the thing that was so obvious to his dark-trained eyes.

  His world exploded in a brilliant flash of pain as his foot fell through the floor. What had looked to be solid stone was nothing more than fired clay, painted and weathered to look exactly like the stone surrounding it. Kaleesh’s foot dropped through the shattered clay cover and tripped the spring-loaded steel jaws waiting beneath. Steel teeth piercing his soft flesh and grated against the bone, but it was inaudible over his cries of agony. The slaver looked through tear-blurred eyes as the boy emerged from the shadows of the passage ahead like a cold and remorseless wraith coming to exact its revenge.

  “Who are you?” Kaleesh shouted past the tears of pain.

  “I am the hand of Sharrellan, and you are caught in my shadow,” the boy said as he scooped up the curved sword Kaleesh had dropped.

  Kaleesh stared in horror as the boy’s shadow, dimly cast by the flickering lamp just ahead, draped itself across his pinioned form. He let out one final scream before the boy drew back the blade and swung it forward with all his might, silencing him for all eternity.

  Azerick stared emotionlessly at the head that rolled to his feet, staring up at him wide-eyed with a look of horror permanently etched upon its face. He tossed the sword aside and began the grisly task of dragging the six corpses to the sewer entrance of his lair, one by one, and tossing them into the filthy water where they would probably find their way into the harbor in a few days. Less if it rained heavily.

  “At least my financial situation has improved,” Azerick said to himself as he stared at the small pile of coins and valuables laid out on the table in front of him.

  “You want me to be the hand of Sharrellan, the reaper’s shadow?” Azerick shouted at the ceiling and the gods supposedly living far above. “I will be your hand, goddess of death. I will be your hand against everyone who threatens me or those close to me! I will send you so many vile, tainted souls you will have to open another circle of hell to keep them all!”

  Outside, high above the city of Southport, the low rumble of thunder echoed across the dark, cloudless sky.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was easier to recreate the ward the slaver had destroyed than it had been that first time, but such protection had thus far proven unnecessary. It had been several months since the failed invasion of his home, and if anyone else knew where he lived, they had apparently decided to leave him be.

  It did not mean that Azerick did not face any struggles. He owed money to the thieves, and his food supply was running short. Azerick scanned the crowd milling about the merchant district’s market. He was looking to pick a mark out of the hubbub that may provide him with the means to buy a meal or two and pay his taxes to the guild.

  There, Azerick thought to himself. A doddering old man in flowing robes. His disarrayed hair, scruffy beard, and mismatched shoes made him appear like a vagabond without two coppers to rub together. Nevertheless, his robes, although a little worn and gave clear evidence of what he had for breakfast, were of a good quality material.

  Azerick liked marks in robes because they were loose, flapped in the wind, and were easy to slip his quick hand and nimble fingers in to pinch a purse. The young sneak thief plotted out
his working area once again, now in relation to his target’s location and movement along with his escape routes.

  The old geezer’s path would take him right by a fruit and vegetable stand. Azerick casually walked through the market square, nonchalantly browsing among the diverse items displayed on the various counters and tables like a casual shopper just perusing the day’s wares.

  Most market sellers kept a keen eye out for thieves and pickpockets and could spot the amateurs of lesser skill and quickly run them off. Azerick knew how to blend in and dress for each job and location. He wore clothes of, if not good quality, at least passably better than your typical street urchin or beggar. He always wore the best he could steal or buy depending upon which option was most available.

  Stealing them had the highest profit margins but it was harder to steal clothes than a quick bite to eat off a food stand. However, Azerick would buy them on the rare occasions he could afford them, considering it a good investment. He also kept his hands clean and his hair groomed. People did not look at you as closely if you did not look like you just crawled out from under a dung heap.

  He paused in front of the produce stand acting as though he was looking over the fresh fruits and vegetables as the old man meandered up to the same stand. The old man smelled of pipe smoke and strange spices and mumbled to himself constantly as he browsed the little street-side shops.

  This is too good to be true, Azerick thought to himself.

  If Azerick had not been so hungry, his inner voice probably would have reminded him about things that appeared too good to be true; that they usually were, and people who leapt at those kinds of opportunities fell into a pit with dirty wooden stakes at the bottom of it.

  Unfortunately, times had been tough lately. Azerick had not made a decent score in quite a while, and the local thieves’ guild was breathing down his neck to pay his taxes. In fact, they were getting down right aggressive in their collection attempts, and Azerick was sure to pay in bruises, or worse, if he was careless enough to let them catch him.

  As soon as the old man was a few feet from the produce stand, Azerick picked up a round, yellow-green piece of fruit and looked to be examining it more closely. As he was inspecting it, it “slipped” from his grasp and rolled toward the old man in robes. With an exclamation of surprise, Azerick made a swift lunge after the wayward citrus and toward the old man. With his head down, one eye on the rolling fruit and the other on the man’s belt pouch, he bumped hard into the robed figure.

  As one hand scooped up the escaping fruit, the other hand deftly liberated the man’s pouch with a quick cut of the fastening strings using a small, razor-sharp blade affixed to the inside of his index finger. The coins in the pouch did not make so much as a single clink as Azerick transferred his catch from the old man’s belt to a pocket inside his own worn but clean short cloak.

  “I beg pardon, good sir!” exclaimed Azerick as he held up the fruit to display the reason for his clumsy jostling. Azerick felt a moment of giddy pleasure at the flawless execution and success of his endeavor.

  However, as he turned to return the fruit to the proprietor, he felt the sharp pain of a clenching grip upon the wrist holding aloft the improvised pickpocket distraction. Azerick felt a moment of surprise and panic when a paralyzing jolt shot through his arm and all the way down to his toes. The gnarled old fingers of the old man let loose their grip, and Azerick flew backward nearly the length of his own body and laid in a most undignified sprawl onto the cobbled square.

  The old man bent down, reached into the inside pocket of the thief’s cloak, and retrieved his purloined purse while Azerick could only lie in the street twitching with the sticky juice from a now well-pulped citrus fruit running down his rigid and extended arm caused by the involuntary spastic death grip his hand now had.

  The old man looked down at the prostrated form of the young thief, his eyes sparking with mirth under his bushy, grey eyebrows. “Boy, if you plan to have a long life in your chosen profession, then I strongly recommend you heed this one piece of advice: never rob a wizard.”

  With a dry chuckle and his sage advice, the old man, or wizard Azerick now knew, went on his way whistling a jaunty tune. Now the little voice that was usually so adept at keeping him one step ahead of trouble rang quite audibly in his head about jobs that seemed too easy.

  “Now you remind me,” Azerick muttered to himself.

  Azerick was just beginning to regain voluntary control of his arms and legs again, glad to be able to make his own escape before someone got it into their head to call the Watch, when the momentarily forgotten proprietor of the stand suddenly loomed over him.

  “Now who do you think is going to pay for that ruined piece of fruit you got in your fist?” demanded the owner.

  Azerick breathed out slowly and closed his eyes. “Help me to my feet, good sir, and I am certain we can resolve this like gentlemen without the Watch, I pray.”

  The vendor was a large man, accustomed to the rigors of fieldwork by the look of the obvious strength in his arms. He was dark-haired, barrel-chested, and a cotton apron hung from his thick neck and belted around his waist. He easily pulled the wiry, would-be-thief to his feet. It was only by a great force of will that Azerick was able to keep his feet under him and stood unsteadily before the glowering farmer on wobbly knees.

  “Well, sir, it seems I owe you for this piece of produce of yours. However, I seem to be in a bit of arrears at the present time. However, if you will tell me at what hour you close down your stand I shall return to assist you in loading it into your wagon so you might be on your way for your trip back to your farm. I hope that will be sufficient to work off my debt to you,” Azerick offered.

  “If I let you out of my sight now you’ll just run off, and I’ll be out of a sale and still be loading my cart myself. I’ll probably never see you again, unless you try to rob another wizard in this square!” said the big man, letting out a loud guffaw.

  “Sir, I assure you, despite the occupation I have chosen, or chose me for that matter, I am a man of my word and will return here promptly to make amends for the damage to your goods.”

  “Well,” the farmer pondered, “if I call for the Watch you’ll just run off or they’ll arrest you. Either way, I’m not getting my money, so I guess I’ll trust you to your word. You be back here an hour before the sun sets and you can help me load up for the day. And if you don’t show, well, I still got a good story to tell over a mug of ale tonight!” The vendor let out another good belt of laughter and clapped Azerick on the back hard enough to set him in motion out of the square and away from the laughing eyes of the other patrons and vendors.

  All Azerick could think about as he walked back toward his home hidden beneath the buildings and streets of the old industrial district, was the shame of everyone’s eyes on him and their humiliating laughter at his failure.

  Oh, I will be very careful of robbing a wizard again, very careful indeed. This is not over by a long shot. I will have my revenge wizard. I always get my revenge.

  The old wizard likely thought his show of power and embarrassing the young thief would put enough fear into the typical petty cutpurse and street urchin. Ordinarily he would likely have been correct in his assumptions. However, Azerick was no ordinary street thief. At least he did not think of himself as such.

  The key problem with trying to intimidate Azerick was that nothing seemed to intimidate or scare him. Many have tried and nearly all have failed. Azerick was, to all appearances, completely incapable of experiencing real fear. It was not that he was immune to it or oblivious of its effects. The problem was that his mind instantly transformed any fear a particular situation may cause into anger.

  Instead of suffering the quaking effects and indecision fear would normally bring on, he instantly became angry with whatever or whoever dared to try and frighten him. That anger triggered an incredibly powerful sense of determination and stubbornness that would push him to cross the Great Barren Desert to exact re
venge for any harm or severe wounding of his pride.

  These thoughts of revenge so occupied his mind that he let his street awareness waiver; yet another thing he would never have allowed under normal circumstances. Had he not been so preoccupied, he most certainly would have noticed the three guild thugs before they took notice of him and easily avoided them.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” snarled the obvious leader of the group.

  “Hugo,” sighed Azerick “not now, I’m having really a bad day.”

  “That’s too bad, because it’s about to get a whole lot worse,” Hugo replied as he launched a strike at Azerick’s head.

  Azerick easily ducked the clumsy but powerful swing and struck Hugo twice in the stomach with a quick blow from each fist. The big youth let out a whoosh of expulsed air as he backed up a step. Carrot overcame his moment of surprise and let loose with an attack of his own. Azerick blocked the punch with his right and delivered two quick jabs and a right cross that rocked his assailant on his heels and left a broken nose and a stunned look in his eyes.

  Azerick made to charge between the two punks and make his escape when the third boy, Rolly, made a running slide toward him and executed a leg trip. Azerick went crashing face down toward the cobbles. Only a quick, last-second twisting of his hips kept him from landing on his face and prevented serious injury.

  Hugo and Carrot both recovered from their assault in those precious few seconds and started laying in with a series of kicks into Azerick’s legs and side. Azerick protected his vitals as best he could with his arms and twisting motions, but enough blows got through that he was taking a significant beating.

  After a few moments, Hugo decided he made his point and he and his cronies ceased their assault. “Faralynn says if you don’t pay your taxes real soon I get to take care of you myself.” The gleam of cruel anticipation in Hugo’s eyes left little room for doubt as to the pleasure he would gain causing Azerick a great deal of pain.