The Sorcerer's Torment (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  “Because you are filthy and you smell worse than Horse over there,” Azerick informed the boy. “How do you think I knew you were watching me?”

  Nanarin glared at Azerick and for a moment and he thought the half-elf was going to refuse and run off. Then Nanarin burst out into laughter and sprinted for the water. The half-elf dove in head first, clothes and all, and scrubbed himself liberally with his hands.

  He untied the thong binding his hair back and shook it free; scrubbing away the gods only knew how many weeks worth of grime. Nanarin disappeared under the water for over a minute then came back up, tossing his clothes onto the rocky shore.

  A few minutes later, the boy got out of the water, wrung out his leathers, and hung them near the fire to dry. Azerick got him a blanket he could cover himself with while his clothes dried before filling two bowls to the rim with the thick soup. Azerick did not bother the half-elf with questions while he ate, but he soon noticed that the boy was pushing aside the slices of meat with his spoon.

  “Do you not eat meat, Nanarin?”

  Nanarin looked up at Azerick and hesitated before answering. “Nanarin is my elf name. My friends call me Wolf.”

  “Ok, Wolf. Why are you setting aside the meat?” Azerick asked again, certain that the boy was avoiding the question.

  “I’m just saving them for later, that’s all.”

  “There is plenty here. You can eat those and get more if you like. Is there someone else with you? They are welcome to join us as well. I have plenty of food,” Azerick assured the lad.

  Nanarin—Wolf, looked unsure how to answer. “You will feed my friend too?”

  “Of course. As long as they are peaceful.”

  “Ok, but you gave your word,” Wolf reminded the human and let out a low whistle.

  Azerick suddenly felt warm breath on the back of his neck and turned to stare directly into the bright gold eyes of an enormous black wolf. The wolf’s coat was so dark that for a moment Azerick thought that the golden eyes were hovering bodiless just over his shoulder. It was not until the lupine walked forward, circled around the fire, and sat next to Wolf that he was fully able to appreciate the animal’s size.

  “His name is Ghost. He’s my friend,” Wolf said, introducing his four-legged companion.

  The human and the wolf, the one that was really a wolf, stared at each other for a moment through the fire. Azerick stood, walked over to his saddlebags, and carried them back to where he was sitting. He pulled out the haunch of smoked venison that he had bought in the last small hamlet he passed through, and offered it to Ghost. The wolf stepped lightly over, and after giving the meat a good sniff, gently took it from Azerick’s grasp with its long, black muzzle.

  Ghost lay back down next to Wolf, held the haunch down with his forelegs, and tore long strips of meat off the bone with his powerful jaws and sharp teeth. Azerick watched Ghost eagerly gnaw the meat off the bone then motioned Wolf to hand him his now empty bowl. The sorcerer refilled the boy’s bowl once more and decided it was now proper to ask more questions.

  “How old are you, Wolf?”

  The half-elf shrugged his bony shoulders. “Twelve I think.”

  “How long have you been on your own? You are on your own aren’t you?”

  Wolf shook his head as he chewed and swallowed a chunk of ham. “This is my second spring living in the forest, but I’m not alone. I have Ghost.”

  The huge wolf raised his head and looked questioningly at his half-elven companion then went back to gnawing on his now cleanly stripped leg bone.

  Azerick wondered what could have happened that a boy of only nine or ten years old would be left to fend for himself in the middle of a forest. “Are you orphaned? Where is your family?”

  “My family did not want me. No one wants a half breed around,” Wolf replied, trying to cover the bitterness in his voice and almost succeeding.

  “Do you mean the elves? Did the elves make you leave because of your parentage?” Azerick asked in amazement.

  Wolf shrugged his shoulders again. “They tolerated me after my mother died and took care of me, but there is a big difference between being tolerated and being loved,” the half-elf answered wisely for someone of his age. “I left on my own after I got in a fight with some boys who tolerated me even less than the rest of the snobby elves did.”

  “What happened?”

  “We fought, they lost, and I got in trouble. The same thing that had happened many times before, but this last time I decided that it would be the last time. Ghost and I whipped them really good. We both left them with scars that will remind them not to pick on us, even though we were both smaller at the time,” Wolf said and patted Ghost between his large, wedge-shaped ears.

  “I think I know a little about what you went through,” Azerick told Wolf and proceeded to summarize his life in Southport.

  Wolf looked back to where Horse snuffled nervously at Ghost’s scent. “So what is you horse’s name?”

  “I don’t really have a name for him. I just call him Horse,” Azerick answered.

  “You’re not very imaginative for a wizard, are you?”

  “I am a sorcerer, not a wizard,” Azerick corrected.

  Wolf shrugged his bony shoulders. “Sorcerer, wizard, same thing; either way it is a terrible name for a horse.”

  “I suppose you could do better on the spur of the moment,” Azerick challenged, glad to let someone else pick a name.

  “Sure I could. See that white diamond on his forehead? You could have named him Starfire. If you don’t like that there’s thunder, because of the sound his hooves make when he runs, or Zephyr because he runs like a wild wind, or Goblinstomper, Big Red, Willowisp, Lightning, Dasher…”

  “All right I get it. I’ll think about a different name.”

  “If you want. I sort of like Horse though.”

  Azerick shook his head at the boy’s precociousness and felt a laugh wanting to burst from his gut for the first time in quite a while. The boy and the young man exchanged stories for several hours. Wolf told Azerick how during hard times he had filched eggs and even a chicken or two from the small towns and outlying farms, but he did not trust any of the humans enough to ask for help or shelter. He did not need their help anyway, he insisted.

  Azerick told the half-elf about how his parents had died and how he had been alone for a few years on the streets of Southport. Wolf pulled his leathers off the sticks he had used to hang them near the fire, stretched the shrunken leather back out, beat them against a tree to soften them, and put them back on before falling asleep. Azerick left him the blanket to sleep on and spread out his own bedroll.

  Azerick woke just as the sun cleared the horizon enough to shine a reddish glow through his closed eyelids. The sorcerer sat up and immediately saw that Wolf and Ghost had already gone, taking the blanket and a small sack of food with them. He had almost hoped that the young half-elf would have stuck around, having felt something of a kindred spirit in the boy. Azerick did not allow himself to dwell on it. The boy seemed at home in the woods, and if chose to make his home here then so be it. He wished the boy and his wolf well, mounted Horse, and resumed his westward journey.

  *****

  Lady Miranda suffered through dance after dance with Duke Ulric. It took all of her will and training in court etiquette to maintain the polite smile that was required of her when socializing with the powerful leader of Southport even though she despised the man. She recalled meeting him when she was younger, back when her father was still alive, and she and her parents had attended a social event hosted by the duke of Southport. She met him once a few years after that at another function and, now having met the man on a more social level, her dislike quickly turned to disgust.

  Duke Ulric complained and openly criticized King Jarvin, but he always made sure to stay just inside the line of outright ridicule. Miranda had met the king several years ago during his coronation when her father and the other dukes and barons swore their oath of fealty t
o their new monarch. She had found him to be a decent and honest man. He did not wrap himself in deceit and hide behind false faces like most of the nobles she knew. She had just finished telling Duke Ulric her opinion as the two of them stood alone in the Duke’s study.

  “Really, Miranda, how can you support a man as your king who is not only the product of a bastard’s union, but lived as a peasant himself until taking the throne?”

  Miranda fought to maintain her composure as she answered the duke’s question. “Your Grace, King Jarvin’s mother may not have been married to his father, and no, she was not a noble, but she came from a decent family and did quite well for herself. King Harlan loved her dearly. Although King Harlan could not bring his son to live as the heir to his throne for propriety’s sake, he still ensured that Jarvin received the best education he could provide.”

  Ulric gave Miranda one of his condescending smiles. “Miranda, no amount of education can compensate for a proper bloodline, especially if one is to be king. Otherwise we would have every scholar in the kingdom making a claim for the throne.”

  “King Jarvin has every bit of his father’s blood running through his veins, just as much as he would if King Harlan’s wife been capable of producing his heir.”

  “Ah, but you see,” Ulric said meaningfully, pointing at Miranda with his wine glass, “Jarvin would also have the blood of house Bagguette in him as well, but now Harlan’s blood has been diluted, tainted if I dare say so, with that of his commoner mistress’s!”

  Miranda breathed in deeply then let it out slowly. “Your Grace, it is late and these talks of politics do make me quite weary. With your leave, I shall retire for the evening.”

  “Of course, Lady Miranda. Please forgive me for not noticing the strain I have put on you. Politics is one of those things best suited to men. I look forward to the morning when we can perhaps speak of more delicate things better suited to a Lady,” Ulric replied chauvinistically.

  Miranda forced a polite smile. “I am so sorry, Your Grace. I am afraid I must depart for home in the morning, and it is best if I leave early. I left many matters unattended at home in order to endure—enjoy—your hospitality, but I really must not neglect them any longer.”

  Duke Ulric knew a brush off when he heard one. The fact was that he could tell quite early on that the Duchess of North Haven’s daughter was even less open to a partnership than the Duchess had been. It was shame; such a union would have considerably bolstered his power base.

  He smiled his most gracious smile, pretending to accept her departure at face value and raised his hand to bid her a goodnight. “It has been my utmost joy to have been gifted with your visit. I hope that you sleep soundly and have a smooth journey home.”

  Miranda ignored the proffered hand, curtsied, and fled the duke’s presence for the relative safety of the room she shared with her handmaiden, Sarah.

  Back in the study, Duke Ulric sat in his plush, high-backed chair and sipped the remnants of his glass of wine. An oaken panel opened near the fireplace as his chamberlain stepped into the room by way of the secret passageway hidden behind it.

  “Your courting did not go as well as you planned, Your Grace?” Alton asked even though the answer was clear on the Duke’s face.

  “No, she is far too much like her father. If only that frigid mother of hers had been more receptive after her husband died. It was nearly a waste of my time to have had the oaf killed. At least it got rid of one more fool that supported the embarrassment that sits the throne,” Ulric answered acidly.

  “What are we to do with her, Your Grace?”

  Ulric drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he pondered the very question he had asked himself several minutes ago. He would like to have North Haven as an ally when he makes his bid for the throne. He knew that Duke William of Brightridge openly supported Jarvin and that provided the bastard king with a very powerful ally. William’s was the only city that rivaled his own in both wealth and soldiers.

  “I think that North Haven would be far more cordial to me if I were to rescue their precious Lady from the bandits that are holding her for ransom,” Ulric said slyly.

  “I see, Your Grace. I will make the appropriate contacts at once,” Alton promised.

  “Alton.”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” the chamberlain replied and turned back to face the Duke.

  “Ensure that you make it abundantly clear that Miranda is not to be harmed or sullied in any way, until I say so.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  *****

  Azerick and Horse stepped off the narrow dirt path that passed as the road south of the northern range and onto the broad, cobbled northerly trade road. The sudden transition took him by surprise. Once again, Azerick was very pleased with his decision to purchase Horse. Together they had covered a distance in one week that would have taken him at least three or four on foot. He gently guided Horse to the north to travel the last leg of their journey to North Haven.

  The weather was pleasant, which was a nice change from the constant grey drizzle of the past several days. His body had finally adjusted to Horse’s broad back and it took only an hour or so to adjust to being dismounted, unlike the early days that required the entire night and more.

  It was mid afternoon when Azerick guided Horse off the road and onto the earthen shoulder when the clatter of multiple, steel-shod hooves came thundering up from behind him. Preceding a large cloud of dust, he saw a handful of armored men on horseback obviously in a state of great haste. He brought Horse to a halt well out of the way of the mounted men at arms that escorted a carriage that he could now see barreling down the highway towards him.

  *****

  Lady Miranda stewed as she and her handmaiden rode in the swaying, bumping carriage in which she had urged her driver to put as much distance between them and Southport as possible.

  “The man is a swine and a traitor!” Miranda fumed once more.

  “Yes, milady, you told me that. You have told me that every day for the past three days,” Sarah reminded her Lady.

  “That is because it is still true. Gods, I will have to burn that dress I wore to the ball. I will never be able to wear it again without feeling his lecherous hands on it. It is a shame; it was a lovely dress, and it cost enough to feed a common family for a year.”

  “Perhaps you could sell it and give the money to a charity,” Sarah suggested without looking up from her knitting.

  “That is a fantastic idea! You are very clever, Sarah. It is why I put up with you,” Miranda teased.

  “You put up with me? Have you forgotten all the trouble you have put me in over the years? Sneaking out to listen to tavern musicians and pinching food from the kitchens to feed those filthy children who’ll cut your purse strings if you’re not careful. And let us not forget the incident involving that lord’s white horse and the raspberry stain.”

  “I thought the horse looked lovely in pink. Besides, that nobleman was rude to father,” Miranda defended.

  “All nobles are rude. You should not need me to remind you of that.”

  “Father was not rude, nor is His Majesty.”

  Sarah was about to comment on how rare both men were when a loud crashing sound erupted and the coach jerked forcefully, sending both women sprawling to the floor.

  *****

  As the carriage drew closer, Azerick saw that it was an opulent affair of black enameled wood with gold detailing along all of the joints and seams. A team of six white horses pulled the carriage along at a steady gallop. Azerick imagined the fat, pompous lord riding comfortably inside the plush, velvet-lined interior, sipping wine and eating dates as the team of horses worked himself into a lather pulling the extravagant, heavy coach and his pasty, bloated body down the highway.

  Just as the coach and its armed escorts raced past in a cloud of choking dust, ropes with grapnels attached to them flew out of the woods on both sides of the road. The large, steel hooks caught the gold painted spokes and,
as the ropes reached their full length and went taught, ripped the rear axle completely off the carriage.

  The driver shouted fearfully as he tried to get his panicked team under control. The sudden drag terrified the horses, and it was all the driver could do to keep the powerful animals from bolting and dragging the wrecked coach behind them.

  At least a score of men burst from the wood line about fifty yards from where Azerick stood by watching the bizarre scene unfold. Crossbows fired and pierced the heavy breastplates of three of the guardsmen. The remaining bandits charged the surprised guards who quickly wheeled their horses around to defend the carriage and its occupants. The bandits, for that was what Azerick was sure they were, wielded swords, spears, and catchpoles that they used to unseat the mounted guards.

  The guard captain, distinguished as much by his command voice as his blue-plumed, steel helm, ordered the remainder of his men to surround the coach and protect it with their lives. The bandits hopelessly outnumbered the guards. Even though most of the guards remained mounted and the bandits were on foot, the odds were not with the defenders. The guard captain and three of his men charged into the ranks of bandits, hewing at them with their swords and running them down with their chargers.

  The remaining guards were heavily engaged against several times their numbers and were being pressed against the side of the coach, severely limiting their effectiveness. The bandits with the catchpoles put them to expert use and quickly unseated the mounted guards, stripping away what little advantage they had.

  Although Azerick did not condone such brutal criminal activity, he was impressed with the planning and execution that had gone into the task. It was obvious that this was a well-planned raid and not just a target of opportunity.

  It took only minutes before only the captain and two of his men were left to defend the coach with its precious occupant or occupants. Another guard fell to a spear to the stomach as the bandits laughed at the men’s futile show of resistance. As the captain and his last loyal soldier stood back to back against over a dozen remaining bandits, one stepped forward and spoke to the valiant soldiers.