The Sorcerer's Return (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  “Technically speaking, their gates were a mess. I had to direct artisans to totally reconstruct two of the three. Once that was done, I was able to guide them through their alignment. I made certain the craftsmen understood the required level of perfection for the next set of gates before I left. Now that they have a functioning set, I expect them to be able to make the next ones properly. I may still have to help connect them once they are in place.”

  “Did they treat you well?”

  “They avoided me for the most part and kept any conversations to the matter of gating and making the gates functional. Other than a few hostile stares and whispers behind my back, they were accommodating enough. How goes these constructs you told me of?”

  “Actually, you are just in time for our first field test,” Azerick said with rare look of eager anticipation. “I was able to put our prototype through its paces, now we get to see if a novice can make it work. Alex and the others are waiting for me on the training field.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  A large crowd was already gathered atop and just beyond the walls, all wanting to witness Roger’s iron soldier in action. Azerick and Raijaun headed for a cluster of people standing a score of yards from the construct. The thing looked more like an eight-foot-tall armor rack with several pieces missing than a golem. Most of its body was a skeletal framework. The exceptions were its head where a single, large tourmaline rested in the center of a featureless, ovoid face. The creature’s legs were solid pillars of steel to help keep a low center of gravity and maintain balance.

  “All right, Roger, time to see if your metal man idea is going to work,” Azerick said as he took his place.

  Alex added, “You know if this does work, you may have just changed the face of the battlefield for all time.”

  “It’s going to work,” Roger said with as much hope as certainty.

  “Alisha, you may begin.”

  Alisha was one of the more recent students discovered when Azerick sent his people out in search of anyone with magical talent. She possessed a fair level of arcane aptitude but was slow in developing it to a level to be of much use on the front lines. Her slightly less than middling skill made her a perfect baseline for determining what they could expect from this iron army.

  Alisha set the circlet with its polished tourmaline set in gold atop her brow. She took a step back to regain her balance when the sudden magical connection and shifting of her vision caused a moment of vertigo. The construct swayed with her body but quickly righted as she caught her balance.

  “I’m okay,” she assured those observing. Alisha tried to make her construct take a step and its “toe” dug into the soil and promptly fell face-first onto the ground. “I’m not okay.”

  “That’s fine, just focus on what you want it to do. Picture how you want to move in your mind and guide the strands of your magic like strings on a puppet,” Azerick instructed her.

  Alisha took Azerick’s advice literally, imagining strings connected to the limbs and body. She directed her metal warrior to lift its torso up with its arms then guided the legs to lift it back to a standing position. The young mage took a moment to steady herself before taking a more cautious step forward. The ponderous metal puppet took one and then another step.

  She found her pace and directed the construct toward several targets that were nothing more than thick posts set in the ground. The construct plodded toward the posts, slowly picking its steps as it moved. It stopped before one of the posts and swung the heavy blade mounted on its right arm. The thick steel sheared clean through the four-inch post.

  “It sure makes an almighty racket,” Azerick said as he watched it destroy three more of the targets.

  Ken nodded. “Aye, that’s for sure. I could quiet them down quite a bit if I took the time to make better parts and floating joints, but that would take time you say we don’t have.”

  “We certainly do not. Alisha, are you ready to take on a real opponents?”

  “I think so. I’m feeling better on my feet every minute. It just takes some getting used to.”

  “Alex, you want to signal your men?”

  Alex nodded and waved to a small group of cavalry waiting down field. One of the men waved back and the five men lowered their visors and charged. Alisha braced herself and her construct as the riders each struck in rapid succession. Her construct took a steadying back step but remained standing, even as lances shattered against its metal body. Had they been a real enemy, Alisha could have certainly cut down at least a couple of the riders as they charged past.

  “Alisha, see how far you can go before you lose control.”

  Alisha guided her construct across the field, her steps coming a little faster and more certain with practice. The pseudo-golem was a ponderous thing and a swift man could outrun it with ease, but its purpose was not to chase an enemy. It was a mobile bulwark to prevent a vastly superior army from simply swarming through the defenders. The construct ground to a halt not far from where the squad of cavalry had launched their assault. Alisha tried to reconnect, but could do little more than make it shudder.

  Azerick turned to Alex. “What would you call that, three hundred, three hundred-fifty yards?”

  “Almost four I’d say.”

  Azerick looked at the master blacksmith with a broad smile. “Ken, you and your people have a lot of work to do.”

  Ken’s delighted expression matched Azerick’s. “Aye, we sure do.”

  “I will need a copy of your plans to send to The Academy. They will have students there who will serve better as construct operators than fodder for the ravagers.”

  A shudder passed through Azerick and a pain twisted his gut profound enough to make him stumble as he thought about the attack he allowed to happen at The Academy. Most who would be perfect candidates for the constructs were novices, the same novices killed during that horrible night. Azerick steeled himself against the tormenting wave of emotion, telling himself that if the ravagers had not attacked The Academy they would still be set against him. His logic provided little in the way of relief.

  The show over, Wolf and Ghost ducked farther back into the trees. He had watched the proceedings through the small spyglass he found in Azerick’s study during one of his foraging expeditions. He could have watched from a closer vantage, but there were far more people around than he felt comfortable with.

  The pair tracked along a narrow trail in search of Daebian’s traps. It was now a long-running routine for him and Ghost to track his movements and destroy his snares, freeing any live animals and making a meal of the dead ones.

  Ghost soon picked up a fresh scent and darted ahead with Wolf jogging swiftly after. They came upon a small clearing amongst a stand of thick brush, an ideal place for rabbits to congregate. The snare was easy to spot and Wolf walked over to cut the cord. He stood abruptly when a pine thrush called out nearby, suspiciously off-key.

  Distracted by the discordant trill, Wolf was too slow to avoid the large trap hidden beneath the detritus. The thin but strong cord cinched tightly around both his feet, flipped him upside down, and yanked him off the ground. Ghost splayed his legs and growled furiously as Daebian stepped into the clearing carrying a loaded crossbow pointed straight at the half-elf’s chest.

  “You had best heel your dog,” Daebian said without a hint of fear. “I do not know if the poison on this bolt will kill his kind or not, but a single scratch will certainly end you.”

  “What do you know of his kind?” Wolf demanded.

  Daebian shrugged. “I’m curious to know what you know of his kind. It doesn’t matter. What is important now is whether or not I decide to kill you. Do you think I was ignorant or had forgotten about your role in my accident? The answer is no to both. I just needed you to relax a bit, drop your guard. It was quite a feat to make a trap you would not readily spot. Anyway, back to the topic of killing you. Here’s the rub of it. I only have time to shoot one of you. If I shoot you, your dog will probabl
y succeed in tearing me apart. If I shoot your dog first, you will probably have time to use that incredibly nice sword my stupid father gave you to cut the cord, scoop up your bow, and put an arrow in my heart. In this environment, you definitely have the advantage even hindered as you are now. Father is rather fond of you. Do not look relieved; it is not a factor in your favor.

  “Normally, when both options have a strong possibility of ending in the killer’s death, the answer is to not provoke that action. Unfortunately, I am of the mind where I am fully prepared to risk my life in attaining what I want, particularly in satisfying a debt.” Daebian stepped toward Wolf. “We are all still alive, Wolf. Please ensure your dog does nothing to change that.”

  Wolf gritted his teeth. “Ghost, back off.”

  Daebian stepped next to Wolf when Ghost edged away. “Are you familiar with the Habberback Plains barbarians? No? I think it is an error to call them barbarians. Their society is quite sophisticated and noble. Much more so than ours. Most of the animals populating the plains travel in massive herds. There are many tribes on the plains, and having such a concentrated but limited hunting ground obviously results in some serious competitiveness. Now our society, the truly barbaric one, would engage in a war until one side was destroyed to the point it could no longer fight and would then become a slave class or simply perish.

  “The barbarians long ago decided it was in no one’s best interest to engage in this sort of fighting, so they created another sort. They call it honor rights. Thousands of horsemen from competing tribes would square off on the plains and do battle, but not with lethal intent. They carry long sticks and strike each other, often taking a token like a bead or feather from a fallen enemy. The tribe with the most honor rights gained the right to first hunt of a particular herd.”

  Daebian pulled his knife from his sheath and traced a line along Wolf’s face. Wolf shuddered at the icy touch of the steel against his cheek but refused to show fear. Daebian lowered his crossbow, grabbed one of Wolf’s beaded braids, and cut it from his scalp.

  He held the lock in front of Wolf’s face. “Do you know what this is? This is a symbol of your life, and it now belongs to me. I am taking this symbol of your life and allowing you to keep yours. You are now indebted to me for your life.”

  “You sick bastard!” Wolf shouted, his resolve having reached its limit.

  “Such ingratitude. You should be thankful I did not take your dog’s tail.”

  Daebian left Wolf and Ghost in the clearing, whistling a jaunty tune as if he had just had a pleasant conversation with a friend. Wolf waited until he could no longer hear his whistling before cutting himself down. As much as he hated Daebian and wanted to kill him, he was right. Daebian had given him back his life. It was a bitter feeling that felt like poison in his veins.

  “Let him go, Ghost. Someone will give him his due one day.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Daebian was bored again. Even tormenting Raijaun had lost much of its entertainment value as his brother seemed to be getting thicker skinned and difficult to aggravate. Peck was easily riled up, but the stableboy was so far beneath him that it was a greater insult to himself for giving him any consideration than the entertainment he could gain by tormenting the peasant. Azerick was busier than ever with his company of golems, and Raijaun spent most of his time practicing with the other spell casters when he was not attached to his father.

  Klaraxis was constantly whining for more souls, but killing small animals was equally boring. He supposed he could find some small amusement in feeding the demon the soul of one of these vagrants. There were certainly enough of them despite the conscription, but even killing one of those riffraff would cause an uproar, and he did not feel like listening to his father’s reprimands. Killing the pirates two years ago had been thoroughly stimulating, but where was he going to find a pirate around here?

  With the thought of pirates still on his mind, Daebian found himself wandering the docks district. He looked up at the sign hanging over a tavern and decided to see if any fun was to be found within. It was only mid day and the clientele was rather sparse thanks to the mass employment of the war effort. Daebian took a seat next to the only other patron sitting at the bar.

  The barkeep looked up at his newest customer. “What can I get ya, boy?”

  “Your best rum,” Daebian answered, thinking all good pirates drank rum.

  The man gave Daebian a condescending grin. “You’re a little young for that ain’t ya?”

  The man next to him said, “Best do as he says, Lucky. That’s Lord Giles’ boy.”

  Daebian’s mood flashed from insulted to murderous without even a minute shift in expression. He turned to the man and asked, “Why would my father be factor in what I am served? Is it because he employs most of your ilk?”

  “Partly I suppose, but mostly he just scares the hell outta me!” the man brayed into his mug.

  Daebian smiled in a way one might assume he was amused, but those who knew him would be stepping quickly away.

  “Two men, one strong, one weak.

  Both prone to moments of anger,

  Neither one meek.

  The strong man can kill with a word,

  But rarely does he speak.

  The lesser man has only his blade,

  But will kill in a moment of pique!”

  Daebian’s dagger appeared under the man’s chin in the blink of an eye, the tip disappearing into the soft flesh beneath. The man dared not twitch as he felt a rivulet of blood tracking down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his filthy shirt. He suppressed the shudder running up his spine caused by the unnatural coldness of the boy’s blade.

  “I may not wield the power of my father, but make no mistake; I am by far the more dangerous of the two.” Daebian sheathed his dagger and turned back to the barkeep. “Now get me my order, not because of who my father is, but for who I am.”

  Daebian slipped a piece of silver onto the counter as the barman placed a shot of rum before him. “My presence in your putrid little tavern should be compensation enough, but I suppose it would be difficult to purchase your swill with such currency.” He shuddered as the powerful spirits burned a course down his throat and into his belly.

  “First one’s always a bit fiery,” the barman said, trying to relieve some of the tension. “I spit out half my shot the first time I tried it.”

  Daebian slammed the shot glass onto the counter. “Shut up and pour me another. I do not need the affirmation of a peasant, and likely a degenerate as well from the looks of you.”

  The tavern owner did as the young man ordered, hoping fervently the boy would either soon pass out or leave his establishment.

  Daebian slammed back the second shot, willing his body not to respond to the vile stuff. He looked around the tavern and spotted a woman he correctly guessed to be a prostitute. She was not what one would consider pretty, but she could probably ply her trade in a better establishment than this. Daebian figured she was probably the barman’s daughter or some other relation.

  “You, go find us a room.”

  The woman smiled demurely and climbed the stairs to one of the small rooms above the bar. Daebian pitched another silver sword onto the counter and followed a moment later.

  Lying spent and feeling properly relaxed for once, Daebian laid next to the harlot, his right arm pinned between his head and pillow. “So how was I?”

  The woman traced a pattern on his bare chest with a finger and smiled. “Do you want the truth?”

  “Do you want to keep your tongue?”

  “You were fantastic,” she moaned.

  Daebian smiled. “Smart girl.” He rolled out of bed and began collecting his clothes. “I had best get home. Father does fret so when I am away too long. He is such a brooding old mother hen.”

  He tossed a few coins onto the bed and strode cockily out of the bar. He fingered the hilt of his dagger as eyes appraised his youth and fine clothes from within the shadowy confines of o
pen doorways. Much to his dismay, none sought to trouble him.

  More eyes tracked him as he walked the long road to the school. He tipped an imaginary hat toward Wolf and Ghost whose eyes he felt upon him as keenly as a dagger in his back. Daebian pictured Wolf inside the trees with his bow drawn to the corner of his mouth, the tip locked onto his neck, and Ghost hunkered at his feet waiting to lunge.

  It was still early in the evening, but Daebian thought he would turn in and avoid his father on the off-chance he crawled out of his dungeon. After stopping at the kitchens for a quick snack, he climbed the stairs to his room, certain his father and brother were both locked up in their precious laboratory doing whatever it was freaks did all day and night.

  He sighed loudly as he reached the landing to his parent’s rooms and looked into Azerick’s glaring face. Why did everyone feel the need to tell his father whenever he expressed himself? He was already forced to walk to the city because of that tattling runt, Peck.

  “Hello, Father. Have you been here all this time to tell me how disappointed you are in me, or did you wait until one of your little toadies informed you of my return?”

  Klaraxis subtly tweaked Azerick’s flaring anger. “Your behavior in the city is unacceptable. You cannot go bullying everyone around just to get your way like a spoiled child.”

  “You mean like you bullied The Hall of Inquisition, The Academy, even your best friend?”

  “That was different. Things needed to happen for the betterment of all.”

  “You needed to get your way. You bullied and got people to do what you wanted. I bullied and got what I wanted—respect.”

  Klaraxis stroked Azerick’s anger once more. “You confuse fear with respect.”

  Daebian shrugged. “Possibly. They both elicit identical levels of satisfaction, so I see no reason to split hairs over it. Admit what the real problem is, Father. The great and powerful Lord Giles simply cannot stand to have a useless son. It is not me who disappoints you. You are disappointed in yourself for what you created. I am a reflection of you, and a poor one at that. That is what you cannot tolerate.”