The Sorcerer's Legacy (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  The mage rolled forward and away from the source of the attack and came up with his hands spread and a spell on his lips. He saw Griff swinging his sword in a series of swift strikes through one of the shades that must have come out of the ground or snuck up from behind them.

  The big warrior’s swings seemed to pass right through the shadowy creature but the third and fifth strike of the complex attack routine bit home and the insubstantial creature burst apart like smoke caught in a fierce wind.

  “You can burn up all the scary skeletons and zombies you want, but it’s the ones you don’t see that will get you,” the big warrior smiled at the wizard.

  “Thank you, Griff,” Kyle said gratefully.

  Griff nodded at the wizard. “We’ll let Samone and Chuck handle those up close. You watch that way, I’ll watch this way, and we’ll both watch each other’s back as they make their way around those flames.”

  Kyle nodded in agreement and understanding and turned so that he could look at the left end of the flame wall and still keep Griff in sight with minimal head turning. The mage launched magical attack after attack the instant any undead appeared around the end of the flames before slowing down and letting them group up some before annihilating them enmasse.

  Griff let them come to him for the most part. His blade was also blessed by his order, as were all the weapons that belonged to members of Solarian’s Light, and he made short work of the creatures. The Sword of Solarian fought with an economy of movement, never wasting more strength or energy than necessary as he fell into the comfortable rhythm of his fighting routine.

  Samone and the priest laid down the last of the dreadful shades and moved to support Griff and the wizard. The tide of undead seemed unending as more and more of the creatures clawed their way out of the soil, bent on destroying all life they encountered.

  Exhaustion was quickly taking its toll on the group. Everyone moved slower and Charles and Kyle had exhausted their spells long ago. Brother Charles put his mace and shield to effective use, while Kyle was forced to use his few precious wands and scrolls whenever the undead threatened to overwhelm the fighters.

  The clash between the living and the dead raged for just over an hour though it felt far longer to the weary band. When the battle was finally over, the group simply stood and caught their breath as they surveyed the carnage.

  Kyle was the first to break the silence. “What in the abyss was that?”

  The group had been fighting pockets of undead for weeks, but nothing approaching this level of uprising.

  “The start of what is probably a far greater problem than anyone realizes,” Samone replied ominously. “You did good, wizard. I’m glad we had your help on this one.”

  Kyle just nodded as he looked around at the piles of hacked, mutilated, and scorched corpses. Griff gave him a friendly slap on the back and got a nod from the quiet cleric. Kyle was now officially part of the team. Looking at the battlefield before them, he was not surprised at the lack of joy that brought him.

  ***

  Duchess Mellina sat upon her throne as she addressed the lord standing before her.

  “Lord Effrin, Due to this year’s hardships and to celebrate the sudden rise in employment, thanks mostly to one of our newer citizens, I have decided to hold a summer festival. As I am sure you are aware, the city of Southport puts on a rather splendid magical lights display and I would like to emulate it if possible. Please pay a visit to Magus Azerick and ask him if it is possible, and if he would be willing to put on a show for us.”

  The swarthy, gaudily dressed minister of festivities bowed deeply. “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.”

  Lord Effrin ordered his coach brought around immediately, and within minutes, boarded the bright red enameled carriage.

  It had been two days since Ewen’s visit and Azerick found himself in the laboratory he had set up in one of the recently completed basement rooms. By Simon’s count, he now had four hundred and sixty-three workers employed busily repairing and rebuilding the keep and its supporting buildings. Every day, more men and women showed up looking for work, some traveling as far as Southport yet Azerick managed to find work for them all.

  Simon had quickly made himself indispensable. Every new person looking for work reported directly to him. He would then assign them to a task leader. The task leaders all reported to him at the end of each week with a record of the number of workers, the total hours they had worked, along with a progress report. Simon would inspect each of their assigned tasks to verify the accuracy of the reports and deal with any discrepancies.

  A couple of the task leaders had tried to inflate their reports, but Simon had developed an intricate formula for checking alleged hours worked against the number of people employed and the amount of work accomplished. None of them had been able to pad their reports with any degree of success.

  Azerick quickly discovered that although Simon was a quiet and nervous little man, he was shrewd and ruthless when it came to his numbers. Azerick had witnessed the little accountant make one of the burly brick layers wither under his stern rebuke and sharpened quill when the man had tried to claim extra work hours.

  Grick was naturally a night owl and he was just about to mount the stairs and return to his room for some much-needed sleep after a long and successful night of chasing rats when someone began pounding on the door. Grick knew that the sorcerer was in the basement and would not interrupt his work to answer the door, the cook was in the kitchen and probably did not hear it over the clattering of pans, and Simon and his counters were not yet here. Grick turned away from the stairs with a sigh and went to the door.

  He depressed the door handle, which was about at face level for him, and pulled open the door to the small antechamber that allowed people to wait inside to avoid any inclement weather. Grick opened the door and stared up at the ridiculously dressed man waiting on the other side.

  The lord’s cloths were made of bright silk and fluffy lace. The velvet pants were so tight that they were almost lewd, especially considering Grick’s height and close proximity to the man’s waistline. Ruffles of white silk erupted over the top button of his bright orange vest and hid his skinny neck. His black hair was brushed back and held in the unbreakable grip of some kind of grease and he wore more makeup than a high-priced bordello girl.

  “Ew, what in the world are you?” Lord Effrin asked, dramatically, cringing away and sneering down at the goblin as if he had just stepped in something foul with his expensive, green suede shoes and tall silk stockings.

  The lord held a scented kerchief to his nose as he spoke to the goblin. “You there, creature. You will take me to your master and announce me. I am Lord Effrin, Her Grace’s Minister of Festivities and Recreation.”

  Grick continued to stare at the snobbish lord knowing that the master would not care to be disturbed by this foppish man. Lord Effrin apparently mistook the goblin’s hesitation as being feebleminded and spoke again very slowly.

  “I am Lord Eff-rin. Take me to your Mas-ter,” and tapped Grick in the chest with his ornate walking cane and made a brushing motion with the hand holding the lacy, scented kerchief before holding it back under his large, beak-like nose.

  Grick turned around and received two more light taps on his back from the walking cane. “That’s it, creature, take me to your master like a good boy, or thing, or whatever you are,” the minister ordered haughtily.

  Grick turned and walked down the stairs to the cellar and stopped in front of the laboratory door. Lord Effrin waited a moment for the goblin to knock or enter the room but it became obvious that the goblin was not going to do either one so he rapped on the door with the polished silver knob of his walking cane.

  Azerick opened the door and saw the dandy standing before him then looked down at Grick.

  “This fracknok want to see you, master,” Grick informed him with a jerk of his thumb, pointing at Lord Effrin before walking away.

  Grick had been teaching Azerick some wo
rds in the goblin tongue and the word fracknok was one of the more rude insults of a language that was largely comprised of rude insults.

  The rat catcher did not immediately climb the stairs, but instead chose to hide just around the corner at the base of the steps leading to the main hall. He had a feeling that this meeting might be entertaining.

  “By the gods, that thing actually speaks,” Lord Effrin stated in surprise.

  The lord waited for the magus to bow or give some sort of acknowledgement of being in the presence of his superior. When no sign of obsequiousness was forthcoming, Lord Effrin assumed the man must not be aware of his station.

  “Magus, I am Lord Effrin, Her Grace’s Minister of Festivities and Recreation,” the minister declared importantly.

  Grick was right, this man is definitely a fracknok.

  Azerick wondered if the Duchess just made up these outlandish titles to give the pompous nobility something to do and to give them a sense of purpose.

  Good lord, is this man as simple as his servant? I thought these wizards were supposed to be educated types, Effrin thought as Azerick continued to stare at him without speaking.

  “Ahem, Her Grace, the Duchess of North Haven, has declared that there will be a holiday on the last day of summer. She has demanded your service and requires you to put on a magical display that will put the one produced in Southport to shame.”

  Azerick continued to stare at the man without speaking as the lord continued after pausing for a comment from the sorcerer that was not forthcoming.

  “Now then, I was thinking of numerous, large, fiery blasts such as I have witnessed in Southport, but for the big finale, an enormous flock of snow swans fly over the city and burst into a massive multitude of brilliant sparkles!” Lord Effrin declared animatedly.

  “Well, wizard, do you think you can pull it off?” Lord Effrin asked in exasperation when Azerick continued to stare at him.

  Azerick slammed the door in the man’s face with force.

  Definitely a fracknok, Azerick thought as he went back to brewing his healing potions.

  He discovered that serious injuries often resulted from the kind of large-scale work involved in repairing the keep. Keeping a supply of his potions on hand not only eased the suffering of those injured, it kept productivity at its peak.

  Lord Effrin pounded furiously on the closed door with the cane. “Now see here! I am Lord Effrin and I speak for Duchess Mellina! I will not be treated so rudely by a jumped up peasant and street corner charlatan! Do you hear me?” the dandy shouted while rapping his cane repeatedly on the door.

  Azerick opened the door once more.

  “Now that is more like it. You are fortunate that I am in a reasonable mood and may accept your apology without ordering you lashed for impertinence.”

  Grick did not need to see what exactly the master was going to do to the fracknok, but he knew the man would be leaving and likely with a great deal of haste. He rushed upstairs and held the front doors open. The goblin had just gotten the outer doors open when a shrill scream echoed through the hall and Lord Effrin streaked by and literally dove into his waiting carriage, yanking the curtains shut as the coach sped away far swifter than safety would demand. Grick watched the fancy coach race down the dirt road that led from the trade road up to the keep, bouncing dangerously with every pothole it hit.

  Grick closed the doors and finally climbed the stairs back to his room and went to sleep.

  Ellyssa had six darts stuffed in her quiver that the blacksmith had forged and Wolf helped fletch. She practiced against a straw target she and Peck put together. She had quickly learned that hitting a fleeing rat was much harder than killing a large roast sitting immobile on the dining hall table.

  Peck was out exercising the horses in the recently completed paddock. He had even started letting Ellyssa ride one of the calmer horses while he held a long tether clipped to the horse’s bridle. The boy could not read worth a lick, but he had a natural affinity with horses. Ellyssa was working with him on his reading outside the normal class times.

  Azerick hired Mistress Caroline, a tutor and scholar that came well recommended, to teach most of the standard class lessons, which left Azerick with only having to guide Ellyssa in her magic studies. Peck was not an exceptional student, but what he lacked in book smarts he made up for in determination. Azerick wished Ellyssa would apply herself half so much as the stablehand, even though she still advanced at a rapid pace.

  The following day, just before noon, Simon shuffled fretfully into the laboratory. “Master Azerick, there is, ah, a large contingent of armed men outside and they are, ah, asking for you.”

  Azerick sighed in frustration, glad that his potions were at the point where they only needed to be stored but aggravated at the interruption nonetheless. He poured the brew into several opaque glass vials, tightly seated the stoppers, and stored them in a small rack in a closet against the wall.

  The sorcerer climbed the stairs and walked out onto the steps in front of the keep where he saw a contingent of armed and armored men wearing the colors of the North Haven city watch. There were six men in all, all on horses except for the one standing on the top level of the stairs that led to the front doors of the keep. The watch sergeant took three paces forward and stood three paces away from Azerick as he stepped out onto the portico with Simon shadowing his steps.

  The watch sergeant brought himself to his full height and used his most authoritative voice. “Magus Azerick, you are hereby placed under arrest and commanded to present yourself forthwith to Her Grace, Duchess Mellina of North Haven, to answer for your crimes against a lord of the city.”

  Azerick’s blood-red and silver arcanum-tipped staff sprang into his hands without a word and a shimmering aura appeared around his form, visible only for a brief moment.

  “And what if I don’t want to present myself forthwith, watchman?” Azerick snarled.

  Simon ducked back behind the relative safety of the heavy front door. “Oh my, oh my, dear me,” he stammered as he hid.

  The sergeant’s hand reached for his sword in a blink but he only managed to pull it out about six inches before Azerick brought the arcanum ball on the end of his staff down, slamming the blade back home and cracking at least one bone in the sergeant’s hand. With a thought and a flick of his wrist, the silvery ball extended into a twelve-inch spear tip and gently pricked the skin just below the sergeant’s adam’s apple.

  “If one of your men so much as moves, you get a new breathing hole,” Azerick coldly warned.

  The watch sergeant held his hand up to tell his men to stay where they were since he could not talk or even swallow without risking the razor-sharp point piercing his throat.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly what the Duchess said and to whom she said it,” Azerick quietly demanded.

  The sergeant swallowed as Azerick moved the tip of his spear away from his throat an inch. He could feel the droplet of blood running down his throat and mixing with his sweat, but made no move to wipe it away.

  “Her Grace requested your presence and sent a runner to deliver her summons. One of Lord Effrin’s men accompanied the runner with instructions for me and my men to bring you back under guard and issued the arrest warrant—milord.”

  The sergeant relaxed a little as the sorcerer fully withdrew the spear and it became a visibly less threatening staff once more. “In the future, sergeant, I recommend that you follow the orders of your Duchess as opposed to those of a pompous popinjay who wears harlot’s makeup.”

  Azerick’s comment brought a small laugh from some of the guardsmen.

  “You will depart my premises with your men and inform the Duchess that I will attend her shortly,” Azerick directed in a tone that would brook no argument.

  “Yes, milord,” the sergeant replied without hesitation and mounted his horse.

  Azerick turned towards the stables as he watched the guards make an expeditious retreat back to the city.

  “
Peck!” Azerick called out.

  “Yes, milord,” Peck called back.

  Azerick saw that Peck was standing at the corner of the building with a steel-tined pitchfork in his hands and thought he saw the black blur of movement that he was certain was Ghost and Wolf ducking back into the shadows. The half-elf probably saw the armed men as they rode up the path to the keep.

  “Saddle Horse and bring him around, please.”

  “Aye, Master Azerick, right away,” Peck complied.

  Less than an hour later, Azerick strode down the palace hall in the company of a single guardsman who passed him off to another guard waiting in the antechamber of the reception room, then promptly returned to his post.

  Azerick heard the guard announce his presence then motioned Azerick to enter the reception hall. The sorcerer, wearing a deep burgundy cloak over his black shirt and pants and carrying his staff just for effect, walked briskly to within two paces of the foot of the dais.

  He saw that Lord Effrin was already present so he purposely stood close to him. Azerick’s proximity had the desired effect as the lord nervously and purposely sidestepped to put more distance between them. This left Azerick standing in the center of the rich green and gold carpet and the arrogant minister standing uncomfortably half on and half off.

  “Magus Azerick, thank you for accepting my invitation so promptly. I know you are quite busy,” Duchess Mellina said sincerely, but without warmth.

  “You are quite welcome, but you can thank Lord Effrin for my timeliness. After all, it was he who sent a contingent of guards with an arrest warrant,” Azerick replied and looked pointedly at the minister.

  Captain Brague suddenly took two steps forward from where he stood to the left of the dais. “You will answer the Duchess with Your Grace when you address her!”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, I meant no discourtesy,” Azerick corrected and smiled at the captain.