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

by Brock Deskins

  “Forward, march!” the General shouted as he waved his sword over his head then pointed in the direction of travel with it.

  The army of Brightridge, numbering three hundred cavalry, one hundred archers, and seven hundred infantry composed of pikemen, spearmen, and swordsmen marched out of the gates to the rousing cheers of the populace.

  The General set a speedy pace but not punishing. These were professional soldiers, and although they marched with a swift determination, General Quayburn knew they likely would not be marching long. Only three hours out from the city, his scouts returned with the first sightings of the enemy.

  “Sir, we counted over one hundred mounted raiders three miles ahead. The farming village looks to have been completely sacked and the raiders are busy looting homes.”

  General Quayburn’s jaw muscles trembled as he clenched his teeth in suppressed anger. “Captain, tell the men to prepare for battle. We will face the enemy within the hour.”

  As they neared the plundered village, a scout returned with another update. “Sir, it appears that the raiders are mounting up and preparing to move on.”

  “I will not allow them to simply flee the field. Captain, order the cavalry on line. I will personally lead the charge.”

  It took only a minute for the cavalry to form up on their commander. With one last look behind him, the General ordered his men to charge while his infantry and archers continued to march towards the impending battle.

  The swiftly charging horses ate up the half mile of open road that cut through the sparsely forested, low-rolling hills that lay between General Quayburn’s forces and the detestable raiders. The hundred or so raiders saw the significantly larger cavalry come racing around the bend between a pair of low hills a moment later. If the mercenaries were surprised to see the large force bearing down on them with hate and bloodlust in their eyes they did not show it. With several departing rude gestures, the outnumbered enemy put spurs to their mounts and fled.

  “Do not let them get away!” General Quayburn shouted over the thundering hooves of the horses and gave chase.

  General Quayburn’s foot soldiers continued their steady march forward, though they significantly lagged behind the mounted men. None of the seven hundred soldiers saw the enemy waiting for them until they assembled atop the low hills between which the footmen were now marching. Ulric’s archers stood atop one hilltop, raining down swarm after swarm of killing arrows just before his cavalry charged over the opposing hill, and systematically destroyed the hapless infantry.

  It took only seconds for the five hundred mounted raiders and traitors to slam into the nearly defenseless flank of Brightridge’s infantry.

  Brightridge’s pikemen were too far out of position to be the least bit effective. The archers were able to loose a few sporadic shots, but they were completely unorganized and had little effect.

  The slaughter lasted less than thirty minutes. Men tried to break and flee but they were either shot down by the archers or ridden down by horsemen. Not one man was allowed to survive to report the raiders’ unexpected help.

  Meanwhile, General Quayburn continued his pursuit of the fleeing invaders, intent on not allowing them to escape. Kayne’s decoys were slowly leading their pursuers in a large circuitous route back to the site of the slaughter of the General’s footmen. The fleeing mercenaries wheeled about and faced their pursuers just before the site of the massacre.

  “The cowards have finally got tired of running!” General Quayburn shouted gleefully and pulled his broadsword from its sheath.

  The swath that the road cut through the hills was narrow, negating some of Quayburn’s numerical advantage, but the hills were not overly steep and his men were still able to fan out. Intent upon slaying the raiders, no one saw the bodies that littered the road just beyond the waiting mercenaries until it was too late. Once again, the cavalry hidden just over the hill broke cover and charged down the slope to strike and envelope the enemy’s flank as arrows pelted them in a deadly hail.

  General Quayburn knew he had made an enormous tactical error. Confident in his numerical superiority, he had failed to send out wide-sweeping pickets to watch over his flanks for just such a trap. He knew his men were lost but he would sell his and their lives dearly. With a shout of rage, he swung his broadsword with fervor, slaying any bandit that came within reach of his blade.

  His ears picked up the shouts of his men and saw several hundred footmen flying Duke Ulric’s colors coming over the opposing hill. With renewed hope, his men loudly cheered the sight of the unexpected reinforcements. Those cheers quickly became cries of death and disbelief as their own countrymen cut into their right flank. With both his flanks and front destroyed, General Quayburn ordered his surviving men to try to break out the way they had come.

  Quayburn’s troops fought valiantly in hopes of escaping the trap they had fallen into, desperate to warn the city of Ulric’s betrayal and they nearly succeeded. With the General leading the fighting retreat, he and two dozen of his men cut a hole through the rear ranks only to pull up short as Ulric’s pikemen and archers blocked the road ahead. The archers loosed their arrows and sent several men and horses crashing to the ground.

  General Quayburn spotted Ulric atop his horse near the top of the hill to his right. He knew that he would not survive this battle, but it would make his death feel rewarded if he could take that traitorous bastard with him.

  General Quayburn fought like a man possessed, hacking and slashing through the men that stood between him and his sole chance at vengeance. Bloody spittle flew from his mouth with every curse and demonic scream of outrage.

  The enraged General inched his way forward as he cut down mercenary after mercenary until he finally won through. He spurred his horse up the slope of the hill where the traitor Ulric waited, a mocking smile upon his lips.

  “Ulric!” Quayburn shouted as he charged forward.

  A small bald man with a suntanned and weather-beaten face interposed himself between him and the duke. Quayburn slashed down at the man who easily parried the powerful stroke with his own sword. Quayburn took note of the blade’s unique design. As long as a broad sword, it came to a sharp, upturned point like an oversized hunting knife. A deep blood groove ran from tip to hilt and the back edge of the blade was deeply serrated.

  The General repeatedly slashed at the bald, sneering man but was unable to break through the skilled swordsman’s defense.

  “Who are you?” Quayburn demanded to know.

  “Don’t you recognize me, General? I’m the man who just killed you,” Kayne replied with an evil smile as he thrust his blade at the General.

  General Quayburn heard the sword punch through his steel breastplate before he felt it. By the time his brain registered the lethal blow, his world was already fading into the black of nothingness. As he slipped from the saddle, he felt a world of weightlessness wash over him. It was as if he were a feather being born away by the wind. He never felt the impact as he tumbled from his saddle and struck the ground.

  Kayne wiped the gore from his blade before sheathing it once more and casually guided his horse next to Duke Ulric. Both men watched the scene below as the last of the Brightridge men were slain.

  “Shall we move on to the next phase of your plan, Duke?” Kayne asked.

  “I need to collect my fallen men first,” Duke Ulric replied. “I cannot have their bodies littering the ground out here. Besides, they still have a role to play. Come to think of it, so do yours.”

  Kayne flashed the Duke a knowing smile. “Ah, of course, you cannot have a battle without casualties now can you?”

  “Precisely.”

  Kayne’s mercenaries rode to Brightridge and harried the defenders upon the walls with arrows while looting the homes built outside the castle walls and setting them aflame. Ulric’s troops rode in shortly after and the two sides replayed the battle just as they had in Edmonton, but this time they had far more real corpses to litter the field thanks to General
Quayburn’s gallantry.

  Ulric once again drove the invaders off, his cavalry pursuing them into the hills as Ulric reaped the cheers of the city’s defenders. With boastful proclamations of his noble intentions of ridding the kingdom of these savage invaders, he and his men set off once more, leaving behind a grateful city full of mourning citizens.

  What had once been a city full of his strongest opponents now looked to him with favor. Placing several men in key taverns and inns to boast of the Duke’s beneficence and questioning the king’s failure to provide support and safety helped strengthen his position even more.

  The land was far more populated near Brightridge so Kayne and Ulric were forced to march nearly a full day before reaching an area that they could camp and rest, secure from spying eyes.

  “You promised me some good profits, Ulric. I lost quite a few good men today and I would like you to tell me how you are going to make sure I am well compensated,” Kayne demanded as they sat near a fire drinking brandy that was far below Ulric’s usual standards of refinement.

  “If you thought this endeavor was without some risk to life, then you insult both our intelligences, Kayne. Our next objective is Groveswood. Are you familiar with it?” Ulric asked.

  “Can’t really say that I am,” Kayne replied with a shake of his bald head.

  “Groveswood is a small but wealthy town where rich nobles like to vacation and retire. There is a lot of wealth in that town and you will be free to plunder it for all it is worth,” Ulric promised the mercenary.

  Kayne looked at the duke dubiously. “Sounds a little too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

  Ulric shrugged his shoulders. “No catch really. There are a good number of guards given the limited population, but they are little more than an overrated city watch. I also need you to avoid killing very many of the populace. It would not do me much good to have you sack the town and have no one to complain to the king about it. I need these men’s support when I make my bid for the crown, therefore I need them alive.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve never known a noble to fight for himself much. Once the guards are slain the nobles will likely cower in their homes and give us whatever we demand to make us go away and spare their useless lives,” agreed Kayne.

  ***

  The keep was in absolute chaos. Hundreds of workers were quarrying, shaping, and mortaring stone for the new buildings and wall. Woodcutters were felling trees and shaping timbers, some children were busy trying to keep out of the way, some were apprenticing, and others were going through sword drills and archery practice with Ewen, Alex, Zeke, and Jansen.

  However, that was not the source of the tension and raw nerves currently felt by the master of the tower and his friend Rusty. It was the hoarse screaming coming from behind the closed door to Rusty and Colleen’s room.

  Colleen went into labor early that afternoon and was surrounded by a team of midwives, an herbalist, and Evan while Azerick and Rusty paced outside the door. Rusty sprinted for the door every time Colleen cried out only to be stopped by Azerick.

  “She is doing fine, Rusty, calm down,” Azerick said reassuringly.

  “It doesn’t sound like she’s doing fine to me,” Rusty replied in frustration. “Do you have that healing potion ready?”

  “Yes, for the fifth time, I have the potion ready,” Azerick replied in exasperation.

  Another cry of pain and exertion came from Colleen followed by the high-pitched wail of an infant complaining about the bright, cold world into which it was just forced. Azerick and Rusty looked at each other for a split second before racing for the door that one of the midwives was opening.

  “Not yet, you two,” the midwife told them bluntly.

  “I heard a cry,” Rusty exclaimed, “a baby cry! Is there something wrong?”

  “No, there is nothing wrong. We just are not finished yet.”

  “Not finished yet? She pushes, the baby comes out, you spank its butt, and it cries, which it has done! What else is there?”

  A second cry filled the room in answer to Rusty’s question.

  “Twins,” the midwife said simply.

  “Get out of my way, woman!” Rusty demanded as both he and Azerick tried to push past the midwife at the same time.

  In their haste to get into the room they both managed to wedge each other into the doorframe.

  “Back up so I can get in!” Rusty demanded.

  “I’m the godfather, you back up!” Azerick shouted back, wriggling and elbowing.

  Rusty paused in his struggle and looked at Azerick incredulously. “I’m the father-father, you moron!”

  Azerick stopped and looked at his best friend. “You’re right, Rusty, I’m sorry. You go ahead.”

  Rusty shook his head. “No, you were right. You are the godfather and I will have plenty of time, you go ahead.”

  “Are you sure? Because it is not like I won’t see the baby right after—,”

  “Franklin Lazarus Cossington, get your skinny white butt in here, you idiot!” Colleen screamed from the bed.

  Rusty ran into the room, tripped over the comforter that Colleen had pushed onto the floor during her struggles, and fell headlong into the nightstand. He jumped back to his feet holding his hand over the large red lump steadily growing on his forehead.

  “I’m up, I’m ok. How are you doing, dear? Where’s my son? It is a son right? No? That’s okay, a girl is great too,” Rusty babbled as he spun around in an attempt to orient himself.

  Colleen grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bed. “Rusty, slow down. Your son, daughter, and I are doing just fine.”

  “A son, I have son? So, it’s a boy?”

  “Son’s almost always are,” Colleen said, smiling up at him.

  “And a daughter!”

  Tears of joy ran shamelessly down Rusty’s face as he saw his son and the infant’s twin sister nestled in Colleen’s arms, suckling.

  “Congratulations, Rusty, they are beautiful,” Azerick told him and clapped him on the back.

  “Say hello to your godson, Elias Azerick Cossington,” Colleen told Azerick, “and your goddaughter Trisha Rosemary Cossington.

  “Elias? When you said you were going to name a boy after me I thought…” Azerick asked in confusion.

  “We were, Az, but when we were trying names out, you know to hear how they sounded, we went with my Grandfather’s name first and yours for his middle name,” Rusty replied, looking a little uncomfortable.

  “My name did not sound right? What’s wrong with my name?”

  “Nothing, it’s a fine name—for you. It is just, well how many people have you met named Azerick? I could not bear to see him go through all the trouble you did.”

  “My problems had nothing to do with my name!”

  “No, fortunately you were able to aggravate people enough not to notice. You are also the only Azerick I have ever known, and what are your major achievements? Street rat, cutpurse, pickpocket, burglary, assaulting an old man, unlawful use of transmogrification magic, and you have killed how many people at the ripe old age of twenty—ten, twenty?”

  “Rusty, stop teasing,” Colleen chided him. “Azerick, we love you dearly and you are Elias and Trisha’s godfather because we both think you are the best godfather they could have.”

  “Thank you, Colleen,” Azerick replied and turned to Rusty. “She’s right you know, I am the best godfather they could have. And as for you being their father, well they’ll just have to do the best they can with what they have to work with.”

  “Will you two stop it? This is a joyous occasion,” Colleen scolded them both.

  “We are going to need another crib and bassinet,” Azerick looked at Rusty.

  “And more baby clothes, and swaddling clothes!” Rusty added.

  “We need to get to town!” they both exclaimed and rushed out the door toward the stables.

  A few moments later, Colleen heard their pounding feet announcing their return.

&nb
sp; “Uh, are you doing all right, dear? Azerick and I need to go into town. Will you be okay while we are gone?” Rusty asked his wife.

  “I think right now I will be doing better with you both gone for a little while.”

  “Okay, I love you, honey. We’ll be right back I promise.”

  The two spell casters took Azerick’s coach, pulling Peck away from his friends to drive them. The sun was already setting and they were going to have to hurry if they wanted to catch the craftsman still in his shop. The coach raced down the streets, drawing angry glares from pedestrians, but Peck was a good driver and never went faster than he felt was safe.

  They caught the carpenter they were looking for just as he was securing the doors of his workshop with a stout chain and lock.

  “Master Orville, a moment before you lock up!” Azerick shouted, standing on the running board and hanging from the side of the coach.

  Azerick leapt from the coach before Peck was able to bring it to a complete stop and ran towards the carpenter, hastened by the coach’s momentum.

  “Ah, Magus Azerick. What can I do for you?” Orville asked.

  “I need a crib right away. Do you have any already built?” Azerick asked as Rusty came up beside him.

  The carpenter rubbed his chin with his hand thoughtfully. “No, can’t say I have any built, but I think I have the pieces cut out so I can put one together. I could have it for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Rusty and Azerick both shook their heads. “We need it now, Orville. Rusty’s wife just gave birth to twins; a girl and a boy, and we only have the one bassinet,” Azerick explained desperately.

  “Well, congratulations young fellow! It’s not often a man gets twice blessed like that. I suppose I could put together a rocking cradle pretty quick. Darned if you didn’t come on the one day the missus let’s me go the tavern and play cards with my friends,” Orville said plaintively.

  “I’ll buy your drinks tonight for you and your friends if you will put the cradle together right now,” Azerick offered. “I will even pay you extra for the rush.”

  Orville rubbed the stubble on his chin again. “Oh, all right. It won’t be painted just so you know.”