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

by Brock Deskins

  Potsworth screamed, dropped his cudgel, and slapped his hand to his bleeding ear. He looked at Wolf who already had another arrow knocked before the one stuck in the wall stopped quivering.

  “Now tell us where the keys are, fat man, or the next one goes through your beady eye and we’ll find them ourselves!” Wolf shouted over the man’s screaming, looking every bit as dangerous as Ghost did.

  Potsworth ran into his room with Wolf and Ellyssa right behind him as he fretfully dug through the drawer of his nightstand. Lord Potsworth found the keys and thrust them at Ellyssa. Ellyssa handed them to Missy.

  “Missy, Go unlock the bedrooms, tell the kids to dress for the night, and take whatever they want to carry with them. Potsworth will have no more need of his fine possessions,” Ellyssa said sinisterly.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Potsworth blubbered.

  “I’m going to fulfill a promise,” Ellyssa replied as she pulled out a scroll and a length of rope.

  ***

  The entire house was up at dawn. Mother was in the kitchen fixing breakfast, Pa was still shaving and getting himself ready for the morning chores, and the oldest boy, Chet, went out to feed the animals. Pa always said that the animals eat before the people since they ultimately provide the food.

  Chet rubbed his eyes and looked out at the pigsty again. “Pa, did you get a hog yesterday and not tell us?” Chet shouted back at the house.

  Pa leaned out the window of his bedroom with shaving soap still covering half his face. “Chet, you know we ain’t had a sow since Matilda done died last winter. Why ask such a fool question?”

  “Cause we got one now, Pa, and the way Chet’s a goin’ at her, we’s gonna have a bunch of piglets real soon.”

  CHAPTE

  R 16

  King Jarvin sat upon his throne trying his best not to let his emotions show as the lords from Brightridge and the mayors of Langdon’s Crossing, Edmonton, and several other small burgs spilled forth their tales of woe. He forced his face and voice to remain calm despite the seething turmoil that churned and burned his very core.

  “My Lords, my Lord Mayors, please rest assured that I will do everything in my power to see to the apprehension of these scoundrels who prey upon my citizens, and will ensure their protection as well.

  “But what of Brightridge, Your Majesty? We must have someone appointed regent until young Thomas is of age,” Lord Whitfield beseeched.

  “Do I have the word of every lord with claim to Brightridge’s throne that they will abide by my selection without causing calamity?” Jarvin asked, already knowing full well that should he choose one over the others all will call foul and create havoc.

  “Your Majesty, if I may make a suggestion,” Bishop Caalendor interjected.

  “Of course, your council is always most welcome.”

  “The prelate who heads the church in Brightridge might be willing to sit the throne for a time until a more peaceful solution can be found and at a time less hectic,” Bishop Caalendor suggested.

  King Jarvin rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Please forgive me, my friend, but I am hesitant to put a ranking member of the church as a head of state. We have worked long and hard to prevent such a conflict of interests.”

  “I understand, Your Majesty, and it is a wise course to maintain, however, in this time of turmoil it may be the wisest course of action for the short term. He is well known and well liked by the citizens. If you are concerned about the prelate’s qualifications, I can personally attest to him. He has taken many studies on governmental policies and even military deployment and strategies. It has long been something of a hobby of his and I trust him to the fullest extent.”

  “What say you, My Lords? Were I to place Brightridge in the hands of the prelate for the interim, just until a proper lord can be agreed upon and the lands settle down, would you accept that decision? Would the other lords of Brightridge do the same?” Jarvin asked, almost pleading with the obstinate lords.

  “I believe we could all agree to that, for the interim of course,” Lord Kendrick replied.

  “Excellent, I will write up the proclamation tonight and you may return with it in the morn. I will speak to my advisors and my military leaders and decide the deployment of my own soldiers to protect the countryside,” King Jarvin declared. “If there is no further business to discuss at this time, I bid you good day, gentlemen.

  Jarvin waited until the lords and mayors were escorted from the audience hall before slumping in his seat, thoroughly exhausted.

  “It is true what they say, the throne is the most uncomfortable chair ever created by man and ordained by the gods,” Jarvin said wearily.

  His wife, Rosanne, reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “I think you acquitted yourself with fairness and wisdom, as you always do, darling.”

  “Then why do I feel so sick to my stomach?”

  “Because you actually care what happens to your people. It is the one horrible fault you have as king and I love you dearly for it,” Queen Rosanne told her husband.

  “Captain, please send for General Mayweather and my company commanders and have them attend me here in the hall. On second thought, have them come to the library,” Jarvin commanded then turned to his wife. “I am ever so much more comfortable there. Perhaps I should replace this dreadful throne with one of the library chairs.”

  The queen gave him a wry smile. “You know as well as I that it is not the material of the chair but the responsibility it is padded with.”

  “Gods how I know, dear.”

  Thirty minutes later, Jarvin sat in one of the high-backed library chairs across the table from his four most senior officers and his two personal advisors.

  Damned if this chair is not more comfortable than that throne. Perhaps I should start holding court in the library, Jarvin mused.

  “Your Majesty?” General Mayweather asked.

  “Yes, forgive me, General, I was momentarily lost in thought. Issues of state you understand. Now then, as you may have heard, at least two large parties of renegades are terrorizing the southern cities up to and including Brightridge. Due to the dreadful assassination of not only Duke William but his seneschal as well, the state is basically headless and running around, please forgive me, like a chicken with its head cut off,” Jarvin told the men.

  “What I intend to do, what I must do, is to send out three battalions to patrol the three primary states and their surrounding towns. My reports tell me we need not divide our forces in fourths to protect Southport. Duke Ulric has already fielded nearly a thousand men and horses and is actively pursuing the larger of the two known groups of raiders. He has already driven them off twice as of last report and inflicted heavy casualties, though he has yet to be able to achieve a decisive victory.

  “It would appear that the raiders are entirely mounted and flee battle rather quickly before they take substantial losses. Even so, Duke Ulric deserves our highest praise for engaging them and driving them away before the raiders could inflict even more damage. As all of you know, with the exception of Ulric, none of the states currently has any standing armies of consequence due to the fiscal impossibilities of maintaining such large forces in times of relative peace. Since the conclusion of our last war with Sumara, it did not make military sense either.

  “It is my plan to have Colonel Rutherford take his companies to patrol the roads around Brightridge until such time as they can rebuild their own army after suffering their disastrous defeat. Captain Cooper, you will take your company to secure the roads west of Duchess Paullina’s city of Argoth, and for Captain Haywood to guard the roads around Brelland. Your input please, gentlemen,” Jarvin invited once he laid his plans out.

  All the officers began speaking at once but General Mayweather stood and took control. “Your Majesty. You are sending the vast majority of your military might outside the castle walls. Given the precariousness of your throne, I highly advise keeping at least one of two companies here in
case of insurrection.”

  “I understand your concern, General, and I quite agree with you, but I do not fear my people rising against me and I have my home guard to protect me from any attempted coup from my less than enamored lords. However, if I do not at least make a show of force to put down these rabid raiders like the dogs they are, I will have an uprising on my hands,” Jarvin replied passionately.

  “It is your home guard that worries me the most, Your Majesty!” General Mayweather exclaimed. “So many of your loyal men have been lost these last few years and replaced by men whose loyalties neither of us can personally to.”

  “General, I assure you that my personal guard is as loyal as it has ever been. Any replacements that have been made have been confirmed by Bishop Caalendor, Magus Illifan, or myself. Unless any of you can come up with any better reason than my own safety, those are the orders I require to be carried out. Goodnight to you, gentlemen, good hunting, and gods’ speed.

  ***

  Maude, Malek, and Borik sat at a table in the Sandy Bottom drinking one warm ale after another while lamenting the loss of Tarth.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Maude said for the tenth time in as many minutes. “I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me. I always felt like he needed me to take care of him.”

  “He was such an important part of our group. With him around, I did not feel like such an oddball. Even you two looked pretty normal next to him,” Malek said dolefully.

  “I never got to finish choking him to death,” Borik said somberly. “I always thought I could get his brain straight if I just choked and shook him hard enough.”

  The barmaid walked over and refilled their mugs.

  “That man over there wanted me to pass a message to ya,” the barmaid told Maude.

  “What does he want?” Maude asked.

  The barmaid took a deep breath, leaned down, and whispered something in Maude’s ear.

  “Which one is it?” Maude asked with a smile.

  The barmaid pointed to a large man a couple tables over, a farmer, given the dirt under his fingernails. When he saw Maude look over he gave her a smile and a wink.

  “Hey Maude, looks like you have an admirer,” Malek said.

  “It does, doesn’t it? Maybe this is exactly what I need to take my mind off Tarth,” Maude replied, still smiling.

  Borik looked at Malek. “Is she smiling?”

  “Yes, she actually has a rather nice smile. She should do it more often,” the cleric said lightly.

  Borik raised his left hand, blocking his peripheral view of Maude and the table of men and ducked his head. “Tell me when it’s over.”

  “When what’s over?” Malek asked, not understanding the dwarf’s sudden apprehension. “She’s actually talking to him and still smiling.”

  “Oh, you just don’t get it do you, cleric?” Borik grumbled.

  “I don’t get wha—oh gods!”

  Maude suddenly grabbed the back of the man’s dirty hair and repeatedly slammed his face down into the hard wooden table until he stopped moving. She dropped his face in his soup where he almost certainly would have drowned had his astonished friends not pulled the bowl away.

  “Feel better now, Maude?” Borik asked.

  “Yeah, a little bit,” Maude replied with a smile. “Still hurts though.”

  “Buck up, Maude, I’m sure you’ll get to kill someone real soon,” Borik assured her.

  “Gods I hope so. Even if I don’t, it was a sweet thing to say. Thanks for trying to cheer me up, Borik.”

  “Anytime.”

  It was late when Azerick rode into Sandusk. He got a room at the boarding house where he stabled Horse and walked into the Sandy Bottom to wash the trail dust out of his mouth. He sat at a stool next to a young man and ordered their best beer. He grimaced at the first taste, uttered a small incantation causing a small bead of ice to form in his upturned palm, and dropped it into the warm beverage. The outside of the mug instantly frosted up, and although it did not improve the flavor, at least it was cold.

  Azerick was enjoying his second frosty mug when three men strode arrogantly into the tavern. The largest of the three men sidled up to the young man next to Azerick. The young man looked to see who was behind him and nearly fell off the stool in his haste to vacate the seat.

  “Here you are, Butch, here’s your seat. I’m sorry I was in it I thought for sure I’d be long gone before you showed,” the man said nervously.

  “Oh no, Joe, you go right on ahead and sit in my seat. After all, you’re just a dung-mucking sheep herder. Who am I to make you move from my seat,” Butch said sarcastically, which got a good round of laughs from his two cronies.

  “Naw, that’s all right, Butch, you can sit here, honest I don’t mind,” Joe said.

  “Oh, now I have your permission to sit in my chair. That’s mighty generous of you, Joe,” Butch said, bringing another bout of laughter from his friends and nervous glances from most the other patrons.

  “Come on, Butch, Joe’s getting off your stool. How about you sit down and have one on me?” The bartender asked, trying to defuse the situation.

  Butch turned his glare onto the bartender. “Shut your mouth, Louis. You can pour me a mug of your swill when I’m done. Where was I before I got interrupted?”

  “Butch, I didn’t mean that I was giving you permission like that, I know you don’t need my permission for nothin’,” Joe said nervously while trying to get past Butch but was blocked by the two men with him.

  “Oh, you didn’t mean that did you?”

  “That’s right, Butch.”

  “So I guess I misunderstood you then.”

  “Yeah, Butch, just a big misunderstanding is all.”

  “I guess I’m too stupid to understand the words of a muck-kicking sheep herder, is that it?” Butch asked, all humor gone from his voice.

  “No Butch I nev—,” Joe’s words were cut off by Butch grabbing him by the front of his shirt, spinning him about, and throwing him halfway across the barroom floor.

  “You want my stool so bad, Joe? Then I’ll give it to you!” Butch yelled and lifted the barstool over his head, about to bring it down on the prone Joe.

  “Are you a betting man, Mister Butch?” Azerick asked, calmly sipping his beer.

  Butch paused with the stool raised over his head. “What you say to me, stranger?”

  “Don’t get involved, you’ll just get yourself hurt and more of my furniture busted up,” Louis the bartender urged him.

  “I said, are you a betting man, Mister Butch,” Azerick spun on his stool to face Butch.

  Butch set the barstool back down onto the floor. “What kind of bet?” Butch asked warily.

  “One I think you will most enjoy. I bet my gold against your silver that with a few minutes of instruction from me, Joe down there can whip you like a mule driver pulling logs.”

  “You’ll put up gold, against an equal amount of my silver, betting that worthless dung heap can whip me?” Butch asked incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “In a fight—with our fists?”

  “Correct.”

  “You must be stupid or crazy, boy; you’re on,” Butch smiled widely. “Give me all your silver; every bit right now,” Butch ordered his friends.

  Butch was absolutely giddy. He and his mates had just been paid so for them the bet was substantial. He added his own silver to his friends’ and set it on the bar.

  “There ya go, stranger, twenty-seven silver sovereigns! I hope you’re a rich man or I’ll take my gold outta your crazy hide,” Butch promised.

  Azerick reached into his coin pouch and set a stack of gold coins on the bar. Azerick counted them aloud, swept all the coins into a glass, and gave it to the bartender to hold.

  “Get me a glass of red wine, Louis,” Azerick ordered.

  Louis set another cup onto the bar and filled it with his best, which made it almost palatable.

  “Follow me outside, J
oe, so we may discuss strategy,” Azerick told the young man and stepped out onto the dirt street.

  “Mister, I don’t know what you’re doing but I can’t fight Butch! Nobody in this town messes with Butch. You’re gonna get me killed! I’m sorry about all that money but I ain’t gonna stay here and die for your entertainment,” Joe said and started walking away.

  Azerick grabbed Joe by the elbow. “Take a drink, Joe, and listen to me.”

  Joe sighed, took the cup from Azerick, and drank deeply in an attempt to settle his nerves. “The first thing you need to have is confidence. If you think you are going to lose, then you already have. Think positive and do not let fear rule you. Can you do that?”

  Joe thought a moment then nodded his head. “Yeah, I think I can! I’m gonna murder that guy! I’m tired of him pushing me and everyone in town around. I’m not gonna have my baby boy grow up thinking his dad’s a coward!”

  “That’s good, Joe,” Azerick said. “Now listen to me.”

  Azerick showed Joe how to block a wild swing and dodge a jab. He showed him how to hit not just with his fists but with his knees and elbows too.

  “Do you think you are ready, Joe?”

  Joe drained the last of the cup’s contents. “Yeah, let’s go get that jerk!”

  Joe and Azerick walked back into the bar. Someone had pushed the tables back and cleared the center of the floor for the fight. Butch was sitting on his stool drinking ale, watching the door for Azerick and his fighter to return, and smiled malevolently when he saw them enter.

  He wiped the foam from his mouth and beard and stepped into the impromptu ring still smiling in anticipation of not only beating the sheepherder to a pulp, but also becoming a rather wealthier man in the process.

  “I can’t believe I’m getting paid so much to do something I would’a done for free,” Butch told Joe as he stepped towards him.

  “True, I would have gladly beaten you bloody and not asked a bent copper for it neither,” Joe replied, unusually full of confidence.

  Butch laughed loudly at the sheepherder’s bravado as Joe raised his arms in front of his face signaling he was ready.