The Sorcerer's Abyss (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  “Wait!” the dangling slaver said as she turned to leave. “You said you would free me!”

  Ellyssa looked up at the terrified man. “So I did.” With a flick of her wrist, the man dropped, the rope reached its end, and his neck audibly snapped. “Now you are the freest person on this ship.”

  Ellyssa strode from the ship and, with her back turned, released the rest of the crew with a thought and left their corpses dangling like the ornaments of some macabre winterfest tree. She was exhausted, but her work was not yet over.

  The Harbormaster peered through the door of his small cabin on the dock at the slave ship moored at the farthest pier. He watched in horror as the fireballs erupted on the ship and the screams of men reached his ears. He knew what had happened. The Witch of North Haven found them and gave them their due. He had heard the rumors, and he knew the slavers were operating at a high level of alert. These ones gambled and lost.

  There had been no more commotion from the ship for several minutes now, and he could hear the Watch arriving. The last thing he wanted was to talk to the Watch. He guessed there was no avoiding it, however. As the Harbormaster, they were certain to want to speak with him about anything happening on the docks. He shouldn’t fret over it. There was nothing tying him to the slavers other than the gold stashed in his wall, and that was plain gold crowns. Some might wonder where he got so much gold if it came up, but bribes and kickbacks were a long tradition for his position. Of course, those were generally for simple black market goods, not human trafficking.

  The Harbormaster started with a gasp when he turned and looked into the angry eyes of a young woman. He had no idea how she had gained entry. There was only the one door to his cabin. His first thought was that she was a thief and his eyes automatically shifted to the hidden panel in his wall.

  “Looking for this, Harbormaster?” Ellyssa asked and held up a large pouch full of coins.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in here, and what do you think you are doing with my gold?” the man demanded.

  Ellyssa conjured a small light so the man could see her clearly inside the unlit interior of the cabin. The Harbormaster’s face immediately paled and sweat beaded on his brow as he realized who, or what, had come for him. His cabin was built atop the pier and so was situated several feet above the water. He looked at the trapdoor leading to a small rowboat tied up directly below.

  Ellyssa followed his eyes to the trapdoor. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  The Harbormaster looked to see if the witch was trying to trick him. When she did not move, he edged toward the trap door. When the girl did nothing but smile at him, he opened the panel and bent down toward the ladder leading to his boat.

  “Harbormaster,” Ellyssa said, making the man jump up, “don’t forget your gold.”

  He turned and felt his entire body go rigid and an invisible hand force open his mouth as if locked in mid scream. His eyes bulged as he watched the gold inside his bag slither out of the top like a snake from a hole. The gold was no longer in coins. It looked as if it were molten and no longer solid. The gold serpent twisted and writhed toward his open mouth, slithered down his throat, and into his stomach. Ellyssa gave the man a push with her magic and he disappeared into the opening in the floor with a splash.

  Ellyssa was exhausted, but at least her work was complete—at least for tonight. It was a long walk back to the school, but getting rid of so much human filth lent her strength as she left her gruesome work for the Watch to clean up.

  ***

  Inspector Orson stood by as the Watch cut down the last of the slavers. So far, they had found thirty-three dead crewmembers, most of them hanging from yardarms and rigging. They found eleven young boys, girls, and women chained inside the hold, a testament to this ship’s purpose.

  “Inspector,” Lieutenant John Cruthers called out, “we have located the Harbormaster.”

  “It’s about damned time. Bring him here,” the inspector ordered.

  “Yes, sir. They are hoisting him up now.”

  Inspector Orson turned. “What do you mean they are hoisting him up?”

  Lieutenant Cruthers cleared his throat. “We found him in the water beneath his cabin, sir.”

  “What kind of new hell is this?”

  The inspector stormed off toward the Harbormaster’s cabin, making the lieutenant quicken his pace to keep up. These murders had been going on for nearly a year, and he was no closer to solving them. The fact they identified most of the victims as slavers, and the rest suspected of being such, did little to mollify his or the Duchess’ frustration at having a vigilante running amok in North Haven. The two men reached the cabin just as a pair of watchmen hoisted the body of the Harbormaster out of the portal in the cabin floor.

  “What made you think to search the water for him?” Inspector Orson asked.

  “We found the trapdoor open and I spotted a bit of blood on the edge where he probably hit his head when he fell.” Lieutenant Cruthers pointed to the spot of blood.

  “Good work.” The Inspector knelt down and looked at the body. “There appears to be something in his mouth. Get me some damn light over here!”

  Several watchmen turned up the wicks on their oil lamps and brought them closer. Inspector Orson reached into the Harbormaster’s mouth with two fingers and tried to extract the metal, but it barely moved under his touch.

  “Open his shirt.”

  The Lieutenant hastened to obey and tore the fabric down the middle, exposing the man’s front. The Inspector applied more force to the object and the Harbormaster’s stomach moved. Several of the Watch jumped back with looks of surprise or disgust.

  “What do you think it is?” The Watch Lieutenant asked.

  “I’m not certain, but I have an idea. How strong is your stomach?”

  “As strong as any man’s I’ll wager.”

  “Good. Open him up. Whatever this is, it goes all the way to his gullet.”

  John Cruthers made as neat an incision as he could with his dagger and exposed the stomach cavity. The Lieutenant and his fellow guards flinched at the smell that assaulted them.

  “Now reach in there, find the end of this thing, and pull it out. The benefit of being in charge,” the Inspector explained when John balked at the order.

  Lieutenant Cruthers looked at one of the guardsmen and jerked his head toward the Harbormaster’s body. Not outranking anyone else present, the man muttered a curse and knelt next to the body. Turning his head away, he reached into the cavity and fumbled around for moment before extracting a large, gore-covered object.

  “Someone get something to clean this off.” The man holding the object immediately repeated the order.

  Another guard found a bucket, filled it with the water beneath the trapdoor, and poured it over the object and the grateful guard’s hands. The object was clearly gold and looked almost like a club. It had a handle running the length of the Harbormaster’s throat down to his stomach where it ended in a globulus mass.

  “By the gods,” John exclaimed. “What do you make of it, Inspector?”

  Inspector Orson looked thoughtful a moment. “The northern barbarians have a method of execution reserved strictly for those who betray the tribe out of greed. They stuff whatever the man or woman received as payment for their betrayal down the throat of the accused. If it was land, the chief rammed soil down the offender’s throat until he was stuffed full and suffocated. If it was coin or steel, they melted the metal down and poured it into them. A horrible way to go.”

  “You think that’s what happened here?”

  “Not exactly, but close. There are no burn marks in or around the mouth. Neither is his insides seared, which would be the case if the gold had been melted and poured.”

  “You think it is magic again,” the Lieutenant said.

  “Undoubtedly.” Inspector Orson looked thoughtful a moment. “I recall something similar to this happening in Southport nearly a decade ago. As I heard it, there was a man being held in a
cell awaiting interrogation by the King’s magistrate. When the magistrate arrived, they found the stone around the door melted as if it were wax and resolidified. They found the prisoner suspended from the ceiling, his hands and feet meshed within the stone.”

  “Sounds horrible.”

  “Indeed. Would you like to hazard a guess as to the man’s name?” the Inspector asked.

  “I would hardly know where to begin,” John replied.

  “Darius Giles.” The lieutenant furrowed his brow. “That’s right, the father of our own Lord Giles.”

  “Do you think this is the work of the same assassin?”

  “I don’t know, but if he has come for the son, he is a couple years too late.” Inspector Orson sighed. “I believe it is time I sent a report to Southport. This is the second major use of magic to commit these crimes, and our local magicians seem disinclined to provide much help. Have your men clean up this mess while I pen a letter to Inspector Lazlo in Southport. I pray he can convince The Academy to send help.”

  ***

  Allister leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. From the mark of the candle, he knew he had been pouring over these ancient manuscripts for nine hours straight. He glanced at the half-eaten meal at the end of the small table, but he had no appetite. He had been in the lore vault for nearly five days and only after almost a month of research in the Grand Library. Only his rank within The Academy and calling in nearly every favor owed him got him access without divulging specifically what it was he was looking for.

  He had found out very little, as he had expected, but what he did find was very disturbing. It was mostly rumors about powerful wizards and sorcerers who may have possessed the Codex Arcana used the lore it contained to carve out their own little empires. All fell from power for one reason or another. Some speculate that the book itself was the reason. Either someone else discovered its existence and took it, or the book fell silent, perhaps in its desire to find a better master.

  There were very few descriptions upon which to judge whether the book Azerick brought back was the Codex, seeing as how very few people had ever seen it. Those who had almost invariably coveted it, and they were not inclined to share any information about it whatsoever.

  The greatest bit of information he had found was a fragile scroll written in elvish, but his familiarity with the language was poor, and his was the best in The Academy. He was currently going over a journal once belonging to one of the first headmasters of The Academy. She was one of only two people in human history to preside over the school while the Codex Arcana was counted among its artifacts.

  The journal was nearly six hundred years old, and Magus Keller’s handwriting suggested she suffered from a mild palsy of some kind. She wrote extensively of trying to unravel the Codex’s secrets for decades, but to no avail. The book refused to share anything beyond its basic store of lore to her or anyone else at The Academy. She went on to say she and the council believed the tome did eventually speak to a young sorcerer, ironically enough, but the man managed to vanish and no one had seen either one since.

  The woman detailed so much about trying to unlock the Codex’s secrets, but never once thought to describe the blasted thing so someone else might know what to look for should it ever reappear! Frustrated, Allister slammed the book closed, creasing the last page. With a sigh of admonishment, he opened the back cover and did his best to smooth out the wrinkle. He gasped, for on the inside of the back cover was a small drawing in exquisite detail of the book now sitting on a podium in the laboratory back home.

  There was also a small note neatly written beneath the picture. He closed the book, gently this time, and let out the breath he had been holding for some time. Allister scratched at his beard as he thought of his next course of action. The old mage knew he was really just stalling, having determined there was only one real option open to him other than going home and pretending none of this happened.

  With a heart heavy from the weight of duty, Allister reset the wards upon the steel door to the lore vault. The Lore Keeper was not around, so Allister would need to inform him his work was finished so the Keeper could ensure the wards were properly set. It was early evening, so the Headmaster might still be in her office. He walked dully up the stairs until he stood outside her door.

  The Headmaster beckoned Allister to come in after he knocked. “Allister, did you finally find what you were looking for?”

  Allister sat heavily in one of the padded chairs. “Unfortunately, Headmaster.”

  “Headmaster? Come now, Allister, you and I have been friends far too long to be so formal,” she said.

  “Perhaps not for much longer, Maureen. I need to borrow the Bekkin stone,” Allister said solemnly.

  The Headmaster’s hand absently touched the stone hanging around her neck beneath her robes. “How in the world do you even know of such a thing? I did not know of its existence until after becoming headmaster.”

  “Headmaster Keller mentioned it in a journal I found in the Lore Vault.”

  Maureen pierced her old friend with a steely look. “The fact you ask for it means you know what it is for. Are you telling me you have found the Codex Arcana?”

  Allister looked at the ceiling and breathed out a slow breath. “I cannot know for certain until I use the stone, but the evidence is rather damning.”

  “Allister, you know if you find the Codex Arcana, you must bring it to The Academy. That book must be safeguarded and its knowledge available to all who are willing to follow Academy law.”

  “I do, Maureen. I do wonder if it would really be available to all. The council has not been terribly inclusive for some time.”

  “The council is old and headstrong, but so am I. The Codex could advance our understanding of magic several fold, and in order for that to happen it must be available to those with the strength, experience, and discipline to use it. Obviously, we cannot let just anyone plumb its depths. Imagine the damage if someone of an inexperienced or foolish nature were allowed to use it.”

  Allister buried his troubled expression inside his ample, white beard. “I can well imagine. Will you give me the stone?”

  Maureen lifted a simple leather cord from around her neck from which dangled a faceted amber crystal the size of a petite woman’s pinky finger. “You must promise me you will bring the Codex back here. I’ll have your word on it.”

  “You have my word, Headmaster,” the sorrowful old wizard answered as he took the crystal.

  Allister had to wait a full day before he found a ship to take him north. The winds were not as favorable, nor was the ship as swift as the courier vessel he had used to come south. Every hour dragged on like an eternity and it set his nerves on edge. The crew quickly learned to avoid the dour archmage.

  It was five, stressful days before the ship finally reached North Haven’s port. Allister was so angry and impatient by this time he set the customs official’s hat on fire when the man tried to keep him from debarking before he had made his customs inspections. No doubt, Allister would receive a stern rebuke from Duchess Melina in the following days for his behavior.

  He did not stop to speak with anyone when the coach deposited him upon the steps of the old tower. Despite his travel-induced exhaustion, Allister went immediately to the lab where the tome was always located. He found it perched upon the podium as always. He let out a sigh of relief as he half-expected it to be gone. Allister pulled the crystal from his pocket and stepped toward the book. If this were truly the Codex Arcana, the crystal would glow with a silvery light.

  The old archmage held the crystal out and approached as if he expected the book to strike at him. He mentally berated himself and dangled the crystal directly over the open pages and—nothing. Neither a glow nor any other sign the crystal recognized the tome as the Codex. Allister felt such relief he did not even mind having wasted a month of his life researching this fool’s errand.