The Sorcerer's Ascension (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  *****

  Captain Giles was woken once again by a sound outside his door. He had no indication of the time since there were no windows that opened to the outside of the cell where they held him. He watched the door, thinking that morning had come and one of the guards had come to bring him food with which to break his fast.

  As he watched, the stonework around the door seemed to melt like candle wax and dripped onto the floor. With nothing to hold the bolt in place, the door swung open freely and a dark, hooded form glided silently into the room. Fear filled Darius’s body as a wave of what could only be described as pure evil washed over him. He stood up and tried to back away while calling for the guards, but he found that he was locked in place with his limbs refusing his commands to move and his voice frozen in his throat.

  “Do you know why you are going to die tonight?” the terrifying, hooded creature asked.

  Darius tried to answer, but he could neither speak nor shake his head. He could only look into the luminous, ice-blue eyes that promised his death.

  “Of course you don’t. Pawns never understand the greater strategies of the game they are forced to play. That is what you are, a poor pawn unfortunate enough to be caught up in a game much bigger than himself; a game of kings, queens, knights, and of course, Rooks,” the frightening figure said with a small laugh.

  Darius did not understand the joke, but he did know that this man was going to kill him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He thought about his family and what would happen to them. In that moment, he knew the pain of true regret; knowing that he would not see his son grow up, nor would he be able to give Azerick a brother or sister. Hundreds of thoughts raced through his mind as the dark figure advanced with a wickedly curved blade in his hand. He could not move, but he could still feel the steel as it pierced his heart.

  The Rook disliked killing people of such little stature or power, but he was a professional, and he was paid to do a job. Normally he would draw out his executions, but this was just a merchant who, through no fault of his own, had been caught up in greater people’s schemes. Since he took so little pleasure in this man’s killing, he granted him a clean, quick death. However, it would not look that way when the body was found by the guards on their next rounds. The assassin finished his gruesome work within minutes, and vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared.

  Lord Crassus, the King’s Magistrate, arrived early that same morning and insisted on seeing the prisoner immediately. Chief Inspector Lazlo and four guards led the King’s Magistrate to the isolation cell. They saw immediately that the door to the cell was ajar. The Inspector’s first fear was that the prisoner had escaped. Then he noticed that the stone around the doorframe was melted and rocky slag could be seen spattered upon the floor. Lazlo pushed the door open, and his mouth dropped open in shock at the horrific scene.

  The cause of death was obvious. A single thrust of a blade to the heart. Then the man had been opened from ‘stem to stern’ as the sailors called it, allowing the entrails to fall in a pile onto the blood-matted straw and stone of the cell floor. However, it was not the manner of death that shocked every man looking into the cell. Most had seen far worse brutality in their line of work, including the King’s Magistrate. It was the placement of the body itself that was so dreadful. It was not laid out on the floor, nor was it on the bed. Instead, it hung from the solid stone ceiling in a horrific manner. The prisoner’s hands and feet were spread wide and had been completely encased in the solid stone of the cell’s low ceiling. It appeared as though the extremities had passed through the stone as if the stone had been liquefied then made solid once again.

  “How could such a thing have happened?” Chief Inspector Lazlo asked in shocked awe and disbelief.

  “Wizardry, obviously, but that is the least of my concerns. I no longer have a prisoner to interrogate, and the King demands answers! How could you allow a man to walk in here and do something like this without a single guard raising an alarm?” the King's Magistrate demanded.

  “If it was a wizard, and I think we both agree that it must have been, he may not have walked in at all," Southport's Chief Inspector responded.

  “I will speak to every guard that was on duty last night and this morning. No one leaves this building until I have spoken to them,” Lord Crassus ordered.

  “Of course, My Lord, I will see to it at once,” the Chief Inspector said to his senior.

  Lord Crassus interviewed every guard, jailer, and servant that day, but none had any idea how or when someone was able to get into the cell and murder Darius Giles. He was exhausted by the time he completed his interviews, but Lord Crassus needed to call on the Duke to express the King’s displeasure at the loss of his prisoner.

  "His Grace will be with you shortly, Lord Crassus," the Alton assured the impatient Magistrate.

  Crassus looked about the study in which he was waiting. He found it a rather typical study adorned in hardwood shelves, tables, and flooring along with a small wine rack and a crystal decanter full of some amber liquid. His observations were interrupted as the door to the study opened and Duke Ulric strode in.

  "Good evening, my Lord Magistrate. I hope my Chamberlain has made you suitably comfortable," the Duke said as he shook the Magistrate's hand.

  "I am having far from a good evening, Your Grace. This debacle concerning the King's prisoner has left both His Majesty and me in a most uncomfortable predicament," the Magistrate said with a scowl.

  "Yes, a most unfortunate and disturbing situation," the Duke agreed. "I assure you, Lord Crassus, I will spare no expense in rooting out the cause of this murder, as well as the dead man's illegal activities. I have my men securing everyone that sailed on that ship for questioning. Once I have them in custody, I will get answers, I assure you."

  "The King is most appreciative of your diligence. Had you only displayed such attentiveness in the safekeeping of His Majesty's prisoner in the first place, perhaps all this would not be necessary."

  Lord Crassus regretted the accusation almost as soon as he said it, knowing that it was somewhat unfair considering the manner of the man's death. Not to mention that, despite his own lofty position, Ulric was a Duke of the kingdom and every bit his superior.

  "I understand His Majesty's and your displeasure at the loss of the prisoner, but I assure you, I did everything reasonable to assure his safe keeping," the Duke responded in a tight voice, obviously fighting to hold his temper in check at the accusation of negligence.

  "Forgive me, Your Grace. I am exhausted and forget myself. Of course, His Majesty will understand that you did everything within your power to safeguard his prisoner. Given the method and obvious determination of the murderer to carry out his dark deed, I doubt there is anything anyone could have done to prevent such a thing," Crassus said, smoothing the Duke's ruffled feathers.

  The King had enough troubles with his lords and nobles these days without him getting into a spat with one of the most powerful nobles in the kingdom.

  "It is quite all right, Lord Crassus. I understand it has been a long day after an even longer trip. Please, allow me to offer you the hospitality of my castle and staff."

  "Thank you, Your Grace, but I must decline. I have a nice room already prepared in town. I will retire there and send a pigeon back to His Majesty informing him of the loss. Please inform me once you have the ship's crew in custody so that I may question them myself."

  "Of course, Lord Magistrate. I'm sure it will not take long," Duke Ulric assured the Magistrate.

  Crassus had his coach take him to his room at a fine inn within the city and immediately fell into an exhausted slumber.

  *****

  The half dozen black-garbed men galloped down the moonlit road toward Brelland, the capital and seat of power within the kingdom of Valeria. As the King’s Blackguard, they had access to fresh horses at several private stables used expressly for them and the royal messenger service. They were also authorized to commandeer an
y horse from any citizen in the empire in the line of duty. It would take the men less than two days to travel from Southport to the capital, a trip that would normally take more than a week by normal horseback.

  The men were on their third change of mounts and had already covered over a quarter of the distance to Brelland. Their business was urgent, a matter of national security. The artifact they had discovered in the possession of the ship captain was as good as a death sentence to anyone that possessed it. Whether the man was guilty or had been set up as a dupe was not their concern. Protecting the King from assassination and usurpation was.

  None of the riders saw the rope stretched taught across the road between two trees, intentionally dyed grey to make it nearly invisible in the pale moonlight. The two lead riders caught the rope at full gallop; one across the chest, the other shorter man across the throat, crushing his windpipe and killing him almost instantly.

  Both men were thrown to the ground as if they had been snatched out of their saddles by a giant, invisible hand and dashed onto the road. One of the men struggled to regain his senses while the other lay still and unmoving after issuing a few short choking sounds. The next two soldiers ducked low, sensing the type of trap that had been laid, while the remaining two reined in their horses before reaching the strung rope.

  It was bad luck and poor judgment that the leader of the group was one of the men in the lead as well as the one carrying the artifact. Given the importance of their mission, getting the artifact to the King was the only thing of importance. Had someone else been carrying the ebony gauntlets, they would have continued riding hard without pausing for the fallen men. It was a duty of which each of them were fully aware and not one man among them would hold the others with anything resembling contempt or scorn for leaving them behind.

  One of the riders reached down to haul their fallen Captain onto his horse as dozens of men burst out of the trees on foot as well as horseback. Seeing that they were surrounded and unable to quickly retrieve the gauntlets from the dazed Captain, the Blackguards prepared to sell their lives for King and country.

  Small hand crossbows appeared from under the guards’ heavy black cloaks and filled the air with a sound like large, angry hornets. The small darts uncannily found their way into exposed throats and between helmet eye slits, dropping several ambushers before the elite guards drew the swords that were unique to the King’s Blackguard. Only slightly longer than a shortsword, the blades were wider and weighted to help them cut through armor and block heavier blades without fear of being snapped in half.

  Guiding their mounts with their legs and knees, the Blackguards charged fearlessly into the mass of ambushers, short blades flashing with lethal speed and accuracy. Such an ambush should have been an unqualified success against any opponent, particularly considering the gross numbers pit against the ambushed men. However, these were not ordinary soldiers. These were the King’s Blackguard. They were the best trained and most feared men in the kingdom. Even the King’s elite house guards recognized them as their superiors when it came to small unit combat.

  The Blackguards cast aside their hand crossbows and hands flung small throwing knives into the faces and exposed flesh of the ambushers. The ambushers responded with the twang of a dozen light crossbows. Two of the Blackguards seemed to disappear from their saddles as the bolts swarmed past or stuck in the suddenly empty saddles of their mounts. The other two swept their thick black cloaks around and caught the quarrels within the heavy folds. An instant later, the Blackguards were once again in their saddles, vaulting back up from where they had been clinging to their mounts’ side, the other two casting back their cloaks with the crossbow bolts dangling harmlessly from the heavy fabric.

  The Blackguard charged into the ranks of ambushers, swords jabbing in and finding the vulnerable points between armor joints and visor slits with frightening speed and accuracy. The ambushers used their greater numbers to surround the Blackguard and come at them from multiple angles and even that tactic was proving costly.

  The Blackguards seemed to almost dance upon the backs of their mounts, opening the throat of a man to their front then spinning around backwards in their saddle to block a cut from an enemy to their rear and counterstrike, more often than not with lethal efficiency.

  General Baneford saw his men being slaughtered by an enemy he had outnumbered five to one. With a savage cry, he charged through his own men to get within range of these agents of death. The outcome, despite the Blackguards well-earned reputation and skill, was never in question. They were mortal men despite their prowess. The only question was how many men it was going to cost him to relieve them of the artifact they carried. Right now, it looked like the answer was going to be far too many.

  Three of the Blackguard were down counting the one that the rope had laid low, which left two still in the saddle and one afoot that was wreaking havoc on his men on the ground. The man had obviously shaken off the effects of his hard, painful dismount and was darting between the legs of the horses and ambushing the men afoot on the other side, delivering savage cuts to the legs of the riders on his way past.

  Baneford reached the fight just in time to watch one of the Blackguards open the throat of another of his men only to dodge a spear thrust and a slashing sword by jumping up into the air and turning a somersault over the head of a third man from the back of his mount. The Blackguard landed nimbly behind one of his men, stabbing him through the back before leaping onto a horse’s rump of another of the tightly packed riders and cutting him down.

  The General engaged the man, now fighting from the back of one of his own horses, matching steel with steel. Like all Blackguards, the man fought with twin blades, his offhand, if such men could be said to have an offhand, darted about as if it were being controlled by a completely separate man. The Blackguard slashed at General Baneford, his blade ringing loudly against his shield, while simultaneously parrying the blade of another man almost behind him.

  Gods, what I could do with a hundred men like these the General thought to himself as he finally broke through the defenses of the Blackguard and struck him down.

  Given the side he found himself on however, he was profoundly grateful there were not a hundred such men in the entire kingdom.

  The remaining mounted Blackguard fell with a spear thrust through his lower back, leaving only the man on the ground that still fought like a dervish despite the numerous wounds that soaked his heavy cloak and armor and spattered the ground with his blood.

  General Baneford’s trained warhorse lashed out with a fore hoof, catching the Blackguard on the thigh. The crack of the man’s femur was audible even over the shouts of battling men and the cries of the wounded as he crumpled to the ground. One of Baneford’s men raced forward to finish the man off and received a sword through his chest for his enthusiasm.

  Despite the Blackguard’s grievous injury, he defiantly cast one of his blades at the man that rushed toward him. The blade pierced his heart and protruded from his back, knocking him backwards with the force of the impact. The guard’s shattered leg sent waves of agony coursing through his body, but he responded to the pain with nothing more than a hiss.

  General Baneford dismounted and pressed through the men that had the Blackguard surrounded with their weapons nervously poised to strike at the slightest movement.

  “You and your men fought well, agent. It is unfortunate that we find ourselves on opposing sides and I had to witness the truth of the rumors surrounding the fabled Blackguard as a foe.”

  “To the abyss with you, you vile, treasonous, scum!” the Blackguard captain spat in anger, pain, and disgust.

  “It is not I who commits treason. I am simply a soldier following the orders of the one I have pledged my loyalty to,” the General replied. “Where is the artifact?”

  The Blackguard laughed despite his pain. “I’ll never tell the likes of you. The only way you will get the gauntlets is off my corpse!”

  General Baneford shook his h
ead with unfeigned remorse. “Unfortunately, such had always been the only option available to us.”

  General Baneford stretched out his hand, took a loaded crossbow from one of his men, and put a quarrel into the kneeling man’s heart. He found the artifact packed away in the dead man’s small haversack still strapped to his back. He examined the inky black gauntlets with their gold trim in amazement. Not a single scratch marred their surface, and they seemed to reflect no light despite their perfect ebony gloss.

  General Baneford stood up and put the gauntlets into his own saddlebags. “Drag these men deep into the woods and strap our own fallen onto horses. We will leave no evidence. We will bury them far from here later.”

  He looked about at the number of his men that had fallen and shook his head. Out of three dozen men, only fifteen would be riding back under their own power. With any luck, two or three more may survive their wounds, but it would be a close thing. This was only the first battle in Ulric’s fight for the throne, and already his general lost nearly two dozen men to less than a quarter their original number. He wondered how much blood would be spent to purchase the Duke’s throne.

  CHAPTER 3

  As was usual, Azerick had his nose pressed into a book of mathematics. He had grown bored with his history and engineering studies earlier in the day and sought a greater challenge for his mind.

  He was a handsome lad with brownish hair that shown like polished bronze when the light struck it. He was slender but not weak or sickly-looking. His hazel eyes were almost constantly buried in one book or another.

  The boy was pressed for time though. He looked at the expensive water clock on top of the polished ironwood bookcase in the study. It was time for his private weapons training. He wondered what weapons it would be today. Perhaps it would be hand to hand fighting.