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

by Brock Deskins

  Azerick, you must not let them get away with this. How many times will you allow others to hurt you, punish you, before you strike back?

  Azerick bolted upright and hissed into the darkness of his small room. “Who are you, what do you want from me?”

  You know who I am, and I want what you want—blood. Blood for blood that is our way. Blood owed your father, blood owed your mother, blood owed to you.

  “What am I supposed to do? How?”

  Kill them, kill them all! The voice demanded and faded from his mind with a gleeful laugh.

  Azerick was shaking. He was far too lucid to be dreaming. Was the voice really Sharrellan? Why would the goddess of death and vengeance be speaking to him, a street rat? Sleep did not easily return and, when it finally did, it was not particularly restive.

  The weeks rolled by and Azerick was busy with scraping up a living, but the time did little to cool the heat of his anger. The cook and the rich man would get their due, but Jon and the others came first. Azerick was out late and returning from a mostly fruitless day scavenging. He rounded the corner of one of the abandoned buildings to find Jon arguing with another man he had never seen before. The man was lean but obviously not weak. He carried himself with an ease that marked him as a very dangerous man. Azerick stayed hidden around the side of the building and listened to the two men’s heated discussion in the darkness across the street.

  “I’ve been working these streets for years now, and I haven’t had any run-ins or conflicts with the guild in all that time. I’ve avoided the guild and your kind and with good reason,” Jon said in a tone that clearly showed he did not like this man or what he had to say.

  “Look, Locke, it’s simple. If you’re not part of the guild then you’re going to pay a tax for the privilege of working in guild territory. It’s not a request, Locke, and be glad Daedric has even given you this chance to get in line,” the wiry man said with a threatening undertone.

  “I barely make out with enough to feed my family and keep them through the winter as it is. How am I supposed to do that and still pay your guild boss his extortion money?”

  “That’s not my problem, Locke. You don’t want to make it my problem either, trust me. You better figure it out and damn quick, or else.” With that final threat, the dangerous-looking man glided off into the night and quickly disappeared into the shadows.

  Once Azerick was sure the man had gone and was not coming back, he crossed the street and hailed his unofficial leader.

  “What was that about, Jon?”

  “It’s complicated, son. Let’s go inside. I’ll have to talk to the whole group about this.”

  Azerick followed Jon into the building they were currently occupying. The structure had once been a large, industrial smithy that used to turn out worked iron for fences, gates, and other large items. Azerick once again found a small room toward the very back of the building, this time constructed of thick stone with a heavy, iron door.

  He was mystified as to what the room had held that was valuable enough to warrant such strong walls and door. He liked his new family greatly, but he still preferred to sleep alone, and sometimes just find solitude within his own room to read.

  He and Jon settled themselves amongst everyone in the main room of the building to explain what had taken place. Jon told the group about his run in with guild man and what the encounter portended for the family as a whole.

  “So, basically we either join the guild or pay their ‘tax’ as they like to call it. You all know how I feel about the guild. Once you throw in with them, you belong completely to them. You do what you’re told when you’re told no matter your feelings on the subject. If they tell you to rob a widow of her last coins, you do it. They tell you to break in and rob a merchant and kill him if he objects, then you do it or you’ll be found floating in harbor.”

  Everyone was silent for several moments. Maggy broke the silence and asked, “What are we going to do then?”

  Jon responded simply. “We’ll do what we can as best we can like we have always done. We’ll pay their tax if we can, and if we can’t, well, I seriously doubt they’ll waste too much effort on the likes of us. We’re not even small time thieves. We’re just some folks trying to survive.”

  “I hope you’re right, Jon,” Ryan said, “because I don’t swim very well, especially with my throat cut and my pockets full of ballast.”

  They all went off to sleep in their corners while Azerick bedded down in his tiny stone-walled fortress. He thought about what the hard-looking man had said and felt a strong sense of unease course through him. He was certain that this was not the last they would hear of this situation.

  Word was out on the street that one of the wealthier families of the city was going to go on holiday or visiting relatives outside of Southport or some such. Azerick investigated the rumors and found that it was the same manor that had unceremoniously thrown him out several weeks earlier.

  Azerick watched the comings and goings of the manor for three days before he saw the coach leave with the master, his homely wife, and fat son. The disgusting stableman looked to have scrubbed himself clean and dressed in something resembling livery for his secondary role as driver.

  He still looks like a pig no matter how fancy you dress him, Azerick thought as he watched the coach depart.

  Azerick darted down the street and into one of the small alleys created by the tall, stone walls of a couple of nearby mansions and where Azerick had stashed some things he would need. He pulled several tightly-woven oilcloth sacks from under piles of refuse. Even with the treated canvas, dark stains seeped through and a foul stench emanated from the bags. He carried them the few blocks to the wall that surrounded the manor and threw them over, making four trips to retrieve them all.

  He then strode casually up to the gate where the same guard that had stood watch before was again acting as gateman and sentry. Azerick was confident the man would not recognize him. Few people committed the faces of the homeless to memory, and the man was not exceptionally bright.

  “What ya want, boy?” the guard asked lazily.

  “Sir, the master ordered Baldric to muck out the stables, but he din’t get round to it and told me ta have it done b’fore he got back or he’d beat me somethin’ fierce,” Azerick told the man in a low-class drawl.

  The guard rubbed his stubble covered chin with one rough-nailed hand. “I don’t know. I weren’t told nothin’ about anything like that.”

  “Please, sir, Baldric said he din’t want nobody ta know lest word got back to the master that he was shirkin’ his duties. I gots ta get inside and get it done. You know how he likes to take the leather to a boy,” Azerick pleaded. “I’ll give ya half what he paid me if’n you’ll let me pass. I get good work here, and I want ta keep it without fear o’ Baldric’s lash.”

  The guard’s eyes lit up at the mention of a bribe. “How much he give you, boy?”

  “Two silver, sir. One I got now that I’ll give ta ya, the other I’ll get from Baldric when I finishes the job an’ he gets back.”

  “Let’s see it then.”

  Azerick fished the coin out of his pocket. He hated to give up the sum that he had held back from his earnings and pickings of the past weeks, but it was a justified means to an end in his mind.

  The guard snatched the coin from Azerick’s hand through the bars quicker than Azerick would have given him credit for before opening the gate a crack. Azerick went straight for the stables, examined the loft, and formulated his plan.

  He lifted a stall door from its hinges then tried to muscle the wooden half-gate up a ladder and into the loft, but it was too heavy. He found a block and tackle suspended from the roof used to lift the heavy bales of hay on a wooden platform dangling from a series of ropes suspended over head. Azerick used it to hoist the door into the loft. He then set the door down flat across two bales of hay like a tabletop, with the bale closest to the edge of the loft barely under the edge of the stall door.


  Once the door was in place, he returned to the stalls and began scooping piles of horse dung into a small cart. When the cart was full, he wheeled it to the hoisting platform and dumped as much droppings as he thought he could lift onto it.

  Azerick scrambled back up the ladder into the loft, tied a couple bales of hay to the pull rope, and rode it down to the stall floor where he tied the rope off to a ring set in the floor. He climbed back up into the loft and scooped the dung onto the door lying atop the hay bales. He repeated the process several times until he had a couple hundred pounds of manure piled atop the stable door perched precariously across two bales of hay.

  Once he had as much filth piled up as the gate would hold, he returned the bales of hay back into the loft, stacking them back out of reach of the gaff so that the only bale within reach was the one holding up the front half of the stable door. He then used the cart to retrieve the oilcloth sacks and wheeled them up to one of the servant entrances.

  After checking that the coast was clear, Azerick grabbed a few of the laden sacks and carried them up into the crawlspace. Once inside, he untwisted the wire holding the sacks closed and almost retched at the horrid stench that wafted out. He remembered the perfumed kerchief he had swiped from a woman in the market square and tied it over his nose and mouth.

  The stench of the decaying carcasses of the dogs, cats, and rodents inside the sacks still threatened to sicken him before he finished his work, but he forced down the bile that arose in his stomach and dumped the remains between the walls of several rooms within the manor. It took several trips before he emptied the last sack between the wood slat and plaster walls.

  Seeing that he still had a bit of time for more mischief, Azerick took a bucket and filled it several times at an outside well used to fill the horses’ water troughs. He liberally soaked the dung pile concealed in the loft then covered it with loose straw before leaving by way of the gate, tipping a make-believe hat to the guard, and whistling a jaunty tune on his way out.

  The wealthy family returned three days later from their short trip, enjoying the warmth of the early summer. The guard opened the gate at the approach of the carriage. The horses’ hooves clopping on the flagstone courtyard alerted those inside the manor to the return of the master and his family.

  The fat cook, alerted by the sound of the carriage, stood in the courtyard wringing his hands in the front of his apron. The sweat that poured down his bloated face had little to do with the heat of the day.

  Baldric climbed down from the driver’s bench of the carriage and opened the door for his master and family, extending an arm for the missus as she exited the coach.

  “Bring in the luggage after you have seen to the horses, Baldric,” the master drawled as he strode toward the house.

  “Aye, milord, won’t be but a moment,” Baldric replied and led the horses by hand toward the stables.

  “My Lord,” the cook said as he intercepted the master, using an honorific that the master was not technically entitled to seeing as how he was not actually a nobleman despite his pretenses.

  “What is it?” he snapped irritably.

  “It is the manor, My Lord. There is a foulness that we have not been able to locate,” the cook replied nervously.

  The master looked confused. He had already spent a fortune replacing several termite-infested beams. “What sort of foulness?”

  “I do not know, My Lord. The servants have left every door and window in the house open in hopes of airing it out, but it has had little effect.”

  They could now make out the putrid scent wafting out of the open windows and doors as they approached.

  “Oh, what is that horrible smell?” the master’s homely, dim-witted wife asked as she pressed a scented silk kerchief to her nose.

  The family walked into the house only to bolt back out seconds later. The missus and her fat son vomited most undignified upon the flagstones as the master cursed and gagged.

  Baldric parked the carriage under an overhead cover to protect its glossy paint from the sun and elements and led the horses to their stalls. He glanced at the empty stall that lacked a door that he was certain had been there when he left. He scratched his head in confusion, but he lacked the desire to tax his brain to devote the necessary energy to the mystery.

  Baldric grabbed his gaff, snagged a hay bale with its iron hook, and gave it a sharp tug. He watched the bale fall and guided it away from him so it would not land on his head, something he learned after clobbering himself more than once with the fifty-pound bales.

  The moment Baldric pulled down the hay bale, the soggy, dung-laden platform tilted downward; its front no longer supported by the bale, and dumped its entire load onto the head of the stableman. Before he could fathom what had just befallen him and utter a curse, the heavy stall door slid down from the edge of the loft and crashed onto the top of his head, knocking him senseless into the muck.

  The decaying carcasses inside the walls of the manner had quickly turned to a rancid mess of entrails and bones under the assault of the summer heat and soaked into the wood and plaster of the manor. The vile taint had so infested the insides of the home that the entire structure had to be razed and burned after several failed attempts to clean it out. Azerick watched from across the street, smiling at the orange flames and greasy black smoke that curled into the air like his own personal banner of triumph.

  Azerick had almost forgotten the unease that had lingered in his gut after hearing the conversation between Jon and the thieves’ guildsman. That night, they all sat around the common room as they called it, and waited for the return of Ryan and Steven. They were long past due to return and there was talk of going out to search for them. Maggy was certain something bad had befallen the pair. Margaret was comforting her when the man guarding the door yelled in and said he saw them coming up the street. The two men soon stumbled into the room a moment later, bruised and battered.

  “Steven, Ryan, what happened to you?” Jon asked, his voice thick with concern.

  Maggy ran to help Steven sit down, held him, and dabbed at his spilt lip and cut brow with a damp rag.

  “Several men jumped us on the street a few blocks from here as we were returning. They took what we had pilfered and told us that what we had wasn’t nearly enough to pay the guild's tax, and that we had better pay them in silver by the end of the week or we would all be paying them in blood,” Steven said as Maggy ministered his cuts and bruises.

  “Damn it, Jon! I’m not going to end up dead because you don’t have the guts to do what needs to be done. I’m leaving tonight. I’m sorry, Jon. You’re a good man, but I don’t have anyone here but myself, and if I did have someone, I’d get out and take them with me and you all should do the same. I’ll not cross the guild. You see what they’ll do, and this is just the start,” Ryan exclaimed before getting up to pack his few belongings.

  “Ryan, please, we’ll pay their tax. We’ll come up with something tonight,” Jon swore.

  “I’m sorry, Jon. I don’t mean to insult you all, but you’re just not cut out to do what’s going to be required to please the guild. I hope you do, but I’m not willing to risk my life on it.” That said, Ryan left and disappeared into the night.

  Jon turned sullenly back to the remaining group. “Okay folks, we have some planning to do. Anyone have any ideas?”

  They all argued back and forth with different ideas and schemes long into the night. Azerick decided this was not his area of expertise and had little to offer, so he decided to wrack his own brain for ideas back in his room.

  He only realized he had fallen asleep when dawn woke him in the morning. He went out to the common room where Maggy was sitting with Beth and William.

  “Where is everybody? Have they all gone out already?” Azerick asked as he found a piece of bread and some cheese to break his fast.

  “Aye, Jon and the others put some half-baked plan together to get their hands on some real coin and left early this morning,” Maggy replied unha
ppily.

  “What are they going to do? Why didn’t they wake me?”

  “Jon said to leave you out of it; that you were too young and too inexperienced for this kind of job.”

  “I’m almost as old as Patrick and twice as quick!” Azerick insisted.

  “I know, but that was what they decided, and you’re probably better off not going. I hope I’m wrong, but I got a bad feeling about this.”

  “I’m going out then, Maggy. I may not be able to help them on their run, but I can do something,” Azerick announced as he got up and left Maggy and the two younger children.

  Azerick traveled throughout the city looking and thinking about what he could do that would make a significant difference. He wracked his brain for hours before he saw his opportunity. The young thief found himself in one of the many market squares throughout the city. This one was located just inside one of the better districts. That meant there were better goods being hawked, but also more City Watch.

  Merchants of all sorts were plying their wares while hawkers yelled over the loud droning of hundreds of shoppers and merchants. He spied a jewelry maker’s stand at the base of a small rise in the street. Perhaps thirty or thirty-five feet up the slope was a cart laden with leather belts, bags, and other adornments. One wheel of the cart was chocked to prevent it from rolling down the hill and into the crowd below.

  Azerick sidled up to the leather worker’s cart and waited for the artisan to become preoccupied before making his move. A large woman in fine wool and cotton garb asked to try the belts on to determine which one went best with her outfit.

  “Best buy two and join the ends to get it to go all the way around,” Azerick scoffed to himself as he waited for the right moment to act.

  The merchant had several belts slung over one arm as he handed them over one by one for the woman to inspect. When the vendor stepped away from the cart to help the woman wrap a belt around her prodigious waist, Azerick kicked behind himself like a mule chasing off a stableboy and knocked the wedge holding the cart out from under the wheel. The cart began to roll slowly at first, but it quickly started gaining momentum on the far side of the crest.