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

by Brock Deskins

  Azerick and Azeel haggled over the price that Azeel would pay in addition to the fantastic alchemic set. The crafty fence finally relented; agreeing that the jewelry was all of exquisite quality and gave Azerick an amount that was close to what he had wanted, which was very good haggling on the youth’s part.

  Azerick left Azeel’s shop with an impressive amount of gold and lugging his newest and finest acquisition. He took a route back to his home that was far from direct, but it kept him away from the general populace, praying that he did not run into Hugo and his band. He would defend his precious cargo with his life although preferably with someone else’s life. He would gut all three of them rather than give up the alchemic set. However, luck was with him for a change. He made it back to his lair safely, using all his guile and security sense to ensure no one followed him.

  He spent the rest of the day and much of the evening setting up the equipment and studying his book, reminding himself what each piece was and how to use it.

  The next day he went to a bazaar in another section of the city and found a shop called the Hedge Witches Cauldron. Strange scents and sights accosted him the moment he entered. Eyes, insects, and unidentifiable objects floated in some kind of preserving agent, purportedly magic charms to bring luck, love, or good fortune lined shelves and hung from pegs. An old crone sat in a corner stroking a cat (a black one of course) and looked at him as he entered through cataract-impaired eyes.

  “What brings you in, young sir? Is there a young lass you wish to have fall in love with you, or maybe you want a charm to bring you great wealth, hm? With wealth, a man has no need for a charm to get a girl to lay with him.” The old crone burst out in a cackle of wild laughter at her own satirical bit of wisdom.

  “No, old woman, I need neither fake charms nor any other snake oil potions you might sell one of the local rubes. I require dream lily, blackwart, and clove extract.” Azerick also named off several other compounds he needed for his work. “Can you supply them?”

  Azerick had a great distaste for people who were stupid enough or gullible enough to think that some bit of bone, wood, metal, or strange liquids were the answers to all of their woes. A man had to find his own answers and create his own solutions, and those solutions were found in hard work and education. Answers were found in books of knowledge, in one’s imagination, and by possessing the determination to make those images come to fruition.

  “Fake charms and potions, eh, that’s what you think, eh? What do you know about magic, boy; about power?” the hag demanded.

  "Power is found in a person’s heart and mind. It is within themselves if they have the courage to use it,” he answered shortly.

  “Aye, you’re partly right there, but the problem with being partly right is that you are also partly wrong,” crowed the old woman as she hobbled over to him, spilling her cat off her lap and onto the floor. “But there are other sources of power, sources that do not take heart or courage to wield. Many a cold or cowardly man has wielded such power and still does.”

  Azerick narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “You mean wizards. Yes, there are wizards, but they are at The Academy or hiding away in the Black Tower. They are not out crafting tokens and talismans and hocking them on street corners like some fat baker hocking his meat pies. I have no interest in wizards or their foul sorceries. Do you have what I need or no?”

  “Aye I got what you want. Give me a moment to fetch it. I hope you have a lot of coin, boy. Many of those are rare and expensive things you ask for. Powerful too if used correctly. Deadly if used wrong,” the witch warned.

  “I have enough gold. Please fetch what I asked for.”

  “Oh, it’s please now is it? Such a gentleman you are,” the crone cackled as she shuffled away into a back room.

  The old woman appeared nearly twenty minutes later. Azerick was beginning to wonder if she had suffered a bout of dementia and had forgotten what she was looking for when she shuffled back into the main room with several paper-wrapped packages.

  “Mind you know what you are doing, boy; powerful and deadly, I warn you.”

  “I know my business, madam, and am quite familiar with the dangers.”

  With that said, Azerick paid for his reagents that cost a good portion of his wealth although he was not particular taken aback. He had researched his plan and knew it would be expensive, and he was determined to put it to use no matter the cost. He turned and walked to the door and was about to take his leave when the old woman spoke to him one last time.

  “There is more power in you than heart and mind boy, and it will set you on a path of great knowledge and danger. Best be prepared. Some people take the path, but sometimes the path takes them.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Azerick asked, turning to face the crazy old crone, but there was no one there, just the black cat sitting on the chair that belonged to the old woman.

  He turned back around and started to walk out and saw the black cat lying in the window catching the warm rays of sun streaming through the glass. He looked back at the cat in the chair and to the cat in the window. Azerick convinced himself that the crone must have had two cats, walked out, and went back home feeling just a bit unsettled by the entire event. Once back in his personal laboratory, he went to work grinding the dream lily and blackwart and firing up his burner. He took painstaking care to follow the directions in his book. It was a complicated process and the slightest mistake would create an unusable concoction or an undesirable result.

  Azerick worked late into the night preparing as much as he could. Distilling the dream lily required it to simmer for several hours before he could continue, so he set his burner and went to work on his makeshift water clock. He took a glass tube and filled it with water to the hash mark that indicated four hours and placed it on the pan of a large, homemade balance scale. He weighed down the other side with a few weights to counterbalance the weight of the water-filled glass tube and placed a small bell beneath the weighted end. As the water slowly ran out of the tube, the weighted end of the scale would drop and ring the bell and, with any luck, wake him up in time to continue his work. Once all was prepared, he went to his pallet and fell asleep.

  In what seemed like only an instant later, the ding of the small bell placed under the balance scale woke him. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it had worked, although when he glanced at the hourglass he saw that it had gone off about twenty minutes later than he had anticipated. That was fine since he had given it nearly an hour for margin for error.

  He checked his equipment and brewing potion, saw that it still had at least forty minutes before he could move on to the next stage, and once satisfied everything was proceeding well, fixed himself breakfast.

  Azerick continued his work for another three and a half days, checking, and rechecking his figures, measurements, and processes; verifying at each stage that his brew matched the color and consistency of the descriptions in his book. He maintained his exacting process and diligence throughout the mentally fatiguing manufacturing process. He could see why alchemists and poisoners charged such an exorbitant sum to create brews such as this. It was definitely a wiser investment than purchasing it outright, not to mention the back trail that that could have created.

  “There, I think that should do it. Now I just need to test it,” Azerick said to himself at the end of the three plus days of toil.

  Azerick looked around, grabbed an empty clay mug, and filled the bottom inch of the vessel with the dark brew. It smelled sweet with a faint bit of spice like the hot wines served at many of the winter festivals. He then cut a chunk of meat from a smoked ham and dropped it into the pleasant-smelling concoction. He let it soak for over an hour before wrapping it in a small square of soft leather and poured about twice that amount into a skin filled with wine.

  With both skins in hand, Azerick headed out to the common quarter and made his way to an alley behind one of the many inns and taverns located within the district. Once in the alley, he fo
und just what he had hoped to find, a couple of half-starved, feral dogs looking for any scraps the innkeeper may have thrown out. Of course, they were not having much luck. Any leftovers usually found themselves served as pickled bar food.

  Azerick called to the dogs and held out his tainted piece of pork. Both dogs looked at him with obvious distrust, having learned that the only thing humans had for their kind was a swift kick to the haunches.

  One of the foul-smelling dogs’ hunger finally won out over its fear and took several steps toward him, its nose lifted, pulling in the sweet aroma of the ham. When it came as close as it was going to get, Azerick gently tossed the piece of meat to the mangy cur, who jumped back at the sudden movement then darted forward to bolt down the savory morsel.

  The dog looked to Azerick, wagging its tail and looking at him with pleading eyes for another treat. He almost felt guilty for not bringing more, empathizing on some level with the hungry, sorry-looking mutts. Azerick and the dog stood looking at each other for a few minutes before the dog started to take a few more steps toward him before stumbling. The dog tried to regain its balance with all four legs jutting out to the sides to try to catch itself. It froze in this position for about ten seconds before falling flat out on its face and rolling onto its side.

  Azerick walked over to the incapacitated dog and found that it was still breathing but unconscious. He prodded the dog with his foot then shook it hard by the scruff of its neck without eliciting the slightest reaction.

  He deemed his potion a success. He did not know how long it would take the dog to wake up, but as long as no one bothered it, it should wake up none the worse for its experience. Such would not be the case for the humans for whom he had the poison planned.

  He figured that however long the sleeping effects lasted it would be plenty of time for him to accomplish his mission. Azerick wished that he could test his poisoned wine on a human to gauge its effect when ingested in that form. Sometimes alcohol changed the properties of certain chemicals either for the good or for bad.

  There is an old saying, be careful what you wish for because demons always keep an ear out for foolish words, and one must have been listening now. Shortly after leaving the alley, he turned a corner and ran straight into his three nemeses. All four sets of eyes widened in surprise at the sudden and unexpected encounter. Hugo, quick to becoming a master thug, reacted with surprising speed, grabbing Azerick by the front of the shirt and shoving him into a shadowy corner where the walls of two buildings met.

  “It must be my name day today, and what a present the gods have given me,” Hugo snarled, spittle flying from his fat lips, spraying Azerick in the face. “You’ve got one hell of a beating coming to you, you little steaming pile of horse crap! You’ll be lucky if we even let you live, and if we do, you’ll wish we’d killed you instead!”

  “Yeah, you broke my nose—twice! Now I’m gonna break something of yours three times!” Carrot promised.

  “Wait, I have something for you!” Azerick pleaded, feigning terror. “I can pay you too, not just today but regular like the thieves’ guild tax!”

  Hugo’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do have and where’d a street rat like you get enough coin to be worth not killin’ you?”

  “I have a brand new wineskin I lifted from a wine merchant just a little while ago, and if you’ll let go of me I have some coin on me you can have; silver and even a few gold,” Azerick promised in a rush.

  “Now I know you’re lying, you little gutter rat. There’s no way you got gold.”

  “No, really, look you can see the skin right here. Let go of me and I’ll show you the gold.”

  “All right, scum, but if this is a trick I’m gonna rip your ears off with my bare hands.”

  With that threat, Hugo released his grip on Azerick’s shirtfront while Carrot and Rolly pressed in on his sides to prevent any possibility of escape. Azerick handed the wineskin to Hugo and fished out his coin purse from under his shirt.

  “Here see, real gold, probably more than you’ll see in a year,” Azerick said as he poured three gold crowns, several silver swords, and a fistful of copper out into Hugo’s meaty hand.

  “Mother of all the gods would you look at that! It is gold,” Carrot shouted in disbelief.

  Azerick dumped the coins back in the leather pouch and handed them to Rolly. “See, just as I told you, and I can get more on a regular basis. Not that much, but it will be good coin. You’ll be just like a guild boss collecting freelance taxes,” Azerick coaxed.

  Hugo took only a moment to ponder the smaller boy’s offer. “All right. Every week you’ll bring us a tithe. If you don’t, then we’ll beat you good every day until you do. And just so you don’t think we don't mean what we say,” Hugo suddenly punched Azerick square in the gut with one of his big, ham-handed fists.

  Azerick went down and curled up into as tight a ball as he could make himself as the three thugs kicked and cursed him. Having felt they had made their point, Hugo snatched the coin purse from Rolly, tucked it into his trouser pocket, and took a hard pull from the skin of wine before passing it to Carrot. Each thug took turns imbibing in the wine and passing it around as Azerick continued to lie on the filthy cobbles not making a move or a sound. He waited motionless for only a few minutes before Rolly’s eyes started to cross.

  “Hugo, I feel funny,” Rolly complained.

  “Yeah, you smell funny too,” replied Hugo, laughing. “You’re just weak as a girl and getting drunk already.”

  “I’m not feeling so good either,” Carrot chirped in then both of them passed out and dropped to the cobblestones within arm’s reach of where Azerick was just now getting to his feet.

  “What did you do, you sewer floater?” Hugo demanded, his words slurring as though his tongue had swelled to twice its normal size.

  Hugo took two steps toward Azerick before falling right on his face, his forehead striking the stone street hard enough to bounce. Azerick picked up the nearly empty skin and took back his coin pouch. He also found a second pouch that Hugo had and a third pouch he found on Carrot's sleeping body.

  “Can’t ask for a better test run than that,” Azerick said to no one in particular, rubbing his bruised ribs and shoulders.

  He gave each of the hooligans a few swift kicks just for good measure without getting as much as a grunt out of any of them. He resisted the temptation to bust Carrot’s nose again and slinked along the streets back to his den.

  Once back home, Azerick immediately fired up his alchemic set and went to work on the second type of brew he would need. This one was especially dangerous in that it was extremely flammable, and any mistake could incinerate him, his precious laboratory set, rugs, books, and just about everything else in the room. It was a distillation of common lamp oil, distillated coal tar and other ingredients to make it more viscous and powdered dragon stone to make it burn with a heat that would melt iron, crack stone, and be impossible to put out with water.

  The work was ten times as nerve-wracking as making the sleep poison had been. Azerick dared not rely on his makeshift alarm clock and sleep, so he stayed awake the entire night, not daring to take his eyes off the bubbling brew. He made some strong tea and passed the night away formulating his plan for his first revenge. By the next night, his combustible concoction was finished. He had brewed enough of it to fill four earthen mugs. Azerick slept the rest of the night and well into the afternoon the next day.

  When Azerick woke late the next day, he had no idea what time it was. He glanced at his large hourglass, but when it had run out only the gods knew.

  “Fat lot of good that did,” Azerick grumbled as he went to check the hour.

  He poked his head out of the trap door that led into the old, burned out tannery and saw that it was late afternoon. He then went back inside and fixed himself some coffee and dinner.

  Azerick found himself lost in thought as he sat and stared at his home brewed liquids. He thought of his parents, Jon Locke, and the oth
ers. He thought about how they died for no reason other than for someone else’s greed or cowardliness. Were his motivations any better? What about the dreams he had, urging him to take revenge?

  “I don’t care,” Azerick growled. “If this makes me no better than their killers, then so be it. I never claimed to be better.”

  At around two in the morning, Azerick loaded a packsack with some small candles, the earthen jugs of demon fire, and the iron spikes he had found at the burned-out ruins where his friends died. He strapped on his knife and slung the wineskin over his shoulder. Before he left, he dowsed his shirtfront with untainted wine and struck out into the night, his mind filled with thoughts of vengeance and a heart full of justice, although some might call it murder.

  Azerick moved slowly and stealthily across the city until he occupied the alley across from the house he had seen Merik and the other thieves enter. Once again, two men stood in the doorway watching the streets for anyone that did not belong there or thought to cause trouble.

  “You are going to see someone tonight, friend. You can bet on that,” Azerick whispered under his breath.

  Azerick looked around to make sure no one saw him before he wanted them to, carefully stashed his bag of equipment, headed back into the alley, and circled the block until he came out up the street from the guild house. He slipped the wineskin off his shoulder, took it in hand, and staggered down the street toward his target, walking a swerving path that took him right by the man guarding the door.

  “Hey you, boy, what are you doing out here?” demanded one of the men at the door.

  “Hm, what here? I’m just walking, taking in some air,” Azerick slurred.

  “Damn, boy, you smell like a tavern. Give me that,” the thug demanded as he snatched the wine from Azerick’s hand. “You’ve had enough I think. Besides, you’re too young to be drinking like that anyway.”

  “Hey, give that back, that’s mine,” Azerick complained as he made a lurching grab for the wineskin.