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

by Brock Deskins

  Azerick dropped his crossbow and ran at the third slaver; pulling the knife he had acquired the night Harlow murdered his mother.

  As sudden and efficient as the ambush had been, there was simply no way to prevent the man from shouting for help. Azerick grimaced, his hopes that the man would freeze for just a moment in panic, dashed. He hurled his knife at the slaver and watched it tumble end over end. The blade struck true just above the man’s heart, severing the aorta, but not before he was able to shout for help.

  Azerick kept running at the dead man and retrieved his knife as Bran ran toward the prisoners, looking for Andrea and calling her name. His gut churned every time Bran called her name but got no answer, his cries becoming more pained and desperate with every recitation.

  Azerick yanked his blade free from the slaver’s chest and ran back for his crossbow. He could hear the pounding of feet across the wooden floor of the long warehouse and they were quickly drawing nearer.

  Without pausing, he scooped up his crossbow and rucksack, taking a position near one of the crates, and set the two items on top. Azerick pulled another glass flask from the rucksack as several men charged out of the dim light toward him and Bran. He could just make out swords, clubs, and knives gripped in their filthy hands.

  He hurled the bottle toward the men, aiming for a point several yards in front of them. The bottle burst, splashing its noxious-smelling contents across a swath of the floor. The putrid odor struck the men like a fist to the gut, immediately causing them to clutch their stomachs and wretch violently onto the floor. A few continued to stumble forward, gagging, but intent on not allowing their captives to get away.

  Even with those not completely incapacitated, it gave Azerick enough time to cock the crossbow, load another bolt, and send it flying into the gut of one of the men that still rushed forward. He sent a second quarrel into another man’s hip, spinning him to the ground.

  “Bran, we need to get out of here!” Azerick shouted, pulling a heavily scented piece of cloth from his pocket and pressed it against his nose and mouth as the rancid stench continued spreading.

  Bran came running up behind him. “I got everyone cut loose, but Andrea isn’t here!” he cried, tears of anguish and fear streaming down his face.

  “I’m sorry, Bran, but we have to get out of here, now.”

  Azerick could tell Bran wanted to stay and kill every slaver he found, but it would be suicide to attempt it. They needed to get going. Azerick retrieved another flask, this one full of lamp oil, and threw it against the wall where one of the lit lamps provided some of the meager light inside the warehouse. The flask shattered near enough that the oil caught and set the wall aflame.

  “Come on, get them through the hole,” Azerick ordered and began herding the captives toward the hole they had made to gain entry.

  Azerick and Bran urged the captives to move faster as they heard the doors slamming open and men shouting in anger. There were shouts and curses of surprise when the pungent smell of Azerick’s foul concoction reached their noses, but it was dissipating fast enough for it to cause little more than inconvenient heaving and burning eyes.

  Azerick was the first one to duck through the hole in the wall and saw a slaver as he rounded the corner of the building and began shouting at the runaways and to his comrades. Azerick fired his crossbow at him but he missed and the quarrel skipped harmlessly off the side of the warehouse wall just over the slaver’s head. It did serve to chase him back around the corner, but the arrival of nearly half a score of men bolstered his courage.

  “Come on, people, move it!” Azerick shouted anxiously, fearful that his plan was falling apart.

  The captives fled through the hole and followed Azerick while Bran followed behind them shouting warnings of more men joining in pursuit. The rescuers led their freed captives down the small alleys created by the warehouses and fisheries that comprised the majority of the dock ward, desperately trying to lose their pursuers, but the shouts of men continued getting closer and came from beside as well as behind them.

  “Bran, get up here!” Azerick shouted, frustrated at not being able to lose their pursuers, largely because they were limited to the speed of the youngest and slowest child. The adults were carrying the smallest but they were still slowed enough that he had to do something, or many of them would soon be caught especially those that would not leave the smaller kids behind and save themselves, and he knew there was going to be at least one of those—himself.

  Bran ran up next to his friend and gave him a worried but determined look. “Bran, I have to try and slow them down or lead them away. I need you to get them to safety. Find a patrol or run all the way to a Watch office.”

  Bran wanted to argue but he knew Azerick was right. If one of them did not do something soon they would all be caught and at least a few would die fighting or as examples to the others. Bran nodded his understanding and hoped his friend would be able the buy them enough time to get away.

  Azerick dropped back and fished through his rucksack. Judging by touch alone, he found he had four flasks left: two smoke, one acid, and one stench pot. He removed the acid flask and waited until they crossed an intersection of four buildings before throwing it down and shattering it upon the cobbles. He threw the stench pot a few seconds later at the next intersection and readied the smoke pot for the next. Azerick shouted and charged to his left toward the sound of flanking pursuers.

  “Hey, you fatherless, goat-loving, sacks of goblin feces, you are too late! Your slaves are long gone thanks to me, so why don’t you all go home and get in line to pleasure your mothers like everybody else in the city!”

  Azerick’s taunting had the desired effect. Men turned toward him, cursing and screaming the vilest threats they could imagine and they certainly did not lack in imagination. Although he seriously doubted many of their threats were physically possible, Azerick definitely did not want to fall into their hands.

  He sprinted away as fast as his feet could carry him, pouring the catalyst into the smoke pot and dropping it at his feet as he crossed the intersection where he had last seen Bran and the freed captives. The bottle broke upon the stone street, releasing a pall of smoke that completely obscured all four corners in an instant. The smoke screen ensured that Bran and the others were well out of sight as the slavers converged upon the intersection.

  Azerick shouted again, making certain the slavers did not deviate their course and discover that he lured them away from their prize, although Azerick thought there was a good chance that they were more interested in capturing him now than recovering their human property.

  Azerick nearly ran right into the arms of half a dozen men as he and the group unexpectedly converged at another four-way intersection. Azerick leapt high into the air, kicking out at the lead man with his foot, and catching him in the side of the head. The blow sent the man tumbling to the ground and did not rise as Azerick continued running, his feet already moving the instant they hit the cobblestones.

  Azerick was breathing heavily as he tried to shake the determined pursuers, certain he had led them far enough away from Bran that he and the captives should be able to reach safety by now. Instinct led him to the squatters’ district as he darted down narrow alleys and through abandoned buildings, surprising the vagrant tenants of the occupied ones.

  The slavers were intent on not letting him escape and he came to realize that running into the squatters’ district had been a bad idea seeing that there was little chance of finding help or a safe haven in the area. He could dart down one of the entrances of his lair, but that put it at great risk of discovery and he was not about to lose the most secure home he could hope to find in the city. Not yet at least.

  With the slavers now chasing him on three sides, they began coordinating their chase and herded him like a pack of wolves. Azerick skidded to a halt as men suddenly appeared at the end of the alley, their black silhouettes blocking his path. He spun around in hopes of fleeing back the way he came but his p
ursuers blocked his egress from that direction as well.

  Azerick’s heart pounded as much from exertion as the realization of the predicament he was now in. His mind raced furiously for an answer to his potentially lethal dilemma, but for once, no answer was forthcoming. He was about to unhook his crossbow from the rucksack as the slavers confidently stalked toward him, calling out taunts, threats, and jeers. Before he could loosen the thong securing the crossbow behind him, a rope suddenly dropped from the roof, nearly striking him in the shoulder.

  Azerick did not care who threw him the rope, figuring whoever was on the rooftop could not possibly be more hostile than those on the ground were and began climbing. Seeing their quarry escaping, the slavers rushed forward, but a hail of thrown knives and quarrels launched from small crossbows chased them back.

  A strong hand gripped Azerick’s wrist as he neared the summit and pulled him onto the rooftop. Several men wearing dark clothing and wielding small but numerous weapons looked over the side of the building watching the slavers flee from the lethal rooftop attack. Although the slavers possessed considerably superior numbers, they had no way of readily reaching the unknown assailants who suddenly appeared to whisk their prey away before their very eyes.

  “Move it, boy, we can’t keep to the roofs around here forever and I have no desire to meet those scum on the ground,” the man that had pulled him up said.

  Without a word, Azerick followed the men as they leapt from roof to roof when the distance was not too great and ran across sturdy planks that spanned the roofs of the more distant rooftops, which they secreted onto the roofs after they had crossed.

  After the group had crossed several blocks by rooftop, Azerick said, “I am glad you saved my hide, but who are you?”

  “Just someone Andrill sent to protect his investment. He decided the risk to the house was justified by the chance of future profit. I don’t know what he expects to get outta you, but it sounds like it’s gonna be more than I would want or even be able to pay.”

  Azerick and the small band of thieves dropped back to street level as the buildings spread too far apart to continue by way of the rooftops. In the more settled and developed parts of the city, the lower parts of course, one could traverse nearly the entire ward without ever stepping foot on the cobblestones. Of course, the Watch would give one a merry chase if they spotted you leaping through the open air or using a span to cross between buildings seeing as how few would have legitimate requirements of such a method of traveling.

  “All right, street rat, I think you can find your way from here. We lost the slaver scum, but I suggest you find a place to hide out at least until daylight,” the man told him as they dropped from the roof and into a dark alley.

  “Yeah, I have a bolthole not too far from here.” Azerick replied. “Thanks again for saving my hide.”

  The guild men made no response and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Azerick standing alone in the middle of the alley. He carefully made his way deeper into the squatters’ district toward one of the secret entrances to his subterranean home. He decided that he would use the one beneath the burned out tanner’s building.

  Azerick moved with as much stealth as he could muster, keeping both his ears and eyes peeled for any signs of the slavers, but it appeared as though they had given up in their hunt. He wished he could go and find Bran but knew that it was safer for the both of them if he waited until morning.

  Despite the evening’s exertion, both physical and mental, sleep came to him with great difficulty and only after a few hours of restlessness. Azerick was worried about Andrea and about how Bran was handling the fact that she had not been in the warehouse. Had she ever been there or did something else happen? It was not unusual for a person, especially a young girl out at night, to be attacked and their body thrown into the harbor.

  Azerick forced himself to push those morbid thoughts away. Andrea was bright and knew the streets and its dangers as well as any of them. Being a girl, she was even more cautious than him and Bran despite her near fearlessness and tenacity.

  Tears crept to his eyes as he thought about her fiery spirit and unquenchable enthusiasm for life despite the lousy hand she had been dealt. Had she been born a woman of even moderate means she would have been a truly remarkable person. The thought of that bright spark of life extinguished by the selfish and greedy desires of another filled him with rage, which did nothing to help with his current bout of insomnia.

  Azerick did not know when he eventually fell asleep but recalled the disturbing dreams he had when he finally awoke. He had no way of knowing what time it was and prayed that it was not too late. Bran would surely be looking for him this morning at least find out if his friend had survived the night.

  The restless and troubled sleep did little to placate the exhaustion he felt so he decided to spare a few minutes to make a strong pot of coffee before embarking on his search for Bran. His reflexes would need the energy generating properties of the brew to help keep him alert. There was a chance that the slavers had only been momentarily deterred. Given their numbers, it was quite possible that they were as firmly entrenched and had comparable resources within the city as the thieves’ guild did.

  It took Azerick about thirty minutes to heat the water for his coffee and boil the crushed grounds before using the tannery entrance to strike out into the city’s surface life.

  The sun was already far into the sky, probably not more than an hour or two before noon. Azerick hoped that Bran was still running about the city and had not been captured or killed. Still wary after last night’s events, Azerick moved cautiously through the squatters’ district and toward the merchant district where he, Bran, and Andrea always linked up in the past.

  Despite his elevated alertness, Azerick never noticed the man hunkered down inside the shadowed doorway of one of the abandoned buildings, watching the troublesome street rat slink through the quarter as he distantly followed him into the merchant district and toward one of the market squares.

  CHAPTER 11

  King Jarvin Ollandar sat in his study, the weight of responsibility and treachery heavy upon his shoulders. It was no secret that someone was actively pursuing his throne, but whom, and how many, was still a mystery. Jarvin knew that he could probably execute ten of his ranking nobles and be confident that eight of them were guilty of actively plotting his overthrow. Some kings might do exactly that in his position. But he would not. He would show his people that he was a man of decency that would lead with honor and integrity, even if it killed him, which it probably would.

  What was even more nerve-wracking was the absolute failure of his most skilled and trusted people in finding even a single piece of the fabled armor that helped establish the first line of succession. Many expeditions had not even made it back to report on their failure. Given the secrecy surrounding these expeditions, this spoke of traitors within his castle and very close to him.

  Jarvin saw the door to his study open a crack and the wizened face of one of his counselors appear. “You sent for me, Majesty?”

  “Yes, Magus. Please come in. Would you care for a drink?”

  Magus Illifan smiled and shook his head. “No thank you, Majesty. I am afraid it is past the hour I would deem appropriate for drink.”

  Jarvin scowled at the old wizard and inclined his head toward the crown that rested upon the table. “Put that thing on your head and any hour would not only feel appropriate, but positively essential.”

  “I imagine so, Majesty.”

  “Is there any word from the latest expedition?”

  The Magus’s face fell. “I am afraid not, Majesty, and they were expected back a fortnight ago.”

  Jarvin set his glass on the small table next to him and scrubbed his face with his hand. He massaged his temples, ran his hand through his hair, and sighed exhaustedly.

  “Aeger, I fear there are spies not only within my castle, but very close to me. It is inconceivable that so many parties of such skill and loy
alty seem to vanish.”

  “I am sad to say you likely have the right of it, Jarvin,” the senior counselor replied, taking a cue from his liege that formalities of title were not necessary.

  “So what shall I do? How do I know who I can trust? How do I go about ordering these expeditions without half the castle knowing about it?”

  “I do not know, Jarvin. Even within your most elite of guards and soldiers, there are chains of command, supply requisitions and such that anyone even close to your inner sphere can easily pass on to your enemies. The only way around that is to create a small, special group of highly-skilled soldiers that are completely unaffiliated with any of the castle staff and who operate with complete autonomy. The problem there lies in the fact that it would be nearly impossible to find enough people with the requisite skills and whose loyalty is unquestionable. Anyone pulled from your current pool of elite guard could be a traitor and we simply do not have the time to train a group with no affiliations.”

  Jarvin tapped a finger against his lips as he pondered the wizard’s words. “When I was growing up, I loved to listen to the stories of heroes and adventures. They were always few but managed to achieve greatness beyond belief. They slew dragons, delved into crypts haunted by things of nightmare, yet they always managed to triumph. Whatever happened to those, Aegir?”

  “Well, I would first tell you that beyond belief is likely the right of it. You know how stories grow with each retelling. As for the real adventurers, they died out long before even I was born. The lands are settled, its mysteries largely uncovered. There’s likely not a square mile of the kingdom that hasn’t been trod upon. To put it bluntly, no one has done that sort of thing in over a century.”

  The King sighed. “I suppose you are right. It is a shame. I could really use someone like that right now.”