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

by Brock Deskins

  "Of course, we fully accept and wish to give our most heartfelt and sincere apologies to Lord Preston," Malek gushed.

  "Apologies?" Maude whimpered, almost choking on the word.

  "Yes, Maude, time for you to fight your greatest foe, your own pride!" Malek snapped.

  "Very well, we accept," Maude said gloomily, conceding defeat.

  “Excellent. I will order your release and let Bishop Caalendor explain your mission so that you may begin working off your debt immediately.”

  A pair of guards escorted the odd group from the room to collect their belongings. As soon as the King was alone, Magus Illifan stepped out from behind a thick curtain and spoke to Jarvin.

  "Majesty, are you certain this is the bunch in which you want to place such awesome responsibility?"

  Jarvin smiled at his advisor. "They are certainly an odd group, but they seem highly resourceful. To be honest, I expect little more from them than to distract my enemies. However, the fates often have a strange sort of humor. It may be that these misfits can succeed where my most intelligent and competent assets have failed. It is their seemingly incompetent appearance that may allow them to be disregarded by those who oppose me and actually succeed."

  The elder magus sighed and shook his head. "I pray you are right, Majesty, but I have my reservations believing that even the fates can be that strange.

  King Jarvin had the party’s horses and property returned, minus everything they had plundered from Lord Preston's manor, and departed with the King and his guard contingent.

  "Well, we managed to survive another seemingly inescapable situation," Malek said cheerfully as they rode with the King's guard on their way to Brelland.

  "Yes, but I fear what we may face next may make us wish we had chosen the gallows," Maude said, taking a dark outlook on their future.

  CHAPTER 12

  Azerick nearly stabbed Bran when his friend came up from behind and grabbed his arm. “Damn it, Bran, warn a guy when you are going to sneak up on him the day after he narrowly escapes certain torture and death at the hands of severely irate slavers!”

  “I’ll try to remember. Listen, Andrea wasn’t there last night.”

  “I know, Bran. I’m sorry, but we might still be able to find her. Maybe she is being held in a different building in the city or sold to some rich guy as a maid or something.”

  “No, listen to me!” Bran demanded. “I talked to some of the people we freed last night. A couple of them remember her because she spit in the eye of few of the slavers and managed to kick one between the legs so hard he walked hunched over for two days. They took her and a bunch of others away the same night that the ones we rescued were brought in and overhead the slavers talking about a ship sailing to Bakhtaran.” Bran shook Azerick by his shoulders. “Don’t you see? I know where she is! We can find her now!”

  Azerick wanted to be excited with his best friend but what he said numbed him. “Bran, Bakhtaran is a major slave city a thousand miles to the south. Even the King of Sumara cannot control the emir of that city.”

  “So what am I supposed to do, just leave her there? Forget about her, give up on her, and go on with my life?” Bran demanded, shouting and waving his arms in frustration.

  Azerick felt the bile rise in his throat the instant he answered. “Yes. You have no money, no skills outside stealing bread and lifting a purse, and no knowledge of anything outside of Southport. You can barely read Valerian. Do you think you can just start walking south or hop a ship, show up in Bakhtaran like some knight-errant rescuing the princess, and live happily ever after? You will be dead within a week and that is if you are lucky. You will starve in a month or end up a slave digging in a Sumaran mine.”

  Azerick never saw the blow coming. The next thing he was aware of was the clouds gliding lazily across the sky. It took him a moment to realize what had caused the sudden change in the orientation of his view. He tongued a loose tooth and tasted blood in his mouth.

  “Ow. Now help me back up, you savage,” Azerick said as he extended his hand up toward Bran. Bran clasped Azerick’s wrist and pulled him back onto his feet. “You know, you have gotten exceedingly violent recently. And coming from me, that should frighten you more than just a tiny bit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No you’re not. All right, let’s figure out how to give you at least a small chance to get there alive and not in shackles. I will give you my crossbow and whatever coin I have, which is terribly meager as you well know. However, I may be able to get you an honest ship going south.”

  “That sounds better. Now I am sorry I hit you,” Bran offered.

  “You should be, you cretin. We’ll go talk to Peg and see if we can get you on a boat. You better hope like hell I do not lose my tooth, or I may end up in Bakhtaran just to return the favor.”

  “In that case, maybe I should hit you again.”

  “Unless you want to swim all the way to Sumara, I would not suggest it,” Azerick threatened.

  The two young men walked into Peg’s shipping supply store. “Peg, I need your help again,” Azerick said without preamble upon entering the shop.

  “Why am I not surprised?” the old former sailor replied. “You sure be callin’ in a lot of favors you ain’t even earned yet.”

  “Yeah, I seem to be spreading my credit around pretty thick lately. Don’t worry though, this one does not cost you anything either. This is Bran. We need to find him a ship to work that is going south, preferably as far as Bakhtaran.”

  Peg looked Bran up and down. “Might be I can put the word out and find him a boat that needs hands,” Peg said, rubbing his grizzled chin.

  “I know he does not look like much, but he is a decent sort when he is not punching me in the face, reasonably bright, and he is reliable.”

  “I know a ship that does a fair bit of trading in Sumara and travels that far south though I don’t rightly understand why anyone would want to be looking for passage to that den of wickedness,” Peg said with a sour look.

  “You remember the girl I was asking you about yesterday? We found out she was taken to Bakhtaran, and Bran is intent on finding her and bringing her home.”

  “She must really mean a lot to risk going after her down there.”

  “She does, at least to me,” Bran replied.

  Azerick was not sure if Bran intended his answer to be a slight against his decision not to go, but it still stabbed like a knife twisting in his gut.

  “All right,” Peg said. “Bran, you stay here with me and I’ll give you a crash course in knot tying and the basic rules of sailing so you are not a completely useless land lubber. I’ll go have a word with the captain of the ship I got in mind, later. Don’t worry, lad, he ain’t due to ship out till tomorrow. You won’t miss your ride,” Peg said when the fear etched itself plainly across Bran’s face.

  “Do you need me get anything for you, Bran?” Azerick asked.

  His friend shook his head. “Everything I have of any worth is either on me or waiting for me in Bakhtaran.”

  “All right, I will leave you here with Peg for now. I have a few things you might be able to use. I’ll go get them and bring them back.”

  Bran nodded and Azerick left to go retrieve a few things from his home. The sudden turn of events made Azerick forget the need for caution as he made his way back to the squatters’ district and dropped through the hidden trapdoor in the tanner’s shop. He returned to the surface a several minutes later with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder and the crossbow tucked under an arm.

  Hidden eyes watched his hasty return and departure for the second time that day then returned to the burned out building the street rat had vanished into and reappeared from a few minutes later. The watcher decided that the tannery was more important right now than following the boy and went to take a closer look at the building as Azerick quickly passed out of sight.

  Azerick returned to Peg’s with his burden and found Bran sitting on the floor amidst a pile of
short ropes with various knots tied them, Peg sat on a stool nearby giving him instructions.

  “That’s it, boy; you got most of the sailor’s hitches down. Reach over and grab that round timber over there and I’ll show you how to make a stopper hitch and a weaver’s hitch,” Peg was saying as Azerick entered the store.

  Peg looked up at Azerick as he entered. “If I can trust you two lads to watch my store, I’ll go see about getting young Bran here a berthing. If anybody stops in, tell em I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Don’t worry, we got it,” Azerick assured him.

  “I never thought there were so many types of knots,” Bran said, throwing down a length of rope with an intricately designed knot tied in the center of it.

  “I brought you that crossbow I promised,” Azerick said as he slipped the bag from his shoulder and sat down next to Bran. “There are about a half-dozen quarrels in the quiver. I did not have much ammunition made for it since it was a trap. I also have a coat and a spare set of clothes that are too big for me anyway. I scrounged up what few coins I had. They are in a small pouch in the bag with the clothes.”

  Bran looked at the weapon and bag sitting across from him. “Thanks, I’m glad you could at least spare that.”

  Azerick felt the familiar stab of pain Bran’s snipe brought. “Look, Bran, I am sorry I cannot go with you. It is just that—something tells me that going with you to rescue Andrea is not what I am supposed to be doing. I wish I could explain it but I can’t. I feel like something is pulling me in another direction. Andrill said he felt that fate or something had its hooks in me. I don’t know. I just know that I am not supposed to go with you, and if I deny the fates or whatever it is then my going may just make things worse.”

  Bran looked up, his face flushed with either anger or shame. “I know. Anyone who has spent time around you can feel it. It’s weird. It’s just that you’re the one who always has a plan. No matter how crazy something is or how bad the odds are, you are the one that figures a way out of it, or something completely random happens that lets you figure out an answer. I’m afraid, Azerick. I’m afraid because I am not as smart or as lucky as you. You know all these things, and whenever you are around things just sort of seem to happen, and no matter how screwed up it is, you always find a way out. I love her, Az, and I am afraid that I don’t have what it takes to save her. I don’t have the fates or the gods or whatever looking out for me like you do. I’m just a street rat; a useless street rat.”

  “You are not useless, and maybe the fates are watching you, guiding you to do this. How many people would even attempt to do what you are doing? Anyone who would risk their life and worse is special, special enough for the gods to take notice.”

  “Thanks, Az, I hope you are right—for her sake.”

  Peg came back in less than half an hour. “I got your boat, boy, but you better be prepared to work for it. Captain Zeb don’t put up with no slackers or boys who can’t follow orders.”

  Bran jumped to his feet. “I’ll work hard and do what I’m told, Peg, I swear.”

  “I know, and that’s what I told him. Zeb’s an honest man. He’ll do right by you and get you where you need to go. It ain’t a straight run mind you. This ain’t no passenger boat. The ship’s gotta hit North Haven before sailing down to Langdon’s Crossing, and only then is she sailing for Bakhtaran, but it will still be a far sight quicker than any land bound caravan.”

  “Thank you, Peg. When do I leave?”

  “Zeb says he’ll take you on right now. He can use some strong hands to finish loading up the stuff they’re runnin’ to North Haven.”

  Bran turned to Azerick. “I guess I better be leaving then. I’m going to find her, Az.”

  “I know you will. I can feel it. I will see you both when you get back.”

  Bran picked up his things, turned, and walked out the door headed for his own destiny. Azerick was already walking after him but stopped with his hand on the door handle. His heart urged him to keep walking, to go with his friend to rescue Andrea, but something else, something that went deeper and lay hidden deep within the shadows of his soul stopped him.

  “Go to hell!” Azerick growled.

  Peg raised a bushy salt and pepper eyebrow as his vehemence.

  “Not you, Peg,” Azerick said.

  “Oh, I know who ya meant, and I’ll warn ya to watch your tongue lest they decide to meet ya down there one day.”

  “Thank you for everything, Peg. I will pay you back one day for everything you have done for me.”

  The old sailor scowled at the dejected young man. “They say a good deed is its own reward, and anyone who expects to be paid back for a good deed ain’t done any good. Maybe you’ll be in a position to help ole Peg out someday, and if ya are then you’ll do him a good turn for the sake of doin’ it, not for some sense of obligation.”

  Azerick nodded at Peg’s sage advice and walked morosely out of the store and toward his home. He did not have a copper to his name and nothing to eat but a handful of beans, but he was not in the mood to go foraging today. Instead, he took a direct route back to his lair and spent the next few hours wondering if he had done the right thing.

  Was it really the pull of destiny that stopped him from going, or was he simply a coward? Azerick was confident he was no coward, but if the gods had taken an interest in him, why was his life filled with so much misery and pain? What kind of destiny required him lose everyone he got close to?

  Azerick finally dropped off into restless slumber and dreamed a dreamless sleep. He woke the next morning to a rumbling stomach and dry mouth with nothing to satisfy either one. The beans were dry and would take hours to cook, and the water jug had a crack that left only a long, narrow trail of wet stones leading to a larger crack in the floor where it the runnel had made its final escape.

  Azerick pulled out the loose stone in the wall where he secreted whatever coins he managed to earn or steal, but upon gazing at the empty niche he remembered that he had given the last of them to Bran. His stomach ordered him to get moving with a growl of command that would brook no disobedience. He left through the warehouse entrance and headed for one of his more favorite market squares.

  The square was at a large intersection where many of the city’s workers, both private and governmental, crossed through on their ways to work. Bakers and other food venders crowed into the square, often coming to blows for the best corner to put up their stalls, alternately shouting out the quality and low prices of their victuals and condemning the cost and inferiority of the morsels sold by their competitors.

  Azerick tried to blend in with the crowd and position himself next to one of the more crowded displays, but every time he insinuated himself into a cluster of people they immediately gravitated away from him. He felt like a beekeeper moving toward a hive with a smoke pot constantly driving the bees away from him so he could collect the valuable honey. That was all well and good for a beekeeper, but Azerick needed the crowd to stick together for him to filch a bit of food to eat.

  When his stomach rumbled powerfully once again, he decided that he was going to just have to do a snatch and run, hoping the proprietor would not see him or care enough to raise too much of a fuss. His luck was off today, he could feel it. The way things were going, the crowd would resume their normal pressing mass the moment he struck which would allow a watchman or the baker to grab him and beat him.

  Azerick’s stomach ordered him to stop whining and get down to business. He moved casually toward the stand where numerous fresh baked loaves of bread were stacked on the table and sticking up out of baskets, filling the air of the market with their mouth-watering aromas. His stomach ordered him to move with haste.

  Azerick sidled up to the table, ready to grab a large round loaf of black bread when the baker looked right at him. “What are you doing here? Why did you have to pick my booth? Go on, take the bread and be gone with you. Nobody’s going to want to come to my stand now, defiler.”

  The st
reet rat looked at the baker in confusion then glanced over his shoulder as the crowd moved away watching him warily and muttering.

  “Beware death’s shadow.”

  “Do not let his shadow be cast upon you or you will die”.

  “All die who get near him. We may all die now.”

  “What are you people talking about?” Azerick shouted.

  “Cursed! He is cursed to lose everyone he befriends.”

  “I am not cursed! What are you talking about?”

  “His family is all dead. Friends all dead. He is cursed, cursed by the hand of Sharrellan.”

  “He is the hand of Sharrellan, delivering her touch of death to all who get near.”

  “I am not cursed! I am not the hand of death!” he shouted, but the crowd drew away from him and continued their droning.

  Azerick grabbed the loaf of bread from the table, casting a glare at the baker and everyone around him. He half expected the baker to change his mind and demand that Azerick pay for the bread, but his face had gone purple, black splotches stood out against the plum-colored flesh, and his tongue protruded, swollen and blackened like a plague victim.

  The street rat threw down the loaf and ran. The street-clogging populace parted like the water at the bow of a swift moving vessel to let him pass.

  “Beware death’s shadow, beware the hand of Sharrellan,” the people’s mantra continued, following him, chasing him away like a swarm of relentless bees trying to drive him away from their hive, the chanting, mimicking the bees’ angry buzzing.

  Azerick found himself near the docks and burst into Peg’s shop, not knowing where else to go. “Peg, what is going on around here?” Azerick asked as he approached the long counter where the old sailor sat minding his store and watching for customers.

  “Now why did ya have to come back here, lad?” Peg asked as his face purpled and black splotches began spreading across his visage. “Hasn’t old Peg treated ya right since he met ya? Ain’t he done nothin’ but help ya?”