The Sorcerer's Ascension (19 page)

Brellion let out a shout of outrage and hacked with his sword like a man gone mad at the murderous creature. Khalar swept his scimitars in short swift arcs with a speed that defied the eye's ability even to track their lethal paths. The desert dweller’s fury of blows landed so fast against the dread lord's legs that each ringing toll of steel on steel was indistinguishable from another.

The metal creature felt its impending demise and launched itself forward with one final vicious swipe of its razor-sharp sword. Khalar sprung back, scimitars held wide, arcing forward, and sucking in his stomach to get as much clearance between his precious vitals and the blade that sought his life.

Khalar landed with a cat's grace several paces back while the dread lord collapsed face down, brought low by its ruined leg. Brellion threw down his shield and swung his longsword with both hands, putting all his strength and weight behind the overhead chop. Sparks and marble flew as his blessed blade sheared through the dread lord's squat neck and bit into the marble floor.

"That was a close call at the end, Khalar," Brellion commended his friend. "We would have lost many more men if not for you bringing this fell creature down."

"It was closer than you think, my friend," the dark-skinned Sumaran replied through gritting teeth. "I fear that Khalar the quick, Khalar the desert cat, is no more."

"What do mean?" the King's guard squad leader started to ask before he saw the thin line of blood across his friend's stomach turn into torrent of dark red that heralded his death.

"Vanier, to me!" Brellion called out in desperation as he threw down his blade and knelt at his friend's side, futilely trying to hold in his companion’s lifeblood.

The cleric rushed over and inspected the dying man's wound, letting out a sigh as he realized the inevitable outcome.

"I'm sorry, Brellion. It is beyond my power to heal."

"No! You speak to a god; nothing is beyond a god's power. You must call upon him to save him!"

"God's are often fickle, Captain. Some prayers they will not answer, some they will answer but only to the greatest of their chosen few. Perhaps one day I shall prove my devotion and he will grant me such a request but not now, not today. I am sorry," the young cleric said mournfully.

"Damn you and damn your gods too! What use are gods if they allow good men to die when they can prevent it! What good is being able to talk to your god if he won't answer?" the furious grieving Brellion demanded.

Khalar spoke weakly through blood-covered lips. "Do not blame the priest, my friend, he is right. Do not be angry with his gods either. It is simply their way. If the gods were to answer all of our prayers, then what use would be our own free will? Of what value would a swordsman be if instead of studying for years to perfect his fighting skills he could just ask the gods to grant it to him?" Khalar asked sagely.

"It's not fair, Khalar, we won, we succeeded in our quest and you should be there when the King bestows his gratitude on us."

"Who is to decide what is fair? Besides, it is not the King's gratitude I fight for, it is the honor of fighting beside my friend," a wracking cough interrupted him, specks of blood spraying from his lips. "To have died saving the lives of my fellow men and my best friend is the greatest death a man can ask for. I spent my life well. May the gods keep you safe, my friend."

The Sumaran let out a final rattling breath and closed his dark eyes forever. Brellion stayed on his knees grieving for his lost friend.

"Go see to the others, Vanier," he directed.

The young cleric tended the other wounded. He was able to mend three more guardsmen with serious wounds but was unable to save two others. That was five more guardsmen lost in the main hall, over half of their original number had paid with their lives since coming to this forsaken citadel.

Vanier walked several steps over to where Alleel had fallen. Her body was still crumpled in a heap where it had fallen and he feared that the body count had increased to six. He was relieved to find that, although unconscious, the lady wizard was still breathing, albeit weakly.

He opened her robes and examined the deep purple bruise that covered nearly her entire chest. It was fortunate that he had directed the healing spirit to her immediately or she likely would have succumbed to her injures. The cleric could feel the sharp edges of several broken ribs through her pale skin. He prayed over his charge as healing energies filled his body. Vanier poured that energy out into the broken mage and watched as bones knitted back together and the great purple bruise that covered her chest grew a few shades lighter.

Vanier cast one of his last divine spells, a spell that would radiate minor healing energy into the entire group for nearly half an hour. It would help close minor wounds and slow the bleeding of the more severe ones as well as give a bit of strength to the party as they made their way back to the surface.

"Vanier, I want to apologize for attacking you. We would have had several more dead and many more wounded if not for you. Please forgive my shameful behavior," Brellion begged as he walked over to the exhausted cleric.

"There is nothing to forgive; you are man in mourning and pain. No one should hold a hurting man’s words against him."

"Thank you, Vanier. We’ll rest a bit while I pull off that breastplate and then head for home."

"That sounds like a very good idea," the cleric replied.

The party had no way of carrying all of the fallen back to civilized lands and had no desire to bury them anywhere near the goblinoid lair, so Brellion had them laid out within the great hall and sealed the doors to their makeshift tomb. It was a struggle to carry the wounded men, mage, and artifact out of the caverns. Brilliant stars and a luminous half-moon greeted the battered and exhausted squad as they exited the citadel and rewarded their slow yet steady progression.

"We'll walk as far as we can tonight. Hopefully our horses are still at the glen where we left them near the river," Brellion was saying, but an arrow caught him high in the right side of his chest cut him off.

The stalwart leader fell to the ground, coughing up blood. He could hear the bubbling of air escaping from around the wound every time he breathed. The sounds of screaming and battle filled his ears and rage at his impotence filled his mind as he lay upon the cold ground slowly dying.

Vanier had nearly exhausted his repertoire of divine spells and had no time to call upon his god anyhow as the ambush unfolded around him and his companions. With a cry to his god, he charged the cowards that dared to attack an already bloodied group on a righteous mission for their king.

Two arrows caught the cleric in the body, one in his chest, another in his abdomen. A third then took his leg out from him and he toppled to the ground. A man dressed in black ran at him, shortsword in hand, to finish him.

The brave cleric rolled to the side as the man stabbed down at his prone form, then rolled back swinging his hammer and shattering the assassin's knee. The man fell with a cry of anguish at his ruined knee before Vanier crushed his skull. A new pain suddenly filled the cleric as another form ran up behind him as he lay on the ground and thrust a spear deep into his back. The cleric’s empty eyes looked skyward as his soul flew into the arms of his awaiting god, leaving his companions and the worries of mortal men far below.

The other members of the group were quickly being cut down by swords and spears or slain by arrows as they valiantly but futilely fought back. Outnumbered, ambushed, and too wounded and exhausted to overcome their enemies, they did not die without inflicting some retribution on their attackers.

Alleel recovered consciousness shortly after falling to the ground as those that had been carrying her unceremoniously dropped her to rush and defend themselves. As she lay on the ground, she wove an incantation and launched a tiny ball of light into the air. The ball then turned into the shape of a falcon and flew swiftly over the trees and out of sight. Half a dozen arrows sprouted from her prostrate form before she had a chance to launch another spell.

A figure strode up to where Brellion lay gasping for breath.

"My master would like to convey his appreciation to you for retrieving his prize for him. You saved us a lot of trouble," General Baneford said as he bent down and picked up the shimmering black breastplate from where it lay on the ground near Brellion's fallen form. “I am sorry that the only thing I can offer you in repayment is a swift death,” he said just before thrusting his sword into the warrior's heart.

CHAPTER 9

Azerick fenced his jewelry and was able to buy oil and lamps that he then attached to the walls in his new home. He purchased a bed cover that he was able to fill with straw and made himself a decent pallet upon which to sleep. He also bought himself several tools that he was not able to steal and made a bookshelf for his books. He then bought a couple carpets, stole a couple others, along with materials to begin fixing and replacing the various traps throughout his underground lair. Azerick made sure that he was able to bolt the doors from the inside so that no one else might stumble upon one and invade his newest sanctuary.

He had found six exits leading out into the city. Two opened into the sewer, one into the warehouse that he first used to exit, another, surprisingly enough, opened into the old tannery where he had first met Jon and the others. This brought back a fresh feeling of loss and loneliness but he did not weep for them again. From now on, he would wear his pain and loneliness like armor, and he would let no one and nothing hurt him again.

The last exit was a small door that he had to crawl through on his hands and knees to get through. It opened into the dark basement of one of the shabby inns in the common quarter that butted up against the squatter’s district. He liberated several bottles of wine, a small cask of ale, along with a couple mugs, and got thoroughly drunk for the first time.

Azerick woke with a splitting headache and decided that drinking was not as enjoyable as some people made it out to be. He did not like the way it made him sick the next day and how it interfered with his thinking while he was drunk.

He wondered if this was how stupid people like that Hugo character and his friends went through life; all slow and dull-witted, unable to form coherent thoughts much less speak in complete sentences. Then he wondered what happened to their brains when they were drunk? Did they get smarter? If they lost the same amount of brain function that he felt he lost while drunk it was inconceivable that there would be enough rudimentary brain function left to support basic life support, like breathing.

Azerick did not bother to ponder this little mystery for long. He soon turned his thoughts to the future, a future of vengeance for those he lost. He would avenge his father, mother, Jon and the others. He did not know where to begin concerning the murder of his father and mother, but he did have a lead on at least one person he was sure was responsible for the death of his foster family. Just thinking about the man from the thieves’ guild, with his hard face and cruel eyes, sent a shiver up his spine and set his stomach to tingling. Anger quickly replaced his fear and Azerick was determined to get his justice from the man and all those responsible.

Once he settled into his new shelter, he once again started plying the streets. He became increasingly good at lifting a purse and even breaking into homes in the dead of night. He usually made off with silver serving dishes, small rugs, and anything else that was small enough to make off with that might bring him a few silver coins from the fences. It was here that the fates stepped in once again.

“Good morning to you, Azeel,” Azerick said as he walked into the seedy-looking store at the edge of the common and merchant quarter.

Azeel was a swarthy man originally from one of the cities located in the Great Desert, or Great Wastes as most called it. Azeel had dusky brown skin, a great black mustache, and eyes as black as coal. He wore a red silk vest over a once white linen shirt and always had a smile for his customers.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite customer,” he replied. Everyone was Azeel’s favorite customer, Azerick quickly learned. “What for me do you have today?”

“A bit of the usual, but very nice, silver,” Azerick answered.