The Sorcerer's Ascension (35 page)

Cursing, Azerick grabbed the handle of a short spear and thrust it through a murder hole in the wall, stabbing the man directly behind Kaleesh, low in his side. Azerick drew the spear back and stabbed again as the man cried out in pain but was silenced by the second thrust that pierced his left lung. The other two men behind him shouted out in terror and turned to run despite Kaleesh and his threats.

Before they could move, Azerick was already tugging on a rope that appeared at the bottom of the wall, ran through a pulley at the bottom and a second one at the top of the wall before disappearing again into the ceiling. The rope pulled the stoppers from two clay jugs filled with lamp oil. The oil poured through the cracks in the ceiling and rained over the two men at the rear of what was left of the raiding party.

Slipping in the oil, the two men turned and sprinted back towards the metal ladder.

“Stop, you fools, or he’ll kill you both!” Kaleesh shouted at the fleeing men but his words fell on deaf ears.

With their shoes soaked with oil, climbing back up the ladder was proving difficult. Shins banged into the metal rungs as their feet slipped, but fear lent strength to their arms and they managed to pull themselves up. Just below the empty space where the slip-bar dangled, a square hole appeared in front of the lead slaver and an angry pair of hazel-green eyes, lit by the yellow light of a lamp, stared directly into his terrified orbs.

The eyes vanished as quickly as they had appeared Azerick thrust a flaming brand through the opening in front of him, igniting the intruder’s oil-soaked clothing. The slaver emitted a terribly keening as his garments burst into flames. In his terror, the slaver released his hold on the ladder and fell right onto his partner desperately trying to clamber up the ladder past him, setting his own combustible clothing aflame.

Both men fell screaming as twin flailing balls of fire, landing in a writhing, screeching pile upon the corpses of Jonah and Raheem. Kaleesh pressed his hands over his ears in an attempt to block the horrible screams the men made as they flailed about the floor for one or two agonizing minutes before they finally fell still.

Kaleesh’s nerves were worn to the breaking point. He knew he could not flee. The hell-spawn of a boy would not let him, not alive anyway. His only chance was to find him and kill him first. He focused his thoughts and knew he could do this.

“Do you think you have won, boy? Those men were all fools, but I am no fool! I am of the
Faslum
fee
Sariq
! I will not fall for your tricks! I will find you and I will gut you. To the abyss with the reward! Delivering your corpse with the skin flayed from your body will be my reward! Do you hear me, boy? I am Kaleesh and I swear this to you!”

Kaleesh ignored the deranged laughter that reverberated from behind the wall and echoed through the passageways. He knew where the boy was hiding now and that would allow him to avoid his tricks and traps. Then he would find him and drag him out of his little cubbyhole.

So wrapped up in his thoughts of vengeance, Kaleesh almost missed the obvious trigger plate just below his hovering foot. Kaleesh smiled, extended his leg beyond the trap, marveling how those other fools would probably have stepped right on the thing that was so obvious to his dark-trained eyes.

His world exploded in a brilliant flash of pain as his foot fell through the floor. What had looked to be solid stone was nothing more than fired clay, painted and weathered to look exactly like the stone surrounding it. Kaleesh’s foot dropped through the shattered clay cover and tripped the spring-loaded steel jaws that waited beneath, long steel teeth piercing his soft flesh and grated against the bone.

The slaver looked through tear-blurred eyes as the boy emerged from the shadows of the passage ahead like a cold and remorseless wraith coming to exact its revenge.

“Who are you?” Kaleesh shouted past the tears of pain and terror.

“I am the hand of Sharrellan, and you are caught in my shadow,” the boy said as he scooped up the curved sword Kaleesh had dropped.

Kaleesh stared in horror as the boy’s shadow, dimly cast by the flickering lamp just ahead, draped itself across his pinioned form. He let out one final scream of terror before the boy drew back the blade and swung it forward with all his might, silencing him for all eternity.

Azerick stared emotionlessly at the head that rolled to his feet, staring up at him wide-eyed with a look of horror permanently etched upon its face. He tossed the sword aside and began the grisly task of dragging the six corpses to the sewer entrance of his lair, one by one, and tossing them into the filthy water where they would probably find their way into the harbor in a few days. Less if it rained heavily.

“At least my financial situation has improved,” Azerick said to himself as he stared at the small pile of coins and valuables laid out on the small table in front of him.

“You want me to be the hand of Sharrellan, the reaper’s shadow?” Azerick shouted at the ceiling and the gods supposedly living far above. “I will be your hand, goddess of death; I will be your hand against everyone that threatens me or those close to me! I will send you so many vile, tainted souls you will have to open another circle of hell to keep them all!”

Outside, high above the city of Southport, the low rumble of thunder echoed across the dark, cloudless sky.

CHAPTER 13

Azerick scanned the crowd milling about the merchant quarter market. He was looking to pick a mark out of the hubbub that may provide him with the means to buy a meal or two and pay his taxes to the guild.

There
, Azerick thought to himself. A doddering old man in flowing robes. His disarrayed hair, scruffy beard, and mismatched shoes made him appear like a vagabond without two coppers to rub together. Nevertheless, his robes, although a little worn and gave clear evidence of what he had for breakfast, were of a good quality material.

Azerick liked marks in robes because they were loose, flapped in the wind, and were easy to slip his quick hand and nimble fingers in to pinch a purse. The young sneak thief plotted out his working area once again, now in relation to his target’s location and movement along with his escape routes.

Aha, there! The old geezer’s path would take him right by a fruit and vegetable stand. Azerick casually walked through the market square, nonchalantly browsing among the diverse items displayed on the various counters and tables like a casual shopper just perusing the day’s wares.

Most market sellers kept a keen eye out for thieves and pickpockets and could spot the amateurs of lesser skill and quickly run them off. Azerick knew how to blend in and dress for each job and location. He wore clothes of, if not good quality, at least passably better than your typical street urchin or beggar. He always wore the best he could steal or buy depending upon which option was most available.

Stealing them had the highest profit margins but it was harder to steal clothes than a quick bite to eat off a food stand. However, Azerick would buy them on the rare occasions that he could afford them, considering it a good investment. He also kept his hands clean and his hair groomed. People did not look at you as closely if you did not look like you just crawled out from under a dung heap.

He paused in front of the produce stand acting as though he was looking over the fresh fruits and vegetables as the old man meandered up to the same stand. The old man smelled of pipe smoke and strange spices and mumbled to himself constantly as he browsed the little street-side shops.

This is too good to be true,
Azerick thought to himself.

If Azerick had not been so hungry, his inner voice probably would have reminded him about things that appeared too good to be true; that they usually were and people who leapt at those kinds of opportunities fell into a pit with dirty wooden stakes at the bottom of it.

Unfortunately, times had been tough lately. Azerick had not made a decent score in quite a while and the local thieves’ guild was breathing down his neck to pay his taxes. In fact, they were getting down right aggressive in their collection attempts and Azerick was sure to pay in bruises, or worse, if he was careless enough to let them catch him.

As soon as the old man was a few feet from the produce stand, Azerick picked up a round yellow-green piece of fruit and looked to be examining it more closely. Suddenly, it “slipped” from his grasp and rolled towards the old man in robes. With an exclamation of surprise, Azerick made a swift lunge after the wayward citrus and towards the old man. With his head down, one eye on the rolling fruit and the other on the man’s belt pouch, he bumped hard into the robed figure.

As one hand scooped up the escaping fruit, the other hand deftly liberated the man’s pouch with a quick cut of the fastening strings using a small razor sharp blade affixed to the inside of his index finger. The coins in the pouch did not make so much as a single clink as Azerick transferred his catch from the old man’s belt to a pocket inside his own worn but clean short cloak.

“I beg pardon, good sir!” exclaimed Azerick as he held up the fruit as the reason for his clumsy jostling of the old man. Azerick felt a moment of giddy pleasure at the flawless execution and success of his endeavor.

However, as he turned to return the fruit to the proprietor he felt the sharp pain of a clenching grip upon his upheld wrist that now held aloft the improvised pickpocket distraction. Azerick felt a moment of surprise and panic when a paralyzing jolt shot through his wrist and all the way down to his toes. At the same time, the gnarled old fingers of the old man let loose their grip and Azerick flew backwards nearly the length of his own body, and laid in a most undignified sprawl onto the cobbled square.

The old man bent down, reached into the inside pocket of Azerick’s cloak, and retrieved his purloined purse while Azerick could only lie in the street twitching, sticky juice from a now well-pulped citrus fruit running down his rigid and extended arm caused by the involuntary spastic death grip he now had in his hand.

The old man looked down at the prostrated form of the young thief, his eyes sparking with mirth under his bushy grey eyebrows.

“Boy, if you plan to have a long life in your chosen profession then I strongly recommend you heed this one piece of advice: never rob a wizard.”

With a dry chuckle and that sage advice the old man, or wizard Azerick now knew, went on his way whistling a jaunty tune. Now the little voice that was usually so adept at keeping him one-step ahead of trouble rang quite audibly in his head about jobs that seemed too easy.

“Now you remind me,” Azerick muttered to himself.

Azerick was just beginning to regain voluntary control of his arms and legs again, glad to be able to make his own escape before someone got it into their head to call the Watch, when the momentarily forgotten proprietor of the stand suddenly loomed over him.

“Now who do you think is going to pay for that ruined piece of fruit you got in your fist?” demanded the owner.

Azerick breathed out slowly and closed his eyes.

“Oh great” Azerick moaned. “Help me to my feet, good sir, and I am certain we can resolve this like gentlemen
¾
without the Watch I pray.”

The vendor was a large man, accustomed to the rigors of fieldwork by the look of the obvious strength in his arms. He was dark-haired, barrel-chested, and a cotton apron hung from his thick neck and belted around his waist. He easily pulled the wiry, would-be-thief to his feet. It was only by a great force of will that Azerick was able to keep his feet under him and stood unsteadily before the glowering farmer on wobbly knees.

“Well, sir, it seems that I owe you for this piece of produce of yours. However, I seem to be in a bit of arrears at the present time. However, if you will tell me at what hour you close down your stand I shall return to assist you in loading it so you might be on your way for your trip back to your farm. I hope that that will be sufficient to work off my debt to you,” Azerick offered hopefully.

“If I let you out of my sight now you’ll just run off and I’ll be out a sale and still be loading my cart myself. I’ll probably never see you again, unless you try to rob another wizard in this square!” said the big man, letting out a loud guffaw.