The Sorcerer's Legacy (31 page)

“Yes, Azerick, you did lose it and it hurt terribly. You lost something wonderful, but are you so determined to never find it once more?” Colleen asked through tears of her own.

Azerick felt several more hands and arms touch him. He looked up and saw Ellyssa, Roger, and several more children pressing in to hug him, to comfort him until there was a huge circle of bodies showing their love and support for him. Azerick looked over the heads of the children and locked eyes with Wolf who was standing a ways away from the rest of them.

Wolf furrowed his brow as he met Azerick’s gaze. “Don’t look at me, I already saved your life and plucked a hawk for you in the dead of winter. I think we know where we stand.”

Azerick burst out in laughter at Wolf’s proclamation and kept laughing until his stomach ached. “Thank you, thank you all. Maybe it is time to move on.”

Colleen dropped her embrace and slugged Rusty in the shoulder. “Nice save, Rusty,” she said mockingly with a smile while Rusty rubbed his bruised shoulder.

Three days later, Colleen arranged a memorial for Delinda to give Azerick a chance to say a proper farewell. Allister created a statue using a stone form spell dedicated to her memory. The statue was of a woman, although it looked nothing like Delinda, which was not the intent. The woman held a child in her arms, her expression showing hope, strength, determination, and most of all love, and that captured Delinda’s spirit better than anything could.

“It is marvelous, Allister,” Azerick told the magus.

“Well, when you have lived as long as I have you pick up a hobby or go mad.” Allister responded in his gruff old voice. “But thank you, son, I appreciate it.”

***

The dark form flitted from shadow to shadow without making a sound. Most people avoided the streets at night but not him. He was a creature of the night. The dark held no secrets and even fewer dangers for one such as him. He was what terrified those who caused everyone else to fear the dark streets of Southport.

He was of the shadows more than simply in the shadows. Not even the snow dared betray him by crunching under his soft-soled feet. Dogs that barked into the night quieted when they sensed him near lest they attract his attention to them. He was the Rook, he was death given physical form to walk unseen among mortals.

This night found him in the wealthy noble’s district, which lay in the shadows of the castle of Southport as well as the prestigious Academy. The Rook scaled the elaborate wrought iron fence and its sharply pointed pickets with contemptuous ease. Most would call any man a fool who would dare assail the home of some of the most powerful wizards in Valaria. The Rook was no fool nor was he just any man, if man he even was. No one really knew and no one dared ask.

He checked the door and found it strongly warded and locked. Neither really posed much a challenge for him, but removing them always contained a small risk of exposure and the Rook never took unnecessary risks. He was the consummate professional. He did not boast, nor fall victim to his own ego trying to do something just for the sake of doing it. Murder was a business and he was the best in the business. That was not a boast nor a claim but simply a fact.

The Rook saw the warm glow of a lamp through the window of the very room he sought. Excellent, he preferred it when they were awake. It generally caused less confusion and the victim did not waste his precious time. He hated it when people wasted his time.

The dark form chose a side of the tall tower that was opposite any street lamps, pressed his hands onto the smooth stone surface of the wall, and began scrambling up the face with the ease of a gecko. Right hand and left foot rose in tandem, pulling and pushing the lithe figure up the wall then repeated the movement with the opposite pair of limbs. The Rook climbed higher and higher until he could see the lamps burning on some of the ships anchored in the bay. Still higher, he climbed without a hint of fatigue.

Within a minute, he clung to the wall just below the window of the room he desired, some one hundred feet above the dark cobblestones. He raised himself just high enough to peer over the ledge and look through the glass and into the room beyond. Excellent, the wizard was still working at his desk with his back to the window. Had he used the door, even with his skills, he would have been hard pressed to enter the room unseen.

The Rook detected another strong ward upon the window but that was of little consequence. With a wave of his hand and a few whispered words, the ward unraveled with a stealth that few could mimic. The wizard failed to notice the destruction of his protective ward from just a few feet away. Nor did he hear the sound of the window opening just behind him. The Rook’s own magic kept any stray breeze from blowing into the room thus alerting the wizard as he worked. It also prevented him from hearing the assassin step through the opening and onto the floor, not that he would have made any noise without the spell.

The wizard was no novice however. Far from it, he was the master of this school and one of the most respected, if not powerful, wizards in the kingdom. He raised his eyes from the book before him as he felt the Rook’s magical sphere of silence wash over him. His reaction was precisely what the Rook expected of one so well practiced in the arts. His relatively short but wide-bladed knife slipped instantly under the wizard’s throat, just above the Adam’s apple.

Headmaster Dondrian froze immediately as the wickedly curved, razor-sharp blade cut through the first layer of skin, just enough to create a hair thin red line against his white flesh. He felt the sphere of silence disappear and heard the smooth deadly voice whisper in his ear.

“One of your instructors left here not long ago. Why is that?” the Rook smoothly asked.

“How dare you invade my sanctum like this?” Dondrian hissed. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do, and I could care less. Now answer the question,” the assassin ordered without raising his voice or changing his tone in the slightest.

The headmaster hissed as the blade parted the next thin layer of skin. “I know who you are, Rook, and I know your masters. Do not think they will not hear of this outrage!”

If the wizard could see behind him and perceive anything of the Assassin’s face other than the cold blue eyes under his dark hood, he would see the Rook’s humorless smile. “You mistake my affiliation with having some sort of authority over me. I have no Master, Wizard. Now answer the question.”

All remaining bluster fled from the wizard as the blade parted another layer of skin and he felt the trickle of blood run down his neck. “Allister, you mean Magus Allister. He went on sabbatical,” Dondrian quickly answered.

“Why did he go?”

“I don’t know, he did not say, I swear!”

“There is no need to swear. I know if you are lying to me. The truth is right here in the veins and arties that, for now, carries the vitally important blood to and from that thing you call a brain. How long did he say he was going to be gone?”

The head master tried to swallow but the knife to his throat made it unwise. “He did not say. He just said he would be gone for an indefinite period of time.”

“You do not seem to have much control of your wizards,
Headmaster
. Do none of them confide in you?” the Rook asked in his sinister tone.

“Only Allister, he has always done as he pleases. He is jealous of my position and flouts my authority!”

“I am sure,” the Rook patronized. “Did anyone else leave the school recently?”

“Some of the magus left for their homes while the school is closed as well as most of the students. There is one student that Allister often spoke to,” Dondrian suddenly recalled. “His name is Franklin Cossington. He said he would not be returning to the school, at least for a while. His father is one of the duke’s finance ministers.”

“And how long ago did Franklin leave?”

“Maybe two weeks after Allister did. He said he had to go north on some personal business. That is all I know, I swear!”

“What is their connection to a young wizard by the name of Azerick?”

“Azerick, what has he to do with any of this?” Dondrian asked. “Ah, I think I see now.”

“No, you do not,” the Rook emphasized his statement with a bit more pressure of his blade.

“Allister sponsored the boy’s admission into The Academy and Franklin was his dorm mate and good friend from all accounts.”

Dondrian waited several moments for the Rook to ask another question but only felt a breeze on the back of his neck. He tentatively raised a hand to find that the blade was no longer at his throat even though he would swear he could still feel its merciless bite. The headmaster spun about to find nothing but the open window behind him.

He darted his head out then back in, fearful that the assassin was right outside the window ready to finish him with that devilishly sharp blade of his. Dondrian saw nothing on his quick glimpse and looked out the window more deliberately but saw nothing beyond streetlamps and shadows.

The headmaster closed his window, reset his useless wards, and dropped back down into his plush leather chair. He picked up the book he had been reading and saw that his hands were shaking so badly it made the text swim about in his eyes. The headmaster hurled the book at the wall and cursed bitterly.

The Rook hurried down the well-lit streets of the wealthy district, passing several roaming guard patrols yet not one even caught so much as a glimpse of the deadly assassin. He crouched in the shadows of a large hedgerow that grew just inside the wrought iron-topped stone wall of one of the smaller manors just a few minutes after the short detour he had taken after he had departed The Academy grounds.

The Rook waited patiently as another patrol marched past him not more than ten feet away. He waited a full minute for the patrol to move further down the street before climbing up and over the low wall with the same ease of grace that he displayed at The Academy. Without a second’s hesitation, the Rook sprang from the top of the wall and beyond the thick hedge to land in the shadow of an evergreen plant some twenty feet beyond the wall.

He paused to examine his surroundings to make a mental map of the route he planned to use then flitted from shadow to shadow until he reached the side of the spacious house. The Rook crouched below a shuttered window on the first floor and took stock of his surroundings once more to ensure there was no one about that might catch a glimpse of him.

He stood up, slipped a slim blade between the shutters, and released the catch. The assassin repeated his actions with the glass-paned window on the other side and slipped silently into what appeared to be a sitting room. He crossed the floor and peered through the crack of the door before gliding across the marble floor of the reception hall.

The merciless killer paused at the foot of the sweeping staircase and listened for any sounds of movement within the house before cautiously creeping up the stairs. The stairs were often a thief or assassin’s greatest source of trouble. The squeaking of a loose step has caused the failure, and even the downfall, of more than one intruder. The Rook was nearly three quarters of the way up the staircase when he found the loose board, but he lifted his foot back off it before it had a chance to betray him.

He extended his leg over the problem step and gained the second floor landing a moment later. The assassin paused once again to listen and observe his surroundings. He identified the door that should belong to the master bedroom and flowed like a ghost down the hall. The Rook could hear the deep, steady breathing of sleeping forms just beyond the door. He tried the handle, and finding that it was unlocked, gently pushed the door open feeling for the slightest bit of resistance that preceded a squeaking hinge.

The doors were well constructed and balanced, opening without a sound. The Rook stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and strode across the room. He could clearly see the two forms that occupied the bed halfway across the large room. The closest form was rather large and breathed heavily. The other was much slimmer but nearly as tall.

The assassin walked unconcernedly to the far side of the bed where the tall, slender form of Rusty’s mother slept peacefully and moved a chair next to the bed. He sprinkled a pinch of fine sand over her and whispered the words of an incantation. Another quick spell and wave of his hand lit the oil lamp resting on the nightstand next to Rusty’s father.