The Sorcerer's Legacy (34 page)

The Rook had taken few jobs in the last couple of years that were the least bit interesting. The master of the black tower had used the one thing that piqued the assassin’s curiosity.

“How interesting?”

“You will have to speak with the duke himself to find out. I would not want to spoil the surprise.”

“Very well, but if I am disappointed you will have to find a new tool to use because I will kill him on the spot,” the Rook warned.

“I am confident you will find the job to your satisfaction. So much, that I give you leave to put the duke down if he fails to meet your standards.”

“When the day comes that I require your leave to take a man’s life I will turn my blade onto myself!” the assassin snarled and thrust the speaking gem back into his pocket.

Duke Ulric waited as patiently as he could although these days he found his patience wearing very thin. Ever since General Baneford had betrayed him, his usual vast reserves of patience had seemed to dry up. He had never been a benevolent sort, but more and more servants have found themselves whipped for the smallest, and sometimes even imaginary, failings or slights.

The duke stood up from his chair for the umpteenth time in the last hour and paced about the room, sipping at his fifth glass of brandy he had poured in that same hour. He returned to his chair, turned about, and took a long pull of the brandy before sitting.

“I hope you do not intend to sit on my lap, Ulric,” a soft but sinister voice spoke just behind him.

Duke Ulric lurched forward, bent at the waist, and wind milled his arms for balance. The glass flew from his grasp and shattered against the stone mantle of the fireplace.

“You will find it far more uncomfortable than your worst chair,” the Rook said as he fingered his curved blade.

Duke Ulric quickly composed himself after the start that the man who now sat in his chair had given him.

“Master Rook, how good of you to come on such short notice,” Ulric said, giving the feared assassin a small bow from his head. “Would you care for a drink?” the duke asked as he crossed the room and began picking out clear bottles of liquor for the assassin to choose.

“Ten seconds,” the Rook said cryptically.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ten seconds, that is how much of my time you just wasted asking that pointless question. I despise people who waste my time, Ulric. How many more seconds have you cost me having to explain it to you and how do you think that makes me feel?”

Duke Ulric swallowed hard as beads of nervous perspiration popped out across his forehead. He could feel the sweat trickle down his armpit and run down his side.

“I need you to execute someone,” the duke hastily answered.

“Five more seconds,” the Rook said ominously and unfolded himself from the chair with the fluid grace of a cat.

“William, William Everingham, the duke of Brightridge!” Ulric cried as he backed up, his hands held before him defensively.

The Rook stopped his advance. “The duke of Brightridge, now that is interesting,” the Rook mused.

Duke Ulric quickly plastered one of his fake smiles onto his face. “Yes, the duke of Brightridge. I need him killed seven days from now as well as his chamberlain. Exactly seven days, no sooner no later.”

“That gives me scant time to get to Brightridge and scout my area of operation. I usually require at least a week of preparation time for something like this, but I suppose I can manage it. Perhaps I will even find it enough of a challenge to spark my waning interest. The seventh day from today you say?”

“Yes, Master Rook. The night would be preferable so their bodies are found first thing in the morning. I thought that would cause the greatest amount of confusion.”

“Depending on what your goals are, I would be willing to agree with you. Do not look so queasy, Ulric, I have no interest in your goals,” he replied to the duke’s unspoken concern. “Your chamberlain is familiar with my fee. You do have it on hand I hope.”

“Yes, I have it here.”

Duke Ulric crossed the study, removed a stack of fake books from the top shelf of the bookcase, and pulled out the heavy sack of coins that lay behind them. The Rook motioned for the duke to set the bag down on the table. Ulric immediately complied and took several steps away from the table as the assassin walked over to the table and secreted the pouch into the folds of his cloak.

“The men shall be dead precisely seven nights from tonight,” the Rook promised and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Duke Ulric was almost disappointed in the assassin’s common departure. He did not know exactly what he had expected. A flash of smoke or some other trick perhaps, but that feeling of disappointment was insignificant compared to the sense of relief he felt knowing that the assassin was gone. It was late and past time for him to retire for the evening. The duke crossed the study with a few quick paces and stepped out into the hall.

His eyes widened in shock then narrowed in anger as he gazed upon the corpses of the two guards that had been posted outside his study. Blood was still pooling from the slit throats of the men indicating that they had both been alive before the Rook had departed.

On the wall, scrawled in the blood of one of the dead men, was the message:
The cost of wasted seconds
.

“Guards!” Ulric shouted.

The pounding of feet heralded the approach of his guards. The three armed and armored men slid to a halt when they saw the duke standing near the pair of corpses lying on the floor.

“Get this cleaned up at once!” Ulric demanded and stomped off to his chambers, leaving the three guards to stare and wonder what had happened.

***

By the end of the week, the sun had drastically reduced the amount of snow blanketing the countryside. Most of the streets and sidewalks had been cleared and most of the stores, café’s, and businesses were opening their doors to receive their customers once more. Azerick found himself sitting at a small outdoor table sipping a cup of coffee and enjoying a pastry.

He had come into the city to speak with the ministry of labor to see how soon the guilds would be able to send up the workers to continue rebuilding the keep. Azerick had also left a copy of the plans detailing the additional structures that he would need built to house his students and create proper classrooms so that he could once again enjoy a certain amount of solitude inside his own tower.

He was busy going through his mind on how far he would need to extend the well in order to accommodate the new structures. Azerick figured he would have the total area inside the walls doubled so that the stables and paddock could be enlarged to accommodate more horses if needed as well as giving the students enough space for basic horsemanship classes before going outside the walls for mounted drill training.

His ponderings were interrupted as a foul smell assailed his nostrils. Azerick looked around to identify the source of the stench and locked eyes with a mangy mongrel sitting near his feet anxiously eyeing the sorcerer’s pastry.

“By the god’s, you have got to be the most repulsive animal I have ever laid eyes on,” Azerick told the dog.

The dog was truly ugly. One ear looked to have been bitten half off in a fight, large patches of its grey and black wiry hair was missing, and several of its teeth stuck out at unnatural angles.

“You smell almost as bad as a young half-elf I know. Perhaps you two are related?”

The dog canted its head and wagged a nearly hairless tail that looked to have been run over by a cart at one time given the unnatural kink in it. Azerick gave the mongrel the rest of his pastry before getting up.

“I guess I had better be heading home. Good luck to you, dog, you look like you could use some,” Azerick said, bidding the mongrel farewell.

Horse was stabled near the gates at a large public hitching post set up to minimize the amount of horse traffic through the city. His detour to the little café had taken him a bit out of the way so he decided to cut through a few of the alleys to shorten his route, casting his eyes on the ground ahead of him to avoid the filthy slush that no one had bothered to shovel away.

Azerick was unsure if he had become overconfident of his own power or if he had forgotten that despite North Haven’s beautiful buildings and friendly people it was still a large city and large cities always had their seedy elements. Whatever the reason, his carelessness allowed the two thugs in the alley to catch him completely unawares. The first thing Azerick noticed was a large man stepping into his path just ahead of him.

“Hold it right there, boyo,” the man said.

As Azerick looked up at the voice, he felt the sharp point of a knife or dagger dig into his side near his right kidney.

“Them are some fancy clothes you be wearing. I think that cloak would look real good on me. So why don’t you just take it off and hand it over along with the nice little pouch of coins I see weighing ya down,” the man ordered in a false voice of friendliness.

Azerick was certain that any sudden move he made would prompt the man breathing down his neck to shove that dagger into him. He knew the type that accosted him and he knew they would kill him without hesitation at the first sign of resistance.

“C’mon now, boyo, stop yer stalling, there ain’t nothin to think about other than my friend shoving that dirk into yer guts if’n you so much as blink,” the thug told him. “Now reach up real slow and unhook that pretty clasp holding that cloak on yer shoulders.”

He was not too concerned, assuming they left him be once he gave them what they wanted. Then, the moment they turned their backs, he would end them. Azerick was slowly reaching for the silver clasp that secured his cloak when the man behind him with the knife suddenly roared out in pain. The sorcerer heard snarling and felt the knife pull away from his side. The moment the point left his flesh, Azerick sent a swarm of brilliant magical bolts streaking into the thug’s chest that lunged at him.

The first mugger fell hard onto his face, his chest a smoking, scorched ruin. A quick command brought Azerick’s staff to his outstretched hand. He pivoted swiftly, bringing the hard arcanum ball around in a vicious arc, cracking against the head of the knife-wielding thief as he slashed at the dog fiercely gnawing his leg. The ruffian collapsed in a heap, the curse he had for the dog dying on his lips.

Azerick looked down at the ugly mutt that may well have just saved his life. “Looks like I owe you a proper meal.”

The repulsive mongrel canted his head at Azerick’s words and wagged his crooked tail.

“I hope you are up for a long walk, because Horse is never going to allow you onto his back and I am not about to carry you. I would never get the smell out of my clothes.”

Azerick walked out of alley followed by the dog who took a moment to mark his victory on the unconscious ruffian before following on the sorcerer’s heels. The sorcerer stepped out of the alley and turned to face the sound of hoof beats rapidly ringing on the cobblestones. Azerick had to leap back into the alley, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a coach traveling at a high rate of speed.

The coach driver, reacting on pure instinct, jerked the reins hard to the left in an attempt to avoid running over the man that stepped out of the alley and in front of the coach and pounding, steel-shod hooves of the pair of horses pulling it. The driver jerked back hard on the reins but was unable to stop in time. A loud crack sounded through the small plaza when the front left wheel of the coach struck the fountain wall, shattering both the stone and the axle of the coach.

Azerick stood up and wiped the filthy cold slush from his front where he literally had to dive to keep from being run down. He saw that there were two very large men riding on the running boards and clinging to the iron luggage rails atop the coach’s roof. They both wore studded leather cuirasses and bore shortswords and truncheons hanging from the wide belt that encircled their waists.