The Sorcerer's Destiny (The Sorcerer's Path) (21 page)

His final drop ended in a splash and notably calm water. For the first time in what felt like an eternity that probably spanned only twenty or thirty minutes, Azerick was not rushing downstream and being bashed into rocks. He kicked his feet until his head broke the surface and found himself in something of a large pool below a multi-step waterfall. There was still a substantial current, and it was quickly pushing him toward another nightmarish stretch of water. Azerick paddled desperately for the shore and dragged himself onto the muddy bank.

Lacking the strength to pull his head out of the muck, Azerick simply laid there, fighting to catch his breath and taking inventory of his numerous wounds. Realizing there were more areas of his body in pain than not, he quickly gave up the endeavor and simply luxuriated in being stationary. He slowly began moving parts of his body to work out the rapid onset of kinks and to reassure himself that he could.

He slowly got to feet and surveyed his surroundings. High mountains loomed over a dense jungle. The river cut the only clear path he could see, but the thick foliage grew right to the banks and stretched out over the water in most places making it impossible to follow it either up or downstream. A steamy, heavy mist blanketed the treetops in wispy vapors, filling in the few breaks in the otherwise impenetrable canopy.

As his exhaustion wore off, it gave his rage the energy to surface. Ancalon had delayed him and could even now be destroying his tower and the Source pool. His people needed him and the pool to defend against the Scions, and the dragon has proven to be a detriment to them both. Azerick reached out to the Source in order to scour away a swath of this damnable jungle and bleed away some of his rising anger only to find he couldn’t. Where the vast river of arcane power once flowed, there was nothing but a barren landscape.

Real fear did the job of vanquishing his anger as he realized he was trapped in this world with no magic in which to flee it. Azerick quickly took control of his mounting anxiety and refused to let panic inhibit his ability to think his way out of this predicament. If what he understood of the Source was accurate, it was nearly impossible for this world to be completely bereft of magic. The Source flowed throughout the universe, shaping worlds and creating life. Even if this world was ancient and the Source had somehow dried up, there must still be a remnant of it somewhere. Azerick sent out his focus once again, this time searching for small pools or rivulets of power instead of the enormous sea present in his world.

As he expected, it was there in the trees and the ground all around him like the mists floating high overhead. It was as weak and insubstantial as the fog as well, but a person can trap enough mist to provide water to drink, and so he could he trap enough of this power to open a rift back to his world. He could gather and hold the arcane energy in some runes, but it would take time to build them up to the level he needed to enact such a spell. If only his studies in rune carving had come to him as naturally as his sorcery had.

He nearly laughed aloud when his staff thrummed gently in his hand as if to remind that he had a concentrated source of power at the ready. He would still need the runes for a spell of that complexity, but at least it was now possible to do without waiting weeks or months for them to trap enough energy to be useful. Azerick scanned the sky through the slash in the jungle created by the river and saw the scar left by the rift hovering near the top of a barren mountain poking above the green canopy like a giant, grey wart. The scar represented a weakness in the barrier between worlds, and it was his best chance at reopening a passage back home.

“All right, what else do you have?” Azerick shouted in challenge to the jungle.

A creature that would look perfectly at home in the abyss stepped out of the dense foliage as if in answer. It stood more than a head taller than Azerick did but sported far more mass than even his demonic form. It’s skin was dark green mottled with black, boney plates all over its body and spikes round its head. It was bipedal with arms slightly longer than its legs. A pair of eyes rested close together above a pronounced set of jaws overflowing with long, sharp teeth too large to be concealed by its nearly nonexistent lips.

“Remind me to never ask this horrible place that question again.”

CHAPTER 10

Headmaster Florent strode the streets of Southport wearing a simple set of robes with the hood pulled up in place of her official robes of office. It was best if few people as possible knew of her comings and goings this day. There were questions abound that were best not asked, and if even a hint of their answers were discovered, it would mean instant execution. She deeply disliked these cloak and dagger schemes, but the safety of the realm was at stake, and the King himself ordered her actions.

She approached one of the gates made magical with the help of Azerick’s son and beckoned to the Academy Officer on duty. The man walked cautiously toward her then made to clasp his hands in front of his chest in salute when he saw her face beneath the hood. A sharp hiss from the Headmaster stopped him before he could make the deferential motion.

“Headmaster, what brings you to the gate?” Magus Welch’s confusion was evident on his face and in his tone.

“Absolutely nothing, because I was never here,” Headmaster Florent responded crisply.

The magus gave a short nod. “I understand.”

“You cannot possibly understand what never happened. I was never here, and I never asked your people to open the gate to Brightridge. If anyone asks why you activated the gate, you will tell them it was to test your crew.”

“I understand…I think.”

“Don’t think just open the gate.”

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Who?”

“Nobody, I was just going to run my people through a quick drill.”

“Good work.”

Magus Welch hastened back to the gate and began barking orders. A bell started ringing, its cadence signaling a live drill. Guardsmen stopped traffic and ushered travelers away from the gate. Two more wizards appeared and began channeling power into the pillars framing Southport’s northeastern trade gate. The runes carved into the stones lit up, and a shimmering screen stretched across the divide. Although she could not possibly see it, Maureen knew a nearly identical scene played out in Brightridge.

The Headmaster kept her head down as she bustled through the gateway. She fought the wave of vertigo and nausea associated with gate travel as she stumbled through to the other side. She tried to imagine the chaos of tens of thousands of people using the gates with the threat of slaughter stampeding them through. Maureen shuddered as she thought of the death rapidly approaching the kingdom. A second tremble shook her body knowing she was planning the execution of the man seemingly doing his damnedest to save them.

Brightridge showed every level of militancy as Southport did. Patrols roamed the streets in numbers nearly equal to civilians, and not a man or woman walked unarmed. Massive ballistae were mounted and manned on nearly every roof that could support them. Borrowing a tactic from North Haven’s ships, thick chains and ropes were strung between roofs to impeded dragons from landing and rampaging through the streets. Only the stoutest buildings could hope to stop one of the powerful creatures, but anything that could slow or hinder them was worth the effort. Wells, buckets, and huge cisterns of water sat at nearly every intersection, ready to be used to put out the inevitable flames. Like Southport, every building not occupied had been razed, its timbers carted off to limit combustibles or used in the construction of barriers or weaponry.

The people traveled with the cautious and furtive movements of a city already under siege. When they moved, they stuck close to the buildings and watched others traversing the streets with looks of support as well as suspicion. Almost no one stood idle. Teams of men and women looked over fortifications and continually sought ways to improve them. Anyone not gainfully employed stayed indoors unless they had urgent business elsewhere.

Headmaster Florent likewise stuck to the shadows cast by the buildings as she made her way toward the Temple of the Sun, avoiding eye contact with the few other pedestrians. She had only visited the great religious center twice before, but finding it was a simple affair despite Brightridge’s vastness. Only Castle Brightridge exceeded it in size within the city, and no structure or complex in all of Valeria came close to matching it in splendor. The polished gold dome of the central structure shined like a second sun setting in the heart of the city. On a clear day, it was impossible to gaze directly at it without fear of being struck blind by the brilliance.

“Headmaster,” a voice called out, breaking her out of her rather singular focus.

Maureen gasped and instinctively drew in the Source as a man stepped away from a darkened alcove. She started to chastise herself for her carelessness, but she quickly deduced that this man was far more adept at this sort of game than she was. He was not large, perhaps a couple inches shorter than she was, and sported a lean build. Although he wore the unadorned robes of a priest, Maureen knew his skills and duties did not involve preaching or tending to the less fortunate.

“Forgive me for startling you, Headmaster. My name is Brother Sweet, Anthony Sweet. Bishop Howarth informed me of your impending arrival and requested I escort you to him.”

The Headmaster stiffened her composure as if his unexpected presence had not bothered her in the least. “Proceed, Brother Sweet.”

The priest took a position to her right nearest the street. Although he led, the man was never more than a half step ahead of the formidable wizard. Maureen doubted it was out of any distrust of her but of years of training never to put his back to anyone. The man moved with the graceful economy of a skilled fighter, but his lean stature suggested he was not a typical holy warrior.

“Brother Sweet, how familiar are you with the nature of my meeting with Bishop Howarth?”

“Intimately, Headmaster, but do not be concerned. Only the Bishop and I know of the existence of this meeting or its details. I have the Bishop’s full confidence, and I hope to have yours as well. Not even Jarvin, who approached the Bishop with his problem, is aware of my role.”

“And that role is…?”

“The subtle if brutal execution of the fell spawn Azerick Giles.”

Brother Sweet’s calm assuredness in carrying out his task convinced the Headmaster he had done this sort of thing before, although she was certain never against such a powerful foe. Bishop Howarth must have had more success in discovering a way to kill the sorcerer than she had, hence his request for the meeting and Brother Sweet’s involvement.

Maureen had little else to ask the man, and Brother Sweet volunteered no further information or conversation whatsoever. They soon came to the outer boundaries of the Temple of the Sun. The walls surrounding the entire mini city were thick bars of wrought iron twelve feet tall and supported by pillars of white marble every twenty feet. The entire complex was designed so that nothing could cast a substantial shadow anywhere on the grounds. The polished main dome and numerous smaller domed minarets reflected the sun onto the surrounding buildings in such a way as to destroy most forms of daytime darkness. To combat the summer heat, fountains dotted the courtyards, gardens, and larger gathering places inside and around the temple complex.

Brother Sweet led his charge around the outside of the central temple and entered a small garden area near the southeast corner. He directed the Headmaster to follow him down a very narrow opening between two building wings. The passage made an abrupt right and ended at a solid iron door. It was the only place on the grounds she had seen where anything less than total daylight was allowed to exist.

The priest produced a large cruciform key with the symbol of the sun stamped in its handle. The door opened with remarkable ease and silence despite its stout construction. Brother Sweet made a sweeping gesture to usher the wizard in ahead him. Headmaster Florent was not surprised when the man would not negotiate the narrow stairs leading beneath the heart of the temple with her at his back.

She stepped past the unusual priest and descended the stairs. The air was noticeably cool and stale. Headmaster Florent spied the flickering light of a lamp or torch at the base of the stairs some twenty feet down. Given the angle of the construction, she could not see into the chamber below until she reached the bottom. Maureen found herself in the outer foyer of what was almost certainly a vast crypt. A stone table surrounded by oak chairs occupied the center of the room. Upon the table lay a folded cloth obviously concealing something beneath. The only figure in the room was Bishop Howarth.

“Welcome, Headmaster Florent. I trust Brother Sweet has made a favorable impression?”

“He seems very capable, Bishop. Congratulations on your appointment. I apologize for my late tidings. It has been a rather hectic time.”

“It certainly has, and I appreciate you coming so quickly.”

The Headmaster crossed to the large table and ran a finger through the dust accumulated on the back of one of the chairs. “You certainly chose an apt location for this meeting.”

“I believe this is where Bishop Caalendor held many of his meetings during the usurpation. It seems to do well in holding onto the secrets discussed within.”

“You
believe
he made his plans here?” Maureen asked, arching an eyebrow at the head priest.

The Bishop smiled at her veiled accusation. “I was never a part of his schemes. The former Bishop knew me for a staunch moderate and never included me in his plans.”

“I shall take your word on it,” Maureen replied. “Jarvin trusts you. If that trust is misplaced then let be on his head. I am hoping you called me here because you have had more luck finding a solution to our mutual dilemma than I have.”

“Are you saying nothing in the great stores of artifacts horded by The Academy is capable of killing this creature Lord Giles has become?”