The Sorcerer's Scourge

Books by Brock E. Deskins

The Sorcerer’s Saga

The Sorcerer’s Ascension

The Sorcerer’s Torment

The Sorcerer’s Legacy

The Sorcerer’s Vengeance

The Sorcerer’s Courge

Shrouds of Darkness

The Portal

 To my readers

 Thank you for your outstanding support.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 1
6

CHAPTER 1
7

CHAPTER 1
8

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

Epilogue

From the Author

Prologue

(10 years before Ulric’s death)

The tavern was bright and cheery as Landrin played his lute and sang for the crowd at the Prancing Pig in the beautiful city of Brightridge. He kept most of his songs joyous and playful, avoiding the heart-rending ballads that made women weep and men think about the hard times. The people certainly needed cheering these days. The king was dead, but a son that no one even knew existed, Jarvin, ascended the throne and swore to end the long war with Sumara. It was the third night in a row for a packed house as word had gotten around of his lyrical voice and he was making a killing just in tips. He played on top of a table next to the fire that burned in the large, stone hearth, painting the nearby surfaces in a wavering, orange glow.

He returned the smiles of the fair women in attendance as he strummed his lute and sang a ballad, of love found not a tragedy, which women always liked. He was dressed in maroon trews, purple silk shirt, black velvet vest, and a pair of soft, black, doeskin boots. He was a handsome man and he did not feel arrogant or conceited in the least for being aware of that fact. He had wavy, shoulder-length black hair, kept a strong, clean-shaven jaw, stood just under six feet in height, and kept himself in good physical condition. Although people came for the music, his looks played nearly as great a role in his tips as did the lyrical quality of his voice.

As the evening went on, his tip jar grew full again. He emptied most of the coins into his pack, wetted his throat with some ale, and began another song. The hour was getting late and the crowd started thinning out. Landrin decided that he would play two or three more songs and call it an evening.

A candle mark later, most of the inn's patrons had left, and the serving women started putting the chairs up onto the tables and sweeping up. The innkeeper was wiping down the bar when Landrin approached him for his payment.

"You really brought them in, Landrin," the portly but friendly barman beamed. "I made a tidy profit even after subtracting your wage. I wish I could keep you around for a bit. Have you ever thought about settling down in town? You would have regular work year round without all the hazards on the roads these days."

Thousands of soldiers returning from the war found themselves without work and many had turned to banditry and slavery as a means to support themselves. Only the foolish or truly brave traveled these days without an armed escort. Even the streets of the prosperous cities like Brightridge and Southport were becoming increasingly dangerous.

"Sorry, Amos, I have the bard's wanderlust as well as his tongue," the musician replied. "I would go stark mad if I stayed more than a week in any one town."

"There are a lot of ladies here that wish you would stay," Amos urged, trying to get the bard to change his mind.

"And there are hundreds more in Brelland that wish I would not keep them waiting," Landrin shot back with a sly wink.

"Aye, Brelland and near every city and town in Valaria I‘ll wager!" Amos joined in with a laugh. "All right then, here you are," the innkeeper said as he handed the bard a pouch of coins. "You stop back at the Prancing Pig the next time you find yourself in Brightridge, and I'll top anything anyone else offers you for your first performance.“

"I will, Amos, you have my word," Landrin assured him as he hefted the pouch in his hand a couple times before tucking it into his pocket. "Take care now. I hope to come back through Brightridge by summer festival."

"The door will be open to you, have no doubt about that. You have a good evening."

Landrin hefted his pack and lute case onto his shoulder as he stepped out into the frigid night air. The temperature was below freezing, but fortunately, this area rarely got much snow even in the winter. Landrin considered that a plus as he thought about his trip to Brelland, the capital of Valaria. He hated traveling through the sleet and snow and Brelland promised plenty of both if he left at the wrong time. He pulled his heavy cloak tighter against the chill wind and started walking back towards his own inn several blocks away.

A movement caught his eye as he passed by an alleyway. The flickering, oil-fueled street lamp briefly illuminated the fleeting image of a dark shape. He gripped his rapier as he slowed his steps and peered towards the mouth of the darkened alley, watchful for muggers or cutpurses who might mistake him for an easy target. As much as he enjoyed looking and playing the part of a dandy, he was quite competent in using his needle-sharp rapier to deadly effect. In a pinch, he could also call upon a small bit of wizard magic that he learned at his relatively short stay at The Academy in Southport.

He spied the silhouette of what appeared to be a couple having a late evening tryst, perhaps even a prostitute, although he found it hard to believe that anyone would even try to conduct such business in this bitter cold. More likely, it was a couple from the inn whose blood was running hot from his music and the alcohol, and decided to duck out of the light for a quick kiss and nuzzle.

He was about to walk past with little more than a nod and smile of greeting when he heard a whimpering cry escape the woman's lips. The sound made him turn and take a closer look. The lamplight reflected off what Landrin thought may have been a tear streaking down the woman's face. Ever the gallant, the bard was compelled to interrupt and determine if the damsel was indeed in distress.

"Is everything alright? Milady, do you require assistance?" Landrin inquired as he shifted the small load on his back.

"Be gone, young popinjay, this is no concern of yours," a thin voice hissed out from the shadows.

Landrin dropped his pack, set his lute quickly but gently on the ground, and drew his rapier.

“I'm afraid I must insist that you release the woman and let her step out into the light so she can tell me herself if this is my business or not,” Landrin challenged the dark figure, feeling more and more uncomfortable with the situation.

"You will find no glory in your heroics tonight. Only your death resides within these shadows if you do not leave immediately," threatened the figure holding the woman.

"We shall see, rogue."

Landrin conjured a bright magical light with his free hand so he could see whom he was fighting and if there was more than one waiting for him in the alley as he stalked forward, rapier up and ready to defend himself.

The man hissed a curse as the bright light fell upon him. He was dressed in dark colors that contrasted sharply with his extraordinarily pale skin. He lunged at the bard with astonishing speed, his long, sharp-nailed hands extended before him as if he meant to rip out the throat of the nuisance that dared to interrupt his activities.

Although prepared for the attack, Landrin was barely able to bring his slim blade around in a quick slash that cut one of the man's hands deeply across the palm. The bard spun to the side as the man continued his charge. Landrin found it inconceivable that anyone could move so quickly. Even a cut across the hand would cause most people to pause, given its depth. However, before his spin even brought him around to face his attacker, he felt a burning slash across his back and the warm trickle of blood as it ran down in several rivulets to pool at the small of his back where he tucked his shirt into his trousers.