The Sorcerer's Scourge (The Sorcerer's Path) Read online

  The Sorcerer’s Scourge

  Book Five of the Sorcerer’s Path

  By

  Brock E. Deskins

  Copyright ©2012 by Brock E. Deskins

  ISBN: 9781476453217

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2012

  Copyright, Legal Notice and Disclaimer:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  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 Scourge

  Other titles

  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 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  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 wore 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 toward 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 toward 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 ch
allenged 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.

  "You should have left us alone, warm blood. Now it will be your blood I savor tonight," the dark figure hissed malignly.

  Landrin barely had a second to try to figure out exactly what the man meant before he threw himself at the would-be rescuer with that impossible quickness. However, Landrin was no slouch when it came to defending himself and was better prepared for the charge. He brought his rapier down in a wickedly quick jab as he snapped his left arm out straight, trailed his right leg behind, and leaned into the thrust by shifting his weight onto the forward foot to add power to his lunge.

  It was a textbook perfect move, but the man impossibly managed to dart to the side. The slender blade pierced the flesh and slid between the ribs of the rushing figure well right of the heart at which Landrin had aimed. Although not immediately lethal, it was still a grievous wound that would stop most men in their tracks, or at least make them balk at pressing on. Nevertheless, the man continued his charge, throwing his body against Landrin’s extended blade and struck the bard in chest with his fist.

  Landrin flew back and hit the wall heavily as the man grasped the handle of his rapier and pulled it out of his body.

  This is not possible! Landrin thought as the man casually tossed the sword aside as if it were no more than an annoyance.

  It was then that Landrin realized he was not dealing with a mugger, thief, or even a man for that matter. It was a vampire! The very thought sent ice coursing through his veins. He had heard legends about the powerful and evil creatures, but he had given them scant attention. He dismissed them as wives’ tales and stories used to frighten children.

  A scream filled the alley and the bard was unsure whether it was his or if the woman had finally broken whatever spell held her in shock and kept her from fleeing. Landrin gave the woman the credit since he was hardly ably to draw a breath much less produce a scream of that magnitude.

  "I can tell from the look in your eyes and the smell of fear wafting from your body that you finally realize what is about to kill you this night," the vampire hissed with a cruel humor in its voice as it stalked toward him once again.

  Landrin stood, called upon his wizardly power, and sent three magical bolts of energy into the foul, undead creature. For once, his attack elicited a response other than amusement as the creature let out a hiss of pain and anger. The bard's elation at actually having hurt the vampire was short-lived as the undead abomination hurled himself at the bard, leaping across the alley with apparent ease and crushing Landrin in his cold, deadly embrace.

  Landrin felt the vampire squeeze the air from his lungs while a fiery burst of pain lanced through his neck when the needle-sharp fangs pierced and tore his skin. Helpless, Landrin could only stand against his will as the incredibly strong embrace of the vampire held him up while his blood poured down his neck. Landrin felt a certain detachment as the vampire feasted upon the blood pumping from the horrific wound. The light of the distant streetlamp started growing dim as he slowly lost consciousness. Darkness finally took him as his body succumbed to the blood loss.

  Eldon preferred the blood of young, attractive women, but this buffoon had interrupted him. He was still annoyed at that, but fortunately, the bard was not a bad substitute. The young popinjay was healthy and his minor control of magic gave his blood a rare flavor as exquisite as a fine wine. He thought about taking the woman back home to drink from another day but quickly realized that she had fled.

  He was just moments from finishing off the last of the blood from his latest victim when he heard the rapid stomping of booted feet, the flickering of torches, and shouts of men coming down the street. The appearance of a few locals did not concern him. He could fight and kill a roomful of average men with little fear of being harmed, but he had a good life here and did not want to attract too much attention by slaughtering a score of men and having their bodies found strewn about the street to be discovered in the morning. Nor would it please his Master to reveal himself to the populace until it was time. As it was, his victim's death would likely be attributed to some brutal murder by a desperate hoodlum, surprised in his attempt at robbing or ravishing the woman that had fled and summoned help.

  As the sound of footsteps grew near, he decided to flee, his hunger satiated for a few days. He ran down the alley, leapt a full twenty feet up to land on the roof of a two-story building, and disappeared across the rooftops into the night.

  The men entered the alley with their torches casting wavering light on the walls, brandishing all manner of weapons from short swords and a meat cleaver, to several cudgels, and a few butcher knives. They peered into the shadows cast by their flickering light and saw the body of the young, handsome bard lying in the filthy alley. One of the men walked closer, bent down to inspect the body, and looked into the open blue eyes of the dead singer.

  "Bloody hell, that's Landrin. He just sang at my inn tonight," Amos quietly announced. "Poor fool decided to be a hero like the ones in his songs and paid dearly for it," Amos said as he closed the bard's eyes.

  ***

  Landrin opened his eyes and initially saw only darkness. Panic instantly gripped him as he tried to raise his hands only to strike something hard just a few inches above his body. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark and he made out the grain within the wall of wood that was only a few inches in front of his face.

  By the gods, they thought I was dead and they buried me. They buried me alive!

  Panic gave way to terror as the bard screamed at the top of his lungs. He shouted until his voice gave out and then started punching at the top of the pine wood box. The fear of being buried alive gave strength to his attack as he repeatedly struck and clawed at the lid of his tomb.

  The cracking of the soft wood rewarded his struggles as it gave way under the force of his terror-driven blows. Landrin forced his fingernails into the wood where it had split and tore at it in frenzy. Dirt showered his body as he ripped chunks of wood from the coffin lid.

  I'll suffocate under the dirt, he thought, but was determined to free himself from his grave.

  More dark soil ran into the wooden box as he tore through the lid and turned the fissure into a gaping hole. The cascade of dirt covered his face as he destroyed the planks above him. His panic increased as it filled his mouth, nose, and covered his eyes.

  Finally free of the wooden barrier, he frantically clawed at the dirt as it pressed in all around and above him. Landrin thrust his hands above him and pulled the soil down into the wooden box in his bid to burrow his way to freedom. His struggles seemed like an eternity and he was sure that whatever air he had stored in his lungs would never last l
ong enough to see him escape his underground prison. Elation filled him as he felt his hand burst out of the soil and grasp at the cool night air above.

  Landrin pulled himself out of the terrifying embrace of the engulfing soil and let out the stale air he held in his lungs. Or would have if he had been holding his breath. He suddenly realized that he had no air in his lungs, in fact, he was not breathing at all. He had to have been breathing in order to shout. He drew in a deep lungful of air and let it out. He drew in another, whistled, and hummed as he was normally able to do, but now he actually had to think about it, had to concentrate on performing the action that used to come as naturally as, well, breathing.

  The vampire, he thought as he recalled the fight with the evil creature. It can't be! It's not possible! What can I do? Where can I go? Is there a cure?

  Those and a hundred other questions raced through his mind. He studied his hands. His nails should had been ripped out by his clawing at the coffin and digging his way out of several feet of dirt and stone, but they were sharp and intact. He looked around the graveyard where he had been buried on the outskirts of the city. His eyes pierced the darkness like a dagger through cloth. Everything stood out in stark detail. He looked at the sky and easily saw tenfold the number of stars that he recalled seeing when he was alive.

  When he was alive. He nearly choked on the thought. He became aware of something else—a hunger. A hunger like none he had ever felt before burned in his stomach and in his soul. Or whatever it was that he now possessed. He craved sustenance of some kind and knew the direction in which he could find it. The bard walked back toward the city, drawn by the craving as his mind continued to try to come to terms with this new reality. He knew the gates would be closed and guarded at this time of night, especially since the former King had just recently been assassinated. He sought out the shadows and swiftly crept up to the darkness-shrouded base of the thirty-foot wall surrounding the city.