TST (40 page)

 The incendiary burst blasted apart a large swath of the advancing undead, sending those trapped upon the stone spike flying apart in burning bits of bone and charred flesh. Azerick unleashed his wrath in a fiery hell storm of pure destruction.

Screaming like a ferocious demented demon, he loosed his fury in scorching balls of fire that lit up the forest like miniature suns, destroying masses of undead. Any living creature facing such an unparalleled hellish assault would have fled in terror in the face of such a wrathful destruction.

But most undead were mindless creatures that knew no fear nor bore any sense of self-preservation. Oblivious to their losses, the skeletons and zombies pressed their advance, intent on killing the creature that dared to live whilst they anguished in this mockery of life.

As the remaining undead closed in upon him, Azerick incinerated them with cones of fire from his staff and blew them apart with magical bolts of pure energy. When the zombies and skeletons got dangerously close, Azerick raised another densely packed palisade of spikes, forcing them to split up and negotiate the obstacle.

With the time he gained for himself, Azerick was able to pick off the smaller groups before they could close in on him. He leaned on his staff in exhaustion, his strength sapped from expending a large part of his magical repertoire, not only from himself but from the energy stored within his staff as well.

 Azerick scanned what was now a large clearing, lit up by several trees that still burned and smoldered from the fiery onslaught he had wrought in his determination to destroy the undead menace. Bones and bits of grey flesh littered the charred, scorched ground but nothing moved other than windblown ash and a few burning leaves that floated gently down from trees that had the misfortune to have been within the sorcerer’s range of destruction.

As much as he just wanted to lie down and sleep away his exhaustion, Azerick forced himself to walk away from the scene of the battle, leaning on his staff for support.

*****

Settlements were few and far between this far north, but fortunately the spring rains were also fewer in number. Azerick’s magic kept the rain from reaching his skin and clothing but it was still cold, particularly in the early mornings and evenings. He decided that a horse would likely prove a wise investment.

As the miles ground slowly by, he became increasingly aware of the weight on his back and the miles of travel involved. As a youth, any traveling he had done was aboard one of his father’s ships. Until he had made his escape from the psyling city, the furthest he had ever traveled on foot was from one end of Southport to the other, all within the confines of the city walls.

CHAPTER 10

Just as the sun was setting, Azerick spied a small hamlet nestled next to a bend in the river. It was a small, quiet, and friendly place where several people gave him a nod or wave of welcome as he strode into the quaint town.

Azerick spent the night at what passed for an inn and enjoyed a delicious home cooked meal. He bought a gelding from a man that ran a small stable. Although Azerick was certain he had paid more for it than he would have in a larger town or city, he did not feel as though he had been taken advantage of.

It was a basic riding horse of mellow temperament that did not mind being burdened by a rider so long as it was fed and treated well. Azerick led the horse for several miles before attempting to mount. He had never ridden a horse in his life and was not about to embarrass himself in front of anyone by falling off. He placed his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself up into the saddle.

The horse stood patiently, flicking its ears about as the human scooted around in the saddle trying to find a comfortable and secure perch on the horse’s broad back. If this particular saddle had either of those two things, Azerick could not find it.

Finally seated in the saddle as secure and comfortable as he was likely to get, the horse suddenly seemed twice as tall as it had when Azerick was safely on foot standing next to it. The sensation of being so far off the ground was slightly disconcerting.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Azerick gave the horse a small tap in its flanks with his heels. The horse bobbed its head forward and began walking at a sedate pace while its rider maintained a white knuckled grip on the reins with one hand and the saddle horn with the other.

Azerick became increasingly more confident in his riding ability and the horse’s tolerant temperament the further he traveled. After they enjoyed a short lunch, dried beef and biscuits for Azerick and oats for the horse, it was time to mount back up and continue their westward journey. He nudged the horse to a walk and then to a loping canter that ate up the miles at an impressive rate without over-tiring his horse.

Azerick quickly became fond of his mount and spent much of the day trying to come up with a name for it but he failed to come up with one so he simply settled on calling him Horse. Apparently naming animals was not one of his better abilities. He set aside the issue for a later date figuring it was unlikely that the horse cared one whit what he called it.

Azerick and Horse stopped at a small clearing just off the narrow path that was the closest thing to a road in these little traveled parts even though there was at least an hour of good daylight left.

The wood and leaves were still wet from the light drizzle that had persisted throughout most of the day and resisted all attempts to ignite it with his flint and steel. Frustrated and hungry, not to mention terribly sore from riding all day, Azerick threw the fire kit back into his saddle bag, stood up, and cast a jet of scorching magical fire onto the pile of logs and kindling. The wood burst instantly into flames, unable to resist the extreme heat no matter how sodden it was, and burned with a merry orange glow.

Azerick spread the legs of a folding iron tripod and suspended an iron pot filled with water beneath it. He then took a small knife to three potatoes, several carrots, turnips, and barley, cut them each into bite-sized cubes and let them boil in the pot. He then pulled out a decent sized smoked ham and added a gratuitous amount of the meat to the soup. The sun had just dipped below the horizon by the time the soup was ready.

Azerick looked out over the fire and called out to the individual that had been watching him since he and Horse had made camp. “You may as well join me for dinner if you are going to sit out there all night anyway.”

For a moment, the sorcerer thought that the stranger was going to turn down his invitation and he was going to be eating alone but a young voice called out a moment later.

“Who are you?” a young boy’s voice demanded to know.

“My name is Azerick. I have plenty of food that I am willing to share,” Azerick answered.

“Are you a slaver? Because if you are I’ll kill you if you try anything,” his voyeur promised him, his voice sounding from a different direction.

He is good at sneaking around; I’ll give him that
Azerick thought to himself. “I am no slaver I promise you. I have been a slave in fact and would probably kill one on sight myself.”

Azerick waited as the boy was apparently trying to make up his mind. His stomach must have won the internal debate as a small, filthy form separated itself from the shadows and hunched down directly across the fire from Azerick.

The boy was dressed in soft buckskin leggings and a dark-green leather shirt. His feet were shod in crudely made shoes of soft leather. In his hands, he carried a small hunter’s bow with an arrow nocked and ready to fly at the first sign of danger. A hunting knife hung from the somewhat crude leather belt encircling his narrow waist.

“I saw how you started that fire so I know you are a wizard. Do not try to use your magic on me and speak only in the common tongue unless you can speak elven, otherwise I will assume you are casting magic on me and will I will put an arrow in you,” the boy assured him.

Azerick was certain it was no bluff. The boy crouching before him had a feral look to him and carried himself with assuredness. He wondered about the comment about speaking elven and that was when he noticed the pointed ears just poking out of the long brown hair pulled loosely back into a ponytail and secured with a leather thong.

“You are an elf?” Azerick asked his young guest.

The boy narrowed his dark, almond-shaped eyes. “My name is Nanarin half-elf. Is that going to be a problem with you?” he asked coldly.

“It is no problem with me. It is just that I have never met an elf or a half-elf before. I did meet an abyssal elf once although that was an extremely unpleasant situation,” Azerick explained calmly. “Do you live near here?”

“I live wherever I please. The forest is my home.”

“Do you live by yourself? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

“The woods are dangerous only to those who are weak or not clever enough to take care of themselves. I could have started that fire without magic,” the half-elf proclaimed.

“Really? Then you can probably hunt and feed yourself too,” Azerick replied in a half jest.

The boy looked at the stew pot and nearly lost his confident demeanor. “I can, usually, but all the game seems to have disappeared lately. I would not mind sharing your food with you even though you had to buy it from a human town.”

Azerick laughed to himself at the young half-elf’s confidence. Azerick could see that the boy was positively famished but would never beg from anyone. He looked across the fire at the half-elf eyeing the simmering contents of the pot and saw a reflection of himself a several years ago.

“Why don’t you go wash up in the river and I will pour us a bowl of soup,” Azerick suggested.

“A bath you mean? Why should I need a bath?” half-elf demanded indignantly.

“Because you are filthy and you smell worse than Horse over there,” Azerick informed the boy. “How do you think I knew you were watching me?”

Nanarin glared at Azerick and for a moment, he thought the half-elf was going to refuse and run off, but then Nanarin burst out into laughter and sprinted for the water. The half-elf dove in head first, clothes and all, and scrubbed himself liberally with his hands.

He untied the thong binding his hair back and shook it free; scrubbing away the gods only knew how many weeks worth of grime. Nanarin disappeared under the water for over a minute then came back up, tossing his clothes onto the rocky shore.

A few minutes later, the boy got out of the water, wrung out his leathers, and hung them near the fire to dry. Azerick got him a blanket he could cover himself with while his clothes dried before filling two bowls to the rim with the thick soup. Azerick did not bother the half-elf with questions while he ate but soon noticed that the boy was pushing aside the slices of meat with his spoon.

“Do you not eat meat, Nanarin?”

Nanarin looked up at Azerick and hesitated before answering. “Nanarin is my elf name. My friends call me Wolf.”

“Ok, Wolf, why are you setting aside the meat?” Azerick asked again, certain that the boy was avoiding the question.

“I’m just saving them for later, that’s all.”

“There is plenty here, you can eat those and get more if you like. Is there someone else with you? They are welcome to join us as well. I have plenty of food,” Azerick assured the lad.

Nanarin—Wolf, looked unsure how to answer. “You will feed my friend too?”

“Of course, as long as they are peaceful.”

“Ok, but you gave your word,” Wolf reminded the human and let out a low whistle.

Azerick suddenly felt warm breath on the back of his neck and turned to stare directly into the bright gold eyes of an enormous black wolf. The wolf’s coat was so dark that for a moment Azerick thought that the golden eyes were hovering bodiless just over his shoulder. It was not until the lupine walked forward, circled around the fire, and sat next to Wolf that he was able to fully appreciate the animal’s size.