Sorcerer's Vendetta (The Secret of Zanalon) Read online

  Sorcerer’s Vendetta

  Sarah S. Ray

  Copyright 1993 by Sarah S. Ray

  Amazon Edition

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  Chapter 1 – BETRAYAL

  "Haaafgaaan!!"

  Hafgan didn't even flinch though the Sorcerer screamed his name like a curse. He studied his mentor's face, clinging to cool control as if he examined the expected, mildly violent reaction of mixed spell components instead of the agony he had inflicted on his mentor of many years.

  So, the moment of paralysis the poison first induced had passed. Too late – Hafgan had already drained the Sorcerer's mana and slipped the open Spellbook from under his frozen hands. Now the pain and weakness set in, soon to be followed by death.

  The Sorcerer glared at the dart Hafgan had struck him with and yanked it free from his side with a barely controlled hand. His eyes returned to Hafgan's, flickering blue like the cool flame Hafgan had seen him create, filled with a horrifed disbelief that slowly shifted to anger and then to agony. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth against the poison's fire that now ripped into his flesh.

  Hafgan, satisfied that the poison was effective, smiled tightly and strode to the doorway, turning back then to stare with his own cold fury at the Sorcerer.

  Once apprentice, now usurper, he cast his shadow from the stone-mantled doorway for the last time. Sunlight filtered around him from the brighter hallways of the keep and into the upper level laboratory. Hafgan would have preferred to have caught him in the underground laboratory, which would definitely have entombed him, but this would do just as well. He stared into the eyes of the most powerful Sorcerer in the realm.

  Once most powerful. Now sinking to his knees.

  "Thou hast lost the gift o' foresight? Thou? The all-powerful, almighty Sorcerer? Thou hast grown careless, old man."

  The Sorcerer had begun to tremble, sweat beading on his brow. Even now, he looked nothing like the man of a hundred and fifty Hafgan knew him to be. Even now, as he sank to the floor, dying---slowly, because he was so strong. His mentor's clear blue eyes blazed and his hair fell well past strong shoulders and glistened black without a trace of gray.

  Hafgan's smirk felt like paste on his face as he continued the long-rehearsed epilogue of his apprenticeship, his voice nearly quavering with rage. "An not for the myriad of insults thou hast lain at my feet in thine arrogance, I could have thought thee not worth robbing. After all, how has that powerful magick protected thee? But I have begged for tidbits of power and cleaned up after thee for the last time. Do not trouble thyself seeking the antidote; I made my last effort my best. Now I will have thy secrets, whether thou will or no. Mayhaps it is fate. It is time for thee to pass on thy knowledge." He gave a low laugh, forced and hollow in his own ears. "Time for thee to die."

  The apprentice shifted the stolen Book of Spells under his arm and flicked long, golden locks back from his face with a haughty air he didn't really feel. The newly stolen power thrumming through him only heightened the deeper currents of deep loss at the core of his soul, pushed at his control. He began to pull the heavy door closed, cleaving the sunlight from the Sorcerer. Then he hesitated.

  Hafgan looked back into the eyes of the Sorcerer, he told himself to savor his victory, but he was hit by a sliver of sorrow. He couldn't remember the last time the Sorcerer had actually looked into his eyes. To think he had once worshiped the man. Now, he would always remember the twisted look of hatred on the Sorcerer's face – as Hafgan entombed him.

  "I will teach thee one final lesson," the Sorcerer grated. "Look for me. Always. E'en an I must break Death's doors, I will find thee, Hafgan, I will find th---"

  The apprentice, now the most powerful Sorcerer in the realm, pulled the door shut with final, booming thunder.

  Find me? That I doubt.

  Hafgan turned away, his eyes burning, but his smile frozen.

  How could Hafgan do this to me?

  That look in the young apprentice's eyes, the moment Hafgan had pulled the door shut on him and left him in darkness, it all kept playing through his head as he lay there in the soft loamy undergrowth, now helpless, and listened to the wind through the trees, his eyes closed. It was only by sheer will fueled by fury he had made it out of the laboratory that should have been his tomb.

  The sunlight sifted through the breeze-touched leaves above him and made patterns of shifting red on the insides of his eyelids. The pungent scent of decaying leaves cloyed the earth and invaded his nostrils with every forced breath, a sickening reminder of his own impending death.

  Must find the antidote, he prodded himself. Only a short rest. Must keep going.

  But he didn't. He couldn't move. His hand trembled on the cool hilt of the sword he'd dragged out with him to the woods. It seemed like years ago that he had pulled it from its place on the wall, still determined to somehow survive, to track down that apprentice bastard and have his revenge. Foolish vanity, now.

  Reduced to this. My trusted elementals! How could this boy have been the best apprentice, as thou promised? How could my beloved elemental friends have been so wrong?

  A shock of pain racked him, ripping through his body almost as fiercely as the hatred in his heart. He bit his lip, tasting remorse in his blood and his last thoughts.

  Mine only friends.

  The red-filtered daylight began to fade from his eyes. His body was slipping from his control; he couldn't even tense to cling to the sunshine.

  Nay, Light, so precious, be not the last ... light ...

  Shadows closed.

  "Dost thou hunt for this?"

  His eyelids fluttered. The sun was too bright until the wispy, white-haired silhouette of the hag shut it out. He managed to focus through the swimming blue dots on what she was waggling in front of his face.

  Veriantra root. The antidote! Though without the catalyst of power ... Still, it will stave off the end for a while.

  He tried to reach up for it. Only a croak came from his cracked, dry lips.

  "Enh eh eh-ah." She snatched it back and shook her head with a frown. "I know thee. Almost didn't reconnize thee, without thy aged ol' man disguise. I know thee, Sorcerer, in thy true appearance. Methinks anon, dost this petty little nothing of a witch owe this all so-powerful Sorcerer any favors?"

  She peered at the root dangling from her fingers.

  My life, he thought.

  The glittery green eyes slid back to him.

  "Methinks not," she said.

  He faded. The cold touch of death drew on his life force. He let go.

  Let go ... Let life go ...

  "Ah, what the ‘ell ..." the old witch mumbled.

  There was a touch at his lips. Immediately, the bitter taste of Veriantra shouldered aside death, and he slipped into the sleep of healing instead of eternity.

  "'e picked a good one, did 'e not?"

  He groaned, again. His face was buried in a pillow; he was stretched out on his stomach on the old woman's bed. Opening one eye, he saw he was in a small but neatly kept cottage. Fixing his half-stare on a clock on the mantelpiece, he pondered, his thoughts thick.

  She must have more talent than I suspected, to draw that item from the future. He snorted softly, regretted it when his head cracked. Nay, surely
'twas a gift.

  Whatever, it was tocking way too loud, though it didn't seem to bother the ball of black fluff curled up beside it. His muscles splintered like wood fibers when he shoved himself up and hauled his legs around until he was somewhat upright. He managed to not scream, though the image of a wailing infant blasting its lungs out appeared in his head. He envied its freedom of expression.

  Weakly, he supported his head on his hands, elbows propped on knees. One elbow slipped, and he snarled at the fresh wave of nausea.

  "Did 'e not?" she repeated.

  "What?" he snapped. He yanked his head up to glare at the witch, who sat across the room, rocking and creaking in an ancient chair.

  "That poison. Veriantra root's nothing to that stuff, by itself. Gonna take power to fight that perticler poison. O' which 'e left thee none." She snickered. "That why thou 'ast brought thy sword? To fight thy way back to fame and fortune?"

  He held his head, fingers sunk deep in his long, now wild hair. If he moved his hands, would the split pieces of his skull fall apart to the floor? Shunting aside that gruesome thought, he struggled with a thick tongue to answer her.

  "A fool I am not. A wizard is helpless once his power is depleted. Ne'er would I be. And there is aught out there that is resistant to magick." He chanced letting go of his skull and hauled himself to his feet. To his dismay, he found himself nude. He sat back down quickly, snatching sheets.

  She cackled. "At least thou still 'ast the body o' a fighter."

  "Old woman!"

  "Oh, don't thou 'old woman' me, thou 'ast been here three days, what'd thou expect?"

  She smiled, a horrible sight. "'Sides, an I were 'alf my age instead o' 'alf thine, thou wouldst whistle a new tune ..."

  Turning away, he choked down empty nausea, not just from the poison. His clothes were on a chair a foot from the headboard of the bed. Trying to reach as far as the sheets, tucked tightly under the foot of the mattress, would let him, he was stuck with them still far out of reach.

  "In a 'urry, eh?" The old witch pulled herself up from the rocking chair, shuffled across the room to fetch the neatly folded cloak, shirt, and breeches, then leaned with aged effort to retrieve his boots. After she dragged the heavy boots to within his reach and laid the clothes beside him on the bed, she journeyed slowly back to her chair.

  As he watched her, he was newly thankful for the powers that had shielded him from the ravages of aging. He hadn't known her in her youth, but he knew she had chosen husband and family before the development of her power. Only after her children were grown and she had been widowed did she take the path of magick, too late to reverse the years worn on her.

  "Cain't blame thee for thy 'aste, I guess, seein's thou 'ast less'n a week to live," she continued. "Unless thou canst track down that 'prentice o' thine."

  He dressed, under the sheets in spite of what she'd said about the three days, considering the week to come with a new wave of anguish, sparked by dread.

  "How did thou knowest 'twas mine apprentice?"

  She gave him a wily smile, teeth scarce. "Been some rumors 'bout somethin' thou 'ast discovered 'e probbly started going round. That'n I seen 'im digging up all the Veriantra root in these woods 'bout a week 'ence, I did. I scavenged a bit fer meself 'fore 'e got it all. Looked like trouble brewin', fer sure."

  "Didn't think to warn me, eh?"

  "Wouldst thou?"

  He dropped his gaze. She cackled again.

  "So why dost thou help me now?" he asked, eyes still downcast. "What couldst thou want from a washed-up, half-dead ex-sorcerer?"

  The witch gave him a sideways look of disgust, snorted. "That Book of thine ain't naught to thee. Thou 'ast the good spells in thy 'ead, dost thee not?"

  He tried not to smile, failed, and wound up looking decidedly sly, which was anything but. Counting on charity might as well have flown out the window with a raucous squawk. The witch snorted again.

  "Methought as much. Well, I ain't got much, not like thine, but I'd loan thee some power so's thou canst catch that little thief."

  "And thy price?" he asked, with a sinking feeling that he knew the answer.

  The witch leaned forward, fixed him with a beady, faded green eye.

  "Same thing 'e wanted. Eternal youth. Immortality."

  She was quiet for a while after the Sorcerer explained the nature of his newest, most important discovery. Still she sat pondering, uneasy, pulling on her lips.

  "This deal is working out quite neatly." The Sorcerer's statement brought her out of her musing as he threw back his cloak and belted on his sword, then gave her an odd look, somewhere between disgust and awe. Suddenly well aware that, as she was far from a beauty to begin with, this charming lip-pulling habit was not going to get her invited to any royal balls (except possibly as a warm-up for the fool) she released her lips with a final smack.

  "A life, eh? Figures. White magick an that life were given freely, black magick otherwise." She rubbed her chin slowly and peered up at his deceptively youthful features. "I dunno 'bout this. An I'da known ..."

  "I shall certainly be indebted to you, make no mistake about that." He snorted. "And you will be able to call me on it, anytime – I must give thee my soul name to do this."

  She looked at him, weakening, sure he could see her salivating at that prospect. Of course, she reminded herself, he still had to survive the encounter with the tricky apprentice if she expected to get paid.

  He studied her, calculating. "Think naught about the Others’ encumbrance, old woman, an were that the reason for thy hesitance. Thine only part in this were to help bring a murderer to justice. I shall take the burden of black magick on mine own soul. 'Twas ne'er my intent to use the spell that way, but ..." He dropped his gaze, then straightened to look at her.

  "It is fitting for a man whose heart is blackened by poison. Thou hast naught to lose. An I fail, I will take Hafgan's place as the sacrifice---I am dead anyway."

  She puffed out her cheeks, considering this aspect.

  "We-ell, I do want mine old body back. I mean, my young 'un. 'ell, let's do it." She shook back her sleeves in preparation and started to rise, but he put up a hand to stay her.

  "One more condition. Remember, it is a murderer that we speak of. My murderer." He flexed his hands and fixed her in a cold blue stare. "Make it slow and make ... it ... agony."

  Looking up at him, she turned away quickly. Too much hatred in his eyes. She pulled herself from her chair, turned and shuffled off to her corner to begin her study, as much to cover her discomfort as to prepare for this difficult spell.

  "Surely thou 'ast a black 'eart," she murmured under her breath.

  "Ready?"

  "As I shall e'er be." She stretched her bent back up, reached out to connect with the shoulders of the tall, powerfully-built man. For an instant she was stricken by the image of ironic opposites they formed: she appeared older, though she was half his age; he appeared more powerful, though it was she who gave him her power.

  Then a blue crackling coursed out and around her thin, wobbly arms, traveling until it plunged into the Sorcerer's body. He lifted his head, taking it, and then it was gone.

  The Sorcerer brought his head down slowly. "Is that the best thou canst do?"

  "'ey, must needs I leave aught for myself," she retorted. "No tellin' what might come up 'fore thy return. An thou returns. Thou might keel over from that poison 'fore thou can pay off this 'ere debt. Sure thou cain't call the bugger 'ere?"

  "'Tis sure he is guarding. An I try and fail, he will know I am coming. Best to go to him. Work in a baited trap, though, so that it will be he who comes to me, to trigger it. Let his own greed betray him." He rubbed his hands together, a nasty smile on his face. "Aye. Methinks I like that idea."

  She gave him a sideways look. "Thy design be to trap him, right? Not to kill him outright."

  The Sorcerer returned her gaze, straight and cold. "O' course that is what I meant."

  Barely hesitating, she gave him a
satisfied nod. Reminding herself that she had his soul name, she kept her expression neutral. Her thoughts were her own.

  "Well, what mana thou 'ast thou must save. Let me get thee there, all right?"

  He nodded, doubtfully.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, an unseen protest. Damn six-fathered whoreson. Here I am, saving his rear, and still he thinks I am nobody.

  Biting her tongue, she began. Circling him, she muttered the proper incantations with her best style, while he watched her weave her web.

  The Sorcerer gave a derogatory snort.

  She stopped. "What?"

  "Malodorous pronunciation."

  She crossed her arms and glared. "Thou wishest to try? Then we shall see what kind o' a fight thou canst give thy boy when thou gets there."

  He stared straight ahead. "Just forget not, place me a bit away from him. And remember the trap."

  "All right, already. Keep a still tongue in thy 'ead and let me finish."

  She began anew. Blue lightnings grew, entwining him like an electric vine as she tightened her power around him. It sparkled, coalescing as the elementals she called on lent their touch, their design. The power began to sink into him.

  Horror crossed the Sorcerer's face.

  "What hast thou ...?" He looked down at his feet.

  "I ... I am turning to stone! Stop! I am turning to stone! Damn thee, old woman! I knew thou wouldst botch it! Stop this AT ONCE!"

  The witch drew back, suddenly trembling, her face hot. "I cain't, it be done already ... I cain't, I am sorry ..."

  He stepped toward her and she heard stone thud. Retreating, she stumbled. The Sorcerer drew his sword, its steel whispering menace.

  "Then die with me thou incompetent, old---" The Sorcerer whipped his sword back over his shoulder...

  She screamed, a high, thin wail. All too clearly she saw herself pictured in his eyes, falling in two gory slices to turn the neatly swept dirt floor of her cottage into bloody mud. She turned away, her stick arms covering her head in futile defense, and waited for the stroke that would end her life. Seconds stretched, precious.