The Sorcerer's Ascension by Brock Deskins Page A

lined the walls and empty wooden barrels occupied a good portion of the floor. He figured this was as good a place as any to sleep for the remainder of the night. The newly orphaned young man cleared a small area behind the empty barrels that he hoped would provide some concealment just in case someone did take a cursory glance in the room. The youth laid his bag on the floor and rested his head on the clothing-filled half. His stomach growled ferociously, but exhaustion quickly won out and he drifted off to sleep, silently weeping his newest loss.
    Azerick, the voice called softly from within the blackness.
    Azerick barely heard the voice that called his name and saw only darkness before his eyes. It was feint and feminine. For a moment, he thought it was the voice of his mother.
    Azerick, be my hand. Be my hand of vengeance and bring death to those that have wronged you. Give death to all that deserve their fate, the voice whispered once more.
    “Who are you? I can’t see you,” Azerick called out into the dark.
    I am your fate, I am your future, embrace me. Be the hand of Sharrellan.
    Someone was playing tricks on him. Everyone knew Sharrellan, goddess of death, vengeance, and all things dark. Gods did not talk to street rats.

    “Who are you? What do you want? What do you mean?” Azerick called once more.
    Be Sharrellan’s hand , the voice repeated, fading to nothingness.
    “I’m having nightmares,” Azerick said aloud, “it’s nothing but a nightmare.”
    The last few hours of darkness passed while he slept in the small storage room. Not even the horrors that his nightmares brought were able to wake him from his exhausted slumber. The sun was just beginning to burn off the veil of evening along the horizon when footsteps and voices woke him once again.
    Azerick went alert immediately and listened intently from his hiding place. He could hear low muffled voices and footsteps shuffling about in the rooms outside the door. The voices cut out but he could still hear the footsteps come closer to the door of his hiding place. His hand flew to the hilt of his knife as the footsteps stopped right outside of the door to the small storage closet.
    As the door was slowly pulled open, he swiftly pulled the knife out and held it in front of him in a guard position. Standing in the door, silhouetted by the waxing morning light, was a large, bearded man. Azerick could just make out two other figures beyond the open door, in the gloom behind the man.
    “Well, well, what have we here?” the man rumbled in a deep baritone voice. “You thinking to cut us all down with that pig-sticker in your hand, boy?”
    “Your life will be the least you’ll lose if you think to put hands on me,” Azerick replied, breathing in quick deep breaths. “Just ask the previous owner of this knife if you think I do not speak the truth!”
    “Oh, I believe you, boy,” the large man said, seeing the dark spots of blood slightly visible against the metal when just enough light happened to reflect off it, as well as the dark spots along Azerick’s shirt cuff. You’re lucky the guard didn’t come back. Sometimes they like to double back to try to catch us sneaking back into a place they already checked. Now put away that knife, boy, you don’t need it against us, and I’m no more intimidated by it than the guard would have been if they would’a caught you here. I give you my word, we’ll treat you a damn site better than they would have.”
    Azerick demanded, “Why should I trust you any more than the rest of the alley-born I’ve run afoul of?”
    “I’ll pardon your insult to my good character and intentions and tell you true. Whether you were alley born or a cast off prince like your highborn way of talking marks you, from the looks of you, you’re one of us now, and me and my group take care of our own. Come out now, I got a bit of bread and some cold beans I’ll share, and don’t try to tell me you ain’t hungry. It was your