Sam Finch and the Vault of Azaramor (Sam Finch Series Book 2) Read online

  Sam Finch

  AND THE VAULT OF AZARAMOR

  J.W. BOUCHARD

  Copyright © 2015 by J.W. Bouchard

  Cover artwork by Jasper Sandner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To learn more about the author visit:

  http://www.jwbouchard.com

  Table of Contents

  1 The Vault Of Azaramor

  2 A Long And Boring Summer

  3 Keep Your Visions To Yourself

  4 Rusty Redeemed

  5 Second Year Perks

  6 The News Around Town

  7 Back To Basics

  8 It Must Be Magic

  9 The Marksman

  10 Convincing Volatine

  11 Snips Snails

  12 The Decidedly Uncool-Looking Glove

  13 Big World, Small Problems

  14 Fear Of Snakes

  15 A Scholar Passes

  16 Vertex Sceadu

  17 Bringing Back The Dead

  18 The Unfinished Duel

  19 A Blizzard Among Friends

  20 A Dabble Will Do

  21 The Mysterious Self-Destructing Letter

  22 Faster Than Light

  23 Zombie See, Zombie Do

  24 Preparations

  25 Too Hot For Hot Chocolate

  26 The Plan All Along

  27 Knowledge Stolen

  28 Counting The Losses

  29 Homecoming

  About The Author

  For Owen

  1

  The Vault Of Azaramor

  Azaramor was a hive of activity on that fine mid-summer morning. It was early yet, but the streets were already crowded with shoppers, all of them eager to get the best deal from one of the vendors that had set up shop along the cobblestoned streets.

  It was the busiest month of the year in the magical city.

  Every second week of August marked the arrival of Dunlap’s Magical Circus, for which spectators came from far and wide to attend. At any given time, elephants, camels, giant frost crabs, unicorns (these latter were extremely well-guarded as they were on the protected animals list) and other exotic creatures could be witnessed being paraded down the streets with increasing frequency.

  Additionally, the year’s largest festival conveniently coincided with the circus. Mages, witches, warlocks, magicians, healers, and other magically-inclined salespeople turned up in Azaramor to peddle their wares, whether it be spell books, enchantments, trinkets, charms, or potions. Demonstrations could be seen on an hourly basis, from firework displays to mages showcasing the latest spells.

  Then there were the gypsies. Perhaps more than any other group, the gypsies made out like bandits during late July and early August, which was a good thing seeing as how the other months of the year saw only moderate sales. The traveling gypsies would always arrive in Azaramor a week or two prior to the circus, and afterward they would move west to Lesser Spriggleford, two weeks ahead of the sleepy little village’s Glowing Butterfly Festival.

  But Azaramor was known for more than just its famous magical circus. The city was also known for another magical and mysterious place: the Vault of Azaramor. Although the locals kept quiet about the place, its whereabouts was not concealed or hidden from the public. For those with a penchant for magic, it was as much of a draw as any of the city’s other events, even if the most one could do was peer through the tall iron gates and stare at it. Few of the city’s residents, even the older ones, could recall the last time they had seen the Vault’s circular door opened.

  Located on the northern edge of Azaramor, away from the festivities, the Vault was a low golden dome fashioned of stone and metal protruding from the ground like a shiny bubble. Hundreds of symbols were engraved upon its surface. It appeared smaller than most would imagine, but that was deceiving as most of the Vault was located below ground. The dome was merely the single point of entry and exit to the ancient structure. A stone wheel, slightly moss-covered and lined with brass spokes that protruded outward, sat atop the dome. The wheel served as a physical locking mechanism, but the Vault was also protected by hundreds of enchantments, spells, jinxes, and charms. Directly to the south of the dome was a vast cemetery. Hundreds of headstones jutted from the sand-colored dirt, their faces eroded, keeping the names of those buried beneath them shrouded in secrecy.

  Only two men in the entire world knew how to gain access, and both of them lived inside the Vault.

  And one of those men was dying.

  “When will he be ready?”

  Jansen Shirun, Head Scholar and Keeper of the Vault, paced back and forth in front of a raised stone slab. He was a tall man with a long white beard, peppered with streaks of a darker shade of gray. He wore the deep lines of old age, his eyes shadowed below bushy eyebrows. He stopped and gazed down at the man that lay on the stone slab.

  “Soon now,” Hamish Bala said. “A matter of months, I think.” Hamish’s face was grave, his eyes drawn to the man on the slab, noting the wrinkled gray skin of the man’s face. The room was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, and at times, in the semi-darkness, it appeared as though the sleeping man was floating in mid-air.

  “I didn’t expect it to happen so soon,” Shirun said.

  “One never expects it. He was on his third resurrection, which didn’t last as long as the two that preceded it. Still, he has surpassed two hundred years. No small feat.”

  “Very true. Yet we should have prepared for this eventuality sooner.”

  “There is still time,” Hamish said reassuringly. His eyes glowed orange with reflected candlelight. The hood of his robe was up to conceal his baldness. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. “He could yet survive the winter. Perhaps longer.”

  “Yes, but nevertheless, we shall commence with the necessary preparations. One can never tread too cautiously in matters like this.”

  “You speak true.”

  Hamish stared at Shirun, and then past him, at the many shelves that lined the stone walls. The shelves were piled high with books and scrolls and parchments. How Hamish had longed for permission to go through them and learn their secrets. He had entered the Vault thirty years ago, which made him the youngest of the scholars, and although he respected his elders, a part of him felt that their years of service were somehow wasted. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to study the mysteries contained within these walls to their heart’s content? What harm would it do? After all, it wasn’t as if any of them would ever be able to leave.

  “Are you all right?” Shirun asked.

  “Yes. Just thinking.”

  “You are prone to that. I must admit, it troubles me at times. The look in your eyes betrays your aspirations. Do you regret your decision?”

  “I regret nothing,” Hamish said, “but do hunger for more than loneliness. The knowledge in this place beckons to me often.”

  Shirun nodded, wearing a knowing smile. “The thirst for power is not easily quenched, even in isolation.”

  “N
ot power. Wisdom.”

  “Ah, of course, but wisdom cannot always be found in books, Hamish.”

  “Shall I inform the others?” Hamish said.

  After a moment of thought, Shirun shook his head. “Not yet. The rituals must be observed. We will tell the others closer to the time of ceremony.”

  “As you wish.” Hamish turned and headed for the door leading to the adjoining room where the rest of the scholars were in study and meditation. He paused before leaving and, trying not to sound too eager, said, “If I may be permitted to ask, have you decided who will take Letholdus’s place?”

  “I am weighing the options with an open mind. I assume you would nominate yourself for the position?”

  Hamish narrowed his eyes, his back to Shirun. “I trust you will choose the best candidate,” he said and exited the room. Shirun stared after him.

  2

  A Long And Boring Summer

  For Sam Finch, the summer had seemed to drag on forever. He could still remember leaving Dashelmore nearly three months ago, could remember saying goodbye to his friends, Curtis Meeks and Lilah Lightseer, and most especially remembered Sarah Gemstead, who (and Sam’s mind still had difficulty wrapping itself around this) had turned out to be the daughter of King Leodan himself. An actual princess. She was also the first girl (his mother excluded) he had ever kissed. The fact that he had rescued her from a powerful sorcerer named Demälikar was almost a dream to him now.

  Yet the memory remained vivid: the treacherous wagon race, casting the Ticklefire spell on the zombie hybrid Malavant, and confronting Trevor Neeley, the quiet boy who had secretly been working for Demälikar and who was responsible for Malavant’s incurable condition.

  He also remembered the debt; the promise he had made to the evil sorcerer in order to save his father’s life. It had troubled him all summer, and each morning he awoke expecting to see that swirling black vortex and Demälikar stepping out of it, ready to call in the favor. What bothered Sam the most was having no idea what he would be asked to do. However, one thing was for certain: it wouldn’t be good.

  So the summer had trudged along with agonizing slowness. Sam had occupied his time by helping his father, working out, and reading mostly. He had read through most of the spell book Lilah had given him, and when time allowed, he would sneak off to the nearby forest and practice new spells. It wasn’t as much fun without Lilah around. It was all cutesy magic, which was mostly harmless, but it had been that same magic that had helped save his life and that of his friends. He absently wondered what had become of Dartis Malavant. Was he able to lead a normal life? Or was he now shunned the same way he and his friends, Cully Duke and Braxton O’Connell, had shunned Sam and Curtis? As much as Sam despised Malavant’s actions, he found that he didn’t bear the boy any ill will.

  Presently, Sam was outside helping his father with his latest project. A nearby kingdom had sent out word to the surrounding villages that it was seeking someone to forge new weapons for its fleet. Edric had bid on the project (much to his wife’s dismay, as she could often be heard reprimanding him for pushing himself too hard) and won. While the kingdom—Bastonham, if Sam remembered it correctly—was much smaller than Dashelmore, the order amounted to one hundred swords, eighty-five shields, seventy helmets, and twenty-three one-handed axes. In addition to this, the order also called for several of the weapons to be equipped with enchanting stones, which they had received a few days ago via one of the kingdom’s messengers.

  For the last two weeks, Sam had woken at dawn and toiled alongside his father until the sun slipped below the horizon and a lack of light forced them to quit for the day. He had learned more in those weeks about blacksmithing than he had in the previous sixteen years of his life. And, more importantly, he thought he had earned his father’s respect. When Sam thought about it, it was funny really; his father respected him more for putting in a hard day’s work than for the fact that Sam had saved his father’s life with the serum, obtained only because he had made a deal with Demälikar.

  Sam was bent over the anvil, using a mallet to pound out a length of metal that glowed orange from intense heat. He was sweating profusely, little beads of perspiration sizzling as they splashed against the searing hot metal. Edric put aside an axe he had just fitted with a sparkling enchanted ruby and peered over Sam’s shoulder.

  “How’s it comin’?” Edric asked.

  Sam wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Good, I think. When do I get to learn how to set the enchantment stones?”

  “Soon enough.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Sam said. “That’s what you’ve been saying. But when?”

  “When you’re ready.”

  “And when will that be? Because the way it’s going, it seems like that’ll be never.”

  Edric smiled and rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I tell ya what, in a few days we’ll be mostly finished with the job for Bastonham. Ya can learn the stones then.” Edric dug into his pocket and pulled out a small black case. “Remember these? Might as well practice on yer own sword.”

  Sam took the small black case, opened it, and saw three gems resting on a bed of pearly white satin: one was dark blue, one was red, and the one in the center was a shifting rainbow of various colors. Io’s Kiss, the hawk-nosed gypsy had called it last summer when Sam’s mother had bought the set for him. Sam knew that the blue gem was an ice diamond, which had the power to freeze enemies. The red stone, firestone, could imbue an object with perpetual heat, and the last stone, even now shifting colors as Sam gazed at it, was a mystery. Its exact properties escape me at the moment, the gypsy had told him.

  “Really?” Sam asked. “You’re not joking?”

  “I’ll teach ya as soon as we finish up this job.”

  Sam glanced at the stones a final time before closing the case’s lid. “Cool.”

  The light had dwindled. It would be dark before long.

  “Hurry up and finish what yer doin’,” Edric said, “and then we’ll call it a day.”

  Sam ignored the dull ache in his shoulder and the painful throbbing in his hand, and went back to work.

  Mary, Sam’s mother, was in a cheerful mood that evening as she served them dinner. To Sam, she seemed to be cheerful all of the time, and he couldn’t recall a single time that entire summer when she hadn’t been wearing a smile, except, that is, when Sam talked about returning to the Dashelmore Warrior Training Academy. He could still remember how hard she had tried to talk him out of going last summer after his test scores had arrived; how she had pushed him to go into Mage Skills, Alchemy, or the Holy Arts. In Mary’s mind, anything would have been better than warrior training.

  Despite her reservations, Sam had gone anyway, and his mother seemed more accepting of that choice now that he had passed his first year and come home to her in one piece. Whenever Sam overheard her talking to her friends and he became the topic of the conversation (which was often), she never said “my son” without also adding “the hero” after it. As far as Sam knew, no one else on the planet (except maybe for Sarah, and that was a big maybe) considered him a hero. To everyone else, he was still the scrawny little boy that always had his nose buried in a book. But to his mother, who had witnessed firsthand how he had flown in on a wyvern and given his dying father the mysterious serum, he was a hero with a capital ‘H.’

  Mary ladled tomato soup into Sam’s bowl and then handed him several slices of freshly baked bread. She served herself last, and as she sat down across from him, she slid an envelope over to him. “That came in the mail for you today,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t open it, but it’s a letter I would think.” She laughed, and even Edric chuckled a little.

  “And yer s’posed ter be the smart one?” Sam’s father said.

  Sam started to open the envelope,
but his mother said, “You can open it when you’re through with dinner.”

  Sam, slightly dejected, began spooning tomato soup into his mouth as quickly as he could. He dipped his slice of bread in the soup, soaking it up, and then stuffed it into his mouth. His mouth was still full and there was soup dribbling down his chin when he said, “May I be excused?”

  Mary nodded, and Sam scooped up the envelope and made a mad dash for his bedroom. He plopped down on his bed, slid the parchment from the envelope, and stared at the wax seal that held the letter closed. The wax seal formed the face of a lion. The Seal of Dashelmore, Sam thought, and unfolded the letter. That could only mean one thing: the letter was from Sarah.

  Sure enough, he recognized the handwriting as Sarah’s. He hadn’t heard from her all summer long despite sending her a letter twice a month. She had never replied. It was easier to believe that they had been lost in the mail than to think that Sarah had simply chosen to ignore him. But the handwriting was definitely hers; he remembered it from the invitation she had given him last year when she had invited him to dinner with the King in Dashelmore Castle.

  Anxiously, Sam skimmed through the letter, and then forced himself to slow down and start from the beginning:

  Dear Sam,