Wizard Heights - Book 1 - The Legend of the Sorcerer King

Wizard Heights: Book One—The Legend of the Sorcerer King.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, incidents, and places are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
© 2011 Alexander Scott. All rights reserved.
Cover Illustration ©2013 Alexander Scott.
Visit http://www.wizardheights.com to learn more about this book and its author.
Wizard Heights is on Twitter: @WizardHeights
Summary: A boy discovers a magical Victorian city.
For ages 11 and up.

Contents

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The Inquisition
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

 
More by Alexander Scott
More by Alexander Scott
More by Alexander Scott

Prologue

Zeppelins hovered high above the Valley of the Kings. Far beneath them, hundreds of Egyptian men in galabiyas and turbans came and went from a pass deep amongst the mountains. For eight long months they had toiled, carrying rocks and sand, loading scree-filled sacks upon the backs of camels and mules, while above them the sun, merciless as the desert asp, beat upon their backs.

Then one day a cry went up from the mountain pass—the object of their toil had at last been discovered. Man-by-man, a hastily scrawled message was passed down the narrow ravine from the excavation site, until finally, having reached the end of the human chain, it was delivered into the waiting hands of an Arabian chauffeur. Cradling the message carefully, he climbed into a beetle black motorcar and drove across the desert as if he had the devil on his tail.

Upon a desert plain half a mile away, beneath a cluster of tent pavilions sat a large gathering of European and American business executives and aristocracy; refined socialites, the women, dressed in silks and ruffles had extravagant, wide-brimmed hats, while the men wore pinstripes and trilbies. They sat about exchanging polite conversation, some of the men smoking cigars, others drinking brandy, playing Poker, and discussing stocks and bonds, the price of derivatives, and the flotation of stock on overseas markets. 

Until that is, a plume of smoke went up across the desert plain. It started like a small sand genie but soon grew to a tempest. It was the beetle-black motorcar that was owned by the archaeological expedition of which the aristocrats and business people in question were paymasters. It tore along the desert road with its headlights blazing as if it had the vengeful spirit of Tuthankhamen himself upon its tail.

Egyptian servants ran to the vehicle with knives drawn, but their concern was soon allayed. The motorcar drew up before the pavilions in a welter of sand and pebbles, sending half of the desert dust before it. Out of this dust emerged the Arabian chauffeur. He ran toward them with arms raised. “Come quickly!” he implored. “At last it has been found!”

At this, a cry of jubilation went up from those assembled in the shade. Napkins were thrown down. Hands were heartily shaken. I knew we’d do it! Yes, I knew we’d do it! Jolly good! Uniformed servants bustled around clearing the porcelain plates and crockery. “Would Lord and Lady Chisholm take the Bentley or the Rolls Royce?”

“No, Lord and Lady Chisholm would be traveling as guests of the American oil man—Mr. Harry Mayweather, but the servants must bring the bags. This was it. They were sure.”

Sand goggles were located. Parasols were put up. Messages were hastily wired to London, Rome, Paris, New York, and Istanbul—Yes, it has been found. There is no mistake—this is it. Slender gloves were fitted over delicate hands. Pocket watches were briskly examined. A sense of excitement permeated the air as, en-masse, the entourage passed to a collection of antique, highly polished motorcars that were parked beneath nearby tents.

Doors were slammed. Orders were issued from shadowy figures in the back seats.