Wizard Heights Book 1: The Legend of the Sorcerer King

By Alexander Scott

"Just a few miles from a normal neighborhood, there lies a place that you can only imagine in your most magical dreams..."

When Charlie Goodfellow's family moves to a new neighborhood, the last thing the eleven year old is looking for is adventure. But one day when he is exploring a secluded community, he discovers the magical Victorian city of Wizard Heights.

A strange, pale boy named Whitstable befriends Charlie and tells him about a sinister plot involving his cryogenically frozen magician grandfather and a mysterious Egyptian Idol of Thebes. Blackmailed into complicity, Charlie is plunged headlong into an adventure that will take him deep beneath the cobwebby catacombs of the community, and into the mansion of one of the most esteemed luminaries of Wizard Heights.

The story gallops along at an unstoppable pace, taking many fascinating twists and turns along the way. Wonderful characters are to be found here—action, adventure, magic, and mystery too.

Download and read the first installment of this new, magical adventure series today.

For ages 11 and up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexander Scott
• Release date: Jan 12, 2013

Alexander Scott

Alexander Scott is the author of: Wizard Heights Book 1: The Legend of the Sorcerer King Wizard Heights Book 2: The Library of the Ancients Wizard Heights Book 3: The Shard of Aslemere and The Mysterious Case of Doctor Octavius Plum's Incredible Ever After Machine

Book preview

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

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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. Caps were straightened by serious chauffeurs. Heavy engines roared to life. Highly polished tires crackled on the sparkling sand. Headlights burned through the desert sun as the antique motorcade drove toward the mountains.

*     *     *     *     *

Deep within the shadows of the mountain pass, the Arabian sheikh, Al-Sharak Azlukazahum ran his hands across the inscriptions on the doors of the ancient tomb. Of sixty years of age, he wore a thawb and headdress, and he had deep, brown, sun-weathered skin and keen brown eyes.

Rock-by-rock he removed the last remaining stones from the portal and peered through the aperture into the tomb beyond. Inside all was darkness, all was mystery. Taking a lantern from the wall, he flashed it about—a feast for the eyes, for as the shadows receded, a myriad of Egyptian hieroglyphs were revealed upon the walls, and more importantly, beyond them lay the outline of a doorway, sealed an age ago, that might lead to an inner chamber. Bearing the lantern before him, he ventured within, followed in turn by several of his trusted Arabian servants.

Chapter 1

Boxes were arriving outside a new house on Charming Lane and a wooden sign that read, For Sale, now had a large sticker over it that read, Sold. House movers in uniforms were removing the contents of a large white moving truck, coming and going from the back of it, wheeling furniture and carrying boxes. Upon the sidewalk, a large balding man in a mover’s uniform regarded a clipboard bemusedly. Hey, lady, he said, it says here that there's only two televisions, but there's four in the back of the truck.

The lady that he was referring to was Mrs. Katherine Goodfellow—Katie to her friends. She stood on the sidewalk wearing tight-fitting sweatpants and a V-neck sweater that was rolled up to the elbows. Her hair—blond, curly, and stuck on end—would have given people the impression that she was a bedraggled Chihuahua were it not so much in fashion.

Wonderful! she said. She gazed hopelessly at the clipboard. You see, they're for my husband, Bill. They're not televisions; they're computer monitors. Terribly sorry. Her face adopted a pained expression that seemed to utilize every muscle. She wrung her hands. He's in the computer business, she said. You know ... bits and bytes and gigawhatsits. Oh, don't mind me... She hit the man playfully upon the shoulder. I'm just like that! In there, she said, pointing to the doorway. You can put them with the others.

The moving man shook his head in bemusement and wheeled the heavy boxes down the path toward the front door. He had just reached it when Mrs. Goodfellow yelled, Charlie! Come and help us get some furniture out!

From within the doorway, a boy peered up apprehensively at the sky. He was eleven years old, of medium height, and he had a mop of mousy, brown hair.

His mother pulled his sister’s brightly colored high chair from the back of the moving truck. Give me a hand with this! she said.

Charlie leapt out onto the pavement. Landing with each foot upon different paving slabs, he froze, looking down at his feet. Then, peering up at the sky suspiciously, he blinked three times. 

The moving man frowned at him. Out of my way, sonny, he said as he struggled with a cumbersome box. Strange kid... he muttered as he carried it into the house.

Charlie met the gaze of his mother who regarded him critically. Charlie, she said, what have I told you about wearing that T-shirt? 

Charlie picked at his shirt with his fingers. It was bright green and had a replica of Salamanderman on it. Salamanderman was Charlie's favorite superhero and a regular feature of children's breakfast time TV. He had suction pads on his feet and he could catch criminals with his tongue. I told you to put that T-shirt in the laundry basket, said his mother, "it's filthy!"

Charlie supposed that she must mean the baked bean stains just beneath Salamanerman's arm. Or perhaps she meant the oil stains beside Salamanderman's head—he had got those while fixing his bike a couple of days ago.

Charlie, she said, don't just stand there staring at yourself. Do something useful. Take this high chair inside. Your sister can't carry this on her own, you know.

Charlie took the bright, pink contraption from her. He didn't suppose that his sister could carry it on her own since she was only fifteen months old. In fact, there wasn't much she could do except toddle about. As Charlie carried the high chair into the house, a thought occurred to him.

Can I go out on my bike? he asked.

No! said his mother, wrestling a disjointed lamp that fell upon her neck like a vampire. Oh, alright! It'll get you out of the way. Where is your father?

Here I am, lovey! Mr. Goodfellow bound from the doorway—a gangly, middle-aged, balding man in a jogging suit. Don't try to lift that, deary! He ran to his wife's aid. You'll give yourself a hernia or a slipped disc. Think of the medical bills! Then, noticing Charlie wheeling his bike across the lawn, he frowned. Where are you going?

For a ride, said Charlie. Mom said that I could.

Mr. Goodfellow glanced anxiously back at his wife who was now being attacked by a python-like garden hose. OK, he said, but wear your bicycle helmet, don't be away too long, and don't talk to strangers. His father glanced about suspiciously. "We don't know this neighborhood yet... You don't know what kind of weirdo's might be about."

Charlie rolled his eyes.

And don't roll your eyes! said Mr. Goodfellow as he disentangled his wife. It happens all the time, y' know—kids get taken and then—

His words trailed off. Charlie couldn't hear him anymore. He had strapped on his bicycle helmet and was riding away. He changed through the gears. First... Second... Third... He felt the familiar clunk as the chain locked into place, and the resistance of the pedals as his feet pushed against them. Now that he was out on the road, he could pick up speed.

For the first time he was scoping