The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4

by Brock Deskins

  “I’m Lord Xornan’s personal arena assistant. I provide weapons, armor, training, and management for all his fighters. I gotta tell you, you’re the smallest one he’s ever brought me. That tells me you’re either really good, or he doesn’t like you and wants to watch you die.”

  The dwarf led Azerick through a gate and down a long ramp that ran beneath the arena.

  “He made it very clear that I am not to die. I’ll do my best to not disappoint him.”

  “That’s good. You definitely don’t want to disappoint him. I’ve seen him do some pretty horrible things to those who disappoint him,” Braunlen said, shaking his big bearded head.

  As the pair hustled down the ramp, Azerick could hear the sounds of metal striking metal, grunts and curses of men, and a general cacophony of noise up ahead. They emerged into a large chamber with several thick stone columns supporting the ceiling. The walls and ceiling were all made of stone and, like the towers and grand manors, appeared to be grown instead of chiseled and set. Racks of weapons, wooden and straw training dummies, armed men, and other creatures filled the area.

  Several antechambers and passageways branched off from the main area. Inside these, Azerick spotted more weapon racks, training aids, and gladiators with whom he assumed were their trainers. From somewhere in the distance, the smell of animal pens wafted through the already pervasive and nearly overpowering smell of sweat and blood.

  “Hey, Braunlen, bringing us some fresh meat are you?” a voice called out as the dwarf led Azerick past several antechambers before pulling him into one that was unoccupied.

  “This is my area. This is where you’ll train and equip yourself. Go ahead and pick out your weapon of choice. If you don’t see what you need, let me know and I’ll try to get it. If I can’t get it before your fight today I’ll have it before the next one guaranteed. Assuming ya live to see another battle, that is,” Braunlen explained as Azerick examined several racks of weapons.

  “All those weapons are top quality. I inspect and maintain every one of them myself,” he assured his young charge.

  Azerick selected a light spear he could swing like a staff and use to stab should it prove necessary. He hefted it and brought it through a few attack routines. The steel head threw the balance off a bit and forced him to adjust his grip to compensate, but it would suffice.

  “Spear eh? Not a popular weapon for skilled fighters, but if that’s what you want I won’t gainsay you,” the dwarf rumbled. “You’ll be fighting Gragnoc. He’s an ogre of typical brute size and strength. He’s only had a few fights, but he’s dominated them pretty thoroughly. He’s as dumb as any ogre, but he’s a crafty fighter so don’t underestimate him. Do you want to take some practice or spar a bit to warm up? You have at least an hour before your bout.”

  “No, I would like to just meditate and relax for a while if it is all the same to you,” Azerick answered coolly.

  “Suit yourself. You know best how to prepare yourself. I’ll be around if you need me.” Braunlen ducked out of the alcove to busy himself with some task or another.

  Azerick found a simple wooden chair, sat down against the wall, and closed his eyes. He thought about his parents, how they died, how he had killed the man in the alley, the men in the guild house, his mother’s murderer, Travis, and the pirates. Was he nothing more than an instrument of death? Could he do nothing other than steal and kill?

  If that was the case, then so be it. He never asked to lose his parents, his home, or live in the streets. He never asked to be attacked by that man or Travis. He would kill this ogre, he would kill everyone and everything he faced in the arena, and then he would kill Xornan, his so-called master.

  “Hey, kid, you the one fightin’ Gragnoc?” a voice shouted and interrupted his reverie.

  He opened his eyes and stared into the face of what must have been an orc. Make that a half-orc he corrected himself. The man was big, muscular, and covered in chainmail. Small tusks sprouted up from his large jaw and curled over his upper lip causing him to slur his words a bit.

  “That is what they tell me,” Azerick replied calmly without getting up.

  The half-orc laughed uproariously at the prospect. “You think you can take him on? He’s gonna swat you with that big club of his like a fly, kid.”

  Azerick felt his temper rising. He was nearly eighteen now, and he had not felt like a kid in a long time. The streets turn a boy into a man quickly—at least the ones who survive.

  “I’ll kill him,” Azerick replied, staring the pig-faced gladiator in his beady, bloodshot eyes.

  “With what? That little pig sticker?” the half-orc taunted as he looked at Azerick’s short spear.

  “No, an ogre sticker. I’ll bring a pig sticker when it’s time to kill you.”

  The half-orc reached for his sword and bellowed his outrage. Before he could draw the heavy blade more than halfway from its scabbard, a strong, calloused hand grabbed his wrist and shoved the blade back down.

  “No fighting outside the arena, Rangor! You know the rules,” Braunlen warned the furious gladiator.

  Rangor spit on the floor before spinning around and stomping off, letting his rage out on a wooden practice dummy.

  “You sure make friends fast. Watch yourself. He may not be as big as Gragnoc, but he’s three times more skilled. He’s an experienced gladiator and a crowd favorite. Treat him with respect. You can’t judge every gladiator by their size or look.”

  “That’s good advice. I’m sure a lot of people are going to learn that lesson before long,” Azerick said darkly.

  Braunlen looked at his new gladiator for a moment, wondering if maybe he was guilty of underestimating this young man. The boy did not look like much, but he sat there as cool as can be. Sure, he handled the spear well enough, but not nearly so well to see it carry him through many bouts. It would take far more than that just to survive this first one.

  Braunlen did not care for this match up. Gragnoc was already blooded in The Games. This lad was a first timer. He should have been matched with another new human fighter or animal before being paired against a beast like the ogre. Nevertheless, he was not in charge of such things and could only shake his head and wish the young man luck.

  A runner appeared and informed Braunlen that his gladiator was up in a few minutes. “Up and at em, kid. It’s time. What kind of armor do you want?”

  Azerick got to his feet and grabbed his spear. “No armor.”

  The dwarf could only stand and blink for several seconds as he saw the finality of the answer in Azerick’s eyes. “No armor. I’m surprised even though I know I probably shouldn’t be. Are you sure you’re not going out there intending to die? Lord Xornan will skin us both of you make him look like a fool.”

  “I’m better without it.”

  “All right then, let’s go.”

  Braunlen led him up a different ramp from the one he came down. A metal portcullis stood open at the top leading directly onto the dirt floor of the stadium. The dwarf paused at the top of the ramp and turned to Azerick.

  “All right, boy, just stay nimble and don’t get hit. I wish I could offer you better advice, but I really don’t know what to tell you until I’ve seen you fight. I normally have at least a few weeks to feel out my new fighters and train them, but Lord Xornan wanted you kept a secret. I hope it was worth it—for your sake.”

  The dwarf gave him a small shove, and Azerick walked several paces into the arena. As he walked forward, he discreetly cast his armor spell. The arena was packed, and the crowd cheered and jeered loudly as Azerick stepped into the open area. He watched as a huge ogre strode arrogantly into the pit from the opposite side. The crowd roared their approval as the favored gladiator entered the fighting grounds. The huge beast raised his hands and turned to the adulations of the crowd. There was about fifty yards of dirt floor separating the two combatants as they squared off.

  The ogre wore a steel breastplate, greaves, helmet, vambraces, and wielded a huge wooden club ba
nded at the end with iron. The creature stood nine feet tall, and his huge, muscle-corded arms whipped the tree limb-sized club around as if it were no more than a willow switch.

  Azerick scanned the crowds seated in the arena. The majority of the spectators were psylings, but he identified several other races in attendance as well. Abyssal elf wizards and priests, human wizards and priests, and other planar travelers Azerick could not identify by name sat eagerly awaiting the spectacle. A psyling wearing brilliant silk robes stood in a boxed area with plush seats centered on the arena floor. His voice rang out loudly in an introduction of the current fighters.

  Azerick was surprised that the announcer spoke in his own language before he picked up the telltale signs of magic lacing the announcement. He first dismissed it as no more than the magical amplification of his voice, but he quickly realized that it also translated the psyling’s words into the language best understood to the listener. He briefly wondered if it was a spell that allowed the mass translation or a magical construction built into the box seat. Then he thought it best to stop speculating on the trivial matter and focus on not being killed in the next few minutes.

  After a thunderous round of applause and cheering, the announcer raised a red silk handkerchief, and then let it drop. As soon as the fabric left his fingers and began its fluttering descent to the arena floor, the huge ogre burst into a charge at the same moment Azerick began his incantation. The speed of the brute astounded the young sorcerer. The ogre covered over half the distance between them by the time he released his spell.

  For a split second, the ear-splitting thunderclap of Azerick’s lightning bolt drowned out the roaring of the spectators. The magical attack caught the rushing ogre completely by surprise. He made no attempt to dodge the electrical bolt as it caught him fully in the chest, blackening a large scorch mark on his shiny, steel breastplate.

  What surprised Azerick even more than Gragnoc’s speed was the fact his lightning bolt did nothing more than elicit a roar of pain and anger from the monster. The ogre did not even falter in his charge. He barreled toward Azerick and raised his club, hurling it at the spell caster before the sorcerer could launch another powerful magic attack. Azerick dodged quickly to the side, interrupting his hasty attempt to blast Gragnoc a second time.

  Azerick tumbled to his left and rolled several times, hoping to put a little space between him and his opponent. He rolled to his feet already prepared to cast another spell, but the ogre decided to forego his club and kill the puny human with his massive, bare hands. Azerick tried unsuccessfully to back away when Gragnoc wrapped one hand around his thigh and the other around his throat, lifting him several feet above the ground.

  The crowd screamed its approval as the ogre tried to choke the life out of the human. Azerick gasped out the words to a short incantation and grabbed the thick wrist of the hand cutting off the supply of air and blood to his brain. A powerful jolt of electricity shot through his hands and into Gragnoc’s arm. The shock stunned the ogre and forced him to release his opponent. Azerick kicked against the metal breastplate of the ogre at the same time he felt its grip slacken and launched himself several feet away from the stumbling monster.

  Azerick jumped to his feet and waved his hands through another complex casting. Gragnoc spun around and retrieved his fallen club. The ogre turned back to face his opponent and charged, intent on bashing the life from this puny human who dared to cause him so much pain. Azerick completed his spell as Gragnoc began his short charge, and half a dozen illusory duplicates appeared around him. His phantom images were identical in appearance and movement to himself, and his opponent had no way of identifying which images were real and which were illusion.

  Gragnoc decided it did not matter. He would crush them all and swung his massive club into the nearest image. His weapon passed harmlessly through the sorcerer and caused the image to disappear. The club swung again in a powerful backhand blow that destroyed a second of his illusions. The four remaining images extended their hands forward, and another powerful lightning bolt leapt from the group of identical sorcerers. However, only one bolt was real, and it struck the ogre in his broad chest again and threw him hard onto his back.

  Azerick was not about to allow the deadly ogre to regain the offensive. He sent a trio of magical strikes to slam into Gragnoc as he tried to regain his feet. The bolts knocked the ogre back several steps, but they did not put him back on the ground. Gragnoc stumbled toward the sorcerer, his arms stretched, roaring in fury. Azerick sprinted away and picked his spear up off the ground.

  The damage he had inflicted on the ogre was noticeably taking its toll. Gragnoc’s moves were clumsy and sluggish now as his muscles protested the abuse the sorcerer had inflicted. Azerick thrust his spear as the ogre turned and charged him. The steel point pierced the charred and weakened breastplate and stabbed deep into the monster’s chest. Gragnoc’s momentum carried him forward, falling on Azerick with all of his considerable weight. Azerick felt the air forced from his lungs and heard several ribs crack when the ogre fell heavily atop him. He pushed against the dead weight with all his might and barely managed to roll the creature off him enough to crawl out.

  The crowd roared its adulations as Azerick stood upon shaking legs. Booted feet stomped and hands clapped at his unexpected victory. Azerick wrapped his arm across his chest, holding his injured ribs as he shuffled back toward the gate and the waving Braunlen.

  “Great victory, kid!” The dwarf congratulated him as he passed under the portal and started walking down the ramp. “I tell ya, I never thought you would beat that big ogre, but I’m glad you proved me wrong.”

  Azerick did not speak as he returned to the equipment room with Braunlen.

  “Are you feeling ok? Any major injuries?” he asked. “Gragnoc fell on you pretty hard from the looks of it.”

  “I’m all right. It’s just a few bruised ribs is all, and I’m pretty tired.”

  “You’ll be fine. Lord Xornan has a girl who’s pretty good at patching folks up. If it was an emergency, there are healers here who will put you back together if your owner is willing to pay for it. C’mon, Lord Xornan is probably waiting for you outside, and you don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Azerick let the dwarf guide him up the ramp and back outside to the waiting palanquin. All four minotaurs were standing by the poles, so Azerick figured Xornan was already waiting inside the curtained conveyance. Sure enough, as the two approached, the curtain slid open to reveal the hideous visage of the psyling.

  Is my pet well, trainer Braunlen?

  “Aye, master, he’s a bit bruised up, but he’ll be fine,” the dwarf replied.

  Excellent. Join me, my pet, and we shall return home.

  Azerick stepped into the palanquin, and the minotaur slaves hefted the carrying poles onto their broad shoulders and swiftly made their way through the city.

  You have pleased me immensely, my pet. I have made quite a good profit from your victory. You are now an established arena gladiator, and as such, you will provide an opportunity for even greater profits as your rankings increase. Moreover, as your ranking increases, so does my prestige; and that is what is truly important. Your next match will not be for another month. Ensure that you do everything in your power to train and study. As you progress in rank, your opponents will become more challenging. Do not disappoint me.

  Azerick felt no need to respond to the creature. He knew his words were unimportant to the psyling lord, and Xornan probably knew what he was going to say before he said it anyhow. He kept his thoughts blank as the palanquin wound its way through the streets and back to Xornan’s tower. The minotaurs gently lowered the box to the ground in front of the tower steps.

  I will send someone to tend to your bruises. You may await her in your room.

  Azerick wanted to go down to the laboratory and brew some of his own healing draught, but he followed the psyling’s command and returned to his room. Several minutes later, there came a soft knocking on his ch
amber door. Azerick opened the door, and in the entrance stood a somewhat attractive, brown-haired girl of about seventeen. She had a heart-shaped face and a full figure, but she came well short of being plump.

  “Lord Xornan bade me to see to your wounds, sir,” she informed him shyly.

  “Um, sure, come on in,” Azerick invited as he overcame his surprise. “My name is Azerick, by the way.”

  “I’m Delinda. I tend Lord Xornan’s garden and treat any injuries or illnesses his servants may acquire. Where were you injured?”

  “My ribs got bruised a bit. It is nothing serious.”

  “Take off your shirt, please, and I will take a look at them.”

  Azerick blushed as he disrobed. He could see several dark splotches marking his chest. Delinda gently probed along his chest and around the visible injuries with her slender fingers.

  “Breath in deeply and let it out,” she ordered. “Just as I thought. You have a few cracked ribs and some deep bruising. Fortunately, none seem to be broken and displaced.” She reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a mortar and pestle and several pouches of herbs. “Please hand me that water pitcher over there.”

  He retrieved the water as she ground several herbs in the small stone bowl. She then poured in some water and soaked a long linen strip in the bowl. When she finished, Delinda wrapped the poultice snugly around his chest, covering his bruised ribs.

  “This will help heal the bruises and take away some of the pain.”

  Azerick enjoyed the soft touch of her hands and the kindness in her eyes. He found that his heart was beating faster and his stomach fluttered. She smelled of rose petals and the herbs with which she worked. He felt the stirrings of feelings he had never felt before, and it made him strangely uncomfortable, but also warm and pleasant.

  “I was going to go down to the lab and brew up a few healing potions. Would you like to come? I could show you how if you want,” he offered.

  Delinda’s eyes widened slightly and her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t know if I am allowed to go down there. The master never gave me permission.”