I know your magic is always at the ready. I am referring more to your state of mind. It is even more important for it to be prepared than the power you wield.
“I am fine. I will be ready, and I will win. I always win, no matter what,” Azerick said, as much to assure his master as it was a warning.
Good, see that you do.
Azerick was not sure if Lord Xornan had noticed his veiled threat or not. If he did, he gave no indication and left him alone to his work. Azerick was working on a new spell but was unsure if he would have it mastered by the time he was required to fight his next bout. It did not matter. If this fight was anything like the last, he was unconcerned. As he had told his master, he would win. He always won one way or another.
He missed his time with Delinda, but he knew better than to ignore his master’s warning about allowing his relationship to interfere with his duties. They did manage to find some time together when they could, however brief that time might be.
Azerick was now more desperate than ever to escape Lord Xornan’s control and take Delinda away with him. He just wished he knew how. He began to search through the books he had, but so far he had found nothing helpful in that regard. Even if he did find the answer, the compulsion the psyling had placed on him would most likely not allow him to use it.
Lord Xornan summoned Azerick to him early on the morning of his bout. He told his pet sorcerer not to go to the vault. Instead, he was to focus on the fight ahead. Azerick wished he had been able to complete the spell he had been working on, but it was not ready yet. It did not matter. He would win this bout, and his new spell would be ready long before his next fight.
Lord Xornan conveyed him in his palanquin to the arena once again around what passed for noon in this seemingly sunless land. Xornan was unusually silent during the short trip to the arena. He invaded Azerick’s mind only once with his mind speech to warn him once again that he had better be prepared and not to embarrass him. Azerick did not bother to reply and said nothing the entire way to the arena.
The dwarf, Braunlen, met them as soon as they arrived just as he had the last time. Braunlen took his charge in tow and led him down the ramp to the gladiator’s area under the arena. Azerick instantly hated the sounds and smells of the stadium as the dwarf took him to the same small training room he had the first time.
“So how are you, boy? Are you ready for your fight?” the stout creature asked.
“I’m fine. I just want to get this over with,” Azerick replied, feeling surly at being forced to fight like an animal, to injure or kill someone he did not even know and who had done him no harm.
Braunlen seemed to read Azerick’s thoughts. “It’s a way of life, boy. You’ll get used to it if you live long enough.”
Whatever reply Azerick was going to make was cut off as the half-orc, Rangor, stood in the entrance to Braunlen's training room. “Good luck today, kid. You’re going to need it. I hope you didn’t use up all your luck fighting Gragnoc.”
Braunlen spun around to confront the large fighter. “Get out of here, Rangor, and quit trying to distract my fighter!”
The half-orc curled his lip up at the dwarf’s comment. “He’s no fighter, and I hope he wins this fight so I can prove it. That’s right, kid, I really do wish you luck in this fight, because you’ll be fighting me next. Then I’ll show you what a real fighter is.”
Rangor turned with a snort and stalked off. Braunlen turned back to his fighter. “Ignore him and stay focused on this fight. You don’t need no luck. You’ll win because you’re a good fighter; smart and fast. You stay smart and fast and you’ll go a long way, I promise you.”
Azerick grabbed his spear and Braunlen took him into the arena. The shouts and cheering at his entrance was even more powerful this time with less jeering. People remembered his last fight, and it sounded like many of them were betting on, or at least rooting for, his victory. He cast his armor spell while he waited for his opponent to enter. He did not wait long. The crowd erupted in cheers again as a human entered the opposite gate.
The arena master gave the signal to begin, and the two fighters joined in combat. Azerick was more accustomed to what he would face this time. If the crowd had come for a good, drawn out, bloody fight they were sorely disappointed.
The human was only slightly more experienced to The Games than Azerick was, and he had no idea how to battle a spell caster. He tried hurling a dagger as he charged, but Azerick’s magical ward easily deflected it. The Sorcerer’s return strike dropped the fighter to ground with a lightning bolt.
The man writhed on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. The crowd seemed undecided whether to cheer or boo him as he walked back to the gate completely unscathed.
You must finish him. He is undeserving of a continued life.
“Go to hell,” Azerick responded aloud and kept walking for the exit.
Azerick felt the psyling invade his mind more deeply and found himself returning to the fallen fighter. There was not a bit of resistance or struggle he could apply, for the psyling’s control was complete.
Azerick watched his hand rise before him and could only look on as the lightning erupted from his fingertips to strike the man twice more. When Azerick once again had control of himself, the man was little more than a charred husk waiting for the arena staff to clean it up.
Azerick refused to speak even to Braunlen. The dwarf seemed to understand and quit trying to engage the young sorcerer in conversation as he took him back to their master.
Your battle was rather disappointing, Lord Xornan commented as he entered the palanquin.
“I won. I thought that is what was important to you,” Azerick responded flatly. “The crowd got to see me kill a man for no reason. That should be enough.”
You also failed to obey me. Now you understand the level of my control. I can make you kill anyone I choose, even your mate. Think of that next time you choose to pit your will against mine.
“We fought, he’s dead. The crowd got to see someone die. That’s what matters isn’t it?”
There is more to The Games than simply one killing the other. The people expect a show and to be entertained. If they are not, they will lose interest in the fighter, and the fighter’s owner loses prestige. I will not have you diminish my standing within The Games.
“I’ll try to be more entertaining next time I kill someone for your pleasure,” he replied acerbically.
I am confident your next battle will be enough of a challenge to provide the proper amount of entertainment. In fact, I strongly recommend you do not get over-confident in your abilities.
“You mean my fight with Rangor.”
I see you are aware of your next match. Rangor is the most experienced fighter you will have faced thus far. He is strong, fast, and cunning. It would be of the greatest foolishness to underestimate him. He has nearly a dozen wins to his name and is highly favored even against you. This will also be an augmented match, meaning that certain magical trappings will be allowed. Expect Rangor’s owner to outfit him with defenses to offset your magical power. The abilities of such items are limited and will be explained to each fighter’s master in the days before the battle.
Azerick gave a noncommittal grunt in reply and said nothing else for the rest of the trip home. Delinda was waiting in the courtyard when the palanquin arrived carrying her master and her love. She stood to the side wringing a handkerchief in her hands until Lord Xornan went inside before rushing into Azerick’s arms.
“I was so worried about you. Are you all right?” she cried and buried her face into his chest.
“I’m fine. I did not even get scratched.”
Delinda clung to him as they went inside. “When do you have to fight again?”
“I’m not sure, but I do not think it will be long. They already have my next opponent selected.”
“Who is it this time?”
“Some big mouthed half-orc named Rangor.”
“Oh no! I hear he is very g
ood and very dangerous! Please be extra careful. I was so worried for you this time. It terrifies me to think about you fighting that killer.”
“I will be fine, I promise you.”
“You had better, or I will never forgive you,” Delinda swore half-heartedly.
After they ate lunch, Azerick disengaged himself from Delinda to work on his new spell. He did not know how long he would have before his next bout, but he was sure it would come sooner than the last one had, and he needed to be certain he was ready. Azerick was under no illusion that Rangor would be an easy battle. He expected it to be the most challenging fight he has faced thus far.
He sat in the middle of the library, let his consciousness flow out of him, and touched the raging silver river representing the Source. He trailed an ethereal finger through the swirling liquid current and pulled a tendril of power into himself. Azerick chanted the words that helped him shape the thread of magic into a purposeful form.
A woven shape of energy began to form in the air before him that only he could see. He drew a finger connecting one node of the form to another. He was so close now he could feel it! Just one more thread should complete the weave, and his spell would be complete! He gently drew another tendril from his form’s node and pulled it to the last one to complete the sigil. As he pulled the last strand into place, he felt the entire form begin to unravel.
“Damn it!”
He forced himself to relax and began again. Azerick worked late into the night, so lost in concentration he forwent dinner. He was unable to get the entire spell form to come together, but he knew he would have it soon. Azerick soon realized the extent of his own exhaustion and went to bed so he could get an early start in the morning.
Delinda met him in the kitchen to break their fast, as was their new ritual, before attending to their separate duties. Azerick returned to the library and began concentrating as he had before. Once again, he relished the now familiar feeling of power the Source sent through his body. He had eaten a large breakfast so he could study through lunch without interruption. Delinda would not be happy with it, but she would forgive him. She understood how important his studies were to his success in The Games.
Late that afternoon, Azerick finally achieved success in creating his new spell. Moreover, it was a spell all his own, not based on any he had seen or read about in any book. He needed to test it. It was one thing to create the form, but he also needed to practice its practical application as well. He needed be able to cast any spell he knew as second nature, especially when stressed. He bounded down the stairs, excited at the prospect of seeing his creation brought to life.
He exited through a rear door and went to an unfrequented patch of ground behind the tower that looked to have once been the larger part of a garden. Additions to the central structure and an expanded section of wall had closed it off from the rest of the outside grounds and made an excellent secluded area in which he could practice without fear of interruption.
The young sorcerer drew power from the Source, shaped it into the form he just learned, and watched in exultation at the effect his spell wrought. He cast it twice more, changing its shape and size before he needed to rest before casting it again. Pleased with the results, he had just enough time to meet Delinda for dinner.
The next morning, Azerick returned to his duties in the vault chamber, occasionally taking short breaks to practice his new spell form. After his evening meal with Delinda, he returned to his private practice area and cast his new spell as many times as he could before fatigue made it impossible. Azerick repeated this routine for nearly two weeks before Lord Xornan came to him while he toiled in the vault.
The rules for the tournament have been established and agreed to by both parties. Your battle is in three days. Are you prepared?
“I am as ready as I can be,” Azerick replied.
I hope for your sake that you are. I have negotiated with many of the more prestigious members of our fair city regarding this battle. Your opponent’s master in particular is a longstanding rival of mine. I would be extremely displeased to lose face to him.
“Not to mention my life.”
The loss of your life should be the least of your worries. You have never seen me greatly displeased. Let me assure you that you do not wish to do so. I have a few items to give you that will aid you in your battle.
The psyling glided over to a shelf of items arranged in some semblance of order. He selected a ring and a set of wide bracelets off the shelf. The bracelets were made of finely wrought metal, heavily rune inscribed, and enameled in deep burgundy.
The ring was made of a silver metal but shone with far greater brilliance than simple silver could attain regardless of the level of polishing. It gleamed so brightly it looked to be almost liquid in appearance, as if a small piece of the Source itself had been formed into a decorative piece of jewelry. Only the sigils covering the entire surface belied its solid form.
The bracelets will help protect you from physical harm just as I imagine your opponent shall be similarly protected from your magic. The silver ring is forged of the purest arcanum and will allow you to harness the power of the Source more efficiently. You will find your castings less fatiguing whilst you wear it. It would not do for you to run out of your only potent offensive capabilities before the outcome of the battle has been conclusively decided.
Lord Xornan handed the precious items over to Azerick. Azerick took them reverently in hand and examined them more closely. He had never been in possession of such magical items before and was slightly in awe. His work in the vault put him in proximity of even more potent artifacts, but they were never his to use. He always felt detached, their presence simply academic and impersonal. But these would be his, for a time, to wear and use.
The bracelets opened by way of the most delicate and unobtrusive hinge he had ever seen. There were no clasps or buckles to secure them, but they snapped firmly shut when he closed them over his wrists. A slight tingle encompassed his body for a moment then faded almost entirely.
The arcanum ring he wore on his right hand. As soon as he threaded his finger through the band, he felt a surge of energy course through him, making him feel almost jittery. He let out a sigh as he reached out to touch the Source and felt the energy knife through the ether like the prow of a well-built cutter ship slices through the water instead of feeling like a simple fishing boat rowing against the current.
Do my gifts meet with your approval? Good, keep working on your duties here, but do not neglect your training. It is the more paramount of your responsibilities at this time. You fight in three days.
With that last unnecessary reminder, Xornan flowed out of the chamber and left his slave to his own devices. Azerick spent the next half hour examining his new acquisitions in minute detail. He went to his private practice ground and cast his newest spell. He was able to unleash its power half again as many times as he had previously, and for a sorcerer, that number was quite substantial.
He felt so giddy at his newfound power that he unleashed nearly every spell in his arsenal before retiring for the night and was so exhausted he even skipped dinner with Delinda. He would have to make it up to her tomorrow somehow.
That night, his dreams swirled in torrent of chaotic images. He stood in the arena atop a pile of bodies so high he could see over the walls. The city burned, and the dead littered the streets like refuse. Azerick smiled at the sight of dead psylings and minotaurs, but horror gripped his heart when he spied Braunlen, Zeb, Balor and the rest of his crew lying amidst the destruction. His heart felt as though it had been torn in two when he found Delinda pinned beneath a collapsed wall, her perfect flesh blistered and blackened by fire.
“Azerick, you said you would protect me. You said you would take me away from here.”
Azerick stepped over the wall as if he were a titan and knelt next to his love. “I tried, I swear I tried!”
“But you failed. You failed to protect me just like you always do.”
“No!”
Azerick woke in a cold sweat. His heart pounded and his stomach felt like heaving. He took deep breath and tried to relax. He laid back down and stared at the ceiling, desperately trying to convince himself it was just a dream. He never did, but he did manage to fall back asleep.
Delinda was cross with him the next morning for missing their usual dinner date, but he warmed up her frigid peevishness by showing her what Lord Xornan had bestowed on him to help him in his duel. He decided not to tell her about the dream. She would try to console him and convince him it was nothing, but neither of them would truly believe it, and there was no reason to make her worry.
“The bracers act like a set of armor, and the ring lets me harness the power of the Source much more efficiently,” Azerick explained to Delinda. “I think I can actually see how a wizard feels drawing from the Source by comparison. I rather feel bad for them. It must be like wading through waist-deep water for them all the time.”
“You just worry about yourself and come back safe. Do that and I’ll forgive you for standing me up last night.”
Azerick flashed her a smile and leaned in for a quick kiss. “Deal.”
Azerick used all his available time to practice until the day of his fight. Lord Xornan came for him early in the afternoon. His was to be the highlight contest of the day. Azerick noticed the psyling was particularly agitated on the ride to the arena. His silent restlessness served to impress the importance of this battle to his slave. To Azerick it was just another fight. It was no more than another animalistic performance put on for the pleasure of these vile creatures.
Braunlen was waiting in his usual spot for his fighter to arrive and ushered him quickly down the ramp to the training room. Several of the gladiators surprised Azerick when they shouted encouragement to him. Azerick gave a curt nod or small wave of appreciation for their good luck wishes. Rangor’s gravelly voice cut short this small amount of pleasure a moment later.
“How does it feel to know this is the day you are going to die, boy?”
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 42