The Sorcerer's Torment (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  As the hours passed, Azerick tried to sleep but there was no possible way to get comfortable enough to enjoy any decent rest. He sat with his back to the wall and exhaustion eventually pulled him into a restless slumber. He woke several times during what he assumed was the night, his cramping muscles never allowing him to sleep for long. He woke once again to the sound of someone sliding a wooden bowl under his door. Again, he had to eat like an animal from the bowl. Spots of the gruel stuck to his face as he licked the bowl clean. He swore that someone would pay for this insult one day.

  The bowls were taken away a short time later and the prisoners were left alone with the exception of a single hulking minotaur wielding a stout cudgel sitting on a wooden stool near the door. He would occasionally get up to walk the corridor of cells, smacking the bars of the prisoners’ cages with the club when someone came too close to them. Other than the guard’s occasional rounds, they were left to themselves.

  A few hours after their morning meal, the guard suddenly snapped to attention as the outside door opened. Several guards of human and minotaur races walked in ahead of two brain suckers. The spider-faced creatures seemed to be conversing in a language that sounded like someone trying to chisel stone with a dead fish.

  “Master Xornan, I am sure you will be most pleased with my newest acquisitions. I have one in particular I know will please you immensely,” the slave master promised silkily, if such a word could apply to such a liquid and grotesque language.

  “We shall see, slave master Valinquar, you have disappointed me before,” the psyling lord reminded the subordinate.

  “It was bad luck that the ogre was slain in The Games, Lord Xornan. Surely your lordship cannot hold me responsible for simple ill fortune?”

  “I hold you responsible for selling me a creature that was too stupid to move out of the way of a charging Aragonax. You managed to find a creature that even its own dull-witted kind would label as feeble-minded,” Lord Xornan replied, his displeasure evident despite his quiet tone.

  “I assure you, this one is different. He is a human wizard, and very smart as humans go,” the slave master assured his esteemed client.

  “A wizard you say? It has been some time since I fielded a magic user in The Games,” Xornan mused, suddenly far more interested in his purchases today.

  Azerick watched the exchange, feigning indifference as he sat in his cell with his back pressed against the back wall. He could make nothing of the squishy conversation of the two psylings, but the way they looked at him it seemed that he was the topic of their conversation.

  Come stand before me, human, so I may look at you, a voice commanded.

  Azerick heard the command but could not see from where it came. It took him a moment to realize that he did not hear the order with his ears but inside his own head.

  Yes, human, I need not sully my mouthpieces with your crude language to communicate with your primitive mind. Now come closer. Do not force me to command you. Your cooperation is requested, not required.

  Azerick decided that such trifling defiance at this point was futile and did as the monster bid him. He would play the part of the subjugated, obedient, and compliant slave. He would let these disgusting creatures think that they dominated him until they let down their guard. Then he would make them pay.

  You may play whatever games you like, human. They will avail you nothing. I know everything you think as you think it. Resistance is less than futile; it will no longer even be possible once I bond you. So, you are a sorcerer not a wizard. How delightful. I do not think Valinquar realizes what a catch he has. Yes, you will serve me well, human.

  “He is not much to look at is he, Valinquar?” Xornan said to the slave master, looking at the dried gruel stuck to Azerick’s face.

  “He is merely soiled from his captivity. Do not judge him so hastily. Had I not quickly subdued him, he would have wreaked great havoc on my hunters and ship. It was he who killed one of my minotaurs and seriously injured several others with a most powerful display of wizardry.”

  “These other humans,” Xornan asked, gesturing to the sailors in the other cells, “they were with him? They are his shipmates?”

  “Yes, Lord Xornan, I was fortunate to capture most of the ship intact. A very fine haul; all quite healthy and strong,” the slave master replied smoothly.

  “Very well, I will take the lot if we can agree on the price,” the psyling lord offered.

  The slave merchant wrung his long fingered hands together in anticipation of such a profitable deal. The two bulbous-headed psylings haggled for several minutes in their indecipherable language before striking a deal. Minotaur and human guards secured the sailors’ hands once again and marched them out, prodding them along with their weapons into wheeled cages similar to the ones used by the slave master.

  Several of the newly acquired slaves were ordered to pull the carts under threat of force, encouraged by a minotaur wielding a scourge. The indentured sailors had no recourse except to grumble their displeasure and pull the carts. Even their grumbling was subdued lest they invoke the minotaur’s displeasure and feel the scourge upon their backs.

  Xornan climbed into a silk-curtained palanquin hefted by four minotaurs. The humans were pulled through cobbled streets past various single and two-story buildings. Azerick spied a huge, circular stone structure that dominated the center of the large bustling city; obviously an arena of some sort.

  After a while, larger mauve-colored structures of much more elaborate design began appearing, replacing the shorter, grey buildings. These fanciful buildings were unique, not just for the color of the stone but also for the fact that they appeared to grow from the rock itself and not constructed of stacked cut blocks.

  The walls blended smoothly with the ground with no evident signs of seams or mortar. Eventually these manor houses dwindled and even taller towers began appearing. These too were of the same hued stone as the manor houses and appeared to have sprouted from the very earth like the stalks of some massive amethyst plant or tree.

  The carts halted inside the courtyard beneath a huge tower that must have reached over a hundred feet in height. The slaves were hustled out of their cages and made to stand before their new master.

  Take them to the cells below. I will indoctrinate them later. Leave this one to me, he projected to his guards.

  The guards escorted the humans through a door at the base of the tower, down several twisting flights of stairs, and into the cells that lay below. Azerick was left standing before the repulsive Xornan.

  You belong to me now, sorcerer, fully and completely. I am your master in all things. You will obey my commands, you will not attempt to flee, and you will not resist. The lives of your comrades hinges on your compliance. Do you understand?

  Azerick simply nodded in affirmation of the instructions as a human guard cut the bindings restraining his hands by the order of the psyling lord. Azerick rubbed his chafed wrists and looked at the creature that thought to be his master.

  “I understand,” Azerick began, “that you completely underestimate my compassion for others.”

  Azerick lashed out with a swift right cross, catching the psyling in the side of his soft, swollen cranium. The sorcerer felt the satisfying smack of yielding flesh crush deeply under his fist. He did not bother to stand around and witness the results of his attack, but Azerick was certain the blow caused significant if not lethal harm. He spun about on the follow-through of his swing and sprinted past the surprised guard that had cut his bonds.

  He knew that if he showed compassion for his friends, the psyling would forever use them against him. Azerick would return to help his shipmates if he could, but his best chance of helping them right now was escaping.

  Azerick dashed through the open gate of the tower courtyard and into the streets beyond. He could hear the cries of pursuit behind him as he ran blindly down the stone-cobbled avenues. He ducked down a long narrow alleyway created by two closely built buildings and spun around
as he reached the far end.

  The sorcerer paused for only a moment as several human and minotaur guards ran towards him in pursuit. The sorcerer unleashed a powerful bolt of lightning into the close confines of the alley with devastating effect. The narrow walls afforded no place for the hunters to avoid the strike, and took the full brunt of the blast.

  Humans toppled lifelessly to the ground and minotaurs bellowed out in pain and rage, momentarily stunned by the jolt. Azerick made another quick incantation, let loose a barrage of magic strikes into the lead brute, and dropped him to the cobbled street. He then turned and fled into the crowded streets of the city with the guards chasing him once again and bellowing for support.

  He shinnied up the pole of an awning support, clamored onto the roof of a single-story building, and fled across the rooftop. The guards followed on the streets below as Azerick leapt up, grabbed the edge of a taller building, and pulled himself onto the roof. Several guards found a stairway attached to the side of one of the buildings and now pursued him across the rooftops while a dozen more chased after him by way of the streets.

  The young sorcerer saw a gap ahead of him where another alley intersected between the building he was on and the next one. He lowered his head and pumped his legs with steady determination. Azerick planted his foot on the edge of the rooftop and leapt the span between the two buildings, achieving the far roof with only inches to spare.

  He then spun around and gestured, shaping the weave speaking out the words of magic to another spell before fleeing once again. The guards pursuing him across the rooftops hit the slick area that the sorcerer conjured up and slid over the edge of the building, many of them suffering significant injuries from the twenty-foot plunge onto the unyielding stone street.

  Azerick’s rooftop ended at the corner of a large open plaza. He hung by his hands from the ledge and dropped into the bed of a wagon below, tumbling as he hit and rolling out onto his feet. He sprinted across the plaza to another alleyway, chased by the shouts and curses of the guards that pursued him along the streets.

  Azerick ran out onto the street and quickly scanned the area for his next route of escape. A shout from his left stripped away most of his options as another guard contingent bore down on him. He turned right and sprinted down the street as the lesser denizens of the city scuttled out of his way.

  A sharp stabbing pain bit into the back of his left thigh, ending his headlong flight. The sorcerer tumbled to street and rolled hard across the cobblestones. He glanced down and saw the fletching of a crossbow bolt protruding from the back of his leg. He realized that his chances of escape were gone now, but he would sell his life dearly before being made into a plaything of the psyling. He brought his hands up and began to prepare another spell when the twang of the crossbows sounded again.

  One bolt caught him high in the right shoulder and another low in the gut. Pain filled him like none he had ever experienced before or could have even imagined. His legs failed him as he dropped to the cold, hard street and was barely able to catch his breath. Azerick knew that such a wound was lethal without swift aid from a cleric. He squeezed his eyes closed against the intense pain as tears ran down his face, as much from the pain as from anger at being beaten before he could kill the one that enslaved him.

  He forced himself to his feet with a great effort of will, determined to inflict one last blow against his attackers before death took him into its remorseless embrace. Azerick concentrated on his spell, opened his eyes to find a target, and found himself staring into the hideous face of Lord Xornan.

  He still stood in the courtyard of the lofty tower. No wounds were evident anywhere on his body. Only a phantom pain of the memory of the attack remained. Azerick stared in uncomprehending disbelief into what he presumed to be the smiling face of the psyling.

  Excellent. I am now much more familiar with your abilities, determination, and cleverness. Now you see, sorcerer, that your mind belongs to me. I know what you think as you think it. You cannot escape. You cannot oppose me. You will not attempt to escape. You will follow my orders exactly.

  The command hit him like a physical force. Azerick recognized the mental attack as being similar to what magic users call a geas spell. The target of such a spell is forced to obey the commands of the spell caster.

  I can make you experience anything I wish, and you will never know it from reality. Every memory you posses is mine to use as I wish.

  Azerick was suddenly in the room of the inn he shared with his mother after Duke Ulric’s men had forced them out of their home. He stood in the corner unable to move as he watched the large, drunken sailor grab his mother and force her onto the bed. Deep down, Azerick knew it was not real, that he had not been in the room to see the attack, but the psyling manipulated his memory as he saw fit.

  Azerick’s screams went unheard as the man’s knife flashed in the light of the burning oil lamp. He felt the blood splash across his face as it jetted from his mother’s severed throat. He closed his eyes against the horrific scene. Even knowing that it could not possibly be real did nothing to dampen the fear and anguish the memory produced. When he opened his eyes, he once again stood face to face with the psyling. His throat was raw from screaming and he sobbed uncontrollably.

  You see, I need never resort to anything as crude as a whip to punish you. I have far more effective methods of control. Do you understand now?

  “Why don’t you just completely control my mind if you are so powerful? Why leave me any form of resistance or freewill?” Azerick asked as he regained control of himself.

  I could dominate your mind completely, have no doubt, but I prefer my subjects to be able to think and act on their own. Within reason of course. This is why I have placed those basic commands in your mind. An arena fighter in particular needs to be able to think clearly and independently in order to function at their most effective levels. You also have a strong mind and spirit. It amuses me to watch your futile efforts at resistance and thoughts of vengeance.

  Azerick was furious at his impotence to resist the psyling’s power and the creature’s usage of his most private and painful memories. He would resist him somehow. Somehow, someday, he would make this creature pay, he vowed.

  Yes, that is it. Use that anger, your hatred of me in The Games. Unleash your awful power against your foes for me.

  “What do I call you? I don’t think you would care for me to just call you brain sucker,” Azerick asked, trying to ignore the psyling’s taunting.

  I am known as Lord Xornan, but you will call me master.

  “The hell I will you brain-sucking overgrown leech!” Azerick cursed the psyling.

  At least that is what his mind said. What actually came out was a simple “yes master.” His inability even to curse this creature made him even more furious.

  You are most certainly proving to be amusing. Come, slave, I will show you to your quarters. You are fortunate. As my favorite pet, I will afford you luxuries far beyond that of your friends. Keep in mind my previous warning about their continued good health. You claim not to care overmuch about them, but your mind betrays you. It would be a shame if your disobedience were to blame for my selecting one of them for my feeding. Particularly the ones named Zeb or Balor.

  The sorcerer shuddered at the image that filled his mind of Xornan feeding on his friends’ brains. The psyling lord led him inside of the vast tower. Opulent furniture with soft velvet-upholstered chairs, couches, and sedans furnished the main floor along with massive glittering chandeliers, gold inlaid murals, and marble floors. A grand circular staircase wound along the wall up to the upper levels of the tower.

  Azerick followed his master up several flights of stairs before stopping in front of a sturdy wooden door. Xornan opened the portal with a gesture and stepped through. The room was simple, resembling Magus Allister’s chambers at the Academy but with nicer furniture, carpets, and stonework.

  This is your room. You may explore the tower, although you some areas are b
locked to your passage. I will show you to the library shortly where you will find many tomes that may assist you in your magical studies.

  The evil creature’s generosity surprised Azerick, but the creature quickly corrected his assumption.

  My aid in your studies is purely selfish, I assure you. I plan to make a great deal of money and, more importantly, prestige from your battles in The Games. It is the only purpose you serve. Should you do well and please me, I may find further use for you. Should you cause me to lose gold or status, your usefulness and my hospitality ends. Come.

  The psyling led him up another flight of stairs. The next landing opened directly into a spacious room lined with shelves and filled with books.

  You are free to use the library, take books to your room, or visit the kitchens should you require sustenance, but you are not to leave the tower for any reason unless under my direction. I have a laboratory located in the sub levels of my tower that I will show you. You are free to use the equipment therein so long as it does not interfere with your combat studies. I will leave you now to see to my other duties and arrange your first bout. Ensure that you are prepared.

  The young sorcerer stared at the vast library in awe. The promise of unlimited study surprised and pleased him, but no matter the gilding, a cage was still a cage and he would be no one’s willing slave. He scanned the rows of shelves and found the books arranged by subject. Most were in foreign languages and completely incomprehensible to him, but many were written in his own language as well as the language of magic.

  Azerick picked several books largely at random and sat down to read by the light of the numerous glowing globes that sprouted from the walls of the library and the rest of the tower like luminous pimples. He would study, he would learn, and he would one day destroy the creature that dared to be his master.