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

by Brock Deskins

  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 that the Source sent through his body. He had eaten a large breakfast so that he could study through lunch. 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. Any spell he possessed he must be able to cast as second nature. He bounded down the stairs in excitement.

  He exited the tower 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 had just learned, and watched in exultation at the effect his spell had 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 in the vault chamber.

  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,” Azerick added snidely.

  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 that appeared to have 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 a far greater brilliance than simple silver could attain regardless of the level of polishing. It gleamed so brightly that 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 items, 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 to 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 that he even skipped dinner with Delinda. He would have to make it up to her tomorrow somehow.

  She 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.

  “The bracers act like a decent 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 a smile and leaned in for a quick kiss. “Deal.”

  He continued to practice until the night before his battle. Lord Xornan came for him early that afternoon. His was to be the highlight contest of the day. Azerick noticed that 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 that this is the day you are going to die, boy?”

  “You had best check your calendar, orc. My day may be coming up, but it is not today,” Azerick replied confidently.

  “We’ll see, spell slinger, we’ll see.”

  “Ignore him, kid,” Braunlen told him. “Fact is he is more than a might nervous if you ask me.”

  “What makes you think that? He seems pretty confident to me.”

  “I’ve watched him for a while now. The look in his eyes and the way he moves is different. You got him rattled, no doubt about it, but don’t think for a second that this is going to be an easy fight. You stay on your toes and be ready for anything.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Azerick replied.

  “It had better be your best, or it will be your last. Now let’s get you out there.”

  Since Azerick was the lower ranking gladiator, he once again entered the arena first. He immediately noticed that the stadium was packed and a larger percentage of those in attendan
ce were richly dressed psylings.

  He saw Lord Xornan sitting in a box seat next to another psyling. Both appeared stiff with an air of artificial or forced cordialness. Rangor entered the arena to a cacophony of applause and cheers that rivaled Azerick’s own. If the ovation was greater than Azerick’s, the difference was so minimal it went unnoticed.

  Unlike his other bouts, an official of some kind stood in the exact center of the fighting grounds and called the two combatants to him. He or she, Azerick could not tell the difference, signaled that the fighters were to take a position in a chalked circle about fifty feet apart. The close range put Azerick at a severe disadvantage. He wondered if Xornan had agreed to this in order to drive up the stakes.

  He quickly cast his armor spell as he stepped into his circle. The crowd cheered once more as Rangor raised his arms to the crowd and bellowed loudly. The half-orc wore a full suit of piecemeal plate armor and wielded a wickedly sharp broadsword in his right fist. Strapped on his left forearm was a heavily embossed round shield about two feet across. The shield was made of a silver metal nearly as reflective as the ring Azerick wore on his right hand.

  Once the two combatants were in their circles, the official strode purposefully across the arena floor and took his place in one of the box seats through a cleverly hidden section of wall that swung out to allow him passage. As soon as he mounted the raised platform, he lifted a brightly colored swatch of silk and let it fall to the arena floor.

  The moment it dropped, Rangor charged with incredible speed, covering more than half the distance before Azerick was able to release his lightning bolt. The big half-orc was ready for the attack, nimbly dodged to the side, and rolled back to his feet without breaking stride.

  Azerick gaped in astonishment at Rangor’s speed and agility and was barely able to duck the lethal sword that whistled over his head. Before he could recover, Rangor slammed his shield into the young sorcerer’s side, sending him flying and numbing his left arm so badly that he nearly lost his grip on his spear. Only his new bracelets and shield spell saved him from a debilitating injury.

  Azerick rolled to his feet and spouted a quick word of magic and half a dozen duplicates of himself sprang into view. Rangor lunged at him with his inhuman swiftness and cleaved one of the duplicates in half. Instead of charging blindly at his antagonist, Rangor turned his shield towards Azerick and grinned as he looked into the reflection on its shiny surface. Azerick saw himself reflected in its surface but not his illusory images.

  Rangor charged at the real Azerick who had to tumble once more to the side to avoid the blow. Fortunately, even though Rangor could see through Azerick’s spell using his shield, the awkward sighting threw his aim off enough for the sorcerer to dodge the attack. However, fatigue would quickly sap Azerick’s strength if he had to keep running and dodging the entire battle.

  Azerick sprang to his feet and launched a stream of magic, dagger-shaped missiles at his foe. He was once again shocked to see the huge half-orc raise his shield and block every one of the magical bolts.

  Impossible! Azerick thought to himself as he watched his spell blocked and Rangor stride towards him laughing triumphantly.

  “I know your tricks, wizard! Now what are you going to do without your precious magic to protect you?” he bellowed.

  “I guess I will just have to kill you the old fashioned way,” Azerick replied much more calmly than he felt.

  The truth was that Azerick was very concerned for his chances in this battle just now. He had his new spell, but if he tried it prematurely, surprise would be lost and Rangor would know all of his tricks.

  Azerick jabbed at him with his spear quick as a striking snake, but a spear was a poor weapon against a well-trained swordsman. Rangor deflected the thrust with his shield and lashed out with his sword, destroying another of Azerick’s illusionary copies.

  The half-orc cursed the inconvenience and once again used his shield to sight in on his opponent’s true position. Azerick spun the butt of his spear like a staff, striking at Rangor’s large, tusked head. The half-orc interposed his shield between the shaft and his head and lashed out with his sword once more. Azerick ducked under the blade and swung the other end of the spear around low, catching the half-orc on the side of his right knee.

  Rangor was more angry at being struck than suffering any real injury and flew into a frenzy, lashing out wildly until none of Azerick’s duplicates remained.

  “There, now we can fight like real men. At least I can. I don’t know what you call yourself, boy,” Rangor taunted.

  “At least I’m not a slab of pork just waiting to be sliced and smoked. Tell me, who was the pig and who was the human in your parents’ bestial coupling?” Azerick fired back.

  “I’m going to take my time killing you, boy, and I’ll enjoy every second of it! I’m going to cut you up, make you bleed, make you—”

  “Squeal like your mother?” Azerick finished for him.

  Rangor charged forward with a roar of outrage and swung wildly. Azerick ducked and dodged the furious blows and waited for his opening. The sorcerer ducked under the enraged half-orc’s wild swing and jabbed his spear deep into Rangor’s side just above the hip where the top of the thigh plate and the bottom of his breastplate left a vulnerable opening in the armor.

  Rangor slammed his shield into Azerick’s chest and face, knocking him to the ground. The half-orc took a step back and surveyed the wound above his hip. Deciding that it was not immediately critical, he advanced with renewed caution as Azerick regained his feet. Blood streamed from the sorcerer’s nose where the shield had smashed him in the face. He spit out a wad of blood and his teeth were painted red from where they had cut into the inside of his lip.

  Azerick dropped back into a guard position as Rangor stalked in, sword swinging in short arcs before him. The sorcerer made three quick thrusts with his spear; two high and one low, but his opponent easily blocked them with his shield and slapped them away with his sword. The half-orc deflected his last thrust wide and darted in before Azerick could bring his spear back around to defend himself.

  Rangor’s broadsword took him low in the side, piercing all his defenses, and cutting deeply. Azerick retreated as swiftly as he could. He felt the warm blood running down his side and quickly soaking his shirt and breeches. His hand came away covered in blood when he pressed it against the wound. Rangor relished toying with his opponent when he knew he had the upper hand in a barely contested battle, and he took his time pressing his attack.

  Azerick rattled off the words to another spell, but the half-orc easily dodged to the side with his impossible swiftness and agility. Azerick realized that he must possess a magical item that greatly enhanced his speed. With an evil grin of triumph, Rangor charged back in with a flurry of blows. It took all the skill that Azerick possessed to ward off the blows, but the half-orc’s strength and his rapid loss of blood was quickly exhausting him.

  Azerick spotted an opening and thrust with his spear, trying to take his opponent low in the gut. Rangor’s tusked smirk grew wider as he watched the foolish spell caster take the bait and fall into his trap. He brought his shield down hard and fast, driving the point of Azerick’s spear into the ground between his large, booted feet. He stomped his heavy boot down on the wooden shaft and stripped the weapon from his opponent’s hands.

  The big half-orc lunged forward at the same instant and plunged his blade deeply into the sorcerer’s right upper chest. Azerick felt the steel pierce his flesh and slide between his ribs. He backpedaled furiously as blood instantly filled his mouth from the wound that was far more serious than his split lip. He kept stumbling back, trying to put as much distance between him and the creature that had just inflicted the mortal wound.

  Azerick pressed his hand against the hole in his chest and felt the air escaping in a frothing gurgle every time he inhaled. Rangor basked in the crowd’s adulation, raising his sword and shield to the thundering applause. He pointed his sword at the retreating sor
cerer as the crowd chanted for him to kill the human.

  “Are you ready to die now, wizard?” Rangor taunted.

  Azerick pressed the tip of his nose up with the finger of one hand to give him the impression of having a pig nose, and flashed a crude gesture with the other. The half-orc’s face burned with rage and charged forward with his magically enhanced speed. Azerick pulled together every bit of concentration he possessed, and wove what could be the last spell of his life. Rangor brought his shield in front of him to block whatever spell was coming his way.

  The half-orc was almost on top of him when Azerick released the pent up energies within him. Long, triangular stone spears three to four feet long erupted from the ground directly in front of the charging half-orc. The stone protrusions looked like long obelisks jutting out of the earth away from the caster and tapering to a point as sharp as any spear. They covered the ground between Azerick and his opponent in a field ten feet wide by ten feet deep.

  Unable to react to the unexpected obstacle, Rangor impaled himself on several of the needle-sharp spears. The half-orc looked down at his wounds then back at Azerick in confusion. The crowd stared on in silence at the stone spikes that pierced the half-orc’s chest, stomach, and legs.

  Azerick staggered, but managed to stand up straight and faced his vanquished foe. He raised his arm and unleashed a lightning bolt straight into Rangor’s face, blasting him free of the spears that held him upright. The last of his energy spent, Azerick collapsed into a heap before he could hear the crowd erupt into a cacophony of cheers, clapping, and pounding feet.

  *****

  General Baneford sat in his command tent, one tent among the three dozen erected in a small clearing miles from any road or town, warming himself next to the small iron field stove. General Baneford was a man of unquestioning loyalty, but lately he found that he was developing some sincere doubts as to the efficiency and viability of his orders.