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

by Brock Deskins

  He and his men had been chasing rumors of the locations of Dundalor’s armor for the past few years without pause. The last piece, a pair of glossy black and gold-filigreed greaves, they had located in the midst of a hellish swamp rife with quicksand, sinkholes, mosquitoes, and highly territorial lizardmen. He lost a dozen men and seven horses on that mission. Five to the lizardmen, five to bogs and sinkholes, and two to a basilisk that added his two men and one of their mounts to a rather impressive collection of exceedingly lifelike statues of lizardmen and other local fauna.

  That was over a year ago and Duke Ulric’s missives have been expressing his growing impatience with his general’s slow progress more and more. It was enough to drive a man to drink, and his professionalism and sense of duty rarely allowed him to drink while in the field. He was now in the midst of a dense forest following a rumor about some crazy hedge wizard that allegedly knew the location of one of the armor pieces he sought. He and his men had been scouring these cursed woods with their thick brambles that left burs in the horses’ tails and manes for the past two months without a sign of another living soul, unless you counted the orc bands.

  Did orcs have souls? The general guessed they must, but he hardly counted them among one of the useful races and disregarded their presence except for increasing the guard roster. So far, they had shown little interest in attacking the well-armed band under his control, for which he was grateful. He had had his fill with the lizard folks’ hit and run ambushes last year to last him for some time to yet to come. A tapping on the doorpost alerted him to someone outside his tent.

  “Sir, a messenger has arrived from the duke,” one of his guards informed him.

  “Very well, send him in,” General Baneford replied with a sigh that expressed his lack of anticipation for whatever the duke had to say.

  The tent flap was thrown open, but due to the double, light-disciplined vestibule, he saw only the inside of the outer flap of his tent when the messenger entered. The young rider gave the general a sharp salute before and after handing over the wax-sealed parchment. Out of habit, General Baneford studied the seal and impressed crest for sign of tampering or forgery before breaking the seal and reading the contents.

  General,

  Due to the inordinate amount of time you seem to be taking to accomplish the simple courier duty that I have assigned you, I have taken it upon myself to seek outside help in locating of the items of interest to me. My sources, that are costing me a great deal of gold should you be interested in such a triviality, have informed me that one of the items that I desperately seek is located in a monastery high in the Witch Crag Mountains in a hidden vale between two of the highest summits in the range.

  Since I do not wish to over-tax your limited imagination, I have included a crude map that even you should be able to follow. Since I have done everything but have the item placed directly into your hands, I pray that you will be able to accomplish this task before I am too old and feeble for them to do me any good. I have sent the courier with a stipend of seven-hundred and fifty gold crowns so you do not have the excuse of lacking the means to acquire provisions or information. Report to me immediately upon the success of your mission, or do not report to me at all. I would consider any further failure as a possible act of subversion or treason.

  Subversion, treason; how could Ulric even consider such a thing? He had earned his rank through years of loyal service and commendation during the border wars with Sumara and largely ridding the kingdom of the cross-border, marauding nomads that prowled the southern deserts like packs of jackals.

  I need a drink, General Baneford said to himself and rummaged through a trunk where he eventually came up with a small bottle of liquor he often carried to help loosen the tongues of certain guests.

  He was breaking one of his own cardinal rules, but the way he felt right now more than justified it in his mind. Treason! Preposterous! As if any other general could have held these men together and accomplished the tasks they had achieved, and without a single desertion or mutiny!

  The general downed the small glass of amber liquid and felt his nerves calm almost immediately as the alcohol burned a path to his stomach and spread warmth throughout his innards. He looked at the still nearly full bottle, and with a shrug, poured himself a second glass. He would sit and relax for the rest of the day before moving out at first light for the frozen reaches of the Witch Crag Mountains.

  General Baneford ordered one of his lieutenants to pass along the movement orders to the men. They would be prepared to ride before first light. They were good soldiers, loyal and professional. The general smiled to himself as he thought about the men who followed him; him, not that blowhard duke who does not know how to treat those that are worthy and loyal. He would never treat his men with such contempt. They had earned his respect and admiration just as he had earned theirs. They were good men, and they were his men.

  He had never allowed such disrespectful thoughts to enter his head before. They almost bordered on treason. He knew in that instant that something had changed inside him. It would definitely be a good time to retire when all this sordid business was finished. General Baneford chuckled at his own thoughts as he sipped at another three fingers of scotch. A blowhard—that was all Ulric was. He was just a man with money and the power that money can buy.

  Yes, things were definitely changing. He wondered how much. He decided that he would complete his mission, his own sense of duty required it, but this would be the last one. Whether Ulric got his crown or not, once he handed over the armor, he was retiring and that was that.

  “What an ass,” the general said aloud and laughed himself hoarse before stifling his mirth to a chuckle as he sipped at his drink.

  CHAPTER 5

  Azerick awoke with a gnawing in his stomach, a dry mouth, and a great deal of pain. He turned his head and saw Delinda, apparently asleep, in a chair near his bed. She must have sensed his return to consciousness because her eyes suddenly opened as he looked at her.

  “Azerick, you’re awake!” she cried and nearly fell out of her chair as she rushed to his side. She pressed her small hand against his cheek and kissed his lips. “I was so worried. I gave you the healing potion we made and it closed your wounds, but you had already lost so much blood by the time Lord Xornan brought you back.”

  Azerick touched the wound on his chest and winced in pain.

  “The potion stopped the bleeding and closed the wound, but it did not come close to completely healing it,” she explained. “I have been giving you the fast heal potion as best I could in the meantime, but it is such a horrible injury. I did not know if it would be enough.”

  Azerick reached up and wiped away the tears that streamed freely down her cheeks. Delinda took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

  “I prepared another healing draught but it will not be ready for at least two more days. You have been asleep for nearly four days now.”

  Azerick pointed to a pitcher on the small table next to his bed. “Oh of course, I’m so sorry,” Delinda gasped and filled a cup halfway full with water from the pitcher.

  The water was a welcome relief to his parched throat even though he coughed a large amount of it back up onto his chest. He sipped at it more slowly as his beloved tilted it up to his lips.

  “You must be hungry. Do you think you could eat something?” she asked.

  “Yes, please, I’m starving,” Azerick croaked out a reply.

  “Let me go to the kitchen. I will be right back.”

  Delinda darted out the door and down the stairs. Azerick tried to recall the events of the battle just before he blacked out as Delinda’s footsteps echoed down the stairs.

  He remembered that Rangor had stabbed him deeply in the chest. He remembered a lot of blood and his air bubbling out of the wound. After that, his memories became fuzzy. He was sure that he had used his new spell, but he could not remember the exact results. It must have been successful or he would certainly be dead right now
. He was surprised that he had even lived through his so-called victory.

  Delinda returned a few minutes later with a bowl of honey-sweetened porridge. “Cook was glad to hear that you are awake. I imagine that Zeb and the others will learn of your recovery soon enough and will wish to give you their regards as well.”

  Azerick smiled and nodded his head in appreciation of his friends’ concerns and well wishes. He gratefully took the bowl that Delinda offered and took small bites of the warm, soft food. He had a hard time eating even the small bites, but he forced himself to work through it until the bowl was empty. He leaned back against the pillows once more, his stomach settled and satiated. With the food weighing in his stomach he felt his eyelids getting heavy and fell back to sleep as Delinda stroked his hair.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when he next awoke, but his stomach told him that the time had been substantial. There was some soft bread and liver paste under a glass dome next to the water pitcher on his side table. Azerick managed to pour himself a cup of water and helped himself to the small repast. He felt stronger this time and was able to eat the simple fair without too much difficulty.

  He looked up when he heard the door creak open as Delinda stepped into the room. “Oh, you’re up again. I’m sorry I was not here when you woke. I had to attend to my duties.”

  “That’s all right. I just woke up a few minutes ago,” Azerick assured her.

  “You seem much stronger today,” she observed as she sat on the bed next to him. “I’ll get you some warm food if you feel up to eating.”

  “Definitely,” Azerick replied gratefully as his stomach let out a loud growl of agreement.

  “I’ll be right back then,” Delinda told him with a soft laugh.

  She came back a short while later with a large, steaming bowl of stew, thick with vegetables and diced chunks of meat. She also carried a silver flask that Azerick recognized as the one that they used to store the healing potion.

  “I think this is ready now. You can take it after you finish eating,” She told him.

  Azerick felt his strength slowly returning as he devoured the bowl of stew. Once he wiped the bowl clean with a chunk of bread, Delinda unstoppered the flask and handed it to him. He took a short sniff of the pungent liquid before draining the contents in one long pull. He winced at the bitter taste and handed the empty flask back to Delinda. A warm heat spread through his body as the potion worked its way through his bloodstream. His wounds began to tingle and itch as the potion forced their rapid healing.

  “How do you feel?” Delinda asked him.

  “Like getting out of this bed,” he replied.

  “You should not push yourself too soon,” she scolded him.

  Azerick grinned at her mischievously. “Well if I can’t get out of bed maybe you should get in it,” he teased and grabbed her wrist, pulling her down to him.

  “Azerick, stop it! You are recovering from nearly being killed,” she chided him but did not resist as he kissed her.

  “That’s the difference between nearly getting killed and getting killed.”

  Delinda sprang from the bed with a gasp of surprise as the door suddenly swung open.

  Leave us, girl, Lord Xornan commanded.

  Delinda skirted past her master warily with one last fearful glance back at her love as she fled the room.

  You have recovered significantly from your grievous wounds I see.

  Azerick did not respond to the statement.

  That witless half-orc very nearly killed you. Do you realize how shameful it was for me to have your nearly lifeless carcass hauled out of that arena?

  “I won. Isn’t that the important thing? I win too easily it shames you. I win with great difficulty and it shames you. The crowd surely enjoyed it, so what is it I have to do exactly to please you?” Azerick replied caustically.

  You were nearly beaten. You, a powerful sorcerer, were nearly beaten by a savage creature swinging a sword. Your weakness in that bout reflects poorly upon me. Your weakness in The Games is construed as my own failure in properly training you. I will not be humiliated like that again!

  Azerick was surprised at the psyling’s vehemence. It was the first time he had ever heard his master raise his voice in anger. These thoughts were quickly lost as his whole world suddenly began to swirl and dissipate like a morning mist blown away by a powerful wind.

  Warped wooden planks replaced the mauve stone walls of Azerick’s room. The smell of smoke filled his nose and burned his eyes as he began coughing to clear his lungs of the contamination. He turned his head at the sound of a child crying. He saw Maggy in the corner holding little Beth in her arms as flames climbed up the tinder-dry walls. He looked around the room and saw Jon and the others sitting forlornly near the center of the room.

  “Jon, we have to get out of here!” Azerick shouted.

  “It won’t do no good, boy. We’re already dead,” he replied and shook his head morosely.

  Azerick ran across the room and slammed into the door with his shoulder, but it would not open. Something was blocking the door shut. His shirtsleeve caught fire and he slapped it out with his hand. He heard Beth wail louder and turned to see that her dress had caught fire and was burning her small legs. Azerick ran over and tried to smother the flames, but they continued to spread and ignited his shirt.

  “No!” he shouted as he felt the searing heat burn his arms, raise blisters, and char his flesh.

  The flames suddenly disappeared and the room shifted once again. He saw that he now stood the room that he once shared with his mother at the inn. As he turned and looked around, he saw a large man looming behind his mother. Azerick tried to scream a warning, but his voice came out as nothing more than a weak croak.

  Azerick charged forward and grappled with the big sailor as he tried to grab his mother. Harlow was considerably larger and stronger than the young Azerick was and easily pinned the boy beneath his bulk. His breath reeked of alcohol and his large hand wrapped around Azerick’s throat. In his other hand was a sharp, curved knife that Azerick fought to keep away from him.

  He drove a thumb into Harlow’s eye. The big sailor reeled back with a roar of pain, releasing his grip on Azerick’s throat. Azerick grabbed the hand that held the knife and twisted it around until he heard bone snap. Harlow dropped the blade with another bellow of agony. Azerick scooped up the fallen blade and stabbed the drunken sailor in the stomach, causing him to fall backwards off him.

  Azerick rolled to his feet and sprang on top of Harlow, squeezing his eyes shut in rage as he plunged the knife into him repeatedly while shouting a wordless, feral scream. Azerick opened his eyes when the body under him stopped fighting and shouting. He looked down in horror as the face of his mother looked up at him in anguish and then anger.

  “You killed me, Azerick. Why did you kill me?” his mother wailed.

  He spun towards the source of another voice that sounded from behind him. Azerick recoiled as he looked at the pale, dead face of his father. His throat was cut and old, dried blood covered his neck and chest.

  “I am disappointed in you, Azerick. You were supposed to be the man of the house while I was gone. You were supposed to protect your mother, but you let her get murdered,” his father accused.

  “I tried, father! I tried to protect her and take care of her! I swear I did! I was just a boy, father,” Azerick cried.

  “And what about now?” the shade of his father demanded. “You sat in that school like some highborn prince. Why have you not avenged me? Do I mean nothing to you now? Now that you think you are some powerful sorcerer your family no longer matters to you?”

  “I have not forgotten you! Who killed you father? Who killed you?” Azerick screamed.

  The ghosts of his parents stalked towards him, reaching with desiccated claw-like fingers. “You did,” they chanted in unison. “You did. You did. You did. You did. You did.”

  His room spun back into view, his throat was raw from screaming, and his b
ody was soaked in cold sweat. Lord Xornan stood at the foot of his bed staring at him with his arms tucked inside his voluminous silk sleeves.

  You see how I can punish you when you fail me. If you fail me again, your punishment will be far more severe. I will hurt you in ways that you cannot imagine.

  “I fought as best I could, and I did win. Does that not count for something?” Azerick asked in a whisper, not trusting his voice not to crack if he spoke louder.

  Fortunately, you were victorious no matter how hollow that victory was for me. Because of the severity of the wounds you took, others criticized me for being an ineffectual master. Perhaps there is some truth to their accusations. I have made an error in not taking a more direct role in your training.

  Azerick shuddered as he listened to the psyling admonishing himself. Not because he thought that Xornan actually felt any responsibility, but because such self-recrimination could only mean something unpleasant was in store for him.

  These last several days I have researched ways in which I may speed your learning, and I am confident that I have discovered a method that has a nearly equal chance of being successful.

  “A nearly equal chance of being successful or what?” Azerick asked.

  Of destroying your mind of course. It is a rash action, but a necessary one in my view. Fortunately, my view is the only one that matters.

  In a blink, Lord Xornan closed the few feet separating him from his slave and clasped a cold, long-fingered hand over the top of Azerick’s head. The convalescent sorcerer tried to pull away, but he was unable to move a single muscle. He moaned loudly, unable to so much as scream. It felt as though the psyling’s fingers were piercing his skull and digging into his brain.

  Strange lights and images whirled through his mind of such that he could barely make sense of them. Sigils and arcane runes burned in his vision like the floating spots the sun left when you stared into it too long. Strange words of power echoed deafeningly in his head like temple bells. Azerick had no idea how long it lasted, but it seemed an eternity.