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

by Brock Deskins

  The abyssal elf mage pulled a stone from one of her pouches and rapidly waved her slender hands in a complex pattern. Azerick sent a barrage of magic darts streaming at her in hopes of interrupting her spell, but her shield negated all but one missile, which did not appear to faze her.

  She shouted her spell’s execution command as her magic consumed the small stone. Azerick felt the earth rumble beneath his feet. He dove to the side as a column of stone erupted under him and shot forty feet in the air, taking barely a second to reach its apex. He tried to regain his feet, but another colossal stone pillar burst directly under him. He splayed himself out across its five-foot wide surface as it launched him above the arena floor. The column reached its apex in the blink of an eye. The sheer velocity catapulted him another thirty feet into the air.

  Azerick forced himself to remain calm despite the terrifying situation in which he found himself. He controlled his falling flight and carefully but rapidly drew the magical weaving that he hoped would save his life. The magical portal flared open directly below him a fraction of a second before the hard, unyielding ground abruptly and lethally arrested his fall. Azerick’s body flew out of the gateway’s exit point in a low arc before hitting the sandy floor and rolling to a stop in a cloud of dust.

  Azerick’s quick thinking and clever spell use had saved his life for the moment, but his uncontrolled slide and tumble across the arena floor introduced his body to a world of pain. He was certain one arm was broken as he opened his dirt-encrusted eyes and saw it bent at an unnatural angle. The sharp pain that accompanied every shallow breath attested to several broken ribs. As he struggled to his feet, another sharp pain lanced up his right leg and refused to support his weight.

  He managed to stand, supporting most of his weight on his left leg as the abyssal elf seductively sashayed towards him. She came to a stop and seemed to study him for a moment before speaking.

  “You are clever for a human, and you fought well,” she said in a surprisingly deep but soft and melodious voice. “It is a shame that one with your talents at such a young age must meet his end in such a place. But look on the bright side. At least you will no longer be a prisoner of these vile creatures.” She looked forlorn for a moment. “I look forward to the day I can say the same. I just pray that I can take some of them with me when I go.”

  She pulled a small bead of glass out of one of her pouches and chanted the words to another spell. Azerick knew there was nothing he could do to prevent her from destroying him now. His body was too battered to even attempt to dodge, flee, or cast a counter spell. All he could do was brace himself as an invisible force slammed into him with the weight of a runaway carriage. His already broken body was blasted backwards and landed in a heap several yards away.

  The abyssal elf stalked forward when the human sorcerer refused to submit to death and moaned. She stared down at his battered and broken form, summoning the energy for a simple spell that would end what little spark of life still flickered inside him. She had never known the emotion called remorse, but the feeling she had at being forced to kill such a rare spell caster for no reason except for a master’s entertainment came as close as she would likely ever come. She would have been delighted to be able to dissect the young human’s mind and abilities at her leisure.

  “What a waste,” the elf said as she prepared to unleash her spell.

  CHAPTER 6

  General Baneford rode at the head of the column of men. Only the four scouts that ranged three hundred yards ahead preceded him. The breath of men and horses formed a pervasive fog in the thin and frigid air. He turned in his saddle and often caught his men gazing up at the towering, snow-covered peaks that seemed to reach up to pierce the sky itself. The general was certain that his men were feeling the same fears as he had, that the massive peaks would suddenly disgorge their shells of ice and snow to bury the intruders in a great frozen tomb.

  As cold as it was, it was still better than that wretched swamp. The cold only became truly unbearable when they stopped to rest. General Baneford decided that when he retired, soon he hoped, he would go south where it was dry and warm. He figured he could put up with the occasional sand storm if it meant that his fingers and toes would never ache from cold or his feet would stay dry enough that they would not grow more fungus than a decaying pile of horse dung.

  Despite the mountains seeming completely desolate, they followed what appeared to be a pass with a definite purpose. Six miserable days of arduous climbing later, one of General Baneford’s scouts came riding towards him, evidently with news of some kind.

  “Sir, the pass opens up just half a mile ahead into a small plateau of some sort. There are several stone buildings and halls at the far end of the vale and people walking about.”

  “Excellent, it’s about damned time we get out of this forsaken cold,” the general replied bitterly.

  One of Baneford’s officers turned to him. “How do you want us to proceed?”

  “Did you spy any walls or armed men?” he asked the scout.

  “No, sir, although the buildings look strong and well constructed. Some of the men looked to be carrying some kind of long implements, but we did not approach close enough to tell if they were weapons or simply tools.”

  “Tools can be weapons in the right hands, but in this case I think not. These are supposed to be priests of some kind. We will proceed openly but cautiously. No one is to draw weapons unless they are overtly threatened. If we can get in and out with what we seek without resorting to a bloodbath, all the better.”

  General Baneford led his men after the scout and came upon the plateau entirely ringed by steep-sided, impassible mountains. If these priests had been soldiers, it would have been an easy task for a few men to hold it against ten times their numbers, although if an enemy ever were to break through, the defenders had nowhere to run.

  As they drew near the small town with its large stone cathedral and smaller outbuildings, General Baneford saw that defense was the furthest thing from these men’s mind. Dozens of men wielded shovels and rakes against the snow that covered the flagstone courtyards and pathways. They all wore heavy, brown robes of wool and simply paused in their work as they watched the armored men approaching on horseback.

  One of the men handed his shovel to another and walked towards the approaching group with a pleasant smile on his short grey-bearded face. He was not ancient, but a significant sense of wisdom shown on his age-lined visage.

  “Good day to you, gentlemen. I am Brother Paul,” the man said in introduction. “It is very rare that we get visitors to our isolated redoubt. What brings you on such a long and arduous journey may I ask?”

  “Are you in charge here?” General Baneford asked shortly.

  “I was elected to be this year’s senior brother four months ago, so I suppose you could say I am in charge, although we are primarily communal in most all matters of importance,” Brother Paul replied.

  “Good, then you can tell me where to find the piece of Dundalor’s armor that is kept within your abbey,” Baneford said, not even giving the brother a chance to deny its existence by posing it as a question.

  The smile immediately dropped from Brother Paul’s face. “No, I am sorry to say that I cannot help you with that, but you and your men are welcome to share the warmth of our fire and food before you depart.”

  “You did not deny having the artifact, so it is here. It is not that you cannot help me, but instead choose not to help me,” the general said without concealing his impatience.

  Brother Paul smiled benignly into the aggravated face of the man astride the big horse. “Our order was sworn to protect the artifact so that its evil would not be loosed upon the world once more.”

  “Bah! It is a tool and no different from that shovel you were wielding. Evil is in the intent of the man, not the tool,” Baneford argued.

  “And what is your master’s intent?” Brother Paul asked shrewdly.

  General Baneford’s argument was stop
ped in its tracks. He could not honestly say that Ulric’s possession of Dundalor’s armor was for the greater good of the realm regardless of what the duke told him. Then another thought occurred to him.

  “What makes you think I have not come for the armor on my own behalf? Surely you recognize the breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets I wear,” General Baneford countered, displaying the infinitely black pieces of armor chased in gold.

  “It is my opinion that you wear the armor to achieve an end. You are not the kind of man to abuse its power and commit evil for the sake of personal gain.”

  “Maybe you misjudge me, priest.”

  “Perhaps you misjudge yourself, warrior,” Brother Paul countered serenely.

  “Enough of this talk! You will show me where the armor is, or I will order my men to make you talk!”

  “That would not be possible. We have all taken the vows and will not betray the secret with which we were entrusted.”

  “Damn you, man! Don’t you realize I have a hundred men with swords that will cut down every last one of you until you tell me what I want to know?”

  Brother Paul bowed his head. “We do not fear death. Such threats will avail you nothing but blood that may be washed from your blade, but will stain your souls forever.”

  “I will find what I came here for. I will tear down your precious abbey and every building here brick by brick. Save yourselves such needless destruction and just tell me,” General Baneford demanded almost pleadingly.

  Brother Paul simply smiled up at the general. “They are only stones. We will rebuild.”

  “Damn your stubborn hide, man!” He turned to his men. “Search this place from top to bottom. If you do not find what we came here for then we will tear the place apart!”

  His men spurred their mounts towards the waiting buildings, half of them heading towards the large abbey in the distance. Baneford’s men entered the smaller buildings and began a very thorough search. The sounds of shattering pottery and overturned furniture reached General Baneford’s ears.

  “You could save yourself and your brothers a great deal of grief if you would simply tell me where it is.”

  “The next bell is the call for supper. I invite you and your men to dine with us in the abbey’s dining hall. It is a simple fare, but quite good. Goat stew I believe; one our better stews. You arrived at a fortuitous time. Most often it is only rice and vegetable stew.”

  General Baneford ground his teeth in frustration at the insufferably kind monk. Rage made him want to backhand the priest in his smiling face, but it was an empty fantasy. The General had to contend himself with spurring his horse forward and riding towards the abbey. He was certain that the armor would be found somewhere within those walls, if it was here at all. The monk had not actually said that it was here on the grounds much less in one of the buildings. For all he knew, some monk hundreds of years ago carted the thing to top of one of these peaks where he still holds it in his frozen hands. No, it is here, he was certain of it.

  General Baneford entered the abbey and heard a similar ruckus going on within its vast halls and cathedral ceilings just as he heard in the smaller domiciles outside. Although there was little to break within the abbey, the monks living a rather austere sort of life, his men managed to create a significant amount of havoc.

  He walked into what was obviously the chapel or prayer room from a side door. A massive sun made, of what must have been gold-plated iron or bronze given its size, was suspended high above a white marble altar at the front of the large hall. There were no benches, but the floor held scores of thick, wool mats lined up in rows where the monks knelt and prayed.

  A huge stained-glass window occupied an enormous section of the eastern wall opposite the large golden sun. General Baneford surmised that when the sun rose and shined through the window, the polished golden disc shown with the radiance of a small living sun itself.

  “Stop!” the general shouted at one of his men that was about to throw a brazier through the stained-glass window. “We are here to find the armor, not cause unnecessary damage.”

  “Yes, sir; sorry,” the soldier replied sheepishly.

  “Go and spread the word. I don’t want any more damage done than necessary; especially to things that may be irreplaceable.”

  The soldier snapped a salute and sped off to pass on the general’s orders.

  “That was most kind of you, General. We would have all mourned the loss of Solarian’s eye,” Brother Paul’s voice came from behind him.

  General Baneford spun around on his heel. “If he had destroyed it, it would have been because of your obstinacy!”

  The small brother shrugged his bony shoulders. “One man’s obstinacy is another man’s duty.”

  Baneford strode past the aggravating brother with a growl and helped direct his men in the search. After three fruitless hours, a loud bell tolled from the tall tower above the chapel.

  “Ah, supper time at last,” Brother Paul said with a smile. “You and your men need only follow one of the brothers to find the dining hall. I hope you will join us, General.”

  Brother Paul bounded down the hall with as much haste as his priestly decorum allowed. General Baneford watched several more of the brown-robed monks pass by the open door of the room he was in, presumably on their way to the dining hall. He was going to continue searching the abbey but the thought of eating actual food instead of dry trail rations changed his mind.

  “Lieutenant, tell the men to fall in behind the next monk they see and follow him to the dining hall for chow.”

  “Yes, sir!” his subordinate replied gleefully; also anxious to have some warm food for a change.

  There’s plenty of time to search this place. No one is trying to kill us, and it’s warm. Besides, the men deserve it the general thought as he followed the slapping sound of a monks sandals down the hall.

  The general entered a large hall where several long tables were set up with backless bench seats to sit on. A large cauldron was suspended over a low fire in a huge fireplace at the front of the hall. General Baneford saw Brother Paul waving him over to a table set nearest the fire and the cauldron of stew.

  “I took the liberty of ladling up a bowl for you,” the monk said as the general took a seat next to him. “The meat tends to sink to the bottom and the first bowls usually get the best pieces,” Brother Paul said with a smile and pushed the clay bowl with a wooden spoon over to the general.

  General Baneford eyed the stew warily. He saw that everyone took from the same pot so it was unlikely that it was poisoned. Then again, he did not see his pulled from the communal pot.

  “Would you rather have my bowl, General?”

  General Baneford scowled at the smiling monk, snatched the offered bowl, and ate heartily. The stew was so good that at that moment he did not even care if it was poisoned. At least he would die with a full stomach.

  *****

  Just as she was about to put this wretched human out of its misery, the dark wizard felt the power she had gathered slip away. Her master’s voice sounded in her head ordering her to stop. She looked towards the special box seats where her and her opponent’s master sat together. Lying in the dirt much like the human at her feet, was a crumpled silk kerchief. Knowing the kind of punishment her foe was likely to receive for not only losing, but also for his master conceding the bout, she considered granting him mercy by crushing his windpipe with the heel of her boot.

  Nevertheless, she obeyed her master’s command and let the sorcerer live. She hoped that they would meet in the arena once again when he recovered and grew in experience and power.

  Delinda heard her master’s furious voice fill her head as she sat worriedly next to Braunlen inside the trainer’s room fearfully awaiting the end of the match. Every time the crowd cheered, her heart raced and her stomach twisted not knowing if they were cheering for her beloved or his opponent.

  Then Lord Xornan told her that Azerick had been defeated and needed aid immediately. T
error gripped her heart as she raced up the ramp towards the open gate at the top that led into the arena.

  The first thing she saw when she burst through the gate was the form of a lithe, impossibly white-skinned woman standing over her husband. She ran to him as fast as her legs would carry her, for a moment thinking to tear this creature to shreds with her fingernails. She discarded the idea immediately knowing that Azerick needed her right now and that such an action would likely result in both of their deaths.

  The abyssal elf took a step back as Delinda pulled out the silver flask filled with the potent healing potion she had been distilling for over a month. She cradled Azerick’s limp head in her lap and gently placed the flask’s stem between his lips. She dribbled the contents down his throat as quickly as she dared. It seemed to take an eternity to empty the entire flask’s contents.

  Delinda prayed fervently to every god she could name for her love’s life. She wept openly as she rocked Azerick’s head in her lap and waited to see if the potion was strong enough to overcome such terrible injuries. Her heart soared and she cried even harder when Azerick’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “He is a talented sorcerer. I am glad you were able to save him,” the abyssal elf’s sultry voice came from behind her.

  Delinda ignored the woman’s words and took out another metal vial. “Here, drink this, my love,” she told Azerick as she raised another healing potion to his lips.

  Azerick did as Delinda bade and felt the effects of the potions as they ran their course through his body. His muscles burned and his bones ached where the elixir forced them to heal at an unnaturally rapid pace. Delinda was gladdened to see Braunlen running towards her with his short, bow-legged gait.

  “I am Teraneshala. Remember that name, human, so that you may warn the denizens of the abyss of my eventual coming should you see them before I do,” the abyssal elf called out Azerick was half carried him out of the arena to Lord Xornan’s waiting transport.