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

by Brock Deskins

  “This is where we part ways, Azerick. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that we don’t want any gossip floated around about our home, or this doorway here,” Duncan said.

  “No, of course not. I will not tell a soul about it. Not that I could likely find it again if I wanted to,” Azerick replied.

  Duncan looked at the staff Azerick carried in his hand. “That staff is more than just a stick, as I’m sure you know. Those runes I carved and enchanted it with can help you out in a fix. You just concentrate and that arcanum ball will assume just about any shape you can imagine. It’ll make a fine spear point if the need arises. It’ll also come to you on command no matter where you are or how far away you be from it. It’ll do more, but how much even I don’t rightly know. That’ll be up to you to learn. A tool is only as good as its wielder, no matter how well made.”

  The dwarves all shook Azerick’s hand as they bid farewell and sealed the cave door behind him. Azerick looked at the wall of stone before him, but he could not see any lines, no matter how faint, that would lead one to presume there was anything here other than a huge outcropping of stone.

  He pulled out a map that Duncan had given him that was rendered in magnificent detail on a large, thin square of soft leather. He saw that all he needed to do was head due west until he found the coastal trade road between Southport and North Haven then follow the road north. It was going to be a long journey on foot, but he was well prepared and eager to walk amongst the trees and fresh air once more.

  *****

  Azerick had been traveling about a week and felt as though he had barely made much progress. Fortunately, he was in no real hurry and simply enjoyed the tedium of putting one foot in front of the other, day after day. He sat near the small fire he had created, keeping his back to it in order to protect his night vision as he once more studied the staff in his hands. He ran his fingers lightly over the engraved runes embossed in arcanum as he let his mind delve once more into the magic of the staff. He had already learned a great deal about the abilities imbued into the weapon, but there was still so much more to learn.

  One of the first things he had learned was that it could store a vast amount of energy into the staff by casting several of his spells into it each night so that he could replenish his own magical stores while he rested. The staff already held nearly as much power as he did, which was considerable. Tapping the power of the staff was far less taxing than coaxing and shaping the Source from across the ether.

  He practiced shaping the gleaming silver globe on the top into various forms; some artistic, some martial like a spear point over a foot in length. He also practiced setting it down, walking away, then calling it to him. The first few times felt strange as the staff suddenly erupted into his outstretched hand, causing him to drop it more than once.

  While making his arduous trek home, he had thankfully run across a couple small settlements where he could replenish his supplies. Taking down a deer or rabbit with a spell was rather easy, but game had been uncommonly scarce. The few animals he did see bolted the instant they so much as heard a twig snap under his feet. He was city born and raised, and he was not accustomed to wilderness survival, but the animals seemed especially skittish to him.

  These observations were supported by reports from a few of the villagers that he had spoken to. They claimed that evil walked the land, and no one would walk outside their homes after dark. Villages were posting guards and kept torches and lamps burning throughout the night.

  Azerick wrote it off as small town superstitions, but the longer he traveled the more he became unsure of himself. Camping just a day out from the last small settlement, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his right eye. Azerick turned and stared into the darkness, he but could see nothing out of place. He wrote it off as a shadow created by the flickering of his fire.

  He returned his attention to his staff when another movement just outside his line of sight snapped his head around. Again there was nothing there but the shadows created by his campfire. He listened intently, but he could hear nothing except the crackling of the warm fire against his back.

  Azerick was about to return to his studies when it dawned on him that the only sound he heard was his campfire; no owls, crickets, or other nocturnal noises that normally pervaded the night.

  Just then, one of the shadows separated from the surrounding darkness and glided towards him. Several more shadows drifted out of the darkness before the silence was broken by the sounds of twigs snapping and leaves and pine needles crunching underfoot.

  The sorcerer sprang to his feet and launched a stream of magical darts into the nearest shadow creature. Three struck and caused the shadow to pause in its advance as it let out a soundless scream, but the other two streaking orbs passed harmlessly through its incorporeal body. The shadows advanced without the least sign of fear as more substantial undead like zombies and skeletons appeared within the glowing boundaries of his campfire.

  “All right, you want a fight?” Azerick shouted at the mindless creatures. “You got it!”

  The sorcerer raised his arm and unleashed a brilliant bolt of lightning into the swift-moving shadows. The white-hot bolt ripped two of the insubstantial creatures to shreds, their mouths elongating in a silent curse just before their forms lost all cohesion, spread out in every direction, and dissipated into nothingness.

  Several of the zombies and skeletons shambling behind the wraiths were blasted apart, but the third shadow was unaffected. Azerick brought his staff up to parry the swing that the shadow launched at his face, but the undead creature’s arm passed right through the stout wood.

  The sorcerer felt as though his blood had turned to ice as the shadowy, clawed hand tore through his chest. The overwhelming sense of pure cold and evil almost caused him to lose his grip on his weapon and crumple to the ground, but knowing that to do so would result in his death kept him on his feet.

  Azerick ducked and rolled to his left as the shadow swung with its other arm. He felt an icy chill pass over his back as he dodged under the blow and rolled back to his feet. Azerick released a flow of magical energy into the staff, causing the entire length to glow with a brilliant azure aura.

  The shadow advanced relentlessly, intent on devouring the human’s rich life force. Azerick brought his staff around in a swift horizontal arc as soon as the fell creature came within range. The enchanted weapon passed right through the insubstantial shadow just as his spells had.

  He ducked another swipe from the shadow and brought the staff down through the center of the shade’s spectral head. Azerick felt resistance press against his staff as if he had just struck water. A brilliant flash of light erupted from his weapon with a resounding crack as it passed through the shadow’s body and blew it apart.

  He felt a sharp burning pain as a skeleton’s claw-like fingers raked across his back, gouging deep furrows in his flesh. Without even turning to look at his assailants, Azerick gripped his staff in both hands, raised it vertically over his head, and brought it down with a shout. His magical command released a powerful burst of energy in a ring of expanding force, blasting over a dozen undead creatures and sending them hurtling away from him.

  Fury burned in the sorcerer’s eyes as he glared at the tide of undead that closed in on him. Azerick savagely shouted out another spell and conjured forth a semi-circular wall of stone spikes that impaled dozens of the undead abominations on their sharp tips.

  The sight of the animated skeletons and zombies writhing and trying to pull themselves off the spikes that held them was almost more disturbing than seeing them bent on trying to kill him. Azerick called forth a shimmering gate and promptly stepped through. The magical doorway snapped shut as soon as it deposited him nearly a hundred yards away from where he had stood just a second before. He turned to face the now distant horde as he shook off the dizzying effects of gate travel.

  Azerick had never been as comfortable with fire-based magic as he was with earth and air, but
it was far from beyond his ability to use. As the monstrous, undead creatures went around and picked their way through the spike field, Azerick used the campfire as a focus for his spell and unleashed a massive explosion.

  The incendiary burst blasted apart a large swath of the advancing undead, sending those trapped upon the stone spike flying apart as burning bits of bone and charred flesh. Azerick unleashed his wrath in a fiery hell storm of pure destruction.

  Screaming like a ferocious, demented demon, he loosed his rage in scorching balls of fire that lit up the forest like miniature suns, destroying masses of undead. Any living creature facing such an unparalleled hellish assault would have fled in terror in the face of such a wrathful destruction.

  But most undead were mindless creatures that knew no fear nor bore any sense of self-preservation. Oblivious to their losses, the skeletons and zombies pressed their advance, intent on killing the creature that dared to live whilst they anguished in this mockery of life.

  As the remaining undead closed in upon him, Azerick incinerated them with cones of fire from his staff and blew them apart with magical bolts of pure energy. When the zombies and skeletons got dangerously close, Azerick raised another densely packed palisade of spikes, forcing them to split up and negotiate the obstacle.

  With the time he gained for himself, Azerick was able to pick off the smaller groups before they could close in on him. He leaned on his staff in exhaustion, his strength sapped from expending a large part of his magical repertoire, not only from himself but from the energy stored within his staff as well.

  Azerick scanned what was now a large clearing, lit up by several trees that still burned and smoldered from the fiery onslaught he had wrought in his determination to destroy the undead menace. Bones and bits of grey flesh littered the charred, scorched ground, but nothing moved other than windblown ash and a few burning leaves that floated gently down from trees that had the misfortune to have been within the sorcerer’s range of destruction.

  As much as he just wanted to lie down and sleep away his exhaustion, Azerick forced himself to walk away from the scene of the battle, leaning on his staff for support.

  CHAPTER 10

  Settlements were few and far between this far north, but fortunately the spring rains were also fewer in number. Azerick’s magic kept the rain from reaching his skin and clothing, but it was still cold, particularly in the early mornings and evenings. He decided that a horse would likely prove a wise investment.

  As the miles ground slowly by, he became increasingly aware of the weight on his back and the miles of travel involved. As a youth, any traveling he had done was aboard one of his father’s ships. Until he had made his escape from the psyling city, the furthest he had ever traveled on foot was from one end of Southport to the other, all within the confines of the city walls.

  Just as the sun was setting, Azerick spied a small hamlet nestled next to a bend in the river. It was a small, quiet, and friendly place where several people gave him a nod or a wave of welcome as he strode into the quaint town.

  Azerick spent the night at what passed for an inn and enjoyed a delicious, home-cooked meal. He bought a gelding from a man that ran a small stable. As far as he could tell, it was a sturdy horse that appeared to have a great deal of patience even for riders as inexperienced as Azerick was.

  It was a basic riding horse of mellow temperament that did not mind being burdened by a rider as long as it was fed and treated well. Azerick led the horse for several miles before attempting to mount. He had never ridden a horse in his life, and he was not about to embarrass himself in front of anyone by falling off. He placed his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself up into the saddle.

  The horse stood patiently, flicking its ears about as the human scooted around in the saddle trying to find a comfortable and secure perch upon the horse’s broad back. If this particular saddle had either of those two things, Azerick could not find it.

  Finally seated in the saddle as secure and comfortable as he was likely to get, the horse suddenly seemed twice as tall as it had when Azerick was safely on foot standing next to it. The sensation of being so far off the ground was slightly disconcerting.

  With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Azerick gave the horse a small tap in its flanks with his heels. The horse bobbed its head forward and began walking at a sedate pace while its rider maintained a white knuckled grip on the reins with one hand and the saddle horn with the other.

  Azerick became increasingly more confident in his riding ability and the horse’s tolerant temperament the further he traveled. After they enjoyed a short lunch, dried beef and biscuits for Azerick and oats for the horse, it was time to mount back up and continue their westward journey. He nudged the horse to a walk and then to a loping canter that ate up the miles at an impressive rate without over-tiring his horse.

  Azerick quickly became fond of his mount and spent much of the day trying to come up with a name for it, but he failed to come up with one so he simply settled on calling him Horse. Apparently naming animals was not one of his better abilities. He set aside the issue for a later date figuring it was unlikely that the horse cared one whit what he called it.

  Azerick and Horse stopped at a small clearing just off the narrow path that was the closest thing to a road in these little-traveled parts despite there being at least an hour of good daylight left.

  The wood and leaves were still wet from the light drizzle that had persisted throughout most of the day and resisted all attempts to ignite it with his flint and steel. Frustrated and hungry, not to mention terribly sore from riding all day, Azerick threw the fire kit back into his saddle bag, stood up, and cast a jet of scorching magical fire onto the pile of logs and kindling. The wood burst instantly into flames, unable to resist the extreme heat no matter how sodden it was, and burned with a merry orange glow.

  Azerick spread the legs of a folding metal tripod and suspended an iron pot filled with water beneath it. He then took a small knife to three potatoes, several carrots, turnips, and barley, cut them each into bite-sized cubes and let them boil in the pot. He then pulled out a decent sized smoked ham and added a gratuitous amount of the meat to the soup. The sun had just dipped below the horizon by the time the soup was ready.

  Azerick looked out over the fire and called out to the individual that had been watching him since he and Horse had made camp. “You may as well join me for dinner if you are going to sit out there all night anyway.”

  For a moment, the sorcerer thought that the stranger was going to turn down his invitation and he was going to be eating alone, but a young voice called out a moment later.

  “Who are you?” a young boy’s voice demanded to know.

  “My name is Azerick. I have plenty of food that I am willing to share,” Azerick answered.

  “Are you a slaver? Because if you are, I’ll kill you if you try anything,” his voyeur promised him, his voice sounding from a different direction.

  He is good at sneaking around; I’ll give him that, Azerick thought to himself. “I am no slaver, I promise you. I have been a slave in fact and would probably kill one on sight myself.”

  Azerick waited as the boy was apparently trying to make up his mind. His stomach must have won the internal debate as a small, filthy form separated itself from the shadows and hunched down directly across the fire from Azerick.

  The boy was dressed in soft buckskin leggings and a dark-green leather shirt. His feet were shod in crudely made shoes of soft leather. In his hands, he carried a small hunter’s bow with an arrow nocked and ready to fly at the first sign of danger. A hunting knife hung from the somewhat crude leather belt encircling his narrow waist.

  “I saw how you started that fire so I know you are a wizard. Do not try to use your magic on me and speak only in the common tongue, unless you can speak elven, otherwise I will assume you are casting magic on me and will I will put an arrow in you,” the boy assured him.

  Azerick was certain it was no bluff. The boy
crouching before him had a feral look to him and carried himself with assuredness. He wondered about the comment about speaking elven, and that was when he noticed the pointed ears just poking out of the long brown hair pulled loosely back into a ponytail and secured with a leather thong.

  “You are an elf?” Azerick asked his young guest.

  The boy narrowed his dark, almond-shaped eyes. “My name is Nanarin, and I am a half-elf. Is that going to be a problem with you?” he asked coldly.

  “It is no problem with me. It is just that I have never met an elf, or a half-elf, before. I did meet an abyssal elf once, although that was an extremely unpleasant situation,” Azerick explained calmly. “Do you live near here?”

  “I live wherever I please. The forest is my home.”

  “Do you live by yourself? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

  “The woods are dangerous only to those who are weak or not clever enough to take care of themselves. I could have started that fire without magic,” the half-elf proclaimed.

  “Really? Then you can probably hunt and feed yourself too,” Azerick replied in a half jest.

  The boy looked at the stew pot and nearly lost his confident demeanor. “I can, usually, but all the game seems to have disappeared lately. I would not mind sharing your food with you, even though you had to buy it from a human town.”

  Azerick laughed to himself at the young half-elf’s confidence. He could see that the boy was positively famished, but he would never beg from anyone. He looked across the fire at the half-elf eyeing the simmering contents of the pot and saw a reflection of himself several years ago.

  “Why don’t you go wash up in the river and I will pour us a bowl of soup,” Azerick suggested.

  “A bath you mean? Why should I need a bath?” half-elf demanded indignantly.