The Sorcerer's Ascension (The Sorcerer's Path)

by Brock Deskins

  “It is the source of all magic, where we draw on the energy to power our spells,” Azerick answered.

  “Correct. The greatest difference is how we gain access the Source. Wizards have to memorize long, complicated spells containing words of power and roll bat guano between their fingers and other such reagents to gain access to the Source. The reagents act as a sort of bridge or catalyst that allows them to open a channel to the Source. It is why I call them cookbook casters. Because, like a baker or scullery maid using a cookbook to create a meal, anyone with a touch of magical proclivity can pick up a spell book and cast any spell they find in that book if they are given enough time to prepare. Assuming they have the appropriate amount of skill of course.

  “A sorcerer has no need of animal droppings, spell books, or anything else to wrench open a path to the Source because we are part of the Source. The Source flows through us all the time like a small tributary that branches off the main river and returns to it further on.”

  “So if sorcerers don’t have spell books or instructions, how do they learn their spells?”

  “Each sorcerer casts his or her spells differently. You have to determine the most efficient way to access the Source and bend it to your will in a way that works best for you. I can give you basic instructions in how to form castings and draw upon the Source, but you will have to learn how to form the actual spells yourself. Learning new spells is a very time-consuming and arduous task, but once learned, your affinity with the Source makes you a power to be reckoned with.

  “Wizards must recreate each spell form the exact same way every time. Centuries ago, some clever men and women with a rare aptitude found a way to channel and shape the Source into a spell. Because they are essentially cheats and frauds, those formulas cannot vary. Like a lock, they must create a very specific key to gain access. Because a sorcerer is one with the Source, he or she can shape the Source in whatever way suits them best. We can, and often do, vary our spells however minutely every time we cast them. It is this instinctive ability we possess that makes us so powerful. Make no mistake, when a general goes into battle, he will take a battle-trained sorcerer over a wizard every time. The amount of shear destructive force a powerful sorcerer can lay down is a truly awesome thing. We don’t just know magic, we are magic.”

  Azerick absorbed this information and ran it all through his mind. “Master Devlin, I am ready to begin as soon as you are willing to teach me.”

  “Very good. You show enthusiasm without a childish, flippant attitude. We will begin in the morning. You will study under my tutelage in place of your applied magic class, and history I think. I need to bring you up to speed, and this is more important than learning about old dead wizards. I will see you tomorrow. You may go,” Azerick's new master said in dismissal.

  Azerick returned to his room, nervous about the sudden change in his life, but the knowledge that his failures in magic were not a result of his ineptitude buoyed his spirits.

  Rusty was still in class so he had the room to himself. He sat in solitude for a time pondering everything that had happened in the past couple days. He thought of the mysterious and frightening vision or dream he had. He thought about what it would mean to be a sorcerer. Thinking of that, he stretched out his hand and tried to touch the Source with his mind.

  He felt the strange tingling sensation course up his arm until he felt it all over his body. It came to him much easier than it had when he tried to touch it in the wizard way. He started moving his hand, shaping the energy from the Source into a specific purpose with his thoughts and will. He called out a word of power purely on instinct and felt the deep pleasure that controlling and releasing magical energy always brought him.

  “Hey!” Rusty shouted as he came through the door.

  Azerick opened his eyes and immediately saw that he had set Rusty’s blanket on fire. Both boys rushed to the bed, folding the blanket up and snuffing out the flames.

  “At least I only set my own stuff on fire,” Rusty complained.

  “Oh really? I didn’t realize Carrot was wearing your hat.”

  They both laughed at Azerick’s jest as well as the small accident that left a large scorch mark in the middle of Rusty’s blanket.

  “Well, at least it matches your pillow now,” Azerick teased at which both boys burst into another round of laughter. “Seriously though, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to cast anything, I was just testing something out.”

  “Like sorcery? I heard all about it! Everyone is talking about it all over the school!”

  “It’s not that big of a deal. I just hope I can do better with it that I did before.”

  “Are you kidding? You are the first sorcerer to attend this school in over a hundred years!

  “What about Master Devlin, where did he learn if not here?”

  “I heard he learned in a city somewhere out in the Great Barrens,” Rusty whispered as though he was telling a great secret.

  “That would explain the tan,” Azerick said only half-joking.

  Rusty told Azerick everything that happened in the class that day, as well as what other students were saying about what had happened. Azerick told his friend about what it felt like when he cast the lightning bolt, how he felt when he woke up, and all about his strange dream. The two friends continued talking well into the night before drifting off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 17

  The next morning, Azerick and Rusty answered the call to breakfast with their usual enthusiasm, even managing to trip each other and roll down half a flight of stairs. They sat at their table eating with a few other students that were naturally curious about Azerick’s newfound abilities and bombarded him with questions. He answered them as best he could and was in the midst of trying to explain the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer when a familiar voice spoke out.

  “I bet you think you are pretty special, don’t you? You are still a peasant and the son of a whore no matter what they call you here,” Travis said, his voice filled with scorn.

  “Leave me be, Travis!” Azerick warned as he stood and faced his tormentor.

  Azerick could see the red burn marks where his lightning bolt had burned Travis across the left side of his face and some of the exposed skin on of his friends.

  “Or what? Do you think I’m afraid of you because of some freak accident? Your whole existence is a freak accident. I can call on magic that would kill you whenever I want. This isn’t over between us, you can count on that!”

  Travis caught the eye of one of the Magus in the dining hall and walked away, leaving his threat hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

  “Don’t worry about him, Azerick, he’s all talk,” Rusty tried to assure him.

  “No, he’s not. He will do something when he thinks he has the upper hand, you can count on that.”

  After breakfast, Azerick climbed the steps of the tower where he would be learning sorcery with Master Devlin. The fluttering in his stomach increased as each step took him nearer to the unknown. Master Devlin was an intimidating teacher, and having to start all over learning a new form of magic was an emotional mixed bag.

  “Take a seat, boy, and we will get started,” the sorcerer instructed as soon as Azerick walked in the room. “Your training is going to be significantly different than what you may have been used to. For one thing, there is very little you can learn from books. For another, I can only tell you what you must do and very little on how to do it. Sorcery is unique for each sorcerer. That is one reason that wizards fear us so much. Most wizardry is rather generic, and with experience, you will be able to recognize what a wizard is going to cast as he begins to cast it because wizards cast their spells much same way no matter what spell book they prepared them from. With that knowledge, you can defend against it and brace yourself for its effect. Because a sorcerer channels and shapes his spells in a manner of his own devising, it is much harder for a wizard to know what is going to be unleashed upon him until the spell is cast.”

/>   “I think I cast a spell yesterday using sorcery. I reached out and touched the Source completely on my own without any reagents. I could feel it in my mind and in my hand. I thought about what I wanted and shaped the energy from the Source into it and released it. I didn’t actually mean to cast anything, but I did and I set my friend’s blanket on fire,” Azerick added sheepishly.

  “That is a good start, and it gives me hope that you will be more trainable than I had hoped. It was very foolish though. You know nothing of sorcery yet and even the smallest spell, when it goes awry, can cause serious harm. You must not release any more spells unless I am instructing you to do so.”

  “Yes, sir, I won’t. But how will I practice outside of class?”

  “I want you to get comfortable channeling the Source and shaping it, but you must learn to let it go, to let the spell’s energy dissipate without actually unleashing it. The first thing you must learn is how to tap the Source in the way that is most efficient for you. Some sorcerers grab it as if they are wrestling a wild beast. They use brute force to bend it to their control. Others reach out to it gently, as if they were trying to catch a soap bubble in the palm of their hand. You must discover what works best for you. Now try it, reach out and seize it, and make it yours.

  Azerick stretched out his consciousness and felt the turbulent force of the river-like Source. It threatened to sweep him away when he tried to grasp it fully. It pulled at him and tried to break away from his grasp like an animal that did not want to be caught and tamed. He grabbed it and held on with all his concentration, but when he tried to shape it in any way, it slipped from his grasp.

  “It keeps pulling away from me. The harder I try to hold it the more it resists me,” Azerick said dejectedly.

  “Then come at it from a different direction. Sorcery has no place for quitters. If one method does not work try another until you get it,” his instructor demanded.

  Azerick reached out once more, this time easing his will gently into the flow. He reached into the flowing energy with a hand that existed only in his mind. Gently he tried to hold onto the Source and pull it toward him but it slipped away again the way a leaf floating in the water will float away from your hand when you try to grab it.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts and tried once more. This time he tried to remember how he had touched the Source the day before in his room. Azerick reached out gently but firmly, holding onto the Source as if it were a physical substance. Once he had had it in his grasp, he molded it as if it were made of clay instead of trying to hammer it into shape as if it was made of stone or steel.

  The Source bent to the young sorcerer's will seemingly with an eagerness that surprised him. He knew with certainty that this was his destiny; this is who and what he was. Azerick knew now that he could never be anything else. The young sorcerer pulled more and more power to him, shaping it, commanding it. He was drunk on the power that he channeled as it flowed around and through him. At this moment, nothing else existed, no school, no death, no Magus, only him and the Source that made him invincible.

  He suddenly found himself staring up at the angry red face of Master Devlin. “Control yourself, boy! You must control the power, not the other way around. The Source will devour you in an instant if you let it. It will destroy you and anyone close to you if you let it control you. Do you think that little lightning bolt that got away from you was horrible? A sorcerer could lay an entire village flat if he were stupid enough to let the Source have its way with him!”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what was happening. It just felt so…,” Azerick tried to explain as he pulled himself up off the floor.

  He felt the right side of his face stinging and looked at the thick book in his master’s hand that he used to bludgeon his pupil back to reality.

  “You are capable of channeling great power, but you are not yet capable of controlling it. You must remember that at all times, or it will consume you. In many ways, an inexperienced sorcerer is more dangerous than a master is. Not just to an opponent, but also to himself and innocent people around him. Now compose yourself, try again, and remember what you did before; both the right and the wrong.”

  Azerick did as he was instructed, tapping into the source, holding it, forming it, controlling it, but not letting it carry him away again. By the end of the week, several of the minor spells he knew as a wizard he was able to cast as a sorcerer. He was amazed at the difference and ease at which they came to him. He was able to cast nearly twice as many spells now before fatiguing himself to the point he could not draw from the Source without rest.

  Azerick had just finished his afternoon session with Master Devlin and decided to go and watch the Martial Academy students in the sparring field. He crossed the commons and stole up to the entrance of the practice field, trying to keep out of sight. He watched the students strike and defend themselves with their weapons and shields with a bit of jealousy. As much as he loved magic, he still longed for the feel of simple melee combat, the exertion and concentration it required, and the satisfaction of feeling one of his blows finding its target.

  The hawk-eyed weapons master caught him spying on his training once again and stalked over to berate Azerick once more. “I thought I told you this area was for fighters, not for book worm spell hurlers. How would you like me to throw you to one of my wolves and let him chew on you a bit? Maybe a few bruises will help you learn your place!”

  “I would like that very much, weapons master,” Azerick replied, refusing to shy away from his scowling face.

  “Don’t you get smart with me, boy! Wizard or no, I’ll take you right out in the middle of my yard and beat you black and blue!”

  “Weapons master, I’ve sparred with him before during spring festival. He’s not bad. Will you let him practice with us?” Alex asked, coming to his friend’s rescue.

  “You think you can look a man in the eye and take his life with honest steel and not some wizard’s trick, boy?” the weapons master demanded, staring hard at the magus student.

  “I know I can, weapons master,” Azerick replied confidently.

  “I’ll have no wizard’s tricks on my field; no illusions, no fire, or magic attacks of any kind.”

  “Yes, sir, just a spell that grants me some protection no different than if I was wearing armor, if I may.”

  “As long as it isn’t unduly advantageous and it doesn’t spark or have any offensive tricks to it I’ll allow it. See, I know about you wizards and your tricks!”

  Alex gave him a wink and a clap on the back as the melee drill instructor led him into the yard to choose a weapon. He chose a staff from a rack after testing the balance and weight of a few different ones.

  “A staff is a peasant’s weapon, but I guess that is what you wizards like to tote around as well. Who wants to show this little wizardling how real men fight?” the trainer offered.

  Everyone in the practice yard was raising their hand and clamoring for the privilege of showing off for the weapons master except for Alex, who just stood with his arms folded, and a knowing grin on his face.

  “Dirk, why don’t you do us the honor of teaching this whelp the difference between a battlefield and a classroom,” the weapons master said, choosing a large boy about two years older than Azerick.

  Dirk strode arrogantly out into the center of the yard to the applause of his classmates. He was bigger and older than Azerick but not as big as Alex was. Azerick cast his armor spell and stepped out to meet his opponent amid the catcalls and jeers of the melee students.

  “This match goes until one yields, is incapacitated, or killed,” the weapons master explained.

  Azerick was sure he added the threat of death for his benefit in an attempt to frighten him. If that was so, it did not work. The weapons master stepped back as the two fighters did the same. He then gave the signal for the bout to begin.

  Azerick and his sword-wielding opponent circled each other slowly. Dirk thrust and swung his blade in a
lazy manner, taunting the younger Magus Academy student along with the crowd. Dirk did not take this fight seriously. He knew that wizards were soft and weak with no martial training at all. That was a mistake he was just seconds away from realizing.

  Dirk thrust forward with another lazy jab, but instead of another simple parry as Azerick had been doing thus far, he whipped the end of his staff up sharply, forcing the dulled blade up over the fighter’s head. Then, pivoting to the left, he swung the end of his staff, striking the older boy in the side near the kidney. Dirk arched his back in surprise and pain and Azerick pivoted again, this time to the right and struck him a blow in the stomach that doubled him up. He then took a half step back and brought the end of his staff down upon his opponent’s back, knocking him to ground.

  Azerick stepped back amongst the crowd’s howl of outrage to allow the fighter to regain his feet and his breath. Azerick looked over to his friend who gave a shrug, still standing with his arms crossed, and his smile just a bit wider.

  “Enjoy your momentary victory while you can, wizard. I’m ready for you this time,” Dirk said as he regained his feet.

  “I’m not a wizard, I’m a sorcerer,” Azerick clarified.

  Dirk just gave him a confused look and charged in swinging. Azerick parried each blow, giving ground as he fought off the larger, stronger boy’s attack. Dirk thrust forward with his blade trying to skewer him. Azerick blocked the thrust and threw the blade far to the outside, half turning his attacker around. He spun around him in the opposite direction, which placed him squarely at his opponent’s back. Azerick thrust out hard and sent Dirk to the ground once more with a shot to his left kidney.

  The injured fighter lurched forward from the blow but riposted with a vicious backhand swing that would have taken Azerick’s head off if he had not ducked and had the sword not been a dulled training blade. Azerick crouched under the desperate swing and jabbed the end of his staff into Dirk’s sternum, taking all the wind from him. Dirk measured his length in the sand and dirt of the training ground desperately trying to draw in air.