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 was eager to tell Alex of his unexpected progress. 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 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?”
“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 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 asked.
Everyone in the practice yard raised their hand and clamored for the privilege of showing off for the Weapons Master except 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 amidst 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 didn’t work. The Weapons Master stepped back and 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 wizards were soft and weak with no martial training at all. He was seconds away from being shown the error of his ways.
Dirk thrust forward with a 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. Pivoting to the left, he swung the end of his staff and struck the older boy in the side near his kidney. Dirk arched his back in surprise and pain and Azerick pivoted again, this time to the right and struck him a blow to 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 and tried 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 jab 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 and desperately tried to draw in air.
The fallen warrior rolled onto his back, and Azerick placed the butt of his staff lightly under his vanquished foe’s throat just above the rib cage. Still lacking the breath to form words, Dirk tapped the weapon touching his throat three times as an act of submission. Azerick extended a hand to his opponent and helped him to his feet.
“You fight pretty well for a wizard,” Dirk gasped out, his hands on his knees in an effort to hold himself up.
“Sorcerer,” Azerick corrected again.
“You fight damn well no matter what you call yourself,” the gruff Weapons Master said. “I won’t tell any man no who wants to learn to fight. You come back any time, and I’ll see you get the training you need.”
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it, and I’ll definitely take you up on your offer.”
“Where did you learn to fight like that? I know they don’t teach that stuff in that Magus Academy.”
“I studied under a master named Ewen when I was younger, then it was mostly what I taught myself and learned in the streets.”
“That explains it. The streets are a tough master, but you learn quickly or you die. Trust me I know. You bring yourself back anytime. I want to see you here regular like though if you’re serious about learning how to fight like a man.”
“I will sir. I’ll be here every day if I can.”
Alex and Azerick got nearly an hour of free sparring before the bell signaling the end of classes began to toll. The melee students began dispersing, and Azerick said his farewells before returning to his school. As he walked past the stables, Travis and his friends burst out of one of the stalls where they had been lying in wait, grabbed him, and forced him back into the empty pen.
Realizing that trying to push four other boys was futile, he grabbed one by the shirt front and yanked him in the direction they were pushing, pivoted, and threw him head first into the stable wall where he slumped down to the straw-covered floor.
The other three young men shoved him up against the same wall a fraction of a second later and started raining blows on him with their fists. Azerick covered, ducked, and dodged as best he was able, even snaking out and connecting with a few quick jabs of his own, but their greater numbers soon brought him down. All four boys launched a few extra kicks after he slumped to the floor before stepping back. Travis pulled out his wand and threatened him once again.
“I told you we weren’t done, peasant. This is just the beginning. Did you think I would just forget about what you did to me? Every time you start to feel comfortable or safe, I will remind you that you are not we
lcome here. Do yourself a favor and leave The Academy, or I will kill you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday I will do it. I can take you out any time I want to, but I won’t do it right away. I want you to be afraid. I want you to wonder if today is the day I end you until I decide to actually do it. Think about that every time you see me and live in fear.”
Azerick pulled himself up off the ground as soon as they left and dusted the straw and dirt off his clothes before going back to his room. If Travis thought he could scare him, he was sorely mistaken.
“What the heck happened to you?” Rusty asked as he walked into the room.
“I was sparring with the Martial Academy guys after class.”
“Are you crazy? Those guys are all psychotic killers who love to bash each other’s brains in for fun.”
“I did fine with the sparring. It was Travis and his friends who gave me all the bruises.”
“Are you all right? You should go to the infirmary then tell the Headmaster.”
“Pfft, I’ve gotten hit harder by the floor falling out of bed. Those guys are amateurs. Try getting beat up by Hugo and his cronies. They may be as dumb as horse droppings, but they know how to work a guy over. Besides, you know the Headmaster cannot, or will not, do anything about it. I can handle it myself. What is that wand he likes to threaten people with?”
“I heard him say it was a wand of magic bolts, like the spell most of us learn early on, only more powerful.”
“Sounds unpleasant. I may have to do something about that sometime.”
Azerick avoided the troublesome group as best he could by keeping a wary eye out and varying his route when he traveled the halls just as he did on the streets. However, he still had to go to class. In alchemy class, he sat down with a glass beaker full of a caustic liquid only to find that his chair was an illusion. He fell flat on his backside and spilled the substance all over him, which ate large holes in his clothes. He returned the favor by switching the labels on some of Travis’ component jars. When he set his mixture over a flame, it started to bubble and expand, releasing a noxious odor that ended the class for the day.
Over the next few weeks, an all-out battlefront of pranks erupted. One of Azerick’s potions blew up, covering him, Rusty, and Magus Morgarum in a pink-tinted dye that took nearly a full week of scrubbing to remove. Of course, Magus Morgarum was clean the next day; a feat he did not feel inclined to share with his two sabotaged students.
Azerick found a good illusion spell in one of the library spell books. With Rusty’s help, he cast an illusion over Travis that made it appear as though he were wearing no clothing. The effect was only visible to those more than five or six yards from source of the spell, so neither Travis nor his friends were aware of the image. He looked not only nude, but also tragically underdeveloped in the manhood area and slightly overdeveloped in the breast area.
Travis and his friends crossed the commons and walked into class followed by the stares, giggles, and catcalls of every student they passed. By the time the group had made it to class, Travis was livid at not knowing why everyone was staring, pointing, and laughing. He looked at his robe, asked his friends if they saw anything wrong, and demanded to know what everyone was staring at. It was not until Magus Florent saw through the illusion and dispelled it that he became aware of the prank.
Travis repaid Azerick by making it appear as if the landing atop a flight of stairs was larger than it really was. When Azerick stepped toward what he thought was the top of the stairs, his foot fell through the illusion and he tumbled the entire way down, breaking his elbow and wrenching his knee, which had to be mended with a healing draught.
Azerick retaliated by making one of his small constructs and sent it through Travis’ window late one night. The spider-like construct skittered across the ceiling and hung above the sleeping mage’s bed. The construct looked like a spider, but its bulbous abdomen was a bladder filled with a sticky substance. The spider construct released its payload onto its unsuspecting target as he slept.
Travis awoke when the automaton poured the honey-like goo onto his head and shoulders. When he leapt from the bed, the construct released its hold from the ceiling and dropped down onto his pillow where it quickly crawled under it and exploded. The pillow burst into a cloud of feathers and down which adhered to the sticky substance, effectively tar and feathering him.
Sometimes weeks would pass before another strike and retaliation erupted. This cycle continued for the rest of the year. Sometimes Travis and his friends were able to corner him alone and pummel him, at which Azerick would stalk them individually and administer a beating of his own.
Azerick stuck to his melee training as best he could, getting in three or four days of practice a week with the Martial Academy students. Both his magical and martial skills were developing quickly, and by the year’s end he had nearly caught up to most of the students his age in the Magus Academy and could hold his own with his staff against many of the Martial Academy fighters.
He stayed at The Academy during the summer when most students went home to their families for the next two months. Master Devlin took advantage of the extra time to work him even harder in his studies. From sunrise to sunset, Master Devlin pushed him at a grueling pace, forcing him to learn as much as he could.
“Now, I want you to cast a spell at me. Tap the Source, form your spell, and release it at me,” his master instructed.
“You want me to actually attack you? I can’t, what if I hurt you?”
“There is little fear of that, Azerick. You may be clever, you may be skilled for one with as little training as you have had, but I’m certain my shield will protect me from anything you can muster,” Master Devlin responded with a laugh.
Azerick did as he was told, feeling rather foolish at his presumptuous thought. He called the power into himself, formed it, and was prepared to launch a stream of magical bolts when something interrupted him. He felt the power slip from his grasp as an object smacked him in the middle of his forehead.
“Now tell me what just happened,” his tutor said.
“You hit me with something, and it made me lose my hold on the Source,” Azerick answered rubbing at the red spot on his forehead.
“No, you allowed an external force to break your concentration. That will get you killed in a fight. You must not let anything break your focus; not pain, not sounds, nor fears. If your own mother or child was being burned to death and their screams assailed you mercilessly, you must block all of that out, or you are of no use to anyone, not even yourself. Now try again.”
Azerick began his casting once more, and again his master struck him with a small bag filled with dried beans. On his third try, he successfully sent three luminous missiles at his master. His spell struck, but the protective magic Devlin used to shield himself easily dissipated it.
“Good, now try again. As you become more focused, the method I use to distract you will get harder.”
Azerick was able to work past the distractions on most of his successive castings until his instructor hit him with the flat of a book across the shoulder. Azerick was soon too fatigued to continue casting and was still distracted by the book bashing. Master Devlin had him go through the motions of casting without channeling the Source until he could perform the movements and words without error. His master finally dismissed him for the day, battered and bruised, but with more confidence.
Azerick found Master Devlin hard and unfriendly but a good teacher. He set a pace he knew Azerick had to work hard at but was able to maintain if just barely. He never allowed his student to slack off one bit, making him repeat lessons over and over until he got it.
He was also able to find someone to spar with to practice his staff skills on occasion. By the time Rusty and the rest of the students returned, Azerick felt as though he had completed another entire year of school, which was not far from the truth.
His concentration was now sufficient that he could form and cast a spell without inter
ruption even when Master Devlin jabbed him in the thigh or shoulder nearly hard enough to draw blood. Azerick accepted his training without complaint, which he was certain pleased and impressed his teacher even though he knew Master Devlin would never say as much.
The young sorcerer was a little concerned when Devlin informed him he would need to build his concentration to the point he could take an arrow or a cut without losing focus. Azerick hoped his master would not take his training to that level, but he was not certain given Devlin’s methods thus far.
Rusty and the other students returned to The Academy and he and Azerick spent the day catching up. Azerick told Rusty about his studies and the spells he had learned, which impressed his friend quite a bit. Rusty told Azerick about his summer and how he and Colleen had shared kisses by the fountain at his home.
Travis and his goons wasted no time in harassing him once they returned. Azerick had hoped the petty rivalry would pass now that he had established himself at the school, but it seemed only to make Travis hate him even more. The pranks and fights went on week after week, month after month. Azerick developed something he liked to call a sundering spell. He used it in class to weaken the legs of Travis’ chair so that it broke apart when he sat down. Travis caught him in one of the lesser-used hallways a short time later, and he and his friends proceeded to punch and kick him.
“Remember what I said, peasant. One day I’ll be bored of you, and then you are finished. I’ll tell you this much, this is the last year you will be attending this school. I suggest you leave on your own, but if you persist in this stubbornness, I will make you leave. Dead or alive, you will leave this school.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement,” Azerick answered sarcastically.
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 32
