The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4

by Brock Deskins

  Take them to the cells below. I will indoctrinate them later. Leave this one to me, Xornan projected to his guards.

  The guards escorted the humans through a door at the base of the tower, down several twisting flights of stairs, and into the cells below. Azerick was left standing before the repulsive Xornan.

  You belong to me now, sorcerer, fully and completely. I am your master in all things. You will obey my commands, you will not attempt to flee, and you will not resist. The lives of your comrades hinges on your compliance. Do you understand?

  Azerick simply nodded in affirmation of the instructions as a human guard cut the bindings restraining his hands. Azerick rubbed his chafed wrists and looked at the creature who thought to be his master.

  “I understand,” Azerick began, “that you completely underestimate my compassion for others.”

  Azerick lashed out with a swift right cross, catching the psyling in the side of his soft, swollen cranium. The sorcerer felt the satisfying smack of yielding flesh crush deeply beneath his fist. He did not bother to stand around to witness the results of his attack, but Azerick was certain the blow caused significant if not lethal harm. He spun around on the follow-through of his swing and sprinted past the surprised guard who had cut his bonds.

  He knew that if he showed compassion for his friends the psyling would forever use them against him. Azerick would return to help his shipmates if he could, but his best chance of helping them right now was by escaping.

  Azerick dashed through the open gate of the tower courtyard and into the streets beyond. He could hear the cries of pursuit behind him as he ran blindly down the stone-cobbled avenues. He ducked down a long, narrow alleyway created by two closely built buildings and spun around when he reached the far end.

  The sorcerer paused for only a moment as several human and minotaur guards ran toward him in pursuit. Azerick unleashed a powerful bolt of lightning into the close confines of the alley with devastating effect. The narrow walls afforded no place for the hunters to avoid the strike and took the full brunt of the blast.

  Humans toppled lifelessly to the ground and minotaurs bellowed out in pain and rage and were momentarily stunned by the jolt. Azerick made another quick incantation, let loose a barrage of magic strikes into the lead brute, and dropped him to the cobbled street. He then turned and fled into the crowded streets of the city with the guards chasing him once again and bellowing for support.

  He shinnied up the pole of an awning support, clamored onto the roof of a single-story building, and fled across the rooftop. The guards followed on the streets below as Azerick leapt up, grabbed the edge of a taller building, and pulled himself onto the roof. Several guards found a stairway attached to the side of one of the buildings and now pursued him across the rooftops while a dozen more chased after him by way of the streets.

  The young sorcerer saw a gap ahead of him where another alley intersected the building he was on and the next one. He lowered his head and pumped his legs with steady determination. Azerick planted his foot on the edge of the rooftop and leapt the span between the two buildings, achieving the far roof with only inches to spare.

  He then spun around and gestured, shaping the weave while speaking out the words of magic to another spell before fleeing once again. The guards pursuing him across the rooftops hit the slick area the sorcerer had conjured up and slid over the edge of the building, many of them suffering significant injuries from the twenty-foot plunge onto the unyielding stone street.

  Azerick’s rooftop ended at the corner of a large, open plaza. He hung by his hands from the ledge and dropped into the bed of a wagon below, tumbling as he hit and rolling out onto his feet. He sprinted across the plaza to another alleyway, chased by the shouts and curses of the guards pursuing him along the streets.

  Azerick ran out onto the street and quickly scanned the area for his next route of escape. A shout from his left stripped away most of his options as another guard contingent bore down on him. He turned right and sprinted down the street as the lesser denizens of the city scuttled out of his way.

  A stabbing pain bit into the back of his left thigh, ending his headlong flight. The sorcerer tumbled to street and rolled hard across the cobblestones. He glanced down and saw the fletching of a crossbow bolt protruding from the back of his leg. He realized his chances of escape were gone now, but he would sell his life dearly before being made into the psyling’s plaything. He brought his hands up and began to prepare another spell when the twang of the crossbows sounded again.

  One bolt caught him high in the right shoulder and another low in the gut. Pain filled him like none he had ever experienced before or could have even imagined. His legs failed him, and he dropped to the cold, hard street, barely able to catch his breath. Azerick knew such a wound was lethal without swift aid from a cleric. He squeezed his eyes closed against the intense pain as tears ran down his face, as much from the pain as from anger at being beaten before he could kill the one who enslaved him.

  He forced himself to his feet with a great effort of will, determined to inflict one last blow against his attackers before death took him into its remorseless embrace. Azerick concentrated on his spell, opened his eyes to find a target, and found himself staring into the hideous face of Lord Xornan.

  Azerick found he still stood in the courtyard of the lofty tower. No wounds were evident anywhere on his body. Only a phantom pain of the memory of the attack remained. Azerick stared in uncomprehending disbelief into what he presumed to be the smiling face of the psyling.

  Excellent. I am now much more familiar with your abilities, determination, and cleverness. Now you see, sorcerer, your mind belongs to me. I know what you think as you think it. You cannot escape. You cannot oppose me. You will not attempt to escape. You will follow my orders exactly.

  The command hit him like a physical force, and his knees buckled. Azerick recognized the mental attack as being similar to what magic users call a geas spell. The target of such a spell is forced to obey the commands of the spell caster.

  I can make you experience anything I want, and you will never know it from reality. Every memory you posses is mine to use as I wish.

  Azerick was suddenly in the room of the inn he shared with his mother after Duke Ulric’s men had forced them out of their home. He stood in the corner unable to move as he watched the large, drunken sailor grab his mother and force her onto the bed. Deep down, Azerick knew it was not real, that he had not been in the room to see the attack, but the psyling manipulated his memory as he saw fit.

  Azerick’s screams went unheard as the man’s knife flashed in the light of the burning oil lamp. He felt the blood splash across his face as it jetted from his mother’s severed throat. He closed his eyes against the horrific scene. Even knowing it could not possibly be real did nothing to dampen the fear and anguish the memory produced. When he opened his eyes, he once again stood face to face with the psyling. His throat was raw from screaming and he sobbed uncontrollably.

  You see, I need never resort to anything as crude as a whip to punish you. I have far more effective methods of control. Do you understand now?

  “Why don’t you just completely control my mind if you are so powerful? Why leave me any form of resistance or freewill?” Azerick asked as he regained control of himself.

  I could dominate your mind completely, have no doubt, but I prefer my subjects to be able to think and act on their own. Within reason of course. This is why I have placed those basic commands in your mind. An arena fighter in particular needs to be able to think clearly and independently in order to function at their most effective levels. You also have a strong mind and spirit. It amuses me to watch your futile efforts at resistance and thoughts of vengeance.

  Azerick was furious at his impotence to resist the psyling’s power and the creature’s usage of his most private and painful memories. He would resist him somehow. Somehow, someday, he would make this creature pay, he vowed.

  Yes, that’s it. Use
that anger, your hatred of me in The Games. Unleash your awful power against your foes for me.

  “What do I call you? I don’t think you would care for me to just call you brain sucker,” Azerick asked, trying to ignore the psyling’s taunting.

  I am known as Lord Xornan, but you will call me master.

  “The hell I will, you brain-sucking, overgrown leech!”

  At least that is what his mind said. What actually came out was a simple “yes master.” His inability even to curse this creature made him even more furious.

  You are most certainly proving to be amusing. Come, slave, I will show you to your quarters. You are fortunate. As my favorite pet, I will afford you luxuries far beyond that of your friends. Keep in mind my previous warning about their continued good health. You claim not to care overmuch about them, but your mind betrays you. It would be a shame if your disobedience were to blame for my selecting one of them for my feeding. Particularly the ones named Zeb or Balor.

  The sorcerer shuddered at the image of Xornan feeding on his friends’ brains. The psyling lord led him inside of the vast tower. Opulent furniture with soft velvet-upholstered chairs, couches, and sedans furnished the main floor along with massive glittering chandeliers, gold inlaid murals, and marble floors. A grand circular staircase wound along the wall up to the upper levels of the tower.

  Azerick followed his master up several flights of stairs before stopping in front of a sturdy wooden door. Xornan opened the portal with a gesture and stepped through. The room was simple, resembling Magus Allister’s chambers at the Academy but with nicer furniture, carpets, and stonework.

  This is your room. You may explore the tower, although some areas are blocked to your passage. I will show you to the library shortly where you will find many tomes to assist you in your magical studies.

  The evil creature’s generosity surprised Azerick, but the creature quickly corrected his assumption.

  My aid in your studies is purely selfish, I assure you. I plan to make a great deal of money, and more importantly prestige, from your battles in The Games. It is the only purpose you serve. Should you do well and please me, I may find further use for you. Should you cause me to lose gold or status, your usefulness and my hospitality ends. Come.

  The psyling led him up another flight of stairs. The next landing opened directly into a spacious room lined with shelves filled with books.

  You are free to use the library, take books to your room, or visit the kitchens should you require sustenance, but you are not to leave the tower for any reason unless under my direction. I have a laboratory located in the sub levels of my tower that I will show you. You are free to use the equipment therein so long as it does not interfere with your combat studies. I will leave you now to see to my other duties and arrange your first bout. Ensure that you are prepared.

  The young sorcerer stared at the vast library in awe. The promise of unlimited study surprised and pleased him, but no matter the gilding, a cage was still a cage, and he would be no one’s willing slave. He scanned the rows of shelves and found the books arranged by subject. Most were in foreign languages and completely incomprehensible to him, but many were written in his own tongue as well as the language of magic.

  Azerick picked several books largely at random and sat down to read by the light of the numerous glowing globes sprouting from the walls of the library and the rest of the tower like luminous pimples. He would study, he would learn, and he would one day destroy the creature who dared to be his master.

  Days passed before he saw Zeb and several former members of his crew. He spied them performing mundane tasks in and around the tower grounds. Some were given the duties of guards, others gardeners, and servants. He found Zeb overseeing a group of his men scrubbing and polishing the marble floor of the grand entrance level.

  “Zeb, it is good to see you are well,” Azerick shouted as he descended the stairwell.

  “Aye, well enough, but not so well as yourself from the looks of it,” his friend and former captain replied, looking at his finely woven clothing.

  “Yeah, I guess so. That brain sucker has me pampered like a prized hunting hound.”

  “Don’t feel no shame in that, lad. We brook no resentment for ya. From the sounds of it, you’ll be earning whatever luxuries are afforded ya. Heard you’ll be fighting in some big arena. You watch yourself and keep safe. The only fair fight is the one you win. You remember that now. No matter who or what you face, it’s his life or yours.”

  “I’ll remember, Zeb. How are you and the men being treated?”

  “Fine enough. We’re fed, not abused, and given a bunk, but that creature’s messed with our minds. He’s sapped any desire to flee or fight him. I don’t really understand it myself. Ain’t seen one of my men since we came here neither. I don’t like to think about what may have happened to him,” Zeb said with a shudder.

  Azerick knew as well as Zeb what likely happened, but lord Xornan glided into the room without a sound, instantly cutting off all conversation.

  Attend me, my pet. We have much to discuss.

  Azerick followed his master up the stairs and into a well-furnished study. The room had a fire blazing in a massive stone hearth. The flames flickered and danced like ballerinas within the stone stage with no sign of wood or any other fuel source. Paintings and statues adorned the walls, and plush high-backed chairs sat back from the radiating fire.

  I have arranged your first bout. If you are successful, you will fight many more. I have the utmost confidence in this first match. He is a simple brute and has no chance against your magic. It is only an exhibition to introduce you to The Games and gain a ranking. After that, much gold and prestige will be wagered. As you progress, the stakes, as well as the difficulty of your foes, will increase. I expect nothing less than your attaining the rank of Grand Champion.

  “I imagine the only alternative is death. When is my first bout?”

  In one week. You will face a simple ogre. None know of your magic-wielding abilities as of yet, so even on this match I stand to make a decent profit. And you are correct; you will win or you will die. It is quite simple.

  Lord Xornan dismissed Azerick with a simple, wordless thought. He returned to the library to pass the time studying. He found a book on ogres and read everything he could about the creature he would be facing. There was very little in it that afforded him any useful knowledge. Ogres were big, rather stupid, foul tempered, and extremely strong. They had skin as strong as leather armor. Beyond that, they possessed no real additional strengths or weaknesses beyond any normal living creature.

  There was little Azerick could accomplish in a week, so he whiled away the time with his usual studies and focused on tactics. On the day of the event, Xornan sent a human slave to fetch him. The man led him out to the courtyard where his master awaited him in his palanquin.

  You will ride with me as a pet of special privilege.

  Azerick climbed into the large palanquin, which was hoisted up onto the shoulders of four minotaurs as soon as he entered the silk-covered transport. If the load strained the huge creatures in the least, they did not show it. They carried the loaded litter as easily as a man might shoulder a sack of flour.

  Azerick was uncomfortable sitting in such close proximity to the foul creature. Its puckering mouth, clacking mandibles, and distinctive smell unnerved and repulsed him. Once the palanquin was underway, Xornan provided his pet with his instructions.

  Once we arrive at The Games, I will occupy my seat in the arena as befits a lord and owner of a gladiator. One of my minions will lead you below where you will remain until it is your turn to do battle. Once it is your turn to fight, you will be led up a ramp to the surface to stand within the fighting grounds. You will face off against your opponent at a distance of a few score of yards. This will give you an enormous advantage to strike first.

  Once the Master of Games announces you, he will drop a cloth as a signal to commence the battle. This is a standard match. No mag
ical or special items are permitted. Only the innate abilities of the fighters and their choice of weapons and armor are allowed. Once you are taken beneath the arena, I want you to select a weapon from the ones provided. This will give the appearance that you are just a typical fighter brought in for slaughter. This will provide me with several last-minute bets and increased wagering odds. You will not fail me.

  “No, master, I won’t,” Azerick replied, nearly choking on the word.

  It was not a question.

  CHAPTER 3

  The palanquin smoothly navigated the streets of the city, borne on the shoulders of the four huge minotaurs who kept perfect step with one another, creating a smoother ride than any coach could achieve. It took about twenty minutes to reach the enormous stadium. The denizens of the city already congested the streets as they converged on the arena for the big event.

  Master and slave came to a halt outside one of the arena entrances. A stout dwarf ran up as Azerick and Xornan climbed out of their transport. The dwarf wore a woven, blue linen shirt, broad leather belt secured with a large silver buckle, brown leather pants, and hobnailed boots. His black hair swung in a ponytail and his thick black beard flapped in the wind as he ran up.

  “Master Xornan!” The dwarf came to a halt and bobbed several bows, “Your seat is waiting and everything is prepared for your entrant. Um, is this it?” he asked looking questioningly at the young sorcerer.

  Yes, Braunlen, do take good care of him.

  Xornan glided off with two of his litter bearers toward a private entrance reserved for the elite to avoid the press of the common rabble. The remaining two minotaurs stayed with the ornate palanquin as Braunlen took Azerick by the elbow and pulled him toward another gate.

  “The name’s Braunlen. What’s yours?”

  “Azerick,” the sorcerer replied shortly, not in the mood to supply any more small talk than necessary.