“You had best check your calendar, orc. My day may be coming, but it is not today.”
“We’ll see, spell slinger, we’ll see.”
“Ignore him, kid,” Braunlen told him. “Fact is he is more than a might nervous if you ask me.”
“What makes you think that? He seems pretty confident to me.”
“I’ve watched him for a while now. The look in his eyes and the way he moves is different. You got him rattled, no doubt about it, but don’t think for a second this is going to be an easy fight. You stay on your toes and be ready for anything.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“It had better be your best, or it will be your last. Now let’s get you out there.”
Since Azerick was the lower ranking gladiator, he once again entered the arena first. He immediately noticed the stadium was packed, and a larger percentage of those in attendance were richly dressed psylings.
He spotted Lord Xornan sitting in a box seat next to another psyling. Both appeared stiff with an air of artificial or forced cordialness. Rangor entered the arena to a cacophony of applause and cheers rivaling his opponent’s. If the ovation was greater than Azerick’s, the difference was so minimal it went unnoticed.
Unlike his other bouts, an official of some kind stood in the exact center of the fighting grounds and called the two combatants to him. He or she, Azerick could not tell the difference, signaled to the fighters to take a position in a chalked circle about fifty feet apart. The close range put Azerick at a severe disadvantage. He wondered if Xornan had agreed to this in order to drive up the stakes.
He quickly cast his armor spell as he stepped into the circle. The crowd cheered once more as Rangor raised his arms and bellowed loudly. The half-orc wore a full suit of piecemeal plate armor and wielded a wickedly sharp broadsword in his right fist. Strapped on his left forearm was a heavily embossed round shield about two feet across. The shield was made of a silver metal nearly as reflective as the ring Azerick wore on his right hand.
Once the two combatants were in their circles, the official strode purposefully across the arena floor and took his place in one of the box seats through a cleverly hidden section of wall that swung out to allow him passage. As soon as he mounted the raised platform, he lifted a brightly colored swatch of silk and let it fall to the arena floor.
The moment it dropped, Rangor charged with incredible speed, covering more than half the distance before Azerick was able to release his lightning bolt. The big half-orc was ready for the attack, nimbly dodged to the side, and rolled back to his feet without breaking stride.
Azerick gaped in astonishment at Rangor’s speed and agility and was barely able to duck the lethal sword that whistled over his head. Before he could recover, Rangor slammed his shield into the young sorcerer’s side, sending him flying and numbing his left arm so badly he nearly lost his grip on his spear. Only his new bracelets and shield spell saved him from a debilitating injury.
Azerick rolled to his feet and spouted a quick word of magic, and half a dozen duplicates of himself sprang into view. Rangor lunged at him with his inhuman swiftness and cleaved one of the duplicates in half. Instead of charging blindly at his antagonist, Rangor turned his shield toward Azerick and grinned as he looked into the reflection on its shiny surface. Azerick saw himself reflected in its surface but not his illusory images.
Rangor charged at the real Azerick who had to tumble once more to the side to avoid the blow. Fortunately, even though Rangor could see through Azerick’s spell using his shield, the awkward sighting threw his aim off enough for the sorcerer to dodge the attack. However, fatigue would quickly sap Azerick’s strength if he had to keep running and dodging the entire battle.
Azerick sprang to his feet and launched a stream of magic, dagger-shaped missiles at his foe. He was once again shocked to see the huge half-orc raise his shield and block every one of the magical bolts.
Impossible! Azerick thought to himself as he watched his spell blocked and Rangor stride toward him laughing triumphantly.
“I know your tricks, wizard! Now what are you going to do without your precious magic to protect you?”
“I guess I will just have to kill you the old fashioned way,” Azerick replied much more calmly than he felt.
The truth was that Azerick was very concerned for his chances in this battle just now. He had his new spell, but if he tried it prematurely, surprise would be lost and Rangor would know all his tricks.
Azerick jabbed at him with his spear quick as a striking snake, but a spear was a poor weapon against a well-trained swordsman. Rangor deflected the thrust with his shield and lashed out with his sword, destroying another of Azerick’s illusionary copies.
The half-orc cursed the inconvenience and once again used his shield to sight in on his opponent’s true position. Azerick spun the butt of his spear like a staff, striking at Rangor’s large, tusked head. The half-orc interposed his shield between the shaft and his head and struck out with his sword once more. Azerick ducked under the blade and swung the other end of the spear around low, catching the half-orc on the side of his right knee.
Rangor was more angry at being struck than suffered any real injury and flew into a frenzy, lashing out wildly until none of Azerick’s duplicates remained.
“There, now we can fight like real men. At least I can. I don’t know what you call yourself, boy.”
“At least I’m not a slab of pork just waiting to be sliced and smoked. Tell me, who was the pig and who was the human in your parents’ bestial coupling?”
“I’m going to take my time killing you, boy, and I’ll enjoy every second of it! I’m going to cut you up, make you bleed, make you—”
“Squeal like your mother?” Azerick finished for him.
Rangor charged forward with a roar of outrage and swung wildly. Azerick ducked and dodged the furious blows and waited for his opening. The sorcerer stooped under the enraged half-orc’s wild swing and jabbed his spear deep into Rangor’s side just above the hip where the top of the thigh plate and the bottom of his breastplate left a vulnerable opening in the armor.
Rangor slammed his shield into Azerick’s chest and face, knocking him to the ground. The half-orc took a step back and surveyed the wound above his hip. Deciding it was not immediately critical, he advanced with renewed caution as Azerick regained his feet. Blood streamed from the sorcerer’s nose where the shield had smashed him in the face. He spit out a wad of blood and his teeth were painted red from where they had cut into the inside of his lip.
Azerick dropped back into a guard position as Rangor stalked in, sword swinging in short arcs before him. The sorcerer made three quick thrusts with his spear; two high and one low, but his opponent easily blocked them with his shield and slapped them away with his sword. The half-orc deflected his last thrust wide and darted in before Azerick could bring his spear back around to defend himself.
Rangor’s broadsword took him low in the side, piercing all his defenses, and cutting deeply. Azerick retreated as swiftly as he could. He felt the warm blood running down his side and quickly soaking his shirt and breeches. His hand came away covered in blood when he pressed it against the wound. Rangor relished toying with his opponent when he knew he had the upper hand in a barely contested battle.
Azerick rattled off the words to another spell, but the half-orc easily dodged to the side with his impossible swiftness and agility. Azerick realized he must possess a magical item that greatly enhanced his speed. With an evil grin of triumph, Rangor charged back in with a flurry of blows. It took all the skill Azerick possessed to ward off the blows, but the half-orc’s strength and his rapid loss of blood was quickly exhausting him.
Azerick spotted an opening, thrust with his spear, and tried to take his opponent low in the gut. Rangor’s tusked smirk grew wider as he watched the foolish spellcaster take the bait and fall into his trap. He brought his shield down hard and fast, driving the point of Azerick’s spear into the ground between his
large, booted feet. He stomped his heavy boot down on the wooden shaft and stripped the weapon from his opponent’s hands.
The big half-orc lunged forward at the same instant and plunged his blade deeply into the sorcerer’s right upper chest. Azerick felt the steel slide between his ribs. He backpedaled furiously as blood instantly filled his mouth from the wound that was far more serious than his split lip. He kept stumbling back, trying to put as much distance between him and the creature that had just inflicted the mortal wound.
Azerick pressed his hand against the hole in his chest and felt the air escaping in a frothing gurgle every time he inhaled. Rangor basked in the crowd’s adulation, raising his sword and shield to the thundering applause. He pointed his sword at the retreating sorcerer as the crowd chanted for him to kill the human.
“Are you ready to die now, wizard?” Rangor taunted.
Azerick pressed the tip of his nose up with the finger of one hand to give him the impression of having a pig nose and flashed a crude gesture with the other. The half-orc’s face burned with rage, and he charged forward with his magically enhanced speed. Azerick pulled together every bit of concentration he possessed and wove what could be the last spell of his life. Rangor brought his shield in front of him to block whatever spell was coming his way.
The half-orc was almost on top of him when Azerick released the pent up energies within him. Long, triangular stone spears four to five feet long erupted from the ground directly in front of the charging half-orc. The stone protrusions looked like long obelisks jutting out of the earth away from the caster and tapering to a point as sharp as any spear. They covered the ground between Azerick and his opponent in a field ten feet wide by ten feet deep.
Unable to react to the unexpected obstacle, Rangor impaled himself on several of the needle-sharp spears. The half-orc looked down at his wounds then back at Azerick in confusion. The crowd stared on in silence at the stone spikes piercing the half-orc’s chest, stomach, and legs.
Azerick staggered but managed to stand up straight and faced his vanquished foe. He raised his arm and unleashed a lightning bolt straight into Rangor’s face, blasting him free of the spears holding him upright. The last of his energy spent, Azerick collapsed into a heap before he could hear the crowd erupt into a cacophony of cheers, clapping, and pounding feet.
***
General Baneford sat in his command tent, one among the three dozen erected in a small clearing miles from any road or town, and warmed himself next to the small, iron field stove. General Baneford was a man of unquestioning loyalty, but lately he found he was developing some sincere doubts as to the efficiency and viability of his orders.
He and his men had been chasing rumors of the locations of Dundalor’s armor for the past few years without pause. The last piece, a pair of glossy black and gold-filigreed greaves, they located in the midst of a hellish swamp rife with quicksand, sinkholes, mosquitoes, and highly territorial barbarians. He lost a dozen men and seven horses on that mission. Five to the barbarians, five to bogs and sinkholes, and two to a basilisk that added two men and one of their mounts to a rather impressive collection of exceedingly lifelike statues of barbarians and other local fauna.
That was over a year ago, and Duke Ulric’s missives had been expressing his growing impatience with his General’s slow progress more and more. It was enough to drive a man to drink, and his professionalism and sense of duty rarely allowed him to drink while in the field. He was now in the midst of a dense forest following a rumor about some crazy hedge wizard who allegedly knew the location of one of the pieces he sought. He and his men had been scouring these cursed woods with their thick brambles that left burs in the horses’ tails and manes for the past two months without a sign of another living soul, unless you counted the orc bands.
Do orcs have souls? The General guessed they must, but he hardly counted them amongst the useful races and disregarded their presence except for increasing the guard roster. So far, they had shown little interest in attacking the well-armed band under his control, for which he was grateful. He had had his fill with the barbarians’ hit and run ambushes last year to last him for some time yet to come. A tapping on the doorpost alerted him to someone outside his tent.
“Sir, a messenger has arrived from the Duke,” one of his guards informed him.
“Very well, send him in,” General Baneford replied with a sigh that expressed his lack of anticipation for whatever the Duke had to say.
The tent flap was thrown open, but due to the double, light-disciplined vestibule, he saw only the inside of the outer flap of his tent when the messenger entered. The young rider gave the General a sharp salute before and after handing over the wax-sealed parchment. Out of habit, General Baneford studied the seal and impressed crest for signs of tampering or forgery before breaking the seal and reading the contents.
General,
Due to the inordinate amount of time you seem to be taking to accomplish the simple acquisitions duty I have assigned you, I have taken it upon myself to seek outside help in locating of the items of interest to me. My sources, which are costing me a great deal of gold should you be interested in such a triviality, have informed me that one of the items I desperately seek is located in a monastery high in the Witch Crag Mountains in a hidden vale between two of the highest summits in the range.
Since I do not wish to over-tax your limited imagination, I have included a crude map that even you should be able to follow. Since I have done everything but have the item placed directly into your hands, I pray you will be able to accomplish this task before I am too old and feeble for them to do me any good. I have sent the courier with a stipend of seven-hundred fifty gold crowns so you do not have the excuse of lacking the means to acquire provisions or information. Report to me immediately upon the success of your mission or do not report to me at all. I would consider any further failure as a possible act of subversion or treason.
Subversion, treason; how could Ulric even consider such a thing? He had earned his rank through years of loyal service and commendation during the border wars with Sumara and largely ridding the kingdom of the cross-border, marauding nomads prowling the southern deserts like packs of jackals.
I need a drink, General Baneford said to himself and rummaged through a trunk where he eventually came up with a small bottle of liquor he often carried to help loosen the tongues of certain guests. He was breaking one of his own cardinal rules, but the way he felt right now more than justified it in his mind. Treason! Preposterous! As if any other general could have held these men together and accomplished the tasks they had achieved, and without a single desertion or mutiny!
The General downed the small glass of amber liquid and felt his nerves calm almost immediately as the alcohol burned a path to his stomach and spread warmth throughout his innards. He looked at the still nearly full bottle, and with a shrug, poured himself a second glass. He would sit and relax for the rest of the day before moving out at first light for the frozen reaches of the Witch Crag Mountains.
General Baneford ordered one of his lieutenants to pass along the movement orders to the men. They would be prepared to ride before first light. They were good soldiers, loyal and professional. The General smiled to himself as he thought about the men who followed him; him, not that blowhard Duke who does not know how to treat those who are worthy and loyal. He would never treat his men with such contempt. They had earned his respect and admiration just as he had earned theirs. They were good men, and they were his men.
He had never allowed such disrespectful thoughts to enter his head before. They almost bordered on treason. He knew in that instant something had changed inside him. It would definitely be a good time to retire when all this sordid business was finished. General Baneford chuckled at his own thoughts as he sipped at another three fingers of whiskey. A blowhard—that was all Ulric was. He was just a man with money and the power money can buy.
Yes, things were definitely changing. He wondered how much
. He decided he would complete his mission, his own sense of duty required it, but this would be the last one. Whether Ulric got his crown or not, once he handed over the armor, he was retiring and that was that.
“What an ass,” the General said aloud and laughed before stifling his mirth to a chuckle as he sipped at his drink.
CHAPTER 5
Azerick awoke with a gnawing in his stomach, a dry mouth, and a great deal of pain. He turned his head and saw Delinda, apparently asleep, in a chair near his bed. She must have sensed his return to consciousness because her eyes opened as he looked at her.
“Azerick, you’re awake!” she cried and nearly fell out of her chair as she rushed to his side. She pressed her small hand against his cheek and kissed his lips. “I was so worried. I gave you the healing potion we made and it closed your wounds, but you had already lost so much blood by the time Lord Xornan brought you back.”
Azerick touched the wound on his chest and winced in pain.
“The potion stopped the bleeding and closed the wound, but it did not come close to completely healing it,” she explained. “I have been giving you the fast heal potion as best I could in the meantime, but it is such a horrible injury. I did not know if it would be enough.”
Azerick reached up and wiped away the tears streaming freely down her cheeks. Delinda took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.
“I prepared another healing draught, but it will not be ready for at least two more days. You have been asleep for nearly four days now.”
Azerick pointed to a pitcher on the small table next to his bed. “Oh of course, I’m so sorry.” Delinda filled a cup halfway full with water from the pitcher.
The water was a welcome relief to his parched throat even though he coughed a large amount of it back up onto his chest. He sipped at it more slowly as his beloved tilted it up to his lips.
“You must be hungry. Do you think you could eat something?”
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 43
