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

by Brock Deskins

  Days passed before he saw Zeb and several former members of his crew. He spied them performing mundane tasks about the tower and the surrounding 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,” he replied, having the decency to look abashed at his apparent good fortune and fine treatment.

  “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 yourself 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.

  It was at this time that Xornan glided into the room without a sound.

  Attend me, my pet, we have much to discuss, he commanded Azerick.

  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 champion.

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

  In one week, you will face a simple ogre. None knows 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 hard leather armor. Beyond that, they possessed no real additional strengths or weaknesses beyond any normal living creature.

  Azerick whiled away the rest of the week with his usual studies. 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 that 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 magical or special items are permitted. Only the innate abilities of the fighter and their choice of weapons and armor are allowed. Once you are taken under 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, the lord projected to the dwarf and glided off with two of his litter bearers towards a private entrance reserved for the elite to avoid the press of the more common rabble.

  The remaining two minotaurs stayed with the ornate palanquin as Braunlen took Azerick by the elbow and pulled him towards another gate.

  “The name’s Braunlen. What’s yours?” he asked his charge.

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

  “I’m Lord Xornan’s personal arena assistant. I provide weapons, armor, training, and management for all his fighters. I gotta tell you, you’re the smallest one he’s ever brought me. That tells me you’re either really good, or he doesn’t like you and wants to watch you die,” The dwarf said as he led Azerick through a gate and down a long ramp that ran beneath the arena.

  “He made it very clear that I am not to die. I’ll do my best to not disappoint him,” Azerick said dryly.

  “That’s good. You definitely don’t want to disappoint him. I’ve seen him do some pretty horrible things to those who disappoint him,” Braunlen said shaking his big bearded head.

  As the pair hustled down the ramp, Azerick could hear the sounds of metal striking metal, grunts and curses of men, and a general cacophony of noise up ahead. They emerged into a large chamber, the ceiling supported by several thick stone columns. The walls and ceiling were all made of stone and like the towers and grand manors, appearing to be grown instead of chiseled and set. Racks of weapons, wooden and straw training dummies, armed men, and other creatures filled the area.

  Several antechambers and passageways branched off from the main area. Inside these, Azerick spotted more weapon racks, training aids, and gladiators with whom he assumed were their trainers. From somewhere in the distance, the smell of animal pens wafted through the already pervasive and nearly overpowering smell of sweat and blood.

  “Hey, Braunlen, bringing us some fresh meat are you?” a voice called out as the dwarf led Azerick past several antechambers before p
ulling him into one that was unoccupied.

  “This is my area. This is where you’ll train and equip yourself. Go ahead and pick out your weapon of choice. If you don’t see what you need, let me know and I’ll try to get it. If I can’t get it before your fight today I’ll have it before the next one guaranteed. Assuming ya live to see another battle, that is,” Braunlen explained as Azerick examined several racks of weapons.

  Weapons of more designs than Azerick ever thought possibly existed filled racks lining an entire wall of the chamber.

  “All those weapons are top quality. I inspect and maintain every one of them myself,” he assured his young charge.

  Azerick selected a light spear that he could swing like a staff and use to stab should it prove necessary. He hefted it and brought it through a few attack routines. The steel head threw the balance off a bit and forced him to adjust his grip to compensate, but it would suffice.

  “Spear eh? Not a popular weapon for skilled fighters, but if that’s what ya want I won’t gainsay ya,” the dwarf rumbled. “You’ll be fighting Gragnoc. He’s an ogre of typical brute size and strength. He’s only had a few fights, but he’s dominated them pretty thoroughly. He’s as dumb as any ogre, but he’s a crafty fighter so don’t underestimate him. Do ya want to take some practice or spar a bit to warm up? You have at least an hour before your bout.”

  “No, I would like to just meditate and relax for a while if it is all the same to you,” Azerick answered coolly.

  “Suit yourself. You know best how to prepare yourself. I’ll be around if you need me,” Braunlen told him before ducking out of the alcove to busy himself with some task or another.

  Azerick found a simple wooden chair, sat down against the wall, and closed his eyes. He thought about his parents, how they died, how he had killed that man in the alley, the men in the guild house, his mother’s murderer, Travis, and the pirates. Was he nothing more than an instrument of death? Could he do nothing other than steal and kill?

  If that was the case, then so be it. He never asked to lose his parents, his home, or live in the streets. He never asked to be attacked by that man or Travis. He would kill this ogre, he would kill everyone and everything he faced in the arena, and then he would kill Xornan, his so-called master.

  “Hey, kid, you the one fightin’ Gragnoc?” a voice shouted, interrupting his reverie.

  He opened his eyes and stared into the face of what must have been an orc. Make that a half-orc he corrected himself. The man was big, muscular, and covered in chainmail. Small tusks sprouted up from his large jaw and curled over his upper lip causing him to slur his words a bit.

  “That is what they tell me,” Azerick replied calmly without getting up.

  The half-orc laughed uproariously at the prospect. “You think you can take him on? He’s gonna swat you with that big club of his like a fly, kid.”

  Azerick felt his temper rising. He was nearly eighteen now and he had not felt like a kid in a long time. The streets turn a boy into a man quickly—at least the ones that survive.

  “I’ll kill him,” Azerick replied, staring the pig-faced gladiator in his beady, bloodshot eyes.

  “With what? That little pig sticker?” the half-orc taunted as he looked at Azerick’s short spear.

  “No, an ogre sticker. I’ll bring a pig sticker when it’s time to kill you,” he shot back defiantly.

  The half-orc reached for his sword at the insult, bellowing his outrage. Before he could draw the heavy blade more than halfway from its scabbard, a strong, calloused hand grabbed his wrist and shoved the blade back down.

  “No fighting outside the arena, Rangor! You know the rules,” Braunlen warned the furious gladiator.

  Rangor spit on the floor before spinning around and stomping off, letting his rage out on a wooden practice dummy.

  “You sure make friends fast. Watch yourself. He may not be as big as Gragnoc, but he’s three times more skilled. He’s an experienced gladiator and a crowd favorite. Treat him with respect. You can’t judge every gladiator by their size or look.”

  “That’s good advice. I’m sure a lot of people are going to learn that lesson before long,” Azerick said darkly.

  Braunlen looked at his new gladiator for a moment, wondering if maybe he was guilty of underestimating this young man. The boy did not look like much, but he sat there as cool as can be. Sure, he handled the spear well enough, but not nearly so well to see it carry him through many bouts. It would take far more than that just to survive this first one.

  Braunlen did not care for this match up. Gragnoc was already blooded in The Games. This lad was a first timer. He should have been matched with another new human fighter, or animal, before being paired against a beast like the ogre. But, he was not in charge of such things and could only shake his head and wish the young man luck.

  Azerick’s time came as a runner informed Braunlen that his gladiator was up in a few minutes. The dwarf rousted his young charge to prepare him for his fight.

  “Up and at em, kid. It’s time,” the dwarf called to Azerick. “What kind of armor do you want?”

  “No armor,” he replied as he got to his feet and grabbed his spear.

  The dwarf could only stand and blink for several seconds as he saw the finality of the answer in Azerick’s eyes.

  “No armor. I’m surprised even though I know I probably shouldn’t be,” he muttered. “All right then, let’s go.”

  Braunlen led him up a different ramp than the one he came down. A metal portcullis stood open at the top leading directly onto the dirt floor of the stadium. The dwarf paused at the top of the ramp and turned to Azerick.

  “All right, boy, just stay nimble and don’t get hit. I wish I could offer you better advice, but I really don’t know what to tell you until I’ve seen you fight. I normally have at least a few weeks to feel out my new fighters and train them, but Lord Xornan wanted you kept a secret. I hope it was worth it—for your sake.”

  The dwarf gave him a small shove, and Azerick walked several paces into the arena. As he walked forward, he discreetly cast his armor spell. The arena was packed and the crowd cheered and jeered loudly as Azerick stepped into the open area. He watched as a huge ogre strode arrogantly into the pit from the opposite side. The crowd roared their approval as the favored gladiator entered the fighting grounds. The huge beast raised his hands and turned to the adulations of the crowd. There was about fifty yards of dirt floor separating the two combatants as they squared off.

  The ogre wore a steel breastplate, greaves, helmet, vambraces, and wielded a huge, wooden club banded at the end with iron. The creature stood nearly nine feet tall and his huge, muscle-corded arms whipped the tree limb-sized club about as if it were no more than a willow switch.

  Azerick scanned the crowds seated in the arena. The majority of the spectators were psylings, but he identified several other races in attendance as well. Abyssal elf wizards and priests, human wizards and priests, and other planar travelers Azerick could not identify by name sat eagerly awaiting the spectacle. A psyling wearing brilliant silk robes stood in a boxed area with plush seats centered on the arena floor. His voice rang out loudly in an introduction of the current fighters.

  Azerick was surprised that the announcer spoke in his own language before he picked up the telltale signs of magic lacing the announcement. He first dismissed it as no more than the magical amplification of his voice, but he quickly realized that it also translated the psyling’s words into the language best understood to the listener. He briefly wondered if it was a spell that allowed the mass translation or a magical construction built into the box seat. Then he thought it best to stop speculating on the trivial matter and focus on not being killed in the next few minutes.

  After a thunderous round of applause and cheering, the announcer raised a red silk handkerchief, and then let it drop. As soon as the fabric left his fingers and began its fluttering descent to the arena floor, the huge ogre burst into a charge at the same time Azerick
started his incantation. The speed of the brute astounded the young sorcerer. The ogre covered over half the distance between them by the time he released his spell.

  For a split second, the ear-splitting thunderclap of Azerick’s lightning bolt drowned out the roaring of the spectators. The magical attack caught the rushing ogre completely by surprise. He made no attempt to dodge the electrical bolt as it caught him fully in the chest, blackening a large scorch mark on his shiny, steel breastplate.

  What surprised Azerick even more than Gragnoc’s speed was the fact that his lightning bolt did nothing more than elicit a roar of pain and anger from the monster. The ogre did not even falter in his charge. He barreled toward Azerick and raised his club, hurling it at the spell caster before the sorcerer could launch another powerful magic attack. Azerick dodged quickly to the side, interrupting his hasty attempt to blast Gragnoc a second time.

  Azerick tumbled to his left and rolled several times, hoping to put a little space between him and his opponent. He rolled to his feet prepared to cast another spell, but the ogre decided to forego his club and kill the puny human with his massive, bare hands. Azerick tried unsuccessfully to back away when Gragnoc wrapped one hand around his thigh and the other around his throat, lifting him several feet above the ground.

  The crowd screamed its approval as the ogre tried to choke the life out of the sorcerer. Azerick gasped out the words to a short incantation and grabbed the thick wrist of the hand that was quickly cutting off the supply of air and blood to his brain. A powerful jolt of electricity shot through his hands and into Gragnoc’s arm. The shock stunned the ogre this time, forcing him to release his opponent. Azerick kicked against the metal breastplate of the ogre at the same time he felt its grip slacken, and launched himself several feet away from the stumbling monster.

  Azerick jumped to his feet and waved his hands through another complex casting. Gragnoc spun around and retrieved his fallen club. The ogre turned back to face his opponent and charged, intent on bashing the life from this puny human that dared to cause him so much pain. Azerick completed his spell as Gragnoc began his short charge and half a dozen duplicates suddenly appeared around him. His phantom images were identical in appearance and movement to himself and his opponent had no way of identifying which images were real and which were illusion.