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

by Brock Deskins

  “Now tell us exactly what happened,” Headmaster Dondrian said.

  Travis stepped forward before Azerick had a chance to explain and began to speak.

  “Sir, my friends and I had gone to see the younger pupils to see how they enjoyed the festival and if they all got to see the men on stilts passing out candy. We thought we also might see if any of them, including the peas…, uh, Azerick needed any tutoring, but when we asked how the kids made out he attacked us. I guess the younger kids were caught up in the excitement. Maybe they thought it was a game or something, and started casting cantrips and throwing things at us,” he smoothly lied.

  “Azerick, did you incite the younger pupils to attack Travis and his friends?” the Headmaster asked.

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “Did you cast an offensive spell at them?”

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “Did Travis or any of his friends attempt to take anything from the other students?”

  “They were going to.”

  “Are you an augurist, Azerick?”

  “No, sir, but…”

  “Then you cannot tell me what they were going to do. So, on your command you incited several students to attack another student without provocation.” Headmaster Dondrian looked at Travis. “Did you or any of your friends cast an offensive spell or attack any of the other students in any way?”

  “No, sir, we didn’t cast any spells or hit any of them. They’re just little kids, and Azerick was hiding behind them where we couldn’t get to him to try and make him stop,” Travis said, once more using half-truths.

  “Headmaster, they told the kids to make sure they all brought in their candy a just few days before the festival, or else.”

  “I was just telling them to look for the stilt walkers because they give out candy, and I didn’t want them to miss it,” Travis readily replied.

  “Ask the other students, they’ll tell you that they were bullying them and taking things from them,” Azerick insisted.

  “Of course they will. Azerick is older and they are very impressionable. They look up to him and he uses that to confuse them into mistaking our intentions so that he can remain in control. He’s a dictator and he’s drunk on power,” Travis said, his lies gaining momentum and coming more and more easily.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Headmaster Dondrian said. “Azerick, you will be moved to an age appropriate class immediately. You will just have to make an effort on your own to catch up. You will also clean the stables every day after class for the next two weeks. Travis, you and your friends are not go into the novice’s classroom or area again. Is that understood?”

  All of the boys replied that it was and was marched out of the Headmaster’s office. Azerick paused outside the door to collect his thoughts while Travis and his friends went on their way and Magus Bauer returned to her students.

  Azerick started wondering if this was all worth it. Life was almost easier on the streets. He was answerable to no one there; all he had to do was survive. But was surviving living? He loved the feeling of the magic coursing through him and from him when he cast even his meager spells. How much more exciting would it be once he learned to channel even greater power? Would he ever learn how? He loved magic, but the way they were teaching him just felt so unnatural to him. He heard snickering coming from behind the headmaster’s closed door.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Dondrian, I rather enjoyed seeing that brat, Travis, put in his place. And by a group of first and second year novices at that,” Azerick heard Magus Allister chuckle.

  “The boy certainly has leadership skills and the ability to use what he knows to its maximum potential. However, I am concerned as to his progress,” replied Headmaster Dondrian.

  “I think the boy has made terrific progress considering the short length of time he has studied.”

  "Normally I would agree, but when put into perspective of your description of his abilities and the speed at which he learned what he knows now, there just does not seem to be any further progression of a measurable quality.”

  “I’m sure it is just temporary. Many students get hung up until they discover their own rhythm and method and not just the mechanics of casting that are taught to them.”

  Magus Allister wished he felt as confident as he sounded. In truth, he was completely vexed at his young protégé's lack of improvement.

  “I hope you are right. My reputation is on the line every bit as much as yours, you know. And if he keeps causing trouble with the powerful families of the students, it is going to be very hard to continue to shelter him without good reason,” the Headmaster said dejectedly.

  “Give him more time. We will put him in class with his friend and other students his own age. Perhaps that will help him come along. By the way, did you hear about the incident that young Azerick and Franklin got into during the festival?" the Magus asked, a small grin spreading across his wrinkled face.

  “With the street thugs?” Headmaster Dondrian asked.

  “Indeed, a nice bit of magic use there I should say,” Allister complimented.

  “Is it true Franklin set a man’s head on fire?” Dondrian asked.

  “That is what I heard. Fire always was his forte, you know. It is surprising he was able to compose himself enough to cast it successfully. Just like the novices, it would seem his friend’s presence was enough to give him the confidence he needed.”

  “A born leader,” Headmaster Dondrian mused. “If he ever does come fully into his power, he will certainly be a force to be reckoned with."

  Azerick slowly made his way back to his room, pondering the words of Magus Allister and the Headmaster. He decided to take his punishment and continue his studies. He would work harder and study more to learn everything he could. Learning had always come easy to him and he would not buckle under pressure the first time a subject actually challenged him.

  Rusty was brewing up some concoction in his alchemic set when he walked into the room. Azerick had told him he could help himself to it as long as he was careful not to damage it.

  “What are working on?” Azerick asked his friend.

  “Well, I was working on the pain potion you made before but I couldn’t get it right, so I’m making cocoa instead. Want some?”

  “Thanks, I could use it.”

  “You look a bit out of sorts. Is everything okay?" Rusty asked, concerned for his friend.

  “Remember what I told you Travis and his friends were going to do?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. What happened?”

  Rusty was rolling on the floor laughing when Azerick described the pandemonium that ensued and how the novices dominated their older and more experienced foes.

  “Now I have to muck out the stables every day after class, but on the bright side they’re moving me to the apprentice’s class so you can help me.”

  “That’s great! I’m sure together we can get you past this block and have you casting new spells in no time,” Rusty exclaimed enthusiastically.

  Rusty showed Azerick to his new class the next morning. All of the students were around his age, which made him feel a bit more comfortable until Travis and his friends walked in the room. They shot hate-filled glares at Azerick from their desks a few rows over.

  The teacher came in and started his lecture on magic fundamentals. Azerick was able to comprehend most of what the teacher was talking about and felt comfortable with his new class. However, his next class was in applied magic where he would actually have to practice and cast his spells.

  No matter how the Magus explained it to him, he just could not seem to apply what the mages taught him. It seemed off to him, like trying to write with his off hand. Travis laughed at him as many of his spells went awry or just fizzled out to no effect at all.

  He had far better results I his next class. His face lit up at once as he entered the classroom full of glass beakers, stone mortar and pestles, and alchemic glassware of every kind. Azerick already knew most of what the
Magus was teaching so this time it was Azerick helping Rusty with his coursework and laughing at Travis' mistakes.

  Today’s project was to make a thick red smoke that was used to obscure movements in battle, signaling others, or just putting on displays. Azerick and Rusty burst into a laughing fit when the Magus had to clear the classroom because Travis used skunk moss instead of red creeping moss and filled the room with a noxious green cloud.

  “This, boys and girls, is why it is important to know your ingredients by sight, smell, touch, and taste instead of just relying on the bottle's label,” Magus Morgarum instructed.

  Azerick liked Magus Morgarum, his alchemic instructor, from the start. He was a short pudgy man who always wore a friendly smile. It was obvious that he had a passion for alchemy and enjoyed passing his knowledge on to his students.

  Azerick continued his day attending history, writing, and mathematics classes, all of which he excelled in. Only the applied magic course was holding him back, but that was the most important class to him and his incomprehension bothered him. He was embarrassed at every failed spell and mistake he made. He dwelled on this as he made his way to stables to start working off his punishment.

  The stables were just as he remembered them although the first time he was here he had not bothered to notice how much waste the horses produced. One of the stablehands that had been told to expect him and immediately gave Azerick a shovel, showed him where to start shoveling, and where to dump the wheelbarrow when it was full. He could hear the other stablehands shoveling at the far end of the stables and started scooping the horse dung into the wheelbarrow.

  Azerick was pushing his fourth load toward the huge pile behind the stables when his wheelbarrow suddenly shifted and spilled out onto the stable corridor floor. With a sigh, he righted the cart and bent down to scoop up the mess.

  As he leaned over his shovel, the entire pile exploded upwards, pummeling him with the semi-hard dung balls. He turned toward the sound of great fits of laughter and saw Travis and his friends pounding their knees and pointing at him. Azerick impotently hurled a horse apple at the group as they walked off still laughing but to no effect.

  Azerick finally finished for the day and headed back to his room.

  “Oh pew!” Rusty cried out as the dung spattered Azerick walked in. “What happened? Did you haul the dung in your arms or what?”

  “It was Travis. He did something that made my barrow tip and when I bent over to scoop it up the whole pile blew up in my face.”

  “Oh man, I wish I could have seen that!” Rusty said, bursting out into laughter. “That’s a good one.”

  “Hey! Whose side are you on?” Azerick demanded.

  “Yours of course, but you have to admit that was pretty funny.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Azerick chuckled. “I just hope they’re happy with their revenge and leave me alone now."

  He kept a wary eye out, constantly looking over his shoulder for signs of ambush. Once, when his cart tipped on him, he hoisted his shovel and ran down the stable passage looking for any sign of ambush but did not finding anyone other than the confused looking stablehands. He wrote it off as just an imbalanced load and paranoia. As he put away his shovel and cart he could hear the unmistakable sounds of steel clashing on steel and followed the din toward the Martial Academy’s training ground.

  He peered into a large courtyard where dozens of boys and young men were watching several groups of padded students practicing their melee skills. The weapon master was shouting instructions as each student tried to bash through the other’s defenses with dulled blades. Azerick started thinking of Ewen, his old fighting instructor, hoping he was still doing well. His thoughts took him back to the pleasant memories of the old salt’s friendly insults and instructions. He did not realize how much he missed his martial training until now. His reverie was broken a moment later by someone shouting at him.

  “Hey, you, what are you doing here?” shouted the weapons master now stalking toward him.

  “Me?” Azerick stammered, pointing at himself.

  “Yes you. Are you a student here?”

  “No, sir, I mean yes, sir.”

  “Well, which is it, yes or no?” he demanded as several students now laughing at his discomfiture.

  “I’m a student at the Magus Academy, sir,” Azerick explained.

  “Magus Academy! This is where real men learn to fight, boy. They don’t just wiggle their fingers at people. These boys fight, sweat, bleed, live, and die by their own skill or lack of it, not just wave their arms and hurl lightning bolts at people. Go on back to your books, boy, and leave the fighting to real men.”

  Azerick turned his back on the weapon’s master and stalked off humiliated and angry, laughter from the fighters rolling off his hunched shoulders.

  I do not belong with them, I do not belong with the mages, and I do not really belong on the streets either. So where do I belong? He thought as he walked back to his room.

  For several weeks, it seemed that Travis had decided they were even and Azerick had no more run-ins with the group of snobs other than a few snide remarks and insults. Every day after class, he continued his chore of mucking out stables and snuck over to the practice grounds at the Martial Academy to watch the students spar. He was careful not to allow anyone to see him, but occasionally someone spied him watching and sent him off.

  Spring festival with the accompanying spring break was upon them. All of the students went home to their families for two weeks of vacation and celebration. Azerick decided he would stay at The Academy and practice his spellcasting. Today he was in his room practicing when someone knocked on the door.

  “It’s open,” Azerick replied to knock at his door.

  Magus Allister with his familiar grey, scruffy beard and food-stained robes stood framed in the doorway then entered the room.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” the old mage said.

  “No, not at all. I’m just practicing my casting.”

  “I hear that you practice a lot. Is it coming along any better now?”

  “Not really,” Azerick answered dejectedly. “I have learned one or two new things but nothing really harder than before.”

  “That is unfortunate. I really thought you had it in you to be something special, in wizardry that is. I am not saying that you do not lack for special talents. You are quite clever and creative and are able to use what you know to accomplish quite a bit. I was sure I saw a real spark of magical talent in you is all. It really has me vexed. I am not often wrong in that regard.”

  “Are they going to make me leave The Academy?” Azerick asked, suddenly very concerned.

  “I don’t think so. You show great leadership skills. It may be that they will transfer you to the Martial Academy, or the Scholar’s Academy, if that suits you more. Would you like that?"

  “I guess it would be better than leaving The Academy altogether, although it’s not what I really wanted. I wanted to be a wizard. I like magic and everything I read and what little I could perform feels right, but it just feels like I’m doing it wrong somehow.”

  “The Headmaster is going to make his decision after spring festival. I’ll see what I can do to have you transferred to—,” He broke off suddenly hearing a scratching sound near the ceiling. “What the devil is that?” Allister exclaimed, looking up at what appeared to be a large, metal spider with a bunch of feathers coming out of the back of its thorax instead of the usual bulbous abdomen.

  The construct’s body, not including the feathers, was about the size of a man’s hand and clung to the ceiling by its eight metal legs, swishing its feathered rump back and forth.

  “Oh, that’s just a toy I made to help keep the spider webs off the ceiling and do some dusting. Rusty used to burn the webs off, but last time he set his pillow on fire and I feared for my books."

  “How did you make it? What powers it? How long does it stay animated?” Allister inquired, rapidly firing off questions at the su
rprised apprentice.

  “I collected a bunch of scrap metal from The Academy blacksmith, had him make me a few things that I couldn’t shape myself, put it together and infused it with one of my minor spells,” answered as if the entire concept was no more spectacular than cooking oatmeal.

  “But animating objects is very powerful magic. Runes must be inscribed and it takes very high level spells to create even the crudest of golems,” the old Magus asserted.

  “I read about golem creation when I was thinking about making it, but like you said, even this simple thing was way beyond my ability to make that way. So instead of permanently animating it like a true golem, I just used ink to write the commands on its body and infused the metal with a spell. I figured all magic is energy so if I cast a lingering spell onto it in the right way it could use the spell as a temporary energy source instead of a permanent enchantment spell. I use a light spell to power it since it is one of the easiest and longest lasting spells I know. It will keep going for about a day before I have to recharge it.”

  “But it shouldn’t work like that. A light spell is a light spell. That would be like using it to start a fire. It is light, and that is all it can ever be,” the old wizard insisted.

  Azerick just shrugged his shoulders not really understanding or caring how it worked just that he was able to do it.

  “This changes everything, lad. When the Headmaster hears of this I’m certain he’ll let you stay. I will insist on it. We will figure out why you have a problem with the higher spells eventually. Maybe you are a specialist, an artificer, although even they need to be able to learn the powerful enchantment spells and rune inscribing. I just don’t know right now, but I’ll get to the bottom of it I promise you,” Allister said resolutely.

  Once Magus Allister left him alone again, Azerick decided to go walk around The Academy and think about what the wizard had said. Could he be an artificer? Could he be one of those rare wizards able to craft items and imbue them with powerful enchantments? The idea did not sound half-bad. He enjoyed studying his engineering book and making things with his hands. Truly gifted artificers commanded a great deal of respect, often asked to make things of wonder and power for kings and nobility.