The Sorcerer's Destiny (The Sorcerer's Path) (11 page)

“I do not think that is what he meant.”

“Good luck then, because I can’t see much else to them than that.”

Trielle vanished through the smoke hole when Golac returned with a wicker basket containing food and a clay pitcher of water. He set the basket down on the floor and turned to leave.

“Golac, what can you tell me of your champion Bojan?”

Golac turned, grinned broadly, and shook his head before leaving. Bron did not need any words to understand what he just conveyed. Bojan would be a formidable opponent even amongst the ogres, and without his magic, he stood little chance of victory. Bron refused to give in to despair. His goddess set him upon a mission, and he would not fail. She would not let him fail. He spent much of the night meditating and praying to Ellanee and infusing a sense of peace into his troubled heart.

When Bron next opened his eyes, a pale grey light seeped through the smoke hole, dimly illuminating the yurt’s interior. He heard no uproar in the town, so he assumed Trielle managed to stay out of trouble. At least she did not get caught he had to amend when he saw her near the wall examining a small hoard of new beads, feathers, and stones.

The druid picked an assortment of fresh and dried fruits from the basket Golac had left and Trielle had failed to devour despite some obvious effort on her part. He had just washed his breakfast down with some water when Golac pushed through the flap.

“The hour is near. I hope you listened to Kramloc’s words and took heed.”

“I am as ready as I can be,” Bron responded.

Golac grunted and motioned for Bron to follow. The Druid picked up his staff and dutifully plodded after the ogre warrior. Golac led his charge farther to the east before turning north outside of the village. The path they followed showed recent signs of heavy use. Wherever they were going, they were not the first ones to arrive.

They were nearly to the base of the cliffs when Bron knew they had reached their destination. Golac led him down a narrow path descending between walls of stone and into a deep bowl. The surrounding boulders and high cliffs created a natural arena of sorts with hundreds of spectators gathered around the rim and along ledges cut into the walls. A resounding cheer arose as Bron stepped into the ring.

“Remember, you win or you die,” Golac said before departing along the path they had used to enter.

Bron turned toward the center of the pit as a deafening roar from the crowd reverberated through his bones. He turned a slow circle to locate the source of their adulations and watched in dejected disbelief as the biggest ogre he could imagine stepped into the arena. This was a true brute with little but malice in its heart and murder on its mind. He was what Bron had envisioned of the ogre race.

Bojan was a wall of muscle and barely restrained violence. He paced back and forth as he swung a club as long as Bron’s staff and three times as thick with one hand. Even with his magic, this creature would have been formidable. Without it, it seemed impossible. Movement atop the boulders drew Bron’s eye. Kramloc stood atop the largest boulder surrounding the ring, looked down at the two gladiators impassively, and spoke a single word.

Bron did not understand the guttural word, but Bojan instantly burst toward him at an astonishing speed with his club raised. Bron was barely able to leap and roll away as the huge bludgeon came crashing down in the spot he occupied a split-second before. The druid felt the earth shake with the weapon’s impact as if to cry out in pain from the powerful blow.

Bojan swept his club in a fierce backhand, and Bron was just barely able to leap backward to avoid the swing. The ogre’s attack took his weapon wide and left him open for reprisal. Bron darted in, struck Bojan hard in his midriff before spinning around and smashing the bronze-shrouded end of his staff into the ogre’s back.

It was like hitting a tree covered in a thick layer of leather. The ogres might call him weak blood, but Bron made a formidable foe for most mortal creatures. Bojan grunted from the strike to his gut and took two involuntary steps forward from the one in the back. Such blows would have caused serious injury, or at least pain, to most creatures, but the ogre simply spun, slapped away a third strike with his bare hand, and smiled.

Bron backed away as Bojan strode confidently toward him, swinging his club from side to side as if scything down tall grass. The druid studied the way Bojan moved, gauging his speed and strength. He found them both to be terrifying. Bron focused his mind inward so he could calm his nerves and think. Unfortunately, Bojan was not of a mind to give him time to do either.

The enormous ogre rushed forward and swung his club in a lethal, horizontal arc. Bron ducked and rolled away, but despite his opinion that Bojan was unlikely to win any sort spelling contest, the ogre was a skilled warrior and prepared for the move. He kicked out just as Bron tried to roll away and caught him square in the ribs with a foot nearly the size of a dwarf and just as solid. Bron felt himself lifted into the air and felt the sensation of weightlessness for a full two seconds before crashing back to the ground and completing his tumble.

The crowd roared its approval as Bojan stomped forward, pressing his attack without needless showmanship. Bron rolled onto his hands and knees, the throbbing pain in his ribs eliciting a grunt of pain. The ogre swung his massive foot at his head like an enormous pendulum. Bron blocked the kick with his staff braced against his left forearm and slung a fistful of dirt and gravel into the champion’s face. 

Bojan dropped his club and his hands flew to his face, wiping frantically to clear his eyes. Bron stabbed out with his staff from a kneeling position and jabbed the end just below the ogre’s sternum. Foul breath hit the druid in the face as the air was violently expelled from Bojan’s lungs.

Bron quickly raised himself to his feet and launched a flurry of strikes against the stunned ogre. The sound of wood and bronze striking thick, leathery flesh echoed over the crowd, competing to be heard over the roars of the spectators. Bojan staggered back under the furious onslaught, trying to ward off the pummeling strikes with his hands and arms. Bron switched the target of his attacks from the head and body to the ogre’s tree trunk-like legs, punishing the thighs and shins with strikes that would have cracked and shattered small timbers.

Bojan wavered and fell to a knee, his body quivering as he tried to hold his body up with his fists pressed against the ground. Bron held his attack for just a moment, unsure if this signaled defeat. Not hearing any sort of command from the stands and not wanting to give Bojan a chance to recover and resume the battle, Bron swung the end of his heavy staff at the back of the ogre’s oversized head.

A loud, meaty slap echoed across the pit then all was silent. Both the crowd and Bron looked in stunned amazement at the staff gripped tightly in Bojan’s huge fist.

“No,” the ogre champion rumbled. “NO!” he shouted, drawing out the word until it became a roar of defiance.

Bron watched the jaundiced whites of the ogre’s eyes turn red as his already bestial face twisted into rage-fueled hate. He stood, ripped the staff from Bron’s hands, and flung it high into the air. It sailed behind him, creating a whumping sound as it twirled out of the pit and into the crowd of spectators, striking one unfortunate viewer between the eyes with enough force to stagger him.

The druid struck out with his fist, catching Bojan square in the jaw as he charged forward. The champion did not register the blow in the slightest. He grabbed Bron near the elbow with one hand and gripped him at his crotch with the other. Bojan lifted the half-ogre’s stout body as easily as that of a child and ran across the arena with him held near head height before slamming him bodily against the unyielding stone cliff.

Stars and supernovas erupted behind Bron’s eyes at the stunning impact. He once again felt the peculiar sense of weightlessness until his body struck the ground with a dull thud and cloud of dust. His senses so dazed, he barely registered the bone-crushing impact. Then Bojan was on him, pummeling him with fists like anvils until he sensed nothing but darkness until even that faded to oblivion.

Reality returned to Bron with the sound of rushing water. A mixture of odd scents filled the air, and he found himself staring at the grey stone of a cavern ceiling when he finally managed to open his eyes. He turned his head left and recognized the crude paintings on the wall as the ones belonging to Kramloc. Turning his head to the right, he saw the shaman bustling about near his table of herbalist equipment.

“Do you know why you lost?” Kramloc asked without turning.

Bron worked his tongue around in his mouth and managed to answer. “He was bigger, stronger, and a better fighter than me.”

The shaman turned toward him holding a hollowed and dried gourd. “No, you lost because you have yet to acknowledge your other half. You still cling to your goddess and humanity, and it weakens you. If you do not understand what it means to be ogre, you will always be weak.”

“Then why am I still alive? Why did Bojan not kill me, or are you going to execute me in some horrible public spectacle?”

Kramloc shook his head. “That is what you expect of us. Nothing but cruel monsters who revel in causing pain and death, and you are partially correct. When in the blood lust, we can be quite savage, but we revere death even more than life. I allowed you to live because I believe your words are worthy and wish to offer you another chance.”

“If you think my words important, why do you not just hear them?” Bron asked in frustration.

“Because it is not our way. Your words may be worthy, but you are not. You must understand what it means to be Kin.”

“How do I learn that?”

“You cannot. To understand what we are, what you are, is a matter of heart and blood, not one of mind. It is not logic to be studied, it is raw and elemental. It is passion, anger, and courage. No creature can learn those things.”

“If I cannot learn it, how am I supposed to understand it? How can I prove myself worthy?”

“You simply must be. Accept your other half and be ogre.”

“You still answer me with riddles.”

“Your confusion and ignorance does not make my words a riddle.”

“What happens now?”

“I will share with you some of our history, and then perhaps you will begin to understand and even accept your heritage. Then you will fight Bojan once more on the morrow.”

Bron winced in pain. “I do not think I can get out of this bed much less fight.”

The shaman smiled. “You will be able to fight, and you will win, or you will die. Drink this.”

Bron took the gourd and brought it to his mouth. The smell made his eyes burn and he balked. Looking at the shaman, he held his breath and poured the concoction down his throat. It felt like Bojan had just hit him again. His stomach twisted into a knot and his blood burned as if on fire. His vision wavered and the room began to spin. Bron tried to steady his sight by focusing on one of the images painted on the wall. It seemed to help for a moment until the drawing began to move.

He closed his eyes tightly, but the images still danced in his mind as drums beat a deep rhythm. His heart took up the cadence as it thrummed wildly in his chest. Bron was unsure when he had fallen asleep, if indeed he had, but when he next opened his eyes, dim sunlight was creeping through the flap covering the opening. As the light slowly began to intensify, Bron knew it was already dawn.

“Let us hope the light of a new dawn illuminates the dark corners to which you have banished your better half.”

Bron followed the voice and found Kramloc sitting in a roughly constructed chair and wondered if the shaman had slept at all. If he had not, then he obviously did not need it because he looked far more refreshed and prepared to face the day than Bron felt.

“Stand,” the shaman ordered. “You have no time to lie about.”

Bron wanted to do nothing except lay there, but he mustered his strength and forced his stiff and aching legs over the side of the bed. The dull ache from numerous abused muscles elicited a hiss of discomfort as he fought to stand. Bron paused, sitting on the edge of the bed before pushing himself to his feet.

“I cannot fight Bojan in my condition,” Bron stated.

“Your human blood declares you once again by speaking falsehoods. You can and will fight. You simply cannot win.”

“Then this will be an execution.”

“If you make it so, yes. Those who are not Kin cannot leave this valley. It is our last refuge, and it must remain secret. If you wish to live you must become Kin.”

“What now?” Bron asked, deciding it was pointless to wage any further protests.

“You will go to the Passage of Lore. Perhaps if you see our history, you will accept and even embrace your heritage. Then you will face Bojan once again so we may see if you have learned anything.”

“Embrace a people who violated my mother and created me so that I could live as an outcast? Embrace a people who only value violence to prove their worth and who murder a messenger without hearing the words that might prevent their doom? Show me your cave and carry out your execution, but I will not accept the savagery of your kind. If I am to die, it will be with the peace and love of Ellanee in my heart.”

“Such a foolishly human conviction,” Kramloc said as he walked out of his cave.

Bron followed the shaman down the narrow cliffside path, his bones and muscles aching the entire way. They followed the face of the escarpment for more than a mile without coming across another ogre. Had he not been so focused on his discomfort, Bron might have pondered the lack of activity in the previously bustling community.

Kramloc stopped before a narrow fissure in the mountainside. It looked as though a giant axe had split the cliff face in twain. The sky was a narrow strip of blue several hundred feet above the passage. Bron could not see the end, but he had the feeling it opened to another region of the valley.

Kramloc handed the gourd to Bron. “Drink this. It will help prepare you for what you face.”

Bron looked at the vessel with its noxious contents, and his stomach twisted in anticipation of its vileness. “I would rather not die with that foulness in my body.”