TST (8 page)

“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 arena 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 steal 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 quickly realized that it also translated his 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 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 full in the chest, blackening a large scorch mark on his shiny, steal 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 again.

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 his air and the supply of blood to his brain. A powerful jolt of electricity shot through his hands and into Gragnoc’s arm. The sudden 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 opponent had no way of identifying which images were real and which were illusion.

Gragnoc decided it did not matter; he would crush them all as he swung his massive club into the nearest image. His weapon passed harmlessly through the sorcerer causing the image to disappear. The club swung again in a powerful backhand blow that destroyed a second one of the illusions. The four remaining images extended their hands forward and another powerful lightning bolt leapt from the group of identical sorcerers. However, only one bolt was real and that bolt struck the ogre in his broad chest again, throwing him hard onto his back.

Azerick was not about to allow the deadly ogre to regain the offensive. He sent a trio of magical strikes to slam into Gragnoc as he tried to regain his feet. The bolts knocked the ogre back several steps but did not put him back on the ground. Gragnoc stumbled towards the sorcerer, his arms stretched, roaring in fury. Azerick sprinted away and picked his spear back up off the ground where he had dropped it.

The damage he had inflicted on the ogre was taking its toll. Gragnoc’s moves were clumsy and sluggish now, his muscles protesting the abuse the sorcerer inflicted. Azerick thrust his spear as the ogre turned and charged him. The steel point pierced the charred and weakened breastplate and stabbed deep into the monster’s chest. Gragnoc’s momentum carried him forward, falling on Azerick with all of his considerable weight. Azerick felt the air forced from his lungs and heard several ribs crack as the ogre fell heavily on top of him. He pushed against the dead weight with all his might and managed to roll the creature off him enough to crawl out from under his fallen foe.

The crowd roared its adulations as Azerick crawled to his feet. Booted feet stomped and hands clapped at his unexpected victory. He wrapped his arm across his chest, holding his injured ribs as he shuffled back towards the gate and the waving Braunlen.

“Great victory, lad!” The dwarf congratulated him as he passed under the portal and started walking down the ramp. “I tell ya, I never thought you would beat that big ogre but I’m glad you proved me wrong.”

Azerick did not speak as he returned to the equipment room with Braunlen.

“Are ya feeling ok, any major injuries?” he asked. “Gragnoc fell on you pretty hard from the looks of it.”

“I’m all right, just a few bruised ribs is all and I’m pretty tired,” he responded to the dwarf’s concern.

“You’ll be fine then. Lord Xornan has a girl that’s pretty good at patching folks up. If it was an emergency, there’s healers here that will put you back together if your owner is willing to pay for it. C’mon,” Braunlen said as he lifted Azerick up out of the chair, “Lord Xornan is probably waiting for you outside and you don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Azerick let the dwarf guide him up the ramp and back outside to the waiting palanquin. All four minotaurs were standing by the poles so Azerick figured that Xornan was already waiting inside the curtained conveyance. Sure enough, as the two approached, the curtain slid open revealing the hideous visage of the psyling.

Is my pet well, trainer Braunlen?

“Aye, master, he’s a bit bruised up but he’ll be fine,” the dwarf replied to the sending.

Excellent.
Join me, my pet, and we shall return home.

Azerick stepped into the palanquin and the minotaur slaves hefted the carrying poles onto their broad shoulders and swiftly made their way through the city.

You have pleased me immensely, my pet. I have made quite a good profit from your victory. You are now an established arena gladiator and as such, you will provide an opportunity for even greater profits as your rankings increase. Moreover, as your rankings increase so does my prestige and that is what is truly important. Your next match will not be for another month. Ensure that you do everything in your power to train and study. As you progress in rank, your opponents will become more challenging. Do not disappoint me.

Azerick felt no need to respond to the creature. He knew that his words were unimportant to the psyling lord and he probably knew what he was going to say before he said it anyhow. He kept his thoughts blank as the palanquin wound its way through the streets and back to Xornan’s tower.

I will send someone to tend to your bruises. You may await her in your room.

Azerick wanted to go down to the laboratory and brew himself some of his own healing draught but followed the psyling’s command and returned to his room. Several minutes later, there came a soft knocking on his chamber door. Azerick opened the door and in the entrance stood an attractive, brown-haired girl of about seventeen. She had a heart shaped face and a full figure but came well short of being plump.

“Lord Xornan bade me to see to your wounds, sir,” she informed him shyly.

“Um, sure, come on in,” Azerick invited as he overcame his surprise. “My name is Azerick, by the way.”

“I’m Delinda. I tend Lord Xornan’s garden and treat any injuries or illnesses his servants may acquire. Where were you injured?”

“My ribs got bruised a bit. It is nothing serious.”

“Take off your shirt, please, and I will take a look at them.”

Azerick blushed as he disrobed. He could see several dark splotches marking his chest. Delinda gently probed along his chest with her slender fingers.

“Breath in deeply and let it out,” she ordered. “Just as I thought, you have a few cracked ribs and some deep bruising. Fortunately none seem to be broken and displaced.”

She reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a mortar and pestle and several pouches of herbs.

“Please hand me that water pitcher over there,” she requested, indicating the pitcher that stood on his nightstand next to a washbasin.

He retrieved the water as she ground several herbs into the small stone bowl. She then poured in some water and soaked a long linen strip in the bowl. When she finished, Delinda wrapped the poultice snugly about his chest, covering his bruised ribs.

“This will help heal the bruises and take away some of the pain,” she told him as she secured the poultice wrap around his chest.

Azerick enjoyed the soft touch of her hands and the kindness in her eyes. He suddenly found that his heart was beating faster and his stomach fluttered. She smelled of rose petals and the herbs with which she worked. He felt the stirrings of feelings that he had never felt before and it made him strangely uncomfortable but also warm and pleasant.

“I was going to go down to the lab and brew up a few healing potions. Would you like to come? I could show you how if you want,” he offered.

Delinda looked slightly frightened at his invitation. “I don’t know if I am allowed to go down there. The master never gave me permission,” she replied as she looked down at the floor.

“I have permission and I am sure he would not mind since you are learning something that will help you do one of your duties better,” Azerick assured her.

“I suppose I could do that then, as long as you are with me,” Delinda replied softly.

“Great, let’s go then,” he said as he donned a clean shirt before leading her down the stairs to the laboratory.

Azerick winced from the pain caused by his hurried rush down the stairs but never lost the smile that graced his face. They came to the sturdy wooden door that sealed off the underground chamber. It opened at his touch and he ushered Delinda through the doorway then closed it behind him. Several of the glowing globes provided ample light that glinted off the numerous glass and copper tubes and vessels. A large bookshelf held rows of jars of dried ingredients, strange liquids, and preserved body parts.