TST (13 page)

“Not to mention my life,” Azerick added snidely.

The loss of your life should be the least of your worries. You have never seen me greatly displeased. Let me assure you that you do not wish to do so. I have a few items to give you that will aid you in your battle.

The psyling glided over to a shelf of items that appeared to have some semblance of order. He selected a ring and a set of wide bracelets off the shelf. The bracelets were made of finely wrought metal, heavily rune inscribed, and enameled in deep burgundy.

The ring was made of a silver metal but shone with a far greater brilliance than simple silver could attain regardless of the level of polishing. It gleamed so greatly that it looked to be almost liquid in appearance, as if a small piece of the Source itself had been formed into a decorative piece of jewelry. Only the sigils covering the entire surface belied its solid form.

The bracelets will help protect you from physical harm just as I imagine your opponent shall be similarly protected from your magic. The silver ring is forged of the purest arcanium and will allow you to harness the power of the Source more efficiently. You will find your castings less fatiguing whilst you wear it. It would not do for you to run out of your only potent offensive capabilities before the outcome of the battle has been conclusively decided.

Lord Xornan handed the precious items over to Azerick. Azerick took them reverently in hand and examined them more closely. He had never been in possession of such magical items before and was slightly in awe. His work in the vault put him in proximity of even more potent items but they were never his to use. He always felt detached, their presence simply academic and impersonal. Nevertheless, these would be his, for a time, to wear and to use.

The bracelets opened by way of the most delicate and unobtrusive hinge he had ever seen. There were no clasps or buckles to secure them but they snapped firmly shut when he closed them over his wrists. A slight tingle encompassed his body for a moment then faded almost entirely.

The arcanium ring he wore on his right hand. As soon as he threaded his finger through the band he felt a surge of energy course through him, making him feel almost jittery.

He let out a sigh as he reached out to touch the Source and felt the energy knife through the ether like the prow of a well-built cutter ship slices through the water instead of feeling like a simple fishing boat rowing against the current.

I trust my gifts meet with your approval? Good, keep working on your duties here but do not neglect your training. It is the more paramount of your responsibilities at this time. You fight in three days.

With that last unnecessary reminder, he flowed out of the chamber and left his slave to his own devices. Azerick spent the next half hour examining his new acquisitions in minute detail. He went to his private practice ground and cast his newest spell. He was able to unleash its power half again as many times as he had previously, and for a sorcerer that number was quite substantial.

He felt so giddy at his newfound power that he unleashed nearly every spell in his arsenal before retiring for the night, so exhausted that he even skipped dinner with Delinda. He would have to make it up to her tomorrow somehow.

The next morning she was cross with him for missing their usual dinner date but he warmed up her frigid peevishness by showing her what Lord Xornan had bestowed on him to help him in his duel. She allowed him to make up for his absence last night since his new trinkets and practice would help keep him alive in the upcoming bout. He promised to have a special lunch with her in the garden, which went a long way in consoling her.

He continued to practice until the night before his battle. Lord Xornan came for him early that afternoon. His was to be the highlight contest of the day. Azerick noticed that the psyling was particularly agitated on the ride to the arena. His silent restlessness served to impress the importance of this battle to his slave. To Azerick however it was just another fight. It was no more than another animalistic performance put on for the pleasure of these vile creatures.

Braunlen was waiting in his usual spot for his fighter to arrive and ushered him quickly down the ramp to the training room. Several of the gladiators surprised Azerick when they shouted encouragement to him. Azerick gave a curt nod or small wave of appreciation for their good luck wishes. Rangor’s gravelly voice cut short this small amount of pleasure.

“How does it feel to know that this is the day you are going to die, boy?”

“You had best check your calendar, orc, my day may be coming up but it is not today,” Azerick replied confidently.

“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 that this is going to be an easy fight. You stay on your toes and be ready for anything.”

“I’ll do my best,” Azerick replied.

“It had better be your best or it will be your last. Now let’s get you out there.”

As Azerick was the lower ranking gladiator, he once again entered the arena first. He immediately noticed that the stadium was packed and a larger percentage of those in attendance were richly dressed psylings.

He saw 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 that rivaled Azerick’s own. If the ovation was greater than Azerick’s it went unnoticed, the difference was so minimal.

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 that the fighters were 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 his own circle. The crowd cheered once more as Rangor raised his arms to the crowd 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, 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 that 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 towards 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 towards him laughing triumphantly.

“I know your tricks, wizard! Now what are you going to do without your precious magic to protect you?” he bellowed.

“I guess I will just have to kill you the old fashioned way,” Azerick’s reply came 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 of 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 lashed 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 suffering 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 quite what you call yourself, boy,” Rangor taunted.

“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?” Azerick fired back.

“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 ducked 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 that 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 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 could feel 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 and took his time pressing his attack.

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 that he must possess a magical item that greatly enhanced his speed as well. With an evil grin of triumph, Rangor charged back in with a fury of blows. It took all the skill that Azerick possessed to ward off the blows but the half-orc’s strength and his rapid loss of blood was quickly exhausting him.