The Sorcerer's Destiny (The Sorcerer's Path) (12 page)

“It is not a request. If you hope to have the slightest chance of victory, you will drink it.”

The druid took the flask and stared hesitantly at it for a moment before he pulled the stopper, steeled himself against the awful taste and unpleasant effects, and downed it in a single gulp. Despite holding his breath in an effort to keep from tasting it, the vile liquid still traced a bitter, revolting path down his gullet and into his stomach. He shuddered as he fought back the cramping nausea the concoction induced and steadied himself against the vertigo washing over his mind.

“Follow the path through the Passage of Lore. Pay special mind to images painted upon the walls, and perhaps you will finally understand your heritage. At the end, you will find Bojan. If you have learned what the passage shows you and accepted your other half, you may have a chance of victory. If you do not, then your journey through this life is over, and I hope you find a greater path to follow in the next one. You will fight as an ogre, without magic, or you will forfeit your life with dishonor.”

The shaman’s words came to him as if from the bottom of a well, but he understood them and took several wavering steps into the fissure. Only a few yards in, Bron saw innumerable images painted upon the walls, covering the rocky surface for as far as he could see. He braced himself against the wall with an outstretched hand to catch his balance. The painted image of an ogre writhed beneath his palm. Bron snatched back his hand and saw that all the pictures were moving, dancing around like marionettes on strings. The druid shook his head in an attempt to break the hallucinations created by Kramloc’s foul brew, but still the paintings moved. Deciding there was little else he could do, Bron took several cautious steps down the path. The animated pictures continued to draw his eyes, and he began to study them in more detail.

Starting at the images nearest the entrance, Bron began to piece together their meaning. They were not random drawings, but a history in art form. A dragon watched over a cluster of humans, dwarves, elves, ogres, goblins, and orcs as well other races. High above the dragon, faceless heads towered over them all. He could see and feel their disdain despite their lack of features.

One of the ogres stood up from his labors and hurled a stone at the dragon. Other ogres, followed by the rest of the figures, took up stones and cast them at their overlord. The dragon fought furiously, and many of the figures perished, but they succeeded in bringing the dragon down. Man, elf, dwarf, and brutes danced and reveled in their victory until the faceless ones descended and hurled flaming mountains against them, extinguishing their lives in the blink of an eye.

In another painted montage, dwarves beat upon metal blacker than the heart of the abyss. Elves stole the secret of the faceless ones’ power and shared it with the humans. The human wizards and dwarves used this power to imbue six magnificent sets of armor, one for each champion of the major races. The elves created creatures born of elf and dragon, and together the mortal races battled for their freedom and lives.

The world trembled beneath the terrible power of the faceless ones. The Scions shattered entire mountains and raised greater ones in their place. Dragons and gods struck furiously at their revolting slaves, blood flowed like rivers, and death raged across the world like a fierce wind. Still the mortals fought and died, but none so greatly as the brute races. The powerful ogres often led the vanguard of the attacks, fearlessly throwing themselves into the maws of the dragons and against the blades and claws of the monsters summoned by the faceless gods. Even the goblins, thought weak and cowardly by most, swarmed their enemies with their vast numbers. Leading every battle, were the six heroes of the races, their black armor shedding the blows of their enemies as surely as the blood that refused to mar its gleaming surface.

Still the people died and their cause seemed bleak, so they prayed for help, sending their pleas out into the cosmos for anyone who would listen. When all seemed lost, their prayers were answered. Four beings proclaiming to be gods gathered the elves, their champion, and their strange Guardians and took the fight to faceless ones’ celestial home. Without the faceless ones’ divine power, the dragons and their minions began to fall and the war turned in favor of the mortal races. The elves lost their hero and many of their Guardians, but they managed to banish the faceless ones with the aid of the new gods.

Many races, fearful of this new freedom and desiring safety and peace above all else, hid themselves away deep beneath the earth. Those who chose the light of the sun lived in peace—for a time. Never content, the humans began expanding. The elves retreated in the face of the rapidly growing human populations. The other races tried to coexist with the humans, but their cultures and need for land to live upon collided. Humans refused to abide by borders, and clashes with the brute races ensued. The Kin tried to fight back, but their numbers suffered decimation in the Great revolution like no others. Hero battled hero and blood flowed once more until they threatened to finish the job the faceless ones left incomplete. The brute races chose to retreat farther into the mountains and valleys considered too inhospitable to be desired by the humans.

The paintings grew still once more as Bron tried to decipher their meaning. His blood still burned, but now his head swam with the images and their significance. Everything he had held true regarding the ogre and their Kin was in question. Deep in his heart, he had held hatred for what they had done to his mother and for the pain of his own existence. For the first time, he wondered which was the nobler race.

By the time Bron reached the end of the passage, his head cleared and his balance was back to normal. Most of the aches and pains had dulled to shadows of their former selves. The crevice opened into a small glade measuring a few hundred feet across and was surrounded by high walls created by the network of bare, stone ridges. Tracking his eyes along the peaks of the ridges, it appeared as though the tiny valley continued farther on. Movement ahead of him snapped his attention to the center of the small clearing. Bojan stepped out of a cluster of cottonwood trees and stood smiling at Bron, greatly anticipating their rematch.

Bron scanned the walls of the glade once more, but he and the ogre champion were alone. This was not a match to be viewed by spectators for their enjoyment. This was a fight to the death, held to defend each warrior’s ideals and sense of duty and purpose. Bron summoned his courage and faith, trusting in Ellanee to help him complete his mission.

A shrill cry brought his attention to a small cage hanging from one of the cottonwood trees. “B.S., get me outta here!”

His heart sunk seeing Trielle in a cage, her tiny hands tugging futilely at the bars. “Let her go! This about me, not her.”

Bojan said nothing and just stood smiling. The druid hefted his staff and slowly approached Bojan as he desperately ran tactics through his mind. He could not even consider trying to break through the massive ogre’s defenses. Trading blows was out of the question. Due to his size, Bojan had a slight reach advantage as well. Bron’s only option was to strike quickly and slowly grind the ogre down, much like trying to chop down a large tree with a hatchet. Only this tree was intent on falling upon him and crushing his body to a pulp.

Bojan stood nonchalantly, confident in his strength and previous victory as Bron approached. He did not even lift the end of his club from the ground. Bron thrust at the ogre’s face with the bronze capped end of his staff, which Bojan simply batted away as if shooing a pesky fly. Bron quickly retracted his staff and leapt back. It was a needless gesture as Bojan only stopped leaning on his club and plopped it onto his shoulder. The ogre extended his hand with a smile and made a beckoning motion.

The druid was not about to let his pride and anger at Bojan’s casual dismissal of his fighting prowess goad him into acting rashly. Bron slowly circled the ogre, searching for an opening. He lunged in, starting his swing high but dropping it low in mid stroke. The crack of wood and metal striking flesh resounded across the glade. Once again, Bron leapt away instead of pressing his successful attack.

Bojan swept his club off his shoulder and flexed his offended leg without letting the grin slip from his brutish face. He did finally adopt something of a fighting stance, obviously deciding the battle had begun in earnest. Bojan made a few noncommittal swipes at his opponent, which Bron easily avoided. Bron answered the moves by thrusting and slashing at Bojan whenever the club whisked past, but Bojan was able to deflect them with his weapon or slap them away with his hand.

Bron dug the end of his staff into the soil near his feet and flung it at Bojan’s face. The warrior was not about to be caught by the same trick twice and turned his head and shielded his eyes with his hand. Bron took advantage of the opening, striking Bojan’s upraised arm, spinning around behind him, and clouting him in the back of the head. Bojan spun around with a roar of real anger and pain, but a hard jab to his stomach dropped him to his hands and knees. His fierce shout became choking fight to regain his breath. The druid pressed his attack, landing kick after kick into Bojan’s shoulder and side.

“Yeah, get him! Aim for the groin!” Trielle shouted.

Bron felt a brief glimmer of hope until Bojan exploded from the ground with a fury-filled shout of rage. The ogre champion burst up beneath him and hurled the druid twenty feet through the air. Bron had barely come to a tumbling halt in the dirt when he saw Bojan take a few powerful strides and leap. The huge ogre came down like a meteor, slamming his huge fist into Bron’s face. Still bellowing his incoherent battle cry, Bojan lifted his foe and repeatedly slammed him against the ground.

Bron felt the air blasted from his lungs and his world swam in a wash of vertigo as his brain crashed against the inside of his skull as if trying to escape. He felt himself airborne once more before striking a small tree hard enough to snap it partway up its trunk. He tried to stand, took several stumbling steps, and fell heavily back to the ground.

He looked through bleary eyes at Bojan as the big ogre casually retrieved his club to finish the job. Bron steeled himself to accept his fate and failure. Bojan looked at the stunned druid a moment and began walking toward Trielle’s cage.

“I think I eat noisy little bug before I kill you,” Bojan said with a cruel smile.

Until now, Bron was unsure if Bojan was capable of speech. “Leave her alone! I failed. It is me you are supposed to kill!”

“Her not Kin. Only Kin leave the valley.”

“Give me my spear and we’ll see who gets eaten!” Trielle shouted.

Brave Trielle, defiant and fearless to the last. Hearing her shouts filled him with sorrow. Seeing such a spirited life about to be extinguished for his failure brought on the intense anger he worked so hard to suppress. The casualness with which Bojan and his kind would kill another being who meant them no harm made him furious. He would not sacrifice his honor to save his own life, but he would not let Trielle die for the sake of his morals.

Bron’s furious roar filled the tiny canyon as he grabbed at the power of nature. He called to the tree holding Trielle’s cage and poured his own energy into it to make it grow, lifting Trielle out of Bojan’s reach. Another cottonwood snaked down with unnatural suppleness, wrapped several willowy limbs around Bojan, and flung him halfway across the clearing.

“You fight me!” Bron raged.

Bojan stood with his characteristic smile, dusted himself off, and made a beckoning motion. “Finally, you fight like ogre.”

Bojan’s words were lost to the blood rage pounding in Bron’s ears. As Bojan stalked toward him, Bron punched both his fists into the ground, burying them to the wrists. Earth and stone grew up his arms and sheathed his body in an elemental carapace. The druid rushed at his foe and swung a fist that now looked more like a small boulder. The blow landed against Bojan’s chest and threw him back several yards.

The ogre rolled to his feet with a shout of rage and barreled into Bron, hoping to use his awesome mass to bear the druid to the ground and crack him open like a nut. Bojan may as well have been trying to push over a mountain as Bron fused his shell with the ground at his feet. Bojan rebounded from the immovable object and took two staggering steps back.

Bron reeled back and crushed the ogre’s face with another powerful blow. Bojan flew parallel to the ground for a score of feet before landing in a groaning, pain-filled heap. The enraged druid was not finished yet. Bron uprooted a leg and stamped his foot. The ground beneath the prone warrior buckled and became a wave, carrying his huge body back to his relentless foe. Bron raised a powerful leg and kicked at the oncoming ogre. Ribs cracked and Bojan went rolling again. The druid began stalking toward the now silent and immobile figure, intent on crushing the last vestiges of life from his body.

“Now you know was it means to be Kin.”

Kramloc’s words penetrated Bron’s mind, and he turned to find the shaman standing just a few yards away. Bron’s fury demanded he crush the shaman as well, but he forced a measure of calm into his heart and listened.

“What do I know of being an ogre?” Bron gasped as he struggled to regain control of himself. “Being a creature of uncontrolled rage and violence? Is that what it means to be Kin? Is that what you wanted me to learn?”

Kramloc shook his head and nodded toward the cage holding Trielle. “It means doing whatever you must, to be willing to sacrifice everything to win and protect your Kin. We survive because we refuse to submit, no matter the cost to any individual. Kin comes before self. You abandoned your ideals, your honor, to save your friend. That is what it means to be Kin. You have seen our history. You see how the sacrifices, the honor, and bravery of our people have been forgotten or discarded by all but the Kin. It was not us who drew first blood and encroached upon the human lands, yet we are called the brute races. Come, our king is eager to meet you.”