The Sorcerer's Destiny (The Sorcerer's Path) by Brock Deskins

surface proved ill-suited for stairs, stout ladders made of rough logs lashed together with rope provided a route to the more difficult to reach dwellings. Although they appeared well made and sturdy, Bron was glad he did not have to traverse them as Golac took him to a cave just a few dozen feet above the valley floor.
    The instant Golac pushed aside the hide acting as a door, a plethora of odors, both familiar and strange, assaulted his senses. Herbs, barks, and crafted unguents wafted through the opening. The smell of distilled willow bark and other potions used to remedy a variety of ailments filled the cavern. Strange glyphs and crude images decorated the walls, scrawled there in paints made in much the same way Bron created his own pigments from bark, berries, and beetle shells.
    An ogre stood over a table littered with dried herbs and bark, crushing some unknown ingredients with a stone mortar and pestle. He turned and faced the visitors as they entered without pausing in his amalgamations. Kramloc was venerable specimen with long, white tufts of hair sticking out from the sides of his head. Although stooped with age, he still topped Bron by several inches.
    “Golac, why have you brought a weak blood to my cave instead of killing him the moment he trespassed in our valley? You know the laws.”
    Golac dipped his head submissively. “Wise One, I found him unusual and chose to speak with him before executing him.”
    The shaman studied Bron for several seconds. “You always were a clever one. What does he want?”
    “He claims to have important words for Sefket. He says we are in danger.”
    “Do you think his words are worthy of our King’s ears?”
    “I thought he might be tested and given a chance to prove his worth.”
    “So clever you are. I should train you to be my replacement for when I am gone.”
    Golac’s face clouded and he took a deep breath before answering. “I am a warrior, Wise One.”
    “A good one as well,” Kramloc agreed. “Perhaps you are destined for even greater things. Perhaps you shall be King one day.”
    “If the gods will it, it will be so.”
    The shaman turned his attention to Bron. “You say you have words for our King, words of warning?”
    “Yes. There is a great—,” Bron began.
    “Silence, weak blood!” Kramloc barked. “You are not Kin, and you have not proven your worthiness. Until you have, you will hold your tongue and not insult us with your unworthy voice.”
    Bron suppressed his mounting anger and forced a sense of peace and calmness back into his heart. “Wise One, I understand this to be your way, your tradition, but what I have to say is a matter of life and death. Will you die for the sake of tradition?”
    Kramloc stalked past Bron and held the hide flap open wide. “Look down there, weak blood. Our ways and traditions are about all we have left. Everything else was taken from us by the people with the same blood polluting your body. If we give up that, then we are unworthy. Better to be dead than unworthy.”
    “There must be a way to prove I am worthy of sharing my words, or Golac would not have brought me here.”
    “You will prove your blood is strong. You will fight, and you will win, or you will die. You will fight as an ogre, forbidden to use your goddess-given magic. Yes, weak blood, I know what you are.”
    “This is the only way?” Kramloc nodded. “Who must I fight?”
    “You will fight our champion Bojan in the morning. I suggest you spend that time resting and reflecting upon what it means to be ogre.”
    The shaman turned away, ending any further discussion. Golac opened the flap and ushered Bron out. The ogre escorted him back to the village and showed him to a small yurt near the center. The room had almost nothing in the way of furnishings with the exception of a pallet made of woven reeds to sleep upon and a small fire pit in the center of the room.
    “I will bring you water and food,” Golac said. “Do not leave the yurt. It