TST by Brock Deskins

find the answer, the compulsion the psyling had placed on him would most likely not allow him to use it.
    Lord Xornan summoned Azerick to him early on the morning of his bout. He told his pet sorcerer not to go to the vault; instead, he was to focus on the fight ahead. Azerick wished he had been able to complete the spell he had been working on but it was not ready yet. It did not matter. He would win this bout and his new spell would be ready long before his next fight.
    Lord Xornan conveyed him in his palanquin to the arena once again around what passed for noon in this seemingly sunless land. Xornan was unusually silent during the short trip to the arena. He invaded Azerick’s mind only once with his mind speech to warn him once again that he had better be prepared and not to embarrass him. Azerick did not bother to reply and said nothing on the way to the arena.
    The dwarf, Braunlen, met them as soon as they arrived just as he had the last time. Braunlen took his charge in tow and led him down the ramp to the gladiator’s area under the arena. Azerick instantly recognized the sounds and smells of the stadium as the dwarf took him to the same small training room that he had the first time.
    “So how are you, boy, are you ready for your fight?” the stout creature asked.
    “I’m fine. I just want to get this over with,” Azerick replied, surly at being forced to fight like an animal, to injure or kill someone he did not even know and who had done him no harm.
    Braunlen seemed to read Azerick’s thoughts. “It’s a way of life, boy. You’ll get used to it so long as you live long enough.”
    Whatever reply Azerick was going to make was cut off as the half-orc, Rangor, stood in the entrance to Braunlen's training room. “Good luck today, kid, you’re going to need it. I hope you didn’t use up all your luck fighting Gragnoc.”
    Braunlen spun around to confront the large fighter. “Get out of here, Rangor, and quit trying to distract my fighter!”
    The half-orc curled his lip up at the dwarf’s comment. “He’s no fighter and I hope he wins this fight so I can prove it. That’s right, kid, I really do wish you luck in this fight because you’ll be fighting me next. Then I’ll show you what a real fighter is.”
    Rangor turned with a snort and stalked off. Braunlen turned back to his fighter. “Ignore him and stay focused on this fight. You don’t need no luck. You’ll win because you’re a good fighter; smart and fast. You stay smart and fast and you’ll go a long way, I promise you.”
    Azerick grabbed his spear and Braunlen took him into the arena. The shouts and cheering at his entrance was even more powerful this time with less jeering. People remembered his last fight and it sounded like many of them were betting on or at least rooting for his victory. He cast his armor spell while he waited for his opponent to enter. He did not wait long. A minute later the crowd erupted in cheers again as a human entered the opposite gate.
    The signal to start the battle was given and the two fighters joined in combat. Azerick was more accustomed to what he would face this time. If the crowd had come for a good drawn out bloody fight, they were sorely disappointed.
    The human was only slightly more experienced to The Games than Azerick was and had no idea how to battle a spell caster. He tried hurling a dagger as he charged but Azerick’s magical shield easily deflected it. The Sorcerer’s return strike dropped the fighter to ground with a lightning bolt.
    The man writhed on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. The crowd seemed undecided whether to cheer or boo him as he walked back to the gate completely unscathed.
    You must finish him. He is undeserving of a continued life.
    “Go to hell,” Azerick responded aloud and kept walking for the exit.
    Azerick felt the psyling invade his mind more deeply and found himself returning to the fallen fighter. There was not a bit of resistance he could apply,