Gaspi tackled martial magic with a grave sense of responsibility. Voltan clearly thought it was important, and if the elementals believed he had a crucial role to play in the war against Sestin and his demonic forces, then he should do everything he could to get ready for what was to come. The attention of the crowd helped him focus, and he treated each fight in the same competitive way he did koshta or football. Every time he was able to outwit Voltan, and the bout ended with the warrior mage flat on his back, the onlookers would cheer like mad, giving him a thrill of satisfaction. This didn’t happen very often but it was worth it every time, and he thought that maybe it was happening more frequently as time passed.
Between botany, enchantment and martial magic, Gaspi had a full set of specialisms. On balance it made for a broad spread of interests, and he was happy with his choices. Aside from studying, he had plenty to keep him occupied. He and Emmy were spending a lot of time together, catching up on all the time they’d missed while he was away, and Taurnil wanted to hang out too. Taurn didn’t make friends easily, and Gaspi suspected he’d struggled for company while he’d been learning druidry.
Despite his very full timetable, he always made room for koshta. The boys had practiced a lot while he was away, and he was pleased to discover that some of them weren’t bad at all. Owein had taken to it like a duck to water, and much as he hated to admit it, Everand had proven to be equally quick to learn. Gavin was pretty good too, and Everand had backup from Matthias, who was surprisingly fast on the ice and pretty accurate with the seed. The rest of the players slid around with varying levels of clumsiness. They got the occasional good touch on the seed, but they tripped over their own boots and slid headlong on the ice just as often.
The teams were about even when Gaspi returned, but his inclusion in Owein’s team made for an unfair game. To even things out, he asked Taurnil to play on Everand’s side whenever he was free. Taurnil had been a bit surprised when he first suggested it, but Gaspi had insisted, wanting a fair game. Even though he could easily outmanoeuvre the rest of the players, Taurnil was a great goalkeeper, and his plan worked. With the two teams on level footing, they began to have some pretty satisfying games.
As the weeks passed, his time with Heath began to fade into memory. If it wasn’t for the spirits, it may have even begun to seem like a distant dream. Their presence was a reminder that however comfortable his life in the college became, his life was caught up in greater currents, sweeping onwards towards his destiny, whatever that might be.
…
It was a windy, winter Restday that found Gaspi and Taurnil practicing shots on the icy quad. None of the other students wanted to play in the blustery conditions, but the boys from Aemon’s Reach were harder to deter. Loreill wanted nothing to do with it, and had stayed indoors with Emmy and Lilly. Not that Emmy had objected to the arrangement! Now she had two pets to play with!
Gaspi had a line of koshta seeds arranged on the ice in front of him, and was taking shots at goal while Taurnil tried to save them. The first went in, the second went wide, and as he was lining up for the third, Voltan stalked around the corner of the quad and headed straight for them.
Gaspi straightened up, waiting for the warrior mage to arrive. What could Voltan want that would make him go out in this weather? He wasn’t behind in any of his assignments, and they didn’t spar on Restdays.
“I was hoping to find you together,” Voltan said as he approached. “I want to talk to you about something, but let’s get out of the wind.” Taurnil shot Gaspi a confused look, but he just shrugged. “This way,” Voltan said, leading them into one of the small classrooms that stood on the fringe of the quad. He swung the heavy door open, and led them into the dim interior. Gaspi had to push against the wind to shut the door behind them, and as it closed, the noise of the blustery weather dropped to a low whistle.
“Take a seat,” Voltan said briskly, pulling up a chair of his own. Gaspi could feel the heat flooding into his cheeks now they were out of the cold.
“Taurnil, you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked to speak to you as well as Gaspi,” Voltan said.
“Er, yeah,” Taurnil said. Ever since the battle, Taurnil wasn’t nervous around any of the magicians anymore, but he didn’t go out of his way to talk to them either.
“I want you to help me get Gaspi battle-trained,” Voltan said. Taurnil sat slightly straighter at the mention of battle. “There’s a tournament held every year in Arkright called the Measure. It’s an ancient sword and sorcery competition, and people travel from all over the continent and beyond to take part. I want you both to enter.”
“What do you mean by sword and sorcery?” Gaspi interjected quickly before Taurnil could sign them up. “You mean magicians against fighters? That doesn’t sound very fair.”
“No, I mean you fight as a team. A magician and a fighter working together against other teams.”
“Count us in!” Taurnil said earnestly.
“Hold on Taurn,” Gaspi said, still uncertain. “Won’t it just end up with the two magicians facing each other and the two fighters facing each other.”
“Sometimes it goes that way,” Voltan said. “But you can be more creative. Sword and sorcery is an ancient art. The magicians enchant as many pieces of their fighter’s gear as possible, and they work as a team. The very best teams have such a sophisticated interaction of magical and physical combat it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.”
Gaspi found himself getting interested in the idea. He looked at Taurnil, and could see that restraining his friend from doing this would be a very hard task. “That actually sounds pretty good,” he said. “Okay we’re up for it.” Taurnil reached over and clapped him on the back. Voltan smiled – a rare occurrence – and something that Gaspi thought was probably best avoided. It looked much more sinister than jovial.
“The Measure is held in late spring, so you’ve got the rest of winter to prepare,” Voltan said. “We haven’t sent anyone in years, but in the light of last year’s attack, we think you ought to be fully battle trained.” Voltan directed his attention back to Taurnil. “Can you ask Trask to rearrange your shifts to accommodate as many of Gaspi’s sparring sessions as possible? I would like you to attend.”
“Sure,” Taurnil said, brimming with unrestrained eagerness.
“Okay, that’s enough for now. I’ll let you get back to your game.” The warrior mage stood up and waited for them to leave the classroom, following them out the door. “We’ll start next week,” he said as he departed, stalking back towards the tower.
“This is brilliant!” Taurnil said, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
“The Measure,” Gaspi said thoughtfully. “Imagine if we won!”
“It’s not about winning,” Taurnil said sternly. “It’s about getting battle trained.”
“Be nice to win though,” Gaspi said.
“True,” Taurnil answered with a grin. “Hey I have to go or I’ll be late for duty. Come down later and we’ll talk about it some more?”
“Okay mate. See you later,” Gaspi said, picking up his koshta gear and parting ways with Taurnil. As he walked back towards the Warren, he couldn’t help feeling excited. He liked the sound of sword and sorcery. It would require creativity as well as raw power. As he stepped quickly through the campus, his mind was already searching for ways he could enchant Taurnil’s armour to give them an advantage. Whatever Taurnil said, if he was going to enter a tournament, he was doing it to win.
Rimulth sat opposite the Dag-Mar, trying to ignore the pain in his crossed ankles. For the past few weeks, he’d been under the old shaman’s tutelage, readying himself to take on the duties he would fulfil for the rest of his life. As shamanic rites were performed as part of a meditation, the Dag-Mar had spent a lot of that time teaching him how to enter a trance. He hadn’t found it easy at first, struggling to ignore the sensations in his body that distracted him whenever he tried to relax. It was amazing how itchy he suddenly became, and in the strangest places! But after a couple of weeks he found himself able to get past that, and was able to consistently achieve a meditative state.
Once the Dag-Mar was confident Rimulth could enter a trance at will, he began teaching him to control his innate powers. He had him perform simple spells, such as summoning a small light, or moving objects around without touching them, and seemed to be happy with his pupil’s progress. Even though he had much to learn, the Dag-Mar assured him that shamanic magic was mostly uncomplicated, concentrating on the health and protection of their tribe. Showy spell-casting was for plainsdwellers!
Rimulth couldn’t agree more, and was very glad when he started to learn the shamanic rites themselves. They’d started with the Way of Gratitude, performed at dawn to greet the sun as it rose from its nightly resting place. It was a simple rite, repeating a short phrase thirty times while facing east:
“We are grateful, Great Light, for warming our land and lighting our paths.”
On its own the phrase didn’t mean that much to him, but in a trance state he was amazed at how his sense of gratitude grew with every iteration. By the time he finished the ritual, he felt like he’d thoroughly embraced the new day. The second part of the Way of Gratitude was performed at dusk:
“We are grateful, Great Light, for keeping us warm throughout this day, and humbly ask you to bless us again tomorrow.”
There were many more rites he had to learn: The seasonal rites for spring, midsummer, harvest and the winter solstice, rites for births and deaths, and for appointing a new chief. He would learn these and many others, along with the essentials of shamanic healing, as his apprenticeship with the Dag-Mar continued.
He had just managed to put the pain in his ankles out of his mind when his peaceful state was shattered by a loud cawing sound from within the camp. Snapping out of his meditation, he looked at the Dag-Mar, whose alarmed expression mirrored his own. They sprang out of the shaman’s hut and ran into the clearing, seeking the source of the sound. On the other side of the clearing was a large crow, and not just any crow, but the same blighted creature that had led a demon to their camp previously. He’d recognise that patch of pale feathers on its head anywhere. When it saw them, it opened its mouth and cawed once again, an unnatural sound that filled Rimulth with dread.
“We are attacked!” the Dag-Mar shouted. Tribesmen came pouring out of their huts, weapons at the ready.
Before they could prepare themselves, a heavy-shouldered menace surged out of the darkness, blacker than midnight and heaving with rapacious power. A demon! Messengers had arrived from other tribes in the past few weeks, letting them know that two more of the creatures had been slain by fire. Knowing this meant that there were still two of the foul attackers out there, Rimulth’s tribe had kept the fire burning perpetually, and their weapons wrapped in oil-soaked cloth. If they were quick, they might still stand a chance.
Bone-numbing cold spread across the clearing, causing the fire to dim, flickering fitfully in the freezing onslaught. The creature opened its maw and howled, stopping Rimulth in his tracks as every private space inside him was accosted by pure, feral destruction.
But the tribe had faced a demon before, and the soul-jarring howl didn’t catch them unawares. Each tribesman knew to fight past it and attack, and as quickly as they could recover, they were lighting their specially prepared spears and flinging them at their attacker. The Dag-Mar had planted ten spears in the ground near the fire, and as the demon advanced towards him, he waved a hand, ripping the first one out of the ground by magic and lighting its cloth-wrapped head in the flames. Placing himself on the other side of the fire, he flung the flaming spear at his enemy. Even before it hit, he reached out with his power and drew another spear out of the ground.
The demon glided heavily towards him, roaring in pain and fury as spears pierced it from all sides, wreathing it in flame. Rimulth stood at the edge of the clearing, firing flaming arrows at the foul creature. He wanted to run to the Dag-Mar’s side, but the shaman had given him strict instructions that if they were attacked again, he was not to use magic. These demons had one objective - to drain the power from magic users until they were just dried up husks, though for what purpose Rimulth didn’t know. The Dag-Mar had insisted that Rimulth’s newly discovered powers were too weak to make any difference. If Rimulth used magic and the Dag-Mar was overcome, the creature would turn on him and kill him as well. The ageing head-shaman had made him promise to do his duty to his tribe, and make sure they weren’t left without a shaman.
Watching the battle unfold, Rimulth was pretty sure this wasn’t going to happen. They knew what to expect this time, and before the demon had made much progress across the clearing it was entirely aflame. The numbing cold was receding as it howled in impotent fury, forced back by the flames. The tribe had thrown most of its flaming arsenal at it, and continued to do so even as it shrank back in defeat. With one last howl, it folded in on itself and disappeared.
Rimulth felt a surge of triumph, bellowing a victory cry as their enemy was defeated. He rubbed at his arms to combat the intense cold. Shivering, he looked at the burning ground where the demon had been vanquished in confusion. Why would the cold remain when the demon was gone?