When they entered the apartment, Stragos showed them straight to Voltan’s room, where they found the warrior mage tucked up in bed wearing one of their host’s plush dressing gowns. He was awake but looked exhausted, the dark smudges beneath his eyes making his face look drawn. Emmy made a soft noise of distress at the sight
and went straight to his side.
“Are you
alright Voltan?” she asked.
“I’m fine thank you Emea,” he answered, push
ing himself up on his pillows.
“Can I do anything?” she asked, clearly disturbed by seeing the invincible warrior
mage in such a reduced state.
“Thank you for offering, but the healers have done a good job of restoring me to health. I’m weak, but no real harm has been done,” he answered. He reached out and squeezed her hand in gratitude, causing her to colour in embarrassment at the familiar gesture. He released her hand and looked at Gaspi. “Did
you win your match?” he asked.
“Yes Sir,” Gaspi answered.
“Good,” Voltan said, and looked around the room at the group. “Thank you all for your concern, but I need to speak with Gaspi, Taurnil, Jonn, Everand and Baard if you don’t mind.”
Everyone filed out obediently, leaving just those Voltan had indicated behind. When the door shut, he was silent for a while, frownin
g as he gathered his thoughts.
“I want you to be fully aware of what you face in Ferast,” he said at last. “I do not know what I encountered in him, but he has become powerful beyond anything that could be expected. He hit me with the hardest force strike I have ever seen or heard of. It was power beyond the ability of any magician, with perhaps the single exception of Gaspi. I do not know where the power came from, but Fera
st is much more than he seems.”
“I don’t understand,” Everand said, frown lines marring his handsome face. “I know Ferast’s strength. It’s a little great
er than mine, but not by much.”
“Not
anymore,” Voltan responded. “He has gained significantly in power, and I don’t like to think how he acquired it.” He paused for a moment. “I want you to be aware of what you face, because he will inevitably beat every opponent he faces tomorrow, and if you are successful, you will have to contend with him just as I have. Should it come to that, there would be no shame in forfeiting the match.”
“I’m not going to surrender,” Everand said stubbornly. “If he beats me, he beats me, but
there’s no way I’m giving up.”
“I thought you might say that,” Voltan responded, and Gaspi thought he could detect a note of approval in his voice. “Ferast did nothing illegal, and there is no evidence of him using dark magic, so you would simply be choosing to face an opponent who is significantly stronger than y
ou. It is a courageous choice.”
“But what about the soul-strike?” Gaspi aske
d. “He aimed that at Jonn too.”
“There’s no saying for certain what he intended,” Voltan said. “You could argue that it was a clever move. He knew I would be forced to defend Jonn, and used that knowledge to make sure I hadn’t the time to defend myself in turn.” Gaspi pulled a face, unconvinced. “What will you do if called to fight him
tomorrow Gaspi?” Voltan asked.
After what he tried to do to Jonn, a vengeful part of him wanted to show Ferast what real power was, but there was a more important consideration than that to think about. If he fought Ferast, he could put him out of the tournament, and that meant that others wouldn’t have to face him. Specifically, it meant that Everand wouldn’t have to face him. After seeing what Ferast did to Voltan, he didn’t want to contemplate what he might do to someone he
really
hated.
“We’re not backing down either are we Gasp?” Taurnil asked wh
en he didn’t answer right away.
“We’ll fight,” Gaspi answered
, to Taurnil’s obvious relief.
“Fair enough,” Voltan said. “I respect you both for choosing to face him, even if
you end up in this condition.”
“Are we done here Voltan?” Jonn asked, eyeing the exhaus
ted warrior mage with concern.
“Yes that’s all,” Voltan answered, sinking back into
his pillows with a quiet sigh.
“Okay let’s leave him to rest,” Jonn said, and led them out of the room.
The next morning they trudged down to the arena in taut silence. Grey clouds hung low and heavy overhead, and Gaspi was sweating freely in the humid air. It was the final day of the Measure, and by the end of the day’s fighting, the winner would be announced. As he walked down the hill towards the dark bulk of the arena, he realised with sudden clarity how much he wanted to be that winner. The lowering skies exactly matched the intensity of his mood, and looking at Taurnil, he could see the same determination in the tight set of his friend’s jaw.
When they arrived, it was clear that the crowd around them felt the buzz too, and even the humid conditions didn’t dampen their spirits. They chose their own seats, sitting on the front row of benches next to Everand and Baard, and the rest of the group from the college sat behind them. The atmosphere was alive with anticipation, charged as storm-tossed air before a lightning strike. Today, the very best teams would battle it out for the title of Champion, and that meant that the action was guaranteed to be exciting. Pockets of the crowd kept bursting into spontaneous cheering around the arena, and when the mayor finally strode out across the sand, the roar that swelled in response was deafening, booming off the walls of the canyon. He held his hands up for quiet until the cheering subsided.
He lifted his staff. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE FINAL DAY OF THE FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH YEAR OF THE MEASURE.”
The crowd began cheering again, and the mayor waited for the noise to abate before continuing.
“TODAY, THE VERY BEST TEAMS WILL FACE EACH OTHER IN A BATTLE OF SWORD AND SORCERY, AND BY SUNDOWN ONE OF THEM WILL BE CROWNED CHAMPION!”
Taurnil leaned in to Gaspi as the crowd cheered again. “I wish the he’d just get on with it!” Gaspi grunted in assent; the mayor was an insufferable windbag. He called for the barrel, and it was brought over by his harassed-looking aide. He turned the handle with ceremonial aplomb, opened the panel and reached in to retrieve two small strips of parchment. Gaspi leant forward, eager to find out who would be fighting first.
“First to compete will be…SHYLOR AND GASPI!”
Gaspi froze for a moment, shocked by the announcement. There were sixteen matches in the first round of the day, and he hadn’t expected to be first, but then he shook it off and stood up. First or last made no difference. He was ready to fight.
“Good luck Gasp,” Emmy called from behind him.
He walked with Taurnil across the sand, trying to remember his opponent’s fighting style from the previous day.
“Taurn, what do you remember about Shylor?” he asked as they walked.
“Not much,” Taurnil grunted. “It was over too quickly. They were fighting that desert nomad, remember?”
Shylor’s previous opponent had been one of the weaker entrants to the tournament, and he’d been quickly overpowered in both bouts. Shylor had also been one of the magicians they’d missed seeing on the first day, so they knew very little about either his strength or his style.
“Damn!
Okay we’ll hold back to start with. Test them out,” he said as they approached the centre of the arena. Taurnil grunted in agreement.
They stopped just short of the mayor and faced their opponents. Shylor was dark-skinned and sharp-featured, and was appraising Gaspi with eyes that shone with the light of obvious intelligence. His slender frame was wrapped from head to toe in blood-red robes. His warrior was short and wiry and so similar in aspect to Shylor that Gaspi thought they must be brothers. He wore a pair of scimitars at his waist and a baldric of throwing daggers strapped across his chest, and when he moved it was with a warrior’s grace. His armour had been dyed to match the exact shade of Shylor’s robes, and together they made quite an impression. Gaspi shared a fleeting look with Taurnil and knew that his friend had reached the same conclusion he had. These were seasoned warriors, accustomed to fighting together, and unlikely to be easy opponents.
“TAKE YOUR PLACES,” the mayor shouted. His heart pounding in anticipation, Gaspi followed Taurnil into their enchanted circle of light. They turned and faced their opponents once again, enduring the endless moment before the battle started.
“BEGIN!”
Taurnil stepped forwards and Gaspi sidled in behind him, his fists blazing with the nimbus of ready power. His opponent did the same, keeping to a tight sword and sorcery formation. They began to circle each other, inching closer as they prepared for the first clash. The only question was who would attack first. Taurnil took a sudden stride forwards and thrust at Shylor’s warrior with the butt of his staff. Unsure which of them Shylor would attack in response, Gaspi threaded enough power into Taurnil’s armour to strengthen its enchantments, but held onto much of the energy he had summoned, ready to form a shield if necessary. Despite Taurnil’s aggressive thrust, Shylor’s warrior did nothing to defend himself, and Taurnil’s staff passed right through him.
Illusion!
Gaspi realised in alarm just as hot pain erupted in his side. A wave of dizziness swamped him as he fell to his knees, clutching his side and feeling the warmth and wetness of his own blood as it soaked through his robes. Somehow his face ended up in the sand, and the sound of his own breathing was the loudest thing he could hear. Through the fog of physical shock, he heard Taurnil surrender and the mayor announce Shylor as the winner. The sound of feet rushing across the sand announced the arrival of the healers, and then healing power flooded him, flowing through the touch of blessedly cool palms. As the pain receded, so did his numb disorientation, and soon he was sitting upright, patting his side carefully to test for any remaining injury. It was as if he’d never been wounded.
“Are you alright Gasp?” Taurnil asked, his face the picture of concer
n.
“
I think so,” Gaspi answered, grabbing Taurnil’s outstretched hand and rising to his feet. He still felt a little shaky but he was physically fine. “So that’s what it feels like to get stabbed!” he said with a shudder.
“Can you carry on?” Taurnil asked.
“I think so,” Gaspi answered bravely.
Taurnil let out a huge sigh of relief. “That was an illusion right?” he asked, back to business, but Gaspi understood his urgency. There wasn’t much time between bouts and they had to sort out their strategy quickly.
“Yes, and a very good one!” he answered. Shylor was clearly a master of illusion. Skilled neuromancers could cast an illusion of themselves, but most of them still had to disappear first, and then introduce the illusion. Disappearing was another kind of illusion, but much easier to do than creating a visible replica of themselves. To seamlessly create an illusion while simultaneously making their actual body invisible required such precision that it was practically unheard of. But Shylor had done it, and they had attacked the illusory version of his warrior while the real one was sneaking up behind Gaspi.
“What are you going to do?” Taurnil asked, with such transparent faith in him that Gaspi almost laughed. It hadn’t occurred to his friend for a moment that he couldn’t find a way to deal with it.
“I’m going to break my own rules,” Gaspi answered.
“TAKE YOUR PLACES,” the mayor shouted.
“What do you mean?” Taurnil asked urgently as they walked to their enchanted circle of light.
“You’ll see,” Gaspi answered as they turned to face their opponents. “There isn’t time to explain. Just stay close and follow my lead.”
“BEGIN!” the mayor shouted, and they shifted into formation. Gaspi summoned power and reached out with his senses, using the unique abilities of a Nature Mage to sense the flow of natural energies in the arena. However clever Shylor’s illusions were, there was no way of masking the actual energy a human body emits. With his enhanced vision, Gaspi could see that the space his warrior apparently occupied was empty of energy. Shylor was trying the same tactic again, and why not, when it worked so well the first time? He could clearly detect the actual position of the warrior, prowling off to his right in an attempt to circle them and come up from behind. The only question was what to do about it. He could hit the warrior with a massive force strike and finish it immediately, but then Shylor would know that he could see through his illusions, and there was still another bout to win. He decided it would be best to save that revelation for the final bout, when it might win them the whole match.
He tuned into the shifting eddies of air in the arena - it was a blustery day, and there was plenty to work with. Stirring up the abundant energies at his command, he whipped up the wind and sent it ploughing into the sand all around him, throwing fine particles into the air for thirty yards in every direction. To Shylor it would look like he was trying to discover where the prowling warrior was, when in fact he was just making sure Taurnil could see him too. The stinging sand forced Shylor to surround himself with a shield, and although Gaspi had to do the same for him and Taurnil, he wasn’t trying to maintain two complex illusions at the same time.