Nature's Servant

by Duncan Pile

  He glanced at his fellow competitors to see if anyone had noticed, but they were busy with their own preparations. Taurnil and Jonn were helping each other with their armour, and Voltan sat on his own, performing a kind of pre-battle ritual. Jaim was pacing up and down, making oddly precise movements with his hands, and Sabu was calmly going through some dance-like exercises, moving fluidly from pose to pose. Everand was trying to talk strategy with Baard, but the big fighter wasn’t listening, too eager for combat to listen to his partner’s last minute thoughts. Gaspi felt another surge of concern. He didn’t want Everand to be humiliated again, and if Baard wasn’t going to listen to him, it could all too easily end in a first round trouncing. It looked like this was the only opportunity Gaspi was going to get to speak with Everand before the fighting began, so he picked himself up and walked over. The tall boy eyed him uncertainly as he approached.

  Gaspi stopped and met Everand’s gaze. “I just wanted to say, what’s past is past. We’re in this together now, so good luck.” He extended a hand.

  Much of the stiffness melted from Everand’s shoulders. “Thanks Gaspi,” he said. “You too,” and Gaspi could tell that he meant it. Hoping that Everand would feel more comfortable in the group after this, Gaspi smiled and turned to leave, but then he saw something that stopped him dead.

  “Everand,” he said quietly. “Is that…”

  Everand turned to see what he was looking at. “Ferast,” the tall boy exclaimed.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Gaspi asked.

  “By the looks of the hunk of meat next to him, competing,” Everand said. Gaspi looked at the man on Ferast’s right, sitting too close to be anything other than his team mate. He was tall and solidly built, and every inch of exposed skin was laced with the scars of battle. There was something so grim about the man it made Gaspi shudder. It wasn’t his size or strength - it was the way he was flatly appraising the other fighters. There was no fear in that expression, nor excitement, nor anything Gaspi could identify as human emotion, and he knew beyond any doubt that this man was deadly. How he felt it so clearly he couldn’t explain, but somehow he just knew it in his bones. In that moment the fighter looked up and met his gaze, and something passed between them - an acknowledgement, a threat perhaps, but whatever it was, Gaspi knew he’d been marked.

  The fighter leaned over and tapped Ferast on the shoulder. Ferast looked irritated at being bothered, but when he caught sight of Gaspi, his expression shifted to something else altogether. Gaspi almost flinched at the directness of Ferast’s hateful gaze – a beam of malice that flicked hungrily back and forth between himself and Everand.

  Gaspi looked at Everand uncertainly. If he could make peace with Everand, perhaps something could be done with Ferast too.

  “Shall we…?” he asked, taking a tentative step in the dark-haired boy’s direction.

  “No!” Everand said firmly. Gaspi stopped, arrested by Everand’s conviction. “Something’s not right here,” the handsome boy said, clearly worried. “Rast was always a coward. There’s no way he would ever have taken you on, and now he’s here competing! Did you see the way he looked at me?”

  It was telling that Everand had pretty much admitted that Gaspi was the more powerful magician - the one that Ferast wouldn’t “take on.” Normally he would never admit such a thing, but Ferast had clearly unnerved him.

  “I’ll tell Voltan,” Gaspi said, and left to alert the warrior mage to Ferast’s presence. Voltan was still sitting absolutely still, his eyes half closed as he maintained his pre-battle focus.

  “Sir,” Gaspi said quietly, not pleased at having to disturb his meditation. He didn’t respond. “Voltan!” he said more loudly. The warrior mage slowly rolled his head on his neck and opened his eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked in a tone of forced calm that strained at the seams with repressed annoyance.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but there’s something you need to know.” He waited for permission to carry on.

  “Spit it out then!”

  “It’s Ferast. I mean, he’s here,” Gaspi said.

  “Ferast?” Voltan asked, confused. “What, competing?”

  “Yes, over there,” Gaspi answered, pointing in Ferast’s direction. Voltan peered under beetled brows for a moment before catching sight of the greasy-haired boy.

  “Come with me,” he said, springing to his feet and pacing across the preparation area. Ferast stood up as they approached, but the fighter remained sitting, picking at his nails with the point of his knife.

  “I’m surprised to see you here Ferast,” Voltan said. “Where have you been all these months?”

  Ferast looked at them with a superior expression. “I’ve been here and there,” he said, speaking in deliberate ambiguities. “It’s amazing what you can learn on the road.”

  “It was a shame you left us,” Voltan said cautiously. “If after the Measure you wish to return to the college, we would be glad to have you back.”

  Ferast looked back and forth between the two of them with open disdain. “No, I will not be returning to the college,” he said dryly. “Those days are long gone.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear that,” Voltan said with what Gaspi thought was remarkable restraint. “And who is your partner?” he asked, turning to face the fighter. Gaspi thought he looked even more threatening close up than he did from a distance. The fighter looked back at Voltan as if taking special note of him. It was the same look he’d given Gaspi earlier, and he was pretty sure neither he nor Voltan wanted the attention.

  “This is Bork,” Ferast said. “He can’t answer for himself - he is a mute.” Bork opened his mouth wide and waggled the torn stump of his tongue. Gaspi jumped in shock.

  Voltan had had enough. “We’ll see you on the sand,” he said, whirling round to leave the greasy-haired boy alone with Bork. As Gaspi turned to follow, Ferast spoke again.

  “Is Emea here?” he asked, and for the first time since the conversation started there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice. He remembered Ferast’s obsessive interest in Emea the previous year with disquiet.

  “No she isn’t,” he answered, unsure how he was going to maintain the lie once they were out in the arena, but he didn’t want the scary, hateful boy knowing that Emmy was within his reach. Ferast looked disappointed for a moment, but then his expression hardened.

  “Just as well,” he said, his eyes glittering, and the only thing Gaspi could take it as was a threat.

  “Gaspi, come on,” Voltan called. He turned away and joined the warrior mage, and when they were back with the others, Voltan called Everand and Taurnil over. “That boy is trouble,” he said. “Don’t get in his way and don’t provoke him. Most likely you won’t end up fighting him, but if you do, keep your head and remember what you’ve learned. Clear?”

  “Yes Sir,” they answered, including Taurnil, who knew authority when he saw it.

  “Sir I’m worried about Emea, my girlfriend,” Gaspi said.

  “In what way?” Voltan asked.

  “Ferast is obsessed with her,” Everand interjected.

  “It’s true,” Gaspi confirmed. “I don’t want him to know she’s here.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll sort it out,” Voltan said, looking between him and Everand. “It seems you two have resolved your difficulties,” he said.

  “Yes Sir,” Everand said. “I’ve been an idiot.”

  The warrior mage nodded sharply in approval. “Good man,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk about it later. Let’s concentrate on winning our matches.”

  “Yes Sir,” Everand said. Gaspi thought he stood more proudly, with a straightness in his back that had been lacking for some time.

  “Put your mind at ease Gaspi,” Voltan said. “I’ll make sure Emea is not in plain sight. Now go and prepare for battle.” Voltan left and Everand re-joined Baard to talk strategy.

  “Make the big lout listen!” Gaspi called, loud enough that Baard could hear. Evera
nd grinned and started talking to his team-mate, but this time he didn’t look like he would let the red-bearded warrior ignore him.

  “What the heck is Ferast doing here?” Taurnil asked as they sat back down.

  “Competing,” Gaspi answered. “There’s something seriously frightening about him.”

  “What do you mean?” Taurnil asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “He’s changed,” Gaspi said. “He’s always been an arrogant toe-rag but now he’s got this brute fighting with him and he seems really confident. Who knows what he’s been doing away from the college?”

  Taurnil shrugged. “We’ll find out if we have to fight him.”

  Gaspi didn’t share Taurnil’s nonchalance, but there was little he could do about it. As long as Voltan made sure Emmy was out of harm’s way, he’d have to put Ferast out of his mind and concentrate on winning his matches.

  The loud blare of trumpets focussed their attention, followed by a booming voice that filled the amphitheatre, amplified by magic to reach even the farthest tier of seats.

  “WELCOME LADIES AND GENTLEMEN TO THE MEASURE. IN THIS, OUR FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH YEAR, BRAVE CONTESTANTS HAVE TRAVELLED FROM THE FARTHEST REACHES OF ANTROPEL AND BEYOND TO COMPETE FOR THE COVETED PRIZE OF CHAMPION! PLEASE BE UPSTANDING AND WELCOME OUR TEAMS!” The crowd surged to their feet and broke into the loudest roar Gaspi had ever heard. Taurnil was grinning wildly, but Gaspi felt completely overrun by nerves. Sparring with Voltan and Jonn in the quad, even with a crowd watching them, could never have prepared him for this. He was so anxious he didn’t know if he could even stand up!

  The announcer appeared at the entrance to the preparation area and began calling the teams forward in alphabetical order. As they waited, Voltan explained that the official was in fact the Mayor of Arkright. Hosting the Measure was one of his duties, and the colourful staff he carried was his staff of office, enchanted to magnify his voice throughout the arena.

  The crowd cheered dutifully for each team, but they showed more enthusiasm for some than others, and Gaspi figured they must be returning competitors who’d earned a name for themselves in previous years. The teams were ordered by the magician’s name, so they stayed seated until the announcer reached names starting with the letter “F”. They made their way towards the arena entrance, shuffling forwards as each team was announced. Ferast was called just two places in front of him, and Gaspi watched the greasy-haired boy enter the arena to the cheers of the crowd. He hoped he didn’t have to fight him, but if he did, he had at least one clear advantage, apart from being a Nature Mage - there was no way Ferast would have lowered himself to learn physical combat.

  A tall, skinny magician called Fingle was announced next, and then it was Gaspi’s turn. He stood next to Taurnil just inside the entrance, and exchanged a look with his friend. Taurnil looked like he’d been born for this moment, his eyes alight with anticipation, but Gaspi was still so nervous he thought he might throw up. Taurnil reached out and clapped him on the back - an overly forceful blow that made him have to take a step forward to balance himself! Taurnil grinned at him apologetically and he forced a smile in return.

  “WE HAVE A SPECIAL COMPETITOR FOR YOU THIS YEAR!” the announcer started, and Gaspi groaned inwardly, knowing where this was going. “HE’S COME ALL THE WAY FROM THE COLLEGE OF COLLECTIVE MAGICKS. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT’S MY PLEASURE TO PRESENT TO YOU GASPI, THE NATURE MAGE!” An ordinary gathering of people would have been largely ignorant of the rarity and importance of Gaspi’s gift, but the Measure attracted a knowledgeable crowd, and they burst into rapturous applause. He walked into the arena, repressing a wince as they cheered and yelled his name. Talk about pressure! He lifted a reluctant hand in response, sending the crowd into even wilder paroxysms of pleasure.

  He and Taurnil walked across the sand, buffeted by the wild noise of the crowd. With one last wave, they took the seats allocated to them in the first row of benches. He could feel the attention of the crowd on him, an excited buzz thrumming through them like a swarm of bees.

  “They like you,” Taurnil said, scuffing his feet in the sand to test his grip on its gritty surface.

  “Uh huh,” Gaspi said, but Taurnil didn’t seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm. He looked over to where Lydia was seated with Rimulth and the elementals, and sure enough, Emmy was nowhere in sight. Relieved, he turned his attention to the rest of the contestants filing into the arena, appreciating for the first time the sheer variety of people competing in the Measure. There were dark-skinned desert men from the middle of the continent, pale northerners with white blond hair and broad shoulders, weather-beaten men from the southern coast with faces like worn leather, and still others whose features and clothing were completely new to him. Perhaps some of them had even come from beyond the borders of Antropel.

  The strangest pairing he saw was comprised of a squat little magician, no taller than a child, and a very striking warrior woman. She was six foot tall and armed only in boiled leathers, with her hair tied back in a long, thick braid. She carried a longsword on her back and wore a small, round buckler on her left forearm, as well as two knives belted just above her hips. Gaspi couldn’t help noticing that the boiled leathers, pulled tight against her skin, did nothing to hide her womanly qualities. Taurnil had also noticed her, appraising her in a way Gaspi felt sure Lydia wouldn’t appreciate.

  He watched in increasing wonder as the arena filled up, until finally, the last team was announced and all the competitors’ benches were taken. The mayor walked to the centre of the arena and held his hands up, waiting for the crowd to hush. After a few moments they fell silent.

  “AFTER MONTHS OF PREPARATION, OUR TEAMS HAVE GATHERED TO COMPETE IN THIS, OUR ANCIENT AND HONOURABLE TOURNAMENT! LET’S HEAR IT ONCE MORE FOR THE TEAMS!” The crowd cheered as if their lives depended on it! Gaspi could feel the excitement in the air, resonating through the spectators and competitors alike.

  “WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, LET US CALL THE FIRST MATCH!” The mayor held his enchanted staff of office aloft, where it began to glow in his hand. The crowd waited in breathless silence, and then a thousand bright lights burst from its tip. They gathered in a big cloud and then arranged themselves into letters, spelling out the word OACHIM in brilliant light. The name hung there for a few moments and then the lights coalesced and rearranged themselves, forming another name: KUSAR. It hung in the air for a another moment and then the lights coalesced once more before shooting back down into the staff, which swallowed them up and stopped glowing.

  “THERE YOU HAVE IT LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THE FIRST BATTLE WILL BE BETWEEN OACHIM AND KUSAR!” The crowd cheered loudly in anticipation, about to get their first taste of what they’d come for.

  Forty-Nine

  Gaspi scrutinised the teams as they walked out across the sand. Oachim was a short, neatly dressed magician, robed entirely in white. He carried an intricately carved staff, painted in vivid patterns and polished up to a reflective sheen. His partner was a lean-looking warrior of medium stature, wearing two short swords at his waist, just as Jonn did. Without a shield to defend with, it made for an attack-heavy fighting style.

  Kusar was a tall, slender magician with well-tanned skin and a hooked nose. He was dressed in the lightest of robes, fitted for ease of movement, and Gaspi suspected from the way he carried himself that he was as much a fighter as he was a magician. His warrior was well over six foot tall with long braided hair and shoulders as wide as a door. He wore light armour and his only weapon was a staff.

  “TAKE YOUR PLACES,” the mayor said, lifting his enchanted staff of office above his head. It glowed briefly and two circular areas of sand, separated by a space of about thirty feet, glowed in response. The teams stepped within the enchanted circles and turned to face their opponents. Oachim’s warrior drew his short swords and shifted into a fighting stance, and Kusar’s rangy fighter hefted his staff into position, holding it at an angle across his chest.

  “THE WINNER IS THE TEAM TO WIN THE BEST OU
T OF THREE BOUTS. BEGIN!” The mayor stepped away from the competitors and lowered his staff. The two circles of light disappeared. Oachim channelled power into his painted staff, surrounding it in a nimbus of magical light. Kusar’s braided warrior rushed to meet the shorter swordsman, his staff whirling. Kusar kept pace behind him, channelling power directly into his fighter. The swordsman was forced into a hasty retreat, stepping away from the deadly reach of the other man’s staff. Oachim thrust out with his painted staff and a force strike flew out of its tip, spinning towards the braided giant. Gaspi sucked in a huge breath as the powerful strike flew at the undefended warrior. It looked like he was going to get flattened, but when the strike landed it just dissipated, having no effect whatsoever.

  The warrior took advantage of Oachim’s momentary surprise and changed targets, abandoning his attack on the swordsman and charging directly at Oachim instead with a wild yell. Oachim spun his painted staff over his head, strike after strike flicking from either end, but none of them made even the slightest impact on the charging warrior, who swung his staff hard at the Oachim’s chest. The magician tried to step out of the way but he was far too late. The warrior’s staff crunched into his ribs with a sickening crack and the magician fell to the floor. The tall warrior spun around, his braided hair flying out in a dramatic arc, and turned on the swordsman. The beleaguered warrior looked back and forth between the fighter and magician as they stalked towards him. Kusar’s palms were filled with balls of energy and the braided warrior spun his staff threateningly as he approached. Knowing he was beaten, the swordsman dropped both his blades and raised his palms in the traditional gesture of surrender. The crowd broke into noisy applause and Kusar and his partner stopped advancing.

  “FIRST BOUT, KUSAR!” the mayor announced.

  “First bout?” Taurnil said. “There’s no way Oachim can continue. Did you hear his ribs snap?”