“There are many theories about magic, and about our spirits, Gaspi. Some would say that when you use magic you are tapping into a universal source; a power that exists in all beings, in every rock and tree and in the deep, fiery core of the world. Some believe that force to be mindless, just an underlying powerful source of life, but that would not explain the sense of love you so accurately describe. Others feel that meditation is a way to contact a Supreme Being. Do you worship a God, Gaspi?”
“Not really,” Gaspi answered. “There’s a chapel in my village, and they hold services every Rest-Day, but I never enjoyed them very much. Well, the singing was okay, I suppose.”
Hephistole laughed. “Found it a bit boring, did you? Well that’s quite understandable. I’m not one for services myself. But what you’ll find is that all over the world different cultures worship God, or something that you or I may understand as God, in diverse and wonderful ways. Some people paint themselves up and stamp round a fire, chanting themselves into a trance. Others sit quietly, and listen to the silence. For some reason, some people prefer to sit on hard wooden seats and listen to someone talk until their buttocks are numb.”
Gaspi laughed freely. Hearing about these other ways of doing things felt liberating.
“What I’m trying to say, Gaspi,” Hephistole continued, “is that many people consider that that endless source of love and purity you experience when meditating to be something of God residing in you. If they are right, it is both part of you and part of God, and it’s probably impossible to separate the two!”
Gaspi nodded thoughtfully. “I like that idea. But what about the magic? That feels different, more…” He couldn’t think of the word.
“Active?” Hephistole asked.
“Yes, sort of,” Gaspi answered. “The love seems endless, intelligent maybe, but it’s observing rather than actually doing something. The magic feels alive, and wants to get out.”
Hephistole laughed once more. “Well, that might be more about you than the magic - but yes, it’s been said that if your spirit is a connection with God, then magic is something solely about you. It is a harnessing of your own power, focussing it on specific tasks. I’m sorry, Gaspi, I can’t say anything more specific than that. I have my own suspicions, but this is the kind of thing everyone has to work out for themselves.”
“No, that’s fine,” Gaspi answered. “It’s exciting. There’s so much I don’t know about. And I like the idea of something powerful out there that’s full of love.”
“Good,” Hephistole said. “You’ll have to let me know what you discover.” Hephistole seemed to be entirely serious.
The headmaster clapped his hands and stood up. “Well that ends our lesson. I’m happy for you to practice what we’ve done today before tomorrow’s class, but promise me you won’t actually do anything with your magic between now and then? I’d rather your first experiences of performing magic were under the supervision of a teacher!”
“I promise,” Gaspi said, more than happy just to be able to touch his power.
Hephistole stood up. “It’s been my pleasure, young Mage. Now, if you step on the transporter and say “Atrium,” you’ll be back on the ground floor again.”
Gaspi stepped onto the transporter. “Just say the word?” he asked.
“Yes. The transporter has been enchanted to do the work for you, and the word alone will suffice. Bye for now, Gaspi,” Hephistole said with a smile.
“ATRIUM,” Gaspi said, a little louder than was necessary. The unnerving buzzing sensation ran through him instantly, and sound and sight were obliterated, until he arrived in one piece on the corresponding plinth near the wide entrance to the tower. Gaspi didn’t think he’d ever grow to like the transporters. Stepping off the plinth, he walked out of the tower into bright afternoon sunlight, and set off back to the dormitory, anxious to tell Emmy all about what he’d learned.
Chapter 17
The sound of clashing swords echoed through the practice yard. Taurnil watched eagerly from the sidelines, as two guards practiced before the drill began. He was equally bewildered and fascinated by swordplay. Where the staff came naturally to him, he still wrestled uncomfortably with a blade. The heavy length of steel felt unwieldy in his hand, and the movements of basic sword-fighting were all very forceful - hacking and slashing, powered by the strength of his arms and upper body. The staff, on the other hand, had a subtlety to it. You could move your hands only slightly, and the attacking end of the staff would whizz through the air with crushing force. Taurnil liked the economy of movement required to use the staff, as well as the range it provided, but he still wanted to learn other weapons skills. He had been drilling with sword, staff and mace for the few days he had been in the guards, and was covered in flourishing and partly-healed bruises. He was yet to win a one-on-one bout with any of the guards, though he’d come close to beating one of the other guards with the staff. Not many guardsmen favoured the staff and it was not compulsory to learn it, so Taurnil only had twelve other guardsmen he could spar with.
The Drillmaster entered the yard from the barracks, a stocky man whose body was not toned or sculpted like some of the young guards. His torso and arms were solid columns of undefined muscle, strong as tree trunks. He was covered in wiry, dark hair, and his body was marked all over with the hard-won scar tissue of an old campaigner. Tobias Trask was a good Drillmaster. He worked his guards hard, but was always fair, and he looked after his own. His drill sessions started with exercise - running laps of the practice yard, harassed by his constant calls for this or that guard to speed up when he thought they were not pushing themselves. He didn’t do this from the sidelines, but would run with the guards, moving from group to group, encouraging and admonishing as he saw fit. This was followed by push-ups, which Taurnil found hard, pushing his heavy frame off the ground with the strength of his arms and chest over and over until his muscles burned with agony. Drillmaster Trask ranted on and on about stamina and strength.
It’s all very well and good to be able to swing your weapon hard
, he would say,
but a battle is won more by an ability to endure rather than by strength.
His guards were in peak condition, as well as skilled with their weapons.
The exercises began as normal, and by the time Taurnil had run twenty laps of the large yard and strained through fifty push-ups all he wanted to do was sit on the floor and be allowed to breathe. Today, he wasn’t going to get his wish.
“Taurnil, Kristos, the staff!” Tobias ordered. Taurnil stumbled to his feet, dismayed that he had to fight without even a moment to catch his breath. His opponent was a rangy guard several inches taller than him. He was broad-shouldered and slender, and looked as taut as a whip. The combatants each chose a staff from the weapons rack, and were quickly ringed by the other guards, eager to watch the fighting.
“Fight!” commanded Trask.
Taurnil and Kristos broke into a slow clockwise circle, sliding their feet across the ground in a careful pacing movement, almost dance-like. Taurnil had learned how to move in a fight on his first day as a guard, and although it was still new to him, he was able to keep pace with an opponent without tripping over his own feet. Kristos was in his late twenties and was an experienced fighter, better by some distance than the other guards he had fought so far. Taurnil couldn’t help wondering why the Drillmaster had paired him up against someone who’d probably have him flat on his back in under a minute.
Kristos leapt forward, thrusting his staff at Taurnil, testing his defences. Taurnil blocked the thrust easily enough, but the tall, wiry guard kept him constantly on the defensive, pushing Taurnil to see if he could keep up a strong defence. Taurnil held his ground by the skin of his teeth, struggling to keep his exhausted body moving under Kristos’ onslaught. Just when he felt he couldn’t go on any longer, Taurnil realised that he had known where the last few attacks were coming from.
Concentrating fiercely, Taurnil realised there was a pattern to Kristos’ attacks. Every time he went for a high thrust it was followed by a blow from Taurnil’s right side. He watched the next few attacks until he was certain, and sure enough Kristos always seemed to follow up a high thrust in the same way. Taurnil’s weakness fled in a moment, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. When the next blow came from the side, he would make his move. Kristos’ staff swept in as anticipated, but this time Taurnil didn’t just block the weapon, but pushed it down and aside, trapping it against the floor. Kristos met his eyes as Taurnil brought his staff across in a vicious sweep. Kristos’ feet went flying from under him, and he tumbled to the floor in a heap.
As Kristos fell, Taurnil kicked him over onto his back, and moved in for a killing blow to the throat. Killing moves were never completed, of course, but as soon as you were in position to deliver one the Drillmaster would bang the gong, and the winner was declared. Taurnil leapt forward with excitement, his heart beating wildly as he anticipated his first win. But Kristos was faster than him, rolling out from under the blow before it could be delivered. Before Taurnil could react he felt the end of Kristos staff crash against his back, swung up at him from Kristos’ low position on the ground. Pain lanced through his back as Taurnil stumbled onto his hands and knees. He tried to recover, but knew he was taking too long to get up, and that Kristos would already be coming in with a killing blow. Sure enough, the gong sounded as he finally surged upright. Taurnil’s shoulders sagged as he turned to face the victor, whose staff was levelled at his head. Kristos lowered his staff, his hard, lean features breaking into a tight smile.
“You did well, boy,” he said. Taurnil was still frustrated at missing out on his first win, and didn’t acknowledge the praise.
“It’s true,” Trask interjected. “That was a good sweep you pulled off there. You nearly had him.”
Taurnil’s cheeks glowed red. “Thanks,” he said, conscious of his age, and desperate not to appear as inexperienced as he in fact was.
“Your reflexes are good, Taurnil,” Trask continued, running a hand over his thick dark stubble as he sized up the young fighter. “We’ll turn the rest of that puppy fat into muscle and build your strength in just a few months. I’d wager you’ll be a fine fighter with that stave soon enough, laddie.”
“Shame he can’t hold a sword without sticking himself,” one of the other guards called out. Everybody laughed, including Trask, and Taurnil couldn‘t help cracking a smile of his own.
“It’s early days yet,” the Drillmaster said. “We’ll see about the sword in time.” He turned to the rest of the guards. “Okay, pair off! We’ll see how good you all are with short-swords.” Taurnil breathed deeply with relief now the attention was taken off him. One of the other young guards paired up with him and for the rest of the session Trask took them through their paces with the short-sword, walking up and down the line, sometimes grabbing a guard’s sword, demonstrating, correcting. By the end of the session Taurnil’s hand was numb from the constant jarring of blade against blade, and, after placing the weapon back in the rack, he trudged wearily to the showers to wash off the sweat of another hard day.
The morning after his block was removed, Gaspi rose early to meditate. No-one else seemed to use the garden he had found, at least not so early in the morning, and his practice was blissfully undisturbed. As usual the meditation was invigorating, but Gaspi had no intention of lingering in a peaceful state that day, and quickly tried to reach his power. He practiced connecting with and releasing magic several times, as Hephistole had taught him, and managed to resist the temptation to do anything with it. He was itching to put his power to some use, even if it was just summoning a ball of light; but his promise to Hephistole meant something to him, and he refrained. After all, he would get his chance in class.
Breakfast came and went quickly as he anticipated the lesson, and when they made their way into the classroom it was Voltan who greeted them. The class was quiet and respectful as they waited for the start of that day’s lesson, and Gaspi guessed he wasn‘t the only one who found Voltan intimidating. When they were all settled, Voltan rose from the teacher’s desk.
“Good morning, class,” he said in his quiet, serious voice. “Today you will be studying martial magic.” His announcement sent a thrill through the students, who broke into urgent whispers.
“…not been studied in years,” someone said a little too loudly.
The whispering stopped instantly, as Voltan spoke again. “I will be setting up a kind of shield, and teaching you a basic attack. One by one you will attack the shield and see what kind of force you can muster.” Again, the class broke into murmuring, fuelled this time by excitement.
“I’m going to teach you the most basic magical attack – the force strike. It’s very simple to conjure. You simply form energy into a bolt of pure force, and thrust it at a target.”
Voltan reached down to a cavity in the rear of the desk and brought out a curious-looking instrument, placing it dead-centre on a table at the front of the room. It was all of one piece, made of a darkened silver metal and covered in intricate carvings. It had a circular base and a slender stem. The stem rose about a foot, where it split and curved outwards into two matching half-moons. The two halves formed a circle that didn’t quite meet at the top, and looked like it should contain a lady’s mirror.
Voltan addressed the class again. “Anyone know what this is?”
Everand’s hand went up. “A force shield,” he said confidently.
“That’s right. The frame contains a shield that absorbs and measures force. Observe!” He tapped the device on the top of the open circle, and immediately a pearlescent disc of gently-swirling energy filled the gap, glimmering with a light sheen. “The shield will absorb all but a very strong force,” Voltan continued, “and reflect the strength of that force by changing colour. Allow me to demonstrate.” He strode to the back of the classroom, and turned to face the force shield. The pupils swivelled in their chairs to get a good view, eager for a demonstration.