Nature Mage

Nature Mage

Duncan Pile

Published in 2011 by New Generation Publishing

Copyright © Duncan Pile 2011

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Acknowledgments

This book has always been a pleasure to write. It’s been the thing I want to do crammed into the small spaces between the things I have to do. As a result, this book has been written in pleasurable hours, and has been a joy to watch unfold.

Thanks must go to the guys at the Orange Tree in Nottingham, who have genially hosted many hours of creative time, letting me sit on one of their comfortable couches, tapping away on a laptop while a pot of tea cools besides me.

This has been a personal undertaking, done without much help throughout the writing stage, but since completing the book, several encouraging friends have offered invaluable support. They have read my book and generously taken the time to give helpful feedback. I want to offer thanks in particular to Caren Hattingh, Nature Mage’s biggest fan, and a sufficient cheering section all by herself!

I fell in love with fantasy literature the first time I picked up David Edding’s Belgariad. Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman built on that foundation with their tremendous Dragonlance Chronicles, and before long, David Gemmell, Tad Williams, Raymond E. Feist, Terry Brooks and many other incredible writers added their portion of inspiration and magic to my burgeoning imagination. It is to these great writers that I owe the biggest debt of thanks, for giving me a love of magic and a passion for storytelling.

My thanks also go to you, the reader, for taking the time to get to know my beloved characters. As you enter their world, I hope you enjoy getting to know them as much as I have.

Chapter 1

Gaspi sat slumped at his desk, waves of warmth from the open fire blazing at the back of the small classroom sending him into a comfortable doze. A pleasant daydream featuring himself as the heroic goal scorer of the village Koshta team, was rudely broken into by the swinging clatter of hand-bell tones, followed instantly by the urgent scraping of chairs and the pounding feet of children, all convinced that every extra second of time outside the tiny schoolhouse’s confining walls must be grabbed at all costs.

Ten seconds behind the pack now, Gaspi crammed his books, stylus and ink pot into his knapsack, and sprinted after his school mates, anxious not to miss out on the impromptu game of Koshta that would no doubt be starting up even as he ran. Over-garments would already be flung on the frozen village pond, heedless of mothers’ scoldings to come later that night, and the hand-sized Koshta seed would already be skittering across the ice.

Gaspi’s village was nestled in an upland valley, nearly two miles above the rolling plains far below that stretched into the distance. Surrounded by thick pine and fir forest, it was snowbound for the long stretch of winter, but that suited its inhabitants. The villagers of Aemon’s Reach were not unfriendly, but winter was a time when the plains folk stopped their long treks into the mountains, and traffic across the peaks stopped completely. It was a time for family, and for community.

Once a week, roaring fires blazed in the Moot Hall, and everyone turned out in their Feast-Day best to gorge themselves on the plentiful game hunted and trapped in the thick forest surrounding their homes. Once the feasting was done the tables were dragged to the sides, and they would dance for hours to the rapped-out rhythms of the Tibor drum and the energetic scraping and wheezing of fiddles and the squeeze-box. Families would eat together every night, inviting those without companions to join them in their homes. And, all through the snowbound months, the villagers uniformly abandoned themselves to an obsession with Koshta. There were four other villages in the vicinity, all of a similar size, and all equally obsessed with their sport. As far as they knew it was played throughout the mountains, but they only ever had contact with these four villages, each of them reachable within two hours using the wide, flat snow shoes worn for such trips.

The villagers of Aemon’s Reach practiced all week, but every third Feast-Day half the inhabitants of Vintarol, Steg’s End, Steg’s Nook or Petersvale turned up to try and take the lead in that winter’s Koshta competition. The opposition villagers were welcomed warmly, but the competition was deadly serious. More than once a winter fights broke out around the pond, and once in recent history at the Red Stag Inn later at night, where the visitors stayed before trekking back the next day to their homes.

The village pond was the stadium for these epic battles, but for the next hour at least an equally savage game of Koshta would be played by the school boys of Aemon’s Reach, each proud young breast filled with hopes of one day taking his place on the village team. Every boy was given a full size Koshta whacker on their first Nameday, but while very small they would use miniature versions of the stick, until big enough to try their own. Gaspi had been using his own whacker for a couple of years now, from the age of twelve, when he managed to wield it successfully for a whole game without tripping over his own feet.

Catching up with the other children, he flung himself on the floor at the edge of the ice and pulled his ice boots out of his bag. One of the village blacksmith’s regular jobs was crafting blunted metal blades to be rigidly fitted into hard leather shoes, which the villagers used to skate over the pond. Gaspi tugged his boots on with a mighty heave and was quickly gliding over the ice, flowing into the general ruck of bodies and sticks. Gaspi’s best friend Taurnil was already in goal. Plumper than the rest of the boys, Taurnil was always in goal, a position he seemed quite happy to fill. Gaspi flashed him a quick grin, and Taurnil beamed his guileless, open smile in response. Never one to hog the limelight, and utterly innocent of jealousy, Taurnil loved it when Gaspi showed off, easily twisting around other players, and punching home goal after goal.

Gaspi was about to skate over to Taurnil when something slammed into his side, and he fell, grunting, onto the ice. Pushing himself up onto his hands, cold against the ice even through thick mittens, he looked up to see Jakko, the blacksmith’s son, standing over him, holding his whacker threateningly and leering with his unpleasant, piggish face. Flipping his whacker from hand to hand, and surrounded by laughing onlookers, his leer grew even broader and he was just about to speak when a sudden look of surprise stole over his face, and with glazed eyes he crumpled to the ice.

Gaspi looked up to see Taurnil standing over twenty yards away, lowering his stick. He rested the butt on the ice and stood casually, his unflinching gaze quietly challenging Jakko’s group. Jakko himself was coming round, groaning as one of his friends helped him to his feet. He picked up the Koshta seed that had struck him and eyed up Taurnil uncertainly.

“Stay out of this, Taurnil. This is between me and Gaspi. I don’t have a problem with you,” Jacko grunted resentfully.

“Any problem with Gaspi is a problem with me. You know that, Jakko,” Taurnil responded. The silent standoff lasted another few seconds, until Jakko spat in disgust and turned from the ice.

“You’ll get yours, Gaspi,” he threatened, as a parting shot.

“Anytime, Jakko. You know where to find me.”

Taurnil skated over to Gaspi and helped him to his feet, grinning conspiratorially. Jakko had been out to get his best friend ever since Emea had gone to the midwinter festival with Gaspi instead of him. Emea and Jakko had been inseparable growing up, their parents being best friends, but Jakko had grown bigger than the other boys by his tenth Nameday, and Emea had started to draw away from him as he became pushy with his smaller schoolmates. Over the last few years she and Gaspi had formed a close friendship - though sometimes recently that friendship had become confusing - and Jakko had never forgiven Gaspi for stealing his friend.

He expressed himself through trying to hurt Gaspi at every opportunity, but so far Gaspi’s phenomenal luck had kept him from any real harm. Only the previous week Jakko and three friends had caught Gaspi on his own behind the schoolhouse, and pushed him hard against the wall. Gaspi knew he was in for a beating, but on colliding with the wall a massive load of snow slid heavily off the roof onto the four bullies, giving him the few seconds he needed to make a getaway. There was no point trying to fight Jakko, who was much bigger than he was. Gaspi was a little small for his age, and wouldn’t stand a chance, but he was fast, and once out of Jakko’s hands there was no catching him.

Taurnil had silently elected himself Gaspi’s protector, and, though a little plump, he was the strongest and largest boy in their year; even Jakko wouldn’t take him on. Taurnil was well liked by everyone, and his support of Gaspi had saved his friend from the beating brewing in Jakko’s limited imagination as many times as Gaspi had saved himself through speed or good luck.

It looked like the game was off, so Gaspi and Taurnil wondered over to Emea, who was watching from the side of the pond. A few blond locks escaped the confines of her thick, fur-lined hood, framing a face lively with intelligence and humour. A little line sat in the middle of her forehead, which deepened adorably when she was thinking. Gaspi found himself noticing the redness in her cheeks and on the tip of her nose, remembering when she had hugged him after the midwinter dance and pressed that little cold face against his own, as she kissed his cheek. He remembered with curious clarity the way their skin has stuck together, made tacky by the freezing air. All of these things came to Gaspi again in the moment he saw her, along with a tumbling ball of stomach-tightening emotions he could not name. And then she grinned at him and the moment was gone.

“Did you see that? Taurnil shot the seed at Jakko’s head all the way from the goal!” Gaspi said, falling back into their usual banter.

Taurnil shrugged, but still seemed quite pleased with himself. “Well I wasn’t aiming for his head. I was just trying to get his attention.”

“Aww don’t say that, Taurn,” Gaspi said. “It was a heroic shot. One in a million. You should at least pretend it was deliberate. I know I would!”

Emea laughed at Gaspi, before turning to Taurnil with a more serious expression. “Yeah, it was a great shot Taurn, but I wish you’d not knocked him out. This’ll only make him worse. You know what he’s like.” When Gaspi looked unconvinced she carried on, saying “Everyone thinks it was him who beat little Fredo up last summer.”

“That’s not what Fredo said,” Taurnil responded.

“That’s because he’s afraid of Jakko,” Emea said emphatically. “He just made up that story about strangers in the forest to keep Jakko off his back.”

“You worry too much, Emmy,” Gaspi said. “He’s just a lot of talk and not much else. Anyway, I’ve got Taurn to look after me, and the worst that could happen is a beating. God knows, I’ve taken a few of those before.”

And it was true. Gaspi had a bad habit of getting into fights, and always seemed to attract the enmity of one large boy or another, but his legendary luck had fished him out of most situations, and the few times he had come away with bruises and cuts had done nothing to calm him down.

Gaspi and Taurnil sat down to take off their ice boots, and then the three friends trudged home through the snow laughing and joking, the problem with Jakko out of their minds, kicking up snow at each other and eventually breaking into a snowball fight outside Gaspi’s house.

As the light dimmed to a warm evening glow they each went their own way, to parents waiting at home and the smell of food cooking on the stove. As Emea turned away, the evening light caught her profile in soft hues, and Gaspi found his stomach tightening again with that ball of uncomfortable emotion, like his insides wouldn’t stay still. Irritated with this unwelcome intrusion into his familiar feelings for his friend, he shook his head involuntarily, and turned into the house.