Firebrand

Hospitality

Tibert's fist hit Martel on the cheek. Not with sufficient force to send him on his back, but he did stagger one step backwards, as much from shock as from the blow itself.

Martel had never really been in a fist fight. He understood the basic principle, but he was far from ready to implement it. As Tibert swung at him again, his first instinct was to use magic to protect himself. But if he did, everything would be ruined. Instead, he took another step backwards to get out of reach.

He could not keep doing that, as he would run out of room momentarily. It was clear that Tibert was an experienced fighter, and without magic, Martel would not stand a chance. But he had to fight regardless. He raised his hands in front of his face and steeled himself.

Sensing no chance of retaliation, Tibert pummelled him with both hands. It hurt, but nothing worse than being struck with a staff during Reynard's training.

Knowing that he had to do more than defend, Martel finally lashed out. His opponent easily sidestepped and used the opportunity to get past Martel's guard and land a strike on his chin.

A little shaken, but quickly collecting his wits, Martel tried another attack. Same result.

"Hope you fight better with a staff than your fists!" Tibert mocked him.

Angry, Martel struck another blow. As he did, Tibert not only evaded, but had the time to grab sand from his pocket and throw it in Martel's face.

Blinded for a moment, Martel did not react in time before his opponent crouched low and swept his legs from under him. With a heavy sound, he landed flat on his back.

Martel got on his feet again, more incensed than ever. The urge to break out into magic and punish the bald bastard in front of him felt overwhelming. Setting fire to his trousers should wipe that smirk from his face.

Yet Tibert stepped back, lowering his fists in a signal that the fight was over. He stood, watching Martel once again with unblinking eyes.

"Is that the sort of dirty fighting I should expect?"

Tibert shook his head. "No, any such tricks mean you forfeit the fight. But right now, you're feeling angry. Mistreated. The first time you lose a fight and walk out of here with nothing, that will feel just as unfair as now. I need to know that in spite of it, you'll still be back. Or I can't use you."

Martel scowled, but his fury had already begun to subside. Remembering why he had come, he slowly got a hold of himself. "I'll be there. Just tell me when."

The bald man nodded slightly. "Come back on Pelday, I'll have a fight for you. First time you win, ten silvers. Double that for your next victories. But if you lose, you leave with nothing, and I still expect you back. Don't waste my time if you can't get back up."

Not like Martel had much choice. He was far more motivated than Tibert could understand. "I'll be there, and the next time."

"Good. Lower the ladder," he told his man up on the floor, "and you can go get yourself an ale on the house. As a courtesy to my newest fighter."

~

Martel did not want to disrespect the man in his own house, but nor did he wish to linger and make it easier for people to recognise him, so the novice quickly drank his ale and left the tavern – once his knife had been returned to him.

Back on the street, Martel took a deep breath. His arms ached from being pummelled, and his jaw was a little sore, but he had felt worse. Most importantly, their deception had worked. Now he just had to actually show up and win the fights. As much as Martel had dreaded this all day, he realised this had been the easiest part. The real challenge lay ahead.

Maximilian appeared and gave him a slap on the back. "That went well. Come along, we must return home." He set into motion, and Martel followed. "I watched a bit, listened along. From a distance, of course. You leave yourself wide open when you swing, and obviously, your speed is abysmal. But fighting with a staff will help some of that. The rest, I will teach you."

"Glad that you are optimistic," Martel grumbled. "I didn't stand a chance, and my meagre abilities with empowerment won't make a difference."

Despite the late hour, plenty of people were on the streets. Final barters and deals were struck in the market district, and the pair moved against the traffic as people went to the harbour in search of entertainments offered all night long.

"I do believe that works to our advantage," Maximilian remarked.

Weaving in and out, Martel reached his friend, thinking he had misheard. "How could that ever be good? Magic is my only chance, and a slim one even at that."

"Because," Maximilian said patiently, "a proper magical shield would stop a blow from even reaching you, which would give the game away. At best, your shield will soften the punch a bit, letting you take many more. The audience will be delighted at your endurance and resilience."

"I am so happy that my ability to get punched in the face repeatedly will cause such a thrill."

The young nobleman shot him a look. "The city has changed you, Nordmark. You were never this snarky when we first met."

"And then I met you." With a demonstrative gesture, Martel pulled the eyepatch from his face and rubbed his face.

"Again! And directed at the one person promising to help you avoid aforementioned punching to the face."

"The least you can do, considering I'm getting you your ring back."

Maximilian sighed. "I cannot deny that." He looked up at the darkening horizon. "Too late for sparring tonight. What's your schedule tomorrow?"

"Full until lunch, nothing after."

"I have a class either fifth or sixth bell. We'll spar whichever I have available, and again after supper."

Martel took a deep breath. "Fine. Sounds good."

Nearby, a loud ringing could be heard from a temple tower. Last bell had rung; all decent folk would be going home.