Firebrand

Stallion

His thoughts revolving around his first real fight tonight, Martel found it hard to concentrate on his elemental class. He realised this had happened for a while now; although this particular distraction was new, he had not been a particularly diligent student for the past several fivedays. He did not know how many fights he would have to win before Tibert would pit him against Leatherfist – a name that Martel still did not know how to feel about – but hopefully not many. Or perhaps he could work out something with Kerra; find some other way to take advantage of the bald tavernkeeper.

"Let's take a quick break," Master Alastair suggested as Martel's spell faded out much faster than he should have been able to maintain it. "Are you feeling all right? I couldn't help but notice the bruises on your face."

"Yes, don't worry, master. I've just been practising empowerment with Maximilian."

The Master of Elements nodded. "Mageknights can be zealous, and the young viscount is no exception. But it's good that you are practising, since you will take the novice's examination in three to four months."

Martel frowned. "Will I need empowerment for that? If I'm going to learn elemental magic going forward."

His teacher looked a little apprehensive. "Normally, the school overlooks if a student is lacking in certain areas that are not required for their studies as an acolyte. But you being a special case, going through your training at twice the pace, might invite extra scrutiny. It is best that you are not found lacking in any skill, just to ward off potential criticism."

"Master, do you think I might not pass the examination?" A tinge of worry snuck into Martel's voice.

"No, no, don't worry. You have already gained all the elemental skills you need, and will keep honing them over the next months. When the time comes, I am sure you will impress your teachers, not just me."

"All right," Martel mumbled, though he did not feel particularly reassured.

"In that spirit, let's give it another try. This time, we'll try with earth and air, two opposites…"

~

Martel was no stranger to anxiety that arrived the moment you woke up in the morning and remained a steadfast companion, only increasing throughout the day until it had taken over your mind completely. Yet compared to last fiveday, this felt worse. Before, his concern had been what would happen if the worst came to pass and they were discovered gambling illegally; at least he had the comfort that if things went well, he would earn the silver he needed.

This time, the best he could hope for was a thrashing that he might still walk away from. At worst, they would be discovered, he would still get a beating, and he would be thrown out of the Lyceum. As he changed into the clothes of a stableboy, and it started to feel all too real, anxiety shifted to dread. The eyepatch did not help his mood either.

~

Perhaps Maximilian could sense Martel's mood, as the usually exuberant mageknight only spoke sparingly on their walk towards The Broken Crown. They entered the tavern separately as last time, and Martel found it crowded compared to earlier visits. Nearly every table had men and women occupying the chairs, drinking one or the other thing. The clamour was loud, fusing the countless conversations into a singular noise.

Unsure how to proceed, Martel stood by the threshold, almost tripping in place. He usually followed Maximilian's lead in these circumstances, which was not an option.

The doorman got up from his stool, looking him over with a grin. "Young lad with an eyepatch, you must be the new fighter. Careful you don't lose the other one!"

Ignoring the jest, Martel simply asked, "What do I do now?"

The guard made a throw with his head. "Tibert told me to take you through. You'll be the first fight tonight. Next time, if there is one, you can go in through the back. Come along."

He led Martel across the crowded space through an unassuming door, down a hallway, and into a small, sparse room with nothing but a bench.

"Wait here. When it's your turn to fight, someone will fetch you." He nodded at the other door in the room, beyond which the fighting pit lay, presumably.

Anxiety steadily rising, Martel hoped it would not be long. He pulled out a piece of cloth about the size of a scarf and tied it around his face to hide the lower half. Not a perfect disguise, but with the eyepatch over his left eye, hopefully it would serve its purpose.

Someone entered, the same way he had. A young boy brought Martel a tankard of ale. "Good luck!" he grinned and disappeared.

Pulling his mask down, Martel drank it quickly and immediately regretted it; his stomach already felt unsettled thanks to his nerves, and the liquid did not help.

A while passed before the other door opened. Beyond, he could see the structure of the fighting pit and its balconies, filled to the brim. The doorman looked at him with a toothy smile. "You're up, one-eye."

~

Walking down a hallway, Martel reached the door to the large space containing the ring. As he pushed it open, the audience roared in anticipation until a lanky boy entered, wearing an eyepatch and a mask. The clamour turned confused and divided in reaction to this sight, and a few hasty bets were made.

The ladder into the pit was lowered, and the doorman gestured for Martel to climb down. He did so with trepidation, understanding there was no way out now. He was committed. He felt the sand crunch under his boot, promising at least a soft landing for his face.

He was joined by a man many years his senior. Judging by wrinkles, his opponent could be sixty. He had a ring of hair just over his ears and a few scars, one of which ran across the right eye. When it came to sight, it seemed they were evenly matched.

Beyond that, Martel did not favour his chances. The other man looked tough and lean, hardened by decades of labour or fighting, perhaps both. He was easily stronger than Martel, and despite the situation and the deafening noise of the crowd, he stood calm and fully attentive on the novice, not the slightest twitch of his face revealing any emotions beneath. While Martel wore his leather tunic, his opponent wore a simple linen shirt, his confidence shown by his disregard for protective equipment.

Martel, on the other hand, felt anything but calm already. His blood pounded in his ear with each heartbeat, and lacking one eye made him anxious about all noises coming from his blind side.

Several floors above, Tibert appeared on a balcony. He raised his hands to gain silence, achieving only modest effect. "You all know Lothar, who has bested many a man in our pit! A veteran of the seventh legion, tonight he faces a newcomer, never before seen fighting on the sand. I present to you, Stallion!"

The crowd reacted with both cheers and amusement, while Martel groaned. He could not tell what was worse, being saddled with this name or finding out his opponent was a veteran legionary.

"Weapons!" Tibert called out.

Two staves were thrown into the pit, and each of the fighters picked up one. Lothar immediately assumed a stance, crouching a little in his knees, while Martel withdrew a step.

"Fight!"