Firebrand

Marius

"Tonight, for our first match, the familiar name is Stallion while his opponent is the newcomer! From the seventh legion, fighting for the first time in our ring, comes Marius!" Tibert's voice boomed across the hall and still nearly drowned in the noise from the audience.

Martel evaluated his opponent as they stood across each other in the pit, waiting for weapons and the signal to start. The other fighter looked in good shape, no better or worse than someone like Lothar, but he could not be older than somewhere in his thirties. A former legionary, common enough in the ring, but he could not be old enough to have completed twenty years of service – at least, Martel did not imagine so. Regardless, from what little Martel knew, he doubted the legions would discharge someone in the middle of a war unless that soldier could no longer fight.

Clearly, this fellow could still handle himself in a scrap, else he would not be here; but if he had been thrown out of the legions for some manner of dishonourable conduct, like theft or cowardice, would he not be imprisoned? Well, perhaps he had been released. Picking up his staff, Martel accepted that his knowledge of the army did not suffice to answer the question, and he honestly had little desire to learn about life in the legions anyway. He would just have to beat this Marius like he had done the others.

The command came to fight, and their staves met in the air. With more confidence than in his last bout, Martel did not move backwards. He pushed and pressured his opponent, measuring his speed and movements in hope of finding either wanting.

No such luck, and the legionary made several attempts of retaliation against Martel's left side, where his eyepatch hindered his sight. Skilled and cunning.

Martel made a swipe that his opponent evaded by stepping back, though as Marius quickly shifted all his weight to the other leg, it kept him from retaliating. A small error, though it showed that the man did make mistakes, which Martel could take advantage of.

As had happened before, the novice got distracted by his observations and paid for it by taking a hit on his lower arm. It hurt, but the leather took the worst of it. Gritting his teeth, Martel got his head back into the fight and struck out again with his staff.

They exchanged blows once more, and as before, when Marius stepped away to avoid a strike, he always moved his weight onto his left leg. Martel realised why. The legionary favoured one over the other because he had an old injury or such, weakening his right leg; the kind that would get you discharged from the army if you could no longer march or stand all day. Marius could hide it getting into the pit, but the swift movements in the ring meant extra strain and the need to favour the other leg.

Martel had his advantage, and he was not above using it. Summoning his shield to keep himself safe. He went on the offensive. The crowds shouted in surprise and delight seeing Martel so reckless, ignoring blows to pressure Marius and force him to constantly put weight on his bad leg.

It cost Martel three hits and therefore three uses of his shield before his tactics worked. Marius' leg buckled under him, and he fell to one knee with a pained expression. Quickly, Martel slammed his opponent's arms and wrists until he dropped his staff. Unarmed, his head hanging low, he had to concede.

Shouts and cheers rose from the crowd as Martel claimed another victory. He raised his hand and waved, breathing heavily under his mask. As he climbed out of the pit and the people made way for him, he suddenly locked eyes with a man staring at him. All sorts of characters, including plenty of unsavoury nature, frequented these fights, yet this fellow made Martel's skin crawl. He had shorn hair and stubbles for a beard with a thin mouth that looked ready to sneer. Apart from a pair of deep-set eyes, Martel was disturbed by the man's hands; one was wrapped in a leather glove while the other was missing, leaving only a stump.

With no wish to prolong his presence in the fighting hall, Martel hurried onwards.

~

Tibert entered the small chamber and gave Martel his winnings. "Not bad. I wondered if you would find his weakness."

"I did." Martel collected his coin. As usual, his elation over victory lasted briefly, and he just wanted to go home.

Tibert left again, moving through the hallways to reach the front room. He approached one of his people and spoke quietly to him. "He's leaving in a moment. Catch him through the back."

The other fellow, a short and wiry man whose eyebrows connected above his nose, nodded and made a quick departure.

~

With tired steps, Martel walked through the alleys of the harbour district. Maximilian had opted to stay behind, which was no cause for surprise. With some distance between him and The Broken Crown, he removed his eyepatch and continued along the dark streets with a turn left towards the copper lanes.

In his weary state, he did not notice the quiet man following him at a distance. He simply walked on, already dreaming of his bed, not to mention some cooling skin salve for his latest bruises. He envied the mageknights who could maintain their shields for hours if need be, according to Maximilian.

Moving deeper into the winding roads of the slums, he disappeared from the sight of his unknown follower. Increasing his steps, Tibert's man hurried to keep up.

"Spare a coin, good master?" A beggar appeared, practically jumping in front of him.

"Out of my way," came the angry reply as he tried to push the vagrant aside, eyeing the corner where Martel had disappeared.

Out of nowhere, another beggar showed himself. "He asked you for a coin, just a copper." The words were spoken with a threatening tone.

Tibert's man tried again to push and move past them, but they blocked his entry. Next, a small blade flashed in the moonlight, helped by the second vagrant.

Glancing at the steel, the fellow with the single eyebrow turned around and ran. The beggars watched him flee, exchanged looks, and laughed as they returned to their post.