Firebrand

Calculations

"Since a couple of beggars proved too much for you, I have a different task." Seated behind his desk, Tibert stared at Mark, the man whose eyebrows met in the middle. "You're going into the ring against the stableboy tonight. Try to learn something about him in between getting smacked in the head." With a gesture, Tibert dismissed the fellow, who quickly left the chamber.

From a corner in the room, the fighter known as Leatherfist emerged. "I saw the boy the other night. He looks nothing special." He stretched the fingers on his right hand, covered by a brown glove.

"And still he wins. Even with a blind side."

The other man raised his left arm, which ended in a stump. "He wouldn't be the only one winning at less than full strength."

"Not like this." Tibert shook his head and looked at his fighter. "This is on purpose. First time that stableboy was here, he wore the eyepatch on his right eye. Next time, on the left. He's keen to hide himself, and it doesn't sit well with me."

"You think he's got a cheat? Alchemy?"

"It's possible." Tibert stretched his neck and drummed his fingers against the desk.

The fighter scratched his arm stump against his stubbles. "Put him in the ring with Lothar. No way a fresh-faced pup can beat that old codger unless he's got something up his sleeve."

"If he does, nobody can know."

"You leave him to me, and nobody will." Leatherfist scraped his tongue over his teeth. "Been too long since I had fun in the ring."

~

"Four nights and four victories for our young Stallion! Can he make it five when he faces Mark tonight?" Tibert asked the crowd, who shouted and jeered in response. Weapons were thrown into the pit. "Fight!"

Martel sized up his opponent. Quickly done, as he faced a rather short fellow, whose most distinguishing feature was how his eyebrows met above his nose. A little distracting, but the staff in his hands threatening to smash Martel over the head brought back focus.

Besides his magic, the young mage had the advantage of reach with his long arms; reversely, Mark presented a much smaller target, and he could more easily defend himself. Striking him on the head was out of the question, unless Martel could first throw him off balance.

Their staves met as they both tried to land a blow, and Martel took a few hits on his arms, though nothing to trouble him. He even allowed himself to suffer another attack, this time against his shoulder. He groaned and twisted as if it had caused him injury, even as his shield had taken the sting.

The audience made various exclamations, enjoying the spectacle; besides that, Martel tried to lure his opponent in, make him overconfident.

It took a few more tries before it worked. While raising his shield to take the next blow, Martel empowered himself to move faster than he normally could, stabbing his staff into Mark's stomach.

The wind knocked out of him, the short man retreated to buy time and recover. Martel did not let him. Magic pushing him along, the novice struck with speed to send Mark to his knees and the staff from his hands.

Victorious again, Martel raised his fist into the air triumphantly.

~

Waiting in his small chamber, Martel was able to relax himself much faster than previous nights. By now, he had become accustomed to the entire ritual; stepping into the ring did not make him anxious as before, nor did the experience of victory leave him as elated as the first time.

He did enjoy receiving his winnings every time; that never got old. Tibert emptied the coins onto the bench as usual, and Martel quickly stacked them up into four piles of five each.

"You coming on Manday?" The bald man gave the novice one of his intense stares, bereft of a smile.

"Certainly." Martel led one of the coin stacks fall through his fingers, hoping to give the impression that he was eager to fight for the sake of money. While not his primary motivation, it was certainly a pleasant secondary benefit.

"Good. You've beaten my other regulars, so I want to put you against Lothar again. See how you fare against him now you've got some experience under your belt."

"I'll be glad to."

"Since you're here, why not grab an ale? While I know you can afford it, I don't mind giving one on the house to my victorious prize fighter." The words were spoken as if meant with kindness, yet Tibert's eyes did not reflect this emotion, and his voice became a growl at the end.

Regardless, Martel felt no temptation. "I have to get home. Work starts early tomorrow."

"With how much you're winning, you don't have to be a stableboy much longer. You should come by early one evening, we can talk about your future. Besides, the other fighters will start to think you've got something against them if you won't even have a single beer with them." The tavernkeeper smiled, yet his words felt more threatening than his demeanour would suggest.

"Thanks. I'll give it some thought," Martel declared, hoping that a vague answer would get him out of this conversation. He stood up and began demonstrably filling his pockets with his winnings, and Tibert finally left him.

Once this was over, Martel would miss having his pockets full of silver. But he would be glad to part with the fights and the sense of unease he felt the moment he stepped inside The Broken Crown; a feeling which became heightened in Tibert's presence and only disappeared once he could leave the tavern.

It was not only that Martel was deceiving the man and games of deception made the novice nervous; regardless of what Tibert said, no matter how cordial his words seemed, the bald tavernkeeper's intense eyes and expressionless countenance gave Martel the impression of a man always calculating whether it was profitable to gut Martel and carve him up for parts. He looked forward to the day when he would never have to look or be looked upon by that man again.