Firebrand

Leatherfist

In this very moment, Martel's world consisted of a pit, about fifteen feet across. The ground below was sand, the walls were stone, and one other person existed within this place.

Leatherfist stood with his arms raised defensively, eyes focused on Martel. His face betrayed nothing, neither rage nor fear, malice or sympathy.

Despite his superior reach, Martel played it cautiously, fearing some manner of treachery. If Leatherfist had bought some kind of potion to increase speed, agility, or strength, he might catch Martel off-guard with a powerful punch to decide the fight.

Carefully, Martel made a few quick strikes with minimal strength behind them, just to understand how the brawler responded.

The bracers on Leatherfist's arms came up to deflect, protecting his body and head. Excellent defence, but it did not afford him any chance to retaliate as Martel remained outside of reach. If that was all he had, the novice did not fear him.

Growing in confidence, Martel kept ready to raise his shield and stepped up his attacks, seeking a path to knock his opponent on the head and take him down for good.

Swiftly, Leatherfist parried as before, avoiding any damage. This time, he even had the opportunity to hit Martel on his left hand.

The novice felt the leather glove strike against his knuckles, but it caused him no pain, nor did he lose his grip on his staff. Unafraid, he continued his assault, realising his opening. The brawler could protect his face and upper body with his bracers, but not his legs. Martel's staff came straight against the shin bone, making a mark even through the hardened leather trousers worn by his opponent.

Leatherfist flinched in pain but remained standing, taking a swipe at the youth. It missed, as Martel simply leaned back. The grizzled veteran came at him again, and the mage decided to take advantage of this, using the same feint from previous fights. He summoned his shield to protect himself and aimed a blow at the other man's head.

The leather glove struck Martel on the cheek just above his cloth mask, but protected by his shield, he hardly felt it. Meanwhile, his staff struck the brawler on the temple, making him stagger backwards. A moment of vulnerability.

Sensing victory at hand, Martel moved forward to strike another blow and finish the fight. Yet as he moved, it felt as if the hit to his cheek had actually made impact, leaving him as dazed as his opponent had to be. His staff came too slowly, allowing Leatherfist to evade. Strangest of all, Martel thought he could smell apples.

His hand felt numb. While it had been struck early in the fight, he had barely felt it. Yet now it reacted slow as he tried to move his fingers, just like his mind seemed less agile. Leatherfist came again, and Martel barely managed to avoid a direct punch to his face.

Stepping back to gain some distance, though the ring would not allow much more, Martel raised his hand in front of him. He saw no signs of damage, yet the fingers moved at half speed to close and open. And the smell of apples came even stronger.

As Leatherfist flexed his one hand and made to punch at Martel again, the novice stared at the glove before he finally managed to dodge by stepping to the side. The leather-bound fist barely missed him, bringing the strange scent with it, and Martel finally understood.

Chamomile and other herbs, no doubt, to cause relaxation or even lethargy. Leatherfist did not drink the vial he bought from the alchemist; he poured it onto his leather glove and made contact with his opponent's skin.

Martel's knowledge on alchemy had its limits, and he could not tell how powerful the effect might be, or when it would wear off. But he understood now the secret behind Leatherfist's dominance in the ring, despite the man's disability and disadvantage. Already, Martel's mind felt hazy, like in a dream, and he could feel his reactions and movements slowing down.

Leatherfist came at him again, and the novice could not hope to evade this time. He summoned his shield, which took the brunt of the blow, but he only had enough spellpower left for two more of those. He could not hope for the concoction used by Leatherfist to wear off within the next two swings.

Desperate to buy time, Martel lashed out wildly with his staff just to keep his opponent back. His last resort, rather than expending all his magic on shields, would be to use his remaining spellpower to simply knock Leatherfist into the ground. But that would leave the novice exhausted and trapped at the bottom of this pit, with hundreds of furious spectators recognising him to be a cheat. Not to mention what Tibert might do to him.

Through the blur, Martel saw the smirk on Leatherfist's face. He seemed fully aware that his tincture was doing its work, promising him victory. He flexed and clenched his fingers inside the glove, and his expression promised no mercy for Martel. Briefly, he recalled Oak with his wooden teeth, another victim of Leatherfist's brutality.

Praying to the Stars for deliverance, the novice glanced up for a brief moment. He saw the hazy faces of countless onlookers, shouting for his blood. And then – little sparks of light.

Martel thought it was the effect of the elixir as his field of vision became filled with bright flashes. Yet as he eyed his opponent, he saw a dumbfounded look upon Leatherfist's face.

Finally, Martel remembered and recognised what was happening. Sindhian powder, strewn generously to fall down on him and reveal the presence of magic by bursting into light. With the realisation came panic.

"He's got magic!" a voice cried out.

From another balcony came a second. "He's cheating!"

And a third. "The fight is rigged!"

All Nether broke loose as the fighting hall turned into a frenzy of people screaming for Martel's blood.