Firebrand

Choosing the Battle

For his first combat lesson on Malday, Martel began as he always did; he retreated to a solitary part of the arena to practise his shield. The other novices practised their staff fighting with the lapses in discipline that one might expect from children their age.

Testing his shield, Martel found that it held with ease when he threw a pebble up in the air, repelling the small stone before it could land on his hand. He knew that Reynard could not be expected to check on his progress or initiate more advanced training. Martel would have to figure that out for himself.

He called out to the nearest novices, a boy and girl around twelve. They stopped whacking their sticks against each other to look at him.

"Pick up a rock and throw it at me, as hard as you can," Martel asked them.

The children needed no further encouragement. They eagerly did as he wished.

To Martel's satisfaction, the stones fell down a few inches in front of him. He felt cold sweat on his brow from the effort, but his shield held. He thought of how useful this would be in a fight. Though, if that were to occur, his adversaries would probably use more dangerous weapons than pebbles.

He got up and walked over to them. "Hit me with your staff."

The boy needed no further encouragement. He struck his staff straight against Martel's shin.

As it turned out, Martel's shield still required refinement. It broke under the attack, and the staff connected with his leg. With a wince, Martel fell down on one knee.

"Again?" asked the boy.

"No thanks," Martel croaked.

~

At first, Martel's second combat lesson promised to be uneventful as usual. The wooden dummy awaited his attempts to use empowering magic to push it around. As the two hours slowly passed, he did not feel any progress. He suspected this method was useless, at least for him personally, and he would have to think of another way. Perhaps trying at night might work; his magic seemed to flow better when the stars were out. Or possibly he needed his emotions flaring rather than feeling absolutely numb and bored out of his mind as he did currently.

Around him, the mageknights practised as usual. Besides training weaponry, they used their empowering skills and magic shields with ease to land and withstand powerful blows. There was something odd about watching the lithe Eleanor being struck with a hammer straight on the chest and not even flinch. Throughout the lesson, he could not help but notice her, amused by seeing how her magic made her best other mageknights physically stronger. He especially enjoyed watching her gracefully evade Cheval's sword and retaliate with such force, it sent him sprawling on his back.

The lesson was near its end when Reynard called for his students to assemble; Martel stayed put, knowing the teacher only meant the mageknights.

"By now you should be comfortable with your chosen weapon. If not, you have chosen poorly and may want to reconsider."

Some of the acolytes whispered to each other, making jests about those less competent.

"I encourage you to take this seriously," Reynard continued. "Less than two years, you may find yourself on the field of battle, taking Khivan bullets."

"But will our shields not hold them back? How can they harm us?" asked one acolyte.

"It may hold back ten, twenty, or a hundred bullets. But the hundred and first?" Reynard asked rhetorically. "Use your magic only when needed. Every enemy killed with your weapon is magic saved for the next one."

"How can the Khivans be a threat?" asked another. "They do not even have magic!"

Reynard's head whipped around to look at the speaker. "Because they are many, boy, and they keep coming. You want an example? Go southeast from here, and you will find a whole nest of them. If they cannot defeat us in war, they will overrun us through deception." The old mageknight scoffed. "If you ask me, we should get rid of them all."

"No one did," a voice interjected from outside the circle. The acolytes all looked at Martel. "We didn't ask your opinion about Khivans."

"The half-breed is a Khivan lover," Cheval sneered.

Reynard marched over to stare Martel directly in the face. Without warning, he slapped the novice across the face.

It stung. Martel had been struck a few times by his father, but never with force like this, nor with cold malice staring at him.

"If you cannot respect your teacher, boy, you have no place here."

The bell rang. Turning on his heel, Reynard strode out of the gymnasium.

Martel stared at his back with rising anger, wanting to retaliate while knowing he could not. A month ago, before he ever arrived at the Lyceum, the thought to fight back would not have occurred to him; he would never have spoken up in the first place. But he was learning more than magic.

"Martel," Maximilian said quietly, having stepped up to him. "You have to be careful."

He shot his head around to look at his friend. "I thought you wanted me to learn confidence."

"Now I want you to learn how to pick your battles," the mageknight cautioned.

"You heard him! I was supposed to overlook that?"

"Yes," Maximilian stressed. "He is a teacher. What good does challenging him do you?"

"I'm tired of being quiet."

"Well, think about the situation beyond your own nose tip. We are at war with Khiva. Do you think defending them will gain you any friends?"

Martel stared at him. "I didn't need more than one." He turned away to leave in a hurry, accompanied by contemptuous looks from the mageknights.

~

Normally, Martel would spend the free bell before supper practising his elemental magic. The western courtyard always proved welcoming to him, being quiet and with all the materials he needed to practise at hand. Yet after the last lesson, Martel went to his room, locking the door. With solitude ensured, he stretched out his hand. It was not enough to learn weather magic, using guile to make a mageknight slip. The air above his open palm began to heat until a flame appeared. If Martel wanted these people to respect or even fear him, he had to play to his strength. The flame, barely warm, began to grow in intensity. Martel had to learn fire.

~

When supper came, Martel collected his food and resigned himself to sitting alone at one of the outer tables, furthest away. He dug his spoon into the rice with little enthusiasm.

The bench opposite him croaked under the sudden onslaught of a heavy weight. Martel looked over to see Maximilian with his own bowl and cup of weak ale.

"I thought maybe you were annoyed with me," the novice admitted.

The acolyte glanced up to look at him with a wry expression. "We had a disagreement, Nordmark. Hardly the end of friendship."

"Alright." Stabbing into his rice, Martel could not help but ask. "Why are you friends with me? I'm not much like your other friends."

"Stars, Martel, that is a heavy question to throw at a man during his supper." The mageknight's relaxed attitude took the edge from his words. "I guess it is easy. You have no pretensions, no big demands. Nice for a change."

"I'm glad."

"Now, as compensation for forcing me to admit that, I demand we do something leisurely on Solday, like last fiveday. Your schedule the same?"

"Yep."

"Alright. Sixth bell it is, we go out."

Martel smiled. "Alright."