Friendly Sparring

Martel woke with a knot in his stomach. Last night's astronomy lesson had been tense and uncomfortable, with Cheval staring daggers at him. He had paid little attention to Master Fenrick's teachings, as his mind kept thinking on the fight.

Sleep had done nothing to dispel his fears. He thought about every combat lesson on Maldays where Cheval had slapped him around. At least tonight he would have the leather armour to take the worst of it, though it did not protect his head. He was not sure how far Cheval would go; how much pain would satisfy the young nobleman. He was certainly not eager to find out the answer.

~

Solday meant assisting Master Jerome for a bell. Martel did so, distracted; his thoughts constantly loomed around tonight's event. It did not matter much for the work, which his hands did with little interference from his mind; yet as the bell rang and he did not stir, his gaze mostly vacant, the artificer approached him.

"Have you had loss of hearing, boy, or what troubles you? The bell has rung and your chore is done."

Martel looked at Jerome. "Sorry. Something's on my mind."

"So I noticed."

With the artificer keeping his gaze on him, Martel felt compelled to speak. "Master Jerome, do you know any tricks for defending yourself? With a staff for weapon."

"Ah. Combat training giving you trouble?"

"Yes." Which was true, even if not the source of Martel's current worries.

"I'm guessing that so-called Master of War is not teaching you much."

"He's not," Martel admitted; although speaking ill of a teacher made him uncomfortable, it remained the truth.

Jerome scratched his beard and exhaled. "Follow me, boy." He led the novice into the other room where he had equipped him with the leather armour the other day. More pieces of half-finished armour remained. "Wait here."

The artificer disappeared briefly into a deeper room before he returned with two staves, throwing one to Martel, who barely caught it.

"First, you position your feet like this," Jerome explained, using his staff to gesture at his feet. Martel mirrored his stance. "Your hands should hold like this." He extended the weapon, letting Martel see his grip clearly. "Finally, this is how you move when..."

~

They sparred for the better part of an hour until Martel began to feel sore. Only from exertion, as Jerome knew how to control his blows rather than cause any hurt. Grateful for the help, Martel thanked him repeatedly, to which the artificer laughed and sent him on his way to clean himself up before lunch.

As he ate his meal at a deserted table, feeling more isolated than ever, Martel's confidence from sparring with Jerome slipped away. Cheval had trained in weaponry for years, presumably. He could not catch up in an hour. Besides, even if their skill with staves were equal, Cheval knew empowering magic. He could add magical strength to his blows beyond what Martel might parry. However poor a mage Cheval might be, he was still ahead of Martel in that regard, who had yet to learn any form of empowerment.

Looking at the table of teachers having their meal, Martel considered involving them. Yet he could not see the gain. Students fighting each other with magic was prohibited, but sparring was not. Martel could not prove that Cheval intended to cause him injury, as he would simply deny this. If Martel shared his misgivings, a teacher could do little besides advising him to avoid the fight, in which case, Cheval would take his revenge at some other point.

Looking at Master Alastair, the unassuming short man who had once been a feared battlemage, Martel had another idea. He waited until the Master of Elements had finished his lunch and left. Following at a distance until the teacher entered his room, Martel hurried over to knock.

"Martel? What is it, my boy?"

"I was hoping for some advice, master."

"Come on in." Master Alastair gestured for him to enter and take a seat.

Martel briefly admired the books, not to mention the staff leaning against the wall in the corner, which looked magical. "You were a battlemage," he began to say.

"Yes?"

"How did you do it? Fight with magic, I mean."

Master Alastair raised an eyebrow. "Planning on going to war?"

Martel gave a nervous laughter. "Hardly! I just had a run-in with some kids in town, acting like bullies, and I didn't know what to do. I'd like to be more prepared next time."

"I suppose self-defence is reasonable," the teacher considered, his voice slightly tinged by doubt. "But teaching a lesson to some overconfident rapscallion is quite different from battle magic. I hope you can tell the difference."

"Of course! I don't want to hurt anyone. Just keep them from hurting me."

Master Alastair nodded. "That seems fair. Most of my experience, mind you, comes from the battlefield, where fire is most useful. Setting the hilt of a sword or axe ablaze will quickly make your attacker drop his weapon," he chuckled.

"What about other ways besides fire?"

"Well, a clever mage always considers his surroundings. A rock on the ground can be flung to hit someone. A pool of water can be frozen to make the terrain impassable."

Good suggestions, except all Martel could do was summon a harmless flame and move drops of water. "Thanks, master," he spoke, trying to keep his voice neutral.

~

Back in his room, Martel thought about his choices. He could refuse to appear and hope he got away with it. It carried the risk that he did not know how Cheval might retaliate, or how long. He might sell an hour of pain only to buy months of torment.

Martel could simply appear and take the beating. He had done so during class, even if tonight promised to be worse. His shield was slowly improving; it might take the brunt of it.

He could attempt to use fire. It was the only magic he possessed that might accomplish anything. He could bring a torch and direct its flame towards Cheval, deterring the mageknight from fighting. Of course, that might invite suspicion, running the risk of exposing his abilities with fire, which would be the worst outcome of all.

Walking over to his window, Martel had a view of the eastern yard, where the amphitheatre lay. Soon the bell would ring, gathering the students for supper. Once it rang after that, Martel could not postpone his decision any longer.

The sound of thunder caught his attention. In the distance, dark clouds swept across the horizon. A storm approached.

~

Darkness had fallen when last bell rang. Usually, students would filter towards their dormitory towers, seeking sleep soon after. Tonight, many of them streamed to the gymnasium, mostly the acolytes. The storm had arrived, and they had to sit in the rain, using cloaks to keep away both water and winter cold. Candles made little sense in the stormy weather and would not have done much to illuminate the space regardless; the students had to rely on their nocturnal vision once their eyes adjusted to the dark. Any starlight from above remained hidden beneath dark clouds.

While his peers sat on the stone benches, Martel stood alone in the centre of both arena and attention. He had his leather armour under his robe to protect against blows and his cloak to protect against rain. As the spectators chattered excitedly among themselves, Martel hoped that for one reason or another, Cheval might have abandoned the idea.

It did not take long to prove his hopes in vain. Cheval entered, wearing a chain shirt much like an actual knight would. A symbol of his family's wealth and his sense of self-importance. He came alone; if any of his friends attended, they sat in the audience. With him he carried two staves.

He threw one to Martel. "Ready to begin, scarecrow?"

Martel had already begun. It took all his concentration to work his magic without making it apparent. He normally moved his hands to help his power flow, but now, he had to use them to wield the staff. Martel assumed the stance shown to him by Jerome, hoping his feet remembered while his mind remained occupied.

Cheval grinned and lashed out with his staff. A quick but sloppy strike, intended for the crowd. Martel parried and held his position. Meanwhile, the rain showered over the arena, and Martel felt himself sweat with magic exertion.

Cheval launched into a quick series of blows, empowering himself to move faster than Martel could keep up with. The mageknight's staff struck his shoulder, which thankfully the armour resisted. After that, he hit Martel on the shin, making him wince, but he did not retreat nor allow his magic to slip. Cheval continued to wear his obnoxious grin while increasing his attacks, building up to finishing the fight.

Despite the name, the arena floor of the Lyceum was simply ordinary dirt. Old phrases such as fighting on the sand hearkened back to days of more violent spectacles elsewhere; the gymnasium at the prestigious seat of magic had never seen such use, thus alleviating the need to layer the ground with sand. Instead, Martel and Cheval stood on common earth, which worked in the former's favour. All his labours gathering the rainwater finally came to fruition, sending it into the earth to mix into mud.

Cheval attacked again, and Martel finally withdrew. As the mageknight took a forceful step forward in pursuit, his heavy frame promptly slipped, falling flat on his back.

Martel kept the flow of water coming, melting it into the ground to make it even more muddy.

Wearing his steel armour, Cheval struggled to escape. He could not push himself up to stand while holding his staff, but if he let go, he would be defenceless. He tried to plant the weapon in the ground to support himself; seeing this, Martel struck.

His own staff hit Cheval's hands, again and again until the mageknight finally let go, falling back with an outburst.

As lightning tore the sky, Martel stood towering over his tormentor. The crowd had gone quiet, and he knew he had their attention. Temptation suggested to repay Cheval blow for blow.

The moment passed. Standing in the rain, Martel knew the wiser choice. He would prove himself no better by beating on a defenceless opponent. He would simply grant Cheval the sympathy of the spectators; make him the victim and Martel the villain. Even worse, he would endanger himself to accusations of attacking another student, risking expulsion. And this, everyone seeing the proud mageknight utterly humiliated in the mud, was a blow to the young nobleman's pride worse than any blow to his body.

Martel walked around to place his staff against Cheval's cheek, who flinched and raised his hands to protect his head. "Thanks for the sparring," the novice spoke with a voice as cold as the winter rain, making sure everyone in the amphitheatre could hear. He let his staff fall on the ground and walked away.