The Berserker

Waking up on Manday, Martel felt the familiar knot of anxiety that had been a rather constant companion since his arrival to Morcaster. Only this morning, he could not remember why. His classes were going well, he had dealt with Cheval, and thanks to Eleanor, his star chart was ready to be handed in. Martel cast a quick glance at the rolled up parchment lying on his desk, making sure it was still there.

As he made himself ready for breakfast, he finally remembered. Maximilian had invited him to watch a fight. Martel had no idea what to expect, where they would go, what would happen, or even why he had been asked along. He would find out, presumably.

Eating his breakfast, he felt the bench sink down under a heavy weight as someone sat down next to him.

"Hullo, Nordmark," Maximilian said, delving into his own hearty serving.

"Good morning."

"Ready? Once we have eaten, of course."

"Yeah. Just need some clothes for outdoors. Where is it?"

"West of the harbour. Bit of a rough place, but nobody is going to pick a fight with me," Maximilian declared. "Just hang close, and you will be fine."

"Sure." Martel felt a little concerned that an intimidating exterior might be needed to deter fighting, but given they were literally going to a fight, he supposed it could not be helped.

"I have never seen a Tyrian berserker fight. Have you?" asked the mageknight.

"No, they tend to stick to Tyrian lands. Is that why you asked me to come? Because I'm from Nordmark?"

"The thought occurred to me you might have insight," Maximilian admitted. "And I wanted company rather than go alone."

"Nobody else here is interested in seeing such a fight?"

"My other friends might not approve of watching a mageknight fight for gold."

"But you don't care?"

He grinned. "I will overlook it. For the rarity of the experience. Alright, eat up, and we will get our things. I better bring a sword, just for the effect."

~

The location of the fight made Martel think of how he always imagined a tavern, except far bigger than he ever thought it might be. Above the entrance hung a sign showing a broken crown. Despite the early hour, people were already drinking outside. The building itself was tall, at least two floors, and made from timber. As they entered, they found a simple room filled with chairs and tables, some of which held patrons.

"Come along," Maximilian told him, making his way through the room. He aimed for a door in the back, where a surly-looking man stood with a sword strapped to his side.

Crossing his arms, the guard glanced over them. "Two silvers to enter. Each."

As Maximilian opened his pouch, Martel panicked a little. "I didn't bring any coin," he admitted.

"No trouble." Maximilian tossed four silvers on the nearby table, and the guard stepped aside.

They entered a strange room, the same size as the one before. Yet here, the middle had been dug out three or four feet down, leaving a large hole about thirty feet across. Floorboards lay around the pit along with a frail-looking railing, and stairs led up to a kind of balcony that likewise revolved around the hole.

After a moment, Martel understood; this was a primitive arena, allowing as many spectators as possible to look down and watch where the fight took place. Already, plenty of others had arrived in anticipation.

"Come on, let us get upstairs. Better view." Maximilian, apparently familiar with the experience, walked up the stairs, and Martel followed. They found a spot to watch by the railing, which Martel tentatively tried to shake. Best not to lean too much weight on it.

While he did this, Maximilian had stepped away. Suddenly anxious, Martel looked around, wondering where the acolyte had gone. He soon spotted him, thanks to the other boy's height, and relaxed a little. Shortly after, Maximilian returned bearing two mugs.

"We cannot watch with a dry throat," he said with a quick grin. "And I placed a bet."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Ten silvers on the berserker." He handed one tankard to Martel.

"You feel that sure he'll win?"

Maximilian shook his head and took a sip. "I think the mageknight will. His training and magic should prove stronger."

"But – why bet against him?"

"If he wins, I get to be right. If he loses, at least I won my bet." Maximilian grinned, dipping into his ale again.

Martel did the same. The taste was strong, but crude in a sense. It burned more than anything compared to the ale brewed back in Engby. He looked at Maximilian, who seemed at ease. Not only with this experience, but also paying silvers for his friend to enter, and betting on a fight expecting to lose that coin. The gap between them was even wider than Martel had thought, making them seem like the unlikeliest of friends; yet friends they might still be.

"Here they come," Maximilian declared, excitement sneaking into his voice. Martel leaned over the railing, carefully, to look down at the ground floor and its pit.

~

Two men appeared, and a short ladder was lowered into the pit, allowing them to descend. Separating, each of them took position in one end of the fighting ring.

The mageknight looked typically Asterian. A chain shirt provided protection along with his surcoat and an open helmet used by legionaries. As for his weapon, he had a large sword, to be wielded with both hands. All in all, he looked a capable warrior, though his true power lay in the magic he wielded.

Martel had only heard of berserkers before; they rarely left Tyrian lands in his understanding. Yet the man in the pit looked as could be expected. In height and build, he resembled the mageknight and might likewise appear as an ordinary warrior, except for his garments.

Rather than steel, he wore what seemed to be leather and hide, all of it marked with strange symbols. They seemed similar to those used at the Lyceum, albeit for entirely different purposes. The same markings also covered his skin in places. His helmet was the northern style, with rings to protect the eyes, though it must have failed in the past; before he placed the helm on his head, Martel noticed the berserker had one milky eye with a large scar running across his face. Lastly, he carried a fearsome hammer covered in strange markings.

Excitement and anticipation began to boil in the room. The spectators called out encouragements to their champion, disparaging remarks towards the other party, and for the fight to begin.

The two warriors nodded at each other and gripped their weapons. One held the hilt of his sword raised high, ready to defend and retaliate. The other had his hands apart on the haft of his hammer, waiting to deliver a crushing blow. Meanwhile, his lips could be seen mumbling something. Prayers, perhaps, though the earth below his boots seemed to crack.

"Fight!" yelled a commanding voice, cutting through the noise, and so they did.

~

Martel gripped the railing with both hands, watching the berserker advance. The great hammer came swinging, and the mageknight stepped back to evade. He sent his own sword flying, but it struck the leather armour to no avail.

An exchange of strikes and parries followed. The reach and speed of the berserker allowed him to plant several blows on his opponent, hitting with such force to crumple metal. Yet the Asterian held, and Martel observed a soft shimmering where the hammer struck; the mageknight's shield did its work.

The great blade seemed to fare better, striking into the berserker, who had no such shield. Despite this, he did not seem hindered or even wounded. Martel began to watch his feet closely; where he walked, the sand became pushed asunder. If forced back by a powerful blow, the Tyrian seemed quickly invigorated, as if drawing strength from the very ground itself. To his fascination, Martel realised that he was watching magic of an entirely different kind than the Asterian art.

~

As the fight dragged on, the warriors' powers began to fade. When the hammer struck, it broke through the magic shield to make the chain shirt groan, as did the mageknight. Likewise, the sword began to leave cuts, and the berserker bled. Yet this only spurred him on; the more he became injured, the harder he struck.

Finally, Martel felt the air tinge with magic. Both the warriors had retreated a few steps, measuring their adversary. Swifter than should be possible, the mageknight leapt forward, and his sword came thundering down.

It struck into the berserker's shoulder, cutting him deeply. He roared in pain and began to swing his hammer. The mageknight, who clearly had thought the battle over, retreated with his sword and attempted to parry.

Yet the onslaught that came proved beyond his power. The berserker wielded his hammer with unmatched ferocity. The more he bled, the harder he struck. A blow straight onto the chest sent the mageknight sprawling to the sand, his sword cast aside.

"I yield!" he called out. "I yield!"

The berserker, a terrible sight as blood and sweat covered his body, finally halted his attacks. He pulled his helmet off, revealing his milky eye as all red. Letting his hammer drop, he stretched his hands up and yelled loudly in Tyrian.

~

Like a storm long underway, the pressure broke, and emotions erupted. Most of them negative, as many had bet against the berserker. Feeling uncomfortable, Martel looked around to find Maximilian gone from his side. Remembering his words about people out to pick a fight, Martel started to feel concerned. In his brown robe, he seemed like an ordinary clerk and out of place in a tavern such as this, where every man was at least armed with a knife. They looked like sailors or dockworkers, accustomed to hard life and able to give a punch while taking one.

Maximilian returned. "Just had to collect my winnings," he grinned. He glanced around, apparently making the same observation as Martel. "Guess they lost. They might not look fondly on anyone who resembles a Tyrian," he said, his eyes darting to Martel's with their blue hue. "It seems time we leave."

Using his broad figure to cut a swath, Maximilian pushed through the throng while Martel followed after closely. Once outside the tavern, the novice took a deep breath and exhaled with relief.

"Exciting!" Maximilian declared. "I have never seen any fight that way."

"There are tales of berserkers who scorn iron and fire," Martel related as they began walking. "But this one, he seemed to have magic of his own. As if the earth itself made him stronger."

"Could very well be. Who knows what sorcery those barbarians possess?"

"And taking wounds only seemed to spur him on."

"Now that I had heard," Maximilian said. "I just thought it was an exaggeration. An old wives' tale to frighten people."

"Well, I'm glad I won't be fighting anyone like him."

"Hah, same. When I am done, no legions for me. I will be a royal protector and spend my years in the palace getting fat," the mageknight proclaimed, making Martel laugh. "Alright, let us hurry up. We got an assignment to hand in."

~

The boys returned in good time, eating lunch together and discussing the fight. Afterwards, Martel returned to his room and checked his star chart. Thanks to Eleanor's help, it looked decent, and he might even pass the course.

As Martel arrived in the classroom, he found most of the mageknights there. He ignored Cheval, who sent him a withering look. As his eyes met Maximilian's, the latter nodded at him, which Martel reciprocated. He sat down at his usual spot in the corner, but he did not feel invisible or worse, treated with contempt; for the first time, he felt as if he had a friend at his school.