Gentle Sting

For more than a month, Martel had enjoyed the end of classes with Reynard in the gymnasium. Empowerment remained his weakest skill compared to any of the elements, and his teacher had done nothing to help him overcome that. Now, he suffered the consequences for it.

He spent the morning fielding questions about his bruised face, explaining that sparring with Maximilian carried certain risks. Mistress Rana allowed him to take some skin salve if he promised to make more to replace it, and Martel gladly placed the cooling balm on his damaged face.

Late in the afternoon, Martel stood in the gymnasium of the Lyceum, wearing his leather tunic. Although his classes with Reynard had ended, Martel still came here for practising magical endurance every Manday with Master Fenrick, so the place felt familiar.

But even though the place was used for training and learning, the stone benches surrounding the centre circle reminded him that it also served the function of an arena. Differently built, but ultimately the same purpose as the fighting pit in Tibert's tavern.

Indeed, Martel had already once used it for such a purpose when he put Cheval in his place. The memory warmed Martel, and it made him a little more reassured. If he had been able to teach that arrogant mageknight a lesson after just a few fivedays' study of magic, surely he could learn how to best someone possessing none.

Maximilian arrived, carrying two staves. He threw one at Martel, who fumbled to catch it. "On your guard!" The mageknight swung his staff, and Martel reacted too slowly, taking a strike on his shoulder.

"I wasn't ready!" Immediately, Martel knew how that sounded.

"You are in the ring, Nordmark, you have to be ready every moment!"

They continued to exchange blows, or in Martel's case, he attempted to do so. Maximilian moved faster, always ready to block and retaliate before Martel could react. The most depressing part was that he did not think the mageknight actually used any magic to move quicker; Maximilian just had the training to act without thinking.

"Enough. Put your staff aside," the mageknight told him.

Martel complied, dropping his weapon, before he noticed that Maximilian kept his. "What are you doing now?"

"We need to train your shield. If you can take a hit without actually being hurt, that will go a long way to ensure your victory. Especially since you can sometimes allow a blow to hit you and use the moment to make your own strike."

Martel saw the reasoning, but he did not relish the prospect of practising this particular spell. He had barely done so since he first unlocked it, as he had plenty of other kinds of magic he needed to learn, more relevant to his future.

"Stop fussing, I will not hit you hard. Now raise your shield."

Grudgingly, Martel did so. Nothing changed visibly; he knew that the shield of a powerful mageknight could be seen as a shimmer, but clearly, that of a novice did not qualify. Still, he felt it, the way you might feel a layer of warm air surround your body.

Maximilian's staff swung through and hit Martel on the shoulder.

"Ow!" Martel's outburst came more from surprise than actual pain, as the leather armour had taken the strike; still, it felt uncomfortable, especially as Martel suspected his shield had done nothing to soften the blow.

"Spare me your indignation, that barely hit you. No thanks to your shield, mind you. We will be at it a while. Again!"

"Great," Martel mumbled, raising his shield once more.

~

Maximilian only let up when the time for supper had come, and he graciously allowed Martel to recover for half a bell before they continued practising in the evening. Not bothering to change clothes, Martel ate a quiet meal while Maximilian went off to handle an errand before their next round of exercise.

Leaving the dining hall, he heard quick footsteps behind him in the corridor. "Martel, wait up." He turned around to find Eleanor catching up to him.

She looked at his miscoloured face. "What happened? Why are you wearing leather? Are you training?"

"I have been, yeah, with Max."

"He should really learn to be more careful." She shook her head and raised a hand to place her fingertips carefully against his bruised cheek. "At least learn to avoid your face."

Despite the gentle sting on his damaged skin, Martel leaned in against her touch, and he felt compelled as always to be honest with her. "Those are not his fault. Well, not directly. I got into a fight in town."

She withdrew her hand. "What happened?"

Martel waited while some other students passed them in the corridor. "Max and I went to the copper lanes to play dice for money. They caught us, so now I have to do fights in the ring at this tavern in the harbour."

Eleanor sent him a look. "That is not funny."

"I know, I'm the one who has to take a beating."

She wrung her face in disbelief and disappointment. "Why would you do such a thing? Are you purposely looking for ways to get thrown out of school?"

"Not so loud," Martel hissed, looking around the hallway. "Look, some of this is Max' fault too. Alright, the dice game was my idea originally, but he's the reason we got caught."

"That is hardly an excuse. Whatever possessed you to do something so reckless, so wrong?"

For some reason, this part was hard to admit. Maybe because it was not his story to share; maybe because he could not tell how it would affect Eleanor's opinion of him. "It's for Shadi. She and her dad can't pay their rent. They'll lose their home," he muttered.

The anger faded from Eleanor's eyes, and her shoulders untensed. "That does sound like you. She's lucky to have you."

"Just as I'm lucky to have you and Max."

She gave a sigh. "Spare me. Is Maximilian going with you to these fights?"

"Yeah. Well, he's in the audience."

"Good. He can look after you. I will not go just to watch you get thrashed by your own volition." She walked past him, shaking her head and muttering under her breath as she disappeared down the hallway.