Blooded

Lothar's staff came sweeping out against Martel the moment that Tibert gave the signal for the fight to begin. Near panicking, Martel barely raised his staff in defence, saving himself a heavy blow to the head.

His opponent quickly followed up, clearly experienced with his weapon. He launched a series of attacks that flowed smoothly, and Martel struggled to keep up with the high rhythm.

When sparring with Maximilian, there had always been a limit to how much pressure placed on Martel. Even when fighting with Cheval during those early lessons of empowerment magic, his tormentor had never attacked at full strength, preferring to toy with Martel and make a spectacle of him.

No such considerations here. Lothar attacked every opening, only relenting if he took a step back to regain proper footing before striking again. Martel had never fought with a staff before where his opponent was putting every effort into defeating him, quickly and decisively.

While the novice had certainly been in scraps before, most notably against a Tyrian berserker, those experiences did not help him fight back in these circumstances. He could not use fire to make Lothar regret his aggression, nor throw a golden chain around him to wither his power away. Martel could only use magic to protect or empower himself, neither of which he had achieved with any success against Maximilian under much less pressure.

But if previous encounters did not offer aid on what to do physically, they might help mentally. To begin with, Martel had been in worse straits. He had survived a berserker and being kidnapped by soldiers. He was not in genuine danger here, not like what he had already suffered and overcome. Martel would not be beaten so easily. He began to fight back.

The next time that Lothar retreated, Martel stood ready. He lashed out against his opponent's blind side, calling on his magic to empower his strength and land a hefty blow on the shoulder. The crowd erupted with excitement as Lothar staggered, spurring the stableboy on.

The retaliation came swifter than Martel could anticipate or defend against. Extended from his own attack, he could not withdraw in time. The old veteran's staff came swinging through the air to smash against Martel's temple and sent him hurling to the ground.

His vision turned black for a moment. The cacophony of the crowd pierced his ears, amplifying the ringing inside his skull. He could smell blood, or taste it, or both.

Martel struggled to think, to determine what he should do. If he got on his feet, his vision still blurry, he knew to expect another blow just like this, and he felt nauseated.

But if he stayed down, that was the end. He would not get a second fight. He would have failed his assignment, and the cold-hearted lady of the copper lanes was sure to punish him for it, getting him thrown out of the Lyceum.

Grasping his staff next to him, Martel staggered on his feet. He finally remembered his sole advantage and summoned his shield for protection, however feeble. It did nothing, but the situation proved less dire than anticipated, as the expected attack did not come against his head. Instead, Lothar hit him on the arm, which smarted, but nothing worse. Regaining proper footing, Martel defended himself.

He had been hesitant to call upon his magic, afraid to give himself away, but clearly, the alternative was a humiliating defeat with barely any resistance shown. When he got the chance to attack, Martel poured empowered strength into his staff and struck.

Lothar intercepted as expected, but the sheer force of the blow pushed him back and off-balance. Still letting magic flow through his body, Martel increased his speed to strike before his opponent could ready himself, smashing against the shinbone.

The leg did not break, even against Martel's increased strength – it seemed Lothar wore protection under his trousers – but it forced the old man down on one knee. It did not leave him defenceless; he thrust his staff forward like a blunt spear, hitting Martel in the chest to push him back. Immediately, Lothar was back on his feet and attacking again.

Unable to keep up while also retaliating, Martel summoned his shield again. He was beginning to feel exhaustion set in, not just from physical exertion, but also pushing his magic to the limit. He would fall prey to one or the other soon.

Lothar did not let it come that far. Taking advantage of Martel's failing defence, the old veteran struck down to sweep the leg from under him. Falling on his back yet again, the decision to step back up was taken out of his hands. Lothar placed one foot on Martel's staff and pointed his own at the fallen novice's head in a clear sign of domination.

Martel realised that Lothar could have ended the fight at any time, probably; he had simply allowed it to continue to provide a spectacle. Perhaps he had even gone easy on Martel rather than press his advantage at times.

Catching his breath, his mind no longer flooded with the urge to fight, Martel slowly untensed. He became aware once more of the crowd, whose noise had seemed so distant during the fight. They cheered and shouted, apparently in a good mood. A hand appeared in the air before him. Grasping it, Lothar pulled him to his feet.

"Good fight, lad. You got up when you needed to." The old veteran looked dour as ever, but without any trace of malice or condescension on his face. "You're blooded now."

Martel felt strange. A moment ago, the sight of Lothar had filled him with equal parts fear and fury, and his only thought had been how to pummel the man into submission. His head hurt an awful lot, and a stinging sensation in his mouth told him he had bitten his own tongue, all thanks to Lothar. Yet he could now stand calmly next to his erstwhile opponent and even feel a trickle of pride and gratitude for the old man's words.

The ladder was thrown down, letting them climb out of the pit. Martel adjusted his cloth mask; at least the knot had held, protecting his identity. A host of people crowded around the combatants, mostly Lothar as the winner. Grateful for that, Martel slipped away and back to the small room next to the fighting ring.

~

Once finally alone, Martel tore the mask from his face and gasped for breath, not just for physical reasons. He had dreaded this hour for days, and it was over. His physical pain mixed with mental relief, which left him feeling rather eerie.

Tibert appeared, closing the door behind him. "First fight, boy, and you're still alive. You may not go home with coins, but you earned yourself a few bruises and the respect of the crowd."

Worn and in pain, Martel was not in the mood for lengthy conversation. "Yeah."

The bald man regarded him with his unblinking stare. "Now the question is, will you be back?"

Martel raised his eyes to meet Tibert's unflinching gaze. "I will."

Tibert grinned. "Good. Lothar knows how to sort those who speak from those who do. Come back on Manday. I'll have an opponent for you closer to your skill. And have yourself an ale on the way out." With a satisfied look on his face, the tavernkeeper left.

~

Martel left the tavern through a backdoor, avoiding the crowds in the front rooms, and found Maximilian waiting for him. "Well fought!"

"I didn't win." Speaking the words summoned disappointment. If Martel had won, he would at least have had all the money for Shadi and something to show for his torment. The realisation that he would have to do this again appeared in full force, driving away his fleeting sense of relief that the night was over.

"There is always next time," the mageknight remarked prosaically, which only depressed Martel further.

"Let's just get home." They set into motion, walking down the alleys of the harbour district.

They had not come far before a voice hailed them from behind. "Good masters, wait one moment!"

"If this is a mugging, you deal with it," Martel said with a tired voice.

"Yes, yes," Maximilian replied impatiently, one hand on the hilt of his dagger as they turned around.

The speaker approached them, looking like any ordinary worker from the harbour. When he had come so close that Martel, despite his weary state, felt ready to blast him with wind, the man finally spoke again. "Kerra sends her regards, glad to see you sticking to the bargain."

"A pleasant description for extortion," the mageknight scoffed.

"I'm just here to deliver a message. Kerra suggests you walk home through the copper lanes after your fights."

"That'll take twice as long," Martel complained.

"Why?" Maximilian asked brusquely.

"If anyone gets curious about the man underneath the mask, don't make it easy for them to follow you home." The messenger shrugged. "Seems foolish to take other precautions, but leave this door wide open."

The novice and the acolyte looked at each other. Martel sighed and turned towards the slums. "Let's go."