Oak

"For our first match tonight, our newest fighter Stallion faces up against Oak!"

The crowds responded with their usual noise. Already in the pit, Martel ignored them. All that mattered was him and his opponent. Oak had nearly the same height as Martel, but he was so lean, he looked all sinews and bone. A vicious scar ran along the right side of his jaw, leaving that part of his beard barren. His expression remained blank, giving Martel nothing to read or interpret.

They received their weapons. Martel raised his staff, taking a solid position with his feet.

"Fight!"

Both of them made tentative strikes, trying to get a sense of their opponent. A few things became clear to Martel. Oak struck with more speed and accuracy than Butcher in his last fight. He might not have the same strength behind each blow, but if they landed, they would hurt well enough.

Distracted by his considerations, or perhaps just too slow, Martel took a hit to his left ear. As predicted, it made his head sing and left a stinging sensation where his ear had been curled together. Sneering, Martel tried to strike back, to no avail.

This repeated itself again; they would strike back and forth, and eventually, Oak would find an opening and make the most of it.

It was clear that the gaunt man was a better fighter; to be expected, given his experience. Martel's advantage lay in his magic, above all his shield, which let him take a hit without injury. But the novice's magical reservoir was not deep; sparring with Maximilian last night, he had only managed to raise his protection four times before it became too weak to matter. And if he summoned it, but did not have need of it, keeping it in place also drained his magic.

He could only use the shield when he knew it would be needed, and it would give him the chance to retaliate, but Oak was too fast; whenever Martel realised he could not defend in time, before he could raise his magical protection, his opponent's staff had already struck.

His only recourse lay in dictating when he would be hit. As he and Oak exchange strikes, Martel left himself open while raising his shield. The expected attack came, smashing against Martel's cheek. He made sure to move his head along with the staff as if impacted, even though he barely felt it. At the same time, he made the exact same attack delayed by only a moment, hitting Oak on his scarred jaw.

His opponent growled and spat in response, retreating a step. For the first time, Martel saw that the man missed his natural teeth and instead had a pair of wooden replacements in front.

As for the spectators, they roared in revelry at seeing both fighters land a blow, and watching Martel receive his with barely a flinch made many call out his name.

Recovered, Oak came at him again. Martel defended, waited until it seemed plausible that he would leave himself open, and raised his shield. He took a strike, gave one, and only one of the fighters staggered in response.

With clear frustration, Oak readied himself again, and he remained calm and measured in his movements; Martel could not help but admire his discipline, even as it made the fight harder for the novice. Two shields used, two left.

Martel did not wish for this to drag out; he needed to win before his magic ran dry. As they came at each other yet again, the novice prepared to end the fight. With his protection raised, he poured his remaining powers into his arms to land a strengthened blow.

Oak took a hit straight to his temple with such force, he stumbled sideways into the wall of the pit and dropped his staff. Martel had the next attack ready when the gaunt man fell to his knees, raising his hands before his face. "I surrender!"

As before, Martel only became aware of the world outside the pit once he realised the fight was over, the danger ended, and his enemy vanquished. Throwing his weapon aside to raise both fists up, Martel accepted the accolades of the crowd.

Pride surging through him, the victor glanced at his defeated opponent. Martel's elation shattered as he saw Oak lower his hands, revealing his face; across his expression, fear was written.

~

Martel had barely removed his mask in the small chamber before the servant boy brought him his ale.

"You're so strong," the boy said with admiration. "You took that blow like it was nothing!"

Martel grunted something, his mind distracted and disturbed.

Tibert arrived, nodding for the lad to leave them. He emptied a purse onto the table, and a score of shiny silver coins fell out. "I would not have bet against Oak," he admitted.

Martel, sitting down, raised his head to meet Tibert's unblinking eyes, too tired to give a response. He had spent all his magic to win the fights, and besides his physical exertion, it left him feeling hollow.

"I'll see you here next time." The tavernkeeper grinned and left.

Finally a moment to himself, Martel tried to understand why seeing Oak in fear left him so distraught. He had made men fear him before; those who attacked him and learned to regret it, or that young fellow who had preyed on Weasel and his gang.

But they had deserved it. Oak was just a fighter, competing for a prize. Having never met the man before, Martel did not care about him, but nor did he wish him ill. Yet Oak had looked at him as if Martel would beat an unarmed man who had already surrendered.

He wondered how many fights he had left before Kerra would be satisfied.

Once outside in the back alley, Maximilian appeared, his usual exuberant self. Martel did not pay him any attention, letting the mageknight talk in excited terms about whatever was on his mind. Patting the pocket with his money, Martel left it to his friend whether to follow or stay at the tavern, and departed.