The Scent of Apples

The day of Martel's last fight had arrived. He did his morning class while running through his conversation with Lothar in his head, wondering what to make of it. As he had never seen Leatherfist fight, Martel had no idea if he really cheated and how, but obviously, it was not a far-fetched idea. Though he could not imagine that the fighter could seriously pose a threat to Martel, given his magic. If that alchemist had such powerful potions to sell that a one-handed man might defeat a mage, he would be selling his elixirs to emperors and kings, not some brawler in illegal prize fights.

Hopefully he would soon know more. When he had a spare bell in the afternoon, Martel went into town to meet up with Weasel. "How did it go?"

"All good. Your man went to the alchemist's shop this morning. We snagged it straight after." Weasel held out a small vial between his fingers.

It paid to have friends in low places. Of course, Leatherfist could simply buy a new one, but Martel might learn something from this one. He reached out to grab it, and Weasel hold back.

"If this is important enough for you to pay one bird, you can pay another."

"You'll rob anyone, won't you?" Despite his grumbling, Martel dug out another silver piece in addition to the one he paid last night and flicked it over to the boy, who handed over the small flacon.

"Pleasure doing business." The urchin disappeared, leaving Martel alone.

The novice stared at the small vial in his hand. It looked to be a clear liquid, same viscosity as water. He removed the stopper to smell the content. Different scents reach his nose, and he recognised one as apples. Somehow, he did not imagine that Leatherfist went to an alchemist for a drink of cider. He needed to ask someone more knowledgeable.

~

Entering the apothecary, Martel found Nora at work. While Mistress Rana might be better to ask, he was a little wary of involving the stern alchemist, who might be prone to suspicion; in comparison, her apprentice seemed the better choice.

"Martel, back again? Did you forget something this morning?"

"No, but I found this strange vial in the entrance hall, lying in the corner. I thought I would bring it here, in case you might know what it is," he lied.

"Well, I haven't sold anything like this." She did as Martel had done, smelling the odour that rose from the small bottle. "Better not taste it, however tempting," she laughed and took another sniff.

"Yeah, better not. All I can smell our apples, but I don't know any recipe that uses that."

Nora shook her head. "It's not. I think that's chamomile what you can smell."

"What's that used for?"

"It helps people relax, both physically and mentally. If they are having seizures or being hysterical."

Not exactly what Martel expected. He had guessed the potion might give magical strength or something like that, but this sounded like the opposite. Maybe Leatherfist took this to calm his nerves, though it was hard to imagine him being nervous before the fight, given Lothar's description of the man.

"We better get rid of this," Nora considered. "If we don't know what it is or who it belongs to, it's best not to leave it lying around." She poured the liquid down a grate.

Well, perhaps Martel would find out its purpose tonight.

~

Walking down the main street that ran from the docks north towards the market, Martel stopped as The Broken Crown came into sight. Already, people were crowding up outside. Despite the short notice, Tibert had clearly no issues attracting people to his prize fight. Adjusting his eye patch a little, Martel felt the familiar sensation of anxiety slowly rising. He had beaten all the other fighters, and he should not be nervous; but Lothar had done a good job building up Leatherfist as a fearsome opponent. At the same time, this could be the last night Martel had to do this, which only added more emotions to his mental state. All in all, his stomach felt jittery.

He avoided the crowd outside to enter through the alley, found the small serving boy and bade him tell Tibert of his arrival, and went to his chamber by the fighting hall. Mask in place, he sat, trying to keep his breathing calm. He knew he could do this. His shield could withstand any blow. He could make himself stronger and faster. He had a staff, and he was fighting a one-handed man. He would simply not allow the other man to get within reach.

One of the doormen appeared. "It's time."

~

Martel had always felt the fighting hall was filled to the brim during the bout. Tonight proved his previous understandings wrong. The place was completely packed. Every balcony was stuffed with people. He could hardly make his way across the floor to reach the pit. The doormen had to push and shove people aside, and it still took much longer than usual to cross the small distance before Martel could climb down into the ring.

The noise felt absolutely deafening, as if all of it became channelled down the hall and compressed into the small space where Martel now stood. But he knew, once the fight began, it would all fade away.

A grim-looking man jumped down into the pit. The crowds went wild, screaming his name. A staff was thrown down for Martel to pick up. He glanced at his opponent, observing that he wore metal bracers on his arms along with a hardened tunic much like Martel's own.

The ladder was raised. There would be no escape, no way to back out. Martel left a winner, or if Lothar was to be believed, not at all.

Martel would not let it come to that; he had his magic to draw upon should the worst threaten to happen. And with his staff in hand, he felt confident. Yet he could not dismiss a cold sensation of dread slowly creeping down his spine as he stared into the deep-set eyes of his opponent.

The brawler raised his left stump into the air, and the spectators responded with maddening shouts. As for his right hand, he clenched it into a fist inside its leather glove.

From on high, the command came. "Fight!"