Far from the Madding Crowd

The fighting hall of The Broken Crown had turned to pure chaos and mayhem. Many tried to escape and found themselves trapped in the crowd or worse, flung to the floor and trampled. Quite a few shouted for their money back, especially those with large wagers on the fight. Lastly, some shouted to kill the cheat, throwing anything at hand into the pit at Martel.

If Leatherfist felt intimidated by facing a mage, he quickly overcame it to launch an attack at the novice. Unfortunately for the brawler, Martel had no reason to hold back. Even in his dazed state, he raised the wind with such force, it knocked Leatherfist straight into the wall.

Acting with as much speed as he could muster, Martel grabbed the fighter's arm and pressed the leather glove against the man's face, giving him a taste of his own medicine. He added a kick to the head for good measure, and Leatherfist ceased to stir, falling unconscious back down.

That took care of one enemy; only several hundreds to go. From above, someone threw an empty mug at him. He was only safe until they managed to put the ladder down and descend into the pit, or maybe they simply decided to jump into the ring and overwhelm him. Martel had enough magic left for one major spell, and he could not think of anything that might get him to safety; he could not even escape the pit.

Leaping from the floor, a powerful figure landed inside the ring, making the sand spray up. Martel swung around, wielding his staff.

Maximilian caught the weapon with one hand and tore it away from Martel's grip. Grabbing the novice by the collar, the mageknight made an empowered throw and flung Martel up from the pit to land on the floor, knocking several people to the ground. Immediately, Maximilian made his own escape with an empowered jump to land next to his friend.

Surrounded by people brawling and trying to escape, the mageknight used elbows and the pommel of his dagger to knock people aside. Martel looked around to find the closest door, all the while trying to avoid punches and blows.

The exit to the back rooms of the tavern lay nearby, only ten feet away or so, but a tightly packed mass of people stood between them, making flight impossible. Gathering his remaining power, Martel remembered his spell from the temple in the Khivan quarter. From the ground, he ignited a line of fire.

He did not have the strength to make the flames powerful – simply casting the spell drained him beyond his abilities – but they looked sufficiently dangerous that panic of the crowd escalated. On both sides of the fire, people pushed to escape, trampling and squeezing each other.

Seeing the clear path, Maximilian grabbed Martel by his tunic and pulled him along. They fled down the line of fire, feeling the heat singe at them, though it lacked the intensity to truly burn. Moments later, they burst through the door, fleeing the fighting hall.

They were not alone in doing this. Some had already fled this way, and others did so now. Down the narrow corridors and through the back rooms, the tumultuous stampede continued as people either sought to escape or catch Martel. With his eyepatch and mask, he was easy to recognise, and the angry mob pushed forward against him and Maximilian from both ahead and behind them; only the cramped space kept them from overwhelming the two mages.

"Cover me," Maximilian growled. Wielding his dagger, no longer using only the blunt end, he lashed out to carve a way to the outside.

Turning around to stand back to back with the mageknight, Martel faced the furious crowd. Fists came against him, and he raised his arms to shield himself. Further back, he recognised Tibert's bald head and cold eyes, now alight with wrath. "Kill the stable boy!" the tavernkeeper shouted, as if the others needed any encouragement.

Martel released a blast of air to push them back, but it did little besides giving him a headache due to his drained spellpower; his targets stood so tightly packed, they kept each other standing up. A blow struck him on his mouth, and he tasted blood.

Seeing the small bench where he usually sat before and after fights, Martel grabbed it and threw it at his attackers. It worked better than his spell; besides pushing them back into each other, the bench lay like an obstacle, buying Martel a few precious moments.

He made full use of them by turning to follow Maximilian, who had cut a bloody path down the corridor. Martel had to step over people lying on the ground, groaning and clutching wounds. Although they had been ready to inflict the justice of the mob upon him just minutes earlier, he felt pity for them, but he did not let his sentiments slow him down. Following the mageknight, Martel stumbled out of The Broken Crown to enter the alleyway behind it.

"Stable boy!" came the roar. With a malicious glint in his eye and a vicious knife in his hand, Tibert and two henchmen pushed through the wounded to reach the alley as well.

Reacting without hesitation, Maximilian engaged the nearest opponent, wrestling with him to push him into his companion. Tibert, meanwhile, came bearing straight for Martel.

Exhausted in mind, body, and magic, Martel dearly wished for a weapon as Tibert lunged forward. Drawing on spellpower he had already spent, Martel suppressed the urge to vomit and summoned his shield. Tibert's knife slashed the mask around his face, but the dwindling magic kept Martel from actual harm, stopping the blade as it reached his skin.

At the same time, Martel struck Tibert with an empowered fist straight on his chin. The bald tavernkeeper fell backwards to the ground thanks to the power of the blow; judging by the cracking sound as Martel's fist met his face, Tibert received a broken or dislocated jaw in the bargain as well.

"Come on!" Maximilian grabbed Martel by the arm and pulled him away. They broke into a run; the last that Martel saw, glancing over his shoulder, was Tibert's menacing glare as he got on his feet, clutching his injured jaw with both hands.

~

They did not stop running until they had put considerable distance between them and the tavern, escaping down the alleyways of the harbour. They only slowed down as they reached the market district, where Martel tore both eyepatch and cloth mask from his face.

Continuing at walking speed, no sign of pursuers behind them, Martel looked at his friend. "How did you know to help me? I didn't know you were at the fight."

Maximilian waved one hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, you told me to stay away, but you did not seriously think I would leave you on your own? I needed to make sure I would get my ring back. I was at the last fight as well."

"Thanks. Turns out, you were smarter than me. I would never have gotten out of there without you."

"That goes without saying, though I would not mind if you did say it again." The corner of Maximilian's mouth tugged upwards.

Feeling an overwhelming sense of relief at their escape, Martel did not mind obliging. "Thank you, Max. You saved me back there. Again."

The mageknight patted him on the back. "No trouble. Come along, I need a tankard of the strongest ale ever brewed by Man."

Martel only wanted to go straight home to the Lyceum, but given the debt he owed Maximilian, he could not refuse. At least his nausea from magical exhaustion had disappeared, even if the mere thought of doing the smallest spell threatened to recall the unpleasant sensation. Traversing a small distance, they reached The Golden Goose and bought two mugs of their best beer.

As the drink began warming Martel, and he finally had a chance to sit down and gather his thoughts, he allowed himself to consider what had just transpired. "How did they know? Someone went to the trouble of throwing Sindhian powder at me. They planned for this to happen, and they planned ahead."

Maximilian scratched the frail beginnings of a beard on his chin. "There is one person who knew from the start. Kerra."

"But she sent me in to win, not to have the fight disrupted."

The mageknight shook his head, looking sceptical. "Her plan never really made sense. Tibert's champion losing might have cost him a bit of silver, but hardly enough to put him out of business. On the other hand, a highly anticipated prize fight against his undefeated champion, sure to pack the place full – you saw how the crowd reacted when your secret was revealed."

Slowly, the pieces fell into place. Kerra had dispatched him neither to win or lose, but to be unmasked as a cheat at the worst possible moment. Nobody would ever go to a prize fight at The Broken Crown again, let alone place any wagers or pay admission for it. The Copper Lady had ruined her rival, using Martel as a pawn.

"I could have died in that pit if the crowd had gotten their hands on me." The scale of the betrayal sank in.

Maximilian took a deep draught from his ale. "Which is why we do not listen to sketchy women running illegal gambling operations," he said sagely.

"That Nether-born bitch." Facing Leatherfist had seemed bad enough; he alone could have killed Martel if his trick with the glove had worked. Martel had been forced to escape possible death twice in quick succession, all because he thought he was clever by cheating at dice. Because he had to save Shadi. He swallowed, starting to realise the depth of his folly – of his actions.

"Another reason to never play games with those people."

"You did, though. You lost your ring."

"Well I know that now," Maximilian grumbled. "If you want, we can go set fire to her tavern."

Martel sighed. "No." Any retaliation carried the risk of the Lyceum catching wind of his exploits, and starting a feud with a crime chief seemed unwise. And his anger, quick to rise, had left him as swiftly, replaced by weariness. This felt more like a situation of cutting his losses. At least he had the silver won in the previous fights. Shadi could stay in her home, and he had escaped his predicament with all limbs intact. In some ways, he had achieved his goal, and this could be considered a victory, but if that were the case, he felt too tired to savour it.