Becoming Armed

Martel kept his decision regarding the inquisitors to himself. Watching his friends spar during their Malday lesson, he remembered his fear at seeing the jinni attack them with impunity. Empowerment magic and physical might would not avail. And since he had no intention of asking them to come along, it seemed pointless to even mention it. Both would try to talk him out of it, and Martel feared they might even succeed. So he laughed with them, enjoyed their company, and said little.

***

Regular training in the Circle of Fire resumed on the following Glunday, though Martel found it hard to concentrate thanks to his teacher's latest antics. As Moira entered the room, he saw a dagger stuck into her belt; while he could not be certain, given his hazy recollection of the only times he had seen it before, Martel thought that it might be his. He guessed that she had brought it along for the sole purpose of parading it around, taunting him.

Probably another ploy to test him. It worked, he realised, as he felt the magical sting of Harriet's spell hit his shoulder. Pushing the distraction aside, Martel focused on his duel.

***

Once class ended, Martel had more or less forgotten about the golden dagger when Moira reminded him. Pulling it from her belt, she casually threw it in front of his feet.

Confused, wondering what game she was playing now, he looked from the weapon up at his teacher.

"I suggest you pick it up, boy. You won't be able to levitate it with that gold on it." She cackled.

"You're letting me have it?" Martel felt as confounded as the expressions he saw on the other acolytes.

"You wanted to keep training, didn't you? And you won that fairly. You keep what you kill." Coming from Moira's mouth, the final sentence felt so ominous, Martel almost shivered.

Controlling himself, he bent down and picked up the weapon, sticking it inside his belt.

"Of course, you're responsible for it now. If that blade is used to attack another student, the blame will fall on you. And don't think you can get away with that. Battlemage are not, nobody will protect you." Moira smiled with glee. "You'll be handed over to the Inquisition for ritual strangulation. Enjoy the weapon!" Her howling laughter could be heard even as she descended the stairs.

Martel's fingers ran across the pommel of the weapon. Always thorns with that woman, whether words or deeds. Still, he would not question his good fortune. It had weighed on him, wondering how to get a hold of the blade; figuring out where the Lyceum kept its hoard of golden weapons, not to mention breaking in and getting hold of the dagger without its absence being discovered – Martel had doubted whether he could. And now it sat in his belt, as if the Stars themselves urged him forward on this path.

***

After class, Martel went to the library. He had tried searching for information about jinn before, but lacking any other ideas – his other option, Master Fenrick, had already been exhausted – Martel gave it another try.

He could search for knowledge about maleficars, but that seemed as unlikely to bear fruit. Given the forbidden nature of the topic, the Lyceum did not have tomes dealing with this matter readily available to students. Certainly, finding anything useful about how to fight maleficars seemed a fool's errand; the books of the Lyceum dealt with esoteric lore or discussions of magic, not practical instructions on taking down rogue sorcerers.

Just in case he was wrong, Martel gave it an attempt. Barely any books made mention of maleficus, so at least it was a relatively simple task to go through them all.

As expected, none provided insight; they warned against the dangers of leechcraft and necromancy, but gave no explanations as to combating these dark arts. Martel would have to trust in the inquisitors. The thought did not sit well with him.

***

His day spent in attempts to arm himself with weapons and knowledge – the former a success, the latter not so much – Martel returned to his room. Sitting on his bed, he stared at the dagger in his hands. He saw the faint tint of gold along the edges of the mage-killing weapon. Even just holding the handle felt a little uncomfortable, and to his magic, it seemed like a cold spot in his room. He wondered if it had killed mages before, as it had no other purpose or use, or if Martel had been its first intended victim. His blood had stained the blade that now glistened clean and golden in the waning daylight; neither metal nor sun a friend to mages.

Martel knew his personal feelings about the blade were irrelevant. All that mattered was that he now possessed a weapon that could injure a magical creature like a jinni. Of course, he would be entering the catacombs with a group of inquisitors, all of them likewise armed and, presumably, well-trained. Martel had little experience knife fighting, and he imagined that he would have the least skill in weapons of the entire band; still, he felt better about the venture now that he had this blade in his belt.

Especially as his magic seemed unlikely to be of much use. From what he had learned, jinn were creatures of fire and air, Martel's strongest skills in terms of magic. He could fight with the other elements, but it would tire him out fast compared to his ability to hurl fire bolts all day long. Some of his other tricks, such as the flame wall, would probably not avail anything either.

No, Martel would let the inquisitors do the fighting. The dagger was for self-defence, should he come under attack, but he would avoid it if possible. Assuming that the jinni guarded the maleficar, the latter would provide a much more suitable target for Martel's magic; and in a pinch, a golden blade would work just as well against a dark sorcerer as it had against a fire acolyte.