Firebrand
Chapter 469: Going to Market

Going to Market

Once his lessons of the day were over, Martel quickly went to his room, put on his cloak and woollen gloves, and left the Lyceum. The skáld had kept his stall by one of the squares in the market district last year, according to Maximilian's note; hopefully he had chosen the same spot this year.

It was not a long trip, and Martel soon found the right square, identified by a column raised in honour of Emperor Corvinus the Second. Looking around, Martel recognised the northern bard and approached him. "You're the skáld, right?"

This scrawny man looked at Martel. It always felt a little strange to look at eyes of the same colour as his own; it did not happen often in Morcaster. "Yes, yes, I am. You need good knife? Blade always sharp, never grows dull. I'll give you good price since we have the same blood."

"That's not why I'm here. You sell arrows marked with a rune. My friend bought some from you last year."

"Yes, yes, true. Are you mageknight? You don't wear their clothes."

"I'm not, but I'm still interested in buying one."

The skáld nodded and dug one out. "Three crowns. You sure one is enough? I can sell you more."

"One will be sufficient." Martel stared at the small symbol carved into the shaft of the arrow. "But I need you to activate the rune for me."

"Of course." The northerner held out his hand, and Martel placed two golden coins and ten made of silver in his palm, which he quickly deposited in a lockbox by his feet, out of sight. This done, he placed one hand over the arrow and whispered a word. "Visir."

Martel strained his ears to hear, silently mumbling the sounds to himself.

"Here you are. You need rune to keep water fresh? Simply place stone in barrel, and water will stay good."

Martel did not, but he had considered another question. He doubted this fellow could help – if he possessed such powers, he probably would not be peddling minor runes and the like. Still, no harm in asking. "What if someone has been grievously injured? Their head, that is. Their wounds are healed, but a blow to the head keeps them permanently asleep."

The northerner struck an apologetic expression. "That requires deep knowledge of the runes. A seiðr-wife would know, or the greatest of skálds, but humble Helgi? That is beyond him."

At least he did not try to sell Martel a fake cure, which was more honesty than one might expect. "Alright. Good day to you."

"Same to you!"

***

Walking back, Martel kept the arrow pointed at the ground to avoid accidentally stabbing others. Even if the harvest festival had yet to begin, people had begun to arrive in great numbers to Morcaster. This would be the last big event before winter closed down many roads and sea routes. Despite the cold, Martel allowed his cloak to remain open, showing his red robes underneath. Others on the street understood; here came a wizard, and it was best to get out of the way.

Straight ahead, a man moved directly towards Martel. Although he wore the clothes of an ordinary day labourer, something about him seemed odd. Besides being muscular, he walked with a straight back, rather than one bent from many years of hard toil. Perhaps most tellingly, he made no move to get out of the mage's path.

Martel let his magical senses extend forward and felt it. A cold pocket around the man's wrist. For instance, concealing a mage killer blade inside the sleeve.

Alarming, but as he wore no other gold, it would not protect him from Martel's magic. Without hesitation, he blasted air with such power, it sent the would-be assailant away and flat on his back.

Besides immobilising the threat, the spell also served as a gentle suggestion to all bystanders to immediately get out of the way. They quickly reacted dutifully, panic spreading at this display of magic. Except as Martel glanced to either side, he saw someone pushing their way forward through the crowd. If he had to guess, a fourth attacker approached him from behind.

Abandoning all caution or restraint, Martel invoked a wall of fire to cover his back and his left side, protecting those angles. As for the man now running forward on the right, he took a fire bolt straight to the stomach, which made him double over in pain.

The first assailant had gotten back on his feet; a fire bolt made him regret the decision.

The remaining two attackers finally managed to circumvent the flame wall and came at Martel from either side. One of them took a fire bolt to the gut as well, but as Martel whirled around to deal with the fourth, the attacker had already closed in and slashed out. Acting on instinct, Martel raised his arms in defence and received a long gash, dropping his arrow. Wincing in pain, he swiftly sent out a burst of air to push his attacker away and buy a few precious moments.

Two of the others were back in the fight, lunging at him. Standing side-by-side, they were an obvious target for a fire ray, striking the first before moving to the next. They both screamed in agony, turned, and fled.

Martel looked for the fourth, but could not see him. Turning back towards his right to deal with the one assailant who had managed to draw blood, he could not replace him either. The panic of the crowd had turned into a stampede, and it appeared his attackers had chosen to withdraw, using other people to hide their escape.

"Make way for the guard!"

Martel dismissed his wall of fire. While all he had done was defend himself, he was in no mood to answer questions or explain what had happened. Especially not since word would undoubtedly get back to the Lyceum. He picked up his arrow, pulled his cloak around him, and made his own hasty retreat.

***

Martel kept up the pace until he could step across the threshold to the Lyceum, finally feeling safe. Leaning against a wall in the entrance hall, he realised that he drew stares. He quickly realised why; he was gasping for breath while holding an arrow in his hand. At least his clothes hid his wounded arm, but if he began dripping blood on the floor, it would get awkward. Swiftly, Martel hurried to his room.

Once alone, he allowed himself to relax, placing the arrow on his drawer. His hand shook a little as he grabbed a writing instrument to note down the activating word for the rune, lest he forget. His wound hurt; it would need attention. More than that, he needed to know what had happened.

While he did not recognise his attackers, they had military bearing. Most likely, they were Night Knives. If they had carried out this attack in service to Vitus, this assassination attempt could be retaliation for The Broken Crown. Which amounted to nothing less than a declaration of war.

At the same time, using the Night Knives was clever. If Martel invoked the protection of the Lyceum, the school would go after the mercenaries, no doubt violently exterminating them as they had done to the islanders after their attack on Martel. He would have a hard time explaining why Vitus was behind the attack without having to elaborate on his own involvement. As much as being a battlemage gave Martel a certain privilege, being involved with criminals probably strained it to the breaking point.

On the other hand, Martel was unsure whether this actually bore the mark of a cunning mind with many resources at hand. Four assassins, but without sufficient golden protection to actually stand a chance against a wizard. This attack seemed as ill-conceived as it had been ill-fated. The dying gasp of a mercenary band attempting to gain revenge without sufficient means to do so.

If so, Martel could tell the Lyceum and claim their protection. They would destroy what remained of the Night Knives, and Martel would have his revenge.

But he would not do that for two reasons. Firstly, because Martel had no desire to attract more attention from the school administration or its Imperial counterpart. He had pushed back against Mistress Juliana's attempts to confine him; he was not sure what happened if he had to keep pushing. Also, being the target of a second assassination attempt could raise a lot of questions he was uncomfortable answering.

Secondly, Martel wanted to know. If he handed this over to the school, he would not replace out the details of why he had been attacked. Perhaps most importantly, he wanted to be sure that the right people were punished for this transgression, and he wanted to do so himself.

Feeling calm and collected, Martel removed his cloak. Thankfully, the Lyceum served as a safe space where he did not have to fear further attacks while he figured out his countermove. Though just to be sure, he knew to continue using the rune of warning every night before going to sleep.

He pulled up his torn sleeve to look at the wound along his arm. This would definitely need stitches. With a sigh, Martel left his room to make his way towards the infirmary. Already, his mind concocted an explanation for the nurse. Something with preparations for the harvest festival and zealous mageknights training even at late hours – yes, that would do.