Firebrand
Chapter 499: Sullied

Sullied

The assailant had been standing up against the wall by the doorway, waiting for Martel; as soon as the wizard stepped inside, he attacked. Sensing the movement, Martel dodged to his right. He slammed into the wall on that side, but avoided the dagger.

Seeing a golden glint upon its edge, Martel guessed that he faced an opponent protected by gold like the archer. Direct spells would not work, but his staff was a superior weapon to a short blade, even if his opponent was a mageknight. Changing stance, Martel raised his staff to defend himself.

His opponent lashed out several times, but as predicted, Martel could easily hold him at bay, and he even swung his own strike to hit the man on the shoulder. It made impact on something soft; evidently, his adversary did not wear armour.

It also made him take a step back, beyond the range of Martel's staff. He gave the young wizard a calculating look; probably assessing his best avenue of attack.

Martel did similar, but with his magical sense. Perhaps the man was unprotected somewhere. To his surprise, Martel felt no gold anywhere except upon the knife in his hand. This brawler had no armour, no gold, and no magic either, it seemed.

Incredulous, Martel released a fire bolt straight into the man's chest. He doubled over with an agonised expression. Moreover, Martel noticed that he had not even tried to block the spell with his golden blade.

"You're a mage," the man coughed. "They didn't tell me that."

"I am." Martel did not understand this fight at all; the archer and the mageknight had each been a challenge of a different kind. This man stood no chance against him. "I suggest you surrender. Nothing you can do here." He let fire fill his hand as a warning.

His attacker seemed indecisive for a moment, perhaps weighing his options. Finally, he relaxed his stance and lowered his weapon. "Alright. Yeah. I surrender." He gestured towards the door. "Go on. I won't stop you."

Martel nodded a little in acknowledgement, even as he felt confused. This made no sense, but at the same time, he did not care either. As long as he was done. He moved towards the back door, but some instinct, perhaps his unease about the situation, kept him alert. As soon as he turned his back on the other man, he felt him move.

Turning on his heel, Martel swung out with his staff to strike his attacker on the chin and sent him to the ground. "I don't appreciate deception," the young wizard growled. "Stay down, or I'll hurt you much worse than that."

Slowly, disregarding the warning, the assailant got back on his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth. "I can't let you through that door, boy."

"Why in Sol's name not?"

"You leave here, they take me back to Morcaster, where the hangman waits for me. But if I kill you, they'll set me free." The calculating look in his eyes returned.

"But you stand no chance! Didn't you wonder why they gave you a knife with a golden edge? But even with that weapon, you have no hope against a wizard!"

"You're probably right," the brawler admitted. He relaxed his body, but only briefly before he launched himself forward to bury his blade in Martel's chest.

Reacting with empowered speed and strength, Martel grabbed the man's wrist and forced it around, turning the dagger around with it. Momentum carried the assailant forward nonetheless, giving him the fate he had intended for Martel as the blade became embedded in his chest.

He fell to the ground, and Martel released his hold on him. An eerie smile appeared on his mouth, still bloody from Martel's strike before. "Faster than the noose," he croaked before he became still.

Disturbed by this whole affair, Martel quickly walked over to tear the door open and walk through. Outside, he found the elderly scribe and a few guards waiting.

The clerk looked over Martel's shoulder at the body inside. "Well done. You have completed your examination. You are now a battlemage in the emperor's legions. Congratulations." He turned his head towards the soldiers. "Remove the body and fetch the next. Don't forget his dagger."

As the guards did as ordered, Martel walked up to stare down at the scribe. "What was the point of that? You made me murder that man!"

With a cool demeanour in the face of an angry battlemage, and wearing a lot of golden jewellery, the old man looked up at Martel. "He was a criminal slated for execution. I think that was the poisoner, though I may have him mixed up with one of the others. Dreadful business – poisoned his wife to marry another woman, if I recall."

"I don't care," Martel spat. "Why did you make me fight him? It was pointless!"

The clerk wiped his cheek with a slow, deliberate movement. "On the contrary. Now you know how it feels when a man is bent on taking your life. Good to see you didn't hesitate when it came to a real fight."

"It wasn't a real fight! He was practically defenceless."

"He had a golden weapon," the old man argued.

Martel threw his staff aside and pulled his robe over his head to reveal his armour. "Gold against my chain shirt? Useless. He was no threat to me." He began to remove the mail as well.

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"Your complaints are noted. Regardless, your examination is at an end. You may wish to join your teacher in front of the building and wait for the others."

Clenching his jaw and suppressing the urge to release a fire bolt, Martel stalked away.

***

On his own, Martel strode down the trail that led to the main road. He was in no mood to sit around and wait with the others. He felt several emotions, none of them positive. Anger was easy to identify; another was more elusive. Unclean, somehow, or sullied.

Martel had killed before; Flora and the Night Knives in the Undercroft came to mind. But on that occasion, Martel had defended himself in an ambush. He felt no qualms about that.

This was different. Martel was not troubled necessarily by guilt over the death of a criminal, but because they had forced Martel to use his magic and skills for such a demeaning purpose.

He had a rare and wonderful gift. Two years ago, when he walked this path towards Morcaster, his mind had imagined all the good he might do once he finished his education. And those Nether-born scum had made Martel use his magic, his acquired skills, to kill some hapless, defenceless fool. Whether he deserved it or not, Martel did not know, nor did he care; the fact remained, his magic and his very person had been sullied by this unworthy act, making him an executioner.

It only made things worse that he understood why they had done it. Battlemages used fire to destroy their enemies, preferably lots of them at the same time. The screams of dying men and the smell of burning flesh; one could not be squeamish nor afford weakness, and certainly not hesitation. For the mageknights, the legions wanted soldiers; for their battlemages, they wanted killers.

Reaching the highroad, Martel looked south towards Morcaster. It was getting dark, but the lights of the emperor's city beckoned to him in the distance. The thought struck him that if he was to change his path, quite literally, now was the moment to choose.

He looked north. Many hundred miles in that direction lay Engby. He had not seen his mother in two years; considering war awaited him, he might not ever see her again.

He felt tempted, and had the thought occurred to him right after his examination, he might have given it more consideration. But he had walked for a while now, he felt weary from all his exertions, and the storm of emotions inside of him had begun to wane. If he did not return to Morcaster, he would be a deserter. Even if he could disappear and avoid capture, he could never return to Engby; that would be the first place they looked for him.

Sighing, Martel turned south and resumed walking. Although he felt calmer, his anger did not dissipate as such; rather, it settled like dew upon his mind.

He remembered feeling like this before, after Ruby's death. In the immediate aftermath, he had been furious enough to lash out at anyone nearby, killing her attackers. Later, even when the worst of his anger had been sated, it still smouldered inside of him, and he had burned down The Broken Crown to satisfy it.

He wanted to do the same now, except he did not know where to direct his wrath. The old clerk back at the ruins was just a tool, doing the bidding of others. This had been devised by the Imperial administration, or the legions; how could Martel take vengeance on them? What could he burn down, whom should he teach a lesson? Everything would just be replaced, whether buildings or men, to continue anew.

Watching the gate of Morcaster come into sight, Martel had to concede defeat. The Empire had beaten him. But he would not forget, and certainly never forgive.

***

Martel arrived just in time to eat supper. Plenty of students were in high spirits, and not just the mageknights; other acolytes had also been through their examinations, it seemed. More than ever, Martel was glad to eat alone.

"So, we talked about celebrating tonight. Would you mind if we went together with all the mageknights? I know you are not friends with all of them, but Maximilian will be there, and you get along with Alain too, right?"

Martel gave Eleanor a weary look. He had forgotten about that. "Go without me. I'm really tired. Walked for hours and hours today."

"That is a pity. What if we go somewhere close by? You can have one drink and go back to the Lyceum," she suggested.

"I appreciate it. I'm just not in the mood."

She lowered her voice until he could barely hear her over the noise of the others. "You did pass the examination, right?"

"Yes, yes. I'm going to be a battlemage. I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate." He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but his face did not cooperate, so it simply became another weary look as he got up and left the table.

He had made it out of the hall, past the Khivan clock in the entrance hall and a little down the corridor when her voice reached him. "Martel, wait a moment."

He stopped and turned around. "What?"

"Something vexes you. I understand you may be concerned about the future, but I am sure you will be fine. You have a rare skill, which makes you valuable."

He took a deep breath. "How was your examination? What did you do?"

"Various kinds of fighting. Demonstrated our prowess with weapons and spells. Duelled each other."

"For me, as the last thing, they made me kill a man."

She looked at him with an expression moving between shock and disbelief. "How do you mean?"

"Some criminal. They tossed him a golden dagger. As if that gave him much chance. Told him to kill me if he wanted to be set free, so I had to kill him."

"Well, if he was a criminal, you should not feel burdened by it," Eleanor considered.

"Whether he deserved to die or not, that's not the point," Martel said, trying to contain his frustration; he was not angry with her, after all. "They might as well have tied him up and placed a knife in my hand. They made me use my magic to execute someone." His voice became unsteady. "That's all I am to them. That's all I'll be. All my magic's good for. Killing people, burning them alive."

She reached out to grab his hand. "Martel, you have just spent a month making potions to save lives. You are far more than your talent for fire magic. That was given to you. Your knowledge of alchemy, you earned that step by step."

Her touch and words had a steadying effect on him. "You're right. Thanks."

She released his hand but gave him a smile instead. "You are welcome."

"I'm still too tired for celebrations, though. You go with the others. I'm fine, promise."

"Very well. Some other night, perhaps?" she suggested.

"Sure. From what I understand, we got plenty of time before we receive our postings."

"Indeed. It will be some time next month before the Imperial administration makes those decisions. Actually, that reminds me of something."

"Yes?"

"Thanks to my father, I do have some acquaintances in the military administration. If I make a request within reason, I believe they might look upon it favourably."

Martel frowned. "What kind of request?"

"As a battlemage, you are most likely to be sent to one of the legions at the siege of Nahavand. That would be a natural place for me to go as well if I am to advance as officer. I could request that we are assigned to the same legion."

"Really? I just assumed they threw us to whatever legion has an opening."

She laughed a little. "That might not be far from the truth. But I can certainly ask. We might not be side by side all the time, but we would live in the same camp."

"That would make it far more bearable," Martel admitted with a relieved smile. The thought of life in the legions seemed less intimidating with a friend by his side.

"Very well. When the time comes for them to decide matters, I shall be sure to make the request." She gave him a final smile and returned to the dining hall; as for him, tired from a long day, he retired to his room.