Gold, Steel, and Magic

Even in the frail light of his flickering flame, Martel recognised the one-eyed berserker in front of them. And his hammer. The first time he and Maximilian had spent time together, they had watched the Tyrian take down an experienced mageknight. Now, his opposition consisted of an acolyte, a novice, and a hedge mage chained in gold.

Maximilian pointed his blade at the berserker. "Walk away. We are armed with magic besides steel." Next to him, Martel tried to make his little flame look more intimidating. Unlike previous situations, it did not seem to work.

The Tyrian laughed. "Regnar, always getting others embroiled in your misfortune. Do your little friends know the reason for your predicament?"

The hedge mage dropped the boot in his hands. "I'm sure you can't wait to tell them."

Down the ladder came two more, accomplices of the berserker, who spoke again. "He and I used to work together. I fought in arenas for large prizes, and from the audience, old Regnar gave me a helping hand, and I always won."

"You cheated," Maximilian exclaimed.

"Then came the biggest fight. Me against five others, proven warriors. Prize money of a hundred crowns. And when it started, Regnar lay drunk in a ditch. All I got for my troubles was this." The berserker pointed at the scar that ran across his blind eye.

"Bjarki," the hedge mage spoke, "you got me. You'll have your gold and your revenge. Let the kids go."

The Tyrian shook his head. "If an apple falls in my hand, why should I throw it away?"

"I'm sorry about your gold and your eye," Martel meekly said. "We'll pay the ransom you want."

Bjarki laughed heartily. "The ransom! That was just to tap some money from those fools our friend travelled with. Passing the time waiting until our ship's departure."

"What ship?" asked Maximilian.

"To Sindhu," Regnar explained. "They're going to sell me."

"The Sindhians have slaves?" Martel asked.

"No, but they are masters of alchemy. And they can harvest a lot of magical ingredients from a mage," Bjarki explained. "What luck that we will have not one, but three mages to sell. Boys, take them alive!"

~

The berserker went against Maximilian, the only one who seemed a threat. His two henchmen approached Martel with drawn blades.

Flight was impossible. He already stood with his back against the wall, and the thugs blocked the way to the stairs. They wore sinister smiles. "Surrender, and we won't hurt you," one of them claimed.

Martel reached out with his magic. Everything on the shelves came flying through the air. Jars of clay and glass smashed against the bandits.

They cursed loudly, raising their arms to protect their heads. "You little bastard," one of them cried, swinging his sword wildly. He leapt forward, raising his blade for a deadly blow with no sign of capturing the novice alive anymore.

Staring death in the face, Martel reacted on instinct. He raised one hand in front of himself and called upon what lay in him. A stream of fire shot out.

It hit the bandit in the chest. It did not contain the power to kill or even scorch him as such, but it set his clothes on fire. Screaming, he dropped his sword and stumbled backwards, smashing his hands against himself to quell the flames.

"Even a dead mage is worth something." The other bandit, rubbing his head where a jar had mashed against him, cautiously moved towards Martel with malicious eyes.

The novice raised his hand towards him and tried to repeat his feat. The flames appeared around his hand, but not in a burst as before. The magic obeyed his instinct, but not his will. The thug advanced, readying his sword. Fear taking hold of him, Martel retreated until his back stood against the wall.

~

Maximilian stepped to the side, avoiding the berserker's hammer yet again. It came swinging with such force, it would shatter bone if it broke through the mageknight's magical shield.

With a curse aimed at the short reach of his sword, Maximilian failed his riposte. The hammer's long haft constantly forced him on the retreat, as he lacked a physical shield to withstand the blows, which left him out of range to strike back. His empowering magic meant little if he could not come close enough to land a blow.

The mageknight avoided another attack; meanwhile, one of the bandits ran screaming past with his clothes on fire, hurrying up the ladder.

Maximilian grabbed the nearest shelf and pulled it off the wall. Using it as a club, he struck against the berserker's head. The latter easily evaded, but it bought Maximilian a moment to get in close and thrust his sword into Bjarki's leg. Immediately, the ground below the berserker's boots cracked, and a shimmer of magic rushed up from the dirt floor to fortify the wound.

Smiling, the Tyrian smashed the blunt end of his hammer into Maximilian's face. Blood gushed out from his nose. As the mageknight staggered back, he found no further room to retreat or evade the oncoming attack. The berserker raised his war hammer, runes glowing upon the steel, to land a crushing blow.

~

Martel stood with both hands wreathed in flames, trying to look intimidating. It did not work against the thug with his sword, who seemed to relish Martel's fear. Beyond, he could see the berserker prepare his hammer to smash Maximilian to the ground.

A click could be heard. Holding a pin between his fingers, Regnar's golden manacles fell from his wrists. He pointed one hand at Maximilian, mumbling something.

As Bjarki's hammer fell with force to shatter Maximilian's ribcage, it met resistance. Magic shimmered to soften the blow.

Meanwhile, Regnar kicked out his leg to hit the thug on the ankle, distracting him. Martel seized the opportunity to grab the brigand's arms, setting his sleeves on fire. Screaming and losing his weapon, he fell to the ground, rolling around.

Rising to his feet, the hedge mage moved his hand to point at Bjarki. As he spoke incantations, the berserker staggered backwards. His mouth open, he looked to be gasping for breath. Maximilian cut him across the chest, which earned the mageknight a punch to his jaw in retaliation, making him stumble backwards.

Still looking like a man drowning, Bjarki strode across the room. Grabbing Regnar by the collar, he thrust him back into the wall. The hedge mage sank to the ground next to his unlocked chains, groaning, and the berserker breathed freely again as the spell broke.

From the side, Martel grabbed Bjarki's left arm with flaming hands. Sneering, the berserker slapped the novice with his other hand, using enough force to send the boy to the ground.

Regnar and Martel dealt with for now, Bjarki turned back towards Maximilian. Raising his hammer, he struck out to hit the mageknight's blade, sending it across the floor.

Maximilian launched himself against the berserker to wrestle against him. In such close quarters, Bjarki could not use his hammer. He dropped it and grabbed the mageknight with his inhuman strength, lifting him into the air. One hand on Maximilian's collar, the other closed around his throat and began to squeeze.

Behind Bjarki, Martel watched his friend being suffocated. Maximilian's eyes bulged, filled with pain and dread. Next to the novice, Regnar still groaned, all but incapacitated and of no further aid.

With sadistic delight on his face, the berserker continued to squeeze the life out of Maximilian. "To Helriki with the money," he whispered. "Been too long since I killed someone."

From behind, a golden chain came flying over Bjarki's head to wrap around his throat, and Martel pulled to tighten it. Besides the immediate threat to his air supply, the gold sapped the berserker's magic. Bereft of his inhuman strength and struggling to breathe, he dropped Maximilian.

Fury on his face, the mageknight made a fist. With all his empowering magic behind it, Maximilian struck the berserker straight on the chin. And again.

Clawing at the chain, Bjarki tried desperately to free himself. His boots struck against the ground, but no magic came to fortify him against Maximilian's onslaught. Punch after punch, magically enforced, battered his face. Finally, he went down.

~

Quickly, Martel closed the golden manacles around the berserker's wrists before he came to. Both the henchmen had fled the cellar by this point. Rubbing his head, Regnar got on his feet. "My fellows, that was unexpected." He broke into a smile. "I owe you my life. Thank you, both."

"If I had known this guy would be here, honestly, I would have left you on your own," Maximilian admitted. After a moment, they all broke into relieved laughter.

"What do we do now?" Martel asked.

"We hand this overgrown peach over to the city guard," the mageknight declared. "I shall explain what happened. They will not doubt the word of a viscount."

"Useful," Regnar mumbled.

The sounds of footsteps upstairs reached them, and they all became quiet. "What's all this racket?" asked a voice, and a man came jumping down the stairs. It was the last of the thugs, who had been lured away by the street children.

He stared around the cellar for a moment before the pommel of Maximilian's sword sent him to the ground.

~

Hours later, Martel and Regnar walked onto the square with the travelling theatre. Maximilian had stayed with the city guards, explaining matters to the official and ensuring the berserker was taken properly into custody, golden chains and all.

"I should get back to the school. But your friends will be happy to see you returned," Martel spoke.

"If nothing else because they can't replace me," Regnar laughed. As he continued, his voice became serious. "Thank you again, lad. You stuck your neck out for someone you've only known a few days. I can never repay you. As little as my life is worth, I own even less." He laughed again.

"You needed help. Someone had to do it."

"An admirable attitude, though also rare, I fear."

"Well, if you feel grateful, anything you could teach me about magic..." Martel said hopefully.

Regnar smiled. From his pocket, he dug out his pipe and ignited the herb inside it. "These Asterian mages in their big school don't think like I do. You walk their path, Martel, not mine. But I will tell you this." He took a drag on his pipe, releasing smoke. "They'll teach your mind how to shape magic. But you have strong instincts, boy. Magic is not your servant like it is theirs, but it can be your friend in ways it will never be theirs."

"I'm not sure what that means," Martel admitted.

Barking laughter came from the hedge mage. "Good. Genuine wisdom is always confusing. If in doubt, Martel, trust your blood over your brain." He began walking towards the stage, but stopped to look over his shoulder. "On Manday is our last performance, and we always finish with a new play. Stop by and bring your friends. You got free admission." He smiled, winked, and continued on his way.

~

Walking past the gates to the Lyceum, Martel felt starved. He had not eaten all day, he realised, and the water clock in the entrance hall said fifth bell. Too late for lunch, and two hours to go before supper.

The clerks manning the desks stared at him as he walked by, but Martel was too hungry to care. He turned right towards his room; he was also deprived of rest, and if he could sleep for a few hours, it would make the wait for supper easier.

Walking past the workshop, the sounds of people at work reached him as usual. Only then did Martel remember; today was Solday when he had the task of assisting the artificer.

Guilt and embarrassment slithered over him. He had a good reason for his absence, but would it matter? Only one way to find out.

Turning right, Martel entered the workshop. He passed through the outer rooms until he found Master Jerome etching runes on a stone tablet. He cleared his throat.

Looking up, the artificer frowned. "Martel? You are rather late, boy. I must impress on you the importance of fulfilling your duties if you wish to finish your years at... what's that on your face?"

Martel's hand slid over his cheek, which felt hot and sore. It took him a moment to remember that Bjarki had slapped him, apparently with quite some force.

Jerome rose from his workbench. "What happened to you, boy?"

"Well, master, I've had a bit of a day."