Firebrand

Chapter 3: Getting Physical

Chapter 3: Getting Physical

Getting Physical

When Martel woke on the morning of Malday, he quickly washed and dressed; on this day, he was to help in the kitchens with breakfast. Fortunately, yesterday's skirmish did not repeat, and he got through the chore without incidents. Once the bell had ended, his first lesson in empowering magic was to begin.

The outdoor gymnasium lay near the dining hall, and Martel arrived as the first. He discovered it had been built to allow for spectators, resembling an arena. Stands ran along the outer ring, providing seats. It had no roof, and a gentle sun shone down upon the area.

Other novices appeared, all dressed in brown robes like Martel. Their conversation ended as they noticed his presence, giving him stares. All of them looked at least a few years younger; the difference was only exacerbated by his height.

"You're the scarecrow," one of them remarked.

Martel grumbled on the inside, but kept his frustrations from surfacing. "My name is Martel."

"Why are you so old?"

"Because I was born before you," he replied.

"Quiet," came the command from an authoritative voice. A man dressed in the black tunic of the mageknights strode into the arena. In his forties, he did not appear particularly impressive, looking neither tall nor strong; yet he walked with a straight back and a stern demeanour, underlined by his moustache. "Fall into pairs and do the exercise from last time," he told them.

The novices quickly complied except for Martel, who sent the teacher a questioning glance.

He in turn gave Martel a scrutinising look. "You must be the new boy," muttered the mageknight. "I am Reynard, the Master of War. I have been given the unenviable task of teaching you the basics of shielding and empowering yourself in half the needed time."

His tone of voice did not invite remarks, so Martel simply remained quiet. He was also distracted by the sight and sound of the other novices, who had paired up to merrily throw rocks at each other.

"I have severe doubts that some northern peasant boy, already too old, can be taught this. But I suppose I must try." He sighed. "Do you know anything about empowering magic, boy?"

"Not really," Martel stammered.

"Whereas Master Alastair teaches how to manipulate the elements around you, I teach how to use magic to strengthen your own body. Useful for combat and thus mageknights, but I am required to teach it to all."

While Martel accepted that he would not necessarily have much use for this in his chosen profession, he nonetheless looked forward to learning. His mind flashed back to yesterday when that other student had pushed him back with ease.

"I will save that for your next lesson later today," Master Reynard continued. "The other thing I am required to teach everyone is how to summon a magical shield to protect your body. Even though it is a waste of my time, since you will never need it for anything other than to stay dry when you are out summoning rain for all the other peasants."

It began to dawn on Martel that this teacher fundamentally disliked him for reasons beyond his control. It did not seem fair, but he had little idea what to do about it. And he felt intrigued by the notion of a magical shield, so he kept his mouth shut while trying to look attentive.

"Pick up a rock, boy."

Blinking, Martel realised it had been a command, and he hurried to comply. Grabbing a small stone that fitted within the palm of his hand, he looked at his teacher.

"Throw it at me. As hard as you can."

Hoping this was not some pretext for claiming he had assaulted a teacher, Martel threw the rock straight at Master Reynard.

Several hands' width in front of the mageknight, the rock hit something invisible and fell to the ground. "Magic can be willed to surround you like a shield, as demonstrated," Master Reynard explained. "You must focus to imagine it. Some students see an actual shield or wall, others a suit of armour to surround them. Find what works best for you. And hurry up." Several rocks floated up from the air to land in the teacher's hands. Without warning, he flung the first one at his student.

Taken by surprise, Martel felt the pebble hit his arm. He winced. Already he saw Master Reynard prepare to throw the next stone, and he tried to comply with the instructions. He thought about the great shields he had seen soldiers wield when a troop of them marched through Engby to guard the border against the Tyrian tribes. He imagined being behind the shield, protected by it.

The stone flew to strike his stomach, indifferent to his attempts. "Focus!" yelled Master Reynard. "Empty your mind of other thoughts. Think only of your defence!"

Martel considered it would be a lot easier to focus without being pelted by rocks, but he kept this observation to himself. He imagined the shield again, still to no avail. Nearby, he heard some of the other novices laugh each time he got struck.

Finally, the hail of stones ended. "I see your age does not grant you any advantages," Master Reynard declared. "On the contrary, perhaps. Regardless, I cannot spend the entire lesson with you. I have other students who might actually benefit from my supervision. Continue practising on your own."

"How?" Martel blurted out.

Master Reynard tossed another rock, which the novice managed to catch. "Practise your focus. Try different methods. When you think you have it, throw the rock up into the air and repel it before it hits you. I will return to check on your progress." He turned his back to Martel and began correcting the other novices.

Left on his own, Martel spent the remainder of the class practising as instructed. Despite all his attempts, each time he threw the pebble into the air, it fell right back to hit him on the head. As for his teacher, despite his words, he did not spare Martel a second glance, providing no further aid through the lesson.

~

As third bell rang, Martel left the gymnasium quickly. He had next bell empty on his schedule, leaving him with plenty of spare time. He wondered briefly why he did not have more classes, given he only had two years to complete his studies. Perhaps they expected him to practise on his own time, once he had learned the techniques.

With no friends to pass the time with anyway, Martel resolved to continue practising instead. Returning to his room with a pebble he had found, he renewed his efforts to create the shield. He imagined all sorts of barriers to protect himself. None worked.

Eventually, lunch beckoned with another tolling of the bell. He went quickly to the dining hall, ate his meal alone seated in the corner, and returned to his room. Yet despite all his efforts, when the bell rang to announce his next class would begin, he had not made any progress.

~

Arriving at the gymnasium, Martel saw the other students already present. Yet they were not the same group of novices from this morning; seven mageknights in training, all around his own age, turned to stare at him, the son of Duke Cheval among them. The latter smiled like a cat watching a wing-clipped pigeon.

This had to be a mistake, Martel assumed. Feeling more and more awkward by the moment until his toes practically curled together, he finally saw Reynard appear carrying eight long staves.

"Sorry, Master Reynard," Martel spoke as he hurried over. "My schedule said I was to attend this class. Could it be an error?"

"No," replied the teacher gruffly. "I teach all novices some basic self-defence as part of magical empowerment. Since you are short on time, you will learn with more advanced students. That should motivate you to catch up," he added with a twist of his mouth.

"I see." Martel swallowed.

Reynard tossed the staves on the ground. "Everybody, pick one."

The students did so, Martel choosing the last one. He quickly examined the weapon. He knew the stories of wizards wielding staves and wands, amplifying their magic.

"It is just a staff," Reynard remarked, glancing at Martel. "About as magical as you, I might add." Snickering laughter could be heard. "But a good weapon in all situations for defending yourself with."

The son of Cheval raised his hand. "I could show the new student the basic techniques, Master Reynard. So you can focus on the other students," came his helpful suggestion.

"Why not," replied the teacher. "Pair up and practise strikes and blocks," he continued, raising his voice. "We will change partners after a quarter bell. Cheval, show the farm boy how it is done."

"Yes, master." The young nobleman's smile turned sinister. He hefted the staff in his hands and took position opposite Martel while the other pairs of students began their own practice. "Imagine meeting you here, scarecrow. Now pay attention."

With a tinge of despair, Martel looked around for a way out. He could not think of any. Reynard, already busy instructing the others, could not be relied on. His fellow students were likewise engrossed with their own training. Fear building up in him, Martel raised his staff in defence.

"This," Cheval said as his weapon struck out to hit Martel on the shoulder, "is a strike." He smiled broadly watching Martel wince at the sudden pain. "Now attack me, and I will demonstrate a block."

Wary, yet relishing the opportunity to return the blow, Martel smashed the staff with both hands against Cheval, wielding it like a club. The latter blocked with ease, stepped to the side, and struck back, hitting Martel on the same spot.

"And that is a riposte," the young mageknight explained while gloating. "Do let me know if I am using words too advanced."

Frustration spurring his anger, Martel struck again and again, yet his undisciplined movements proved as fruitless as could be expected. Each time, Cheval dodged or parried, delivering a strike in return. By the time half an hour had passed and they switched partners, Martel was battered and bruised all over.

~

Limping back to his room, Martel felt ready to go home. If his legs had not been hurting already, he might even have considered it. After removing his ill-fitting robe, he lay down on his bed. The relief from relaxing his worn muscles only lasted briefly as the full impact of his bruises hit him. Large blotches miscoloured his skin. It occurred to him that he would have to endure this once every fiveday, and he could not expect much help from his teacher. The temptation to go home renewed itself.

Taking a deep breath, he sat up, ignoring the pangs of pain from his abused body. Pulling out a small pebble from his pocket, taken after his first lesson, he slowed his breathing and began to focus. Concentrating on conjuring a shield to protect himself, he threw the pebble into the air.