Firebrand

Chapter 373: Red Hunt

Chapter 373: Red Hunt

Red Hunt

The world was a blur. Shapeless colours were replaced by darkness until jolts of pain brought Martel back briefly, his mind soon after retreating into black again. On and on this pattern continued.

"Hold him down while I open this up!"

The sound of fabric being cut. More pangs of agony.

"Keep pressure on the wound!"

"Princeps, look! This blood on my hands, it's from his back!"

A string of curses. "Turn him on the side!"

Martel groaned as movement sent waves of pain through him. He tried to whisper the name of the Lyceum, thinking of the only place that might free him from this torment, but no sounds issued from his lips.

"Oh, that looks deep. No wonder he's out of it."

"Hard to tell how much blood he's lost. Stupid red robes."

"Shut yer yaps and keep pressure on those wounds!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Where's that cart? How long can it take that imbecile to find something with four wheels?"

"Sir, he looks like he's fading!"

"Of course he is, idiot! That's what losing blood does to you. Sol's eye, where's that cart!"

***

Martel did not have much awareness of his surroundings. The occasional pain reminded him that the outside world existed and he had yet to depart from it, but otherwise, he had no knowledge of what happened around him.

Finally, a bright light appeared before his eyes. He could not tell the source or see anything by its illumination, but he felt comforted by it.

The light flowed through his body. It filled him with a pleasant feeling, driving away the pain.

It lasted only briefly before stinging sensations reminded him that the world also contained ills. Slowly, his eyes began to discern his surroundings again.

A voice spoke, familiar to Martel, yet he could not name the speaker. "That should keep him alive, at least. But he'll still be weak from the blood loss. Keep him in bed for a day, at least, and let me know his situation tomorrow."

"Understood, Master Kelsos."

Slowly turning his head, Martel saw a figure in a blue robe placing his hands against his temples. "The headache is the worst part. The boy is lucky I had enough left in me for a spell of this magnitude. I am past exhaustion, Sister Grace, so I shall retire for the night."

"Yes, Master Kelsos. We'll take over."

***

Martel woke, becoming aware that he had slept. But this was not his bed nor his room. Confusion took hold until he remembered another time waking up like this. He had been sick and taken to the infirmary. Master Kelsos had healed him. Had he contracted consumption again?

Carelessly shifting his body sent sharp reminders to his head. He was lying on his side, and both his stomach and back hurt. He had been stabbed. He tried to speak, but only croaking sounds came out.

It took a few moments before he was noticed. "You're awake! You gave us a terrible fright." The anxious features of Sister Grace looked down on him. "Stars, boy, what happened to you?"

"I'm thirsty," he spoke.

"Of course." She helped him drink a little. "Rest some more. Master Kelsos did what he could – food and sleep will do the rest."

***

"He is resting!" Sister Grace's voice could be heard.

"Master Kelsos assured me there'd be no harm in talking to the boy. Sister, we wouldn't do this unless it was important." Master Alastair spoke in that strained tone of voice when he felt Martel could do better, but he did not wish to be overly harsh.

"Stand aside." Mistress Juliana was more succinct.

"What's happening?" Martel opened his eyes to see the Master of Elements and the overseer.

"Martel, we must ask you some questions." Master Alastair stepped forward, ignoring an indignant outburst from the nurse. Mistress Juliana stepped around the other side to likewise stand by his bed.

"Alright." Martel felt tired and still thirsty, but his pain had subsided, and his mind seemed to work.

"What happened? Explain as briefly as you can. Don't tire yourself out," Master Alastair said.

"I was at the market. A man stabbed me. I drove him off. That's the last I recall."

"Guards found you and stemmed the bleeding of your wounds before bringing you to the infirmary," came the explanation. "What can you tell us of your attacker?"

"An islander. His buckle was shaped like a serpent." Martel's hand went to his belt, but he found only the hem of his undershirt. "He had a gold dagger." He glanced at the others to see the weapon, still bloodied, held by Master Alastair.

"Good," said the teacher while the overseer nodded. "Islanders are rare. Any distinguishing marks on his body? Many of them have inked skin."

"I burnt a hole in his chest. He ran away, so I guess he lived. But he's got a burn mark the size of my fist." Martel suddenly coughed from all the talking, and Sister Grace hurried to bring him water while sending angry stares at the members of faculty.

"Good," Master Alastair reiterated. "There's bound to be lots of be witnesses. This should be enough to go on."

"What's going to happen?" Martel asked, looking up at the old battlemage.

"A ward of the Lyceum was attacked. We will respond in kind. But that is not for you to worry. Rest."

"Obviously, you are confined to the infirmary for the time being. Both for the sake of your healing, but also until we can determine you are not in immediate danger. Rest assured, we shall speak further on this. But for now, obey the nurses and Master Kelsos," Mistress Juliana instructed.

"Glad at least one person will listen to me," Sister Grace mumbled.

Martel wanted to ask more, but trying to speak only made him cough, and the man and woman in purple robes left swiftly, leaving him at the mercy of his caretaker, who forced more water down his throat. Giving in to weariness, Martel returned once more to sleep. This time, it took proper hold, none disturbed him, and he did not wake until the next morning.

***

In the small hours of the night, a call went out across the city. A substantial reward offered by the wizards of the Lyceum for information that pertained to the brawl at the market, where magic had been involved. While some questioned witnesses, others distributed the description of an islander, trawling the taverns of the market district. The news spread across the city, street by street; someone had incurred the wrath of the Lyceum.