Firebrand

Chapter 88: Specks of Red

Chapter 88: Specks of Red

Specks of Red

A muted band trotted the weary steps through the city from the slums towards the centre. Martel coughed, feeling cold and tired to the bone. All in all, they had walked for hours crossing the slums first in search of Sparrow and afterwards her captor. With little to show for it.

"Do we tell someone?" Martel hoped that at least something could be salvaged from this. Perhaps if they related the story to the right authority, it would lead somewhere.

"And tell them what? That we failed to catch a man, whose description we do not know, nor where he may be found, or what his future intentions are?" Maximilian stretched his neck.

"We know he is a maleficar," Martel retorted. "Should we tell the inquisitors?"

"No!" Maximilian's reply came forcefully. "If you tell them, the mere fact you could recognise a maleficar's work makes you suspicious in their eyes. And when they fail to find him, they will turn their attention on you. Never tell an inquisitor anything."

"He is right," Eleanor chimed in.

"What about a teacher? Master Fenrick is already looking into this." At least, Martel assumed that was the reason the old scholar had a book with the same symbol in it. "There can be no harm in telling him."

"Are you sure?" she questioned. "Three students spending the night in the copper lanes, chasing a maleficar. Not to mention, Maximilian has been gambling and you have your apothecary. Add to that, your previous misadventures, getting into fights. How long do you think the school can turn a blind eye?"

Their arguments made sense, but at the same time, Martel wondered if they were simply content to let the matter slide because this unknown maleficar now plied his wicked trade in the slums instead of going after other students at the Lyceum. To members of the nobility, perhaps that seemed an acceptable bargain.

The horizon brightened. The sun would rise soon. Ahead, the Lyceum rose to greet them, though unlike other nights, the sight did not fill Martel with comfort. The events of tonight felt like a defeat, and there would not even be any rest waiting for him; first bell would soon ring.

~

The morning turned out as dreadful as Martel had feared. He struggled to keep awake and perform even the most basic of tasks, leading Mistress Rana to repeatedly scold him. Master Alastair made pointed remarks on the schedule he kept and implied Martel should consider his priorities. The novice could do nothing but apologise, keep his head down, and continue. They were right, after all. Martel had freely chosen to spend his time in the slums, evening after evening, foregoing sleep night after night. Things had been going so well, he could not imagine failing his examinations to become an acolyte. Suddenly, the threat of failure and all the gold he would owe for his tuition hung over his head.

Martel found it difficult to forget about this. The Imperial administration would demand he paid back all the expenses for his schooling, should he fail to complete it. Being thrown out of the Lyceum would enslave him with debt for years if not decades or longer, perhaps for the rest of his life.

At the same time, the thought of doing nothing almost made Martel feel physically ill. He knew what the maleficar could do to someone with magical training, albeit limited, like an acolyte of the Lyceum. Now he had discovered that this malignant sorcerer kidnapped children for use in his rituals. And since they had accomplished nothing to stop him, he would surely continue. The slums were filled with easy targets that few or none would miss. Reaching a decision, Martel went towards Master Fenrick's chamber. Once there, he knocked and entered when given permission.

Inside, he found his teacher at his desk, closing a tome. "Martel? What is it?"

Coughing to clear his throat, the novice took a deep breath. "There's something I should tell you."

~

It took Martel a quarter of an hour to relate the key events of last night. He left out a few details such as the reason for Maximilian's presence, but admitted his work as an apothecary, as any other explanation for his visit to the slums seemed worse. When he had finished explaining about the mark and how he recognised it from the infirmary, he fell silent under Master Fenrick's heavy gaze.

"And you learned nothing concerning his identity?" the teacher asked.

"No," Martel admitted. "We don't know what he looks like or where he lives. I'm sorry, master, I know it doesn't help, but I thought I should tell you even so."

"You did right," Master Fenrick assured him. "Now we know for certain we are dealing with a maleficar, and he uses rituals. Not to mention, last night was a full moon. An auspicious time of the month for magical activities."

"You think he needs the full moon to do his rituals?"

"I do. But this should not concern you. Whoever this warlock is, a novice is no match for him. Avoid the copper lanes, and keep your wits about you if you must leave the school. As we know, he will gladly target students at this school as well as the unfortunate denizens of Morcaster's poorer districts."

"That's one thing I don't understand," Martel admitted. "Going after a child in the copper lanes makes sense, to avoid detection. But why go after a student at the Lyceum? That is bound to draw attention from inquisitors and mages alike."

"A good question, but not one for you to ponder. You should go sleep. You had a long night, and you look to be exhausted."

His teacher was right. Martel got on his feet, bade Master Fenrick farewell, and left.

Once out in the hallway, his mind no longer focused on the strange events of last night, he fully felt the physical toll. He was cold, nearly shivering, and absolutely worn out to the point that his body ached with every step. Having no appetite, he saw no point in lunch and headed straight for his room. Halfway there, a coughing fit overtook him, and he thrust his arm against his mouth until it finally passed, and he could continue. In his tired state, he did not notice the specks of red that stained the brown sleeve of his robe.