Chapter 372: A Red Day at Market
A Red Day at Market
At this point, Martel had grown to hate his fire ray spell to such a degree, he would never use it outside of the Circle of Fire. Moira had simply ruined it for him. He had scorched the wall with enough flames to burn down a large forest, and still she demanded he persist.
He began to wonder about the punishment for simply not showing up to class. At this point, it seemed certain he would not be expelled from the Lyceum regardless of his behaviour; as long as he did nothing to make the inquisitors put him in golden chains, he should be fine. He almost preferred the abuse of the initial lessons under Moira, as he at least felt those had taught him something. This was just a waste of time.
When his lessons finally had ended, Martel filled a small purse with silver and left the castle. While it was not urgent to pay Julia's rent – he doubted that the reeve responsible for the insula would make complaints at a mage if rent was paid a few days late – the man might come knocking on Julia's door asking for the money, which would probably spook the skittish girl. Best to have the matter resolved. Besides, it was another pleasant spring day, and Martel had even left his cloak behind, walking only in his robe.
***
As it was still afternoon, albeit late, plenty of people could be found on the streets. Even though others usually moved out of the way when spotting a mage, Martel's path was still crowded by other people, sometimes slowing him down, and he kept a tight hand on his coin; the tightly packed streets provided excellent working conditions for cutpurses and pickpockets.
While walking, he glanced at the stalls just in case he might spot something worth buying for Julia. She had her most basic needs seen to, but she could probably use more clothes. Obviously, he would never be able to drag her to a tailor, but plenty of people sold children's garments that their own offspring had outgrown.
As he moved through the market district on his way to the docks, Martel suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back, too intense that it could be someone's elbow or knee accidentally striking him. Angry, he turned around.
Almost within touching distance stood a hooded man, though the surrounding crowd threatened to get between them. In the sunlight, Martel saw the shine of metal in his hand, stained with red.
Shocked, Martel realised he was being attacked and summoned his shield, just as his adversary managed to get past a dockworker and stabbed again. With absolute dread, Martel saw the knife pass through his shimmering shield to stab him in the stomach. The dagger had an edge of gold. It was a mage killer blade.
Reacting on instinct, Martel blasted air. He had the wherewithal to aim for the legs, away from the golden weapon that might lessen his attack, to throw his attacker off-balance. Their surroundings finally became aware of what was unfolding. People screamed and scattered in every direction, but the crowded streets did not allow for this, causing further panic.
Martel barely noticed. He did not even feel the pain from his wounds anymore with the instincts of battle taking over. Under the hood of his enemy, he saw the features of an islander. Not that it mattered; his body would burn like any other.
As the assassin regained his balance and once more leapt forward to lunge at Martel, he in turn leant back until the dagger had passed by. Seeing an opening, the wizard responded with the spell nearest to his mind. From both his hands, a ray of scorching fire shot out to strike the islander in the chest. It blazed through wool, leather, linen, and finally skin. The sickening smell of burnt flesh spread through the air. With a terrible scream of agony, the islander dropped his weapon and fled, squeezing his way into the surrounding throng of people still desperate to escape the street.
Martel already had the next spell ready, but any attempt to strike his assailant would most likely hit innocent people. Instead, he knelt down to pick up the golden dagger. At least his enemy had been disarmed, but the rogue might return. Martel needed to get back to the safety of the Lyceum and its wards. He placed the conquered weapon inside his belt and set into motion, trying to push forward through the near stampede of panicking people.
***
As the fury of battle slowly left his blood, Martel became aware that his blood was also leaving him. He pressed a hand against his stomach to stem the flow, but he could not reach the wound on his back. As he walked northwards, his steps became stumbling. Dimly, as if from far away, he heard the cries from the surrounding crowd, all of them still trying to escape in whatever direction possible. Someone pushed him, and he fell to the ground. Somehow, it seemed to require impossible strength for him to stand up again. Similarly, a fog descended inside his head, making it harder for him to gather his thoughts.
"Make way for the guard!" a voice cried out.
Martel could not see them; from his current vantage point, he saw only ankles. With dwindling presence of mind, he raised a finger to send up bright lights, much like the sparks when a smith's hammer struck glowing hot iron.
The display of magic had a repulsing effect, making people skirt around him. "Guards, to me!" he shouted as loudly as he could, continuing the stream of magic above him to mark his position.
Martel's vision grew dark. When something moved in front of his eyes, he could not discern what it was, other than red in colour.
"My lord, what has happened?" asked a shocked voice.
Martel ceased his spellcasting, letting his arm fall to the ground. "An assassin attacked me. I drove him off. I'm wounded." He wanted to continue, to command them to take him to the Lyceum. But he could not find the words; he could not control his tongue. He could do nothing but slowly lose grasp on his consciousness, less and less aware of the world and himself.
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