บท 42: Welen
Morne cast the Spell again once the second bone had left his hand.
Morne's Chimh Well had been at the tipping point after his long training session at the inn, followed by the battles he had been forced to fight here, and now it followed Bone Bullet's lead and broke through a bottleneck, deepening to Large Puddle. It even gained an inch of width, for a total of eight.
Unfortunately, such a breakthrough didn't come with a fresh supply of Chimh, so Morne was still nearing empty, with around two strike-type Apprentice Spells left before he'd be reduced to fighting like an Infutim.
In seconds, the three bones he had left after the fight with the Saxunt Lizard were airborne, hurtling toward Welen.
But other than his eyes narrowing further, Welen appeared completely unfazed by the oncoming projectiles. Why this was became obvious when the first bone bullet first arrived.
With practiced ease, Welen turned his body at the waist, keeping his arms close to his chest and allowing the projectile to whiz past him before taking a step forward. Then he pivoted again, slapping the next one away and sending it behind him and to the side, where it buried itself into the dirt.
Welen slapped the third away with just as little effort and resumed his stride toward Morne.
"If you think this Spell is all I have to offer, you'll be sorely disappointed, heretic," sneered Welen. "I've trained for years in the Monastery of Gentle Justice. There is little your petty tricks can do to hurt me."
"It didn't do you any good," Morne replied nonchalantly, likewise moving forward. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
Welen's expression turned ugly, and he glanced up at the audience above them. His eyes landed on Tross, who gave him a friendly wave with a wide grin on her face, and his expression darkened further.
"Yes, well, if I hadn't been outnumbered, I could've easily handled them," he said defensively.
Tross cackled up in the stands. Welen's face twitched, and he looked ready to spit bile.
"Enough!" he shouted. "Be prepared, heretic. I shall take your head and earn my freedom. By Ondethalian law, your rights are forfeit."
'This one sure likes to talk,' Morne thought, raising his mace.
Bone Bullet wouldn't work, and Splinter was too weak to do anything if he didn't hit a nerve center, which would be difficult if Welen kept evading. Fine, then.
From start to now, around four minutes had passed. The entire time, Welen hadn't dropped that Spell of his.
If Welen had only a Small Puddle Chimh Well, he should be nearing empty. If it was Medium or Large, he had between six and nine minutes before that point.
Ultimately, Apprentice Spells were rarely powerful enough to make a difference in battle without clever usage or underhanded tricks.
Morne's Bone Bullets could reach speeds of seventy miles an hour now, but he was limited in size to something roughly the size of the middle phalanges of a human's hand, which could be a little over an inch long.
That size on its own wasn't enough to do any lasting damage, and even when sharpened they couldn't do much unless they hit a vital area, as Morne had done with the Saxunt Lizard.
The point being, Morne didn't see this little Spell of Welen's bridging the physical gap between the two so easily. The latter would likely have to rely on these martial arts he was so fond of showing off to have a chance, and that was without considering Morne's weapon and shield.
Even if Welen was much stronger than he appeared, and this Spell could close that gap, Morne only had to hold out for a few minutes until Welen could no longer sustain it.
Then Morne would be free to cave his skull in.
If Welen was concerned about this, he didn't show it. If anything, he became calmer with every step he took, the rhythmic thump, thump, thumps proving to be therapeutic as he readied himself for the true battle.
Morne attacked first, swinging his mace toward Welen's temple.
Welen leaned deeply back and to his right, to the point his head was parallel to the ground, and the weapon swished past his head. Then, in the same motion, he whipped back up and around and brought his fist to bear.
Morne just barely blocked it, Welen's knuckles crashing into the wood of the former's buckler and bouncing off. As it did, Welen's second hand came around, latching onto the buckler's rim.
With a grunt, Welen jumped, using the buckler as a partial springboard, and sent a knee directly into Morne's chest.
Morne staggered back, wheezing, as the air was driven from his lungs.
Welen landed and lunged forward, ducking under Morne's haphazardly swung mace and bringing his elbow up.
It slammed into Morne's stomach, stealing his breath for the second time, only for a second strike to connect, and then a third.
Each punch carried far more strength behind it than you would expect from one as scrawny as Welen, no doubt a result of his Spell. Each one felt like a punch from someone Bobby the Butcher's size, but was as fast as if Welen was swinging unimpeded.
Even though he was suddenly rendered breathless, Morne kept a firm grip on his mace, and it was this mace that forced Welen to disengage, jumping backward to dodge a downward swing.
Morne took three deep breaths as he glared at Welen, making a mental note to not underestimate him again.
He had never seen a martial artist in action before, only vaguely knowing of them. He hadn't expected them to be so… domineering.
Morne was unaware that Welen, like him, had undergone four rounds before this, the fourth of which was meant to be just as difficult as Morne's was.
And yet, Welen stood before him now, entirely unharmed save for a few scratches Morne could only spot now that there wasn't as much distance between them.
This man was a threat, Morne realized. A larger threat than he had expected.
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