Firebrand
Chapter 613: Boiling Over

Boiling Over

The charge and the sacrifice of thirteen legionaries had bought the Asterians time. More Khivans had arrived from their camp, but they did not advance beyond their initial position; they extinguished the fire and began to repair their defences.

“How is he?” Martel asked as Eleanor joined him. The battlemage had not moved since they came back into the camp, staying in the open area by the gate; he had taken a seat on a crate, and a soldier had fetched water for him.

“Alive,” she replied. Valerius lay in the tent being used as their infirmary. “His wounds are extensive, but he is a mageknight, hardy and strong.”

While hearing his friend still lived was good news, Martel did not feel much relief. “Our situation is not much better,” he mumbled. Eleanor made no reply.

From the ramparts, the remaining prefects came toward them. “Well done,” Avery spoke. “This will take time for the Khivans to recover from. It looks as if their woodworks are entirely destroyed.”

“It is borrowed time,” Martel replied, looking up at her and Dominic with a weary expression. “They’ll build more, enough for several cannons, now that they know what to expect. Next time we try this, they’ll shower us with bullets and munition.”

“That is poor talk coming from a prefect,” the decurion said harshly. “I heard the soldiers hailing the great ‘Firebrand’, saluting you like an imperator, and now you speak of defeat.”

Martel got on his feet. “One cannon nearly killed Valerius. We’ll run out of mageknights soon at this rate.” He stared at Dominic. “We won’t survive another assault.”

“I agree that the situation is dire,” Avery interjected. “We should consider how to extricate ourselves from this position.”

The decurion looked at her with disbelief. “Our orders are to hold this position until the legion arrives!”

“A legion that should have been here many days ago,” Eleanor added. “If they were close, the Khivans would not be so comfortable on our doorstep.”

Dominic glared at them with an indignant face. “Either you have all lost your courage, or you see fit to defy orders. I will hear no more of this!”

Martel was done. He would not die on this gods-forsaken hill for the vanity of this man. “You may stay, Sir Dominic, with any man who wishes the same. But once it is nightfall, I am leaving through the eastern gate and making my way back to Esmouth with anyone else who wishes to live.” He looked toward Eleanor, and she gave the slightest nod. “Sir Avery, if you possess reason, prepare your cohort to march.”

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A long moment passed in silence. “I will,” she finally said.

“This is treason!” The decurion’s head whipped around, looking at each of them. “Soldiers!” He pointed a finger at Martel. “Arrest this mage for this desertion and mutiny!” Around them, legionaries drew close, attracted by the noise, and some from the eleventh cohort stepped forward with hands on their sword hilt.

Martel planted the bottom of his staff in the ground, looking at the approaching legionaries. “Do not dare.” They stopped in their tracks.

“You will surrender your weapon and yourself!” exclaimed the decurion, also grabbing the hilt of his sword.

Immediately, Eleanor took a step forward to shield Martel, but he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sir Dominic, I will not warn you twice. Come with us or stay behind, but you will not hinder us in leaving.”

The decurion drew his blade. He only managed a single step before lightning leapt from Martel’s staff to strike him in his metal armour, and he boiled like a shrimp in its shell. His body hit the ground, and he stared with dead eyes up at the Khivan sky.

Stunned silence fell upon the crowd. The soldiers of the eleventh cohort backed away from their fallen prefect and the battlemage who had slain him. As for the remaining legionaries, they stared at the still-living mageknights.

“Sir Avery, until Sir Valerius has recovered, I suggest Sir Fontaine takes command of the sixth cohort,” Martel said with a calm voice.

She cleared her throat. “A sensible suggestion. I see no reason against it.” She turned her head toward Eleanor.

“Of course. I am happy to serve,” she replied.

Avery looked down at Dominic. “I will get him buried. He was a prefect, no matter what.”

***

The usual activity ensued when two cohorts had to prepare for a march. In addition, further steps had to be taken to conceal their departure from the Khivans. To that end, Martel spent his evening creating enchantments for a particular task he and Eleanor would undertake.

The sound of horses and shouts disturbed him, interrupting his focus. Frustrated, he set aside the jar of oil he had been working on, as he would have to start over. Stepping out of his tent, he looked around with an angry expression to locate the source of the noise.

Finding nothing, he walked through camp until he saw Eleanor. “What is going on?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Sir Dominic’s men. They took the remaining horses and galloped out of the eastern gate. I guess without their prefect, the eleventh cohort did not see a reason to stay either.”

Martel looked in that direction, seeing their own legionaries close the gate. “Well, if they draw the Khivans’ attention, that’s a trade I’ll take.”

“There is nothing to be done about it. What about you? Are your preparations finished?”

He padded the pockets on his belt. “Along with a few extra I managed to make before this disruption, we should have plenty. We are not really trying to do much damage anyway, are we?”

“No. But it has to look real, or at least seemed sufficiently threatening. If not, we shall simply rouse their suspicion, and we may have done more harm than good.”

“I’ll go back and make one more, there should be time. Assuming no other herd of horses come trampling past my tent.” Sᴇaʀᴄh the n0vᴇl(ꜰ)ire.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

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