Firebrand
Chapter 618: A Warrior’s Fame

A Warrior’s Fame

The walls of Esmouth were a welcome sight to what remained of the fifth and sixth cohort of the Tenth Legion. Martel shared the sentiment; he had more than once feared he would never make it back. It had been a month since they set out, but it felt like a lifetime had passed.

The town and camp knew of their return; a patrol had met them yesterday and brought word back. As they marched in through the gate, the soldiers on the walls clamoured and clashed their spears against shields. The townspeople gathered along the street, cheering and waving.

“You’d think we’d just won the war,” Martel mumbled. It felt odd to receive what felt like a hero’s welcome, considering they had done nothing but flee the enemy.

“Six hundred men presumed dead but now returned,” Eleanor replied. “A victory of sorts, especially to the townsfolk who had thought husband or father lost.”

“I suppose there is that.” Martel glanced toward the legate’s house, biggest in Esmouth, as they walked past. “How do you think our esteemed commander will feel about our return? We took a few liberties to get back.”

“Considering we would otherwise be dead, he ought to be grateful,” she declared. “If not for us, the losses of his brief, ill-conceived campaign would be even greater.”

“I got a feeling he won’t look at it in exactly those terms, but point taken.” Martel glanced at Henry’s house; the stonemage stood outside, waving at them with a smile, and Martel returned the greeting. It was good to be back.

***

Their tents awaited them, and Martel gladly placed his travel equipment on the ground. However humble his cot and few belongings looked, it seemed a princely estate compared to his sleeping arrangements for the last month. The thought of sleeping in a proper bed with no tree roots poking in his back sounded divine.

“Sir? Prefect Martel?”

Martel sighed and walked out of his tent, where a legionary awaited him with an anxious look. “What is it?” From her tent, Eleanor poked her head out.

“It’s the big northerner, sir, the leader of those Tyrians. He’s by the gate, asking for you.”

A bit sooner for catching up than anticipated, but Martel could handle a little more walking. “Thanks. I’ll go meet him.” He gave Eleanor a questioning look.

“I shall seek out a hot bath. You enjoy your time with your friend,” she replied.

“Alright. I’ll see you.” Warm water washing over him did sound enticing, but Martel could do so later. For now, he set a course back to the gate of the camp.

***

Starkad greeted him as Martel had expected. “Mage of fire. Even I had my doubts whether you’d make it back.” He slapped one hand down on Martel’s shoulder, squeezing it, while his other hoisted a jar of wine. “A present.”

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“At least someone’s got the right idea.”

“Come. Let us sit by the river.”

Together, they walked the small distance from the camp to the riverside, where they both found themselves a rock to serve as chair, and Starkad gave Martel the honour of opening the jar.

“That’s good,” he said after the first sip. “I’ve had nothing but water and dried rations for so many fivedays now.”

“I thought that might be the case.” Starkad grinned as he accepted the wine.

“What happened? Why did the legion never reach us?”

“Good question. I have pieced a little together from what my brethren have told me. It seems the fire eaters acted swiftly, or maybe they had spies whispering the news. Whether one of the other, they got in the way once you had left,” the berserker explained. “They wanted to trap you. They filled the forest with their men, and you Asterians are not good at fighting outside of open land. My ancestors taught you this lesson a century ago, but the memories of men fade.”

Having experienced more of such forest combat than probably anybody else in the legion, Martel grudgingly had to agree. The Khivans knew exactly how to fight in small groups, using the trees to their advantage. The legionaries drilled to fight in formation, using their shields to protect the man next to them.

“The town is ablaze with tales of your exploits. Your camp too, I’d wager, though I’m not allowed to step inside.”

Martel returned to the present, and he looked over to see an uncharacteristically sly expression on his friend’s face. “How is that possible? We only just returned.”

“A patrol brought the news yesterday, and so it has had all of today to spread. The greater the story, the faster it travels.”

“I suppose it’s a good story. Lots of fighting, a hurried escape, crossing the river to safety.”

The berserker snorted. “I mean you. The soldiers speak of your great spellwork. I know they call you fire-touched, but I thought little of it. You are battlemage, and your kind fights this way. But now, hearing what you did, I understand what they really meant.”

“I suppose.” Martel was not keen to dwell on that particular moment.

“You master this element as the seiðr-wives of my homeland master the frost.”

Martel dimly recalled Master Fenrick mentioning the northern witches in his lessons.

“Perhaps you should take this as a warning.” Starkad’s voice grew serious as he looked out on the river. “The seiðr-wives rule us all. Not as jarls, making decisions every day, but none would ever dare to question or go against them. In your land, however, your kings have no magic, and they fear those who do.”

“They’ve got no reason to, in this case. I’m a soldier, I serve the emperor.”

“No jarl is happy when his sworn warrior attains greater fame than his master.” The berserker looked at Martel, extending the rest of the wine toward him. “Just something to remember, mage of fire.”

***

Returning to his tent, Martel heard a familiar voice issuing from Eleanor’s. Trusting he could enter without leave, Martel walked inside to find Lara speaking to his companion. Upon seeing him, the legion prefect inclined her head; belatedly, Martel remembered to salute.

“Sir Martel, we are glad to see you have returned. Impressive work done by you and Sir Fontaine.” She looked back at Eleanor briefly.

“We’re just glad to have made it back. Forgive me if I’m interrupting.”

“I was meant to share this message with you as well. You should rest tonight, but tomorrow, you are summoned at third bell to the legate’s house.” She seemed slightly apprehensive as she continued, “He has questions that must be answered concerning what happened to you in the field.”

“Of course.” Martel had figured as much, and he had both Eleanor and Valerius to support him, should anyone doubt the decision they had made to retreat.

“Could you… I should like to hear about Sir Avery’s last moments.”

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A little surprised at the request, Martel glanced at Eleanor. “She fought with utmost valour,” he replied.

“We would have failed without her. Her steadfast leadership got us to the river and across,” Eleanor elaborated, “and she held the Khivans back to allow Sir Martel and me our escape. A golden bullet claimed her before she could make her own retreat, and we grieve her loss.”

Lara stood silent for a moment. “I see. Thank you. A blessed night to you both.” The legion prefect bowed her head again and left.

Eleanor looked at her companion. “Martel, I have left water for a bath in your tent.”

“Alright, I can take a hint.”

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