Firebrand

Chapter 617: A Memory Burnt

A Memory Burnt

Martel felt like his body was on fire. A strange and unfamiliar sensation to him; these days, his skill with the element meant he would have to stick his hand into the furnace of a foundry if he wanted to burn his skin. He felt nauseated and yet completely dry, as if his tongue had not tasted water in years. A sharp pain in his shoulder drew his attention until he remembered the bullet that had torn into him. Reminded of the battle, a flood of memories followed. Their desperate defence of the ridge. Avery’s death. Eleanor – he forced his eyes open.

He saw only blue. Yet he was moving, slightly swaying back and forth. With difficulty, he saw other colours. Something red right behind him.

“Sir! Sir, he’s awake!”

The voice pierced Martel’s ears, and he almost vomited as a reaction; he probably would have if his stomach had not already been empty.

“Put him down. Take some rest and give us a moment.”

A woman’s voice, Martel recognised. He felt himself being lowered and touching firm ground. He strained to look, and finally she came into view. The most beautiful face he had ever seen. He could have cried if his body had any water left to give. “Eleanor,” he whispered.

“There you are,” she spoke, and her features softened into a tender smile. “Welcome back.”

“What happened?”

“I did not see it all myself. I remember being shot and falling to the ground. When I came to, you were slumped across me, unconscious.”

“Sorry.”

She laughed, perhaps out of relief. “The others saw it, though. You unleashed magic of a nature I have never seen and scarcely heard about. I think the Khivans met a true fire-touched battlemage for the first time yesterday.”

“Water?”

“Of course!” She hurried to grab her flask and help him drink. Once completed, her fingers rested against his cheek for a moment. “Your hands clutched a small bottle when they pulled you onto the raft. They had to pry your fingers open. Considering I have not the slightest remnant of an otherwise fatal wound, I take it that was your healing potion? The gift you once received.”

Martel closed his eyes; his head hurt terribly. “Yeah.”

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“Thank you, Martel. You saved my life.”

“Got to protect my protector.”

She laughed again. “We are in the marshes. No sign of the enemy. Most made it across. You did suffer a wound, besides your exhaustion. Your shoulder took a nasty shot. The men are happy to carry you, though. They know what they owe you.”

“Alright.” He opened his eyes to look at her again. He wanted to say more, to ask about everything he had missed, but just the thought of formulating a coherent question made him feel worn out. “I’m tired.”

“Rest as much as you need. You have no responsibilities other than that.”

He tried to nod, which was impossible, lying on the ground. Instead, he closed his eyes and drifted off. As the last thing, he felt a hand on his cheek before sleep found him.

***

Moving through the wetlands was slow progress, especially when carrying wounded. When Martel woke again, he felt silly being on a stretcher; his shoulder was injured, not his leg. But since simply voicing a protest or commanding the legionaries to put him down felt like too much effort, he had to admit that physical exertion was probably beyond him. So he kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep, rather than face the awkwardness of looking up at the face of a grown man carrying him around.

When night came, the soldiers scattered to make camp as best they could on the solid land found here and there in the marshes. “How many survived?” Martel asked as he sat sharing rations with Eleanor.

“About six hundred. Probably as many as we could have hoped to make it.”

“I guess.” The last days, fighting constantly in the woods, had been yet another new experience in the torments of warfare. At least their efforts had not been in vain.

“How do you feel?”

“Better. My shoulder hurts. That’s probably the worst of it.” Martel still felt awful across his body, but he had experienced magical exhaustion before, and the nausea and headache had resided.

“Be sure to drink more water. You lost a lot of blood before we could bandage that wound.”

“I will.” Martel took another sip.

“We should rest.”

Martel figured she meant that he should rest, but he had no reason to argue. “Agreed. Sleep well.”

They both lay down, seeking to sleep on the muddy ground that served as their camp. Martel held up a hand in front of him and ignited a little flame at the tip of his index finger. His magic had returned, albeit any attempt at a real spell would probably make him throw up his supper. With a night’s full rest, his spellpower should be back in full and the residual symptoms of the exhaustion gone.

As he closed his eyes, his thoughts went to the battle yesterday. During the day, details had slowly come back to him, and he recalled that dreadful moment of Eleanor being wounded. Yet the memory felt odd or incomplete. He could not remember becoming so angry or what kind of magic he had unleashed. He knew it had come from his emotions, from instinct, but he could not describe or really understand what he had done. Thinking on it, Martel felt like he had watched someone else release that spell rather than done it himself, like a dispassionate witness. As if the magic had not only incinerated his surroundings, but burnt the feelings and experience from his mind.

It bothered him. Martel knew he could have a temper and at times act without thinking, even summoning magic without realising it. But now he truly understood Master Alastair’s warning about being fire-touched. He understood how such a mage might burn down half of Morcaster without realising it or being able to stop; he did not know how to feel about it. As he tried to sleep, these thoughts disturbed him long into the night.