Firebrand

Chapter 647: Cold Winds

Cold Winds

Confusion took hold for a while as the expected battle did not happen. The remaining commanders of the two northern legions rode out into the open, signalling their intention to parley. This did not take long; the prefects simply needed to know if their legions could be included in the demands sent to Morcaster, such as immunity from punishment and inclusion into the armistice. The captain prefect promised this without hesitation, and the Thirteenth and the Seventeenth join his cause.

In half a day, their numbers had swelled from approximately five thousand to now fifteen thousand. With only two legions up further north, the captain prefect now commanded the largest force in the eastern part of the Empire.

As it became apparent that battle would not take place, with the soldiers of the Thirteenth and Seventeenth marching back to camp, relief washed over those of the Tenth. They had all seen the numbers arrayed against them; even with their belief in the captain and his magical powers, nobody wanted to fight a battle against an enemy twice as strong. The fact that their erstwhile adversaries had become allies only made it better; no greater victory could be imagined.

A celebration was held in camp, and emotions ran free. Lacking proper wine, the soldiers made posca, mixing vinegar with water. Laughter, games, and the occasional fistfight happened repeatedly, and the prefects joined in with the former, stepping in to quell the latter where needed. And everywhere, the name of the Firebrand was spoken with recounting of the day's duel from those fortunate enough to have witnessed it.

***

As for the mage in question, Eleanor found him lying on his cot inside his tent. "There you are. I thought you would be celebrating. Starkad is impressing the young legionaries with feats of strength – it may have been unwise to allow the Tyrians access to camp," she related with a wry smile.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. "Khivans, Tyrians, Asterians… we are making friends with everyone."

She frowned, hearing his tone of voice. "Is something the matter?"

She sat down next to him. "How so? Your plan worked perfectly."

"Did you recognise the second battlemage? The one who ran?"

"I hardly saw his face. Why, did you?"

"Not at first. The fight occupied all of my mind. But afterwards, once I had a moment to think, I did." Martel scratched his cheek; he had intended to visit the barber days ago. "His name was Edward. I trained with him at the Lyceum."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Were you friends?"

"Not really. I never spoke to him outside of class, and hardly during. I'm not even sure I remember his name right. So much has happened since."

"Still, I can see why that would rattle you." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "But it was a battle, and we had to fight. Given the outcome, how much stronger our cause is now, we did the right thing."

He nodded to himself. "I am aware. I just can't help but think back. He always performed worst during our lessons. He scarcely had talent with the element, but still just enough to become a fire acolyte. I think we all had the sense that he would die first of us all. Maybe he has."

She squeezed his shoulder. "It is cruel how the Empire churns through its battlemages."

"He might have made a decent airmage. Nothing spectacular, but good enough," Martel continued, as much talking to himself as to Eleanor. "Did you go to the lighthouse? Down at the harbour, with the Master of Air," he suddenly asked, looking at her.

"Yes, I remember. Why?"

"It might have been the kind of posting he could have managed. Twenty years in a tower, keeping everything moving along smoothly. Now, he rots in the ground."

She took a deep breath. "Martel, you should not indulge such thoughts. Given what we are doing, and what we are up against, you must keep your mind here and now."

"You're right."

"Will you consider coming out of your tent? Everyone would be thrilled to have your company, I am sure." She stood up and looked at him expectantly.

"I think I'm too tired. It's been quite a day."

"I understand. I will let you rest." She gave him a mirthless smile and left.

***

Once the euphoria had settled, daily routines returned to Esmouth, though complicated by another ten thousand legionaries encamped five miles north. Martel met with their prefects, discussing the situation, listening to their concerns, and convincing them they had made the right decision to join him. Long hours were spent by Eleanor and Lara together with the different prefects and quartermasters, gaining a full understanding of every legion's store of supplies; an issue that weighed more and more on their minds. The region could scarcely feed one legion, and certainly not three. With every passing day, it became slightly more relevant than it had been the day before; and still, everyone wondered and waited to hear a word from Morcaster.

Several fivedays later, it arrived. A messenger, holding the banner of the emperor and his Praetorian Guard, rode into camp. When he reached the centre, he unfurled a message and began to read aloud with a clear voice to the gathering legionaries.

"On behalf of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Corvinus the Third, I bring this message to the soldiers of His Imperial Majesty's Tenth Legion. Hear and know this. You have broken your oath of loyalty, unlawfully murdered your rightful commander, and been found guilty in sedition. But the emperor wishes to be merciful. You must immediately hand over the renegade mage Martel of Engby, preposterously also known as the Firebrand, and the rest of you may be pardoned. Failure to do this is high treason, punishable by death."

His audience looked at him with murder in their eyes. Having listened patiently, Martel stepped out from the crowd and addressed his soldiers. "He is an envoy and not to be harmed. Our argument is not with him, but his masters." He turned his attention on the emissary. "And to your masters, you may bring this message back. I trust you can remember it." Martel raised his voice. "Your terms are rejected. I strongly suggest you accept our terms – while you still can." As the soldiers cheered, the rider turned his horse around and rode out of camp.