Chapter 519: Esmouth
Esmouth
At first, it had been a little weird to sleep on a cot that did not constantly roll back and forth, but Martel woke up feeling refreshed. The big stone in the middle of his tent, heating everything up like an oven, helped as well.
Eleanor joined him for breakfast, which they made by fetching water and mixing it with oats and salt for a simple porridge; Martel provided the cooking fire. As soon as they had finished, the mageknight demanded that they trained. Knowing the wisdom in keeping his skills sharp, Martel made no objection, as much as he wanted to.
Their sparring attracted some attention until it became obvious that no magic was at display, only a sword and shield against a staff. When they were done, Martel returned to his tent, washed in the cold water from a bowl on his small table, and dressed in his more familiar red robes. The uniform of a legionary, chain shirt and everything, still felt strange to wear. He chose only to wear the cloak among his soldier's garb, also dark red in colour.
As Martel left his tent, he found that Eleanor had no qualms about her clothing; she wore her uniform like yesterday, including armour and the stitched crown above the legion insignia on her sleeve, declaring her rank as prefect. "Ready?"
Martel patted the purse by his belt. "Let's see what Esmouth can offer."
***
A quarter of an hour later, they had crossed the bridge and entered the town. This time, rather than go straight through the place along the main thoroughfare, they took their time to explore. A part of the ruined section had been cleared and turned into a pen for animals, providing meat and leather for the legion. Craftsmen of every kind had set up workshops in the abandoned houses, scattered all over Esmouth. Cobblers, weavers, the blacksmith that Martel had heard yesterday, a ropemaker and a carpenter, and even a herbalist.
The mages separated Eleanor went to purchase thicker socks for herself while Martel investigated what the old crone had to offer when it came to herbs and apothecary remedies. He ran his fingers over the sewn pockets in his belt, containing his current stock of potions and fire pots. If he wanted to do alchemy, he would most likely have to collect the ingredients himself to ensure their magical properties, but the herbalist had at least the needed items for making simple remedies like skin and blood salve. Martel bought what he needed for that and continued.
Looking around and going back a little, Martel eventually found the carpenter. This time, he already knew what he wanted, and he gave her a few specific instructions along with a handful of silver. Bowing her head, she went to work.
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Strolling about, Martel noticed a man in his thirties also walking around making purchases. By his clothing, he was neither a soldier nor a camp follower of any kind. He wore a dark green robe with grey patterns. His hair and beard grew wild with little attention from any combs, and as he turned towards Martel, he gave a sly smile seeing the mage approach.
"You must be the battlemage they speak of."
"I didn't realise that was noteworthy news. You're a stonemage?" Martel asked.
"There hasn't been a battlemage in the Tenth Legion for years. And aye, I am. Henry's the name, from Aquila originally."
"I'm Martel, from Nordmark. My protector is Eleanor Fontaine. You'll probably meet her at some point."
"Undoubtedly." The wizard did not speak further but simply regarded Martel with his twinkling eyes.
"Are you a prefect like me?" the battlemage finally asked. Even though he wore no uniform, he could still be a soldier, just like Martel preferred his red robes over his chain shirt.
"Ha, nothing of the sort. I've never been to battle, and Stars willing, I never will. I was assigned to the legion for my twenty years of service, but not as a soldier, and I hold no rank. No, instead, you are surrounded by the work of my craft." The mage gestured vaguely at their surroundings.
Martel understood; he was the mage who had raised the walls that encircled the town. The camp too, probably.
"I have work that beckons, but I make my home near the legate's. Ask for the stonemage, and you shall find it. Come visit me another day," Henry spoke in invitation, and he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his home.
"Gladly." Martel knew he would welcome the company of another elemental mage, even if several years separated them. And although their powers and specialities had nothing in common, he might learn a thing or two from an experienced wizard. If not about magic, maybe about how to navigate life in the legion. Martel had not forgotten Mistress Juliana's warning that Legate Varus was an ally of Duke Cheval's.
The stonemage nodded in farewell, and they parted ways.
***
In the afternoon, Martel returned to camp after searching the riverbank for small, suitable stones. An evening of enchantment awaited him, but he had another task in mind first. The carpenter had done swift work, delivering Martel's purchase to his tent. It looked to be a wooden trough, though the carpenter had increased the height of the container, allowing it to hold more water.
With a little difficulty and a spark of empowering magic, Martel dragged it into Eleanor's tent. Finding a bucket, he took several trips to the river and back to fill it. When he was done, he went into his tent and found something to eat, waiting for Eleanor's return.
"Martel, why is there a trough in my tent? Do you plan to water the legion's animals?" Eleanor's voice reached him from outside, and he left his tent to enter hers.
"Just figured you would enjoy this after our sea journey. Bring it over to my tent when you are done, will you?" With a gesture towards the water and a burst of spellpower, Martel heated it up until steam rose from it, transforming it into a hot bath.
"Martel, you are a gem."
With a smile, Martel went back into his own tent. Their first day in camp slowly approached its end; over seven thousand more days awaited before he could hope to be free of this place. His head full of considerations on how to ensure both he and Eleanor would survive the next twenty years, Martel began enchanting.
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