Chapter 526: A Gathering of Black
A Gathering of Black
When their morning spar had ended, Eleanor stepped back and gave Martel a scrutinising look. "How do you feel? After yesterday, I mean."
"Fine," he replied truthfully. "It could have gone a lot worse."
"I guess you have been in fights before."
"Once or twice. And you?" Martel suddenly felt guilty that he had not given her the same consideration. She had seemed at home in her reactions to the ambush; it had not occurred to him that she might be feeling troubled by it.
"After what we went through in the catacombs of Morcaster, I doubt any Khivans could ever frighten me," she told him; a sentiment he agreed with. "Well, maybe their cannons might make me reconsider. I truly do not know if my magic shield can stand up to such force."
"Let's never have to find out."
She laughed a little. "No risk of that here, it seems. They would have to drag that monstrosity for miles through forest and hills, avoiding our patrols, just to get within range of the camp."
And yet Henry enchanted the walls to be certain they could withstand such a barrage; it could simply be because of excessive caution, but presumably, it was not beyond the realm of possibilities. "Yeah."
"Plans for today?"
"None, besides a bit of apothecary work. Feel free to roam without me."
"Well, the other mageknights are gathering at the tavern tonight."
"The Salty Mug?" Martel asked, mostly to confirm whether that was indeed its name.
"Yeah, do you know of any other watering hole?"
"I do not."
"There is your answer."
"This feels reminiscent of Morcaster," Martel related. "Me and a bunch of black tunics."
"They are your only peers in this place," she remarked. "Wizards befriend wizards. Other than the stonemage, I suppose. Still, it would not hurt for you to come along tonight."
"I'll see you there," he promised.
***
Several trips to the river with a pair of buckets filled Martel's tub, and a dash of magic heated the water. Lowering himself down, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of warm water relaxing his body. Once that had been accomplished, he considered Eleanor's invitation. He had no intention of backing out, but he did not expect much. In any case, he would not stay long; he had maybe five or six coppers left until he got paid.
Once clean, dry, and dressed, after he had moved the tub into Eleanor's tent, Martel sat down to begin writing a letter. It was for Mistress Rana, detailing several questions about alchemy, mostly concerning the plants and herbs he hoped to harvest come summertime. He did not finish the letter, as he imagined he would think of more questions in the coming days, not to mention that sending it by Imperial post would cost nearly all his remaining coin.
Martel could sell enchanted objects if he needed money, of course, but he preferred to keep them exclusive; something he could barter for favour, trading items which the recipient could not easily get elsewhere. Better to wait a few more days until he received his first payment for being a battlemage.
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Putting the half-finished letter aside, with his mind still on alchemy, Martel checked the herbs drying in his tent. The carpenter in town had built him a small, simple rack for him to hang long rows of plants upon. He could probably use magic to dry them faster, but he was in no rush, and the slow, natural method seemed the safest way. Besides, he could not afford a mortar and pestle yet.
The rack did take up a lot of space in his now cramped tent, but Martel considered that a necessary evil. Although the circumstances of his life had changed radically, making his life in Morcaster seem almost like a distant dream, it had only been a few months since he laboured day and night to create potions against the pestilence. Should anything like that happen here, Martel preferred to have his own alchemy available rather than rely on others.
***
The tolling of the bell in Esmouth could just barely reach Martel in his tent, telling him it was last bell; while he had not agreed any specific hour with Eleanor, the mageknights would probably be gathered at the tavern by now. Picking up his pouch with its few coins, Martel left camp.
According to regulations, the gates to both the camp and the town were closed after last bell, but an exception was always made for prefects, and Martel crossed the bridge without trouble.
Entering the tavern, he immediately noticed the other prefects; they took up half the space. Walking up to the counter, Martel placed two coppers on it, receiving a mug of ale in return. Thus armed, he walked over to the mageknights.
"This must be our battlemage! And out of uniform, that makes eight to four!" one of them declared, wearing a black tunic rather than armour. In his red robes, Martel squeezed in between two of them, giving nods around the table in greeting. Three of them besides Eleanor were women.
"We wondered when you'd make an appearance," another remarked gruffly. He was much older than the others, at least in his fifties. "Not just tonight your counterpart made the rounds to greet us the day after arrival."
"I've had my hands full," Martel explained. He exchanged looks with Eleanor, who gave him a wink.
"So we hear! A battlemage who enchants. Fancy that."
"Urgh, I remember that class at the Lyceum. That fellow, Master Jerome's apprentice, Stars bless him, he tried. I did not learn a thing."
"Here we are, already reminiscing about school days," interjected the older mageknight.
"Don't mind Lucius," said the one next to Martel, much younger in years. "He's the only one here without magic, and it irks him to no end."
"Indeed I am," Lucius proclaimed, "and I had to work twice as hard to make prefect! I've served longer in this legion than most of you have been alive!"
"Certainly been drinking twice as much," another muttered.
"Wait, we're still missing one. Where's Avery?"
"Out on patrol. Some concern that the Khivans might have been able to cross in small numbers, up north."
"Is it not the responsibility of the Thirteenth to prevent that?"
"Sure, but if they don't, it's us that'll feel the consequences! Can't blame the legate for being cautious."
Unable to keep up with the conversation, Martel simply kept quiet.
"Firemage, Fontaine claims you defeated a berserker. As a novice, no less." The remark cut through the chatter and came from the mageknight at the end of the table, one of the few wearing armour. His soldier's pin did not show an eagle, but a horse, declaring him to be the decurion, leader of the mounted cohort and third in command of the legion.
He regarded Martel with scrutinising eyes, who spent a moment chewing on the remark. The tone reminded him of the same condescension shown by Reynard, the Master of War at the Lyceum. But perhaps Martel judged him too hastily; in any case, it seemed best to remain calm.
"I did, with some help. I had a mageknight providing distraction. You lot are good at that," he added with half a smile, glancing around the table, and he was rewarded with laughter from a few.
"How did you accomplish such a feat?" the decurion asked.
"I strangled him with a golden chain." Martel sipped from his cup, pretending not to notice the incredulous looks.
"Bloody Tyrians!" another mageknight exclaimed. "My father and brother both died fighting those bastards."
"Maybe you will get your chance at revenge soon," the decurion remarked and got up.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You will find out when you are supposed to. Now excuse me Avery should be back by now, and the legate expects me present when she reports." With those words, the decurion left.
"Is he always like that?" Martel asked the old mageknight by his side.
"Ah, don't mind him. You put that horse pin on a prefect, they immediately get too big for their breeches. Now, Martel, what sort of name is that?" Lucius asked, slamming his empty cup down. "Sounds Aquilan."
"It may very well be, though I hail from "
"Not the worst to have at your back, Aquilans!" the old mageknight continued. "I remember once, on campaign, mind you"
Martel took a deep breath and signalled the barkeep for another drink.
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