Chapter 530: Eight Breaths
Eight Breaths
Martel sat on a tree stump he had salvaged a while back, serving as his seat whenever he cooked meals outside his tent. The pot boiled merrily, turning oats and water into porridge. On the other side, sitting on her own stump, Eleanor unpacked the honey and raisins they usually added. "Not much left," she remarked. "And the trader in Esmouth will probably not have any to sell until the next ship arrives from Morcaster."
"I'll ask around. Maybe others have enough left they are willing to part with." Martel had plenty of coin to spend, after all, even after his various purchases ordered from the quartermaster the other day.
She handed him a plate. "Make sure you eat plenty. Between our sparring and your little fight at noon, you want to be sated."
Pouring oatmeal for himself, Martel wondered if he had made a mistake challenging the decurion. Perhaps he should have asked Eleanor for her opinion before doing so, but she had been in the other room, and it had happened rather fast. "Do you think I made a mistake, picking a fight with the decurion?"
Filling her plate, she looked up at him. "No. I want you to put him in his place."
She returned her attention to her meal, but in the silence, Martel understood something he had hitherto been blind towards.
He had expected condescension from the mageknights, being an elemental mage; he had not realised that Eleanor would be treated the same way, despite being a mageknight herself. But he saw it now; while the others were officers, leading soldiers into battle, she was the protector of an elemental mage, subject to the same bias that he met. That would end today.
"I will. You don't think I should save my strength? You still want to do our morning training?"
"I have seen Sir Dominic train. He fights like a mageknight, thinking only about steel. Against you, I doubt he will last ten breaths."
***
As the noon bell distantly rang, Martel left his tent. He wore his red robes rather than the attire of a prefect; he wanted them to see him as an elemental mage. In his hand, he carried his staff, though he suspected he would not have much need of it.
He barely had to wait before he saw the decurion stalking up the main thoroughfare of the camp. "I see you are ready, Sir Martel. And no armour bold choice."
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"You are welcome to make me regret it."
"I should warn you that I have fought battlemages before. Both at the Lyceum and here, your predecessors. They did not last long."
"I'm sure." Martel noticed a small crowd gathering, including the other prefects. "I suggest people disperse to the sides. I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone standing behind you."
"A sensible precaution," Dominic assented, gesturing for people to spread out. Drawing his sword, he casually approached Martel, reducing the distance between them. "Shall we begin?"
Martel raised his staff. "Sir Fontaine, will you give the signal?"
"Begin!"
Dominic had already raised his physical shield in anticipation of fire bolts or the like; as soon as the signal came, the mageknight broke into an empowered sprint. He closed the gap between them in a moment, but a moment was all that Martel needed. Closing his eyes, he conjured the brightest light he could in front of himself.
Outbursts from the crowd told him of the effect. Thanks to his ability to sense heat, Martel did not need sight; before his inner eye, he saw the shape of his enemy like a man made of fire, with the conjured, flaming orb hanging in the air between them. Aimlessly, Dominic swung his sword around. His impaired balance made it easy for Martel, who simply poured spellpower into a gust of wind and knocked the mageknight onto his back.
Dispelling his light and opening his eyes, Martel stepped forward to place one foot on Dominic's blade. He reached out a hand to help the mageknight on his feet, just in case he had the wisdom to accept his defeat and accept friendship.
Ignoring Martel's hand, Dominic got on his feet. "Neat little trick," he said with an overbearing smile. "Here I thought we had a battlemage in the legion, not a windmage." He looked towards the crowd, his comment aimed at them; some laughed, but it sounded nervous rather than genuine. "If I had known I was to face such simple tricks, I would have fought differently."
Deciding to hammer his message home, Martel raised a hand and allowed sparks to jump from one fingertip to another. "Do you know what happens to a man struck by a lightning bolt, especially when wearing so much metal? He boils like a shrimp in its shell." Dismissing the effect, he smiled. "No need to worry. When we face the enemy, they'll know that they face a battlemage."
As he turned away, Eleanor joined him. "Eight breaths. I was right."
***
Walking back to their tents, the pair was joined by Henry, the stonemage. "What a spectacle! Better than the performance last night, though granted, I've seen that show about ten times before."
"I didn't notice you in the crowd," Martel said. "Actually, have you two met?" He glanced at Eleanor by his side. While he had spent a handful of afternoons at Henry's house, he had always been alone when visiting. "Eleanor, my protector. Henry, our resident stonemage."
"Sir Fontaine, yes. We spoke briefly after the performance last night."
"Eleanor will do among friends," she told him.
"Appreciated. Now, where is this magnificent residence you always speak of?" Henry asked, aimed at Martel.
The battlemage pointed at the tent ahead. "I believe I made no exaggerations when describing its opulence. All I have to offer is ale or river water, though."
"Ale will be splendid."
"I will fetch my chair," Eleanor suggested. "Weather is nice enough to sit outside."
They spent the next hours in pleasant conversation, sharing ale and the last raisins.
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