Chapter 534: A Broken Threat
A Broken Threat
Eleanor broke the arrow in half and placed the part with the rune in her belt. "We shall discuss back in camp," she mumbled, to which Martel nodded. "Stay surrounded by legionaries. I will take a look around."
She disappeared, but Martel was scarcely left alone before Avery arrived. "Well done, Sir Martel! I was uncertain of what aid you might provide tonight, but your spellcraft proved most useful!"
"Thanks," he muttered, distracted. "Is the fight over? Our task?"
She nodded. "I think we got them all, and our casualties are light. All in all, as successful as can be. The legate will be most pleased. I shall be sure to mention your prowess."
"No need," Martel told her. He had a feeling his only reward would be further missions. "This was your accomplishment."
"Modesty is good, but honour where it is due is even better!" Avery's demeanour, which had been almost dour whenever Martel met her in camp, had clearly been brightened by their success. "But we need to finish clearing this place. I hope you have some spellpower left in you. We will need more fire."
***
They gathered the Khivan bodies and all the weapons that needed powder to work, placing it all in a pile, which Martel ignited. Any equipment or provisions worth salvaging was spared the fire. Once stretchers for the dead and the badly wounded had been made, the Asterians began the march back to camp.
Eleanor appeared by Martel's side, falling in next to him. Twilight illuminated their surroundings as they walked, bringing up the rear of the centuria. "I spotted a handful of Tyrians after the fight, in the nearby woods, including our scout. Any of them could have shot the arrow they all had bows."
"It could have been an accident," Martel considered, though his voice carried no conviction.
"You know the Tyrian signs as well as I do. That was a rune of guidance, ensuring that arrow would hit its mark. It was aimed straight at you." She reached out and grabbed him by the arm, even as they continued walking. "If I had not stepped into its path, it would have struck."
"I know, I know. Obviously, I'm very grateful to you."
"Shove your gratitude where Sol cannot see," she hissed. "I do not care about that. Someone tried to murder you, Martel, one of our supposed allies."
The battlemage slowly exhaled, unable to refute her words. "Yes. You're right. My talent for making enemies is so great, even people I've never met want to kill me."
"This is no jest!" Eleanor raised her voice enough to make the legionaries in front twitch their heads, though discipline kept them from looking back.
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"I didn't mean to make light of the situation. I just " Martel gave a sigh. "What do we do? We have thirty possible suspects, and no knowledge of why they would do this. Finding the guilty party seems impossible."
"I will inform Sir Lara. An attack was made upon a prefect. This must be investigated and the culprit punished."
Based on past experiences, Martel had his doubt that anyone in authority could be of help, considering they could not point out the actual perpetrator. At best, the Tyrians would be expelled, but since Martel still had to leave the camp on patrol, the would-be assassin might simply wait for another opportunity. "Did you see the berserker nearby after the fight? He is their leader, right?"
"I did not notice him, but he could have been there. Why?"
"He doesn't use a bow," Martel mumbled. "I think I know a better way to handle this."
She shot him a look. "You understand your life is at risk? This is not the time for half measures."
"There won't be anything half about it."
***
Once they reached the camp in the early morning, everyone dispersed to seek sleep, including the mages. When Martel woke, half the day had gone. He prepared a simple meal, cooking meat and vegetables; when ready, he woke up Eleanor, and they ate in silence.
"What is it you want to do?" she finally asked, as they had finished.
"We won't find the archer who shot at me, but I don't think we need to as well. You still got the arrow?"
"On my desk. It is evidence."
"Bring it, and we'll go to the Tyrians."
She raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to be in armour?"
"Not for this visit, but maybe the second."
***
Crossing the bridge into Esmouth, Martel and Eleanor turned left to reach the Tyrian enclave. The residents raised their heads, seeing the visitors; presumably, Asterians rarely came here. One of the Tyrians interrupted his chore, sewing up a hole in a shirt, to turn his head towards the nearest house and call out in his own tongue.
Moments later, the berserker emerged from behind the animal hide serving as a door. "Ah, honoured visit! Mage of fire and furious lady. Have you come to share our cup?"
Martel threw the broken arrow into the berserker's arms. "Last night, somebody shot that at me."
The Tyrian glanced at the arrow and looked up with a smile. "In the confusion of battle, such can happen. I see you stand before me, not a hole in your body! No harm done?"
"The battle had ended, and the arrow was marked with a rune to steer it straight. One of your people aimed at me specifically and let loose." Martel spoke slowly, both to impress each word on the berserker, but also to be sure he understood. "Attempted murder of a prefect is punishable by death, which extends to anybody who helps the killer." Martel did not actually know this for sure, but it seemed a reasonable guess. "I could go to the legate, but I don't have the patience for that. I expect you to find whoever is guilty and deal with them, or I'll return and burn down all your houses, no matter who is inside. Do you understand?"
The berserker observed Martel for what felt like the longest moment. The muscles on his arms tensed, but finally he spoke. "I understand."
The two mages turned around and left. Once they were out of earshot, Eleanor gave him a glance. "You really think this is a better approach than actually reporting it in? Instead of one Tyrian, you may have made enemies of all thirty. Our superiors cannot protect you if they are unaware of any threat to you."
"I'm sure," Martel told her. Eleanor approached this like an Asterian and a soldier, expecting hierarchy and discipline to settle the affair. But Martel suspected these Tyrians were more like the gangs in Morcaster, men and women living by their own rules outside regular society, respecting only wealth or strength. "If an Asterian tried to interrogate them, they would close ranks. Now, they have motivation to do something about it."
They made their way back into camp. For all of Martel's confidence, and though the Tyrians were not allowed inside the legion's enclosure, he still took the time to surround his tent with runes of warning.
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