Chapter 536: Flame and Foliage
Flame and Foliage
The musket ball struck the tree, causing splinters to fly past Martel's face. He had dropped his staff some paces away, but it might as well be on the other side of the world, given that he needed to leave cover to retrieve it. Crouching behind the trunk, Martel cursed. The fire in his blood urged him towards reaction, retaliation, retribution, but he took deep breaths to keep his head cool. The Khivan sharpshooter clearly knew how to aim, yet he spent his bullet on a tree trunk. He was a distraction.
Letting his magical sense sweep out in different directions, Martel tried to filter away what he already knew. Eleanor to his left, behind a tree as well. The princeps and another legionary to his right, hiding in the same manner. The remainder of their patrol a few paces behind them, using an overturned log for cover.
An animal on the tree branches squirrel, probably racing away from all the noise. Birds flying up in the air. And more people, moving around. Three of them, closing in.
"They're flanking us!" Martel shouted, pointing to his left. "Twenty paces away, coming towards you in the rear."
One of the soldiers young and inexperienced raised his head up to look. Before Martel could shout him down, the sound of a shot came, and the soldier fell to the ground.
Another curse on his lips, Martel considered the angle. There had to be a second sharpshooter, covering that side. Three Khivans approaching six legionaries, but with the musketman supporting them, they would have the edge.
"Martel, tell me where he is, and I shall get him," Eleanor declared with urgency in her voice; their situation was rapidly becoming untenable.
"One moment!" Trying to control his breathing, Martel raised a wall of flames to cut off the angle of the second sharpshooter, protecting the legionaries on the ground. This done, he turned his attention towards the first musketman, somewhere directly ahead. His magic sweeping out, Martel found the target and pointed towards him. "Fifteen paces that way, fairly high up in the tree. One other with him, below."
He saw Eleanor's magic activate to shield her, and she leapt up, sprinting in the direction indicated by him. Martel's instinct was to follow after, but he knew that was folly. Her defensive magic would keep her safe, able to withstand numerous bullets and attacks; his would dissipate after a single hit. And she could handle two enemies.
Turning his attention back to the other side, Martel was stymied by his own wall; its heat interfered and kept him from sensing the Khivans further beyond. "Stay alert!" he shouted, probably needlessly; every Asterian knew the situation.
Their enemy finally appeared from behind, having walked around his wall. With battle cries, they stormed forward. They wielded short spears, same as the legionaries, but no shields, using the other hand to wield their primary weapon more nimbly, or adding a short sword for closer combat. This served them well in the chaotic fight that erupted, man against man. Even outnumbered, the ferocity of their attack and better-suited weapons scattered the legionaries, hard pressed.
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Trusting that Eleanor handled the sharpshooter at his back, Martel rose and joined the skirmish. Streaks of fire flew in between the Asterians to strike the Khivans. Screams and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Two of the Khivans incapacitated, Martel left the legionaries to finish that fight. He had to deal with the other sharpshooter. Steeling himself and summoning his shield, Martel dispelled his wall of flames between him and the Khivan, allowing him to sense the location of his enemy.
A bullet struck his shield, just as Martel found the man. He summoned his shield again, aware that he had little spellpower left, and advanced. The foliage made it hard to spot the sharpshooter, even if he knew the direction to look. Sweat on his brow from exertion and fear, Martel switched back and forth between his actual sight and his magical sense, acutely aware that the Khivan would have reloaded soon.
Suddenly, a body dropped down from the trees. Confused and wary, Martel approached until he saw an arrow stick out of the corpse. Further ahead, their Tyrian scout appeared. "Dead," the northerner declared. Martel exhaled, wiping his brow.
***
Although the fight was over, the Asterians did not relax. "You sense anyone, sir?" asked one of the young legionaries.
"Nobody but us," Martel assured him as he fetched his staff. Every other moment, he let his magic sweep out just to be sure.
"You'll keep watch, sir? You promise?"
"Quiet," the princeps barked. "Don't mug the prefect. He knows what he's doing."
"They were fools," another young legionary declared with a brazen demeanour. "Six of them, twelve thirteen of us," he added, looking at the Tyrian.
"We only won because the prefect was with us," the princeps told him brusquely. "These Khivans were experienced soldiers. Two of them with bloody good aim. Without the wizard, all you green boys would have ended up like him." He looked down at the dead legionary.
"Seven." Everyone looked towards the Tyrian scout. "They were seven. I killed one far over there." He pointed towards the direction he had come from.
"Aren't you supposed to know there's an ambush ahead?" the princeps asked. "Isn't it your task to warn us?"
"I would have. But there was the seventh man. I had to kill him first."
Eleanor returned, having made a quick survey of the surroundings. "Nothing suggests other Khivans. It seems a lone patrol, like us."
"Good." Martel looked her over, digging out a jar of blood salve from his belt. "Injuries?"
"No. But it looks like the others have."
He turned towards the legionaries, some of them nursing wounds. Walking from one to the other, Martel extended the salve in his hand. "This will keep it from getting infected."
With mumbled thanks, the legionaries scraped out some of the paste and applied it to their cuts. Turning towards the Tyrian, Martel noticed a nasty gash down his arm. How he had been able to draw his bow and shoot the last Khivan, Martel could not tell; it was fortunate that it had been over such a short distance.
Martel walked over and stretched out his hand. "For your wound."
The northerner squinted his eyes and took hold of the jar, sticking his nose down to take a sniff. Finally, he did as the others, applying the paste to his wound. "Southern magic?" he asked.
"Even better," Martel told him as he took the jar back. "Herbs, honey, and water."
"Let's get back," the princeps declared. "We've done our duty for today." He unclasped his cloak and placed it on the ground. "Help me." Together with another soldier, he dragged the body of the fallen legionary onto the cloth. "Let's get this boy back to camp, and us with him." Two of the soldiers grabbed the ends of the cloak, lifting up, and they began the journey home.
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