Chapter 538: Setting Up Shop
Setting Up Shop
The following day, once he had sparred with Eleanor, Martel went to the small Tyrian quarter of Esmouth. He carried his drying rack for herbs over his shoulder with one hand, the other hauling his crate of tools and ingredients. It was awkward and heavy, but with a little empowered strength, he reached his destination and could place the rack on the ground. "I'm here for Starkad," he told the nearest Tyrian, who sat plucking a goose.
The northerner got up, stuck his head inside the nearby building and yelled out the name before resuming his decision and work. Moments later, the berserker emerged. "Mage of fire! We are ready for you. Come, let me help." He went over and picked up the rack, leading the way.
"You don't have to call me that. Especially since we both know you speak better Asterian than that."
"Why break with tradition?"
Starkad moved to a small house built right against the city wall, with an animal hide for a door, and Martel followed him inside. Lacking windows, the place was rather dark, and Martel dug out the lightstone he had enchanted last night. It easily illuminated the space, giving him a chance to evaluate it.
One wall had clearly been repaired, perhaps a bit hastily; the stones did not quite fit together. Since Martel would not live here, it did not matter; he could always ask Henry to take a look and perhaps improve the repairs. Most importantly, the roof was intact, and the room was dry.
Turning around, he saw Starkad holding the lightstone, almost transfixed. "You created this?"
"I did."
"You are full of surprises. I have seen such a one at the house of the harlots, but I didn't expect it came from you." He looked at Martel with a sly smile. "They let you pay with one of these?"
Martel was not inclined to explain the truth, so he chose not to reply. Instead, he began unpacking his tools on the table, the only furniture in the room. "Did you provide this?"
"Of course. You can't work on the ground." Starkad placed the lightstone on the table. "I have chosen whom of my people will learn from you. I can send him to you now if you wish."
"In a moment." Martel turned from the table towards his companion. "I should ask something in return for sharing this knowledge and my work with you."
"I wondered when you might. What is it?"
"I've seen your arrows. They are marked by runes. I wish to learn what I can about them."
For once, the berserker did not smile. "These are bold words. Such knowledge is not to be easily shared, not even among our own people. Nor do I think you could make use of them, any more than you could teach me how to conjure flames from nothing."
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Silently, Martel walked over to the wall. Extending his finger and using it almost like a feather pen, he burnt the rune of warning into the stone. "Vara." The symbol glowed briefly, and Martel stepped away.
With an incredulous expression, Starkad crossed the room to touch the room. Immediately, Martel felt as if something pulled at him, demanding his attention, as the sign did its work. "You know the lore of runes?" Starkad asked in disbelief.
"I was taught this, yes." Martel avoided the specifics; the Tyrian might not be pleased to know that a teacher at the Lyceum share this knowledge with every student, even if most of them never grasped it.
"If the runes speak to you, I will not deny that judgement. I can teach you what I know, though I am no loremaster."
"You're the one who knows the runes in your flock?"
The berserker nodded. "Of my company, none are touched except me. But I'm not a skld, and you may already know the runes that I do."
"We'll find out."
"Very well. Once my companion has learned to make your salves, I will teach you in return."
Martel inclined his head. "Acceptable." As the berserker left, he began setting up his workshop.
***
The Tyrian fellow chosen by Starkad was a dour sort, who spoke little. At first, Martel thought perhaps it was from a lack of understanding Asterian, but he followed all of Martel's instructions and even knew the names of the tools and herbs. He was several years older, which could be why he said little to Martel; perhaps the thought of being taught by someone younger bothered him. But if so, he did not express this, and Martel had no reason to complain about his behaviour. He also appreciated having someone else to help with many of the tedious tasks of turning plants and herbs into usable ingredients. He did learn that the man's name was Egil.
Having made one jar of blood salve, showing his new apprentice every step of the process, Martel left his work to thicken overnight and called it a day. Walking back to camp, he remembered Starkad's warning from yesterday, which he had yet to tell Eleanor. Best to get it done now.
"Eleanor?" he called out, standing outside the tent.
"Enter."
Walking inside, he found her sitting in her chair, reading a piece of parchment. "Letter from home?"
She nodded with a smile. "From my sister."
Sitting down on the cot, Martel thought back on the girl he had met a few times. It was a pity they had to leave Morcaster so soon after she was healed, giving Eleanor little time with her.
"Is something on your mind?"
"Yes, sorry. I got a warning from Starkad, the berserker."
"A warning? You said you wanted to ask him about runes. Did he not take it well?"
"No, nothing like that. He pointed out a pattern that his warriors have discovered. Apparently, it's only when you and I are on patrol that the Khivans ambush us."
Eleanor folded the letter in her hands looking at him with concern. "You think he is right?"
"I don't see why he would lie about it. Besides, doesn't Sir Lara keep records of this? It must be easy to verify."
"It should be, yes. How did the Khivans discover this? Not just your presence in the legion, but the very day you are outside of camp and vulnerable."
"We are not fighting an enemy in open field. The Khivans are more like the Tyrians. Scouts, hunters. They're not here to engage us in battle, they are here to tie us in place and slowly whittle us down," Martel considered. "Regardless, it would be preferable if we could change our routines."
Eleanor nodded. "I shall speak to Sir Lara. She will see the wisdom of this."
"Thanks."
"How about your little workshop?" she asked. "Is it to your liking?"
"It'll do."
"So we shall continue our flower-picking, I surmise."
"I couldn't think of a nobler pursuit." Martel leaned back, forgetting he sat on a cot rather than in a chair, and he almost fell over, to the sound of Eleanor's laughter.
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