Chapter 548: In the Forests of the Night
In the Forests of the Night
Martel reached out with magic and crumpled the tip of the Khivan's musket. That still left six enemies ahead of them and two behind. They had changed tactics, using only sharpshooters; none of them engaged in close combat. "I'll draw their fire," Eleanor told him. She ran with empowered speed through the forest.
Focusing on the enemies behind, Martel could destroy one of their muskets the same way as the others. The second, however, had yet to fire his weapon, and Martel had no way of affecting it. He had to deal with them directly.
Using his ability to sense their location again, Martel snuck closer to them while staying out of their sights. He could see them, moving cautiously forward, both he and the Khivans hunting each other. Yet no matter how skilled in woodcraft, they could not contend with Martel's supernatural abilities. The moment he knew he would have a clear line of sight, he jumped out of cover and unleashed his spell.
He struck the Khivan who still had a working musket first with a ray of fire. The other raised his weapon and fired, only to find the barrel cracking apart. Desperately, he fumbled for the pistol in his belt. By the time he got it out, Martel's ray had moved from one target to the other, killing them both.
Without a second glance at the two bodies, smoke rising from their burning corpses, Martel turned and ran towards the sounds of Eleanor fighting.
***
Fifth day on patrol; second ambush. Three legionaries lay dead from the initial burst of musket fire. Martel had a bullet in his shoulder, made of gold, judging from how his entire shoulder felt cold and dead yet also burning with agony. Eleanor had dragged him into the bushes, and the rest of their patrol, those alive, had scattered.
"Four to the right, keeping their distance. Must be the sharpshooters. Three to the left, closing in. You take those, I keep the others back."
She glanced in either direction before looking at him. "Are you certain?"
He nodded, gritting his teeth from the pain of the injury. "Go."
She ran off, making the Khivans regrets they picked a fight with a mageknight. Meanwhile, perhaps realising their quarry was wounded, the four marksmen approached Martel's position. Reaching out, he destroyed their muskets one by one, thanking Sol that their caution made the Khivans approach slowly, which gave him time to do so.
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As they came close enough that he spotted the first of them, he saw the soldier had drawn his pistol instead. His prayer of gratitude becoming a curse, Martel raised a wall of flames as far as he could, creating a fortress of fire to hide within. Undeterred, the Khivans shot at him, their bullets passing through the flames. In response, Martel moved the wall towards his enemies, burning the undergrowth as it rolled forward, finally catching one Khivan unaware. Whether convinced by the sight of the moving fire or the screams of agony from their dying comrade, the others pulled back. Given a moment of respite, Martel reached out and extinguished the flames on the trees he had accidentally set ablaze.
***
The two legionaries in front both fell at the same time. Martel raised his shield, suppressing a groan; his shoulder had not fully healed yet from its injury. At least leaving his staff behind meant he was not the first target for a Khivan bullet anymore, though that proved to be little comfort for the legionaries on the patrol, who became targets instead.
The angle of the shots alone told Eleanor what she needed to know, and she already ran through the forest. Sensing the location of every enemy, Martel turned towards those trying to outflank them. As soon as they came into sight, lightning tore the breath from their lungs.
***
The Tyrian scout appeared out of nowhere, returning to them on the trail. Silently, he gestured with his hands. Fifteen enemies, and probably more hiding elsewhere. Martel briefly looked at the legionaries in their patrol, knowing that even if they retreated, most of them were probably about to die. He took a deep breath. "Everyone, take cover!" With a gesture, he raised a wall of flames ahead of them, as far as he could extended in either direction. Bullets flew through the air to pass through his fire, shot blindly, though only a few; the Khivans were still trying to get into position.
"Retreat, now!" Eleanor shouted. The legionaries scrambled to obey; one of them only made it two steps before a musket ball tore into his leg, making him stumble.
Martel could not spare the time to help him. His own wall made him blind towards any heat on the other side, but he could feel Khivans moving around on either side. Exchanging looks with Eleanor, they both nodded at each other in shared understanding. Taking a deep breath, he ran in one direction while she moved towards the opposite, both of them unleashing their magic.
***
"Prefect, missive for you." A legionary approached the tent Martel shared with Eleanor. They sat outside on the ground, and they both looked up at the soldier. Martel had his fingers in a jar of blood salve; a Khivan blade had cut Eleanor's arm when a fight had left her magic exhausted.
"Which of us?" she asked.
"Both your names are on it." The soldier extended the note.
Martel waved his hands around, one holding the jar, the other full of paste. Taking the hint, Eleanor accepted the note and unfolded it. The soldier saluted and left. "We have been recalled." She held it up for Martel to read. "I wonder at the reason why. At least this will give us an opportunity to discuss events here at the outpost."
Sir Fontaine, Sir Martel, make your way back to the camp at Esmouth at earliest opportunity. Sir Lara
"Let me have your arm," Martel told her, and she placed it across his lap that he could tend to it. It had been forty-one days since they had begun their daily patrols, fighting more skirmishes than Martel cared to count.
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