Chapter 561: The Eye of the Storm
The Eye of the Storm
They marched through the day, balancing their conflicting needs of haste and stealth. Martel used his magical sense regularly, staying vigilant; neither of them spoke, using only touch and gestures to communicate whenever either suspected that others might be near. Martel was keenly aware of how much magic he had spent fighting off the ambush; he might have enough spellpower for another skirmish, but not a third.
As night fell, it lessened the risk of being discovered at the expense of speed. Unlike travelling on the clear road, branches, bushes, and roots all hindered their movement, making their progress on the forest floor treacherous. More than once, Martel found himself stumbling, with Eleanor catching him when she could. He envied her, how her skill in magic naturally lent grace to her movements, and he felt clumsy in comparison.
Weariness only made it worse. They had taken the occasional break during the day, but, as Eleanor explained the only time either of them broke the silence, if they chanced sitting down during night time while weary, they might very well fall asleep. So they soldiered on, never resting more than a few moments while standing up, leaning against a tree for brief relief before resuming their journey.
***
"Martel?" Eleanor whispered.
The sound of her voice was so unexpected, Martel almost flinched hearing it. "Yes?" He glanced in every direction, surrounded by the darkness of the nearby trees. His magic did not detect any large sources of heat nearby, other than hers.
"We have reached the clearing. The outpost is straight ahead."
Martel welcomed the news, but he wondered at her hesitation. "Are you worried it's full of Khivans?"
"No, the banner flies the eagle, but two people approaching at night under such circumstances might find themselves full of arrows. I thought you might create some light, which should make it clear who we are."
"Oh, sure." Despite him being physically worn out, Martel had no trouble conjuring a flame. Letting it float ahead of them, the two mages approached the gates. Stepping out of the treeline to cross the clearing made Martel feel queasy; he expected every moment to hear a shot fired.
"Who's there?" someone yelled from the small tower beside the gate. "Is that magic?"
Eleanor stepped forward to enter the ring of magical light. "Sir Fontaine and Sir Martel returning from Esmouth. Let us in."
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"Mages!" the guard exclaimed. "Open the gate! Send for the prefect!"
Relieved, Martel staggered inside and immediately fell to sit on the ground, back against the wall. Someone handed him a flask, and he drank greedily. Eleanor likewise slaked her thirst, though she remained standing.
At length, Valerius appeared, hurrying down the path that went through the small camp. "What word do you bring from Esmouth?"
"Fifth and eleventh cohort are marching to relieve you. Presumably, the mounted cohort will arrive first. They may arrive tomorrow, but if not, the day after, I assume," Eleanor related.
"Sooner rather than later, I hope," the mageknight replied. "We expect the Khivans to arrive any day now. I had started to wonder when we might receive word from camp."
"I cannot say if the legate sent couriers ahead of us. If so, the Khivans probably ambushed them, as they did with us. And if their scouts are already west of here, the army itself will be on your doorstep soon."
"Well, I am glad to have you with us," Valerius declared. "A battlemage may make all the difference."
Martel looked up, blinking from weariness, but also confusion. His only experience was in fighting skirmishes. During the battle to take this outpost from the Khivans, his sole contribution had been to destroy the gate. Wearily, he got on his feet. He was not certain what anybody expected him to do; stand on the walls and rain fire on attacking Khivans? Not even Eleanor could save him from the barrage of bullets that every Khivan sharpshooter would send his way.
But Martel did not feel sufficiently awake to articulate this, and he doubted he would receive any useful reply as to what difference he was meant to make. "We need to sleep," he simply said. If nothing else, he wanted his spellpower to be fully restored before any fight.
"Of course. Your tent should still be empty, waiting for you. We will speak in the morning and formulate our strategy," Valerius told them. They parted ways, and soon, Martel could finally sink into blissful sleep.
***
"Prefect? Prefect!"
An increasingly insistent voice coming from outside the tent woke Martel; judging by the stirring sounds on the other side of the divide, Eleanor as well. "What?" he asked, irritated.
"Sir Valerius bids you join him by the north-eastern tower. The enemy has come."
Martel glanced outside, trying to get a notion of the hour. Faint light early morning, it seemed. He grabbed his chain shirt and began putting it on. "We'll be there," he told the legionary outside with a curt voice. As the fog of sleep receded from his mind, the severity of the situation impressed itself upon him. Most likely, they were surrounded by the Khivans now. If they took the outpost, there would be no point in surrendering; they executed mages on the spot. An unpleasant image forced itself into his mind; Eleanor being riddled with bullets, her body falling lifeless to the ground.
Outside, the sounds of soldiers running could be heard; the whole camp was waking up, preparing for battle. But no sounds of Khivan powder exploding, whether in muskets or cannons. Not yet. Quickly, Martel finished tying up his boots and went outside the tent. Picking up his staff, he stood ready; moments later, Eleanor joined him.
They exchanged glances, but neither spoke. For a moment, they lingered as people moved swiftly around them, handling supplies or hastening towards the gathering spot for their centuria, like the quiet eye of the storm. Unable to delay further, the pair of mages finally turned east and proceeded down the main path of the camp, towards the north-eastern tower.
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