Chapter 563: Fireflies in the Night
Fireflies in the Night
The walls held until nightfall. Whether they would continue to do so, nobody could say; Martel was the only one with the least bit of knowledge concerning enchantment, and even he dared not guess.
Outside their tent, the battlemage and his protector prepared for their task. They covered all metal to prevent any reflection of moonlight; Martel dearly wished he knew how to conjure clouds. He left behind his staff, and Eleanor her shield; raw magic would have to do, whether in terms of offence or defence.
Despite the dark, the cannons did not become silent. The Khivans knew their munition would hit the target. While this meant the enemy soldiers were active and alert, it also afforded Martel the only chance he had to do something; the heat from the constant firing would leave the cannon barrels hot, allowing him to find them with his magic.
Going through the gate would be too obvious to spot; instead, the mages used a rope to descend the northern wall, down into the ditch below. Crouching, they followed it until north met east and they could see the occasional flash of fire, each time the cannons roared.
Exchanging looks, Eleanor crawled out of the ditch as the first. Martel followed behind her. On their stomachs, they inched their way across the grass. The darkness did not allow them to discern much, not even the treeline somewhere ahead, but the sight and sound of the cannons guided them forward.
Despite the cold, Martel felt sweat on his brow. He could handle combat when it happened instinctively; his magic seemed to react faster than his mind, and any fear was suppressed by the feeling of elation as he unleashed his powers.
This, the slow anticipation of unavoidable battle building up inside of him, it made him feel nauseated. He clamped his mouth shut out of fear that he would suddenly throw up, revealing their position.
They had crawled more half the distance, somewhere beyond a hundred feet, when Eleanor began to stop every other moment to let Martel test his reach; each time he found it lacking and the cannons beyond his range, he would touch the heel of her boot, and she crept forward another ten or fifteen feet.
Eventually, they came close enough that Martel could distinguish more than just flashes of light when the cannons fired. He saw the shapes moving around, loading the weapons, and as he reached out with his magical sense, he felt the heat of their bodies. This time, when Eleanor stopped, he did not signal her to continue. They had come close enough.
Martel waited until the cannons had fired another volley, giving him as much time as possible. He reached out to connect to the first barrel. Unlike a musket, it was much bigger and made of different metal; the muskets were of iron, but this was bronze. Whether the size or the material made the difference, Martel found himself straining to affect the barrel. He had to pour spellpower into the connection, much like casting a spell, and he still could not crush the barrel like he did with muskets. All he managed was to cause a tear in the metal.
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Almost panting with effort, Martel reached out and connected to the next cannon. It required the same effort, but he felt the metal buckle under his will and crack. Finally, he reached out for the third cannon.
The strangest sensation filled him, like strong brandy being poured down his throat until it made him cough. As he connected to the last cannon, the Khivans fired all three, and he felt the power of the explosion unleashed when the weapon hurled a great metal ball three hundred feet through the air to strike the wall.
But only one did so properly; the other two cannons cracked further under the strain, their barrels ruined. And while the Khivans did not understand magic, they clearly realised what was afoot; bullets began to fly across the clearing, shot wildly in just about every direction. In the nocturnal darkness, Martel saw it as streaks of light with his magical sense. Ahead of him, Eleanor activated her magic to protect herself and be a living shield for him.
The sudden burst of heat and power, along with the flurry of activity, disrupted Martel's concentration and his connection to the last cannon. Desperate, he reached out to re-establish it. Bullets, muskets, soldiers, of whom more and more appeared in the treeline, all of it confused him. It was like a tapestry of fireflies. Belatedly, he realised what had happened; understanding the cannons could be destroyed, the Khivans had pulled the third one back. It was beyond his reach now.
He reached out to grab Eleanor by the heel, giving her the signal to retreat. As bullets continued to fill the air, Martel laid with his head flat against the ground, pushing himself backwards. Every moment, he expected to feel the pain, musket ball piercing his flesh, or a soft cry from Eleanor, revealing her to be shot. Rather than stripes of heat, the bullets now felt like cold lines piercing the air, and Martel knew them to be mixed with gold. The Khivan sharpshooters had arrived with their mage-killing munition.
Resisting the urge to jump up and run towards safety, Martel continued his slow crawl backwards. Suddenly, his feet floundered, finding no ground beneath them. With a deep sense of relief, Martel pushed himself back to fall into the ditch. Moments later, Eleanor joined him. This close, even in the dark, Martel could see the clear relief on her face, reaching this place of relative safety; Martel felt the same emotion, but tinged with dread, as he knew the exact outcome of the mission.
Staying low, they followed the ditch back to their starting point, until they could finally climb back into the temporary safety of the walls.
***
Valerius awaited them upon their return along with all five of his centurions. They laughed and applauded, shouting the praises of the battlemage and his protector.
"Most impressive, Sir Martel!" The mageknight's face practically glowed with relief. "Now that you have silenced their cannons, they have no hope to reach our defences. And if they attempt some half-hearted assault, we shall gladly throw them back."
"I failed," Martel murmured. Realising his words had not penetrated the noise, he repeated more loudly, "I failed."
Valerius stared at him, confused. "But the cannons have stopped."
"I was only able to destroy two. They pulled the third to safety. Once morning comes, and they can be certain the clearing is empty, they will resume battering down the wall. We are still in danger."
His words had the expected effect on the boisterous mood, as the officers fell silent. "One cannon works much slower than three," Eleanor finally said. "If nothing else, this has bought us time."
"Yes, that is true." Valerius patted Martel on the shoulder. "You have bought us time."
"We have until morning, at the very least." Eleanor looked at Martel. "We should rest. Be as prepared as we can be."
He could not argue against that.
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