Chapter 574: The Pace of Victory
The Pace of Victory
The two Asterians and their Tyrian scout ran all they could, the latter in front. She knew the terrain and the route home, and even without magic, she was swift; Martel had to use bursts of his power to catch up every now and then. Any sounds of shooting or shouting faded behind them, though Martel knew they were far from having escaped danger; they had a long journey ahead of them back to the outpost.
After they had been running for a while, Freydis finally stopped. As they caught their breaths, she made various gestures towards them. First, she pointed in the direction ahead and showed herself running in place. After, she pointed behind them, grabbing an arrow from her quiver.
Eleanor looked at Martel, and he figured they had the same thought. She drew her sword. "Better to fight where we choose the battlefield."
***
The Khivans came at full speed, having no trouble following the trail. Three of them at first, probably the small vanguard, which had not been caught in the initial blast. Freydis opened the ambush by releasing an arrow to kill the man furthest away. Leaping up from her hiding place, Eleanor charged the remaining two.
Behind them, Martel could see another handful of enemies. Some of them went against Eleanor while the others raised their muskets. Martel conjured his wall of flames in front of them, disrupting their shots and forcing them to circumvent his obstacle. As they appeared to one side, he unleashed fire bolts while Freydis shot her arrows against those on the other.
Musket fire rang out, and on instinct, Martel crouched low. Having already summoned lightning twice, and now a wall in addition, his spellpower was running low. Rather than spells, he reached out with his magic to destroy the barrel of every musket that had fired. Finding their weapons unusable, the remaining Khivans charged against Eleanor. Against the mageknight with plenty of magic left, they stood little chance. One of them went for Martel instead, who defended himself with his staff until Freydis appeared, stabbing his attacker in the back. He glanced around, searching for the next; he found none. A trail of bodies lay on the ground where Eleanor had progressed, and a little further away, those slain by him and the Tyrian. He dismissed his wall, exhaling deeply.
***
"Anybody wounded?" Eleanor glanced at her companions.
Martel looked at Freydis and realised she clutched her shoulder with blood pouring forth between her fingers. A musket ball must have grazed her, tearing up the flesh. Martel knew such a wound should not be underestimated; the size of the bullets meant that even a grazing shot could cause terrible bleeding. Enough to have a fatal outcome if untreated.
Freydis seemed aware; she stared at Martel. "Fire!" She added a string of words in Tyrian. "Fire!"
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"She wants you to cauterise the wound," Eleanor explained, having grasped her meaning quicker. The mageknight bent down and picked up a twig, which she gave to Freydis, who placed it between her teeth.
After unsheathing his dagger, Martel held his hand around the blade and heated it up until it glowed red. He looked at the Tyrian scout. "Ready?"
Regardless of language, she understood. She nodded and removed her hand, revealing a nasty gash. As Martel stepped close, she bit down on the twig in her mouth. Steeling himself, Martel placed the glowing blade against the wound, burning the wound to close it and stem the bleeding.
A muffled howl of pain issued from Freydis. As Martel pulled back, she spat out the twig and unleashed what he imagined to be the foulest curse words in the Tyrian speech. Breathing deeply, she ran her sleeve across her brow and afterwards bent down to wipe her own blood from her hand on the nearest Khivan. Wordlessly, Martel placed salve on her injury. Once done, she looked at her companions. "We go. Day. Night. Go." A long march ensued.
***
As Freydis had warned, they walked whether day or night. They never rested for more than a few minutes, and she kept up a hefty pace, injured or not. Martel found himself impressed with her resilience and stamina, all the more as she had no magic to bolster herself with. He understood the value of these scouts for the legion; it was clear to him that their entire push into Khivan territory, such as the outpost, was only possible due to the intelligence they gathered unseen.
As night fell, their pace lessened, but they still continued. Martel was extremely parched, from both physical and magical exertion; because their route avoided water, he had drunk the last of his many hours ago.
He did not know if the Khivans still pursue them, considering they must have killed nearly all of the escort, but he knew if it came to a fight, he had little left to give. There was also the risk of other Khivan patrols in the area picking up their trail. Their best hope seemed to be simply speed, outpacing any possible pursuers.
***
When dawn came, it did not bring relief as such. Besides reminding Martel of how many hours they had been on the march, the growing sunlight allowed Freydis to quicken her step once more. Feeling so tired that he feared he might begin to simply sleep while walking, Martel gritted his teeth and hurried to catch up.
They came upon a stream and rested briefly. Martel buried his face in the water, drinking until his stomach hurt. The cold and fresh sensation of splashing water on his face helped to wake him up, and he finally recognised their surroundings. This was the same stream that brought water to the outpost. They were back in Asterian-held territory. He looked at Eleanor; seeing her smile at the same realisation, he laughed.
***
Chewing on the last of their rations, they walked into camp. The legionaries saluted and greeted them as usual, apparently not aware of their prolonged absence. A few of them glanced at Freydis, whose shoulder and sleeve were ragged and bloodied, but nobody asked questions. With a curt nod, the Tyrian scout took her silent leave and went to the tent shared by her brethren. As for Martel and Eleanor, they continued with their final, weary steps towards the commander's tent.
"Sir Fontaine, Sir Martel. Both still on your feet, and from the look of it in one piece." Avery gave each of them a scrutinising look. "Did you find success?"
"We did," Eleanor replied. "Every barrel of powder was destroyed."
"Excellent. I shall make note of this in my report. I am intrigued to find out if Khivan activity will diminish in the area as a result." Avery began leafing through a bunch of parchment while Martel and Eleanor simply left.
Every step felt if possible harder than the previous one. He could barely keep his eyes open and nearly stumbled, his hand shooting out to grab Eleanor's elbow for support. Finally, they reached their tent.
"Sleep."
"Sleep."
With this inspired exchange complete, they both lay down to rest.
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