Chapter 577: A Living Weapon
A Living Weapon
As Martel woke, he glanced around his tent. Most of his belongings had been packed in his travel chest; they would leave camp before second bell to board a ship bound for Morcaster. The sight of it made him feel eerie, as if he could not quite believe they would be away for three months. With his luck, a Khivan galley would sink their ship halfway there.
But first, he had an errand to run. After getting dressed, he left his tent; Eleanor sat outside, already preparing breakfast. He sent her a quick smile as a quiet greeting.
"Where are you going?" she asked, seeing him walk past her.
"Something quick I need to deal with."
"Hurry! As soon as we have eaten, we should be on our way," she called out. "The captain wants to leave sooner rather than later!"
"I'll hurry," he promised, glancing at her over his shoulder before he continued to the stockade.
***
The camp of the Tenth had a small pen used to house animals brought here for slaughter. At some point, the fences had been replaced by sturdy posts that it might also contain Khivan prisoners, who at times were captured during patrols and skirmishes. And on occasion, legionaries causing trouble were thrown in here as well to cool their heads or await their punishment.
Although occupied, the stockade was not guarded currently; that only happened if Khivans were inside. Martel unbolted the door and pulled it open, revealing a sleeping optio inside the enclosure. He sat with his back against the wall, probably to minimise his exposure to the cold ground.
"Soldier," Martel spoke.
It took a few moments, but the optio finally opened his eyes. With stiff movements, he got on his feet and made a passable salute. "Prefect."
Martel could practically hear the hangover in his voice, but he did not seem otherwise burdened by his conduct last night. Certainly, nothing about his demeanour suggested contrition or remorse. "What is your name, optio?"
"Petrus of Aquila, sir, optio of the third centuria, sixth cohort." He rattled off the string of words with a neutral voice.
"You really hate me, Petrus of Aquila, don't you?"
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The optio refrained from making any reply.
"Name your reasons for your enmity."
"Sir, is that an order?"
"Yes."
Finally, Petrus looked the battlemage in the eyes. "During our passage here, you risked the lives of everyone aboard by deciding to engage a Khivan galley and its cannons. And when the ship was disabled, you extinguished the fire, giving them a chance to fight back and forcing my men to risk their lives to take the ship. While you stayed behind."
"I doubt a merchant vessel could outrun a galley, but go on. Anything else?"
"During the assault on the outpost, while we held the defences being shot at, you hid after making that little wall of fire. I saw you, sir." The title was spoken with an acerbic tone.
"And the night before, I crawled outside the walls to destroy two of the cannons, retreating with plenty of shots being fired at me."
"I heard that, but it rang false in my ears," the optio declared. "Regardless, this is happening because of you. The increased patrols, making ourselves vulnerable with the outpost The legate has a fire-touched battlemage, and he wants to strike a decisive blow against the enemy, no matter how many of us must die. But I've seen what Khivan cannons can do." His voice grew foreboding. "One shot ripped the head off a battlemage, like a child tearing it off a doll. I've seen them spray splinters of metal across a field, felling a dozen men at once. Your presence here will be the death of my centuria, my entire cohort, most likely. Sir."
Martel returned his gaze, refusing to look away. "Petrus of Aquila. You're far from home. Why did you sign up to join the legions?"
"Seven siblings at home. Someone had to leave and make their own way. And if you're going to tell me this is what I signed up for, the Empire wasn't at war back then. I never heard of cannons, let alone seen what they can do to a whole company of men." A hard look filled the optio's eyes. " You won't shame me by arguing duty. Despite it all, I've always done what was asked of me."
"You chose what seemed the best opportunity for you at the time. The difference between you and me, Petrus, is magic, of course. A gift, it's considered." Martel kept his gaze on the optio. "But I didn't choose it. Nor being fire-touched. And the moment the Imperial administration knew, all choices were taken from me. I was trained for the sole purpose to fight. Every day, they send me out to kill. And the Khivans, they know all about me. So every day, another ambush. Another chance to kill me. Because I'm a living cannon, Petrus. I can kill more men than any other kind of mage, any other soldier. I'm a living piece of artillery, I strike with unerring accuracy, and the legion will keep making me kill until I die, probably in a ditch somewhere, having accomplished nothing. Believe me, Petrus of Aquila, I'm not here of my own will or desire." Martel exhaled, having spoken far more than he intended. "I'd leave if I could."
The optio made no reply, his face impossible to scrutinise.
"You can go. Re-join your centuria. But if you ever speak like that again to a prefect in front of the ranks, don't expect your back to remain unwhipped or for you to remain an optio." Having said his piece, Martel left.
***
Eleanor looked up as he approached and held a plate towards him. "Eat up before it gets cold. We should leave as soon as you are done."
"Alright." He accepted the plate, grabbing hold of the spoon on it.
"Did you handle your errand?"
"I did."
In silence, they finished their meal, concluded packing their belongings, carried them all to the small harbour, and boarded a ship that would take them to Morcaster.
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