Firebrand

Chapter 616: The Firebrand

Chapter 616: The Firebrand

The Firebrand

For three days, the Khivans hounded the fleeing Asterians. Martel felt himself exhausted by each day’s end; the long marches drained him of strength, the repeated skirmishes required all of his spellpower, and limited sleep did not allow him to regain either in full.

At last, they reached the river Savena. The waters promised salvation, yet spelled death. Beyond it, the Khivans were unlikely to dare follow, but to cross it would cost valuable time, and the enemy drew ever closer.

Arriving as the last, Martel and Eleanor found the legionaries busy building rafts under Avery’s instructions. As soon as the first was complete, it was filled with all the wounded it could carry and two legionaries to guide it across to safety. Even as they did this, the axes of the fifth and sixth cohort continued to swing, felling more trees to build the next raft.

The two prefects sought out their third counterpart. “We engaged them less than a mile from here,” Eleanor swiftly told Avery, slightly out of breath. “They pulled back. We saw only a few, so no telling how many are actually close.”

Martel looked around. The area sloped downward, and he understood why Avery had chosen this place for the crossing. They could easily walk from land into the river, launching the rafts. It also meant that defensively speaking, they were in a half cauldron, and if the Khivans took the ridge, they had the perfect position to shoot at anybody trying to cross, including those already in the water.

“We need to hold the ridge.” Martel looked at the slope that surrounded them before gazing at Eleanor.

“You’re right,” she agreed, reaching the same conclusion as him. “We will make a good prefect out of you yet.”

“I will choose the best from my cohort,” Avery told them. “I know it would set the best example if I stood up there with you, but…”

“You need to be here to maintain order.” Eleanor nodded. “If a single legionary begins to think about saving his own skin rather than following the plan, it will quickly fall apart.”

Martel looked out onto the water, where the first raft was still making its crossing. “Is Valerius on that?”

“He is.”

Martel nodded to himself before he looked at Eleanor and renewed the grip around his staff. “Send up your men to us,” he told Avery. “And take your time,” he added with an attempt of bravado. “We will get you as much as you need.”

***

Shots pierced the air. Martel felt wood splinter as a bullet struck the tree protecting him. “Charge!” Eleanor shouted. A hundred legionaries ran down the ridge toward the Khivans. Steeling his nerves, Martel stepped out to follow them, albeit staying a few steps behind. As the soldiers clashed in close combat, he raised his wall of flames to separate the enemy soldiers, allowing the legionaries to defeat them in pockets.

After this, he turned his attention on the sharpshooters in the back, releasing fire bolts to kill or drive them away. “Pull back!” Eleanor shouted, and the legionaries disengaged before running back up the hill.

***

“Charge!” Sixty-five legionaries sprinted forward, led by a mageknight. A dozen fell to bullets moments after showing themselves to the enemy. The remainder closed the gap and struck. Martel used his wall where it seemed most opportune and added fire bolts after that, conserving his spellpower.

The bodies lay in layers by now, Asterian and Khivan, like a mockery of the defences built around a camp. Earthworks, but made of flesh, dripping blood onto the soil to water the trees. Martel found himself spending as much attention watching his step as searching out the enemy. A bullet grazed his cheek, tearing part of his helmet off. The pain made him grit his teeth, and he returned the favour with a fire bolt that hit the Khivan musketman straight in his chest.

“Retreat!”

***

The wind blew against Martel’s face, and he cursed it. If any other direction, he could have set the forest on fire, but this way, the wind would carry the flames right back to them. He looked over his shoulder; five rafts were in the water, ferrying back and forth. “Charge!” Forty legionaries ran forward on tired legs. Half of them fell before they reached the enemy.

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Martel saw the line fall apart, already vulnerable from so many musketmen firing at them. The Khivan infantry soldiers broke through. Now they isolated the legionaries in pockets to slaughter them all.

Power coursed through the battlemage. A bolt of lightning struck, felling a whole band of swordsmen. It brought relief, for now; Martel knew another wave would come.

“Retreat!”

***

“Charge!” Fifty soldiers obeyed the command; Sir Avery had sent them her last reinforcements. The hail of bullets showed little mercy, and the legionaries fell among their dead brethren. Nothing but chaotic melee remained, and Martel fought his way toward Eleanor.

“The musketmen!” he roared at her. “Protect me! Get me to them!”

She sent him a look; circumstances did not allow for follow-up questions or lengthy discussions. She simply nodded in a show of faith and sprinted forward, away from the river, with her magical shield activating.

Martel followed right behind, practically sensing all the muskets being aimed at them. He did not activate his own shield; it would only stop the first bullet, and he had more dire need for his spellpower. His chain armour would have to do.

They reached the back line, where a row of musketmen knelt down, firing as swiftly as they could reload. Martel wasted no time in releasing his lightning, and it bounded from one soldier to the next. Some of them had the strength to survive this gruesome spell, but Eleanor’s blade corrected this.

A bullet struck Martel on the shoulder, tearing skin and flesh apart. He retaliated almost blindly with his own spell, flinging a fire bolt back, and raised his wall of flames to hide himself from that direction.

“Retreat!”

***

As the next wave of attack came, Eleanor gave no order to charge. Too few soldiers remained to follow the command. At last, the Khivans reached the top of the ridge. The Asterians pulled back, just enough that the sharpshooters on the other side of the hill no longer had them in their sights. Martel knew this was a short-lived reprieve; once the musketmen took position at the top, they could aim as they pleased. The Asterians would have to counterattack and immediately drive them back when that happened.

Looking over his shoulder, Martel realised all his speculations were irrelevant. The only legionaries still alive were climbing aboard a raft and sailing away. For all their magic, he and Eleanor could not hold the line on their own. He wanted to shout to her that she should run, throw herself into the river and swim if need be, but he knew she would never abandon him. As he released a fire bolt into a Khivan pikeman, he considered his sole relief: if she died first, it would only be moments before he joined her.

A mageknight appeared by his side, still bursting with magic and spellpower. Avery cut down every Khivan near him before leaping up the hill. “The last raft is coming for you! Get to the water!”

“Eleanor!” he shouted, retreating while still flinging spells. “To the water!”

For a terrible moment, he could not find her, until she emerged as if conjured by his words, her blade dripping with blood. Together, they fought while moving backward step by step, approaching the river. Martel risked a single glance over his shoulder; the raft was still far out, but it was coming.

“Avery!” he roared. Her defence of the ridge was all that kept them alive, but she needed to pull back soon.

Looking at her, Martel saw it happen, yet did not understand at first. A musket ball struck against the temple of her head. Her magic should have denied it, but it pierced all her protections and caved in her skull. A golden bullet.

Grief threatened to overwhelm Martel, but this was not the time. He and Eleanor could still escape. He summoned a wall in a semi-circle around them, covering them as best he could while leaving their route to the water free. At the edges of his flaming obstacle, more Khivans appeared. Eleanor went to one side, Martel to the other. He used his staff as a weapon, striking wildly to drive them back before following up with a fire bolt. He glanced at the water, at the oncoming raft. Almost.

Another shot. Not aimed at Martel; his magical sense would have felt the bullet if it came close to him. And he heard the most terrifying sound. The half-choked scream of a woman.

He looked over to see Eleanor fall to the ground. Even in the haze of the battle, he saw the spray of blood from her neck. A mortal wound.

It took him a moment to understand; when he did, all thought left Martel’s mind. He felt nothing but fury, and it called upon the fire that filled his soul. The world would burn for this.

His wall of flames disappeared from the battlefield; instead, fire wreathed itself to engulf his body, and his eyes glowed red. Wrath and torment became fused together inside him. As he released the scream of a wounded animal, the flames surrounding him exploded to immolate every man still standing in the clearing. Their agonised howls replaced his, but only for a moment as they died.

With his fire and fury extinguished, a host of emotions returned to Martel. Grief, regret, and guilt among others. He all but crawled over to Eleanor’s body. Her hand still clutched the wound on her neck, and as Martel bent over her, he thought she tried to speak, but only blood issued from her mouth.

His healing elixir! Martel tore the pocket on his belt open. His fingers trembled from emotion and utter weariness as he grabbed the small flask and removed the stopper. His own tears almost blinded him, but he managed to place the flacon against her lips and pour the precious drops.

Tremors seized her. Martel tried to hold her, tried to reach out, but his hands no longer obeyed him. The haze before his eyes grew black. With a surprised look on his face, he fell into exhaustion, and his mind embraced the dark.