Firebrand - Chapter 612: A Hundred Stings

A Hundred Stings

This time, an attack seemed guaranteed, and although it felt agonisingly slow to do so, Martel and Eleanor took the time to don their armour. Only once ready for battle did they run westward, in the direction of the sound. They had to sometimes push through the legionaries who also scrambled in every direction, some running toward the walls like the mages, others seeking the banner of their centuria.

Reaching the ramparts, they looked down toward the Khivan positions. Smoke rose from the emplacement with a cannon mounted upon it. Looking around further, Martel understood what had happened. The gun had fired, but as the camp lay on a hill, the angle had been insufficient. Rather than hit their gate or defences, the ball had embedded itself into the earthworks underneath the palisades. A temporary reprieve, lasting only until they adjusted the angle of their next shot.

Martel turns to Eleanor. “We can’t wait.”

“Nor can we do this on our own.” She looked into the interior of the camp. “Sir Valerius!” she shouted at the mageknight who came rushing toward them. “We need you and your bravest men!”

***

Another shot sent tremors through the air, and this time, it struck the western gate. The timber held, but it groaned under the strain, and the crossbeam keeping it closed threatened to break apart. It would not hold much longer, and already, the Khivans began loading their next shot.

Before they could fire, the gate opened on its own. From within, a band of twenty legionnaires issued, marching at a swift pace with their shields close together. The sight of them caused hectic activity in the Khivan positions as they prepared for an assault. Meanwhile, the cannoneers ignited their weapon again.

The Asterians had only the blink of an eye to react, which they did. Seeing the cannon being fired, the front row parted to reveal the battlemage of the Tenth Legion. As the cannonball flew through the air toward deposition, threatening to tear through the ranks, Martel extended both his hand and his magic. Ten feet from him, it fell to the ground and began rolling down the hill whence it came.

The Asterians closed ranks again and continued their march forward. “How far?” Eleanor shouted, walking in the front next to Valerius.

Right behind them, Martel tried to reach out, but the cannon remained beyond his magic. Too much confusion and noise in the form of other sources of heat. “Keep going!”

Numerous shots could be heard, though not nearly as fearsome as the roar of the cannon; along the barricades hastily assembled by the Khivans to defend their position, scores of musketmen lined up. Their bullets struck physical shields and the defensive spells of the mageknights in front.

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Knowing that his range was about the same as the weapons being used against them, Martel trusted that this was far enough. “Split!”

As before, the mageknights in front of him stepped aside to allow him in the front row. Without them getting in his way, he reached out toward the cannon with its heated barrel. Just as he did, he saw it being ignited, and he felt the power of the explosion within. He readied himself to stop the projectile being flung against them, same as he had done before.

However, as the munition flew from the cannon, it seemed to disintegrate into a hundred pieces that scattered into a wide arc. Unlike a single heavy object, Martel could not simply grab them with his magic and push back. Acting on instinct, he used his elemental counterspell to act as a shield and prevent the projectiles from hitting him. It worked, but it only protected him. On either side and even behind him, he heard the outbursts of pain from those struck. And constantly, the musketmen fired their weapons at the small band of Asterians. Behind them stood rows of pikemen, ready to engage in close combat.

Focusing on his task, Martel connected his magic to the barrel of the cannon. Glowing hot, he had no difficulty causing it to tear asunder. Knowing the Khivans had more cannons, he followed up with a bolt of lightning from his staff to strike the wooden emplacement and set it on fire. With alarmed shouts, the cannoneers scattered.

“Retreat!” Martel shouted, their task done. Several of the Asterians had fallen, but those on their feet began to pull back. Finally paying attention to his immediate surroundings, Martel saw Eleanor bend down to grab Valerius by the shoulder and drag him backward. Some of the musketmen had drawn their pistols, firing its munition. Summoning a wall of fire as widely as he could, Martel sought to give them some cover for their withdrawal. He conjured his own magical shield and bent down to help Eleanor with his free hand. Around them, the legionaries fell one by one.

An explosion occurred to rip their ears apart. Beyond the flames of his wall, Martel saw black smoke rise. The fire he had ignited in the emplacement must have reached their barrels of powder. Khivans screamed in agony, and the rain of bullets lessened. Martel released fire bolts as swiftly as he could, simply aiming in the direction of the shots coming at them. All the while, every step backward felt like an eternity to make, hauling Valerius with one hand while controlling his staff and spells with the other.

The firing stopped. Either they had retreated out of range, or the Khivans were too busy dealing with the damage inflicted on them. Regardless, Martel breathed a sigh of relief. He was unhurt, and looking at Eleanor, so was she.

Valerius was another matter; the mageknight was pale, and his clothing looked bloody. Of the twenty legionaries who had accompanied them, only seven remained, all of them with injuries. As soon as they were inside the gate, most of them fell to the ground as others rushed forward to help them.

“Medicus!” Eleanor shouted, throwing her shield away to grab Valerius with both hands and drag him in further. Others, including Avery, hurried to her to administer help and staunch the bleeding.

Grabbing his staff with both hands for support, Martel breathed heavily. Although the exertion was at an end, his heart still beat at double speed, his ears rang, and the smell of smoke and blood filled his nostrils. He felt dizzy, as if a haze covered his surroundings, and his mouth was dry like a pit of sand.

“Firebrand,” someone spoke. Martel heard the word, but he did not understand it nor realise it was directed at him. Another repeated it, and Martel squinted his eyes at them. It came a third time. Not loudly, not a shout, but an insistent acknowledgement, spoken plainly.

“Firebrand.” One by one, the legionaries around Martel saluted him, repeating his name in recognition of his deed. Unsure how to respond, the battlemage simply bowed his head.