Firebrand

Chapter 615: At the Heel

At the Heel

Martel stood pressed up against the trunk of a tree, trying to keep out of sight. Several paces to the right, Eleanor did the same. Behind him, although he could not see, his magic told him that four Khivans approached. They moved slowly, clearly vigilant or perhaps realising they had all but caught up to the Asterians.

Martel raised his right hand and held up two fingers for Eleanor to see. He closed his hand to a fist and held up two fingers again on his left side.

She nodded to him, held up her hand, and nodded again. A moment later, she leapt out of her hiding spot, and he did the same. While he unleashed a fire ray against the two targets nearest him, she sprinted forward with drawn blade. One of the Khivans was able to discharge his weapon, but the bullet flew wide; the other died as he tried to draw his pistol.

Martel added an extra spell to ensure his targets would not rise again either, and the fight was over. The mages did not dwell on their victory or linger; the noise would have attracted attention, and the woods swarmed with Khivans. Eleanor cleaned the blood from her sword, sheathed it, and they took off.

***

Moving swiftly, they easily caught up to the column of Asterians. Due to the terrain and danger, their march had broken them into a number of small bands, which only worsened the situation. More officers might have helped maintain discipline, but one prefect was dead, another badly wounded, and two strayed behind to fend off Khivans pursuers. Along with the growing sense of despair, the mood was becoming despondent, with each centuria marching to its own pace, and sometimes even they dispersed into smaller groups, the swiftest moving ahead.

“Where’s Sir Avery?” Martel asked, coming upon the stragglers that carried the wounded.

“No idea, sir,” grunted a legionary, trying to move fast while holding a stretcher.

“She should be ahead, sir, trying to keep us on course,” his partner replied, carrying the other end. “But we haven’t seen her since dawn.”

“She must be trying to corral them together,” Eleanor reasoned, speaking quietly.

“Should we help?” Martel asked, walking alongside her.

“We better swing south,” she considered. “If the Khivans are approaching from that direction, they can intercept us going west. We need to push back, buy time.”

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“As you say.” Picking up the pace, they set a course southwest.

***

Martel pulled the dagger from his stomach; his chain shirt had stopped the blade, leaving it caught in his surcoat. By now, several rings in his armour had burst, but it still served him well enough. He looked down on the dagger’s former owner, a scorched body. Martel dropped the blade, reuniting the two.

He glanced around until he saw Eleanor. Her surcoat and armour were in much worse shape than his, fighting in the frontline, unlike him. But she moved without effort, no visible sign of injury. Around her lay several dead Khivans.

“They guessed our course,” she remarked, removing her helmet to wipe the sweat from her brow. “These soldiers were not moving north against us, but west, to be between us and the outpost.”

“So we keep going west and cross the river,” Martel declared. “Secondary plan.”

“That will take us several more days, and the crossing itself will not be easy either,” Eleanor considered.

“Come. We have been standing still for too long,” he cautioned her. They set into motion, going north.

***

As night fell, they located Avery. She had called a halt; darkness made marching in the forest too cumbersome, especially for those carrying the wounded. But no camp would be made as such; campfires would only attract the enemy, and the terrain did not allow even the simplest of defences to be built. Instead, every man, apart from those few chosen to be on watch, was to rest as much as possible. Every ounce of strength mattered on this forced march.

“How is the situation?” asked Avery seeing her fellow prefects.

“As feared, they have guessed our intentions to circumvent them and get back to the outpost. We should expect them to be in our way,” Eleanor swiftly related.

A deep breath left the mageknight of the fifth cohort. “To the river, then. Three days, four? If we keep this pace, the Khivans should not be able to catch up with us.”

“That’s the hope,” Martel mumbled. “They’re moving in small groups, making them fast. It’s allowing Eleanor and me to catch some of them unaware, but they’ll continue to harass us, and we can’t be everywhere.”

“I know. We have lost at least seventeen, and despite my best efforts, I suspect another ten to twenty have deserted. Stars know where they are, maybe ahead of us.” Avery looked at them with tired eyes.

“Their hope is to make us stop to mount a defence,” Eleanor argued. “No matter what, we have to keep going.”

“I am aware,” the other mageknight declared. “That still does not make it easier. If I brought up the rear like you, I could handle one or two of these Khivan packs biting at our heels.”

“We need someone with authority to keep the pace up without the column disintegrating. If we scatter, the Khivans will hunt us down,” Eleanor claimed.

“How is Valerius?” Martel interjected. Now that he had a chance to sit down and rest, he finally had the presence of mind to be worried about his friend.

“Improving. Still too weak to move by his own strength.” Avery seemed apprehensive. “The fact that he still needs to be carried means…”

“He and his helpers move the slowest,” Martel concluded. He looked at Eleanor. “We will keep the wolves from the door.”

She nodded in assent. “We will.”

They all lay down more or less where they sat, seeking what sleep they could get before dawn brought another day of forced marching.

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