Firebrand

Chapter 620: A Solitary Sunray

A Solitary Sunray

Esmouth had no prison, but an abandoned house had been repaired sufficiently to serve as one. Martel sat on the top floor with hay strewn to serve as a bed, his chains locked to a ring on the wall. In the room beneath, a guard sat inside the door.

Martel watched a thin strip of light on the floorboards. The only window in the wall had shutters, but they did not close completely, allowing some illumination to pass through. It gave Martel an idea of time passing as he saw it lengthen; other than that line of sunlight, he sat in the dark. Now and then, he heard something scurry about, and he tried to extend his magic to sense its heat; each time it failed, he clenched his fists in anger.

He felt powerless. Helpless. If someone attacked him, he could do nothing to protect himself, nor retaliate. He was a lamb at the mercy of the Imperial administration. This had always been the case to some extent, of course. They had forced him to become a battlemage, to join the Tenth, to fight battle after battle. But at least he had always had his magical powers. Now, they had stripped him of even that.

Perhaps, in a strange way, some good would come of this. He would escape the fighting and go to Morcaster. The tribunal might agree with his actions, and he would not be punished. Or his punishment would be milder than he feared; the legions already owned him for the next nineteen years. They might just keep adding years.

Martel also had time to wonder if his uncontrolled spell during the river crossing had something to do with this. He had not considered this at first, but it might be a reason why they wanted him in chains. A battlemage was dangerous enough when releasing their magic on purpose. Martel had to admit to himself he did not fully understand what he was capable of. Starkad’s warning came back to him of masters and warriors; pulling his cloak around him, Martel tried his best to make himself comfortable on the hay-strewn floor.

***

The light had nearly vanished when commotion reached Martel from below. A lamp had been lit on the ground floor, casting strange shadows up the stairs. Someone had arrived. Their footsteps made the wooden planks creak as they walked up to Martel’s improvised cell.

Staring in the dark, Martel could not distinguish any facial features. If only he had his powers, a simple flame would illuminate the entire space.

It took him a moment to recognise the voice. “Wulfstan?” What was the spy doing here?

“Indeed.” He moved closer, crouching down to allow Martel to glimpse his face, though he remained out of reach. “A shame to see you in this state, Sir Martel.”

“If you can get me the key, that would help.”

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“As it turns out, I do have the key to your freedom. It seems foolish to chain up a battlemage of your talents and ship you to Morcaster when the war is here,” Wulfstan considered.

“You can get me out?”

“Under certain conditions. You are familiar with the Khivan powder, of course, which fuels their weapons. Without it, they would be powerless against our soldiers.”

Martel had felt the raw power when such a barrel of powder exploded. “What about it?”

“My brethren have discovered the location of a great powder mill in Khiva, supplying their entire northern front. If it were to be destroyed, it would be catastrophic for their ability to defend Nahavand. We might, after more than ten years of siege, finally take that accursed city.”

It dawned on Martel what the spy was asking for. “You want me to destroy the mill.”

“Indeed. This would do more to win the war than anything else. You would be a hero, and naturally, any accusations against you would be dismissed.”

“I’d also be dead.” Martel stared at the obscured face in the darkness. “Such a place would be heavily guarded, and I neither look nor speak Khivan. Even if I could destroy it, their entire army would converge on me and hunt me down.”

“It is highly risky, I grant you that. But if it succeeds, you are the hero of the Empire.”

“I think I’d rather take my chances with the tribunal in Morcaster.”

Wulfstan shook his head. “If you go, your fate is sealed. You have made an enemy of Duke Cheval, is that not so? His influence, and the report made by his friend, your legate, will decide the matter. It is guaranteed you will be handed over to the inquisition for execution. A fire-touched battlemage with enemies like yours – you make too many people uncomfortable.”

The spy sounded almost sympathetic as he spoke, which only made Martel suspicious. “You planned this,” he finally realised. “Your interest in me, the mission you sent me on.”

“I could not have foreseen all these events,” Wulfstan argued. “I knew you to be talented, and your recent actions proved that your gift for destruction is unrivalled. I did not coerce you to kill the decurion, for instance, but I do offer you an opportunity to save yourself from ritual strangulation with a golden chain on the temple square in Morcaster.”

Martel leaned his back against the wall. He was not going to reward this duplicitous scoundrel by participating in his schemes. “I’ll take my chances.”

“If you go to Morcaster, you are certain to die. I assure you, the outcome of the trial is already determined. However dangerous, destroying the powder mill is your only chance to survive this.”

“If you want dead Khivans, do it yourself for once. And if the Empire wants me dead, they can dirty their own hands,” Martel sneered.

Wulfstan stared at him for a long moment before he sighed. “I had hoped this would be unnecessary. Sir Fontaine is being transferred to the Seventeenth Legion.”

Martel returned the man’s gaze while trying to determine how far his chains would extend.

“Her father has pushed for this for a long time. And I regret to inform you, but if you won’t undertake this mission, she will be ordered to lead a charge against the walls of Nahavand. Right against their cannons.”

“You rat-faced bastard!” Martel lunged forward, but his reach fell short. With an overbearing expression, Wulfstan leaned backward.

“I won’t dispute that. The situation remains the same. Either you destroy the mill, or she dies. Don’t think you can worm your way out of it either. If you desert the mission, she dies. If you try to warn her, she dies.” The spy stood up, looking down on the chained battlemage. “I’ll give you the night to consider it and reconcile yourself with your situation. I return tomorrow at dawn, which is also when you leave – either for Morcaster or Khiva. The choice is yours whether you’ll drag Sir Fontaine to her death alongside you.”

With swift steps, Wulfstan disappeared. Martel stared at the floorboards; the strip of light had gone.

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