Firebrand

Chapter 646: Plundered Victory

Plundered Victory

Two days passed before the Thirteenth and the Seventeen Legions of the Asterian Empire reached the small town of Esmouth. They made camp five miles north; as they enjoyed their long-awaited rest, a messenger arrived from the captain prefect of the Tenth Legion, bearing a challenge. After conferring with his prefects, including the battlemages and their protectors, Legate Fulvius accepted.

As morning dawned, legionaries on both sides marched out onto the open plain outside the town. Where the soldiers of the Tenth had watched their new captain and legate sworn in a month earlier, they now faced an enemy with twice their numbers.

A legion prefect accompanied by standard bearer from each side rode out to meet each other in the empty tract of land that soon promised to be watered with blood. They confirmed the rules of the challenge: a duel between the battlemages and the protectors from each army, to the death. If the mutineers won, the northern legions would withdraw. If they won, the Tenth Legion would surrender. This agreed, the prefects withdrew, both knowing that their commanders did not intend to honour the outcome.

On foot, three battlemages and three mageknights approached each other. The latter moved close enough to stand just ten feet apart, swords drawn; the former kept their distance, staying behind their protectors, though the northern battlemages spread out a little.

"I will enjoy killing you rebel bastards," one of the mageknights muttered. Behind him, the battlemages smirked.

Eleanor took her fighting stance, raising her shield. "Ready when you are."

They required no further encouragement; there was no official present to oversee the duel or give a signal to begin. Both of the mageknight rushed forward to attack. Meanwhile, one battlemage released a ray of fire against Martel, and the other raised a wall of flames in front of him.

The ray hurt, but Martel could shrug it off. Likewise, he walked through the wall without concern, although he felt it singe the hairs on his head. He saw Eleanor struggling against her two opponents; besides being outnumbered, her movements were slower, and she did nothing but defend herself.

"Ready!" Martel shouted to her, and she pulled back and stepped away, giving Martel a direct line of attack. The ruby on his staff glowed as he channelled his spellpower. A bolt of lightning leapt forward to strike the first hostile mageknight before jumping to the second, where it stopped rather than continue to Eleanor. Both of the warriors seized up and fell to the ground. Still alive, but briefly incapacitated.

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Rather than take advantage of this, Eleanor leapt past them and ran towards the battlemages. Martel followed up with a ray of fire that hit one mageknight and then the other, his magic ignoring their protective spells, which only worked against steel and physical harm.

Both of the hostile battlemages turned their full attention on Eleanor. A bombardment of magic struck her, as they summoned the very fires of the Nether to strike her down. None of it had any effect. One of them conjured a wall of flames in front of himself; Eleanor leapt through it, unhurt, and stabbed him through his magical shield wielding Martel's gold-edged dagger. He still looked surprised as he fell to the ground, dead.

The other turned and ran. Martel sent a burst of magic through the ground to raise a small mound of earth, tripping him. Before he could get back on his feet, Eleanor had caught up to him, driving her weapon down into the gap of his armour.

Martel did not have his Khivan clock anymore, but he would have wagered it lasted less than a minute. Behind him, the Tenth roared as one, "Firebrand! Firebrand!"

As Eleanor re-joined him, he looked towards the Thirteenth and the Seventeenth Legions. "Valerius is in place?" he asked quietly.

"As soon as the battle begins, he will attack their rear." She began removing all the golden jewellery that had protected her in the fight, but also prevented her from using her own magic. "When you plundered those dead inquisitors, I did not expect we would ever use it for this."

Martel looked at the bodies of the slain mages. "Evidently, they did not expect it either."

***

Sitting on his horse in front of his soldiers, with the legion prefects of the Thirteenth and the Seventeenth on either side of him, Legate Fulvius steamed with anger. "Falsehood! Deception! They must be in league with the fiends below!"

"Sir, we should reconsider this battle." Next to him, his legion prefect spoke up. "Our men are demoralised witnessing this, and if their battlemage can so easily dispatch our wizards, what will he do to our ordinary soldiers?"

"Have you lost your mind?" the legate roared at his subordinate. "We have twice the men they do! They have no cavalry! We are on a flat and open field, allowing us to use our every advantage!"

Another rider came towards them, galloping down the ranks. "Sir! Warning from the left flank!" The messenger shouted. "The enemy has crossed the river north of us! They will fall on our rear!"

"Sir, we cannot give battle under these circumstances!" pleaded his second-in-command. "We must retreat!"

"Quiet, you traitorous cur! Bannerman, signal the attack! Every cohort placed in the first line, now!"

As the legion prefect tried to reason with his legate once more, his counterpart of the Thirteenth sat silently. Sir Godwin of Chesham stared across the field at the battlemage of the Tenth whom he had met briefly, now standing serenely while surrounded by corpses of dead wizards. Without a word, he drew his dagger and stabbed Legate Fulvius in the neck. It happened quickly; distracted, the mageknight did not have time to react or use any of his magic to protect himself. The blade went in deep, and a fountain of blood followed as it was pulled out.

The other legion prefect watched as Fulvius fell from his horse, as dead as his mages lying out on the field. "Bannerman, new orders," he spoke calmly. "Everybody is to stand down." He glanced between his own men and the legion arrayed on the other side of the field. "We are changing sides."

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