Warning Signs

Sleeping alone in the small, former armoury was weird. The walls blocked sound quite well, so he did not have the familiarity of an army camp and its noise helping him fall asleep in lieu of another person's breathing or the pendulum swing of a clock.

The days were easier. Azar no longer restricted him to his room, but had granted him free leave to roam the camp, as long as he did not leave it unaccompanied. Whether he no longer feared Martel to be a spy, or figured for one reason or another it did not matter what the battlemage learned, Martel did not know. He was just glad he did not have to spend all day alone in a dark room with only a fading lightstone as his companion.

Not that the Khivans offered much company. Whenever they noticed him, they would cease whatever activity occupied them and stare at him until he walked on. Martel did not blame them; they knew who and what he was. Probably few of them spoke any Asterian at all, so conversation would be unlikely in any case.

He did walk past the cannons, arrayed in one corner of the camp. It was strange to stand so close to these fearsome weapons of war and not feel fear. Some of the gunners did look like they wanted to fire a projectile or two at Martel, but they restrained themselves.

He did not see where they stored their powder for either cannons or muskets. From what he had learned, it had to be dry to ignite, which made sense. In addition, given the danger if it became exposed to flames, Martel figured that storage of this material was more important than anything else.

But either they hid it from him, or he simply did not know how to look for it; he figured they kept it in barrels, but maybe that was only in small amounts when on the march. Not that Martel intended anything either; it just seemed like a useful thing to know, given his own propensity for conflagrations.

He spent a long while each day on the ramparts, in particular those that lay towards the west. He knew it would take at least a fiveday for Eleanor to reach Esmouth, and probably closer to seven or eight days; the Khivans had been coy with admitting how close their camp lay to Asterian positions. After that, she would have to make the return journey as well.

But looking west at the landscape allowed him to imagine that he saw a mageknight returning, maybe on horseback, liberating him from the constant fear that gnawed at his every thought, always in the back of his head.

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One of the commander's adjutants, the one who spoke Asterian – his name was Nariman, Martel had learned – joined him for the morning and evening meal in his little house. On those occasions, the door remained open to provide illumination, and Martel kept his lightstone hidden, just in case it would offend his guest. They spoke only of pleasantries, and Martel figured that he had been ordered to keep the mage company, as a courtesy or maybe to keep him occupied and placid during the long wait. In either case, he did not mind the company, and Nariman seemed happy to practise his Asterian with a native speaker.

Of the commander himself, Martel saw nothing. The battlemage was not summoned, nor did he have cause to seek Azar out. Martel still felt angry he had been forced to stay behind, so he preferred to keep his distance to the man. Instead, Martel spent most of his time waiting and waiting while feeling restless and uneasy. In this way, four days passed.

***

Martel lay in bed, sleeping for once, when a strange sensation woke him. It felt like cold water running down his back. It took him a moment to realise. Something had activated his sign of warning; something had come close to the rune on his door. As Martel opened his eyes, he saw several hands, each of them pointing a pistol at him.

He blasted wind in their direction to distract them while rolling onto the ground, entangled in his blanket. Several shots rang out, and Martel felt a burning pain. That would have to wait. His mind was clear and focused as he decided his response, taking no chances. Raising one hand, lightning crackled before jumping from his fingertips to the nearest Khivan. It tore into him and did the same to every man around him. Four soldiers fell to the ground, twitching in agony, two of them already dead.

Martel got out of the blanket and rose to his feet. Sharp pain in his left leg told him where he had been shot. He leant down to press his hand against his thigh and felt the wetness of his own blood. The bullet had not become embedded in him, but nor was this a simple grazing wound. The pistols had fired gold, Martel noticed; he had felt no streak of heat as they were fired. It had been the attempt of amateurs, but they had come here to kill a mage.

The worst part was not feeling betrayed, but wondering what they had done to Eleanor. While he could not see the effect himself, the thought made Martel's eyes glow red.

No time to feel sorry for himself or worry about the pain. Anger was already drowning out such emotions. He needed to react quickly to this attempted assassination, this betrayal. Especially if he was losing blood. Martel looked at the fallen soldiers and gave each of the two survivors a fire bolt to finish the task. He found a rag among his belongings and pressed it against his wound to slow the bleeding. Wearing only his shirt and underpants, he summoned his shield and stepped forward with a limp to leave his little shelter. He was hurt, but he could still do magic. He could make the enemy regret this. He could take revenge.