Drop by Drop

Despite his temper flaring, Martel did not allow it to make his decisions. He could not fight the entire Third Army on his own. Rather than release spells in every direction, which would be obvious, he reached out to let his magic connects with objects around him and ignite them. To an observer, it appeared as if tents everywhere ignited spontaneously. Confusion and fear spread faster than the flames, and the soldiers had their hands full trying to contain it. Running around, their eyes fixed on the flickering flames, they did not pay attention to the wounded Asterian, limping through the dark.

Martel would gladly kill them all, but restraint was needed for the time being; he had questions that needed answers first. While loud shouting in the Khivan tongue could be heard across camp, Martel walked calmly towards the commander's tent, slightly hunched over as he pressed bloody cloth against his leg.

A guard stood outside, distracted by everything going on, but he did react seeing Martel walked straight towards him. He lowered his musket, but before he could fire, Martel released a fire bolt. He aimed it straight at where he had noticed the Khivan soldiers kept their powder pouch on their belts, setting it ablaze. It exploded, burning a hole into the man's waist; he dropped his weapon and fell screaming to the ground, clutching his wound.

Martel moved around him with difficulty to enter the tent. On the far side, he saw Azar standing, also dressed for sleep but with a pistol in his hand, which he aimed at Martel. "This is a golden bullet," he warned. "Surrender, sir."

Martel summoned the wind at such strength, it nearly tore the tent down, blowing the Khivan on his back. As he recovered, Martel leapt forward with empowered speed and tore the pistol away. He aimed the loathsome weapon at its former owner. "Where is Eleanor? Where did your men take her?"

"Sir," Azar spoke with remarkable cool given the force of destruction threatening him, "You know that as well as I. She travels to the Tenth –"

"Don't lie! If you tried to kill me, you'll have done the same to her. But I hope for your sake you saw the wisdom in taking her captive instead, because if she is dead," Martel spoke, his voice turning to a hiss, "I will burn all of Khiva to the ground." His eyes turned red, and sparks of fire appeared on his skin and clothes.

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Azar did not flinch, and his voice was steady. "Sir, I swear by the Living Flame, I have given no orders to kill or hurt you or your companion."

Martel expected the man would say anything to save his life. He pronounced each word carefully. "Last chance to tell me. Where is she?"

"If I ordered someone to kill you, do you think I would have been asleep in my bed while it happened? If I wanted you dead, I would have fired my pistol the moment I saw you. Sir Martel, whatever has happened, it was not my doing."

Martel looked at the man dressed in sleepwear. Part of him wanted to hold onto the anger, to simply give in. To let the fire take over and consume everything. But it did seem ridiculous that the Khivan would order Martel's death and simply go to sleep. "Four men entered my cell tonight. They all had pistols with golden bullets. I killed them, which should be a warning that I am not to be underestimated or trifled with."

"Your anger is understandable, as is that you would blame me. But I would not have sent four men to kill the most feared battlemage in the Asterian legions, and I would certainly have armed them better, not to mention provided them at least a token of golden protection against your spells." Azar looked Martel straight in the eyes, bending his neck to do so. "I swear by all I hold sacred, I have given no orders to hurt you or your companion. My intentions for you to secure an armistice are sincere."

Martel returned his stare. It was to be expected that a soldier would be calm when staring death in the face. Still, a voice told Martel that Azar spoke the truth, simply because if this had been the plan all along, there was no reason to wait so many days before enacting it. He could have moved against Martel the first night after Eleanor left, or simply poisoned his food. The attack tonight had been improvised, both poorly planned and poorly executed; it did not suit the meticulous nature that the commander had so far shown himself to possess.

Exhaling deeply, Martel grabbed the barrel of the pistol with his other hand, and using empowered strength, he tore it from the haft and let both pieces fall to the ground. "You may not want me dead, but your soldiers do. I didn't imagine the bullet that tore my leg open."

"If you will permit me, I will investigate at once. You should sit – you are losing blood, and you should not put weight on your leg. I will call for the camp physician," the commander promised.

The inklings of fire surrounding Martel's body vanished, and the red glow from his eyes did as well. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. Between his wound and all the spellpower he had expended, he found it harder to focus. His anger had kept him on his feet, but it was dissipating, and the needs of his body clamoured in his mind. "Very well." He stumbled over to sit down in a chair while Azar hurried out of the tent.

Left alone, Martel reached out to grab a tablecloth nearby. He replaced his soaked rag with the fresh fabric, feeling a sting as the injury became disturbed. His vision darkened, but he refused to submit to exhaustion, clawing himself back to a conscious state. Drop by drop, the blood ran down his leg, colouring the carpet red.