Out of Joint

Nobody tried to murder Martel at night, whether Asterians or Khivans. He and the optio travelled mostly in silence until they reached the small outpost. Seeing it again felt eerie; Martel had never expected he would, and he remembered defending it against the enemy assault. Sneaking out at night to destroy their cannons, how those weapons broke the wall and the gate. Now they would willingly withdraw, leaving it in the hands of that same yet former enemy.

"Martel!" The voice belonged to Lucius, the old prefect. He grinned and slapped the battlemage on the shoulder as the latter dismounted. "Strange fate that brings you back to us. I'll rightly admit, it doesn't sit right with me to just abandon this place. But that's what peace is, I reckon. Accepting the situation and making do with what you got."

"Yes, I suppose. Listen, is Sir Fontaine in the main camp? Have you seen her?"

"No, I've been here all the time. Sir Lara sent me a message, explaining everything. Why?" Lucius looked at him questioningly.

"Nothing. I was just wondering." Martel would not rest until he saw her with his own eyes, but having confirmation from someone else would ease his mind a little.

"We're about ready to move out. We only really waited for you to make the journey back to Esmouth together," Lucius explained.

Martel looked at the men assembled to march on foot, along with carts. "Can you spare me a fresh horse? I'd like to travel by my own."

The prefect gave a sly smile. "We'll find one for you."

"Sir, do you wish for me to accompany you on the last stretch?" Petrus asked.

"No, that's fine. You can go with these men," Martel told the optio. "Uh, thanks for your service, going to the Khivan camp and all."

The soldier saluted. "Pleasure to serve, sir."

***

Martel rode until the very last inkling of light had vanished. He did not bother making a fire or creating a heating stone or anything to make himself comfortable at night. He slept at the side of the road, only spending time to make his runes of warning and unsaddle his horse. Next morning, he left as soon as he woke up, and he ate his meals in the saddle, chewing on dried meat and cheese.

The last days of travel, going between the outpost and Esmouth, felt torturous. Martel had no reason to assume Eleanor was hurt, but ever since the assault on him in the Khivan camp, the thought of her death had haunted him. His mind kept repeating the image of when they fought at the river crossing, and the bullet struck her neck. Her blood pouring out between her fingers. Her eyes losing any spark of life. Whenever he dwelt on the memory for too long, Martel felt his hands begin to heat up, and he had to slow his breathing to calm himself.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

At last, he saw Esmouth. Riding alongside the river, it was odd to see the bridge where Eleanor had rescued him. As he recalled, he had set it on fire, but they had made repairs, as could be expected.

Reaching the stretch of land between the river and the camp walls, Martel was finally spotted. Legionaries worked stacking crates of supplies, but they halted their labours and stared at him. "The Firebrand!" one of them finally shouted. With an awkward gesture, Martel waved at them and spurred his horse onwards.

He rode through the gate, and from all sides, they swarmed at him. "Firebrand! He's here!" Countless other shouts could be heard, all variations of the same. If not on horseback, Martel would scarcely have been unable to move forward unless willing to commit violence on the crowd. He ignored the soldiers, as he had only one thing on his mind, and he did not know what they wanted from him anyway; they called out to him, as if his attention would somehow be a blessing upon them.

Someone grabbed the reins of his horse, perhaps mistakenly thinking they would do him a favour by holding the beast still. Frustrated, Martel dismounted and began pushing forward through the throng. It had little effect, and he wondered if he would have to use magic just to get the soldiers to back away.

"Stand aside!" a voice yelled, cutting through the clamour. Lara's, he recognised. "Let the prefect through! You are not children, Stars above!"

Realising he should have considered using words before magic, Martel was glad the legion prefect had done it for him. The legionaries obeyed, with some difficulty; they stood so tightly, nobody could move with ease.

Tired, frustrated, his ears ringing from everyone shouting so close, Martel felt ready to actually commit violence if it would get him anywhere. So few steps remained – assuming Eleanor was in camp. Maybe she was in town. He should have asked the legionaries outside the walls. He cursed himself silently.

"Move aside!" Again a woman's voice, but not the legion prefect. The soldiers parted, like waters before the keel of a ship. He saw her. Alive, unhurt except for a bandage on her hand. She looked stern, restrained in her demeanour, but her eyes met his, conveying relief.

While riding into camp, Martel's heart had increased its pace more and more, caused by impatience, feeling aggrieved, and the unease about her fate that had haunted him for days and days; as he saw Eleanor, he became calm. His fears melted away, and nothing troubled him anymore. For so long, the world had been out of joint; at last it was set right once more.

It brought Martel to a realisation he had at times suspected, yet always ignored, assuming it to be a stray thought unworthy of serious consideration: he loved Eleanor Fontaine. Yet as he understood this, he also knew that they stood on the brink of rebellion against the Asterian Empire, and he could not indulge in such distractions that might disrupt how they worked together.

They approached each other. With everyone looking, Martel restrained his feelings to a simple smile. "Well done. You convinced a whole legion to follow you."

"You did most of the work ahead of me," she replied, mirroring his expression. She reached out her uninjured hand to squeeze his. "It is good to have you back."

"Yes." He wished he could hold on to her hand, but he knew he had to let go. "I'm glad to be back." Reluctantly, he did so.