The Meaning of the Name

With only Martel's magelight casting a soft ring of illumination around them, the two mages moved deeper underground. The tunnels sloped slightly downwards, and Martel wondered if this had in ancient time been intended as an entrance, buried and forgotten by succeeding centuries. It would explain why, when he held out his hand to support himself, he found only rock rather than alcoves filled with the dead; they had yet to enter the actual burial grounds.

Neither of them spoke as they made their way forward. With the path being singular, predictable, and straightforward, there was nothing to discuss; the sombre nature of the place, the enveloping darkness, and its foreboding purpose gave an oppressive atmosphere, which did not invite conversation either. Lastly, their previous discussion still hung in the air between them.

Martel already felt remorse over his words, spoken in haste and anger; he had regretted them as soon as the argument ended. But it did not make him change his mind. However much he cared for Maximilian, he could never accept the suggestion that Eleanor should play wagers with death because Maximilian was too stubborn to surrender despite playing a losing hand. Aware that Maximilian neither knew how to quit while ahead nor how to cut his losses, Martel did not expect his friend would see reason.

Martel tried to push the argument aside. They were in a place surrounded by danger; while he did not fear the undead, letting himself remained distracted was foolish. Although he felt confident that he and Eleanor could fend off anything they might encounter down here, getting wounded due to a careless moment might slow them down considerably or prevent them from seizing the gatehouse; either would ruin their plan.

Yet every time he resolved to pay full attention to his surroundings, it lasted only a brief while before he felt uncomfortable that Eleanor was mad at him, and he revisited the entire debate in his head once again.

"Up ahead. The path forks, or we are entering a larger chamber." Eleanor spoke with the voice she used to state simple matters of fact, and Martel decided to follow her example. Focus on the mission, cast emotions aside, and get the task done.

He dug out a piece of chalk to mark their progress. Should they fail to get through the tunnels in time, they would have to find their way back or else be trapped inside the city. This would also help them to avoid getting lost in the labyrinth that sprawled four miles ahead of them.

"Strange. Can you provide more light?" Eleanor asked as she stopped, right on the threshold where the narrow passage widened.

Martel finished making a mark on the wall and stepped up next to her, increasing the intensity of his magelight. He understood what had piqued Eleanor's curiosity; his action did not seem to have any effect. The surrounding darkness swallowed his light, giving no indication of what lay ahead.

"How odd. We have been walking downwards for a while, so I suppose there is room above us now. Still, this must be a chamber of unrivalled size that we cannot see how far or how high it stretches." She took a few steps forward, and he followed, increasing his light further. Still, it did not reach any walls ahead of them or even to the sides. "It makes you wonder who is buried here, and what importance they held?"

Something felt wrong. A deep sense of unease pervaded Martel, which was understandable, given their surroundings, yet it was not how he had expected it. The catacombs felt like death, or rather, the dead, for obvious reasons. The air was dusty with an aftertaste of mould and rot when you breathed through your mouth. When using his magical senses, he expected to feel the sickening sensation of necromantic energies if anything.

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None of that came to Martel, and that made him ill at ease. Furthermore, the catacombs were built, man-made. When he reached out his hand against the wall, he should feel stonework. But he touched only natural rock. Dread overtook him as he understood why. No matter how bright his light, he would never be able to illuminate the space that opened up before them. "We are not in the catacombs," he whispered. "We're in the Undercroft."

***

For a dark moment, Martel considered turning back. But giving up without meeting any kind of resistance, simply out of fear, felt too shameful. Hundreds if not thousands of his soldiers would die if they had to take the city by storm rather than subterfuge. He owed it to them to push forward.

Next to him, Eleanor regarded him with curiosity, and he wondered if any of his emotions showed on his face. "What is this place, the Undercroft? I do not recall hearing of it."

Martel swallowed. "It is a vast cavern that lies underneath the western parts of Morcaster. A city below the city, carved into the very stone but abandoned many centuries ago. It is a completely desolate place, yet at every turn, you feel the ghosts of those long departed watching you."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"I've been here before."

She looked at him again, this time in disbelief. "You have been to this place before?"

He nodded, not noticing her expression. "Twice, though the second time was brief."

"Twice!" she exclaimed.

He finally looked at her. "It was not my choice. Well, the first time I didn't know what I agreed to, and the second… I felt I had to."

She placed her hands on her hips, facing him. "We have been the closest of friends for years now, and you never mentioned this extraordinary marvel right beneath our feet, every time we walked the streets of Morcaster?"

"Well, how many people have you told about our fight with a maleficar in the catacombs?"

"That is different, and you know that. The fact that we went through that experience together should make it clear that you could tell me about this as well!"

"I couldn't! What happened – I couldn't tell anyone." Suddenly, memories welled up inside of him. Walking alongside Kerra and being ambushed by mercenaries. Realising that skilled killers sought to murder him. Defending himself desperately with his magic, still feeble and simple.

Walking alongside Ruby and being ambushed for the second time in this accursed place, by the same band of all people. Holding Ruby in his arms, dead. Exacting his vengeance on the Night Knives, stalking them like a predator. Unleashing his magic on Flora, the woman he had once risked so much for to get a healing potion and save her life. Seeing the life flee from her eyes; the first time he stood and watched someone die from his magic.

Something must have been visible on his face, as he heard Eleanor exclaim, "Martel! What is it?"

Martel felt tears threaten to appear. This was ridiculous. He had fought a hundred battles and killed ten times that number of enemies. He was the most feared battlemage in all the Empire. And now, old memories from when he was still a boy could bring him to tears? He had not thought about Flora or Ruby in over a year.

Yet now, both of their faces appeared before him vividly. If he reached out his hand, he could touch the skin that stretched over their cheeks. They were both dead because of him. One because he had killed her; the other because he had failed to protect her. In addition, all the Night Knives he had slain that night. They deserved it; they had tried to kill him first. But he had moved among them, destroying them with the same disregard that a man might feel about crushing an insect under his boot.

So many more. Countless Khivans, some of them struck by a spell in the back as they tried to flee. The legionaries on the bridge, incinerated by the inferno he had unleashed. All of them his enemies, all of whom he had been forced to kill. As he told himself this, it felt like a hollow excuse. That was the meaning of the name Firebrand; he who killed more than anybody else.

His staff fell to the ground. Despite his state of mind, his conjured effect did not extinguish; on the contrary, flames erupted to wreathe around the ruby, intensifying the light as it lay on the ground. Martel stumbled backwards into the cave wall and sank to the ground. "I'm a murderer," he breathed, and tears flowed down his face.