A Fair Trade

Martel stormed through the complex, yelling for his officers to join him. Each time someone did, they confirmed that they had seen no sign of the emperor. His personal quarters had been searched and found empty. Plenty of nobility and servants alike had been questioned with a blade at their throat, and none admitted any knowledge of his whereabouts. The grounds had been combed over as well, checking every booth in the stables and behind every bush.

"One man might hide, but not a whole family," Eleanor reasoned. "The praetorians fought this hard to buy time. They have made their escape."

"They can't leave the city," a mageknight declared. "We got every gate heavily guarded."

"They can if a ship is waiting for them in the harbour," Godwin argued.

"I thought we had the docks locked down?" Martel asked sharply. The thought of all their efforts this night being wasted drove away his weariness, making him feel incensed instead.

"We needed fresh soldiers for this assault, sir, which we had to draw from the cohorts assigned there. All others had seen combat. We should still have plenty of guards posted there, but in the dead of night with dedicated praetorians pushing through…" The legion prefect did not finish his sentence.

"They have to cross the whole city while avoiding discovery," Eleanor pointed out. "We may still catch them."

"Get me a horse!" the captain yelled.

***

Together with Eleanor, Martel rode with all speed through the empty streets of Morcaster. Confused patrols watched their progress, at times jumping aside to get out of the way. Despite the haste, it was a long journey from the palace in the northwest to the harbour down south, but Martel knew this played in his favour. The longer the journey, the slower and more difficult it would be for the fleeing emperor, especially moving with children.

As they reached the docks and the first group of soldiers on watch, they had ridden their horses to exhaustion. The centurion in command stared in alarm at seeing his captain arrive in such a fashion. "Where is your prefect?" Martel barked, stalking up to him.

"Over there, sir!" The officer pointed down the pier where a handful of soldiers were boarding a vessel. "Enemy soldiers attacked us and seized a boat. She's pursuing, sir!"

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

That seemed unlikely to work, given how dark the night was; once the boat passed the great lights that illuminated the harbour entrance, any pursuing craft was bound to lose them. Not to mention, Imperial warships might be near, patrolling the waters. Martel could only think of one thing to do before it was too late.

He ran, all he could, down the length of the docks until he reached the lighthouse that rose on the southern promontory. His hand on the lock convinced it to open, and he slammed the door back to leap up the stairs. Drenched in sweat, he finally reached the top. It had begun to rain, which joined the moisture already on his face.

He ignored the glowing lantern and leaned over the edge, looking down into the harbour. At this distance, his sense of heat could not help him, but the lights below helped him find his target. A small boat tossing about in the waves, pursued by another.

Next to him, Eleanor appeared, but she said nothing, scouting into the dark waters below as well. The weather was growing worse, a storm slowly building up; the harbour did its best to protect those entrusted to it, but it could do little for small vessels headed out.

Setting the sail aflame would disrupt them and allow his men to catch up to them. But Martel could not reach out with his magic and ignite it, as he had done once to a Khivan galley; it was simply too far. He would have to use a spell from his staff and hope his aim proved true despite the distance. He also had to use more spellpower than he had left, or the effect might fade away before it struck its target.

He could already taste the nausea that would accompany magical exhaustion, but he had no choice. Who knew how long the war might continue, should the emperor make his escape? Raising his staff in the night, Martel released his spell.

A powerful ray of flames shot out to illuminate the night, appearing from the lighthouse to pierce the dark night and strike the small boat below. His aim proved unreliable, if not false. Rather than the sail, it struck the hull itself and burned a hole straight through it.

Martel felt like throwing up. The emperor's family, his sister's children. The expected nausea struck him at twice the usual strength, and the battlemage thought about throwing himself over the edge of the lighthouse.

***

At length, the captain prefect and his legate staggered back towards the docks. A mageknight greeted them. "Sir, forgive us! They surprised us. Several praetorians sacrificed themselves to allow the emperor and his companions to make into a boat."

"Did you get to them?" Martel asked hoarsely.

She gestured behind her. In the dark, he could vaguely make out a group of people on the pier. Some held spears and had to be his legionaries while the others looked unarmed. "We fished up most of them, yes, sir, including the emperor himself," the prefect explained.

"Most?" Martel's vision grew hazy, as a host of negative sensations and emotions sank in.

"The emperor's sister, sir. She saved her children first, and the boat sank before we could get to her. She could not swim, as it turned out."

Martel stumbled backwards until his back hit a couple of crates stacked on the docks, and he sank to his feet. Whether his body or mind felt worse, he could not say.

"Thank you, prefect. Bring the prisoners to Saint Marcellus," Eleanor instructed the mageknight, who saluted and went away.

Martel closed his eyes. The life of an innocent woman in exchange for an end to this war. A fair trade, some might say. Certainly, a murderer would think so.