Chapter 594: Into the Furnace
Into the Furnace
Walking through the gate to enter the town felt like a hollow promise of safety, with the constant sound of cannons beating down the walls coming from the other end of Esmouth. Martel clutched his staff, wondering how powerful his magic would be against the forces marshalled against them.
"Mage of fire and his lady the valkyrja!" exclaimed a familiar voice, also recognisable from the choice of words. "From dreams you walk into the waking world!"
"Starkad," Martel uttered, feeling too emotionally worn from the crossing to exhibit any enthusiasm. Still, seeing the berserker hale was a good sight; especially if that meant he lent his strength to the defence of the town.
"What is the situation?" asked Eleanor, always pragmatic.
"A fond greeting to you as well," the northerner spoke with a smirk; evidently, the current circumstances did not dampen his spirits. "Thousands of the fire eaters are outside your walls, waiting frantically to storm through once their metal spitters have done the work."
"You realise that you are inside 'our' walls? Once the Khivans attack, they'll not distinguish between Asterian or Tyrian." Martel looked at the berserker, who stood dressed in armour; perhaps he did understand.
"Oh, sure. But either we die, or we live. Such is every moment in life until it no longer is."
"Martel, we should find the legate." Eleanor's tone of voice suggested she was not in the mood to indulge the berserker's philosophical musings. He nodded and followed her as she began to walk away. Once they were out of earshot, she added, "I am surprised he and his companions are still here. I would have expected them to skip out long ago."
"I didn't see their ship anywhere," Martel replied. "It could be at the bottom of the river."
"I admit, I find that a little amusing." She took a deep breath. "I doubt there will be anything else to laugh at, but we will see what the legate has to say."
***
Esmouth seemed deserted as they walked through its streets. Even if it was at night, the town had previously always had some semblance of activity. Now, Martel and Eleanor saw and met nobody except a patrol. The princeps saluted them as they marched past, and the legionaries gave them long looks.
They passed by The Salty Mug, looking practically abandoned. Same with the brothel. Approaching the north-western end, Martel glanced towards Henry's home; presumably, the stonemage was fine. He was a civilian after all, with no reason to have taken part in the fighting so far. Of course, that would not save him from the Khivans. Martel wondered if the circumstances became sufficiently dire, would Henry know how to employ his magic to fight? It could easily become relevant soon.
As they reached the legate's house, Martel realised something obvious. It was the middle of the night, and the legate did not know to expect them. "Eleanor, he's probably asleep. Do we wake him up?"
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"I do not suppose we bring any news that urgent. I just wanted to understand our situation." She looked down the main road, which led to the northern gate. "Someone must be on watch, and given the situation, I assume it is a prefect. Let us go to the gatehouse."
Martel grunted his assent, and they moved past the legate's residence to continue down the road. The sound of cannons firing was clearly louder, only mitigated by the wall between them and the enemy, for however much longer it would stand.
They entered the gatehouse and ascended to its top, finding it full of soldiers. Up here, the noise seemed deafening; Martel wondered how those firing the cannons could stand it. The flashes of fire in the distance revealed their position to the northeast. After each shot was heard, a few moments passed before they felt the defences tremble, as the shot struck the wall east of them.
"Sir Fontaine! Sir Martel!" The astonished exclamation came from Avery. Martel was not surprised to find her at this post; she seemed among the most capable prefects.
"Sir Avery," Eleanor replied in brief greeting. "What is the current situation?"
"Stars only know where you come from, but I suppose your questions are more pertinent. The bastards have been firing at us all day and now into the night."
Eleanor nodded. "We heard when they began. How sturdy are the walls?"
"The stonemage gave his appraisal. At best, it will last through the night, but not longer. And as long as they are attacking, he cannot repair the damage or renew the enchantments."
"Any possibility for a sortie?" Eleanor glanced out at where the cannons were placed. "Even if we cannot destroy their weapons, silencing them for a while could buy us the necessary time for repairs."
"With the amount of muskets aimed in our direction, such would be suicidal. We might lose the entire garrison and accomplish nothing," Avery argued. "The legate considers our only option to be that we repel their assaults. Let them come to us."
"Let's hope we can," Martel mumbled. He noticed some of the nearby legionaries looked at him, and he realised he should have kept his mouth shut.
"Sir Theodore and the second cohort is in place," Sir Avery added.
"Give us a moment," Eleanor asked of her. She turned away from the parapet, pulling Martel with her to stand on the other side of the gatehouse.
"I know what you're thinking," he said quietly. "You want us to try to destroy those cannons."
"We did so once before."
"Under very different circumstances," he pointed out, struggling to keep his voice down. "Those were small cannons, placed close to our walls. Now, we'll have to creep forward several hundred yards and do the same back when escaping. Not to mention, I could only destroy two of those infernal weapons before we were discovered. They must have at least a dozen here."
"Your skills have only improved since then, and any damage we cause will slow down their bombardment. It could buy us another day or two," she argued.
"I couldn't bring down the galley yesterday," he countered. "Even though I did the same on our first journey here. It's not always about skill, but sometimes more about the circumstances. Magic comes easier to me on instinct than command when failure means death."
"It could easily mean the same here as well," she almost hissed.
"I know, but it doesn't feel that way yet. Eleanor," he said, staring into her eyes, "if we try this, I don't see how we'll survive. They'll notice us and turn every musket and cannon against us."
"Maybe you are right," she conceded. "I cannot force you to do this, nor is there any point in me going alone. But it feels like it is our duty to at least try if this would save the town."
Martel knew she was right; he only struggled with the question of whether he was willing to die for his duty if given a choice to stay back. And even if he were, would he also be willing to sacrifice Eleanor? For Martel, that tipped the scales.
The sound of a dreadful explosion along with the stonework underneath their feet trembling made it clear that their argument was moot. Henry had been too optimistic in his appraisal; the Khivan cannons had broken through the defences.
This 𝓬ontent is taken from f(r)eeweb(n)ovel.𝒄𝒐𝙢