Chapter 595: The Forces of Nature
The Forces of Nature
Everyone looked east, though the darkness hid the destruction from their eyes. Eleanor crossed the parapet to grab Avery by the shoulder. "They will destroy the gate next to have another place of attack," she explained loudly, and Martel recalled how the Khivans had used this tactic when assaulting the outpost. "You must be ready!"
"The gate is mine to hold," Avery replied, "and my soldiers stand ready. You should help Sir Theodore he has the harder task."
"Agreed," Eleanor assented.
She looked at Martel, who knew they could not delay further; battle was upon them. "Let's go."
They rushed down the stairs, almost colliding with legionaries moving about frantically for their own reasons; everyone knew what was about to happen. Reaching the street, they had more space, and the two mages could run alongside the wall towards the east.
***
The breach looked similar to when the same had happened at the outpost, except on a larger scale. A long section of the wall had been shattered, debris thrown about to smash against buildings. It looked like a storm had passed through, tearing everything apart. Already, legionaries were trying to restore some kind of defence, creating a barricade from the rubble.
Another volley of cannon shots tore through the air. They passed through the now broken wall to smash up what the soldiers had built, killing several of them in the process.
"Fall back!" yelled Sir Theodore to his men. "Behind the buildings! Nobody in the breach until we know they are coming!"
Martel dove behind a house wall, Eleanor next to him. The ruined section of the fortifications far exceeded what he could cover with his flaming wall; at best, he might use it to disrupt the Khivan attack, but it would not hold them back. And given their numbers outside, it seemed certain they would overwhelm the defenders.
He looked at his protector, knowing she would be in the thick of the fighting once it began. Martel wished, as he had done more than once before, he was a mageknight as well, able to fight by her side. No matter how well he might support her with his own array of spells, she needed someone physically by her, protecting her vulnerabilities, not cowering twenty feet behind.
The barrage of cannon fire ended. The Khivans were coming.
***
Scores of soldiers equipped for close combat poured through the breach, wielding small shields and swords. Behind them came a row of musketmen. As the latter took position where they could and opened fire, the assault troops engaged the Asterians in melee. The legionaries were strongest when fighting in disciplined ranks, but the shattered pieces of the destroyed wall and buildings made that difficult; furthermore, every time several of the defenders linked together, they invariably presented an easy target for the musketmen. Sir Theodore engaged many of them, using his defensive spells to survive what no ordinary man ever could, but his strength, magical and physical, would eventually be spent.
"Stay behind cover!" Eleanor shouted at Martel over the noise of battle before she leapt into combat, driving back a whole band of Khivans. Looking around to figure out what he could do that would help the most, Martel finally decided to raise a wall of flames in front of the nearest group of musketmen. This alleviated the pressure on the flank, and Martel looked for his next opportunity.
He knew if he began flinging spells from his staff, the fire would attract attention, making himself the most obvious target. He wished that he could reach out and destroy the barrels of the Khivan muskets within his sight, but the amount of people on the battlefield confused his magical sense. He could use his elemental bolts that did not draw the same attention as fire, but drawing on any other element would drain his spellpower, and he would not be able to fight for long. He had to make a choice.
Seeing Eleanor surrounded by enemies, yet fighting on without hesitation, he made his decision. One fire bolt after another began flying from the ruby on his staff, striking every Khivan within reach. It did not kill them, but it caused enough hurt to make them withdraw or at least interrupt them, leaving them vulnerable. Eleanor followed up whenever she could, striking them down. Along with Martel's wall making it hard for the musketmen to support the assault, and more legionaries arriving to reinforce them, they began pushing the Khivans back on their flank.
All throughout the fight, the sound of muskets firing could be heard. Martel only realised they had begun aiming at him when a bullet struck his arm. It tore open his flesh, and he wondered if it had struck bone; if so, it would probably be shattered. The pain almost made him fall to his feet, but he gritted his teeth and took a step into the shadow of the building serving as his cover, re-composing himself.
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The injury was on his left arm; he leaned his staff against the wall and clutched the wound with his right hand, feeling the slippery liquid of his own blood. Not a wound to kill, as long as he staunched the bleeding. If need be, he had the healing elixir in his belt. He could fight on a little longer.
Risking a look at the battlefield, Martel saw an encouraging sight. The Khivans were being pushed out of the breach, at least on their flank. He dismissed his wall of flames, raising it further east down the line to prevent the enemy from reinforcing their beleaguered brethren fighting Eleanor.
A moment later, Martel realised this was perhaps a mistake; where his wall had stood before, several musketmen appeared, either arriving new to the fight or returning with renewed courage. They all lined up their weapons and shot in Eleanor's direction. Some of the bullets took out the Asterians fighting by her, while the rest struck against her magical shield.
Watching them reload, Martel knew he could recreate his wall in front of them, but that would simply allow Khivans from the other side to attack Eleanor, repeating his mistake. Nor could he hope to hit them all with his spells at this distance; too much and too many in between. But if they kept up their barrage, they would kill every Asterian fighting near Eleanor, and finally her as well, once her spellpower ran out.
Steeling himself, Martel summoned his shield; it would take the first blow aimed at him, hopefully getting him close enough. He grabbed his staff and ran forward, into the fray. In the confusion, and as he did not engage any of the Khivans fighting in close combat, Martel managed to get past the front line, growing thin on both sides as the battle dragged on. One of the musketmen noticed him and turned to quickly fire. The bullet struck Martel's shield and fell to the ground.
Also having a clear line of sight, it was now Martel's turn. He planted his staff in the ground and poured spellpower into the ruby. From the gem, tendrils of lightning arced towards the nearest musketman. Martel continued to feed power into the spell, and the lightning jumped from one enemy to the next, clustered together. They trembled and shook in agony, their faces twisted from pain; one by one, they fell to the ground, dead.
***
Seeing this display of magic, the nearby Khivans broke. They did not even have the wits to attack Martel, already wounded and vulnerable; they fled out of the gap. Eleanor pursued them, striking down those closest as she positioned herself in front of her battlemage until no enemy remained within reach.
"You are wounded!" she exclaimed, as she turned around to look at him.
"I'll live," he mumbled, feeling about ready to collapse. Between his wound and all the spellpower he had poured into a single spell, he had little fight in him left. Perhaps this had been another mistake; if the assault continued for another wave, he would not be able to contribute much longer. He looked east, where his wall still stood, hiding any vision of the battlefield beyond, but sounds suggested that the fight still raged on.
"Get back into safety," Eleanor commanded him. "All the way out of here. Find someone to tend to your wound. I will join you when I can." She moved up to stand in the breach itself, gazing out into the darkness beyond. "They will send another wave sooner or later. Go, now!"
The sound of a cannon firing reached them, and Martel knew where it was aimed: right where the assault had just failed. He dropped his staff, leapt forward, and grabbed Eleanor by the collar with his right hand, using empowered strength to pull her back behind him. Without noticing any pain from his injury, he raised his left hand towards the orb of metal and death that sped towards him.
A memory resurfaced. The arena of the Lyceum, Maximilian trying to teach him empowerment magic. Eleanor by his side, a dagger thrown straight at her face. Martel's arm reaching up on reflex to catch the weapon, protecting her.
As the cannonball hurled towards him with enough force to shatter his body, Martel reached out with his magic and commanded it to stop. The force of nature met the strength of magic, and the latter won. Three feet in front of him, the cannonball lost the remainder of its speed and fell to the ground. Collapsing, Martel would have struck the broken rocks of the shattered wall if Eleanor had not caught him.
Khivan battle shouts could be heard. Martel knew his wall would have been dispelled now; he lacked the focus to maintain the spell. Eleanor began dragging him back, but even from his limited vantage point, it felt certain that the enemy would be upon them in moments.
Something whistled through the air. Martel could not see what it was, but he heard screams. A shadow moved past him, and as he turned his head towards it, he finally recognised it. Moving like a scythe through rye, Starkad the berserker felled enemies left and right. Behind, the Tyrians supported their leader with arrows.
A reprieve, but short-lived. The cannon fire had ceased, meaning another wave of Khivans would be moving across the open field to attack the breach. However valiant and powerful, one berserker and a score of archers would not be enough. More legionaries had long since ceased to arrive; the entire garrison was in the fight, either here or at the gate.
"Run," Martel mumbled. He looked up at Eleanor, still dragging him away. "Swim. Get across the river," he told her. She did not react; she could not hear him through the noise. He tried to yell, even as he knew it was pointless; Eleanor Fontaine would never flee if it meant leaving others behind.
A warrior ran past Martel, and he saw the shimmer of magic around them. Strange he thought every mageknight was already in the fight. Turning his head with difficulty, he recognised her to be Lara, throwing herself into the fray. Legionaries followed her, rank upon rank.
How the legion prefect in Esmouth? She was in the camp, on the other side of the river. Eleanor finally reached somewhere she deemed safe, in between two small hovels, one of them little more than a ruin.
"Eleanor," Martel croaked, "what's happening? Is that Sir Lara?"
"It is," she confirmed, gently lowering him down on the ground.
"How?"
"She must have crossed the river. And she brought the rest of the legion, by the looks of it." Eleanor grabbed some rags from a pouch in her belt, pressing it against his wound. "Which suggests the galleys no longer control the delta. Which suggests the Imperial fleet has arrived." She exhaled. "We may be saved yet, Sir Martel."
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