Chapter 596: The Embrace of Sleep
The Embrace of Sleep
Eleanor wanted to find anyone that might resemble a physician in Esmouth; failing that, cross the river and get to the infirmary in camp. Trusting in her ability to dress his wound, Martel negotiated with her until she allowed one errand beforehand. Together, they crossed the town to reach the southern walls and gaze out onto the sea and the river delta.
Dawn was still hours away, but the clouds had broken, allowing moonlight to illuminate the waters. In the distance, they saw the Khivan galleys; they had sailed further out to sea, presumably to give them more room for their manoeuvres, in turn removing their ability to suppress transport across the river.
And to the west, the slender warships of the Imperial fleet approached. They had no oars like the galleys, being moved only by sail and wind, the latter provided by magical means if needed.
Already, the galleys turned to present their broadsides. While he could not see this, Martel knew the cannon ports would be opened, framing the deadly weapons held in the maw of the ships.
The rumble of thunder reached them; real, not the artificial sound made by cannons firing. Martel looked up and saw that clouds had reformed, at a speed too swift for nature. They were dark, foreboding and filled with the promise of destruction.
Even at a distance, Martel felt the burst of magic being released. Lightning struck the galley nearest the Imperial ships, setting its mast and sail ablaze. While he could not see this, Martel knew a stormmage stood on the prow of the Imperial vessel, summoning the weather for which they were named.
Bolt after bolt of lightning struck in an orgy of nature's violence. When three galleys had been sunk without ever firing a shot, the remaining turned and fled. Their oars allowed them to outpace even sails filled with magical wind, or maybe the summoned storm caused a hindrance to the Imperial fleet after delivering them victory. Regardless, the battle at sea, brief as it had been, was won.
***
Despite the infirmary overflowing with wounded, the physician took the time to inspect Martel's wound. The bone in his arm remained intact, meaning he would live, and after cleaning the wound and giving it a new bandage, the physician sent Martel away.
"You should rest," Eleanor told him, as they walked away to give space for the constant flow of injured soldiers arriving to the infirmary as well. "You need it badly. I will talk with the legate or the other prefects and gain a better understanding of our situation. See if I can find out what the next days have in store for us."
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Martel was too worn to argue, and she was right, anyway. He simply nodded in agreement and walked towards his tent, while she turned back towards the river.
Rarely had a cot seemed so inviting; Martel slept moments after lying down. After a month at sea, restless nights in Morcaster, and a long march on the road and through marshes, sleep embraced Martel as it never had done before.
When he woke up, he had no idea of the time; it was still light outside, so presumably the same day as when he had gone to bed this morning. He got up, feeling his body stiff from resting in his armour, not to mention his wound. It was a good thing he did not require both hands for casting spells, as it would be a few fivedays at least before it healed.
Checking the tent next to him, Martel found it empty. Eleanor was still in Esmouth, he figured. He could seek her out, but the crossing was probably still busy, assuming they only had a few boats to ferry people and materials across. Instead, with some of his spellpower restored to him, he enchanted a rock until it was hot enough to serve as a fireplace. Digging out a pot, some water, and some supplies he had squirrelled away in his tent, he began to make himself a hot meal.
***
Eleanor returned just as he had started to eat. "You timed that well," he told her. "Get yourself a plate."
She did as suggested and took a seat opposite him, with the soup pot between them. "I spoke with the legate and the prefects. After some lengthy explanations as to our doings, I was informed of the current situation. The Khivans have pulled back entirely. Perhaps they knew the Imperial fleet was approaching and chose to make one last attempt before was too late. In any case, they have pulled back north."
"I don't suppose our legate is of a mind to let them leave."
She shook her head. "Messages have been sent to find what remains of the Thirteenth legion. The aim is to have them link up with us, but regardless, our legion is moving out tomorrow in pursuit of the enemy."
"I guess they'll be trying to cross the river upstream, make their escape back to safe territory?"
"So it appears. Which means we may have to chase them into the marshes, which is not a good battleground." Eleanor drummed her fingertips against her own cheek. "They have no horses, as they could not bring them across. But in that terrain, our cavalry will not be useful either."
"Any idea what our role will be?" Martel had never fought a pitched battle like what seemed to lay ahead; he knew that once, the Asterian battlemages had been famed for their ability to wreak destruction on the battlefield, but he had not been trained specifically for that.
"We will have to wait and find out." Eleanor set her plate aside. "I saw Henry. He is well and sends his regards."
"That's good. Also, was I delirious last night, or did I see Starkad join the fight?"
"You did. Like we talked about, their ship has been sunk. So all the Tyrians are stuck here with us." Eleanor seemed to find some sort of delight in this. "Also, while the legate did not say anything, the other mageknights did seem impressed by you. That you came all the way back to the legion, that is, and the fighting you did last night."
"I hope they were impressed by you as well," Martel said in a dry voice. "You did all the same."
She shrugged. "True, but they expect nothing less of a mageknight." She gave him a wry smile. "We should see the quartermaster. We need to be equipped for tomorrow's march."
"Aye, sir."
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