Chapter 599: The Promise of Spring
The Promise of Spring
The sixth cohort along with three prefects made their return to camp during the night, seeking rest for the remaining nocturnal hours. As a new day began, so did the work cleaning up the battlefield. The bodies of the slain had to be collected, and equipment was salvaged where possible. The terrain complicated this work, and while Martel and Eleanor were not involved with this task, they had to remain with the legion rather than return to Esmouth, giving them a few idle days.
Although it made him uncomfortable, Martel helped out at the infirmary, as his skills were particularly useful. With a battle like this, many soldiers needed wounds cauterised, usually because one of their limbs had to be amputated. It took Martel only moments to heat up the surgical tools for the physician, saving time and ensuring the cauterisation was successful.
While the smell of blood and burnt flesh along with the ear-piercing screams of agony made him nauseated, Martel suppressed his unease and lent aid where he could. He tried not to think about the future that awaited these men; crippled, they could no longer serve in the legion nor hope to find much employment once sent home. Those fortunate had families that could look after them; the rest would beg on the streets until cold or hunger claimed their lives.
"Sir Martel?" The physician held out a blade expectantly.
Taking a deep breath while trying not to look at the soldier lying on the table, Martel held out his hand and heated up the metal until it turned red.
***
In the evening, Martel and Eleanor joined Valerius for their meal. While the fare was much the same as their own, the young mageknight had seemed eager to share their company, perhaps in appreciation of their aid during the battle. He seemed quickly on the mend; while Martel had never heard this discussed, he suspected that those with magical talent healed from their wounds swifter than those without, though still nothing in comparison to those with the actual gift of healing, such as Maximilian.
They made idle conversation around the cooking fire; mostly Eleanor and Valerius, as Martel's day spent in the infirmary had left him with little appetite for conversation. He only noticed when they both fell silent and followed their gazes to see yet another mageknight approached their small gathering.
"The illustrious Firebrand and his valiant protector!" Godwin exclaimed. "And Sir Valerius, if I caught your name correctly." He inclined his head towards the latter.
"You did," Valerius assented as he looked at Martel, "though I'm unfamiliar with the other name you just spoke."
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"What? Sir Martel, is your own legion not aware of your exploits in the capital?" The legion prefect seemed thoroughly amused by this, judging by his expression.
"It's nothing," Martel mumbled. "He simply jests," he told Valerius. While he did like the legion prefect, Martel would prefer if Godwin did not spread that ridiculous moniker any further.
"Sir Godwin," Eleanor interceded, "how did the Thirteenth fare in the battle?"
"I won't lie, it was a grim affair." The same sentiment could be seen on the legion prefect's face. "We took our losses getting up close, putting the knife against their throats. But we fought our way to one of their crossings in the end, make them regret stepping foot on Asterian soil. Few of them escaped, and our battlemage sunk their barge, committing their dreadful cannons to the depths of the river!"
"Well done," Valerius commended him. "We came close, but we had to retreat before achieving the same."
"You had the most difficult position of all," Godwin replied with a sympathetic voice. "If you could not do this with the Firebrand at your side, no cohort in the legions could."
Martel struggled to keep his expression blank.
"I suppose it is only a matter of time before confirmation arrives from Morcaster that you should be made legate," Eleanor speculated, looking at Godwin.
"Possibly. I believe your own legate has certain plans that involve the Thirteenth. I doubt we'll return to our previous assignment." The legion prefect let his gaze moved from one to the other. "You may see much more of us in the coming months. Oh, I forgot. When I discovered you had survived, Sirs Martel and Fontaine, I made enquiries about your belongings. Sadly, they seem to have been lost or destroyed when the Khivans attacked our camp. My apologies."
"Such is war," Eleanor remarked prosaically.
Martel felt a little more annoyed; his Khivan watch was irreplaceable. Likewise, the loss of all his letters from home bothered him; re-reading them had brought him comfort during long and lonely days. At least he had an excuse for never attending any further solstice celebrations; all his nice clothes were lost or being stretched out by some Khivan soldier. "Yeah, it's fine."
***
Returning to their own tent, Martel wondered at Godwin's words. He had been distracted by the loss of his luggage, but now his mind returned to what exactly the legion prefect had meant. "Hey, what do you think Godwin meant? Talking about us seeing more of him."
She gave a shrug as they walked alongside each other. "The only reason the Thirteenth does not require a new legate immediately is if it will be placed under the command of an existing one. This is speculation, but I imagine Legate Varus will use our victory in driving the Khivans out to demand that he is named captain prefect with imperium over both the Tenth and the Thirteenth Legions."
"What does he want that for? The camp at Esmouth can't hold another legion."
"No." She let out her breath. "But it will double his forces for a campaign in spring into Khiva itself. With their recent defeat, now seems an opportune moment to press the advantage."
Martel almost froze in his tracks before he recollected himself. The Khivans had just failed, launching an invasion onto enemy soil; if Eleanor was right, which tended to be the case, it would be the Asterians' turn to do the same.
Usually, spring heralded renewal and the promise of easier days after winter; with a heavy heart, Martel understood that he should expect the opposite. The sun might burn brighter each morning, but darker days lay ahead.
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