Firebrand 6 the renegade, p.15
Firebrand 6: The Renegade, page 15
“There is something we should discuss,” Eleanor said.
Although she tried to sound neutral, Martel knew her well enough to notice that she seemed uneasy; her hand kept fidgeting with the reins. “What is on your mind?”
“Assuming our plans are met with success – and I agree with your assessment that this is the best way – once the gates and the harbour are under our control, the last bastion of resistance will be the Imperial palace itself.”
“That’s true.” The Praetorian Guard would never surrender, and they would have the advantage of defending familiar terrain when fighting in the palace. “You’re worried about the number of mageknights we’ll face storming the place? I already decided I would take part.” Martel recalled duelling three of them at the solstice celebration in Eleanor’s home; for all their skill and magic, they had no defences against elemental spellcraft.
“I assumed as much. Your magic is our strongest method of dealing with mageknights. Which brings me to my consideration.”
He glanced at her as they rode at a steady pace, allowing the legionaries to keep up. “Which is?”
She took a deep breath. “Maximilian is a praetorian knight. It seems likely we will have to fight him.”
An unpleasant thought that Martel tried not to dwell on. “Probably. But perhaps we can persuade him to surrender.”
“He does tend to be practical, though I am unsure how far his pragmatism stretches. Regardless, what I meant to say is that if we face him, you should step back and let me fight him.”
Martel frowned in confusion. “Why? As you just said, my spells are our best method for handling mageknights.”
She looked straight ahead. “Exactly. I fear you will kill him.”
“I’m sorry, but that sounds foolish. Do you think he or any other praetorian will give us the same consideration? They’ll be fighting a desperate defence of the palace. They’ll strike without mercy!”
“Certainly, but we are not in the same position. We can afford to be merciful.”
“Eleanor, I know you were betrothed to him, but that doesn’t mean you should die for him!”
She sent him an angry glare. “He is my friend, and yours! We chose this path, making enemies of the emperor and all who protect him. I’m not so eager to punish Maximilian for our choices by killing him.”
“And what if he kills you? Someone else will step forward and kill him in turn, and you’ve accomplished nothing with your misguided sense of mercy!” Martel clenched the reins in his hands.
She continued to stare at him. “When did mercy become such a dirty word for you?”
Angry yet also uncomfortable under her gaze, he looked straight ahead. “When it supersedes common sense.”
He could practically feel her frustration, but she made no reply; they continued in silence.
Half a mile north of Morcaster, the Nineteenth Legion had begun preparing a forward siege position, fortifying it with earthworks and sharpened poles. It would serve as a location for their rams and siege towers while also masking the efforts of Henry, the stonemage aiding the rebellion. He had spent the day using his magical sense to comb the ground itself, trying to find any hollow chambers underneath and occasionally directing legionaries to dig, aiding them with his own spellwork to make their progress faster.
“Henry!” Martel called out, jumping down from his horse; Eleanor did the same. They approached the stonemage, who stood in front of a hole in the ground. “Any luck?”
He nodded eagerly. “I discovered hollow space around here, and we dug down to make an entrance. None of us have gone in – the men are afraid to disturb the dead, and I wasn’t feeling too keen either – but I used my ability to sense further ahead, and I felt a long but slender opening. A hallway or something like that.”
That fit Martel’s memory of the catacombs; narrow passages with alcoves on either side, populated by the dead and occasionally opening up into larger burial chambers. The only thing that surprised him was how far west they stood. He did not realise the tunnels stretched this far. It meant it would take even longer to traverse them than expected, and time was an issue.
Soon, under the cover of dark, the Twentieth Legion would move to position itself west of the city, ready to make their assault once he and Eleanor opened the gate for them. If the pair did not make it through the catacombs and reached the gate before dawn, the garrison were sure to discover the legion waiting outside their walls. They would swarm the defences with soldiers, ruining their plan.
“Excellent work,” he told Henry, trying not to let his concern show. They would simply have to make good speed. All in all, it should not be more than a handful of miles, even if the hallways twisted and turned. “You should return to camp. Even with the defences, there’s always a risk of the garrison trying their luck.” He looked at Eleanor. “Ready?”
She gave a simple nod. On the horizon, the sun had nearly disappeared. Any moment now, the Twentieth would begin its march. Martel ignited the ruby on his staff to glow with light and turned toward the crude entrance into the underground.
“I will go first,” Eleanor declared curtly and stepped in front of him to descend. Martel gave Henry a final look and a half-hearted smile before he followed her into the darkness.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE MEANING OF THE NAME
With only Martel’s magelight casting a soft ring of illumination around them, the two mages moved deeper underground. The tunnels sloped slightly downward, and Martel wondered if this had in ancient time been intended as an entrance, buried and forgotten by succeeding centuries. It would explain why, when he held out his hand to support himself, he found only rock rather than alcoves filled with the dead; they had yet to enter the actual burial grounds.
Neither of them spoke as they made their way forward. With the path being singular, predictable, and straightforward, there was nothing to discuss; the sombre nature of the place, the enveloping darkness, and its foreboding purpose gave an oppressive atmosphere, which did not invite conversation either. Lastly, their previous discussion still hung in the air between them.
Martel already felt remorse over his words, spoken in haste and anger; he had regretted them as soon as the argument ended. But it did not make him change his mind. However much he cared for Maximilian, he could never accept the suggestion that Eleanor should play wagers with death because Maximilian was too stubborn to surrender, despite playing a losing hand. Aware that Maximilian neither knew how to quit while ahead nor how to cut his losses, Martel did not expect his friend would see reason.
Martel tried to push the argument aside. They were in a place surrounded by danger; while he did not fear the undead, letting himself remained distracted was foolish. Although he felt confident that he and Eleanor could fend off anything they might encounter down here, getting wounded due to a careless moment might slow them down considerably or prevent them from seizing the gatehouse; either would ruin their plan.
Yet every time he resolved to pay full attention to his surroundings, it lasted only a brief while before he felt uncomfortable that Eleanor was mad at him, and he revisited the entire debate in his head once again.
“Up ahead. The path forks, or we are entering a larger chamber.” Eleanor spoke with the voice she used to state simple matters of fact, and Martel decided to follow her example. Focus on the mission, cast emotions aside, and get the task done.
He dug out a piece of chalk to mark their progress. Should they fail to get through the tunnels in time, they would have to find their way back or else be trapped inside the city. This would also help them avoid getting lost in the labyrinth that sprawled for miles ahead of them.
“Strange. Can you provide more light?” Eleanor asked as she stopped, right on the threshold where the narrow passage widened.
Martel finished making a mark on the wall and stepped up next to her, increasing the intensity of his magelight. He understood what had piqued Eleanor’s curiosity; his action did not seem to have any effect. The surrounding darkness swallowed his light, giving no indication of what lay ahead.
“How odd. We have been walking downwards for a while, so I suppose there is room above us now. Still, this must be a chamber of unrivalled size that we cannot see how far or how high it stretches.” She took a few steps forward, and he followed, increasing his light further. Still, it did not reach any walls ahead of them or even to the sides. “It makes you wonder who is buried here, and what importance they held.”
Something felt wrong. A deep sense of unease pervaded Martel, which was understandable, given their surroundings, yet it was not how he had expected it. The catacombs felt like death, or rather, the dead, for obvious reasons. The air was dusty with an aftertaste of mould and rot when you breathed through your mouth. When using his magical senses, he expected to feel the sickening sensation of necromantic energies, if anything.
None of that came to Martel, and that made him ill at ease. Furthermore, the catacombs were built, man-made. When he reached out his hand against the wall, he should feel stonework. But he touched only natural rock. Dread overtook him as he understood why. No matter how bright his light, he would never be able to illuminate the space that opened up before them. “We are not in the catacombs,” he whispered. “We’re in the Undercroft.”
For a dark moment, Martel considered turning back. But giving up without meeting any kind of resistance, simply out of fear, felt too shameful. Hundreds, if not thousands of his soldiers would die if they had to take the city by storm rather than subterfuge. He owed it to them to push forward.
Next to him, Eleanor regarded him with curiosity, and he wondered if any of his emotions showed on his face. “What is this place, the Undercroft? I do not recall hearing of it.”
Martel swallowed. “It is a vast cavern that lies underneath the western parts of Morcaster. A city below the city, carved into the very stone but abandoned many centuries ago. It is a completely desolate place, yet at every turn, you feel the ghosts of those long departed watching you.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I’ve been here before.”
She looked at him again, this time in disbelief. “You have been to this place before?”
He nodded, not noticing her expression. “Twice, though the second time was brief.”
“Twice!” she exclaimed.
He finally looked at her. “It was not my choice. Well, the first time I didn’t know what I agreed to, and the second… I felt I had to.”
She placed her hands on her hips, facing him. “We have been the closest of friends for years now, and you never mentioned this extraordinary marvel right beneath our feet, every time we walked the streets of Morcaster?”
“Well, how many people have you told about our fight with a maleficar in the catacombs?”
“That is different, and you know that. The fact that we went through that experience together should make it clear you could tell me about this as well!”
“I couldn’t! What happened… I couldn’t tell anyone.” Suddenly, memories welled up inside of him. Walking alongside Kerra and being ambushed by mercenaries. Realising that skilled killers sought to murder him. Defending himself desperately with his magic, still feeble and simple.
Walking alongside Ruby and being ambushed for the second time in this accursed place, by the same band of all people. Holding Ruby in his arms, dead. Exacting his vengeance on the Night Knives, stalking them like a predator. Unleashing his magic on Flora, the woman he had once risked so much for to get a healing potion and save her life. Seeing the light flee from her eyes; the first time he stood and watched someone die from his magic.
Something must have been visible on his face, as he heard Eleanor exclaim, “Martel! What is it?”
Martel felt tears threaten to appear. This was ridiculous. He had fought a hundred battles and killed ten times that number of enemies. He was the most feared battlemage in all the Empire. And now, old memories from when he was still a boy could bring him to tears? He had not thought about Flora or Ruby in over a year.
Yet now, both of their faces appeared before him vividly. If he reached out his hand, he could touch the skin that stretched over their cheeks. They were both dead because of him. One because he had killed her; the other because he had failed to protect her. In addition, all the Night Knives he had slain that night. They deserved it; they had tried to kill him first. But he had moved among them, destroying them with the same disregard a man might feel about crushing an insect under his boot.
So many more. Countless Khivans, some of them struck by a spell in the back as they tried to flee. The legionaries on the bridge, incinerated by the inferno he had unleashed. All of them his enemies, all of whom he had been forced to kill. As he told himself this, it felt like a hollow excuse. That was the meaning of the name Firebrand; he who killed more than anybody else.
His staff fell to the ground. Despite his state of mind, his conjured effect did not extinguish; on the contrary, flames erupted to wreathe around the ruby, intensifying the light as it lay on the ground. Martel stumbled backward into the cave wall and sank to the ground. “I’m a murderer,” he breathed, and tears flowed down his face.
THIRTY-EIGHT
BALANCING ACT
“Martel? Martel! Please, listen to me!” Despite Eleanor’s frantic pleading as she knelt in front of him, the battlemage gave no inclination that he could hear her. He stared straight ahead with watery eyes, mumbling what sounded like confessions. She placed both of her hands on his wet cheeks to cup his face. “Please forgive me, I did not mean to sound angry! I am not angry at all, I was just a little upset. I spoke without thinking!”
Martel felt his blood pounding in his ear. His eyes shone as if sick with fever, and his face burned with heat. When his soul stood before Sol to receive judgement, he would surely be punished with a thousand years of fire.
“You must know how I care for you. You are not a murderer, you are a good and kind soul, I swear that you are,” she mumbled.
Her words did not reach him, but he felt her touch and reacted to it, turning his head either way toward one hand and afterward the other.
“Please, please, come back to me.”
“I’m a monster.”
She strengthened her grip on his face. “You are not!” Almost gasping for breath herself, she continued, “you must know what you mean to us all. To me.”
The sound of his own heartbeat subsided, but Martel still felt like he was on fire. His hand shot up to grab both of her wrists, and flickering motes of fire appeared on his skin.
“Martel,” she whispered, distraught, “it’s me.”
Her voice finally came through to him. Blinking through the haze of his own tears and terror, he realised that the fire he so feared threatened to burn her as well. His breathing slowed, and the flames sank back into his soul. Finally, he released his grip on her wrists. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“No harm done. We can sit for a while.” She let go of his face and moved to be seated next to him, reaching out a hand to grasp his tightly.
Martel had no inkling of how long they sat in silence. Nothing but endless dark stretched out before them, making it seem like time itself did not exist—or anything else, for that matter. Only the frail magelight still glowing on his staff and the cold, hard sensation of the surrounding stone along with Eleanor’s hand holding his own told him he still lived rather than floated through the never-ending Nether as punishment for his sins.
Eventually, the demands of the body presented themselves. He felt thirst, and the uneven cave wall jutting into his back made him uncomfortable. “I am alright,” he finally spoke, and he squeezed Eleanor’s hand just to send the message with two different forms of communication. “I think we can continue.” All the pressure of their current situation returned; they had a long journey ahead of them to be done before dawn. Assuming they could find their way.
“We have not come that far from the entrance,” Eleanor considered. “We will soon be back above ground.”
“I didn’t mean go back. We should press on.” The situation remained the same regardless of Martel’s weakness; if they failed, a costly storm upon the city was the only other option. Furthermore, if they could not take Morcaster by surprise, it greatly increased the risk that the emperor would have time to flee. Martel would not allow this civil war to continue year after year.
He could feel her turn to look at him. “Martel, how are we to press on?” she asked cautiously.
“The first time I came here, I descended from an entrance in the copper lanes. That is not far from the merchants’ gate. I just have to retrace my steps back to that entrance, and we can carry out our original intentions. Undercroft or catacombs, the result will be the same.” He looked straight ahead, not sure if he wanted to meet her gaze.
He could hear how she took a deep breath, and he knew she would choose her words with caution. “Martel, given how this place affects you, we cannot continue. Who knows what sort of dangers lurk in this forgotten city? How far it stretches, and whether you can find the way?”
“We must try. Countless lives are at stake.”
“None of that matters if yours is lost.”
It was a risk Martel was willing to take if it provided an opportunity for him to balance his columns of lives taken and saved. He finally released his hold on her hand, sticky with sweat, and got back on his feet. “We must try,” he repeated. “There is still the option of going back if I can’t find the way.” She stood up as well, and he saw only doubt on her expression. He picked up his staff and increased the brightness. Holding it in front of him, the light flickered between their faces. “Are you with me?”
