Book 7: Chapter 55: Explosive action
They ran through the streets, Padmani leading the way. As the Khivan wore armour, Martel had no trouble keeping up. People stared at them, seeing a lieutenant in uniform followed by a tall foreigner dressed in exquisite clothing, but they had the good sense to stay out of the way. Soon, a large structure loomed ahead, which had to be the merchants’ guildhall; a handful of soldiers, some armed with spears, others with muskets, stood outside. Their attention was on the entrance to the building, though they turned their heads hearing the lieutenant and Martel arrived. A furious exchange in Khivan ensued.
“One man is in the hall itself – he is negotiating on behalf of the group. The others are in the cellars with the powder – at least two or three, but there could be more. We don’t know what weapons they might possess,” Padmani explained to Martel.
The battlemage gave a quick nod. “Understood. Wait here.” To the shock of the soldiers, who had already cast suspicious glances at the Asterian in the midst, Martel pushed forward and approached the entrance; when some of the Khivans moved to intercede, Padmani shouted them down.
Stepping inside, Martel found himself in what could be the offices of any prosperous guild. A few desks where clerks could do their work, portraits on the walls of past masters, and plenty of decorations depicting ships. In the midst stood a Khivan dressed as a labourer. Seeing Martel, he shouted something.
Ignoring the outburst, Martel used magic to seize a chair behind the man and hurled it into the back of his head. Taking advantage of the man being momentarily stunned, Martel leapt forward and punched him with empowered strength, knocking him out. Picking up the unconscious fellow with both hands by grabbing him like a sack, Martel hurled him out the door. That ensured at least one prisoner to interrogate, assuming Martel did not fail at the next task and the whole city blew up.
Glancing around, Martel found an open hatch with stairs leading into the dark. Faint light from above gave him the impression of a filled storage room with barrels and crates everywhere; probably provisions for today’s celebration, had it not been interrupted. As he descended, he sent out his magic pulse to be aware of everything he could. Making his way forward, he saw and sensed the light of torches in the far back, along with the heat of three people. They had made a barricade, or perhaps that was how they had originally hidden themselves; regardless, lots of supplies were stacked on top of each other to form a primitive wall.
Martel exhaled. He had made it in time; he was in control. Nothing could happen now without his approval. The Khivans had also noticed him, and they yelled something at him. “Sorry, I don’t speak your tongue. Do you understand Asterian?”
“Of course. Our cowardly masters send a foreign dog to do their dirty work! You can tell them the same,” came the angry answer. “They let us leave, or we blow everything up! Don’t doubt our resolve! Better a quick death now than the shah’s prison!”
A sigh escaped Martel; he did not relish killing again, but he understood their position. They would not be taken alive. He reached out with his magic and extinguished every flame in the cellar, putting an end to their threat.
Panicked shouts ensued; Martel recognised the Khivan word for ‘mage’ among them. Pushing their barricade down, the three rebels came at him. Restricting himself from using fire, he gathered pure air into elemental bolts and released them against his attackers. They fought blind; Martel could see them clear as day in the darkness. They had knives, Martel had magic. Within moments, all lay dead on the ground. Walking past their corpses and the debris from the shattered barricade, Martel found three barrels in the back of the cellar. Removing the lids, he stuck his hand down to feel a coarse powder. Martel knew the explosive power well enough to imagine the destruction these would cause if ignited, starting a blaze that would consume the city. Just in case other rebels lurked around, he pulled water from the air – thankfully an easy task, given the proximity of the sea – and let it pour down each barrel to soak the powder. All of this done, Martel let out his breath and allowed himself to calm down. The danger had passed.
Leaving the guildhall, Martel was met by countless stares. Besides the soldiers, plenty of townspeople had understood something was underway. Seeing a well-dressed Asterian step outside prompted murmurs, which Martel ignored in favour of walking over to Padmani. “They’re dead. The powder is in the cellar still. I’ll leave for the camp now,” he declared. All of Eleanor’s misgivings about Khiva had returned to his mind, and he disliked being separate from her.
“I’ll accompany you, sir,” the lieutenant quickly replied. He barked a few orders in Khivan before turning toward Martel again. “This way to the northern gate.” He gestured down another street, and they set into motion, attracting numerous eyes and speculations.
They walked in silence for a little while until Padmani spoke, the words almost tripping over each other in their haste to leave to his tongue. “I still can’t believe all of this. Rebels planning to kill the shah, disrupt the peace! An hour ago, I thought the city might burn to the ground, and now, as quickly as it happened, it’s all over.”
“It’s certainly been a morning. Do they know who was behind it?”
“If so, they wouldn’t tell me. I’m just a lieutenant of the garrison,” he admitted. “But the shah has his servants who’ll find out. It was them who discovered the plot this morning, investigating the guildhall before the meeting.”
“I’m glad they’re diligent.”
“Indeed, sir. But without you, it could have gone much worse. The shah will give you his personal gratitude, I’m sure, but let me be the first to give you praise,” Padmani said, the words once again eagerly flowing from him. “I never imagined an Asterian to risk his life for us.”
“I wasn’t really at risk,” Martel mumbled, feeling awkward. “There was nothing and nobody in that cellar to hurt me. Honestly, intervening was the least I could do.”
The lieutenant glanced at him as they walked down the street, still attracting stares. “Is it truly so? Fire cannot hurt you?”
“I could stick my head in a furnace, and it wouldn’t tickle me.”
The lieutenant exhaled. “How strange. We revere fire for all its blessings, and yet you, who was our enemy, seems blessed by it above all others.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask something?”
“I’ve answered your questions so far, haven’t I?”
“Yes, indeed. You see, I was with the Third Army. I saw you in our camp, actually, when you came to negotiate the peace. I wasn’t with those who crossed the river, though, the previous year, if you recall?”
Martel did. He and Eleanor had sailed down the river past Khivan positions, crossed the delta under cannon fire from a galley, and defended the breach in Esmouth’s wall. “I do.”
“They say – the other soldiers, that is – that you stopped a cannonball with a wave of your hand. Is that true?”
“It was magic rather than any handwaving, but yes.”
This time, Padmani exhaled for twice as long. “I can’t imagine having such power.” He fiddled with his collar.
Glancing at the man beside him, Martel realised the reason for these questions. He would hazard a guess that underneath where the lieutenant scratched his throat, he had a scar just above his collarbone, and an identical one on the other side.
Martel kept his observation to himself, and no further questions ensued as they walked toward the king’s camp.