Book 7: Chapter 69: Just concerns
Rolf lived, for now. His extensive wounds, much of his skin burned, left him weak, and he only remained conscious for brief moments of time. Martel wished he could stay until the skáld pulled through – assuming he did – and exchange words with him; above all, he wanted to thank the Tyrian for his selfless advice. Given how close the fight had been, Martel could well imagine he and Eleanor would have lost if the skáld’s song had worked on them. The two Asterians had risked their lives to prevent a war, and it seemed that Rolf might have sacrificed his for that same aim; it gnawed at Martel to leave someone who had shown such friendship toward him.
But the moot was at an end, and the Tyrians would all disperse. Those of the Raven tribe left that same day, carrying the bodies of their slain jarl and their wounded skáld with them.
Likewise, it seemed wisest for the Asterians to make their own departure. While the victory had removed the possibility of war, earning them great renown, that very fame might encourage other Tyrians to challenge them, considering the glory that could be won by besting them. And though the seiðr-wives had decided in their favour, rejecting war, Aster would still have to pay a price for the blood it had spilled along the border. Some might consider the death of two Asterian mages as fitting recompense.
For that reason, they could not take the same route back to the galley, where they had sailed along the Frosten River. War parties of vengeful Tyrians would be making their way toward the shore of its waters, eager to take revenge by slaying any Asterians found on the northern banks. Instead, Starkad offered them passage on his own ship. In his company, they sailed directly west on the upper river for several days until they reached its mouth and turned south to follow the coast.
Seeing a longship approach at speed caused hectic activity aboard the galley anchored in the bay where Aster met Tyria, but the wizard at the prow wielding a black staff calmed matters. With a final farewell to Starkad, expressing their gratitude for the berserker’s acts of friendship toward them, Martel and Eleanor climbed from the longship onto the galley, where Wulfstan awaited them.
“You’re still alive. What of the Tyrians?”
“One of them isn’t. Halfrid is dead, along with her plans of war,” Martel explained, sitting down in the cabin. Although he had done nothing but simply sit on a ship for the last several days, he felt weariness come over him. This had been a nerve-wracking journey with stakes far greater than he liked to think about, and his mind wanted to rest; to feel that it was all over. But he knew that one task remained for him and Eleanor, once they were back in Aster.
The spy smiled at them, for once. “Excellent news. I knew my faith in you would not be disappointed. You have spared the Empire great suffering. I cannot offer much in ways of reward, but I shall let Morcaster know of your victory.”
“What of the conspirators?” Eleanor asked with a sharp voice. “The foreign council, the legates. Those who were only too happy to throw the realm into war. What will become of them?” Wulfstan nodded to her. “My colleagues have gathered evidence. The offending legate will be removed, and the Senate will vote to replace the members of the foreign council. They won’t get the opportunity to do this twice, I can assure you.”
“Not much of a punishment.” Martel grabbed a pitcher of water. He had grown accustomed to travelling without wearing his armour, but he had kept the mail on since the moot, and the weight added to his sense of weariness. “They lose rank, but had their schemes borne fruit, thousands would have lost their lives. And still, some Asterians will, caught on the wrong side of the river.” He poured some of the pitcher’s content down his throat, but it could not wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.
“I’m military intelligence.” Wulfstan shrugged. “I’m concerned with the safety of the realm, not with justice.”
“Few seem to be,” Eleanor remarked. Her usual demeanour, neutral and controlled, seemed a little fractured; her state of mind reflected Martel’s own, he surmised.
He put the pitcher away. Before the discussion turned into an abstract argument on justice, he had more tangible concerns to address. “There’s one thing I would ask of you.”
The spy returned his gaze. “And it is?”
“My brother, William, is a legionary in the Fifteenth Legion. I want him sent to a garrison somewhere south. Far from the border. The closer to Engby, the better.”
Wulfstan bowed his head. “Consider it done.”
Martel could not save everyone, but if he could keep his mother from losing a child, he would at least do that. “Good.”
“What else? This galley must return to Morcaster – much as I would enjoy it, it is not my personal ship. You are welcome to sail with us, or we can leave you in any port along the coast.”
Martel and Eleanor exchanged looks. They had discussed this on the journey from the moot, recommitting themselves to their decision made back when they left Sindhu. Military intelligence or the Senate might not be concerned with justice, but for once, two Asterians would be. “Leave us in Aquila,” Martel told Wulfstan. “We’ll make our own way from there.” He did not elaborate; there was no need for the spy to know more.
Already as they talked, the galley was underway, sailing out of the bay; the captain had raised anchor as soon as his passengers had returned. Thanks to the seamage aboard, they were freed from the whims of nature such as wind and tide; with a speed that would astonish even a Tyrian longship manned by a berserker and his warband, the ship began the journey south.