Book 8: Chapter 46: A triumvirate divided
Each day was marked with hard work. The first fields were cleared with the utmost speed to allow planting of the first crop before it became too late. Fences provided a place for sheep and cows, and simple wooden houses rose to provide a home for the farmers. As for the craftsmen, they began to move into Archen.
The destruction was extensive; every tall building in the city had been damaged, as was the case for most larger structures. And everything near the centre had practically been demolished. Fortunately, many smaller houses had survived with minimal damage, providing housing for nearly all the settlers, being few in numbers compared to what the city once held.
The walls, enchanted beyond measure and also furthest from the epicentre of the destruction, stood unharmed. Henry and Cornelia spent long days correcting the course of the river, splitting its flow to travel both north and south outside the city. The northern stream provided drinking water while the southern would eventually be connected to sewers, flushing away the filth of the city without contaminating their drinking supply.
Martel eventually finished enchanting, at least for the time being. He made rounds visiting his people, listening to their grievances and problems, which he brought to the council of leaders, the first version of a conclave, to solve. He collected herbs and made potions to cure ills as he came across them. Unlike in Morcaster or many of his travels, he used his magic only to help and aid; everywhere, the sight of his black staff was welcomed, and he felt content.
A month had passed when the emissary from Khiva arrived.
A sentinel posted to the south came walking with the rider. Martel was quickly alerted, along with the other mages close by. They met the envoy on the edge of their camp, which still housed many of the farmers yet to have a home built to them.
“You lead these people?” the Khivan spoke from atop his horse.
Martel regarded him coolly. “I do.”
“This message is for you. It requires no written reply. I take my leave.” The emissary handed over a letter into Martel’s hand, turned his horse, and rode away.
Martel quickly broke the seal and read it. Next to him, Valerius looked at him with concern. “What does it say?” “Fetch the others. We must hold a council.”
The leaders still met seated on fallen logs around a heating stone as they had on the first night; a canopy had been raised to shield them from rain, but otherwise, they stayed here, as it lay partly between the city and the outer fields.
Martel let the letter wander from one hand to another. “It’s not a negotiation. Just an ultimatum. They claim we are on Khivan lands. We must leave, go west to Aster, or they’ll drive us out.”
“That is tantamount to a declaration of war,” Valerius declared, bristling. “How much time do they give us?”
“It does not say. Where is the border?” Martel asked. “What land can we rightfully claim as ours?”
“A second tributary to the Savena, some thirty miles south of the one providing our water,” Atreus explained. “That was the old border.”
“If they intend to wage war on us, they must cross that river,” Eleanor considered. “We cannot hope to outlast them in a siege. If they march against us, preventing that crossing is our best defence.”
“We can’t find some compromise?” Henry asked nervously.
“Let them come,” Cornelia spoke with a cold voice. “We did not do all this work only to have these dogs steal it from us. They cannot be any worse than the Tyrians.”
“We must prepare. We must begin training our people for war. At least the veterans have the skill,” Valerius considered. He looked at Eleanor. “That must be our task.”
“Agreed, but there is a more urgent matter. Our second wave of settlers is meant to come this summer, harvest at the latest. Without them, we cannot reopen the mines or have iron ore,” Eleanor reminded them. “We also need to spend some of our funds on weapons and have them shipped here immediately, as we will not have enough – it will take too long before our own smiths have ore to work with. But this can only be accomplished if we have a ship arriving before the Khivans march on us.”
“Will they even allow it? They control any traffic up the Savena,” Martel pointed out.
“The ship will fly Asterian colours. Their strife is with us,” Eleanor argued. “But we must send someone to Morcaster now and have the second expedition launched. At worst, they must march back here rather than sail all the way.”
“Who shall go?” asked Valerius. “Anyone with experience of war is needed here.”
They all looked at Henry, who visibly grew more uncomfortable each moment.
“I’ll go,” Martel declared, sparing his friend further misery. “In case anybody in Morcaster tries to put obstacles in our way as last time.” Whether Nine Lords of the Senate itself, Martel would not let anything threaten his new home. “I am also best suited at protecting the transport, should it come to that.” Whether cannons or enemy ships, Martel knew his magic was superior.
None looked particularly pleased at having the legendary battlemage leave their company, especially not Eleanor, used to being by his side through dangers. But none could argue against his reasoning. “Hurry,” she told him, and he inclined his head to her.
“I’ll scout,” Atreus said, and the others looked at him in surprise; he often remained silent throughout these meetings, and most seemed to forget he was present. “I’m good at avoiding attention, and I can borrow Khivan clothing from our people. We’ll have advance warning when they come for us.”
Martel took a deep breath, trying to suppress his rising sense of dread. He did not relish the prospect of being gone for close to two months before he could return, during which time anything could happen. The thought of another war with Khiva, and that this time, they would be defending their fragile home against cannons and muskets… Perhaps worst of all, this would invite the return of the Firebrand. Clutching his black staff, Martel retired to his and Eleanor’s tent. A forced march awaited him tomorrow, where every day would count.