Book 8: Chapter 47: Hasty
Martel bid Eleanor a hasty farewell; she had her own affairs as the person left in charge of Archen, along with making their preparations for a defence, whether at the river or their walls. As for him, he set out on his march without delay. He could not sail back to Morcaster; they had no boat, and even if he got his hands on one, the Khivans would undoubtedly notice him on the open river and seek to detain him. Instead, he followed the ancient road that led from Archen into Aster.
Martel marched throughout the day, every day, only stopping when he came across water to drink and fill his skin, followed by resting a little. Empowered magic supported him when his own strength faltered, keeping him going past what he normally might endure. A lightstone helped him find the path amidst the grass that rose between the stone, hiding the road. At night, he only paused to cast his runes of warning before falling into slumber.
When he passed through a town, he bartered for supplies, buying as much as he could carry without burdening himself. He did not haggle; his belt was filled with gems, and his concern was not money, but time. Depending on Khivan intentions and haste, an army could be marching towards Archen just as Martel sped away from the city. He became grateful for the exhaustion that he felt, keeping his mind empty during his march and letting him fall into sleep as soon as he halted for the night; else thoughts of war would have filled his thoughts along with regret that he was absent. But the decision was done; in the moment, ensuring the ship with supplies arrived had seemed paramount, and he was best suited to ensure that happened.
The journey from Archen to Morcaster could take between one to two months, depending on season and weather. Martel did it in twenty days, and he nearly stumbled as he staggered through the city gate.
Despite arriving, Martel did not feel calmer or less anxious. He had a journey of the same length if not longer, depending on wind, before he would return home. He allowed himself to rest at The Firebrand, ignoring Regnar’s questions until after he had slept. Only then, his eyes and cheeks still hollow, did Martel explain. “The settlement has gone well, but we could be under threat. Obviously, keep that to yourself.” The traders would panic if they knew their investment would be headed into war. “Have you organised matters in our absence?”
“Yes, yes, as you asked. People have been recruited and equipment purchased, assuming you got payment with you.”
“I do. I’ll arrange for a transport to leave at the earliest. Be ready to spread the word of our departure as soon as it’s confirmed.”
“Of course.”
“What of the Nine Lords? Weasel still in the copper lanes?”
“He is, though lots of rumours going around about him. He might not be much longer.” Regnar shrugged. “Nothing threatens you, from what I hear.” Good news, though the hedge mage did not have ears in every room in the city, such as those of the Senatorial Palace. But Martel would deal with those concerns as they arose. He had existing ones to handle first.
Much to Martel’s relief, organising the second expedition took little hassle. The successful departure of the first one, along with Martel’s presence and swift payment, ensured that a ship was made available to him within days. His reputation helped him in this regard; nobody recognised that his gaunt appearance betrayed his desperation.
As for the metal merchants, they had done their part, hiring workers and buying equipment necessary for mining. The only obstacle lay in buying weapons; few were available at such short notice. To get more would require that the Tenth Legion opened its stores, which would only happen with approval from the Senate.
Martel weighed back and forth until he decided against. Trying to extract favours after his last encounter seemed an overreach. A speedy departure was of greater importance, and while he had proven last time that the Senate could not hold him back, they might find ways to delay him. Whatever arms and armour he had procured would have to suffice. Having more coin left than expected, he spent it buying more provisions, just in case the settlers would not be able to collect harvest, for one reason or another.
After a whirlwind of activity, Martel finally allowed himself to rest. He stayed at The Firebrand as he normally did when in Morcaster, though in another chamber, just as a precaution. He was about to slip into sleep when he felt his rune of warning activate, followed by a knock on the door.
“Martel?” said Ian, the youngest member of the acting troupe.
“Yes?” came the reply, thick with sleep.
“There’s a fellow in the common room. Says he knows you. He’s a mage, by the sound of it. Mageknight, I’d wager. Big fellow.”
Martel squinted and tried to keep his eyes from closing, wondering who this could be. He had not spoken with any of the prefects from the legion in a long time, and none except Valerius had expressed an interest in joining their expedition. “What does he want?”
“He didn’t say, other than to meet you.”
“His name?”
“Something long. Something with M. Both his names, actually.”
Through the drowsy haze, Martel connected the pieces of information. Maximilian Marche. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”
“You got it.”
Stumbling out of bed, Martel grabbed some water to drink and help his head clear. What could Maximilian possibly want? Despite sleep being his chief concern, Martel followed the voice in his head, which told him to take every precaution; for some reason, it spoke with Eleanor’s voice. So he got dressed, put on his enchanted mail for protection, and grabbed his black staff. Looking somewhere between a prefect and a hedge mage, Martel left his room to meet a friend he had not seen in nearly a decade; not since Martel released him after he had imprisoned him.