Book 8: Chapter 52: Declaration of intent
The stream that divided Khiva from Archen since ancient times could barely be called a river; it was less than fifty paces from one shore to the other, and in many places, the water only reached waist deep. Cannons could not cross, at least not without a barge, but the water did not prevent Khivan soldiers from doing so. If it came to it, the only advantage it offered would be to disrupt their formations and slow them down, providing an opportunity to strike.
The other mages, their small army camped within close distance of the waters, agreed with Valerius’s assessment. “We must spread out,” Eleanor declared, the best tactician among them. “They will seek to use their superior numbers to cross in multiple locations. The longer we can prevent that or delay them, the better. We withdraw when our position is no longer tenable. Being few in numbers, we have the advantage when it comes to speed.”
“How should we divide up?” Martel asked.
“We split our forces into small groups, each led by a mage. We patrol a small stretch each. Beat back the Khivans if they try to cross near you, come to the aid of the others if not.”
“I’ll scout on the other side,” Atreus suggested. “I am less useful in this type of combat, but I’m very good at staying hidden. I can provide advance warning, or if I come across any lone Khivans, I’m very persuasive when it comes to interrogating.”
“Assuming they speak Asterian,” Martel considered; it seemed unlikely, unless the spellbreaker could get his hands on an educated officer.
Atreus gave a smile. “I’ve spent the last months learning Khivan from our own people. I figured it would come in useful.”
Martel raised his hands in defeat. “Never mind me.”
“As for me, I do not require additional forces,” Cornelia remarked confidently. “Water is my element. I will not even give them the chance to cross.”
“Fine,” Eleanor conceded. “Every mageknight gets ten soldiers, archers and spearmen mixed. One or two who can act as runners as well. The remainder stays here, where the water is shallowest. They will try to cross here in the greatest numbers. Our battlemage will defend this point.” She looked at the wizard in question. Martel bowed his head. “As the legate commands.”
They spent a day making preparations and dispatching scouts northeast and southwest along the river; their lack of supplies allowed for little else. A few trees were felled to create long spikes and hammered into the ground where Martel was to defend, protecting against a cavalry charge, and a low earthen wall dug to provide cover for some archers.
At night, they saw a series of sparks streamed into the air. A signal from Atreus, somewhere to the southeast. The Khivans were coming, either tonight or the next morning. The mages and soldiers, Archen’s primary defence, bid each other farewell briefly. Martel kissed Eleanor and watched her march out with her few troops to take her position, Valerius going the same way. South of him, Cornelia took hers. Beyond her, Maximilian would defend with his hammer. Martel had struggled, wondering if this was an elaborate conspiracy by the Khivans, but he had sensed no treachery from the mageknight. The next hours would prove his decision to trust the former praetorian right or wrong.
Daylight arrived before the Khivans did, which the men under Martel’s command took as an encouraging sign. They were formerly of the eastern legions, the direction of the sun, and they hailed it rising into the sky. Martel wondered if they would have done so if they knew what lay ahead. The Khivans had decided for an assault during the day rather than night, probably because they would rely on their muskets and cannons. Martel, whose sense of heat could do the work of his eyesight even in the dark, wished they had tried to cross at night instead, but maybe after the previous war, the Khivans had learned how to fight a battlemage. No matter – they had yet to learn how to fight against Martel.
The first Khivan appeared on a horse, bearing a banner and the markings of an officer. An envoy. As he rode into the waters, Martel appeared from behind the primitive fortifications, walking forward, staff in hand. “Enough!” he told the emissary. “Beyond this river lies our city and our lands. Unless you come to offer peace, you will not be allowed further.”
The Khivan halted his horse. “I am here to deliver a message. We offer no more warning. Our armies come to take control of these lands that you so brazenly occupy. Leave in haste, for we will consider all foreigners north of this river to be enemies in occupation of Khivan territory.”
“And I give this final warning. We will kill without mercy every soldier sent against us. We possess might beyond your understanding.”
“You think we do not know you?” the Khivan retorted. “Martel of Engby, known as the Firebrand and the Blackstaff. Or your lieutenants, Eleanor Fontaine, Gaius Valerius, Cornelia Aurelius, Henry of Wiltham, and lately, Maximilian of Marche? We know everything, and our cannons will blast you to pieces. This I swear by the Living Flame.”
Martel was not surprised; he suspected that the Khivans had established a network of spies throughout Aster during the war, and they had no reason to dismantle it simply due to peace. Given how public he and Eleanor had been about their expedition, none of this information would have been difficult to obtain. “When your sons are dead and your mothers curse their loss, recall that you invaded our lands. I promise you this,” he added, and flames erupted to slither around his staff. “You may worship fire, but you cannot imagine the agony when it burns you alive until your dying gasp.”
The envoy gave no reply but turned his horse and rode away. Letting out his breath, Martel returned to his men, knowing that this could very well be the beginning of war.