Firebrand

The Archean defence had held across the line. The Khivans had underestimated their enemy or simply spread their own forces too thin. The defenders had barely taken losses, a few dead and some grievously injured; proving himself worthy of his desired title, Maximilian healed the worst with his remaining spellpower.

By a rough count, they had killed about three to four hundred Khivans. A complete victory, but on a small scale. According to Atreus’s intelligence, the Third Army consisted of another nine regiments. The Archeans could defend against a thousand, but not nine thousand.

Yet they would have to try. Resolved, the commanders of the small militia dispersed, each to take up their defensive locations again, ready for another day.

When dawn came, it did not herald another assault. Instead, several riders with the banners of the Khivan king and the Third Army approached Martel’s position. “We seek your leader!” one of them called out.

Keeping his archers ready and his eye on their weapons, Martel stepped out of the fortifications. “Here I am. What do you wish?” He sensed the man’s mood. Trepidation, concern, but also duty.

“Under a guarantee of safe conduct, you are invited to parley with the commander of the Third Army. A tent has been set up close by where you may meet, no soldiers nearby.”

Martel squinted his eyes; he did not wish to take out his spyglass and reveal the Archeans had such instruments. “Safe conduct is guaranteed?”

The envoy nodded. “My master, Commander Azar, claims you would not doubt his word.”

Martel admitted that to be true; of all the Khivan soldiers and captains, that might be the one he trusted. And if this proved to be treachery… the Khivans still believed gold could protect them from his fire. “Very well.”

Martel used his sense of magic repeatedly as he rode on a borrowed horse half a mile southeast to the meeting tent. No soldiers nearby other than those who had fetched him, none of whom wore gold anywhere. No guards at the tent either, and just the heat from a single person inside. As their horses stopped, Azar himself came out from the tent. He spoke in Khivan, and his attendants bowed their heads and rode away. “Sir Martel, welcome. I thought we should be alone,” he explained. A quick magical read gave no sense of falsehood, and the battlemage followed the commander into the tent. Fresh chapters posted on novel⟡fire.net

It contained nothing but a stool for each, and they sat down. “You desired to parley, I’m told.”

The Khivan took a deep breath. “I did. Thanks to my success in the last war, notably my part in ending it, I was able to demand leadership of this campaign.”

“You wanted to face us on the field?” Martel frowned.

“I wanted to avoid it. I sent my most foolhardy captain ahead as the vanguard. Eager to prove himself, as he did not fight in the war, and thus also prone to underestimating you, I suspected he would not be able to hold himself back, seeing an enemy so outnumbered.”

Martel hid the expression from his face. Azar had sent hundreds of his men to their deaths, knowing to expect defeat. “So yesterday’s outcome is no surprise.”

“No, but as I did not command the assault, I can assign blame to my subordinate. His father, coincidentally, is one of my detractors at my cousin’s court. This will take the sting out of his accusations,” Azar explained.

“So what is it you hope to achieve?”

“The Khivan court is divided between two factions. One that includes me and other commanders from the war, who saw how wasteful it is. The other is angered at the peace treaty we concluded, considering the terms too mild. Some are fanatics who hate magic more than anything, some believe we are owed reparations from Aster, and some are simply opportunists, seeing a chance for advancement in chaos.”

Martel sighed. This sounded too familiar to him. “A war with Archen would suit all their goals. No greater enemy for those who hate magic. Those who wish to punish Aster can strike against Asterian people without provoking war, and an easy campaign like this is certain to provide glory.”

“Exactly. You have become adept at politics.”

“Against my will, I assure you. So what do you propose?”

“I need something I can take to the court. A gesture of goodwill. Perhaps you will abandon Archen itself and only settle on the outskirts? Make the city outlawed territory. And a Khivan garrison in your new town to settle minds fearing that you will one day grow to become our enemy and wage war on us.”

Effectively putting a Khivan knife to their throats. A threat that could become all too real if the winds of the Khivan court blew in the other direction.

Martel reached out with his magic again. This time, he tried to dig deeper into the commander’s mind. It made him flinch, overwhelmed by the sudden connection of emotions. He sensed a man tired and worn out by war, burdened by the deaths caused by his orders, fearful of another prolonged conflict against mages who spewed fire and lightning.

“Sir? What is it?” asked Azar.

“I imagine you find it hard to sleep. Your burdens and concern weigh on you.”

“Would I be worth a damn as a leader if they did not?”

“Commander, can you trust me? Can you put aside your dislike for magic?”

The Khivan’s eyes narrowed. “Why? I admit, I find your powers distasteful personally, but I respect them all the same.”

“If you can trust me, I can provide you a measure of peace. And perhaps a way forward.”

Azar stared at him for a tense moment. “Fine. What is it you propose?”

Martel raised a hand. “Simply that you sit still.” And as he placed a fingertip against the commander’s temple, it glowed white with healing power.

Azar closed his eyes, and he took a deep breath as he opened them again. “What was that? What did you do?”

“Your soul is wounded, commander, from all that has been inflicted upon it. You will always have scars, but you will find sleep comes to you more easily. And maybe that your burdens are easier to carry.”

“Is this true? Or just some flowery words? I do not understand. You can… reach into a man’s very soul?”

“You want a gesture of goodwill? You must have wounded after the battle. Bring them here. Those with the most severe injuries, who are unlikely to see the morrow. Bring your captains as well,” Martel told him. “It is time for things to change in Khiva.”