Book 8: Chapter 55: Gestures
The two commanders separated, each going to their respective camps, only to return soon after. Azar came with the officers of his regiments and injured soldiers while Martel brought Maximilian, leaving the rest of his mages and militia behind, ready to continue their defence. While Martel trusted Azar to be true to his word, it took only one glory-seeking subordinate to order an assault without his superior’s command. Considering it had happened just yesterday, Martel could not discount the possibility.
Hostility was palpable in the air, fuelled by the suffering groans of the Khivan soldiers that lay on stretchers. “You always had the strangest notions, Nordmark, but this feels downright unnatural,” Maximilian growled as the two mages approached the other delegation. “Yesterday, we kill them, and today, we undo that work?”
“We need to show goodwill,” Martel replied. His hand ran over the leather bag that he carried across his shoulder.
“Well, if I am to use my spellpower this way, you better stand ready to incinerate them all.”
“More than ready.”
Maximilian grumbled something inaudible and returned the hostile stares from the Khivans.
“Sir Martel, you have brought us here.”
The battlemage inclined his head. “While you know me only for my skills in war, I have also studied apothecary craft, alchemy, and the work of physicians.”
He knelt next to one of the Khivan soldiers, who looked to have lost a lot of blood. Bandages around him suggested slashing wounds; none to kill immediately, but the blood loss, risk of infection, and possible internal bleeding suggested he might not live.
“I know the skill of your physicians. I have been treated by one.” Martel glanced at Azar, who nodded to himself; not easy to forget the night where the battlemage threatened the Khivan commander in his tent while surrounded by his army and bleeding from a gunshot wound in the leg. “But for all their skill, there’s nothing further they can do for this man. But I can.” Martel opened his case of potions, originally brought to the battlefield to heal his own soldiers. He took out one of his fortifying elixirs, and before anyone could intervene, he poured the liquid down the man’s throat. Several of the Khivans gasped or gave indignant outbursts, but it was done. They protested in their own language, but Azar raised a hand to quiet them. “Better to die than live by foul sorcery!” exclaimed one captain.
Martel looked to one who seemed conscious, but clearly in agony. From his bandages, he had suffered a terrible wound across his stomach, slashing it open. He would not survive. “Ask this man.” Martel pointed to the injured soldier. “Ask him if he prefers death or to live.”
Azar looked at the mage. “Is that true? Can you grant life to a dying man? It would be cruel to ask otherwise.”
Martel returned the look. “We can. Ask him.”
Hesitant, the Khivan commander knelt next to his soldier, injured in an assault made only to prove a point. They exchanged words, and Azar stood up again. “He wants to live.”
Martel turned to his companion. “Max?”
“Fine.” The mageknight took Azar’s place next to the soldier and held out his hand to touch him. Invisible to all but two present, a strong, red glow appeared. Moments later, Maximilian gasped and nearly stumbled getting back to his feet; expecting this, Martel reached out and supported him.
As for the soldier, the change came immediately. His breathing relaxed, and he looked in wonder, exclaiming words in Khivan.
“He is healed,” Azar remarked. “Extraordinary! Can you do the same for the others? For all?” Some of his officers protested, but their commander silenced them.
“I got fuel for one more,” Maximilian growled. “Better pick wisely.”
“That one. My potions won’t save him.” Martel pointed to the soldier with the worst injuries; as the mageknight attended to him, Martel used his elixirs on the rest.
Once complete, Martel tried to read the minds of the Khivans, but he failed. Too many people around him, too many emotions. He could not distinguish between them. Their expressions told him plenty, though. Several of the officers remained unswayed; if anything, the use of magic had only made them more hostile.
But Azar had been openminded from the start, possibly helped by the fact that he had felt the effect of magic himself, and the commander seemed further convinced.
All the same, Martel knew this would not be enough. A few displays of goodwill would not change attitudes towards magic in Khiva, nor give the commander the arguments against war to convince his cousin and the court. “Commander Azar, if you will agree to a truce, I should like to invite you to Archen. See the city that some claim to be Khiva’s enemy before you wage war upon it.”
The sudden proposal caused a ripple of surprise through the Khivans. Several of the officers protested again, but as before, Azar silenced them. “Very well. I agree to a truce between us. No soldier of Khiva shall cross the boundary between our realms except by your invitation. There will be no hostilities while I remain in your lands.”
Martel bowed his head in acquiescence. “And I guarantee safe conduct for all our guests while you remain in our lands,” he replied, thinking that Eleanor would be pleased with his increased skills in diplomacy. “Nor shall I command any of my soldiers to cross the boundary and enter your realm unbidden.”
Azar breathed deeply. “It is agreed. The hour is late. Tomorrow, I and my chosen attendants will come to the river, and we may travel together.”
“It is agreed.”
The two parties separated, going in opposite directions. The two mages walked in silence, Martel’s head full of thoughts. Maximilian did not speak either for another reason; as they came to the river, he bent over and emptied his stomach into its waters. “You will never know the willpower it took to keep that down for so long.”
Martel patted him on the back. “Archen appreciates your efforts and sacrifice.”
“That better be the case.” The mageknight straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I would have been gentler with these Khivan lads if I had known I would be the one to stitch them back together.”
Unexpectedly, Martel laughed, perhaps because the whole situation felt absurd. Maximilian stared at him for a moment and joined in; together, they crossed the ford, attracting odd looks from their soldiers standing guard.