Book 8: Chapter 56: Labours
The following morning, a small procession of riders passed the river. Chief among them was Azar, accompanied by a few of his captains and five soldiers to act as his bodyguard, befitting a man of his rank. Having no horses, the Archeans greeted them on foot. Martel joined their party, along with five of his own spearmen; the rest, he left to guard the border.
It took them the whole day to cross the empty lands and reach the city; the sun had set as they made their approach. Lights dotted the landscape; in the fields, they worked late, having begun an early harvest. Martel’s lightstones likewise illuminated the path up to the gate, casting a shine on any who approached the city.
“Who comes at this hour?” asked the sentinel atop the gatehouse.
“It’s me,” Martel called out, walking close to one of the lightstones to show his face. “Open the gate.”
“Master Martel! At once!”
After a brief wait and some rumbling, the gate opened, and the procession could enter. “Find Henry and bring him to us,” Martel commanded, and the watchman bowed his head and ran off. “It is late, and there’s little reason to show you around in the dark. We will find accommodations for you, and tomorrow, you may see the city.”
“Very well.” Despite the darkness, Azar and his men all craned their necks, looking in every direction. To them, Archen had to be a name entwined with evil; now they sat on horses in its streets, and children ran past them, laughing.
Henry appeared, looking bewildered and possibly haggard; no doubt he also laboured late into every night. “Martel. And… horsemen.”
“This is Henry, our stonemage. He is in charge of finding homes for our people. Henry, meet Commander Azar of the Third Army of Khiva.” Some pleasantries were exchanged, and Martel spoke again. “Henry, our guests need rooms for the night. Anything available?”
“Of course. Plenty of empty houses.” “We also need light and heat, and food.”
The stonemage nodded. “Got it. Come with me, and we’ll get it sorted.”
A building that once had served as a public house, including a stable for the tavernkeeper to keep animals, was conscripted to house the Khivan delegation. “The furniture is primitive, I fear,” Henry apologised.
“We are soldiers. As long as we sleep somewhere dry, we consider ourselves fortunate,” Azar declared.
“Good, because the straw doesn’t help much in terms of comfort,” Henry mumbled. They stood in what would have been the common room, large enough to offer sleeping locations for all of them. “But otherwise, you should be fine.” He pulled a lightstone out of a dark bag, placing it in the middle. “Light as you need it. When you want it extinguished to sleep, just put it back in the bag.”
Two men came in, carrying a heating stone between them while wearing gloves. “And that should drive away the cold,” Martel spoke. “My own work, as is the lightstone.”
“Your hospitality is appreciated.” Judging by the displeased expressions on his officers’ faces, not everyone shared Azar’s sentiment.
“Food?” Martel gave Henry a questioning look.
“Should be on its way.”
“Great. We can share a meal, and we’ll let you sleep after that,” Martel declared.
They all sat down, and some of the Khivans stared at Henry. “You are not a soldier?” one asked.
The stonemage cleared his throat, looking nervous. “No. I don’t use magic to fight. I build. Or repair, in this case.”
“And create statues of exquisite beauty,” Martel interjected. “Once you’ve repaired our city, perhaps you’ll make it beautiful too.”
“That’s the dream.”
Martel returned early the next day to fetch his guests, together with Henry. “Come. Let us show you Archen.”
The Khivans followed, with Henry taking the lead. “We haven’t come that far yet, but we’ll be making underground aqueducts that lead water through the city. This fountain is empty now, but it’ll soon flow with drinking water again.”
One of their guests exclaimed loudly in Khivan, causing everyone to stop and look around. “That’s one of our people,” he repeated in Asterian.
True enough, they had walked past a workshop where several Khivans sat, engrossed in their labour. Becoming aware of the commotion outside, one of them came outside, glancing nervously at the archmage. “Master Martel?”
“Tell us of your work.” While it would reveal that the Archeans had access to Khivan inventions and craftsmanship, Martel considered it a necessary trade.
“Uh, I create leather frames for lenses. Until we get some ore, we can’t spare the iron to make them out of metal, so we use boiled leather for now. Like the spyglass we made for you, good master.”
“You are Asterian,” came a dismissive sneer from one of the Khivan officers. “You live and work with them.”
“I was born in Morcaster,” the craftsman retorted. “But now I’m Archean. This is my home.”
“Is it better here than in Morcaster?” Martel asked.
“Oh, yes, good master. My house is my own. No landlord charging rent. No court refusing to hear our pleas when Asterians exploit us. The Asterians back home, I mean,” he hurried to add. “Well, former home. Nobody spits on my children for playing in the street where Asterians live. Former Asterians, I should say. We’re all Archeans here. And when my mother got sick, well, you know that yourself, Master Martel. Your potion healed her right up.”
“We’re all Archeans here,” Martel repeated. “This is our home. And we won’t leave. Thank you,” he added to the workman. “Don’t let us keep you from your labours.”
The Khivan guests spent another night in Archen; early next morning, they assembled to return to the border, Martel accompanying them. Despite some odd looks from his subordinates, Azar dismounted and walked alongside the mage.
“I have seen what you had to show, and I understand your intentions. But I cannot guarantee it will persuade any in Itchan Kala.”
“I understand. I know you are earnest in your desire for peace.”
Azar nodded. “I shall relate it all. The prowess of your defence, the strength of your walls. That you use your powers to make life easier, and that Khivans and Asterians live in peace together. Did I miss anything?” The wily commander gave Martel a knowing look.
“You picked up on everything,” the mage admitted. “You could add that when Khivan soldiers fired upon our people, disembarking into Asterian territory, I left them all unhurt when I could have killed each of them.”
“I heard about the incident. I am not surprised you were the mage present. Others dismissed the reports as exaggeration or pure invention, but I suspected you could do all it said and more.”
“I can. Commander, this is not a boast.” Martel lowered his voice. “We do not fight like the Asterian legions. Our walls are impregnable to your cannons, and we have a potential for destruction that you never saw in the last war. For the sake of your own people, don’t force us to defend our home.”
“I believe you, sadly. I shall speak with the same conviction at court and hope they listen.”
“If it will help, tell them that we offer our healing and elixirs to all who need it. Your cousin, the king, may find that a convincing argument.” While Martel was not the equal of Rana when it came to alchemy, he hoped that the king’s previous reliance on a potion for his own healing would work in their favour.
“That is hard to tell. I fear most will consider such an offer a corruption of our nation. I can perhaps persuade the court that war is not in our favour, but cooperation or anything that resembles friendship…” Azar scratched his bearded cheek. “That is certain to be opposed.”
“I understand.”
“I shall command the Third Army to withdraw to Nahavand, and our truce remains in effect for the time being,” Azar continued. “At least until I reach Itchan Kala. Whether an emissary of peace will take my place, or another commander with the mandate to wage war, we shall see.”
In either case, this would buy them a month or two. Enough to gather the harvest, strengthen the militia, bring in the first iron ore, and prepare further defences. Not only of Archen itself, but also the southern borderlands where they now walked. “That is most appreciated.”