Book 8: Chapter 80: Those that remain
Once more, the strange sensation of being underwater, lasting only a moment before Martel found himself on another stone floor, surrounded by darkness.
“How quaint! Is your city also underground?”
“Just this part,” Martel mumbled. He ignited a flame to light up the space. The underground chamber where Karolos had languished for three centuries, a prisoner of his own wards. After moving in, the new Archeans had bricked up the entrances to the underground complex, having no immediate use for it. “Eleanor?”
“Yes.” She moved to the shaft that the former archmage had used as his personal entrance. Climbing up the ladder, she clenched her hand into a fist.
The people of Archen, those that remained, had gone about their work and chores in an anxious mood. Their defenders had departed the day before, and they would at the earliest return on the eve of this day with news of victory or defeat.
None of them expected to see a large stone suddenly fly up from the street, landing a few feet away, followed by the Triumvirate of their city climbing out of the newly made hole, appearing worn and dusty. An elderly, slightly befuddled-looking man followed.
“The city still stands,” Martel remarked with a touch of relief.
“I’m sure Moloch will spend some time securing the area around the portal, once she’s chased your people away,” Nebo considered. “But once that’s done, oh dear, it’s probably a straight march here! If nothing else because she’ll want to occupy this city, so close to the portal.”
“We need to reach our army,” Martel declared, ignoring the old mage.
“And do what?” asked Atreus. “None of us are in fighting condition. They’ll be fleeing in this direction regardless. As much as it may bother you, the only thing you can accomplish right now would be to rest. Regain your strength and prepare for the fight to come.” “He is right,” Eleanor conceded. “Our soldiers are coming to us, and this is where we must defend. But the people…” She looked around at the many faces that stared at them, none daring to approach.
“I’ll begin evacuating. The pair of you, rest up,” Atreus told them.
“I’ll help!” Nebo exclaimed with a smile. “Where are we going?”
Leaving them behind, Martel and Eleanor made their way to the small house they shared. They only took the time to remove their armour; lying down on the bed, they clung to each other and fell asleep.
“Master Martel! Mistress Eleanor!”
Roused from slumber, it took Martel a moment to get his bearings. The weight of everything that had happened and what yet threatened them hit him. His mind stumbling through this labyrinth of thoughts, he looked at the little Mouse. “Why haven’t you fled the city? Did Atreus not warn you?”
“You need runners, Master Martel. And we aren’t leaving our home,” the girl declared. “He sent me to get you. The fighters are returning.”
“There is food in that cupboard,” Eleanor told her. “Take some before you leave. Martel, we should go.”
They left straight for the eastern wall, ascending it to gaze at the landscape beyond. In the distance, a ragged band of warriors could be seen marching towards them.
Atreus was already present. He greeted them with a quick glance before turning his eyes in the eastern direction again.
“Have they sent word ahead?” asked Eleanor.
“No. I imagine none have strength left to run ahead. And I saw no need to send one, given all our efforts are needed here,” Atreus replied. “I’ve evacuated those we could. Some, those with relatives marching back to us, refused to leave.”
“That is their choice,” Martel conceded. “What numbers would you estimate they have left?” he asked, nodding towards the remnant of their army.
“Hard to say, but less than half, I’d wager,” the spellbreaker guessed.
“Given what they have lived through, each survivor is a blessing,” Eleanor remarked. “Martel, come. We should eat as well. It will be a little while before they reach us, after all.”
Archen had no clocks to measure time and no temples to ring bells. Judging by the descent of the sun, Martel estimated that they had waited half an hour before the small army reached the city. Meeting them on the bridge gate, Martel looked into their faces. Extreme fatigue, as could be expected after a day’s forced march, a night of gruelling battle, and another day’s desperate flight from creatures born of pure terror. None of them had the strength to greet him. They trudged past the city’s rulers, taking the final steps into frail safety, where their families awaited them with tears; Sparrow ran to Henry, hugging her master.
Only the mages remained to speak with the Triumvirate. Martel noticed that although injured, nearly all of them were alive.
“Where were you?” roared Maximilian, finding strength in indignation despite his weariness. “Monsters from our worst nightmares poured out of the ground! They tore through us, and you, our fearless leaders, nowhere to be seen!”
“Ketill died,” reported Embla mutely. “He charged with no hesitation. I can only pray I’ll live to write his song.”
Martel noticed that the Tyrians had taken as grievous losses as the Archeans if not worse, and he would be asking more of them when tomorrow came; for now, he needed information.
“We pursued the lich and slew him,” Eleanor told them. “He is gone.”
“And in his place, a hundred times the threat has appeared. A horde of monsters.” Maximilian threw his hammer to the ground.
“To be precise, there’s only ten of them,” interjected Nebo.
“And who, pray tell, is this fellow?” asked the mageknight.
“A wizard of great power and our ally,” Eleanor said curtly. Next to him, Nebo waved with a beaming smile.
“Come,” Martel told them. “We have food and water ready. Sit and eat, and we can both relate everything we know. We must make plans, and soon.” He gazed beyond his people at the mountains towards the east; between them, a valley now teemed with the greatest threat they had ever faced.