Firebrand

The small party of wizards allowed themselves a few hours of sleep before returning to Archen, though they walked some distance away from the battle and the portal; resting in a location of such sorrow and ill-fated magic could have disturbing consequences. Once a few miles down the foothills, while Nebo kept watch, they slept.

Archen lay a day’s march to the west, and as they set out, Martel found it hard to keep up with the others. The curse tired him, regardless of how much he had rested. It did not interfere with his magic abilities; his spellpower had replenished itself as usual, and he summoned a flame at his fingertip without difficulty. He simply felt worn in his soul, which seeped into his body, and no amount of empowering magic could make the steps feel less burdensome.

If the others noticed that he struggled to keep up, they made no mention of it. Given all the hardships they had suffered, including Martel facing down the fiery breath of a dragon, fatigue was understandable. And despite the curse weighing his emotions down, Martel felt a tinge of joy at seeing the walls of Archen rise on the horizon; their sacrifice had not been in vain.

When they reached the city, Martel barely felt able to stand. As soon as he could, he found some debris to sit on. Their approach had been spotted; Valerius had posted a few sentinels on the walls. By the time the Triumvirate and Nebo entered Archen, they were greeted by the remaining leaders.

“You have a habit of running off,” Maximilian growled. All of them moved cautiously, indicant of injuries, including the healer, but his gruff tone of voice suggested to Martel that he was fine. “But do not worry. We waited for you before cleaning up this mess.”

“Henry is dead,” Valerius remarked quietly to Martel and Eleanor; the three of them had known the stonemage the longest. “As is most of our remaining forces. A few hundred survive. I have sent word to our people in the forest that the danger has passed.”

All the memories came to Martel. Countless hours spent in Henry’s small house in Esmouth, taking small sips of wine to ration it before the next ship could arrive, all to chase away the spectre of war that awaited Martel outside the room. The occasional return to Morcaster, visiting the stonemage and his thriving business creating statues of exquisite beauty. All their toil together in Archen, none working harder than Henry making the city’s buildings suitable for living, creating canals to ensure their water supply, and making roads to connect their home with the world. This update ıs available on NoveIＦire.net

If not for the curse, Martel would have wept. Instead, he only felt weary, in body and spirit. So much lost, so many dead, for the ambition and vanity of a few.

“We take our leave.” Embla, leading the remaining Tyrians, had joined them. “Most of our warriors shall return directly. But I did not find Ketill’s body among the draugar that attacked the city. I suspect his spirit too strong to be bent to another’s will. A few of us shall return to the valley and find him that he might be buried as he deserves.”

“You have done more than we could have hoped for,” Eleanor admitted. She and several others bowed their heads to the skáld. “We did what oaths of friendship demanded. Even if the cost was high. Farewell.” With nothing further to say, apparently, Embla and a handful of Tyrians moved past the Archeans, going east towards the valley to find their slain berserker.

“Nebo, I would speak with you,” Martel asked, still seated. “You should hear this as well, Eleanor.”

The others glanced at him but spoke not; instead, they walked back towards the centre of the city and all the work that awaited dealing with the fallen. As for the mage of Phoenik, he turned towards the Sage. “This is about your curse, I presume,” he said in a quiet voice.

While Eleanor stared at him in shock, Martel nodded slowly. His head felt heavy. “Yes.”

“Is this what has plagued you? Why did you not tell?” she demanded to know.

“I wanted to know the city was safe first. And maybe postpone for as long as I could,” Martel breathed, sounding ragged. “Moloch cursed me. I feel like I grow weaker by the hour.”

“You are. This is not a curse to inflict prolonged punishment.” For the first time since they met him, neither Nebo’s voice nor expression seemed jovial. “You are dying, rapidly.”

“How fast?” Eleanor exclaimed.

“In a few days, I suspect.”

Martel nodded again. His decline did seem to have hastened. “There is nothing you can do, is there?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It takes a stronger wizard than Moloch to undo her work. That is not me.”

“The seiðr-wives of Tyria,” Eleanor suggested. “Their powers are vast, and they know curses. We must petition them.” She turned to Nebo. “There must be a portal that will take us north in time.”

“We never dared to enter their lands. I could not bring you within a hundred miles of the Frosten river.”

“You bring us as close as you can!” Eleanor demanded. “I shall carry him the rest of the way, walk day or night if I must!”

“Eleanor, we can’t.” Martel’s words seemed a slap in her face as he looked up at her. While still seated, he leaned both hands and his head against his staff to stay upright. “It would never be in time. And opening a portal would give the fiends an opening to enter our world.”

“We kill her,” the Warrior of Archen declared. “That must bring an end to her curse, right? We enter the Nether, and we kill her.”

“Nothing can die in the Beyond,” Nebo told her. “Your will can be bent and broken, you can be made to suffer. But there is no death, no true destruction in the realm of creation.”

“We are to give up?” Eleanor shouted, and a few heads further down the street turned towards them. “We have never accepted defeat, and I refuse to do so now!”

“Eleanor,” Martel breathed, and he reached out to grasp her hand weakly. “It’s alright.”

“How can you say that?” she asked with a quaking voice, turning her head from him.

“Victory has a price. Some of us must pay it. I asked others to do it.” Martel swallowed, thinking of Henry and all those of his people who had settled in Archen on his word, now dead. “Now it’s my turn to pay.”

She tore her hand from his and stepped away. Struggling, he got on his feet and touched her shoulder, prompting her to turn back and fling her arms around him. The force of her movements would have knocked him over, except her strength caught him and kept him supported, as she had always done.

“I need you to be strong for me, just one more time.”

She gave no reply other than her tears against his shoulder.