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593. From the Anvil
🕑 Added 2024-03-04 08:00:03 +0000 UTCMartel and Eleanor rested as best they could for the remainder of the day, with nothing to do but wait for nightfall. Back in his tent, Martel tried to sleep, but each time he came close, the sound of cannons roaring reminded him of the situation, making his heart do a double beat.
When he finally gave up, he ate some of his rations instead and finally drifted around the camp in a restless state. Some of the soldiers greeted him, mostly those who recognised him from his defence of the outpost last summer. The mood was as sombre in the camp as could be expected; everyone knew what it meant if Esmouth fell, isolating the legion on the eastern bank. The Khivan galleys could freely enter the delta, sticking to the western shore, and bombard the camp. The Asterians in the camp would have few means to defend themselves, and no option for retreat. Death or imprisonment awaited them.
Though in such a case, Martel figured that some at least stood a chance of disappearing in the confusion, and perhaps vanish into the forests. Not so for those in Esmouth if it fell. The garrison inside stood no hope of escaping across the river, should the Khivan assault be successful, not with the galleys controlling the waters. When it came to the small town on the other shore, they would defend it or die; Martel had no illusions about what happened to mages that fell into Khivan hands.
***
Once it finally became dark, the legionaries began preparing for the crossing. With Esmouth presumably fully encircled on land, they could not risk moving further upriver; they had to do it near the delta. Fortunately, clouds covered the sky and the moon, which otherwise would have illuminated their activities, but the soldiers hurried all the same; nobody could know if the clouds would break at some point, leaving them visible.
The camp prefect and the quartermaster oversaw the movement of goods into a large boat. It looked to be a small fishing vessel, where the mast had been removed, and instead, two sets of oars had been added. Swiftly, the legionaries filled the boat to the brim with supplies while Martel and Eleanor climbed aboard. She took one of the seats for rowing; a burly soldier with forearms like a smith took the other. A second legionary positioned himself by the small helm, where Martel also sat. A final push from the soldiers on the bank, and they were away.
Martel looked across the river at the distant lights of Esmouth, few as they were. To his left, only the darkness of the sea except for what he guessed to be lanterns aboard the Khivan galleries. As for sound, he heard two pairs of oars being pushed into the water, moving them towards their destination.
Being unable to do anything but sit still made Martel feel not just useless, but awful. If the boat still had its mast, he could have raised the wind to add a little speed. Instead, he could do nothing but constantly look in the different directions.
Something roused his suspicion, and he squinted his eyes, staring south. Did those lanterns move? There could really only be one explanation for why any of the galleys would approach the shore. Martel turned towards the helmsman. "Any chance we have been discovered?" he whispered.
The soldier looked to his left at the lights in the dark. "Doubtful. But the Khivans know what we're doing every night, even if they can't see us." He spoke in a calm manner; while not being loud, he did not whisper either. "They must have figured it was time."
"Time for what?"
"Well, they know we are here, somewhere on the water. So they'll start firing, just in case they get lucky. Hope you're a gambling man, prefect, because we are about to roll dice for our lives." He grinned, as if the prospect of death did not disturb him in the slightest.
Martel looked over the railing down at the dark river. He could perhaps tread waters, assuming he did not panic if the boat was blown to pieces nor get torn to shreds along with it, but trying to swim ashore felt like a daunting task. He swallowed, praying to all the Stars, especially Perel.
The sound of cannons firing tore through the night air. This was not from the distant siege camp, assaulting the walls of Esmouth; the galley in the delta had moved into position and fired a broadside. Martel heard wood being crushed, and for a moment, he thought he was about to die until he realised the boat still floated. The Khivans must have hit the remnants of the bridge, parts of which still stood between the shorelines. The helmsman gave him another grin.
The rhythm of the oars increased, moving as swiftly as possible while still remaining in unison. More and more shots were fired, streaks of hot metal barrelling towards them, harbingers of death. Martel felt them with his magic, thanks to the heat being produced; he wondered if he could push them back. It would require a lot of his power, and metal was not a material he could easily control; yet he had to try if the alternative was the boat being ripped apart.
His magic could not reach as far as the galley, and he waited until he heard the sound of yet another cannon being fired. A moment later, he felt the ball of iron thundering towards them. He tried to connect with his magic and push back, to no effect. The projectile continued unimpeded, passing them by some ten feet behind.
Suddenly, the boat struck something, sending tremors through everyone, and Martel had to grasp onto the railing to steady himself. They had made it. Relieved, Martel controlled himself rather than immediately jump overboard. Soldiers waiting for them grabbed the boat and helped pull it closer, and they began emptying it of its cargo. Eleanor helped, using empowered strength to practically throw crates ashore; a little less conspicuous in his efforts, Martel picked one up with one hand, staff in the other, and made his way onto firm ground. He looked back at his protector as she joined him; they had made it, from the anvil into the furnace.
~
Martel's character sheet (no change).
