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531. The Coming of Spring
🕑 Added 2024-01-02 08:00:02 +0000 UTCThe next several fivedays passed without incident. Martel had no further encounters with Khivans on his patrols, and life in camp continued with the usual routines. He sparred with Eleanor in the mornings and went to Esmouth in the afternoons, visiting Henry, the barber, the different craftsmen and traders, and making use of any other way to spend a few coins doing leisurely activities.
Every trip back and forth, he passed by the Tyrian enclave, as he had privately named it. They had chosen a cluster of houses near the harbour, despite the ruined state of those dwellings. Hides had been strung up to act as doors or walls where needed. They clearly hunted, as they brought back game at times; due to the stench, they usually cleaned the furs and tanned them outside the town, going to the river.
Other than that, Martel knew nothing about the band of mercenaries, including the services they provided for the legion. On occasion, he noticed them leaving in the morning or returning in the evening, going east, but he had not initiated any conversation with them; he was not sure if they spoke Asterian, other than perhaps the berserker, their presumptive leader.
Something of note finally happened a month after the saint's feast. Leaving camp to visit Henry, Martel saw the mast of a ship, and he felt a flash of excitement. The crowd of soldiers by the harbour suggested that others shared his sentiment. This was the first vessel to arrive since the Red Emerald, discounting the Tyrian longship. Martel wondered if his purchases would be aboard; given it had been months since the Red Emerald, the demand for various supplies from the entire camp would be great.
Pushing through crowd, Martel continued on his way. It would take a while for them to unload the ship and distribute all the supplies; he might as well go to see his friend and check with the quartermaster later.
***
"Oh, did you hear? A ship arrived." Martel accepted a cup of wine, grabbing a pitcher of water to dilute it.
"I didn't, but that is welcome news. I'm just about on my last jar," Henry replied, motioning towards the wine.
"I do hope they were able to bring me the things I ordered. I got plenty of alchemy to do, just as soon as I can get the right tools."
"A battlemage who does alchemy. You really are the strangest sort." The stonemage gave a wry smile.
"A broad set of skills never hurts. Especially not in a place like this."
"I grant you that." Henry sipped his wine and let out a deep breath. "So, the ship of death has arrived. You've had some lenient days in camp, but you should prepare for that to change."
"Wait, hold on. Ship of death?"
"You haven't heard that before? It's the soldiers' nickname for the first ship that arrives once winter has ended."
Martel frowned, confused. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. But its arrival heralds the end of winter, the beginning of spring… and renewed offensives. The war is about to heat up for you lads," Henry warned him. "I've seen it every summer since I first came here."
"I would ask you what to expect, but I don't suppose you know."
The stonemage shook his head. "I stay within the walls, thank you very much. What little combat I was taught back at the Lyceum, I have all but forgotten. At best, I suppose I can hurl rocks at the enemy."
"I'll suggest to the legate that we bring you along as reinforcements."
***
Returning to the camp some hours later, Martel went to the quartermaster, who handed over a small crate full of items. "I haven't checked if everything you requested is in there," came the admission, "but if not, it'll be there by the next ship."
"That sounds fine," Martel assented, still impressed by Imperial logistics that allowed all of this with such relative ease. Looking into his box of new belongings, he saw that at the very least, his basic tools for alchemy had arrived. He would be able to grind and prepare ingredients, and he also had a small cauldron as well. He could have used the pots that the legion had issued, but it was probably best to keep alchemy and cooking separate.
Returning to his tent in quick stride, Martel considered what to make first. It would be nice to have a general supply of remedies at hand, but maybe he should prioritise what he was most likely to need in the near future. Glancing down at the crate in his arms, it did not look like the more specialised ingredients had been included, which prevented him from making most of his alchemical recipes. He might be limited to only making the simpler items that any apothecary could do.
Just as he reached his tent, Eleanor intercepted him. "We got orders. Tomorrow at second bell, down by the bridge."
"Patrol?" Tomorrow was not their regular day for that activity, but maybe that was about to change with the arrival of spring.
"I was not told anything more than this, except we should bring provisions for two days. I suppose we shall find out tomorrow." She looked at the crate in his arms. "You got everything you wanted?"
"Not quite, but a start."
"I will go myself – hopefully the quartermaster was able to get at least some of my requests. I will not last another month without proper soap. The stuff from the soap maker in Esmouth leaves me feeling dirtier than if I do not wash at all."
"I better get to work." Entering his tent, Martel dug out his lightstone and put it on his desk. Unpacking his new supplies, he made a small workstation for himself, though he had less space than desirable. He would have to figure something out eventually; his desk was adequate for writing letters and missives, not cutting and grinding ingredients with room for tools and jars.
Solving that issue would have to wait, though. For now, he would get to work. Moving around his cramped tent, he began plucking herbs from the drying rack.
~~
Martel's character sheet (no change).
