Firebrand

Marked

Moments passed. Outside, it looked as if they might be getting the small fires under control. Martel could not see it, being inside the tent, but as he let his magic push out from him, he did not feel the intense bursts of heat that a blaze out of control should yield.

Pressing the tablecloth to his wound, Martel began to wonder if he had been a fool twice over. Maybe they were bringing the cannons, aiming them at this tent. He wondered if he heard the sound of such a weapon being fired, whether he could drop to the floor fast enough. It seemed unlikely.

A Khivan entered; relatively young, compared to most of them, though still years older than Martel. He carried a large box in his hands. "You are wounded," he simply declared, as he placed the chest on the ground and opened it up, revealing a variety of jars and tools inside.

"You're the physician."

"Yes." He rummaged through his belongings, selecting the equipment to clean the wound and close it.

"There's a man on the ground outside. He might need your help more." Martel did not exactly feel guilty for what he had done to the guard, but there was no reason to let him die unnecessarily.

"He has been taken to the infirmary where my colleague will operate on him." The physician placed himself on his knees next to Martel and got to work on the large gash running alongside his thigh.

"You speak Asterian, I notice." Martel did not care much, but anything to distract him from the pain of somebody poking around his injury.

"Yes. I trained at the great school in Itchan Kala. We learn many things besides anatomy and healing. I also speak Archean, if you prefer to converse in that language."

"I'm pretty sure your Asterian is better than my Archean," Martel mumbled. He felt the needle go in and out, and he gritted his teeth in response.

"You are the mage," the physician said, echoing Martel's words, who did not think it warranted a response, especially not given the increasing effort it took to formulate words. "How does it feel?" The Khivan looked up briefly at Martel before returning his attention on his work. "When you use the forbidden art."

The strange and unexpected question caught Martel so off-guard, it pulled him out of his haze. "You mean magic?"

"Yes. Does it hurt you? Do you feel shame or remorse?"

"No, why in Nether's name would I?"

Once more, the physician looked up at him. "So what do you feel?"

"What do you feel when you see the sunrise? Taste food or wine, hear music, or smell the flowers?" Martel felt himself slurring his words. He reached down towards his belt, intending to grab a fortifying tonic, when he realised that all his alchemy had been taken from him back in Esmouth.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Drink this." The position held out a small flask from his box.

Martel grabbed it with an unsteady gesture and opened it up to let the contents fall into his mouth. The taste was bitter, which was always a good sign for medicine. It made his head clear, and he looked down to see that the Khivan had finished stitching him up. "Not bad." As he felt his mind slipping out of the haze, he noticed for the first time that the physician had two small scars on either side of his throat, just by the collarbone. They were so symmetrical, it could not be a coincidence.

The man pulled up his collar. "Yes. I am marked. By evil, we would say." He placed his tools back in his chest.

"Sorry," Martel mumbled, even if it felt strange to say. Had the man been born in Aster, he would have been respected for it; instead, he seems to consider himself cursed.

"You should avoid using the leg as much as possible. Strenuous activity will open the wound again. Expect it to take many days to heal," the physician declared with a professional voice as he closed his chest and stood up.

"Thanks for the needle and thread."

The physician bowed his head, picked up his belongings, and left.

For a while, Martel sat alone. His mind remained clear, and he no longer feared that he might be falling unconscious or worse. The soldier in him disliked staying in the same spot for so long, right after an attempt on his life; especially as the commander's tent was the most conspicuous place in the camp. But he could hardly run anywhere, and he did not know where to go anyway. So he sat patiently and waited.

Eventually, Azar returned with his adjutant. "Nariman will stay by your side while we discover whether the conspirators had more among their number. You should stay in my tent until morning, at least."

Martel regarded his new protector, who seemed a poor substitute for his previous one, but better than nothing. "Very well." Thinking of Eleanor and how she would react in such a situation, he added, "I'm sorry I accused you of trying to murder me and threatened you," he muttered, as sincerely as he could muster.

"All blame is on me," Azar replied. "You are my guest under my protection, yet men under my command tried to murder you. I am only glad you survived, another testament to your skills. If you will excuse me – I have men to question."

Martel looked up at the adjutant, who had been left for his protection. At least the fellow was armed, with a sword and a pistol in his belt. Martel tried to make himself as comfortable as he could, knowing he would find no further rest this night.

***

In the end, three men were executed the following day. Not that they had participated in the ambush, but they belonged to the same unit as the men who did. Either they knew of the plans and did nothing to prevent them, or they had an inexcusable lack of knowledge concerning their closest brethren.

Martel figured it most of all served as a warning to the remaining soldiers. If anybody else considered taking a shot at the battlemage, they would condemn all their friends to death; likewise, if anyone heard his companion breathe a word against Martel, he was now incentivised to report it.

Martel took no delight in seeing the soldiers executed, nor did he feel convinced it would keep him safe. He trusted his own magic and reputation; if someone truly hated Asterian battlemages, him personally for his deeds, or just magic in general, they would not be deterred.

The commander offered Martel to sleep in his tent on a permanent basis, but Martel preferred going back to the small armoury. A bullet could easily pass through the fabric walls of a tent. Instead, Martel moved to sleep on the floor between the cots, and the blacksmith in the camp installed a bolt on the inside, allowing Martel to lock the door.

Nariman, the adjutant, remained at his side throughout the following days, from morning till evening. They spoke little, which suited Martel fine. If he never had to see any Khivans after this, he would be satisfied. He resumed his visits to the western battlements, gazing in that direction.

After twelve days, his patience was finally rewarded. A rider appeared on the horizon, accompanied by a Khivan patrol. Eventually, Martel could tell it was someone wearing Asterian uniform, but as they came closer to camp, his heart sank; the rider was a man.