Firebrand

Subterfuge

Together, the captain prefect and the legate of the Tenth Legion left their camp, riding south. They had an armed escort of a full centuria with them, which seemed unnecessary to Martel. Any group of enemies small enough to evade their patrols and get this close would also be simple enough for Eleanor and him to handle. But his subordinates already fretted at the idea of Martel going into the catacombs with only a mageknight by his side, and so he had indulged them for this short part of the journey.

"There is something we should discuss," Eleanor said.

Although she tried to sound neutral, Martel knew her well enough to notice that she seemed uneasy; her hand kept fidgeting with the reins. "What is on your mind?"

"Assuming our plans are met with success – and I agree with your assessment that this is the best way – once the gates and the harbour are under our control, the last bastion of resistance will be the Imperial palace itself."

"That's true." The Praetorian Guard would never surrender, and they would have the advantage of defending familiar terrain when fighting in the palace. "You're worried about the number of mageknights we'll face storming the place? I already decided I would take part." Martel recalled duelling three of them at the solstice celebration in Eleanor's home; for all their skill and magic, they had no defences against elemental spellcraft.

"I assumed as much. Your magic is our strongest method of dealing with mageknights. Which brings me to my consideration."

He glanced at her as they rode at a steady pace, allowing the legionaries to keep up. "Which is?"

She took a deep breath. "Maximilian is a praetorian knight. It seems likely we will have to fight him."

An unpleasant thought that Martel tried not to dwell on. "Probably. But perhaps we can persuade him to surrender."

"He does tend to be practical, though I am unsure how far his pragmatism stretches. Regardless, what I meant to say is that if we face him, you should step back and let me fight him."

Martel frowned in confusion. "Why? As you just said, my spells are our best method for handling mageknights."

She looked straight ahead. "Exactly. I fear that you will kill him."

"I'm sorry, but that sounds foolish. Do you think he or any other praetorian will give us the same consideration? They'll be fighting a desperate defence of the palace. They'll strike without mercy!"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Certainly, but we are not in the same position. We can afford to be merciful."

"Eleanor, I know you were betrothed to him, but that doesn't mean you should die for him!"

She sent him an angry glare. "He is my friend, and yours! We chose this path, making enemies of the emperor and all who protect him. I'm not so eager to punish Maximilian for our choices by killing him."

"And what if he kills you? Someone else will step forward and kill him in turn, and you've accomplished nothing with your misguided sense of mercy!" Martel clenched the reins in his hands.

She continued to stare at him. "When did mercy become such a dirty word for you?"

Angry yet also uncomfortable under her gaze, he looked straight ahead. "When it supersedes common sense."

He could practically feel her frustration, but she made no reply; they continued in silence.

***

Half a mile north of Morcaster, the Nineteenth Legion had begun preparing a forward siege position, fortifying it with earthworks and sharpened poles. It would serve as a location for their rams and siege towers while also masking the efforts of Henry, the stonemage aiding the rebellion. He had spent the day using his magical sense to comb the ground itself, trying to find any hollow chambers underneath and occasionally directing legionaries to dig, aiding them with his own spellwork to make their progress faster.

"Henry!" Martel called out, jumping down from his horse; Eleanor did the same. They approached the stonemage, who stood in front of a hole in the ground. "Any luck?"

He nodded eagerly. "I discovered hollow space around here, and we dug down to make an entrance. None of us has gone in – the men are afraid to disturb the dead, and I wasn't feeling too keen either – but I used my ability to sense further ahead, and I felt a long, but slender openness. A hallway or something like that."

That fit Martel's memory of the catacombs; narrow passages with alcoves on either side, populated by the dead and occasionally opening up into larger burial chambers. The only thing that surprised him was how far west they stood. He did not realise the tunnels stretched this far. It meant that it would take even longer to traverse them than expected, and time was an issue.

Soon, under the cover of dark, the Twentieth Legion would move to position itself west of the city, ready to make their assault once he and Eleanor opened the gate for them. If the pair did not make it through the catacombs and reached the gate before dawn, the garrison were sure to discover the legion waiting outside their walls. They would swarm the defences with soldiers, ruining their plan.

"Excellent work," he told Henry, trying not to let his concern show. They would simply have to make good speed. All in all, it should not be more than a handful of miles, even if the hallways twisted and turned. "You should return to camp. Even with the defences, there's always a risk of the garrison trying their luck." He looked at Eleanor. "Ready?"

She gave a simple nod. On the horizon, the sun had nearly disappeared. Any moment now, the Twentieth would begin its march. Martel ignited the ruby on his staff to glow with light and turned towards the crude entrance into the underground.

"I will go first," Eleanor declared curtly and stepped in front of him to descend. Martel gave Henry a final look and a half-hearted smile before he followed her into the darkness.