Chapter 527: The Long Ship
The Long Ship
Martel and Eleanor were still sparring when they both noticed a slow, but steady stream of soldiers leaving camp. Exchanging looks and a shrug, Martel threw his staff aside, removed his chain shirt, and joined the others together with Eleanor.
Once outside the camp's gate, they had to push through the crowd and walk onto the bridge before they finally saw what caused the stir. On the southern pier by Esmouth's harbour, a ship of particular build lay moored. It was long and slender with barely any keel, a vessel made for swift transport of men rather than goods, able to traverse rivers and shallow waters. And the people who unloaded their provisions and belongings from the ship were tall, and several of them fair-haired. While the distance made it impossible, Martel guessed that they all had blue eyes; they were Tyrians.
"I guess we know what the decurion meant," he mumbled. Eleanor made no reply.
***
A few ornery optios and centurions dispersed the soldiers, commanding them back to camp. Under no obligation to do the same, Martel and Eleanor crossed the bridge and approached the pier. Given the structure of the ship, the Tyrians had little beyond their personal belongings to unload; Martel noticed that all of them carried weapons, either on their person or in their packs.
One of them, nearly as tall as Martel, walked all the way up to stand before the battlemage. He spoke rapidly, clearly expecting to be understood. He wore leather and hide as armour, and a big axe rested in some kind of strap on his back.
"Sorry, mate, but I don't speak Tyrian." Certainly when spoken at such a pace.
"What?" the Tyrian looked at Martel in surprise, switching to Asterian. "But you are handsome like us, not all dour like these southerners!"
It was such an absurd remark, Martel almost laughed. "Be that as it may, I am southern like them."
"A shame. But your clothing you do the magic?" The Tyrian's eyes ran up and down the red robes worn by the wizard.
"I'm a mage, yes." There seemed to be no reason to deny it, though Martel wondered why it mattered to the northerner. contemporary romance
"Hah, that makes us kin!" The Tyrian gave as wide a smile as could possibly fit on his face, raising one hand in a flailing gesture. "I do the berserk." On his wrist, the edge of a rune could be seen where the sleeve had fallen down a few inches. Besides his axe, he also carried several knives in his belt, and while slightly shorter than Martel, he was definitely more muscular.
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Eleanor took a small step forward and to the side, her shoulder moving in front of Martel's. "And why exactly have you made port in our camp?"
"Invited by your leaders, woman with furious face. It seems you could use some help in this war of yours!" He laughed and walked off, following the trail of the other Tyrians towards one of the ruined buildings that lay by the harbour.
"Two things I never expected to see here," Eleanor muttered. "Tyrians and mercenaries."
Martel did not reply; his attention was caught by one of the last people to disembark the longship. Unlike the others, he had brown eyes, and his clothing looked to be Asterian. As he walked off the pier, he glanced at the two mages, but hurried past them.
***
When there was nothing further to be gleaned, the pair of mages turned back towards camp. "I didn't know the legions used mercenaries," Martel remarked.
"It was more common long ago when the Empire was smaller. Nowadays, I believe it is only done when they are needed for tasks where ordinary legionaries are less suited," Eleanor explained.
"Makes you wonder what particular task they might be needed for. I didn't see that many of them they are hardly a force to be reckoned with."
"I think I counted about twenty, but some of them might already have left before we arrived. Maybe the number is closer to thirty."
It had not occurred to Martel to make a headcount; Eleanor was more the tactician than him. "Not a lot compared to the legion, several thousand strong. But they must have sailed the entire western and southern coast of the Empire to get here," he considered, "a journey of several months, I should imagine. In the worst season of the year."
They passed through the gate to the camp, where the soldiers on duty straightened their backs as the prefects walked by. "And we know at least one of them is a berserker."
Martel was not keen to remember his own encounter with one of that breed, and he seized on his first thought to steer the conversation away from that direction. "Maybe their ship is the very reason they have been hired. Didn't the mageknights make talk of that last night, patrolling the river? That vessel would be well suited for swiftly traversing up and down the river." It might even be faster than using horses, who would tire riding through the wetlands, and the Tyrians would be able to disembark on either side of the river to fight any Khivans they came upon.
"That is a good point," Eleanor admitted.
"No need to sound surprised! I pay attention. I can put two and two together," Martel told her with mock indignation.
"I am only a little taken aback because the thought had not occurred to me that they might have been hired for their ship," she defended herself. "In any case, since we have not been told anything, the Tyrians would not seem to be relevant for us."
"You say that now, but if you look at who else is out of place in this legion besides the mercenaries"
She came to a halt. "That makes a little more sense than I prefer. Well, nothing we can do about it now, nor should the orders come."
"Indeed." Martel looked towards their tents, just ahead. "Supper together?"
"Sure. Seventh bell."
"Sounds good to me." They continued, each going to their own tent.
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