Chapter 553: Predators and Prey
Predators and Prey
On the morrow, ten legionaries including their princeps stood in the middle of the outpost, gathered underneath the cohort banner. Seeing two prefects approach, they stood at attention.
"Princeps," Eleanor said, "we shall be conducting patrols on our own. You and your men may go northeast and north, while Martel and I shall go southeast and south."
"Sir," the princeps mumbled, "we were told we have mages with us. Considering enemy activity, we all feel better with magic by our side."
"The Khivans are hunting for battlemages, not legionaries," Martel inserted. "We are doing you a favour, princeps."
"You have your orders," Eleanor added.
"Yes, prefect!" The princeps saluted, and he marched his patrol out of the gates; Eleanor and Martel followed at their own pace, going the other direction once outside the walls.
***
Martel reached out and took hold of Eleanor's shoulder, giving her the agreed-upon signal. Both of them immediately crouched low, and he held up three fingers before pointing in the direction ahead of them. Two fingers pointing to the left, moving towards them; three fingers to the right, perched up in the trees. freeweb . com
A silent conversation of gestures followed as they decided upon their course of action and how to go through the different groups of enemies. Once in agreement, Eleanor drew her sword while Martel renewed the grip on his staff. Exchanging a nod, they both got on their feet and charged the Khivans straight ahead. Moments after, the forest resounded with magic being unleashed and death cries.
***
Martel and Eleanor had barely arrived back at the outpost before the mageknight in command, Theodore, intercept them on their way to their tent. "My princeps tell me you patrolled alone, leaving them on their own. This is against all regulations!"
"How many of your soldiers made it back?" Eleanor asked.
"All of them, but that is not the issue," the mageknight insisted.
"How often have your patrols been attacked in the last fiveday, while we were gone?" Martel interjected.
"I'm not sure why that matters? I rely on these patrols to maintain vigilance around our camp, and the legate expects daily reports from me."
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"We killed eight Khivans today," Eleanor told him. "No casualties suffered by any of your legionaries. But if you insist on making them follow us, be assured that will change."
"You can put that in your daily report," Martel suggested, feeling too tired to care about bureaucratic intricacies. Both he and Eleanor continued onwards, leaving the mageknight behind.
***
The Khivan drew his pistol from his belt, and Martel knew immediately what that meant. Without hesitation, he ducked behind a tree, and a moment later, a musket ball flew past him. The feeling of cold emptiness streaking through the air told him it was touched with gold, as he had feared.
Martel quickly jumped back out, as he did not want to give the Khivan time to reload. Reaching the same conclusion, the soldier rushed forward while drawing his dagger. He took a fire bolt to the chest doing so, yet battle fury or momentum carried him forward, and he swung his weapon at Martel even as his clothes burned.
Using his arm to deflect the blow, Martel felt the blade rip his clothes open until it met the chain shirt underneath. Another fire bolt from his staff struck the Khivan, this time in his face, extinguishing any willpower that had kept him on his feet, and he sank to the ground.
Turning towards the sounds of battle elsewhere, Martel caught the end of the fight. Two Khivans, also using their daggers, attacked Eleanor from either side. Rather than steel, they wore lamellar armour made from leather, useful for stealth and agile movements. Against a mageknight with empowered speed and strength, they might as well have worn nothing. Two quick strikes with her sword and Eleanor felled them both.
"You're wounded," he realised, watching a pained expression flashed across her face.
"My armour is split in the back. One of them got a slash in, but it is not deep. I will be fine." She began her regular routine of stomping on the mechanism of the Khivan muskets with her heel, using such force she sometimes broke the whole weapon in twain. contemporary romance
"Let's get back to camp."
***
Inside the tent, Eleanor sat deepest in, with her back turned towards Martel, who was placed behind her. He carefully pushed her shirt up to begin cleaning the wound, thanking those hours spent in the Lyceum of his infirmary, teaching him what to do. "It's shallow," he said. "No need for stitches, I think."
"Good."
"But you need new armour. I'll get a replacement from the smith."
"Thank you."
He put away the washing cloth and picked up a jar of blood salve instead. "It's been long enough for missives to reach the legate and return, but we haven't heard anything. I guess he is satisfied that we are killing Khivans, whether alone or in company."
"It seems like it." She let out a deep breath. "I still cannot wrap my head around it. That the Khivans continue to try, that is. Without the legionaries getting in our way, we are making a slaughter of it. I do not think a single one of them has escaped since we returned."
"To us, it seems foolish because we know all our advantages, and that the Khivans can't hope to beat two mages." With only Eleanor next to him rather than ten legionaries, Martel had no trouble sensing the heat of every Khivan trying to ambush them; he wondered if they would ever realise the futility of their attempts. "To us, it feels like they've thrown away so many lives," Martel considered. "But to their commander he has lost less than what, two hundred men? Probably still feels like a bargain, as long as he gets a dead battlemage in the end."
"But when do the scales tip?" she asked frustrated. "How many Khivans must be killed before it is no longer worth it?"
"I wish I knew." Martel finished attending to her wound and pulled her shirt down. "I wish I knew."
