Firebrand

Chapter 619: Bound by Action

Bound by Action

A warm bath, a hot meal, and a proper night’s sleep did wonders for Martel’s well-being. Life in the camp was simple, but all these things felt like a luxury compared to the last month. He considered dressing in his broken armour for the meeting at the legate’s house, just to make a statement on its own, but that felt a tad dramatic. It also fit him poorly due to its many missing rings and broken bits, and part of him just felt comfortable returning to the red robes of a firemage.

Eleanor had the same thought, apparently, appearing in the black tunic of a mageknight. Together, they left the camp and entered Esmouth. As they walked past Henry’s house, Martel wished he could pop inside and speak with his friend, but third bell was already ringing, and there would be time to talk after the meeting. So the mages continued at a brisk pace until they reached the home of Legate Varus.

In the atrium, an empty chair stood facing the entrance, along with Valerius and Lara. “Good, you are here,” the legion prefect declared.

Martel nodded quickly at Valerius in greeting. “Ready to proceed when you are.”

Lara gestured at a servant, who disappeared. They stood in silence, and Martel noticed that like last night, the legion prefect seemed uneasy. He debated whether to ask her if something troubled her, but before he could do so, the legate appeared.

He took the empty seat in silence. Curiously, a secretary appeared with a wax tablet and stylus, standing next to the legate, who cleared his throat. “Very well. Let us begin. Sir Martel, we have received reports of your behaviour that must be answered.”

Martel narrowed his eyes. This sounded like someone had slandered him specifically. “From whom?”

“That is irrelevant,” the legate declared.

“The allegations are that you killed a fellow prefect, superior in rank to you in that moment, and contravened orders given to you by that same officer, as well as your legate,” Varus continued. The secretary began taking notes.

“Orders that would have gotten us killed,” Martel argued, starting to feel angry.

“That is understood,” Lara hurried to say, “but the death of Sir Dominic must be explained.” She dared to glance at the legate, who in turn stared at Martel.

“Is it true,” Varus spoke, “that an altercation occurred between you and Sir Dominic, leaving him dead?”

Martel felt all eyes on him. “I defended myself, yes, and he died.”

“So it is true. And after that, you gave the command for the cohorts to leave their assigned position, in full knowledge that your orders were to remain?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Everyone knew we had to withdraw. Sir Avery gave the order as much as I did,” Martel replied.

“Unfortunately, she is dead and cannot verify this,” Varus remarked pointedly. “We have asked Sir Valerius, and he claims he was not present.” Martel turned his head toward the mageknight in question, who gave him an apologetic look.

“I was,” Eleanor interjected, “And Sir Martel is correct.”

“You are his sworn protector,” the legate retorted, “and your testimony is not considered neutral.”

“My duties do not prevent me –”

“Silence!” Varus roared. “You were not asked!” As everyone in the room obeyed his command, he crossed his arms. “These are serious matters. The slaying of a fellow prefect and contravention of orders cannot be ignored.”

“Am I already judged, or may I at least explain the situation?” Martel asked, trying not to sound frustrated or bitter.

“Very well. But make it brief.”

Where to begin? “Our position on the hill was untenable. The Khivans prepared to assault us, and no relief was in sight,” Martel related. “Our sortie against their single cannon in place left Sir Valerius badly wounded.” He looked at the mageknight, who nodded eagerly. “It was clear that once the Khivans brought more cannons in position, we’d stand no chance of defending ourselves. Of four prefects, three of us agreed we should retreat.” Now Eleanor nodded in support.

“But Sir Dominic did not,” Varus said.

“He refused to see reason. He drew his weapon. I struck with my own before he could strike me. I see nothing wrong in my actions,” Martel declared. He noticed that the secretary had not taken any notes since he began explaining.

“That is not for you to decide.”

“Legate, if I may?” Lara asked. As he finally nodded with a brusque expression, she continued, “I have spoken extensively with Sir Valerius and the surviving soldiers. They agree that without Sir Martel’s actions, the retreat through the forest and across the river would not have been successful. Heroically, he defended the rear and also the crossing as the last.”

“That may be,” Varus replied with an overbearing voice, “but it does not erase his other actions. However, I will admit that a matter as serious as this requires a higher authority than mine.”

Martel frowned hearing this; he had not expected the haughty legate to leave judgement to others.

“For that reason, I will place this matter in the hands of the Imperial administration. Sir Martel, you will be sent to Morcaster to stand trial before a military tribunal,” the legate spoke, and next to him, the secretary scribbled furiously onto the tablet.

Martel turned his head to look at Eleanor; she seemed as shocked as he felt. If not for their actions, six hundred men would be dead; it seemed ludicrous that he should face punishment for this.

“Soldiers, place the prefect in chains,” the legate commanded. From an adjoining room, two legionaries appeared with golden manacles.

Martel stared at the bindings. This felt like an ambush. A shiver ran down his spine, and his eyes looked from one mageknight in the room to another. Eleanor would not fight against him; that left the legate, Lara, and Valerius.

“This does not mean you are guilty, Sir Martel,” the legion prefect quickly spoke. “But anybody accused of killing an officer must be bound until their trial.”

He stared at Lara. Her explanation did little to soothe him; the moment the gold clasped his wrists, he would be bereft of his magic. As the soldiers approached him, clearly apprehensive, he considered the situation. Part of him refused any attempt to chain his magic, leaving him powerless in the hands of people he could not trust.

But resisting meant a fight, killing not only his superior officers, but also Valerius, his friend. And these were not praetorians, but experienced mageknights – they would not fall as easily as his duel back in Morcaster. A lightning bolt might be enough, but with everyone this close, it would hit Eleanor as well.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Martel extended his arms and allowed the soldiers to clasp him in gold. Suddenly, the world felt cold and drab. Each soldier grabbing him by the arm, they led him away.