Firebrand

Chapter 696: Something in the Air

Something in the Air

Upon his return to the palace, Martel made sure to eat plenty for once; he wanted to be at full strength. He sent Valerius to find Eleanor, exchanging one mageknight for another; she arrived in his chambers soon after. “It has been a while since I last saw you hungry.”

“I have a long night ahead of me. We both do, I suppose.” He pushed his plate toward her, and she sat down opposite him.

“How so?” she asked, picking up some bread and letting it soak up some of the stew.

“I received a message from the prince. He claims we have traitors among us and wants to exchange his freedom for information.”

“An odd story.” Her hand had been about to feed her the bread, but now she arrested her movement. “Why would he help us? If he is already hiding, why take the risk to contact us?”

“I’m meeting him tonight. If there’s any truth to his words, we’ll find out. If not, or regardless, I guess, we’ll have him back.”

“How do you know it is really him?” Eleanor asked sharply. “This could easily be someone luring you into a trap.”

“I trust the messenger. To some extent, anyway.” He looked up at her, swallowing his food. “If I smell anything that resembles a trap, I’ll leg it out there.”

“Well, the meeting itself I’ll have to attend alone. Come on, finish up. I’ll explain on the way – we need to get going.” He emptied his cup and got his feet. He already wore his armour, and he looked toward his staff, deciding against it. He would not need weapons tonight.

***

Although dark, the streetlamps illuminated the temple district, and Martel could clearly see the monastery. From the outside, it looked like any of its many counterparts that lay clustered around the Basilica. Martel knew little of the different orders and nothing of the Demetrians, but he expected the complex was much the same inside as others of its kind.

“Martel, are you sure about this? I hate the idea of you going in alone.” Eleanor looked at him with concerned eyes.

He could not blame her; if reversed, he would also dislike being left outside, unable to intervene. “It’s necessary this time. For once, I don’t want you near me if things go wrong.”

She gave him a quick hug. “You leave if need be.”

“I will.” He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile and crossed the street to enter the monastery.

***

No sign of the inhabitants. Martel did not know if leaving their front door unlocked was typical for monks; maybe they had nothing worth stealing. Presumably, they would be in their cells at this hour, on a normal night probably asleep, but on this occasion, maybe they simply hid.

It made no difference to Martel; he had not come to meet with anybody of the cloth. He passed through the entrance hall, following the simple instructions given to him by the Friar until he reached the shrine within the complex and its steps into the crypt.

Martel held up a lantern he had brought along as he descended the stairs. It reminded him of entering the catacombs; going underground to be surrounded by brick and bones, darkness and danger.

A staircase with room for only one person led him into a long, narrow room. The ceiling was low, but the space continued beyond what his glass-encased light could illuminate. On either side, alcoves stood holding large stone chests. Ossuaries to hold the dead of the convent as they rotted together, their bones placed on top of each other. He used his sense of heat and felt only the cold and a lingering sense of death.

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Martel opened his mouth and tasted the air. Specks of fine dust met his tongue, as he had hoped. Reassured, he stepped deeper into the crypt.

From the other end, he heard a scrambling sound. “Captain?” came a hoarse voice.

Martel stepped forward and raised his lantern to illuminate the prince. For once, the young fellow had an emotional expression on his face. Dread or excitement – hard to tell in the flickering light. “I’m here. Tell me what you know.”

“I knew you would come. Is it arrogance that you consider yourself safe no matter the situation, or fear that your own people plan to betray you at the earliest opportunity? No matter. You came.” The prince became animated in voice and body, clenching and opening his hands.

Around Martel, he heard the sounds of more people from every direction. Given he had not felt their presence, they had to be wearing gold, all of them, the prince included. “Inquisitors?”

“Your heresy ends here,” one of them declared as they surrounded him. “Pray to Sol for forgiveness. These are your last moments.”

“You killed my mother,” the prince spoke with a sudden eruption of hatred on his face. “Now die, usurper!”

Martel could not attack them directly. He could not set the crypt ablaze either to turn his magical fire into real flames; rock would not burn. The ossuaries were large and made from heavy stone; his magic could not throw them around. They had chosen the location extremely well, and as they approached him with drawn daggers, covering the only exit, their satisfied expressions told Martel they knew all of this.

“Have you noticed the dust in the air? Have you tasted it?” Martel asked. “It is flour, actually. Sacks of it, scattered around the crypt earlier this evening.” He looked from the inquisitors to the prince. Some of the zealots began to realise what he meant, but the young heir to the Empire clearly did not. It made no difference; Martel would not let any of them escape. “Do you know what happens when flour is in the air and gets ignited? It explodes.” He raised a fingertip and summoned a flame.

As it burned the nearest particles, they quickly spread the fire to their brethren, causing a chain reaction. A blaze erupted from Martel, real rather than magical, eating all the flour dust in the air with the speed and intensity of a firestorm.

It happened in an instant. Martel coughed as it was over; the heat and fire had reached such levels, even he felt hurt by it. He would need a good night’s sleep to recover from this.

And if it could overcome the resistance of a battlemage to cause harm, the fire had shown no mercy to the inquisitors or the prince. Only smouldering remains of their flesh and fabric could be seen, along with their golden jewellery, glittering in the frail light of Martel’s lantern.

***

Ascending from the crypt, Martel had not expected to see the Friar waiting for him in the entrance hall. “Why are you here?”

“I thought it best to know the outcome of your meeting, whether benign or not. I gather it was not.”

“No. The prince is dead, along with half a score of inquisitors. You may help yourself to their golden trinkets if you wish – I am grateful you had your man prepare the crypt as I requested.”

“I did what was best for the city,” the Friar shrugged. “Though I’ll be sure to never visit a bakery with you.”

Martel felt too worn to laugh or smile at the jest; the smell of burnt flesh lingered in his nostrils, and killing the prince would have complications. Though it reminded him that he should make the most of this opportunity. “Since you are here, you might provide additional aid to ensuring peace is kept. I should like to enlist the help of the Faith for my negotiations. I’m willing to overlook that inquisitors just tried to kill me in exchange for Sol’s clergy supporting my plans.”

“Practical of you. You make a better ruler than I expected. Very well. I shall pass on your request. Meet me tomorrow, same bell and place as yesterday, and we’ll see if something can be arranged.”

“Great.” Martel meant it, though in his current state, it probably sounded sarcastic. “Tomorrow.” He staggered past the Friar to leave the monastery.

Outside, Eleanor saw him immediately and crossed the street. “Are you hurt?” she asked with concern.

“A little. It burned hotter than I thought.” He gave a weary smile. “It’s been a while since fire hurt me.”

“Can you walk? I knew we should have taken horses.”

“It’s not far to the palace.” They began moving in that direction. “A little rest and I’ll be right again.”

“What happened inside?”

“A trap, as expected. Ten or so inquisitors are dead.”

“No great loss. Was the prince present?”

“He was. He won’t be leaving.”

“At least that tells us who was behind it all,” Eleanor considered. “Though having to explain his death will not reflect well on us. And the zealots seem more entrenched against us than ever.”

“Well, I may have found us an inroad to get their help. Not the inquisitors, but hopefully more calm-headed members of the clergy.” Martel let out all the breath in his body. “But tomorrow. That’s for tomorrow.”

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