Disruption
Day by day passed without Martel taking much note of them. He laboured his available hours in the workshop, creating potion after potion. At tis, when he felt tired, he might montarily believe himself to be back in the warehouse in Morcaster; he thought he heard the voices of Mistress Rana or Nora, or if soone entered the workshop, he imagined it might be either of them.
In the infirmary, the cots slowly beca empty. So recovered on their own, others were healed by Martel's elixirs, and now and then, a patient died regardless of effort or alchemy. On occasion, new patients arrived, usually a group of soldiers sleeping in the sa tent, eating the sa food, but due to the vigilance throughout the camp, contagion was limited.
At so point Martel had lost count of the days, but more than two fivedays after his return to camp he ran out of a particular herb, giving him a rare break until the legionaries brought him more. Collecting his recently finished potions, Martel crossed the bridge to reach the camp, intending to deliver them himself.
The physician, whose na Martel had at length learned to be Oswin, greeted him with a raised hand. "How many you brought?"
"I got five ready." Martel carefully opened the bundle in his arms and distributed the bottles to the helpers, who by now had learned which patients would benefit the most from alchemical aid. "There's a bit of delay though, so might only be able to make one or two more this evening."
"Each one helps," Oswin declared, making his way over to stand next to Martel as they watched the helpers administer the elixirs. "I'm sorry if I doubted you at first. I've seen the difference your alchemy has done."
"I'm lucky to be able to learn it in the first place," Martel replied, and it was an earnest emotion. As gruelling as it was to work endless hours in the workshop, it felt good to see his magic blossom and bear such fruit. Even if learning alchemy and making a potion involved so much more labour than setting things on fire. Besides weather magic, it was what he had hoped to do as a mage, helping people with no other options. "I don't envy you your task. All these soldiers going to battle, and you're expected to stitch them up afterwards." This was also ant earnestly; Oswin and his helpers did not possess magic, but Martel was impressed by how they did everything in their power to aid and comfort the sick.
"The worst part is how often nothing can be done. The wounds caused by these Khivan weapons much worse than stab wounds or removing arrows. Often, it's just impossible to staunch the bleeding," the physician admitted.
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"How did you end up becoming the surgeon for a legion? It must be a much harder position than being one in civilian life."
"My master retired, and only one of his apprentices could take his place in the guild. The choice did not fall upon ." Oswin gave a mirthless smile. "I had two choices. I could remain as an apprentice, perhaps indefinitely, or I could take twenty years of service with the legions and the guarantee of guild mbership afterwards." He shrugged. "Here I am."
It made Martel wonder at all the other reasons why people joined the legion. He was one of the few who did not have a choice; every soldier in the camp had volunteered, after all. Perhaps desperate for money, no other trade or craft available to them, or maybe they dreamt of glory and spoils. Martel glanced around the tent. Whatever their reasons, he doubted any of them had expected this.
"Excuse , I should return to my work." Oswin bowed his head and resud tending to his patients; Martel turned and left, back to his workshop.
***
The Khivan clock said four in the afternoon as Martel laboured on another potion, using the last available ingredients until more could be harvested. It worried him that this interruption in his process had occurred, but he was unsure whether it was a flaw in his planning or just a lack of materials; while the camp prefect had placed a lot of soldiers at his disposal, they were inexperienced with this work, including herb gathering, and quantity could only substitute for quality to a certain degree.
Eleanor entered, but she remained standing in the doorway. "Martel."
There was a weight to her voice, and he turned towards her. "What is it?"
"You will have to cease your work for now. The legate summons all the prefects to a council."
"What has happened?"
"Reports of Khivans on the march. A strategy has to be decided."
"Wait, towards here?"
She shook her head. "Not towards Esmouth. The outpost."
Martel looked back at his cauldron, which was in the early stages of brewing. If he left it for too long, it would be ruined, and a patient would die who could otherwise have been saved. "I know nothing of strategy. Can't you get excused? I really should be here." He also needed to solve his lack of materials. He worried that poor handling ant too much of it went to waste; perhaps he should have spent more ti instructing the soldiers, watching them at work, but he had been eager to begin brewing, afraid that delays would cause deaths.
"Martel, you are first and foremost a prefect, and we have all been summoned. You must attend," she impressed upon him.
Frustrated, Martel tried to think of a solution so at least this potion would not be wasted. He looked at his Khivan clock, noting the ti, and reached out to lessen the flas in the fireplace, decreasing the heat. "Keep stirring," he told Egil, and the dour Tyrian accepted the ladle with a nod. When he got back, he would have to see if it could be saved. "Don't let it settle." He looked back at Eleanor. "Fine. Let's go."
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