Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2)

by Foster, Brian W.

  Brant finally got to speak. “When?”

  “Soon,” the apothecary said. “Tonight.”

  10.

  Dylan’s tunic itched.

  Why couldn’t he wear his own clothes instead of old, ratty ones? More to the point, why did he just go along with Brant’s planning for everything?

  If they got caught, all the wealth and influence of Dylan’s family would do nothing for him. His hard work and long hours in the office and on the road would go for naught.

  Through the tunic’s rough tweed, he grasped his medallion. Something about having the first copper he’d ever earned hanging from his neck comforted him, especially since it was mounted in gold. After all, if things ever got really bad, that setting alone was worth enough to get him out of a jam.

  Focus on the gain, not the risk. But was the gain of Xan’s life worth the risk?

  Dylan shook off the question. Of course it was.

  The moon’s gibbous phase provided ample light. Too much light. One guardsman sat inside the building beside a glassless window opening, and another stood out of Dylan’s sight around the front corner by the door. How would Brant reach several yards in front of the jail without being seen by either? If an alarm were raised, there’d be no rescue. They’d be lucky to get away alive, and Xan would be hanged.

  Dylan tensed as Brant started his move.

  Somehow, he managed to slide from shadow to shadow noiselessly and with deadly grace until reaching his hiding spot behind a wide oak. He froze, caught Dylan’s eyes, and glared.

  Why was Brant upset? He’d gotten into position without being noticed. Dylan shrugged, and Brant stared pointedly at Dylan’s chest.

  He looked down. His fingers tapped the medallion, the metallic clicking audible over the sounds of the night.

  “Sorry,” he mouthed.

  They waited, motionless.

  As silence stretched, a gust slammed Dylan’s face. Treetop canopies jerked and swirled causing the moonlight to dance across the ground and rustling leaves to forge a cacophony. Several blocks away, a dog barked, and Dylan held his breath against one of the sentries investigating.

  The guardsman inside didn’t stir, and after a minute, it became apparent that the one in front wasn’t going to either.

  Dylan gritted his teeth. All he had to do was knock out a pair of sentries without drawing any attention from the rest of the guardsmen who slept in a bunkhouse not a hundred yards away. Ridiculous.

  He gripped the medallion again. Maybe he should give the abort sign. Say the interior guardsman had spotted movement and gotten suspicious. Brant couldn’t see inside and wouldn’t question it.

  Dylan rubbed his temples. It’d suck when Xan was executed but better than sharing his fate.

  A branch shook. Crap. Brant’s signal. No more chance to back out.

  Dylan readied his blowgun. His hand shook, so he steadied the weapon against the tree. How was Brant always so sure about his decisions?

  Nothing happened. A long minute passed. Still nothing. He shook the branch again.

  The sentry from the front popped into view from around the building.

  Dylan had one chance to hit him—a single shot for his life and Xan’s life. A miss by mere inches could alert him to their presence. A shout would mean failure.

  He pointed the tube. The sentry continued slowly forward, cautious but not alarmed. White skin appeared between his helmet and leather armor.

  Dylan aimed and puffed his cheeks. He considered the angle, the distance, the incredibly small sliver of bare flesh. Too much risk. Too little gain.

  He hesitated as the man continued toward the oak. Behind the tree, Brant would be silently screaming for Dylan to take the shot. One chance.

  The tip of the blowgun tracked the guard. A few more feet and he would be able to see Brant. Dylan closed his eyes for an instant. He blew.

  The dart sailed straight and impaled the sentry’s neck. His hand sprung to the wound, and he collapsed to his knees. Brant rushed from his hiding spot and caught the body before it crashed to the leaf-covered ground.

  The other guardsman stuck his head out the opening. “Zack?”

  Dylan didn’t have much time. The guardsman surely couldn’t see Brant given the angle between them, but the man’s suspicions were raised. If he peeked out the door, it would be the end of the rescue mission.

  “Zack! Report.”

  Dylan’s hand shook as he fumbled for the next dart. Brant, disguising his voice, mumbled a curse.

  The guardsman chuckled. “Don’t tell me you tripped. Clumsy oaf.”

  The dart slid into place, and Dylan lined up the end of the tube. The man’s eyes narrowed when no immediate response came to his call. Now or never.

  Dylan puffed. The dart sailed toward the opening. It grazed the side of the guardsman’s face.

  He slapped at the spot as if striking at an insect, and Dylan’s breath caught. The man drew away his fingers and held his palm up. A thin red line traced his chin.

  A single shout would end them.

  The guardsman’s eyes rolled back. He swooned forward and hit the wall with a thud before sliding down to the floor.

  Dylan let out a relieved sigh before rushing to join Brant. They dragged Zack to the front of the jail, and Dylan pocketed the spent dart before they burst inside.

  Xan stared at them with wide eyes. He panned his gaze to the slumped figure in the foyer. “Is he dead?”

  As Brant pulled a ring of keys from the guard’s belt, he explained about the blowgun.

  “You have no idea how good it is to see the both of you,” Xan said.

  Brant unlocked the cell. “You’re not going to start crying, are you?”

  “That’s your move.” Xan grinned as he stepped out. “Remember when your dad caught you sneaking into the girls’ barracks?”

  “I was nine! Give me a break.”

  Dylan shook his head as he gathered the other spent dart from the floor. He was pretty sure that, while Xan’s joking covered nervousness, Brant was genuinely relaxed. How could anyone remain calm in such a situation?

  “What now?” Xan whispered as they all exited.

  “Talk softly.” Brant crept toward the rear of the building and motioned for Xan to follow. “Whispers carry farther than a low voice. And keep your movements natural. Trying to be stealthy draws the eye.”

  The two passed out of sight around the back. Dylan fastened a rope around Zack’s chest and under his arms. Brant and Xan reappeared a few minutes later carrying a wood stand about a man’s height with a stout base and a hook.

  The three lifted Zack high enough for the rope to catch on the hook.

  “It’ll work from a distance,” Xan said. “I assume you have horses.”

  “They’re at the stable,” Brant said.

  “Why didn’t you bring them here?”

  “Do you want to get on with the escape or keep talking endlessly?”

  Xan grinned again. “That’s a stupid question, the answer is obviously …”

  “Talk endlessly,” they said together.

  Brant led them toward the guardsmen’s bunkhouse but on the opposite side of the street. “I grant horses would be faster, but they draw notice. And it’ll be easier to throw anyone off our trail by leaving from the stable.” He smiled. “Dad had the militia riding all day—in and out of the woods, down streams, all over.”

  As they neared the bunkhouse, they silenced themselves. Dim light emanated from several windows, but no sounds of revelry came from within. Only the faint swish of cloth and slapping leather-encased weapons announced their passage.

  Dylan exhaled when they fully passed it.

  A huge figure in black stepped from a shadowy alley on their right. “Look what we have here.” He drew a massive sword. “I hoped you’d fall asleep and start using magic again. Instead, you try to escape.” The guardsman sneered. “You’re going to regret your choice, boy, and your friends, too.”

  Use magic again? H
uh? But Xan was innocent?

  Brant gripped the hilt of his sword, flexing his fingers.

  No. They couldn’t fight. It would be too loud. Dylan inched his hand toward his backpack. His eyes darted to the garrison. How could they possibly get away?

  The guy in front of them dwarfed even Brant, and a shout would bring all the reinforcements he could need. If they ran, they had little hope of fleeing a dozen guardsmen on horses.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Xan spoke with a deepened voice. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. Perhaps my brother, Xan, who is being held in the jail?”

  “Brother?”

  “Yes, sir. My twin.”

  The guardsman’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember any other boys in the house when we arrested him.”

  “I’m apprenticed to the millwright,” Xan said. “I live with him.”

  The guardsman pointed to the middle of the street. “Step into the light.”

  Xan dragged his feet, stalling, to where he’d been commanded. The guardsman turned his back as he followed, but they couldn’t count on him facing away from them for long.

  Dylan had to act fast. A screw up and they were all dead. And it’d be all his fault. He fumbled for the blowgun and loaded it with shaky hands.

  The man maneuvered between Xan and the light and grabbed his face. “You are the boy! I gave you this bruise.”

  Dylan exhaled sharply through the tube. The guardsman sank to his knees before collapsing to the ground. His forehead bounced with a sickening thump on the dirt road. His clattering weapons sounded like thunder.

  The three stood silently for several moments, listening intently while staring at the barracks. Dylan’s heart rattled his ribcage, and his mind whirled with worry.

  Nothing moved.

  Finally, Brant said, “I don’t think anyone heard.”

  Wordlessly, they dragged the guardsman into the alley.

  “We should carry him to the stable and bury him in a manure pile,” Xan said.

  Dylan fingered his weapon. Should he stow it or shoot Xan with it? “He was lying, right?”

  Xan didn’t respond. Didn’t even acknowledge the question.

  “He said something about you using magic. He lied, right?” Dylan waited expectantly, but Xan just stared at the unconscious guardsman.

  “There’s no time for chatting,” Brant said. “We need to be far away by sunrise.”

  Xan still didn’t respond, and Dylan opened his mouth. A fierce glower from Brant cut him off, and he slipped the blowgun into his pack.

  11.

  As soon as her papa turned his back, Lainey threw her hands in the air and mouthed, “Why tonight?” She dropped them and plastered on a calm expression before he completed his lap of the living room. “I’m worried about Xan, too, but losing sleep isn’t going to help anything.”

  “Go on to your bed,” her papa said. “I won’t be long.”

  Oh good grief. She sighed. “I’m not leaving you down here alone.”

  Her papa finally, reluctantly saw reason, and they said their goodnights. Upstairs in her room, Lainey rustled her clothes and opened and closed her armoire a few times before cracking her door and climbing into bed.

  Uncomfortable and hot wearing her day clothes under the covers, she waited. She still couldn’t believe her two idiot friends, Brant and Dylan, had asked her to pack Xan’s clothes and didn’t even have a good excuse prepared. It wouldn’t have mattered because she’d have wheedled the truth out of them anyway, but really?

  Then they’d had the nerve to try to forbid her from joining them. She’d put that notion to rest quickly enough!

  Lainey chuckled quietly. They looked so relieved when she insisted she’d meet them at the stable. Though she worried they’d have trouble getting Xan out of his cell without her help, someone had to prepare the horses.

  Time dragged. Usually it took her father only a few minutes to pass out. She understood why he was so restless, but the wait was killing her.

  Eventually, a gentle snore rose from his room, and careful to make little noise, Lainey donned her belt knife and slid her boots and three packed saddlebags from beneath the bed.

  She padded down the stairs and winced at each scrape of metal as she unbolted the front door latch. After slipping out, she pulled on the boots.

  The moon cast an eerie glow through the scattered clouds, bathing her isolated house and the woods in muted light. Wind raced down the mountain slope and rustled a dense canopy of trees. Between gusts, the night plunged into silence.

  Lainey pulled her cloak tight about her and shivered.

  She looked at a path leading into the forest and at the road in front of her house. Her plan had been to avoid any possible notice by cutting through the woods. But she was running really late. No help for it.

  Lainey passed rows of dark houses until reaching the last cluster. Lamp light poured from the front window of one dwelling. She shook her head. Great. Mrs. Becam.

  The old hag, her scowl visible in the moonlight, rocked in a chair on her porch. She reeked of alcohol. Ugh. Lainey hated even looking at that gnarled, wrinkled face. Pitiful for someone only slightly over thirty. If there were ever an argument for temperance, it was Mrs. Becam. Condemnation emanated from her as she glared through bloodshot eyes—blame for not even getting sick when so many died, for surviving when her own children died.

  Lainey shivered and trudged past the house. Her skin crawled under the hatred directed at her, but she didn’t yield. She sighed when she was out of sight.

  What if Mrs. Becam alerted the town guard? Any attention would ruin everything.

  Lainey quickened her pace, and fifteen minutes of fast walking brought her to the stable. She lit a lamp and, just knowing the man-door would be locked, tugged on it. For a wonder, it opened. Brant had sworn it would be unlocked, but follow-through wasn’t exactly one of his strong points.

  Lainey stepped inside and inhaled deeply. Nothing better than the sweet smell of hay. She’d never been in the stable at night, however. Especially not alone. The lantern cast deep shadows that moved with her, and the quiet magnified every creak of a board and swish of a horse’s tail.

  Enough worrying about bumps in the night. She had stuff to do. After hanging the light on a nail, she grabbed a saddle.

  “What are you doing?”

  Lainey jumped and spun to find a guardsman. A tiny squeal escaped before she gathered herself. “You startled me.”

  “Why are you here?” The huge man dwarfed her.

  “I couldn’t sleep and decided to take Cuppy for a ride.” Her voice trembled.

  “No one is taking a horse tonight.”

  Who did he think he was? “Says who? Captain Reed gave me permission.”

  “Says me. Now run along.”

  Without horses, there would be no escape. They couldn’t travel fast enough or carry enough supplies without them, and their provisions were hidden in the hay. But what could she do about it? The guy didn’t seem the type to be swayed by sweet talk, and it wasn’t like she was going to overpower him. Lainey turned to leave.

  “Girl, wait.”

  She turned back. “Yes?” Maybe he’d changed his mind. Even if she could only get one of the horses prepared in advance, it would save time.

  “Aren’t you the sister of that boy in the lockup?” He snarled as he fingered a brass horn hanging from his belt.

  Lainey backed away.

  “Get back here!” He released the bugle and stepped toward her.

  Lainey’s legs froze. She clenched her fists at her sides, and her right arm brushed against her sheathed knife.

  The guardsman came closer. He loomed a good head and a half taller than her. His arms reached out.

  Her knife found its way into her hand. She slashed. Sticky warmth coated her shirt and hands.

  He sank to his knees with a stunned look, and his hands desperately tried to stem the flow of life from his neck. His lips moved, but only gurgling emerged.
Horrific red bubbles sprung from the open gash.

  Horses whinnied and bucked as they scented the blood.

  His eyes pleaded with her. Help me. Save me. Please. Why did you kill me?

  Bile rose in her throat, and she fought to choke it back. He crumpled face first into the hay. The stallion nearest her stomped and crashed against the side of his stall.

  Lainey opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He’d be dead in minutes. Tears leaked from her eyes and flowed down her face.

  His dying seemed to stretch into hours as she stood a silent vigil. On a filthy dirt floor strewn with smelly hay and horse dung, his body stilled from its fitful jerking.

  Lainey wiped at her tears, and her fingers came away red. She glanced down. His blood coated her shirt. The pungent, putrid mess felt like a ten-ton weight crushing her chest. She clawed at the bottom of her top and rushed to the horse trough. Again and again, she plunged her face into the cold, murky water and rubbed her hands until raw.

  Once every drop was off her skin, she forced herself to stop and think. What should she do?

  Her eyes went to the corpse. She retched. The stream of vomit splashed pink water onto her undershirt.

  She staggered backward and fell. Laying on her back and clenching herself tightly, she shut her eyes.

  Xan’s life depended on her getting their mounts saddled and loaded. And she had to calm the animals before the noise attracted attention—if it wasn’t already too late.

  A horse reared and kicked its stall. The sound boomed through the building like a huge drum.

  Lainey rose. Calm the horses. Saddle them. Load them.

  Instead, she found herself beside the dead man.

  The thought of touching him revolted her, but she wrapped her hands around his ankles and tugged. He moved barely an inch.

  No one could see him. Not Brant and Dylan. Especially not Xan.

  Her foot slipped, and she fell. She scrambled up and grabbed hold again, tugging and pulling and falling and using every ounce of her strength to drag the corpse to the back of the stable.