Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2)

by Foster, Brian W.

  “Good point,” Xan said. “We’ll send Dylan and Lainey ahead.”

  Pulling Xan off his horse and throttling him wouldn’t solve anything, would it? Brant winced at the thought of the last time he’d tried that.

  Instead, Brant had to soft-pedal his advice, so the genius would accept it. How had life placed someone worse than the greenest possible recruit in command over him? “Where would we find them? We don’t even know how many inns the town has.”

  “I’m sure we can figure …” Xan shook his head. “Fine. What do you think we should do?”

  “Ride another mile or so and find a clearing. Set up camp. With darkness falling, we won’t look suspicious.” It wasn’t like whoever took Lady Ashley could—or had reason to—check out every group on the road.

  They dismounted a short while later, cooking and eating and trying to act normal. An hour after full dark, Xan pulled them into a huddle. “Time for Brant and me to go. If we’re not back by morning, head to Welloch.”

  Lainey started to object.

  “If we’re not back,” Xan said, “there’s nothing the two of you can do for us. Even if we get caught, I’ll spin a story that’ll make them let us go.”

  Brant gripped the hilt of his sword. Men who kidnapped the niskma weren’t likely to let two scouts go no matter what the tale. It’d be questioning to make sure the duke’s army wasn’t about to descend on them followed by the sword once they found out it was just a group of kids.

  He wouldn’t be able to make Xan see that, though. The fool believed he could talk his way out of anything.

  Lainey bit her lip. “And you won’t hurt anyone?”

  “We’re just going for a look,” Xan said.

  “He’s right,” Brant said. “A mission like this one needs to be carried out at just the right time of night and only after careful planning. After the hours it’s going to take to get there, it’d be stupid to try anything tonight.”

  Xan nodded.

  Brant exhaled sharply. “Xan, listen to me. You’re terrible in the woods. I don’t know how it’s possible, but you make walking over moss sound like crunching through a yard covered in dead leaves.” He paused. How best to convince the idiot? “Our only shot is if they’ve relaxed their guard in the month they’ve had her. If we’re spotted anywhere near where they’re holding her, they’ll go on high alert, and it will be impossible to get her out.”

  Xan ran his hand through his hair.

  “I’m trained to scout, unlike you, lead foot, or you, fidget boy.” Brant gestured at Xan and Dylan in turn. “Or limp girl.”

  “So we’re all completely useless at best,” Xan said, “and I, in particular, am likely to be a disaster.”

  Brant grinned. “You’ve got the right of it.”

  It took another fifteen minutes of talking, but even Xan could see truth when led to it carefully enough. While Lainey and Dylan laid down and at least pretended to sleep, Brant changed his clothes.

  His dark green tunic fit tight against his chest and wouldn’t rustle in a breeze. Paired with brown pants, the outfit would blend into the forest, and the soft-soled shoes he’d switched for his heavy leather boots would quiet his movement. Tied black cloth hid the polished steel of his sword and belt knife. He even replaced his normal belt with its shiny buckle with a piece of rope.

  Only the spy glass and its case produced any reflection. To prevent a single flash of moonlight leading to his death, he rubbed dirt over all the exposed brass.

  No riders passed on the road, and there’d been no sign of watchers in the woods. Either the people who’d captured Lady Ashley were too incompetent to scout properly or so good Brant hadn’t noticed them.

  Hoping it was the former, he quietly stuffed leaves into his bedroll. It wouldn’t pass a close inspection, but anyone checking the camp out from a distance might be fooled.

  Xan handed him a packet.

  “What’s this?” Brant said.

  “Paper and ink. Sketch everything while it’s fresh in your mind. Layout. Patrol patterns.” Xan paused, lost in thought. “I’ll need all you can give me to plan our attack.”

  What did he— an apothecary for the Holy One’s sake—know about tactics and strategy for a rescue mission? Really?

  Brant bit back a retort. He had, after all, agreed to follow Xan’s lead, however stupid that choice was.

  As Brant slipped into the woods heading southwest, he searched for bare ground or live grass to place each foot. Dead leaves and fallen branches covered the forest floor. Sometimes, he had to step on such, so he slowed and hoped wind rattling the upper branches blocked the noise.

  He found the well-traveled lane and ducked behind a bush to watch and listen for sentries. If Lady Ashley’s location was as close to the road as Xan thought, she was likely either off the lane or the cart path. But which?

  Figuring out the answer would have been so much easier if Brant could detect her magic use himself, but he’d never figured out the trick of it. And he certainly hadn’t been willing to ask the know-it-all to teach him.

  No use wishing for what couldn’t be, and sitting in one spot definitely wasn’t going to find her. If she truly had been almost due south that first time, the cart path made the most sense, but that “if” was a big gamble. He had to find her before morning, and searching over six square miles on foot wasn’t an easy job for a single night.

  Brant sighed. Gamble or not, it was the best lead he had. He darted across the lane and continued on a roughly western heading. The trees thinned, and he spotted the cart path. He turned south and walked beside it, keeping it in view through the trees.

  Motion caught his eye. He crouched behind a bush.

  A man dressed in a black tunic and faded brown pants approached on the trail heading north. Brant held his breath, afraid he’d disturb a leaf.

  The guard drew even with him and stopped.

  Brant tensed. Had he done something wrong? Missed something shiny on his clothes? His hand drifted to his sword hilt.

  There was no way a fight would go unnoticed. He’d be lucky to escape and get back to the camp before his friends were captured. Better make it fast.

  The man bent to tie his shoelace.

  Anxious and wary of a trick, Brant waited.

  The man finished and moved on without giving sign he’d noticed anything amiss.

  Brant breathed deeply. That had been too close. He listened for several minutes before moving.

  On the bright side, the presence of what was obviously a sentry confirmed the cart path would lead him to Lady Ashley. All Brant had to do was creep silently through a forest littered with dead foliage while avoiding roving patrols. Great.

  He continued south, picking locations to step with even more care. A half hour later, a man dressed similar to the first marched from the direction of the road.

  That made sense. Shift change. The first guy was the relief, not a patrol.

  Once the sentry was out of range, Brant rose from his crouch and, a quarter mile later, topped a rise. Below him, a circular clearing was cut from the woods. In the middle, an eight-foot-high mortared wall with an iron gate blocked his view. A wood roof and a fifteen-foot tower rose above the stone.

  A guard inside the turret swung a bow with a nocked arrow. Brant froze. The archer continued his motion, completing a semi circle and back again.

  That was going to make things more difficult. A single misstep finding a twig could mean death.

  Sticking deep in shadows, he searched out each footfall and contorted his body to avoid trees. An agonizing hour later, he stepped around the south end of the wall, out of sight of the tower.

  A nice pine with limbs sticking out in all directions stood in a perfect location, and keeping the trunk between him and the compound, he climbed it. Besides a two-stall stable set next to the wall in the southeast corner, a good acre of grass surrounded a large manor, easily the rival of the grandest mansion on Merchant Street. Using the spyglass, he counted three guards:
one in the gate tower, one roaming the ground, and one inside the manor’s front entry.

  In Brant’s militia days, he would have had to spend a week spying to contrive a way to get a man inside. Back then, he didn’t have access to magic.

  By sensing the weights of plaster and wood, he mapped the manor’s layout. He couldn’t detect people but was proud of himself when he figured a work-around—twelve feather mattresses on thin wood legs stood out. Even better, that number included one behind a door clearly constructed of metal in a room with bars over the window—Lady Ashley’s cell.

  After a full reconnaissance around the wall, he paused to consider how he’d mount an attack on the manor. The patrol patterns left huge holes, and the tower had a blind spot if you approached from the south. Considering the number of beds and figuring on a housekeeper or two, the enemy probably only had eight to ten fighting men.

  All in all, the compound wasn’t that well defended. As long as Xan could deal with any mages, Brant might be able to come up with a plan to rescue Lady Ashley that wouldn’t get anyone hurt.

  Xan, on the other hand, had absolutely no experience planning raids. And which of them, again, was in charge?

  There was no time to worry about such, though. Brant had to figure out how to get the group to the manor without being found out. None of the others could get through the woods in the dark without making a ridiculous racket, so they’d have to travel during the day, which meant they had to stay far away from the sentries to avoid being seen or heard. They would still, however, need to end up close enough to reach the manor easily when night fell.

  How would he ever do that?

  A sound to the south drew his attention. After creeping a couple hundred yards in that direction, he found the source of the noise—a stream.

  Perfect.

  Far enough away to avoid being seen, and the water would cover the din the others were likely to make. Even better, Brant bet, if he followed the stream to the east, it would meet the lane. With the outline of a strategy in his mind, he cut a mark in a tree trunk near the water and marched off to find out if he’d win his wager.

  A couple of wet miles later, he was proved correct. He grinned.

  His happiness was short lived as he remembered Xan’s orders to take notes. With a grimace, Brant spread the paper on a big rock. The know-it-all didn’t even trust him to remember the layout; Xan would never use Brant’s ideas.

  He clenched his fists.

  If he told Xan the truth, they might all get killed. If, however, Brant exaggerated the number of guards, Xan wouldn’t dare mount a rescue attempt, leaving them all safe. But they also might lose any chance at a pardon.

  What to do?

  Great. Brant was considering lying to his commanding officer. What would his dad think?

  In the militia, he’d been taught to follow orders, no matter how stupid. Even if those orders led to his death.

  Brant exhaled quickly, violently.

  He’d have to lay out the information about the manor and its guards to the best of his ability. The attitude had to go, too. Quarrelling over leadership hurt both Dylan and, especially, Lainey.

  Just give up, though? Surrender to that know-it-all asshole? There had to be a way to get even that wasn’t insubordination.

  Maybe he could find another way to compete with Xan. Maybe in an area where Brant was guaranteed to win.

  He grinned.

  Yes. A new contest, one with a far better prize than simply command of their little group—they’d see who could win Lady Ashley’s affection.

  Brant stifled a laugh. Xan didn’t stand a chance.

  41.

  Once Xan and his friends turned onto the lane near the manor, he relaxed his grip on Honey’s reins and flexed his fingers. They’d spent the entire morning at their camp while Justav surely drew closer by the minute. Worse, they’d been riding west along the main road—the catcher’s most likely direction of travel and his most obvious route.

  About a mile later, Brant paused before a bridge. “This way to your dream girl.” With that, he plunged down a steep bank into nearly waist-high water.

  Why had Brant called Ashley that?

  Xan’s heart raced. Surely because of how he had met her. That had to be the only reason.

  It was bad enough that Lainey suspecting his feelings for Ashley. If Brant did too, the big idiot might joke about it in front of her and ruin everything. Xan needed to be a strong, confident hero—not a kid teased by his friends.

  His hand shook, and without thinking, he reached into his pocket for a seed. No. The last thing he needed was to be more hyper. Focus on the task at hand. There was no way the rescue would go as easy as planned.

  About a half mile later, Brant led them onto the bank. “Leave the horses here. Use a figure-eight knot so you can untie the reins in a hurry.”

  All except Xan—even his sister—made quick work with the rope. Did everyone know more than him? All he knew about knots was how to tie his shoe.

  Letting Brant take the lead on the practical matters of the mission was definitely a good decision. Not only was he better at it, but he’d dropped the attitude as well. But what would happen when Xan started issuing the orders?

  After Brant secured Honey’s reins, he led the group north single file, pointing out clear ground for their every step. With afternoon waning, it took over an hour to cover two hundred yards, and they stopped when the first hint of a wall appeared through dense foliage.

  He motioned for the others to hunker behind bushes and spent the next hour removing leaves and twigs between their position and the edge of the clearing before returning to the group to wait for night to fall. Thirty minutes after full dark, he gave the signal to move.

  The sliver of moon provided scant light, but at least, Xan didn’t have to watch too closely where he stepped. He rose and bumped his head on a branch. Falling leaves shattered the night’s quiet.

  Brant, Dylan, and Lainey all turned to glare at him.

  Xan mouthed, “Sorry.”

  He had to be more careful. If a guard heard that noise, it could ruin everything. Why was he such an oaf?

  His friends continued ahead, strolling as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Xan picked his way forward. They made nary a sound. He nearly tripped trying to avoid a bush, and the resulting rustling and stomping brought to mind a herd of stampeding elephants. By the time he finally reached the others, they’d been crouched in the shadow of a large pine for what had to be ten minutes.

  Lainey hoisted herself onto the bottom branch of a tall pine. She winced as she shifted weight onto her hurt ankle but didn’t as much as utter an “ouch.”

  Xan hated putting her in that position. Better that than inside the compound, though.

  He and Brant crept to the wall and knelt beside the stone while Dylan followed her up the tree. In those positions, they waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  How could an hour be both filled with tension and mind-numbing dullness at the same time?

  Finally, Xan sensed Ashley dreaming and stood. Hopefully, her drawing power would cover their use of magic as they’d planned. Otherwise, they’d be signaling their presence to any mages nearby.

  He hated basing their success on hopes, but what else could they do? Like Brant had said, they could only control what they could control. They just had to be ready to react if the situation changed.

  Minutes passed, and Xan and Brant silently stretched their stiff muscles, waiting. Another five minutes. They didn’t have all night. Justav surely advanced steadily, and thinking he wouldn’t get a fix on Ashley soon strained the imagination.

  Xan looked up and held his hands out. His sister’s pale face emerged, and she nodded. Dylan, standing just outside the tree’s shadow, furrowed his brow.

  Brant flew up in a smooth motion and disappeared over the wall.

  Seconds later, Xan’s clothes pulled upward. He recalled vividly both Dylan’s reluctance to
use magic and exactly who kept forcing him to do so. A simple “oops” could ruin everything.

  Xan’s feet separated from the sod, and his heart fluttered. Maybe they should have practiced.

  Up he flew. A foot high, then two, then five. By the time he cleared the top stone, he praised the darkness obscuring the fall. If he hit the ground hard, he swore he’d burn a hole in Dylan’s favorite cloak.

  Xan’s body shifted toward the ground, and a series of upward jerks slowed him. He slammed into the ground and tumbled down, his face sliding across the grass. Cursing Dylan, he staggered to his feet and dashed toward Brant’s hiding place between the stable and the wall.

  On the side of the building, a tiny flame ignited—Lainey’s signal that the guard was coming back around.

  Blast it!

  They’d taken too long getting over the wall. If they got caught sneaking in, there’d be no way to avoid a fight. Without the element of surprise, the odds would really be against them.

  Xan sprinted faster. The light winked out. He dove into the dark space and turned to stare at the far corner of the manor.

  A tall, thin man marched into view. A broadsword swung from his waist.

  The weapon drew Xan’s eyes. One wrong move and any one of them could be killed. Ashley. Lainey. Was he doing the right thing in attempting a rescue?

  The guard disappeared around the front of the house, and Xan checked for magic use.

  Blast! Ashley had stopped dreaming. Dylan wouldn’t be able to propel himself over the wall until she started again. And he had the blowgun to take out the sentry.

  Such a moronic move. Xan should have had Dylan get into position first.

  No. That wouldn’t have worked because he wouldn’t have been able to get the others over. Brant could have carried the blowgun …

  Xan shook his head. No help for it. They’d have to wait. More time wasted.

  He and Brant crouched in the shadows as the guard completed two more circuits, and soon after the second, Xan sensed Ashley. His hands shook. Almost time.

  After an eternity, the sentry sauntered out of view, and a tiny finger of flame ignited high on the tree. Dylan flew over the wall gripping his blowgun and raced to hide behind the stable.