Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2)

by Foster, Brian W.

  As he moved to slide inside, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He’d been expecting it. After all, he was about to disobey the direct order that he stay outside.

  Blast it all if he’d be left behind again, especially on something so important.

  Besides, he could do the task, and three were better than two. Staying outside made no sense.

  Brant narrowed his eyes at Sergeant Stokes, who got the message and removed his hand. Not that he’d had a choice. Any other action would have jeopardized the mission, and Brant was an officer.

  He stepped through into blackness. His foot encountered cloth, and he froze. Someone below him breathed.

  Quickly and quietly, he stepped aside to let Sergeant Stokes and Raleigh pass. Wilfred was the lucky one; all he had to do was look out for sentries.

  With the others in place, Brant bent toward the source of the snores. Cover the mouth to prevent screams and cut the throat. Move efficiently, no wasted motions. Go to the next sleeper.

  Sure. No problem.

  Brant clamped his hand over the lower part of the man’s face. Warm breath and bristly whiskers. Alive.

  With a quick, fluid motion, he drew his knife across the neck. The blade sliced skin. Hot, sticky liquid gurgled.

  The man struggled, but Brant held firm. It wasn’t how he’d pictured his first kill. Two men should enter battle both knowing they’d bleed and that one would die. But duty ranked higher than fair play.

  Brant blanked his mind and let the blood pour. When the writhing stopped, he wiped the sticky mess off his blade using the man’s blanket.

  His eyes adjusted to the low light, and he counted thirty bunks—twenty eight with figures sleeping. Sergeant Stokes and Raleigh had already moved to their second victims.

  Brant continued his grisly task. By the third figure, blood coated his hands, and no amount of wiping helped. By the fifth, he choked back the urge to gag.

  He covered the mouth of the next figure. The soft skin had no trace of facial hair.

  A girl.

  She struggled. He flipped the knife and hit her on the head. The handle clanked against bone, echoing through the tent. She stopped moving.

  The four forms not yet killed stirred in their bedrolls. Brant leapt over prone figures and darted through the slit. Wilfred stood wide-eyed at the exit, but Brant didn’t slow. With Raleigh and the sergeant following, they sprinted to the woods.

  The thought of their flight drawing attention didn’t occur to Brant until much later. He didn’t stop until reaching a stream a couple hundred yards from the camp. The need to clean the blood from his hands and clothes overcame his need to be away.

  Brant didn’t remember much of the journey back to the castle except for bits and pieces of hiding from patrols.

  68.

  A thin bead of sweat dripped down Brant’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sir. No excuse, sir.”

  General Flynn’s nose nearly touched his. “What were your orders again?”

  Brant groaned. Could his night get any worse? Or day? He seemed to remember the sun dawning as he entered the castle.

  “Observe enemy activity, sir. Stand watch as Sergeant Stokes and Raleigh performed their mission, sir.”

  “I see,” General Flynn said. “And instead of carrying out those orders, you …”

  “Entered the tent, sir.”

  “So not only did you screw up in letting enemies escape, you disobeyed direct orders.”

  Xan cleared his throat. “Your spies didn’t spot anyone else in the camp wearing a mage uniform, and Brant’s team only left five confirmed alive. Possibly, Justav has three, and the empty beds might indicate two more. That’s five on the low side and only ten worst case scenario. That’s a lot better than thirty-five.”

  The only thing worse than being dressed down was being dressed down in front of an asshole. Worse than that was having that asshole defend you.

  “Stay out of this, Xan. He’s right. What if I had messed up with the first one instead of with only a few remaining? And it’s never okay to disobey—”

  “Sir Reed!” General Flynn yelled. “Where does Marshal Conley rank in the hierarchy of command?”

  Blast it! “A-above me, sir?”

  “And how does one address a superior officer?”

  Maybe the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Hopefully. “With respect, sir.”

  General Flynn snarled. “And was that how Captain Reed taught you to show respect? Perhaps his reputation as an excellent militia officer isn’t as well deserved as I’d been led to believe.”

  “N-no, sir.” Great. His mistakes were coming back on his dad. Fantastic.

  “Really, General,” Xan said. “I don’t mind—”

  General Flynn rounded on him. “I don’t care what you mind and don’t mind. The army has protocol, and that protocol will be followed.” His voice softened. “We’ve been lenient with you because you lack training and because, so far, you haven’t had any monumental screw ups. Your imbecile friend, however ...”

  “The point is, sir,” Xan said, “that, while I understand the need to learn from our mistakes, we need to focus on what’s next. Regardless of the mission not going perfectly, it went pretty well. Beyond my wildest hopes. We might actually have a chance of surviving the siege, but we’re still outnumbered.”

  “No,” General Flynn said.

  “Hear me out,” Xan said. “There’s no way to reduce the enemy numbers further, and we no longer need to test the entire population of Asherton to find enough mages. All we need is seven new ones. Just let me test the soldiers.”

  General Flynn sighed. “I admire your tenacity but no. You’re not taking Irdrin’s position into account. He just suffered a tremendous loss and found out his mages aren’t secret. Worst of all from his perspective, he has no idea about our numbers. Justav can tell him we mustered six in one room—seven if his spies found out about Tasia—but Irdrin can’t know for sure how many more we may have.”

  “So we just sit on our hands?” Xan said.

  “Exactly,” General Flynn said. “Exercise patience.”

  For once—lately anyway—Brant agreed with Xan. Better to act than sit around hoping the enemy doesn’t get one up on you. Not that anyone was interested in listening to Brant’s opinion. “May I be excused, sir?”

  “Dismissed.”

  They exchanged salutes, and Brant shot from the room. Outside, he grabbed a drink of water and sat in the shade. Action would start soon at the wall, but he deserved a few minutes of rest to recover from his drubbing.

  He stared into the cup. How could he have been so stupid? Disobeying orders? Letting the fact that the mage was a girl stay his hand? Really?

  A shadow crossed over him, and he looked up.

  “Are you okay?” Tasia said.

  He looked her up and down. Cute. Not nearly as much a babe as Lady Ashley, obviously, but Tasia didn’t try as hard either.

  She’d probably doll up nicely. A bit more makeup. Less fussy hairstyle. Definitely a tighter, shorter dress. Cleavage definitely—she looked like she had a lot to work with under that bulky top.

  Tasia cleared her throat. “Are you finished?”

  Oops. Sucked to be so tired. He wasn’t usually so obvious. “I am so sorry, my lady. Your beauty overwhelmed me.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  Brant patted the ground next to him. “Come. Sit.” He smiled. Too bad he was sitting in the shade. The old sun-reflecting-from-his-blue-eyes trick worked every time.

  “I’ve got to get to the hospital. If you need to talk, come see me.”

  Nothing better than when they played hard to get. “Don’t be that way, honey. I’ve got to get to the wall myself, but I always have time for a pretty girl like you.”

  Tasia put her hands on her hips, causing her chest to jut out. Nice. “You’re obviously in pain, so this is a horrible time to correct your behavior.” She frowned. “But I think I have to say this—women do not exist solely for your pleas
ure. At some point, you need to consider what it means to have a real relationship and stop acting like a horny child.”

  Huh? He didn’t think—

  “If you need a friend, find me. Otherwise, I’ve got work to do.” She turned and walked away. It wasn’t even fun watching since her dress covered so much.

  Friend? Really? Who did she think he was? Xan?

  How had he fallen so far so fast? Just two days ago, he’d arrived in Asherton a conquering hero, the savior of Lady Ashley—and her boyfriend.

  Horns sounded at the wall. He needed to get to the action.

  Brant groaned. Given his current luck, he’d probably be hit in the heart by a random arrow.

  No. There’d be some glory in being killed by the enemy. He’d probably trip and fall to his death over the parapet.

  Great.

  69.

  The trebuchet launched.

  A stone the size of Brant’s chest hurtled toward him. He flinched as the wall a few feet below him shuddered.

  Too close.

  One of the duke’s soldiers leaned over to look at where the stone hit.

  Another launch. Another hit several feet to Brant’s right. The wall shook again.

  The leaning soldier lost his balance. His arms flailed, trying to find purchase. Brant darted toward him, but he was too far away. The soldier tumbled over the parapet, landing with a terrible crunch thirty feet below.

  Brant grimaced. What a terrible way to go, not even having a chance to take any of the enemy with you.

  A shout arose in the distance. Truna’s army, fifteen hundred strong, charged. Men, horses, and siege machines moved as one. The ground trembled.

  Brant’s hands shook. His first real action. Time to go to work.

  A team of more than a hundred burgundy-clad soldiers carried a bridge toward the moat. Wood and wet animal skins sheltered them, but that shouldn’t matter to an expert archer.

  Brant raised his bow, chose a target, and shot. Too short. Too soon. Rookie mistake.

  He took a deep breath and waited before shooting again. The arrow struck center mass, the added speed from the height driving it through armor. His first real kill.

  Nice.

  He shot again. Another kill. And another. A miss. Blast it!

  Enemy horse archers returned the favor. Arrows whizzed past Brant. A soldier to his right was struck in the shoulder.

  A deep breath followed by a shot. Hit.

  Men around Brant fell, as did others holding the bridge. Not enough of those, though. Irdrin’s men got the span into place. If only he could crush them where they stood, but he wasn’t about to disobey orders again.

  Besides, arrows were cleaner. More fair.

  A stone crashed into the parapet not ten yards to Brant’s right. Chunks showered the platform. Two soldiers collapsed, blood trickling from beneath their helmets.

  They should be fine. Minor wounds.

  Instead, blood gushed out. What the blast? Could it be magic?

  Five figures stood behind the enemy army. Too far away to make out the uniforms without a spyglass, but were those the enemy death mages? The number was correct.

  He viewed them through the magic, making sure to look at both them and the duke’s soldiers at the same time. Sure enough, black lines stretched from two of the mages.

  Why hadn’t the wounded men died yet then?

  Brant glanced about. Lucan stood on the ground inside the wall. Thin lines split from him to each to the wounded men.

  Boom!

  The wall shook. A battering ram slammed into the gate.

  Barely aiming, considering the number of targets below, Brant shot arrow after arrow.

  A crew near him poured a great vat of steaming oil over the parapet, and Brant cheered along with his comrades at the resulting screams. Another stone launched in his direction, but he barely paid it any attention. He shot another arrow.

  Crunch!

  Brant fell. He hit the platform. A chunk of wall toppled toward him.

  The world went black.

  70.

  Tasia bent over a hospital bed and carefully lifted a blood-soaked bandage.

  “How is it?” the soldier said.

  He’d never regain full use of his right arm. If only she’d learned how to use magic. Not that the knowledge would have helped since she wouldn’t have been allowed to use it.

  “You’re going to be just fine.” She smiled and handed him a wad of painkilling herbs baked in sugar. “Chew on this.”

  He grimaced as he did. There was only so much that could be done to hide the bitterness.

  “This is going to sting,” she said.

  He nodded and clenched his left hand tight around the bed frame.

  It was her turn to grimace as she poured potion on a gaping hole where an arrow had been removed. The soldier’s left hand shook, and he gritted his teeth. She could only imagine how much it hurt.

  “You’re so brave not to cry out.” Mimicking Ashley, she batted her eyes. “Your girlfriend is going to flip over the scar.”

  He blushed and shook his head.

  “No girlfriend?” She gently patted at the wound with a clean cloth. “I find that hard to believe.”

  A shy smile split his face.

  “Well, you’ll be flirting with barmaids in no time. I’m Tasia. Call out if you need me.”

  Two more patients had been brought in while she’d dealt with him. Less than ten empty beds remaining despite having packed so many in that there was barely room to move between. There’d be no help for it but to send the least injured to the courtyard.

  Tasia examined the new patients. The first only had a gash, so she dispatched another helper to bind it. The other needed no treatment.

  She called an orderly to cart the body to the cellar. So young. So sad. No time to mourn, though. Five more stretchers arrived from the surgery tent.

  After assessing the first four, she bent to examine the last. Blood dripped from soaked bandages. His forehead could only be described as dented. After lifting his eyelid, she inspected for any sign of life. He still breathed but would never wake. And she didn’t even have the bed space for him to die in peace.

  She signaled for orderlies to take him to the cellar.

  As they carted him away, she glanced at him one last time. Something about the shape of his face tickled her memory.

  “Wait!” She rushed to the boy. Under swelling and bruises and streams of red, she recognized him.

  Emry Rilee.

  The last time she’d seen him, he’d been eating a vibrant red apple at Miln’s house. His wedding was to be in the spring. She’d already commissioned a butter churn to give him and Myra.

  Tasia choked back a sob as she stared at him. Heal. Life flow into him! Nothing happened.

  How did magic work? In the past, it had taken her hours and hours of praying, but surely, there was a faster way. What did she need to do? Why hadn’t she let Xan teach her?

  She closed her eyes. The duke’s orders. Even if she had the time or the knowledge, she didn’t have permission. But the duke surely wouldn’t want one of his soldiers to die unnecessarily. Right? He would if it meant keeping the duchy safe.

  Tasia waved the orderlies to continue their grisly task and had another of the senior helpers take over triage duties. She busied herself changing bandages on an unconscious patient.

  How would she ever face Myra?

  Tasia threw herself into her work, not stopping until the doctors arrived from the tents near the wall. She hadn’t even realized the thuds from the trebuchets and the horns had stopped. Though the physicians looked even more bone weary than she felt, no one would begrudge her a short rest.

  The door opened, and Lucan marched in, two guards flanking him. His black cloak and blond hair trailed after him dramatically. He strode directly to the worst case in the room and spent a half minute hovering over the man before moving to another soldier on the edge of death.

  Tasia rushed to the f
irst patient Lucan had attended and felt for the man’s pulse. It was strong and steady. Why was Lucan allowed to heal when she wasn’t? He attended five more soldiers, including one she had thought was in fine shape, before he moved to leave the hospital.

  “Lucan, wait.” She led him outside away from prying ears. “What can your—our—power do?”

  He looked her up and down, evaluating her, but not like Brant. Lucan’s look weighed her worth, asked if she deserved his knowledge.

  “You are a healer, yes?”

  She nodded.

  He sighed. “You know that if more life force flows out of a person than is coming in, that person dies?”

  She nodded again.

  “Increasing life force into a person can’t—say—regrow a limb, but it does boost healing. Enough to stabilize a patient so he won’t die.”

  “Can it cure brain injuries?”

  “Not always.” He shrugged. “Most of the time.”

  A tear leaked from her eye. “There are more men suffering. Even the ones you helped still suffer. Why don’t you do something!”

  He scowled. “Why don’t you?”

  “I don’t … I can’t—” Why hadn’t she?

  “You follow your lord duke’s command as I do,” he said. “Miraculous recoveries would be evidence of magic use.”

  How could she value her uncle’s order more than Emry’s life? Tasia stumbled away, her face buried, and tripped on a raised flagstone, nearly falling.

  “Girl, wait.”

  Footsteps approached her from behind. A hand touched her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, but Lucan persisted.

  “The day has been long,” he said. “That was unfair.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  Lucan gently spun her and pulled her hands from her face. “Duke Asher has valid reasons. You were right to take heed.” He paused. “I, too, abhor the suffering, but there’s only so much a mage can do, especially after an entire day spent using magic. Overextending is a real danger.”

  She raised her eyebrows, curious despite herself.

  “Think of the power as flowing through a tube, one that’s blocked from years of disuse. Practice wears the blockage down, allowing a mage to reach full potential. Forcing too much at once, however … Best case scenario, the mage simply passes out and wakes with an enormous headache. More than half the time, though, the tube is severed.”