Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2) (35 page)

The morning sun dawned on Brant as he dashed from the man-door set into the city wall.

Fifty yards wasn’t that bad. Only took seconds to run. Why did it look so far?

Oh. Yeah. Because some idiot had decided he and the men with him should look like fleeing deserters. Asshole.

He pumped his arms and legs.

Of course, since it was a secret mission and all, the duke’s soldiers couldn’t be told. And what about the enemy? Sure, Truna’s army hadn’t completely encircled Asherton, but they could have any number of archers scouting the area. Either side could try to shoot him!

There was absolutely no cover over the entire open stretch, and he wasn’t even wearing armor. Xan was going to get him killed!

Wilfred and two of the duke’s soldiers, Sergeant Stokes and Raleigh, sprinted behind Brant. All kept their heads low. Best to present the smallest profile possible.

The ground passed in a blur. Brant dove behind a bush. Wilfred and the sergeant burst into the brush. Raleigh followed seconds later.

Brant scanned the area, but there was no sign they’d been spotted.

All they had to do was make their way to the spot where he and Xan had sensed magic use. Scout out the mages. Hide. Sneak in at night and kill as many as possible. Easy, right?

As long as Brant didn’t think about all the enemy patrols. And the danger of penetrating an opposing camp that was on full alert. And …

Following game trails narrower than a man’s foot, Raleigh led them through a mile-wide stretch of wooded land. Once they reached fields on the other side, they circled to the right, following their plan to swing wide and approach from the north.

An hour and a half later, Brant opened himself to the magic and detected numerous surges almost directly south, exactly where he thought they’d be. He hated to admit it, but Xan’s plan had worked perfectly. “Time to turn.”

A half mile later, while crossing a shallow gully, Raleigh halted with his fist held above him. The others stopped behind him.

Despite being older than dirt, he flowed to the lowest part of the ditch and threw himself down without making a sound. Brant ducked behind a bush. Wilfred crawled under some ivy while the sergeant flattened himself behind a row of shrubs.

Brant softened his breathing and listened. Hooves plopped on soft dirt. Good thing Raleigh had been so attentive.

A man rode toward them. When he drew near, he stopped, darted to the right, and stopped again.

Wilfred eased his dagger from its sheath and inched onto his knees.

Moron. It wasn’t worth the risk.

The rider craned his neck, clearly listening for sounds. Wilfred shifted into a crouched position. Anything Brant did to stay him would give away their presence.

The rider urged his horse forward. Brant let out a long, slow breath. He glared at Wilfred, ready to give him a tongue-lashing he wouldn’t soon forget.

But Raleigh didn’t stir. Not a muscle.

Brant copied him, and several minutes passed. Was Raleigh okay? Had the excitement given the old guy a heart attack? They didn’t have time to sit in one spot all day. So frustrating not being able to talk.

More minutes passed.

Brant’s ears caught a sound. More hooves. Five horses trotted in their direction.

He held his breath as the men rode by. As soon as the new group passed from range, Raleigh rose from the ditch and continued as if nothing had happened. They met one more scout formation, also with a single rider followed by five more. The alertness of their foes meant Brant’s group had to move slowly.

An hour later, they sighted the enemy camp, and Sergeant Stokes and Raleigh ghosted away for their mission to get uniforms.

Brant shook his head. Granted the two were experienced soldiers who would get the job done, but he hated to be left behind. In less time than he expected, they returned with their bounty. Brant pulled on a burgundy tunic with a blood-stained neck.

That could happen to him if he got caught. But he wouldn’t fail. Wouldn’t lose.

They found a path to the back of the latrines and merged with the men returning from doing their business. No one gave them a second glance as they marched purposefully through the mob of enemy soldiers.

Brant led them toward the magic use, stopping when they neared a large tent obviously being used as a field hospital. “Inside there.” He, again, had to give it to Xan.

So annoying.

“Look sad and bone weary,” Sergeant Stokes said. “We’re waiting for word on whether my cousin, Lory, will survive.”

Wilfred gave a tiny nod and cast his eyes at the dirt, his shoulders slumping. The sergeant and Rayleigh lounged with the practiced experience of men long used to waiting. Brant tried to match their stance as he watched the tent, but he was too tense. His back grew stiff.

An hour later, one of the magic flows stopped, and a captain wearing a brown uniform with gold trim exited. He rubbed his eyes and dragged his feet as he walked.

One of the death mages.

Brant nudged Wilfred and stood. Leaving Raleigh and the sergeant to monitor people entering and exiting the hospital, they followed the captain. Once he disappeared into a network of tents with two guards at the entrance, they returned to the hospital.

Over the course of the afternoon and into evening, they followed many more mages, singly and in groups. Soon after full dark, all magic flows stopped.

“I think that’s all of them.” Brant had counted twenty-one enemy mages.

Sergeant Stokes nodded, and Brant led them to a spot near the woods within sight of the tent complex. The four of them spread their bedrolls and pretended to sleep.

Late in the night when silence ruled except for snores and the occasional sentry roaming, they rose and moved toward the woods like they couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way to the latrine.

Brant’s heart thudded.

Was he nervous? He’d never been nervous before. But he’d also never been about to kill people in their sleep. How was it winning if the other guy didn’t even know you were playing?

He crept through the trees. His toes found openings where no leaves or sticks littered the ground, and his passage created no more noise than leaves rustled by soft wind. Sergeant Stokes and Raleigh were just as skilled. Only Wilfred slowed them.

They stalked to the shadow of the tent, and Brant slit the heavy canvass with his belt knife.

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.

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 pleasure. 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.