Gryphon (Rise of the Mages Book 2)

by Brian W. Foster

  “And me, Father? What would you have me do?”

  Duke Asher turned to Lady Ashley and paused, almost as if he was afraid of how she’d take whatever he was about to say. “You will run Vierna in my absence.”

  Lady Ashley frowned. “I see. And where will you be?”

  “Throwing myself on the mercy of the queen.”

  “An inventive way to commit suicide, Father. Easier to throw yourself off a tower.”

  “Unless we can convince Queen Anna that our cause is right, she will move against us before we have a chance to do anything. I must treat with her. Convince her that this wizard is a terrible danger to the whole of the three kingdoms. He is, after all, also a blighter, able to destroy Escon itself with a thought. He must be stopped, and there’s no way to kill him without a minimum of ten mages to block him.”

  As far as plans went, showing up at the queen’s castle sure sounded foolhardy to Brant.

  “She’s received my reports about Truna’s attack and the thirty mages they wielded,” Duke Asher said, “but doubtless she discounted it. I must make her see the truth. Get her to consider how dangerous mages are in the hands of the enemy while we still hold to a worthless piece of paper.”

  “Why would she even let you into her presence?” Lady Ashley said. “If it were me, I’d have you killed before you broached the gate.”

  “I have to trust her sense of honor.”

  Lady Ashley barked out a harsh laugh. “As I said, go to the tower. It’ll be quicker.”

  Duke Asher started to respond, but Lady Ashley held up a hand.

  “You have never been more than a distant associate to her, Father. At best, an uneasy ally. At worst, a potential rival to her throne. In contrast, I share a bond with her forged over many summers at court serving as her lady-in-waiting. She won’t be as quick to kill me.”

  “Depending on her sentiment is more foolhardy than depending on her honor.”

  “I’m a mage and can defend myself.”

  Brant couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of Lady Ashley actually fighting anyone. Tasia rolled her eyes.

  “I can learn to be a mage, anyway,” Lady Ashley said, “And I’ll take Tasia and Lainey as my escorts. The three of us can stop any force short of the queen’s full army.”

  “No! I will not have you put in danger again.”

  Instead of responding, Lady Ashley simply smiled and waited. Brant could almost imagine her pulling out a needlepoint and working at it.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched until Duke Asher finally broke it. “Fine. But I’m sending an entire platoon of soldiers with you.”

  Lady Ashley nodded as if her mission was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

  Brant cleared his throat. “Uh, my lord, this new force of mages you’re building … who is to lead it?”

  The duke met his eyes. “If one of my officers is found to be a mage, he’ll be the obvious choice.”

  There were less than a hundred of those serving, so the chances were decent that none of them would have ability.

  “And if not, my lord?”

  “Marshal of the Mages is up for grabs to whoever impresses me the most.”

  Brant narrowed his eyes. He wanted that commission.

  “The storm appears ready to abate by morning,” the duke said. “Sir Brant, Lady Ashley, have your teams ready to depart by then.”

  1.

  Xan groaned.

  He opened his eyes. Blackness. Water poured over him. What? Where?

  Lightning flashed, revealing a field. Night. A storm.

  Every part of him hurt. He was laying on his right side in some kind of straw. A haystack. His body tingled. Numb. He tried to shift.

  Agony.

  His left shoulder felt the worst, but his right leg burned like it was on fire. And his ribs. He attempted to move his right arm, but it hung uselessly.

  And thirst.

  Almost worse than everything else was the thirst. His mouth felt like it had been left in the desert to dry for a month and his tongue like it could smooth wood. He needed water.

  Luckily, rain fell in sheets. He carefully tilted his head up and opened his mouth, letting the downpour fill it with life-giving water.

  Better. Again. And again.

  Not too much, though. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and filling it might make him throw it all back up.

  How the rads had he gotten himself in such a state?

  Vague recollections flooded him. Power. Tasia! Lots of killing. Fleeing the castle by flying. Falling.

  Yes. He’d overextended while flying. And an arrow had hit him.

  His head had been spinning as he’d spotted a field dotted with haystacks. He’d aimed for one. Must have hit it, or he’d have been killed.

  How long had he been out? From the stiffness and thirst and the gnawing hunger in his stomach, quite a while. Days at least.

  And what other damage had the fall done? The pain was from more than just overextending. Broken bones. Multiple. Yes. Maybe even internal injuries.

  Good thing he’d stopped drinking in time. If he did have internal injuries, that would have been dangerous indeed.

  He shivered. The tremor sent waves of pain through him. Cold. Needed warmth. Rads-infested rain.

  Tried to move. More pain. Agony.

  Though if not for the rain, he would have died of thirst. So okay, yay, rain.

  Xan had no idea where he was besides the obvious, but wherever he was, it couldn’t be that far from the castle. He’d escaped. Duke Asher’s men were surely hunting him. They’d kill him on sight.

  And not only the duke’s soldiers. Truna’s forces must have been routed after what Xan had done to them, and he doubted they’d fled in a single mass. There were probably small groups hiding. Any of those were just as likely to prove fatal to him as the duke’s men were.

  The field was too exposed. Xan had to hide.

  Again, he tried to move.

  Agony. Again. He could force neither his leg nor arm more than an inch out of position. Even breathing hurt.

  Okay. Heal first.

  Tried to concentrate to access the magic. Couldn’t. Nauseous. Almost threw up.

  Throwing up bad.

  Overextended. When that had happened in the past, it had been a while after he woke before he could use magic. So no healing for a while. And no healing meant surviving. In the open.

  Alone.

  Last time he’d overextended, his friends had looked after him. And he hadn’t been severely injured.

  He was all alone. Injured. Starving. Destitute, literally possessing just the clothes on his back. And likely dying.

  Despite the pain, he felt his eyelids get heavy. His body wanted sleep. Needed sleep.

  But if he succumbed, he might never wake again. Hungry. If it stopped raining, he’d run out of water.

  Couldn’t let himself sleep. Magic. Heal.

  Nothing.

  His mind faded.

  No! He jerked awake.

  Pain.

  Something tickled his arm. He tried to scratch at it, but his arm still hung limp.

  What was it?

  Lightning flashed. He looked.

  Spider! Big. Hairy. Why did it have to be a spider? Always came down to blasted, rads-infested spiders.

  He shivered. Pain.

  His vision went black.

  2.

  Xan woke with a start.

  And immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his shoulder. His head throbbed. Everything hurt.

  He peeled open his eyes. Daylight. No rain. How long had he been out?

  At least he was alive. But weak. Hungry. Thirst burned his mouth.

  Apparently, his destiny was to always end up alone, abandoned by his friends, his life on the line.

  Xan shivered, his body coated with sweat. Fever. The arrow.

  The wound must have become infected. He had to do something about that. Food and water as well, if he wanted to live. And he s
till hurt too much to move.

  His only hope was magic, but accessing the source turned out to be like trying to suck a grape through a straw. After an agonizing effort, he finally managed a tiny trickle.

  All too soon, the strain of maintaining the flow became too hard, and he had to give up. His aches did ease a bit. Maybe. Unless he was just imagining it because, really, things weren’t much better.

  He flexed his right arm. It lifted maybe two inches instead of one.

  Yay, progress.

  Not nearly enough, though, and he’d tapped out his ability to draw magic for a while. He needed to think, to come up with a plan. Healing. Water. Food. In that order.

  He’d rest a while until he could access his power again. There had to be puddles from the storm. All he had to do was crawl to one, which he’d be able to do after another, larger burst of healing.

  Hopefully, anyway, though it seemed a longshot, considering he could barely summon the strength to lift his head.

  Great. Just great.

  He’d manage somehow. There wasn’t exactly much of a choice.

  “It’s just a hayfield,” a distant voice said.

  Xan jerked at the sound, and intense pain flared in his shoulder. He clenched his jaw shut to stifle an agonized cry.

  Someone searching for something. Or someone. Probably soldiers. He was too weak to defend himself. They’d kill him if they found him.

  Another voice. Young. Wait, both were young. Not soldiers, then. Two boys. But they might have an adult with them. Or tell soldiers if they saw him.

  Xan had to hide, but how to do that when he couldn’t move? Hay. Maybe he could cover himself. Frantically, he flailed his left arm, but a hundred-pound weight attached to his hand would have felt lighter.

  He braced himself and tried to sit upright. Pain flared. Every movement was agony.

  Had. To. Hide.

  “Hay means a farm. Farm means animals and crops. We need food.”

  “Pa said not to go far. We’re miles away.”

  The voices were getting closer. Xan winced. Maybe he should call out.

  No! Too dangerous.

  But they were just little kids. What were they going to do? Hit him with a stick?

  That was the point, though. They could do anything. He was helpless. Literally, he could do nothing to stop them, and even if they were friendly, they might mention him to their parents who could report him to soldiers.

  Best to hide. Definitely.

  But burying himself simply wasn’t doable with his various injuries, so he had to settle for covering the arrow sticking from his right shoulder. A story of a man sleeping in a haystack was nothing remarkable. A tale about a brigand who’d been shot would spread. He couldn’t afford that kind of attention.

  Carefully, he pulled a pile of straw over his torso, hiding the wound at least, but he needed to conceal the shaft.

  The voices came closer. He had little time.

  His movements grew more frantic.

  Aahhh!

  Too much. Intense pain.

  He groaned.

  “What was that?” one of the voices said.

  “… came from over there.”

  No! Xan frantically tried to cover himself with straw, but his body wouldn’t function. Too much pain.

  “We can’t. Pa said to be careful.”

  “I want to see.”

  “What if it’s a bear?”

  “There ain’t none around here. Grow up.”

  Xan had to do something. The voices moved steadily closer. They would find him, and a bloody man with an arrow sticking from his shoulder was sure to stick in their memory.

  He poured as much healing magic as he could into himself, which wasn’t a lot. His pain eased, though. Enough to finish covering the arrow and the dried, and not so dried, blood stains.

  Two boys, one no more than ten and the other younger and a head shorter, rounded the haystack. They froze, jaws open, at the sight of him.

  “H—” Xan tried to greet them. Friendly. But he couldn’t force words out. His throat was too parched.

  So much for appearing normal.

  “W aa ttt …”

  “Water?” the older boy said.

  Xan nodded gratefully or, at least, gave some semblance of a nod, bobbing his head a couple of inches.

  The boy ran off, dragging the younger one by the arm.

  Great. Probably off to find the nearest patrol, and Xan was in no shape to fight being arrested.

  Not only had he exposed himself to danger, but he didn’t get anything out of it. How was he going to survive? Even if there were puddles nearby, he’d never reach them with the condition he was in.

  But he had to try.

  He shifted, intending to crawl from the straw. As soon as his leg moved, he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  Xan slowly bent to examine his leg. Apparently, he’d broken that, too. With all his other injuries, he hadn’t noticed it.

  “When I’m hurt, pa always says not to move,” the boy said.

  Xan looked up.

  The older boy stood there holding a rusty pail. “I got some water.” He held out the old bucket.

  Gingerly, Xan took it and sipped, schooling himself not to gulp. Sweet, life-giving water. Another sip. And another, swallowing mud, rust flakes, and all.

  “T-thanks, kid.”

  The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and sprinted away.

  Xan stared after him, hoping he hadn’t gone to retrieve soldiers. If that wasn’t what his little friend was already doing.

  Well, at least Xan had gotten enough water to avoid dying of dehydration. For the moment, anyway. His stomach rumbled, though. No telling how long since his last meal, and the need for food grew urgent.

  His only chance was to heal himself more.

  Xan closed his eyes and focused on the magic. More came through. Easier. Definitely getting easier.

  Just that little bit made his pain dissipate. Better wasn’t good enough, though. He still couldn’t even crawl, much less stand or walk. Even if there were food nearby, and he vaguely remembered seeing a farmhouse as he’d fell, there was no way for him to get to it.

  He searched his memory. Yes. There was a farmhouse, a minimum of a couple hundred yards away. Might as well have been hundreds of miles.

  His stomach rumbled again. Soon, that rumbling would turn to outright pain, and if he didn’t do something about it, his body would start shutting down.

  He had no choice but to try more healing, but the next half hour of effort yielded no results.

  Rest. He needed rest. Just a few minutes. Xan closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Xan opened dreary eyes.

  “Mister? Mister? Are you dead?”

  The boy, again, and he held something that smelled good. Like a field of flowers after a spring rain good. No. Better. Like bread fresh out of the oven good.

  The boy held the object toward Xan. It was bread.

  “We ain’t got much,” the boy said, “but we came across unharvested wheat a while back. Pa always says share what ya got.”

  He was right about it not being much. Not a loaf or a half-loaf or even a roll. Half a roll. A few bites, really. But beggars, choosers, and all that.

  “Thank you again, kid.” Xan took a small bite and let it hit his stomach before taking another. “That’s twice, now.”

  “Twice what?”

  “That you’ve saved my life,” Xan said. “I owe you. Big.”

  The boy stared at the ground and fidgeted. “Twasn’t nothing.”

  “No, it was definitely something,” Xan said.

  His body needed more than a few meager bites, though, and he couldn’t ask for it from the boy, who’d obviously given all he could spare.

  Xan frowned, deep in thought. Digesting food created energy through chemical reactions, and since he was, you know, an alchemist, maybe there was something he could do. He sent a tiny burst of magic.

 
The effect was weird. His stomach still ached with emptiness, but energy flowed through his body. He perked up, feeling like he could handle a little more healing magic, and when he tried, it came much easier.

  “Are you going to die?” the boy said. “I ain’t never seen no one die before.”

  Xan barked out a chuckle and winced as a fresh wave of pain hit. “I hope not, kid. I hope not. What’s your name, anyway? I’m tired of calling you kid.”

  “Marco.”

  “Well met, Marco. I’m … uh, Basil.”

  A short silence stretched, the lad clearly not knowing what to say, and Xan contemplated allowing the conversation to die. But he was so blasted tired of being alone. Talking to someone was nice, even if it was a child. And really, he could use all the information he could get.

  “So,” Xan said, “you live around here?”

  “We’re camped over yonder.” Marco pointed to the northeast.

  “Camped?”

  Marco frowned but said nothing.

  “Were you driven from your home?”

  Xan hadn’t given a lot of thought to what conditions outside the castle must have been like. Armies could only carry so much in the way of supplies, so they ransacked the surrounding farms and villages. And armies whose leaders lack any moral compass gave no regard for commoners. He couldn’t even imagine what Marco and his family had been through.

  “Pa says everything will be okay, and camping is kind of fun.” Marco shrugged. “Fewer chores.”

  Poor little guy, putting such a brave face on things. When nobles fought, it was always their subjects who paid the dearest price.

  “I bet you’ve got stories to tell,” Xan said.

  Marco nodded enthusiastically. “Three groups of the duke’s soldiers have been to our camp. Real ones in the fancy blue and gold uniforms. One of the officers even let me hold his sword!”

  “Three times?” Xan held back a grimace. “Wow. Why would they visit so often?”

  “The first time, they brung us food.” Marco scowled. “Not much and most of it rotten. And asked about if we were sick and all.” He shrugged. “After that, they just came through checking everyone’s faces.”

  “Like they were looking for someone? Who?” Not that Xan really needed the confirmation.