Gryphon (Rise of the Mages Book 2)

by Brian W. Foster

  The bandit’s eyes went wide. His hands went to his weapon, but he was too late. Brant’s blade impaled him through the chest.

  Hot blood spurted from the gaping wound.

  Brant tucked his shoulder upon hitting the ground and rolled to his feet. The two bandits holding the parents broke from their stupor and moved toward Brant. His sword was stuck fast in the man’s chest. All he had was his belt knife.

  Oops. Maybe his method of taking out the first bandit hadn’t been his best move.

  He tensed, taking a fighting stance, but there wasn’t much he could do with a tiny knife against two trained opponents.

  Hooves shook the ground. Three horses.

  “We’ll take these two!” Stokes yelled. “See to the girl!”

  As he and Raleigh dismounted to clash with the two outlaws, Brant sheathed his knife and retrieved his sword.

  The two men holding the girl had released her and stood a couple of yards apart, ready for Brant. He ran toward the gap between them. When he closed to near striking distance, he feinted at the one on his right.

  The man took the bait, dropping to his knee to dodge.

  Brant twirled mid-motion and struck at the one on his left. The attack caught him off guard, but he deflected the blow. Instead of a clean stab through the chest, the blade only nicked his shoulder, and the man swung a counter-strike as Brant dashed past.

  Shit!

  He ducked, and the sharp steel missed his head by inches.

  Two against one was always tricky. He’d hoped to remove the first one from the battle quickly, and that failure was likely to cost him.

  After recovering his balance, he spun. Both his opponents stood ready to meet him.

  Not good. A feint wouldn’t work a second time.

  The one on the left charged, sword tip thrusting. Brant parried the blow and bloodied the man’s leg. A good hit but too slow.

  When the second man darted in, Brant barely got his sword up in time to hit the man’s wrist with the flat part of his blade. He deflected the strike, so instead of a fatal blow to the head, the blade stabbed Brant’s left shoulder.

  Intense pain shot through his arm.

  The first man limped in for another round. He swung. Hard.

  Brant hit the ground and rolled, gasping at the pain when his shoulder struck. He leapt back to his feet. With a hurt leg, his opponent wasn’t able to follow quickly enough, and Brant took him in the kidney.

  He’d finally taken out one of his opponents, but the offensive had put him with his back to the second bandit.

  Footsteps sounded behind him.

  Brant spun. Metal flashed toward his chest. His blade was out of position. He’d never block it in time.

  Stokes and Raleigh were both occupied fighting two men each. Neither was even looking his way, much less able to help.

  Brant was about to die, and there was absolutely nothing he or anyone else could do.

  As the bandit went for the killing thrust, his face twisted into an expression of intense pain. The hand holding his weapon opened, and the sword clanged to the dirt.

  What the blast?

  Regardless the reason for his unexpected escape, Brant didn’t need further bid to finish the guy off. He thrust his blade through the bandit’s chest for a quick kill.

  With his opponents dead, he glanced at the rest of the battle. Both Stokes and Raleigh had things well in hand.

  Good. Brant panted. He needed a break.

  “Are you okay?” Ivie gestured at his shirt.

  Blood soaked through the fabric at his shoulder. He flexed his arm and winced. “Didn’t hit anything major. Looks like it’ll have to be sewed, though.”

  She glanced at the other two, who were still fighting. “Want me to …”

  “To what?”

  She tilted her head, her expression annoyed. “You know.”

  Oh. Magic.

  “Too dangerous,” he said.

  “Suit yourself, but you were glad for it a moment ago.”

  “You were the reason that guy dropped his sword?”

  She nodded.

  Why would she do such a thing? Only he knew her secret. With him dead, the others would probably just let her go.

  “Uh … Thanks, I guess, but you can’t just … I mean, other mages surely detected that. You blew our cover!”

  She put a finger to her lips and motioned toward Stokes. He and Raleigh had finished off the bandits and were calming the family.

  “Perhaps a more private location would be better for that talk?” she said.

  They walked a short distance in the woods to a stream where she had him sit on a log and remove his shirt in order for her to deal with his wound.

  “Okay, spill,” he said. “What did you do?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I used very little magic. No one could have noticed a tiny blip like that.”

  Brant frowned. “When the death mages drained life from the soldiers on the wall in Asherton, it was very noticeable.”

  She dipped a cloth in the stream and dabbed at his shoulder, clearing away the blood. “That’s because they were far away, and they were trying to kill. I ruptured a muscle in his wrist from nearby using a targeted burst.”

  “That’s kind of handy.”

  “It is.” She smiled. “And I can do the same thing for your shoulder. Permission to heal you, master?”

  Blood oozed from the open wound. He’d be weeks recovering, and that was if it didn’t get infected.

  “You’re sure no one can sense it?” he said.

  “They train us to be undetectable. But if I keep the magic use that small, I won’t be able to mend it completely.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him a mock salute.

  He liked seeing her like that. Playful. Mostly she’d been either morose or sick since he’d met her.

  Her eyes took on a glazed look, and the pain in his shoulder eased. Blood stopped flowing, and a scab formed as he watched.

  “There,” she said. “We’ll bandage it up, and when you redress it tonight, it’ll just look like a minor injury that’s healing nicely.”

  He flexed his arm. Much, much better. “You saved my life back there. Thank you.”

  “Just returning the favor.”

  He met her eyes. “No, I mean it. Really. Thank you.”

  Ivie’s face reddened, and she looked away.

  “I don’t understand, though,” he said. “Why?”

  “Purely for my own self-interest.” Ivie plastered on an unreadable expression. “For reasons I can’t fathom, you seem to value having me around. Your friends, though …”

  She believed Stokes would kill her out of hand. What must it have been like to grow up in Dastanar if it was completely normal for people to go around killing handmaids when they weren’t of use?

  Still, she could have let him die. That meant he could trust her. Some, at least.

  Unless that was just what she wanted him to think.

  Brant sighed. Sometimes women made his head hurt.

  19.

  Brant sipped from his flagon.

  There were worse ways to spend one’s time than drinking in taverns and flirting with barmaids, but even the funnest of activities—okay, maybe not the very funnest—got dull after five nights. He hadn’t realized spying was so boring.

  Stokes, sitting across the table, gave a slight nod.

  Brant seethed even as he kept a grin plastered on his face. Yes, mister veteran spy, he was doing it right, taking a tiny swallow at a time. The tankard was still three quarters full, but he’d call over a barmaid for a refill to make it look like he drank as much as anyone else in the crowded common room.

  In fact, he did just that, summoning the nearest one. The girl—Olive? Yes, that was her name—asked if he need anything else, and he declined.

  A few minutes later, Ivie and Raleigh returned from the privy.

  Another irritation. De
spite Brant’s pledges that they could trust her, Stokes insisted Ivie not be left alone.

  As soon as they sat, Brant called Olive back over. “Hey, honey, can I get some of those sweetcakes?”

  “Sure, I’ll run and get you a basket.”

  “How about these right here?” He pinched her behind.

  She squealed and swatted his hand away, but not too hard. “Maybe later …”

  Brant laughed. “I guess I’ll have to settle for what the cook whips up for now.” He watched intently as she swayed out of the room. “Nice.”

  Stokes snorted.

  “What?” Brant was, after all, simply flirting just like every other man in the tavern so as not to draw attention.

  “Nothing,” Stokes said.

  When Olive returned, she placed a tray full of pastries at the center of the table. As she withdrew her arm, her elbow knocked over Ivie’s drink. The full flagon spilled, and thick, sticky ale flowed everywhere.

  Well kind of everywhere. Mostly right over the edge of the table and onto Ivie’s lap.

  She shouted and jumped up.

  “I am so, so sorry, miss.” Olive didn’t look all that apologetic, though.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You are completely forgiven.” Ivie didn’t look like she’d forgiven anyone, though. She glared at both Olive and, for some strange reason, Brant.

  What did he do?

  “Just clean up this mess, please,” Ivie said, “while I go change.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Olive said. “Right away, ma’am.”

  She snickered, though, when Ivie spun and, with Raleigh in tow, practically ran from the room. Brant couldn’t help but think he’d missed something.

  With Olive gone to fetch cleaning rags, Stokes said, “You know you can just order her to your bed, right?”

  “I can do no such thing,” Brant said. “Barmaids aren’t mine to command unless I’m willing to surrender a bit of coin, which—”

  “Not the wench. The maid.” Stokes shook his head ruefully. “There’s no need to make her jealous.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brant said. “I have no interest in her like that. She’s my … handmaid.”

  Handmaid? Really? Saying it like that, Brant didn’t even believe himself.

  And why didn’t he want to bed her? She was of age and female, so … yeah. He didn’t know what was holding him back. Except maybe one thing …

  Blasted Tasia. He couldn’t get her comment about using girls for his pleasure out of his head. What the flip did he care what that busybody thought, anyway? Just because she was obsessed with being virtuous didn’t mean he had to be.

  Besides, he was a good guy. Saving that family proved it.

  On the other hand, Stokes was right.

  Brant groaned. He had been trying to make Ivie jealous. Not that she’d shown any sign of his tactic working, but she was so … stoic. Nothing fazed her. If he cut her throat, she’d just shrug and go “oh well.”

  Enough!

  What the blast was he doing? Dwelling on how his rads-infested handmaid felt about him? Really? He had a mission. Some serious spy shit was going down.

  He needed to get ahold of himself. No more flirting with any girl, especially not Ivie.

  When she returned, though, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Her gown was cut lower than normal, revealing a wide expanse of corseted cleavage, and hugged her waist tightly, much different than the sacks she normally wore.

  “Nice dress,” he said. “You look … lovely.”

  Wait. What was he doing? Practically drooling over her. If he didn’t get his act together, he’d become as much of an idiot about girls as Xan.

  “You like it, master?”

  Master? Hmmm.

  She ran her hand tantalizingly over her hip, tracing up her stomach. “It’s uncomfortable, though. Tight.” She leaned forward, giving him a great view of her bust. “Perhaps I should take it off.”

  Brant swallowed. Hard. “Sure. If you need to change again, go ahead.”

  “Oh, but it’s so difficult to undo all these buttons all by my lonesome,” she said. “And I’ve got no one to help me. It will take simply forever.”

  Okay, so maybe the whole jealousy thing wasn’t such a bad idea. “I could, you know, help with that.” His forehead felt warm. Was he sweating?

  “Oh! Thank you so very much, my lord.” She purred.

  Purred. Seriously. Sounded like a kitten.

  She turned, and Brant followed, thinking very much how he would enjoy playing servant and master with her all night long. He’d definitely have to remember the benefits of the jealousy ploy.

  20.

  Brant burst through the door of Ivie’s room, dragging her by the hand.

  Eager to get her clothes off and his hands all over her, he spun. And stopped cold when he saw her face. Far from the lustful gaze he expected, her expression was serious. Stern, even.

  “I’m glad you finally took the hint that I needed to talk to you in private,” she said.

  “I, uh, knew right away, of course,” Brant said. “It was just fun making you work for it.”

  She frowned. Any other girl would have called him on his bullshit or at least stuck her tongue out at him. He couldn’t imagine what kind of life Ivie must have led to make her so joyless.

  If it was the last thing he did, he would teach her to laugh.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “When I stood to go get changed, I recognized a man, the salt-and-pepper-haired one in the corner with all the guards.”

  “Yeah, we’d noticed him. Figured him for a lordling or wealthy merchant.”

  “He works for one of Duke Irdrin’s counts,” she said.

  Interesting. She might have just discovered exactly what the mission needed, which completely justified his bringing her along.

  Brant couldn’t wait to mention her role to General Flynn. “Will he recognize you?”

  “Probably not.” Ivie bit the inside of her cheek, which was about the most emotion he’d seen her display. “Hopefully not. He always saw me in a group, and they always had me in tunics and trousers with short hair, making me look like a boy. With my hair done up and wearing this dress, I look much more feminine.” She paused. “Still, maybe it’s best if I stay out of sight.”

  Brant nodded. “Tell me everything you know about this guy.”

  “His name is Lord Millard Fermin.”

  She didn’t know the name of the count he worked for, but she gave Brant a rundown of quite a few stories involving him, thankfully none involving her. Nasty guy. By the time she’d finished, Brant seriously hoped he’d get a chance to kill Lord Vermin. The more important point of the stories, though, was that Vermin’s boss clearly had been involved with planning Truna’s invasion of Asherton, including using Dastanar’s mages.

  Brant asked her everything he could think of, but his questioning didn’t result in any new details. “That’s it, then. I’ll report this to Stokes and Raleigh.” He paused. “You did so great. Fantastic. Just … Thanks. I’m proud of you.”

  Just like when he’d thanked her for saving his life, her ears turned red, and she looked away. “Wait a second.”

  She approached him. Close. Undid a few of the buttons on his shirt and pulled it from his pants.

  His first impulse was to kiss her. With another girl, he would have, but she’d already fooled him once. “Uh … Ivie?”

  She placed her hand on his head and mussed his hair. “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “Making your cover story more authentic, of course.”

  Something he hadn’t thought of. “Oh.”

  Man, he was so glad she was on his side. At least, he hoped she was.

  He returned downstairs to chuckles from Stokes and Raleigh.

  “It’s about time,” the sergeant said. “I’m disappointed the maid had to be the one to take the reins, though.”

  Heat ro
se to Brant’s face. Weird. He never blushed.

  “Don’t look,” he said in a low voice, “but the guy in the corner is high up in Irdrin’s organization. Ivie recognized him.”

  Stokes expression and tone didn’t change, still appearing to be a guy joshing his friend about a girl, but his eyes grew deadly serious as he listened to Brant spill all he knew.

  “So this Lord Fermin works for an unnamed count who helped Duke Irdrin plan the attack?” Stokes said.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she ever see the count?” Stokes said. “Can she describe him?”

  “No, but she said he was short with oily, balding brown hair.”

  “Sounds like Count Thorton,” Raleigh said.

  “I agree,” Stokes said.

  “Who’s that?” Brant said.

  “One of Irdrin’s main confidants,” Stokes said. “This is by far the best lead we’ve had. We just have to figure a way to get information out of him.”

  There was one little hitch in their enthusiasm—Vermin had a half-dozen guards with him. Not a one was less than six feet tall, and all had muscles that bulged their shirts. Swords with well-oiled hilts hung casually from their belts, and their weapon hands showed calluses that came from constant practice.

  If it came to a fight, the likelihood of beating all of them without taking serious injury was pretty much none.

  “Recommendations?” Brant said.

  “I’ve checked the patrons, and our man Fermin doesn’t have a room,” Stokes said. “Raleigh will take a position out of sight behind the tavern, and I’ll do the same in the front. You stay. Drink. Flirt with the barmaids. When Fermin clears out, tail him. Raleigh or I will, depending on which way he goes, stay ahead of him.”

  Brant frowned. Stokes’ idea was risky at best, relying both on keeping sight of Vermin without being spotted and on an opportunity to act presenting itself, but there weren’t a lot of options. They couldn’t confront Fermin directly. Even if attacking three on seven weren’t suicide, they couldn’t risk the attention.

  “Okay,” Brant said. “Let’s do it.”

  If they could somehow find out what Vermin knew, Brant would get everything he wanted. The duke would make him Marshal of Mages for sure. But it wouldn’t be easy and so much rode on the outcome. Not just his fate but the future of the war. Of Bermau itself.