Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2)

by Foster, Brian W.

  Stokes saluted and went about preparing his men to move.

  “How badly did I screw that up?” Xan said.

  “It could have been worse.” Pruitt smiled. “Much worse.”

  The wooded area bordered the north road into Asherton, and it took Xan, the two sergeants, and twenty soldiers a half hour to ride to the eastern outskirts of the trees.

  “Dismount,” Stokes said.

  There was going to be a lot of walking and running, and Xan would rather have ridden. Stokes, however, had insisted on going it on foot.

  “Are you ready?” Xan said.

  Stokes nodded.

  Xan steadied his hands against his legs. “Send the signal.”

  One of the soldiers uncapped a small metal device containing a mirror. He caught sunlight in one end and pointed the other at one of the wall’s towers. Minutes later, the gate opened, and hundreds of cavalry thundered out.

  “Sergeant,” Xan said, “let’s go.”

  Stokes led a brisk pace, and the twenty men fanned out over about a quarter mile. As they topped a rise, Xan used his heat sense.

  When he quested for fire, he simply reached out and, after a time that depended on how far away it was, directly sensed its chemical reaction. Heat was different. If everything around him existed at the same temperature, he detected nothing. Instead, differences stood out. Detection grew harder with distance, and trees didn’t make things any easier.

  Earlier, though, Flynn had released pigeons from the castle, and Xan had observed from a tower. After the first couple of birds had been killed, he’d spotted a man through the spyglass. A black line had shot from the death mage to the next pigeon.

  Xan concentrated on the enemy’s last known location, and sure enough, the area was warmer than the surroundings. He kept his focus there as the platoon moved, and with about a half mile to go, the warmth diminished.

  Where did the enemy squad go?

  He eventually detected faint traces to the north. So much harder when they were moving. He pointed to the right. “That way.”

  “How could you possibly …” Stoke looked at Pruitt, who nodded. “Men, double time.”

  If Xan were one of the death mages, what would he do upon detecting the cavalry surrounding the woods on all sides and the pursuers changing course to keep after them?

  A few minutes later, warmth increased in a single spot.

  Xan nodded. “They’re digging in.”

  “How far ahead, my lord?” Stokes said. “What’s the disposition of their troops?”

  “About a quarter mile,” Xan said. “I’ll be able to tell you more at about a tenth.”

  They slowed their pace. With Xan giving Stokes constant assurances that the enemy wasn’t moving, it took them a half hour to get into range. They stopped when Xan got a clear picture.

  He made a sketch in the dirt. “Two in trees here and here. Two in the center. Four fanned out in front of the two.”

  “Normally, my lord,” Stokes said, “I’d creep my men in position and take them all out silently. But you’re sure we can’t sneak up on them?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Stokes shook his head. “Okay, my lord. We’ll surround them and use our bows.”

  If the enemy only had a single magic user, the platoon would be in good shape. A death mage had to drain all life force from a man in order to kill. Considering that life constantly flowed into all living things, even the strongest one couldn’t kill instantly.

  What if all eight were mages? Or if the ones they had were strong enough to kill at great distance? What if they had kineticists and alchemists?

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” Xan said. “We charge.”

  Stokes pursed his mouth—the most expression Xan had seen him use—but didn’t object.

  “What’s this ‘we’ business, son?” Pruitt said. “You’re not supposed to put yourself in danger.”

  How had Xan gotten himself in such a position? Twenty-two lives depended on his decisions, and he wasn’t’ even allowed to join the fight.

  “I misspoke,” Xan said. “Once the attack begins, I won’t move a muscle.”

  He’d be useless in a fight anyway. His weapons skills were epically bad, and he was prohibited from any visible display of magic.

  A hundred yards from the enemy, Stokes and his men broke into a sprint. Xan followed, leaping over a bush amazingly without tripping.

  Arrows hurtled toward them.

  The foremost of the platoon took one to the chest. He collapsed, his color draining as a pool of blood formed around him. Four men dropped to the ground, their breathing labored. Two more arrows found flesh. Both of those men also fell.

  Thirty yards from the front of Stokes’ forces, four burgundy-liveried men stood with swords ready. Two men behind them wore brown uniforms with fancy gold trim. Black lines shot from them.

  “Stokes!” Xan yelled. “Take out the ones in the back first.”

  Something whizzed past his ear. A blow knocked him to the ground. Pruitt.

  “What part of not putting yourself in danger didn’t you understand?”

  Xan extracted himself from underneath the old man and gained his feet. The four swordsmen and both mages were swarmed with Asher’s soldiers. The two archers were too busy covering from returning fire to take aim at Xan.

  He bent to catch his breath and noticed a tear in his cape. How’d that happened? An arrow hole.

  A few more minutes saw the remaining enemy troops overwhelmed, and Xan joined Stokes. “Casualties?”

  “Three dead from arrows and another four injured, two took sword gashes, and seven unconscious with no apparent cause, my lord.”

  “The seven just need rest. They should be fine in a day or two.” Xan paused. He should have done something despite his orders. “I’m sorry you lost so many of your men.”

  Stokes just stared at him. Probably thought Xan was the worst officer ever and was probably right.

  Xan exhaled sharply. “Thank you for following my orders. I doubt you believe me, but it could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t.”

  Despite the casualties, the first step had been successful. With the enemy’s scout force out of the picture, there was nothing preventing the ambush from taking place—assuming no death mages rode with the vanguard.

  Xan shook his head. Hopefully, having Asher’s soldiers impersonating the scout force and giving the all clear would prevent detection. Nothing Xan could do about it in any case, though.

  He swallowed hard. “Sergeant, I think you should hear your orders for the next phase straight from me.”

  Stokes narrowed his eyes.

  Xan took a deep breath, doubtful that the man would listen to him again. “The crucial part about the ambush is that we injure—not kill—as many of their nobles as possible. The higher ranking the noble and the greater the injury without killing, the better. Stab them in the gut. Sever limbs. Head wounds, though those can be tricky.”

  “We can break their backs, my lord,” Stokes said.

  “You can do that? That would be perfect.” Oh. Right. Sarcasm. “Horses, too. They’ll be riding priceless war stallions. Break their legs.”

  The mouths of some of Stokes’ men dropped. How was it that hardened men used to killing were suddenly aghast at the thought of injuring a horse?

  “Look,” Xan said, “I don’t like it any more than you do, but these orders must be followed exactly. Every man you severely injure without killing makes it much more likely that Ashley and the duke will be saved.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe I should be there. I know there’s nothing physically that I can add, but …”

  “You have your orders, son,” Pruitt said.

  Xan sighed. “I’m going to grow awfully tired of hearing that, but you’re right. To the castle.”

  64.

  The map didn’t make sense.

  Xan stooped over the table to take a closer look. That line was the north road from Asherton. Those
green swirls were the woods lining the road. All those red markers in the fields on the other side of the woods surely indicated Asher’s troops. But that was all wrong.

  He stood, whacking his head on the tent’s crossbeam. Great. Being clumsy was the perfect way to impress a group of ancient officers whose pages were older than him. “Colonel, I must be reading this map wrong. The battle plan is to hide in the woods in order to ambush the vanguard, right?”

  The colonel humphed. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll bloody them right good. They’ll see we’re not a sleeping cur.”

  “This isn’t for show,” Xan said. “The general, the duke, and I don’t give a flip about gamesmanship or morale or whatever you think we’re doing here. This fight will be for survival.”

  “Boy, I was campaigning when you were still weaning on your mama. Don’t presume to—”

  “Let me put this another way. Did you or did you not receive orders directly from General Flynn.”

  The colonel glared at Xan.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ So did those orders or did they not command you to inflict massive damage on Truna’s vanguard?”

  The colonel gritted his teeth. “They did, but—”

  “And will your battle plan inflict massive damage on Truna’s vanguard?”

  “It will bloody them and keep the duke’s honor intact!”

  “Blast it, man!” Xan yelled. “What part of ‘inflict massive damage’ didn’t you understand?”

  “Boy—”

  “No! Get off this rads-infested ‘boy’ business. Either you’re monumentally incompetent or you’re planning to disobey direct orders. Which is it?”

  The colonel sputtered.

  “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Either is justification to relieve you of command. Get out of my sight.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I’m the niskma’s fiancé, the future duke of Vierna. What can’t I do?”

  “But ...”

  Xan motioned to a pair of soldiers standing by the tent’s entrance. “Get this man back to the castle. If he gives you any trouble, execute him.”

  Would they actually follow that command? Should they? Did he have the authority? He sighed. What was he supposed to do? Let the whole plan fall to pieces in order to preserve decorum? He’d just have to do what he had to do and, if Asher and Flynn were ticked, deal with it later.

  Xan exited the tent and had Pruitt and Stokes gather the officers. “Colonel … uh, I never did catch his name … has been recalled due to an urgent matter. We’ve decided that I should be in charge.”

  Pruitt glared at him.

  A shrug was all the apology Xan could give with everyone watching. “Look, I know what you all think about this mission. It’s not sporting. It’s dishonorable even. And unnecessary. After all, we have an additional twenty-five hundred men arriving in four days, and Asherton’s gates have never been breached. Right?”

  There were lots of murmurs and nods from the officers.

  “What you don’t know is that Duke Asher, General Flynn, and I believe Truna has a secret weapon, one that will allow them victory before our reinforcements arrive.”

  Heads shook. Doubt showed on a lot of faces. More simply looked worried.

  Was telling them they were all about to die really the best way to boost morale? But he owed them the truth, right? If only he had some idea what he was doing. Training to be an apothecary had not prepared him to lead men into combat.

  “This ambush is one part of a desperate ploy to counter that weapon. If we fail, Asherton will fall. Duke Asher will be killed. Lady Ashley will be killed.” Xan paused, letting the words sink in. “I guess I’m saying their lives are in your hands. So I ask—will we fail?”

  “No,” came a few shouts.

  “I asked—will we fail?”

  “No!”

  “Good.” Xan paused. “That being said, what Duke Asher is asking of you—what I’m asking of you—isn’t easy.” He recited the orders he’d given to Stokes earlier.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do,” Xan said, “but keep in mind that these orders must be followed exactly. Every man you severely injure makes it much more likely that we will not fail.”

  The faces of the men looked grim but determined. Best he could have hoped for.

  “Unfortunately,” Xan said. “I don’t have intimate familiarity with our forces. Who among you is the best tactician?”

  No one stepped forward, so Xan looked to Stokes. He pointed to a younger officer near the back.

  “You,” Xan said to that officer. “What’s your name?”

  The young man swallowed hard. “Lieutenant Frederick, sir.”

  “Are you the best?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Was that a question?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you the best?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good,” Xan said. “You, the top five senior officers under me, and Sergeants Pruitt and Stokes in the tent. Now.”

  He waited for the others to enter before going inside. By the time he made it to the map table, Frederick was muttering and moving markers around. Everyone watched him for a good fifteen minutes before he looked up.

  “I think that’s it, sir,” he said.

  Xan gestured at the sergeants. “What do you two think?”

  “Sir, why—” Frederick said.

  Xan shushed him.

  Stokes bent over the table. “Looks good. I’d switch Lieutenants Pugh and Hahn, but otherwise, it’s solid.”

  “With respect, sir,” Frederick said, “What would an enlisted—”

  “How old are you?” Xan said.

  “Twenty-four, sir.”

  “And how many actual battles have you been a part of?”

  “Uh, a couple, sir?” Frederick stammered. “Depending on how you define the term.”

  Only with great effort did Xan resist shaking his head. “If you were me, would you be more inclined to listen to you or to someone, even if he’s just an enlisted sergeant, with more years in the field than you have of life?”

  “Uh, when put that way, sir, maybe we should consider the sergeant’s input.”

  “Exactly,” Xan said. “Remember that every decision you make in battle can cost lives. Results are more important than who gets credit. Use every resource at your disposal to get it right.”

  Frederick nodded.

  “So,” Xan said, “Pugh and Hahn switched. Work for you?”

  Frederick nodded more confidently. “Yes, sir. Probably for the best upon further reflection, sir.”

  “Okay then,” Xan said. “We have a plan. Now, let’s make it happen.”

  He left them to finalize preparations and went to get a drink of water.

  Pruitt followed. “That didn’t have the sound of a man who was about to obey orders and return to the castle.”

  Xan sighed. “What would you have me do? See them fail?”

  “The mission is on track and in capable hands. They don’t need you.”

  Xan nodded. “I can’t disagree, but I’m about to make those men monsters. How can I ask them to do that while I … What? Go back to the castle and have some wine?”

  65.

  Xan peered from behind a tree.

  Itchy, stinky leaves covered him. A spider crawled over his hand. Ugh. Why’d it have to be a spider? And how many more crept through the pile of decaying plants? He couldn’t even swat it away for fear of giving away his troops’ position.

  On the road, row after row of Truna’s cavalry passed. Spy reports had pegged the number at two hundred, but it looked like more. No brown-uniformed mages at least.

  Maybe it would have been better if there were. The ability to detect Xan’s men would have saved the cavalry from what was sure to be one of the worst atrocities in the history of the three kingdoms. Would have made it a fair fight anyway. Might have prevented him from becoming a monster.

  But he was doing it to save Ashl
ey. Tasia. Lainey. Dylan. Even Brant.

  That made it worth it. Right?

  The last of Truna’s vanguard entered Xan’s limited field of vision. He glanced at Stokes, who sat unmoving. Wasn’t it time for the signal?

  The silence stretched. Had Stokes forgotten? Was he reconsidering the orders? Doubting the legitimacy and the wisdom and the morality?

  Should Xan give the signal?

  Surely Stokes knew what he was doing. And he was a veteran of countless battles, not someone likely to suddenly rebel at doing his duty.

  Finally, he made a small gesture, barely moving two of his fingers. Men on each side of him repeated it, and men after them, passing it down the line. When it reached the end, mirrors would be used to message the other side of the road. Designated soldiers would wait the prearranged time before cutting their ropes.

  A minute later, a series of loud cracks sounded near Xan and another series several hundred yards to the south. A half dozen tall pines fell to block the road at the north entrance. The same would be happening at the south exit.

  The killing box had been created.

  On both sides of the road, Xan’s men rose as one. He stood with them to get a better look.

  They fired arrows into Truna’s cavalry, launching ten flights in less than a minute. Two thousand arrows crashed from short range into armor and flesh and horses. Most, as ordered, found arms and legs.

  Blood flowed like water. Screams punctuated the twanging of bowstrings. Xan wanted to close his ears but forced himself to listen; the suffering was his doing.

  Victim after victim fell until less than a third of the force was left standing. The remainder tried to mount a counterattack but were soon cut down by another storm of arrows. Less than five minutes after the ambush began, it was all but over.

  Stokes and his men drew their swords and, with Xan following, descended on the fallen. Every cavalry man who looked too hale received a stab to the gut.

  It was horrific.

  Xan clenched his lips. Was Ashley’s life worth inflicting such atrocities? Making monsters out of soldiers?

  He held his tongue and allowed the carnage to continue. Thirty minutes later, not a single rider was left on the battlefield without a grievous injury. Neither was a single one of Asher’s men left without a sense of repulsion. Or at least, Xan couldn’t see how any of them possibly could have been. And mostly directed toward him.