The three soldiers he’d already beat all looked too hurt to go again. Luckily, Lucan and a pair of guards walked out of a chapel fifty yards away.
Brant waved at him. “Is that sword you wear for show, or do you know how use it?”
Lucan approached, his expression as close to a smile as Brant had seen on him. “I’ve been known to spar occasionally.” He settled his rapier on the ground.
Brant tossed a waster. Lucan snagged it and swung it a few times.
“Want padding?” Brant said.
Lucan eyed Brant up and down. “It won’t be necessary.”
Brant grinned wide and entered the circle of stone marking the sparring ring. Once in position, they saluted each other and tapped blades. The sound clacked through the courtyard.
Before the last echo disappeared, Brant whirred the tip of his weapon toward Lucan’s thigh. Instead of making contact with soft flesh, his blade met a defending waster. Brant’s arm vibrated at the impact.
Such skill required hours and hours of work. Why would a mage make that kind of effort?
Brant swung again.
Instead of countering, Lucan spun and dropped his waster. Brant almost whacked him upside the head. What the blast?
Lucan dove for his rapier, and for an instant, Brant thought he was in for a real fight. Sounds behind him drew his attention, and he glanced back. Ten armed men rushed into the courtyard. Though they wore brown trousers and plainly made tunics to make them look like civilians, Brant recognized them as guardsmen, included the thin guy Xan thought was a mage.
“Attack!” Brant yelled.
He ran for his sword and spun toward the enemy. Thin Guy and a blue-shirted guardsman advanced toward him.
Another two engaged Lucan. The other six swarmed the duke’s five soldiers.
Brant blocked a thrust from Thin Guy. Blue Shirt swung at the same time. Sharp metal sliced air as Brant arched, barely, out of the way.
Man, they were good.
He thrust, nicking Blue Shirt in the leg. But not good enough.
Thin Guy caught him on the elbow. The nasty gash spouted blood.
Blast!
Several yards away, Lucan fended off vicious attacks. Three slices on his shirt turned red.
One of the duke’s soldiers went down with a gut wound. Losing even one when outnumbered wasn’t good. So wasn’t good. But backups were surely on the way. All Brant had to do was hold on for a few minutes. Ten at the most.
He parried a blow from Thin Guy. Blue Shirt sliced Brant’s thigh.
Ten minutes was out. One would be stretching it. Brant didn’t have a choice. He tried to access the source.
Nothing happened. Man! He thought he’d conquered that issue. What a time to mess up.
He tried again. Still nothing.
Lucan stumbled, narrowly avoiding being impaled. Why hadn’t he used magic? Why didn’t Justav’s mages?
Another of the duke’s men fell. The rest wouldn’t hold off for much longer. They were all done for.
Thin Guy flew upward. Dylan sprinted into view. Alright!
Brant feinted left. Blue Shirt took the bait. Grinning, Brant stabbed. His sword ended up half inside the man’s chest. Perfect.
Above him, Thin Guy darted toward the ground and back up again.
Huh? Why didn’t Dylan just finish him off? Once more, Thin Guy bobbed down and up.
Oh. Another kineticist. He was countering Dylan’s attempts.
Brant accessed the magic. Finally. He made Thin Guy’s clothes heavier than lead weights. Dylan propelled him toward the ground.
Thin Guy bumped a few feet upward before plummeting again. He screamed.
Frantically tearing at his shirt, he crashed into the grass with a crunch. Blood pooled beneath him.
Brant smiled, and pain flared on his cheek. His hand darted to the spot and came away bloody. When had he gotten nicked?
Two guardsmen still attacked Lucan. Brant focused on the clothes of the one on the right. The man collapsed, his body crushed by the weight.
The one on the left flew upward. He flailed about, screaming, before slamming into the ground with a thud.
“That was … awesome!” Brant said.
The remaining six guardsmen tried to flee, but Brant took them out one by one until the last two surrendered. While Dylan looked stunned, Lucan glared.
“What?” Brant said.
“You didn’t have to kill those men,” Lucan said.
“They’re soldiers,” Brant said. “We’re at war. And they could have given up … You know what? Screw that. I saved your butt. I don’t owe you anything.”
“For that, at least, you have my thanks.”
“I don’t understand why you fought with blades instead of magic?” Brant said.
Lucan exhaled sharply. “I couldn’t—”
“The duke’s orders,” Dylan said. “We broke them. And look at all the witnesses.”
Shit. He was right. How badly had they screwed up?
Lucan held his shirt against a bleeding cut on his arm and turned to Dylan. “It was lucky you were around.”
He shrugged.
“You’re much better than I thought and worked together so well,” Lucan said. “How did you coordinate your attacks so easily?”
Brant clapped Dylan on the back. “We’ve been friends since we were toddlers. I couldn’t count the number of hours we’ve spent hunting together.”
“It saved our lives today. Neither they nor I expected such—” Lucan turned to face the east.
After a second, Dylan did the same. What the blast?
Oh. They probably sensed magic use. How did everyone but him scan for it constantly?
“Unless I miss my guess,” Lucan said, “your friend, Xan, is in trouble.”
75.
Xan’s understanding was that the eastern part of Asherton wasn’t the city’s most desirable sector.
Cobblestone streets faded into simple dirt, and wood shanties replaced the stone houses of the merchant quarter. Roads twisted and intersected at strange angles. There didn’t seem to be any organization to the haphazard layout. Few people moved about, and those that did wore ragged outfits the poorest family in Eagleton would have thrown away.
Xan’s clothes—even wrinkled and dirty as they were—outshone everyone’s. He clutched his coin pouch.
Something moved in the shadows. A dim figure disappeared inside a windowless structure too rickety to be called a building.
Xan felt his hip for the comfort of his sword, but his hand came up empty. Blast! It was still in his room.
He glanced back. The castle grew smaller by the step. Too far to go back for it. And it was worthless anyway. He was a mage. The Marshal of the Mages, in fact, and could take care of himself.
A few minutes later, he turned into a blind alley and had to backtrack, eventually finding himself on a narrow lane. Buildings on both sides closed in on him, and the way grew too tight for even a small cart.
If there was ever a perfect place for an ambush, Xan was in it. He was going to kill Brant.
“I’m not going to spend all day searching.”
Ahead about twenty yards, the alley opened onto a square. He’d go that far and turn back. Xan sped his pace.
Rubble and debris littered the open area, and a dilapidated mass of rock that might once have been a fountain rested in the middle. Buildings with closed doors and boarded windows lined the sides leaving no space larger than a mouse hole between them. Besides the one behind him, two streets led from it—one to the right and another to the left. Overturned carts blocked both those exits.
Definitely a perfect place for an ambush.
A door slammed shut behind him. Xan spun.
Justav advanced, holding a blade extended. The sharp, shiny tip reflected light into Xan’s eyes.
Belatedly, he sensed for heat sources. “Where are the rest of your men?”
“They’re after the more important target.”
Xan e
nvisioned flames engulfing the catcher’s clothes and unleashed. Nothing happened.
He stepped back and concentrated on the mouth of the tunnel connecting him to the magic. Focusing on his intense desire to have Justav’s cringe-worthy outfit burst into flames, he released his power. Again nothing.
The catcher smiled. “What’s wrong? I figured you’d have torched me by now.”
Xan’s eyes darted about. “What did you do to me?” He tried to ignite the side of the building above their heads.
Justav strolled forward. “Stupid child. I told you that you don’t even know what you don’t know.”
Xan couldn’t take his eyes off the sharp end of the thin blade. He backed away and nearly tripped over a piece of rubbish. Over and over, he tried without success to call fire.
In the direction of the castle, an explosion of magic use caught his attention. What was happening there?
Justav’s wrist blurred, and the blade caught Xan under the eye. He stumbled and retreated further. His hand flew to the stinging slice on his face, and his fingers came away bloody.
Justav laughed. “Only a nick. This time.”
An obstruction clogged the tunnel connecting Xan to the magic, letting his senses flow toward the source but not allowing the power out. He beat at it with no success. “You’re blocking me.”
“Wow, you’re quick. It only took you minutes to figure that out.” Justav clapped his left hand a couple of times against the one grasping the hilt.
As the flurry of magic near the castle continued, Xan searched desperately for anything to use as a weapon. He backed into the fountain in the center of the square, and his hand scooped up a rock.
Xan hurled the stone at Justav. It missed by a foot.
The catcher laughed again. “In spite of how incredibly inept you are, you do possess a certain amount of power. The new age of mages is at hand. Join us. You’ll find my masters tolerable for the most part.” He thrust forward and sliced through Xan’s cloak at his right bicep. “Better than the alternative, at any rate.”
Sharp pain shot through Xan’s arm. He gasped and clutched at the wound. “Join you? I despise you.” After darting around the fountain, he moved to keep it between him and his opponent.
Justav shrugged. “I don’t exactly hold you in the utmost regard either, boy. Think beyond petty issues. Dastanar will conquer. Bermau has no defense against our magic. Better to be on the winning side than dead.”
“Hide and train some mages while killing the rest? I will not be a party to such evil.” A sinking feeling invaded Xan’s stomach. But wasn’t that exactly what he had done?
“Duty demanded I make the attempt. Your power …” Justav shook his head. “Pity.”
He thrust over the stonework. Xan stumbled back and snatched greedily for a three-foot length of lumber lying among the debris. Holding the pathetic defense in his left hand like a club, he continued retreating.
“Just stop, boy, and I’ll make it quick. The old man didn’t suffer. Much.”
Xan lurched to a halt. “Master Rae? You did that? Why?”
A slice to his left wrist sent the wood flying. He jumped back and clasped the new wound. Blood wet his hand.
“So easy to distract,” Justav said. “It would have been fun teaching you discipline.”
Xan’s back hit a wall.
The catcher sauntered forward with the sword held before him.
Xan clenched his fists. “I will kill you.”
Merriment shone in Justav’s eyes. “Enlighten me, child. How, exactly, do you intend to do that?”
Xan battered at the blockage. He willed for Justav’s clothes to catch fire. Trying to form the fiery death blast, he willed the wood above him burst into flame. Still nothing happened.
What hadn’t he tried? He implored the magic to suck the heat from the catcher’s sword.
Justav’s eyes went wide. “What … No! It can’t be—”
His sword hand turned red. Its muscles worked as if trying to let go, but the leather grip adhered to the naked skin. Pain contorted his face as he withdrew.
Justav narrowed his eyes, and a thick black line stretched from him.
Xan coughed. His muscles turned doughy. It was hard to breathe.
Instinctively, he slammed a block into the tube connecting Justav to the magic. The black line cut off.
“Nice try, asshole.” Xan pulled heat while maintaining the block.
Ice formed around Justav’s sleeves and neck. The hair under his ridiculous hat snapped as he jerked about. His skin took on a blue cast, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Justav’s eyelids no longer blinked. His chest no longer heaved. Frost formed on his body.
Xan siphoned temperature until the magic no longer worked, until it felt like he tugged a rope tied to air. He emitted a wordless scream of rage and anguish and kicked the frozen man, his foot thudding against the icy surface.
Justav’s corpse toppled slowly but gained momentum as it fell. When it struck the soil, the body shattered. Millions of shards shimmered in the afternoon sun. A gooey, soft portion from the abdomen oozed blood.
Relief, satisfaction, and queasiness warred within Xan as he put his foot down. His boot stopped inches above the dirt. He examined the bottom. A large clump of what used to be the catcher’s midsection had frozen to the shoe.
Queasiness won out.
Once he’d finished gagging, he added a tiny influx of heat to the icy mess on his boot. It slid off and hit the ground with a sickening thump. A piece of wood jutted from a wall, and he used it to clean off the residue.
Shaky and weak, Xan leaned against the side of the building. With his heart pounding and wounds aching, he needed rest but not so close to Justav’s remains. He staggered several feet away before sinking to the ground.
He should be dead.
“How could I have missed that mages can block each other? And why did the magic finally work?” He tucked his head between his knees, ignoring his cut face and stinging arms.
Xan sat long enough for the sun to liquefy some of the crystallized chunks of Justav—icy evidence of magic use. After a scan failed to reveal any potential witnesses, Xan ignited the body, burning it until nothing was left but ashes.
76.
Ashley shifted in her seat.
Her daddy’s life wasn’t really in danger, was it? Queen Anna wouldn’t—couldn’t—execute him, right?
“It’s bad, my lord,” Uncle Benj said. “Rumors have spread beyond containment. All say the short one, Dylan, and Sir Reed used magic and speculate about Lucan as well. There have even been questions as to what, exactly, ‘Marshal Conley’ is marshal of.”
Ashley grimaced. Would that Xan, at least, could have been spared.
“Worst of all,” Uncle Benj said, “there still has been no visible evidence of Truna’s army using magic.”
“All due respect, sir,” Sergeant Stokes said, “but I saw Baron Vinson go down with a horse on top of him. He should’ve never walked again, but he strolled out of Irdrin’s hospital tent looking more hale than in the last decade.”
“Did you see him get healed?” Uncle Benj said.
“No sir, but—”
“Did you examine his injuries when he went down?”
“No sir, but—”
“We expected men flying off the wall,” Uncle Benj said, “giant fireballs, soldiers dropping dead for no reason. Instead, we get men bleeding out from minor wounds and Truna’s nobles making speedy recoveries. Suspicious, yes. There will be calls for investigations and mass waving of hands, but supposition and probably aren’t going to get us out of this mess. Our only option is to execute the mages.”
“Tell me straight,” her daddy said, “if the boy’s plan hadn’t worked, where would we be right now?”
“Probably dead, but—”
“You and I laughed at the boy. Humored him really. Even if he were right, he’d never pull it off.”
“Yes, but—”
&nbs
p; “So what you’re advocating, Benj, is that the boy’s reward for saving all of us is death for him and his friends.”
Uncle Benj looked like he wanted to tear out what little hair he had left. “I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly, but yes!”
“Again, with all due respect, sir,” Sergeant Stokes said, “but my lord duke doesn’t usually throw away good young officers.”
“Beyond some skill with a sword,” Uncle Benj said, “I haven’t seen much to recommend Sir Reed.”
Sergeant Stokes grimaced. “Not him. Marshal Conley. Best young candidate you’ve sent me in the last fifteen years.”
Xan? A good officer? He could barely walk over a flat surface without tripping.
“I’ll grant that he’s smart,” Uncle Benj said. “Brilliant even. But that alone doesn’t make for a good leader.”
Sergeant Stokes nodded. “The Marshal came up with a harebrained scheme, convinced superiors who ought to have known better to go along with it, and then actually carried it out.
“But you know all that, admitted all that. You weren’t there to see how he performed in the field.
“He followed your orders to remain out of the fight even with his ardor raised. He deferred to my judgment when he thought I knew more than him but took command when his knowledge outpaced mine. He ordered men to their deaths without blinking while regretting each after. And that was just the preaction. You should have seen how he handled Colonel Mays.”
“Mays?” her daddy said. “Why was Mays anywhere near that mission?”
Uncle Benj stifled a chuckle. “My fault completely. I had to keep the details a secret, so the competent senior officers obviously didn’t understand the full importance. They took the opportunity to get him out of their hair.”
Her daddy shook his head. “Continue.”
“Marshal Conley took one look at the battle plan and exploded, had the colonel believing he’d be arrested if he didn’t get back to the castle straightaway. The marshal then proceeded to ask for the best tactician from the officers and had that man come up with the proper plan. Then, despite direct orders to do otherwise, personally oversaw the ambush.
“That’s what I want in an officer—brains to create a plan, balls to carry it through when everything around you is falling to shit, bloodthirsty enough to not care about his loses, but balanced enough not to throw away men without a good reason.
Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2) Page 37