“Dragons cannot cleanse this sinkhole unless they return to Coronnan. We cannot afford to end this war with SeLenicca until the dragons are safely returned from there.” Robb, his comrade and also a journeyman magician, argued.
A long moment of silence passed between them as they contemplated the army camp and their possible passage through or around it.
“I think the balladeers need a good dose of reality. I don’t see any evidence of glory here,” Robb finally broke the silence.
“Just mud and blood, chill and boredom,” Marcus confirmed. “Sort of like latrine duty for first-year apprentices.” He flashed his friend a smile at shared memories of hardship and mischief.
“Where are we going to find me some new boots in this mess?” He scanned the wide plain at the eastern end of the mountain pass. The once lush river meadows had been churned into a sea of red clay mud.
Marcus shrugged as he wiggled his toes, trying to ease a little of the chill in them from his sopping socks.
The setting sun cast their long shadows against the mud-lashed stubble.
“There are too many idle soldiers lolling about. Too much idle curiosity. Beating you in a game of cartes would be easier than getting through this camp,” Robb grumbled.
“But not by much?” Marcus’ grin widened. “And once we bring the dragons home from the other side of the pass, we won’t have to worry about war or illegal magic for a while.”
Robb turned his back on the ugly camp and looked out over the green river plains toward home—if an occasional rest in the dormitory of the new University of Magicians hidden in the Southern Mountains could be called home.
“Cheer up, Robb, we’ve come this far without trouble.”
“For a change.”
“In a camp this big, we’re just two more soldiers out for a stroll. We’ll beg some boots and maybe a bed and a meal from the Battlemages.” He pointed to the far side of the camp toward a small group of huts made from stout logs where a blue flag with a dragon emblem snapped smartly in the evening breeze.
“Getting to their enclave could be risky. All magicians, including Battlemages and healers—the only legal magicians left in Coronnan—are feared and spied upon. Let’s just find a supply shed and steal some boots.” Robb fell into his usual lecture mode.
“This shouldn’t be harder than crossing the five miles of no-man’s-land between our army and the enemy at the far side of the pass. Pickets and patrols from both sides could cut us down with crossbows without bothering to ask identities first. Here, the pickets and patrols will at least ask for a password or something.” Marcus thought out loud.
“But we don’t know the password.”
“We can find out with a tiny probe of magic.” Marcus flashed his friend another grin, unwilling to give in to depression at the first sign of difficulty.
“Illegal,” Robb warned.
“So is stealing boots from the supply tent,” Marcus retorted.
Robb followed closely in Marcus’ footsteps.
Marcus shrugged off the difficulties.
“Good thing you are lucky or my infamous bad luck would have gotten us killed a dozen or more times.” Robb turned his face away. On this subject he never fell into lengthy lecture mode. He didn’t even ask to play cartes anymore to wile away the long lonely hours around the campfire. Marcus always won.
“I have more lives than a cat, and I bet you my new pair of boots that I’ll beat you at cartes tonight,” Marcus chortled. He slapped his good friend on the back. For a moment he wished Margit, the apprentice magician assigned to spy for the Commune of Magicians within the royal palace, could join them. The tall, sturdy blonde could liven up any game with outrageous stories of the antics of the nobles and royals she watched so carefully.
Marcus longed for the day he and Margit could settle into a little cottage at the University with a dozen children and apprentices. He’d had his fill of journeying.
“Let’s skirt the camp rather than cross it. That’s a very wide-open space between the officers’ tents and the magicians’ huts.” Robb ran his fingers through his beard in contemplation. A sure sign that he sensed more trouble than he voiced.
Marcus stumbled on a mud-colored rock that seemed to thrust up at him without warning. He limped for a few paces before the pain in his stubbed toes eased.
“Stop hunching your shoulders,” Robb ordered. “Soldiers drill and march endlessly. They should have straight spines and firm steps.”
“They also need uniforms.” Marcus waved away Robb’s objections, replacing them with a delusion of a green-and-gold uniform. His twisted magician’s staff became a pike. “Now come along, Robb. We aren’t getting any closer to the end of our journey standing here.”
“We’re gathering information,” Robb affirmed, cloaking himself in a similar delusion. “Information is the key to power and . . .”
“Safety,” Marcus finished. “I heard the same lecture from Jaylor as many times as you did. And as many times before that from Baamin when he was Senior Magician.”
“I miss the old coot,” Robb replied sadly. “Old Toad Knees will be honored for a long time by all of his apprentices.” They both observed a long moment of silence in memory of their first master.
“Look for anything out of the ordinary or too ordinary—both could be traps.” Robb pointed to the first line of pickets near the steed paddock.
“I know, Robb.”
“Then why did you step in that pile of steed dung?”
“Camouflage.” Marcus paused to scrape the noisome muck from his boot. The worn soles allowed some of the brown liquid to seep through to his socks.
“Some of your luck running out?” Robb quipped.
“Never.”
“Let’s hope there aren’t any Gnostic Utilitarian spies in the area,” Robb grumbled. “They’ll smell your magic and your boots from half a camp away. Gnuls believe all magic smells like manure—dragon magic or solitary makes no difference to them.”
“Another lie that has become accepted as fact.” Marcus frowned, no longer willing to keep up the usual banter with his friend. They’d both seen too many atrocities heaped upon innocents because of the unnatural fear of magic spread by the Gnuls. “The sooner we bring the dragons back, the sooner we can help put an end to that all-too-popular cult.” Did every mundane in the country truly believe that only hard labor gave work value? That chores accomplished by magic—like transport and communication as well as healing and soil fertility—were evil and deserving of death? Magic was just as hard for a magician as the work was for a mundane.
Robb nodded, his frown quite visible beneath the dark bush of his beard.
They headed boldly through the camp periphery, walking as if they had a purpose. One patrol challenged them. Marcus just shook his head and proceeded. “Orders,” he muttered.
The guard shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to his patrol.
An invisible line seemed to have been drawn around the magicians’ enclave. No one ventured closer than one hundred paces.
“Crossing this barrier could be harder than getting through the pass,” Robb muttered.
“Easier,” Marcus replied. “The spies watching the magicians never look directly at them. My guess is they don’t want to get caught by the evil eye.” He grinned at the superstitious nonsense that clung to magicians’ reputations.
Despite his bold face, Marcus’ neck itched as if one hundred eyes followed every step he made across the untrampled grass that surrounded the ramshackle wooden buildings in a near perfect circle. Each step seemed to make his thin boots heavier and more cumbersome. Was this merely a delusion to keep out uninvited observers?
The blue banner with a dragon outlined in silver seemed to be a beacon, drawing them toward the largest of the buildings. A door beneath the banner stood invitingly open.
Marcus started to step through the doorway without preamble, but Robb held him back.
“For the sake of the Gnul spies all around us, at least look like you are one of the awestruck masses with a message from the generals and knock.” He rapped the wooden doorjamb with his fist and waited.
“What!” a querulous voice sounded within.
“Message, sir,” Marcus replied.
“Leave it and be gone.”
Marcus and Robb exchanged a questioning look.
“The message is private and not written,” Marcus improvised. Dared he enter without invitation? Slowly he unreeled a thin tendril of magic, probing the doorway and the darkness just inside. A sharp pain behind his eyes made him wince.
“He’s armored,” he whispered, quickly withdrawing the probe, hopefully before any witch-sniffers could detect it.
“What?” a middle-aged man appeared out of the darkness. His red-veined and pointed nose was the first feature Marcus noted. Gray streaked his red-blond hair and beard. Worry lines made deep crevasses around his eyes. His shoulders drooped.
“Woodpecker?” Marcus asked. He wanted to rush forward and lend his shoulder to support this frail man. A year ago he’d been tall and robust.
“Who?” the Battlemage peered at the two journeymen, blinking in the fading light as if emerging into bright sunlight.
“Marcus and Robb. Jaylor sent us,” Marcus said very quietly. No telling who could be listening.
“Get in here, boys, before someone spots you. Your delusion is very thin. Too thin to fool the witch-sniffers that permeate the army. They’ll report you in a heartbeat without regard to the validity of your errand. Lucky to get out of here without being stoned.” With surprising strength, Woodpecker grabbed each journeyman by the front of their tunics and yanked them inside the narrow entryway.
A wave of prickly magic set Marcus’ skin itching and crawling. Then, as quickly as it had come, it left, leaving him in a bright room filled with comfortable furniture, carpets, and a glowing brazier.
“Where are the others?” Robb asked, peering around.
“In their own huts. My turn to monitor the scrying bowl for activity on the other side of the pass. Now what is so all-fired important that Jaylor could not trust a summons sent through a glass and candle flame?” Woodpecker demanded, wringing his hands and pacing the room. He paused to peer out each of the large unshuttered windows.
“Well . . . actually . . . Jaylor sent us on a quest into SeLenicca, and I need new boots before we cross the pass.” Marcus found the shimmer of light across the windows that indicated strong magical armor too distorting to stare at for more than a moment.
“A bed and a meal would be welcome as well,” Robb added.
“Is that all? Why didn’t you just steal a pair of boots and a bedroll from the pickets that sleep on duty day and night? Why didn’t you transport supplies from the University? Either course would prove safer than coming here.” Woodpecker ceased his pacing and stared at the two journeymen.
Robb hung his head. Marcus wanted to do the same.
I am no first-year apprentice to cower before authority,
he told himself sternly.
“To steal essential supplies from one of our own soldiers would be dishonorable. To transport something as trivial as boots a waste of energy. Surely you have the authority to requisition a pair for me from army stores,” Marcus replied.
“What stores? Fewer than half our supplies reach us. The merchants in Sambol wear our boots, eat our food, and hoard our medicines. If SeLenicca attacks tomorrow, most of our men will desert to the other side just to get a good meal,” Woodpecker grumbled.
“How could conditions get so bad? Does the king know about this?” Rob asked.
“Of course the king knows. Of course Jaylor knows, too. But what can they do about it with the Gnuls overriding every decision made. You’d think they want us to lose the war and let the sorcerer-king rule us!” Woodpecker threw up his hands at that horrible and contradictory thought.
“We hope our quest will end the war and end the tyranny of the Gnuls,” Marcus said.
Woodpecker looked at him curiously. “No, I don’t suppose you can tell me your quest. That goes against the rules. Well, I hope you have better luck than the last spy Jaylor sent across the pass. He came back to us in pieces. Many of them missing.” Woodpecker’s normally pale complexion paled further. He swallowed convulsively.
Marcus tasted bile. Rumors leaking out of SeLenicca for years had hinted that King Simeon—the sorcerer-king—made human sacrifices to his winged demon-god Simurgh.
Ignorant Gnuls considered dragons modern incarnations of Simurgh. If only they could experience the glory of shared dragon magic, they’d know how much good the dragons brought to Coronnan. He and Robb had to bring the near invisible creatures back to Coronnan soon.
“Are the enemy troops massing for an attack?” Robb asked.
Leave it to him to ask the practical questions.
“Curiously, no. They’re waiting for something. Something big. Something disastrous for us. Well, come along. I’ll take you to the supply hut. I’ll try to keep the quartermaster from skinning all three of us alive for daring to ask for something. Anything.” Woodpecker strode toward the doorway, still muttering.