Adarin settled into the rotting muck of the Oxbow swamp and watched Francesco via a spider construct slinking ahead of the boats. Sitting on the frontmost boat, the young man was drawing a pattern onto a smooth wooden circle. Fifteen minutes ago he had said it was just a minor issue with the damaged wards he was circumventing for them. Now the young man apparently had stumbled into something much more dangerous.

  Adarin listened to the running commentary from Liora, who, using her Arcane Eye, was evaluating what they had stepped into. 'I think there's an external power source — a tripwire.'

  'Yes,' Francesco hissed, his hands shivering under strain as he worked with painstaking precision.

  Adarin left the half-dozen mages to their work and studied the other two boats. Duchess Viola sat in one, together with musketeers, and the other carried more musketeers and mages. Adarin swallowed and consulted the clock. Still several hours until daylight. We’ll have to get out of here.

  The only bright note was that Liora’s Arcane Eye had leveled twice. Having been stuck on lesser Tier 1 previously, it had now reached middle Tier 1. Liora kept smiling, a lone island of happiness in a sea of frowns.

  In several of the four towns and villages they’d run into, the locals had been enslaved by the greenskins. In the wake of the tide of Ghouls, they had revolted after their masters were cut down. Adarin had snuck in at night, planted the willows emitting sleeping gas before the Order had slaughtered the remaining orcs with sheer superior firepower, and the dazed, happy, and sleepy villagers had gladly agreed to come under the protection of the Order. Most people were reasonable to the degree that they didn’t argue with those pointing forty cannons at their town while offering generous terms.

  The cannons had only been fired once, in a demonstration bombardment over a city. Adarin still shuddered when he remembered it—whistling projectiles and oddly faceted shot that shredded the air with an ear-splitting scream, terrifying the townsfolk into surrender.

  Now they lay before the first city: Timberlanding. It had once been the main port where the Dray’s business had been shipped onto the Grand River.

  The problem wasn’t the bastion with the siege engines—no cannons, only simple ballistae. The problem was the city itself, a population of maybe two thousand supplied by a small farming hinterland. No—the real problem was the river chain. The town controlled both the economic and military choke point, with one faction in the city and one in the wilderness guarding the farmland below. A thick, smith-forged chain could block access to the Dray and prevent any wood from passing untaxed. It could, of course, be lifted—but as Adarin had put it after a long discussion: I’m not in the mood for extortion attempts.

  Francesco had judged it unlikely that powerful mages resided in the town, given its worn-down defenses. So they were here. Twenty musketeers, ten mages, one useless consul who had insisted on coming in case their nighttime spec-ops mission “needed a diplomatic component.” And nearly half a ton of gunpowder, set to be placed in a section where the river had undercut the port bastion—the artillery emplacements, and the controls for the chain.

  Adarin was ripped from his thoughts when Francesco made a triumphant noise. “Demiurge’s Blade—I got it!”

  Everyone froze at the victory cry. The young mage ran a hand through his immaculately kept hair and smirked. He spoke louder than necessary. “What? Under my illusion enchantment, no one will hear us. No need to pussyfoot around.”

  Some soldiers chuckled, though the displeasure on the sergeants’ faces promised their fate would be terrible once the mission was over.

  Adarin spun his new body into movement. The willow abilities had finally allowed him to make a snake form workable—ten meters long, thirty centimeters in diameter. Supple, powerful. A perfect killing machine for aquatic environments. Carefully inserting rudders into the swamp muck, the boats pushed on toward the island’s downriver side and the bastion.

  They stopped several times as Francesco disarmed, subverted, or twisted more magical detection and defensive measures, all the while explaining to the eager Liora what was going on.

  They were on the last quarter of their way to the target when it happened.

  A splash and screams ahead stopped them cold. Musketeers dropped low. Spells flared. Francesco tightened the illusions.

  Adarin reached out. 'Francesco, report.'

  'I don’t know. Something—'

  Suddenly the noises of battle erupted in front of them. No gunshots—war cries, crossbows snapping, splashing bodies, footsteps in the mucky water. But through all the mist, darkness, and riverine vegetation, he could not make out what was going on.

  Adarin tensed. Then his mind snapped into motion. He’d reconfigured half his constructs into snakes, the rest into spiders. Two snakes slipped from the farthest boats and swam.

  Francesco shot him a look.

  “What are you doing? They’re about to leave the illusion!”

  Adarin shushed him. Neither the time nor place to discuss trigonometry.

  He focused on the snakes’ auditory inputs, ran some quick numbers, and spoke on the general channel. “Battle slightly off our path. Coast of Oxbow Island near the city walls. One hundred and fifty meters.”

  He raised his snake’s head from the water, seeing the shudder in many of the soldiers as a gigantic mucky tentacle emerged and pointed in that direction.

  Duchess Viola spoke up.

  “Who would be fighting there at this hour of night? What is happening?”

  “Another slave revolt?” Liora suggested.

  Adarin shook his head.

  “No. From what we learned, the city paid tribute and was never occupied.”

  He turned to Francesco.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Can you scry?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “I can bring us through this, but scrying through this ward is another matter.”

  Adarin ground his teeth, considering. They were within the enemy’s detection net. Any magical sensors moving now would be detected.

  He smiled. The solution was obvious. Commodore Ashfield.

  He reached out through the sluggish link at the edge of its range. 'Sir.'

  Pause. Several seconds passed in silence and Adarin began worrying that the connection had been cut. But then the oddly hollow voice of the naval officer resonated in his mind. 'Orders?'

  Adarin ground his teeth, then stripped down to only three channels: Francesco, the general channel, and the Commodore.

  'Have the mages set up a ritual. We need a high aerial scrying. Battle near the city. You have five minutes.'

  Ashfield paused. 'Yes, sir. Type of scrying?'

  Adarin posed the question to Francesco, whose eyes lit up at the plan. The Commodore and the mage discussed it while Adarin absorbed the information. Standard aerial naval scrying would do.

  As the naval mages prepared, Adarin swam over to the boats, raising his massive head. The human occupants visibly recoiled—something primal in them disturbed by the shape looming over the swamp water.

  Over the projection Francesco and the other mages were forming, Duchess Viola tried to scramble to the edge of the boat to see better. Adarin ordered her sharply to sit. Don’t need civilians in this.

  Soon, an illusionary image sprang to life. Darkness, moonlight glittering on black water, shapes moving in the shadows, torches along the city wall.

  Francesco smirked as he noticed the tense silence. “Well, it is night.”

  Adarin groaned. “Does anyone here know about wavelengths of light outside the visual spectrum?”

  Francesco flapped a hand. “Of course. Heat vision.”

  A few exchanges later, the image shifted into false colors of blues and reds—and the battlefield became clear.

  They all studied the projection. Adarin felt an eerie sense of familiarity flicker across his mind, like watching surveillance footage of dissidents on a world before his forces would descend upon them, bringing justice and death. He shut down those memories with a smile. He was about to explain, but he turned to Liora instead. After all, she was not just Rüdiger’s protégé.

  “Liora, explain what we are seeing.”

  The girl’s eyes widened slightly. Then she remembered who she was becoming and nodded.

  “About fifty figures fighting on the side of the city and maybe a hundred in the swamps in small, dispersed groups.”

  Adarin nodded.

  “Your analysis?”

  “Defeated orcish troops returning from Northguard, like Kelvin told us about.”

  He nodded grimly. “I’m betting they thought the city was under orcish control,” Francesco interjected.

  Adarin wanted to raise up a manipulator, but growled in frustration as he remembered he was in a snake body and not a spider. He shook his head and pointed his snout to Liora. She inched back slightly, as did everyone else. Apparently, something deep in human psychology was uncomfortable with a gigantic snake sitting right in front of their faces. Who knew.

  “So they stumbled into the detection net and the city ambushed them. We wait them out,” she said, with more hesitation than there should have been.

  Adarin looked around, and surprisingly, Duchess Viola spoke up.

  “I don’t think there is enough time for that. As a healer, you should know the time after a battle can drag out a lot.”

  Adarin remained silent. Let’s see what my subordinates make of this.

  Francesco stroked his goatee—obviously in imitation of Rüdiger.

  “We could try going around. This doesn’t have to be a problem. All the attention is on the battle.”

  Adarin allowed himself a broad smile and made the mistake of letting the expression leak through his snake body. Eyes widened, and some audible gulps came from the soldiers as he forced his features back under control. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone so overboard with the fangs, he mused. He turned back to Francesco.

  “Very well. Let’s go around the back of the battle and continue our mission.”

  The young mage made a pained expression, as did Liora and several others.

  Adarin tilted his head. When no one seemed to understand the gesture, he asked, “What?”

  Francesco pressed his eyes shut.

  “I mapped out the network in those parts. I’ll have to recalculate a good bit.”

  Adarin glanced at the clock. Five hours until first light, that was brighter than the moonlight.

  “Well, best look around a bit.”

  With that, he dove into the swampy water and swam forward toward the battle. He considered trying to give himself night vision, but when he pulled up the description of Thousand Eyes—

  Thousand Eyes

  Divination – early Tier 1

  Grow Divination Core Tier2 cubic decimeters of custom biological optical systems.

  Vision limited to the optical spectrum.

  —he grimaced. Visible light only. Fuck. Well, I know where my first upgrade is going.

  He poked his head out of the illusion barrier and listened to the distant screams and life. He focused on his divination core, just as Rüdiger had taught him so long ago. Analyze. Let’s see if I can find out if there’s magic in play here.

  The spell fluttered out—

  —and suddenly Francesco hissed at him across the noospheric link.

  'What are you doing? Something just happened in the detection network.'

  Adarin bit his tongue. Fucking amateur mistake. He owned up to it immediately.

  'I thought I could use Analyze to figure out if enemy mages are there.'

  Francesco gasped, then laughed.

  'Of course they are. They’re under attack. And the state of their network? All their mages are probably with them.'

  Something tingled at the back of Adarin’s mind.

  'Francesco, prepare the projection again. Now. Ashfield, we need a bigger radius of vision.'

  He swam back swiftly. They had seen fifty defenders in a city they estimated held two thousand. Too few. What would I do? Hammer and anvil. Obvious.

  They were watching the anvil: fifty soldiers holding the greenskins. But where is the hammer?

  Just as Adarin reached the boats, he heard Liora gasp and Francesco curse. The young mage’s hands moved frantically, the gray of illusion magic flickering around him—but outcries of surprise already betrayed it was too late.

  Five boats. Nearly a hundred soldiers. They’d circled the greenskins and stumbled straight into the illusion.