Army of Wizards. #2
“I swear to the gods, you look modest and approachable,” I said. Rugged and strapping, I thought.
That familiar smolder appeared on Fitzroy’s face. It annoyed me slightly less than usual.
“Well, thank you for your flattery,” he said.
With a final nod, I bowed my head and stepped away, determined to fulfill his request and assemble a hidden army of wizards.
* * *
The clouds had momentarily parted, and the seamen took advantage of the pleasant weather to sift through the wreckage of the failed invasion.
I hurried along the sands, noticing how the yellow grains underfoot darkened to charcoal as I approached the water.
The shipyard’s dry dock held the reparable vessels, propped up in the building berth and awaiting restoration, while the badly burnt ships floated out at sea—with the deceased still aboard, forming a haunting nautical graveyard.
Shielding my eyes from the glaring sunlight, I scanned the deck for a hint of white hair among the brunettes and auburns.
Beneath the hull of a beached ship, I spotted Fletcher in his signature cap.
He and several other men were collecting reusable arrows from the sands, but Bash was nowhere to be seen.
After a moment of scrutinizing the many faces working on the deck, I finally spotted him.
Bash stood without his tunic, his skin aglow in the golden hue of the sunset, every muscle on his torso highlighted.
He untied the string holding back his hair, allowing his mane of white locks to fall freely before he picked up an axe.
His toned arms tensed as he swung the blade into a chunk of wood, and I watched in awe as he split the log effortlessly in two.
Standing upright, he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, while droplets trailed down his chest as if his very skin was crying out to be touched.
Since Arthur’s death, I’d shared Bash’s warmth every night with Fletcher.
The once-accidental embraces—moments I’d assumed were innocent, unconscious gestures in his sleep—had ceased.
Part of me wondered if their absence since Fletcher joined our sleeping arrangement was mere coincidence; another, more troubling part worried that Bash had sensed my feelings for him and now felt uncomfortable in my presence.
“Bash,” I called out before he noticed me gawking.
At the sound of his name, he dropped his axe and waved in my direction. He climbed down a ladder propped against the ship, jumping the final meter onto the charred sands. As he ran toward me, I focused on his face, determined not to betray that his physique flustered me.
Panting as he caught his breath, Bash greeted me with a grin. “Smith, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, wiping his sweaty stomach with his tunic.
My eyes disobeyed me, glancing down at his heaving chest; his form was so divine it felt unholy to behold—a test from the gods, perhaps.
“I’m here on Fitzroy’s orders,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
Bash looked puzzled. “What could Fitzroy possibly want from me?”
“He wants your purple palms,” I replied.
Bash edged in close. “You told him I was a wizard?” he asked, his voice hushed yet urgent.
I shook my head and glanced over my shoulder to ensure no one was within earshot.
“Fitzroy’s a wizard, too,” I said, trusting him implicitly. “A good one. He’s accepted that this war cannot be won without magical assistance, and tasked me with forming a secret army of wizards.”
Bash rested his hands on his hips, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly. “Do you trust Fitzroy?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t think we have any other choice,” I replied.
Bash nodded in agreement.
“Do you suspect anyone else among the men might be magical?” I asked.
Bash scrunched his face in thought and then turned toward the ship. “Fletcher!” he yelled.
Fletcher emerged from the shadow of the hull clutching the arrows he’d retrieved.
“He’s a wizard, too?” I asked, recalling the leathery branding on his forehead.
“No,” Bash replied. “He doesn’t possess any abilities, but many in our family do. He’s learned every trick to hide magic.”
“Your family talks about magic?” I asked, surprised.
Bash nodded. “Yours doesn’t?”
I shook my head. “My mother forbade me from telling anyone—she didn’t want me to burden my brothers.”
“Aren’t either of your brothers wizards?” Bash asked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“No,” I replied, selfishly wishing that at least one of them were.
“What about your sister, Niamh?” Bash pressed, and at the sound of my own name, I flinched.
“No,” I said swiftly, hoping to stop any further questions about a sibling who didn’t exist.
I sighed deeply, imagining how much easier my childhood might have been if I’d been able to share my secret with even one other person. Just the thought lifted a weight from my shoulders.
“Cousin,” Fletcher called, interrupting my thoughts, as he dropped the arrows onto the sands. “How can I help?”
For a second, I froze, wanting to confess my magic, yet unable to forget Mother’s warnings.
Sharing secrets was deadly.
I glanced to Bash, who gave me a reassuring nod—melting both my heart and my anxieties.
I leaned into Fletcher’s ear and whispered, “I’m a wizard,” before stepping back.
“Aha!” he exclaimed, clicking his fingers. “That’s why you two are so close.”
Bash nodded. “Smith’s been tasked with creating an army of wizards—a band of magical men to help us win this war. Do you suspect any of the men at Cambas might be wizards?”
“Nope,” Fletcher replied, tugging at a golden chain around his neck. “But I think a few believe I am.”
“Be careful,” I warned. “Some of the men in the smithy were talking about trialing suspected wizards in water—and your name came up.”
Fletcher scoffed. “I’m a seaman. I can swim.” He mimicked doing a breaststroke and then a paddle, as if buoyancy alone could save him from these men thirsting for magical blood.
“What if they bind your arms and legs?” I asked.
“I can fight,” Fletcher said, demonstrating his punches.
He bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, jabbing the air with his fists, ducking and dodging imaginary blows from a pretend opponent.
“Back home in the Headlands, I settled disputes with bare-knuckle fights. I’ve a talent for headbutting and eye gouging,” he added, his gold pendant swinging with his movements.
“I’ve seen him blind a man,” Bash said, shuddering at the memory.
Fletcher paused and chuckled—a glint of fond recollection in his eyes—then he sighed contentedly before resuming his shadowboxing. The golden pendant swung into the sunlight once more, capturing my curiosity like a magpie drawn to something shiny.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, worried Fletcher had pilfered Fitzroy’s royal jewels.
He stopped punching the air and held the necklace out proudly.
“Nicked it off that pretty whore’s neck,” he said as he opened the pendant.
“It had a lock of red hair inside, but I threw that into the sea.” He then closed it, biting the locket in between his teeth.
“I think it’s real gold,” he added, letting it bounce back against his chest.
Something in the locket piqued my attention.
I reached for Fletcher’s neck and ran my fingers along the chain till I caught the locket.
With a flick of my thumb, I opened it. Carved into the gold was a six-petaled flower—similar to the daisy wheel I’d seen chiseled into sandstone after fleeing Green Vale.
“You definitely stole this from one of the women working in the brothel?” I asked, peeling my gaze away from the etching to look at Fletcher.
“Yep.”
My heart raced. “Red wasn’t lying,” I whispered to myself, recalling his claim that Margaret had spoken in Yfelle.
I turned to Bash. “I know where I can recruit Fitzroy’s soldiers.”
“Where?” he asked, staring at me intently.
“The brothel,” I replied. “I’m not certain, but I think the women working there are witches. This symbol—I’ve seen it before, etched into an aged piece of sandstone with Yfelle engraved around it.”
“What did the Yfelle say?” Bash probed.
“Follwen’he Seolfor Wicce.” Follow the Silver Witch, I recited.
“Follow the Silver Witch,” Bash translated for Fletcher. “Doesn’t that suggest that they’re followers of Regina?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. It might be an old symbol from when Regina was favored.”
“Are you certain the whores are witches?” Bash asked. “If you’re wrong, it could cost you your life.”
He was right, and that thought unsettled me; yet what terrified me even more was the prospect of another battle as ruthless as the last. Besides, the locket was only one clue—I recalled the other subtle magical hints I’d observed at Cambas that all pointed toward the women being witches.
“During the invasion, I saw people on that cliff edge fighting for our side with spells,” I said, pointing toward the spot.
“I couldn’t see their faces, but it’s too much of a coincidence—one woman caught speaking in Yfelle, another wearing a symbol tied to the Silver Witch, and cloaked strangers performing incantations near the brothel. ”
Bash offered an encouraging smile. “I think you might be on to something. Would Fitzroy want women in his magical army?”
I snorted, knowing he had already accepted me leading the search.
“His Highness has entrusted this task to me. He has no choice.”
Fletcher chuckled. “You want to spend another evening at the brothel?” he asked with a coy smile. “Careful Smith—you’ll get a name for yourself.”
I turned to Bash, ignoring Fletcher as he tittered at his own remark.
“Will you join me on my witch hunt?” I asked.
Bash rolled his eyes. “Of course I will.”