The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

except mercenaries, outlaws, and rogue magicians—all determined to make trouble for the rest of civilization. King Simeon hailed from Hanassa before he’d married SeLenicca’s very young Queen Miranda. And look at the mess he’d made there!
    “Stand aside. I have need of a few things,” Woodpecker demanded of the three armed men at the supply hut.
    “Orders are no one gets anything until the next boatload of supplies comes upriver,” the sergeant sneered. Three gold stripes on the sleeve of his green uniform tunic shone brightly in the freshly ignited rushlights beside the door. His collar and cuffs were threadbare and his left elbow nearly poked through the cloth. But his boots were new and shone with fresh polish.
    Marcus nearly salivated with greed at the thought of the warm and dry feet those boots would give him.
    “You dare give orders to me, Giiorge?” Woodpecker asked. “Didn’t I bind up an ax wound on your left side with barely a scar after you dropped your guard and allowed a wounded enemy to sneak up on you?”
    “Um . . .” Sergeant Giiorge shuffled his feet and blushed.
    “One pair of boots for my journeyman. He might very well be the one to throw the spell that wins the next battle. You and all of your men owe the Battlemages more than your lives.”
    “Two minutes inside. And don’t tell anyone I was the one that let you in.” Sergeant Giiorge unlocked the door and then gestured to his men to move forward two paces, just enough room for Woodpecker to get between him and the door. They kept their backs sternly to the doorway and the activities of the magicians.
    “Not very grateful, if you ask me,” Robb muttered.
    “The best we can hope for,” Woodpecker replied. He brought a ball of witchlight to his hand and scanned the shelves inside the hut. A few uniform tunics, some blankets, and mess kits. Not much left to supply an army.
    “One pair of boots left. Take them and hope they fit.” Woodpecker thrust the solitary pair into Marcus’ hands and sidled out of the hut.
    The moment all three of them were clear of the doorway, Sergeant Giiorge locked it again and resumed his post.
    “Follow me back toward the enclave, then leave as soon as no one is looking,” Woodpecker ordered as they hurried back the way they had come.
    At the edge of the empty circle around the Battlemage’s hut, Marcus and Robb veered off toward a clump of trees beside the paddock. Marcus plunked himself down on the ground beneath the spreading branches of an oak. Pale green swelled the ends of the branches with the promise of new life and plenty of shade come summer. He pulled off both his boots and managed to tug on one of the new ones before a commotion on the other side of the paddock interrupted him.
    “Ah-ha!” exclaimed a deep voice. “We have the boot thieves! Arrest these men.” A burly soldier dressed in a faded green uniform tunic with a single muddy yellow stripe on his sleeves ran toward them brandishing a long dagger and an ax. Three more men with no stripes on their sleeves followed close behind him armed with clubs.
    “Run!” Robb exclaimed. He pulled Marcus to his feet.
    Marcus grabbed the second boot and followed, limping and off balance.
    “Out of the way!” Robb turned to face the enemy, still running backward. He launched a witch bolt that looked like an arrow at the growing number of soldiers in pursuit. Fire fletched and tipped his missile.
    “Theft of a comrade’s equipment is punishable by hanging,” the leader pronounced. His followers screamed more invective.
    Marcus couldn’t understand a word they said, but their auras displayed intense outrage and bloodlust.
    The witch bolt landed directly in front of the leader’s feet. He hopped back, careening into his men. They tumbled backward, like so many stacked game cartes.
    “Lucky shot, Robb,” Marcus panted as they pelted away from camp toward the dubious cover of a shrub-lined creek.
    “Careful aim. I make my own luck.”
    They had just slid into the chill water of the foaming creek and drawn a deep breath when six men crashed through the shrubs a few paces to their right.
    “Keep running!” Robb called, hauling Marcus to his feet.
    “How about another witch bolt while I put on my boot?”
    “No time.”
    “We’re heading the wrong way.” Marcus limped behind Robb as he scrambled up the other side of the shallow ravine. His left sock was soaked and his foot hurt from running across the uneven turf and