When they arrived at the Green Zone, the privates all separated, most going to mess. Jason went with Custer to report to the captain. The Wizard went to pick up mail.
PO was open 24/7, and the soldier behind the counter knew him by sight. “Hey, Brent,” the soldier said, and got a small package and two envelopes for him. Brent frowned at the package – it usually meant new spells from the Archmages. One envelope was addressed to him in his mother’s writing, the other in fancy calligraphy.
“Shit,” Brent said, pausing at the door and hesitating at seeing the envelope with the calligraphy. He held it up to the light. He could see the spell-runes through the envelope.
He continued to his tent. He was hungry, but mess would be crowded and he didn’t want to open the letter in case the spell on it did things to others in his immediate vicinity. He’d seen spells that changed whole tables of men into yapping poodles. Inconvenient, yes, while they hunted down the counter-spell.
The barracks tent had a few people in it. He shivered at the air conditioning. Nodding to the five men there, he went to his cot. Usually near him slept the other two mages of the Corps, Sydney and Polk. They weren’t there at the moment, probably out for the day’s runs.
Brent dropped his items on the cot and got out of his tunic. His nipples hardened at the cool air and he shivered again. After tossing the tunic aside, he sat on the hard cot and pulled out the calligraphic letter first. He carefully pulled up the flap that was taped down – mages did not expend their essence by licking envelopes. He pulled out the note. It was written in Enochian, the made-up language of Aleister Crowley and his Temple of the Golden Dawn. It only had one line at the top.
“Sign in twenty minutes or this letter will self-destruct. ___________”
“Dammit,” he spat. He threw the letter down and turned to his foot locker. He fumbled with the lock, finally spelling it to snap open. He dug out a quill and ink, special items for articles like this. He inked the quill and scribbled his magical symbol on the line.
He waited, backing up from the cot. He had no idea of the range if he had done it wrong. However, the letter did nothing but shimmer, and then in English, in more calligraphy, came the letter’s contents:
“You will be captured within the fortnight. You will be ordered to convert or die. You will lose your power if you convert. They have the ability to kill you.
“The Archmage of the 103rd has been informed. Due to this, you will be on furlough out of the country and must return to Post on July 12, 2011 or you will die.
“Cybalia.”
Cybalia, he thought, and the letter turned to dust, getting all over the bed. Ah, Cybalia. One of the most powerful clairvoyants in the entire armed forces, and unbelievable in bed. So they said. He never had the opportunity.
He picked up the packet next. This notified him of his furlough and the package contained a series of forms to fill out in triplicate. Another sealed envelope was in the packet, typed up and addressed to Captain Nosh.
The furlough, according to the paperwork, was supposed to start as soon as a new mage arrived. The sooner he got this paper to Nosh, the sooner he would be let go.
Captain Nosh was not going to be pleased. As the highest ranking mage in the group, Brent could command the other two mages if necessary. He could also pull them from things that he or the two mages felt were too risky. The Magic Corps was very particular about keeping its mages alive.
Brent pulled on his tunic, picked up the packet and his orders and headed toward Nash’s camp. He passed mess, sniffing the air. It smelled like garlic. His stomach growled.