Free Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters by Mercedes Lackey Page A

Master did not know about. But whether it was forbearance or indifference, Learie had reason to bless MacGregor’s teachings, for he had brought with him no supplies save a little grain for his mount.
    If only I had been born with an Earth Gift, instead of being a flighty ne’er-do-well Air Mage! I’d be able to sense disturbances to the land, for heaven above knows I have ridden over it for long enough to develop a sympathy with it!
    If only. Though, of course, Learie reflected philosophically, if he had been born with the Earth affinity, he would probably never have left home at all, for he would have been as firmly bound to the good English earth over which he’d roamed as his father was.
    Talking pays no toll,
he told himself.
Nor does crying for the moon in a silver cup. I must make do with what I have.
    He just wished he felt more confident about it.
    The French armies were essentially where Lord Wellesley expected them to be, and Learie made careful notes of everything he saw. Both of them together comprised a larger force than his own; in total, the French had 350,000 soldiers in Spain, but thanks to the efforts of the Spanish
guerilleros
—and the British Army, of course—most of
L’Armée de l’Espagne
was occupied in guarding its supply lines, rather than in fighting. He wasn’t privy to General Wellesley’s plans, of course, but it looked as if he’d have sufficient time to reach the citadel before the French could reinforce it.
    Learie was on a ridge overlooking the camp—from the ensigns, he thought it was part of General Marmot’s force, traveling detached in order to supply itself. It was just before dawn (it was raining, of course), and if he was going to travel any distance today, he had to be on his way before the camp roused for the day. Even if the French stayed put for another day or so—and they might, if they didn’t know General Wellesley’s plans—there’d be cavalry and infantry drills,
forageurs
scavenging the countryside, and scouting parties.
    He was debating between heading directly back—he had what he’d come for, or at least what he’d been sent for—and spending a day or two trying to find the Fire Master before turning back. His magic had allowed him to make extremely good time on his way here, and it would do him the same service upon his return. He knew what both Doctor Shipmeadow and his father would say:
“Leave the matters of wizards to experienced wizards. You’re young yet. And Air, you know, is a flighty Element . . .”
    Learie was
very
tired of hearing that he was scatterbrained, but he realized that he really
didn’t
know what to do now. And General Wellesley needed the intelligence he’d been sent to gather.
    Then the supply train blew up.
    The wagons carrying an army’s supplies were always at the center of the camp, both to guard them from theft and so that a unit’s quartermaster could easily disburse supplies. He’d noted the gun platforms, covered in canvas against the damp and transported on flatbed caissons, and near them, the kegs and crates of black powder. Harmless until it was poured down the barrel of a canon or a musket. Loose gunpowder burned, but didn’t explode; to make the barrels explode you’d have to toss them into a bonfire or insert a length of fuse cord into the barrel and light it.
    Or have a Fire Master set it off.
    The explosion filled the predawn darkness. It deafened him and made the ground shake. Flaming debris fountained into the sky, starting small fires everywhere it landed.
    Learie barely had enough warning to duck down behind the ridge, and what warned him wasn’t anything he saw or heard.
    It was the sense that someone was using magic. Fire Magic.
    As the explosion’s echoes began to die, he cautiously raised his head. There! In the stand of cottonwood off to his left. Movement. A lone rider.
    He scrambled down the slope of the ridge to where he’d left his mount. Storm was a seasoned veteran of the