Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (32 page)

Landon agreed.  With Dietrik’s list in hand, he added,
“I’ll also ask them about this.  Likely they can tell me which of these shops
are closely connected to the dark guilds as well.”

Marik shrugged.  Landon and Kerwin left.

Whatever Landon wanted to do, Marik would go along
with.  He knew what he was doing, which was a confidence Marik lacked.  What he
most felt like was a man groping in the dark, reaching out in a random
direction he hoped might yield an object to his touch.  For all he knew, they were
running in the wrong direction entirely.  That phosphorous stuck to the
assassin’s breeches could as easily have come from one of the two magic
services shops Marik had seen on Thoenar’s streets.  Promising foretellings of
the future or charms to bring good fortune, who could say if the magic users
within also catered to darker needs.  The easy bodyguard duty had turned into a
hunt, with them the prey.

Edwin would be much better suited to turning a hunt
around on the pursuers, or Sloan would know what to do next.  Unfortunately, he
had no idea where in Thoenar either were. 
Or,
he thought,
Colbey
would be able to track these bastards down in moments, probably.  Too bad he
wasn’t
the one Torrance assigned to this.  I wonder how he’s doing?

He firmly told himself that he was not making a royal
mess of this, but the conviction found no roots.  Marik set into waiting for
the next seven days to pass.

*        *        *        *        *

The town of Durrac was larger than the town where
Colbey had encountered the merchant.  Home to nearly four-thousand individuals,
at least before the invasion, it had always been one of the larger settlements
south of Kallied.  Arriving in Durrac after nine days of intense travel, making
quick time while running from patrols he failed to dodge, Colbey’s first act
was to knock down a drunk.

He spied the man leaving a tavern after spending the
early evening drinking his consciousness into temporary amnesia regarding his
life.  The man nearly walked in his sleep.  With quick glances, the scout
ascertained that no others watched.  A light tap to the drunk’s temples
finished the job his ale had begun.  Colbey dragged the pungent wretch into an
alley.

The first order of business was the drunk’s left
hand.  Quick examination revealed what Colbey had feared.  Though two bars and
five dots were present, they were arranged differently.  He’d hoped the tattoo
merely symbolized their subjugation.  Apparently they also told which town an
individual resided in.  His writing implements quickly sketched the new design. 
Later, in privacy, he would alter his own forged mark.

The second order of business was the drunk’s coin
pouch.  Light in weight, it contained only a handful of coppers yet unconverted
to drink.  Disgusted, Colbey took the few Tullainian coins, leaving an equivalent
amount in Galemaran copper.  If the foreign currency would draw notice, then
let this fool distract the invaders from Colbey’s presence.

Durrac served as a major operational base for the
invaders.  In the previous town, they were content to keep an eye on the
residents while patrolling the surrounding lands.  They used this larger town
as a hub for military interactions between sectors.  Whereas the bull-creatures
had been absent from the streets before, in this town they could be found. 
Them, and other interesting elements that promised new information.

An excellent place to begin his work.

He climbed to a roof overlooking the town’s central
square.  With a view of the buildings taken over by the invaders, Colbey slept
lightly.  His energy had been drained during the exhausting run from the
Stoneseams.  Despite that, he could ill-afford the luxury of deep sleep.

Morning arrived.  Activity resumed.  He began his
study.

Soldiers entered and departed constantly from a wide
building, large for Durrac at three stories.  Colbey watched dozens of small
patrols come to the front and wait outside while their leader entered.  Within
a quarter-mark the single individual would return to lead the patrol away.

No exiting soldier stream appeared.  The men forming
the invaders’ army must be barracked throughout the town.  Over the morning
Colbey began constructing their activity patterns.  No bull-creatures came to
the square.  That meant the various elements in the invaders’ forces were
bivouacked separately.

The uniform dress was different from the other
soldiers Colbey had ever seen, at least in their specifics if not their
generality.  Greaves, as worn by the Nolier knights, were present on all.  Two
aspects made them different.  First, they covered the entire lower leg, ending
at the knee.  Second, they seemed to have been constructed from overlapping
steel scales, making it resemble a tiled roof.  Also, though the greeves’ rim
gripped the knee, the front extended up for several inches away from the thigh,
forming a midair shield.

The arms were similar.  Bracers covered both upper and
lower arms.  An extension jutting from the elbow would have formed a spike had
it not been both flat and rounded.  When the arm remained straight, the flat
extension was flush with the upper arm, nearly vanishing.  Only when the elbow
bent did the extension separate.

Other peculiarities were present.  Like every other
army, swords were the predominant weapon for the common soldier.  The odd bow
was thrown in here and there, but that covered diversity.

Colbey caught sight of soldiers with decorations
gracing their chest.  The symbols’ meanings were unclear, yet the deference
from the lower soldiers plainly pointed out their rank.

At mid-afternoon, Colbey moved.  He had learned some
minor details about the soldiers, except the soldiers would not be the telling
factor in this battle.  Soldiers alone he could have handled.

On Durrac’s east side he found what he wanted. 
Several long houses used for storage had been taken over for the bull-creatures. 
Nary a single Tullainian could be seen.  Every native had abandoned this
section of the town since the conquest.  Colbey could hardly blame them.

New rail fences surrounded four buildings to form
oversized pens separating the structures from the town.  In the wide open
space, three dozen creatures contended with each other.  Five mages in white
robes stood apart, supervising their beasts.

At first glance, the blows and swipes exchanged
between the creatures appeared a death battle.  Their sheer power fostered the
misconception.  Colbey, familiar with animal behavior, recognized it as simple
pent-up energy being expended.  The snarls were pale echoes of the hunting
roars that had followed him.

He had a problem with no other Tullainians nearby.  If
he sat down to study the creatures for an afternoon, he would quickly be
noticed.  His mere presence was an aberration.  No choice except to move on and
plan a better approach later.  For today, he would finish scouting locations.

Colbey left behind the creatures’ pens.  He continued
to the town’s northern edge.  Upon his approach the evening before he had
noticed activity there.  No mountains graced central Tullainia, but a sizable
cliff rose from the ground outside town.  Durrac had cut further into it for
centuries, harvesting stone from the quarries.  Brownstone was the town’s
principle export.

Though only two miles away, Colbey needed to wait
until evening before he dared cross the town’s perimeter.  The scattered trees
were his home and he avoided detection the entire distance.  He studied the
cliff face after coming close as he dared.

Several darker shadows lay across the stone at
irregular intervals, like moth holes in an old shirt.  They would be caves, or
hollows in the rock at the least.  Flickering light came from two when full
dark descended.  Within those short caves, men kept fires.  Why would they
bother climbing the vertical face?  He could see no ropes dangling from the
top.

While pondering this, he gradually became aware of a
growing buzz.  He dismissed it at first as simply the evening insects taking
wing.  Soon it grew far too loud to be that.  Colbey crouched and searched for
threats.

It arrived in the form of another possible inhabitant
of the Rovasii’s inner heart.  Despite his familiarity with such weirdling
beasts, the thing amazed Colbey.

He only saw it when it landed.  It flew to a lit cave
and clung to the lower edge like the insect it appeared to be.  In the dim
light it seemed a dragonfly, bigger than a horse, longer than two carts.  The
long body dangled over the cliff’s face while it gripped the cave lip. 
Transparent wings, long and paper thin, were wider than the cave mouth.  Once
it folded them backward they flanked the man sitting atop its back.

The man maintained a firm grip on the leather saddle
arrangement designed for the creature.  When it crawled into the lighted cave,
he dismounted and led the insect further inside by reins attached to the giant
head wider than its own body.

Colbey’s teeth gnashed.  The difficulties increased by
the moment!  Who were these people?  Where had they found so many unnatural
creatures to fill their ranks?  How could the giant dragonflies and the
bull-creatures exist
anywhere
in the world without the Guardians knowing
of them?

Seven additional insects came in for the night before
Colbey returned to the village.  His teeth ached from continual pressure.  A
downward spiral had swept him into its treacherous coil, despair creeping
through his being.  Every time he uncovered new information, it made his
vengeance harder to achieve rather than easier.

The voices of Liam and Sylvia spoke to him, accusing
him, repudiating him for his weakness.  His gorge stirred again as the dream,
vivid as when he had experienced it, replayed through his mind.  Sweat
clustered across his brow while he leaned against an empty building trying to
collect his wits.

His head pounded in throbs that made his ears twitch. 
Silvery pain arced across his brain from left to right, then back without
pause. 
Stop it,
he silently shouted. 
It is not over yet!  It is
not!  No one is invincible!  I
will
strike them down!

The pounding lessened, though he still felt his
friends present within him.  Felt their cold, dead eyes watching his soul.

Movement attracted his attention.  A white robe strode
past.  She was alone, unaccompanied by others.  His eyes locked on her walking
form.

No one else was around.  No one at all.

Silent as the clouds drifting by, Colbey fell in
behind her.  Her hood had been pulled up.  Just as well.  It would hamper her
peripheral vision.  Colbey withdrew his knife.

When they came abreast of a shadowy alley, he reached
around her.  Faster than she could register he placed the steel to her throat,
feeling the softness of her flesh through the knife.  He felt the edge severing
tendons, slicing deeper to open her windpipe.  Warm blood drenched his knuckles
as it flooded along the blade.

With a shove, she fell into the shadows.  She twisted
to face him.  Her eyes held greater surprise than pain.  Blood pumped from her throat
in a waterfall, saturating the whiteness of her robe, obscuring the red trim
beneath its crimson flow.  She raised a hand to feebly clutch her neck in a
vain attempt to hold onto her fleeing life.  Then blood cascaded from her
mouth.

“You see?” Colbey asked quietly.  Who did he speak
to?  The woman?  The ghosts of his life?  Himself?  “Not invincible at all.  I
can
kill them.  I can slaughter every last one of them.  I
can!”

But not yet,
the voices of his instructors cried. 
You must still plan!  You must use
your allies!

Colbey snarled, “Three years!  They have lived on
borrowed time!  They must be brought to account!”  His breaths panted quickly. 
Short exhalations shook his entire body.  The sweat dripped.

Control your emotions,
the inner voice shouted.  It bore the rough edge
Thomas’ tongue always held whenever the younger scout began to rant.  Colbey’s
spine straightened with a snap. 
You’re blinded by anger!  You haven’t been
trained by the best so you can act like a damned outlander fool!

His teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped, then,
gradually, he loosened his coiled muscles.  Colbey breathed deeply.  He inhaled
as much air as his lungs could hold.  The pounding fading.

He studied the dead woman on the ground.  “Very well,”
he whispered.  “Control.  I have mastered it.  I will use it.  I can still
wait.”

Colbey walked away, leaving her to be found by whoever
would find her.  He listened to his instructors and accepted their teachings as
he had ever done.

But he still clutched the knife, dripping blood as he
went.

Standing in a gardened pavilion located in the main
palace, Marik felt exceedingly self-conscious surrounded by men and women of
the highest stature.  Surely he was one of the few mercenaries present.  He
ranked lower than the personal stewards standing at attention beside their
master’s elbows.  Normally he spat on social rank, but today…

Tomorrow would be the first event for the contenders,
presuming they ever finished the opening ceremony today.  Though the
competitions would be held on Thoenar’s outer edges, this ceremony invited the
upper echelon only.  Marik stood with his three friends behind their charge
resplendent in the best tunic he owned and in chainmail laboriously cleaned
during the last several days.

All contenders stood in a long row, separated from
each other by five feet.  Their personal guardsmen waited at attention behind
them in small clusters.  This impressive gathering flanked the eastern edge of
a wide lawn that was part of the palace gardens.  On the western side, among
the floral masterpieces, milled men and women by the hundreds.  Many were
family of the various contenders, others were aristocrats who would rather die
than miss showing off at such an extravagant court function.  More men than women
displayed, strangely enough, cheeks unnaturally blushed red or pink.  Marik
figured each blueblood wore a minimum of twenty silvers in clothing alone,
never mind the jewelry bedecking the women.  Many were so gaudily rigged that
they brought to his mind an image; a wandering peddler, bereft of his pack,
forced to strap his goods to his person to prevent their loss during the long
travels.

All held crystal glasses filled with drink, talking
vapidly while wandering from group to group.  Their overlapping voices drifted
to the bodyguards in the soft tones of a gurgling creek in early springtime.  A
near silent snort from Kerwin told Marik the gambler found this as irritating
as he did.  The contenders, and by de facto their guards included, were stuck
in their places.  They were trapped in a formation carefully arranged by the
king’s seneschal until such time as Raymond Cerella deigned to present himself.

Only part of Marik’s foul mood stemmed from the
oblivious disregard displayed by the blue bloods over yonder.  Mostly his
nerves were on edge after spending nearly an eightday waiting for an attack
from the shadows.  Hilliard had persisted in not being cowed.  Every day he put
forth new arguments to alter their decision about staying under cover.  For the
most part he made his pitches to the other three.  The young noble’s attitude
wilted and became uneasy whenever Marik entered his vicinity.  Marik relegated
it to the fact that most people trusted mages about as far as they could toss
an ox.  It was too bad, since a loose friendship had been developing between
him and the future baron.

The days passed with nary a single suspicious gesture
from so much as a serving girl.  Hilliard argued this could only be further
proof that the attacks against them at the order house, while unusually
persistent, had simply been retaliatory actions by an angry street gang.  In
fact, if one of the thugs killed during their night run had been a high ranking
member in Thoenar’s dark guilds, it could very well explain the unrelenting
pursuit over the following days.  Members in the dark guilds never permitted a
serious transgression to go unavenged.

In the face of the perfectly ordinary activities
filling their days at the Swan’s Down, a small, doubtful worm ate away at
Marik’s wariness.  Still, whether Hilliard’s assertions were true or false, he
had vowed to maintain a constant guard until they saw the youth safely back to
Spirratta.

He glanced around this kingdom of a garden.  The lawn
alone must be acres in size.  The distant wall that surrounded the entire
palace complex lay beyond his sight.  Elaborate flower beds were arranged in
impressive milieus, shunning simple flat squares in the ground. 
Unpretentiousness of any sort was snubbed.  Shrubbery sculptures populated the
grounds between floral displays in wild menageries.

Three places down the line, closer to the tail than to
the palace, Marik recognized Ferdinand Sestion, who they had never actually met
at the Central Guild Hall.  Everyone else was unfamiliar but he felt several glares
directed his way.  Given that the cost for his own attire would equal perhaps a
single boot worn by the servants, he strove to ignore the unfriendly, if
silent, derision.

Movement to his right at the palace doors finally
caught his attention.  Figures emerged.  An elaborate patio with twin stone
thrones rested under sweeping trellises.  Broad-leaf vines twined around the
beams and shaded the royal seats along with a gurgling fountain from the harsh
sun.  A low, knee-high wall surrounded the patio.  It opened in two places for
short steps that led southeast and southwest down to the lawn.

The new arrivals were too far away for Marik to
clearly discern who they were.  From the positions they took, he could see they
were arranging themselves for the main event.

“It’s about time,” he muttered sideways to Dietrik. 
“Must have finally run out of blush.”

Hilliard ignored the comment.  He had done a masterful
job of ignoring their observations thus far, standing rigidly at attention ever
since the seneschal had left them like newly planted trees.  Dietrik stifled a
yawn with his good hand.  Across the way, the babbling gossip died to low
murmurs.

Sunlight reflected off brass as six heralds announced
King Raymond’s arrival with their horns.  Beside him strode Ulecia, his bride
and queen.  Both were garbed in rich green and earthen brown, Galemar’s colors
mixing well with the surrounding garden.

Their young attendants busied with small details while
the two royals settled on the stone thrones.  Royalguard, protective as a
mother bird, fanned out around the low wall, matching it by forming a second,
human wall enclosing the patio.

Metallic notes still blared through the air.  The
seneschal stepped to one side of the low wall so as not to be directly in front
of either the king or queen.  He wore robes of lighter green than the monarchs’
and held a long staff elaborately carved.  In a solid one-handed grip, he
lifted the staff high when the last notes faded and orated to the assembly.

“You who stand before your king, stand proud!  Sons of
Galemar, you have come forward during pressing times to compete in the
two-hundred-and-seventh tournament for the Arm of Galemar.  Each of you have
displayed patriotic loyalty worthy of your homeland.  The Arm of Galemar is
more than a prize; it is a position, a sacred duty, which lends its strength to
all the people it represents.  As the strongest warrior of Galemar, you will
lead out our armies to defend against those who would see us vanquished. 
Whichever of you today earns the right to bear the Arm will be a very symbol
unto justice.”

A background roar interrupted the seneschal, so full
and so rumbling it could only be the voices of every man, woman and child in
Thoenar unified in a single cheer.  Whatever opening ceremony the common
citizens were enjoying must have reached a high point.  Without a doubt it
would be more exciting than this, Marik mused, given that the crowd could be
heard all the way from where he stood in the Inner Circle’s very heart.  From
the monotonous drone put forth by the seneschal, he wondered if the cultural
elite made it a policy to present even the most exciting events in as boring a
manner as possible.

The seneschal’s only concession to the noise was to
wait a moment for it to wane before continuing.  “Your duties to Galemar’s
people as the Arm supercede all duties your ordinary positions require of you. 
For the next three years, the Arm is all you will be, all you will think, all
you will do.  This responsibility is a terrible burden, and so I urge you to
consider deeply all it entails.  It is not too late to step down if the burden
will bow your shoulders.”

Unsurprisingly, no one made to leave.  A quick glance
at Hilliard revealed the young man’s shinning eyes.  Though the seneschal had
said nothing yet that struck Marik as impressive, Hilliard looked a man living
his wildest fantasy.

Dietrik hissed from the corner of his mouth while the
seneschal continued on about the importance of the Arm in regards to the common
citizens.  “Did you see the last Arm leading us against the Hollister?”

“Not that I noticed,” Marik whispered back.  “I doubt
the Arm has fought in a legitimate battle for at least two-hundred years.”

Hilliard twitched, but maintained the fiction that
their words fell on his deaf ears.

“Seems like a giant cockup then, wasting all this
time.  With hostile borders on both sides, we’re too busy throwing a bleeding
party to prepare for what may come.”

About to agree, Marik lost his chance when the heralds
let forth anew and the contender line applauded.  Obviously he had missed the
end of the seneschal’s speech.  That man stepped back to stand beside the
king.  Both king and queen rose to stand in front of their garden thrones.

Once the horns and the crowd noise died to a faint
buzz, the seneschal thumped the ornate staff against the stone patio.  That was
a signal.  The first contender climbed the short southeast stairway and walked
behind the wall of royalguards until he came into view in the blank space
before the monarchs.

He dropped to one knee before them.  His three guards
arranged themselves behind him in a likewise line.  Words passed between the
monarchs and the kneeling noble before he rose, leaving his men supplicated. 
The contestant offered his arm and the queen tied something around it below the
shoulder.

Now free, the noble exited the king’s patio via the
southwest stairway.  As no requirements regarding a new formation had been
delivered, the first contender mixed with the milling aristocrats, instantly
engulfed in a clique of bluebloods eager to socialize with the man of the
moment.  The entire affair last two minutes at most, yet Marik cursed silently
as the seneschal pounded the staff a second time.

At two minutes per contender, and with over
two-hundred contestants left to be spoken to or greeted by the king, they might
finish the job in roughly seven candlemarks.  While Hilliard was not at the end
of the line, they were close enough to swap sugar for salt.  Being the
one-hundred-eighty-first noble to register at the guild hall, that had been the
position the seneschal ordered them to after consulting the papers he carried.

While the second man knelt before King Raymond and
Queen Ulecia, the faint ripple sweeping the line caused by the first man
stepping forward finally reached them.  Four steps closer to the king.

Marik reflected how odd it was that everything in life
was relative.  As a boy in Tattersfield, he would have thought it the proudest
moment in his life to be present among the warriors during the tri-annual
tournament’s opening to prove who the strongest man in Galemar might be.  And
to actually be within feet of the
king
…

But those views were the domain of a child with a
child’s cares and woes.  His responsibility as a bodyguard whose charge seemed
to have been marked for special attention by the dark guilds leeched away any
responses other than worry and caution.  Even on the palace lawns, in the most
heavily protected area in the kingdom, he could not entirely let his guard
down.  Seeing the king felt like a nuisance instead of a thrill.

“Same routine going back tonight, do you imagine?”
Dietrik asked, the second ripple catching up to them.

“Yes,” Marik replied, causing Hilliard’s mouth to
tighten despite his refusal to acknowledge his guards/captors.  “It’s the
safest bet.”

“Sorry, old boy,” Dietrik directed at Hilliard this
time.  “But safety first, after all.  Besides, if we stop at all those soirees
your peers keep inviting you to, we’ll fail to get back to the inn before
dawn.  And you need to be at your best tomorrow.”

Hilliard refrained from response.  Instead he only
shifted so he faced firmly toward the raised patio.  Marik decided that was the
closest to an agreement they would likely get.  With nothing else to do, he
mulled with Dietrik the security precautions they would need to engage during
the trip back to the inn.

Kerwin, eyes alight, closely studied the other nearby
participants and speculated on their abilities.  He struck up a conversation
with a personal guard for contender one-hundred-eighty in front of them and
soon learned most of their names.  During the torturously slow advance to the
patio he gleefully compared his observations with the Swan’s Down’s listed odds
on each fighter, every one of which he had, incredibly, memorized.  Landon
joined him in his speculations, but only with an air of polite interest.

It was not the first day of summer for no reason,
Marik bitterly reflected.  Dressed in full mail with his corded sword slung
across his back, the midday sun bore down on him with an anvil’s weight.  He
would pay a month’s wages for a sliver of shade.  The line held him prisoner
along with Hilliard, who took no note of the heat as far as Marik could tell. 
Three marks of brutal sun finally dampened Kerwin’s enthusiastic rewriting of
the odds.

When they were thirty-seven contenders from the patio,
Marik recognized Sloan’s narrow profile ascending the steps.  That must
mean…yes.  Eberhard led the way, a quick glimpse of whom Marik barely snatched
before they passed behind the living wall.  From the fast glance he had,
though, he understood quite a lot.  They walked together, yet the pompous noble
had put as much space between himself and Sloan as he could.  At a guess their
journey had failed to foster a bond of love and friendship between them.  Edwin
brought up the rear, his bow strung, encircling his body.  The string cut
across his back, the bow curving diagonally around his front.  It was a
ceremonial way to carry the weapon in the presence of the king, same as the
binding cords around all the swords present.