Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (5 page)

“We need to pop off and put away our gear first,”
Dietrik said.

The two left the common area and the others joined
them since Landon wanted his cloak.  In the bunk area, business was tended to,
then all five paused with no words exchanged.  They stood at the foot of
Hayden’s bunk, each reliving his memories of a man they had called friend.  As
professional mercenaries, it was a rare year when everyone they knew survived. 
Each man tried to maintain a level of detachment, but some losses hit harder
than others.  Battle-scarred veterans honored their friends by keeping their
memories from fading away.

They left without mentioning Hayden or their moment of
silence.  Outside, they spent the short journey to Ale House Row talking of
day-to-day matters.

At the Dancing Drink they were forced to wait in the
entryway for nearly a quarter-mark before a table opened up, which was much
quicker than was customary for this time of day.  Another testament to the
state of the population in Kingshome.  The table they landed sat beside the
door.  Cold drafts rushed in every time men left or entered.  Kerwin’s quiet
words convinced Kerny, a sharp-tempered man with a pot belly and roughly nine
hairs plastered to his sweaty scalp, to step into his kitchens for a private
discussion.  While they waited, the other four ordered food and a round of ale
from the serving boy.

Edwin sipped his ale, then asked Landon, “How about a
match on the range?  Gusty winds’ll keep it interesting.”

Landon tipped his tankard.  “All right.  I haven’t
pulled my string in over an eightday.  Either of you care to join us?”

Dietrik answered, “I might come along and watch.”

“I don’t stand a chance against either of you in
archery,” came from Marik.

“That’s because you never practice,” declared Edwin. 
“It doesn’t matter if you lose.  You just need to spend time with it.”

“Maybe I’ll take a few shots.”

Kerwin reappeared to claim the remaining seat and
tankard.  Dietrik indirectly asked, “That didn’t take long.  Either you made an
offer he couldn’t refuse, or he refused you outright.”

“The second,” grumbled Kerwin.  “He says he
was
thinking about selling last year, but with all the trouble brewing on both
borders, he feels safe in the middle of Kingshome.  I made the hells own offer,
too.  Twenty golds.”

Marik choked on his ale.  “Gods, Kerwin!  That much
for this tiny building?  I wouldn’t expect three for this place, at the top
offer!”

Kerwin nodded.  “The place is smaller than I had in
mind, but it’s on the end of the Row.  I was thinking I might renovate and
expand.  Being inside town, all the Kings would bring me their summer pay.”  He
sighed.  “The investment would have paid off after a year or two.”

“You could build your own place from scratch with that
much bloody coin,” Edwin observed.

“I’ve been thinking about that too.  If I do, I want
to build it near here.  The Southern Road runs right past Kingshome.  I’d have
all the travelers as well as the Kings.  Cedars is only three miles down the
road though, so we’d be eating each other’s profits.”

Marik snorted.  “Profits?  Are you actually going to
run an inn?  I figured you for setting up a massive gambling paradise.”

Kerwin smiled.  “That’s my plan, but people bet more
after drinking all night.  And if they have a room waiting for them upstairs,
they won’t need to leave, so they can keep drinking.”

“Sounds like you need plenty of space, then,” Dietrik
said.

“Yeah.  I’ve been scouting around, looking for an
architect I can ask a lot of questions.  Good luck finding anyone like that
around Cedars.  They’re good at barns and long houses and cottages. 
Originality is an obstacle to them.”

“Perhaps you should head for Spirratta,” Landon
thought.  “You could find one in the city.”

“That’s my backup plan.  I haven’t decided to build my
own place yet, so why make the trip west if I decide not to?  Plus, there’s all
the expenses of a long trip, and whatever fees the architect will charge me. 
I’d rather find a place and just buy it.”

The food arrived, consisting of plain roasted chicken
and bread.  It was adequate fare, but only friendship would make a person
abandon the beef cubes tenderly cooked in red wine gravy in favor of it.

Around a mouthful of food, Marik mumbled, “Are you
going to stay for the entrance trials?”

Kerwin swallowed and nodded.  “I’m here, so I may as
well.  Cedars won’t be of much use to me.  I need to figure out where to try
next.”

Edwin shot out, “And you’d never miss a betting
opportunity, no matter what you say!”  Kerwin shrugged in lieu of offering a
denial.

“The trials are only two or three days away in any
event,” Dietrik allowed.  “Where are you staying?”

“Right here.  Kerny was willing to rent me a room,
even if he wasn’t willing to give it to me for keeps.”

“What percentage of the applicants do you think the
officers will turn away this year?” Landon mused.  “As many as they usually
do?”

Kerwin grinned broadly.  “Well, if it’s odds you’re
asking for, let’s figure them out, shall we?”

The crowd on festival night always swelled thicker
than any other time of year, with so many people pressed together that Colbey
met with difficulty when he tried to weave between them all.  He kept swinging
his head from left to right, looking for two in particular.  An entire army of
outlanders could hide in this mob though.  Finding a specific pair might be
impossible.  Bodies swayed, people spoke, moved, gestured and raised their
voices to be heard over the others raising theirs.

On the crowd’s edge, pungent aromas of roasting
venison and rarer delicacies filled his nostrils.  Eight men worked enormous
spits that suspended the carcasses over low flames.  At the cook area’s other
end, several women toiled over massive kettles, yet never ceased smiling and
chatting with those nearby.

A stream of children ran past.  The lead child
barreled headlong into Colbey’s legs.  She recovered before she could spin out
of control, then ran all the harder to catch up with the others.  The
Children’s Brigade charged the tables, assaulting the server with demands for
the sugared festival juices in large quantities.  It made Colbey smile.  He
remembered well how he had lived for little else besides the super-sweet drink
during the Summerdawn festivals of his childhood.  At least until the lighting
of the lanterns.

He plunged deeper into the mass of humanity, wading
through, searching…searching…  Surrounded by hundreds, he briefly envisioned
having stumbled upon a weirdling beast of the deep forest; a creature of a
thousand arms and twice as many eyes.  Legs and hair and fingers sprouted from
its body following no discernable pattern.  A hideous monstrosity resembling
countless people fused into a single pulsating blob of unholy flesh.

Resembling a crowd at a festival.

Colbey broke through into a less populated area, one
filled with private tables set within the deeper nighttime shadows.  Vines had
been coaxed along trellises to enclose the two dozen tables in a green cave.  A
single candle burned atop each, providing a miniscule halo while concealing the
occupants.  He scanned the relaxation grotto until he recognized Liam’s
elaborate pants, his legs propped against an empty chair.  Closer inspection
revealed Sylvia’s profile in silhouette sitting beside him.

A chair opposite them sat empty.  He claimed it for
his own so he could gaze across the festival night tableau.  People filled the
walkways, lights dangled from the suspension bridges, the lantern strings were
hung in every corner of the village.  Smells and joy and goodwill filled the
air.

“Here you are!  I’ve been looking for the two of you
since I got off patrol.”

He expected a flippant remark from Liam, or a chide
from Sylvia.  They did not reply.  Neither so much as moved in the darkness.

“Leave it to me to pull duty the day of the festival. 
I’m positive Farr has it in for me.  You both are lucky you weren’t stuck
wandering the groves today, looking for outland idiots.”

Sylvia spoke.  Her voice sounded odd.  Forced.  “You
don’t think the outlanders are a serious threat?”  Probably she was eating the
jerked venison she loved so dearly and talking with her mouth full.

“Those fools?  When have they ever posed a serious
threat?  They’re only a danger to themselves.”

“Except for some.”

Her words struck a strange chord within him for no
reason he could put to name.  Colbey felt sure he
should
know.  A memory
eluded his grasp, silvery quick as a river fish.  “Such as whom?” he asked,
troubled by his inability to remember something his instincts insisted was
important.  “Who has presented us a challenge in the last hundred years?  Or
the last thousand?  All we deal with are trappers and hunters!  I’ve yet to see
one who has been gifted with a brain.”

Liam spoke from his side of the table.  “Then why are
you trying to become a Guardian?  Why not stay in the scouts with us?  You end
up doing the same duties as it is.”

The question surprised him.  Liam had declined to
advance beyond the scouts, stating he was content in the position, but Colbey
had always thought his friend secretly believed he lacked the talent to train
as a Guardian.  He might be jealous despite having always urged Colbey to go as
far as his skills could bring him.  “Why?  Why not?  I want to learn all the
Guardian techniques, and work in the sealed areas.”

“The outlanders aren’t enough of a challenge, then?” 
Again Colbey sensed a deeper meaning he should understand.

“Of course not!  I want to test my skill beyond the
seals!  I want to be better than any Guardian ever has been before me!”

Sylvia’s odd voice continued.  “So that is all that
Guardianship means to you?  Are you lusting after power, like an ambitious
outland mage?”

The accusation, and from his friend no less, stunned
him.  His temper rose.  He verged on an angry retort when movement in the
shadows stopped him.  In fact, paralysis froze his every muscle.

Liam demanded, “What of the village, Colbey?  Are you
not sworn to protect it with your life’s blood?”

Colbey fought the fear ruling him to squeak out, “Of
course!  I am a Guardian!  Or soon will be.”

Liam leaned over the table.  His torso entered the
illumination provided by the single candle.  Colbey’s eyes, already wide,
threatened to drop from his skull.

In the flicking light, Liam’s one eye stared
accusingly.  Where the other should have been was a gaping maw, a scarlet,
yawning hole where black rot ate at the festering meat.  Congealed blood and
shreds of flesh dripped from the wound, slowly rolling down his cheek in gory
tears.  Within that raw pit’s depths, movement could be glimpsed.

Liam’s voice, cold as a winter blizzard, demanded,
“Then where were you, Colbey?  Why weren’t you in the village,
Guardian
,
defending your people?  Doing your sacred
Guardian
duty?”  The pulsating
wound abruptly belched forth a tide of writhing maggots that dripped off his
lips.

The splintered railing
, Colbey remembered in a flash. 
I pulled it from
his head when I found his body…

He could make no answer.  His throat seized, denying
him breath as well as words.

Sylvia leaned forward at his silence.  Her own ghastly
wounds became visible.  Her entire upper torso had been staved in.  Rib
fragments pierced through the skin.  Gleaming blood pumped from her neck with
every heartbeat, over her lacerated chest, which resembled ground meat.  The
forced voice fought its way through her ruined vocal cords.  “You
let
them kill us!  You ran to the outlands and abandoned us!”

Colbey wanted to shake his head in negation.  He
fought his immobile body without success.

“You left us to die!  You left Thomas behind!  You’re
letting
them
go!  You’re letting
them
do as they please, while we
rot and decay in the Palaces of the Dead!”

The words were a chain wrapped around his heart,
tightening until it should have burst.

“You promised us vengeance, Colbey,” accused Liam
while a fresh wave of bloody maggots squirmed down his face and into his
mouth.  The stained white forms were spit across the table with each of his
words.  “You promised us!  On the souls of the fallen and your vows as a
Guardian.  You have failed everyone who trusted you.”

I have failed…

Colbey finally broke the paralysis by lunging to his
feet.  His chair toppled backward.  The harsh truth threatened to crush him
forever.  He needed to escape, to run, but after the first two steps he finally
noticed the festival.  No music played.  Everyone had ceased moving.  All
watched him with dead, horribly butchered faces.

They pressed forward, surrounding him, reaching out
with their decaying corpse hands.  Colbey’s ears rang with their denouncements,
chanted endlessly, each one clearly heard and understood despite several
hundred voices moaning in unison.  Surrounded by the dead.  He felt their hands
grasping him.

Their mossy fingers pulled at his cheeks.  They forced
open his jaw and locked on his tongue.  He felt them working their way deeper
into his mouth, his throat, as others pawed at his ears, his nose, choking his
neck.  Grave dust scattered in his eyes, burning hotly, and their decomposing
fingers pulled his eyelids away from the orbs they protected.  A putrid smell
filled his nostrils, charnel and acidic.  Harsh coughs seized his neck when
rotted fingernails broke free from green digits to lodge in his windpipe.

And all the while, their husky whispers of accusation
rang endlessly in his ears.

His gorge rose too fast to control.  Vomit ejected
violently from his mouth, spewing from his nose.  He tumbled in an eternal
fall, plowed under by the pressing mass while he choked on his own bile.

Colbey’s arms flailed during a terrifying moment of
vertigo where time stood still.  His instincts took over at that point.  While
his mind gibbered and quailed, his hands lashed out, securing a firmer grip on
the tree branch before he could slip off completely.  He strove to force down
the nausea but the dream had been far too vivid.  Before he could finish
pulling himself from deep sleep, Colbey began regurgitating in truth.

His disorientation slowed him.  Vomit stained his
tunic and breeches before he could turn his head to one side.  He heaved
everything his stomach had to offer until it spasmed dryly, long after it had
emptied.  When he felt he might finally be in control, he shakily descended to
the ground.

The voices of his friends and fellow villagers still
echoed in his mind, as clear as they had been in the dream.  If it
had
been a dream. 
Had
it been a dream?  Surely their spirits were restless
with their deaths unavenged.  Perhaps they had come to him while he walked the
halfworld.

Colbey shook in the chill darkness, feeling as small
and helpless as a child.  He could refute none of the accusations from the
dead; not to them nor to himself.  But he had been trying, hadn’t he? 
Hadn’t
he?

But it is not enough.  Those who did this evil deed
still walk.  They still draw breath.  They have yet to pay for their crimes.

His shaking continued.  For the first time in the
years since he had left behind his few remaining people, Colbey wished
desperately that Thomas were with him.  He needed to talk.  He needed to be
with a compassionate soul who
understood
what it was to be a surviving
Guardian
.
  A Guardian who still lived after the lives under his care had
been cruelly stolen.  Colbey was lost, adrift in an endless night with no stars
to steer him home.

He pounded his fist against the oak tree’s rough
bark.  The pain was pure and clean, unlike his soul.  Again and again he struck
until he felt the wetness of blood.

His shakes subsided after the pain gradually focused
his mind.  Quick self-examination led to emptying his water skin over his
clothing, cleaning off the worst of the mess.  The next time he came to a
stream he would do a thorough job.

After collecting his pack from where his writhing had
knocked it to the ground, he set off through the darkness.  There would be no
more sleep for him.  He wondered if he would ever feel safe laying down to rest
again.

Colbey pushed his body hard, forcing away the dream
and the dead voices.  He called upon two Guardian techniques useful for
nighttime travels.  One enhanced his night vision, enabling him to see slightly
further than normal by forcing his irises open to their maximum.  The other
boosted his stamina, allowing him to run continuously for candlemarks, a wild
deer taking flight through the forest.  Using both at the same time required
every ounce of concentration he could summon, driving out all extraneous
thoughts.

Which was his intention.

Dawn broke while he continued running the empty road. 
He stopped only once for water, then pressed on after refilling his water
skins.  The dampness of his cleaned clothing was of no consequence.

Later in the morning, travelers slowed his progress. 
Men glared at him and animals sidestepped, tossing their heads when he charged
past.  Shouted imprecations went unnoticed.  His entire mind was bent on the
next step, on the next moment, on the next swing of his arms.

At noon he gained his destination, the place he had
originally planned to reach around nightfall.  He dug the small iron tag with a
red crown embossed on it from his pack.  The Homeguard beside the postern door
nodded when they saw it and allowed him access to Kingshome.

Colbey wasted no time once inside the walls.  He
stalked straight across the Marching Grounds to the command building.  For the
first time in several marks, his mind was free to work.  Rather than dwell on
the dream, he prepared for the argument he meant to put forth.  In his
possession were all the elements his case would need, gleaned from countless
sources over the last month.

For all his effort, he had learned very little he
hadn’t known before.  Tracking down and questioning every Tullainian refugee he
could find revealed no new facts to add to his meager store.  Several had seen
the horrors most Galemarans took for exaggerated tall-tales, and his own
acceptance of their existence gave many an outlet to pour their savaged lives
through.