Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (93 page)

The beasts veered east when the village came to their
attention.  Figures could be seen moving among the buildings before alarm
obviously took root.  Marik could see the distant people running to the town’s
center for lack of any other idea in the face of a dark dream come to life. 
When the beasts stormed into their midst, the cries and destruction drifted
faintly to their ears across the distance.

They stopped a mile further south.  Men, except for
Colbey, fell to their knees or collapsed completely, their limbs shaking from
the long, sustained exertion.  Marik watched his knees shiver and felt the
involuntary twitches through his leg muscles.  The stamina technique only
mildly abated the shakes.  If he had maintained the technique throughout the
entire run, he might still be as fresh as at the start.  He needed to find a
way he could keep it in place while working his mage talent.

Sergeant Kineta was no better off than the men.  She
continued urging everyone to press on despite that.  Her wishes alone were
inadequate to restore lost stamina, so she sat as well, never ceasing her calls
for them to find new strength.  They might be able to curve back north with
this opportunity so the men better push onward.

After twenty minutes, most felt they might be able to
stand.  They shakily regained their feet.  Kineta hastened the slow to rise
when Sloan called out.  He pointed northwest to where armored figures were
coming into view.

She wearily decided, “Let’s go back north.  We can
slip past the beasts while they’re in the village.”  No sooner had she said
that than the monsters reappeared.  Attacking the village had taken them
scarcely any time at all.

The Kings resumed their run south.  Cramps and aches
quickly set in.  Perhaps halting had been a bad idea, Marik reflected. 
Stopping the monotonous, regular motions only made their bodies start feeling
the effects.

Marik kept both enemy groups back with etheric orbs at
irregular intervals.  The Rovasii tree line formed on the horizon, its
definition clarifying with every step closer.  By late afternoon, they were
within half a mile of the forest.

Kineta noticed that the beasts and black soldiers
alike had paused.  What little the Kings could see of their movements at this
distance suggested they were hesitant about the forest.  The trees had been
their last hope since Sorrensfield.  Seeing their pursuers waver at following
them into the Rovasii raised their spirits.

Colbey had kept pace with the units all afternoon, the
only man displaying no traces of fatigue.  Marik would have been surprised if
he had.  While they covered the last hundred yards to the forest, he increased
his step, running forward.  That was only proper, Marik believed.  The land
ahead was unfamiliar and could hide any number of hardships, including black
soldiers if any of those mounted detachments had ridden hard.

And that aside, it suddenly occurred to him that this
was the
Rovasii
!  He had lived in Tattersfield, a town only a short
journey from the forest.  In a single instant, every tale of haunts, spooky
occurrences and thinly veiled hostility regarding the Rovasii Forest flashed
through his mind.  The scout was right to run in first, looking for danger.

Were they leaping from the cooking pan into a blazing
fire?  Regardless, Marik launched one last orb before following Colbey, who led
the mercenaries into the trees.

Men were strewn about the clearing.  Each mercenary
had simply fallen were he happened to be when they’d finally found this refuge
a mile into the forest.  Soft grasses, protected from falling snow by a thick
branch canopy, were all that had cushioned their bodies for the night’s
slumber.  Hardly anyone had possessed enough energy to untie packs and retrieve
blankets.

Once they had stopped, they could not have risen to
save their lives.  Their muscles cooled until they were all stiff as old
boards, cramps hitting everyone with painful twists.  Marik’s legs had
tightened, his muscles turning as adverse as gate hinges that persist in rusty
immobility due to years of neglect.

A night in the cold air without a blanket’s enclosing
warmth finished their flesh’s hardening.  Marik’s body needed more than a
night’s unsheltered sleep to recover, although the rest restored enough stamina
that he could struggle to his feet.  Cracks and loud pops were quickly drowned
beneath his groan when he forced his back to straighten.  His limbs did not
wish to be on speaking terms with the rest of him, especially when he insisted
they bend at the joints.  They believed he had no call to ask for any favors
after what he had put them through the day before.  Several moments of terse
negotiation were required before they grudgingly agreed to service their host.

He ached uniformly, worse than he could ever remember
unless he included time spent in the chirurgeon’s wing.  A slow study revealed
that few others had yet stirred.  Sloan sat propped against a dead tree,
watching the clearing’s northern edge and listening for sounds that might
reveal strangers crawling through the forest.  Kineta still snored lightly,
flat on her back with a swaying longgrass stalk tickling her nose.  Colbey was
nowhere in sight.

Water flowed sluggishly through the western clearing. 
It pooled under a miniature forest of dormant cattails waiting for the warmer spring
days to loosen their seeds.  Small ponds only seven or eight inches deep dotted
the murky edge.  Marik knelt with a strained groan by the nearest.

The water sparkled in the soft sunlight filtering
through the heavily interlaced branches.  Its slow flow kept it clear as glass,
unclouded by mud or silt.  Still, swamp water needed to be consumed with
caution.  He dipped his finger, then licked the drops from the tip.  Sharp,
cold and clean, the tinges that characterized foul water were absent.  This hardly
guaranteed it was safe, but he cared little at the moment.  It passed the
finger test.

Marik had drained his water skin during the endless
run.  Snow packed into the skin overnight would have been safest, had there
been any available.  Whatever light coating usually penetrated the thick trees
melted soon after.  The ground he’d slept on had been far from bone dry.

He drank deeply, bent over the water, his knees
sinking into the soft, saturated mud.  The cold liquid cut his mouth as he
partook, his throat freezing, the water chilling his stomach like swallowed
ice.  It felt wonderful, and went a fair step toward reviving him.

A second body knelt beside him before he finished. 
Dietrik fell to his knees rather than a controlled descent.  He looked worse
than Marik felt.  His hair resembled a cattail in bloom, puffed out in spikes
and fuzz, and his eyes sagged.

Dietrik leaned to the water.  His hands slipped
through the mud until they were submerged, water pooling up around his knees. 
He plunged his face into the shallows to drink and wash away his weariness. 
After a minute, Marik grew concerned and tugged at Dietrik’s shoulder, worried
he had either fallen asleep underwater or lacked the strength to extricate
himself.

Marik sighed in relief when his friend pulled back. 
Dietrik tossed his head, flipping his drenched hair back out of his sight. 
Yesterday’s strain still clung to him.  He slowly overcame the weariness an
inch at a time while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“I see we were not all slain where we lay, as Kineta
was predicting last night.”

“No,” Marik agreed.  “Though we might have company any
moment.”

“Why?  What did I miss?”

“Nothing.  I meant those bastards might have stopped
for the night to rest before following us into the woods.  Small forces can
turn the tables around in this kind of cover, if they’re smart.  They must know
that if they have any experience at all.”

“A lesson we learned well, did we not?”  Dietrik took
his own survey of the clearing.  Men slowly stirred, the ones awake struggling
to rise and stretch stiff limbs.  “I don’t see Colbey.  Did Sloan send him out
to watch our friends change their smallclothes?”

“I don’t know.  He was gone when I woke up.  I guess
he’s out scouting.”  He shivered as the cold overcame the dull aches throughout
his body.  “Too bad we can’t risk a fire.”

“No, not unless you can conjure smokeless flames.  Our
bloody breakfast will be as bloody cold as we are.”

“You sound like a man with second thoughts,” Marik
teased.  “You left the army when it disagreed with you.  Wishing you’d left the
Kings yesterday morning after all?”

Dietrik replied without matching his flippant tone. 
“I’ve been pondering that very question.”  At Marik’s concerned expression, he
added, “I think it was too late to leave as soon as we walked into Armonsfield,
mate.  I very much doubt I
could
call it quits at this point if I
decided I wanted to.”  He strove for a lighthearted tone, saying, “I shudder to
think where we will awaken tomorrow.  Yesterday we were crammed in every frozen
cranny at the outpost, today it is in a wet meadow without a tent to our name.”

“I’d rather not consider it from that viewpoint, if
you don’t mind,” Marik replied.  Chiksan came to drink.  Even the willowy
Tullainian, built from tanned leather and whipcord, showed the aftereffects of
running all day.  Others staggered over, four crawling after losing the battle
to stand.

“Not the best portrait we’ve ever painted,” Dietrik
observed while he and Marik retreated to a fallen log they could sit against. 
Marik’s concern returned when he noticed Dietrik was unable to match his own
movements, which were already much slower than normal.  His friend’s steps were
hesitant and graceless.

“What do you suppose our next move will be?”

“I don’t know, mate, but Kineta and Sloan can’t do
anything with us as we are.  No choice but to wait until we regain our wind.”

They groaned at lowering their bodies to sit, Dietrik
louder than he.  Marik decided Dietrik suffered from nothing worse than extreme
fatigue, and that he would be aching as badly too if he had not siphoned off
his excess exhaustion during the run.

“You need to practice the stamina trick until you can
do it.”

“Oh, bloody Twelve, don’t start in on that now.” 
Dietrik tilted his head back until it rested against the soft, mossy bark.

“I used it a little, and I’m better off than you.  And
you must have noticed Colbey while we were all toppling like lumberjack trees.”

“Colbey is a class unto no one.  Try to keep up with
him and you will only kill yourself.”  Dietrik rolled his head on the moss to
look at Marik.  “That’s a truth you should take to heart.”

Marik scoffed.  “It’s not so hard.  The stamina
technique is only focused concentration, and I’ve already caught up with him in
sword skill.”

“Have you?  Are you certain of that?”  Dietrik sounded
less than convinced.

“I’ve been able to hold my own against him lately. 
All that sparring with him, and my practice on the road, paid off.  My fighting
skills are top draw.  If I hadn’t needed to use my mage talent yesterday, I could
have run along as easily as him.”

“You sound like most of the blighters in my old
division, convinced of your own invincibility.”

“I’m nobody’s fool.  I know how dangerous combat is,
but I also know how far I’ve come.  That I can fight Colbey on equal footing is
proof of that!”  Dietrik still appeared skeptical.  Marik wanted to avoid an
argument.  He changed the subject.  “How do you feel?  Do you think you can
move soon?”

“I can move, but not well,” Dietrik admitted
bitterly.  “Give me a mark or two to stretch and work out the kinks, and I
might be able to walk for awhile.  I’ll not be up to a run like that again
anytime soon.”

Marik nodded.  “If everyone is in the same shape, I
think we should move by noon.”

“Better to wait for Colbey to return and inform the
sergeants if any unfriendlies are about.”

“Whether they are or not,” Marik stated, “we need to
move anyway.  This is the Rovasii.  It’s not wise to spend too much time
sitting still in here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know about this forest?”

At Dietrik’s negative, Marik spent the next candlemark
recounting the various tales he had collected at Puarri’s Tavern.  Dietrik’s
skepticism was palpable.  Marik insisted that if
he
had lived near the
forest’s edge all his childhood, then Dietrik would also take the talk
seriously.

The Kings revived during his stories.  Men performed
knee bends or other light exercises designed to loosen their muscles.  Everyone
drank at the pond and refilled water skins.  With no orders forthcoming from
either sergeant, the men sat and withdrew jerked meat from their packs while
they waited for Fate to reveal Her next hand.

Churt and Wyman sat side-by-side near a brown bolder
away from the water.  Wyman had withdrawn his ten-copper coin to engage in his
usual ceaseless flipping.  The young archer also held a coin.  Rather than
flipping it, he practiced rolling it across his knuckles, though usually needed
to retrieve it from the dirt before it completed the four finger journey.

Arvallar sat atop his pack to keep from staining his
trousers.  He had been the only man to fight his blanket free of his pack
before spreading it flat and collapsing onto it.  Without his hat or rapier, he
seemed smaller than usual.  At some point in the run he had discarded the bent
blade.  Only the companion dagger remained.  Dietrik spent greater time with
the narcissist that he did.  Marik still had trouble thinking of this strange
man as a shieldmate.

Floroes forced his body to move so he could check on
the men who remained supine.  The amateur chirurgeon stopped to speak quietly
with each.  Since he raised no alarm, they must be only temporarily disabled.

The rest simply sat and either stared at nothing or
checked their equipment.  Edwin pulled each arrow from his quiver to check the
fletching.  Only half his usual number remained.  Chiksan sat with his spear
leaning on his shoulder.  Cork sat next to him, quiet for once.  Talbot and the
rest in both units looked like men awaiting the hooded figure who would lead
them to their executions.

By the time Marik finished, he finalized his
decision.  Sloan still sat by his tree.  Kineta had returned to life enough
that she started her own circuit among the men.  Marik had no wish to talk with
her.  She might be the senior sergeant, having held the position in the Fifth
Squad before her transfer, but Sloan commanded his unit.

Sloan glanced at him when he approached with Dietrik,
who moved a little easier than earlier.  Dietrik halted several paces back in
order to be disassociated from the conversation he suspected would take place. 
The sergeant rose to see what Marik wanted without a sign that he might be
feeling any worse off than normal.  This made no impression on Marik, who had
long since learned that Sloan possessed a sort of other-self who took over when
facing combat situations, an alternate personality for whom fatigue and
physical strain held no meaning.

He said nothing, waiting for Marik to speak first,
which also ran true to his form.  Marik considered the best way to make his
point without sounding superstitious.  No great strategies beckoned so saying
it straight out would probably work best.

“We should move as soon as we can.  Staying still is a
bad idea.”

“I know that,” Sloan replied, clearly believing Marik
an idiot for thinking that needed to be said.

“What you might not know is this forest.”  He held his
voice steady so Sloan would know he was clearheaded.  “I grew up close by. 
Countless strange things happen in these trees.  Most people think these woods
are haunted, and I’ve heard wilder explanations than that, but it is a fact
that hunters have encountered several damned bizarre things.”

Sloan neither laughed nor agreed.  “If you want to
walk out and fight the demonlings, you are free to go.”

“I wasn’t saying that!  I doubt anything in the forest
is as bad as them.  That doesn’t mean we would want to encounter them!  We’re
only a mile or so inside the forest so we probably aren’t in serious danger,
but as long as we’re moving we should be left alone.  That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”

“Moving or not, if there are phantoms in the trees,
we’ll have to deal with them sooner or later.  We’ll move when we are ready.”

“No, he is correct,” countered a third voice.  Marik
glance over Sloan’s shoulder, finding Colbey perched atop a large stone
emerging from the roots of the sergeant’s tree.  When had he shown up?  Colbey
leapt from the stone with ease, stepping closer.  “The Rovasii is renowned for
its malicious heart.  The longer a man stays within its boundaries, the greater
the forest’s wrath when it at last falls.  Men have been found torn to shreds
or skinned alive.  When I lived in Surrill, I once found a hunting party that
had been burned in a flaming pyre, yet not a single leaf around their bodies
had wilted.”