Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (18 page)

He found no real improvement once he delved into the
clusters of outlying buildings.  These were the slums, buildings so poor that
their owners found them to be burdens rather than sources of prosperity.  The
streets belonged mostly to the dark guilds rather than the cityguard.  Knives
hanging from belts found far greater use than anywhere else in the city.

Marik carried his sword openly.  He bore the
uncontested look of a fighting man by his stride and appearance.  His sword
should be the final factor that would make would-be cutpurses or robbers turn
aside to find easier prey.

Shadows were lengthening along the ground,
transforming the lopsided streets into a looming forest where dark things
lurked on the edge of eyesight.  Despite the ambiance, Marik felt no serious
concern.  He had trod these paths before, knew them enough to know what to
expect and how to dissuade the locals.

His mind returned to the day’s events. 
Unsurprisingly, the army recruits were undependable.  In the first place, their
training facilities were lacking by Kingshome’s standards, offering little by
way of variation.  Their drills were mostly repetitious, hammering in certain
patterns of movement until they were ‘mastered’.  Far from teaching them how to
fight until their swords became extensions of their own arms, all it did was
teach them how to move their blades through the air.

Mostly their problem was attitude.  The majority of
those men would have avoided army careers.  They had been swept up in the push
to recruit as many new men as possible during the tournament last summer. 
Promises made by desperate recruiters seduced the loafers with increased ease,
especially following a particularly hard winter where food had run in short
supply.

So how do you get around the problem?  The Thrae
Valley model at least had men who could be counted on to fight, whatever the
plan.  How can you hold off an enemy when your troops are likely to scatter
like whipped dogs?

The black soldier prisoners, whom he had been
depending on to provide answers, had been utterly useless.  He wanted to chew
through the wires and start beating them into the dirt until they started
cooperating.  What use in playing pointless games?  Why bother pretending that
none of them could speak Traders?  Soon enough their inquisitors would sort the
lot out, discover who was shamming and who not.  Stubborn pride only meant it
would go harder on them while gaining them nothing.

And in the meantime, he needed answers, damn it!

What to do?  Today was supposed to have been spent in
figuring out what forces the western defense would have to work with.  At the
moment, it looked as if they would only have the few struggling army regiments
already scattered from hells to breakfast.  If they could be organized into a
single force, they might be enough for a single battle.  Perhaps.

Provided the invaders were kind enough not to match
the strategy.

What to do…

The street narrowed.  An old chimney leaned
dangerously close to collapsing into the road.  Rather than tear it down and
rebuild it, the residents had propped several timbers against it, the wooden
supports anchored between the filthy paving stones.  Lost in thought, Marik
swerved around it without much notice.

This brought him within feet of a yawning black
alleyway.  Before he registered the presence of another, hands shot from the
darkness to grab fistfuls of his tunic.

Marik let out a yell when he was pulled into the
gloom.  The hands swung him around in an arc.  His feet stumbled.  He felt his
sword slide from his grip when the tip struck an unexpected obstacle in the
dark.

With a slam hard enough to knock the breath from his
body, he struck a wall with his back.  Dirt and wood rot rained down into his
hair from the vibration.  Marik struggled to master his body, which seemed to
be in revolt.  His hand clawed feebly at the air.  Both his legs wobbled near
to collapsing.

While he struggled to regain his wind, the unseen hand
snatched his tunic under his throat.  The assailant was strong.  He smashed
Marik backward against the wall harder than the first time.

Marik’s hands flew to grasp his attacker’s wrist.  He
twisted, feeling the thick sleeve of a coat.  His scrabbling pushed it up the
arm.  Underneath was the unmistakable texture of silk, and the tight collar of
a glove.

The hand used his body to strike the wall twice more. 
Marik started to go limp against all his efforts to the contrary.

Light abruptly shone on Marik’s face.  The hand still
gripped his tunic tight enough that it constricted into a noose around his
throat.  His attacker’s form was revealed when the shadows retreated.

The light, not white but red, came from neither
lantern nor torch.  It glowed from the figure’s other hand.  A nimbus of fiery
energy formed around a blood-colored glove, shedding light only as a byproduct.

Marik stared helplessly into the face of the man
preparing to kill him with a mage-attack so powerful that the wall behind him
would surely be destroyed.  Only inches away, he stared into a pair of crystal
eyes that shone ruby-red.

Thomas arrived to find the storage hole vacant of its
longtime resident.  Quick searching led him to Ceryl, who kept a watch on
Colbey from a distance.  He had wandered to the spring that provided them with
water.  A far cry from the forest pool the villagers had spent their entire lives
living above, but it granted them enough water to live by.

Colbey’s skin had gone pallid from the subterranean
dark.  He looked closer to dead than alive.  His bloodshot eyes, focused
intently, only added to the illusion.  Thomas moved silently behind the younger
man to see what had arrested his attention.

A line of red ants were dismembering an oversized
frog.  Large as the senior Guardian’s thumbnail, the vicious insects tore
sizable chunks from their victim while it slowly died.  Their venom guaranteed
the frog would remain immobilized as it was ripped to shreds.

Thomas followed their retreating line with his eyes,
marking where they went.  Having such creatures this close to their struggling
camp would be problematic.  It mattered not that they were miniscule.  Their
size was no hindrance to them.  The little beasts were brutally efficient, able
to skeletonize a young deer faster than those who had never watched such a
spectacle were able to believe.  A small trifle such as still being alive made
no difference to them, and they would as easily attack men as animals.

His approach went unnoticed by Colbey.  Such a
failure, despite the senior Guardian’s experience and skill at stealth, only
reveled again how badly Colbey’s mind had been injured.  When Colbey slowly
reached a hand toward the ants, Thomas felt no surprise at it.

“We’ll have to track them back to their hill.  Can’t
have them so close to the villagers.  It’s a good thing you found them before
they bit anyone.”  Colbey’s hand froze inches from the swarming red bodies. 
Thomas added, “I think it would be best if you pulled back.  Any closer and
they’ll be on you next.”

“Would that be so bad?”  Colbey’s voice emerged low,
soft.

“I can think of more pleasant ways to go.  I can also
think of more profitable ways to spend my time rather than teaching a trainee
for years, then having him throw it away.”

Colbey’s hand hovered a moment longer before
descending to his lap.  Thomas waited to see if he would speak further.  Those
five words were the first the man had uttered since the night he had returned,
confessing to his sins and baring his soul completely.  He had ruthlessly held
a torch to his inner darkness, letting not so much as a stray thought escape
the judging eye of his fellow Guardians.

Thomas thrilled to see Colbey’s jaw muscles working,
though he kept any trace of it from his expression.  “Why do you bother with
me?”

“I should think that was obvious.  A Guardian always
looks after a brother Guardian in need.”

Colbey coughed out a wad of phlegm.  He maintained his
fixed gaze on the miniature carnivores.  His throat had grown rusty from
disuse.  “The souls of those passed on could never accept me.  How could those
I knew ever accept what I have become?  I am no longer a Guardian.  I am
outcast.”

“That is our decision, not yours.  We have yet to
decide whether you are a lost cause…or merely lost.”  Colbey’s eyes shut
against the pained memories.  “Few Guardians have ever been declared a traitor
since the village’s first days.  In each case, the village council heard
evidence until it was proven without a shadow of doubt that the Guardian in
question had abused his position.”

“It should be…should be obvious enough.  I should have
received what I deserve long since.”

“Exactly what you deserve is as unclear as your guilt,
at the moment.”  Thomas held back his true view.  That what Colbey deserved was
a second chance.  Saying so to him would force a denial, and then whatever else
happened, he would stand fast to the belief.

Yet Thomas sensed Colbey might be emerging back into
the living world from deep within himself.  His self-view was in a fragile
state.  Care would be needed to coax him along, to nurture him to a stable
foundation.  At the same time, Colbey would respond to nothing that he
perceived as kindness, gentleness or sympathy.  Rather, it would only prod at
him in needle jabs, making him curl back into a shell in the storage hole.

“We’re still debating your fate,” Thomas declared in
the tone he usually only used with trainees.  It was sharper without actually
being edged.  “But until we reach our decision, it’s time you started earning
your keep.”

Colbey made no reaction until one ant severed the
frog’s leg by ripping through the tendons.  Chunks of amphibian meat moved away
under the hanging leaves.  He finally turned his head to look at Thomas.

“That’s right,” Thomas affirmed.  “Life isn’t as easy
here as it was in the village.  Every hand is needed to gather food, provide
shelter, the basic staples.  You’ve been eating what others brought you.  It’s
time to pay them back.”  He could have said it was time for Colbey to start
fending for himself, except Colbey had no interest in continuing to live.

The senior Guardian continued.  “Food will be helpful,
but it’s not as pressing as when we first moved in.  Many of the fruit plants
we transplanted survived.  We have available resources close at hand.  There
are plenty of other tasks in need of seeing to, however.  Several of them only
trained Guardians can handle.  Get your sword and come with me.”

Colbey made no move to rise.

Thomas cuffed him on the ear.  “You know better than
to make me repeat my words!  Until we decide what to do with you, you had
better pull your share of the weight.  By no means are you off the hooks you’ve
been wriggling on.”

He saw Colbey’s eyes narrow slightly for only a brief
instance.  Without a word he rose.  His movements were closer to the ordinary
villager’s, lacking the lithe grace the Guardians displayed.  When Colbey
returned, he looked like a boy sent to fetch a master’s blade rather than a
person well-schooled in its uses.

They exchanged no words when Thomas led the way deeper
into the forest.  Colbey had been here many times during his training.  Thomas
studied his pupil indirectly as they walked.  He judged Colbey still retained
partial awareness of the surrounding world by the way he avoided certain plants
unconsciously.  It was a positive sign.

After half a mark, they arrived at two large trees. 
Large by ordinary standards.  The Euvea never grew as impressively inside the
sealed areas as in the outside forest.

Colbey gazed at Thomas, interest mildly peaked.  “Why
here?”

“I will show you once we pass through.  From now on, I
want you to work inside.  We have several problems that might affect the
villagers if left unchecked.”

“This is a conjoined seal.  I cannot manipulate it.”

“I know.  The high-level seals are always the last of
the Guardian lessons.  Farr taught the final steps personally, and he died
about a month before you were to take them.”

Thomas moved to the trees, resting one hand against a
trunk before irritably ordering Colbey to move.  The younger man grudgingly
followed.  When he heard Thomas beginning to explain the workings of the
high-level seal, he looked momentarily surprised.

“Why are you teaching me the final lessons?”

“Because there is enough to be done without having to
shepherd you in and out every day.  You’ll come and go on your own, and do your
best because villagers’ lives are depending on it.  Whether you succeed or fail
will have little bearing on our decision regarding you.  But I trust that the
Guardian’s oath to protect the villagers at all cost is still important to
you.”

A flash of pain passed over Colbey’s face.  Thomas had
expected it might.  Another positive sign.

“Concentrate on this.  It is the same as the regular
seals, yet altogether different at the same time.  The breach changes since
this passes from one sealed area into a second, rather than from the seal into
the Euvea groves.  Concentration is the key, as always, but…”

Thomas continued talking for several moments. 
Colbey’s eyes closed as he absorbed the words.  The younger Guardian’s hands
were pressed flat to the bark of the left tree.  Nothing happened during the
first several attempts.

Finally, the tree responded to Colbey.  The space
between the trunks filled with a shimmer that rippled in liquid waves.  They
stepped through, and the mercurial energy swallowed them as if they had never
been.

*        *        *        *        *

Everything, including the glowing power around the
red-eyed man’s hand, was fading.  The multiple blows Marik’s head had taken
against the wall made his vision wane.  He fumbled weakly to prevent a lethal
attack he had no hope of blocking.

Before he felt the energy destroy him, he heard a
voice.  His fogged mind briefly painted an image of being cast through the
Abysmal Gates for an afterlife of eternal torment, landing at a demon’s feet,
hearing it welcome him to the first level of hell.  The man’s voice contained
no demonic tones…just a voice stern enough it epitomized cold emotion.  A sword
might have such a voice if swords could speak.

“Reveal to me where might be found your master,
servant.  Tell me what plans and hideaways the man who once was Xenos has
established in this realm.”

Marik gasped, his throat seizing from the choking
death-grip the red-eyed man kept on his tunic.  “Coo...w-who…”

The red stranger knocked him backward again.  He
brought the nimbus surrounding his glove closer to Marik’s face.  “Tarry not in
your answers to
me
, servant!  Your attempts on the behalf of your master
are known well to me.  This chance to speak is brief.  Reveal to me willingly,
less you force my hand.”

“Y-youu,” husked Marik.  His wits were slowly
collecting.  Why had he not recognized those eyes at once?  What did—

“So be it the outcome, then.”

The glowing glove reached forward.  Marik managed a
single drumming of his heels against the wall before the hand grabbed his face
across the eyes, thumb to one temple, the remaining fingers gripping the
other.  He felt the power in the stranger’s grip as if he held a palmful of
sun.

At times before during his mage apprenticeship, he had
felt experienced mages reach into his body with their talent in order to assume
control over his, always to demonstrate a working they wanted him to learn.  This,
though similar, effected him far differently.  Rather than reaching into his
mage talent, the red stranger delved into his very mind.  Marik felt it, as if
his head had been physically cracked open, his mind revealed as a clerk’s index
to be rifled through at need.  Images flashed through his mind when the other’s
fingers brushed against them, yet during the mental rape he never lost sense of
his body held in that powerful grip.  Scenes blurred, most rushing past too
quickly to identify.

He thought he might be screaming in the dark alley. 
Marik could feel his body pressed mercilessly against the wall, feel the
burning hand against his face.  All other sensory perception was lost.  It went
on without end for eternity until the stranger released his grip, only seconds
after assaulting his mind.

Marik fell to his knees.  Palms slid across the filthy
paving stones.  He heaved massive breaths.  His fingers shook violently on the
ground.  The coldness he felt from the evening air could only mean sweat coated
his entire body.  Saliva and tears leaked down his face.

“How can it be so that you are not his?”  The red
stranger’s voice had changed significantly, adopting a quizzical nature.  “I
find no marks to brand you, no chains to bind you, no connections to link you.”

Wind slowly returned to Marik’s lungs.  His body
remained on the shaky side.  He could only trust it enough to shift to a normal
sitting position.  Standing would require a few minutes longer.  Looking upward
at this…
oddity
, he snatched at one of the hundred questions spinning in
a furious tornado through his brain, deciding it would do since grabbing any of
the others required too much mental effort.

“What in the bloody hells are you talking about?”

The stranger fingered his chin with one hand while the
other cupped his elbow.  “For long and long, I have felt you prying at me.  If
you do not seek me out to aid my enemy, as I now question, then revel why you
have for so long persisted in your endeavors.  Only within the past day have I
felt your essence renewing its fluttering about my super-conscious.”

“Prying.  Prying?  You’re damned right I wanted to
find you!  I wanted—” Marik began while he rose, then stopped talking abruptly
when he fell hard to the alleyway ground a second time.  He had opened his
magesight while rising, a habit grown instinctual around magic users after his
various experiences.  The shock of what he beheld unhinged him.  “Holy gods! 
Wh-what
are
you?”

He had expected to see the man standing there, one arm
still resting atop the other, awash in the glow of his aura.  Given the
dominance of red throughout the man’s entire facade, he half-expected to find a
brilliant crimson nimbus surrounding him despite the man’s level temper.