Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (2 page)

Book 05

Citadel

The view from atop the boulder was magnificent.  It
was located on a climbing slope by the forest’s edge.  From that vantage one
could see across the treetops stretching away in a green, swaying sea.  Very
little snow remained.  Spring thaws were reclaiming Galemar’s native colors. 
Only four miles in length, the small wood could be seen to end nearby with
another starting a short distance beyond.  Soft morning light made the trees
seem much more
alive
than usual, shining through the gloom to glow with
a radiance of unsullied nature…or perhaps it was only that he was thankful to
be alive to see the vista.

On his boulder, the man raised his arms as if
addressing multitudes.  He spread his hands wide and proclaimed to the trees,
“I, Marik Railson, am a great, stupid idiot!”

Dietrik Balledry nodded sharply beside him.  “Keep
going.”

“I am a tremendous lumbering moron!  A
dyed-in-the-wool jackass!”

When he paused, Dietrik poked the back of his thigh
with one hard finger.

“Uh, and a damned, swollen-headed fool who deserves to
be tarred and feathered by his much put-upon friends!”

“And that’s the gods own truth, mate.”  Dietrik
finalized the statement by crossing his arms and nodding his head sharply.

Marik stepped down from his perch to sit on the
boulder facing his friend.  His fingertips strayed to his face, to the skin
wondrously
there
where it had no right to be.  To the flesh returned
from a severe mutilation undone by a miracle of Healing.

“Confession might be a balm for the soul,” Marik told
the man to whom he trusted his life before all others in the world, “but it
doesn’t put everything right.  Apologies are the least of what I owe everyone.”

Dietrik waved that away with one hand.  “Genuine
regret is atonement enough for a shieldmate.  Bugger all the rest.  Just don’t
let your pride run away with your good sense again so you stop seeing the
forest for the trees.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.  Because I don’t fancy chasing off after you to
keep a watch over your back the rest of your life.  At this point, you
shouldn’t need a bloody nursemaid.”  Dietrik grinned a hard smile.  “Though I
admit I am very much looking forward to returning to Kingshome and hearing what
dear Uncle Tollaf has to say on the matter.”

A sour grimace scarred Marik’s features.  “Fraser
chewing my skin off for Glynn to Heal all over was bad enough.  I could almost
wish we get sent back to clear out the invaders rather than going back home.”

“We won’t be heading homeward for a good while yet,”
Dietrik grumbled.  “They need every fighter they can find to deal with these
blighters and their tommy-monsters.”

“What they need is every fighter they can find heading
to eastern Galemar to kick the Noliers back where they belong.”

Dietrik cursed softly.  “The whole world has flown
straight out of its tree.  Why did the kingdom wait until
my
lifetime to
start turning inside and out?”

Marik kept his silence on that score.  He didn’t see
how the king and his knight-marshal could deal with
two
major border
wars on either side of the kingdom simultaneously.  It had taken every man they
could field to drive back the Noliers two years earlier.  From talk floating
around the camp already he knew that most people considered these black-armored
invaders and their monsters to be a significantly lesser threat.  The soldiers
wanted to move to the eastern border as soon as they could gather their
belongings.

Orders were due to arrive any day.  The Ninth Squad
from the Crimson Kings Mercenary Band, along with the survivors from Baron
Atcheron’s guardsmen and the Eighteenth Outpost on the border, had moved inland
fifty miles from the Stoneseams Mountains.  They were camped on the Southern
Road, licking their wounds and waiting for a higher authority to tell them what
they should do next.

The wait harbored an urgency it would ordinarily have
lacked, since they were holding over half their own number in black soldiers as
prisoners of war.  Divested of their weapons and armor, a hundred men could
still cause significant damage if they revolted in an organized manner.  A
constant watch was kept on them.

Marik slid to the cold ground until his back rested
against the mossy rock.  He relished in the feel of its chill through his
clothing.  Surviving death by an infinitesimal margin made him keenly
appreciate the various sensations of being alive.

“He still hasn’t come back yet.”

Dietrik had hunkered down against the boulder’s east
side.  He shifted his eyes to his friend.  His voice low, he mentioned, “I
would stop waiting for it, if I were you, mate.  Wherever Colbey got off to, I
think we’re well shot of him.”

“I want to know what happened to him,” Marik stated
firmly.  “Men don’t snap and suddenly start trying to ride on the edge of a
golden coin for no reason at all.”

A shrug was Dietrik’s only reply.  Silence reigned for
several moments, or as silent as it could be beside a camp of armed soldiers
and mercenaries.  At last, Dietrik changed the subject by asking, “What will you
do if we find ourselves in a fight?  No sword to lay about you with.”

The words briefly resurrected the memories; his sword
melting in an instant, splashing steel burning the flesh from his arm and
face…Marik shoved those thoughts away hard.  “I’m not happy about it, but I’ll
look through the wagon holding the blades we took off them.”  He gestured to
the prisoner area where men, perfectly ordinary-looking without their strange
armor, were tied wrist and ankle to each other.

“I suppose it will do for the time being,” Dietrik
agreed.  He abruptly stood to peer along the road.

Marik followed suite to see a rider coming at a fast
trot, clad in the standard green and brown tunic of an army messenger.  “Looks
like our fate has finally been decided.”

Dietrik nodded without words.  Both men immediately
headed back into camp, congregating with every other mercenary near the tent
used by the officers whenever they needed to discuss their situation.  They
figured it would not be long.

Indeed, in short order, Atcheron and Fraser both
emerged from the tent and studied the wall of men facing them.  Atcheron arched
an eyebrow at Fraser, who shrugged as if he could hardly care less.  The baron
addressed the crowd.

“Orders came in, as I’m sure you’ve figured out.  My
men and the outpost will merge with the Seventh Regiment to resume battle-line
duties.”  He paused to give the groaners time to finish.  “The mercenaries,”
Atcheron raised his voice slightly with a brief glance toward Fraser, “will be
taking the prisoners to Thoenar for questioning in the company of the Arm.”

“Like as he’ll be going in the company of
us
,”
a faceless wit suggested from across the crowd.  There was general agreement
with the sentiment throughout the mercenary ranks.

“We’ll have to watch our steps,” Fraser interjected. 
He stepped closer to his clustered men to make his point.  “Reports are still
coming from everywhere.  Any number of those beasts of theirs got loose after
their ranks were blown apart in the last battle.  They are marauding as they
please.  We shouldn’t run into any organized resistance, but these monsters are
clearly pack animals.  I’ll want every man who’s still light on his feet taking
turns ranging out from our main force to keep an eye out for them, in addition
to whatever scouts the Arm brings along with him.  We want to avoid any hunting
packs, if we find any.”

There were several nods throughout the crowd.  No one
intended to end up as bits of grit stuck between a monster’s teeth.

Fraser continued.  “After we get to Thoenar, there’s
no telling where we’ll end up shipping out to next.  Spend tonight examining
your equipment and fixing what you can.  Keep in mind what you need so we can
draw as much as we can tomorrow morning before we leave.”

Several nasty comments were tossed back at the
lieutenant regarding this.  Supplies were short for the hodge-podge company
camping on the road.  The bandaged quartermaster from the Eighteenth Outpost
was refusing to dole out anything from leather laces to jerked beef short of
imminent peril to his person.  Especially to the mercenaries who, as he saw it,
had no right to consume the army’s supplies.

Most of the Kings’ equipment needed tending to.  Marik
was one of the worst off.  Nearly all his battle gear had suffered damage.  His
sword was destroyed, many of the links in his chainmail were fused into a solid
plate from the molten steel that had hardened after splashing over it, his
half-helm was such a wreck he’d tossed it away as useless and the palms to his
gloves had been burned away.  He had lifted a new tunic from an untended crate
when the quartermaster’s attention had been elsewhere.  Other than the odd bits
stuffed into his pack, his only possessions in the world were locked away in
his closet in Kingshome.

He felt strangely naked standing without his usual
burdens.

Dietrik nudged him.  “Let’s be moving on then, eh
mate?” he said when Fraser ducked back into the tent with Atcheron.  “There are
still several marks until sundown, and I, for one, would rather be elsewhere
when the parade returns.”

Marik agreed.  It always annoyed him to see the Arm of
Galemar riding back into their little encampment.  The man would shine
orangey-silver in his immaculate armor under the pink sunset, heading a column
of soldiers who, given the talk, apparently believed he had crushed the
invaders’ forces single-handedly.  Dietrik had lanced Marik’s head about his
arrogant beliefs regarding his fighting abilities…yet many of the snide
thoughts he’d entertained during that last battle persisted.

This man, who rode like a gleaming bardic hero, was
nothing save a figurehead.  A tool of the aristocracy to inspire common
soldiers to throw themselves into the monstrous jaws of the invaders’ pets. 
Tactics that relied on breaking down the walls of an enemy stronghold by piling
corpses against the stone until their sheer weight broke the defenses.

While Marik might not be a warrior worthy of the Arms
of old, despite his egotistical thoughts during the Rovasii battle, he still
privately maintained that the Arm of Galemar should be a warrior without
question.  A leader capable of snatching victory from defeat.  Truly a living
incarnation of the Master Sword he wore at his side.

If ever Galemar needed the strength of a man
born
to be the Arm, it was these days.

*        *        *        *        *

Marik was in a light doze atop his bedroll later than
evening.  Dietrik sat across from him in the small tent only granted to the
mercenaries since there were so many leftover after the casualties the outpost
forces had taken.  Most of the tents held four occupants.  They had the tent to
themselves since very few were easy with the idea of sharing such confined
sleeping quarters with the mage of countless rumors. 

With eyes half-closed and his mind verging on sleep,
Dietrik’s rustling through his belongings were a soothing background noise.  He
muttered grunts and soft exclamations twice a minute.  When he said, “Eh?”,
Marik paid it no heed.  Soft voices from outside the tent drifted to him, their
meanings lost due to the muffling of canvas and distance.

Peace in wartime.  He always enjoyed the way a camp’s
normal activities could sooth.  Marik teetered on the verge of sleep when
Dietrik’s voice slowly reeled him back through the ocean of slumber toward the
lands of wakefulness.

“Ah, indeed.”  A slight pause before Dietrik continued
with,  “Well, you know how the lad feels about all this.  It’s safer off to
simply carry it around myself with no worries for any...uh, accidents it might
encounter.”

Marik blinked away the blurry images of the tent’s
interior.  He shifted his head to see Dietrik talking into his pack.

“I am in no position to say yes or no to that, I am
afraid,” Dietrik continued.  “I’ve found it is best to simply accept the
situation.  No point in waging an argument over a trivial matter.”

Dietrik’s tone had the definite quality of a hidden
suggestion.  Marik sat up to ask a question, his words coming out as a fuzzy,
“Whaz are you?”

“A moment of your time,” Dietrik told him, while
shoving his pack into Marik’s lap.  Marik gazed down through the flap and found
the silver-rimmed hand mirror lying atop Dietrik’s extra smallclothes.  Light
emitted softly from the glass.

Also peering up from the pack’s depths was the cold,
irritated glare from stiletto eyes he knew with greater familiarity than he
would wish.  The chief mage of the crown’s royal enclave pierced him with her
glare from across the kingdom…though also from the interior of a mercenary’s
travel pack.  Celerity’s ire brought him fully awake while his mind fiercely
ran through all the possible reasons she would deliberately initiate a scrying
link to him.

Before he could ask what she wanted, she abruptly cut
him off with a cold, “I expect that any time I have need to communicate with
you, I
shall
be able to.  This mirror was not sent to help you in your
ablutions each morning!”