Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (33 page)

Ilona nodded, keeping her silence, allowing him to
continue now that he had begun.

“I’m worried because that’s not all there is to it.  I
don’t know how he is using his talent, but whatever he is doing is slowly
killing him.  I can’t stop thinking about it.  Why is he taking such a physical
toll?”

“How should I know?  You tell me.  How can magic
affect the user like that?”

“That’s my question,” he barked.  “I don’t see how
unless he…he was consuming his own life energy.  Using it faster than his body
was producing.  Only weak mages would have to do that.”

She shrugged.  “Then he is a weak magic user.”

“No.  That’s not it.”  He kicked at the hole in the
ground the sword had furrowed.  “There is too much I don’t know.  Also, he said
he was chasing a man.”

“You told me about him.”  Her voice acquired the
wistful quality he recognized.  “All that ability for magic.  Who decides what
person should receive that much while others have no talent at all?”

“He sounds like bad business.  I’m suddenly
responsible for putting my wild ideas into actual use.  This stranger could end
up using his magic against us if father is right and he’s been targeting
Galemar from the start.”

“You’ve planned for facing enemy mage groups.  Tell me
about the details of that again.”

That elicited a cross look from Marik.  “I don’t like
the idea of this man bringing his strength to bear against our forces,” he
said, ignoring her.  “We are already at a serious disadvantage.  The mage
forces we have will be working to their limits as it is.  I didn’t mention that
to the council because all I know is that this stranger, this Xenos person, is
manipulating events to his advantage.”

“There are too many kettles boiling in that mercenary
head of yours.  Your father is of little consequence at the moment, no matter
your feelings.”

“My father is not inconsequential!” Marik snapped.

“Did I say that?”  Ilona glared him down, her face a
stormy tempest.  “No, I certainly did not!  If you had listened with more than
a quarter of your attention, you would have heard me say, ‘at the moment’.  If
you intend to come back alive, you need to focus your mind on what’s
important.”  She balled her fists against her slender hips.  “On that, tell me
straight out whether your father and his odd magic will have any effect on the
coming battles.”

Marik narrowed his eyes, wishing he could rail against
her the way he could against Dietrik or the enclave mages.  “I’ve spent the
last—”

“Straight out!”

“I suppose…probably not,” he admitted with extreme
reluctance.  “He could be halfway across the kingdom at this point, killing
himself a sliver at a time every day.”

“Then the second question.  Will this man Xenos have
any affect on your fighting?”

“That’s the real problem.  I can’t say either way. 
Probably not.  But at the same time, a mage like that could disrupt the
balancing scales.”

“Your father said he was on a ship that left about…” 
She paused to calculate.  “It must be nearly two months ago.  He also said it
was roughly a six month journey.”

“Six months if you have geomancers to keep the ship
from sinking,” Marik pointed out.

Ilona gazed into the distance.  “I never believed
there could be that much ocean altogether.  It must dwarf all of Merinor, if it
were ever mapped.”

Marik lifted his blade until it hovered parallel to
the ground.  He sighted along the length with one eye, the prisoner encampment
across the field in line with the tip.  “I suppose it won’t matter.  If we move
as fast as I want to, using the authority Raymond gave me, it ought to be over
before he makes landfall.  Four months should be enough time…if it goes the way
I hope.”

“You had better listen to your friend,” Ilona
directed.

“Dietrik?”

“He knows what’s good for him.  You should be dead
twice over already from following your own actions.  Only raw luck and your
friend together saved you both times.”

“I don’t plan on fighting the Arronaths off alone.”

“Remember that.  I won’t be weeping over your grave on
a barren battlefield.  The only men worth the bother are the ones who take the
trouble to come back to me.”

“I intend to do exactly that.  Believe me.”

“Words.”  She waved away the insignificant syllables
lingering on his breath with one graceful hand.  “Talk until you pass out, but
prove it to me by doing it.”

“Sometimes I wonder how I could have fallen in love
with such a hard woman.”  He lowered his blade to an easier grip, watching her.

She smiled slightly, raising a hand to touch the cheek
Glynn had rebuilt using his considerable talent at Healing.  “Because you are a
realist.  Sighing bits of fluff dreaming of perfect romances and idyllic lives
would make your teeth grind.”

“Dietrik says its because I’d rather love my sword
than a woman.”

Her fingernails scratched painfully at his flesh.  “I
recant.  Perhaps he doesn’t know what’s good for him after all.”

Marik clapped his palm to his face, holding her hand
pressed firmly in place before she could pull it away, relishing the feel of
her.  “I have reasons to stay alive until the next day dawns that I never had
before.  You’ll see me walking down the road to your place one morning in a few
months.”

“In that case,” her voice softening only marginally,
yet which he knew spoke volumes for her, “I’ll be willing to discuss the future
then.”

*        *        *        *        *

“Over there!  No, damn it! 
There
!”

Marik flailed his arm in the direction of several
dozen wagons.  The newly elevated soldiers, fresh from Trask’s camp, followed
his gesture with curiosity.  Mixed into their ranks like raisons frugally
dolled out into twice as many sweet rolls as the recipe called for, older eyes
belonging to veterans studied him skeptically.

Most of the men who would comprise the western kingdom
forces would be collected from stations along the way.  The number accompanying
the Crimson Kings from Thoenar were overshadowed by the mercenary band.  Fewer
than five-hundred.

He hated having to shout orders when he had no idea
what he ought to be doing.  The older men sensed it.  So far they had gone
about their usual tasks of preparation, paying him as much heed as they would
give persistent flies buzzing about their heads.

“They don’t have enough of a guard,” Marik
simultaneously explained and tried to assert.  “That’s half the food stores we
have for the next eightday!  You lot travel beside the carts to help keep them
safe.”

“Safe from what?” demanded one man with a faint scar
across the bridge of his nose.  “No goose-plucker alive would be so far out of
his gourd to try and rob the likes of an army regiment.”  He squinted at Marik,
obviously reconsidering the portrait such a motley group painted.

“You have to be somewhere, so ride alongside the
carts,” Marik ordered shortly.  “It doesn’t matter if you never see a single
farmer on the way.  Get used to doing it so you
are
doing it the one
time it needs doing!”

The man flipped him a mocking salute with one finger
off his forehead, licking the front of his teeth as he did so.  A resigned
flick of his wrist commanded the rest of the group to follow him.

Marik forced his lips to remain flat.  It would not do
for the soldiers to see his jaw clenching.  In truth, he hardly cared what
these soldiers thought of him, if they agreed with him, or if they walked off a
cliff in the dark.

Torrance wants better than that.  He expects me to tow
the line.

Well and good…except he already knew it would never
work with this crowd.  The new soldiers would quickly learn from their seniors
to disrespect the mercenaries, and his fellow band members already saw him as a
joke with a legendary punch line in the making.

If the blade feels wrong, then try another until you
find the right one.

He paused in the act of stalking away, hearing the
voice in his head, wondering who that had been.  It had a hint of Colbey but
lacked the outright cynicism of the man.  His father?  Also short of a perfect
fit.

It finally occurred to him that it had been his own
voice.  The voice of his mind making an observation.  What did that mean?

Nothing except that even jesters don’t remain fools
forever.

No mystery what inspired that particular image.  This
would be the first campaign where he would fight in the same battles as
Chatham.  The loquacious jokester had stopped by long enough to remind him of
that half a candlemark earlier while their squad prepared.

Find another blade.  He walked randomly to different
groups, each working at an individual pace in the most unorganized mobilization
in history, reflecting that his sword had already been chosen.  Far too late to
select a new one at this aged date.

Or was it?

Did men such as Faustus Hueart accept second best? 
Exactly when was ‘too late’?

His feet changed course, stopping long enough to send
Dietrik on a quick mission before seeking out Torrance.  He found the commander
at a portable field table listening to four of the band’s lieutenants.  Their
units’ sergeants dealt with exhorting the men to greater haste or shouting at
the lazy.

Torrance noticed him approaching and dismissed the
lieutenants before Marik closed.  Nothing was said but Marik suspected the
commander wished to avoid having Marik ask for permission to speak with him
when the younger mercenary technically held a higher position.  Unreadable
looks came from the four when they left without argument.

“I expect you wish to discuss matters of the march
ahead of us, Crown-General Marik?”

Marik retained enough control to keep a straight face.
 No use in telling Torrance not to call him that, despite their solitude.  The
only salve was that the ‘crown’ title let everyone know exactly whose idea
putting him in charge had been.

“That too, but I had an idea, To…Commander Torrance.”

“I am always free to discuss plans, crown-general. 
During war, I am happy to lend my experience to a discussion of new ideas in
the hopes that any faulty notions will have the opportunity to come to notice.”

Marik nodded, suspecting the statement for a hint with
all the subtlety of a falling brick.  “Speaking freely, I have my doubts about
the soldiers.  They failed to impress me while I studied them for my council
report.  Their attitudes seem troublesome.”

Torrance nodded.  “I am certain you are aware that
such behavior is all too common when our two professions collide.  It comes
with the territory.”

“I’ve worked with soldiers before.  This seems a bit
different.”

“Naturally,” the commander affirmed.  “The last Nolier
war produced men crippled for life, short rations and far-reaching consequences
that every citizen of Galemar came to experience.  Most were unprepared for
seeing the reality of war’s aftermath.  Emotions have been raw ever since, and
new wars are an unwelcome prospect.”

“We can’t afford to have fighters who act like
amateurs.  Over half our army men have never seen a skirmish, let alone true
combat.  The rest already see fighting the Arronaths as fruitless with the
forces we have, and working with the Kings as an insult.”

“The band does not have the strength to repel the
invaders alone,” Torrance reminded him.

“I know that,” Marik agreed, glad to see Dietrik
returning with the men he needed.  “What we need to make this work is
additional experienced
fighters.”

Maddock came to a halt several respectful feet away,
the short barrel-like man standing between Harlan and Chatham.  Dietrik
silently inquired with his expression if Marik needed anything further before
departing.

“A pleasant morning, commander,” Maddock intoned.  “I
understand you wish us to ride out separately from the main body?”

“That’s friendly enough,” Chatham chimed in before
anyone else could make a reply.  “Because the wafting o’ unwashed armpits is
already thick in the nostrils!  The larger the body, the stronger the aroma.  I
implore for your permission to ride through fresher breezes, melting freezes
and blooming treezes.”

Harlan cast an exasperated glare sideways before
locking his gaze on a spot exactly between Marik and Torrance, tight-lipped in
resolute silence.

“You’ve worked with several other mercenary groups,
right?” Marik asked Maddock.

“Only on mutual contracts,” the business leader of the
trio explained.  “While we worked as freelance contractors, we would find work
with lesser nobles suffering problems minor enough that they were of equally
minor importance.  At other times we aided merchant caravans as guards—”

“The plumbest o’ all jobs!” Chatham exclaimed.

“Or we acted as night watch in storage houses,”
Maddock continued, taking no apparent note of the interruption.  “It was on rare
occasions that we needed to employ our combat skills in battle.  Our
interactions with other mercenaries only arose in situations where a greater
number than we three were required, or if other freelancers had followed a
public job offer.  Then we would be in a position of competing to earn the
work.”