Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (35 page)

“This way,” Jide hissed.  He tugged a sleeve to start
the group heading north.  Most of the escapees were dashing south toward the
nearest trees.

Jide brought Adrian’s group away from the sparse
buildings, across the open field.  The space sported an odd population of
misshapen shadows from training equipment that had been left scattered
everywhere.  Adrian moved up to sprint alongside the one-eyed bandit.

“How far until we join the forces?” Adrian asked
between breaths.

Adrian’s guardsmen had fanned out in a loose protective
shield, within hearing distance unless they spoke low.  Jide answered in a
husky whisper.  “Only about a few weeks.  Then we can get started on rigging up
Mendell’s gibbet.”

“Weeks?”  Adrian sounded surprised for the first time
Jide could ever recall.

“This was a ‘demarcation operation’,” Jide replied,
using the sarcastic phrase they had invented for his solo forays into the
corrupt underworld over the years.

“Damn it all, I need to know what is going on!” Adrian
demanded.

Cries from behind alerted them to a change in the
situation.  The Galemarans had discovered the break.  Every available soldier
ran to recapture the weapon-less escapees.

“What’s going on is we are about to get caught unless
we move fast, Adrian,” Jide said.  He ran harder until they penetrated the
northernmost trees.  Once there, the men reformed in a knot around the
general.  Jide scooped up his pack before weaving around the trunks.  Several
minutes later they came to an open clearing marking the end of the woods.

In a spot where a massive tree grew from a boulder
pile, the gnarled roots squeezing the rocks in a tight fisherman’s net, Jide
stopped.  One rock near the base had been added long after the tree had
imprisoned the others.  It moved aside with minor effort.

Behind it, Jide pulled out a canvas sack that rattled
with metallic sounds.  The thieves had lived up to their word.  But only to the
absolute definition, Jide reflected sourly.  In the moonlight he could see that
the blades met the letter of their agreement by the narrowest margin.  They
would have to serve until they could re-supply in Arronath-held areas.

He kept his sword and passed out the others among the
men.  Three of Adrian’s bodyguards were left unarmed.

“We need to move fast and without stopping,” he told the
others.  “Search teams will be forming.  They might use dogs if we aren’t
lucky.  We’ll cut northwest because they will be expecting us to run southward
away from the city like a spooked squirrel.  Any man who starts wheezing will
be left on his own to fend for himself.  So get moving!  You two men scout
ahead, and you two trail behind in a rearguard.”

“Where are your men?” Adrian inquired once they set
their feet to moving.

Jide returned the look.  “We have plenty to discuss,
general.  But it can wait until morning, after we find a haystack to hide under
for the day.”

*        *        *        *        *

“No, sir,” Marik muttered under his breath.  Torrance
was the only man close enough to overhear.  “I don’t like it.  Not one bit.”

The band commander offered no reaction.  Marik shook
off his misgivings, knowing the supposed leader of this festival troupe should
avoid being seen mumbling aloud.

Lieutenant Gibbon stood several feet away.  His
posture might be slightly less formal than he would have displayed to a man he
considered a true superior instead of the king’s pet mercenary.  He had so far
made it plain that he was unhappy.  Still, he would do his soldierly duty and
follow orders issued by the established chain of command.

Beyond Gibbon loitered an unseemly group.  Marik blamed
his own inexperience for what could turn out to be a mistake after all.  The
only mercenaries he had ever known had been his father first, the Crimson Kings
second.  Intellectually he’d acknowledged that the Kings had a reputation for
being the best, in professionalism as well as in combat.

But knowing it and understanding it were two separate
matters.  The mercenary leaders from the smaller bands that had been brought in
so far lived up to the very stereotype he loathed.  In the years since joining,
he had angrily ranted at Dietrik whenever common citizens looked down on the
Ninth Squad.  Judgment that had been cast an instant after recognition.

He could see why, looking at the six figures who could
be mistaken for a prisoner work gang.  All they lacked was iron manacles around
their ankles.

Not one must know the correct way to hold a razor, he
reflected.  Each sported a beard that displayed only a semblance of
orderliness.  Three black, two brown and one that could have been the same
except it hovered closer to blond.  Four were in shape with visible muscle; two
were the type who allowed winter idleness to exact a heavy toll.  Their only
saving grace lay in their clothing.  Whatever coin they earned found its way to
purchasing necessities before transforming into ale-filled tankards.

It was the blondish man who stepped forward to speak
first.  Being the unique one, it must inspire a natural urge to lead.  “We want
to know about payment,” he announced.  “Your man refused to nail that down when
he rode into my camp.  All he promised was that we would be paid proper for the
right kind of work.”

“We all heard the like,” said a black-haired band
leader, one of the overweight men.  “I’ve had my Iron Spikes running after you
for the last two days, and I’m about to take them back if you don’t sign a writ
I approve of.”

“I would hardly call that ‘running’,” Torrance
returned to the man, whose tone had insinuated that being on foot while others
rode horseback pleased him not in the least.

“Our bands don’t have the prestige yours does,
Torrance,” shot back a second black-bearded fellow, “but we still have pride
enough.  Only an idiot doesn’t know what we must be facing if we’re heading
southwest.  I want to know what plans you have in addition to what pay you’re
offering.  My Raptor Talons are always looking for decent work, but don’t
expect us to take on a suicide mission even if you’re offering Raymond’s
crown.”

Torrance looked to Marik, who had stopped at a point
midway between him and Gibbon.  “What’s your normal pay?” Marik asked the
Talons’ leader.

“Seventy-five a week per man.  Pay continues to the
end of the eightday no matter the losses.  You still have to pay full wages for
any men who died.”

Marik hid his surprise.  How could fighting men live
on seventy-five coppers an eightday?  That was only the pay of a D Class
fighter in the Crimson Kings during the winter.

“That should be no problem.”

“We get paid that for road escort and dock watch,” the
man countered.  “You’re talking about a major, goat-loving battle!”

“Right,” added one of the brown-beards, the second of
the hefties.  “News for you, army-boy.  We’re not going anywhere
near
the Stoneseams unless the price is worth the risk.”

“Show respect!” Gibbon retorted.  “Your kingdom is in
a tight squeeze.  Everyone needs to contribute before we’re all destroyed!”

“Then start by contributing to our purses,” retorted a
fifth band leader.  “That’s the grease that makes our axles spin.”

“I’ve never seen such blatant greed!”

“And here’s something else you’ve never seen before. 
My back!”

Half the mercenaries started leaving.

“Stop it!” Marik shouted.  “You’re not going anywhere
yet.”

“You planning to stop us, army-boy?” sneered the
brown-beard.

“If I have to, I will,” Marik replied, his tone
growing softer, and yet more menacing.  “Because I’m no army soldier.  I’m a
Crimson Kings mercenary, and no one turns their back on me before I’m finished
talking.”

The blond focused on Marik.  “I was given to believe
that we would be speaking to the general of this force.”

Torrance nodded slightly.  “Marik Railson is the crown
appointed general commanding the western defenses against the Arronath
invaders.”

“Got one of yours in charge, eh Torrance?  Is that a
good thing?”

“
I
am in charge,” Marik asserted.  “Any deals
will be made through me.  So tell me what wartime wages you expect.”

The black-haired leader of the Iron Spikes studied
Marik over his departing shoulder.  “They put a copping Kings-man in charge?  I
always knew you snobs loved kissing the nobles’ asses, but how many knobs did
you have polish in the palace to pull that off?  You must have spent a bloody
fortune in soap to clean that much bad taste out of your mouths!”

A leer twisted his lip.  Marik met his gaze firmly. 
“You have an opinion on the matter?”

“I might have a thought or two, yeah.”

“Then by all means, speak out.”  He graced them with a
hard smile.  “Though you should know better than most what a mercenary does
when smart-asses make an accusation like that.”

From the edge of vision, he could see Torrance frown
minutely.  He was worried about what Marik might do and probably remembering
the stories of his rash actions against Balfourth in the Sestion house the year
before.

The last leader crossed his arms.  “I don’t care for
threats.  You cast them against the Spikes, you’ll be hurling them at my Chains
next.  That’s a bad start for a man begging for fighters.”

“If you think I intend to beg, then you obviously
don’t know much about me, the Kings, or Raymond’s army.  I am going to tell you
how it is.  You are men born and bred of this land, and in return the land
needs you to protect it.”

“Only if you were the bloody Arm of Galemar would I be
tempted by that sentiment,” the blond snapped, his temper rising.  “We are free
fighters who choose our battles.  No battle or warrior can force themselves on
us.”

Marik smiled in a genuine grin.  “Are you saying that
you would willingly follow a superior warrior, if you had faith that he could
bring you to victory?  That almost sounds like challenge.”

The blond squinted in scrutiny.  “You’re a cocky
enough bastard, aren’t you?  And you’ve irritated me enough that I just might
take you on to show you who you’re dealing with.”

“Then a challenge it is.  The terms,” Marik declared
to the startled men around him, “are if I lose, then you can do as you please. 
If I win…no.  If I
impress
you, then each of you will sit and listen to
what we have to say.  That discussion will include our future battle plans once
we reach the Stoneseams.”

“I want to know about our copping pay!” shouted the
fat Iron Spikes leader.

“That’s a petty detail,” Marik said, brushing it off
his sleeve along with several motes of pollen that the wind had deposited on
him.  The fireweed was blooming as fast as the springtime mornings could dawn
this year.  Pollen clouds were so thick they actually made the air hazy in some
areas.  “It can be worked out with the seneschal whenever he has the time to
hear it.”

The Spikes’ leader frowned while the rest scratched at
their beards in interest.  At last the man representing the Binding Chains
mused, “You must think you’re something special all right, if you believe you
can recruit mercenaries by
impressing
them.”

“Sounds like the odds are on your side, then.  Are you
going to accept or no?”

He shrugged.  “If I am actually impressed, then I’d be
willing to listen.  After all, listening is hardly the same as agreeing to
anything.”

The others nodded.  After they each gave their assent,
the blond smiled without reveling his teeth.  “I suppose that means I have to
make a good showing for all of us.”

“I never said that,” Marik stated baldly, stopping the
man in his tracks as he prepared to draw his blade.

“What?”  His confusion could be heard as well as seen.

“Who said you had to face me alone?  I meant that all
six of you could challenge me at once, if you wanted.”

“Six against one?” laughed the sneering Iron Spike. 
“I’ll only be impressed if we don’t accidentally kill you!”

“Six against one,” Marik agreed, still smiling. 
“Allow me to get my sword and we can start.”

He noticed that Gibbon had sidled sideways until he
stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Torrance.  Neither bore the expression of a man
well pleased, though Torrance had lost his minute frown.  He appeared placid as
a mountain lake.

The command tent that Gibbon had his men erect each
evening lay only yards away.  Marik retrieved the massive blade Sennet had
forged specifically for him.  Its long, round handle rested easily in his
grip.  He had found it easiest to carry on his right shoulder when outside of
its specially designed back-sheath.  His hand pressed down against the hilt to
keep it from teetering off his back.

Marik instigated his strength working the moment he
touched the oversized sword.  With his enhanced physical strength it felt about
the same weight as his ordinary blade did.  He drank in the expressions on the
six mercenary leaders’ faces when he emerged from the canvas flap under an
orange sky bleeding into pink clouds.