Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (36 page)

Purposefully, he halted without words on the same spot
he had stood previously.  He could see the thoughts racing through each of
their minds.  At a peremptory glace, the blade appeared to be a claymore type. 
Which, as each must know, meant he was an idiot, for only a genuine fool would
choose such an unwieldy weapon for a duel.  Against six it would provide a
measure of usefulness with its wide arc, keeping them at bay while they
surrounded him.  Except after the first swipe, the fighters nearest the arc’s
beginning point would be able to leap forward and land a devastating blow.

All six reached the same conclusion at once.  All six
smiled as one and drew their swords, their eyes amused and glinting in the
day’s blaze of dying glory.

“Commander Torrance, if you would be so good,” Marik
said, keeping his gaze forward.

He could sense the slight nod that was Torrance’s
customary response.  A moment of silence reigned before, “Begin.”

Six pairs of eyes continued looking to the spot where
their opponent had been until the instant Torrance spoke.  The blur that Marik
became moved faster than they were prepared to follow.  Before they could
adjust, Marik swung his blade.

Under his refined strength working, his leg strength
was equally as boosted as his arms.  It enabled faster motion after a hard
leap.  Marik closed the distance in a finger snap.  He slammed his sword into
the earth inches from the first fat man’s feet.  His massive strength sent
enough tremor through the ground that the Iron Spike’s leader felt it through
his boot soles.

Marik waited long enough for them to catch up to the
battle’s unanticipated pace.  He stood bent low, legs spread so he imitated an
outlandish frog.  When their startled gazes refocused on him, he whipped his
sword straight upward.  The blow caught the Iron Spike’s sword with such force
that it was ripped from the man’s hands.

Upward it shot through the air.  The stunned mercenary
attempted to clutch each of his stinging hands within the other.  Five band
leaders stared at Marik, hearts beating thunderously in their chests until, at
last, the spinning sword crashed down atop the command tent.

“I’ve been mistaken in many aspects of life,”
commented the Binding Chains leader, “but I’ve decided I would rather not fight
you.”

“Me neither,” hastened the blond.  “If…”  He cast a
darting peek over Marik’s shoulder to where the previously airborne sword lay
twisted in a loose securing line.  “I mean to say, I would be willing to listen
to what your plans are.  I won’t commit to anything yet, though…but I’ll keep
an open mind.”

“So long as we get proper pay,” added the second
overweight warrior.

“If my sword’s been bent…or damaged, I’ll…I’ll have
full price for it!” cursed the Iron Spikes’ leader.  “That’s too far for a gods
damned demonstration!”  He kept a furious eye on Marik while he shuffled around
to retrieve his blade whereupon he meticulously examined every inch of it.

Marik shrugged as if he cared little for such
trifles.  He waited long enough to see if the man would attempt to make him pay
for a new sword because of cracks in the metal that, no doubt, had been there
for years already.  Gibbon hurried them along by stating loudly that he refused
to ruin his eyesight to the point of needing spectacles simply because a gang
of hire-swords couldn’t be bothered to light a lamp.

This earned him little enough love.  The mercenary leaders
were uncertain, hesitating to walk out after what had happened moments earlier,
yet unsure if staying would be the best move either.  Gibbon made a handy
target for scorn since Torrance, leader of the largest, most influential band,
and Marik qualified as unknowns.

Nine men squeezed into the tent.  It had been sewn
with military use in mind…though the quartermasters had insisted that the
smallest command tents were the only remaining type left.  Marik had stonily
insisted on better to no avail.  The same story had cropped up for most of the
supplies they needed to draw.

He could see Delano’s hand in it but could find no way
to fight back.

The ‘table’ was actually two flat crates containing
poles to fit spearheads.  Marik took the lantern Gibbon passed him, setting in
on one corner of the kingdom map while the lieutenant anchored the opposite
corner with a second.

“This is where we are,” Marik said, stabbing the
southwestern lands with his finger.  “The occupied areas are not very large. 
Everything the Arronaths took borders the mountains.  They haven’t tried to
expand their territories since they secured what they stole in the first
assault.  We might have caused them more damage than we realized when the Arm
hit their base camp near the Rovasii.”

Marik continued, explaining what they knew and
suspected before sharing any details regarding battle plans.  What few details
he would give them.  Which was only as much as they needed to comprehend in
order to carry out the actions he wanted them to.

Each man listened stoically, gazing down on the paper
kingdom while Marik explained.  The Iron Spikes’ overweight leader still fumed
silently.  He cast suspicious glances at Marik every time Marik ended a
sentence.  In contrast, the other flabby man, leading the Surly Savages, nodded
minutely from time to time.

The Taurs were the subject most on their minds.  Marik
and Torrance’s assurances fell on deaf ears until Gibbon, reaching a point of
strained tolerance, snapped, “For the love of Sheirleon, smarter minds than
yours have already decided on the proper assault mechanics!  Stop wetting your
smallclothes.  Act like men and fight where you’re told to!”

This failed to go over well.  “We’re not fighting on
anybody’s say so until we agree on the basics!” shouted the Iron Spike.  The
other five sided with him.

“You’ll fight as we say so as long as we pour silver
over your graves!” Gibbon thundered back before Marik could intercede.  “That’s
all you’re good for in the end, draining coin away from equipment and supply
funds.  Go on and leave then, if you refuse to fight like Galemaran men!”

“When has a lapdog like you ever seen a man,” barked a
brown-bearded mercenary, “except when you look at a free fighter?  Since we
don’t choose to die like fools on a royal’s whim, that makes
you
better?  I think I
will
leave.”  He reached for the tent flap.

“Be a coward, you—”

“Stop!” yelled Marik.  “Each of you!”  He found the
whole group directing their vitriolic ire on him, Gibbon included.  “I’ve had
enough!  If you want to leave after, then fine!  But I expect you to act like
mercenaries and give this offered contract its fair consideration
before
you decide!”  He cast a baleful glare on Gibbon.  After a moment he
deliberately faced his back to the soldier.  “Have you ever worked a contract
with people who liked you?  I expect not, so why should you think this time
would be any different?”

He spent a full half-mark alternating between soothing
them and stinging their pride.  The tension grew perceptibly at certain points,
tickling his senses the way foreign magics could make his mage senses tingle. 
Each time he held his breath, waiting to see if the entire mess would collapse.

The band leaders grudgingly accepted to join his
fighting forces on the provision that each be allowed access to him at any time
to discuss future actions.  It was clear that they expected to be able to
influence the younger mercenary with their suggestions.  They also included a
caveat stating that dangers of significant magnitudes unmentioned by the
employer beforehand would nullify the contract, enabling them to cancel any and
all services due immediately upon discovery.

This sent Gibbon into a purple fit of rage.  To him,
this seemed a thinly veiled excuse to cut and run the moment the fighting
started.  Marik wondered as well, though he kept his mouth shut.  He knew that
the Crimson Kings also included provisions in their own contracts in the event
of faith breaches between the assigned fighters and a noble bent on getting
them killed to a man in order to avoid paying the hiring fees.

Gibbon departed to make rounds among his soldiers,
back stiff and expression tightly set.  The mercenary leaders, in no less a
controlled anger, went the other direction to where their bands were strewn in
the main force’s wake.

“Seven bands together,” Torrance commented in a tone
of mild amusement.  Marik looked to him with surprise.  “That may well be a
first in Galemaran history.  I wonder what the earlier Cerellan kings would
think of your mercenary army.”

“You think it’s a mistake to include them?”

“Only if you place them in positions where other
planned elements hinge on their success,” Torrance answered.

“Unreliable fortitude in the best fighters in this
group,” Marik grumbled.  “And unreliable skill and ability in the rest.  With
both parts hating the other.  Thank the gods we have the Kings as the core. 
Have you ever seen such a group already at war before the fighting even
started?”

“Not in recent memory, no.  If you hope to keep them
together through the worst of it,” Torrance mentioned over one shoulder as he
left, “you had best improve your diplomatic skills.”

Which, Marik mused, meant they had a very rough road
ahead of them indeed.

*        *        *        *        *

Beld’s left hand twisted in its grip on the poles
forming the tripod that suspended their cook pot over the campfire.  Veji
picked one of his Trident sticks, shoved it back into the drawing tube with the
others and selected a stick from Orran’s hand.  Orran drew a stick from the
numerous ends protruding from the leather tube to replace it.

Albin looked up at Beld from where he squatted with
their fellow Fourteenth Squad, Second Unit members.  He could read the
consternation in Beld’s face.  The whoremaster of a mage had not dropped his
wind yet.  His distant form, black against bright moonlight where he stood on
his hill, disappeared into the command tent for another night.

Others might have attempted negotiations first. 
Marik’s first contract under Baron Dornory had followed the time-held
traditions, the two hostile neighbors first sending out their heralds bearing
the colors of palaver.  Whether Galemar and Nolier had made a battlefield
attempt to avoid fighting during the last war was unknown to him.  Torrance
offered no insights there.

Marik would have scorned the idea if any dared suggest
it.  The Arronaths had sacrificed their right to fair play as far as he was
concerned.  Their ravaging of every man, woman, child and elder in Tullainia
earned them no decent forewarning from Galemar, especially considering the
towns on this side of the Stoneseams their monstrous Taurs had obliterated.

He set his attack plans in motion two candlemarks
before sunrise roughly a month after leaving Thoenar.

*        *        *        *        *

Three squads of mounted fighters made the first
assault.  Rodolph led his Binding Chains in the southern group while a hundred
soldiers charged into their first ever battle behind Sergeant Skelton. 
Lieutenant Tadd fearlessly held the centermost position in the charge with the
Eighth Squad from the Crimson Kings.

Marik had chosen, for their opening battle, to assault
the northernmost territories held by the Arronaths.  He worried most about the
pass through the mountains down beside Armonsfield, but hitting that area first
meant having enemies to both his north and south.  With limited forces to work
with, he could not afford to become boxed in.  They must remain mobile, moving
before the opponent could effectively organize against them.

The northernmost peaks of the Stoneseams range lofted
to their south.  Marik intended to retake the tip.  After that they would clear
out the invaders in a southward scourge along the mountains’ base.

Tadd had pulled ahead of the others.  Marik could see
it from his tree-covered hillock a mile east of the night raid.  Gibbon and
Torrance held Captain’s Glasses to their eyes, attempting to pierce the night,
hoping to follow the battle progress.  The lieutenant steadfastly ignored his
crown-general, who peered into the blackness with no Glasses to bridge the
distance.  Marik cheated by drifting from his body to dart through the air
above the riders.

He saw Tadd restrain the squad’s pace, keeping them to
the speed Torrance had ordered.  No horse had run afoul of the terrain yet. 
The other two groups were lagging.  Marik hurled a silent curse into the
glowing purple etheric mists surrounding him.

“Two low, two high!” Marik ordered curtly when he
re-entered his physical shell long enough to shout at the archers standing
twenty feet lower on the slope.  Also with them, wrapped in double clothing
layers, waited Yoseph.  Marik would need every single magic user he possessed
if the Citadel crossed the border.  Still, he could not rely on his talents
alone to defend against magical attack if they should run afoul of such during
the raid.  He hoped the boring mage who had taught him to read could handle the
job if it became necessary, but dared not risk any others from his precious
stock.

Bowmen reached into their quivers.  Four arrows with
carved, wooden heads were retrieved.  It would alert the Arronaths slightly
sooner than Marik wanted yet it could not be helped.

Two archers let fly, one after the other, the
Screamers splitting the darkness with their unearthly wails.  Depending on how
the arrowheads were carved, they could elicit a whistling screech of differing
pitch.

The low, almost moaning arrows flew first, resembling
a bear bellowing a throaty growl.  Next came two arrows pitched far higher,
sounding closer to a forest cat squalling in a pre-mating scream.

Marik watched closely.  The arrows that signaled the
southern group to make haste had flown first.  Despite that Skelton ushered his
men to faster speed before Rodolph gave any sign he had recognized the signal. 
He finally moved up at a harder trot.  Hopefully that meant the mercenary was still
struggling to recognize the army’s signals…and nothing worse.

They would reach the Arronath camp in two minutes. 
Marik flitted through the thick trees that ended three-hundred yards from the
first enemy sentry posts.  For the previous mark, nearly all his crossbow men
had slunk through the pitch forest as close as they dared.

This plan was simple.  Two separate woods ended
without joining, leaving a natural corridor through the trees that led straight
to the Arronath position.  Three squads would hit the sentries in the dark,
storm past and cause as much havoc as they could along the camp’s fringes. 
There they would peel apart like an onion, coming around to escape back up the
corridor that had brought them.

Arronath forces should pursue the fleeing raiders. 
The crossbow archers would fire on any pursuers before melting into the
shadows.  If the Arronaths still persisted into the corridor, Marik had lined
both sides with the remaining soldiers and mercenaries he commanded.  They
would swarm into the clear to hit the pursuers from both flanks.  It should
turn into a meat grinder for the few moments it took the Arronaths to recover
from their surprise.  Before they could fully adjust, the Galemarans would
vanish into the trees and leave the enemy forces behind in their new stationary
defensive posture.

Dash in, rile them up, dash out.

 Simple.  He believed in simple.

The Arronath guards must have heard the Screamers, or
else they correctly interpreted the sounds of muffled hooves beating their
tattoos against the soft grass.  Marik watched seven auras run from their
partners to report the night attack.  Tadd had closed half the distance. 
Finger’s crossed, Marik urged him on.

He could see the five Taurs moving closer to the
camp’s edge.  Their handlers jogged behind, clumsily cinching belts around
their robed waists due to their interrupted sleep.  Soldiers, donning their
black armor with impressive speed, flooded through the tents, dodging around
the wrecks of town buildings they had destroyed.  It was worrisome.  Should he
order the archers to fire the signal for unanticipated danger?

Marik hesitated.  Tadd, Skelton and Rodolph were
moments away from hitting the sentries.  They were aware of the five Taurs from
brief scouting efforts before nightfall.  He knew Tadd would be prepared for
tougher resistance than they expected.  Would the others?  How would Rodolph,
as the leader of a band hardly the size of a single Crimson Kings squad,
react?  Could the newly trained soldiers fresh from their boot camp be relied
upon to carry out their hit-and-dash operation without breaking too soon?

The sight of eight new Taurs emerging from a ruined
wagon shed, Taurs the scouts had missed during their reconnaissance, decided
him instantly.  “Shoot the rain arch!”

His archers wasted no time.  He wondered, in a
detached corner of his mind, if they had been expecting the signal.  Their
confidence in plans formulated by a mercenary leader begged the question of
whether enough existed to call it so.

Three arrows were fired atop the other’s tail
fletching.  The low, middle and high pitched screeches merged into a rising
wail.  Torrance remained standing calm as ever.  Gibbon pressed the Glasses to
his eyes hard enough to risk impairing his vision permanently, his body
vibrating with tension enough for a bowstring.

Marik watched.  He had signaled too late.  Tadd could
not break away in time.  His forces stampeded the few lone sentries remaining
followed by a hammering charge into the swarming enemy soldiers coming at a
run.  Skelton’s army squad slowed a moment after hearing the warning, which
meant they foundered on the northern flank while Tadd pulled too far forward.

Rodolph wasted no time in switching to a retreat,
belying his apparent confusion regarding the Screamer signal system.  He
instigated a tight curve around south that would lead him back into the
east/west woodland corridor before his men made contact.

Torches were blooming by the minute.  The increasing
light finally enabled Gibbon to see what transpired in the distance.

“Exactly as I
said
!” he hissed.  “Desertion at
the first opportunity!”

Torrance offered no opinions.  Marik ignored them both
to dart back and forth at insane speeds between the battle and his body.

Tadd’s squad hit hard and fast, using the skill the
Kings were known for to pick targets in the dark.  Rather, the Kings never
stopped swinging their swords.  A flailing strike that stopped an enemy from
closing and counterattacking helped as much as hitting a vulnerable limb. 
Soldiers tended to pause momentarily, hoping to discern their foes in the gloom
so they could attack vital areas.

Minor wounds were inflicted on the enemy soldiers who
were shadows within a coal mine due to their black armor.  Man for man they
failed to match the average Crimson King in fighting skills.  They posed little
worry to Marik.

Except they were easily outnumbered six-to-one, the
number growing by the moment.  Figures continued running to join battle from
every hole in the ground within the former town.  Soon they would be swallowed
whole by the mass.

Tadd’s momentum had stopped.  His men were fighting to
extricate themselves.  The horses were the problem.  Getting them around while
keeping the Arronaths from mounting an effective assault was far harder than a
man on foot spinning into a retreat.

The green soldiers closed the distance, Skelton
shouting furiously.  He meant to aid the central force in its escape according
to the original plan.

“That’s not a well-planned move,” Torrance evaluated. 
“They were to join the raid together as a single force.  He has no way to
intercede without causing more interference to our men than theirs.”

“He is a most capable man,” Gibbon sneered, “and far
more reliable than
those
cowards!”

Marik had no time to waste listening to the
lieutenant’s spite.  Gibbon had been growing surlier by the day the longer he
mingled with the mercenaries.  The Crimson Kings had been bad enough, but the
men in the smaller bands seemed to be pushing him past his limits.

He cut off Gibbon’s waspish words by soaring at top
speed through the trees.  Events were happening far too quickly.  The Arronaths
had responded faster than he would have believed possible given that he had
taken caution to make the night assault as secretive as he could.  Instead of a
raid, this was quickly shifting to a pitched battle.

The type of battle they desperately needed to avoid.

As fast as his consciousness flew, the Taurs still
beat him to the conflict.  The first five let out hunting cries, animal
excitement reverberating through each tremendous bellow.  Several men broke to
flee.  Not all were Skelton’s men.

Massive claws slashed through the darkness.  Horse
flesh, shredded mail, saddle chunks and pieces of men ripped free in their
wake.  One unfortunate green soldier caught the claws through his belly.  The
Taur, roaring its bestial pleasure, ripped its hand back to send an unwinding
stream of entrails spooling through the air over the surrounding men.

Nearby Arronaths had pulled away from the frontline at
the Taurs’ approach.  Half the fighting shifted to man versus beast.  Skelton’s
group received the most sword-on-sword fighting as bodies shifted.  The numbers
altered drastically, yet the Taurs were so overwhelming that Tadd’s group could
gain no advantage.

Except one.  With fewer opponents to contend with,
despite their raw power, effecting the escape became far simpler.  Tadd yanked
his mount around savagely by the reins.  Others followed suit.

Skelton’s group, which had sought to aid, found itself
in the straights instead.  Enemy soldiers were spilling around their northern
flank.  Tadd’s men were too busy splitting left and right to curve back on
their entry path to offer any help.

Marik acted without pausing for thought.  Far back in
his body, he formed the etheric orbs that remained the attack he was best at. 
He fired two, breaking the air with them.  Sharp whip-snaps accompanied by
static crackling split the battle din.

In terms of power, these were only half as strong as
he could have created.  He kept them weak in order to control them in flight. 
His etheric hands cradled each.  Both wanted to escape his influence despite
the low energy imbuing them.

Streaks of light from their passage burned into men’s
night vision, leaving purple afterimages wherever they looked.  At a point over
Skelton’s rear, he bent their path downwards.  It felt akin to fighting a taunt
rigging rope affixed to flapping sails in a storm.

They curved in a descending arc, twin stars falling in
parallel tracks.  The first struck a black soldier full in the face.  He jerked
back as if kicked by a horse.  A flash of white light threading around blue
fire left his face horribly blistered and burned.  Likely blind as well, Marik
hoped.

The quick thought churned the acid in his stomach.  He
never felt clean after using his mage talent in such an obscenely unfair way.

His second orb smashed into the top of the badger-like
helm worn by most Arronaths.  Its concussion blast forced the man to his knees,
arms wind-milling, sword tumbling away.  A shower of blue-red sparks burst in a
blooming night flower.