Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (42 page)

The conflagration alone should have suggested the
raiders did not possess the manpower to completely encircle the town.  Heavy
bow-fire should have driven them to
that
corner instead of a corner
between two known attacking forces.

Perhaps confusion had been too effective a tool.  The
fleeing black soldiers leapt the last shattered foundation to clear
Drakesfield, vaulted the writhing bodies clutching at quarrels deep in their
flesh and sought to escape the deadly barrage as quickly as possible.

“Damn it!” Marik swore.  “They’re coming straight at
us!”

“I can see that!” Gibbon snarled.  He dropped his
Glasses so they swung from the leather strap fastened to his belt and drew his
sword.  “I should have known what would happen…” Marik heard him grumbling as
he prepared to fight an impossible battle.

There was no time to run.  No nearby forces who could
be summoned before the Arronaths trampled them.  What—

“Over there!” Marik ordered.  He snatched Gibbon’s
arm.  Without thought, he instigated his strength working.  His yank jerked
Gibbon to the side as he had never been since his mother grabbed him as a
child.

“How dare—”

“Get in there!”  Marik rounded on Torrance, Yoseph and
the few messengers remaining.  “All of you!  Get in there next to the trunk and
don’t move!  And no magic, Yoseph!” he ordered, for the mage had begun
siphoning in great quantities of the mass diffusion.

Torrance cast him a brief look before pushing through
the thick branches of the oak.  Once through the leafy exterior, the limbs
became bare, providing space to move.  The greenery surrounded the trunk in a
bell-like shape, which, if they were lucky, would hide them from sight.

Marik snatched up his heavy blade from where it had
rested.  The last horse vanished through the trees.  He grabbed a remaining
foot messenger and shoved him at the tree.  “Move it!  Hurry befo—”

Arronaths materialized around them, their sudden
presence abrupt as fireflies on a midnight canvas.  The first dozen stormed
past without seeing them.  Before Marik could cloak himself with the oak’s
branches, several black soldiers took notice.

Most hurried away, pounding hard through the ebon
forest.  Unfortunately, several slowed a step to form a judgment on what new
enemy force they had stumbled upon.  When they realized they could only see a
lone man, they advanced on Marik.  In all likelihood, he mused in a detached
way, they believed him a lookout sentry and wanted to silence him before he
could fetch reinforcements.

Strength flowed through every infinitesimal channel
within his muscles.  He lifted the sword with no edge, his custom blade’s steel
wedge winking in the intermittent moonlight.

Marik swung hard from the side.  The blow caught the
first enemy in the ribs.  He could feel the unique Arronathian leather
succumbing to the power in the strike.  Bones shattered when the soldier was
flung to Marik’s left, the man’s scream containing more startlement than pain.

A reverse stroke brought the sword back to Marik’s
right in time to take down the next Arronath.  It caught the shoulder guard,
but the black steel offered only as much resistance as the leather.  The
sword’s wedge cracked the armor like a hazelnut.  Pieces were thrown when the
second enemy spun away feet over head, his collarbone and shoulder blade
destroyed.

Black soldiers were defeated as quickly as they ran at
him.  Marik’s sword swung back and forth, breaking armor, swords, bodies with
the simple ease of a wheat farmer walking through his fields, scythe in
constant motion.  He fought strawmen brandishing brittle twigs, tossing them
aside easily.

Marik’s curiosity drove him to deliberately assault
the best armored areas on his enemies.  A hard blow to a helm opened a ragged
tear in the steel, bending the head sideways without effort until an audible
snap announced a broken neck.  The odd elbow plates were twisted into scrap,
arms at unnatural angles after the bones were pulverized.

Nine Arronaths lay close to Marik, six others further
away where they had come to lay after raining down on their fleeing
shieldmates.  He remained standing in place, seeking no conflicts except those
that came to him.  The latter black soldiers who came upon the scene chose to
run past after nervous glances.  They could read enough from the tableau not to
challenge him.

The last Arronath dissolved into the darkness.  Only
those littering the forest floor remained.  None had broken through Marik’s
one-man defense to reach the top officers and messengers sheltered within the
oak tree.  If they had seen the others at all.  Had Marik been slightly quicker
to enter the hideaway, the Arronaths probably never would have noticed the men
waiting for them to pass.

Gibbon’s expression was hard to read when the man
emerged, leaves sticking from his hair.  He looked like a man trying his best
to remain sour in the wake of having his patron god stop by to ask directions
to the nearest tobacco seller.

Torrance spared no glance for the bodies.  He
immediately lifted his Glasses to his eyes again.  “It would seem the
retreating force split to both northern corners.  The soldiers must have made
mad dashes to whichever avenue of escape was closest.”

“I don’t want them to regroup,” Marik said at
Torrance’s shoulder after a fast overhead flight through the etheric.

“Small forces can turn the tables when you least
expect it if you chase after them through the dark.  Too many assaults to
number have failed because their commanders hoped to garner a complete victory,
rather than being satisfied with the victory at hand.”

“But we have an advantage,” Marik smiled back.  “Our
forces are already organized.  They’ve always been arranged in small,
ready-for-action squads.  Yoseph!  You go to Lieutenant Cavell.  Tell him to
take half of Classent’s archers and follow after the northwest group with Atthi’s
squad.  Stay with them.  Use your magesight to guide them through the night. 
I’ll go with Devry and Molem after the northeast.”

“Don’t overexert your reach,” Torrance warned.

“I won’t.  You’re in charge, commander.  Sweep the
town to make sure there aren’t any lurkers there.  We’ll make sure this
position is completely cleared out tomorrow before we start working our way
south along the mountains through the rest of them.”

*        *        *        *        *

Xenos slid the scrying ring under the scanty pillow on
his bed.  “You may enter.”

The door opened.  One of the command room’s women
scryers rushed in, excitement radiating from her.  “Our messenger finally
reached Colonel Mendell’s base camp with the new anchor!  We’ve received a
report from the colonel personally!”

“Excellent.”  Xenos rose.  He walked at a sedate pace
with her through the narrow tunnels.  “I expect you finally have reliable
information on happenings across the mountains.”

“Yes, sir.  The colonel reports that he has been
attempting to secure a firm grip over the lands that were initially
confiscated.  He has lacked the manpower to expand his holdings.  Over the last
few days, the local government seems to have begun a concentrated effort to
fight back.”

He nodded, listening as she explained details already
familiar to him, careful to keep his expression from reflecting his
foreknowledge.

“From where I stand,” he replied when they reached the
command room, “it seems the Galemarans have deployed their army to uproot
Colonel Mendell’s infrastructure.  Three holding forces attacked in the last
five days.  Do you estimate the Galemarans have begun to bring all the strength
they have to bear?”

“That is unclear, sir,” the woman answered.  “We
haven’t been able to determine anywhere near the amount of hard facts about
Galemar’s current dispositions as we wanted to.”

Xenos glanced at the plotting board.  Its maps and
charts acquired from Kallied showed their current position.  “A blessing of
timing, would you not say?”

“Sir?”

“Send messages to the colonel immediately.  He is to
form the strongest strike force he can and have them ready to fight here.” 
Xenos tapped a finger to the map.  “The Citadel will soon reach the
northernmost peeks of the Stoneseams range.  At that time, we will join battle
to put an end to any opposition the Galemarans have the ability to muster, once
and for all time.”

He turned his back on the people.  His final word sent
them scurrying.

Yes.  A grand battle.  How very suitable.  The turmoil
that would be wrought…  There would be vast battlefields soaked in blood,
littered with flesh that had once been part of a unique whole.  On the surface.

Underneath, saturating the insubstantial soil
reflected into the plains of energy, would be an abundance of pure life force. 
Not so much per body as he could have harvested in ideal conditions, yet a
slippery sea waiting to join the divine powers within him.  A perfect
replenishment that would refill his reserves and beyond.  Such a battle would
make available to him power in quantities never known before.

He would walk into the Rovasii a towering pillar upon
which the world would tremble, strengthened to a level a hundred sacred
services could not push him to, prepared at last to break through the barriers
that would restore his god to his former power and ruthless glory.

Marik chucked the small silver mirror hard into his
pack.  His hopes rose momentarily…but no sounds of shattering glass reached his
ears.

“It is not to say we never expected this,” Torrance
observed.

The younger mercenary threw an annoyed glare at his
commander.  “How by Vernilock’s left hand do you always manage to look so
damned calm?  I’ve never seen you bat an eye, even at the Cracked Plateau when
the nobles assumed they could throw us into the meat grinder before risking any
of their own men.”

“That is one of the most valuable lessons I picked up
from the previous commander, while he was teaching me what I needed to know in
order to carry the job after he retired.  Shock, as well as awe, is a waste of
mental energy.  Simply accept whatever the world hurls at you, all the while
expecting the pips on the dice to read double-ones, or the backside of the coin
to land facing up at you.”

“You can say that right enough, but I haven’t been
able to control my reactions the way you do.”  Marik finished tying his pack
before slinging it over one shoulder.  “Guess that means I’m a lost cause.”

“I never claimed I mastered it overnight,” Torrance
said with a smile.  “You’ve done well at the rest of the job so far.”

“Yeah.  And now the whole deal is going to be put to
the test.  Isn’t it?”

He ran into Gibbon, who had tossed back the command
tent’s flap and jumped in before his eyes adjusted to the dim.  “Dispatches
from the main body,” the lieutenant snapped.  His tone had lost most of its waspish
poison, yet retained all of its curt impatience.

“I just finished a conversation with the royal
enclave’s chief mage,” Marik returned.  “She’s passed on the important
information we need.”

Gibbon’s brow lowered.  He still loathed having a
magic user placed over him, especially without being told by his superiors. 
“There is more to leading an army than what the
enclave
thinks is
strictly important!”

“You had best read them,” Torrance agreed.  “Details
often are forgotten when communicating in person.  Or perhaps I should say,
face-to-face.”

Marik reluctantly took the papers Gibbon pressed to
his chest.  “Lieutenant, we are still moving out tomorrow morning, but back
north to Drakesfield.”

“Why?  What has happened?”

“Commander Torrance will explain,” Marik told him, and
ducked outside to escape Gibbon’s inquiries.

He left his recognizable sword in the tent, carrying
only his regular blade from Sennet’s armory.  In his ordinary clothing and
well-used chainmail, walking through the camp drew only scant attention.  Not
many knew him on sight.  At the moment, without Gibbon at his elbow, he was
only one simple mercenary among a deck half-filled with them.

The tent had been growing confining.  Other than
Torrance and Gibbon, he had hardly spoken ten words to anyone since adding the
free bands to queue.

Marik navigated the camp with ease.  The Stoneseams
rose in the distance to his right, their sheer walls abrupt as ever.  Summer
heat had yet to grip the land.  Mid-spring breezes cooled his neck while he
walked.

He finally found the Ninth Squad.  They had claimed
the shade beside a beech copse.  Most were passing the time gambling with dice
or trident, the few with pretensions toward sophistication pulling out their
cards.  Conversations muted when the men noticed him.  Units One through Three
stared at him as if looking upon a stranger.

Fourth Unit, naturally, had sprawled out at the tree
line, forcing him to endure the rolling silence until he had crossed the entire
distance.  He found Dietrik talking to Arvallar, the pair watching Wyman
thumb-wrestle with Cork and Churt simultaneously.  Somewhere along the way,
probably in Thoenar, Arvallar had found a replacement rapier, though with a far
less impressive hilt than his previous.  It clashed with his carefully selected
outfit.

“Mate,” Dietrik greeted him.  “Slow day, is it?”

“Only in a manner of speaking.  I’ve spent entire days
lately where I’ve been moving nonstop and dealing with issues left and right,
but at the end of the day I can’t name a single accomplishment.”

“Oh, accomplishments are easy to collect,” Dietrik
countered.  “It’s taking steps toward your goals that are hardest to achieve.”

“That sounds about right.  Feel like taking a walk?” 
Marik felt uneasy.  Since reaching Dietrik, the number of people stopping what
they were doing to watch him had increased.  Cork maintained his focus on
capturing Wyman’s thumb.  The quieter mercenary avoided Cork’s efforts lazily
while locking his eye on Marik.  Churt had abandoned the contest following
Wyman’s cue.

Dietrik left with him to meander along the copse,
leaving the camp further behind them until they found a nice spot filled with
cool shade.  The rising heat had sent the grasses and weeds in a race for the
clouds.  When Marik sank onto a clover patch under a tree, swaying walls formed
from thousands of light green stalks enclosed them.  Privacy in the wildlands.

“You look worn,” Dietrik observed.

“I feel worn.  I don’t much enjoy being the leader
with the responsibility for this fiasco.”

“In all honesty, you have been effective at it so
far.”

“Have I?  I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been
lucky.”

Dietrik squatted on his ankles.  His lips pursed in
mild annoyance.  “I see we’ve come back to this place.  Mate, it seems as long
as I’ve known you, you enjoy wallowing in a pool of self-doubt and woe.”

“This isn’t the same!  Experienced leaders could have
managed each of our battles better than I’ve done.  I know that much. 
Something always goes wrong no matter how carefully I plan it out with
Torrance.”

“So what?  Torrance is as experienced a fighting lad
as you can find in the entire kingdom.  Stop persisting in selling yourself
short.  We have hardly lost anyone in our various victories in the last
eightday.  All of us are enjoying being under a leader who doesn’t simply
bellow ‘charge’, and then expect glorious victories.”

“I don’t feel like me.”  Marik pulled a grass stalk. 
He picked the feathery seeds off one at a time.  “I’ve hardly seen anyone
except Torrance and Gibbon since we left Thoenar, have only talked to them, the
other band leaders and the odd messenger.”

“What did you expect?  When you move up in the ranks,
you can’t pass your days the way you used to.”

“Do you think I have?  Moved up I mean?  Once this is
over, Raymond won’t have any use for me.  I’ll go back to being a Ninth Squad
merc like before.”

“You ought to be smarter than that by now,” Dietrik
admonished.  “So far you have proven you
can
think around corners.  You
can
predict battle patterns…oh, up to a certain point, I agree,” he added when
Marik started objecting.  “No person alive or dead could foresee a war from
beginning to end.  Your decisions have been smart for a rookie commander.  I’d
say that when this war is over, Torrance will pick you the next time a
sergeant’s position comes onto the board.  Or perhaps he will skip you straight
to a squad lieutenant.”

“No one gets a high position in the Kings without
working their way up from the bottom.”

“Admittedly.  But then no King has ever been charged
with leading a campaign by the crown, has he?”

“I don’t see any point in thinking about it at the
moment,” Marik said.  “That depends on how many of us survive the summer.”

“Relax and enjoy life’s little pleasant moments,
then,” Dietrik allowed.  He dropped off his heals to sit in the clover as
well.  “You do look as though you need an afternoon off, mate.  A bit pale and
drawn.  What are you carrying there?  If it’s work, my advice is to put it off
until this evening.”

“Nothing important.”  Marik tossed the dispatches at
Dietrik.  They caught the air and fanned out, a dandelion releasing its pods on
the wind.  “You take a look if you’re interested in the manure an army leader
has to wade through.”

“If I held any true interest in such, I never would
have resigned my position in the ranks.”  Dietrik plucked scattered pages from
the ground nearest him.

Marik mulled his friend’s words while they sat in
silence.  Whatever he said, Marik had never considered himself a ‘broody’ type,
nor one who enjoyed fishing for sympathy.  Dietrik’s opinion on Marik’s likely
future startled him.  Every day since Raymond had shocked him by appointing him
the leader of the western efforts, he had only fallen asleep at night because
he lulled his unease with the knowledge that soon he would be returning to his
home in the Ninth Squad.

It had never occurred to him that Torrance would keep
him in an officer’s role.  Would he be forced to lead a different squad?  The
thought of leaving his friends in the Ninth soured his stomach.

But Torrance would surely pull the same dirty tricks
as he had before if he was so inclined.  It would become a choice of doing
Torrance’s will or leaving the band entirely.

At least there were other options to choose from this
time.  Kerwin would gladly accept him as a peacekeeper at his inn.  It would be
a paying job, though how much coin he earned interested him little.  No other
job would appeal to him a quarter as much since working for Kerwin meant
working side-by-side with Ilona while she ran the Standing Spell’s new
location.

And, come to think of it, Ilona would want to employ a
peacekeeper or two, wouldn’t she?  Men she could count on to be present when
she needed a strong arm to manage a recalcitrant patron, men strictly on her
own payroll who would not be dividing their attention between the top floor and
Kerwin’s gambling paradise downstairs.  Working for her might be the smarter
choice than glaring at drunks throwing their coin into Kerwin’s bulging pouches
all night long.

Or perhaps not.  By her nature, she abhorred mixing
business with pleasure.  She would make her employees, the men at any rate,
earn every copper of their pay, driving them hard as a demonic taskmaster.  The
minor fact that Marik and she were in a deeper relationship than mere
employer/employee would make no difference during the candlemarks they both
worked.  He would receive no leniency from Ilona.

“What chaps in a right state of mind care about
enforcing a policy that every official uniform must have brass buttons?  We
happen to be in a state of war!  Do you care if your men replace their brass
with wooden buttons?”

“No.  If they can pawn them for a few extra coppers,
then I say let them enjoy a decent meal or two before their inexperience gets
them killed.  As long as their clothes don’t interfere with their movements in
a fight, they could wear rags for all of me.”

Dietrik folded the paper into a thick square and flung
it away.  It skimmed over the grass seedpods until it tumbled into the
concealing springtime.

Marik’s mind wandered back to his musings.  He had
listened to countless tales, ballads and histories in Puarri’s Tavern during
his youthful years, no few of which dealt with the most unstable emotion in the
whole lot.  Love.  Those had never been his favorites.  Long before brushing
Tattersfield from his boots he had reached the conclusion that he was too smart
to fall prey to it.

Love, as he had always known it, hardly qualified as a
spider’s web waiting to hopelessly ensnare him.  His love for his mother had
prompted him to endless effort from dawn to dusk, praying that the meager coins
he earned might finally purchase the correct medicine to cure her ailment.  It
had been painful, and he had never once questioned that he
would
labor
to whatever extremes were necessary.  But it also had never felt as if entire
worlds were balanced on a precarious dagger’s tip, salvation or destruction
poised to escape their cages depending on a single word.

That was how it always seemed to be described by the
minstrels.  The suggestion that a woman’s presence alone could unhinge his mind
was laughable.

Or had been.

And yet his relationship with Ilona hardly fit any of
the traditional pictures painted by the songs.  There existed, without
question, a bond between them that Marik had never believed himself capable
of.  At the same time, birds continued on their private business instead of
swooping down to serenade them when they passed.  Stars twinkled in the sky
same as ever, dazzling no one with additional brilliance.  Flowers had yet to
blossom in continuous garlands around the Standing Spell’s timbers.

The lack of surreal manifestation to announce the fact
that Marik Railson was indeed capable of a bardic emotion
felt
surreal.

Had he found a Soul Match in Ilona, or not?  He
thought about her often when he could not be with her.  It felt as if she had
always been there with him, since before he had known Dietrik.  They were
relaxed together, despite the fact that her sharpened sense of humor could draw
blood at times.  Did this casual acceptance mean their love was as deep as the songs
said it should be?  Or were they simply infatuated?

“Oh, for…  When you believe you have heard every depth
of foolishness possible, the fools rear their heads high!”