Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (55 page)

“Soldiers engaged in ranged observation, ‘
scouts
’
as they are commonly known,” Tybalt’s officer quoted with venom, “shall, at all
times, be equipped accordingly for the successful accomplishment of their
duties
and
personal safety!  Had I brought with me a copy of the
charter, I would gladly produce it for you to read.  Or have a literate soldier
read it to you, at any rate.  The list of equipment necessary for a scout to
carry out his mission comprises forty-two items.  It is no surprise to us that
this mercenary general proceeded in flagrant disregard for proper procedure,
but now that this force is being run by
genuine
officers, matters
will
follow all guidelines as laid down by the charter!”

“You can’t leash the scouts on the basis of a single
item!” Torrance snapped.

“A collapsible Captain’s Glass is a primary piece of
equipment for army scouts,” came the terse answer.  “Not only is it vital to
the scout for performing his mission, but it is also key to his safety,
allowing him time to avoid enemy units while maintaining his stealth.”

“Crimson Kings scouts are capable of utilizing their
eyes.  If you refuse to ‘endanger’ your soldiers, then I will order out the men
under my command.”

“You will do nothing of the sort!  Under your band’s
agreement with the crown, you are merely an element of the Galemaran army. 
We
give the orders, not you, and I will not permit you grandstanding mercenaries
to bungle the task and attract attention!  It is high time you people learned
what discipline is.  So until the consignment of Captain’s Glasses we
requisitioned arrives, none of your so called ‘scouts’ will move a single inch
until they are absolutely compliant with charter gear, charter methods and
charter regulations!”

Torrance retaliated with a red-faced comment that
Dietrik missed since the howling wind increased its ferocity.  It forced him
sideways two steps until he adjusted his weight, leaning into the wind.  The
storm had ceased its merciless rainfall.  For the moment.  After two days of
furious deluge, he expected this was only a light breather while the tempest
collected its strength for the next bought.

Aside to his left he could see half the band’s
lieutenants waiting in the trees.  Many trunks were broken from the rampaging
boulders, tilted sideways against their brothers in haphazard lean-tos.  The
men were grim, each an identical portrait in gray.  Gray light.  Gray water
dripping in gemstone ropes around them.  Gray faces.  Gray prospects.  Were he
not so familiar with Fraser from his time as their unit’s sergeant, Dietrik
would have been unable to pick him from the lot.

The commander exited the small tent a moment later. 
Fury twisted his normally impassive features.  Torrance was a long master at
dealing with nobles who viewed mercenaries as mobile walls designed to make an
enemy expend their arrow stock, yet Tybalt had carefully selected the officers
he hoped would take charge of the western efforts.  Dietrik possessed no doubts
that these three men also carried carte blanche approval from the
knight-marshal to run the best band in the kingdom through a meat grinder if at
all possible.

Torrance stormed toward the trees in imitation of the
skies above.  Dietrik watched.  The lieutenants huddled around the commander. 
Curt words passed, followed by the dispersal of the squad leaders.  They
shuffled disconsolately away, vanishing like breaths on the wind within the
fragmented Citadel’s labyrinth.  Only Torrance remained, arms crossed, glaring
angrily into the wreckage.

Dietrik hesitated.  Less from doubt than from
conflicting desires.  He had paused initially to hear what the army major would
say to Torrance, to see how the man would treat the commander.  There had
existed the possibility that after the days of sweat and toil in the aftermath,
the officers might have gained a better appreciation for the necessity of
taking the Arronath threat more seriously than they appeared to have done so
far.

Except their bias still ruled their attitudes.  A
soldier was a soldier and a merc was a merc.  Men could change their natures
the same way water could flow uphill.  Mixing these antipathetical species of
men had never been a good idea from the start.

The major’s attack on Torrance either stemmed from his
aversion to mercenaries, or his utopian view of the military world. 
Or
both.  Chaps have never been restricted to a single delusion at a time.  That
was the strongest reason you left your old division in the first place, isn’t
that right old boy?  Common sense is, after all, not that common.  The boots
are worn more from excessive polishing rather than road miles.

He had meant to march into that tent and speak his
mind.  Direct confrontation might startle them so badly their brains would
start moving.

Torrance, standing alone in a windstorm.  It seemed an
uncomfortable omen.  Should he speak to the commander instead?  Or should he
finally tell these self-important bastards they deserved to rot in the abyss?

Dietrik swiveled his gaze between tent and man, man
and tent.  The breeze increased.  It dove down his collar, chilling his skin as
it wrested inside his clothing like a pair of pups.  A raindrop large enough to
burst in a translucent rose blossom plastered his hair to his brow.

In the end, he sidled out of the shadows in Torrance’s
direction.  After all, a merc was a merc.  It probably would not go well but he
understood Torrance.  And Torrance understood him.

“Life is full of sugars and spices as an officer
subordinate, I see.”

Torrance jerked his head around sharply.  “You had
better produce a compelling reason why you are not working the flesh from your
fingertips, Dietrik.  You’ve already crossed too many lines, both with me and
especially with the majors.”

“I learned, many years ago, that officers are much
like martyrs.  They are never happy unless they are suffering, and letting the
world know it.”

“I’ve always allowed band members leeway,” Torrance
said, unfolding his one good arm to face Dietrik fully.  “Only a fool wastes
his efforts on doomed attempts to make mercenaries tow the line without any
slack whatsoever.  But I have never hesitated to eject men from the band
either, if it proved necessary in the end.  Over the past days, your attitude
has caused increased friction between myself and the majors than likely would
have arisen on its own.”

Dietrik pursed his lips in mock worry, his eyebrows
raised theatrically.  “So it would have been sunshine and roses but for my
foibles, is that it?”

“I am hardly so dense as to have expected better,
Dietrik.”  His expression hardened.  “Nor am I mystified why you are to be
found here rather than with your squad.  I will not allow you to confront the
majors again.  If you attempt to do so, you will be drummed from the payroll
lists and your Crimson Tag stripped away.”

A laugh escaped Dietrik.  “What a tragedy, commander! 
Being forced to miss fighting in a war under officers who want us dead, and
against enemies who crawled out from the old gulf sailors’ tall tales of my
youth!”

“Has this been your intent from the start, then?  Men
are free to quit the band at any time, yet under the muster call sent by the
crown, it would then be considered desertion.  If you have turned trouble-brewer
solely to escape this war, then I will refrain from expelling you on the single
reason that keeping you in the ranks would be the greater punishment.”

“My future with the band…”  Dietrik mused in
thoughtful contemplation.  “I left army life because the daily routines never
failed to get me hacked off.  I’m not so certain about a Crimson Kings
lifestyle any longer either.  But what will never change is the value I place
upon true comrades.”

Torrance nodded.  “You can’t make the majors send a
second search party after Marik with your ranting.  If anything, it will
further sour them on the entire concept.”

“I am aware of that.  If they have not opened their
eyes yet, then they never will.  I simply walked over to inform you that a
horse will be missing from the herd in the morning.”

“What do you expect to accomplish by this?”

Dietrik returned Torrance’s measured gaze.  “What can
be accomplished by sitting on our hands?”

Several moments passed with only the wind snatching at
their clothing.  At last, the commander replied, “If he is alive, I believe he
would be best served by returning to his studies with Tollaf.”

“I will be certain to pass that advice along,
commander.”

Torrance returned to his private contemplation while
Dietrik walked into the storm’s teeth, his mind already miles to the south
along the Stoneseams’ base.

“Hurry up!”

“I can’t…I’m trying…”

Wyman reach down to grab the city mage by his collar. 
He hauled the man up with a strangling jerk and a muffled yelp.

“They’re here,” Marik hissed.  He crouched behind the
mountain scrub.  Wyman finished pulling the city mage the last two feet over
the edge, then lay flat with him.  The mage’s boots would be visible if the
Arronath patrol happened to look exactly the right way at the right time, and
if the moon broke through the clouds.

The group held a collective breath while five soldiers
in black armor marched through the pass they had only seconds before vacated. 
Their helms bobbed past level with the city mage’s quivering soles.

A moment later they were gone.  Wyman forced the man
to keep laying still until Marik drifted overhead in the etheric to ensure
their safety.  At his nod, the two men crawled to the others on hands and
scraped knees.

“Before we go back into the cursed mountains,” Marik
hissed to Caresse through darkness made nearly absolute by the thick cotton
fields blanketing out the stars, “you’re
certain
about this trail?”

“Indeed, I am,” the wizardess confirmed.  Marik could
feel Lynn’s exasperated eyes fixed on him from a point off to Caresse’s left. 
“The stone told me about it right before we crawled into the pass, so it did. 
I have been checking since we climbed up to get away from the patrol.”

“And?”

“Oh, umm…well, if we were not in the Stoneseams, we
could walk to the trail in about…four candlemarks.”

“If the going is as rough as it has been,” Wyman
interjected, “we can count on spending all of tomorrow to reach it.”

“Looks like,” Lynn agreed.  “Including the descent
once we reach the trail, if we sleep until first light, we could be out of the
mountains around tomorrow night.”

“We aren’t about to sleep right where the next patrol
might hear your snoring,” Marik ordered, taking slight satisfaction in needling
Lynn.  “Wyman, you hold onto…Caresse.  Everyone, if you don’t have a means for
seeing in the darkness, hold onto a person who does.  We’ll push on for as far
as we can until we find a spot where we can rest until dawn.”

Marik offered silent praise to Ercsilon that none
needed to clutch him.  His wounds had improved greatly over the days with his
constant inner channeling whenever they stopped moving, yet they still sent
lances of pain through his flesh if he suddenly twisted his body awkwardly. 
Getting out of these cursed mountains would be a major step toward seeing to
their recovery.  He put the pass through which the Taurs had stampeded
centuries ago to his back and slowly pushed deeper into the Stoneseams once
again.

*        *        *        *        *

For the first time in his entire memory, Dietrik
blessed the rain.  Its cold, miserable, dreary curtains concealed his presence
better than his meager scouts-man skills could.

Though he had meant to depart the camp before first
light, that had become impossible.  The herd-masters had chosen that day to
inspect each mount for any minor injuries that might have been sustained during
the apocalyptic collapse.  Sneaking off with one meant running square into
busybodies with too many questions.

The morning candlemarks seemed scarcely better. 
Apparently the herd-masters meant to make a thorough job of it, no doubt to
satisfy the iron-backed regulations of their new superior officers.  It was not
until halfway to noon that Dietrik’s patience finally wore out.

Bold as an alpha wolf, he had entered the herd in a
manner to suggest urgent business.  He pointed to the nearest mount, snapped a
question about whether it would endure under an urgent courier run and led the
horse away before the handlers could string their words together coherently. 
After obtaining gear, he rode at a gallop into the gray sheets beyond the camp
sentries.

It was his bloody luck that saw to it that a boon of
this nature would make him winter-frozen in the late spring.  Marik would owe
him more than a barking
boon
on this one!

So, where to look?  He only had the entire Stoneseams
range to search.  Marik could have found his way down at any bloody point.

Dietrik ruled out the pass near Armonsfield at once. 
Technically he already rode through contested territory.  That pass was
unquestionably enemy ground.  Marik was smart enough to climb down before going
that far, whatever effort it required.  Marching headlong into an enemy
position alone would be…well…   The lad had put a lance into that swollen head
of his.  He would not take on such odds alone any longer.

A means of entering the mountains from below would
serve as a good landmark in the search.  The Stoneseams were not noted for
them.  Very few passages into the mountains existed, let alone leading through
them.  It had always been far easier to ride north from the Southern Road and
hook around the last peak rather than traverse the sketchy route the pass led
to if one needed to enter Tullainia.  As far as he knew, the inner ranges were
as barren as any mountain could be.  No reason for anyone to go in there.

He rode shivering in the wet, his horse no less
happy.  It disliked being away from its fellows where it could huddle with them
for warmth.  Dietrik kept a firm hand on the reins and a heel in its ribs when
it slowed or showed inclinations of abandoning the foolhardy quest.

Along the mountains’ base he rode for five
candlemarks.  Visibility was cut to roughly a hundred feet by his judgment.  He
forced his mount to hug the granite uprisings so he could examine every inch of
them as he passed, intent on finding the way up that would bring Marik back
down.

Forms were indistinct masses behind the watery veil. 
Numerous times he forced his horse to stop because the lumpish figures that
were actually bushes resembled enemy soldiers.  It might have been laughable
had they not twice actually been.

On those times, when the foreign voices cut through
the wet cacophony, Dietrik had dropped to hug his mount around its neck.  It
reduced his profile, robbed it of the distinctive silhouette, and forced his
horse’s head lower so it was less inclined to move.

The soldiers had moved on without pausing.

A fortuitous rainfall indeed.  Two and the stake to
the Lady Fate, as Kerwin would undoubtedly say.

It was mid-afternoon.  Dietrik started
re-contemplating his options.  His horse’s pace was drastically slowed by the
heavy rain, yet he would run into that bloody pass sooner or later.  The
Arronaths still held it for use in importing additional supplies and men from
Tullainia.  From the field reports it sounded as if they were still bringing the
majority of their forces through the pass.  Probably on the hope that troop
movements through the Stoneseams would be more difficult for the Galemarans to
detect than if they brought them openly across the plain.

He had snaffled extra provisions from the supply
wagons on the worst-case that he would be forced to camp alone in hostile
territory.  The horse could forage.  It would, in all likelihood, consume as
much water as it needed while eating the sodden grass.  Dietrik could risk no
fire with Arronaths about, assuming he could ever start one using drenched wood
as fuel.

But what to do on the morrow?  It was possible he had
missed a viable route up the granite face in the concealing weather.  Should he
ride back and search the mountains with greater care?  He refused to believe
for a moment that no one had survived whatever devastation had smashed the
overlook.  Someone could have easily survived but been unable to reach the game
trail down.  Dietrik had seen a matching pathway exiting the far side of the treacherous
funnel.  Survivors
could
have fled into the mountains.

He felt the dilemma clutching him.  Marik had survived
twice before.  Survived damage ghastly enough that it made him wonder which
deity held his friend in such high esteem.  It was unthinkable that death could
have claimed him in a situation where a clear escape route beckoned.

Dietrik would stay out, searching as long as the rain
held out.  And beyond, perhaps, if he could concoct a means by which he might
avoid any Arronath force on the move.  Somewhere existed a way into these
damned mountains.  If Marik had failed to come down by the time Dietrik found
it, he might be forced to climb above to carry on the search.

His thoughts repeated fiercely through the silent
universe of his mind.  They so engrossed him that he realized with a jolt that
he had not been studying the passing mountain wall for a quarter-mile.  Dietrik
shoved away his distraction angrily…finding a figure looming in murky gloom
ahead.

He reacted too quickly.  His yank on the reins jerked
the horse’s head around harshly enough that it whinnied in protest.  Dietrik
cursed and drew his rapier.

The figure in the rain remained still.  Dietrik
hesitated. 
Was
it a man standing alone, or merely a deceptively shaped
tree?  Could it, in fact, be
Marik
, frozen still because he realized a
rider bore down on him, hoping to pass unnoticed?

Dietrik cautiously nudged his mount into a slow walk. 
With every equine step, the shape gained definition about the edges.  Soon
there was no question that it was a man.  A man aware of Dietrik’s presence and
waiting patiently for him to come closer.

Shivers ran down Dietrik’s back when he came close
enough to see details.  This man…was clad in vivid crimson hues from his
flaming hair to his wine-colored boots.  Satin flashed from his coat lining
where the wind made it billow around his legs.  He did not need to see the eyes
to know the irises would be twin rubies clear as glass.

“I surmise that you have understanding in regards to
my identity,” the man clad in red greeted Dietrik.  “Yes, it is clear to me. 
The bonds of loyalty between your
kech
and that of the man Marik Railson
are evident to my eye.”

“Pardon?  My what?”  Dietrik kept his rapier firmly in
hand, making his suspicion plain in his voice over the roaring water.

The stranger smiled, and Dietrik noticed the terrible
damage for the first time.  Covering the left side of his face was a ghastly,
raw burn.  It arced in a crescent from hairline to chin, barely missing his eye
and lips.  As his horse drew closer still, the details repulsed Dietrik.

Red and black were intimately mixed throughout the
wound.  Thin, blackened skin ran like forked lighting around brilliant scarlet
patches of raw flesh.  In fact, with no traces of fresh blood, it looked like
etched leather.  Dietrik was put in mind of the gator-skin vests the Vyajionese
traders wore, the texture scaly from the swap-creatures’ hides.

The Red Man evinced no display of pain from his burned
features.  “It is my pardon that should be begged. 
Kech
is a word
without adequate translation in your tongue.  Your language contains a close
suggestion which fails to capture
kech
in its complexity.  That word
would be
soul
.”

“Some sort of soul-reader, is it?”  Dietrik kept his
face neutral.  “I might have believed that bit, except you accosted that same
friend of mine you mentioned earlier.  Why didn’t you know who he was before
you attacked?”

A smile played on the lips beneath the twisted face. 
“Simplest to see are the bonds which are freshest.  No, I do not peer into your
soul, as you mistake my meaning.  Reading
kech
is likened to a floral
fragrance.  A smell to surround that which produces it.  So too do certain
images hover within your aura.  Most clear is the face belonging to the son of
my
kkan’edom.
”

Dietrik wavered, but held his rapier firm at the
ready.  “Indeed?  Sounds like those charlatan palm-readers who make the rounds
during festival time.”

“Perhaps you require further imagery?  They are
nonsensical to my understanding, yet also within your
kech
can be seen a
long pier over water, crafted from wood planking.  The wood sways most
pronounced with the motion of each wave.  Too can be discerned an auburn woman
with lilac—”

“Enough!  You have made your point!”  Dietrik slid
shakily from the saddle.  “Stranger, I do not care for people knowing more of
me than I wish to offer.”

“Sincere apologies are then offered,” the Red Man said
with a half-bow.  “Since my unexpected encounter in Thoenar, I have made it
habit to utilize the esoteric skills of my heritage until such time as this
mission attains a conclusion.”

“That sounds like a fancy way of saying you were
caught with your breeches down.”

“Marik Railson came unto me without a warning.  An
encounter that seems neutral, where any such would usually come as a
hindrance.  Yet under the laws regulating causality, where exists a positive,
so too must there also exist a corresponding negative.”

“Well, old chap, keep your eyes peeled then, is my
advice.”  He drove his rapier home into its sheath.  “But as I understand
matters, ‘neutral’ is hardly the same as ‘positive’.”

“Such is best evaluated whilst examining events in
hindsight.  The meeting of son and father may yet turn out to be beneficial. 
If so, then it may be the harbinger of ills to come, or it may be the
counterbalance to past travails.  One must proceed with increased caution under
such uncertainty.”