Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (8 page)

Marik stood his ground.  “Yes, sir.  But the more
complex an idea is, the less likely it is to work out the way you hoped it
would.  Especially in turbulent situations.  From what I’ve seen, simple ways
are the best, the easiest to alter in an instant, and…it might be simple, but
most times a single, well-placed blow causes worse damage than a fancy piece of
sword work that uses most of its momentum in trying to confuse an adversary.”

“Simplistic plans can be easily seen through.”

“If it’s effective because it’s simple, then it
probably would also be hard to counter.  And if it wasn’t enough, I’d come up
with a simple backup plan.  If you try to be complex just so your enemy won’t
guess what you’re planning, then you will probably outsmart yourself. 
Complexity is not my strongest point.”

Marik said the last before he considered the impact it
might have on his credibility later when he reported on the bull-creatures.  He
winced inwardly, then stiffened instinctively when the knight-marshal sharply
assaulted him with an angry glare of burning ice.

Whatever the man intended to say, he imprisoned it
behind his teeth.  Marik feared he’d insulted the man when those teeth ground
for several moments before, with strained reluctance, the knight-marshal
grunted, “Except for your
oversight
regarding the geomancer, your…
guess
is correct.  That is exactly how the battle proceeded, and what Faustus chose
to do in service to Basill Cerella.”

He stepped away with a gesture of his head that anyone
would understand was a command to follow.  Five steps toward the door, the old
soldier abruptly stopped to glance back at the recreated valley.

“You don’t know why that model was built.”

“No, sir, I don’t.”  The scowl that elicited made the
mercenary realize it had been no question, but rather a statement of fact.

“It was built on command of Faustus Hueart.  Yes,” the
man added, seeing Marik’s start of surprise, “it is that old.  Very old.  He
had it crafted to test the minds of those who would serve the Cerellas in his
stead.”

The man reminisced for a moment longer before
continuing to the door.  In the hallway, he led Marik deeper still into the
heart of the Galemaran palace.  With every step, Marik felt his mind churning.

There was no reason for the knight-marshal to have
told him that last, other than hoping to foster in the mercenary a deeper
appreciation for the history of the extraordinary model.  Yet the simple fact
of its origins unlocked connected knowledge in his mind, facts that had been
collected nearly at random as he’d parted his way through the tall-grown wheat
fields of life.

The tri-annual tournament for the Arm of Galemar, both
a title declaring the bearer to be the strongest warrior in the kingdom and an
exquisite master sword, a weapon whose quality Marik had never seen before or
since.  In recent decades the tournament was little better than a lark.  A
pleasant diversion such as Summerdawn Festival or Wintereve.  The fact that it
renewed the position of the king’s most trusted servant was only the means by
which the winner was chosen.  Indeed, the Arm had not served in any of his
supposed roles since before the oldest man’s grandfather’s days of youth.

It had not always been so.  Many times in the past,
the new Arms had needed to be as canny as Faustus Hueart had ever been,
protecting the Cerella family’s rule against rebellion and outside influence. 
Such victories against all odds had spawned any number of heroic ballads
familiar to Marik from his days spent in Puarri’s Tavern, listening to every
wandering minstrel who passed through Tattersfield.

Last summer, when he had been charged with protecting
Hilliard Garroway during the largest tournament in known history, he had
learned a fair amount regarding the Arm and the process by which the new men in
that elite knighthood were chosen.  His instructors had been Landon, with his
interest in historical bits, Hilliard too, mostly from the youth’s fiery
passion to be the ultimate instrument of justice, as well as the endless
retellings of previous Arms to be found in every corner of Tourney Town. 
Landon had provided the most salient points currently whirling through his
mind.

Since its inception, the tournament had undergone
changes.  In the beginning the participants were required to undergo trials
that challenged their minds as much as their bodies.  The trials that required
keener mental faculties had been dropped, which was one of the reasons Marik
considered the last several Arms a joke.  They were fair fighters and stunning
when resplendent in their polished armor, but as tacticians they would be hard
pressed to defeat a herd of goats in order to seize their grazing pastures.  He
knew with every fiber in his being that the current Arm would never
have
managed to run the assault against the invaders without an officer whispering
instructions worked out previously into his ear.

Faustus had been the one to create the tournament in
the first place.  He wanted to ensure that there would always be at least one
man the future Cerellan kings could rely upon if the available options looked
black.  Having forged the kingdom, he had a rooted interest in seeing that it
stayed in one piece.  This model of Thrae Valley, recreating a battle in which
he had faced forces three times greater in number than the swords under his
command, would make an adequate test.  The first Arm of Galemar had already
known that victory could be attained under those exact circumstances.  All that
remained was to see that the future candidates for his title were capable of
the same feat.

Then…the long years of peace perverted his system into
a display of flash and showmanship rather than one of accomplishment and cold
calculation.

Obviously the model, no longer used in the tournament,
still found some use or other.  Men like the knight-marshal would undoubtedly
test their ingenuity against such problems during their military studies,
refusing to pass up such a valuable potential lesson.

Even such a simple lesson as that one was
, Marik mused.  Hardly a stepping stone on the way to
whatever grandiose strategies the more brilliant tacticians would leave
behind.  Still, Marik took pride in having been able to decipher the best plan
for that situation, especially since his decisions had mostly mirrored the ones
made by such a legendary figure as the
first
Arm of Galemar.

Funny how he’d never learned the man’s name before.

It was an interesting piece of history he might never
have realized.  The seemingly random fragments of information he had used to
reconstruct it could as easily have passed him by, unnoticed.  If nothing else,
it validated Landon’s assertions that knowledge of the past could be every bit
as valuable as knowing what transpired in the present.

Yet for all its interest, it held little importance. 
The only true benefit would be that these people, who were familiar with the
types of men the diorama had been designed for, might take his warnings
seriously once they learned how well he’d performed under its quiet trial.

Few enough of the hallway lamps were lit.  Walking
through corridors where two out of every three iron-bracketed lamps were dark
lent the moment an ominous quality.  Most of the people had vanished while
Marik discussed the finer points of military strategy with the knight-marshal. 
From appearances it could have been halfway to dawn after the midnight bell.

The knight-marshal angled to a door larger than that
of the previous room, passing a group of dignified men and women who exuded a
miasma of power.  These individuals were important figures in the halls of
statehood.  Marik’s head followed them until an irritated cough from the
knight-marshal drew his attention back.  He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed
while he pointedly waited for the young mercenary to hustle.

With luck the dim lighting would hide the flush that
rose anew to his cheeks.  Marik could feel them reddening.

Brighter light illuminated the room’s interior, like
stepping from the dappled shadows of a forest into a clearing brilliant with
unfiltered sun.  It was a circular room, continuous walls without corners. 
Several doorways were set at irregular intervals.  Wood paneling had been
shunned in favor of plaster painted green and brown in Galemar’s colors.  A
table as circular as the room followed the walls in a massive ring.  Flag
stanchions flanked chairs resembling thrones on the room’s far end.

And thrones they might indeed be, Marik knew, when he
saw who else stood in the room.  Raymond Cerella possessed features that would
easily pass from the mind moments after meeting the man, if one encountered him
as a fruit seller or a clerk in the city’s counting houses, a lifetime of
strain showing on his face from keeping track of other people’s wealth.  His
wife Ulecia on the other hand…Marik’s eyes instantly recognized the streaming
locks rippling over her shoulders.  From a distance, that one feature recalled
her to his mind.

The knight-marshal made his way around the table
toward the group.  In every sizable room Marik had been in, the ceiling rose in
proportion to the floor space.  Here, the low ceiling lofted lower than the
hallway’s, creating the impression that they had entered into a hollow space
inside a coin.

Their entrance had been noticed.  Several eyes
followed their progress across the room.  Drawing closer to group of standing
figures, Marik could see Celerity, the head of Raymond’s mages and, most
shocking of all, Torrance, the commander of the Crimson Kings.  A woman
unfamiliar to Marik stood to the Raymond’s left, dressed in an austere blouse
with a collar tight enough to do a hangman proud and a matching skirt that
brushed the floor.  Also present were two men of an age where gray had begun a
hostile war against their receding hairlines, neither in any sort of uniform
though carrying the same competent air about them as the knight-marshal.

None introduced themselves.  For all they noticed
Marik, he might have been a speck of dust hovering in the air.

The two men, Raymond and the lady ceased their quiet
conversation so the king could nod at his knight-marshal when he approached. 
Marik held back near the seats several feet away.  Raymond followed his nod by
simply stating, “Tybalt.”

That must have been the knight-marshal’s name. 
Knight-Marshal Tybalt nodded back before entering into the murmured conference.

Marik felt conspicuous with that group’s eyes
constantly flicking sideways at him.  He averted his own to meet Torrance’s. 
Coming face-to-face with his commander always made him nervous.  On multiple
occasions Torrance had yanked the carpet out from under his feet, forcing him
to make choices Marik would much rather have forgone.  Not every meeting had
ended on an unpleasant note, true enough, but experience denied him peace of
mind whilst in the man’s presence.

At the moment, Torrance gazed unflinchingly at his
fellow band member.  Marik read only half of what that gaze contained, and what
he could interpret left him all the more uneasy.  Anger might not be there, yet
an emotion not far from it seethed in his eyes.  The resolute determination to
have things his way was there as well.

As for the rest…

Marik looked away, hating to be the first to break the
gaze even if to a man as worthy of respect as the commander.  His eye fell on
Celerity, standing beside Ulecia.  Unsurprising to find
that
stiletto
gaze on him.  She nodded slightly to words the queen whispered at her side, her
eyes locked on him tighter than prison shackles.

In all of it, Marik had never felt so out of place. 
He had no idea why he was there, why he had been summoned or to what purpose
his being among such august leaders might serve.  Celerity he could
understand.  The knight-marshal’s interest as well, on one level.

Raymond would have a keen interest in the threat
facing his kingdom…but would he be there to personally question a common
fighter despite the knowledge he might possess?  Would it not be likelier that
the king’s advisors or analysts would gather in the knowledge and prepare it
for the king after they had pieced together as much of the picture as they
could reconstruct?

The whispers were growing thick in the air.  Only
Torrance kept his silence.  Repeated glances at him made Marik’s legs quiver
slightly.  He had long since learned that the unknown could prove to be the
fatal factor in any battle.  This conference room felt as dangerous as any
battlefield he had been on, and lacking complete knowledge was making his
instincts flair.  Worst of all, he felt a churning in his gut that usually
accompanied his sense that life had a nasty trick in store for him.

Raymond’s group stopped their quiet talk.  Each man
and woman shifted to study the vagabond in their midst.  The knight-marshal
kept his distance, arms folded across his chest, countenance as stern as a
magistrate about to pronounce judgement over a heinous criminal.  His look was
only marginally short of hostile.

King Raymond gave a slight nod to Celerity, who
returned the gesture.  A nod at Torrance only made the commander’s head lower
an inch, eyebrows beetling, the corner of his mouth twitching.  Nods were
selling cheap today.  They passed between everyone present save Marik.  When
all the head waggling was finished, Celerity, presumably the pre-selected
spokesperson, donned a slight smile Marik had seen once before.  He barely stifled
his natural reaction to drop into a crouch and send his hand flying to his
sword hilt.