Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (109 page)

That damned murderer Xenos had no such hesitations. 
He used speed to his advantage, and now he moved ahead of them once more before
they could make a seventh bid for his head.  Crossing the bleeding ocean again.

But not to dodge their pursuit this time.

Perhaps they
would
find an opening in his
defenses while he moved.  The bastard had certainly proved well fortified so
far.  Rail retrieved his custom sword from the corner, offered a quick prayer
to the gods as he always did these days, and hoped the long road might be
nearly at its end.

So ends the second volume of Marik’s and Colbey’s
adventures!

BUT……

While Colbey struggles to come to terms with his
anguish, Xenos himself pushes the relentless carnage ever closer to the secret
heart of the forest.  Only Marik and the rest of the Crimson Kings are
available to stand fast in the face of forces that would have overwhelmed even
the greatest of the Arms!

War, ferocious battle, deadly magics and chains of
duty abound in Volume Three of the Chronicles of the Crimson Kings, “Forest for
the Trees”!

Other books by Damien Lake:

World of Folcrist:

Chronicles of the Crimson Kings:

Steel and Flame

Arm of Galemar

Forest for the Trees

Masters of the Wind:

Silver in the Darkness

**Silver in the Daylight

** = In Production

Abbreviated Excerpts from “
Forest for the Trees
”,
Volume Three of
The Chronicles of the Crimson Kings:

By the time they reached Thoenar, Marik would have
gladly cut the head from each of the prisoners personally, if such were to be
their fate.  Seventeen had died in escape attempts during the march.  None had
succeeded in their bids for freedom, earning instead only tighter bonds and
heavier guard watches.

They followed a road northeast to the capitol city,
one that would bring them across the Pinedock River before they reached the
first buildings.  It was the worst part of the city, the closest to slums that
Marik knew of.  Refineries, renderers and other enterprises of fragrant aroma
were located outside the western city, which meant the western districts were
the least desirable living space to be had, especially on a windy day.

Marik was familiar with the area, having visited it
the previous summer in order to track down a group of assassins.  He expected
the company to journey to the main road which he knew led into the city proper,
except the Arm chivied his white horse off the path a few miles short.  No road
markers or side roads were visible, leaving Marik confused until he noticed a
man clad in a Galemaran soldier uniform standing beside a copse of trees. 
Clearly he had waved the kingdom’s preeminent warrior aside.

The mercenaries were exhausted.  They had been looking
forward to genuine sleeping quarters and fresh food upon arriving in the city. 
Following the Arm back into the wilderness brought forth a colorful round of
expletives.

Within a quarter-mile they discovered what had
prompted them into the trees.  They broke out of the small wood into a broad
field that held similar forested walls bordering its sides.  The field, mostly
grass and wild growth in the parts as yet untouched, contained hundreds of
tents, piles of supplies and a lookout tower constructed from whole logs.

Easily over two-thousand soldiers moved about the
camp.  To the side, in a vast cleared area, groups of men engaged in what Marik
instantly recognized were training exercises.  Shouted commands from the
column’s fore directed the prisoners to be handed over to the soldiers coming
from the camp to meet them.

Guard duty had, since the beginning, fallen on the
Crimson Kings men.  With so many prisoners, fighters from the Arm’s forces had
been required, but it was to the mercenaries that fell the duty of prodding the
captured invaders.  Only after several harsh pokes did the prisoners
reluctantly moved forward into the care of guards far better suited to the duty
than a ragged band of war dogs.

The Arm called for his men to rest while he conferred
with the leaders in this odd outpost.  With no place to go, the soldiers and
the mercenaries milled about, never mixing, until Dietrik nudged him in the
ribs.

“There’s a familiar chap, unless I’m much mistaken.”

Marik followed his friend’s gaze to see the man with
whom the Arm conversed.  It took him a moment to place the face.  “Curse me,
that’s Trask!”

As if his oath had attracted the man’s attention, he
saw the captain shift his gaze sideways in his direction.  Trask raised a
single eyebrow upon seeing Marik before returning his focus to what the Arm
said.

“What’s Trask doing here?” Marik asked Dietrik in a
lower voice.

“From the look of matters, it is a training facility. 
I went through a year in a similar place before they assigned me to my
division.”

“New soldiers, right?  Not a bad idea, but anyone they
gathered in a hurry probably wouldn’t be worth the cost of their uniforms.”

“Don’t assume anything, mate.  This looks like final
boot days, if you understand my meaning.  Remember the recruitment drive they
pushed so hard on during the tournament?  I’d wager these are a handful of the
fellows they gathered at the time willing to throw in their lots with the
army.”

Marik examined the field with a closer eye for
detail.  “That would make Trask a training instructor.”  He nodded, the idea
appealing to his sense of logic.  “An experienced field commander would be best
for training green recruits.  He can teach them what’s truly important in a
battle.  And he proved he’s a decent strategist when he led us against the
Nolier depot in the Green Reaches.”

Trask’s men finished dividing the prisoners into
smaller clusters.  At his bellowed order, they escorted the invaders to a
corner of the camp near the watch tower.

The Arm stood before his men, raising his voice barely
enough that the mercenaries to the side could also hear.  “It is well, and an
excellent march.  After all we have been through, these trainees will look to
you for examples of true Galemaran men.  This is an opportunity for you to help
your fellows in the steps that will take them toward being stalwart warriors
such as you have proven to be!”

He personally led the men into the camp.  Clearly they
would be sleeping in the wilds rather than a warm bed within the city.  Scowls
graced every mercenary face while they trudged in his wake.  Marik only made it
seven steps before a hand fell on his shoulder.

Captain Trask’s expression was the same determined
neutrality Marik remembered.  “Still trying to dodge out, eh?”

Marik faced him.  “Captain, I am certain I have no
idea what you mean by that.”

Trask shrugged.  “You’ve saved me the trouble of
coming to look for you.  As I understand it, you’ve received private orders.”

“That’s not what I would call it.”  Marik hesitated to
admit Celerity’s directive, especially considering how her orders had come to
him.  What did Trask know about it?

“I’m to tell you to report as you were ordered to. 
Which is to say, at once.”

“It’s nearly nightfall!”

“I doubt that makes a difference.  Those witchy types
in the court passed along the word that you’re supposed to do whatever you’re
supposed to do the moment you arrive.”  When Marik continued gaping at him, the
man snapped with the hard attitude the mercenary also remembered so well. 
“Whatever you are to do, I suggest you be about it!  Matters of warfare don’t
wait for you to catch up on your sleep.”

He departed abruptly to see that the prisoners were
correctly dealt with.  Marik swore.

Dietrik clasped his shoulder for a moment in
sympathy.  “You’ve handled the likes of Mistress Celerity before, mate.  And
come out none the worse for it, I should point out.”

“I don’t like this one little bit.”

“Neither would I.  But I imagine whatever they have in
mind might go for the worse if you irritate them by dallying.”

Marik handed Dietrik his pack, keeping only his
borrowed sword.  He’d had enough experience in the city’s western districts to
know walking through them unarmed would be foolish.  “You’ll probably be asleep
when I get back.”

“We won’t wait up.  Not after a march since bloody
sunrise.”

*        *        *        *        *

“Simplistic plans can be easily seen through.”

“If it’s effective because it’s simple, then it
probably would also be hard to counter,” Marik said.  “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 delivered his reports.  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 one
oversight
, your…
guess
is correct. 
That is exactly what the solution to the problem was.”

He stepped away with a gesture of his head that anyone
would understand was a command to follow.

Few enough of the hallway lamps were lit.  Walking
through palace 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.  King 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 the 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.