Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (38 page)

“What, then?”

“I’m not sure.  Like a private army, but that doesn’t
exactly fit.  Sometimes like…well.  I don’t know.  Different.  But in a way that
appeals to me.”

A man, gaily dressed like the crier out front, stepped
into the tent’s center directly between the two massive supporting poles.  He
shouted, “Welcome!  Welcome!  I’m sure you all know what brought you in, so I
will bring out the first of the minstrels competing today!  To start off with,
I present Minstrel Oralia!”

He gestured at a thirtyish woman with eye-catching
blond hair stepping from the shadowed edges.  She bore a lute that shone as
golden as her waist-length mane.

When she reached the center beside the contest
official, he continued.  “She has composed an original creation for us today! 
She will spin the tale of Mattern Frollison, the thirty-first Arm of Galemar in
the troublesome one-hundred-and-ninth year after the Unification, during the
Tristan Rebellion!”

The audience within the canvas world silenced its last
murmurs while Oralia began strumming her creation’s opening chords.  When she
opened her mouth and started to sing, Marik spared only a moment to wonder why
she was not a fully fledged bard.  Her soprano wings swept away the audience,
banished the tent and transported them to a time long ago on a field of
battle.  Through her twining voice and delicate notes, everyone present stood
by Mattern’s side as he was called upon to head a weary, ragtag force depleted
by several previous battles against the descendants of the Tristan Warlords. 
Having rallied the people once ruled by them under their claims of legitimacy,
they sought to regain the power their forefathers had wielded before Basill
Cerella’s coming.

They felt the breeze across their faces.  They tasted
the morning dew on their tongues.  They smelled the iron tang of the blood
saturating the ground.  They heard the metallic clashing of sword on sword. 
They watched the battle.

Though vastly outnumbered, Mattern Frollison possessed
a superior mind for strategy.  Through his many ploys and chosen combat sites,
he whittled the Tristan forces down to a tattered remnant closely resembling
his own command.  When at last reinforcements could be spared by the current
Cerellan king, they joined together with Mattern to completely smash the
Tristan bloodlines for all time.

Marik blinked when the final notes faded.  He glanced
about, wondering how much time had passed since she’d begun, startled to
realize he could not say.  Everyone cheered loudly while she bowed.  If the
audience had the power they would have awarded her the rubies right then and
there.

For the first time he noticed that the front row
directly across was populated by gaily-cloaked figures, beside each of whom sat
a cased instrument.  Full bards set to judge the contestants?  Or looking for
apprentices?  They must be the latter.  What better venue with which to ferret
out undiscovered talent?

“Hold off, hold off!” called the contest official over
the noise, waving both hands theatrically.  “Let’s let the others have their
say first!  Our next minstrel, Warley, has chosen to perform ‘The Silver Arm of
Oseph Tomilson’.”

A younger man came forth from the shadows, also carrying
a lute.  He looked much less confident, the impression exacerbated by his hair,
which stuck out in every direction like a rabid berry bush.  His skill with
both his instrument and voice was less than his predecessor.  They failed to
throw his listeners into the tale the way Oralia had, unable to override and
tantalize the listener’s five senses.  This hardly meant he lacked musical
talent.  It was simply his misfortune to perform after her, making him seem
weaker by comparison.

Kerwin leaned over to speak quietly.  “Your penchant
for ballads not withstanding, I don’t think we can afford to stay until the
end.”

Marik nodded once in response.  “We can stay a little
longer, though.  Landon and Dietrik and Walsh’s common room regulars can manage
to keep a safe watch on Hilliard for a few candlemarks.”

Nodding back, Kerwin returned his attention to the
performer.  Marik did as well, but only after berating himself.  He was one to
talk, scorning the commoners for trying hard as they could to forget life’s realities
by immersing their attentions in tournament festivities.  Did he do otherwise
at this moment?

He was letting his guard slip, and knew it.  The day
before, Landon and Dietrik had left the other two in charge of Hilliard at the
inn to wander the festival.  They had all come to recognize the regulars at the
Swan’s Down, so leaving Hilliard immersed within their good cheer and friendly
encouragement and endless demands for retellings on how the race had progressed
worked as well as locking up the young man in a solitary room.  Marik had vowed
never to let his guard down until he returned his charge to Seneschal Locke’s
loving care, yet he could not seem to stop his constant vigilance from sliding
away.

Partly that could be blamed on Hilliard successfully
completing the first event safely.  Also, a new worm of doubt had crept into
his mind during the uneventful days with no fresh attacks.  Perhaps those
persistent thugs
had
only been a gang of irritated nobodies, pushed to
pursue vengeance for their friends the mercenaries had killed in self-defense. 
Then again, perhaps they
had
been sent from Spirratta, but Marik’s
terrifying mage attack had frightened them off permanently.  Word might have
spread among the knives-for-hire to the point where nobody would accept the job
of killing Hilliard.

If they were after Hilliard, then why had they
stopped hunting his blood?  Thinking about it overlong gave him a headache.

So here he sat, trying hard not to think about it,
exactly as these other men and women were trying very hard not to think about
situations in other kingdoms.  Perhaps he was not so much of an outsider as he
wished to be.

Control.  Though he’d mastered it, matters had drifted
from their expected courses.  Twenty miles south of Kallied, Colbey walked the
road’s edge, always searching ahead for the next scrub brush patch into which
he might leap at need.

Despite his extensive training from the Guardians, the
best men and women in the whole world, situations kept spinning away down
unseen side-paths, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.  His sole mission was to
gather intelligence regarding these butchers who had so ruthlessly slaughtered
his people.  Why they had done so, Colbey still had yet to discover.

Gather intelligence. 
Not
strike at them.  That
would come later.

After spying on the weirdling invaders for days, he
had succeeded in gathering a substantial amount of information.  How much good
it would do him remained to be seen.  He still lacked sufficient knowledge to
strike a fatal blow.

Having escaped Durrac immediately before the invaders
obliterated it in retaliation, Colbey had climbed atop the nearby cliffs to
watch.  Troop movements, combat strategies and battle maneuvers were carefully
observed and cataloged in his mind.  These murderers’ savage ruthlessness would
make them a difficult foe.  That was information well worth knowing.

If Colbey had known the reaction from the invaders
would be so extreme, he would have refrained from killing the robed woman until
a few days later.  Durrac had still held opportunities for further study, all
eradicated along with the town.  Colbey hoped he would not need the information
those opportunities would have provided.  His control had slipped momentarily. 
Just one moment’s slip, and it had cost him.  Hopefully his observations on the
enemy as they moved through Durrac, slaughtering every man, woman, child and
animal, would provide him with any essential facts he might require.

The beasts,
he mulled, walking while constantly surveying the land for threats. 
Without
them, they are only as any collection of outlanders.  And without the
white-robed mages, the beasts are beyond their control.  Yes, I am sure of it!

A fracture line in the enemy’s structure?  Perhaps,
yet only a surface flaw.  The roots were shallow and avoided the army’s core,
so striking that line would only cause temporary confusion.  Still, this might
be a useful element in whatever whole Colbey would construct.

I need further information.  I need to track closer to
my true prey.

He would make Kallied after nightfall.  There, his
hunt would begin in earnest.  Colbey felt certain he would find whoever led
these murderers.  Their leader.  The one who must also be the same evil beast
who’d ordered his village destroyed. 
And then my people’s souls will
finally find rest.

As soon as he thought it, his right hand slapped his
face as hard as it could. 
No!  The mission is observation!  I will not
attempt to switch to a new horse in this stream’s midst!  This, not even I can
do alone.  I’ll need that mage at the very least!

He realized he stood stock still in the dusty road. 
His breathing had grown harsh, rocking his shoulders in quick, jerking
breaths.  Colbey resumed walking and took control over his body.

Yes, the mage.  If nothing else he can serve as a
distraction, allowing me to slip close to the target.  Or perhaps he might
prove useful in the final plan.  Perhaps he can disrupt the white-robed mages.

Sweat dripped into his unblinking eyes and drew his
attention back to the world around him in time to catch hoofs beating the dry
road ahead.  Colbey vanished in a flash behind several thin birch trees
alongside the road.

He watched, one hand on his sword beneath the tinker’s
pack.  A lone horseman rode south.  Colbey peered further beyond, expecting to
see additional riders, except the man apparently rode without a patrol unit.

When he drew closer, Colbey felt the urge to jump out
and slay this stranger.  The impulse surged through him in a black tidal wave. 
His breaths shortened.  Sweat slicked his body and made his hand slip along the
hilt’s leather.  Everything except the man on horseback faded from his vision,
blurring underneath a black haze the way an advancing fog obscured the trees.

He is alone,
a mental voice whispered. 
He is obviously one of
Them. 
There are no
beasts to protect him, no robes, no soldiers.  You can be twenty miles away in
Kallied before anyone finds him.

Yes, true enough.  And better yet, this stranger might
have documents on his person.  He could be an official messenger, bearing vital
information on the soldier movements, or directions to this invading force!

Colbey stepped forward when the rider drew abreast of
his position.  The harsh years of training saved him at the last possible
moment.

His consciousness roiled in turmoil…but his body
remembered the hard-learned lessons of the forest Guardians.  Though the rider
passed through the inky midnight of Colbey’s fogged vision, the scout still
studied the man’s every aspect with a single glance.  The way this rider sat
his mount revealed to Colbey’s experienced eye the truth behind the man.

The one hand resting near the sword hilt.  The
slightly drawn up knees, ready to swing over the horse’s back to either side in
an instant.  The slight head movements as the rider kept a vigilant watch for
enemies with a casual ease that belied long experience.

This was not weak prey.

Colbey froze.  The rider’s head shifted toward his
position at Colbey’s single step.  Within the sheltering shadows, his mottled
scout’s clothing kept him concealed until the man with the eye patch and the
three-day stubble on his leathery face continued past.

Long minutes after the rider disappeared to the south,
Colbey finally moved.  His legs shook in a way he could never remember them
doing before.  He realized his arms were as unsteady when he reached for a
thick birch to steady his balance.  Bitter bile rose to his throat, threatening
to explode in a torrent while he fought to settle his stomach.

With his back to the tree, he slid to the ground,
trembling as a man in a winter storm, wondering what was happening to him.

*        *        *        *        *

Each footstep was a colossal effort.  Obeying a
hidden, deeper universal principal, his feet had come to weigh three or four
times what they should.  His chest labored, a size or two smaller than what his
lungs needed to work properly.  Breathing made them expand against his ribcage
in an uncomfortable press.  Across his shoulders, his chainmail bore down with
relentless pressure.  The forces that pulled a body downward had singled him
out for special attention.  Marik believed this was what walking to the gallows
must be like; a man exerting his all to force his legs one step further, with
his only reward for achieving the feat being the worst fate he could ever wish for.

The great burden he carried was only a single
parchment rolled into a scroll, delivered by courier before the sun had cleared
the horizon.  Celerity had not requested his presence.  She had demanded it.

His first inclination had been to skive off.  Hilliard’s
second event would take place that day after all, and Marik had been hired to
remain by his charge’s side during such vulnerable moments.  The inclination
lasted as long as it took to imagine standing before the graying woman,
earnestly attempting the excuse.

Also, given who she was, even without her mage powers
she would learn the facts if he failed to show.  Those facts were simple
enough.  Hilliard had three other capable bodyguards, especially with Dietrik
out from his sling.  The young noble was also, at this very moment, being
escorted by no less than seventeen of Walsh’s regulars.

Swan’s Down’s crowd had long since adopted Hilliard as
their personal contender.  Marik silently thought of Walsh’s common room
regulars as the ‘C-Double-R Unit’, an additional swarm of people with vested
interests in Hilliard’s safety.  Perhaps their hovering swarm would help deter
any would-be assassins, despite that none among the craftsmen and merchants
knew of the potential danger to their favorite’s life.  Marik’s presence would
be superfluous.

Celerity’s summons granted him permission to enter the
Inner Circle.  Marik trudged to the palace.  He had not wanted to avoid a
meeting this badly since Torrance made his initial offer to train under Tollaf
or find other employment.

The streets were nearly silent, which felt strangely
unnatural after the terrible din filling every nook and cranny during the last
few eightdays.  Marik had long since reached the conclusion that the actual
tournament for the Arm’s title was only an extra bit of sweetness for the
common citizens.  Except for the finale, the six events that would eventually
decide who wielded the Arm for the next three years were just additional
attractions among the hundreds everyday all month.  Thousands had watched the
horse racing, yet they only represented Thoenar’s population by a small
fraction.  Then there were all the people who had traveled from every region in
Galemar to be present…

His nerves were on edge, dreading the coming
audience.  The eerie silence made it worse.  It reminded him of their first day
in-city, running through the empty alleys without end.

Marik began stamping his feet while he walked to give
his ears sounds to listen to besides his own heartbeat.  The fact he resorted
to such childish comforts made him fume.

I am not afraid of her,
he kept repeating mentally.  The refrain had echoed
since setting out from the inn. 
Then why do I keep saying that over and
over?  If I actually wasn’t, then my mind would accept it and move on to other
issues, right?

He spit to the side.  There was a certain satisfaction
in leaving the glob on the clean paving stones.  His mind drifted dangerously
close to introspection, which was a pastime he usually avoided in favor of more
practical pursuits.

Celerity was a slap in the face.  Nothing at all like
Tollaf.  Despite the old fool’s attitude, Marik had adapted to accept him in
his own way.  Their mercenary nature was the only trait they had in common with
each other.

Perhaps, now that he thought about it, this might be
the only thing that enabled them to tolerate one another.  After his years with
the Kings Marik believed he could speak with authority on the subject.

Many people regarded mercenaries as failed soldiers. 
He would argue against that.  Having worked side-by-side with the army regulars
for an entire fighting season, he would laugh if anyone ever described the
Kings thus to his face.  Most Crimson Kings were superior fighters to the
soldiers, and not a few possessed minds well suited to battle strategies as
well.  If the true difference between them was in attitude, then what set them
apart was the mercenary’s lower tolerance for bullshit.

A soldier would accept asinine commands from
over-promoted imbeciles.  A mercenary was not so restrained, and usually
willing to put that feeling into words.

Marik supposed that adequately described Kingshome’s
population.  They were all rough men, each with an opinion about what might be
right or what would be suitable.  Men who had not earned their respect were given
none in turn.

And that, he realized, defined his relationship with
Tollaf.  That first time they met Marik’s emotions had been turbulent.  He’d
never felt easy with the idea of magic, and especially the people who used it. 
Suddenly, it was there, inside him, an unwanted guest beyond his power to toss
out into the snow.

Also, he had been deeply annoyed with Torrance but
hesitant to challenge the man.  The commander was every inch the combat
veteran, the very image Marik hoped to project one day.  His unease with magic,
his building resentment toward the commander, the sudden prospect of losing his
future as a swordsman, the sudden dread of himself, and his determination not
to fear a man simply because he commanded strange powers had all combined to
make him lash out at the only target who was neither friend nor obviously
worthy of respect; an old mage who’d come to wield Marik’s future in his
withered palm.

Tollaf’s control over him had never cowed Marik into
deferring to his fate.  Quite the opposite.  It added fuel to his building
fire.  His refusal to accept his lot had driven him to make every lesson as
difficult as possible for his new master so the old mage would be as miserable
as he.  For the first time in his life Marik wondered if he might have been
lucky to be apprenticed under the old man.  Celerity had nearly cut him in two
at the opening ceremony, and he’d barely begun his normal barrage.

For whatever reason, Tollaf had left the court’s
enclave behind to become a mercenary.  Following his previous thinking, Marik
supposed it likely that the old man nurtured an attitude incompatible with
fitting smoothly into the court routine.  His experiences with the elderly mage
certainly supported that idea.

Instead of flogging his unwilling apprentice as might
have been expected of the typical master-mage stereotype, irascible old Tollaf
returned Marik’s attitude in kind.  The man was a mercenary, so perhaps he
followed the merc way of dealing with a lousy roll of the dice by complaining
more than acting against Fate.  Lashing back with a foul attitude would be his
natural reaction.  Tollaf’s nature bore a closer resemblance to Marik’s than
the apprentice mage had ever realized. With growing wonder, Marik saw for the
first time that their constant verbal fighting was their own form of
acceptance.  It was how they dealt with the unwanted situation while at the
same time fulfilling their obligations to Torrance.