Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (32 page)

“That sounds nearly as daunting as lifting the bloody
mountain with teams of mages alone,” Tybalt growled.  “How many geomancers
would such a Citadel require, if your
ideas
are correct?”

“A lot,” Marik conceded.  “But there are two facts to
keep in mind, knight-marshal.  The first is that their kingdom is far, far larger
than any on Merinor.  They have a greater population to draw their mages from. 
The second is that geomancers alone might not be required.  Once the elemental
lord altered the nature of the mountain’s stone, the adjustments could possibly
be handled by any magic talent.  Geomancers could more easily heat the air
outside than other magic user types, yet other types
could
accomplish it
with their different methods.  Further, getting the Citadel to start moving
would require a large unit of mages, but you could rest them in shifts.  Then,
keeping it moving once it was already in motion might require far fewer than we
imagine.”

“Where is this mobile fortress at present?” Raymond
asked.

“It is still quite a distance away, moving toward the
Galemar border.  Unless it changes course it will hook around the northernmost
tip of the Stoneseams.”

“If it halts within Tullainian lands, there is little
to do about it.  I am concerned about the possibility of it continuing the
course.”

“Who knows what calamities it could bring into
Galemar,” Tybalt muttered.  “It could do anything.  We have no way to predict. 
Or to stop it.”

King Raymond glanced sideways at the knight-marshal. 
He refocused on Marik.  His earlier amusement was gone.  “Do you concur?  Is it
a weapon against which there is no defending?”

“It might be a weapon, or it might be a barracks with
wings.  But we can stop it if it tries to cross the border.”

Every eye locked on him.  The thought crossed his mind
that, days before, he would have felt pierced in a dozen places by spears to
have so many hard stares on him.

“Do not rest on your heels,” Tybalt ordered after a
brief moment.  “Dazzle us, then!”

Marik explained what he believed was the best way to
crash the Citadel.

Then they argued about it until half the night had
passed.

“I believe we have a wealth of information to
consider,” Ulecia said to close the session.  “No further progress will come
before we sort through what we have heard thus far.”

The councilors disbanded, most grumbling incoherently
in private thought.  Marik felt his shoulders sag.

And that’s the end of that
, he reflected with relief. 
The king wanted my
take on the matter; now he has it.  They waste too much time.  I’m glad I’ll
never be so caught up in intrigue and career aspirations that I’ll lose my
common sense!

A slight tap on his shoulder made him spin.  Celerity,
her gray hairs still in perfect form without a single stray strand, mentioned,
“I will discuss the particulars with you in the morning, along with Philantha,
Tru and Inora.”

“In your tower, no doubt.  Think your workroom will be
available?”

She ignored his snide comment.  “Keep yourself
available until further notice.  Any of the councilors may question you in
private if they so desire, in order to clarify their understanding of newly
reported information.”

Why did I expect anything else?

She left him standing beside the table, gazing blankly
at his display within the council table’s ring.

Xenos stepped onto the pier from the gangplank,
reentering the kingdoms of Merinor.  The dry air, even there on the water,
irritated him.  Everything irritated him.  He had been unable to hold a holy
service for two months.

His power was still magnificent, still the shining
glory of god’s blessing unto him.  Yet it had lessened due to its use during
the trip across the ocean.  Xenos, growing impatient with the goal in sight,
had forced the passage to a considerably faster pace.  A six month journey had
been reduced to two.

The ship’s geomancers were wisely comprised of his faithful. 
They explained to the captain that it was their sweat and toil that caused the
inexplicable sailing conditions, because the king desired Xenos to take command
over the subjugation campaign as early as possible.

Now he faced a journey across a kingdom parched in as
many places as not.  Xenos had always disliked Tullainia.  At least Perrisan
possessed the soul to be a proper dessert.  Tullainia, far more in keeping with
a dehydrated layer of loose dust over harder earth, never could decide what it
wanted to be.

Once he left behind the uninitiated, he could make
better time with his followers across the land and reach the Citadel.  Horses
provided far less available life energy to harvest after they had been run to
death under an induced illusion of stamina but he would take every drop he
could garner.

The ancient shields in the Rovasii would require his
full, considerable strength.  Then…

Then the Day of Glory would return.  As it had first
long ago.

*        *        *        *        *

“I feel like I’m in prison!”

Dietrik leaned down to tap at Marik’s ankle.  “No
trace of an iron bracelet that I can see, mate.”  He straightened with a grin.

If nothing else, Dietrik’s attitude had returned to
its normal state over the last eightday.  Marik considered it a mixed blessing
at the moment.  “Is there an archery mark painted on my forehead?  One I can’t
see?  Because I can’t explain it in any other way!”

“Perhaps there jolly is.  Visible only to the lovely
Lady Fate.  Though I gather a person is likely born with such rather than receiving
it as punishment for his inflated ego.”

Marik scowled mightily.  It missed Dietrik over his
shoulder, hitting three of Trask’s greener recruits in the midst of training
exercises.  They fumbled with the log they were rolling.  Their palms slipped
upward off the bark so that two tripped, smashing their chins on the solid
trunk.

“Don’t bring that up again.  All I’m asking is why
does Raymond seem so fixated with me?  It was outright odd for him recognize my
existence in the first place, let alone ask me to make suggestions about the
situation.  But now this!”

Torrance, sitting primly on a boulder that spent most
of its time being carried across the field and back, kept his stern expression
on the pair.  “I advise you to take care in what you say within the hearing of
these men.  Or within the hearing of any man.”

“Commander, I’m past caring about what the council
wants,” Marik spat.

“That is immaterial.  Men will not follow the orders
of a man who they see as less than in control.  Either over the situation at
hand or over his personal emotions.”

“I don’t accept that!”  He whirled on Dietrik.  “This
responsibility!  I refuse to accept it!  They can’t make me accept it!  I’m not
one of their soldiers that they can play with like a bloody toy!”

“It seems to me that is the very reason you landed in
this pickling vat,” Dietrik pointed out.  “You are no common soldier.  You are
a damned good mercenary who makes the minstrels sing!”

“Exactly,” Torrance declared.  “The council would as
soon send you back to your unit where they want you to stay.  King Raymond
thinks he sees more in you.  If his majesty has one solid quality as a leader,
it is spotting talent and delegating tasks to those best suited for them.”

“I am not the bloody Arm!” Marik shouted, beating his
chest with both his palms.  “I’ve danced to his fairy tune, and now I intend to
go back to the Ninth Squad where I belong.  Everyone will be happy then,
especially Tight-ass Tybalt.”

The commander of the Crimson Kings unfolded his arms. 
He placed his hands flat against the stone beside his hips.  “As long as you
are a member of my band, you are indebted to serve the crown at his command. 
It is a longstanding agreement that dates back to the band’s founding. 
Attempts to refuse service will have the seneschal bringing Chief Magistrate
Rancill into the fray.  Are you so eager to be charged with desertion or
treason?”

“You!”  Marik fumed, his temper rising like a desert
sun.  “You sound like those…those
court leeches
!  How can you stand
working with those people, let alone sounding like them?”

“I do what I must for the good of the band,” Torrance
replied coolly.  “I trust you remember that well, from previous conversations
between us.”  He stared Marik down before continuing.  “I like them no better
than you, Marik.”

“But…what?  Where’s the ‘but’ I can hear coming?”

“But they are the backbone of Galemar.  They keep this
kingdom safe and ensure that daily life for everyone is as smooth as they can
make it.”

“They don’t have the first drop of common sense about
warfare!” Marik returned heatedly.  “That model they tricked me into looking at
was
simple
!  How could any army strategist not see through it?  Even
Dietrik could have told you the answer to that!”

Dietrik moved Marik’s pointing finger away from his
chest.  “I beg your pardon?”

Marik winced.  “Sorry.  That’s not what I meant.”  He
rounded back on Torrance.  “Even
Cork
could have figured that out.  How
could a mercenary work with those people?  I keep wanting to slap them until
their brains fall into place.”

“Why do you think King Raymond is so adamant about
you?”  After a silence, he revealed, “For many of those same reasons.  Our
kingdom has been at peace for so long that the army thinkers only know what
they do for having read it out of a book.  We are desperately short on
experienced leaders capable of reading a situation.  Also remember this;
Raymond has grown from a boy within the confines of the palace.  Half of his
practices as a king follow a predetermined structure the last dozen rulers have
adhered to.  There are no choices for him to make, because they have already
been made for him by the very crown he wears.  The other half of his practices
come from knowledge gleaned from historic tales rather than hard experience.”

“That shines a lantern on several points,” Dietrik
mused.  “Some of the Arms of Galemar were found by the king during desperate
times, owing to their various achievements.  The rulers needed a man who could
pull off miracles, so they asked what miracles had been making the rounds lately.”

“I am certain that is part of his outlook,” Torrance
agreed.  “The king realizes his forces are weak, his army commander is best
suited to conventional warfare, and that his preeminent warrior is a
figurehead.”

“Oh, that’s
perfect
!  So Raymond thinks he’s
special, does he?” Marik snarled.  “He’s living in a bardic nursery tale.  He
cleverly finds an unsung hero sent by the gods to pull the crown’s fat out of
the fire!  How childish can a grown man be?”

“You can’t truly call yourself an
unsung
hero,
mate,” Dietrik corrected.

“Shut up!”  He rounded to point at Torrance.  “And I
don’t care if Royal Raymond
has
named me the commander of his western
forces!  I report to Sloan first, Fraser second, and you most of all.  And
that’s that!”

“I appreciate that you know your place within our
band, Marik, Ninth Squad, Fourth Unit.  Within our ranks that is exactly who
you are.  During the war against the Arronaths to retake and secure our lands,
I will be the top-ranked leader over my mercenary division, and also one of the
advisors to the theater commander.  Only one voice offering my knowledge and
expertise in the hope of helping craft the most effective battle plan.  I will
follow the ultimate orders to the fullest as befitting our reputation, because
the final say does not belong to me.  That last word belongs to you.”

Torrance had left his boulder to stand before Marik,
his voice and eyes growing as merciless as a headsman’s axe.

“My word—”

“Is the final word, Marik!  You had better come to
appreciate the full consequences of that.  I am not happy about this
development.  In that we are the same.  But you have been given the
responsibility.  Lives are in the balance, depending on your choices.  And
never forget that your actions, and
attitude
, reflect on the band’s reputation. 
I will not allow you to tarnish our image either through incompetence, a
refusal to accept your duty, or by insisting I make decisions so you appear as
a puppet on a master’s strings.”

The background hum of men training filled the air
between them until Dietrik quipped, “Well, that seems rather dashed to the
point.”

“It better,” Torrance said.  “You have already worked
out most of what needs to be done, which is one reason the king made his
decision contrary to Tybalt’s advice.  I suggest you begin making the rest of
the necessary preparations.”

He departed, walking across the field to find Fraser,
looking
like a leader as he did so.

Which was far beyond how Marik felt.

*        *        *        *        *

“How can you think clearly while you wave that around
nonstop?”  Ilona sat on Torrance’s boulder, today on the opposite side of the
training field.

Marik refrained from answering long enough to swing
the massive sword around in a fluid motion, bringing the tip through a stylized
circle that ended imbedded in the dirt.  His forearm rested on the blade’s
base, protruding to either side of the round grip.  “Because sword practice is
the only time I feel clearheaded, especially when I have to think about…about
this sort of thing.”

She snorted in an unfeminine manner, leaning back to
plant her palms on the stone and bask in the sun.  “The impression I have is
that you never think about your magic.”

“I never
want
to think about it,” he
corrected.  “But I have to, and more frequently than I would have guessed.”

“Is it worth the tradeoff?  You saw what having
mastery did to him.”

“That’s the problem!  I’m not certain exactly what
father does, or how he does it.  It sounds similar, except the effect is too
drastic!  Why did he have to disappear before we could talk further?”

“For the same reasons he never came home, I would
imagine.”  She reversed her posture until she leaned forward.  “He has matters
to see to that he considers important.”

“I respect that,” Marik grudgingly allowed, lifting
his custom sword to renew his training.  “But I still have so many questions.”

“Well, I have a question, and it’s one you haven’t
seemed to have asked yet.”  When she saw she had his attention, she asked, “Why
is this important?”

“What?”

Ilona sighed.  “You have too much to worry about
already.  Why are you fixed on unraveling the secrets behind your father’s
magic when you won’t be fighting in the coming battles?  You’ll be spending
your time directing soldier forces, not in fighting enemies.”

Marik shook his head.  “You can’t count on that.  We will
be outnumbered and could be overrun at any time if things go sour.  As for
father…”  He spun the sword’s grip in his fingers.  His design, as recreated by
Sennet.  Fourteen inches of handle wrapped in a flat leather strip.  A solid
steel ball pommel gave a semblance of counterbalance.  There was no actual
guard, only the flat six inch long, two inch thick stretch of the blade’s
bottom into which the round grip disappeared.  No razor’s cutting edge either,
just a wedge ending in a wicked point.  With the tip in the ground, the pommel
rested against his chin.  This sword relied on stopping an enemy before he
closed enough to make swordplay a necessary defense.

She waited a moment before her fiery impatience got
the better of her.  “Talk about it then!  Most people can’t find a solution
until they work their way through it out loud.”

“I don’t want—”  He stopped sharply, reminding himself
not to be cross with her.  She meant too much to him.  “What…what’s bothering
me is the way he avoided mentioning most of the details about his magical
talent.”

“Takes after you then,” she snidely observed.  “Or is
it the other way around?”

Marik scowled.  “From what he did say, I have to
believe that what he is doing is almost the same as me.  I figured out how to
generate this kind of strength,” he declared, lifting the massive sword with
one hand to demonstrate, “by combining his image training techniques with
Colbey’s stamina trick.  He must be using the same basic principals in order to
wield his own blade with such ease.”