Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (44 page)

He continued to call instructions to them, many so
obvious he knew he would have been annoyed were he in their positions.  Despite
that, he could not stop.  Better to state the obvious than rely on everyone’s
common sense, which, past experience suggested, was a sense that wasn’t all
that common in the first place.

“But remember
not
to try attacking the Citadel
outright!” he finished a half-mark later.  “This is a cause-and-effect
operation!  We still don’t know what sort of magical protections it has, and it
stands to reason that they would put strong defenses in place on such a
valuable asset.  I’ve learned from my own battles that attacking an enemy magic
user indirectly can sometimes negate any protections he has against direct
attacks.”

Marik waited for questions.  Surprisingly, there were
none.  To judge by their expressions, they were deep in contemplation of what
they were being asked to do.

The light was already sinking to a golden haze.  They
could ask whatever questions they thought of after they reached the overlook. 
Marik pushed them harder, his legs feeling leaden from the vertical climb along
a narrow path that changed direction every forty feet like a floating ribbon
twisting in the wind.

He prayed that he knew what he was doing.

*        *        *        *        *

Climbing a goat path through the mountains in the
damnable dark of night had rapidly become Dellen’s new least favorite
activity.  It beat the mother-loving briar patch by a long mile!

A scrambling sound preceded the noises of a man
fighting to prevent a fall off the rocky razorback.  “A blooming pox on all of
it!” cursed Tallior from ahead.

“It ain’t broken, is it?” sneered Veji.  “Then quit
your caterwauling and keep moving.”

“Are you lot trying to give away the barn?” Beld
demanded from his lead position.  “If any of your belly-bitching catches their
notice, I’ll make sure you go down the mountain the quick way!  Glue your lips
together and walk!”

Dellen’s slow approach brought him to Tallior’s
position a moment later.  Faint grumbles drifted to Dellen’s ear until the
city-boy realized he’d been caught up.  He sat on the loose stone beside the
path nursing a twisted ankle while the larger man passed.

That whore-moaning had been all too common in the last
eightdays.  It left Dellen wondering if the cutthroat really did believe him
and his friends were dumb as river stones.  Every day since Beld had forced him
to stop running around like a village halfwit, the man had been muttering,
brooding, rebellious and incensed.  Especially whenever Dellen told him what
was good for him.

The ungrateful thug no doubt wanted to backstab them
once this business was over with.  Here Beld had been struggling a good long
while to give Tallior what his bossman wanted, and the idiot was sulky because
his own silver-assed scurrying about had failed so badly.  Probably wanted to
shove a knife in Beld’s back just for that if he hadn’t been planning to from
the start.  They would have chucked him into the rubbish midden months ago if he
had only coughed up the coin in advance he promised would be their reward for
helping bury the mage.

He could mutter as hot as he liked while rocks rolled
down the steep side behind him.  Dellen had his make.  Beld had warned him
about it when they first started out from Thoenar.  Even had he not, the man
was stupid enough that his mutterings would have given him away before long.

If he showed no coins the moment they finally gave
that mage what he had coming, then the smart move would be to send Tallior along
after.  His witch-rings could be sold for a fair bit if they found buyers as
gullible as the cutthroat.  Might be the best course in any event.  Any green
fighter worth his budding calluses could tell you that it’s smarter to kill an
enemy before he can try killing you first.  Putting up a
defense
,
waiting
for an attack…only a fool would think that was clever fighting.

Beld stopped several yards further on.  “What’s the—”
Albin started to ask.

“Quiet!” Beld hissed back.  “Aren’t you listening?”

Dellen strained his ears.  It occurred to him that it
would be smart to kneel down so he would be harder to see.  His boot toes dug
through the path’s edges and sent a cascade of loose scree down both slopes.

“Bloody…Dellen, thump that blasted troublemaker before
he gives us away!”

“Uh, yeah.  Right, Beld.”  He glared hard behind him
at Tallior’s shadowy form.  Dellen listened intently, hoping for the slightest
sound from the lackey so he could pound the scheming maggot.

Tallior’s fingertips scraped across the pathway’s
surface, finding the left and right edges to the razorback.  The group’s
progress had slowed to a crawl when they had come upon this narrow deathtrap
halfway up the mountain.  Dellen could see Tallior was turning coward after his
near fall.  He chose to feel his way along until they regained safer ground.

He lashed backward with his foot.  The kick connected
squarely with Tallior’s forehead.  “Stop making so much cussed noise, ya’!”

Tallior rolled twice down the path before regaining
control.  “You filthy bottom-dweller!  I’ll break your gods damned neck for
that!  No one
sane
dares to attack me!”

Dellen raised his foot again, the motion only visible
in the darkness by a shifting of deeper silhouettes.  “That’s them mages up
there.  You want them finding you?”

He put a hand to the hilt protruding over his right
shoulder when he thought the slight motions he sensed was Tallior raising that
prissy club of his.  As if that were any right sort of weapon for a man to
carry!

Beld pushed past him before he had the chance to put
the worm in his proper place.  “I think that overlook the mages were keen on is
ahead.  Time to pass out those rings you love so much.”

Tallior swallowed his anger.  “Are you certain?  Or
guessing?  This whole idea seems sketchy to me in the first place.”

“Railson won’t never be expecting trouble here,” Beld
promised.  “Once the attack starts, he’ll be hightailing it down the mountain
to get back to the band.  He can’t stand being away from them for long.  Loves
bossing everyone around and giving orders too much.  But the mages’ll stay put,
doing what he wants them to.  That’s our perfect chance.”

“That’s a heavy load of assumptions all in one place.”

“And what do you plan to do?”  Beld’s words were
acidic.  “You’re never going to get lucky and find him out away from the band
and his army pissants.  Not without us.  Stop crying over the coin you promised
and give out your rings you been insisting on.  Time to see what the big
screaming deal is.”

“As soon as we get off this damned knife’s edge,
then.”

He shouldered past Dellen with a murderous gleam
reflecting from his slanted eyes.  Dellen smiled back with a grin he expected
would terrify a poser like Tallior.  The cutthroat inched his way further up
the path on hands and knees, slow as a caterpillar, his club clutched in one
hand like Dellen had thought.

Perhaps Tallior wasn’t quite so mule-stupid as he
usually looked, Dellen noted.  If he had forked over the small pouch with his
Nolier rings inside it there on the path, it would have been easy as rolling a
drunk to reach forward, grab one foot, and send the snotty bastard over the
side.

Except he was still making enough noise to give a
magpie a headache.  For a moment, Dellen thought he still heard the city-boy’s
scraping coming from behind.  Since no one else was climbing the mountain in
the flaming dark, it obviously meant Tallior was kicking up noise louder than
anyone with a brain could achieve on purpose.

He could hardly wait to chuck him off a cliff and out
of their worries.

*        *        *        *        *

On Tullainian soil, a broad expanse of open plains
extended from the Stoneseams’ northwestern base.  A figure stood enshrouded in
midnight’s strongest presence.

“Not a care does he possess for the lives of others. 
Be they his followers or enemies, innocent or deserving, they are as empty
concepts to his regard.”

“You can’t…say that precisely,” Rail panted.  “He
cares about them as much as…a drover cares about his cattle herd.  In the end
they’ll be…so much meat on the table.”

The Red Man redirected his gaze from its westward
contemplation to study the kneeling
kkan’edom
beside him.  “Apt in
detail it may be, yet it is a philosophy that revolts my entire being.  Such
blatant disregard for his mother species.”

“Always take what you can get, because your own
stomach growling next day…is more important than a hundred starving strangers. 
Basic human nature, Red.  Which is why you’re having a bulldog of a time coming
to terms with it.”

“Expansive is my understanding, friend.  It is why an
individual would willingly adopt a course of destruction certain to encompass
the instigator that births the quandaries in my soul.”

“Because every human walking is a black-hearted
gambler inside.”  Rail shakily stood to his feet.  “Few tyrants are destroyed
by their own power.  It’s the ‘crusaders for the light of justice’, or similar
deluded do-gooders, who always end up introducing them to bony old Death.  The
black-hearts all gamble on being able to avoid meeting their counterparts long
enough to ensure they can’t be brought down.”

“Cynicism is a trait well at home in the collective
heart of mankind.”

“I’d say that’s why the strong seem to find the Earth
God’s service so appealing,” Rail agreed, accepting Red’s assessment of him by
projecting it on humans everywhere.  “Like calls to like.”

“A theory endowed of troubling aspects,” the Red Man
replied.  His gaze returned to the gaping hole in night’s regal starscape.  The
black void where the floating Citadel blocked the sky.  “Centuries He has been
separated from those who called Him their god, yet He persists to this day,
feeble from time, famished from isolation.  Will He never be fully vanquished
as long as He finds a single heart to reside therein?”

“Figure that out after you’ve tracked down the last of
the stones,” Rail brusquely stated.  “You’re floating off to the side again! 
Stay with me long enough to make a solid decision for a change.”

“Is it the possibility that—”

“Stop it, Red!  We’ve run out of time for your
philosophizing!  It’s time to act.  To actually
do
something.”

The Red Man blinked once in the starlight.  His lips
pursed in the mild annoyance that was as far into a foul temper as Rail had
ever seen him indulge.  He opened his mouth after a moment and inhaled a great
lungful.  His tongue twitched as it tasted the air.  “Without doubt, our quarry
has entered the stronghold above.  The taint is strong.”

“So much for Xenos choosing a steady journey to keep a
low profile,” Rail accused.  “You were wrong, as usual.  He beat us here, and
now he’s up there.  Underground again, even if his hairy ass is halfway to
heaven!”

“His ancient protections he would not have,” the Red
Man mused.  “Nor his followers in legions.”

“We have no chance up there,” Rail declared.  “We
might be able to fight our way through however many soldiers are between him
and us, but what then, eh?  One mother of a counterattack, that’s what!  He’ll
put every scrap of energy he has left into the blast he sends against us this
time.  So I am
not
taking the
kkan’korsa
into that floating
grave, or flying up on your back, or on one of those pestilential flies of
theirs for that matter, or in any other way that your diseased mind comes up
with.  If you still think we can attack him in there by surprise, then you’ve
gone completely around the twist!”

“Then watching for our next opportunity seems the
steady course.”  The Red Man started walking across the empty plains.

“More bloody watching.  Try and surprise me sometime,
why don’t you?” Rail muttered.  But he followed resolutely behind.

It was destined to be a bad day.  Marik felt it
strongly when he shrugged out of his blanket which had done nothing to stop his
shivering.  The feeling persisted through a breakfast of dried fruit, and
congealed when, surrounded by his mages, they watched the floating Citadel
drift into view.

Torrance’s forces were prepared to fight, but not to
charge.  From two miles distant Marik could see town square-sized platforms
lowering black soldiers to the ground.  Taurs descended on a separate lift
packed far less densely than the soldiers’.  No doubt a territorial fight would
ensue otherwise.  Too much distance separated the two battle groups.  If
Torrance ordered a charge in hopes of attacking before the enemy solidified
ranks, his own would spread thin.  The enemy would be able to shatter the
opposition with a hammer stroke.

They had hoped to avoid this.  Neither of Marik’s
forces had the strength to stand long in a pitched battle against organized
enemies.  No earthworks or defensive walls protected them, enabling them to
concentrate heavily on offensive measures.

Commander Torrance could be relied upon to keep his
head.  What of Gibbon?  Would he shun the tactics of husbanding his men and
make a noble stand for his soldier’s honor?  All he needed to accomplish was to
stall the southern enemy reinforcements.

Eleven platforms delivered their occupants before the
Arronath ground forces increased their speed from ‘keep abreast’ to ‘advancing
the guard’.  Their Citadel had continued floating on the wind as it shuttled men
to the ground.  Only a mile now separated them from Torrance’s command.

Marik pitched the last bite of tough apricot off the
overlook.  This, the tallest peak in the Stoneseams’ northernmost reach,
afforded his group a clear view of the plains where Torrance would meet the
Arronaths.  Rises blocked them from seeing Gibbon’s ambush force.  He possessed
an advantageous position, surrounded by small woods and copses he could use to
best effect.  The plain on which Torrance waited was one of Galemar’s rare open
stretches.

“Felda, Truda, you two take the lead.  Keep your
distance from the stone and make sure everyone is working smoothly.”

The two Summer Sun women nodded with a trace of
nervousness.  He assigned them no fault for it.  They were about to attempt a
dangerous undertaking.

Marik stepped to the very edge.  Shorter peaks and
cliffs were clustered below until the mountains abruptly ended in the
flatlands.  At this height, the Citadel’s topmost crest lay two or three
hundred feet below his soles.

He would not have been able to easily reach the
Citadel with his own talent.  It floated a little beyond three miles away,
still within his four-mile range, yet at a distance to tax his control.  While
his senses could reach that far, directing a working across the vast distance
would be tricky.

Most of the investigative mages with him could not
utilize their talents beyond ordinary line-of-sight.  Felda had assured him
many times that it would not matter as long as they were part of a larger
whole.  The weaker mages would simply be feeding power to the greater working,
not directing the intricate details of it at the far end.

Managing the mix of so many different magical talents
was beyond him.  He considered it a blessing that Felda and Truda, women
capable of doing so, were available, and vowed to make a donation at the
cathedral upon their return to Thoenar.  Felda, a wizardess, would control the
mage and geomancy talents in the group.  Truda, a witch, would do likewise with
her magician and geomancy talents.  Their shared geomancy would be the link
through which all three sources of magical power would merge.

Every shred of power would be converted to geomancy
since that was the winning hand Marik was wagering on.  He could feed
additional power into the working through Felda, except he wanted to remain
free to keep an eye on the battle.  Also, in the event of magical
counterattack, he could erect shields to protect the group long enough for the
other nine magic users skilled at defense to separate and add their talents to
his in that arena.

The two Summer Suns women began bringing the rest into
the larger working one by one.  Marik could see their energies shifting in odd
ways he had never before witnessed.  Their auras seemed to be reaching out for
each other.  Truda had mentioned it would be easiest for them, as the leaders,
to stand in the center.  He could see why.  After several minutes they
resembled a wagon wheel, a central hub with numerous spokes branching away.

Marik watched the battle below while the women entered
into the next phase.  He sensed their efforts although he was unable to see
them.  Geomancy worked in planes outside the etheric as much as magecraft
worked outside the physical realm.  At times he could see the energies that
geomancy awakened in their sources, but Felda and Truda already possessed the
power they required.  Together they put it to use, and Marik could do nothing
except watch the results.

Watch…and hope.  Too many lives rested on him being as
clever as Raymond expected him to be.

*        *        *        *        *

Dietrik pulled back between Chiksan and Cork.  Several
Taurs had hit their section of the front line.  His rapier was less than
useless.  He pushed through the rear into the clear and sprinted several dozen
feet until he reached Kineta’s unit.

Her men faced the black soldiers, including First
Unit’s two archers.  He pushed his way to the front until he stood beside her,
his light sword lashing out to join the fight.

“If you can spare your bowmen,” he shouted over the
din, “our unit has run afoul of the beasts.”

Kineta’s scimitar glanced twice off the elbow-guards
on the man she fought before she penetrated the unnaturally tough leather
vest.  Her sword was unable to score deeper than two inches, far from a certain
kill, or even a crippling injury.  Still, it forced the man to yell, to clutch
the wound and retreat.

She used the brief moment to jerk her head around and
scan the frontline.  “Wilks, Rivvenge, over there,” she shouted.  The two
archers followed the direction she pointed with her bloody scimitar, which
immediately swung sideways to parry an attack from a new opponent.

Dietrik fought with rapier and dagger both.  His
position in the frontline constantly shifted when fellows at his shoulder
ducked back, nursing injuries, or needed a momentary breather from the nonstop
effort.  By the third time he rested, regaining his ordinary breathing
patterns, he had claimed two sure kills, four others wounded to various
degrees.

Through the gory melee, Fraser continuously bellowed
commands to move back, to move sideways, to duck low or to leap forward.  A
traditional battle line would see them overrun within a candlemark despite
their superior fighting abilities.  They could not afford to be caught in a
fight that set sword against sword for longer than a few strokes.  Instead they
were forced to keep moving nonstop to prevent the Arronaths from pinning them
down.

Commander Torrance oversaw the overall battle.  When
the fighting grew too thick against a certain squad, he sent an order to its
lieutenant to move his men accordingly.  This would lure the enemy into
following to areas where squads with less opposition could contribute aid.

The problem was that with additional Arronaths joining
the fight from above, most of the Galemaran squads were quickly taking on more
than they could easily handle.  Squads were spreading further away from each
other.  Orders were flying for the fringe units to curve back on the main body
lest they become cut off by the enemy.  But tightening the ranks also meant the
bloody Arronaths were gaining position on their flanks.

After a half-mark Dietrik discovered he had rejoined
the Fourth Unit through the constant reshuffling.  Chiksan’s spear kept the
enemy at bay while Churt reloaded his crossbow behind the Tullainian’s back. 
Dietrik noted that for the first time.  Where had Wyman skulked off to?  The
lad Churt never chose a partner other than the silent lone wolf.  Perhaps Wyman
had fallen in the attack…though Dietrik failed to remember seeing him earlier
during the pre-battle wait either.

Churt had exhausted his quarrel supply.  Only two
still protruded from his hip quiver.  When he expended those, the boy would be
useless.  A non-combatant in need of protection.

“Forward,” came Fraser’s shout.  “And to the right! 
Swarm the enemy!”

Dietrik could see what Fraser wanted.  Sixth Squad had
reeled in a massive catch.  Easily a hundred Arronaths with five Taurs causing
the most damage.  Ninth Squad faced only light opposition at the moment, being
a dozen or so black soldiers remaining from a large force the Tenth Squad had
helped dismember.

Trees in his peripheral vision made Dietrik twist his
head to the right in startlement.  The tactic of avoiding fatal blows, of
allowing themselves to be pushed aside rather than standing fast, had driven
them back over a mile in only a half-mark.  Their backs were suddenly to the
forest.  There could be no further retreat without the trees breaking their
lines.

Dietrik gritted his teeth when, looking over the heads
of their enemy’s forces, he could see no end in sight.  There must be close to
two-thousand Arronaths on the plains.  A small army twice their number.

Ninth Squad crashed into the enemy force’s southern
flanks.  Sixteenth Squad hit them at the same time from their north.  Dietrik
waited in the second line until a spot opened on the front.

He was uncomfortably aware of his five senses while he
stood bobbing from one foot to the other.  Sweat made his skin itch, his
undershirt scratchy where the mail pressed it hard to his flesh.  Charnel odors
assaulted his nose from the offal underfoot.  Breathing through his mouth was
worse,
tasting
the iron taint of carnage across his tongue.

Worst of all was what his ears collected.  He had
never rhapsodized on battle din as a soothing counterpart to the nature of his
soul, as other chaps did both within the Fourth Unit and without.  Dietrik
always considered it a glimpse of what awaited a sinner in the hells.  No words
had he ever found to describe it to civilians, no mental picture could he paint
to make them understand what it was to stand in the midst of a deathbattle.

Dietrik cast a glance over his shoulder while he
waited.  Marik’s mountain.  He could not see the overlook where the mages
worked their mysterious magics.

All I know is mate had better keep his back to a
wall.  No one is there to watch it for him.

Yes, Marik had a nasty habit of keeping his eyes
locked forward.  Dietrik had been forced to rescue him several times before
this.  It made him uneasy that his friend was off on his own, without him there
holding the lad’s reins.  Because if anyone was ever likely to hare off without
proper support, it was Marik Railson.  Torrance had been there to keep his eye
on Marik during the previous skirmishes.  What would happen here, in the first
major battle since the Rovasii?

A hole opened.  Dietrik stepped into it.  Talbot and
Sergeant Bindrift fought at his sides.

Dietrik’s opponent shouted nonstop while he lashed at
Dietrik with his sword.  The alien tongue was far from directed at him, he
recognized.  This Arronath’s leather vest was gray instead of black, his
shoulder displaying odd insignia that must be rank indicators.  On the opposite
shoulder on which a Galemaran officer would wear them.

So, he had found himself an officer to battle.  An
enemy leader.  Perhaps only of this small squad, or perhaps higher up the
ladder than that.

Dietrik attacked with his full speed.  Here lay a
marvelous opportunity.

The man was distracted because he wanted to yell
orders at the same time.  He caught Dietrik’s first blow with his sword.  When
Dietrik swung from the left with his dagger, the Arronath used his protruding
elbow guard to keep the weapon from reaching his neck, which was unprotected by
the iron collar most black soldiers wore.

Four times in quick succession, Dietrik lashed at his
foe.  It worked the way he wanted.  The last strike made the man lower his
sword hastily to protect his legs.  Dietrik rounded fast, whipping his rapier
up in an arc to rip out the man’s throat while his sword and elbow were held
low.

Except Talbot stumbled into his arm before the blow
could make contact.  Talbot cursed, hardly noticing Dietrik, whom he forced
sideways two steps.  He returned to fighting his own enemy while Dietrik
narrowly deflected a retaliatory strike from the officer.

Dietrik gritted his teeth and set to his fastest
series of attacks.  His rapier flew with a hummingbird’s darting speed,
striking armor often as not.  The officer stopped his calling in order to
concentrate.

After a moment, Dietrik thought he had the man.  He
had pushed the officer back several paces.  His enemy’s sword, held in both
hands, pointed away at an awkward angle.  Dietrik moved in for the kill.

Fiery pain burned through his left arm.  Flesh being
sliced apart.