Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (49 page)

Rubble
was
far too modest a word, Dietrik judged.  He skirted through cottage-sized
boulders that had transformed the battlefield into a natural labyrinth.  At
times he came to dead-ends that forced him to retrace until he could either
enter a branching path or climb out of the rough semi-canyons.

Two days earlier, while the entire mess had been
hurtling from the skies above, Dietrik had believed wholeheartedly that not a
single one of them would survive.  Oddly shaped stone had hit the ground, their
bounces unpredictable.  Their uneven shapes could send them rolling off at any
angle to pulverize entire flanks without slowing.  The Arronaths were
scuppered.  What few had survived immediately fled south to join the remnants
of the in-kingdom group Gibbon’s forces had fought.

Pure chance had decided who would live and who not. 
In the calamity’s midst, a gigantic boulder had swept past, killing a Second
Unit man instantly while leaving Dietrik unscratched.  Men were scattered. 
Injured men were still being recovered from the wreckage that had maimed many,
trapped others.

Dietrik clambered over a shard pile with a tree truck
protruding up from its center.  The top half was buried under the broken rock,
leaving the snapped trunk with its several thousand jagged points to gouge his
flesh if he slipped.

Beyond the upended tree lay the small woods that the
Ninth Squad had been backed against during the battle.  Its trees had acted as
a break against which had washed the incoming stone tide.  The first hundred
yards had been transformed to splintered stumps.  Dietrik wend his way through
them to a clearing the rolling boulders had failed to reach.  In the open space
beyond the intact tree line rested a newly erected tent.

Soldiers stood an easy guard in a ring encircling the
clearing.  They were there only to give warning to the tent’s occupants should
trouble arise, or in the unlikely event disoriented enemy soldiers stumbled
from the woods.  Several eyes examined Dietrik, recognized him for one of the
mercenaries they were forced to work with and reluctantly acknowledged his
right to pass.

He located Torrance before closing half the distance
to the tent.  Dietrik changed his angle to bring him directly to the commander.

Torrance, who stood alone in the soft sunlight,
tracked his fellow band member with his gaze.  His right arm had been broken in
two places.  It had been splinted by army chirurgeons and hung in a sling. 
Bruises, deep scrapes and cuts across his entire body were bandaged heavily.  He
could wear no armor at all, especially his chainmail, for the pain it brought
him.

“Not a bloody thing,” Dietrik harshly snapped.  He was
in no mood for niceties.  “We tramped around up there like bloody mountain
goats and nearly broke our necks during the climb down!  Cork slipped and about
sent the whole cliff breaking free with us along for the ride!”

“If you could find nothing, then…that means—”

“Nothing!” Dietrik barked.  “It means nothing
whatsoever.  Lack of evidence can’t be made into a proven conclusion!”

Torrance narrowed his eyes.  “A mountain ledge
cracked, its former ground sent hundreds of feet over the cliff and no sign of
survivors…  I have trouble seeing hope in such a line of events.”

Dietrik slashed his palm through the air angrily.  “No
survivors, yes.  And no victims either!”

“You know as well as I that once we have time to sift
the rubble at the cliff’s base, we will find the remains of those who stood
above.  If we ever judge it safe enough to crawl through the rubble there. 
Miniature avalanches are still dropping debris every few candlemarks.”

“Commander!  I refuse to believe you are writing Marik
off the same way these army
leeches
are!”

Torrance pounded his fist against his leg, which
forced a pained wince from him.  “Gods damn it all, Dietrik!  I have to
realistically look at the facts on hand!  The wounded are suffering from
injuries as bad as those at the end of the Nolier war.  There are still unknown
numbers of enemy forces at large on kingdom soil.  We cannot afford to fall behind,
to leave ourselves open to a finishing stroke.  That is my final word on the
matter.”

In another time, Dietrik would have accepted the
decision as final indeed.  Yet he had been through much in the last two
seasons.  Face-to-face with Taurs, questioning his place in the band, forced to
look his own mortality in the eye…  There had been little to laugh at in recent
months.  Were it not for the deep bond of friendship he felt with Marik, he
would undoubtedly have left to seek fortunes elsewhere after that first hellish
encounter in the Stoneseams pass.

“I am surprised at you.”  Dietrik stood straight, his
spine iron-rod stiff.  Challenging the band’s commander.  “I expect as much
from military officers, but I thought you walked about with your eyes open.”

Torrance’s expression hardened.  “Take care, Dietrik. 
My patience is short enough as is.”

“Will you seriously leave him and the others out
there?  Stranded without provisions?”

“I have no pr—”

“You do not need
proof
!  All you need is the
faith that your men are alive!  This is hardly a green recruit still dripping
from the ears.  It is bloody
Marik
up there!  You’ve watched him from
his first year in the band.  You know he is a survivor.”

“It hardly matters what I know!  All that matters is
what I can show them!”  The commander gestured violently to the tent with his
free hand, wincing anew as he did so.

“That was a battle up there.  No one below could spare
the time to observe it, but there was time after the first blow was cast.” 
Dietrik folded his arms to glare back at Torrance harder than the commander did
so at him.  His place in the band was of no concern to him any longer.  “And it
is no precarious perch without exits.  Any number of the mage corps could have
fled into the deeper mountains.”

Torrance stared over Dietrik’s shoulder.  “From where
we stand the only visible sign that the overlook ever existed is a small patch
of grass at the top of the funnel.  That is what those men are seeing when they
look on the cliff face.  If you cannot bring me physical evidence that anyone
escaped, then I have nothing in my arsenal to change their minds.”

“Then
I’ll
bloody well tell them so!”

“Dietrik!”

He ignored the commander as he marched with purpose to
the tent.  Heat burned on the skin under his collar.  At this point, he cared
little for the consequences.  Only wanted to have his say.

A flap had been tied back to allow light into the
tent.  Dietrik walked in without slowing.

“Yes?  What is it?  Who are you?”

The question came from one of the three new arrivals. 
Gibbon stood at attention on the command table’s left side, making the small
interior crowded with four occupants.

Dietrik ignored the inquiry.  “Which one of you chaps
wanted to know about the crown-general and his mages?”

“All of us,” answered a second new arrival.  “Have you
brought a report from the search party?  It certainly took them long enough!”

“Long enough that they better have news,” took up the
third.  “I hope you found their bodies.”

Just like the bloody army he had come to despise
during his time as a soldier, Dietrik thought.  If a man answered with his
rank, he was junior and thus to be disregarded.  If he ignored the question, he
was to be treated as a peer or a respected senior.

Except mercenaries were a gray area.  Most officers
disdained free swords, yet wanted them to remain long enough to take the major
damage from the first assaults.  It was a fine line of respect and arrogance.

“If you wish proof of the crown-general’s death, then
I am here to disappoint you.”  His words were stiff with annoyance.

Two of the new arrivals raised their eyebrows.  The
last twisted his features to reflect his exasperation.  “What I wish for is
solid information that I can send to the knight-marshal,
mercenary
.  He
can’t plan effective strategies for Galemar’s military without knowing what
there is to work with.”

“Then be glad he won’t be bothered with it.  King
Raymond appointed Marik Railson as his crown-general over the western forces. 
When he returns, he will
inform
you of your duty schedule toward those
efforts.”

“When he returns,” the first repeated.  “Are we to
take it that your search team has found the man?”  He sounded ill-pleased.

“They will soon,” Dietrik retorted.  “The
crown-general has survived worse than this before.”

“I am not wasting my time on baseless conclusions!”
the second stormed.  “A man can survive a war and still fall to a cutpurse’s
knife!  Have your men found any bodies yet or haven’t they?”

“We found no traces of anything, flesh or cloth or
otherwise.  Which we believe is suggestive that the crown-general and his mages
must have esca—”

“Then he’s buried under a hundred tons of rock,” the
first emphasized with satisfaction.  He nodded at the others, pleased.  “He’s
left us a right mess to clean up, so we had best get started immediately.”

“First order is to get all our men pulled back to a
secure staging ground,” the third picked up.

“Wait a bloody moment,” Dietrik shouted.  “We need to
send a search party south along the mountains!  The survivors could come out
anywhere once they’ve found a new path down.  And those areas are re-occupied
by black soldiers!  The search party will need a sizable escort.”

All three men gazed at him coldly.  These three
officers Tybalt had set to secretly dog Marik’s tracks.  They had arrived the day
before, brandishing orders from the knight-marshal granting them the power to
assume command should ‘the crown-appointed leader prove incapable of carrying
out his duties’.  No one had known they were there, watching the successes or
failures of Marik’s command, and Dietrik wondered if they did, in truth, have
the authority to overrule Raymond’s wishes.  Did the king know his
knight-marshal had ordered men to skulk along in Marik’s footsteps?

Whether they were in the right or not, they had seized
upon the fiasco of the Citadel’s crash to sweep down and steal the
crown-general’s hat.  Their first decision had been immediate, relegating
Torrance to a powerless limbo while keeping Gibbon as a top officer.  Gibbon’s
accomplishments against the southern reinforcements were touted while Torrance,
as leader of the forces castrated by the stone rainfall, was treated like a
pariah.

“This man, your fellow
mercenary
who wormed his
way into the king’s confidences,” replied one with a derisive sneer in his
tone, “should count himself lucky if he’s being judged in the afterlife at this
moment!  He went and made a pig’s ear of everything.  It is no surprise why
your six fellow bands of cutthroats deserted the instant the stone stopped
falling, not that I would have placed much faith in their reliability in the
first place.  The number of wounded soldiers is still on the rise.  We haven’t
even located entire flanks yet!”

“Not to mention the acres of potential farmland which
have been destroyed,” the third added as an afterthought.  “When Drakesfield is
eventually rebuilt, those fields would have been crucial for providing needed
income for the restoration.”

Dietrik laughed once to show what he thought of such a
flimsy effort to cast additional blame on Marik.  Once he succeeded in igniting
annoyed fury in that one’s eyes, he pointed out, “Need I remind that King
Raymond
wanted
us to bring down the Cita—”

“This entire battle was severely botched!” overrode
the second officer.  “Poorer planning I can’t ever remember seeing!”

“Yes, what leader sets his troops directly under a
target like this that he intends to make crash?” continued the first.

“It wasn’t standing bloody still during th—”

“If you come across your
shining
crown-general,” the third said forcefully, “I suggest you advise him to flee to
a different kingdom.  He stands condemned for gross negligence at the very
least if it turns out that he did survive.”

Dietrik stared resentfully at these army monkeys. 
Before him, clear as the broiling skies above, was Tybalt’s hand.  The
knight-marshal had no power to overturn his king’s decisions.  Instead, he had
waited for the right circumstances to declare battlefield command.

Things were in a right state.  Dietrik had faith in
Marik’s cleverness yet these elitists would take his achievements and use them
as an extra knot in the noose they meant to put around his throat.

He spun on one heal, leaving them to fume in their
canvas room.  Outside, he found that Torrance remained in the same spot as
before.  The commander existed in a meaningless void, all right. 
Responsibility without authority.  Culpability without the right to make
decisions.  If
he
were the band’s commander, Dietrik reflected sourly,
this would be the point at which he would collect what remained of the Kings
and hike on out.