Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (61 page)

The Arronaths gained.  They had the advantage of their
torches.  Also, they could hear Marik and Dietrik crashing through the darkness
ahead.  Marik waited for the whine of arrowsong.  He could not remember seeing
any standard Arronathian soldiers carrying a bow.  Thankfully, this lot must be
continuing in that vein.

Marik ran into a tree…and his foot vanished into empty
space.  He held the branches in startled terror.  His foot stabbed wildly
about, finally finding ground behind him.  Dietrik pulled him back.

“Mate, that’s the backside!  It is a forest cliff.  We
must go along the edge!”

“Right!  Stay with me!”  He ran along a new track,
following a southerly heading.

“Marik!  Look out!”

The cry made Marik grip his sword tightly.  He darted
his gaze everywhere, searching for a threat while he continued to run.  But the
way was clear.  They could escape if they kept—

Pain exploded through Marik’s skull.  The otherworldly
colors his magesight revealed swirled in whirlpool spirals.  Bright points of
light burst across his vision, then they were alone against the darkness.  His
magesight had collapsed.  All that was left were the growing fireflies swarming
toward him.

The bright lights…and a lone figure.  A man standing
where Marik had been running.  Must have been…right in front of him the whole
time.  A man…dressed in…robes…

*        *        *        *        *

When Marik regained consciousness, his inner voice
suggested he dive back into the darkness of mental suppression.  His and
Dietrik’s hands were bound behind them with leather straps taken from the
horses’ riding gear.  The soldiers had carried them to their camp.  Both
mercenaries sat splaylegged on the ground, their backs against the log.  Marik could
feel the moss cool against his neck.

On the log, the bound Galemaran man’s head lolled
woozily.  Marik could not see how badly injured the man was from where he sat
on the ground.

The robed leader walked into view around the log. 
When he saw Marik awake, he smiled genially.  He moved to stand between Marik
and Dietrik’s feet.

“For a moment, you two startled me.  Yet I have
ascertained that you are alone.  No righteous force led by a dead Arm of
Galemar will be forthcoming this night to disrupt my plans.”

Neither mercenary replied.

“I would take you for hunters, except you lack the
accoutrements.  Neither bow nor traps do you carry, so what purpose brings you
across my path in this dark forest?  No answer?  Keep your silence as you
please, then.  I will have my answers nonetheless.”

Xenos reached a hand for Marik’s forehead.  In a
flash, the memory of the Red Man diving into his brain in Thoenar burst through
his mind’s eye.  He knew, he
knew
, this could be nothing except a
similar invasion!

In the final moment before the cold hand touched his
skin, he ruthlessly forced the memory of the Red Man away.  Instinctively he
focused on anything except the memories that related to his mage abilities. 
The mere thought of this demonic man discovering his magical talent or that his
father traveled with Xenos’ apparent enemy…

He focused on Raymond appointing him as a temporary
crown-general.  There was no time to craft a lie and have it look convincing. 
Marik concentrated on imagery of battles and sword fighting.

Xenos touched his forehead.  Behind Marik’s eyes,
images bloomed faster than roses born from lighting strikes.  Most flashed past
too quickly to recognize…except a few returned after several other images sped
past.  They lingered.  Marik had the feeling that Xenos was interested in
those.  The fight with the Arronathian mage in the battle on the Rovasii’s
fringe, armed with naught but a naked sword.

After a moment, Xenos withdrew his hand.  Marik was
exhausted.  Had he succeeded in hiding any of his memories from Xenos?  How
much had the man gleaned?

“A servant of the Cerellan king, I see.  You must be a
loyal man to pursue enemies of your liege who possess strength surpassing your
own.”

A new man parted from the soldiers to stand beside
Xenos.  “A personal agent of this land’s king?  Your grace, that could be
trouble in spades.”

“There are no Galemarans anywhere within this forest
Mendell, excepting these ones here with us.” 
Mendell?
  Marik felt a
stab of recognition at the name.  Where had he heard it before?

“Unexpected developments can be more troublesome than
a field commander at first appreciates.”

“Quite true, though there are times where such
encounters are serendipitous rather than detrimental, colonel.  It may interest
you to know this one fought directly against Harbon during his last hours in
life.”

“
This
one?”  The colonel, Mendell, weighed
Marik with a scornful appraisal.  “Were that so, there would be nothing left of
him.”

“Under ordinary circumstance,” agreed Xenos, seemingly
at ease.  “And Harbon struck him down, according to his memory.  Yet before he
could ensure his victory, Harbon was destroyed by the forces led by this
kingdom’s greatest warrior.  A very narrow escape.”

Mendell drew his spine straight.  “I would be
impressed if this were the warrior you tell of.  This man is little better than
a common swordfighter.”

“Does it please you none at all to have at your mercy
one who set himself against a fellow archbishop, Mendell?  One who, rash as it
was, made best effort to kill your brethren?”

Xenos’ voice maintained the same timber, yet a quality
Marik could never describe made it sound far colder.  Mendell whitened in the
firelight.  “Of course it pleases me, your grace!  Had I but known anyone
foolish enough to defy Harbon still lived, I would have never rested until the
heathen was brought to the light!”

“Then praise god for His generosity in allowing you
the chance,” Xenos said softly.

Mendell nervously glanced at Dietrik.  “What of that
one?  Has he any crimes to atone for?”

“Let us see.”

Xenos reached for Dietrik’s forehead.  Dietrik jerked
his head back sharply.  It bounced off the mossy log.  Marik stared helplessly,
unable to tell Dietrik to hide his thoughts as best he could.

A spark crackled violently in the air when Xenos’ hand
closed to a single inch from Dietrik’s skin.  Dietrik rapped his head harder
against the log.  Xenos snatched his hand back with a quicksilver motion.

Mendell watched in confusion equal to Marik’s.  Xenos
stared with dagger-edged intensity into Dietrik’s teary eyes for several
moments before turning that gaze on Marik.  Fiery suspicion bored into Marik.

“It would seem,” Xenos declared flatly, “that you may
have been prescient in this matter, Colonel Mendell.  There is a touch on this
one’s mind that is not to my liking in the least.  These two could be trouble
for which we have no time to deal with.  Put end to them at once.”

A curt nod from Mendell brought four soldiers
sprinting to pull the mercenaries to their unsteady feet.  Marik’s eyes widened
when he recognized the rasp of steel clearing a sheath.

“But not too quickly, colonel.  It would be a shame to
waste what god has provided.  Make certain to ripen them before their last.”

A smile Marik feared played across Mendell’s
features.  He barked in the alien language of the Arronaths, and only then did
Marik realize both men had been speaking in Galemaran the entire time.  So much
had occupied his mind that he’d never noticed.

The straps were pulled from their wrists.  Marik
lashed out at the nearest soldier.  A second Arronath in black armor backhanded
him across the face.  For a brief moment the starry sparkles reappeared.

Before he could adjust he felt the straps tighten
around his ankles.  His feet were brutally yanked upward.  It felt as if his
legs had been torn from his hips.  In seconds he dangled upside down from a
long rope that had been slung over a high branch and tied to one of their
horses.

Ten feet to his left dangled Dietrik.  Both
mercenaries resembled plucked chickens hanging from a butcher’s rack.  Xenos
sat pleasantly on the log, his dark dagger in hand, watching the two
mercenaries while he idly pried the Galemaran’s toenails from his flesh.

Mendell barked a comment that drew laughter from the
men over the bound Galemaran’s cries.  A knot of activity unwound and Marik saw
that the group had brought along one bow after all.  The arrowheads were wicked
creations, with as many hook-like barbs as a thistle pod.

The colonel held aloft the bow, shouting harsh
questions to the soldiers.  As one they replied with a roar that palely
imitated the Taurs.  Mendell barked again each time they responded until, after
several repetitions, he started pointing to specific men, who strove to
out-shout each other.

He finally selected one.  The chosen man pumped his
arms jubilantly while his fellows pushed him bodily to the front.  Mendell
tossed him the bow.  A different soldier pulled a ragged cloth from supply
packs stacked beside the horses and tied it in a blindfold around the winner’s
eyes.

The blindfolder held a finger to the top of the
winner’s head and pushed against one shoulder.  With a grin the bowman spun
blindly while the soldiers chanted in a mob’s unison. Their syllables must
represent the Arronathian words for numbers.  All the while, the blindfolder
kept slapping the bowman’s shoulder as if spinning a child’s top.

On the tenth spin, the blindfolder stepped back.  The
dizzy bowman fitted an arrow to the string.

“You realize,” Dietrik shouted, “that you should have
listened to me, don’t you?”

“I wish I could give you the chance to say ‘I told you
so’!”

An arrow streaked through the air between them.  They
barely heard it over the howling from Xenos’ victim.  The barbs cut the air
with wicked hisses.

“I should never have been so sympathetic!” Dietrik called
across.  He kept attempting to bend upward, to reach his toes.  To reach the
straps.  His efforts never reached halfway.

“What do you mean?”  The bowman had pulled a second
arrow from the quiver.  Behind him, nearly fifty men shouted advice that Marik dreaded. 
Their words sounded as if they consisted of only two phrases, which probably
meant ‘more to the right’ or ‘more to the left’.

“I should have tied you in a sack and
made
you
study your lessons with Tollaf.”

“What good what that have done?”

“We wouldn’t be bloody here, would we?  Or at least
you’d be able to get us the bloody hells out of this cook pot we’ve landed in!”

The bowman took fresh aim.  Marik read the angle and
saw it was directed closer to him.  Unseeing, the archer’s aim remained faulty,
but this would be far closer.  Perhaps too close.  This arrow could easily
pierce his side between ribs.

Marik flailed his arms, twisting side to side.  He
needed to move his body out of the flight path.  Already he felt weak from the
blood rushing to his head.  And the physical effort of bending sideways, of
making his body swing, was far greater than he ever could have imagined.

He saw the archer grin a cruel smile when he released
the arrow.  Marik bent at the waist desperately.  The arrow shot past with only
inches to spare.  A unified laugh bellowed from the soldiers.  Xenos smiled
with mild pleasure as he dug the knife point into the man’s heel, scraping it
across the bone.

Strength evaporated from Marik’s body while he swung
like a fish on a line.  He might be able to avoid the next shot.  Perhaps the
one after that as well.  But not an entire quiver filled with barbarous arrows.

Marik knew exactly what this was about.  A continuous
stream of life energy fed into Xenos from the tortured man.  The harvester
intended to terrify and mutilate them both that he could gather their energy,
the yield increased due to the body’s reaction to peril.

His strength might be on the decrease but Marik
intended to take as many with him as possible.  Once it became clear he could
no longer avoid the arrow’s path, he would summon his full reserves.  Fast as
he could he would fire an etheric orb as Xenos.  The man would never expect
that.  If he were fast enough, he might be able to kill the demon before he
could react.  Then he would destroy as many of these black-armored ghouls as he
could before they skewered him on their swords.

Marik glared defiantly at Mendell, who stood slightly
behind the bowman.  The colonel returned the look with haughty superiority.  He
would definitely be the third to die, immediately after the archer.

His playful executioner drew back the bowstring for
the next shot.  The alarm shattered the night as if the very air were a glass
vase dashed against a marble tile.  It startled the archer badly.  He released
the string too soon and the arrow missed Marik by several feet.

Every Arronath in the campsite jumped a foot.  When
they landed, they pointed in several directions while barking meaningless
questions.  Xenos immediately materialized at Mendell’s side.