Steel And Flame (Book 1) (70 page)

Energy and heat from his torso flowed through the
loop.  Soon energy that had already been siphoned off once drained through the
channel anew.  Marik’s vision faded.  The figures in the tent with him blurred
into dark silhouettes.  In a desperate panic he erected every shield he knew
between himself and his own channel.

An eruption of colorful darkness exploded inside his
head.  He fell over on his bedroll, out cold.

*        *        *        *        *

The next morning, Marik rolled over with a moan.  He
sought for the fragmented shards of his memory.  Outside the tent the morning
sun covered the camp in a warm dawnlight fleece.  His friends had left already.

After memories gradually returned, he opened his eyes
and studied his body, searching for damage.  He felt weak.  His aura’s glow
shone thinner than usual but otherwise he had emerged unharmed.  What had gone
wrong?

Marik considered asking Tollaf before other memories
returned.  The old man had once told him of harvesters who stole power by
draining their victims dry.  He thought he now understood the concept far
better.

He could also imagine what the old bastard would have
to say if Marik admitted this little stunt.  After the errors in his conflict
with the magician, giving Tollaf a brand new opportunity to have a go at him
ranked low in his priority list.

Food might help him recover his strength.  He crawled
into the bright light.  The early warmth promised a hot day ahead.  Marik
scratched his face as he yawned, forgoing the morning shave until after he ate.

He mulled his actions during the wait for the cooks to
feed the men ahead in line.  Obviously he had been off in his thinking. 
Reexamining every inch of his reasoning, he failed to identify any obvious
faults.  His logic still made sense.

The probing of his aura had caused nothing drastic to
happen, so the problem must lay in the channel he had opened.  He needed to
open one whenever he reached out his mental hands to gather in energies or to
perform a working.  Power flowed along them as he directed.  Thinking on these
specifics, he suddenly realized what the fault must be.

He had reached his mental hands to grasp his aura’s
energy, but the only actions familiar to him in such circumstances were drawing
or sending.  Since the energy had lain on the far side of the conduit, he had
instinctively pulled on it.

Better not to try that again until you have more
experience under your belt.

Or he could track down Colbey and get the man
talking.  The camp sounded quiet for the most part.  Any fighting still waited
in the future, baring a sudden sally by the Noliers.  That seemed unlikely.

A cook handed him a small loaf of brown bread and a
cheese hunk without pausing in his conversation with a man clothed in a
soldier’s uniform.

“But there won’t be enough food for them all!  Fall is
on the way and winter not far behind.”

“Then they should all be turned back across the
border,” the soldier replied.

“And who’s going to do it, eh?  All of you fighting
boys are over here.  The garrison rats you left behind can’t near handle the
task.  Besides, word is things in Tullainia are horrible right now, worse than
anything you can imagine.”

It sounded as if the problems to the west were growing
worse.  Bad news.  The best thing to do, in the eyes of the officers, would be
to end this conflict with the Noliers as soon as possible so they could start
moving men.  Marik decided to see Tollaf after all and find out what the mages
were up to.  That might give him an idea of the overall battle strategy.

But first he wanted to find Colbey, except he had no
idea where to start looking.  He decided Fraser would know where to find the
scout.

Gnawing on his breakfast, he found Fraser a moment
after he swallowed the last bite.  The sergeant waited at the crescent’s edge
nearest to the Hollister, standing with Giles, Bindrift and Earnell.  Further
down the line rose a newly erected pavilion.  Marik could see a number of men
sitting inside on small leather stools and large cushions. 
You’d think they
were out on a country holiday!
  It could only be the nobles.

Everyone watched two men advance along the road
leading to the former border garrison.  Normally the gates remained open to
travelers or merchants crossing into Nolier.  No longer.  The men each held a
long pole, blue pennants fluttering from the tips in the warm breeze.  They
carried words to the Noliers from the commander.

Marik watched with everyone else.  The two men walked
cautiously.  A wise precaution, because as soon as they were inside arrow
range, several shafts flew from atop the wall in their direction.  Whether they
meant to hit the men or not, they sent a clear message and the two ran before
the first arrows struck the ground.

“Shit,” Earnell cursed under his breath.  “They want
to do it the hard way.”

“That’s what we’re paid for,” Fraser observed, then
addressed Marik.  “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for that scout I was paired with in the
Reaches.  Do you know where I can find him?”

Fraser did not ask why.  “Scouts are bivouacked to the
north, closest to the trees.”

Without his mount, which roamed in the larger herd two
miles west in a green, lush valley, and in no hurry, the walk across the camp
took much of the morning.  Marik didn’t know exactly how many thousands of men
were serving their king.  The camp stretched on like a small city.  He almost
expected to see shops hawking their junk to the passing soldiers or a few
enterprising ale wagons with their tailgates dropped, serving as an impromptu
tavern.

Instead, the only business conducted in their army
town passed between the men and the countless camp whores looking for
customers.  Marik had thought the following outside the Sixth Depot was large. 
It palled to the sheer numbers of them gathered here.

The further north he walked, he more he found himself
in error.  There were merchants dealing wares.  An old woman offered potions
from her small hand wagon, the qualities of which she claimed would prolong
stamina, her assurances accompanied by a salacious wink disturbing from her
withered features.  Two or three honest tinkers practiced their craft, mostly
repairing damaged mail or replacing leather laces on favorite boots.  One man
approached Marik and asked if he wanted to open his mind to the gods, showing
him a small bottle filled with evil smelling black paste while shielding the
sight of it from others.

When Marik refused, the man scurried away into the
crowd, vanishing with uncanny speed.

The northern crescent curve arced toward the gorge,
and Marik questioned men there until directed to the scouts.  Their camp corner
looked no different from the others.  Several questions led Marik to a captain
who directed Marik still further north.

“Yeah, I know who you mean.  Quiet guy, bad attitude,
but damned good.”

“Sounds like him.”

“He likes to stay by himself.  He’s been sitting by
the edge of the Reaches since dawn, I think.”

Marik thanked the man.  He walked toward the forest,
two hundred yards from the scouts’ camp.  Further to the west, men worked hard
with axe and saw.  The sounds carried across the whole of the camp.  Once
beyond the last tent, Marik could see the army engineers at their craft.  Trees
fell, to be quickly stripped of branches.  Logs rolled away as wagons unloaded,
revealing giant wheels or unidentifiable metal parts that would all combine
into siege engines.  Surely the Noliers could see this labor from atop the
tower and its walls.  Marik hoped it made them nervous.

He found no sign of Colbey, so walked along the tree
line until he discovered the man sitting on a weather-worn stump.

The scout rested his elbows on his knees, head propped
on one hand.  He stared straight at Marik when he came to a stop.

“What brings you after me?  I doubt you wandered over
here by accident.”

“No.  I wanted to talk to you.”

“I guessed.  Tell me what about.”

“That trick of yours.”  Colbey closed his eyes.  He
acted as though he had never heard Marik.  “I tried it last night and almost
killed myself.”

“Good.”  The eyes stayed shut.  “But obviously it
hasn’t taught you not to meddle in other’s affairs.”

“I’ll keep trying, you know.  Sooner or later I’ll get
the trick of it.”

Colbey opened his eyes to pierce Marik with his gaze. 
“You think so, do you?  A mage who can’t remember the basics and argues with
his master in front of an entire force of soldiers is going to ferret out my
secrets?”

Marik felt his face turning red.  “I’m no mage.  Not
in the normal sense of the word, anyway.  You say you aren’t either, yet you’re
definitely not an average fighter!  Would you rather be as you are or would you
rather toss away that sword for the powers of magic?”

“That’s not even a question for me.”

“And not me either!”

“Then why practice as a mage?”

“Because I don’t want to leave the band.  And
because…I have another reason.”

“That being?”

“My own business.”

Colbey sighed.  “You want to convince me you have no
desire for power, but you admit you have hidden goals.  What am I supposed to
think?”

“I don’t care what you think.  I’m a swordsman, not a
mage.  That’s how I see myself.  If I’m going to be forced to learn magecraft,
then I’m going to learn it
my
way,” Marik declared while jabbing his
thumb into his chest, “Not anyone else’s.”

Colbey nodded, mostly to himself rather than in
agreement.  “I’ve never met a mage like you.  You wield a sword instead of your
power.  You wear chainmail instead of a robe.  I’ve been taught to never trust
mages, but I must admit you seem different.”

“The only workings of magic I’m interested in at this
moment are ones that help me fight like a true warrior.”

“You are an interesting person, do you know that?” 
Colbey suddenly rose and met his eyes.  “You are the first interesting person
I’ve met since I left my village.”

“So will you help me then?”

“In truth, I have never been forbidden to teach the
techniques I’ve mastered to anyone else, though I believe that’s because my
teachers never imagined an outsider would be around one of us long enough to so
much as learn of them.”  Colbey continued to study him for several moments
before asking a question.  “Tell me mage, why you joined the Crimson Kings in
the first place.”

“It goes to the heart of my second reason for learning
what Tollaf wants me to.”

After nodding, Colbey paused one last time.  “Mage,
I’ll teach you the technique you lust after on two conditions.”

Marik restrained himself from bursting into a fool’s
grin.  “Those being?”

“I have my own reasons for joining the band.  Perhaps
I’ll tell you one day.  In exchange for my teaching, I want you to help me when
I ask you to.”

“Doing what?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I can’t promise without knowing what you would have
me do.”

Colbey considered that.  “Fair enough. Let’s say this
then.  You will promise to help me unless you have a legitimate moral reason to
refuse.”

“Sounds fair.  And the second condition?”

“Tell me of your second reason.  I need to know I’m
not handing over my secrets to one who would misuse them.”

Marik refrained from sighing.  So far during this war
he had spared little time for thoughts concerning Rail Drakkson.  Since he
could not yet scrye his father, he had seen no point in getting himself worked
up with the old unanswerable questions and the complex emotions connected to
him.  “It’s a long story.  If you have the patience, I’ll explain.”

“Good.”  Colbey gestured to a matching stump six feet
away from the one he squatted upon.  “Then have a seat and let us start, shall
we?”

After an eightday spent camping around the Hollister,
the Galemarans began increasing the pressure.  The engineers had finished three
catapults and dragged them to the frontline.  A dozen horses pulled each. 
Twice as many men tugged on tethers to position the machines until the
engineers were satisfied.

Soldiers had dug defenses since the first day.  A long
mound already curved along the camp’s frontline, enclosing the cliff-mounted
tower.  Once the war engines were in position, the soldiers set to digging new
mounds to anchor them.  Two-hundred men were assigned to each for protection.

While the men at the catapults buried their
foundations to keep the recoil from jarring the frames out of position, a wagon
detachment departed to collect ammunition.  The ground at the camp consisted of
soil and trees.  They were forced to cart loads from the northern river gorge,
which provided ample rock fragments.

Stone used to build the tower three-hundred years
before had been cut from a natural quarry a mile north where the river eroded
the gorge’s walls.  Men returned to gather fresh stone, this time with the
purpose of destroying the garrison’s walls rather than constructing them.

Backbreaking labor continued without respite while men
filled the wagons with boulders.  Horses dragged them back, clearly ill-pleased
with the heavy task, but the handlers kept them under tight rein.  Soldiers
unloaded the wagons beside the catapults before returning for fresh cargo.

The engineers tested their equipment by firing loads
to establish the range.  Noliers who had crowded the wall top quickly fled the
raining stones.

“No!” one engineer shouted at another.  “That will
send them too far!  We have orders not to damage the tower!  Only the wall!”

Getting two engineers to agree on anything seemed nigh
on impossible the soldiers noticed, and the day wore on with minimal progress. 
At least they had the easy jobs.

Or so they thought until it became clear that guarding
the war machines described only half their duties at this post.

“What do you mean load it?” became the common cry from
six-hundred men in uniforms on a hot day.  Men suddenly discovering they were
expected to break their own backs wrenching massive rocks into the cradles.

The boulders were of a particularly dense granite,
requiring entire teams to move.  Swearing soldiers quickly grew hot, exhausted
and irritable under the engineers’ conflicting orders, engineers who stood
beside their creations and never helped with the hard work.  A few nearly
suffered the wrath of an angry mob for changing instructions again and again
while the men’s strength quickly waned.

After an entire morning spent testing, the catapults
began firing larger stones capable of damaging the seven-foot-thick walls, the
engineers having calculated ranges for standard weights.  Several boulders
struck the lower wall exactly as the engineers intended, but the differences
between stones sent lighter ones higher while others fell short, missing the
wall and contributing nothing to the cumulative damage.  The soldiers cursed
aloud at these misses, almost as loudly as they had cursed upon seeing how
little damage resulted from a solid strike.

Noticeable damage from a single rock could not be
seen, except for a handful of flying stone chips.  Whether these were from the
wall or the boulder was rarely clear.  Assaulting the walls from this distance
would be the work of days and eightdays.  After the first day, the wall no
longer looked smooth, instead appearing dented as an old iron rim from a well-used
wagon wheel.

Every now and then the engineers would order the
catapult cradles filled with loose fragments and fist-sized stones.  The load’s
lighter weight sent them higher, coming down in a hailstorm across the
compound.  It kept the Noliers on their toes.

If they had wanted to destroy the tower rather than
retake it, they would have loaded the cradles with flaming barrels of war oil
to set the place ablaze.

Tollaf kept trying to corner Marik and missing, the
latter harboring no wish to hear whatever the former might want to say.  Marik
spent the eightday with Colbey, learning from the scout.  That Colbey knew
techniques beyond the one he had agreed to teach quickly became apparent.  The
scout would never talk about anything else, and Marik worked hard enough on the
one in any event.

For his part, Marik’s quick mastery impressed Colbey,
though the scout kept that private.  In under an eightday Marik mastered the
trick of it and could feel fresh strength flowing though his limbs.  Two
factors contributed to his rapid learning.  The first, his own training as a
mage in manipulating etheric energy.  Familiar with the energy flows in his
body, he already possessed half of what he needed before the first lesson.

The second, Marik’s own mental training, which he
practiced whenever he had the opportunity.  Visualizing the fights against
phantom opponents had sharpened his ability to imagine.  Always remembering the
weight of his body and blade as well as the limitations of speed and endurance
significantly increased his mental capacities as far as forming accurate
visualizations.

Dietrik exercised with Marik, though not near enough
to alarm Colbey.  The scout held his training sessions in a clearing beyond the
tree line, away from the army camp.  He wanted no one else to know the
Guardians’ skills so much as existed.  When Dietrik showed up one day with
Marik, Colbey reacted with fury.

“Oh, calm down old boy,” Dietrik had waved away with
one hand.  “It’s nothing to pop about.  I’ll simply be over here like, getting
my exercise in.”

He walked across the clearing, too far away to hear
anything they might discuss.  Whatever those two were up to did not concern
him, and he needed to practice.  In a battle for one’s life against the
Noliers, one eschewed finesse and polish.  One slashed and gouged until the man
striving to kill you no longer moved, then one repeated the action with the
next enemy on the line.

The scout eventually decided he was of little
consequence.  He and Marik spent a candlemark talking, yet otherwise moved
little.

In the end, the scout left and Marik trotted over to
join him.  “I need to loosen up.  How about we go a few rounds on spar?”

“Sound fine, mate.  What was all that about?”

“If I ever manage to get it down myself, I’ll show you
first.”

“It’s a deal.  Ready?”

The two dueled until dinnertime.  Marik’s blade skills
balanced the difference against Dietrik’s rapier and main-gauche dagger
combination despite the faster speed of the smaller blades.  Sweaty and
exhausted, yet feeling good, they returned to their tent.  They continued the
pattern for the next several days.  Colbey seemed to accept his presence even
if he still gave Dietrik searching looks from time to time.

Kerwin spent his time making coin hand over fist with
each passing day.  With a small stool and campaign table he stole from a
temporarily unoccupied army tent, he set up shop beside the southernmost
catapult.  A crowd had gathered around him.  He swore to Marik, Dietrik and
Landon that when the war ended, he would have enough hard coin to open his own
inn to rival the famous Randy Unicorn.

No matter how the engineers adjusted their engines,
the boulder flights were never entirely predictable.  Kerwin had started by
making an idle bet with the exhausted soldiers taking a break as to whether the
next missile would hit the wall or not.  By day’s end he had three primary bets
running with every launch; whether the boulder would fall short of the wall,
strike low or strike high.  He also ran a fourth about the stone flying too
high and completely over the wall, but that rarely happened so the odds were
higher.

As each day rolled into the next, news of Kerwin’s
gambling parlor spread.  Soldier hoards converged on him during their off duty
candlemarks to enjoy one of the camp’s few recreations.  After the long spring
and summer on campaign, Kerwin had a greater number of customers than he might
otherwise have been blessed with.

He displayed his takings to Marik, who nearly fell
over.

“Damn, I hope you’re watching your back, Kerwin!  A
thug’s going to knife you and desert with your winnings!”

“I’ve already had a few slobs give it a go.  I made
sure they discovered the difference between an army man and a Crimson King!”

“Better be careful or they’ll put you under army
arrest.”

“As it happens, several minor officers enjoy playing
the odds at my table.  I’m not too worried about cutting rough.”

Marik gazed at the burlap corn sacks filled with
coin.  Mostly copper in there, but still…

“How in the world did you get
this
much?  Don’t
you ever lose?”

“On every bet!” Kerwin admitted cheerfully.

“I’m not following.”

“I give my three primary bets the same one-to-one odds
of happening.  The betting is spread fairly even across them.  So the engineers
throw another rock, and I pay out on the bet that landed with the coin from the
second and keep the third for myself!”

“So if it goes over the wall, you collect all three?”

“Yeah!  I’ve got so many soldiers betting that usually
one or two lay a coin down on the long shot.  But after I make a show of paying
out bigger coins for the longer odds, I still clean up, and then everyone bets
double for next several rounds!”

“What else do you bet on?”

“Oh, I’ll lay odds on the size or shape of the next
boulder, or if the engineers will decide to load up on hailstones for the next
shot, or if there’ll be five consecutive hits in a row against the wall.”

“And they hand you their purses.”  Marik shook his
head.

Kerwin grinned broadly.  “Just about!  It makes a nice
change from spending the day ironing the seams on your uniform to kill the
lice, don’t you think?  I’m taking these sacks over to the army clerks tomorrow
to exchange it for larger coin.  The payroll chests can have all this copper
back.  Landon and Floroes are coming along to watch my back and help carry
sacks for drinking funds.  Want to come along?”

“Sorry, but I already have a pan on the fire.”

“Your loss.  Stop by the table later if you get a
chance.”

With a glance at the three heavy sacks on the tent
floor that would form Kerwin’s bedroll tonight, he asked, “So are you going to
retire from the Kings after this season?”

“I’m thinking about it.  If I get back to Kingshome
alive, I’ll have to examine all my options, don’t you think?”

“Well if you do, then set up near Kingshome.  Most of
the season’s pay will end up in your lap!”

Kerwin laughed.  “You know it!  I’ll have the largest
dicing room in Galemar!  That’s a solemn promise!  I hope that wall lasts until
winter!”

“I believe it.”  A separate thought struck.  “What
happens when the boulders piling up on the ground start blocking the wall?  I
wouldn’t want to charge across the field when it’s covered by so many
obstacles.”

“Considerations for a distant day.  Worry about
tomorrow when it gets here.”

Marik left to eat supper while Kerwin pondered opening
a second table near the northern catapult and splitting the profits with a
partner.  He would go hungry tonight unless someone brought him a bite, since
only a fool would leave his takings unguarded.  Ironic that the richest man in
the camp would be the only one starving.  There must be a moral buried in that,
Marik imagined.

Edwin and Hayden spent the respite with the hunting
groups.  At first the hunting had been serious and, as Landon predicted,
primarily destined for the plates of the nobles.  Venison haunches landed in
the common cook pots yet the few who received fresh meat slices were those in
the right place at the right time.  The odds on being one of those men would
have sent Kerwin to calculating and salivating.

Since the fighting had temporarily ceased and the
danger grown minimal, the nobles among the army officers decided that nearly
two seasons without their normal sport was unhealthy.  They took to the woods
the way the common soldiers took to Kerwin’s table.

Hunting parties were the order of the day.  There were
no game masters in charge of the Green Reaches so the hunters who had
professionally tracked the game were reassigned as guides or beaters. 
Descending from actual hunting to beating the underbrush to flush out prey for
full-of-themselves nobles who could not tell the difference between a raccoon’s
footprints and a donkey’s struck them a low blow.  Still, no one flapped his
lips in complaint where the nobles could overhear, unless they were fools.

“This bites my ass,” Edwin complained, away from where
the nobles could overhear.

Hayden nodded his agreement while they followed the
fresh deer spoor, mildly surprised there were any left in the area after the
last fifteen days.

They acted as lead men for this group, guiding two
young nobles, tracking their quarry.  The beaters along for the hunt were
silent.  It was senseless to spook the game until they knew in what direction
to send them.  Patches of brown eventually flashed between the leaves crowding
the deer path they followed.