Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  “That has to prove it,” Marik declared. “I’ve never heard of a woman bandit! There is far too much preparation to be anything but a planned attack against us!”

  Dietrik jabbed him in the ribs with his finger. “So you are the wisest man in the mountains now, are you mate? Ready to share your knowledge of all in this world if I pass your trials? Sorry, but I’ve managed to misplace my knitting needles.”

  Marik struck away the intruding appendage. “If you want to live in a tavern song, I’ll help you live out ‘Wondrous William’s Wedding’,” he snapped, glaring at the hand.

  “Which version? The one where he ends owing the town council seventy-three rutabagas and his left hand, or the one where he actually gets married?”

  “Whichever sounds worse.” Marik pushed on as Dietrik’s expression grew thoughtful. “Forget that and say what you meant.”

  “I simply meant that nothing should ever be assumed in these matters. This may end as nothing more than one of those strange stories of coincidence you hear all winter around the barracks.”

  He thought of asking whether Dietrik meant matters of women or matters of the poisonous baron’s machinations, but a dull throb through his leg prompted him to end the conversation as soon as possible. “Whichever it turns out, what should we do?”

  “Watch our backs,” Kerwin replied, Landon nodding. “Not much else we can do, is there? Not until we report to Torrance.”

  “Yeah,” Marik said. He rose gingerly. “Come to think of it, I bet the commander might have enough muscle to put a hurt on Sestion.”

  “Perhaps he does,” Dietrik replied, “but is it worth the price he would need to pay to have those strings pulled for him? Better not to count on Torrance setting a cat among the pigeons merely on our accounts, mate.”

  Marik had retired to his room to sleep through the worst of his healing itches while the others remained downstairs, lobbing the issue back and forth between them, never drawing any nearer to an answer.

  His cold worsened. The summer rains continued their attempts to wash away the world. Every gloomy day of trudging through the mud preceded a new day of torrential deluge. Their pace slowed until Marik felt certain the other members in their unit who had remained longer in Thoenar must surely beat them home despite their lead.

  Twelve days after departing Errinton, the hill bearing Kingshome finally appeared on the road when they exited a small wood. Marik’s leg no longer pained him overmuch but he would be glad to report to the commander and retire to his cot as soon as possible. The summer had not been the easy contract everyone promised tournament duty would be. They rode for the hill, Marik dreaming of the dry rest awaiting him after spending a candlemark or so telling Torrance about everything that had happened.

  * * * * *

  “What mental failure induced you to pay out five silvers to rent a handcart?” Janus glared at him with the intensity of a high-magistrate, so fixated that Marik half-expected foam to bubble through the corners of his mouth. “Have you the slightest notion of the value of hard coin?”

  Marik wanted to shout, ‘Have you the slightest notion of the value of a blown contract?’, but did not quite dare. Though he would love nothing so much as being sent from Tollaf’s sight forever due to his irreverent attitude, this other old, cankerous man held a different power no less the fearsome for its mundane nature. Janus, as head clerk, controlled the payroll and evaluation reports on each man in the band. Crossing him would likely be an act regretted bitterly. This lent him a godlike presence in the Crimson Kings; a man to be obeyed at once and tread lightly around.

  “We felt getting Hilliard Garroway to shelter as quickly as we could was worth five silvers. In fact the Healer said if he’d been any further gone, he would have died from shock despite her efforts.”

  “In the event of a nobleborn’s peril, you had every right to confiscate any conveyance on the street!” Janus slapped Marik’s small leather-bound ledger on his desk with a loud thwak. “It’s kingdom law! Everyone past the age of ten days knows this, but inexplicably you saw fit to hand over a fortune to a carrot farmer! Explain!”

  “I forgot,” Marik mumbled. He felt as a small child caught playing in the rain. “Everything happening suddenly…but he didn’t tell me, so why blame me?”

  Janus scoffed with derision. “Do you honestly think he would correct your error as you drop nearly a month’s hard labor into his grasp?” A snort preceded his continuance of examining every copper logged across each ledger page.

  Every single last one.

  Numbers crowded Marik’s mind during five marks of inquisition from the head clerk. They swelled, gathered, collided into a ball within his brain, lost definition and ceased to hold meaning. By nightfall Marik could not coherently judge whether two coppers for a tankard of ale was a fair price or not.

  The worst came when Janus ripped him to shreds over the golden bracelet. Marik had allowed the cityguard to take it away, completely disregarding the bounty that the kingdom owed the band for a recovered magical object. If Janus had clawed the skin from his body, Marik would have felt less flayed.

  All the while an assistant clerk sat in a corner, scribbling notes on every word mentioned. In between his explanations on the price of horse feed and soap cakes, Marik recounted the contract’s various events. The scribing man emitted noises from time to time, ignored by Janus. To Marik it sounded suspiciously like muzzled mirth. Most likely he found the boss’ relentless shredding of the mercenary amusing. Marik might have taken issue with that had he the energy to do so. Instead he only prayed the man’s notes would serve as an adequate report to the commander.

  When he had entered the building to report to Torrance, a man whose sole duty consisted of greeting visitors directed him to Janus’ office instead. He considered while he walked, realizing that most reports for ended contracts probably never required the commander’s personal attention. If Torrance needed to address issues, the clerks would bring them to his notice.

  But did those same contracts require the head clerk to oversee them himself? He did not know enough to guess with certainty, but he suspected not. All in all, he thought Janus had chosen to handle Marik’s contract personally. An intense dislike radiated from the old man as he loomed from his side of the desk. Why did Janus obviously hate him so? To the best of his knowledge, he had never done anything to cross the old fart.

  When at last the head clerk released him, without docking his pay for a wonder, Marik trudged back to the Ninth’s barracks. Cold reached up from the muddy earth to make the night air chiller than it otherwise might have been. A slight breeze blew over the town’s walls to slink through the cramped network of buildings. His leg slowly throbbed. The cold seeped in.

  Marik could still sense men around Kingshome engaging in evening activities. Tavern discord drifted to his ears from the Row while he walked. Shapes moved through the gloom, most heading westward. Talk reached him when he drew abreast of the barracks. A cook from a different squad rotated a well’s crank in the space between barrack rows.

  The town had never held this many men during the few times Marik had been in residence in the midst of a fighting season. Not nearly enough to make the town feel full, yet hardly a number to discount out of hand. How many units were broken apart and assigned for tournament duty? Enough that the returned bodyguards for the disqualified could lend Kingshome an occupied air.

  Marik entered the Ninth’s barracks, blessing the warm blast that enveloped him the moment he crossed the threshold. Six mercenaries sat scattered around the dining tables. They picked at plates containing only miniscule shreds of whatever food remained from their repast, engrossed in their conversations rather than their meals. A glance to the right revealed Borneo and Luiez moving about their domain, returning order to the kitchen since dinner had been served.

  Dietrik and the others were absent. Marik walked back slowly to allow Luiez’s blazing kitchen fires to work their magic on his aching leg. Once within the north w
ing he silently thanked whoever had set the fire going in the large hearth that opened on both sides of the half-wall. He looked for his friends when he passed the dividing barrier, finding no one except a figure who surprised him. The man sat on his cot, staring upward with an intense, yet blank, gaze.

  “What are you doing in town, Talbot?” Marik asked his fellow unit member. “Eberhard must have lost the jousting if your group came straight back home.”

  Talbot shifted his head to return Marik’s gaze. The man looked worn down. He never had been a shining example of physical superiority during the years Marik knew him, average sized with bits of pudge here and there. His broad face displayed new lines. Bushy eyebrows topped crow’s feet that added years to his apparent age.

  “Oh, Dietrik said you came back too.” He paused before adding, “No, Hardhead didn’t drop out in the lists. I don’t think so anyway.”

  “Don’t think so?”

  “I’m lying here, thinking out how much time I have left before I get kicked out through the gates.” Talbot muttered in a flat voice. “As soon as Sloan gets back I’m gone.”

  His posture wilted, despite lying flat on a cot. “What’d you do?” Marik nearly let ‘this time’ slip out after his question. He cornered the words before they could complete their escape attempt.

  “I didn’t do anything. Not on purpose.”

  “But what happened?”

  “We were helping Eberhard into his armor for the jousts. You know how much of it there is in those full suits. They left out for the lists and I was supposed to finish cleaning up our odds. Well, I noticed a big shield lying where we’d been working and thought Eberhard had forgotten it and ran after to catch up since our block was next.”

  Marik kept a concerned expression plastered to his face with effort. “Whose was it?”

  “Not his. I didn’t notice the device was different. For the sake of the gods, if the officials had provided the contenders their personal shields more than half a mark in advance, it wouldn’t have happened! I thought they would be waiting in that spot by the track we usually watch from, but they’d already gathered for the next run. I ran all over the damned place looking for them so I could give them his shield before their block ran.” He glanced up again, and Marik felt his amusement drain away. Instead he felt sorry for Talbot, who always tried his best but usually wound up as the butt of the unit’s jokes.

  Talbot, caught up in worry for his future, continued. “Turns out it was Earl Sherbourn’s shield. They were suiting up next to us and his shield fell over. The whole jousting event got delayed while the officials sorted things out. Then when they finally found me, Sherbourn accused me of stealing it on purpose so he couldn’t run against Eberhard! Sherbourn was the favorite to win the block, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that. I only paid attention to what went on in our own block.”

  “Hardhead went off on me, like usual. Tore into my hide, saying I’d shamed his name. The tournament was delayed for over a mark and the crowd was calling for someone’s head. Sherbourn came near to declaring a duel on Eberhard right there. The spoiled sod fired me and told me never to step foot near him again.”

  “But he can’t do that,” Marik replied, surprised. “His father made the contract, and the son has no say in the matter. Sloan didn’t stand up for you?”

  Talbot barked a bitter laugh that sounded like a cough. “Sloan? He sided with him! The only time they ever agreed on anything, far as I know. Told me he’d had enough and I should go back to Kingshome straight.” A massive exhalation punctuated the announcement. “I half-expected him to beat me back, since I had to ride and they would sail down on the ferry. But now I have to wait. You know what he’ll say to the commander when he reports, don’t you?”

  “It might not be all that bad,” Marik comforted. “Even if Sloan does ask him to boot you out,” he said, pushing on despite the one-eyed wince it elicited, “we’re so short-handed it should take more than an irritated noble to have you expelled. You’ve survived plenty of hard battles over the last few years. That proves you’re worth having in the Kings!”

  “I’m only a C rank,” he mumbled through mashed lips. His gaze returned to the rafters. “And on the low range at that. Hardly what you’d call valuable.”

  “Valuable enough!” Marik slapped him with the words. “Remember all those soldiers in the army? If they worked on the same ranking system as we do, nineteen out of twenty would only rate at D level, if that! They teach the soldiers three or four sword patterns and have them train by doing them over and over, when they bother to train at all. That’s not fighting. That’s dancing! As long as an enemy attacks them with the same pattern of attacks that they’ve practiced with, they might be able to defend. And that’s not set in stone!”

  Talbot looked thoughtful, so Marik finished by stating a fact he had known and relearned during his time with Hilliard, a young man who took an interest in their various fighting styles. “There’s a world of difference between knowing how to swing a sword and being able to use a sword. Who cares what fancy styles a fighter is trained in if he can’t adapt to the chaos of combat? I doubt Torrance will expel you after all the years you’ve proved you can survive.”

  “I hope so,” Talbot muttered. He seemed less empty, but not as buoyed as Marik had hoped. “You didn’t see Sloan’s face.”

  “Don’t worry so much. We’ll still be short on fighters after this year’s hiring trials. Do you know where Dietrik got off to?”

  “He and Landon and Kerwin said they were going to go draw their pay, then hit the Row. That was about a mark ago.”

  Marik nodded. He spent a moment distributing his pack’s contents through his closet, storing away the various items in their proper place when at home. After collecting forty coppers worth of coins, far more than he would surely need, he left the barracks to search Ale House Row for his friends.

  During the walk he considered Talbot and the general state of affairs for the band. Old friends would go. New men would take their place. As sad as that was, the band, as a whole, would remain the same. No matter who comprised the individuals, Kingshome would always be Kingshome. It would remain the town he willingly chose to call home.

  With a lighter heart than in several eightdays, he walked the pathways of the town where he most belonged.

  Chapter 25

  The remaining summer days continued as though winter had arrived early. Rain soaked the land around Kingshome, breaking only one day in three. Dietrik predicted it might actually snow on the town this year if it persisted into the colder days. Despite this, Marik doggedly persisted in his training regimen.

  Dietrik accompanied him when he could bear the frigid water pounding his body. His contributions usually consisted of sarcastic remarks or speculations on the nature of his motivation. To gag him, Marik would set him to practicing the stamina boosting technique.

  Whatever his friend might think, there were plenty of legitimate reasons for his focused training. The longer he studied his strength working, the more he came to the conclusion he had guessed right that day by the Hollister Bridge. It worked by increasing his existing strength through factors.

  He thought it might be a factor of three, or thereabouts. The natural channels in his body could swell roughly three times in size when he completely flooded them with fresh life energy. His muscles drank deeply of the new energy, enhancing his strength, while his body toughened to withstand the increased strain.

  So he exercised, working to build his natural muscle. The greater their capacity in an ordinary state, the stronger they could become under the strength working.

  But try to get Dietrik to accept that! If Marik chose to keep a measuring string in his closet to wrap around his upper torso each night, why couldn’t his friend simply accept that he wanted to see if his muscles had developed?

  Marik reverted to his old training drills. While Dietrik squatted under a tree, frowning in concentration, hoping to visualize areas in his bod
y he would never see, Marik stood in the rain, swinging his sword until he could no longer lift it for the next strike. Straight as an iron pole he would be, lifting his arms high so his hands raised above his head, his sword pointing down behind his back. A hard swing at the ground preceded the exertion of his full strength to stop it sharply an inch from the mud. He strove to make each strike last no longer than a single second.

  Unlike his first sword, his present blade was much larger. The effort to continually do this brought out sweat across his brow in short order. To increase the difficulty, Marik attached weights to his sword to make it heavier. After many experiments he settled on four thick branches cut a foot in length as the most suitable. Nothing else at hand worked half as well.

  Nearly logs, he would lay two along the blade’s flat immediately fore of the hilt. Two matching branches lay on the other side, then he bound them securely to each other and the T-guard to prevent them from moving. This added nine or ten pounds to the weight. It quickly became a normal sight to the other men to see him in a training area, swinging his odd construction endlessly.

  While he trained, the days inched inexorably toward the fighting season’s end. Men on tournament duty trickled in when the last events, and then finally the contest, closed. Word spread that the Arm’s position had been claimed by the son of an earl in the sixth block, relatively unknown for his lack of rivals. The popular contenders had either lost to each other or to his quiet advance.

  What did it all matter to him? It would have been nice if Keegan had won, if only so he could imagine how much that must stick in the Baron Sestion’s craw, but he held no brief for figureheads. The Arm hadn’t led them in any battle Marik had ever participated in. He could continue surviving future battles without such as well. His sword mattered more than a noble with delusions of grandeur.