by Damien Lake
“There are other ways,” Tallior revealed, “providing you have the right equipment. But not quiet ways, and it’s safer with many men at once. Fifteen or twenty men is best. If anyone else is around they will know you meant to kill him outright.”
“How ‘bout the warehouse mock-up?” Veji asked. “If there ain’t no one else in there we could do it right.”
Beld shot that down. “Use your head, damn it! Anyone could walk right in on us, and where you going to find extra hands? Can’t go asking around the town if you want to keep it quiet you were involved when their bodies come up.” He narrowed his eyes. “Can you get the men and whatever equipment you said?”
Tallior nodded. “It would require an eightday at minimum, but I can. What do you have in mind?”
“If I can get them outside the town, you can lay an ambush, right?”
“Not out in the open on the road.”
“Under cover then. All right. You send me word when you’re set, and I’ll tell you what to do.” He fixed Tallior with a hard glare. “We want the same end, but you came prepared to buy help if you needed, didn’t you? I expect some gratitude.”
“Naturally,” Tallior spread his hands. “I understand you are taking a risk by attacking a member of your band. I’ll begin making the necessary preparations, and I think you’ll find my ‘gratitude’ most generous.”
Beld left the table, making for the door with his friends in tow. Tallior smiled at the simple fools behind their backs after they departed.
Chapter 26
“This is our bunk area. Pick whatever cot you want as long as the closet is open. You six D Classes,” Sloan gestured at the back side of his small group, “need to train all winter. Otherwise we don’t need you.”
Unsmiling, overbearing and seemingly dead to the world, Sloan deposited the Fourth Unit’s newly assigned recruits in the north wing with only those four sentences as welcome. He vanished. The men were perplexed as to what they should do next.
Marik and Dietrik had known their new shieldmates would arrive this morning after breakfast. They lingered in the north wing to see who would form their unit. Also perched on their cots, Edwin, Talbot and Floroes eyed the ten new mercenaries speculatively.
For the first time an understanding of how Hayden might have felt at this time each year bloomed within Marik. The men to whom he would entrust his life stood before him, most looking lost as sheep without their shepherd. He lifted his voice to catch their attention from where he sat cross-legged atop his cot.
“Don’t let Sergeant Sloan rub you wrong. He’s not much of a conversationalist, but he’s a terror with his sword.”
Every new man focused his attention on Marik. Five decided they could find their own way in this new world and spread out to claim open closets. Two remained standing where they were, devoting their interests to Marik from a distance while the remaining three stepped closer to the talkative mercenary. Marik recognized, with mild annoyance, the taller figure of The Peacock.
The three who approached were a disparate bunch. In the middle stood a wiry sort, less bulky that most in the Fourth Unit but no less the muscled. His two inch black hair swept straight upward in defiance of gravity. He studied Marik with guarded interest.
To either side of him stood blank faces that revealed little of what their owners might be thinking. A Tullainian with grayed hair waited for whatever Marik would choose to say. His thumbs were hooked into a belt that encircled his waist below the side-slits on his native tunic. He rested his gaze slightly over Marik’s shoulder rather than on his face. It struck Marik as odd, making him wonder if a scene were unfolding outside the window. Marik would have turned if not for the impression that this might be exactly what the gristled veteran wanted him to do.
Ignoring the disconcerting feeling of a person standing behind him, he studied the third man as the first spoke. “Seems to me he’s plenty terror enough already without one.”
The last man looked to be in his mid-thirties. He held a pack slung over his shoulder with his left hand. His right hand, balled in a fist, held nothing. Repeatedly his thumbnail pressed against the inside curve of his first finger, flicking outward momentarily before returning. Four or five heartbeats later it would flick out again. Marik could read nothing in his blank features while Dietrik took up the conversation. Could this be a man like Sloan, who lived only in the chaos of battle, or did the cool mask simply represent the protective barrier most people erected when meeting a group of strangers for the first time?
“I suppose that is accurate enough,” Dietrik replied from his seat on his cot. “The good sergeant is short on social skills. My own advice is do whatever he tells you lickety-split. It will save him the trouble of making an example out of you.”
“An example? Should I be worried?”
“I doubt it,” Marik answered. “As long as you use your common sense, Sloan will leave you alone. He doesn’t usually pay attention to you unless you’re doing something stupid.” He held out his hand. “Anyway, welcome to the squad. I’m Marik, and that’s Dietrik over there. Those two walking away are Edwin on the left and Talbot.”
The first took Marik’s hand in a firm grasp. “You can call me Cork.”
Dietrik, amused, asked, “Your name is Cork?”
Cork laughed. “No, it’s only a nickname. But I’ve gotten used to it. It sounds more ‘me’ than my real name.”
“Why ‘Cork’?” Marik wanted to know.
“Beats me,” he admitted with a shrug.
Since Cork did not offer his real name, Marik instead offered a handshake to the Tullainian. He unhooked one thumb to accept the gesture, revealing his own understanding of the Galemaran language by saying, “Chiksan. Your duty is to tell us what happens next?”
“No,” Marik admitted. “But we’re going to be fighting together, so we ought to help each other out.” Chiksan nodded with an economy of motion. The last man hesitated a moment before opening his balled hand to return Marik’s shake.
“Wyman.” The hand returned to his side, the thumb holding position, awaiting flicking orders.
He offered no further personal information. Chiksan took the silence as an opportunity to inquire, “So we are all members of the band, yes?”
Marik nodded. “That’s right.”
“Then what of this classification status? You are either a member, or not a member.”
“In most mercenary bands,” Dietrik explained, “that’s true. But the Crimson Kings are a funny lot. Are you one of the D Classes Sergeant Sloan mentioned?”
Chiksan shook his head, the hanging gray locks fanning his face. “I am not.”
“Then you have no worries. The band doesn’t like amateurish warriors to be seen fighting in their name, so they only allow C Class members and up to go out on contracts.”
“Well what about me, then?” Cork demanded. He sounded surprised. “The sergeant called me a D Class when he checked us off out in the mess room.”
Marik smiled. “You’ve got your work cut out for you then. The officers will keep tabs on you. Basically you have the entire winter to train. They’ll help you out to a lesser degree, but you’re mostly on your own to raise a rank by spring.”
“Or?”
“Or else they’ll boot you out of the band.”
With a frown, Chiksan observed, “Are all bands in Galemar this strict? Truly this is a different land.”
Dietrik made to ask the older fighter about his past, except Wyman’s turning away broke the circle. The others decided to find the best of the remaining free bunks. Marik missed noticing the two others who had listened from a distance until Dietrik pointed with a whisper.
“What do you make of that one, mate? There must be quite a tale behind him.”
Marik followed Dietrik’s finger through the gloomy room, dark with the fire unlit for the clear day outside. He found the object of Dietrik’s curiosity. “What? You can’t even call that a young man! Why did they let a boy into the band?�
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Hardly thirteen years old if Marik overestimated, a youth with sandy blond hair stowed his pack’s contents inside a closet formerly belonging to a different young man named Kenley. When he locked the door, he spent a moment staring at nothing while he considered. He chose to leave the barracks.
When he passed the two men sitting on their cots, he paused a moment to shift his gaze. He looked fully at Marik. Without pretense, the boy stared at him, his mind’s workings hidden behind an expression of blank impassiveness. Yet tingeing the edges, Marik sensed animosity radiating from the unknown youth.
The pause lasted only a moment. When it ended, the boy resumed his journey to other parts of the town without a word.
“What was that about?” Marik asked.
“Who knows? Children have ever been beyond my ken.”
A quick peek to the side revealed The Peacock shaking out a burgundy shirt from one of his oversized packs in an attempt to conquer the wrinkles. He tutted while finding a place for it, apparently displeased with the amount of storage space his closet afforded him.
The last activity that Marik would find entertaining was watching what must be a fallen blueblood unpacking his entire wardrobe. With so many men needing to be sorted out this year, the new recruits’ arrival landed closer to noon than midmorning. Luiez would be serving up lunch.
Marik and Dietrik pulled out their swords with the intention of practicing after the meal. They approached the kitchen window at the same moment Borneo hefted a steel pot large enough to hold the Fourth Unit’s new boy. He set it atop the counter.
Luiez noticed them, smiled broadly and lifted the lid, allowing an aroma reminiscent of burning underarm hair to strike them in the face with near-physical force. Since they always considered themselves fortunate to have Luiez as the Ninth’s at-home chef, they smiled weakly in return. Sadly, they slunk to an empty table with plates heaped full of their least favorite dish.
They picked at their food, Marik asking, “This is what he chooses to welcome the new recruits with? We’ll be lucky if we still have any of them tomorrow morning.”
“Perhaps he feels the strangeness of our band, as compared to others, will be lessened if their first meal is roughly as disgusting as the food is reputed to be in those same bands.”
Marik laughed. “You may be onto his secret.” He waved a hand over his plate to clear the wafting fumes. “Though picking a dish that could stand up and beat an A Class fighter to death might be taking that too far.”
He toyed with a mysterious lump he uncovered from the depths of his serving, watching the new members enter and leave. Cork approached them from the window with his own utensils in hand.
“Mind if I sit with you? I still have a few questions.”
“Go ahead,” Marik nodded at the empty stretches of bench to either side. “Only a few? You must know more than I did when I first arrived.”
“I pity you then,” Cork guffawed. “If that’s true, then what in the world prompted you to enter?”
“Oh, that’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you if we’re stuck on a long march to our next contract. The roads can be damned boring.”
Cork sniffed, holding his spoon over his plate. “Olander noodles and peppers, huh? And tomatoes? And some type of meat.” He looked at Dietrik across the table. “So how’s the food here?”
Impishly, Dietrik replied, “It cannot be beaten!” Marik nearly burst out with a laugh. “You go on ahead and give it a taste. Luiez whipped up a batch of the Ninth’s favorite to greet our new members.”
“He did?” Cork studied his plate with respect. “Well that sounds good enough to eat!” He lifted a spoonful and plunged it into his mouth. “Mmm! That’s a nice blend of the tomato’s juices mixing with the fat from the cheese. The peppers add a tang that compliments the onion as well.” With a satisfied nod, Cork loaded his spoon with twice as much.
Dietrik watched him for a moment before shrugging. His eyes met Marik’s, the thought so much like his own that Marik could read it plainly. It takes all kinds.
“But the best type of noodle dish,” Cork continued, oblivious to the failed prank, “is the one my mother taught me to make. I use hardboiled eggs and shredded fish…oh, it knocks your boots off when you taste it! Still, this is not bad at all.”
“Shredded fish?” Marik asked for the sake of conversation.
“Oh, yeah! You’d be surprised. I grew up in Juncture Dock so it’s only natural that I’m great with fish. That’s a town on the banks of the Varmeese where it empties into the Southern Sea.” He gestured to the south with his spoon, accidentally knocking it into Marik’s sword where it lay propped against the table. “Oops! Sorry about that.”
Marik bent to pick it off the floor. “That’s all right.”
Cork examined the sword as Marik set it to rights. “Can you actually hold your own with a blade that large?”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“I guess so! Though it must slow you down, right? Maybe we can spar! I’ll show you my great moves!” He nodded, closing the one-sided agreement. Cork looked satisfied for all of three moments before consternation took hold over him “But what’s this D Class nonsense? I’m a superb fighter! The best in Juncture Dock!”
“The officers base the rankings on many different factors,” Dietrik told him, amusement playing across his features. He propped his head on one arm against the tabletop. “Thus the different trials and their many questions.”
“I remember that,” Cork admitted. “Them picking apart every thought I had. Do they want fighters, or philosophers?”
Cork continued venting. He paused to remember what he wanted to ask them when Dietrik suddenly clicked his tongue twice, as if chivying a horse. When he had Marik’s attention, Dietrik extended one finger so he appeared to be wiping his nose.
Marik followed the direction of Dietrik’s gesture, seeing who his friend pointed out. “Well that figures,” he muttered. “And on a day it’s not raining, too.”
“What?” Cork asked. They ignored him.
The woman approached their table. “I’m supposed to give you a message, that I am.”
“Save your breath, Caresse. I can guess.”
The wizardess shrugged sheepishly. “Chief Mage Tollaf told me to make sure you heard.” She leaned forward, placing a hand to one side of her mouth to confidentially whisper, “He made me memorize it and promise to repeat his exact words.”
There was no need to move his head to know all the old Ninth Squad mercenaries stopped eating to watch. Tollaf had made quite a show of their tense relationship in this very room in the past. The spectacles of his furious arguments were matched only by the heights of rage Marik could inspire the old man to. Both master and apprentice had managed victories against the other previously, so it was with interest that the veterans waited to see what Caresse would do.
Her face reddened with embarrassment, then she breathed deeply in preparation to carry out her assigned duty. A bad sign if Marik ever saw one. He held up a hand to stop Caresse, to tell her they could talk outside, but too late did he realize what she intended.
“If you aren’t in front of me within the mark,” Caresse shouted loudly for the entire dining area to hear, “I’ll have you cleaning out the stable stalls with your fingernails! Skip one more day and I’ll ship you back to Thoenar so you can train under Celerity! That should teach you how to be a proper apprentice, or else lash you shreds! Either way, I’ll be well rid of you!”
Lungs expended, Caresse took several short breaths before adding in a normal tone of voice, “I’m sorry, Marik, I truly am. But he said, ‘do it exactly like I ordered’, and so I did.”
“It’s not your fault,” Marik replied. He ignored the sniggers from the various tables while his face burned. That old bastard! I’ll make him pay for this one, and pay in blood!
“But you’d better come today,” she whispered, eyes wide. “The chief mage is very angry! He’s scary to see!”
&n
bsp; “I’ll bet.”
Caresse nodded earnestly. Her duty done, she left the Ninth’s barracks.
Marik glared at his plate, muttering, “Would Yoseph have done that if Tollaf told him to? Of course not! Jeremy or Lynn? Not a chance!”
Dietrik laughed, which snapped Marik’s angry eyes upward. “It is too bad Kerwin is no longer around. Your feud won’t be half as entertaining without him running the book for the squad.”
“Excuse the hells out of me for not being an interesting enough diversion!”
“Sorry,” Cork interjected, “but what was that about? Chief mage?”
“That would be old Tollaf,” Dietrik explained. “Weren’t you aware that the Kings employ mages in their ranks?”
“No, but that doesn’t surprise me. What does he want with you?” He glanced at Marik’s sword as if to make certain it did, in fact, exist.
In no mood to discuss it, and angry at the old man for making an issue of it on the new recruits’ first day, Marik pushed his utensils across the table to Dietrik. He picked up the bread roll, saying, “Put these away for me, will you? I’d better go see what the old fool wants.”
Cork’s inquiries drifted behind him as he left the barracks. Marik could feel countless eyes in the dining area centered on him, a sensation he always hated. The entire way to the Tower, he pondered how best to make the old man wish he had left well enough alone.
* * * * *
Exhaustion threatened to topple Marik to the floor that evening when he staggered into the barracks. The dinner mark had long passed, the mess area empty but for scattered groups using the tables as dicing boards. Hunger failed to eat at his stomach because he had long since passed the point of exertion where he ceased to feel it.
Thoughts of his cot crowded all others from his mind until he crossed through the half-wall. Annoyance pricked him when he found a raucous group gathered around Dietrik’s cot, making noise enough to ensure he would never fall asleep anytime soon.
After stepping closer, he could see between Cork and Talbot to where Dietrik and The Peacock stood before the cot, rapiers in each man’s hand. Ringing the pair also were Bancroft, Edwin and Chiksan. Marik moved to pass the group, except they blocked the entire space between the cot rows.