Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

  “It looks like it is summer or late fall. Most of the grasses are dry, even if the shrubs are still green.” The tick reappeared in the knight-marshal’s eye. Marik hurriedly pointed out, “Though they aren’t all green. A handful are turning brown. But if I meant to wipe out the enemies in this valley, I see how I would probably do it.

  “I’d put my melee fighters along the base of the hill to keep any enemies from climbing it. My archers would be on the crown, ready to shoot down at anything moving. The extra height would increase the range they could fire at to boot. I thought my forces would hit whichever of the surviving groups was strongest, but that would mean moving the archers in fast, hoping to get them into a good firing position. Archers work best if they are stationary. The protected position increases their offensive power.”

  Marik gestured to three different spots on the northern valley, close to where the green soldiers were situated in their eternal vantage point.

  “Instead I would leave a handful of men in these spots. After my main force sneaked south under cover of the terrain and the ongoing battle, I would make a signal. I would have those men light as many fires as they could. The grasses are dry and would catch fast. If these trees are placed they way they really grew in the valley instead of just plunked down for the model, then I would bet the wind usually blows through from north to the south. The fire and smoke would spread toward the surviving Tristan fighters and clan warriors.”

  Sweeping his hand in imitation of vast clouds rolling over skies of tanned oak wood rather than robin’s-egg blue, Marik followed the course of his theoretical firestorm.

  “If the fires were set in the right places at the right times, a wall of fire could block the entire northern valley. Smoke would make them all cough and choke. They’d flee south. In fact,” he added, halting his hand over the hill as a god might pause to take note of a particularly loud prayer from below, “the forerunners might charge straight into the ambush before they realized the danger was ahead rather than behind. Half the survivors might be shot dead before the leaders could organize, and by that time, they would not have the men left to stand a chance against Basill’s forces. The trickiest part would be the fires. They would all have to be precise, since the valley must be three miles wide at the northernmost end.”

  When he noticed the knight-marshal’s continued glare, laced with what he could only perceive as disdain, Marik abruptly shut his mouth. The sudden silence hung between them in a thick fog, until, unable to bear it, Marik finished by limply saying, “Uh, well, that’s what I think I would do. Sir.”

  Slowly, deliberately, the man with the gray hair unfolded his arms. He stepped to the edge of the diorama. His eye settled on a point near the green army. When his words finally reverberated in the enclosed room, they carried the considerable weight of a senior diplomat chastising his aide for a bone-headed blunder that had caused a foreign dignitary to declare a blood feud.

  “You made an error in your…presumptions.”

  After a long moment, Marik was forced to ask, “Error, sir?”

  “The fire with which Faustus caused the stampede. The northern valley is far too vast to be covered in such a short span of time with fire, despite the summer heat.” He bit his words off with sharper force than he had previously. “You would need to spread half the army across the area to do the job properly.”

  “I…” Marik sternly commanded himself not to swallow visibly in front of this man. “I would still say it is the best plan, and the one that would cost Basill’s forces the least amount of men.”

  “That is why Faustus left the job to the geomancer traveling under Basill’s banner. Clearly, it was an instance in which a user of magic was of greater practicality than a division of fighting men.”

  The answer, obviously the truth, made Marik hold in an oath. He, of all people, should have instantly thought of magic as the means to accomplish such a feat as sparking wild fires. Except I will never think well of it, his inner voice stated flatly. No matter how long I have it, use it or am near it, I will never see it as a proper tool a warrior should use. Only steel and skill are what make a warrior’s heart.

  His reluctance to accept the magic had skewed his judgement in laying out the strategy for this reenactment. Hesitantly, he probed, “A geomancer would be a better choice for starting a wild fire. So…I suppose that’s how Faustus chose to handle it.”

  “Your ideas for handling a battle against two formidable enemies are simplistic.”

  Marik stood his ground. “Yes, sir. But the more complex an idea is, the less likely it is to work out the way you hoped it would. Especially in turbulent situations. From what I’ve seen, simple ways are the best, the easiest to alter in an instant, and…it might be simple, but most times a single, well-placed blow causes worse damage than a fancy piece of sword work that uses most of its momentum in trying to confuse an adversary.”

  “Simplistic plans can be easily seen through.”

  “If it’s effective because it’s simple, then it probably would also be hard to counter. And if it wasn’t enough, I’d come up with a simple backup plan. If you try to be complex just so your enemy won’t guess what you’re planning, then you will probably outsmart yourself. Complexity is not my strongest point.”

  Marik said the last before he considered the impact it might have on his credibility later when he reported on the bull-creatures. He winced inwardly, then stiffened instinctively when the knight-marshal sharply assaulted him with an angry glare of burning ice.

  Whatever the man intended to say, he imprisoned it behind his teeth. Marik feared he’d insulted the man when those teeth ground for several moments before, with strained reluctance, the knight-marshal grunted, “Except for your oversight regarding the geomancer, your…guess is correct. That is exactly how the battle proceeded, and what Faustus chose to do in service to Basill Cerella.”

  He stepped away with a gesture of his head that anyone would understand was a command to follow. Five steps toward the door, the old soldier abruptly stopped to glance back at the recreated valley.

  “You don’t know why that model was built.”

  “No, sir, I don’t.” The scowl that elicited made the mercenary realize it had been no question, but rather a statement of fact.

  “It was built on command of Faustus Hueart. Yes,” the man added, seeing Marik’s start of surprise, “it is that old. Very old. He had it crafted to test the minds of those who would serve the Cerellas in his stead.”

  The man reminisced for a moment longer before continuing to the door. In the hallway, he led Marik deeper still into the heart of the Galemaran palace. With every step, Marik felt his mind churning.

  There was no reason for the knight-marshal to have told him that last, other than hoping to foster in the mercenary a deeper appreciation for the history of the extraordinary model. Yet the simple fact of its origins unlocked connected knowledge in his mind, facts that had been collected nearly at random as he’d parted his way through the tall-grown wheat fields of life.

  The tri-annual tournament for the Arm of Galemar, both a title declaring the bearer to be the strongest warrior in the kingdom and an exquisite master sword, a weapon whose quality Marik had never seen before or since. In recent decades the tournament was little better than a lark. A pleasant diversion such as Summerdawn Festival or Wintereve. The fact that it renewed the position of the king’s most trusted servant was only the means by which the winner was chosen. Indeed, the Arm had not served in any of his supposed roles since before the oldest man’s grandfather’s days of youth.

  It had not always been so. Many times in the past, the new Arms had needed to be as canny as Faustus Hueart had ever been, protecting the Cerella family’s rule against rebellion and outside influence. Such victories against all odds had spawned any number of heroic ballads familiar to Marik from his days spent in Puarri’s Tavern, listening to every wandering minstrel who passed through Tattersfield.

  Last summer, when he
had been charged with protecting Hilliard Garroway during the largest tournament in known history, he had learned a fair amount regarding the Arm and the process by which the new men in that elite knighthood were chosen. His instructors had been Landon, with his interest in historical bits, Hilliard too, mostly from the youth’s fiery passion to be the ultimate instrument of justice, as well as the endless retellings of previous Arms to be found in every corner of Tourney Town. Landon had provided the most salient points currently whirling through his mind.

  Since its inception, the tournament had undergone changes. In the beginning the participants were required to undergo trials that challenged their minds as much as their bodies. The trials that required keener mental faculties had been dropped, which was one of the reasons Marik considered the last several Arms a joke. They were fair fighters and stunning when resplendent in their polished armor, but as tacticians they would be hard pressed to defeat a herd of goats in order to seize their grazing pastures. He knew with every fiber in his being that the current Arm would never have managed to run the assault against the invaders without an officer whispering instructions worked out previously into his ear.

  Faustus had been the one to create the tournament in the first place. He wanted to ensure that there would always be at least one man the future Cerellan kings could rely upon if the available options looked black. Having forged the kingdom, he had a rooted interest in seeing that it stayed in one piece. This model of Thrae Valley, recreating a battle in which he had faced forces three times greater in number than the swords under his command, would make an adequate test. The first Arm of Galemar had already known that victory could be attained under those exact circumstances. All that remained was to see that the future candidates for his title were capable of the same feat.

  Then…the long years of peace perverted his system into a display of flash and showmanship rather than one of accomplishment and cold calculation.

  Obviously the model, no longer used in the tournament, still found some use or other. Men like the knight-marshal would undoubtedly test their ingenuity against such problems during their military studies, refusing to pass up such a valuable potential lesson.

  Even such a simple lesson as that one was, Marik mused. Hardly a stepping stone on the way to whatever grandiose strategies the more brilliant tacticians would leave behind. Still, Marik took pride in having been able to decipher the best plan for that situation, especially since his decisions had mostly mirrored the ones made by such a legendary figure as the first Arm of Galemar.

  Funny how he’d never learned the man’s name before.

  It was an interesting piece of history he might never have realized. The seemingly random fragments of information he had used to reconstruct it could as easily have passed him by, unnoticed. If nothing else, it validated Landon’s assertions that knowledge of the past could be every bit as valuable as knowing what transpired in the present.

  Yet for all its interest, it held little importance. The only true benefit would be that these people, who were familiar with the types of men the diorama had been designed for, might take his warnings seriously once they learned how well he’d performed under its quiet trial.

  Few enough of the hallway lamps were lit. Walking through corridors where two out of every three iron-bracketed lamps were dark lent the moment an ominous quality. Most of the people had vanished while Marik discussed the finer points of military strategy with the knight-marshal. From appearances it could have been halfway to dawn after the midnight bell.

  The knight-marshal angled to a door larger than that of the previous room, passing a group of dignified men and women who exuded a miasma of power. These individuals were important figures in the halls of statehood. Marik’s head followed them until an irritated cough from the knight-marshal drew his attention back. He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed while he pointedly waited for the young mercenary to hustle.

  With luck the dim lighting would hide the flush that rose anew to his cheeks. Marik could feel them reddening.

  Brighter light illuminated the room’s interior, like stepping from the dappled shadows of a forest into a clearing brilliant with unfiltered sun. It was a circular room, continuous walls without corners. Several doorways were set at irregular intervals. Wood paneling had been shunned in favor of plaster painted green and brown in Galemar’s colors. A table as circular as the room followed the walls in a massive ring. Flag stanchions flanked chairs resembling thrones on the room’s far end.

  And thrones they might indeed be, Marik knew, when he saw who else stood in the room. Raymond Cerella possessed features that would easily pass from the mind moments after meeting the man, if one encountered him as a fruit seller or a clerk in the city’s counting houses, a lifetime of strain showing on his face from keeping track of other people’s wealth. His wife Ulecia on the other hand…Marik’s eyes instantly recognized the streaming locks rippling over her shoulders. From a distance, that one feature recalled her to his mind.

  The knight-marshal made his way around the table toward the group. In every sizable room Marik had been in, the ceiling rose in proportion to the floor space. Here, the low ceiling lofted lower than the hallway’s, creating the impression that they had entered into a hollow space inside a coin.

  Their entrance had been noticed. Several eyes followed their progress across the room. Drawing closer to group of standing figures, Marik could see Celerity, the head of Raymond’s mages and, most shocking of all, Torrance, the commander of the Crimson Kings. A woman unfamiliar to Marik stood to the Raymond’s left, dressed in an austere blouse with a collar tight enough to do a hangman proud and a matching skirt that brushed the floor. Also present were two men of an age where gray had begun a hostile war against their receding hairlines, neither in any sort of uniform though carrying the same competent air about them as the knight-marshal.

  None introduced themselves. For all they noticed Marik, he might have been a speck of dust hovering in the air.

  The two men, Raymond and the lady ceased their quiet conversation so the king could nod at his knight-marshal when he approached. Marik held back near the seats several feet away. Raymond followed his nod by simply stating, “Tybalt.”

  That must have been the knight-marshal’s name. Knight-Marshal Tybalt nodded back before entering into the murmured conference.

  Marik felt conspicuous with that group’s eyes constantly flicking sideways at him. He averted his own to meet Torrance’s. Coming face-to-face with his commander always made him nervous. On multiple occasions Torrance had yanked the carpet out from under his feet, forcing him to make choices Marik would much rather have forgone. Not every meeting had ended on an unpleasant note, true enough, but experience denied him peace of mind whilst in the man’s presence.

  At the moment, Torrance gazed unflinchingly at his fellow band member. Marik read only half of what that gaze contained, and what he could interpret left him all the more uneasy. Anger might not be there, yet an emotion not far from it seethed in his eyes. The resolute determination to have things his way was there as well.

  As for the rest…

  Marik looked away, hating to be the first to break the gaze even if to a man as worthy of respect as the commander. His eye fell on Celerity, standing beside Ulecia. Unsurprising to find that stiletto gaze on him. She nodded slightly to words the queen whispered at her side, her eyes locked on him tighter than prison shackles.

  In all of it, Marik had never felt so out of place. He had no idea why he was there, why he had been summoned or to what purpose his being among such august leaders might serve. Celerity he could understand. The knight-marshal’s interest as well, on one level.

  Raymond would have a keen interest in the threat facing his kingdom…but would he be there to personally question a common fighter despite the knowledge he might possess? Would it not be likelier that the king’s advisors or analysts would gather in the knowledge and prepare it for the king after they had pieced together as much of the
picture as they could reconstruct?

  The whispers were growing thick in the air. Only Torrance kept his silence. Repeated glances at him made Marik’s legs quiver slightly. He had long since learned that the unknown could prove to be the fatal factor in any battle. This conference room felt as dangerous as any battlefield he had been on, and lacking complete knowledge was making his instincts flair. Worst of all, he felt a churning in his gut that usually accompanied his sense that life had a nasty trick in store for him.

  Raymond’s group stopped their quiet talk. Each man and woman shifted to study the vagabond in their midst. The knight-marshal kept his distance, arms folded across his chest, countenance as stern as a magistrate about to pronounce judgement over a heinous criminal. His look was only marginally short of hostile.

  King Raymond gave a slight nod to Celerity, who returned the gesture. A nod at Torrance only made the commander’s head lower an inch, eyebrows beetling, the corner of his mouth twitching. Nods were selling cheap today. They passed between everyone present save Marik. When all the head waggling was finished, Celerity, presumably the pre-selected spokesperson, donned a slight smile Marik had seen once before. He barely stifled his natural reaction to drop into a crouch and send his hand flying to his sword hilt.

  “No introductions are needed,” the woman said softly, yet with strength in her words all the same. “We all of us have come to know you, Marik Railson. And you have come to know us in return through the course of your…career.”

  He could have argued the point; nearly did out of a perverse urge to struggle against a descending axe he sensed rather than saw. Only half of those present were known to him.

  Except as the thought formed, he recognized one of the two men standing at Raymond’s side. The king’s seneschal, less recognizable out of his formal robes of office. Marik only placed him from the time he organized the various contenders at the tournament during the opening ceremony, arranging them into parodies of garden statues in a line extending away from the outdoor thrones the monarchs would inhabit.