by Damien Lake
“Quite,” Celerity curtly answered. She pulled a tall-backed chair from the table and rotated it to face them. “The royal enclave has been scrying nonstop since we received the initial reports,” she revealed as she imperiously settled into her seat. “We have pieced together a larger picture of these enemies than you could have obtained merely by fighting them.”
“Have you truly? Are you saying you’ve collected blood and hair from these black soldiers to directing your scrying efforts? Or that you had such all along?”
Marik barely avoided sneering as he spoke. He had been afraid of this woman before. This time, he refused to bow before her, whatever her rank or powers. It could very well be a mistake yet he persisted, his confusion influencing his attitude. Since the time he had left Tattersfield behind he had been determined to grow into a man of strength and independence. Here, now, he intended to act like the man he’d chosen to be.
Her expression narrowed again when she responded. “Take care not to constrain your understanding of scrying to your own limited abilities, apprentice Marik. The palace has long possessed casks of soil from every village across Galemar. It is possible to scrye any location using the earth as a catalyst, once you know where you must search.”
“As long as trouble is in a settled area,” he returned silver quick, spotting the fallacy at once. “Anyone who’s ever studied a map of the kingdom knows that even with over four-hundred-fifty towns and villages, not to mention the major cities, that would only account for a scarce percentage of the land area.”
He missed seeing the slight quirk of a smile from the seneschal. Only Celerity’s irritation occupied him. “Search areas can be broadened, as you well know. Or should know. The scrye can be set to the nearest area of trouble and moved.”
“Not into the pass. I know that much. The further you shift the view, the harder it is to maintain the scrying links. With these black soldiers scattered across the wild lands along the mountains, you can’t possibly keep track of a portion of them!”
“When Tru uses scrying spells that draw on his magician’s talent,” she explained, turning patience into a virtue of martyrdom, “he is capable of plumbing depths far beyond what your mage talent can reach.”
“At a cost. If it were so easy, you would have known long beforehand of the invasion and had forces ready to meet these strangers.”
The seneschal reasserted himself. “No commander in war ever has as much information as he would wish or needs. There is no use belaboring it.” When Marik refocused on him, he pointed to the mosaic map. “You can see that the eastern border with Nolier will be occupying most of the army. Our difficulties in controlling the Tullainian border due to the refugees must have seemed like an opportune gift from Hall’Kyon to Nolier. The re-occupation of their forces leaves us no choice but to redirect ours.”
“That is going to doom western Galemar,” Marik pronounced.
“We are not blind to the situation, Marik Railson. But with two separate wars and an army bleeding from multiple wounds, we need something akin to a miracle.”
“Then send the Arm against the black soldiers while the main body of the army fights back Nolier. Pulling victory from certain defeat is what the man is supposed to be all about.”
“We have something of that nature in mind,” the seneschal admitted.
Marik grimaced. He could see where this was going. The Crimson Kings would be working under the Arm of Galemar, a man who was undoubtedly a good fighter, but almost certainly a tactician on par with a cheese biscuit.
“Since you have first-hand experience fighting these invaders as well, you understand their strength. Or, a portion of their strengths. I would say, and King Raymond agrees with this, when it comes to fighting these strangers and their beasts, you could very well be the one fighter in the kingdom with the best feel for them, despite the things you do not yet know.”
“I figured that much on my own,” Marik informed them. “I can tell you everything I know from my battle experience along with any information I learned through my mage senses, though that won’t be much. They aren’t Devils. That much I am certain of. Just animals of some kind. But I’m not the only fighter who was there.”
Celerity sniffed. The seneschal nodded. He added, “Many were there, yes. But you especially. And as against the Noliers, so the reports say, you pushed forward to carry the battle in your wake.”
With a frown, Marik contradicted the man. “Reports like that are misleading.”
“My eyes are as clear as they have ever been,” Celerity waspishly retorted. “The entire enclave watched that battle. We were anchored on Henodd to begin with. After he fell, Tru maintained the scrye until the conclusion.”
“Henodd,” Marik turned on her, well remembering the ire he’d felt toward the man, “was hardly what I would call a capable battle mage. He let the enemy mage defeat him so he could unleash his magic on the rest of us!”
“In fact, Henodd was an exceedingly capable combatant. You would do well to remember that. The mage he struggled against was of a caliber that alarms us greatly. I might add,” she pointedly told him, “that having witnessed your brief battle against him, I have several questions for you regarding what I saw. The scenes in the mirror have us keenly interested in you.”
“You didn’t see anything that a struggling apprentice isn’t capable of!”
“It is the fact that you are that very struggling apprentice that leaves me wondering at the inexplicable occurrences that surrounded you.”
“Whatever the explanation,” the seneschal cut in, “it remains a fact you have twice played pivotal roles in major enemy engagements.”
“Fighting is what I do. If you want a bard’s hero, look to your appointed Arm.” Marik straightened his back despite the weariness coursing through him from a long day’s march. He had reached the point where he did not care who he spoke to any longer. The facts would always be the facts. “Leading us against these black soldiers is the reason you have the man around, after all.”
“The Arm will be needed in the east. With the army still rebuilding, his presence and the inspiration it lends the soldiers will be crucial.”
“You said he would be fighting back the invaders!”
“I said no such thing. What I said,” the seneschal corrected, the quirking smile reappearing for Marik to take note of this time, “was that we had a similar plan in mind. Tell me, Marik Railson, how familiar you are with the history surrounding the Arm of Galemar.”
What an inane waste of time! Having to jump in circles for no sane reason on top of being exhausted. It entered his mind to simply leave, whatever they thought about their supposed control over him as a Kings mercenary. Were Torrance not there, he might have given in to the temptation.
Instead he sighed loudly on purpose. He summarized the histories in short shrift, ending with, “That’s why the Cerellan kings have renewed the position since then. To always have a warrior they could count on above all others. One who would protect the throne against desperate straights. Which is why you need him west instead of east no matter…”
The seneschal gave him a curious look. “No matter? Please continue your thought.”
Annoyed, tired, which was why his tongue had slipped, Marik cast a glance to Torrance before plowing forward. After all, he had already decided to stand his ground. “No matter what he might be today, if you truly want to know. Not that I mean to criticize the palace or anyone in it, but if you wanted a warrior the likes of the old Arms then you shouldn’t have restricted the tournaments to the nobility alone, or done away with any of the old tasks the original Arm designed.”
He waited, expecting a rebuke at his daring. Except the seneschal offered a shocking nod. “A valid point, as much as Tybalt hates to admit it. Which he grudgingly does. And which, though here he disagrees strenuously, brings us to you.”
“To me? I don’t have anything to do with this except to tell you what I know.”
Marik felt a thump ag
ainst the back of his head that bordered on painful. Torrance’s hand draped over his shoulders in a manner that might have looked fatherly, yet felt anything but. “Don’t embarrass me or the band, Railson. Use that head of yours. By the reports of your old sergeant and your friends, you aren’t using it to store old rags.”
What all did you learn about me while I was locked in a cycle of nightmares in the chirurgeons wing? Torrance had crafted an insubstantial cage during that eternal purgatory, leaving it set and waiting to ensnare him the moment he awoke. No doubt the commander was a man who never forgot anything that might prove useful later.
“I’m not embarrassing anybody when no one bothers to give me enough information to reach any sort of conclusions!”
The seneschal, in an offhand manner, stated, “One of the tenets held by the first Arm was that men were a reflection of the times. The harsh years of the Unification required skills and accomplishments equal to what was at stake. With the long years of peace, it follows, according to his philosophy, that the newer Arms would be paler reflections of their predecessors since they have no need to scale the tallest peaks of their ability. Yet when wars the likes of what we haven’t known for over a century break out, the natural result would be for men equal to the changed situation to emerge.” He nodded his head to indicate who he meant by the statement.
And it clicked inside his mind.
Be careful what you ask for boy…
Had he not, in his arrogant overestimation of his abilities whilst on the Rovasii’s edge, actually desired to make such a phenomenal showing that those who walked the hallways of nobility would take notice? Had he not wished to humiliate the Arm by fighting a battle worthy of his predecessors, and in doing so prove that common citizens bore more right to the title than he?
He broke away from Torrance’s arm with a start. “You can’t put any of this on my shoulders! I…I can’t carry the Arm!”
“Nor will you,” Celerity countered. “Do not for a moment think you are anything beyond a convenient tool at the king’s hand. You are, and will be, no closer to being the Arm than your commander is.”
Marik stood firm, glaring at her as he lashed back with, “Stop confusing the matter, and stop dancing around! I want to know what you want from me!”
“We aren’t asking you for anything. We are telling you what you will do as a citizen of Galemar. If that is insufficient, then the duty you are bound to as a member of your band. The Crimson Kings Mercenaries serve the crown when called upon. Attempting to quit once you have been so ordered is tantamount to desertion.”
While Marik opened his mouth to make a hot reply to the threat, the seneschal drove it home by saying, “In this matter, Knight-Marshal Tybalt will enforce the desertion penalties fully.”
“You show me the bars of my prison before you shut the door,” Marik growled, arms twitching while his mouth drew a thin line. “I must assume that whatever you have in mind, I will disagree with it completely.”
“It is simple enough,” the seneschal revealed. “With the army and Arm forced to cover the eastern border, the western conflicts have few men available to resolve them. They are outmanned, and face considerable odds given the information we have. Re-securing the Stoneseams will be a monumental task. Galemar has not faced such a difficult battle since—”
His words were interrupted when Torrance cut the air with his hand, flatly stating, “Stop gilding the lily. Marik is a smart enough lad. I’ve testified to that. But in the end he is, like myself, a mercenary.” Facing his hire-sword, he stripped away all the fat. “Simply put, they have decided life will be easier if this is somebody else’s problem. So they will drop the problem into your lap.”
“They’re leaving the entire job of fighting back the black soldiers to us?” Marik was incredulous.
Torrance shook his head in a slight movement, the anger still present in his eyes…but the merest smile appearing nevertheless. “I did not say they were giving the problem to the band. They are foisting it off on you.”
The last shreds of doubt fell away. Marik understood it plain enough. What made no sense at all was, “Why in the lowest hell? What am I to them? I’m a mercenary! Not a soldier, much less an officer!”
“That is one of the many fish bones in Tybalt’s craw,” Torrance agreed. “As for what you are…that should be plain enough. You are a man who has twice played influential roles in major battles. Once in a one-on-one duel against a retinue of knights and the head of the Nolier army. Again by single-handedly breaking through the enemy line and forcing a wedge to their command core, then taking out the powerful magic user who was leading them.”
Sour tendrils crept into Torrance’s eyes during his last statement. Marik was forcibly reminded that, after the verbal thrashing Sloan and Fraser had given him over his recklessness, Torrance would surely have words of his own to deliver on the subject. This was neither the time or place for that, though.
“In the nutshell, you have proven to be a man who finds victory where others would certainly meet with defeat. Both your battlefield accomplishments and your tenacity for surviving near-certain fatal wounds have impressed King Raymond.”
“Which,” Celerity picked up, “strikes his majesty as opportune. Tybalt intended to give command over the Tullainian border to one of his colonels. The king sees a grave situation the likes of our darkest moments in Galemaran history and desired the Arm to command those battles.”
The seneschal added the final bit. “To finish plainly, as you observed earlier, the current trials required by those who contend for the position are less challenging than originally they were. As great a warrior as our current Arm of Galemar is, he would struggle to make optimum use of the minimal forces available for the western defenses.”
Marik wanted to shout at them. To scream bloody murder. To demand what insanity ruled their thinking. Unfortunately, childish tantrums and equally foolish questions would serve him little use. After he left this room, he would be able to rationally find a way to return to his proper place in the Ninth Squad beside Dietrik. Until he could escape their lunacy, what he needed most was to make an impression of competence.
He thought he might have made a good beginning at that by refusing to yield to their rank. Before he blurted out words that would tarnish his image, he carefully considered his next statements.
“Not to be the Arm…but to act like it. No. It is not so simple as that, is it? What you want is someone to tell you how the real Arm would solve the problem. How the real Arm would act in this situation. But you’re not about to let on about it.”
“Of course not,” Torrance agreed before the others could naysay him. He briefly stood united with his fellow mercenary against the upper echelon. “No one can possibly admit the truth of it openly. Tybalt is furious and hardly alone in that. Yet Raymond remains convinced that unorthodox methods will be required to fend off this unorthodox enemy whom none can identify.”
That made Marik bark a harsh laugh. Looking at the seneschal, he forcefully asked, “Do you expect me to pull a string of answers from the air like a festival illusionist? You’d be a double fool if you thought I could tell you what to do when your own men obviously haven’t been able to.”
“No. I do not. And before you continue, I will see to it that certain points are made clear. First,” he intoned, flexing his fingers so as to resemble a man examining his fingernails, “you are to serve the crown as the wartime prescripts of your band demand. That means you will obey or else suffer imprisonment at best, the remainder of your days in a labor gang at worst.”
Once he was satisfied by the glower over Marik’s face that the message had been received, he continued. “Second, you will not be acting as the Arm of Galemar in any function you might be familiar with. What we desire from you are the insights such men are known for. Your accomplishments coupled with your evaluation of the Thrae Valley reenactment suggest you might be able to do so. To that end, your duty will consist solely of analysis, evaluat
ion and advice.”
Marik’s temper got the better of him. He could not contain it. “Because of a few guesses about a model, you want me to plan a campaign? That’s madness!”
“Wrong. It is because that, of the strategists currently in service to the king, none have ever so completely recreated Faustus Hueart’s strategy when they studied the valley.”
“I don’t believe that! It’s too simple for anyone to look at and miss the obvious.”
“Take my assurance that, in the course of their studies, every tactician, including Tybalt, took different paths. Each would have cost Basill Cerella’s forces a great toll in men, and none would have assured victory. That is beside the point. What you are to do is study the situation, use your firsthand knowledge of the enemy and craft a plan to put forth before the throne in three day’s time.”
“You will not be alone in this,” Celerity added, adopting the seneschal’s firm, patient tone. “Tybalt has his men analyzing the information as we speak. Your advice will only be one of multiple courses proposed.”
Oddly enough, never having dreamed words from her could do so, Marik felt comforted. From their manner he had anticipated having the responsibility for entire regiments forced onto him. What they wanted, when considered coldly, was simply a new point of view. In a way it was what he had thought to do all along; present information. That there would be men far more capable at crafting battle plans than he at hand meant the king would never be foolhardy enough to put his faith in a mercenary’s untutored advice. The others would be certain to point out his errors.
All they wanted from him was a different layer of the onion.
The seneschal continued. “You will study what information we have, which is mostly in the enclave’s keeping.” He nodded at Celerity, who accepted the gesture serenely. “You may study whatever you wish if it grants you the insight to deal effectively with the enemy, considering the forces at your disposal.