Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

  Or was he wrong about that minute feeling tickling the back of his brain? Whatever the king might be thinking, he maintained as normal an expression as ever. Marik could not even say for certain why the king struck him as different.

  “I,” Tybalt announced, “for one, am most interested in a formation that can stop an avalanche without being on the mountainside.”

  “As am I,” Raymond added in a pleasant tone at odds with Tybalt’s. “Being an experienced warrior, with pinnacle accomplishments to your name, I would like to hear what your expertise suggests. No doubt you are familiar with battlefield realities, and possess a sense for ideas that may seem ingenious in a war room but which prove fatally flawed in the midst of combat.”

  “Well…” The king’s words sent a flush through Marik’s face. Off balance, he wavered until he saw the renewed ire coursing through Tybalt. “Yes, your majesty. I’ve heard plans from mor—uh, appointed leaders that went wrong in exactly the way we, or I, predicted it would. That is to say, I agree completely. Many ideas end up not being so good. After the fact.”

  Flapping a bit cocky again, are we? Dietrik’s voice in his mind deepened his flush. Marik quickly pushed forward, describing the ideas he had mulled deeply for days.

  His basic concepts had changed little. From his previous battlefields he had known which methods of facing the black soldiers and their monsters would be best suited. New information pouring in through field reports and deciphered by Minna did little to dissuade him from his earlier convictions, only helping him forge the specifics.

  He spoke for the next two candlemarks about various ways the small number of available men would best be utilized. Delano objected as often as Tybalt, quick to point out that the supplies Marik insisted were crucial would be unavailable. Most were already heading eastward, including broken or ill-kept equipment. Crossbows became the major sticking point. The two men became grudging allies against the mercenary who wanted to rob them blind. Several times Marik came close to loosing his temper.

  Raymond presided over these discussions in place of the seneschal or Ulecia. Rather than shutting the knight-marshal down with a carefully placed phrase, he only stepped between them when Tybalt verged on pounding the table to emphasize his shouts. The longer it went on, the stronger grew Marik’s certainty that the king wanted to see how well he performed when confronted by the council. He was, after all, the man’s prize pet. A dog Raymond had brought to Shaw’s ratting pit, hopeful that he had picked a breed capable of taking out the full compliment of thirty rodents in the time allotted.

  As far as Marik was concerned, the king could take that sentiment and line the manure carts with it. But as a professional mercenary, he refused to back down after he had been given the opportunity to teach the royal council about real warfare. He returned every one of Tybalt’s biting comments with one of his own, flung Delano’s supply concerns back into his face, responded to Celerity’s inquiries as politely as possible, answered Bronwen’s few observations with view points from the other side of the fence, and elaborated on details to prove to the seneschal that each idea had been carefully pondered for its possible consequences.

  When the frontlines against the enemy ground forces were thoroughly discussed, Marik dropped the carton of eggs called Wyverflies, which none of the field reports mentioned. The first knowledge of them came from a prisoner interview that Dietrik passed along. Marik had set the enclave’s scryers to working endlessly until they finally caught glimpse of one, confirming the story and raising a thousand new questions.

  He explained their role. Primarily, they were scouts who could fly above the enemy, seeing supply lines, troop movements…anything of interest. In a pinch they could serve as combatants by dropping items such a clay pots filled with burning oil or other lightweight objects. Shaped mostly like massive dragonflies, they were not as serious a threat as might be feared. They required caves to live in sixteen hours out of every day. Without proper quarters, they had suffered and slowly started dying out during the Tullainian campaign. How many were left were undetermined, but too few to mount a secure scouting watch over the entire border. Also, they still had the Tullainian/Perrisan border to guard as well. Their resources were stretched thin.

  But try telling these people that. First they questioned the very truth of it, coming close to calling him an outright liar on several occasions. Once Celerity called in four separate scryers from the enclave’s tower to back up his assertions, they insisted on panicking until Ulecia ordered a light dinner brought in. During the meal the councilors had quiet time to consider the matter in private without each other’s words feeding their own blazing imaginations.

  Tybalt, swallowing a last mouthful of bread, issued an order for three of his staff to immediately travel to Trask’s camp and question all Traders-speaking prisoners. The man looked ready to follow after them until Raymond made it plain that he intended for Marik to make a full report before any actions by the council were considered. The marker candles burned down another notch before Marik’s assertions were accepted not on faith as much as a tenuous acknowledgement that a floating twig was better to grab onto in a raging flood than nothing at all.

  Celerity, who knew most of what he did since she spent time with the enclave each day, always prompted the next subject. Once the Wyverflies were beaten to death, she guessed what he meant to speak on last. Only one major element remained. Once she asked the question, a palpable silence fell over the room. Tybalt and Delano were as mute as the rest, waiting to see what would come.

  Word of the impossibly floating mountain had spread among those with the highest rank. Marik had no idea if the council had succeeded in keeping its existence solely within their own members. The servants in the hallways spoke on many topics but he had yet to hear tales of such a juicy subject as that would provoke. It would seem that few enough still held onto the secret.

  Marik hopped the council table with his display to the frowns of everyone excepting the royal pair. He wanted them to be able to see his scribblings which was why he pulled it to the hollow space in the table’s center, fifteen feet from the king. His display perched over the mosaic stones representing the Southern Road while he towered like a heathen sea god above the south ocean. A quick movement tossed off the cloth draping the formerly blank canvases perched on an artist’s easel, all of which he had confiscated from the palace’s court painter that morning.

  “The big questions you’ve been asking,” Marik declared to the councilors, “is, ‘what in the hells is that’, and ‘what is it for’. ‘How is it floating in the air’ usually comes on the heels of the first two. The first two questions have a definite answer. This mountain is the vessel that brought the Arronaths, their Wyverflies, their Taurs, the whole damned lot of them in fact, across the ocean. At its peek speed it can make the same progress as a merchant ship with a full load of goods.

  “Every Arronath prisoner we questioned calls it the Citadel. Or, a Citadel. The implication is clear that this isn’t the only one. Their army is vast, and the forces that crossed the sea represent merely a small portion of it.”

  He paused, waiting for contradictions. Surprisingly, the air remained quiet.

  “The numbers still aren’t set in stone, but it seems capable of carrying the entire Galemaran army and beyond. How much it can carry depends on how much of that floating mountain is hollow.”

  “Last I heard,” Delano finally spoke out, “it was moving. Moving in our direction.”

  “That’s right,” Marik confirmed. “There are still several theories why. It could contain most of their supplies, making it an ideal depot. One you can move and is invulnerable to attack. It might house the remaining soldiers who aren’t stationed around Tullainia or on active duty.”

  “It could also be massive weapon,” Rancill threw in. “If they have the ability to lift a mountain in such a manner, what other advanced achievements have they reached? What unfathomable magics could they unleash from there if such atta
cks are dependant on the mountain being close to their targets?”

  “While possible,” Celerity answered, “that is also less likely than must seem to you. Or others who are unfamiliar with the natural laws of magic.”

  “With a defiance of all ‘natural laws’ before our eyes already, how—”

  Marik cut him off. “In this instance, Chief Mage Celerity knows what she’s talking about.” He winced as soon as the words left his lips. That had come out completely wrong. “What I mean to say is that there is only so much magic that can take place in any single given location before the available energy supplying the magic is completely spent.”

  “Then how can that much magic exist at all?” Delano demanded, pointing at Marik’s crude sketch of the Citadel floating over the ground. “It seems to me, with my limited knowledge of magic, that there is an awful lot of it taking place to lift that…that chunk of rock. Basic supply and demand should mean that the available supply, no matter where you are, would never meet the excessive demand to accomplish that!” He folded his arms across his chest. “Or am I completely mistaken in my simple man’s view?”

  “No, you aren’t,” Marik told him. It surprised the quartermaster into unfolding his arms. “The last question, of how they did it, has left everyone scratching their heads. It should be impossible under ordinary circumstances. Even under extraordinary circumstances. Every mage in the enclave kept looking harder and harder for the fantastic magics that the Arronaths were employing. When they didn’t find it, they kept raising their gaze higher still, hoping to see it.”

  Celerity bore a steely cast to her eyes. He ignored it. They, after all, had been the ones far too clever to see the answer. On the other hand, he noticed Raymond nodding very slightly. The king must have already seen where Marik was going.

  “How they accomplished it is far simpler than it would appear. As any in the enclave could tell you, did tell you I expect, geomancy would be the ideal talent to use for lifting a stone into the air. But when it comes to geomancy, there are really two different approaches that one can take to accomplish the end result. Most ignore the second way. Geomancers in Galemar, in all the kingdoms on Merinor, hardly ever make use of the part of their talent that allows them to contact elemental spirits.”

  Eyebrows lifted at that statement. Rancill asked, “Are you suggesting a ghost is haunting that mountain, or—”

  “No! An elemental spirit is a creature that has never been anything other than an elemental spirit. It was born that way, same as a rabbit was born as a rabbit. But they are born in tune to a particular elemental energy type. They have no physical bodies the way you and I do.”

  “I know something of this,” Joletta, of all people, announced. “However it is my understanding that they are flighty creatures. Unreliable and prone to wandering off at any time.”

  “Like a horse?” Delano asked with a sarcastic bite.

  “If that helps you picture them, yes,” Marik shot at him. “Unlike a horse though, they have very limited strength.”

  “Then how could they possibly accomplish such a feat?” Tybalt demanded. “I assume that is the conclusion you expect us to draw.”

  “It is not them so much as their superiors. Working with the spirits is usually harder effort than it is worth for the result. Except that among the elementals are creatures known as lords. We know very little about them because they are incredibly dangerous to approach. What we can assume without much risk of faulty logic is that whatever the elemental spirits are capable of, the lords can accomplish on a far larger scale. So if we make the simple conclusion that the Arronath geomancers have perfected a method for making contracts with elemental lords without being killed in the process, then many ‘impossibilities’ suddenly become possible.”

  “Such as?” Raymond inquired while Celerity kept her professionalism enough to evaluate the theory. “It still remains a question of generating the power to move a mountain.”

  “Only if you keep thinking along the usual lines, your majesty,” Marik replied. “With an elemental lord in the game, there are other ways you can achieve the same end with different means.”

  “Means that require less strength of magic,” Ulecia observed.

  “Again yes, your majesty. Elemental spirits of air can lift a stone off the ground by focusing their powers through the air surrounding the rock. Solidifying it, making the air like a glove wrapped around the rock and forcing it to move wherever the spirits want it to go. That requires most of the strength a spirit of air can manage. Yet a spirit of earth, and the records are clear on this,” Marik stated boldly, meeting Celerity’s eye, “does it in a completely different manner. The earth spirit changes the very nature of the rock until it is lighter than the air around it. It adjusts the elemental aura contained within the stone the way a sponge can change depending on how much water you pour over it. This is far less taxing on the earth spirit than the air spirit doing the job its way.”

  He removed the first canvas, revealing the second display behind it. This also contained a crude sketch of the hovering Citadel. Marik had added several arrows pointing away in various directions. With each remark, he pointed at a different arrow.

  “If you accept that the simplest possibility is the likeliest solution, then that’s how they lifted the mountain. That’s also how they move it. An elemental earth lord, or several of them if there are more than one, altered the nature of the stone in the entire mountain. Here at the bottom, the stone is lighter than the air. Here at the very top, the stone must be heavier to keep it at a constant level and not rising upwards forever. As for how it moves, that is simply a matter of temperature.”

  “Meaning what, pray tell?” Tybalt said. He was out of his depth and wary of calling Marik down on such uncertain footing. “Temperature?”

  “That’s right. The exact composition of the stone depends on the exact state of the air it is in contact with. Our geomancers assure me that air is not simply air in every place at every time. Warm air is lighter, rising rapidly and expanding. Like steam. Cold air is heavy, sinks to the ground and is compact. Like ice. And it changes all day long. If the stone is lighter than normal air, then the changing air temperature around it would keep bobbing it up and down constantly. In order to keep the Citadel at a consistent level during the day, there must be controls available to the Arronathian geomancers that allow them to adjust the composition of the stone throughout the entire structure.” Marik paused to rest his tongue. He hated having to talk in mage-speak.

  “Why not simply have these spirit lords in charge of keeping it steady?” asked Rancill. “That would be the far simpler approach.”

  “Except that forcing a spirit to a single task for such a protracted period would be increasingly difficult,” Celerity answered. “Merely contacting an elemental lord is a thought that makes my spine shudder. I would have no desire to test my luck by asking it to bondage itself to my service indefinitely.”

  “That still leaves the question of movement unanswered,” Tybalt demanded.

  “It would be the same application that keeps it in the air,” Marik supplied. “You change the nature of the stone until one side is lighter. Then a team of geomancers within the Citadel alters the air outside. They can heat the air to make it rise up right in front of the stone in the direction they want to go. If the stone is lighter, then it will naturally want to rush in to fill the space where the old air was faster than new, cooler air from the other sides. Eventually, that would start pulling the Citadel along with it. It wouldn’t be perfect but in time it would suck the behemoth into motion. Once a thing that massive finally started moving, it would keep on going for the hells own distance before it finally came to a stop. It would only require minor support from the geomancer team inside to keep it going for as long as you wanted.”

  “That sounds nearly as daunting as lifting the bloody mountain with teams of mages alone,” Tybalt growled. “How many geomancers would such a Citadel require, if your ideas are cor
rect?”

  “A lot,” Marik conceded. “But there are two facts to keep in mind, knight-marshal. The first is that their kingdom is far, far larger than any on Merinor. They have a greater population to draw their mages from. The second is that geomancers alone might not be required. Once the elemental lord altered the nature of the mountain’s stone, the adjustments could possibly be handled by any magic talent. Geomancers could more easily heat the air outside than other magic user types, yet other types could accomplish it with their different methods. Further, getting the Citadel to start moving would require a large unit of mages, but you could rest them in shifts. Then, keeping it moving once it was already in motion might require far fewer than we imagine.”

  “Where is this mobile fortress at present?” Raymond asked.

  “It is still quite a distance away, moving toward the Galemar border. Unless it changes course it will hook around the northernmost tip of the Stoneseams.”

  “If it halts within Tullainian lands, there is little to do about it. I am concerned about the possibility of it continuing the course.”

  “Who knows what calamities it could bring into Galemar,” Tybalt muttered. “It could do anything. We have no way to predict. Or to stop it.”

  King Raymond glanced sideways at the knight-marshal. He refocused on Marik. His earlier amusement was gone. “Do you concur? Is it a weapon against which there is no defending?”

  “It might be a weapon, or it might be a barracks with wings. But we can stop it if it tries to cross the border.”

  Every eye locked on him. The thought crossed his mind that, days before, he would have felt pierced in a dozen places by spears to have so many hard stares on him.

  “Do not rest on your heels,” Tybalt ordered after a brief moment. “Dazzle us, then!”