Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

  Marik explained what he believed was the best way to crash the Citadel.

  Then they argued about it until half the night had passed.

  “I believe we have a wealth of information to consider,” Ulecia said to close the session. “No further progress will come before we sort through what we have heard thus far.”

  The councilors disbanded, most grumbling incoherently in private thought. Marik felt his shoulders sag.

  And that’s the end of that, he reflected with relief. The king wanted my take on the matter; now he has it. They waste too much time. I’m glad I’ll never be so caught up in intrigue and career aspirations that I’ll lose my common sense!

  A slight tap on his shoulder made him spin. Celerity, her gray hairs still in perfect form without a single stray strand, mentioned, “I will discuss the particulars with you in the morning, along with Philantha, Tru and Inora.”

  “In your tower, no doubt. Think your workroom will be available?”

  She ignored his snide comment. “Keep yourself available until further notice. Any of the councilors may question you in private if they so desire, in order to clarify their understanding of newly reported information.”

  Why did I expect anything else?

  She left him standing beside the table, gazing blankly at his display within the council table’s ring.

  Chapter 10

  Xenos stepped onto the pier from the gangplank, reentering the kingdoms of Merinor. The dry air, even there on the water, irritated him. Everything irritated him. He had been unable to hold a holy service for two months.

  His power was still magnificent, still the shining glory of god’s blessing unto him. Yet it had lessened due to its use during the trip across the ocean. Xenos, growing impatient with the goal in sight, had forced the passage to a considerably faster pace. A six month journey had been reduced to two.

  The ship’s geomancers were wisely comprised of his faithful. They explained to the captain that it was their sweat and toil that caused the inexplicable sailing conditions, because the king desired Xenos to take command over the subjugation campaign as early as possible.

  Now he faced a journey across a kingdom parched in as many places as not. Xenos had always disliked Tullainia. At least Perrisan possessed the soul to be a proper dessert. Tullainia, far more in keeping with a dehydrated layer of loose dust over harder earth, never could decide what it wanted to be.

  Once he left behind the uninitiated, he could make better time with his followers across the land and reach the Citadel. Horses provided far less available life energy to harvest after they had been run to death under an induced illusion of stamina but he would take every drop he could garner.

  The ancient shields in the Rovasii would require his full, considerable strength. Then…

  Then the Day of Glory would return. As it had first long ago.

  * * * * *

  “I feel like I’m in prison!”

  Dietrik leaned down to tap at Marik’s ankle. “No trace of an iron bracelet that I can see, mate.” He straightened with a grin.

  If nothing else, Dietrik’s attitude had returned to its normal state over the last eightday. Marik considered it a mixed blessing at the moment. “Is there an archery mark painted on my forehead? One I can’t see? Because I can’t explain it in any other way!”

  “Perhaps there jolly is. Visible only to the lovely Lady Fate. Though I gather a person is likely born with such rather than receiving it as punishment for his inflated ego.”

  Marik scowled mightily. It missed Dietrik over his shoulder, hitting three of Trask’s greener recruits in the midst of training exercises. They fumbled with the log they were rolling. Their palms slipped upward off the bark so that two tripped, smashing their chins on the solid trunk.

  “Don’t bring that up again. All I’m asking is why does Raymond seem so fixated with me? It was outright odd for him recognize my existence in the first place, let alone ask me to make suggestions about the situation. But now this!”

  Torrance, sitting primly on a boulder that spent most of its time being carried across the field and back, kept his stern expression on the pair. “I advise you to take care in what you say within the hearing of these men. Or within the hearing of any man.”

  “Commander, I’m past caring about what the council wants,” Marik spat.

  “That is immaterial. Men will not follow the orders of a man who they see as less than in control. Either over the situation at hand or over his personal emotions.”

  “I don’t accept that!” He whirled on Dietrik. “This responsibility! I refuse to accept it! They can’t make me accept it! I’m not one of their soldiers that they can play with like a bloody toy!”

  “It seems to me that is the very reason you landed in this pickling vat,” Dietrik pointed out. “You are no common soldier. You are a damned good mercenary who makes the minstrels sing!”

  “Exactly,” Torrance declared. “The council would as soon send you back to your unit where they want you to stay. King Raymond thinks he sees more in you. If his majesty has one solid quality as a leader, it is spotting talent and delegating tasks to those best suited for them.”

  “I am not the bloody Arm!” Marik shouted, beating his chest with both his palms. “I’ve danced to his fairy tune, and now I intend to go back to the Ninth Squad where I belong. Everyone will be happy then, especially Tight-ass Tybalt.”

  The commander of the Crimson Kings unfolded his arms. He placed his hands flat against the stone beside his hips. “As long as you are a member of my band, you are indebted to serve the crown at his command. It is a longstanding agreement that dates back to the band’s founding. Attempts to refuse service will have the seneschal bringing Chief Magistrate Rancill into the fray. Are you so eager to be charged with desertion or treason?”

  “You!” Marik fumed, his temper rising like a desert sun. “You sound like those…those court leeches! How can you stand working with those people, let alone sounding like them?”

  “I do what I must for the good of the band,” Torrance replied coolly. “I trust you remember that well, from previous conversations between us.” He stared Marik down before continuing. “I like them no better than you, Marik.”

  “But…what? Where’s the ‘but’ I can hear coming?”

  “But they are the backbone of Galemar. They keep this kingdom safe and ensure that daily life for everyone is as smooth as they can make it.”

  “They don’t have the first drop of common sense about warfare!” Marik returned heatedly. “That model they tricked me into looking at was simple! How could any army strategist not see through it? Even Dietrik could have told you the answer to that!”

  Dietrik moved Marik’s pointing finger away from his chest. “I beg your pardon?”

  Marik winced. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant.” He rounded back on Torrance. “Even Cork could have figured that out. How could a mercenary work with those people? I keep wanting to slap them until their brains fall into place.”

  “Why do you think King Raymond is so adamant about you?” After a silence, he revealed, “For many of those same reasons. Our kingdom has been at peace for so long that the army thinkers only know what they do for having read it out of a book. We are desperately short on experienced leaders capable of reading a situation. Also remember this; Raymond has grown from a boy within the confines of the palace. Half of his practices as a king follow a predetermined structure the last dozen rulers have adhered to. There are no choices for him to make, because they have already been made for him by the very crown he wears. The other half of his practices come from knowledge gleaned from historic tales rather than hard experience.”

  “That shines a lantern on several points,” Dietrik mused. “Some of the Arms of Galemar were found by the king during desperate times, owing to their various achievements. The rulers needed a man who could pull off miracles, so they asked what miracles had been making the rounds lately.”

  “I am certai
n that is part of his outlook,” Torrance agreed. “The king realizes his forces are weak, his army commander is best suited to conventional warfare, and that his preeminent warrior is a figurehead.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect! So Raymond thinks he’s special, does he?” Marik snarled. “He’s living in a bardic nursery tale. He cleverly finds an unsung hero sent by the gods to pull the crown’s fat out of the fire! How childish can a grown man be?”

  “You can’t truly call yourself an unsung hero, mate,” Dietrik corrected.

  “Shut up!” He rounded to point at Torrance. “And I don’t care if Royal Raymond has named me the commander of his western forces! I report to Sloan first, Fraser second, and you most of all. And that’s that!”

  “I appreciate that you know your place within our band, Marik, Ninth Squad, Fourth Unit. Within our ranks that is exactly who you are. During the war against the Arronaths to retake and secure our lands, I will be the top-ranked leader over my mercenary division, and also one of the advisors to the theater commander. Only one voice offering my knowledge and expertise in the hope of helping craft the most effective battle plan. I will follow the ultimate orders to the fullest as befitting our reputation, because the final say does not belong to me. That last word belongs to you.”

  Torrance had left his boulder to stand before Marik, his voice and eyes growing as merciless as a headsman’s axe.

  “My word—”

  “Is the final word, Marik! You had better come to appreciate the full consequences of that. I am not happy about this development. In that we are the same. But you have been given the responsibility. Lives are in the balance, depending on your choices. And never forget that your actions, and attitude, reflect on the band’s reputation. I will not allow you to tarnish our image either through incompetence, a refusal to accept your duty, or by insisting I make decisions so you appear as a puppet on a master’s strings.”

  The background hum of men training filled the air between them until Dietrik quipped, “Well, that seems rather dashed to the point.”

  “It better,” Torrance said. “You have already worked out most of what needs to be done, which is one reason the king made his decision contrary to Tybalt’s advice. I suggest you begin making the rest of the necessary preparations.”

  He departed, walking across the field to find Fraser, looking like a leader as he did so.

  Which was far beyond how Marik felt.

  * * * * *

  “How can you think clearly while you wave that around nonstop?” Ilona sat on Torrance’s boulder, today on the opposite side of the training field.

  Marik refrained from answering long enough to swing the massive sword around in a fluid motion, bringing the tip through a stylized circle that ended imbedded in the dirt. His forearm rested on the blade’s base, protruding to either side of the round grip. “Because sword practice is the only time I feel clearheaded, especially when I have to think about…about this sort of thing.”

  She snorted in an unfeminine manner, leaning back to plant her palms on the stone and bask in the sun. “The impression I have is that you never think about your magic.”

  “I never want to think about it,” he corrected. “But I have to, and more frequently than I would have guessed.”

  “Is it worth the tradeoff? You saw what having mastery did to him.”

  “That’s the problem! I’m not certain exactly what father does, or how he does it. It sounds similar, except the effect is too drastic! Why did he have to disappear before we could talk further?”

  “For the same reasons he never came home, I would imagine.” She reversed her posture until she leaned forward. “He has matters to see to that he considers important.”

  “I respect that,” Marik grudgingly allowed, lifting his custom sword to renew his training. “But I still have so many questions.”

  “Well, I have a question, and it’s one you haven’t seemed to have asked yet.” When she saw she had his attention, she asked, “Why is this important?”

  “What?”

  Ilona sighed. “You have too much to worry about already. Why are you fixed on unraveling the secrets behind your father’s magic when you won’t be fighting in the coming battles? You’ll be spending your time directing soldier forces, not in fighting enemies.”

  Marik shook his head. “You can’t count on that. We will be outnumbered and could be overrun at any time if things go sour. As for father…” He spun the sword’s grip in his fingers. His design, as recreated by Sennet. Fourteen inches of handle wrapped in a flat leather strip. A solid steel ball pommel gave a semblance of counterbalance. There was no actual guard, only the flat six inch long, two inch thick stretch of the blade’s bottom into which the round grip disappeared. No razor’s cutting edge either, just a wedge ending in a wicked point. With the tip in the ground, the pommel rested against his chin. This sword relied on stopping an enemy before he closed enough to make swordplay a necessary defense.

  She waited a moment before her fiery impatience got the better of her. “Talk about it then! Most people can’t find a solution until they work their way through it out loud.”

  “I don’t want—” He stopped sharply, reminding himself not to be cross with her. She meant too much to him. “What…what’s bothering me is the way he avoided mentioning most of the details about his magical talent.”

  “Takes after you then,” she snidely observed. “Or is it the other way around?”

  Marik scowled. “From what he did say, I have to believe that what he is doing is almost the same as me. I figured out how to generate this kind of strength,” he declared, lifting the massive sword with one hand to demonstrate, “by combining his image training techniques with Colbey’s stamina trick. He must be using the same basic principals in order to wield his own blade with such ease.”

  Ilona nodded, keeping her silence, allowing him to continue now that he had begun.

  “I’m worried because that’s not all there is to it. I don’t know how he is using his talent, but whatever he is doing is slowly killing him. I can’t stop thinking about it. Why is he taking such a physical toll?”

  “How should I know? You tell me. How can magic affect the user like that?”

  “That’s my question,” he barked. “I don’t see how unless he…he was consuming his own life energy. Using it faster than his body was producing. Only weak mages would have to do that.”

  She shrugged. “Then he is a weak magic user.”

  “No. That’s not it.” He kicked at the hole in the ground the sword had furrowed. “There is too much I don’t know. Also, he said he was chasing a man.”

  “You told me about him.” Her voice acquired the wistful quality he recognized. “All that ability for magic. Who decides what person should receive that much while others have no talent at all?”

  “He sounds like bad business. I’m suddenly responsible for putting my wild ideas into actual use. This stranger could end up using his magic against us if father is right and he’s been targeting Galemar from the start.”

  “You’ve planned for facing enemy mage groups. Tell me about the details of that again.”

  That elicited a cross look from Marik. “I don’t like the idea of this man bringing his strength to bear against our forces,” he said, ignoring her. “We are already at a serious disadvantage. The mage forces we have will be working to their limits as it is. I didn’t mention that to the council because all I know is that this stranger, this Xenos person, is manipulating events to his advantage.”

  “There are too many kettles boiling in that mercenary head of yours. Your father is of little consequence at the moment, no matter your feelings.”

  “My father is not inconsequential!” Marik snapped.

  “Did I say that?” Ilona glared him down, her face a stormy tempest. “No, I certainly did not! If you had listened with more than a quarter of your attention, you would have heard me say, ‘at the moment’. If you intend to come back alive, you need to f
ocus your mind on what’s important.” She balled her fists against her slender hips. “On that, tell me straight out whether your father and his odd magic will have any effect on the coming battles.”

  Marik narrowed his eyes, wishing he could rail against her the way he could against Dietrik or the enclave mages. “I’ve spent the last—”

  “Straight out!”

  “I suppose…probably not,” he admitted with extreme reluctance. “He could be halfway across the kingdom at this point, killing himself a sliver at a time every day.”

  “Then the second question. Will this man Xenos have any affect on your fighting?”

  “That’s the real problem. I can’t say either way. Probably not. But at the same time, a mage like that could disrupt the balancing scales.”

  “Your father said he was on a ship that left about…” She paused to calculate. “It must be nearly two months ago. He also said it was roughly a six month journey.”

  “Six months if you have geomancers to keep the ship from sinking,” Marik pointed out.

  Ilona gazed into the distance. “I never believed there could be that much ocean altogether. It must dwarf all of Merinor, if it were ever mapped.”

  Marik lifted his blade until it hovered parallel to the ground. He sighted along the length with one eye, the prisoner encampment across the field in line with the tip. “I suppose it won’t matter. If we move as fast as I want to, using the authority Raymond gave me, it ought to be over before he makes landfall. Four months should be enough time…if it goes the way I hope.”

  “You had better listen to your friend,” Ilona directed.

  “Dietrik?”

  “He knows what’s good for him. You should be dead twice over already from following your own actions. Only raw luck and your friend together saved you both times.”

  “I don’t plan on fighting the Arronaths off alone.”

  “Remember that. I won’t be weeping over your grave on a barren battlefield. The only men worth the bother are the ones who take the trouble to come back to me.”