by Damien Lake
“I intend to do exactly that. Believe me.”
“Words.” She waved away the insignificant syllables lingering on his breath with one graceful hand. “Talk until you pass out, but prove it to me by doing it.”
“Sometimes I wonder how I could have fallen in love with such a hard woman.” He lowered his blade to an easier grip, watching her.
She smiled slightly, raising a hand to touch the cheek Glynn had rebuilt using his considerable talent at Healing. “Because you are a realist. Sighing bits of fluff dreaming of perfect romances and idyllic lives would make your teeth grind.”
“Dietrik says its because I’d rather love my sword than a woman.”
Her fingernails scratched painfully at his flesh. “I recant. Perhaps he doesn’t know what’s good for him after all.”
Marik clapped his palm to his face, holding her hand pressed firmly in place before she could pull it away, relishing the feel of her. “I have reasons to stay alive until the next day dawns that I never had before. You’ll see me walking down the road to your place one morning in a few months.”
“In that case,” her voice softening only marginally, yet which he knew spoke volumes for her, “I’ll be willing to discuss the future then.”
* * * * *
“Over there! No, damn it! There!”
Marik flailed his arm in the direction of several dozen wagons. The newly elevated soldiers, fresh from Trask’s camp, followed his gesture with curiosity. Mixed into their ranks like raisons frugally dolled out into twice as many sweet rolls as the recipe called for, older eyes belonging to veterans studied him skeptically.
Most of the men who would comprise the western kingdom forces would be collected from stations along the way. The number accompanying the Crimson Kings from Thoenar were overshadowed by the mercenary band. Fewer than five-hundred.
He hated having to shout orders when he had no idea what he ought to be doing. The older men sensed it. So far they had gone about their usual tasks of preparation, paying him as much heed as they would give persistent flies buzzing about their heads.
“They don’t have enough of a guard,” Marik simultaneously explained and tried to assert. “That’s half the food stores we have for the next eightday! You lot travel beside the carts to help keep them safe.”
“Safe from what?” demanded one man with a faint scar across the bridge of his nose. “No goose-plucker alive would be so far out of his gourd to try and rob the likes of an army regiment.” He squinted at Marik, obviously reconsidering the portrait such a motley group painted.
“You have to be somewhere, so ride alongside the carts,” Marik ordered shortly. “It doesn’t matter if you never see a single farmer on the way. Get used to doing it so you are doing it the one time it needs doing!”
The man flipped him a mocking salute with one finger off his forehead, licking the front of his teeth as he did so. A resigned flick of his wrist commanded the rest of the group to follow him.
Marik forced his lips to remain flat. It would not do for the soldiers to see his jaw clenching. In truth, he hardly cared what these soldiers thought of him, if they agreed with him, or if they walked off a cliff in the dark.
Torrance wants better than that. He expects me to tow the line.
Well and good…except he already knew it would never work with this crowd. The new soldiers would quickly learn from their seniors to disrespect the mercenaries, and his fellow band members already saw him as a joke with a legendary punch line in the making.
If the blade feels wrong, then try another until you find the right one.
He paused in the act of stalking away, hearing the voice in his head, wondering who that had been. It had a hint of Colbey but lacked the outright cynicism of the man. His father? Also short of a perfect fit.
It finally occurred to him that it had been his own voice. The voice of his mind making an observation. What did that mean?
Nothing except that even jesters don’t remain fools forever.
No mystery what inspired that particular image. This would be the first campaign where he would fight in the same battles as Chatham. The loquacious jokester had stopped by long enough to remind him of that half a candlemark earlier while their squad prepared.
Find another blade. He walked randomly to different groups, each working at an individual pace in the most unorganized mobilization in history, reflecting that his sword had already been chosen. Far too late to select a new one at this aged date.
Or was it?
Did men such as Faustus Hueart accept second best? Exactly when was ‘too late’?
His feet changed course, stopping long enough to send Dietrik on a quick mission before seeking out Torrance. He found the commander at a portable field table listening to four of the band’s lieutenants. Their units’ sergeants dealt with exhorting the men to greater haste or shouting at the lazy.
Torrance noticed him approaching and dismissed the lieutenants before Marik closed. Nothing was said but Marik suspected the commander wished to avoid having Marik ask for permission to speak with him when the younger mercenary technically held a higher position. Unreadable looks came from the four when they left without argument.
“I expect you wish to discuss matters of the march ahead of us, Crown-General Marik?”
Marik retained enough control to keep a straight face. No use in telling Torrance not to call him that, despite their solitude. The only salve was that the ‘crown’ title let everyone know exactly whose idea putting him in charge had been.
“That too, but I had an idea, To…Commander Torrance.”
“I am always free to discuss plans, crown-general. During war, I am happy to lend my experience to a discussion of new ideas in the hopes that any faulty notions will have the opportunity to come to notice.”
Marik nodded, suspecting the statement for a hint with all the subtlety of a falling brick. “Speaking freely, I have my doubts about the soldiers. They failed to impress me while I studied them for my council report. Their attitudes seem troublesome.”
Torrance nodded. “I am certain you are aware that such behavior is all too common when our two professions collide. It comes with the territory.”
“I’ve worked with soldiers before. This seems a bit different.”
“Naturally,” the commander affirmed. “The last Nolier war produced men crippled for life, short rations and far-reaching consequences that every citizen of Galemar came to experience. Most were unprepared for seeing the reality of war’s aftermath. Emotions have been raw ever since, and new wars are an unwelcome prospect.”
“We can’t afford to have fighters who act like amateurs. Over half our army men have never seen a skirmish, let alone true combat. The rest already see fighting the Arronaths as fruitless with the forces we have, and working with the Kings as an insult.”
“The band does not have the strength to repel the invaders alone,” Torrance reminded him.
“I know that,” Marik agreed, glad to see Dietrik returning with the men he needed. “What we need to make this work is additional experienced fighters.”
Maddock came to a halt several respectful feet away, the short barrel-like man standing between Harlan and Chatham. Dietrik silently inquired with his expression if Marik needed anything further before departing.
“A pleasant morning, commander,” Maddock intoned. “I understand you wish us to ride out separately from the main body?”
“That’s friendly enough,” Chatham chimed in before anyone else could make a reply. “Because the wafting o’ unwashed armpits is already thick in the nostrils! The larger the body, the stronger the aroma. I implore for your permission to ride through fresher breezes, melting freezes and blooming treezes.”
Harlan cast an exasperated glare sideways before locking his gaze on a spot exactly between Marik and Torrance, tight-lipped in resolute silence.
“You’ve worked with several other mercenary groups, right?” Marik asked Maddock.
“On
ly on mutual contracts,” the business leader of the trio explained. “While we worked as freelance contractors, we would find work with lesser nobles suffering problems minor enough that they were of equally minor importance. At other times we aided merchant caravans as guards—”
“The plumbest o’ all jobs!” Chatham exclaimed.
“Or we acted as night watch in storage houses,” Maddock continued, taking no apparent note of the interruption. “It was on rare occasions that we needed to employ our combat skills in battle. Our interactions with other mercenaries only arose in situations where a greater number than we three were required, or if other freelancers had followed a public job offer. Then we would be in a position of competing to earn the work.”
“How often did you work with other bands?”
Maddock considered. “Not very often. Bands usually offer enough men to solve a problem. Contractors had little need to seek additional manpower once they had acquired a band.”
“To what purpose are your questions leading?” Torrance asked.
“We need warriors we can rely on to do it right the first time,” Marik stated. “That means we have to round up as many available mercenaries in western Galemar as we can in short order.”
The commander made no change in expression. “Other mercenary bands do not maintain the capability of ours. And on what pretext will you recruit them to our banner? None are bound to the crown’s mustering call as the Crimson Kings.”
“If we have to, we can invoke the crown’s power and conscript the men we need,” Marik announced.
But Harlan shook his head. “That would be pointless. A mercenary works for profits. You can tell them to follow you or you will have them arrested, if you choose. They would refuse. Will you then jail hundreds of men scattered to the four winds? Who would drag them to the cells?”
Chatham fingered his chin in imitation wisdom. “I believe the right term o’ it goes, ‘the law is on record, but there’s not a jot o’ resources available to force the people to obey it’. From a quick gander around the place,” he added, spinning his head in all directions, “we are a tad lacking in the strength needed to force others to our patriotic whim.”
“Then promise what we have to,” Marik returned. “I don’t care! The seneschal can settle the fees later. But we need as many swords as we can gather, starting with the three of you. Maddock, I trust you can negotiate with the bands you know about. I want you riding hard today. Commander Torrance must know each of the bands operating within reach of southwest Galemar. We’ll find other men to send to them. By the time we reach the lands bordering the Stoneseams, I want every mercenary who’s ever come within spitting distance to be there!”
* * * * *
“One by one…by one…”
Beld’s musing voice trailed into silence. Veji and Albin studied each other. Neither would interrupt Beld with their thoughts, which never seemed to contain the breadth of consideration Beld put into his own. He was always quick to point out their blunders. In the face of his wisdom, they never failed to accept his decisions.
Darkness had fallen with the complete viscosity of river mud. The stars overhead shone weakly, struggling to pierce the midnight blanket. Beld had told them to take notice of the meeting place when the army slowed to make camp. A good thing he had, else they would have stumbled blindly until morning in their attempts to locate the copse with the misshapen tree-stumps edging it. They still would have missed it if Albin had not struck his knee on one, pitching over it in an uncontrolled fall while expelling a hurricane of curses.
Veji would not have broken the current silence even if Beld weren’t deep in his thinking. There were strong ties between the three, and also with Dellen despite him having to stay away from their close little knot for so long. Thoughts of the bastard mage angered him…but only to a point. The white hot anger within him had gradually cooled over time although it continued to persist as a forge’s glow in the others’ hearts. He debated the wisdom of still attempting to extract retribution at this point.
But Beld said it was not the end, that the mage was still meddling in their affairs. That certainly seemed true. Dellen remained in exile while the mage gained greater influence by the day.
Magic unnerved him. Thoughts of what the mage might do to them if they made a mistake, if they didn’t finish him completely in a surprise attack… Veji refused to allow the shudder in his spine to be seen by Albin or Beld. He was no coward. No coward in the least, and he would continue to keep his qualms locked inside his mind and his unease hidden, even from his friends.
Especially from his friends.
A growing noise approached through the trees from the north. Veji at first took it for scout riders returning with news important enough to risk their mounts in such treacherous darkness. Unmuffled cries of, “Shit on it for a dirty mother-lover!” soon put an end to that idea. The words alone, aside from the familiar voice, could have only come from one person.
“Shut your copping mouth!” Albin shouted into the night. “Don’tcha know you’re suppose to be quiet? You trying to bring half the sentries down on us or what have you?”
“Where in the bleeding hells are ya?” Dellen shouted back, louder than before. “I’m about stuck through and bleeding from having to drag this fella through a briar field!”
“Both of you stop…yelling!” Beld growled through tight teeth.
Veji could see brief slashes of light cutting the darkness when a figure, it had to be the back-street knifer Tallior, opened the shutter on a storm lantern to get his bearings. For a city heavy, he never could do anything without two or three tools to help.
Dellen eventually stumbled his way across the stones and roots and dead branches. The trio’s eyes had adjusted to the night enough that they could see the tears in Dellen’s clothing without a cussed lamp giving their position away. If Tallior had drug him into a briar patch, Veji mused, the man would show worse than a few scratches the next morning.
At the stump, Beld spoke to the city man, avoiding any mention of Tallior’s choice of meeting places. Just as well not to point out the idiocy in choosing meeting places none of them had ever seen before. ‘The nearest northern copse of trees to your evening camp’ left plenty of pitfalls to walk into. And Tallior always found ways of twisting the blame back on them if possible in any way.
“Did you find any of those men you wanted?” Beld challenged, putting Tallior on the spot. “You were so hot for a new archer squad decked in your Nolier magic trinkets.”
“You never stopped at Mason’s Head! I found three men who looked worth the trouble before you pounded the road flatter on the run.”
“I told you it was pointless to take the ferry downriver ahead of us. What were you planning to do with them?” Blackness shrouded his face, yet they could hear the sneer in his words. “The mage is in the damned heart of the column, with ‘officers’ latched to him like flies on a road apple. Think you can shoot him in the back and run off quiet like?”
“I, and my employer, are not pleased with this!”
“You talking like that’s our fault!” Albin snarled.
“Stow it! If you fairday gleemen have better ideas, then talk about them. Having Railson move through the court, rubbing shoulders with certain people, talking to who knows who…it must stop. And soon!”
Veji, annoyed at this city scum who kept thinking they were worthless trash, stepped forward in a move matched by Albin. Usually it was Albin who allowed his temper to rise fastest of the four.
Beld’s calm voice halted them both. “Finally killing that meddler will be simpler now he’s out of town, getting ready to fight.”
“You think so, do you?” Tallior spit into the night. “In the, as you put it, heart of the damned column?”
“Not there, fool. Once the fighting starts. Everything’s moving sideways and upside down. No one’s looking behind them when the enemy’s in front. Easiest time of all to stick a knife in an officer and make it look like na
tural causes.”
“Leaders don’t fight in the middle of their men. And this man is a mage, you bloody idiot, not a brawler!”
“A brawl is in the cards, put your metal on it,” Beld countered. “Everyone in the column’s saying so. And I tell you it’s true, too. You’ve got no experience at fighting, so stop arguing. This is our golden chance to finally pay him back for the trouble he’s stirred up. But don’t you forget you owe us serious ‘gratitude’.”
“If you somehow find an opening to strike when he least expects, and he dies on your battlefield, then I will be pleased. Pleased enough to give you a sack too heavy to lift from all the gold in it.”
“Then start counting, rich man. I’ll be keeping a tight watch on every move he makes. When the right moment comes, I’ll be there.”
Tallior’s voice, far from convinced, asked, “You plan to dog his steps? You hope to find providence around an unexpected turn?”
Beld’s voice regained its harsh overtones. “I’m not so stupid as to be seen like that! Officers always make a row wherever they go. Knowing where he is and going won’t be any secret.”
“Then I had best accompany you, again.”
“Ain’t nothing gets noticed like a stranger in the camp,” Veji shot toward the voices. “You’ll kick up a mess all over!”
“You keep thinking like highwaymen!” Tallior exclaimed in rising volume. “If you have an idea where he will be or what he plans to do, then you have the opportunity to approach in stealth! For that, you’ll need my rings to keep you hidden from his magic!”
“I haven’t seen ‘em do anything so special yet to make them worth the bother,” Albin argued. “If you’re so damned set on ‘em, then hand ‘em over.”
“They’re worth more than your sorry hides!” Tallior refused. “I will only lend them to you immediately before a strike, and take them back immediately after!”
“If they’re that important, then fine,” Beld agreed in a move surprising all three of his fellows. “I’ve been watching this…this bug use his magic to get everything he wants his way. Even got the bloody king to give him half the bloody army. What’s he want next then? A damned palace? If your Nolier rings wash out the pathway ahead of him, all the better I say. You follow on behind us until we hit a main camp along the front. Then I’ll tell you how to keep close enough for me to summon you.”