Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

  It was the blondish man who stepped forward to speak first. Being the unique one, it must inspire a natural urge to lead. “We want to know about payment,” he announced. “Your man refused to nail that down when he rode into my camp. All he promised was that we would be paid proper for the right kind of work.”

  “We all heard the like,” said a black-haired band leader, one of the overweight men. “I’ve had my Iron Spikes running after you for the last two days, and I’m about to take them back if you don’t sign a writ I approve of.”

  “I would hardly call that ‘running’,” Torrance returned to the man, whose tone had insinuated that being on foot while others rode horseback pleased him not in the least.

  “Our bands don’t have the prestige yours does, Torrance,” shot back a second black-bearded fellow, “but we still have pride enough. Only an idiot doesn’t know what we must be facing if we’re heading southwest. I want to know what plans you have in addition to what pay you’re offering. My Raptor Talons are always looking for decent work, but don’t expect us to take on a suicide mission even if you’re offering Raymond’s crown.”

  Torrance looked to Marik, who had stopped at a point midway between him and Gibbon. “What’s your normal pay?” Marik asked the Talons’ leader.

  “Seventy-five a week per man. Pay continues to the end of the eightday no matter the losses. You still have to pay full wages for any men who died.”

  Marik hid his surprise. How could fighting men live on seventy-five coppers an eightday? That was only the pay of a D Class fighter in the Crimson Kings during the winter.

  “That should be no problem.”

  “We get paid that for road escort and dock watch,” the man countered. “You’re talking about a major, goat-loving battle!”

  “Right,” added one of the brown-beards, the second of the hefties. “News for you, army-boy. We’re not going anywhere near the Stoneseams unless the price is worth the risk.”

  “Show respect!” Gibbon retorted. “Your kingdom is in a tight squeeze. Everyone needs to contribute before we’re all destroyed!”

  “Then start by contributing to our purses,” retorted a fifth band leader. “That’s the grease that makes our axles spin.”

  “I’ve never seen such blatant greed!”

  “And here’s something else you’ve never seen before. My back!”

  Half the mercenaries started leaving.

  “Stop it!” Marik shouted. “You’re not going anywhere yet.”

  “You planning to stop us, army-boy?” sneered the brown-beard.

  “If I have to, I will,” Marik replied, his tone growing softer, and yet more menacing. “Because I’m no army soldier. I’m a Crimson Kings mercenary, and no one turns their back on me before I’m finished talking.”

  The blond focused on Marik. “I was given to believe that we would be speaking to the general of this force.”

  Torrance nodded slightly. “Marik Railson is the crown appointed general commanding the western defenses against the Arronath invaders.”

  “Got one of yours in charge, eh Torrance? Is that a good thing?”

  “I am in charge,” Marik asserted. “Any deals will be made through me. So tell me what wartime wages you expect.”

  The black-haired leader of the Iron Spikes studied Marik over his departing shoulder. “They put a copping Kings-man in charge? I always knew you snobs loved kissing the nobles’ asses, but how many knobs did you have polish in the palace to pull that off? You must have spent a bloody fortune in soap to clean that much bad taste out of your mouths!”

  A leer twisted his lip. Marik met his gaze firmly. “You have an opinion on the matter?”

  “I might have a thought or two, yeah.”

  “Then by all means, speak out.” He graced them with a hard smile. “Though you should know better than most what a mercenary does when smart-asses make an accusation like that.”

  From the edge of vision, he could see Torrance frown minutely. He was worried about what Marik might do and probably remembering the stories of his rash actions against Balfourth in the Sestion house the year before.

  The last leader crossed his arms. “I don’t care for threats. You cast them against the Spikes, you’ll be hurling them at my Chains next. That’s a bad start for a man begging for fighters.”

  “If you think I intend to beg, then you obviously don’t know much about me, the Kings, or Raymond’s army. I am going to tell you how it is. You are men born and bred of this land, and in return the land needs you to protect it.”

  “Only if you were the bloody Arm of Galemar would I be tempted by that sentiment,” the blond snapped, his temper rising. “We are free fighters who choose our battles. No battle or warrior can force themselves on us.”

  Marik smiled in a genuine grin. “Are you saying that you would willingly follow a superior warrior, if you had faith that he could bring you to victory? That almost sounds like challenge.”

  The blond squinted in scrutiny. “You’re a cocky enough bastard, aren’t you? And you’ve irritated me enough that I just might take you on to show you who you’re dealing with.”

  “Then a challenge it is. The terms,” Marik declared to the startled men around him, “are if I lose, then you can do as you please. If I win…no. If I impress you, then each of you will sit and listen to what we have to say. That discussion will include our future battle plans once we reach the Stoneseams.”

  “I want to know about our copping pay!” shouted the fat Iron Spikes leader.

  “That’s a petty detail,” Marik said, brushing it off his sleeve along with several motes of pollen that the wind had deposited on him. The fireweed was blooming as fast as the springtime mornings could dawn this year. Pollen clouds were so thick they actually made the air hazy in some areas. “It can be worked out with the seneschal whenever he has the time to hear it.”

  The Spikes’ leader frowned while the rest scratched at their beards in interest. At last the man representing the Binding Chains mused, “You must think you’re something special all right, if you believe you can recruit mercenaries by impressing them.”

  “Sounds like the odds are on your side, then. Are you going to accept or no?”

  He shrugged. “If I am actually impressed, then I’d be willing to listen. After all, listening is hardly the same as agreeing to anything.”

  The others nodded. After they each gave their assent, the blond smiled without reveling his teeth. “I suppose that means I have to make a good showing for all of us.”

  “I never said that,” Marik stated baldly, stopping the man in his tracks as he prepared to draw his blade.

  “What?” His confusion could be heard as well as seen.

  “Who said you had to face me alone? I meant that all six of you could challenge me at once, if you wanted.”

  “Six against one?” laughed the sneering Iron Spike. “I’ll only be impressed if we don’t accidentally kill you!”

  “Six against one,” Marik agreed, still smiling. “Allow me to get my sword and we can start.”

  He noticed that Gibbon had sidled sideways until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Torrance. Neither bore the expression of a man well pleased, though Torrance had lost his minute frown. He appeared placid as a mountain lake.

  The command tent that Gibbon had his men erect each evening lay only yards away. Marik retrieved the massive blade Sennet had forged specifically for him. Its long, round handle rested easily in his grip. He had found it easiest to carry on his right shoulder when outside of its specially designed back-sheath. His hand pressed down against the hilt to keep it from teetering off his back.

  Marik instigated his strength working the moment he touched the oversized sword. With his enhanced physical strength it felt about the same weight as his ordinary blade did. He drank in the expressions on the six mercenary leaders’ faces when he emerged from the canvas flap under an orange sky bleeding into pink clouds.

  Purposefully, he halted without
words on the same spot he had stood previously. He could see the thoughts racing through each of their minds. At a peremptory glace, the blade appeared to be a claymore type. Which, as each must know, meant he was an idiot, for only a genuine fool would choose such an unwieldy weapon for a duel. Against six it would provide a measure of usefulness with its wide arc, keeping them at bay while they surrounded him. Except after the first swipe, the fighters nearest the arc’s beginning point would be able to leap forward and land a devastating blow.

  All six reached the same conclusion at once. All six smiled as one and drew their swords, their eyes amused and glinting in the day’s blaze of dying glory.

  “Commander Torrance, if you would be so good,” Marik said, keeping his gaze forward.

  He could sense the slight nod that was Torrance’s customary response. A moment of silence reigned before, “Begin.”

  Six pairs of eyes continued looking to the spot where their opponent had been until the instant Torrance spoke. The blur that Marik became moved faster than they were prepared to follow. Before they could adjust, Marik swung his blade.

  Under his refined strength working, his leg strength was equally as boosted as his arms. It enabled faster motion after a hard leap. Marik closed the distance in a finger snap. He slammed his sword into the earth inches from the first fat man’s feet. His massive strength sent enough tremor through the ground that the Iron Spike’s leader felt it through his boot soles.

  Marik waited long enough for them to catch up to the battle’s unanticipated pace. He stood bent low, legs spread so he imitated an outlandish frog. When their startled gazes refocused on him, he whipped his sword straight upward. The blow caught the Iron Spike’s sword with such force that it was ripped from the man’s hands.

  Upward it shot through the air. The stunned mercenary attempted to clutch each of his stinging hands within the other. Five band leaders stared at Marik, hearts beating thunderously in their chests until, at last, the spinning sword crashed down atop the command tent.

  “I’ve been mistaken in many aspects of life,” commented the Binding Chains leader, “but I’ve decided I would rather not fight you.”

  “Me neither,” hastened the blond. “If…” He cast a darting peek over Marik’s shoulder to where the previously airborne sword lay twisted in a loose securing line. “I mean to say, I would be willing to listen to what your plans are. I won’t commit to anything yet, though…but I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “So long as we get proper pay,” added the second overweight warrior.

  “If my sword’s been bent…or damaged, I’ll…I’ll have full price for it!” cursed the Iron Spikes’ leader. “That’s too far for a gods damned demonstration!” He kept a furious eye on Marik while he shuffled around to retrieve his blade whereupon he meticulously examined every inch of it.

  Marik shrugged as if he cared little for such trifles. He waited long enough to see if the man would attempt to make him pay for a new sword because of cracks in the metal that, no doubt, had been there for years already. Gibbon hurried them along by stating loudly that he refused to ruin his eyesight to the point of needing spectacles simply because a gang of hire-swords couldn’t be bothered to light a lamp.

  This earned him little enough love. The mercenary leaders were uncertain, hesitating to walk out after what had happened moments earlier, yet unsure if staying would be the best move either. Gibbon made a handy target for scorn since Torrance, leader of the largest, most influential band, and Marik qualified as unknowns.

  Nine men squeezed into the tent. It had been sewn with military use in mind…though the quartermasters had insisted that the smallest command tents were the only remaining type left. Marik had stonily insisted on better to no avail. The same story had cropped up for most of the supplies they needed to draw.

  He could see Delano’s hand in it but could find no way to fight back.

  The ‘table’ was actually two flat crates containing poles to fit spearheads. Marik took the lantern Gibbon passed him, setting in on one corner of the kingdom map while the lieutenant anchored the opposite corner with a second.

  “This is where we are,” Marik said, stabbing the southwestern lands with his finger. “The occupied areas are not very large. Everything the Arronaths took borders the mountains. They haven’t tried to expand their territories since they secured what they stole in the first assault. We might have caused them more damage than we realized when the Arm hit their base camp near the Rovasii.”

  Marik continued, explaining what they knew and suspected before sharing any details regarding battle plans. What few details he would give them. Which was only as much as they needed to comprehend in order to carry out the actions he wanted them to.

  Each man listened stoically, gazing down on the paper kingdom while Marik explained. The Iron Spikes’ overweight leader still fumed silently. He cast suspicious glances at Marik every time Marik ended a sentence. In contrast, the other flabby man, leading the Surly Savages, nodded minutely from time to time.

  The Taurs were the subject most on their minds. Marik and Torrance’s assurances fell on deaf ears until Gibbon, reaching a point of strained tolerance, snapped, “For the love of Sheirleon, smarter minds than yours have already decided on the proper assault mechanics! Stop wetting your smallclothes. Act like men and fight where you’re told to!”

  This failed to go over well. “We’re not fighting on anybody’s say so until we agree on the basics!” shouted the Iron Spike. The other five sided with him.

  “You’ll fight as we say so as long as we pour silver over your graves!” Gibbon thundered back before Marik could intercede. “That’s all you’re good for in the end, draining coin away from equipment and supply funds. Go on and leave then, if you refuse to fight like Galemaran men!”

  “When has a lapdog like you ever seen a man,” barked a brown-bearded mercenary, “except when you look at a free fighter? Since we don’t choose to die like fools on a royal’s whim, that makes you better? I think I will leave.” He reached for the tent flap.

  “Be a coward, you—”

  “Stop!” yelled Marik. “Each of you!” He found the whole group directing their vitriolic ire on him, Gibbon included. “I’ve had enough! If you want to leave after, then fine! But I expect you to act like mercenaries and give this offered contract its fair consideration before you decide!” He cast a baleful glare on Gibbon. After a moment he deliberately faced his back to the soldier. “Have you ever worked a contract with people who liked you? I expect not, so why should you think this time would be any different?”

  He spent a full half-mark alternating between soothing them and stinging their pride. The tension grew perceptibly at certain points, tickling his senses the way foreign magics could make his mage senses tingle. Each time he held his breath, waiting to see if the entire mess would collapse.

  The band leaders grudgingly accepted to join his fighting forces on the provision that each be allowed access to him at any time to discuss future actions. It was clear that they expected to be able to influence the younger mercenary with their suggestions. They also included a caveat stating that dangers of significant magnitudes unmentioned by the employer beforehand would nullify the contract, enabling them to cancel any and all services due immediately upon discovery.

  This sent Gibbon into a purple fit of rage. To him, this seemed a thinly veiled excuse to cut and run the moment the fighting started. Marik wondered as well, though he kept his mouth shut. He knew that the Crimson Kings also included provisions in their own contracts in the event of faith breaches between the assigned fighters and a noble bent on getting them killed to a man in order to avoid paying the hiring fees.

  Gibbon departed to make rounds among his soldiers, back stiff and expression tightly set. The mercenary leaders, in no less a controlled anger, went the other direction to where their bands were strewn in the main force’s wake.

  “Seven bands together,” Torrance commented in a tone of mild amusement
. Marik looked to him with surprise. “That may well be a first in Galemaran history. I wonder what the earlier Cerellan kings would think of your mercenary army.”

  “You think it’s a mistake to include them?”

  “Only if you place them in positions where other planned elements hinge on their success,” Torrance answered.

  “Unreliable fortitude in the best fighters in this group,” Marik grumbled. “And unreliable skill and ability in the rest. With both parts hating the other. Thank the gods we have the Kings as the core. Have you ever seen such a group already at war before the fighting even started?”

  “Not in recent memory, no. If you hope to keep them together through the worst of it,” Torrance mentioned over one shoulder as he left, “you had best improve your diplomatic skills.”

  Which, Marik mused, meant they had a very rough road ahead of them indeed.

  * * * * *

  Beld’s left hand twisted in its grip on the poles forming the tripod that suspended their cook pot over the campfire. Veji picked one of his Trident sticks, shoved it back into the drawing tube with the others and selected a stick from Orran’s hand. Orran drew a stick from the numerous ends protruding from the leather tube to replace it.

  Albin looked up at Beld from where he squatted with their fellow Fourteenth Squad, Second Unit members. He could read the consternation in Beld’s face. The whoremaster of a mage had not dropped his wind yet. His distant form, black against bright moonlight where he stood on his hill, disappeared into the command tent for another night.

  Chapter 12

  Others might have attempted negotiations first. Marik’s first contract under Baron Dornory had followed the time-held traditions, the two hostile neighbors first sending out their heralds bearing the colors of palaver. Whether Galemar and Nolier had made a battlefield attempt to avoid fighting during the last war was unknown to him. Torrance offered no insights there.