Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

* * * * *

  Baxter tapped his fingernail against a blackened beam. He had been at it long enough that most of the char had flaked off, revealing the surviving wood beneath.

  The Screamers for full-firing to commence had flown as planned. Then…a longer wait than he had been led to expect. No surprise there. Battle predictions were only worth the material they were printed on. In this case, air.

  Only one Screamer signal would be sent after the first. It finally came when minute splinters were working their way into his fingertip.

  “That’s it! Light it up!”

  His four sergeants echoed his order. Handy of the Arronaths to leave their torches behind. They were flung into the oil, which had saturated the earth until Baxter had begun to worry if it would catch or not.

  The dirt seemed no hindrance whatsoever to the war oil. It caught faster than any lamp wick Baxter had lit. In short order it blazed an impressive height considering it had no objects to burn.

  It would continue to blaze until morning if his experience with the alchemist’s product had taught him anything.

  Through the flames, he could see startled faces in the distance. Arronaths on the verge of retreating from their captured town’s center looked shocked. They had assumed any enemy movements to their rear would be reported by their watches. In all the confusion, they had lost track of who was where.

  Baxter tipped them a salute with a finger off his brow before returning to collect his two men by the back wall.

  * * * * *

  “Cock them at the ready!” Marik ordered the nearest messenger. “They’re breaking out to the north!”

  He could see the Arronaths, imagined he could see the leaders grinding their teeth in irritation. Etheric viewing never allowed for that level of detail, though.

  The flames caught them off guard. Less than six minutes had passed since the first arrow shower arced into their camp. Marik had allowed them no time to collect their wits, had provided them with too many fronts to deal with at once without considered thought. Every new minute seemed to bring stronger force against them until the enemy leaders made the wise choice to retreat.

  A strong force waited to the south. Attacks had begun from the east and persisted non-stop. Lighter troops appeared to be holding the north. The western front had erupted in a fiery wall. Marik placed his bet…and won.

  Soldiers grown hesitant in the face of fire gathered fortitude from their officers and charged north. They had, as hoped, chosen to break free of the deathring by hitting the weakest point.

  Marik’s messenger ran on foot through the trees, making better time over the short distance than he would have on horseback through the thick growth. The entire hidden crossbow contingent trained their artillery on the torch-lit areas. Trees in thick interlace meant the archers were scattered nearly Drakesfield’s entire breadth. Men knelt so others could stand at their backs, both firing from the same position.

  When the first enemy wave reached the lit areas’ edge, verging on crossing back into the darkness, Classent ordered the attack. The kneeling men unleashed their flights. They quickly spun the winches on their bows to draw back the weapon’s stout arms and reload while the standing ranks added a second volley to the assault.

  A hundred Arronaths collapsed. Their shieldmates tripped over them, exposing the third lines to the deadly second flight from the kneelers. Black armored carapaces scrambled from the ground as if a beetle army spilled from cracks in the earth.

  Three squads from the Crimson Kings stood ready to meet the enemy, along with all six free bands. The crossbows would fire in alternating attacks. Moving shapes took top targeting priority. If the Arronaths could close faster than the bows could take them down, Squads One, Four and Ten would slip between the archers with swords at the ready. Marik had placed the other mercenary bands there strictly as observers, only to join the fray in the event of unanticipated catastrophe.

  Unanticipated…such as the abrupt turn the Arronaths made without warning during the fourth volley from the standing ranks.

  * * * * *

  Marik saw the change. Whatever Torrance had promised, deep inside he had nursed a secret hope that the ambush might be able to destroy the Arronaths to a man. If they tried to avoid the crossbows, it would certainly have to be to the northwest. Not the northeast where he waited with the band commander and Gibbon.

  The conflagration alone should have suggested the raiders did not possess the manpower to completely encircle the town. Heavy bow-fire should have driven them to that corner instead of a corner between two known attacking forces.

  Perhaps confusion had been too effective a tool. The fleeing black soldiers leapt the last shattered foundation to clear Drakesfield, vaulted the writhing bodies clutching at quarrels deep in their flesh and sought to escape the deadly barrage as quickly as possible.

  “Damn it!” Marik swore. “They’re coming straight at us!”

  “I can see that!” Gibbon snarled. He dropped his Glasses so they swung from the leather strap fastened to his belt and drew his sword. “I should have known what would happen…” Marik heard him grumbling as he prepared to fight an impossible battle.

  There was no time to run. No nearby forces who could be summoned before the Arronaths trampled them. What—

  “Over there!” Marik ordered. He snatched Gibbon’s arm. Without thought, he instigated his strength working. His yank jerked Gibbon to the side as he had never been since his mother grabbed him as a child.

  “How dare—”

  “Get in there!” Marik rounded on Torrance, Yoseph and the few messengers remaining. “All of you! Get in there next to the trunk and don’t move! And no magic, Yoseph!” he ordered, for the mage had begun siphoning in great quantities of the mass diffusion.

  Torrance cast him a brief look before pushing through the thick branches of the oak. Once through the leafy exterior, the limbs became bare, providing space to move. The greenery surrounded the trunk in a bell-like shape, which, if they were lucky, would hide them from sight.

  Marik snatched up his heavy blade from where it had rested. The last horse vanished through the trees. He grabbed a remaining foot messenger and shoved him at the tree. “Move it! Hurry befo—”

  Arronaths materialized around them, their sudden presence abrupt as fireflies on a midnight canvas. The first dozen stormed past without seeing them. Before Marik could cloak himself with the oak’s branches, several black soldiers took notice.

  Most hurried away, pounding hard through the ebon forest. Unfortunately, several slowed a step to form a judgment on what new enemy force they had stumbled upon. When they realized they could only see a lone man, they advanced on Marik. In all likelihood, he mused in a detached way, they believed him a lookout sentry and wanted to silence him before he could fetch reinforcements.

  Strength flowed through every infinitesimal channel within his muscles. He lifted the sword with no edge, his custom blade’s steel wedge winking in the intermittent moonlight.

  Marik swung hard from the side. The blow caught the first enemy in the ribs. He could feel the unique Arronathian leather succumbing to the power in the strike. Bones shattered when the soldier was flung to Marik’s left, the man’s scream containing more startlement than pain.

  A reverse stroke brought the sword back to Marik’s right in time to take down the next Arronath. It caught the shoulder guard, but the black steel offered only as much resistance as the leather. The sword’s wedge cracked the armor like a hazelnut. Pieces were thrown when the second enemy spun away feet over head, his collarbone and shoulder blade destroyed.

  Black soldiers were defeated as quickly as they ran at him. Marik’s sword swung back and forth, breaking armor, swords, bodies with the simple ease of a wheat farmer walking through his fields, scythe in constant motion. He fought strawmen brandishing brittle twigs, tossing them aside easily.

  Marik’s curiosity drove him to deliberately assault the best armored areas on his enemies. A hard blow to a helm opene
d a ragged tear in the steel, bending the head sideways without effort until an audible snap announced a broken neck. The odd elbow plates were twisted into scrap, arms at unnatural angles after the bones were pulverized.

  Nine Arronaths lay close to Marik, six others further away where they had come to lay after raining down on their fleeing shieldmates. He remained standing in place, seeking no conflicts except those that came to him. The latter black soldiers who came upon the scene chose to run past after nervous glances. They could read enough from the tableau not to challenge him.

  The last Arronath dissolved into the darkness. Only those littering the forest floor remained. None had broken through Marik’s one-man defense to reach the top officers and messengers sheltered within the oak tree. If they had seen the others at all. Had Marik been slightly quicker to enter the hideaway, the Arronaths probably never would have noticed the men waiting for them to pass.

  Gibbon’s expression was hard to read when the man emerged, leaves sticking from his hair. He looked like a man trying his best to remain sour in the wake of having his patron god stop by to ask directions to the nearest tobacco seller.

  Torrance spared no glance for the bodies. He immediately lifted his Glasses to his eyes again. “It would seem the retreating force split to both northern corners. The soldiers must have made mad dashes to whichever avenue of escape was closest.”

  “I don’t want them to regroup,” Marik said at Torrance’s shoulder after a fast overhead flight through the etheric.

  “Small forces can turn the tables when you least expect it if you chase after them through the dark. Too many assaults to number have failed because their commanders hoped to garner a complete victory, rather than being satisfied with the victory at hand.”

  “But we have an advantage,” Marik smiled back. “Our forces are already organized. They’ve always been arranged in small, ready-for-action squads. Yoseph! You go to Lieutenant Cavell. Tell him to take half of Classent’s archers and follow after the northwest group with Atthi’s squad. Stay with them. Use your magesight to guide them through the night. I’ll go with Devry and Molem after the northeast.”

  “Don’t overexert your reach,” Torrance warned.

  “I won’t. You’re in charge, commander. Sweep the town to make sure there aren’t any lurkers there. We’ll make sure this position is completely cleared out tomorrow before we start working our way south along the mountains through the rest of them.”

  * * * * *

  Xenos slid the scrying ring under the scanty pillow on his bed. “You may enter.”

  The door opened. One of the command room’s women scryers rushed in, excitement radiating from her. “Our messenger finally reached Colonel Mendell’s base camp with the new anchor! We’ve received a report from the colonel personally!”

  “Excellent.” Xenos rose. He walked at a sedate pace with her through the narrow tunnels. “I expect you finally have reliable information on happenings across the mountains.”

  “Yes, sir. The colonel reports that he has been attempting to secure a firm grip over the lands that were initially confiscated. He has lacked the manpower to expand his holdings. Over the last few days, the local government seems to have begun a concentrated effort to fight back.”

  He nodded, listening as she explained details already familiar to him, careful to keep his expression from reflecting his foreknowledge.

  “From where I stand,” he replied when they reached the command room, “it seems the Galemarans have deployed their army to uproot Colonel Mendell’s infrastructure. Three holding forces attacked in the last five days. Do you estimate the Galemarans have begun to bring all the strength they have to bear?”

  “That is unclear, sir,” the woman answered. “We haven’t been able to determine anywhere near the amount of hard facts about Galemar’s current dispositions as we wanted to.”

  Xenos glanced at the plotting board. Its maps and charts acquired from Kallied showed their current position. “A blessing of timing, would you not say?”

  “Sir?”

  “Send messages to the colonel immediately. He is to form the strongest strike force he can and have them ready to fight here.” Xenos tapped a finger to the map. “The Citadel will soon reach the northernmost peeks of the Stoneseams range. At that time, we will join battle to put an end to any opposition the Galemarans have the ability to muster, once and for all time.”

  He turned his back on the people. His final word sent them scurrying.

  Yes. A grand battle. How very suitable. The turmoil that would be wrought… There would be vast battlefields soaked in blood, littered with flesh that had once been part of a unique whole. On the surface.

  Underneath, saturating the insubstantial soil reflected into the plains of energy, would be an abundance of pure life force. Not so much per body as he could have harvested in ideal conditions, yet a slippery sea waiting to join the divine powers within him. A perfect replenishment that would refill his reserves and beyond. Such a battle would make available to him power in quantities never known before.

  He would walk into the Rovasii a towering pillar upon which the world would tremble, strengthened to a level a hundred sacred services could not push him to, prepared at last to break through the barriers that would restore his god to his former power and ruthless glory.

  Chapter 14

  Marik chucked the small silver mirror hard into his pack. His hopes rose momentarily…but no sounds of shattering glass reached his ears.

  “It is not to say we never expected this,” Torrance observed.

  The younger mercenary threw an annoyed glare at his commander. “How by Vernilock’s left hand do you always manage to look so damned calm? I’ve never seen you bat an eye, even at the Cracked Plateau when the nobles assumed they could throw us into the meat grinder before risking any of their own men.”

  “That is one of the most valuable lessons I picked up from the previous commander, while he was teaching me what I needed to know in order to carry the job after he retired. Shock, as well as awe, is a waste of mental energy. Simply accept whatever the world hurls at you, all the while expecting the pips on the dice to read double-ones, or the backside of the coin to land facing up at you.”

  “You can say that right enough, but I haven’t been able to control my reactions the way you do.” Marik finished tying his pack before slinging it over one shoulder. “Guess that means I’m a lost cause.”

  “I never claimed I mastered it overnight,” Torrance said with a smile. “You’ve done well at the rest of the job so far.”

  “Yeah. And now the whole deal is going to be put to the test. Isn’t it?”

  He ran into Gibbon, who had tossed back the command tent’s flap and jumped in before his eyes adjusted to the dim. “Dispatches from the main body,” the lieutenant snapped. His tone had lost most of its waspish poison, yet retained all of its curt impatience.

  “I just finished a conversation with the royal enclave’s chief mage,” Marik returned. “She’s passed on the important information we need.”

  Gibbon’s brow lowered. He still loathed having a magic user placed over him, especially without being told by his superiors. “There is more to leading an army than what the enclave thinks is strictly important!”

  “You had best read them,” Torrance agreed. “Details often are forgotten when communicating in person. Or perhaps I should say, face-to-face.”

  Marik reluctantly took the papers Gibbon pressed to his chest. “Lieutenant, we are still moving out tomorrow morning, but back north to Drakesfield.”

  “Why? What has happened?”

  “Commander Torrance will explain,” Marik told him, and ducked outside to escape Gibbon’s inquiries.

  He left his recognizable sword in the tent, carrying only his regular blade from Sennet’s armory. In his ordinary clothing and well-used chainmail, walking through the camp drew only scant attention. Not many knew him on sight. At the moment, without Gibbon at his elbow, he was on
ly one simple mercenary among a deck half-filled with them.

  The tent had been growing confining. Other than Torrance and Gibbon, he had hardly spoken ten words to anyone since adding the free bands to queue.

  Marik navigated the camp with ease. The Stoneseams rose in the distance to his right, their sheer walls abrupt as ever. Summer heat had yet to grip the land. Mid-spring breezes cooled his neck while he walked.

  He finally found the Ninth Squad. They had claimed the shade beside a beech copse. Most were passing the time gambling with dice or trident, the few with pretensions toward sophistication pulling out their cards. Conversations muted when the men noticed him. Units One through Three stared at him as if looking upon a stranger.

  Fourth Unit, naturally, had sprawled out at the tree line, forcing him to endure the rolling silence until he had crossed the entire distance. He found Dietrik talking to Arvallar, the pair watching Wyman thumb-wrestle with Cork and Churt simultaneously. Somewhere along the way, probably in Thoenar, Arvallar had found a replacement rapier, though with a far less impressive hilt than his previous. It clashed with his carefully selected outfit.

  “Mate,” Dietrik greeted him. “Slow day, is it?”

  “Only in a manner of speaking. I’ve spent entire days lately where I’ve been moving nonstop and dealing with issues left and right, but at the end of the day I can’t name a single accomplishment.”

  “Oh, accomplishments are easy to collect,” Dietrik countered. “It’s taking steps toward your goals that are hardest to achieve.”

  “That sounds about right. Feel like taking a walk?” Marik felt uneasy. Since reaching Dietrik, the number of people stopping what they were doing to watch him had increased. Cork maintained his focus on capturing Wyman’s thumb. The quieter mercenary avoided Cork’s efforts lazily while locking his eye on Marik. Churt had abandoned the contest following Wyman’s cue.

  Dietrik left with him to meander along the copse, leaving the camp further behind them until they found a nice spot filled with cool shade. The rising heat had sent the grasses and weeds in a race for the clouds. When Marik sank onto a clover patch under a tree, swaying walls formed from thousands of light green stalks enclosed them. Privacy in the wildlands.