Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

  “What I expect from you is nothing more or less than this; we gave you the highest training in order to make you into a Guardian. Therefore, I expect you to act like one.”

  Colbey could only hold the gaze a moment before looking away at his boots.

  “You should remember the classes you went through with your fellow yearlings. Did we teach you nothing save combat skills?”

  “No.” Colbey’s reply was soft.

  “That is because a Guardian is more than a mere high-level scout. Being a Guardian means being a Guardian! Can you look on your actions after leaving the forest and say, with truthfulness, that you made full use of the knowledge we taught you?”

  “I wasn’t any place I could—”

  “Colbey!” The hard bark cut the younger man’s excuse off sharply. “Whether in the groves, the sealed areas or places utterly alien to you, we trained you to be able to deal with any situation you might be thrown into. Did you fail to learn your lessons?”

  The slight shakes in Colbey’s hands spread to his forearms. After a long silence, he replied quietly, “Guardian Thomas, I have failed in my duties.”

  “You were a lone man fighting a hydra with too many heads to slay. No man can last forever under such a burden. It is for this reason that Guardians are meant to work in pairs. A partner is there to lend support beyond a simple extra sword. The fault can’t be said to be yours alone. I erred badly when I allowed you to leave on your own.”

  “No! I…I am to blame for everything that happened. My actions…are my shame and mine alone.”

  “Your shame.” Thomas was pleased Colbey had brought the conversation back full circle. It saved him the trouble of attempting to lead the words. “From what you confessed, you betrayed many in ways no Guardian would have allowed. Your madness led you kill unnecessarily, to inflict pain deliberately. But most unforgivable,” Thomas announced with his full authority, watching Colbey shrivel before him with each accusation, “you betrayed, as completely as it is possible to do so, the one man you had formed a bond with. The closest thing to a partner you had. This mage you claim is so untrustworthy. Only lucky chance stopped you from torturing him until you shattered his mind worse than your own.”

  Colbey dropped to his ankles, crouching in the leaves. He had covered his face with his hands, a gesture he’d spent most of his time employing in the eightdays following his return.

  “Whether this mage is selfish and power crazy, or noble and pure, he did nothing to warrant your betrayal. A Guardian never commits such crimes as you did.”

  Thomas knew his words were lancing the younger man’s heart. Here was the overwhelming core of Colbey’s self-hatred. Unless he surmounted it, could find a way to purge it from his soul, it would eventually destroy Colbey as surely as any other mortal injury. It would finish the destruction begun when his mind had fractured.

  The senior Guardian held his breath, watching to see if the amazing trainee he had felt fortunate to train would bend or break. At last, words sobbed out from behind the quivering hands.

  “I…I know it…”

  Raw pain filled the words. Colbey repeated the phrase, sobbing it over and over in a crucifying litany.

  Thomas allowed it to continue until Colbey’s voice cracked. He knelt down beside his junior, speaking firmly without touching any part of Colbey’s body.

  “A Guardian must take responsibilities for his actions. I see you, a broken shell crumbling under a heavy debt. I say this; a debt must always be repaid. Until you have repaid yours, you are useless to anyone here. Only a clean conscious can work effectively as a Guardian. The choice is yours, but you know what course you should embark on.”

  “The…” Colbey hiccupped on the word. “You need everyone you have to maintain the seals…”

  “The rest of us will do what needs to be done. Are you capable of the same?”

  Thomas rose without further word and stalked away along the narrow path.

  * * * * *

  Colbey felt hollow.

  His work for the villagers. At least it had meant something! Now…

  It had been stripped away. There was nothing left. He was ostracized in life and death alike. No welcome would be offered him by the remaining Guardians. No welcome would be offered him by the souls of the villagers when he finally died.

  He was anathema.

  Beside him, faint steel webs had already begun growing between the needles protruding from the forest lizard. Soon it would be encased in a wire cocoon. From pain and death would be born a host of new life. A young spikewing swarm emerging from the carcass.

  Might Thomas be right? Could the same possibly be true for him? Was there any counterweight that existed that could possibly oppose the dark side of his soul’s scale?

  He did not know.

  Chapter 16

  Rubble was far too modest a word, Dietrik judged. He skirted through cottage-sized boulders that had transformed the battlefield into a natural labyrinth. At times he came to dead-ends that forced him to retrace until he could either enter a branching path or climb out of the rough semi-canyons.

  Two days earlier, while the entire mess had been hurtling from the skies above, Dietrik had believed wholeheartedly that not a single one of them would survive. Oddly shaped stone had hit the ground, their bounces unpredictable. Their uneven shapes could send them rolling off at any angle to pulverize entire flanks without slowing. The Arronaths were scuppered. What few had survived immediately fled south to join the remnants of the in-kingdom group Gibbon’s forces had fought.

  Pure chance had decided who would live and who not. In the calamity’s midst, a gigantic boulder had swept past, killing a Second Unit man instantly while leaving Dietrik unscratched. Men were scattered. Injured men were still being recovered from the wreckage that had maimed many, trapped others.

  Dietrik clambered over a shard pile with a tree truck protruding up from its center. The top half was buried under the broken rock, leaving the snapped trunk with its several thousand jagged points to gouge his flesh if he slipped.

  Beyond the upended tree lay the small woods that the Ninth Squad had been backed against during the battle. Its trees had acted as a break against which had washed the incoming stone tide. The first hundred yards had been transformed to splintered stumps. Dietrik wend his way through them to a clearing the rolling boulders had failed to reach. In the open space beyond the intact tree line rested a newly erected tent.

  Soldiers stood an easy guard in a ring encircling the clearing. They were there only to give warning to the tent’s occupants should trouble arise, or in the unlikely event disoriented enemy soldiers stumbled from the woods. Several eyes examined Dietrik, recognized him for one of the mercenaries they were forced to work with and reluctantly acknowledged his right to pass.

  He located Torrance before closing half the distance to the tent. Dietrik changed his angle to bring him directly to the commander.

  Torrance, who stood alone in the soft sunlight, tracked his fellow band member with his gaze. His right arm had been broken in two places. It had been splinted by army chirurgeons and hung in a sling. Bruises, deep scrapes and cuts across his entire body were bandaged heavily. He could wear no armor at all, especially his chainmail, for the pain it brought him.

  “Not a bloody thing,” Dietrik harshly snapped. He was in no mood for niceties. “We tramped around up there like bloody mountain goats and nearly broke our necks during the climb down! Cork slipped and about sent the whole cliff breaking free with us along for the ride!”

  “If you could find nothing, then…that means—”

  “Nothing!” Dietrik barked. “It means nothing whatsoever. Lack of evidence can’t be made into a proven conclusion!”

  Torrance narrowed his eyes. “A mountain ledge cracked, its former ground sent hundreds of feet over the cliff and no sign of survivors… I have trouble seeing hope in such a line of events.”

  Dietrik slashed his palm through the air angrily. “No survivors
, yes. And no victims either!”

  “You know as well as I that once we have time to sift the rubble at the cliff’s base, we will find the remains of those who stood above. If we ever judge it safe enough to crawl through the rubble there. Miniature avalanches are still dropping debris every few candlemarks.”

  “Commander! I refuse to believe you are writing Marik off the same way these army leeches are!”

  Torrance pounded his fist against his leg, which forced a pained wince from him. “Gods damn it all, Dietrik! I have to realistically look at the facts on hand! The wounded are suffering from injuries as bad as those at the end of the Nolier war. There are still unknown numbers of enemy forces at large on kingdom soil. We cannot afford to fall behind, to leave ourselves open to a finishing stroke. That is my final word on the matter.”

  In another time, Dietrik would have accepted the decision as final indeed. Yet he had been through much in the last two seasons. Face-to-face with Taurs, questioning his place in the band, forced to look his own mortality in the eye… There had been little to laugh at in recent months. Were it not for the deep bond of friendship he felt with Marik, he would undoubtedly have left to seek fortunes elsewhere after that first hellish encounter in the Stoneseams pass.

  “I am surprised at you.” Dietrik stood straight, his spine iron-rod stiff. Challenging the band’s commander. “I expect as much from military officers, but I thought you walked about with your eyes open.”

  Torrance’s expression hardened. “Take care, Dietrik. My patience is short enough as is.”

  “Will you seriously leave him and the others out there? Stranded without provisions?”

  “I have no pr—”

  “You do not need proof! All you need is the faith that your men are alive! This is hardly a green recruit still dripping from the ears. It is bloody Marik up there! You’ve watched him from his first year in the band. You know he is a survivor.”

  “It hardly matters what I know! All that matters is what I can show them!” The commander gestured violently to the tent with his free hand, wincing anew as he did so.

  “That was a battle up there. No one below could spare the time to observe it, but there was time after the first blow was cast.” Dietrik folded his arms to glare back at Torrance harder than the commander did so at him. His place in the band was of no concern to him any longer. “And it is no precarious perch without exits. Any number of the mage corps could have fled into the deeper mountains.”

  Torrance stared over Dietrik’s shoulder. “From where we stand the only visible sign that the overlook ever existed is a small patch of grass at the top of the funnel. That is what those men are seeing when they look on the cliff face. If you cannot bring me physical evidence that anyone escaped, then I have nothing in my arsenal to change their minds.”

  “Then I’ll bloody well tell them so!”

  “Dietrik!”

  He ignored the commander as he marched with purpose to the tent. Heat burned on the skin under his collar. At this point, he cared little for the consequences. Only wanted to have his say.

  A flap had been tied back to allow light into the tent. Dietrik walked in without slowing.

  “Yes? What is it? Who are you?”

  The question came from one of the three new arrivals. Gibbon stood at attention on the command table’s left side, making the small interior crowded with four occupants.

  Dietrik ignored the inquiry. “Which one of you chaps wanted to know about the crown-general and his mages?”

  “All of us,” answered a second new arrival. “Have you brought a report from the search party? It certainly took them long enough!”

  “Long enough that they better have news,” took up the third. “I hope you found their bodies.”

  Just like the bloody army he had come to despise during his time as a soldier, Dietrik thought. If a man answered with his rank, he was junior and thus to be disregarded. If he ignored the question, he was to be treated as a peer or a respected senior.

  Except mercenaries were a gray area. Most officers disdained free swords, yet wanted them to remain long enough to take the major damage from the first assaults. It was a fine line of respect and arrogance.

  “If you wish proof of the crown-general’s death, then I am here to disappoint you.” His words were stiff with annoyance.

  Two of the new arrivals raised their eyebrows. The last twisted his features to reflect his exasperation. “What I wish for is solid information that I can send to the knight-marshal, mercenary. He can’t plan effective strategies for Galemar’s military without knowing what there is to work with.”

  “Then be glad he won’t be bothered with it. King Raymond appointed Marik Railson as his crown-general over the western forces. When he returns, he will inform you of your duty schedule toward those efforts.”

  “When he returns,” the first repeated. “Are we to take it that your search team has found the man?” He sounded ill-pleased.

  “They will soon,” Dietrik retorted. “The crown-general has survived worse than this before.”

  “I am not wasting my time on baseless conclusions!” the second stormed. “A man can survive a war and still fall to a cutpurse’s knife! Have your men found any bodies yet or haven’t they?”

  “We found no traces of anything, flesh or cloth or otherwise. Which we believe is suggestive that the crown-general and his mages must have esca—”

  “Then he’s buried under a hundred tons of rock,” the first emphasized with satisfaction. He nodded at the others, pleased. “He’s left us a right mess to clean up, so we had best get started immediately.”

  “First order is to get all our men pulled back to a secure staging ground,” the third picked up.

  “Wait a bloody moment,” Dietrik shouted. “We need to send a search party south along the mountains! The survivors could come out anywhere once they’ve found a new path down. And those areas are re-occupied by black soldiers! The search party will need a sizable escort.”

  All three men gazed at him coldly. These three officers Tybalt had set to secretly dog Marik’s tracks. They had arrived the day before, brandishing orders from the knight-marshal granting them the power to assume command should ‘the crown-appointed leader prove incapable of carrying out his duties’. No one had known they were there, watching the successes or failures of Marik’s command, and Dietrik wondered if they did, in truth, have the authority to overrule Raymond’s wishes. Did the king know his knight-marshal had ordered men to skulk along in Marik’s footsteps?

  Whether they were in the right or not, they had seized upon the fiasco of the Citadel’s crash to sweep down and steal the crown-general’s hat. Their first decision had been immediate, relegating Torrance to a powerless limbo while keeping Gibbon as a top officer. Gibbon’s accomplishments against the southern reinforcements were touted while Torrance, as leader of the forces castrated by the stone rainfall, was treated like a pariah.

  “This man, your fellow mercenary who wormed his way into the king’s confidences,” replied one with a derisive sneer in his tone, “should count himself lucky if he’s being judged in the afterlife at this moment! He went and made a pig’s ear of everything. It is no surprise why your six fellow bands of cutthroats deserted the instant the stone stopped falling, not that I would have placed much faith in their reliability in the first place. The number of wounded soldiers is still on the rise. We haven’t even located entire flanks yet!”

  “Not to mention the acres of potential farmland which have been destroyed,” the third added as an afterthought. “When Drakesfield is eventually rebuilt, those fields would have been crucial for providing needed income for the restoration.”

  Dietrik laughed once to show what he thought of such a flimsy effort to cast additional blame on Marik. Once he succeeded in igniting annoyed fury in that one’s eyes, he pointed out, “Need I remind that King Raymond wanted us to bring down the Cita—”

  “This entire battle was severely botched!�
� overrode the second officer. “Poorer planning I can’t ever remember seeing!”

  “Yes, what leader sets his troops directly under a target like this that he intends to make crash?” continued the first.

  “It wasn’t standing bloody still during th—”

  “If you come across your shining crown-general,” the third said forcefully, “I suggest you advise him to flee to a different kingdom. He stands condemned for gross negligence at the very least if it turns out that he did survive.”

  Dietrik stared resentfully at these army monkeys. Before him, clear as the broiling skies above, was Tybalt’s hand. The knight-marshal had no power to overturn his king’s decisions. Instead, he had waited for the right circumstances to declare battlefield command.

  Things were in a right state. Dietrik had faith in Marik’s cleverness yet these elitists would take his achievements and use them as an extra knot in the noose they meant to put around his throat.

  He spun on one heal, leaving them to fume in their canvas room. Outside, he found that Torrance remained in the same spot as before. The commander existed in a meaningless void, all right. Responsibility without authority. Culpability without the right to make decisions. If he were the band’s commander, Dietrik reflected sourly, this would be the point at which he would collect what remained of the Kings and hike on out.

  In fact, that was an option that sparkled attractively in his mind. His years with the Kings had been nice ones. It had been an achievement to earn a place in their ranks but it had never occurred to him that it would be a lifelong career path. Whenever it had crossed his mind, however briefly, he had dismissed it with the thought that he would know when it was time to move on.

  It had been time to leave months earlier. But a deeper friendship than he had ever known forestalled his departure. Delayed it until the opportunity vanished. Those ties had held him to an untenable position.