by Damien Lake
“If there are any roads through there, I would have paid through the nose to learn about them.” Marik kept his tone gentle, convinced that the fall had addled Dietrik after all.
“Gods damn it, don’t be difficult! I’ve had a right pisser of a day as it is!”
“Keep your voice down!” A glance assured him that Lynn maintained the group’s attention through her continuing dressing down of the battle-inept city mage. But who else might be within hearing range? “This is enemy territory, for your patron’s sake!”
Dietrik’s concession to that was to speak through a clenched jaw. “What in bloody purgatory are you doing this far south, anyway? I never would have found you if I hadn’t run into that red wraith haunting you.”
“There was only one route out of those fu—excuse me? You couldn’t possibly have said what I thought you did.”
“Oh, quite.” His face was grim. No amusement existed there. This was the same Dietrik who had greeted Marik upon his return to consciousness in the Healer’s tent after the Rovasii battle. “An unsettling encounter all around. I am not certain what to make of it.”
Marik stared dumbfounded. Finally, he simply ordered, “Tell me what happened.”
Dietrik spoke in a monotone. He started with his taking a horse from the larger herd to make his solitary search. His progression through the day only took three or four simple sentences. Recounting his unexpected meeting took far longer.
“His hands?”
“Yes,” Dietrik affirmed. “Fingertip to fingertip, like so. Never bothered to remove his gloves.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Don’t tell me I did not see what I saw, mate.”
“But you can’t scrye with only your hands! You have to have a mirror to reflect the images you want to scrye! And for damned certain you must have a catalyst to target the seeker!”
“How certain are you? Are you a scrying master these days?”
“I…no, I suppose I’m not. I know there are other methods mentioned in Natalie’s diary, but I haven’t studied them.”
Dietrik shrugged it away. Matters of magical achievement were unimportant to him. “It brought me this far. So in the end, you can’t call it a coopered claim.”
“Whether his prediction was faulty is only part of the problem.” Marik paced while scratching each elbow. “This entire business makes me uneasy. And I can’t say why. I don’t like it.”
“I thought you decided he was an unheralded crusader of the light.”
“Hardly! I don’t know what to make of him. That old saying, the one that goes ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’. You and I both know that’s a load of rotten fish. If it were true, there never would have been a war in all history with more than two sides.”
“I would take care before picking a row with the likes of him, mate. We would be collecting your pieces from halfway to the Stygan.”
“As long as we don’t know what he’s after, we can’t afford to think of him in friendly terms.”
“That would mean your father fell in with a deceiver.”
“Hmm.” Marik stopped his pacing to face Dietrik. “Did you see him there? My father?”
“No. Funny, but the thought of him never entered my mind. I should have questioned him about Rail.”
“But you came south directly instead.” Marik resumed his restless motion, plucking a twig to chew on as he did so. “He might be near, then. Close by. Father…”
“I doubt you will have a run in with him again until this walking tomato settles whatever score he has to settle.”
“Damn it! What is he after? Waiting out alone in the rain…”
“He mentioned waiting for someone. I expect it was this fellow your father mentioned before.”
“The fugitive? Wait…uh, Xenos, right?”
Dietrik shrugged. “If that is what you say his name is.”
“But he’s dead. He was on the Citadel when it crashed. Nothing could have survived.”
“The tomato-man says he did. Claims they had a row of their own in the middle of our own fighting, and Xenos escaped.”
“He must have spent every drop of power he had to destroy the overlook! Are you saying he still had the strength to escape certain death?” Before Dietrik could answer, the pervasive chill from less than a half-mark before returned. “You mean that was him? Was that him we felt?”
“Felt? Now you’ve gone and lost me.”
“In the group that passed before you arrived. That…power…”
This time Dietrik listened while Marik recounted the events since the battle. Marik searched for suitable words to describe traversing a fragmented path several thousand feet up a mountain face. As he spoke, the terms ‘high’ and ‘windy’ and ‘narrow’ sounded woefully inadequate.
“Galemar has a serious problem then, mate,” Dietrik said in summary. “We have two magic types of unknown origin and intention running loose. Strong ones at that. This on top of no-holds-barred invasion.”
“It makes me wonder how much of this Nolier might know. Makes for convenient timing if you want to steal a rich gold mine. Do it at a time when most of the kingdom’s armies will be needed elsewhere.”
“Who can say? But this is hardly their first grab at it. Coincidences happen every day to countless souls.”
“It can’t be written off, though. We’ll have to tell Torrance about it fast and see what he thinks. His combat experience outranks both of ours put together.”
“How do you plan on telling Torrance any-bloody-thing at all?”
Marik gestured in annoyance. “I’m sorry about your horse, but we are only about a day from Drakesfield by foot! You’ve walked further on a march before.”
“You can’t go back there, mate. They would eat you alive.”
“Me? Who are you talking about?”
“Tybalt’s chosen cadre. That reminds me. Torrance wanted me to pass a message. He suggests it would be in your best interests to return to Kingshome without contacting any army officers. At least, not face-to-face.”
Marik listened in stunned disbelief as Dietrik plumbed the further depths before the day’s adventures. “How can they possibly blame me for any of that?”
“Because they want to. Mate, don’t fight it. This is your ticket out of the squeeze.”
“I never wanted the pleasure of Raymond’s deluded ideas in the first place! But I’ve got the responsibility for it now. I can’t run off because Tybalt’s showing his ass!”
“Well, you can hardly return to Drakesfield either! You’ll be arrested before you can adjust your groin and shipped to a cell the knight-marshal no doubt prepared with high hopes before he left Thoenar.”
Marik halted his pacing to glare through the interwoven tree limbs around them. The trees were spaced, allowing gray overcast to fill as much woodland ceiling as greenery.
“What should I do…” he mumbled repeatedly.
Dietrik cut in after the eleventh refrain. “You should chuck this entire affair is what you should do! A merc has no business poking his nose where it never belonged! Torrance is as high up the ladder as any of us ought to be.”
“No.” Marik spoke the refusal softly. “Torrance can vie with Gibbon for leadership. You’re right, there is nothing we can do there any longer. But this Xenos threat can’t be ignored either, can it? So we will send Wyman and the others back to Torrance with the information we have, then you and I will follow the Arronaths to figure out what they are about.”
“Me? Hoof it along after a mage strong enough to blast a cliff to gravel?”
Marik blinked. “Oh…of course. I’m sorry, Dietrik. I wasn’t thinking. You should go back with Wyman. You’re right. I’d be better off going after that group alone.”
“Since when,” Dietrik challenged, crossing his arms stubbornly, “have you ever managed to steer clear of trouble without me? It sounds as if your head is swelling. If I must, I will lance it with my rapier.”
“I only meant…
” Marik stared at Dietrik helplessly. “So, what do you want to do?”
“I want to crawl into my bloody cot and sleep until next spring. Being a mercenary was never a safety-net occupation, but this has gone far beyond the dangers in the job description.”
“This is a pretty unusual situation.”
“Each of our fighting seasons so far could be called that. You need me to keep you out of worse trouble than you can handle.”
A slight grin twitched Marik’s lips. “Since when have I ever not been in trouble, even with you along for the ride?”
Dietrik declined a comment. He merely shook his head disgustedly and trouped back to the larger group at Marik’s elbow.
“Wyman! Where—gods! Caresse!”
Marik halted as if his flesh were instantly transformed to marble. Caresse squatted on her ankles beside the equine remains, left arm wrapped around her knees, right hand holding a stick with which she probed the hairy slime. Her expression recalled village children who were at once fascinated and revolted by a gristly artifact they had uncovered. One of her eyes squinted shut while her nose wrinkled, her tongue curling from between her teeth as she poked the mess with short jabs.
“Doh-ah? This is fairly nasty, so it is.”
“Then leave it alone! Where’s Wyman?”
“By the tree line. He wants to keep a watch out, indeed.”
She prodded her stick into the jelly near where a stirrup had sunk into the congealed flesh. Marik quickly fled when she fished up the repulsive material in a gluttonous strand, reminiscent of a pudding’s skin, with gleeful repugnance.
Dietrik made only a single comment. “Mate, if we both survive this madness, when we get home, you are going to spend however much coin it takes to purchase my rapier from Sennet once and for all. That will be the least of your debt to me.”
* * * * *
Marik’s worries about overrunning the Arronaths melted away along with his exhortations to proceed sedately when it became obvious that they needed to run in order not to fall further behind. Dietrik, exercising his self-control, waited for Marik to realize the obvious on his own; they hardly had need for a cautious advance when the men they chased were mounted, whereas they crossed the land on foot.
The trail left by the black-armored soldiers was easy enough to follow. Too easy. Less than a candlemark after splitting with Wyman’s northbound group, they were forced to dash into the woods when a Taur group pounded unexpectedly from behind.
Marik’s heart felt like a jackrabbit being chased by a wolf pack. They barely gained the trees in time to avoid being spotted. Only the howling loosed by the animals had alerted Marik soon enough to quickly check their rear from an etheric vantage.
They watched from a tangle of wild shrubs. Dietrik sustained several additional scratches on top of the scrapes from being thrown off his mount. He kept his lips drawn tight despite the bloody trickles painting his face in gory lines.
A fast count revealed sixteen of the monstrous beasts. Twenty additional soldiers accompanied them including six white-robes. They followed the path tromped through the grass by the forerunners.
Dietrik walked out to the wider swath cut through the wild land, standing in the middle to gaze after the Taurs, fists balled against his hips. “If you still insist on trodding along after that, then you’ve gone absolutely barking, mate!”
“We must find out what they’re up to,” Marik replied, a heavy boulder weighing down the statement. “Torrance will need to know.”
They continued down the track. It was so wide and trampled a blind man could have followed it with ease. In the gloom heralding the coming night, Dietrik asked, “Are your wits clear, mate? And don’t look sideways at me! Think on it seriously. You are not trying to undo a failing you believe you are guilty of, are you? Because would-be heroes are always the first to be cut down.”
“I’ve never gone searching for fame or glory!”
Dietrik leveled a stern glare that cut to the bone.
“Well… maybe my overconfidence led me astray once,” Marik stammered. “I told you I would never be stupid enough to repeat that.”
“That aside, my question remains.”
“I’m doing what I think is right.”
“Right for you? Or for an ideal that mercenaries have no part of?”
“Just…right. Dietrik, maybe you should go straight back with Wyman after all. He didn’t look happy at having to travel through hostile territory with a bunch of unpredictable mages.”
“Lynn and Caresse will look after his interests in regards to the city mages. We both know it, and you should as well. Kings look after one another, which is why you should know better than to suggest it.”
“I’m uneasy. The first group was worrisome as it was. The second could mean any number of consequences, none of them good. This is feeling too much like a counterforce organizing to smash our resistance while it is still in disarray from the last major battle.”
“Then why do they ride south? The best course would be to angle northeast and strike our camp from the rear.”
“I don’t know. Which is why we have to find out what they are up to.”
“Scouting only,” Dietrik intoned with finality. “Surveillance from a distance. It is not to us to stop or disrupt any enemy actions.”
“We only have the strength to take on four or five. Of course we will only get close enough to learn what they are up to.”
“Four or five men,” returned Dietrik. The sharp edge to his statement made it clear he wanted no part of the Taurs. “We have no chance against their pets without your ruddy sword. What happened to it anyway?”
“Not sure. Wyman saved my life at the overlook. I nearly slid down a slope off the mountain when he stopped me. I suppose my blade must have kept going over the edge. All I’ve got is my old companion.” He patted his regular blade hanging at his side.
“A bloody waste of too much coin,” Dietrik snorted. “All that silver thrown into a custom blade, and you got how much use from it?”
“Only one serious fight,” came the gloomy admission. “If an avalanche fell on top of it, there is nothing left but a twisted lump.”
“You go through blades faster than any I’ve heard tell of.”
“I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right. It seems the bigger the sword is, the quicker it gets destroyed.”
Dietrik pointed at Marik’s weapon. It was a near duplicate of the first he had taken from Sennet’s armory their first winter. “You’ve had better use from that ordinary weapon than from the other two combined. Best you stick with what suits a merc’s station.”
Marik offered no response. He allowed Dietrik to take the silence for whatever answer pleased him, but quietly he doubted. Sennet’s custom sword, though unwieldy and too bulky to carry normally, had converted him from solo combatant to a one-man army during the night raid on Drakesfield. If there were only a way to carry it with ease wherever he went, he would gladly shell out whatever coin it took to birth an offspring weapon from Sennet’s skilled hands…
“What fancies are passing through that cheese-filled head of yours?” Dietrik demanded with suspicion. “There is a mite too much dreaminess in your eye for me to feel comfortable.”
Startled, Marik cast about for a lie, blurting out the first topic that came to mind. “Ilona. Kerwin’s inn must be nearly finished, if it isn’t already.”
Dietrik softened. “Yes. You would do well to return to Kingshome if only for her. The likes of Marik Railson has no business winning a prize of her silverweight, but perhaps it is a sign from the heavens that you have more business in life than following a force a hundred times your size.”
“That sounds like jealousy.”
“Then you have failed to learn much about me in the years of our friendship, mate. She is a fair enough looker by most standards—”
“Better than ‘fair enough’ by most!” Marik heatedly shot back.
“Given,” Dietrik shrugged i
n return. “But there is entirely too much fang in her for my liking. Give me a softer hand than a piercing tongue any day. I suppose you can’t help being masochist enough to fall hard on her claws.”
“What gives you call to make a crack like that?”
“Your choice of women, the way you torture your body in your daily training, how you keep digging yourself into dealings with Celerity, Tybalt and any other blighter with the power to make your life miserable…”
They argued fiercely until nightfall, each digging into old wounds as friends are wont to do, renewing their close bond of fellowship the entire way. Each could sense within the other a relief at having found their friend following a cataclysmic tragedy. Further danger might lurk in the future. For the present they enjoyed each other’s personality, the parts that had drawn them into such deep friendship years ago.
After nightfall they discovered a blinking dandelion patch winked in the blackness. Marik and Dietrik stayed far back from the campfires. They whispered at cross purposes the whole while, Marik failing to deduce any intentions harbored by the soldiers. The only fact he could be certain of was that the man Xenos, if indeed it had been his presence the mages sensed earlier, could not be with the camp. That overwhelming presence was absent. He must be further ahead.
In the morning they continued the track. Dietrik shared the provisions he had horded from the supply wagons. It had been fortunate that the packs were thrown off his mount along with Dietrik. They would have no stomach for food recovered from the primordial sludge that the horse had become. The only downside, which Dietrik took harder than Marik, was that the silver hand mirror of Celerity’s had shattered during the plummet.
No change developed until noontime when the trail they pursued unhesitatingly breached the outer trees of the Rovasii Forest.
“Past experience suggests we throw the entire fiasco over at this point,” Dietrik proclaimed, gazing at the trees without love.
Marik studied the forest while a tempest of conflicting emotions whirled in cyclonic fury through him. He felt as if the countless possibilities from which reality was constructed had splintered away from the recesses of disproven probability. The exigencies of Lady Fate had filled his flesh with multiple Marik Railsons, crowding out the simple mercenary he had been intended to be.