The Marcher Lord (Over Guard)

by Glenn Wilson

  If it was hurt, it would want something easy—if it attacked and was hurt it would need something quick, so either the first attack was a mistake, and would then be changing its tactics or have been scared off—or it was purposely fast and unsuccessful, which meant that it would want us to follow it, which meant that it would want us doing what we’re doing now because that would leave the rest of the party less defended, which means—

  Ian had already come to this conclusion multiple times before their party grew distracted and disorganized enough for him to act on it. Making sure that Rory was adequately protected by the others—and indeed, Rory had fallen close enough to the others that he presently had more than a few other second men to protect him—Ian slipped forward, slowly at first until he was further away from the others, and then he fell into a fast, sprinting sort of crawl through the grass, his eyes roving over the passing tree line.

  The tree area wasn’t large, and Ian soon made it to the fielded area that lay next to its far end. Their caravan waited roughly in the middle of the woods, opposite the side he was leaving. And if he had a sure bet, Ian would put it on the leopard having darted off the way their company had pursued it, but then doubling back around through the trees where they wouldn’t have been able to see it. Its objective would then be to come at their caravan opposite where they were waiting just outside of the trees.

  Ian stopped for a moment, catching his breath and trying to listen over the pounding in his ears as he remained still, attempting to spot any motion inside the woods. The trees weren’t all that tall, but tall enough that there was a large area of potential areas for him to scan. The foliage also didn’t allow him to see very far into it. Judging that he was far enough from the others and that the piece of forest closest to him was about as narrow and safe as he would get, he crept toward it, thinking of getting within the tree line and skirting around the rest of the woods until he reached their party.

  But he hadn’t gone all that far when he heard a short, sharp roar, well within the woods, but not all that far off from his trajectory.

  Ian stood, ran with his rifle in hand to the nearest tree. Hitting it a little harder than he had wanted, he took restock of the situation and listened for anything further. But no other sounds came, and judging from what he could interpret from the roar, Ian estimated that the leopard must be near the opposite side of the woods, but not exceptionally close to their party. No instant cause for alarm then, he thought as he left his tree.

  And there were still three of their men with the margrave and his family. He thought of Corporal Wesshire in particular, as the corporal had volunteered to stay behind. No, Ian wasn’t concerned about them, he decided as he kept low and weaved through the trees. He was concerned that he wasn’t going to get any sort of chance at this—

  He saw a tall figure—to his right, in the corner of his eye—

  Ian ducked and pulled himself to a stop at the base of a tree large enough to crouch behind. Taking deep, careful breaths to the count of five, Ian peered around its corner. For a moment, he didn’t see anything as he tried to recall the exact spot he thought he’d seen a man—There.

  Ian saw some slight movement, followed by a darkly dressed man standing between the trees at the edge of the woods, looking as though he was watching further down the way Ian was headed. Pulling his yeoman up, Ian magnified the image, quickly peering around to make sure there weren’t any others as he waited for it to recalibrate.

  The man was dressed in a darker uniform that wasn’t familiar to Ian, but was of a Bevish, or at least Dervish cut. Ian didn’t know what sort of rifle the man held, but it looked like a heavy caliber.

  Wiping his lips and trying to imagine who this could be, Ian decided that it was probably trouble. And if the man wasn’t anyone to be wary of, then Ian lost nothing in being wary.

  He waited for another minute, watching the man but also his surroundings. The rest of the woods were still, however, the sun only making it through the tree canopy in bits and pieces. The sweat under Ian’s uniform seemed out of place in the mild bird songs and coolness of the tassi trees.

  “Who could miss home?” Ian whispered.

  Darting forward, he started as straight as he dared toward the man and slanted the rest, aiming for a place in the tree line some ways behind the man. Ian moved carefully, trying to pick a path with as many trees to keep between them as he could, all the while watching his footing to avoid the leaves and sticks that would mark his movement.

  But he moved as quickly as he could, pausing twice behind a tree to check his man, the second time fortunately when the man half-glanced his way. Another couple of seconds though and Ian was off again, hurrying with his rifle in both hands and pulling his body to the left to miss a clump of trees and then harder to the right to try to miss a dead-looking bush. He didn’t quite succeed—hit the edges of it with his jacket and his compensation the opposite way was a bit clumsy, his footing ending up making more noise as well.

  Ian fell down into a small hollow next to the tree line, behind where two large tassi trees had fallen long ago. Cramping himself as close and far down into as he could, Ian tried to control his breathing and listen—listen to the surroundings. But there was nothing he could sense over his heartbeat and the matted ground that pressed up into his elbows and against his cheek.

  Blind as he was to his man, there was still nothing, no hint of sound. Giving it another half minute, though he knew he should wait even longer, Ian rolled over a bit, wincing at the soft crackling of the papery leaves. Leaning up in stages, getting his arms beneath him better, he pulled his rifle up with him and peered over and between a large notch in the log. At first, he had a wave of panic as he didn’t see anyone, but looking straight ahead, he caught sight of the man again, quick and sweet relief following the jolt. He had underestimated his distance and angle a bit, and was now nearly straight behind the man. The chap, in any case, appeared none the wiser that Ian had any sort of angle on him. The man was still almost impatiently looking down the tree line and occasionally glancing down at his yeoman.

  Bevish, Ian thought. And although that didn’t give the man any more of an honest chance than any other sort of man, Ian thought he must be with the army after some fashion. Perhaps a mercenary, as the uniform still didn’t look familiar at this range, though the range of uniforms Ian had seen was fairly limited.

  Half-tempted to stand up now and order him to surrender, Ian knew he was still too far away to comfortably try at that. Mapping out his next segment wasn’t nearly so easy, as there wasn’t much more direction to go except straight—

  The man suddenly jerked, looking down at his own yeoman and changing his rifle hands as he bounded forward one, two trees, three—

  Ian hurtled over the log, throwing caution and all the rest of him to the wind as he sprinted after the man. So long as the man was distracted and making plenty of noise himself, Ian had the perfect opportunity to close the gap—and he was, gaining, Ian had cut it in half, closer, saw the man slowing a bit.

  Ian picked his tree and gave a few last hard strides after it as he noted the man coming to a stop and whirling around at the sounds behind him. His rifle was large and also turning this way.

  Reaching the area where Ian’s tree was between them, he dove at the ground to the right of it. Ian hit, and whether it hurt or not he didn’t know, but he pulled his rifle up and around the tree and brought it to bear at the middle of the man as quickly as he could.

  The man didn’t look scared—something more like annoyed. Ian was deciding just how decisive his reaction should be when he heard, then saw a quick, small movement that raced through the grasses and leaves to his left from somewhere behind him.

  Ian was immediately rather proud that he didn’t give in and look that way. And that was even before he heard a more definite, but more subtle series of sounds behind him and to his right.

  “That’ll be enough,” a new voice said from that latter direction in natural Bevish, ful
l of a gun that Ian couldn’t see but intrinsically felt.

  The man Ian was looking at frowned his way and then turned back where he had been looking.

  Gingerly taking his hands off his rifle, Ian rolled around to see the newcomer who was also covering him with a rifle. The newcomer was dressed in a dark uniform as the first man, but perhaps of a bit lighter cut. His hat was certainly different. Whereas the first man had something of a top plume worn by regulars, this man was wearing a short hat that supplemented the overall scout-impression Ian got from him.

  Ian gave a tight smile. “It was worth a try.”

  “On your feet,” the man said, all business, his eyes not straying from where his gun was pointed, although he could tell the man wanted to.

  Not highwaymen, Ian thought as he did as he was told. The man gestured him forward, moving Ian toward the first man. Half-backing away, Ian saw the scout smoothly scoop up Ian’s rifle as he passed it. Upon closer examination, Ian saw that the second man’s rifle was much shorter and compact.

  “They have it,” the first man called out excitedly.

  Turning, Ian was just able to get the general direction where the first man was pointing his gun, now being down on one knee. But the man’s effort seemed more futile than serious. Ian could just barely discern movement in that direction, and as he tried to crane his head to see around the trees, he heard a sharp animal roar and then gunshots. Three quick ones, accompanied by the sounds of at least a couple striking the ground, then another few that came more intermittently. Then stillness.

  “That’s that,” Ian said, staring where he could just make out snatches of more black uniforms moving between the trees.

  “This way,” the scout covering him said. He herded Ian out into the field along the tree line.

  The man Ian had been pursuing took a moment to glare at Ian as he disengaged some sort of equipment on his rifle and slid it back into a special sheath. In likewise fashion, Ian heard the man covering him attach something to his small pack, which was no doubt Ian’s rifle.

  Picking their way through the thicker tufts of grass that lined the edges of the trees, Ian decided that he didn’t particularly enjoy being held by a gun. It was his first time, and wasn’t exactly what he would have imagined. It was a tingling, very real notion that there was a very real weapon that was capable of punching a very tidy hole in his back, regardless of his watcher’s cloak. Ian hadn’t ever contemplated what that would feel like, but more than anything he was angry. Sarcastic, ironic, but fairly angry.

  What would he have done differently? He tried to think as he was trudged along, teetering in and out of the forest line where the air became much cooler. The problem was that something had to be done, but in pursuing the first man Ian had risked there being other companions. Or at least any that were close enough that he didn’t notice. He supposed that was the hinge issue—one of the issues anyway. Confidently, maybe a little arrogantly, he had assumed that he would be able to spot anyone that close.

  A lesson to be learned, he thought bitterly. Hopefully with all the potential commotion no one from their company would notice him having been handily captured. Next time, Ian thought, he would be far more careful, and probably more strongly consider sneaking away for reinforcements.

  Who would have believed him though? He considered this as they turned the corner of the trees, coming into view of part of their company and charges. They were somewhat clustered together, while at least a dozen of the black-garbed men moved about inside the woods and just outside of it.

  Fortunately, there wasn’t much notice of their arrival. Corporal Wesshire was one of the few who saw him. He and the few others rangers in view still had their rifles and mostly looked quietly out of sorts.

  “Keep going and join your others,” Ian’s captor said. “Your weapon with be left with the brisa.”

  His captor kept walking past Ian along the tree line. Ian noticed that the rest of their hunting party was coming back through the trees, escorted not nearly so tightly by a small assortment of more black-uniformed men.

  Making his way over to Corporal Wesshire and the others, Ian was tempted to ask who these people were, but he held it.

  “But they said they got it, didn’t they?” Madeline Wester was whispering to her sister.

  “Keep quiet,” Elizabeth murmured.

  Looking back into the woods, Ian saw, further off from their returning men, closer to the end where Ian had just come from, a small group of uniforms coming this way more slowly.

  The rest of their company rejoined them with sullen looks and low, sparse words. Ian waited for the captain to note him, but the others’ eyes kept glancing back off toward the other men. Lord Wester trailed a little behind, expressionless and escorted by a pair of the black uniforms as smartly as if they were the ones who had been assigned to guide him.

  Glancing off over the plain, back the way they’d come, Ian noted that the most active concentration of the men was atop a small rise some few hundred yards back. They almost looked as if they were pitching camp, but it didn’t look quite that permanent or extensive.

  The last group of the uniformed men reached the edge of the plain, and Ian saw that two of them were each carrying a pole over their shoulders, which was carrying a long and very large cat that swayed between them.

  It was jet black save for the pattern of gray spots that covered its body. Its limbs were thin and Ian noted again how long they seemed against the rest of its proportions. There were no signs of claws on its paws, but its head lolled back and around, giving several good angles to observe its fangs.

  “Wouldn’t like to get a pair of those beggars wrapped around my neck,” Brodie muttered.

  The men carrying the leopard brought it over in front of the margrave and to a lesser extent the rest of them, letting it drop to the ground. No one said anything, but a slightly shorter uniformed man, with the scantest bit of colored merits on his shoulder, was in the midst of reaching the margrave as well.

  “My Lord,” the man gave a curt bow, his demeanor relatively lifeless, “His Eminence would very much like to require your company over his afternoon tea.”

  “Very well,” the margrave said, still expressionlessly as he brought his eyes off the leopard. Captain Marsden stirred a little, but Lord Wester gave an efficient wave, handing his rifle off to Captain Marsden. “Excuse me, captain, I shall return momentarily.”

  The margrave and the short officer set off toward the tea camp.

  A stillness settled over their company, and they waited in something half-languishing, but half-alert as well. It wasn’t hard to feel captive, surrounded as they were by all the armed and very busy Bevish soldiers.

  Ian was surprised that the others didn’t watch the margrave more than they did. From their distance, he could make him out and the man he met at the edge of the camp. They then retired a little further, within the shade of a half-tent and what appeared to be dining furniture.

  “That is the king’s archon,” Lieutenant Taylor said a few minutes later, from beneath his pipe when Kieran asked quietly.

  “One of the judges?” Ian asked, scooting over closer to where they were sitting. He looked to make sure that none of the black uniforms were near their small group that was missing only their captain. He was some little ways off, quietly protesting with one of the officers.

  “Yes, one of the three,” Lieutenant Taylor said. “His name is Garrison Mazure. I’ve seen his men before. All of the archon guards wear the black signets, but they’re each told apart by the pattern on the front. These men wear the crest of the gilded tree, which represents the place where the archon is from.” He frowned a little. “Though I don’t actually recall which one it is—Manis or Jambre … I always mix them together.”

  “That man is one of the king’s chief servants?” Ian said, staring off across the field where he could see nothing extremely spectacular about the man, especially from this distance.

  “Well, that is what the archo
ns are,” Kieran said, leaning back with his arms crossed but also staring off where their charge was taking tea.

  “No one is higher up with the king than those three men,” the lieutenant said. “They do anything he asks. Mostly politics and talking, mind you, but they look after all of His Majesty’s interests. They’ll take control his armies in a pinch, and they do, from time to time. Especially as long as there are no real wars going on, and it’s only these backwater provinces causing trouble.”

  An amazing concentration of power, Ian thought, looking at the two men. He wished he could hear what they were saying, and he occupied himself with wondering what he would say if he was only given one good sentence’s space to them. Once he glanced back to Corporal Wesshire, but Ian found the other reclining and looking up into the sky.

  What could one of the king’s judges want out here?

  Time passed excruciatingly slow, but Ian marked it at just over half an hour when the margrave stood again and was escorted back to them.

  “The rest is over, men,” Captain Marsden snapped as he stepped around them, “prepare to move. We only await the margrave’s pleasure.”

  And move they did, in short and brisk order. As they threaded their way through the forest, best as they could manage with the brisa, Ian looked back at the archon’s camp once, wondering at the odd thing they had stumbled on so momentarily.

  Chapter 17

  “When your eyes cease to see

  pleasant things,

  jewels for your ears and fruit for your lips,

  I give you mine.

  If ever your heart is not fine alone,

  I give you mine.”

  —Transcribed ancient Chax love verse

  “But I don’t see why we all couldn’t have talked,” Madeline Wester was saying from atop the second brisa.