Steel And Flame (Book 1)

by Damien Lake

  With no information to the contrary, Marik assumed he should wait until Janus called for him. He had been informed of Marik’s arrival after all, so it should not take too long.

  * * * * *

  The chair he sat in had grown amazingly uncomfortable during the last candlemark but Marik would be damned before he’d draw the attention of the irritable clerk behind the desk again. Enduring his baleful gaze once was more than enough for Marik; the man’s strange ability to make him feel guilty without ever uttering a word was astonishing.

  How long would that old stick keep him cooling his heels anyway? He had left word to expect Marik at the registration tables! Now he blatantly ignored Marik as he sat outside on a hard wooden chair and suffered the staff’s stony disinterest.

  Finally, the door opened. A clerk called him through the counter, then led him down a hallway lined with doors packed nearly atop each other. On the second floor they came to a doorway standing far enough away from the others to suggest it might lead to a room large enough to bend over in. The clerk knocked. From within, a crotchety voice ordered them to enter.

  Marik had expected this would be the head clerk’s office, but wherever Janus maintained his private domain, it was elsewhere. Twin desks bisected the narrow room, behind which loomed a mountain of label-bearing metal boxes.

  Old Janus stood beside one desk, on which sat a box with the top flipped open, revealing scrolls and flat parchment sheets.

  “Sit down. You can thank Corrin for digging this out from under the other record boxes in the pile.”

  Marik turned, then opted to keep his mouth shut, given Corrin’s sour expression. Past him, the smooth metal wall had been disrupted where the clerk had shifted dozens of boxes to reach his target. Moving the ten boxes on top and several to the side must have required great effort indeed. On a second glance, Marik noticed Corrin displayed harder muscles than the other clerks.

  With a gesture at the open box, Janus revealed, “It’s a file batch from the Twelfth Squad for five years ago. I needed to check the personnel files for the time to find his squad and unit records, then Corrin had to break a sweat getting them. Basically, all you’ll learn is that he chose not to renew his place at the end of the summer fighting and left town with two others. One has never returned, but the other is still around. I asked him about it this morning and he said Rail left them in Spirratta one morning, heading north. No reason given.”

  He should have been heading west to come home. “Who is this man?”

  “No boy, I’m not telling you who he is. He already told me what he knows and now I’ve told you. You aren’t going to harass any of the band members.” He looked serious.

  “I only wanted to ask him if he knew why my father left. I need to know where he was going to.”

  “I told you. He left one morning. All he said was ‘so long’. Which is what I now intend to hear from you! I’ve wasted enough time on this and I’ve got too much work waiting. Off with you.”

  This was almost as bad as learning nothing! All during the long walk he had been buoyed, knowing that in Kingshome he would find his answers. North? He had never expected such a useless response.

  Janus held the door open, watching him, apparently unwilling to spend longer than a bare minute talking. With no other course open to him, he bitterly got to his feet and let the old man lead him from the town.

  * * * * *

  “So now what? North? I can’t imagine anything being less helpful and still be new information!”

  Maddock nodded once. He gave an impression of being deep in thought rather than agreement.

  Marik prowled around the fire ring, stabbing his palm with one finger for emphasis. “When I began I had a destination! Kingshome. That’s not so hard! I knew where I was headed! So what should I do next? Start walking north and ask every farmer I pass if they happen to remember a man passing by five years ago who sort of looks like me?”

  “I would not advise it.”

  Marik scowled. “Then what would you advise?” He ranted further without waiting for an answer. “The only thing that makes any sense is that father got a contract offer he couldn’t pass up! Maybe I should ask around and find out if any of the northern lords were involved in winter fighting that year. They might know what happened.”

  “You could try that, but I would not advise it either.”

  “And why not? It’s the best chance I have as far as I can see!”

  “Because lords hire mercenaries, not people. If you ask a lord whether he ever hired a man named Rail to fight for him, none will ever be able to tell you. If you ask them whether they ever hired a mercenary who fits this particular description, they might remember to the degree of giving a possible answer, but never a definite one unless the mercenary in question is possessed of strikingly unique features, such as prominent scars or missing body parts. Even then, the contractor will only remember if he was in personal contact with the mercenary, which hardly ever happens I must point out, and if the mercenary performed exceptionally at the task for which he was hired.”

  “You’re telling me I’ve lost! If, by chance, I happened to find the right person to ask, they wouldn’t remember? I’d end up searching forever!”

  “Only if you took that particular approach.”

  “What other way is there? Ask the clouds if they passed overhead and noticed him?” Marik’s mood had soured considerably. He knew he should not be snapping at Maddock but his anger flared hotly from his disappointment.

  “There is never a situation in life devoid of options,” Maddock continued calmly. “The trick is in finding and recognizing them. An alternative option, and I must state that I do not recommend this course of action either, is to find a magic user capable of scrying and location magics. They could possibly determine his whereabouts.”

  Marik froze when he realized Maddock was right. He had overlooked that possibility. How could he be so thickheaded? Yet even as he thought it, he felt himself shying away from the idea. Still, he asked, “Why not? It sounds like a better approach than wandering around forever!”

  “For one, you would have to find a magic user both capable of the feat and reliable enough to trust. That could easily take as long, if not longer. Also, the fee for the service would most likely be higher than you could garner even if you obtained all the best contracts and hires for years on end.”

  That part of him which disliked the idea of mixing with magic users agreed with the statement. Marik chose to trust his instincts. “Any other options?”

  “It is a longer path, but you could join the Kings.”

  “What? He’s not here and nobody in the band knows anything useful! How is that going to help?”

  “You have evidence that your father might in fact be alive, which I have to admit is not what I thought you would discover. Whether he is still alive at this moment is yet undetermined, but the possibility exists. Wandering forever won’t help you find the man, and yet the man himself is a mercenary. Usually when mercenaries are required, they are required by both sides of the conflict, assuming of course there are only two sides involved, which is not always the case.”

  “You think I might meet up with him?”

  “The Crimson Kings are usually only hired by lords and high ranking nobles. The other sides tend to end up hiring whoever they can. As a member of the Kings, you would travel to face other mercenaries again and again. If you are with the band long enough, you might face off against nearly every other band in the kingdom, along with most of the independent contractors. Wandering the roads in your search means you might cross the paths of other mercenaries from time to time, but being a member of the Kings means you’ll find more of them, and quicker than on your own. Also, it is guaranteed employment, which is far from assured if you try to work as an independent. And finally, your father chose to work for the band once before. He could well decide to return one day and take up the position again.”

  “That’s on the assumption he’s still
working as a merc.”

  “If he is still alive, do you think he’d be doing anything else?”

  Which renewed the question of just what his father had been doing for the past five years. If he was working contracts as usual, why had he not returned home? If he was not working contracts, then what in the hells was he doing? Now that Maddock asked, Marik was unable to see his father settling down to any job other than being a mercenary.

  “What if he’s left Galemar?”

  “Then you will probably never find him no matter which method you choose. But I’ll point out that the border conflicts would bring you into contact with many of the mercenary bands from other kingdoms as well.”

  Should he make the effort and try to join the band with the others? On the other hand, the thought of walking aimlessly forever, talking to farmers and peasants and townsfolk every day for years nearly turned his stomach. He had not bothered asking questions along the Southern Road because he’d assumed the answers awaited him here. No option open to him offered any certainty of finding the information he wanted. Either he could wander alone, or wander with the band, hoping to stumble across his father by pure chance. His search had hit and underwater stump and sunk. It made him want to scream and shout and cry all at the same time.

  That would never help him in the long run. He collected his emotions.

  Maddock’s long-term solution appealed most to him. Also, if Janus had told him his father had died in a battle, he realized he’d had no plans for what to do from then on. Pate’s woodshop held no interest and he did not desire to become a tavern master like Puarri. His dislike of Spirratta’s sheep had cleared his eyes to his own personal nature, particularly regarding his views on dependency and self-sufficiency. It seemed the only course left was to follow in his father’s footsteps. To become a mercenary himself.

  The thought calmed him, damping most of the rage boiling inside.

  One day he would find Rail. Sooner or later. By then, he hoped he would be a skilled mercenary in his own right.

  Marik opened his mouth to say so when Harlan and Chatham returned to the campsite under the trees, the latter announcing cheerfully, “An’ well-a-day to you, my good masters.” Chatham performed a mocking bow that swept the woodland floor with his thatch of hair. “We come bearing the glorious news that the ever inefficient clerks o’ our impending masters have finally used both o’ their hands an’ a candle to find their misplaced thinking organs. The news thus released is that the tryouts will commence in but six days time as the sun releases its hoarded rays on the deprived world.”

  Six days! That’s not much time! It seemed only moments ago when he’d felt he possessed as much time as he would ever need. But now…

  If he truly intended to make a shot at entering the band, he needed to be in as top shape and form as he could, and he only had six days to prepare. No, not six days! The tryouts were on the morning of the sixth, so he only had five!

  If he was panicking this much, he must have truly decided his best course of action lay with the Crimson Kings. Well then, so be it. Turning to Chatham, he placed his hand on his sword hilt and noticed the older man nod solemnly at the gesture.

  Chapter 07

  “This is disgusting!”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to take the matter up with the Kings’ clerical staff. I wouldn’t hold my breath for any apologies, though.”

  “It’s barely light yet!”

  A camp crier made rounds in the lightening predawn gray, spreading the message that all encampments outside the walls must be broken and gone within the mark. Participants were to gather on the entrance road’s east side, near the registration tables. Competitions would begin at noon. Anybody not complying would be told to leave.

  “Are we supposed to stand around for five candlemarks after we break our camp? What’s the point of that?”

  Marik noticed no one else complaining. Strangely, even Chatham kept his peace, instead directing his efforts at kicking apart the stone circle that had bound their fire for the last eightday. With bitter thoughts that Chatham at least should have been on his side, Marik rolled his bedroll and gathered the odd implement left out after last night’s meal.

  * * * * *

  Marik had only seen a crowd like this in Spirratta. Men were packed together shoulder to shoulder, except none were pushing to go anywhere. After hastily breaking the camp, Maddock had blazed the way to the registration tables. They were among the earliest to finish decamping. Although this placed them close to the fore so they could see what would happen, Marik had mixed feelings about being there. As likely as not, the closest people would be the first called upon to perform in whatever manner the band’s officers decreed.

  Being packed together also made his clothing rub against the myriad of bruises that had been Chatham’s gift to his sparring student during the last five days. The irritations they caused served only to distract him at a time when his fledgling skills would be tested. Sink or swim. When he peered about, Marik amended the heavy thought to, bend or break.

  Though the camps were gone from the hillside, there was no hiding the evidence that a large force of men had occupied it for the last several eightdays. His eyes wandered the denuded hillside, trying to match the remains to the type of camp it had probably held. Marik missed seeing the postern door beside the gate open and the large group exit, half carrying gear wrapped in cloths. Only the conversations dampening throughout the crowd alerted Marik to their arrival. He noticed the men when they reached the registration tables.

  Old Janus walked at the fore. Quick words from him set the other clerks in motion. Several began breaking down field desks and the command tent or carrying metal document boxes up the hill. Of the other men who had come with Janus, the largest ones moved two tables several dozen yards east, setting them parallel to the road. Once satisfied that the tables were correctly placed, they dropped the wrapped bundles nearby.

  Five clerks seated themselves at the tables, withdrawing scrolls from document boxes along with thick paper reams. Beside each clerk sat a second man, each of whom was decidedly not a clerk.

  With what Janus had told him, Marik assumed the five non-clerks must be band officers who would judge the strengths and weaknesses of the men who wished to join. The clerks would compare what the judges witnessed to the information gathered during registration, or take notes on their counterpart’s observations.

  Once they were settled, it was time to begin. Janus stepped forward after an aide handed him a giant metal cone, the purpose for which Marik could not fathom until the head clerk raised it to his lips. The act required both his aged hands.

  “All right, you all listen! I’m not in the mood to repeat myself,” he snarled, his voice amplified so the rearmost men could hear. It sounded strangely hollow. “You’re going to pair off with who we tell you to, using the practice weapons we give you. If this bothers you, that’s too bad! These men here will decide if you’re any good, and if you’re not, you can take a hike. If you’ve got a problem with that, then you can take it up with them.”

  Marik’s gaze followed the old man’s gesturing thumb. Several men emerged from the postern door. They were large, like the men who had moved the tables, and looked mean, each carrying weapons. If going against that group was the reward for challenging the judges’ authority, he would accept their decrees.

  Janus stopped gesturing to reaffirm his grip on the cone. “These judges happen to be officers in the band, so you’d better show them respect! If they think you might be worth the trouble, you’ll be told to cross over to the western side of the road. If we still have more men than openings, we’ll proceed to the next challenge tomorrow. One hundred and seventy-four men got themselves killed this year, and roughly fifty others chose not to renew their places. That means there’s about two-hundred-twenty-five slots, and there’s four-hundred-and-seven of you. So let’s get this moving.”

  Janus handed the horn back to the aide and pointed at two men in the f
ront. He choose men standing apart from each other Marik saw with relief, separated by nine or ten others. Had he chosen them at random or had he matched them via a standard unknown to those gathered? Watching the subsequent matches would be the only way to tell.

  The chosen men approached the tables as directed by Janus and supplied their names to a sixth clerk who had taken a place while Janus addressed the crowd. This extra man flipped through several paper sheets, finally directing a comment at the other five clerks, all of whom then flipped through their own pages. They all stopped at once to pass a paper to their particular officer.

  After scanning the pages, an officer asked one man a question, receiving a brief answer. Further questions followed from the other officers before they addressed the second applicant. It required only a few moments but Marik felt they would be lucky to process everyone by dark if they repeated the same procedure with every pair. Why hadn’t they started sooner?

  The two applicants turned to the side where one Homeguard unwrapped the bundles. Several of the practice weapons mentioned by Janus tumbled into an untidy pile. From where he stood, it seemed to Marik there must be other shapes than swords alone, given the odd lumps and protrusions.

  “Can you really judge someone by their performance with those things? They must be much lighter than a real blade.”

  “Nah, lad-o. Look closer an’ you’ll see that dark coloring there, ever so much darker than that wooden table they be resting next to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ironwood, young one. I thought you spent your youthful days in a woodworker’s shop. Mayhap not as heavy as true iron an’ steel, but not far off, an’ they can still crack your head open.”