Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  Tollaf’s face darkened and he looked ready to burst. He barely held his rage in check until a calculating expression surfaced. Without a word, he jumped off his perch to rummage through a small closet on the far wall. When he returned, he dropped a thick tome on the table beside Marik. It fell with enough weight to make the oak table vibrate.

  “Fine,” Tollaf said in a calm voice Marik had never heard from him before. It sounded far too courteous to be the same desiccated, usually furious, always irritated, chief mage. “Be my guest. Everything you want to know is in there.”

  Tollaf retook his tall stool to poke at the paper mountains again, completely ignoring his apprentice. Marik shifted the large book around. He was impressed that the old man could carry it. It was sixteen inches tall and five inches thick. For such a large tome, the writing had been scribed incredibly small.

  The first few pages were a vague introduction, the index Marik sought conspicuous in its absence. With a grunt, he flipped the book over to scan the final pages, finding the index absent there as well. Whoever wrote the book either knew where all the information could be found or had deliberately made it difficult to peruse in order to protect its secrets from casual snoopers.

  Without turning, Tollaf commented, “Since you are so certain your reading skills are as adequate as they ever need be, I’m sure this minor inconvenience poses no problem for you.”

  Marik scowled at the mage’s back but refrained from comment. Instead he opened the book to a random page and focused on the writing. At first he felt as he used to whenever presented with a lettered sign before he could read. The squiggles on the page resembled no letters he knew, let alone words.

  After several moments of intense concentration, he finally distinguished a word. The tiny script, the bad handwriting and the faded ink promised to make this a headache-inducing chore.

  “I’m not messing about, old man. Where are the pages with the scrying methods you told me about?”

  Tollaf still kept his back turned. “Oh, I’m sure I remember they were in there somewhere. I think it was that tome.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s been a while since I read it, after all. Don’t let me slow you down. I’m sure you’ll find it. Sooner or later.”

  “This could take all winter!”

  “Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you?” Tollaf snapped, at last spinning on his seat, his tone its customary abrasive snarl. “I’m sure you’ll learn much of interest in there. Given your adaptive attitude towards magecraft, I’m sure it’ll all come in handy sooner or later.”

  “This is your ploy to make me forget my sword, isn’t it? It won’t work.”

  “You got what you asked for. Now you can answer to Torrance.”

  He may have gotten what he asked for, yet Tollaf always found a way to get the best of the situation. Marik focused on the text. These words hardly made sense so he flipped back to the introduction, hopeful that something there might explain the tome’s general layout.

  After three candlemarks, Marik gave up for the day. He had squinted so much he’d gotten the prophesized headache and Tollaf’s musty room sapped his mental energy as well. For all his effort, he’d only worked his way through the first four pages.

  Mostly it consisted of warnings. These warnings were no cautions regarding the material contained within the pages beyond, as might be expected. Rather they were threats against any who read the book without the owner’s permission. The owner, and presumed author, was named Natalie. Her family name had only been written once, under an ink smear that obliterated most of it. From the few letters he could identify the name looked vaguely Gustur. How the book had traveled from Gusturief to Galemar only mildly intrigued him.

  His brief perusal lent him an impression of the book. He doubted it had ever served as a research tool. Rather it was Natalie’s personal diary of mage workings. She must have been a forgetful person, and a vindictive one as well by all signs. Most of the text would be of no relevance to anyone save Natalie. How much would he have to force his way through before he found the few pages he needed? That damned old bastard would spend the winter laughing up his sleeves!

  He trudged back to the Ninth Squad’s barracks. Lunch had come and gone while he’d been holed up in Tollaf’s cave. The kitchen window was empty except for the regular pitchers of water and juice. No one sat in the dining area. Marik walked through the north wing, into the Fourth Unit’s corner of the building.

  Few people were present. His closest friend, Dietrik, rooted through his standing closet. Sloan slept atop his cot. Marik searched but both Landon and Edwin were elsewhere.

  Dietrik finally pulled out his long cloak and donned it. “It’s getting nippy earlier this year,” he observed. “We’ll have to light the fire soon. Our body heat won’t keep this place warm much longer.”

  “I suppose so,” Marik replied. “What was for lunch?”

  “Beef and fresh vegetables in red wine gravy, along with buttered sweet yams.”

  “That figures. Tollaf had me buried in the biggest book you’ve ever seen.”

  “So catch it for dinner. It will still be good.”

  “I know, but that’s one of the meals I like having twice in one day. You feel like sparring? I need to loosen out the kinks in my shoulders from being hunched over like a squirrel all afternoon.”

  “Certainly, mate. It’s too quiet in here anyway.”

  “I know what you mean.” The Crimson Kings Mercenaries had taken a greater number of casualties in the Nolier War than in the last several years of contract fighting combined. At nineteen years of age, Marik was starting his third year with the band, and the Ninth Squad’s barracks were emptier than either man had ever known. They found it unsettling.

  After gathering their weapons they decided on the Second Training Area, it being on the town’s eastern end and closer to the barracks. They found only a handful of people there, including one whom Marik had never seen in a training area except during specific circumstances. Walking over, he asked, “Caresse? What are you doing out here?”

  The ever-energetic woman spun around, absently brushing back the fall of brown hair that always swung into her eyes. “Oh, hello! It’s been a long time Marik, so it has!”

  “I didn’t see you during the last campaign.”

  “I was assigned to the southern third of the combined forces.”

  Marik nodded. Of all the Galemar army elements fighting in the war against Nolier, the southern forces had taken the least damage. “I guess you didn’t see as much action as the rest of us, then.”

  “Indeed, no! I hardly fought at all until that last battle, when we lost Ian. Those Noliers charged right past us into the camp, so they did. We had to fight hard to catch up to them in the middle of our camp!”

  “I remember. But what are you doing in the training areas? You’re a wizardess, not a swordsman. Not any longer, at any rate. Tollaf’s irritated enough with me over the matter. I don’t think you want him breathing down your neck as well.”

  “Oh, no! I’m fixing up the mud flats! See? I’m too tired to wait until tonight, so I hoped no one would be using it.”

  She pointed. Marik and Dietrik both studied the muddy ground. The different terrain built into the training areas could be left to themselves for the most part, but one good rainfall transformed the cracked, dry mud flat into a boggy quagmire.

  “I’ve always wondered about that one,” Dietrik admitted. “Most of this ground I can see being built by hand.”

  “We never need it,” Caresse admitted. “The only mud flats are near the Kiadelva in Vyajion. But I must maintain the terrain for training.”

  Marik offered his own opinion on the matter. “Wouldn’t it make sense to leave it a mud hole? That’s what you’re likely to find around Galemar.”

  She put a finger to her chin while cocking her head. “Perhaps you have a point. You should ask Head Clerk Janus about that.”

  Thoughts of Janus, another cran
ky old man, possibly worse than Tollaf, prompted Marik to add, “Maybe later, Caresse.”

  The young wizardess shivered. “It’s getting colder, so it is. I’ll finish up quickly and go to sleep!”

  So saying, she began to work. Marik opened his magesight to observe while she called upon her geomancy talent. Beside him, Dietrik watched, unable to see anything beyond the physical results of her work.

  Through the etheric plane he saw the dark mud begin to glow faintly. He recognized the faint blue sheen from the one other time he had witnessed Caresse draw on water’s elemental essence. She reached with her talent and grasped the water’s soul within the mud, similar yet vastly different from Marik’s own gathering of etheric energy.

  Yanking, she pulled on the water while leaving the earth firmly in place. Marik switched back to normal vision in time to see the mud dry with supernatural speed. The flat underwent an entire week of baking under the sun in a bare few moments. Black mud rapidly lightened in color, the moisture disappearing. Cracks appeared all across the surface. Palm sized areas shrank as the cracks widened.

  When it was done, Caresse exhaled in a massive sigh. “Whew! I’m full tired!”

  Marik quickly checked the etheric to find the normally hidden elemental auras gone again. “Where did it go?”

  “Doh-ah?”

  Her quizzical look prompted him to phrase the question better. “What did you do with the water?”

  “Oh, that? I sent it over to the bog in the Third Training Area, so I did.” She wobbled slightly.

  “I thought water was an easy element to work with.”

  “Yes, it is, but it is harder when it is all wound together with earth. It has made me very tired!”

  “Well, I’ll see you around the Tower then.”

  “Indeed! I will see you then!”

  When she left, Dietrik commented, “There’s a cheerful lass. Not a whit like the she-men populating the Fifth.”

  “Yeah, nothing ever gets her down for long. But I wouldn’t get any ideas about her, friend. She was a Fifth Squad fighter, and survived plenty of contracts before her magic talents blossomed. I also gather she is still the favorite pet of the Fifth’s women.”

  Dietrik shrugged, indicating he cared little one way or the other. He scraped at the dried mud flecks with his boot toe. “I must admit, that was fair impressive. Can you do that?”

  “No. Why would I want to?”

  “Just thought I’d ask. Let’s practice over by the shacks.”

  While they walked, Marik asked, “Do you know if Colbey’s back yet?”

  “Not to date. He’s still out taking care of whatever spot of business he’s tending to.”

  “I’m a little worried about him. He’s been acting funny ever since we heard those rumors from Tullainia.”

  “Indeed. At least, funnier than normal.”

  “Yeah. I think those stories meant more to him than the rest of us.”

  “I’m not sure I believe any of those tales.”

  “Me either, but Colbey’s behavior makes me wonder.”

  Dietrik glanced at Marik’s weapon. “You really should get a new sword soon. You’ll have to get used to feel of your new blade.”

  “I know.” Marik raised his father’s old sword. It was a low quality blade Rail had only kept as a spare and never used personally. “I’m still trying to decide what type I should get this time. I’ll need a sturdy blade, one that can hold up under the extra force when I have my strength working in place.”

  They reached the shacks and Dietrik asked, “You are planning to spar like a normal human, right? I’d rather not damage my rapier.”

  Marik laughed. “Don’t worry! If I planned to use the strength working, you’d be the first to know. Which reminds me.”

  “Yes?”

  “We were going to try and teach you the stamina boosting trick once we were safely back in town.”

  “True, but let’s work on that later. I’m freezing an inch at a time and need to work up a sweat.”

  * * * * *

  Once it was full dark, they returned to the barracks where they found Landon and Edwin sitting at a table with Kerwin. Marik suspected he would miss the pleasure of eating Luiez’s cooking tonight as well.

  “Kerwin!” Dietrik exclaimed. “What are you doing in the barracks?”

  “I’m visiting as a guest, you might say. Landon dragged me over from Cedars this afternoon. I was thinking of coming by anyway.” The former mercenary wore higher quality clothing than Marik was accustomed to seeing him in. He had also donned a tooled leather vest over a tight-weave shirt that recalled to Marik memories of caravan owners overseeing the unloading of their goods.

  “Why?” Marik wanted to know. “Are you going to set up odds on every match for the green entrants this year?”

  “You can see right through me!” Kerwin cut the air with a flat palm to negate his own statement. “But perhaps they aren’t so green this year. I noticed quite a few fellows outside town who I’m sure are army men. Or were, anyway.”

  Dietrik nodded. “I’m not surprised. After the mauling at the Hollister, I’m sure many of the soldiers are thinking twice about their army careers. The Kings might seem a brighter prospect than before.”

  Landon added, “That might be good news for us, though. They’ve seen combat and with a higher number of talented hopefuls camped outside the walls, we might have an increase in qualifying recruits this year after the entrance trials.”

  “At any rate,” Kerwin continued. “I poked around to test the waters, but I don’t think the betting would be very lively. Everyone’s still down after the last campaign, and with the Tullainian border heating up, spirits are generally low.”

  “So you wasted a trip then? I’m glad to see you, though. It’s been depressing since we got back,” Marik admitted.

  “Not exactly, no. I actually came back to see if Kerny is serious about selling his tavern. None of the available buildings around Cedars fit what I have in mind.”

  Edwin opined, “Kerny was only flapping his lips, but with the amount of coin you can offer, he’ll change his mind.”

  “We were about to go over and talk to him,” Kerwin directed toward the two newcomers. “Want to come along? I’ll treat to a meal.”

  “I guess so,” Marik replied, shoving away thoughts of the dinner that might have been.

  “We need to pop off and put away our gear first,” Dietrik said.

  The two left the common area and the others joined them since Landon wanted his cloak. In the bunk area, business was tended to, then all five paused with no words exchanged. They stood at the foot of Hayden’s bunk, each reliving his memories of a man they had called friend. As professional mercenaries, it was a rare year when everyone they knew survived. Each man tried to maintain a level of detachment, but some losses hit harder than others. Battle-scarred veterans honored their friends by keeping their memories from fading away.

  They left without mentioning Hayden or their moment of silence. Outside, they spent the short journey to Ale House Row talking of day-to-day matters.

  At the Dancing Drink they were forced to wait in the entryway for nearly a quarter-mark before a table opened up, which was much quicker than was customary for this time of day. Another testament to the state of the population in Kingshome. The table they landed sat beside the door. Cold drafts rushed in every time men left or entered. Kerwin’s quiet words convinced Kerny, a sharp-tempered man with a pot belly and roughly nine hairs plastered to his sweaty scalp, to step into his kitchens for a private discussion. While they waited, the other four ordered food and a round of ale from the serving boy.

  Edwin sipped his ale, then asked Landon, “How about a match on the range? Gusty winds’ll keep it interesting.”

  Landon tipped his tankard. “All right. I haven’t pulled my string in over an eightday. Either of you care to join us?”

  Dietrik answered, “I might come along and watch.”

  “I don’t
stand a chance against either of you in archery,” came from Marik.

  “That’s because you never practice,” declared Edwin. “It doesn’t matter if you lose. You just need to spend time with it.”

  “Maybe I’ll take a few shots.”

  Kerwin reappeared to claim the remaining seat and tankard. Dietrik indirectly asked, “That didn’t take long. Either you made an offer he couldn’t refuse, or he refused you outright.”

  “The second,” grumbled Kerwin. “He says he was thinking about selling last year, but with all the trouble brewing on both borders, he feels safe in the middle of Kingshome. I made the hells own offer, too. Twenty golds.”

  Marik choked on his ale. “Gods, Kerwin! That much for this tiny building? I wouldn’t expect three for this place, at the top offer!”

  Kerwin nodded. “The place is smaller than I had in mind, but it’s on the end of the Row. I was thinking I might renovate and expand. Being inside town, all the Kings would bring me their summer pay.” He sighed. “The investment would have paid off after a year or two.”

  “You could build your own place from scratch with that much bloody coin,” Edwin observed.

  “I’ve been thinking about that too. If I do, I want to build it near here. The Southern Road runs right past Kingshome. I’d have all the travelers as well as the Kings. Cedars is only three miles down the road though, so we’d be eating each other’s profits.”

  Marik snorted. “Profits? Are you actually going to run an inn? I figured you for setting up a massive gambling paradise.”

  Kerwin smiled. “That’s my plan, but people bet more after drinking all night. And if they have a room waiting for them upstairs, they won’t need to leave, so they can keep drinking.”

  “Sounds like you need plenty of space, then,” Dietrik said.

  “Yeah. I’ve been scouting around, looking for an architect I can ask a lot of questions. Good luck finding anyone like that around Cedars. They’re good at barns and long houses and cottages. Originality is an obstacle to them.”