by Damien Lake
I guess I’ll play along. When did he get back, anyway?
Colbey brought him west across the town. When he continued straight across the Marching Grounds without slowing, Marik suspected where they might be going. His thoughts were confirmed when they came to a thick tree line behind four barracks identical to his own.
The First Training Area, exclusive to Squads One through Four. Marik had never been to this part of town despite starting his third year of residence.
From the wall, Marik had never been able to see clearly into this training area. He expected it to open up once inside the trees. Instead, he found quite the opposite. It grew into a thick brush tangle, much like a forest groundcover between taller trees in a deep forest.
The scout stopped in a small clearing that was free of obstacles for roughly thirty feet in every direction. To the north, Marik judged this sylvan cover might thin out. He estimated the thicker growth filled the entire lower half of the training area. Trees hid the barracks well enough to nearly conceal the fact they were inside a town at all.
Colbey drew his sword. He held the hilt in one hand with the bare blade laying across his other palm. It possessed a ceremonial feel, and he lowered his head while rotating his hands. The sword ended straight up, the hilt gripped firmly, the other palm pressing into the steel backside.
His head rose. His sword tip lowered to an inch above the ground. “We will spar. Show me what you are capable of.”
Marik had half-expected this, and voiced the question floating in his mind. “Why?”
“You owe me a favor, mage. I need to see how deeply I can rely on you.”
That’s rich! Didn’t we take down those knights together?
But he needed the exercise after spending the morning curled up on his cot in various awkward positions. Colbey cast one quick, scornful look over Rail’s old blade. Dietrik was correct; he needed to visit the armory soon.
The guard stance would be best for openers, Marik decided. It would give Colbey the first move, which he would counter…except the scout refused to budge. He stood in the same posture, not moving so much as a finger’s width. After a full minute, Marik knew Colbey would stay that way until vines grew around him.
Fine! Be like that! Marik leapt, striking with an eastern slash that would come from Colbey’s west. He almost missed the smaller man’s sword move, so fast did it flick up. The shock vibrated through his arm.
Marik tried to use the reflected momentum to his advantage. He swung the sword around, flowing into a southeast slash.
Before he knew what happened, he lay flat on his back, straining to inhale through the coughs wracking him. Colbey’s sword was at his throat. The scout back-stepped after making the point, allowing Marik to regain his feet.
His breathing smoothed while he rubbed his midriff. He glared at Colbey, wanting to ask what had happened yet too prideful to admit he didn’t know. Marik harshly reminded himself that he was not sparring against his friends in the Ninth, but an elite Second Squader.
This time he advanced with greater caution and instigated his best strike series. Every blow was met and deflected, and Marik sensed Colbey refrained from striking out in a counterattack between each.
Colbey had always treated those around him with mild contempt. This had annoyed Marik tremendously when he’d first been required to work with the scout, but the teachings he received at the Hollister Bridge were enough to make him tolerate the attitude. Even so, the old emotions returned despite the control Marik had mastered over his temper since joining the band.
Marik pushed his speed, striking with alternating high and low blows before eating the dirt a second time without warning.
Gods damn it! I haven’t let anyone walk over me like this since Chatham instructed me!
When he caught his breath, he noticed Colbey remained as impassive as before.
“You see what comes of this?” he asked.
What sense did that make? “Comes of what?” Marik snarled.
The scout squatted to crouch on his ankles. “These mercenaries take the strongest they find, according to them. They put them in this town with a sword in their hand and say ‘Now get better. But we won’t teach you how.’ And these men spend an entire winter hacking at straw, learning nothing.”
“What are you talking about?” The comment attacked Marik’s pride after all the effort he had put forth.
Colbey glared at him. “No one learns how to wield a sword simply by holding it. You may get stronger, yet strength and skill are not the same.”
“The Kings don’t take anyone who doesn’t know how to use a sword already!”
“Learning the basics does not make you advanced. Look at you. After years in this band, you still don’t know anything beyond what you did when you joined, I’m certain.”
Furious heat rose to Marik’s face. “I’ve improved tenfold since I joined!”
“Oh? How so?”
“I’m stronger! Faster! My endurance is higher! My precision better!”
Colbey nodded. “The basics, in other words. You may have improved your body, yet you have not improved your knowledge. This town of sheep suffers from the illusion of power.”
“We’re the best in the kingdom!”
“A kingdom full of sheep breeds only strong sheep. Unsupervised training will never allow you to be more than that.”
Marik surged to his feet, his knuckles white around the hilt. Colbey stopped him with a strange smile.
“I think you might be capable of more than that.” He raised his sword to a guard position. “You say you want to be a swordsman rather than a mage? Then come at me. We will practice everyday until I leave.”
That brought Marik up short. “Leave? Are you quitting the band?”
“Do not concern yourself with other matters!” Colbey barked. “Concentrate on the present! If you want to become capable, then we start now!” And with that, Colbey descended on him.
Chapter 03
On a steep, treacherously loose scree-covered slope, men swung ironwood swords at one another. Exerting all their effort, they strove to overcome their foes, striking hard, slamming into sharp rock outcrops. Injuries abounded while twelve stony-faced men sat impassively atop the slope, watching the controlled chaos rage bare yards away.
“Time!” shouted Janus, and the six men below stopped to claw their way uphill.
“I say,” Dietrik commented. “There look to be several strong fellows giving it a go this year.”
“Mmm,” Marik grunted. Exhaustion sapped him, the result of spending dawn to dusk either with Natalie’s book or being beaten by Colbey. He paid the proceedings no attention. He’d only escaped to the town walls for half a mark of rest and fresh air.
“Ah, here we go,” Dietrik exclaimed. He peered down from atop the north wall, watching the second day’s trial for applicants wishing to enter the band. “I’ve been waiting to see him.”
“Who?”
“I saw him yesterday while you were buried in your tome. See him down there, next to the judges’ table?”
The sun shone brightly as ever despite withholding its usual warmth. Marik shaded his eyes to see a large man dwarfing those he waited with. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Indeed! Look over there a mite. You’ll see Beld cheering him on.”
He followed Dietrik’s finger to find his old nemesis shouting with both his cronies by the slope’s edge. “I haven’t seen much of him since our last go-around.”
“I still like to keep a close watch. He will cause trouble if he ever gets the opportunity.”
Marik blew that away with a phssew. “Why waste your time? He can’t do anything to us, much as he probably wants to. He would have kept coming after us if he could.”
“Caution is the wise man’s ally.”
“And over-caution is the paranoid man’s friend. Beld’s not actually as dumb as he looks. He got the message last time he jumped us.”
“If he is that smart, then a
ll the more reason to be careful. Look, they’ve started.”
Janus sent the two three-man teams to red boulders on opposite sides of the steep slope. They slowly picked their way through the uneven terrain until he called a start. Marik and Dietrik watched Dellen The Ox try for his third year to qualify.
“Doesn’t look as though the old fellow’s learned much, does he?”
Marik agreed. “I wonder what he does all year? He’s still as dumb as when we knocked him down the hill.”
“I would hazard to say he is so convinced of his ability he believes his losses were not his fault. So why bother bettering yourself?”
Dellen made barely any progress. His head swung up slope to look for danger, then quickly swiveled to gaze downward. As if watching jays fighting, his head would jerk all around before finally advancing a pace or two. After that short span, he restarted his searching.
Dietrik grinned wickedly. “I’d say he has become a rather nervous chap. Past experiences must weigh heavily on him.”
His large friends shouted loudly, but not loud enough for Marik to understand exactly what the giants said. Confrontations occurred between the two miniature units, none of which included Dellen who crawled slowly along, still short of the halfway point.
One man from the other team drew near and crouched behind a concealing outcrop once he spotted his enemy. Obviously he intended to let Dellen pass him by, then make a dash to capture the enemy base.
“I think he may be there for a spell.”
“Probably,” Marik agreed.
The last minute finished and Janus called time. Neither side had seized their objective, yet many had demonstrated their talents, which was all they were meant to do. Dellen, at the halfway point, nearly fell down the slope when the irate croucher abruptly stood from his cover to climb back to the judges’ tables.
It quickly became apparent who the judges had accepted and who not. “Hah!” Dietrik crowed, and slapped the wooden points lining the wall top. “He missed out again!”
Marik looked at his friend. “You don’t like him at all, do you?”
“Not one in their whole bunch! Let’s go. It’s lunchtime, and I hear the menu is going to be meatloaf today!”
“I guess that’s all right.”
“You have no appreciation for good, solid food.”
Marik saved the argument by keeping silent. Instead he concentrated on the plank stairway down the interior wall. Few men had chosen to scale the heights and watch the trials, the depression of so many losses during the war still clouding every barracks. Usually the walls would be crowded. Kerwin’s attempts to start betting pools had fallen flat. Very few were enthusiastic about life in general.
“Come on, mate. I want to be first in line.”
Dietrik’s eagerness made him grin despite his mental exhaustion. He followed after.
* * * * *
Beld’s teeth ground in frustration. Always, Dellen kept being screwed out of his rightful due! Why did Lady Fate keep casting him snake eyes? What did the world have against them?
He cast his gaze skyward in frustration…and saw two men on the wall, turning away. Recognition struck him in an instant. Beld’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts roiling.
Copping mage trickery…
* * * * *
When Marik and Dietrik entered their bunk area to retrieve their eating utensils, they found it overrun with clerks and Homeguard. Marik had never seen them in the barracks before. Dietrik shrugged and unlocked his closet. It was quickly clear what the intruders were doing.
One clerk with a key ring that must have weighed ten pounds commanded the Homeguard men. He read from a list, directing the muscle who assaulted the unoccupied bunks. They unlocked Hayden’s closet and stuffed his belongings into a heavy sack before carrying it away, the burlap marked with a chalk number.
Their work proceeded with brutal efficiency. Marik and Dietrik watched the lives of men being casually swept away like so much leftover garbage. In moments they finished and departed. Over half the Fourth Unit’s closet doors stood open, representing a sickening number of deaths.
The dark interiors struck Marik as holes in the world, empty spaces where the people who should fill them had vanished. They drew him, as though he could step through to wherever they led and find the men who once had filled those voids.
Dietrik stepped forward, unusually silent with heavy emotions. He closed Hayden’s door. Marik agreed with that.
After lunch, while putting away their dishes, Marik broke the long quiet. “Come on. Let’s get out to the training areas.”
Dietrik studied him. “Are you sure you’re up to extra practice? You look ragged out, mate.”
“I’ll be fine. I need to help you with the stamina trick.”
His friend shook his head. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to manage it. Maybe you should concentrate on your own efforts and not worry about it.”
Marik opposed that notion. “I promised to teach you. Just because Colbey’s feeling frisky doesn’t change that.”
“You still need to peruse your mage lady’s diary.”
“I wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful winter,” Marik sighed. “Every one here so far I’ve had to push harder than the last to make one deadline or another.”
Dietrik shrugged. “The way you are going, sooner or later you’ll be good enough to satisfy your various patrons. Very well, if you are dead set on it. But put that away. Let’s stop by the armory first and find you a better sword.”
Marik studied the poor blade in his hand and agreed. He and Dietrik left for the armory. In the space separating his barracks row from its opposite across the way, several hand wagons were being loaded beside the doorways. Carts overflowing with numbered sacks were parked five deep around the water wells. The sight was a weight on both men’s shoulders.
Before they reached the armory, Dietrik reminded him, “If we run into Sennet, it will be a good chance to ask him your questions.”
Marik remembered after a confused moment. “Oh yeah, about my father.”
“You’ve had bad luck cornering him.” Dietrik ticked off points on his fingers. “First winter we were too busy training. First summer he was away in Thoenar with his weapons caravan. Second winter you were healing and learning your magecraft. Second summer found us all on the border.”
Marik nodded. “Now were starting our third winter. But I don’t need to ask him any questions.” Dietrik raised an eyebrow. “Sennet might have known my father, or he might not have. He doesn’t get personal with any of the men in the band. I doubt he can tell me anything helpful. If I can learn this scrying technique, then that’s my best chance.”
“If you say so. I still don’t entirely understand it.”
At the armory they found Sennet’s assistants running the desk. That was normal. Sennet only manned the desk if his men were busy with other tasks.
Digging through the second floor’s weapons produced many possibilities for Marik’s new blade. Dietrik kept popping over with massive claymore types. Marik always refused. “With your super strength, it will be a breeze, mate! You won’t even know it’s there!”
“If I was using my strength working, then yes! But I need to carry the damn thing around all day normally!”
“You need a big sword. One able to stand up to your blows without smashing, like your last.”
“Yes, but I’m not convinced one of those crack-brained things is the best choice!”
The search continued, the time passing at an advanced rate as it always did when they were poking around the armory. They dug for several candlemarks until Marik finally found a decent possibility.
It was a two-handed sword, except neither as large nor as heavy as the claymores Dietrik kept bringing him. The grip and hilt were pure black, a strange contrast against the blade’s silver steel. This sword had no ring guards, as his previous had born, sporting instead a simple T-hilt. The pommel was neither steel ball nor medallion, but flared, resembling
a miniature mace.
The blade stretched ten inches longer than his first sword. Two-and-a-half inches wide near the hilt, it narrowed by an inch before the tip, where it abruptly rounded to a point.
Marik swung lightly. He could control it with one hand, though it required slightly greater force than the smaller swords. The hilt felt odd with plenty of room for both palms. In this, his third year as a professional mercenary, his strikes had greater precision and power, yet this blade would require entirely different handling. All his stances and combination strikes would need to be adapted.
But the sword felt good in his hands, so that was the end of the matter. He searched for a sheath without success.
“That?” Dietrik asked.
“I like it.”
“It’s as big as all those ones you tossed away.”
“No, it’s not. And it doesn’t weigh as much. Here.” He handed the sword over.
Dietrik held it, stating, “Definitely not for me. It’s too long for a waist sheath. You’ll need one that straps to your back.”
Marik agreed. The sword was five feet long altogether, as opposed to the claymores whose blade alone matched such a length. They signed it out downstairs under Marik’s name and left a request for a shoulder sheath to be made at the leatherworks. Afterward they walked to the Second Training Area.
Hardly anyone trained today. The shacks were unoccupied except for the two friends. Marik continued swinging his new acquisition, gaining a better feel for it by the moment.
“You first,” he said to Dietrik. “You can’t concentrate if you’re exhausted.”
“As you say.” A resigned Dietrik sat cross-legged on the cold ground. With his eyes closed, he concentrated on the mental exercises Marik had taught him.
Marik silently urged him on. Dietrik had yet to achieve the reshaping of his aura, and this always caused Marik to wonder if the failing might be his own fault. Teaching, he had learned, was not a talent he was skilled in. His descriptions had proven surprisingly flat, lacking any substantive explanations that would help his friend understand. All his words thus far were nothing except vague instructions that required pre-existing familiarities with life energy networks within a person’s body. Familiarities that the non-magical Dietrik would never possess.
