Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  He switched to magesight so he could closely watch his friend’s aura. It was too bad he couldn’t see into Dietrik’s head to make certain he understood what he should be doing. Comprehension or no, Dietrik’s aura remained exactly the same.

  Marik instigated the technique while he waited, requiring hardly three heartbeats now. A great deal of practice had honed his proficiency. It became easier every time. His aura tightened from its normal ovoid, reforming in a shape matching his body. This redirected the escaping life force and coated his muscles with extra energy, becoming a source of fresh stamina. Under its influence he could run for a day or labor continuously, though he had yet to do either.

  Despite the increased ease with which he could use Colbey’s technique, maintaining it during a sword fight still remained beyond his ability. The trick required a level of dedicated concentration he was unable to sustain during combat. Hopefully it would someday be second nature enough that he could. Using it during a fight was why he had pestered Colbey into teaching it to him. It would be a better option than the strength working, which consumed his energy reserves far too rapidly for his taste. He couldn’t count on finding the opportunity to drop the working and replenish in the midst of an all-out battle.

  Dietrik opened his eyes. “No good, I’m afraid. I can’t feel a bloody thing.”

  “Keep at it. It takes awhile to get the knack for it.”

  His rapier in hand, Dietrik promised, “I will try later. Let’s train like honest, traditional chaps meanwhile.”

  For the remaining daylight, the two traded blows. Dietrik scored more often than usual. Marik’s prediction had been dead on the centerline. With so many demands on his time for the winter already, he now needed to add re-training in basic sword technique.

  In the barracks he picked at his meatloaf. It was less appetizing for having been kept warm in its pan since noon. Luiez’s meatloaf never survived until dinner as well as his other dishes.

  They sat alone at one table. The depressing solitude weighed on them. Last year they would have been lucky to find two seats together at this time of day.

  The conversations around them were muted. What little Marik overheard centered on the morrow. The men were wondering how many new recruits the Ninth Squad would receive. It was during this hushed meal that Fraser entered the barracks, two people accompanying him.

  Their former sergeant had been promoted officially to Lieutenant of the Ninth, leaving Marik to wonder ever since who would be the new Fourth Unit sergeant. On Fraser’s left, Sloan glowered, dower as ever. His features clearly expressed an opinion that his time was being wasted. To Fraser’s right waited a women, unusual in that few were ever seen around the town.

  Marik recognized her for what she was. A Fifth Squad warrior woman, one apt to kill you with her eyes as easily as her weapon. Her hair fell in straight lengths to her shoulders, framing hawk-like features, but otherwise her figure was only slightly less masculine than his fellow Ninth Squaders. Tunic, breeches, boots and a leather vest…the same attire as any other fighter in the Kings.

  She wore her attitude bare on her sleeve. That also fit with the other mercenary women. The few conversations he’d tried to initiate with them had all ended with them walking away without acknowledging he so much as spoke. He knew they could not all be from the same mold. Still, any current Fifth Squad women sharing common natures with Caresse had yet to make themselves known outside their barracks.

  Fraser called over the nonexistent crowd noise. “Everyone stop flapping your lips! I have news for the Ninth as a whole!”

  The men had already stilled at his entrance. Ordinarily, sarcastic calls or responses would have been forthcoming. Not tonight. Everyone wanted to know what future the band had in mind for them.

  “First off, the command building has decided that the Ninth will receive no new recruits this year.”

  “What?” The exclamation rang in unison from over twenty men.

  “If the Kings try to spread the new recruits over all the squads that lost men last year, every squad would still be short. Since the Ninth is one that took heavy damage, we won’t be getting anybody.”

  Cries of, “What the hells kind of sense does that make?” filled the air. Marik spoke low under his breath. “We can thank the Noliers and that idiot Balfourth for that.”

  Dietrik nodded while Fraser shouted over the indignant men. “They’ve decided to fill up the squads with lightest damage first so they are fit for regular duty. The rest of us get broken up for guard duty next summer at the Arm of Galemar tournament. They always want experienced men for that duty anyway, so it fits.”

  The men who had been riled all stopped, frozen for a split instant, then rallied their voices anew, flipping to the opposite side. “It’s about time we finally get a good assignment!” “It’s only what we deserve, after last summer!”

  Fraser allowed the men a moment to appreciate their good fortune. “So make sure all your gear is fit to be seen in the company of the upper classes. No one is to have the arse hanging out of their breeches come summer! That’s why we have shops in this town. Now, to other business. For the Fourth Unit, Sloan is being promoted to fill the empty sergeant position.”

  If Sloan expected cheers, he kept his disappointment well concealed when the room fell silent. Knowing what he did about his new sergeant, Marik’s feelings about this man having control over his life out in the field were tangled.

  “As for the First Unit, Kineta,” Fraser gestured with one thumb at the woman, “is being transferred from heading Third Unit, Fifth Squad to take over the sergeant duty.”

  None of the men, especially those in the First Unit, cared for that. Several mean looks and meaner protests greeted this announcement.

  Kineta spoke in her own defense. “Feel free to challenge me if you have a gripe. If you can beat me, I’ll back down. If I beat you, you’ll be breaking your ass under my own special training regime for the next five days.”

  With that, she gracefully spun on one heel to walk out the door. Fraser approached Marik’s table while Sloan crossed to the Fourth Unit’s bunk area, meaning to move his possessions to the officers’ quarters, no doubt. Without a word, Fraser dropped a paper scrap onto the table beside Marik’s plate before following Kineta outside.

  The scrawl on the paper read, Appointment with Commander Torrance: Second Noon Bell, Tomorrow. A mighty scowl reaching his boots, Marik shoved the paper into his pocket, wondering what new complications he was in for. Tollaf must have pulled the commander into the fray, meaning his time in the training areas would likely vanish from tomorrow onward.

  Ill will filled the air in a cloying fog. Men muttered discontentedly, which nudged Marik from his irritation at the old bastard and his cheap tricks. He had never felt one way or the other about women fighters…probably because Nyla, a woman who had jointly led his orientation into the mercenary band, had easily been as much boot leather, saddle soap, stained chainmail, whipcord and worn nail-heads as the man Mylor, the other instructor. After glancing around the room, he noticed Dietrik wore a neutral expression.

  “What do you think of her?”

  “Too early to say,” Dietrik replied. “She must be good, else the officers would never have selected her.”

  “Especially for a position outside the Fifth,” Marik agreed. “Why would they assign her to an all-male unit?”

  “That’s what I want to know!” a new voice thundered behind Marik. He recognized Vance from the First Unit. “What’s she doing outside the whore squad?”

  Several others joined Vance in his voluble discourse. Dietrik replied in a quieter voice. “You’d have to ask the officers, mate. But she must be good. No, she must be better than that!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’re good, you can head a unit, so she must be good. But she’s going to have to head a unit and handle all these muttonheads at the same time.”

  Marik nodded in understanding. “She couldn’t handle both
if she was only ‘good’. If she can handle both.”

  “That remains to be seen, but she wouldn’t have been assigned if the brass did not think she were capable of it. I suspect the Fifth Squad is suffering from a rather high-quality problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They must have more talent than they have positions for. Someone else in there must have deserved a sergeantcy, but was not ready for the challenge Vance and his like will offer.” After a moment of thought, Dietrik concluded, “Or maybe Torrance thinks she has what it takes to move up the ranks in the command building and wants to test her out here first. Either way, I don’t believe I’ll be challenging her.”

  “Me either.”

  The two headed back to their cots. Behind them, irate men fumed loud and long.

  * * * * *

  Marik exited the command building and made a beeline straight across the Marching Grounds to the Dancing Drink. It being mid-afternoon, the new recruits had already been assigned. Individuals could be seen wandering the Row, each with the distinct air of a person exploring a new place. Only a handful of mercenaries spent time in the tavern common rooms between lunch and dinner.

  With a nod to Kerny, he took the stairs two at a time. He dashed down the hallway and barged into Kerwin’s room.

  “Hey! What’s the matter with you?” Kerwin sorted through his pack, searching for dice or cards or trident sticks if Marik knew the gambler.

  “I have a question for you.”

  “And for that you charge around like a bull?”

  “You said you wanted to go find a builder for your inn, right?”

  “An architect actually, but yeah. Why?”

  “They’re easier to find in the cities?”

  “Of course. Everything’s easier to find in the cities. So what?”

  “So why not go to Thoenar? I’d bet anything Spirratta could do, Thoenar could do better.”

  Kerwin sat back on his cot. “In the first place, Thoenar’s about halfway across the kingdom. That’s halfway diagonally mind you, not across to the side, and with no road direct from here to there. I may be wealthier than ever before, but if I go throwing it away in unnecessary travel expenses, I’ll be as poor as I used to be in no time at all.”

  “But you have to travel anyway, right? The other day you told us you’d finally decided to go ahead and find an architect after all.”

  “Marik,” Kerwin chided, exasperated. “There’s a difference between going to Thoenar and going to Spirratta. Spirratta is a straight shot along the Southern Road. Only two eightdays walking distance. Going to Thoenar from Kingshome means taking a ferry up the Spine, going cross-country to pick up the major trade routes and finally reaching the Capitol Highway.”

  “All that aside,” Marik cut the air with his hand, “where would you rather go to find your builder?”

  Kerwin sighed. “Thoenar, naturally. And what does all this have to do with anything?”

  “What if I offer you an expense paid trip to Thoenar? You can find your man without having to pay a single coin from your own purse!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Torrance is assigning me to a bodyguard contract in Thoenar next summer. I need three others to go with me. Dietrik’s coming, and I want you and Landon, too. I’d ask Edwin, but I’d rather have three frontline fighters with one archer to support, rather than two and two.”

  Kerwin shook his head. “I’m not in the band any longer, remember? I’ve turned in my tag and retired from taking contracts. They’re dangerous for your health.”

  “It’s only bodyguard duty for the tournament! They don’t come any easier than that! And we won’t leave until halfway through spring.”

  Mild interest hovered over Kerwin. “The contest for the Arm, huh?” But then he shook his head. “That still doesn’t change anything. I’m not a King.”

  “I already asked Torrance. We’re so shorthanded he’ll take any of the old fighters back. You won’t have to go through any re-entrance trials.” Marik could see the gambler wavering. “Think about it. Everyone says tournament duty is the softest contract there is! You’ll get paid for all the eightdays you’re there, and you can find a good architect at no cost!”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to start building my inn this summer.”

  “Kerwin! Look at the offer! It’s a great opportunity, and Landon will want to go if you’re on board.”

  “You haven’t asked him yet?”

  “I came straight over from Torrance’s office. I wanted to catch you before you left town.”

  Kerwin mulled his argument, and Marik cast the hook he had saved for last. “Besides, it’s the Arm of Galemar! Think how many people will be there! There’ll be endless games and who knows how many contestants. Everyone will be betting.”

  A spark kindled in Kerwin’s eyes. “Oh, I suppose one more season won’t hurt. I give. Tell Torrance to put me back on the paylist.”

  Grinning, Marik dashed away to ask Dietrik and Landon before returning to inform Torrance he had selected his three fellow bodyguards. The commander was a pretty good boss after all, allowing him pick his own co-contractors as an additional reward for his excellent performance against the Noliers.

  * * * * *

  The sound of steel-on-steel drifted through Marik’s window much more loudly than before. Over the last several eightdays the normal practices of mercenaries keeping their skills honed had been added to by the daily training of D Class recruits. Four-hundred men had been accepted by the judging panel, and fully half their number needed to elevate their talents to Kings’ standards by spring.

  Marik had walked past the training hall the first day of orientation. Men had packed it to the rafters. The sight had fostered a suspicion that the requirements for passing had been relaxed this year. Two instructors spoke from the raised floor, a different pair than Marik had learned from, yet these were also a male and female. It must be policy to use a Fifth Squad woman as an instructor so the new recruits understood the band was not gender exclusive. Too many other concerns had weighed on his mind to make him think on it long.

  He’d been working on Tollaf’s damned book every day, pushing on, determined that the old goat would never get the best of him. After so many deciphered pages of Natalie’s handwriting, he grew to recognize her style. Within a few lines he knew if the page would contain useful information or ramble on about her sexual proclivities.

  Carefully jumping through the tome’s pages, he had finally reached the end. Backtracking to the few instances of useful instruction gave him the general idea behind her scrying working. With those untested theories had also come the time to consult with Tollaf.

  He hefted the heavy book into a comfortable position for the trip to the Tower. In the dining area Kineta read through papers while sipping from a tankard. She sat by the door as had become her habit, ready to accept any challenge the men might be foolish enough to advance, her entire bearing silently daring them too.

  Most had learned their lesson. Others were either slow learners or nursed a masochistic streak. Bad enough that she could run rings around them with her Perrisan scimitar, but her unfettered mouth could set even these hardened men’s ears to flaming. Every fighter in the First Unit had spent at least one five-day stretch under her grueling training régime. Vance was currently working on his fifth. Fraser had made it clear that any man failing to follow her orders, or her punishment training, could count their remaining marks in the band on one hand.

  Marik had yet to challenge her, having no issue with her sergeantcy, though his interest in a spar had gradually peaked as she demonstrated her skill. Too bad Tollaf expected him today.

  He made his way into the chief mage’s realm with his weighty burden. Yesterday the entire afternoon had been spent with the smug old man discussing what he’d learned. Master Tollaf had thoroughly enjoyed correcting every slight misconception on his part. The apprentice had somehow kept his temper in check.

 
Marik entered without knocking just because he knew how much it irritated the dried-up fossil. Disappointingly, Tollaf hardly seemed to notice today.

  “I prepared the mirror for you last night. I need to work on this.” The old man gestured at a fresh tower of papers annexing his workspace.

  “You were supposed to help me.” Despite their poisonous relationship, he had no wish to attempt this for the first time alone.

  “Tell that to Torrance! He dropped all this on me without warning.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No.” Elaboration failed to follow. When Marik continued standing still, he snapped, “Well? Are you going to get to work or not?”

  “I’ve never done this before!”

  “So? There’s plenty of things I’ve never done before, but I don’t get to hold my mother’s hand while I try!”

  Marik glared. “You’re supposed to look after your apprentice.”

  “That’s why we spent all yesterday discussing this. There’s little danger in a working like this, only a lot of effort. Therefore, go at it until you get it right.” He swiveled on his stool and left his back to the room.

  Marik struggled and finally decided against knocking the old man over the head with Natalie’s diary. In lieu of that, he approached the mirror.

  He had never seen a larger one. It rested atop Tollaf’s smallest worktable, nearly two feet tall. Ornate silver framing curved around the glass. Once before he’d seen the old man summon images through it when Torrance had needed a communication link to the palace.

  Today he would attempt a similar feat. Marik stood the book on end, open to the page he needed. When he let go, the pages curled forward. He stole the iron weights from a scale on one of the other tables. Placed flush with the pages, they held them in position. The tops still leaned forward, but he could read what he needed to.