Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  All minor behavioral traits to be sure, but Colbey was a student of the Euvea Guardians. Though he regarded most outlanders as sheep waiting for a knife to slit their throat, he must never underestimate them. Many times, people would sense wrongness before they could pinpoint it. Something as simple as the way he sat might strike a discordant note and raise attentions he would prefer to avoid. That person might struggle to understand why Colbey had caught his attention. If so, then he would likely fixate on the scout until his curiosity was satisfied.

  He intended to be as Tullainian as the natives when he infiltrated Kallied. Firsthand knowledge would be key to planning his attack. After nearly three years, he finally hounded his sworn enemies’ trail. What would he find there? Being a Tullainian might well prove as dangerous as being a Galemaran. Nevertheless, he would be ready. No safety measure was too extravagant while hunting dangerous prey.

  Thomas had taught him that.

  * * * * *

  Twelve riders stopped at a road inn, the descending sun elongating their shadows across half the yard. Several stable hands ran out to take charge over the mounts. Marik gingerly rubbed his inner thighs after sliding from his saddle. Apparently, mastering the ways of the horse once did not toughen one to the experience forever after.

  A tall man approached, obviously familiar with horses and their needs. He reached for Marik’s reins. The horse, a dark bay gelding that looked impressively expensive, tried to remove his hand with a gnashing bite. Marik jumped away. This damnable horse’s lightning-quick aggression still caught him off guard.

  The stable hand, faster than the carnivorous equine, yanked his hand away, only to dart it back, clouting the gelding on the side of the head. With an indignant snort, as if the strike had been unprovoked, it tossed its head and sidestepped, eyeballing the stable man.

  “Sorry about that, good sir,” the tall man said to Marik. A wary edge pervaded his words. He must have feared a redressing from the rider.

  “Go right ahead. If you slap him around enough, you might knock some sense into his head.”

  He passed the reins over with greater care this time. The gelding shook, violently whipping its black mane from side to side. “None of that,” the tall man growled, tightening the reins, forcing the horse to settle down. “I think I better put this boy in a solitary stall.”

  “Whatever you think best.”

  “Name’s Birtle. Stablemaster here,” he imparted while he led the horse away. “Tell Rufus how many mounts we’re to take care of.”

  The others had already disappeared through the inn’s yard door, leaving Marik to follow, wondering who Rufus might be. Movement to the north caught his eye before the stables obscured his view. Behind the inn, a large hayfield stretched for a considerable distance, bordering the Southern Road. Haystacks were piled near the roadside. Marik knew what the movement had been without needing a closer examination.

  Refugees. Having come three-quarters across Galemar from Tullainia, most were broke, without a copper to their names. Unable to afford lodging, they slept in the haystacks, taking what meager shelter they could find.

  They had passed more lost souls that day than he’d ever imagined. Secluded within Kingshome’s walls all winter, seeing now just how many people clogged the roadway startled him. If the stream of them had been constant all winter and spring, then could there be anyone left in their native kingdom?

  Yet still they ran. Broke, starving, homeless and destitute, whatever terrorized them drove them to keep moving. How many had died when they might have stopped and found paying work?

  Kineta negotiated with the innkeeper inside. A fair number of travelers thronged the common room, including a highwayguard patrol. They sat around a table as everyone else, clearly off duty. Their duties these days consisted of tracking down bandits who were usually renegade Nolier deserters, or arresting refugees who had been reduced to pilfering what they could from farms.

  It struck Marik as a cruel way to treat them. Life was already as hard as it could be for the refugees without needing to endure the wrath of highwayguards for snitching a few corncobs from a farmer whose fields abounded with them. Those who have get more, and those who lack get less. Is that truly the way the world is supposed to work? Life is terrible enough without the ‘haves’ crapping on the ‘have nots’ even more.

  Introspection dogged his mood. Partly this was because he had spent the day wondering why he always wound up with the dumbest horse in the herd. His mount wanted to do things its way, the fact of its gelding hardly making a dent in the stallion aggressiveness. If it refused to settle down, he would have to show it which of them was the master.

  As if he knew how to do that.

  Landon secured a table large enough for their quartet while Sloan commandeered one on the room’s far side. When Kineta finished her discussion with the master of the house, she led her group into the common room. Finding no empty tables, she confiscated one from a loan man who was not quite drunk enough to challenge her.

  Landon addressed the appointed group leader after a serving girl collected their orders. “So then, what is the plan from here on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Marik replied. “I have the contract, so I guess we go to Spirratta and collect our charge.”

  Landon waited expectantly for specifics. Kerwin shot back with the question instead. “That’s it?”

  “What else do you want?”

  “Rather short on details, mate.” Dietrik accepted a tankard from the smiling server. After taking a sip, he continued, “This is an official contract after all.”

  “What’s to plan? It’s bodyguard duty, not a battle, as Janus so kindly pointed out to me. It’s a simple ‘point A to point B’ operation. Take him there, then bring him back.”

  “Slightly more than that,” Landon countered. “We’re responsible for the wellbeing of a noble. By their very nature, there are plenty who would like to reduce the number of them by one, given the opportunity.”

  “Torrance would be right pissed if our charge got ‘disappeared’,” Kerwin added.

  “And how likely is that to happen?” Marik countered. “In the first place, this kid is younger than me! How many enemies can he have made?”

  “Ransom is always an attractive option,” Landon replied.

  “Right. Do you think Baron Garroway of Rockscape could afford as much as a gold or two in ransom, even for his own son? He can’t afford a full regiment of men on a regular basis! Garroway can just barely afford bodyguards because it’s a flat-fee duty, instead of our normal fees per eightday.”

  “Desperate people foolhardy enough to snatch a noble-born aren’t necessarily bright enough to know that.”

  “But what are the odds?” Marik raised a hand when Landon made to respond. “The point is taken, Landon. But look at the situation this way. The highwayguards are patrolling the roads in force, most of the active bandits are east of Spirratta and we’re going to be in the middle of Thoenar with half the nobility present, as well as the normal cityguard, in the king’s own city.”

  Landon shrugged the issue away. Dietrik commented, “It is the roads that have me concerned most. With all these desperate folk out of Tullainia, our lad might be an attractive prospect.”

  “I suppose, but what can we do about that now? All we can do is guard him as best we can, and until we pick him up, deciding how to do that strikes me as pointless.”

  “So long as you’re open to suggestion,” Kerwin allowed. “If we can get him to Thoenar in one piece, we should be all right.”

  “Have you done guard duty before?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then why is everyone suddenly full of advice?”

  Landon half-smiled. “Probably because this is your first stint as leader. Torrance gave final authority on decisions to you.”

  Marik intended to put an end to that quickly. “Only on paper. If I’m about to walk into a quagmire, you’d better knock me over the head!”

 
Kerwin grinned maliciously. Presumably he pictured himself with a massive wooden club as Marik lay unconscious on the ground, except a moment later the gambler rose. While Kerwin threaded his way through the crowded tables, Marik craned his neck to see what had caught his interest.

  A lone man lounged near the kitchen door. Recognition flickered over him when Kerwin touch his forehead in a one-finger salute. They conversed quickly, ending when Kerwin passed the man a coin.

  “What was that about?” Marik asked when Kerwin reclaimed his seat.

  “Hmm?” He raised his eyebrows in suspicious innocence.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Me? Why, nothing. Here’s our dinner.”

  The lady server dropped a large platter on the table, distributing four plates around as well as fresh tankards. A dozen thick ham slices steamed along with a mound of stewed vegetables. They filled their plates. After Marik sliced into his ham steak, he noticed Kerwin’s friend had reached under his table to pull out a lute case. He crossed to a chair the innkeeper placed by the hearth for him.

  Tuning his instrument captured the patrons’ attentions, who twisted in their seats to garner a better view. After several strums to warm his fingers, the minstrel launched into ‘I Lost My Horse to One-Eyed Gregory’. The audience barked with laughter, banging their tankards in rhythm against the tables and chanting the refrains.

  Following the humorously woeful tale of the bad luck traveler came ‘The Innkeeper’s Smile’, obviously a deliberate selection on the part of the owner, Rufus, reminding everyone to keep the coins flowing, lest they too discover the hard edge to his own teeth. Marik reached for a second slice and Kerwin’s persistent grin caught his eye. The gambler bobbed his head slightly to the notes.

  “What are you smirking about?”

  “Am I?”

  “You look like someone bet you the sun wouldn’t rise tomorrow.”

  “I guess I like the music.” At Marik’s skeptical gaze, he added, “And I recognized him. He was working the taverns around Cedars right before winter. He’s been wandering from town to town along the Southern Road.”

  “Well, he hasn’t made very impressive progress, then. What did you pay him for? Making a request?”

  “Wait for it.”

  He would say nothing else on the matter. After a third song unfamiliar to Marik, the lute intoned a deep cadence he immediately associated with old heroic war ballads. Several times he had heard different historical works set to the same basic tune in Puarri’s Tavern in his hometown. The chords could be reused if the composers were better suited to lyrics and poor at instrumental composition.

  When the minstrel began, Marik learned he had been correct. It was a war ballad, and it was a new work set to the traditional scores. But as for the subject matter…

  After only two lines he knew that the war in question was the one recently finished on the Nolier border. He glanced frostily to the side. Kerwin could be seen, grinning broadly, a nasty edge to it all the same. Obviously this must be the lay he’d requested.

  It quickly became clear which particular subject had inspired both the songwriter and Kerwin’s wicked amusement.

  “And so the burning flames hearkened the sliver knights’ advance,”

  “Churning hooves sundered the earth and rode men down as ants,”

  “Their mighty swords could not be stopped, their soldiers sang their will,”

  “That their strongest knights should not surcease ‘till all of us were killed.”

  “Our doom was set, our hearts were ice, they had achieved their goal,”

  “But two refused to bow their head while rage burned in their soul.”

  “Their unyielding Galemaran spirits refused to yield,”

  “As they stood before the silver scythes reaping the battlefield.”

  Marik could see without having to look fully at him that Kerwin snickered madly while pressing a fist against his closed eyes. Other snorts revealed what his friends thought of this development. He bowed low, wanting to bury his face in his food.

  The song devolved into typical bardic prose; ninety percent fanciful description with only ten percent hard fact buried underneath.

  “Swanlike grace concealed the deadly strength of angry bears,”

  “Their swinging blades called forth the winds to sweep off Nolier.”

  When did that happen? Whoever had written this drivel had taken judicious liberties with the truth. The heat in his face was either an embarrassed flush or the steam rising from freshly cooked vegetables only an inch from his nose. Kerwin kicked his heals against his chair legs in mirth.

  After an eternity, the gods-awful song ended with the ‘heavens-smashing blow’ that felled the Nolier duke. The other patrons were oblivious to the humiliation in progress. They cheered and demanded the next in the minstrel’s repertoire. Dietrik and Kerwin were snorting and laughing and clapping his back.

  Marik had never felt so ridiculed in his entire life. His appetite was gone. As dignified as he could be, he announced, “I’m going to bed.”

  Their unceasing snickers followed him, though he refused to cast his gaze anywhere near them. He made his way across the floor before remembering he had no room key.

  Marik bit his lip, then stoically forded the human sea again, angling for Kineta’s table while avoiding direct line of sight with his own. The First Unit men grinned wickedly at him, including Kineta who studied him with an amused gleam. He snatched the proffered key from her hand and stalked to the stairs, ignoring the sadistic entertainer as he played ‘Strangers and a Knight, Exchanging Lances’.

  Upstairs, he quickly matched the key with the painted number on the doors. Marik hurled his pack into the corner and dropped onto the furthest cot. The uneven wall-planks stared back at him. He hated minstrels and bards and every pompous wretch who had ever so much as touched a musical instrument. Most of all he wished he could meet the self-glorified hack who had taken it upon himself to ridicule an honest mercenary.

  As if life wasn’t hard enough already.

  * * * * *

  Marik said little to his companions in the following days. Sloan set the best example, which Marik chose to emulate. Speak only when necessary. Besides, what was there to say? He certainly had done nothing to apologize for, and if his half-wit, tactless friends, who still spontaneously burst into song from their saddles, wanted to act like jackasses, it was none of his concern.

  Landon finally soothed things over when they neared Spirratta. Marik knew they would have done the same to whoever that wretched song had been about, but they were supposed to be his friends, damn them!

  Kerwin finally apologized…though a lifelong drunkard promising to stay on sobriety’s wagon henceforth would have had greater sincerity than the gambler’s repentant words. He revealed that he had first heard the song in Cedars and decided to save the information for ‘the right moment’, instead of informing the song’s lyrical subject about it outright.

  The last of Marik’s foul mood dispersed when they approached the city gates after the noon bell one day. Kineta’s group led. She certainly needed no help, and besides, he felt safer remaining outside her vicinity if the cityguards started annoying her.

  As with his earlier visit to Spirratta, the line outside the gates shortened with agonizing slowness. The candlemarks crawled until their turn finally came. Marik rooted out the folded parchment from his waist pouch while Kineta explained their presence. Within moments, a guard strode over to Sloan, who handed his contract over without a word. Satisfied with the document, the guard continued on to study Marik’s.

  They only stopped at the desk long enough to give their names before the cityguards permitted them access to Spirratta. Having been to the city previously, it impressed him far less than the first time. It had failed to endear itself to him then and subsequent exposure only reinforced his opinions.

  His mount would be a boon though, when it bothered to pay attention to his commands. On horseback rather th
an on foot, they could travel the main roads without interference, avoiding the back allies and narrow paths familiar from his last visit. Also, an animal barreling down weighing roughly fifteen times their own weight tended to make the citizens move from their path.

  He followed Kineta, who still retained the lead. Hopefully she knew where they were going. Marik could never possibly shout loud enough to secure her attention. People by the thousands thronged the streets, all hurrying along, only a handful actually entering any of the doorways. If they were not braving the tide to reach any of these establishments, then why did so many people push, elbow and press into each other?

  Their progress slowed to a near halt after three cross-streets. Marik cast about, hoping to recognize an odd cornice or shop front. For all the wandering with Maddock two-and-a-half years ago, he could remember nothing of the city’s layout. In that one day he felt he had crisscrossed Spirratta a dozen times, yet apparently he had explored very little of it after all.

  The buildings to the main thoroughfare’s either side changed subtly when they drew closer to Spirratta’s heart, becoming slightly wider if no taller. Increased space separated them, and the mass of people thinned, the dirtier, shabbier pedestrians almost disappearing altogether, excepting a handful of beggars. Small cobblestones replaced the pavers, which forced Kineta to maintain a slower pace despite being free of the crush. Several buildings hosted stone perimeter walls with ornate iron gates. Their flashy mounts suddenly belonged in this district more than they did.

  In this, the city’s upper-class area, the oversized structures must be mansion houses. Domiciles of the rich or powerful. Intersections between roads always sported a decoration in the center. A statue, a minor fountain, perhaps a circular flowerbed. Throughout the other districts, such extravagances were reserved only for larger squares, mostly in the business quarters. A higher number of men in cityguard uniforms patrolled the streets than in the outer districts. They certainly know who pays their wages.