by Damien Lake
“To the west, yes,” Marik replied.
“Interesting. And intriguing.” She drew her spine straighter. “Tollaf was right, I think. This may be a matter we should be aware of. I’m going to spend time in the enclave’s library, then I might need to contact you.”
Marik verged on asking what for. The memory of her edge, so much sharper than Tollaf’s, held him back. She drifted away without waiting for his confirmation, leaving him to wonder why the search for his father had suddenly become an item of interest among the court mages of Galemar’s king.
* * * * *
The noise battered his body with such intensity that it bordered on physical blows, waxing, waning, yet ever present. Despite the blazing summer sun baking his skin, Marik’s mind kept envisioning being trapped within a wall, one made from neither wood nor stone, but pure sound, immobilizing him through sheer, vibrating force. He had only seen a crowd this size while wandering the crescent-shaped camp blockading the Nolier army from Galemar’s soil.
Many factors had so far reminded him of that time and place since early morning. This opening day of the great tournament for the sword and the title of Galemar’s Strongest only superficially resembled that military tent city. Here were a greater number of gaudier tents, apparently infinite merchandise being peddled, people in droves, herds of animals, food from all over the kingdom and beyond, noise to rival a mountain collapsing. It was Summerdawn Festival, traveling acrobat troupes, tavern rooms, minstrel performances, merchant rows, weapons demonstrations, laughing town dances and livestock fairs all rolled into one massive, miles-wide sprawl.
On their way to the first event for the competitors, they had passed contests Marik had never encountered before in his life. All were run by gaily dressed men and women, each, he felt certain, employed by the crown for the festival’s duration. Thoenar’s cityguard also patrolled in force, wandering the temporary earthen streets between tents with frequency while also stationing several guards at each prize-bearing local. Ostensibly they protected the prizes from morally ambiguous individuals, but they usually worked to manage the crowds according to the contest master’s disposition.
Kerwin, eyes afire with a light Marik recognized, left each of these games behind with a pained expression, the duty to protect Hilliard outweighing the pleasure and potential profit surrounding him.
And there were certainly an amazing number to leave behind. Baron Sestion had hit the nail square on the head. As the first event would be held on the tournament grounds’ northernmost reaches, they had needed to pass through the heart to arrive at their destination that morning. Even that early the citizens were in full swing. While they paused long enough to ask the stationed cityguards for directions, Marik watched two men drop copper coins into a fluted crystal wineglass filled with water. From his angle beside the tent he could see what happened without having his view blocked by the crowd gathered around the pair.
The brightly dressed woman running the table on which the glass sat hovered close by, making comments Marik missed under the constant cacophony. Each man would hold his coin a foot over the glass, then drop it into the water. With each coin the water level slowly rose, until finally it splashed over the side when one man’s coin landed flat side down. He swore while droplets ran down the glass.
With a broad smile, the woman tipped out the water, then poured the dripping coppers into the winner’s hands, about twenty or so to judge by the pile cascading into his broad palms. Apparently the prize, in this instance, was the other man’s coins. Those two left and the woman accepted a new pair from the crowd. She filled the glass to half-full from a silver pitcher.
Hilliard had received directions by then. They pressed on. Games of every sort were being played for small winnings or large, an amazing variety of smells tantalized their senses and music emitted from everywhere, mixing at times into a hideous din if a person stood in the wrong place. Stories were regaled by tellers from simple minstrels to grand bards, weapons were sold from stalls, and, clear of the northern tents, the horse dealers wandered among their penned herds while the Boy Battalion stood at the rails, pointing at the mounts and whispering.
The trek had made Marik and Landon exceedingly nervous. In this crowd, anything at all could happen to their charge simply by pure chance. With a possible assassin after his life, this teeming mill would be a godsend for a killer. Yet, in spite of the excessive caution and worry, it all seemed to have been a waste of perfectly good energy. They had arrived unharmed, Hilliard had waited patiently through the first eighteen races, then had set out with the other nine contenders numbered between one-eighty and one-ninety.
Being his guards, they were allowed to stand beside the track at the finishing line. Behind them, massive, raised benches had been built, twenty rows of long planks, each higher than the one before it. They stretched an impressive distance along the track and were capable of seating over fifteen-thousand according to the builders. Marik’s eye detected not a single empty seat.
People lined the entire course length. The cityguard were supplemented by the local highwayguards to ensure none strayed across the line onto the track. On the farthest stretches the onlookers were clustered only two and three people deep. Here by the stands it seemed a river flowed, a river of neither water nor time, but of the hair from all those packed so closely, tufting in the faint breeze.
Landon opened his mouth. The sudden noise swell from thousands of excited people drowned his words.
“What?” Marik shouted.
“Here they come!” Landon yelled down from where he stood five feet away atop a raised platform beside the track.
The other three ceased their various activities to jump beside him. Kerwin had been gazing across the track to the island where the very last block awaited the order to line up for their start. Dietrik had been flexing his arm, freed from the sling, working the muscles. Marik had merely been fretting.
When he stared down the people-wall crowding the track to where it curved into the woods, Marik distinguished a hazy figure emerging from the trees. On the island across from the stands, the tournament officials, peering through their Captains Glasses, quickly gave orders to the bevy of pages waiting for exactly this moment. One young boy ran to a similar raised platform on their side of the track, brandishing a large painted signboard with the numbers one-eight-four large enough for everyone opposite to see.
“That’s Ferdinand Sestion,” Kerwin declared, looking at the number the page held high. “No surprise there. I knew I should have doubled on Walsh against Gardinnier!”
A trailing hazy blur emerged from the trees, followed a moment later by a second page dashing to a stop beside the first, this one’s signboard displaying one-eight-nine.
“Maybe you should hold your tongue on that,” Dietrik advised as it became apparent that Keegan Gardinnier rode hot on the hooves of Ferdinand’s mount.
Both would obviously qualify to advance to the next round. At the moment they cared little for such details. Keegan urged his mount faster, wanting to overtake Ferdinand for the lead. Not about to allow that, Ferdinand edged his horse left and right, blocking the trailing animal from cutting around to the side.
Keegan fell back momentarily when his mount began flag, Marik thought. Ferdinand must have thought so too, for he returned his attention to the track before him. Having lured his quarry, Keegan spurred his mount to an impressive speed burst while angling toward the cheering spectators lining the course.
Ferdinand became aware too late to maneuver his horse into a block. Keegan drew even. They galloped hells for leather, racing side-by-side for the finish line.
“Where in blazes is Hilliard?” Marik worried when the two riders crossed half the distance from the woods to where they stood. “Maybe something happened!”
“There is another,” Landon pointed. A third figure emerged from the trees. They all glanced to the opposite platform where, a moment later, a third page clambered over with a signboard displaying, one-eight-seven. At the same
time, the first two pages received a shouted order and switched places.
“It’s Delouen,” Kerwin informed them. Marik fixed his attention on the lead riders. Keegan had pulled ahead by half a length. A quick look across showed the first two pages were trying to overlap their boards without obscuring the numbers.
Marik addressed Landon. “Do you think an assassin might have been waiting out there for Hilliard?”
“Maybe,” Landon allowed. “But they would have a bastard of a time attacking a rider, even if the track were deserted from spectators, which it is obviously not.”
He was being overly jittery, and probably acting like a green recruit to boot. That was the last impression he wanted to project in front of Landon. Marik forced his nerves to settle down. After all, it was a six mile track through woods, across the Pinedock and back through two different fords, not to mention the open land stretches, and lined the entire distance with witnesses. Of course the contestants would separate as each rider’s skills emerged.
But he continued worrying until the next two riders emerged simultaneously. After a moment’s study through the glass, orders were given to the pages. The two new numbers joining the first three were one-eight-two followed by one-eight-one.
“All right!” Marik shouted. “There he is!”
“And in a qualifiers spot to boot,” Dietrik shouted over the crowd. “Seems he will jolly well advance to the next round, barring a major catastrophe.”
Marik started to admonish Dietrik not to tempt Fate. His words were lost beneath thunderous hooves. Keegan and Ferdinand, neck-to-neck, charged past the four like an avalanche. Several dozen yards away they slowed their mounts to a halt, then began walking them toward the handlers waiting to take back the horses. Both kept their eyes locked on the pages, who in turn were listening to an official. After a moment, the one with Keegan’s number stepped firmly to the line’s head while Ferdinand’s took the runner-up place beside him.
Keegan, a smaller man who was nevertheless well-muscled, raised both fists high while baring his teeth in a victorious grin. Ferdinand, expression sour, turned his mount firmly away from the pages.
Moments later, Delouen brought his mount across the line in a far more stately manner. He never glanced at the pages, instead taking his horse straight over. Further down the track, Hilliard and the other rider settled into a steady trot, apparently secure in their positions and taking the opportunity to converse.
When they drew near the finish line, the other five riders emerged from the trees all at once. Appreciative roars from the crowd greeted them as the five forced their horses to greater speed, weaving all across the track in their efforts to block each other. This was what the spectators wanted to see. The contender events would only truly become exciting after the numbers were reduced. With the knowledge that the last two across the line would be disqualified, the five were giving the spectators a contest to cheer about.
Hilliard crossed the line with number one-eight-two, who Kerwin revealed to be Duncan Crossley. Marik dashed across the open track with the others to rejoin their charge. Most of the other bodyguards were standing idly in the track’s inner island, clustered together under an awning erected for them. The lack of a decent view from there had prompted the mercenaries to the other side.
Their young future-baron slid off his mount and handed the reins over to a handler. His face was flushed with excitement from the ride. “Oh, hello,” he greeted them. “I will see you later then, during the next event. Farewell,” he called over to Duncan, who nodded and waved in return. “He’s a decent man,” he redirected toward his bodyguards.
“Making friends in the middle of a race?” Marik asked.
Hilliard met his eyes, the first time he had done so since the attack on the chapter house. “One should never pass up an opportunity to form new friendships,” he commented. His excitement at having competed in the tournament, as he had always dreamed of doing, overrode his new unease around Marik. “But that long wait and the riding has made me very hungry. I saw a stall selling roasted chickens this morning, with a liberal seasoning of rosemary by the smell. Let’s go and see if we can find it again.”
He turned before Marik could voice his opinion they should return directly to the inn. Landon shrugged, yet seemed inclined to agree with Hilliard.
“Oh, fine,” Marik caved in. “That did smell good. Let’s talk to the officials and see if we need to stay any longer.”
A quick word reassured them they had done their part for the day, then they waited long enough to cross the track without being run down by the reckless charge of the final five.
Chapter 12
In the dry heat of the Tullainian afternoon, General Adrian contemplated his world. Reports were strewn across a desk once belonging to Markis-gune. Matters sat ill at ease with the leader of Arronath’s formidable armies.
Several matters, in fact. First, he’d been charged by his king to discover whether these lands, the perpetrators behind the brutal torture of his emissaries, might be the source of his seers’ unease. The knowing tone present in that command implied that the knowledge was already gleaned and that Adrian’s true mission was to locate the evidence supporting that knowledge.
When Adrian had halted the army’s advance across Tullainia in order to secure their position, several promising leads had beckoned. All of which, so far, had led nowhere.
He yanked a velvet bell pull. Within moments, his personal aides swarmed into his office. Each held new reports the bearers indubitably yearned to expand on in person. Except first word was always the senior-most officer’s, and they waited for it.
“First, updates on our investigations into the dark threat.”
One aide, he could never remember their names, inched forward through the cluster. “I received the latest reports from the cesspit crews this morning.”
“And?” Adrian demanded when the man paused, waiting for a response. This aide was new, replacing one who had died of food poisoning. If he kept forcing Adrian to jerk information from him, he would not be around much longer.
“Still nothing of substance to report in regards to anything suspicious. The men digging through the lower reaches have uncovered bodies but they all look to have been dumped there by locals after being stabbed. Questioning the townspeople have led the investigators to round up the less savory cutthroats.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, sir. The cesspit seems to be a natural hole with no caves branching off. Several of the men assigned to dig through the garbage have been struck with illness. The Healers assure us there is nothing amiss. It is only the normal consequence of digging through such filth.”
That lead evaporated away. One less possibility in an already thin investigation. “Any progress on this wandering seer?”
He expected nothing. His hopes rose slightly at the response from a different aide. “Perhaps so, sir. Word has come in from the town of Uusar from Sub-Major Guthree. He says that along with the rest of the town citizens, they have a madman in custody.”
Adrian scowled. “A madman?”
“So he says, sir. Sub-Major Guthree says the man exhibits no fear of them or the Taurs, but he also spends each night standing in the town square staring at the moon until it sets. The sub-major only informed us because he received our orders to find a seer and this madman spends most of the day when he isn’t sleeping shouting about ‘the forests stretching to take over the world as monstrous terrors crawl out from cracks in the earth’.” The aide lifted his gaze from the sheet in his hand. “Those are his words.”
A sigh escaped the general as he rubbed his eyes. “Send word back to the sub-major to have the madman brought to Kallied.” He had little hope the man might prove useful. Still, he needed to be thorough.
From the other side, a new aide spoke up in the silence. “Our attempts to infiltrate Galemar still haven’t met with success. Their border guards are turning back everyone they can. The few men sent able to speak the Trade
rs Tongue have all been recognized by Tullainians crowded at the border.”
The aide did not say so, yet Adrian knew that the men recognized by the terrorized populace were dead.
“On a separate note, we have been questioning the Galemarans we were able to capture. A few new possibilities have cropped up.”
“Oh?” The general took his hand from his temples to study the man.
“Yes, sir. Their ruling family has been in power for over six centuries.”
“That is a long stretch for a single house to hold sway.”
“So it struck our analysts as well, sir. We’ve been gathering as much history in relation to Galemar as we can.” A quick glance at his papers before he continued. “Their past is filled with revolts and violence, as you would only expect from these barbarian kingdoms. Several times the ruling family was a hair from being overthrown.”
The general nodded. “You are correct. I am not surprised by such a history. What relevance does it bear?”
“Only this. When looking at it from an outside perspective, several points seem overly suspicious. Several times, the revolts organized in the kingdom’s earlier days were of a magnitude that nearly guaranteed their success. Other times, their neighboring kingdoms would make forays across the borders in attempts to increase their land mass, organizing forces that should have overwhelmed the locals. But each time, the Galemarans under the ruling house managed to work a miracle and put them down in the end. The number of times this has happened makes us suspicious. Other factors may have been at work behind the scenes.”
Adrian felt his interest peek. He leaned closer to ask, “Have you uncovered any corroborating rumors to this end? Anything to suggest the ruling house has more than men to call into service at need?”
The aide shook his head. “As far as we have discovered to date, they have the usual number of mages. Nothing beyond that.”
Cutting in, the first aide spoke from the group’s other side. “Perhaps I have something. A report…” He held a paper stack thicker than the others and spent a minute shuffling while everyone waited. “Yes, here. A report in from Colonel Harbon.”
