by Damien Lake
Kerwin leaned over to speak quietly. “Your penchant for ballads not withstanding, I don’t think we can afford to stay until the end.”
Marik nodded once in response. “We can stay a little longer, though. Landon and Dietrik and Walsh’s common room regulars can manage to keep a safe watch on Hilliard for a few candlemarks.”
Nodding back, Kerwin returned his attention to the performer. Marik did as well, but only after berating himself. He was one to talk, scorning the commoners for trying hard as they could to forget life’s realities by immersing their attentions in tournament festivities. Did he do otherwise at this moment?
He was letting his guard slip, and knew it. The day before, Landon and Dietrik had left the other two in charge of Hilliard at the inn to wander the festival. They had all come to recognize the regulars at the Swan’s Down, so leaving Hilliard immersed within their good cheer and friendly encouragement and endless demands for retellings on how the race had progressed worked as well as locking up the young man in a solitary room. Marik had vowed never to let his guard down until he returned his charge to Seneschal Locke’s loving care, yet he could not seem to stop his constant vigilance from sliding away.
Partly that could be blamed on Hilliard successfully completing the first event safely. Also, a new worm of doubt had crept into his mind during the uneventful days with no fresh attacks. Perhaps those persistent thugs had only been a gang of irritated nobodies, pushed to pursue vengeance for their friends the mercenaries had killed in self-defense. Then again, perhaps they had been sent from Spirratta, but Marik’s terrifying mage attack had frightened them off permanently. Word might have spread among the knives-for-hire to the point where nobody would accept the job of killing Hilliard.
If they were after Hilliard, then why had they stopped hunting his blood? Thinking about it overlong gave him a headache.
So here he sat, trying hard not to think about it, exactly as these other men and women were trying very hard not to think about situations in other kingdoms. Perhaps he was not so much of an outsider as he wished to be.
Chapter 13
Control. Though he’d mastered it, matters had drifted from their expected courses. Twenty miles south of Kallied, Colbey walked the road’s edge, always searching ahead for the next scrub brush patch into which he might leap at need.
Despite his extensive training from the Guardians, the best men and women in the whole world, situations kept spinning away down unseen side-paths, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His sole mission was to gather intelligence regarding these butchers who had so ruthlessly slaughtered his people. Why they had done so, Colbey still had yet to discover.
Gather intelligence. Not strike at them. That would come later.
After spying on the weirdling invaders for days, he had succeeded in gathering a substantial amount of information. How much good it would do him remained to be seen. He still lacked sufficient knowledge to strike a fatal blow.
Having escaped Durrac immediately before the invaders obliterated it in retaliation, Colbey had climbed atop the nearby cliffs to watch. Troop movements, combat strategies and battle maneuvers were carefully observed and cataloged in his mind. These murderers’ savage ruthlessness would make them a difficult foe. That was information well worth knowing.
If Colbey had known the reaction from the invaders would be so extreme, he would have refrained from killing the robed woman until a few days later. Durrac had still held opportunities for further study, all eradicated along with the town. Colbey hoped he would not need the information those opportunities would have provided. His control had slipped momentarily. Just one moment’s slip, and it had cost him. Hopefully his observations on the enemy as they moved through Durrac, slaughtering every man, woman, child and animal, would provide him with any essential facts he might require.
The beasts, he mulled, walking while constantly surveying the land for threats. Without them, they are only as any collection of outlanders. And without the white-robed mages, the beasts are beyond their control. Yes, I am sure of it!
A fracture line in the enemy’s structure? Perhaps, yet only a surface flaw. The roots were shallow and avoided the army’s core, so striking that line would only cause temporary confusion. Still, this might be a useful element in whatever whole Colbey would construct.
I need further information. I need to track closer to my true prey.
He would make Kallied after nightfall. There, his hunt would begin in earnest. Colbey felt certain he would find whoever led these murderers. Their leader. The one who must also be the same evil beast who’d ordered his village destroyed. And then my people’s souls will finally find rest.
As soon as he thought it, his right hand slapped his face as hard as it could. No! The mission is observation! I will not attempt to switch to a new horse in this stream’s midst! This, not even I can do alone. I’ll need that mage at the very least!
He realized he stood stock still in the dusty road. His breathing had grown harsh, rocking his shoulders in quick, jerking breaths. Colbey resumed walking and took control over his body.
Yes, the mage. If nothing else he can serve as a distraction, allowing me to slip close to the target. Or perhaps he might prove useful in the final plan. Perhaps he can disrupt the white-robed mages.
Sweat dripped into his unblinking eyes and drew his attention back to the world around him in time to catch hoofs beating the dry road ahead. Colbey vanished in a flash behind several thin birch trees alongside the road.
He watched, one hand on his sword beneath the tinker’s pack. A lone horseman rode south. Colbey peered further beyond, expecting to see additional riders, except the man apparently rode without a patrol unit.
When he drew closer, Colbey felt the urge to jump out and slay this stranger. The impulse surged through him in a black tidal wave. His breaths shortened. Sweat slicked his body and made his hand slip along the hilt’s leather. Everything except the man on horseback faded from his vision, blurring underneath a black haze the way an advancing fog obscured the trees.
He is alone, a mental voice whispered. He is obviously one of Them. There are no beasts to protect him, no robes, no soldiers. You can be twenty miles away in Kallied before anyone finds him.
Yes, true enough. And better yet, this stranger might have documents on his person. He could be an official messenger, bearing vital information on the soldier movements, or directions to this invading force!
Colbey stepped forward when the rider drew abreast of his position. The harsh years of training saved him at the last possible moment.
His consciousness roiled in turmoil…but his body remembered the hard-learned lessons of the forest Guardians. Though the rider passed through the inky midnight of Colbey’s fogged vision, the scout still studied the man’s every aspect with a single glance. The way this rider sat his mount revealed to Colbey’s experienced eye the truth behind the man.
The one hand resting near the sword hilt. The slightly drawn up knees, ready to swing over the horse’s back to either side in an instant. The slight head movements as the rider kept a vigilant watch for enemies with a casual ease that belied long experience.
This was not weak prey.
Colbey froze. The rider’s head shifted toward his position at Colbey’s single step. Within the sheltering shadows, his mottled scout’s clothing kept him concealed until the man with the eye patch and the three-day stubble on his leathery face continued past.
Long minutes after the rider disappeared to the south, Colbey finally moved. His legs shook in a way he could never remember them doing before. He realized his arms were as unsteady when he reached for a thick birch to steady his balance. Bitter bile rose to his throat, threatening to explode in a torrent while he fought to settle his stomach.
With his back to the tree, he slid to the ground, trembling as a man in a winter storm, wondering what was happening to him.
* * * * *
Each footstep was a colossal effort. Obeying a hidden
, deeper universal principal, his feet had come to weigh three or four times what they should. His chest labored, a size or two smaller than what his lungs needed to work properly. Breathing made them expand against his ribcage in an uncomfortable press. Across his shoulders, his chainmail bore down with relentless pressure. The forces that pulled a body downward had singled him out for special attention. Marik believed this was what walking to the gallows must be like; a man exerting his all to force his legs one step further, with his only reward for achieving the feat being the worst fate he could ever wish for.
The great burden he carried was only a single parchment rolled into a scroll, delivered by courier before the sun had cleared the horizon. Celerity had not requested his presence. She had demanded it.
His first inclination had been to skive off. Hilliard’s second event would take place that day after all, and Marik had been hired to remain by his charge’s side during such vulnerable moments. The inclination lasted as long as it took to imagine standing before the graying woman, earnestly attempting the excuse.
Also, given who she was, even without her mage powers she would learn the facts if he failed to show. Those facts were simple enough. Hilliard had three other capable bodyguards, especially with Dietrik out from his sling. The young noble was also, at this very moment, being escorted by no less than seventeen of Walsh’s regulars.
Swan’s Down’s crowd had long since adopted Hilliard as their personal contender. Marik silently thought of Walsh’s common room regulars as the ‘C-Double-R Unit’, an additional swarm of people with vested interests in Hilliard’s safety. Perhaps their hovering swarm would help deter any would-be assassins, despite that none among the craftsmen and merchants knew of the potential danger to their favorite’s life. Marik’s presence would be superfluous.
Celerity’s summons granted him permission to enter the Inner Circle. Marik trudged to the palace. He had not wanted to avoid a meeting this badly since Torrance made his initial offer to train under Tollaf or find other employment.
The streets were nearly silent, which felt strangely unnatural after the terrible din filling every nook and cranny during the last few eightdays. Marik had long since reached the conclusion that the actual tournament for the Arm’s title was only an extra bit of sweetness for the common citizens. Except for the finale, the six events that would eventually decide who wielded the Arm for the next three years were just additional attractions among the hundreds everyday all month. Thousands had watched the horse racing, yet they only represented Thoenar’s population by a small fraction. Then there were all the people who had traveled from every region in Galemar to be present…
His nerves were on edge, dreading the coming audience. The eerie silence made it worse. It reminded him of their first day in-city, running through the empty alleys without end.
Marik began stamping his feet while he walked to give his ears sounds to listen to besides his own heartbeat. The fact he resorted to such childish comforts made him fume.
I am not afraid of her, he kept repeating mentally. The refrain had echoed since setting out from the inn. Then why do I keep saying that over and over? If I actually wasn’t, then my mind would accept it and move on to other issues, right?
He spit to the side. There was a certain satisfaction in leaving the glob on the clean paving stones. His mind drifted dangerously close to introspection, which was a pastime he usually avoided in favor of more practical pursuits.
Celerity was a slap in the face. Nothing at all like Tollaf. Despite the old fool’s attitude, Marik had adapted to accept him in his own way. Their mercenary nature was the only trait they had in common with each other.
Perhaps, now that he thought about it, this might be the only thing that enabled them to tolerate one another. After his years with the Kings Marik believed he could speak with authority on the subject.
Many people regarded mercenaries as failed soldiers. He would argue against that. Having worked side-by-side with the army regulars for an entire fighting season, he would laugh if anyone ever described the Kings thus to his face. Most Crimson Kings were superior fighters to the soldiers, and not a few possessed minds well suited to battle strategies as well. If the true difference between them was in attitude, then what set them apart was the mercenary’s lower tolerance for bullshit.
A soldier would accept asinine commands from over-promoted imbeciles. A mercenary was not so restrained, and usually willing to put that feeling into words.
Marik supposed that adequately described Kingshome’s population. They were all rough men, each with an opinion about what might be right or what would be suitable. Men who had not earned their respect were given none in turn.
And that, he realized, defined his relationship with Tollaf. That first time they met Marik’s emotions had been turbulent. He’d never felt easy with the idea of magic, and especially the people who used it. Suddenly, it was there, inside him, an unwanted guest beyond his power to toss out into the snow.
Also, he had been deeply annoyed with Torrance but hesitant to challenge the man. The commander was every inch the combat veteran, the very image Marik hoped to project one day. His unease with magic, his building resentment toward the commander, the sudden prospect of losing his future as a swordsman, the sudden dread of himself, and his determination not to fear a man simply because he commanded strange powers had all combined to make him lash out at the only target who was neither friend nor obviously worthy of respect; an old mage who’d come to wield Marik’s future in his withered palm.
Tollaf’s control over him had never cowed Marik into deferring to his fate. Quite the opposite. It added fuel to his building fire. His refusal to accept his lot had driven him to make every lesson as difficult as possible for his new master so the old mage would be as miserable as he. For the first time in his life Marik wondered if he might have been lucky to be apprenticed under the old man. Celerity had nearly cut him in two at the opening ceremony, and he’d barely begun his normal barrage.
For whatever reason, Tollaf had left the court’s enclave behind to become a mercenary. Following his previous thinking, Marik supposed it likely that the old man nurtured an attitude incompatible with fitting smoothly into the court routine. His experiences with the elderly mage certainly supported that idea.
Instead of flogging his unwilling apprentice as might have been expected of the typical master-mage stereotype, irascible old Tollaf returned Marik’s attitude in kind. The man was a mercenary, so perhaps he followed the merc way of dealing with a lousy roll of the dice by complaining more than acting against Fate. Lashing back with a foul attitude would be his natural reaction. Tollaf’s nature bore a closer resemblance to Marik’s than the apprentice mage had ever realized. With growing wonder, Marik saw for the first time that their constant verbal fighting was their own form of acceptance. It was how they dealt with the unwanted situation while at the same time fulfilling their obligations to Torrance.
All of that fit into Marik’s portrait of mercenaries. When a merc came to respect a person, that river ran deep. He would wade through fire and ice for a worthy man, unlike the soldier who was expected to respect his superior for no better reason than the rank on his uniform. Tollaf and Marik respected their commander, but had yet to earn each other’s respect, and so, in the mercenary style, they did not bother concealing it. Since they were birds of the same feather, they indulged those feelings in words, then moved on with their lives as best they could.
His relationship with the old man might have improved over time, except the fact remained that neither liked the other. Their first meeting had set the standard and neither saw a need to change it. Despite seeing the relationship in a different light, Marik felt no new love for the overbearing, withered mage blooming in his heart. Whoever had said that understanding was the path to forgiveness had obviously led a very sheltered life.
He imagined trying that same disrespect with Celerity. A shudder ran through his body at the image of her taking the ti
me to carefully flay him to the bone. She would ensure an apprentice knew his place. Tollaf never bothered to because he probably knew it would be a waste of time. After all, a mercenary was a mercenary, and little would change one in the end.
Celerity, on the other hand, was most definitely not a mercenary, nor did her personality come anywhere close to the rough, outspoken cynicism of the Crimson Kings. He’d come to believe, based on his experiences with Tollaf, that mages were people he could disregard with impunity.
His brief encounter with the woman went a long mile toward rewriting that particular notion. Her abrupt, no-nonsense summons continued the job.
The street he trudged along broadened further when it emptied into Cerella Gate, the enormous square bordered on the northern edge by the palace complex walls. He knew from his previous visit for the opening ceremony that through the massive iron gates lay acres upon acres of land. Crouched in the center, the palace structures were surrounded by an ancient forest except where the ground had been cleared for elaborate gardens.
Flanking the iron gates, twin gray stone towers over thirty feet tall were situated. They were built into the wall protecting the royal residence, and hollow to house the guard shifts. He approached the prison-like bars. Given his previous experiences with gate guards, he expected an argument regarding his right to pass. Today he would welcome it and leave without fuss.
Apparently he was expected. Even before Marik had said his name, the guard opened a postern gate sized for human use.
