by Damien Lake
“You think I don’t know that?” Marik snapped harshly. “I don’t need you to tell me that!”
Dietrik shrugged before returning his attention to Hilliard’s recitation, unheard over the noise of so many men barking questions or calling to Walsh’s servers. He knew Dietrik deserved better than that, but his friend’s words echoed the concerns that had begun growing in the dark corners of his mind.
The mercenary way called for men to take the opportunities offered by life and ignore them when they were unavailable. He knew this…yet could he ever walk away from Ilona the way he could walk away from regular religious services? This question left him unsettled.
He searched for her by the kitchen again, peering over the moving heads, finding her not by the doorway but standing beside the slate betting board, the black surface nearly white from so many chalked notations. She stood with Kerwin, their heads bent low to talk privately, looking for all the world like a pair of lovers stealing kisses during the rare moments when everyone’s gaze shifted in other directions.
Marik nearly leapt from the bench before both raised their heads. Kerwin started explaining something at length. The glow in his eyes could only mean he talked of gambling, probably referring to the betting board beside them. He expected Ilona to shrug off Kerwin’s infatuated discourse, except she acted as interested as a fellow addict.
Dietrik reached up to tug him down by the back of his breeches. “This is what I meant,” he commented around his tankard’s rim. “You are too focused on her. Think for a moment, mate. Kerwin knows about the relationship between the two of you. Is he the type to poach on a friend’s preserve?”
“No, of course not,” Marik mumbled, and firmly sat down. But what in the hells were those two talking about so intimately?
He continued to watch them as a hawk marking a field mouse. When they finally separated after half a candlemark in deep conversation, she returned, accompanying the platter of roasted chicken she must have requested. Marik asked the question with his eyes, a question she ignored. Instead she dove into her food. Ilona only paused long enough to scorch him with a withering gaze when he continued his study of her across the table.
Marik chose not to stress the moment. Whatever they had spoken of, Kerwin would likely tell him about later. Agitating Ilona was never a smart move. Especially when the woman had started the evening already riled.
Eventually they found their way back to the Spell. During their rest periods of laying beside one another, letting the heat from their passions dispel, they each spoke of their lives. Marik thought he had little of interest to say but discovered more to his past than he realized. Talking of Tattersfield, of his father, of his mother, of leaving it all behind, of winning a place in the Crimson Kings, of his various roles played in the three campaigns he had contracted on, Marik realized the facets in his everyday life had come to outshine the daydreams he’d often entertained while apprenticed under the woodworker Pate. He had walked the palace grounds. He had fought an enemy duke and prevailed. He had uncovered an assassination plot against one under his care. He had won a place among the best fighters in all of Galemar.
This interested Ilona to a point. Her inquires always bypassed everything else to center on his mage talent. She wanted to hear about the hedge-wizard who had nearly incinerated him, about training under Tollaf, about the magician in the Green Reaches. He attempted to satisfy her desires, all her desires, except talking about that other side of his nature still left him uncomfortable. Speaking of shields and attacks and practical theory in Tollaf’s Tower never felt the same as discussing it outside in the real world. Going into Tollaf’s sanctuary to do what Torrance expected of him always felt comparable to, well…
To a man slipping off in the night to the local brothel to do what he needed to do.
Marik hated that image. Especially now. And it was not a comparison he could ever describe to Ilona! So he gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak plainly, the act becoming slightly easier with each night he plowed new furrows in the field of his reluctance.
And the days passed. Walsh’s regulars, a crowd grown to over a hundred, gathered on the day of the fifth trial. They each stopped by the inn long enough to wish Hilliard the best, then trotted into the rising sun, determined to find the best seats they could. The builders had been working non-stop to expand the bench rows around the horse track. Despite that, the odds of finding a seat for the semi-finals were very much in doubt. Marik knew whole crowds had camped overnight as close to the stands as the cityguard would allow.
He arrived when the last regular departed. Hilliard stood in a plain robe, looking shabbier than most of the refugees thronging the roadways outside Thoenar. Underneath, the young man wore cotton undergarments that would protect his skin from chafing against the armor he would don. Dietrik, Kerwin and Landon stood ready to go, the small group waiting for their appointed leader to arrive.
Marik saw Dietrik’s evil grin, and reached up to pat down his hair, tussled from the morning wind rather than any amorous activity. The thought made a faint blush creep over him. He cursed silently, ignoring Dietrik to ask Landon, “We’re ready, then?”
“Indeed,” replied the archer. “I think all is in order. How do you feel this morning, Hilliard?”
“I am cold, but excited!” His eyes reflected the dawn sun peeking over the buildings. “I have come so far! Farther than I dared hope!”
“Well, you watch your neck today,” Kerwin advised. “It’ll be dangerous enough all on its own.”
“I will exercise care,” Hilliard promised while they set out for the lists. “I only need to be in the top eighty percent. Rushing and taking risks this near to the goal is sloppy field strategy.”
“That’s right,” Kerwin agreed. “Save your strength for the sword fighting in five days. That’s where you’ll need every bit you have.”
The group spoke during the walk, the subject of the final event’s sword-on-sword combat renewing Hilliard’s interest in their varied blade techniques with a vengeance.
Marik offered scattered comments. Mostly he allowed his mind to wander to the thrilling memories of Ilona. Of the sweaty skin shining under the candlelight glow, of the way her breasts hitched when she panted for breath…
The group passed through the wall separating the Third Ring from the Outer City. Marik hardly took note of it any longer. He had become accustomed to Thoenar’s roadways, had learned his way amidst the tangling street maze. Thoenar no longer daunted his directional senses.
Slowly working their way north to the jousting lists, Marik’s mind returned to Ilona and the incredible position she had taught him last night—
Kerwin’s wordless shout jerked him from his reverie. Time not only slowed, it damn near stopped as Marik spun to see what bothered the gambler. Hilliard stood between them.
In that frozen moment in time, Marik saw that Kerwin had rammed his shoulder into Hilliard’s right side in an attempt to knock the young noble away. But he had not been fast enough.
Spheres of glistening red hovered in midair before Hilliard. Blood. Spraying back from the obscene length of crossbow quarrel protruding from the young man’s chest.
* * * * *
“You! Check that! Have the reports arrived yet?”
“No sir, general sir!”
“Then run and find out where in the nine hells they are! You!” Adrian swung to confront another of the aides who formed a perpetual trailing coattail behind him wherever he walked. “Explain to me why Mellcoff is taking so damned long to get the Citadel moving east!”
The general stopped in the hallway to glare at the aide, who stumbled, grasping for any possible answer. Adrian had chosen him at random from his following, meaning the odds were he knew as much about the specific question as the servants streaming around them. “Well, uh…sir. I believe I read a report saying the mages were troubled by some illness, or…I think…”
“You do not know for certain?” Adrian thundered, his mo
od foul.
“No, sir. We’ve been waiting for—”
“I’m tired of waiting! Go and find out!”
“Sir?” The aide looked startled, jumping to follow when the general strode forward in long, efficient strides.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Adrian stopped anew in order to turn full on the man. “The stables are in that direction!”
“The stables? Sir? I don’t under—”
“Unless you’d rather have a Taur carry you west! Is that your preference?”
The aide blanched, as did most at the thought of being near the Taurs much less cradled in one’s arms. “No, sir! I’ll, uh, I’ll go straight away. To the Citadel?”
“Go!” thundered Adrian. “And don’t set foot on the road back until you have my answers!”
Adrian resumed his march after the aide fled his presence. Though known for his cool command, General Adrian Ceylon was also known to terrorize his staff if his military did not perform as he knew they were capable. Lately, it seemed, nothing proceeded exactly as expectations predicted.
Much of that could be laid on this strange land where none in his army had ever trod before. Similar terrain as Tullainia’s normal stretches could be found back home, but the minute differences exacted their toll. The moisture levels in the air came nowhere near approximating Arronath’s matching landscapes and the dust levels were easily triple what they were familiar with. Adrian had only seen this much free dust in the southernmost lands where he’d campaigned against the wild Taur tribes. Of them all, the Taurs alone were at ease in this kingdom.
And pollen. Never before in any campaign had Adrian been bedeviled by such a crippling element. The floating dust in the summer heat already caught in the throat. Worse, several of the local inland weeds shed their spoors in continuous bursts of reproductive clouds. Spoors that, it turned out, instigated severe allergic reactions in nearly one man in twenty. No Tullainians suffered from the affliction and at first there had been much concern that the locals were slowly poisoning the soldiers. Adrian’s army chirurgeons spent time ill-afforded in study before finally declaring the alien weeds to be their culprit, an assailant that required prolonged exposure before finally overwhelming its victim.
Which meant, Adrian knew with a gnashing of teeth, that even if they isolated themselves in a cave this very moment, any number of his men could fall sick without warning for weeks yet.
Combine that with the bouts of illness sweeping different regiments as a foreign fever wrecked havoc on his timetables, and the general decided they might be lucky to finish Tullainia’s conquest this year if nothing else went awry.
As it most assuredly would, given his luck as of late. Nothing progressed correctly. Jide had found him nothing he could use. He had returned to studying the Traders Tongue. Mendell and Harbon were the least of his troubles but one did not leave a rotting apple in the barrel. The fruit’s decay would speedily spread until the farmer found naught but brown mush and an overpowering smell of decomposition.
He had reined them in. Let Jide disagree. Adrian refused to allow them their head any longer. Bureaucratic games of politics were the plaything of the court and its creatures. They had no place in his army. So what if he could not prove what he knew for truth? Those two had violated every law of Taur conduct, had slaughtered Tullainians with nary a care for the rights of bonded citizens living under Arronathian law. This was still his army, and he could see to it that they were stripped of the authority to abuse their power.
Let them wander around Kallied, disconsolate colonels without a command. As long as they were within his sight, Adrian could put them aside in his mind to concentrate on other matters.
“Has Darshield reported yet?” he barked at the mass shadowing him.
“She has, sir.”
Adrian waited while he strode down the hallway, realizing it was this aide. Why had he not yet sent this one further away than the aide who’d just left? “Well?” he demanded, irritated by the man’s refusal to deliver intelligence until his existence had been acknowledged.
“She reports no progress as of yet, except to say she has become certain a local is the cause.”
“I want news, man! Inform her of that the next time she returns!”
The aide paused, whether in hesitation or to gather his oblivious thoughts Adrian could not determine since the man strode behind him, and he did not care in any event. “The deaths have become too regular to be coincidental. She reasons that no spy would have the knowledge to move around with the ease this rebel apparently can, so the killer must be a local Tullainian resident.”
Adrian rounded on his aides. “How many days has it taken her to reach such a conclusion? How much time did she require to realize a sudden outbreak of lethal altercations between our Kallied watch soldiers was merely stage dressing to conceal their assassination? These rebels can use our weapons all they want, but I want her to put a stop to this without delay!” he shouted, jabbing one finger into his palm for emphasis. The sheer amount of wasted effort to reach a conclusion obvious to him grated on his nerves as sandpaper on raw flesh.
At a loss, the aide fumbled with a lame, “She wanted your approval before shifting watches around.”
“I told her to remedy this unacceptable situation. You tell her that if she wants high-level approval for every step necessary, then I will assign another to the task.”
“Is this the reason I have been called back, general sir?”
Adrian whirled back in the direction he had been walking, finding the owner of the new, soft-spoken voice. Colonel Harbon, fresh from the field.
“Would you care to explain why it has taken so long for you to follow orders?”
Harbon stiffened in his tooled boots. “I rode as soon as your orders were delivered, sir. The ride from the southwestern corners of the line is a long one, sir. I attend to you upon the very hour of my arrival.”
“Ah yes, your beloved trees, as I recall. They will have to manage without you. Report to the dispatch office to receive your new orders.”
“You are reassigning me?” Harbon looked angry. “I demand to know why!”
“Go to dispatch or you will be assuming command over dredging the cesspit!” Adrian shouted, in no mood to put up with Harbon. He ignored the rage seething under the colonel’s surface, leaving the man behind as he stalked down the hall. Reassignment is the least of what you will suffer, you vile creature!
The general continued hurling questions at his aides during the walk, going nowhere, moving about to vent his frustrations and make his presence felt. In one courtyard he found several Tullainians under guard, moving in the sunlight to exercise during the few moments allowed to them.
“Are those the political prisoners?”
“No, sir,” answered a different aide. He did not wait for Adrian to ask the next question. “Those are the remaining citizens detained for the initial questioning upon our arrival.”
“The merchants?”
“A few, and a magistrate, I understand. Also the prophet we brought to Kallied.”
“The madman? Where?” Before the aides could point him out, Adrian found the wretch. “I see him, crouched in the shade.”
Indeed, with the sun high, the only shade to be had in this courtyard lay in the farthest corner where the walls’ angle cast a triangle of darkness hardly four feet to a side. Huddled in a ball therein sat the madman Adrian had hoped would provide him with clues to solving the mystery his king had set him. A far cry from what the general had envisioned at hearing of a wanderer prophesizing the future; the only aspect that fit Adrian’s mental picture was the man’s dubious sanity.
The madman wore a finely cut pair of gentleman’s pantaloons, lovingly cared for, but shunned any sort of tunic or shirt. He wore fisherman’s sandals with stained hemp cords running between his great and second toe. Every morning he would throw a fit until provided a razor, whereupon he would carefully shave off his mustache, eyebrows and side beards, yet le
ft his chin and throat a tangled mass of bird’s nest. His hair was groomed to do the most vain narcissist proud, and he attacked everything from a guard to the errant wind that dared to muss it.
Adrian’s hopes for garnering information on the dark threat menacing his lands were dashed after a morning spent with the wanderer, his words translated from Tullainian to Traders to Arronathian. He would answer no questions, apparently unable to speak on any issues other than those that plagued his mind. This madman spoke not in the vague, metaphoric images of the king’s seers nor in the obscure prose of prophets Adrian had never believed in. Instead he would calmly explain to whoever lay nearby that the trees meant to take over the world and would crush mankind beneath their roots. That demonic creatures would be born of the trees who would then be sent forth into the open lands to devour them all.
At first Adrian took interest in his descriptions of these supposed demons. He quickly lost any faith that the man’s ravings might contain kernels of hidden truth. A man who attacked the wind and held advanced discussions with crows perched atop walls was a man in whom sanity had long since broken. The time invested in this madman could have gone to unearthing new leads.
“Why are they still held?” he demanded.
“There was concern that they might still retain information useful to us relating to local political infrastructures.”
Adrian grimaced. “We extracted all there is to be had. Any further questions can be answered by the high-lord we have in custody. Send them out to be instructed and placed back into local society.”
“What about the madman?”
The general paused from his sharp departure. “He will do himself injury if left on his own. Find a citizen to look after him. Pay them the nursing fees we pay those who tend our injured soldiers.”
That accomplished, Adrian swept off with his covey, demanding the latest updates on the cesspit, wanting to know if any new developments had occurred in its fetid depths, and inquiring after similar operations at other towns under their rule across Tullainia.
