by Damien Lake
“You’re not a bad hand with yours,” Kerwin observed.
“A fair hand,” Hilliard admitted without boasting, “but many of the other competitors could easily put me to shame. I will spend these three years improving my swordsmanship, so that when next I compete, I will make a showing fit for the Arm!”
“Don’t neglect your archery,” Landon admonished with a casual grin. “You need to advance through the preliminaries before you can fight for the prize.”
“Of course,” Hilliard returned the grin with a broad smile. “I have learned much during this journey, and you have given me still more to consider. I thank you for your service.” He reached out, firmly grasping each of their hands in turn.
“You are a decent chap, for a noble,” Dietrik commented, then laughed. “Do not allow your peers to shame you into becoming one of them.”
Hilliard shook his head. “I hold to my values and the moral path. Thus will I ever do.”
They left Duke Tilus’ manor, each nurturing fond thoughts for the young man, Marik in particular wondering why so few of the nobles seemed to warrant the designation.
* * * * *
Dispirited destitutes watched travelers on the road with flat eyes. Their expressions were dead, their bodies wasting. Many expected nothing and would find an offered coin as surprising as a sword through the gut. Few pleaded with the Galemarans who passed them on the Southern Road. Whole families sat under trees, nowhere to go, no shelter to be had, their gazes fixed, eyes reflecting horrors that still haunted them. Men and women fell to malnutrition on what meager food they managed to scratch together each day. The children were hardest to ignore.
Marik could not bear to look at them, but turning away, writing them off as life’s misfortunes, seemed terribly heartless. He knew the disquiet he felt stemmed from his own prosperity. True, he could only claim a cot in the midst of a barracks, a closet hardly overflowing with clothing and knickknacks, a drawer with an assortment of coins, and his sword, as long as Sennet did not demand its return. Even so little was far beyond what these poor refugees could claim. His life in Kingshome marked the success of his chosen path, and the homeless vagrants around him forcibly displayed a future that might yet be his own.
His companions might have felt similar unease, which could account for the continual conversation while they rode. Marik found it easier to pass the refugees without acknowledging them if he were in the midst of speaking to his friends. They relived stories from the battles they had fought together, or recounted tales from their individual pasts. Talk of what had been or what would be passed between them with far greater frequency than usual.
“But that would require a whole extra wing on the side!” Kerwin explained. “I love the idea of it, but I’m already at around thirteen golds just on the cost of materials.”
“Holy gods, Kerwin!” Marik exclaimed. “Wood enough to rebuild all of Kingshome probably wouldn’t cost that!”
“I’m not talking about wood alone. Wood’s cheap in Galemar,” Kerwin returned. “But how are you planning to hold it all together? Spit and toenail shavings? Nails might be apprentice blacksmith work, but a whole barrel full can get pricey. Then the iron T-brackets for the framing posts will set me back—”
“T-brackets? You are hardly building a bloody palace, mate!”
“No, but I am putting together a building four floors tall. My architect says you can’t put all that extra weight on the lower framework without strengthening the supports.”
“Four?” Dietrik sounded incredulous. “Last I heard you were considering adding a third!”
“I finally decided on that after I made up my mind not to expand the first floor any further. Originally I wanted to build an add-on to the side for the rooms Ilona wants, but she had ideas of her own.” The gambler shook his head in exasperation. “You make a decision for her, and she grinds you into the dirt!”
“What did the lass have objection to?”
“What didn’t she? First,” he told them, holding up one finger, “she explained to me how she doesn’t need ‘merely’ three or four rooms. She’s only bringing three women with her to open her new location, but she wants a whole gods cursed floor! Then she doesn’t want any space on the ground floor because my inn isn’t inside the ‘civilized’ districts of the Inner Circle. She wants to be upstairs with a dozen peacekeepers stationed on the steps to keep anyone out who she doesn’t want.”
“I understand she intends to be selective regarding her clientele,” Landon offered.
“She knows her business,” Marik asserted with a hint of pride.
“Her business?” Dietrik leered back. “I thought you said your sweet never—”
“Watch it, you,” Marik growled, eyes narrowed, cutting off Dietrik’s rib. Dietrik shied back defensively, hands raised.
“Anyway, she wants the whole floor. At the moment I’ve got it divided in half on the plans. I’ll give her the half she wants and see how she does. I can always renovate the top floor so she has the entire deal, if it works out.”
Marik secretly thought Kerwin’s plan would meet with a slender, brown-eyed obstruction. Dietrik asked, “So I take it you have finally settled on a design.”
“I can’t very well trot all the way back to Thoenar to make changes, can I?”
“No, I suppose not. I only wondered if you had obtained a complete design, considering our sudden departure.”
“He was working out the latest figures when I told him I needed it done by next morning. I had to listen to his endless complaining, but he already had most of it finished.”
The last days in Thoenar. Most of them had lingering business to tend to before their departure, each scurrying around the city. Kerwin coerced his final plans from his architect. Dietrik went out on his own, presumably to finish whatever shopping he had in mind. Landon stayed with the sleeping Hilliard seeing as he had little else to occupy him. Marik, seeing no sense in avoiding a chore merely because he found it unpleasant, had returned to the palace to speak with Celerity.
He had needed to know what further information the court mages had uncovered regarding his father. Winning his way through to her had required the entire day. His disruption annoyed her yet she had nodded when he explained he would be departing the city within the next day if Hilliard’s condition permitted.
“No, Tru has not been able to summon your father’s image,” she informed him while they stood in a great hallway within the palace proper. “This has vexed him considerably. We are at a loss.”
“Can’t a mage shield against scrying, or prevent the working from finding him? I think I remember that.”
“Any user of magic can,” she nodded, “but he must first be aware of the scrye. Detecting it is very difficult and usually only possible if a detection spell is functioning.”
“They were only sitting by a fire.”
“So either this man in red set a detection spell in place after settling in for the night, or he is gifted so strongly in his art that he sensed your scrye.”
“I don’t like the way that sounds.”
“Nor do we. Reports from Tullainia paint a grim picture. If this man is involved, then we must discover all we can of his intentions.”
Marik studied his boots, arms folded. “How can you do that if you can’t scrye his image? That’s on the assumption father is still anywhere near him!”
“That much I think we can assume,” Celerity revealed with a nod. “If Rail were simply dead, Tru would have uncovered that long ago. The fact we can’t find him argues strongly that he is under protective spells set by this red-eyed man. This worries me greatly.”
“Why? You said a mage could protect against the working.”
“These kinds of protections, under any class of magic user, are not overly difficult, even if they aren’t simple either. But maintaining the spells constantly, day and night both, for day upon day…the effort should be staggering. I set members of the enclave to researching the different
spells possible under each class. None have found a spell simple enough to maintain for so long with little effort.”
“We already know he must be a powerful mage to sense my first scrye.”
Celerity gazed back on him. “There is a difference between being gifted strongly and possessing the strength of ten.”
The strength of ten. That comment made Marik consider his personal creation, a working designed to bless him with astounding physical power. “Then he must have figured out a new working on his own. Some new way of achieving the same effect without the energy drain.”
“That might be it,” Celerity agreed. “In magic there are countless possible ways to achieve the same end. Every class of magic has a method to light a fire, but each does so in a different manner than every other. Even within a single classification there are multiple methods for using one’s talent to achieve the same effect.”
“So that must be it,” he started to say when the graying woman ushered him a step back. He looked to see who entered the hallway important enough for her to make way for, given that people had been streaming around them continuously during their conversation.
An obvious aide, younger than Marik, carried a satchel from which protruded scrolls and the white tip of a fluffy quill. He followed a striking figure clad in midnight blue. The strong, squared features on this man, old enough to have grown sons, radiated a charismatic presence. Clearly he meant to continue past to his destination, until Celerity called to him.
“Ah, Lord Orburn. Meeting with the advisory council today?”
The man stopped. His appearance suggested he found it a pleasure to pass the time with King Raymond’s enclave chief. “Lady Celerity, indeed you guess correctly. We must reach a resolution lest our people resume their bloodshed. Would that your tournament had fallen on a different year so we could devote our undivided attentions to the business at hand. Time proceeds as it wills.”
“You have already heard our position.”
“Yes. It is unfortunate, as such demands would leave Nolier vulnerable to aggression and my people as little more than serfs scratching in the dirt. Your council must accept that unreasonable stances like this only strain our diplomatic relations.”
“Diplomacy means give and take, my lord. Unless Nolier backs down on its stances, you hasten the likelihood of renewing the war.”
“A new war is the last option any of us desire.”
“In any case, I was having a discussion with Marik Railson,” she said with an introductory gesture at the mercenary. “He came to Thoenar for our tournament, but will be leaving shortly.”
“Is that so? How magnificent,” replied the Nolier diplomat, passing his gaze over Marik’s less than clean-cut clothing. “A patriot participating in this tournament of warriors. I am sorry to hear you could not prevail unto the end.”
“Well, you know,” Marik said when the Nolier bowed in seeming sincerity. “There are many great fighters competing. It’s hard to stand out among so many capable warriors. I’ve seen dozens who are far better than me.” What is she doing?, he wondered frantically. He recognized that she wanted him to follow her lead so he implied as much without actually saying he had ever been a contender. Yet why she wanted anything of him at all mystified him.
“Yes. It is a shame that I have been occupied and unable to find the opportunity to observe the contests. I understand many have stepped forward to serve their homeland.”
“More than I can ever remember,” he mumbled, glancing sideways to Celerity.
“Indeed,” she resumed. “This year the number of talented warriors exceeds the past several tournaments. Each and all wishing to prove that he is willing to defend Galemar in the event of further turmoil.”
The Nolier dipped his head. “Patriotism ever calls forth a new generation of soldiers. No matter your homeland, the young will always stand proudly for it, especially after an exchange such as ours.”
“In point of fact, I was thanking Marik for his service in the war when you walked in. It is only a shame that with the impressive experience he garnered in the fighting, he won’t be standing on the field during the final bouts for the position of our Arm.”
“Ah, you fought in the war then? I am certain you comported yourself with valor befitting a loyal soldier.” The Nolier bowed deeper in respect. His sincerity was frightening.
“Valor and bravery both. Perhaps you heard of his duel against Duke Ronley and his retinue of knights.”
Marik caught the slight twitch in the corner of Orburn’s eye. The diplomat hardly hesitated before answering, “Indeed I did! So, you are the warrior who fought so skillfully! Tales of that battle are told all across Nolier.”
I bet they are, Marik thought, suddenly understanding in a flash where Celerity wanted him to take this. “I didn’t know that. After that fight, I thought a trifle like winning the Arm of Galemar would be easy enough. What a mistake! I can’t compare to most here. I still need a lot of training if I ever want to win the Arm!” As a soldier who had fought battles against this diplomat’s kingdom, Marik thought he could be expected to act with a measure of disrespect. “If these men had been on the field with us, the war would have been over in half a season. But they’re ready to take up arms now if there is need, even if it’s not the actual Arm they’re wielding.”
“I am certain that is so,” Orburn replied. “I hate to leave so quickly, but the council is expecting our arrival.” He reached out to shake Marik’s hand in a firm grip. “It was Marik Railson, was it not? Yes? Well, until next time,” he bowed one last time and departed.
Marik waited until the pair passed through a distant door before glowering at the graying mage. Torrance’s words about him building a reputation echoed in his head. “I am not a political tool!”
Celerity returned the angry gaze levelly. “Fighting with words or swords makes little difference if you maneuver the enemy to your advantage.”
“I am a swordsman,” Marik declared, thumping a palm to his chest. “My place is a battlefield, not a political play yard!”
She smiled a tight grin. “Soldiers are the tools of political heads. Whether we send you into battle, station you in a guard post or display you at court, it serves the same ends. The furthering of Galemar’s goals. You might wish to reconcile yourself to that truth.”
Anger threatened to make him lash out at her the way he usually did at Tollaf. Instead, “I got what I came for. I’ll be going.”
He made to depart. Her voice delayed him. “I will contact Tollaf to remain in touch with you once you’ve returned home.”
This made him whirl back to face her. “What? You don’t need me for anything!”
The hardness he remembered in her reappeared. “Until such time as we discover who this stranger is, you remain our only link. When we learn all we need to, then, and only then, will you no longer be needed.”
“What can I do?” he nearly shouted, drawing the attention of others in the hall. “Tru can do a better job than I ever could! He has my hair, damn, my blood, too!”
“You are still alive,” she told him coldly. “As long as you are, that will ever be the strongest link to your father. I will speak with Tollaf regarding this.”
He harbored no doubts she would, which dampened his enthusiasm to return home. What new decrees would the old man have waiting for him? No doubt he would work to convince Torrance to keep Marik in the town all through the next fighting season if Celerity had yet to discover her answers.
But with Ilona mere miles down the road, perhaps that might not be as terrible as all that…
A month later, riding along the Southern Road toward Kingshome, Marik winced at that particular thought. Dietrik noticed the movement and asked, “Buggered out, mate? We should reach the next town within a mark, if memory serves. They will have beds awaiting us.”
“I’m fine,” Marik asserted, the comment punctuated by a background peal of thunder. It rolled softly for several seconds before its voice deepened i
n an angry swell. The thunder softened only to fold back on itself several times.
After nearly twenty heartbeats it finally stopped. “There is a good sized storm heading our way. One that means business,” Landon observed, twisting in the saddle to study the looming clouds.
“It’s still a distance off,” Kerwin said. “If we hurry we might be able to reach shelter before the rain starts pelting.”
They nudged their mounts to a trot. Marik silently asked Ercsilon what shelter the refugees could possibly find.
The storm broke before they closed the distance to Arthington, a farming town of respectable size bracketing the Southern Road. Raindrops that fell in a faint mist switched over to a full scale assault against the surface dwellers as they hastily searched for an inn. Arthington claimed five such establishments, each located by the road to provide for travelers. Landon trotted his mount through the nearest stableyard gate.
Calls from the stable boy coaxed them to bring their mounts to the wide doors since the youth felt no desire to step into the wet for no better reason than it was his duty. The mercenaries tendered their horses. Marik, in a move grown so familiar he barely spared a thought for it, punched his mount in the side of its head when it tried to remove the stable boy’s outstretched fingers.
They carried their packs through the rain to the inn’s entrance. Several locals pushed their way past them in departure, delaying their escape from the tumultuous downpour which elicited a round of quiet curses. The proprietor met them inside the door. Accommodations were quickly reached. Within minutes their packs dried upstairs while they sat around a table in the common room waiting for their fare.
“But where does that leave us?” Marik directed at Kerwin, continuing the conversation interrupted by the raging torrent. “You’re retiring again, and this time you’re taking Landon with you! That leaves Dietrik and me alone in the Fourth Unit with Edwin’s complaints, Talbot’s bumbling and Sloan’s dead personality.”
