by Damien Lake
Janus picked a tall man who looked Galemaran. He sported muscle built from regular physical labor, such as a dock worker or caravan loader. His movements were lithe. Marik guessed Dock-man might be highly dexterous or evasive in combat.
The second picked by the head clerk seemed average in every way except for his long hair pulled back into a tail. Marik watched him carefully, finally deciding by the time Tail reached the judging tables that he possessed a measured quality to his movements. Each motion seemed carefully considered and efficiently performed. This man might possess deadly accuracy with whatever weapon he chose.
After their questioning they each chose a sword from the pile. They faced each other until Janus called for the battle to start.
Dock-man swung wildly at Tail as soon as Janus shouted. With several feet separating the two, the ironwood sword swished through empty air. Regardless, Tail stumbled back several paces to avoid the blade. This prompted Dock-man to dash forward. He apparently forgot he held a sword, though.
While he ran forward, the blade knocked between his ankles, making him stumble to his knees. Tail regained his balance to launch his own attack. He swung downward at Dock-man in an overhead strike. Rather than hitting his target, he pounded his blade into the wet earth a full foot to the left. Mud splattered across Dock-man’s face.
Dock-man slipped when he tried to reclaim his footing. Tail raised his sword for a second strike which landed where his opponent had been before his attempts to regain his feet. Several times Tail repeated the maneuver, as though hammering at a tent stake. Each time he missed completely.
Finally Dock-man managed to stand firmly while Tail readied another overhead strike. Desperately he swung his sword upward to attack Tail. The two swords met, struck, then spun away from their hands. Both men scampered through the mud to reclaim them.
Janus ordered them to stop. He sounded as disgusted as Marik could ever remember hearing the man. The interviews consisted of only two questions each before both were sent away down the hill to the Southern Road. Catcalls from the mercenaries on the wall followed them.
“What is the matter?” Dietrik asked when he noticed Marik’s expression.
“Nothing. I’m just glad Kerwin isn’t here. I doubt I’ll pick many winning bets today.”
Pair after pair sparred, few displaying skill on a level with the first two. The acceptance rate transposed from Marik’s experience. Three out of four were disqualified.
Under such a lousy showing, the mercenaries who came to enjoy the fights gradually departed in disgust. Those who remained hailed, as he and Dietrik, from squads shorted on recruits last season. Their interest ran deeper than a moment of diversion. Mouths drew thin into tight lines as they watched the talentless pool from which their new shieldmates would be chosen.
“Tomorrow is another day, I’ve heard it said,” Dietrik commented when twilight called an end to the matches. “It is quite possible that all of the bad apples were pulled from the barrel today. If half were terrible fighters, then the good half could be waiting for the call tomorrow.”
“It is quite possible,” Marik mimicked back, concentrating on not plunging to his death from the narrow planks, “that this was the good half.”
“There you go, as usual. I’ve noticed you tend to take the darkest outlook on any given situation.”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“You shouldn’t frown so much. Your lady friend won’t like the lines it leaves.”
They returned the next morning to watch the rest of the sparring trial, albeit early enough to claim a better position from which to watch. Marik’s cynical observation seemed prophetic during the first half-mark. Today’s applicants fought as badly as yesterday’s worst.
That abruptly changed with the calling of a man Marik instantly dubbed ‘The Peacock’. His black hair had been slicked back with a tonic that hardened it into his own natural helmet. He wore a brilliantly green shirt that Marik could identify even from the heights as silk. The cuffs were layered, as if the tailor had forgotten how many each sleeve should bear. Two flaps of silk encircled the sleeves above the fanned cuffs so his wrists fluttered in bird flight.
Hanging around his neck rested a necklace, though of what design Marik failed to discern. The necklace hung between the open leather vest not unlike Kerwin’s. He wore tight green pants a lighter shade than his shirt. Black leather boots with intricate designs and turned-down cuffs twice as large as his legs completed the ensemble.
“Must be a noble on the run from his peers,” Marik commented with derision while he studied the man. “Only one of them would think to wear a shirt like that.”
Dietrik refrained from comment until Marik scorned the boots. “Actually, mate, that boot style is not so uncommon in the northernmost reaches of Galemar. You see them around the port towns on the Stygan. I believe they are of Gustur origin, or perhaps they are Vyajjonese. I saw them quite often during my childhood.”
“They still look ridiculous. How can you walk with your boots taking up all the space?”
Janus chose a Tullainian from the crowd to face him. The Peacock chose a narrow sword from the pile while the Tullainian picked the pole arm. Most Tullainians who qualified seemed to prefer it. Marik anticipated watching the Peacock receive a thorough pounding.
But the joke would be on him. Janus called the start. The Peacock shifted his weight so he stood idly, waiting for his opponent to approach. His sword dangled almost effeminately from one hand. Slowly the Tullainian approached. The sense of hidden danger made him wary.
When the Tullainian stepped within feet, preparing to strike with the longer weapon, The Peacock reacted. Graceful yet eye-blink quick, he lunged. His ironwood sword rose. It cut in a single downward diagonal. Marik would later swear he could see the precise line cut by the sword, as though The Peacock had wounded the very air, leaving a perfectly straight scar on reality.
The ironwood blade connected with the ironwood pole arm with force enough to wrench it free of the Tullainian’s grasp. Though he still retained a grip on the backend with his other hand, the Tullainian jumped away, dragging the mock spear through the wet dirt. He quickly lifted it to correct the grip.
Fortunately for him, The Peacock chose not to press the attack. Instead he resumed his lazy posture, waiting for the Tullainian’s next attempt.
Wary, narrow-eyed, the Tullainian approached, circled. Six times he either drew too near or launched an attack. Each time the blade’s exacting strike deflected his assault. The Tullainian kept his grip firm on each subsequent clash, yet the obvious precision in the blows shocked him.
Janus ordered a stop. The Tullainian acted nervous when The Peacock stopped on their way to the tables. Marik could not hear what, but the flamboyant man spent a minute speaking and gesturing at length with his opponent to punctuate his view while Janus glowered. When he finished, The Peacock confronted the judges, leaving a confused Tullainian to follow in his wake.
Every mercenary watching from the walls speculated on the ostentatious figure. Not surprisingly he took to the western side of the road. After many questions, the Tullainian did as well. The match marked a turning point in the day. Fewer green non-combatants emerged.
At day’s end, the hillside held roughly four-hundred men qualified to participate in the team battles on the north slope beginning the next day. Dietrik and Marik returned to the barracks for Luiez’s meal of yams stuffed with ham and cheese, debating the whole way whether or not to watch the remaining trials. Marik’s lethargy had ebbed over the last two days. He was anxious to resume his training.
“Your drive is admirable, if a tad suspicious,” Dietrik teased him. Luiez filled their bowls with the cooked vegetables that accompanied every meal.
“And what will you do when one of the lieutenants challenges you this winter?” Marik returned, poking Dietrik’s non-existent gut. “Better not let Nyla see you going soft or else she’ll have you carrying fifty pound shields all over the Marching
Grounds again.”
Dietrik shuddered theatrically at the thought of their orientation instructor. “Ordinarily I welcome the attentions of a woman, but not her. I wonder if she’ll be doing the D Class training this year?”
Marik shrugged and claimed his food from Luiez. “Who cares? They assign new instructors each year.”
They sat while Dietrik mused, “At the very least, whoever ends up with the job won’t be plagued with Dellen’s company.”
Eyes raised, Marik commented, “Oh? I’d forgotten all about him. What, did he get knocked out in the first round this year?”
Dietrik shook a negative. “He did not enter. I watched each spar, but he did not put in an appearance. I suppose it shows that anyone can eventually learn when to give failure up as a bad job.”
“Or else the clerks wouldn’t let him enter. Failing three times in a row might blacklist you entering at all next time.”
“I suppose. Oh well, one less amusement to keep me entertained. Still, I wonder where he got off to?”
Marik lifted an eyebrow, then lowered it in lieu of a shrug. “Who gives a damn? As long as his gang of idiots leave us alone, I couldn’t care less.”
* * * * *
Gloria stood on the staircase long enough to make sure Dellen threw the two ruffians out into the night good and proper. When the big man finished knocking their heads together, she returned upstairs to ensure Marina had suffered no serious harm at their rough hands.
Dellen slammed the door after the two. No other men waited in the common room of Gloria’s tavern for a turn upstairs so he lumbered over to sit at Beld’s table. He looked bitterly at the tankard filled with water sitting beside Beld’s ale. Gloria never let him to drink while on duty.
“Ya’ see that? I gotta put up with another year of this turd job.” He picked up the tankard, then replaced it on the table without drinking. “How come ya’ wouldn’t let me enter, huh? I would of made it in this year!”
“I told you I smelled them out,” Beld replied. His brow knitted in anger. “Last year I saw that dirty bastard on the wall, tricking on you with his magic. Left as soon as he made sure you fell out.”
Dellen growled low in his throat. “Son-of-a-whore…Why’s he got it in for me then?”
With a snort, Beld stated, “Those mage types like toying with us natural folk. Like showing they can rub our faces in the horse manure when we’re stronger than them.” He clenched the tankard tightly. “I saw him and his sidekick up on the wall waiting for you, wanting to screw you over again. He’s been tricking on us from the first and walking around, saying he beat us skill-for-skill!”
He cocked his arm to throw the tankard, then caught himself. Beld forced his muscles to relax. If he starting destroying the crockery, Gloria would revoke his right to patronize her establishment, just as she had with Albin. Since then, whenever Albin felt the itch, he needed to keep walking past Cedars to the next closest town where willing ladies could be bought, a journey of an extra day roundtrip.
Across the table, Dellen steamed in impotent rage. “So whatcha gonna do about it then? I can’t get in the town! You have to break his neck for me! I’ll never join you with him trickin’ me up!”
“I’m working on it,” Beld growled back. “He’s sneaky, that one. And his friend’s no slouch either. If we rush him, he’ll cheat with his magic like before. I’ve been trying to figure something out. We need to use our heads.” Lower, nearly a whisper, “No one cheats on us.”
Dellen watched Beld settle into his thoughts, then added, “Maybe nothin’, but a fellow’s been askin’ around Cedars about him. Any friends he has, too.”
Beld jerked his head to gaze fully at Dellen. “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh,” Dellen grunted through his nose. “Came by yesterday. Askin’ about the merc town back down the road. Fishin’ for info, like ya’ used to say.”
“And asking about him?”
“Heard already from guys around town what he wanted. He said he found out I had a run-in with that mage from the merc town, and what could I tell him. But it didn’t sound like this fella’ knew he was a mage. I told him come back tomorrow, I’m busy now.” Dellen sipped his water. “I knew ya’d come by tonight and thought ya’d wanna talk to him.”
Beld nodded. “This sounds interesting. He say why he wanted to know?”
“Nope,” Dellen responded. “But he should be by anytime.”
Together they waited for the mysterious man to appear. Gloria came downstairs, walking past the table without pretense to ensure only water inhabited Dellen’s vessel. She retreated to the kitchen. Despite little by way of food ever being served, the kitchen remained warmer than the rest of the building. The door had long been removed from the frame. From the chairs Gloria had positioned by the cutting table, she could fend off the chill while keeping a watch for new arrivals.
Men, mostly from Kingshome, arrived at a regular pace. Individuals or small groups would arrive every quarter-mark on the average. If they needed to wait, they usually only occupied a table for two or three minutes before Gloria would call them to the staircase. Beld shook his head when she called for him. Gloria shrugged, uninterested in why he decided he would rather spend the evening in her common room.
Veji eventually returned from his romp. It surprised him to find Beld still waiting. Any questions he had were forestalled when Dellen grunted at the entrance.
A man entered. He spotted Dellen immediately as he wriggled free from his cloak and hesitated at seeing the others sitting with the man he wished to speak to. They all took note of the carved club hanging from his belt.
Dellen nodded at a free chair. “Ya’ wanted to talk about that fella’ I fought against, the one who sucker hit me when I wanted into the merc band? Then ya’ can talk to my friends too.”
The newcomer’s eyes flicked from man to man, taking in their appearance, making snap judgements. Veji, confused, asked, “You talking ‘bout that magiker?”
“Magiker?” The club wielder sounded as lost as Veji. Beld shot a silencing look sideways before he addressed the new man directly.
“Yeah, that’s right. I know you’ve been asking around, so if it’s the same man we’re thinking of, he’s one of the band’s mages. You didn’t know that.”
“No,” admitted the man. He restudied Dellen, calculating how much of his business might be known by this stranger.
“First off I want to know who you are and why you care about him,” Beld took control. “You’ve been asking around. How did you find out about Dellen?”
Once again the stranger paused before answering. When at last he made his decision, he said, “Call me Tallior. As for my interest, all I will say is this man I’m looking for stepped on the wrong toes.” At Beld’s accepting nod of a deeper story that would remain unrevealed, Tallior continued. “The men I’m after go by the names of Landon Ailock and Marik Railson. They have two companions named Dietrik Balledry and Kerwin Lucress.”
Beld nodded. “I don’t know about that Landon or the other one, Ker-something.” Hot malice saturated his features. “But I know all about that Marik bastard, and his jackrabbit friend.”
“One of them is a mage, you say?”
“That’s right,” Veji waded in. “He ain’t no normal man.”
Veji silenced at Beld’s cracking knuckles, sounding off like exploding pine knots as the large man’s fist clenched. Tallior read the reaction, evaluated Beld as their little group’s leader and so directed his conversation solely at him.
“I knew they had associations with a mage, but I didn’t know it was one of them. But you,” he glanced around at their group quickly. “How did you become involved with them? I unearthed rumors concerning your friend Dellen because he tends to rail against life after a few drinks. His grudge against two mercenaries in particular is hardly a secret around Cedars.”
“That doesn’t explain how you knew the names of the guys who crossed him.”
Sly knowledge passed over Tallior�
��s face. “You would be genuinely surprised at what ordinary people know. At what secrets they learn, things they have no business knowing.”
Since Tallior clearly did not intend to tell them, Beld recounted their vendetta regarding the mage and his friend. How the mage had used his magic to distract Dellen during his first entrance trail, fending off strikes with his unnatural art that should have properly laid him low, setting him up for a cheap blow from behind. How the mage used his talent to ensure none of Beld’s strikes would connect during their duel months after. Later, once the trickster stopped making a secret of his abilities, he found it entertaining to disrupt Dellen’s warrior senses, confusing his mind during the trials so he hesitated or acted foolishly.
Tallior, discovering useful allies the longer Beld spoke, inquired what the men had done thus far to neutralize their enemy.
“There isn’t any way,” Beld admitted painfully. “If it weren’t for his magic, we’d grind them up in a minute. But if we head-to-head like last time, he’ll start tricking.” He shook his head. “We can’t get close enough to finish the job.”
“With mages,” Tallior observed, “stealth is usually the surest method. I have a powerful poison that works within thirty heartbeats of swallowing. If you slip it into his food, no one will be able to trace the cause of death to you.”
“Nope,” Beld conveyed the negative with his whole upper body. “You don’t know anything about Kingshome, do you? I can see. He’s in a different squad, which means he lives in a different building. I can’t go in there without a good reason.”
“Such as? Make a plausible reason.”
“Isn’t any. Nobody ever has reason to go into the other barracks. It’s just food and beds in there. Since I can get both in my own, why am I in a different?”
“You eat in the barracks?”
“Yeah. All of us out of the same pot. Forget poison. How else do you deal with magic types?”
