Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  Dietrik grumbled while he stirred. Marik worked hard not to laugh when Cork shifted, keeping a warier eye on him than the untrustworthy mage. After Dietrik barked about leaving a tale unfinished, he resumed the story of how he had come to be apprenticed under Tollaf.

  By the time he finished, Cork acted as Marik remembered from his first day assigned to the Fourth Unit. Marik excluded a few specifics, such as his ability to enhance his strength. The men were rolling into their blankets by the time he concluded with his receiving Duke Ronley’s sword as a battle prize.

  Settling into a weary sleep after the long candlemarks of walking, he reflected that Dietrik knew a bit about people after all. Give them their time, and the new recruits would start accepting him. Hopefully Cork would be the first.

  Over the next several days, he had reasons to wish the other man had simply kept away.

  His story spread among the yearlings as Cork recounted what he had learned. This Marik expected, since what had happened was hardly a private secret. The older veterans knew his history from having been there while it unfolded.

  No, what twisted Marik’s tail was the way Cork presented the facts. Not as simple gossip about another band member, but as a demonstration of how Cork’s bravery surpassed theirs. He dared to approach the weirdling mage and pry into his personal affairs while they all lacked the guts to meet Marik’s gaze. Cork sounded like a man bragging about his courage in sneaking through the woods to poke a sleeping bear with a stick.

  Far more first year band members drifted into his vicinity than before, likely as the result of whatever stories they heard. None from the Fourth Unit in the Ninth Squad, yet from nearly every other unit marching the Southern Road. They tended to loiter when the column stopped early enough that a quick practice could be stolen before the light faded.

  He knew Cork had admirably refrained from embellishment. This, of course, left others free to indulge in the practice while they traded words. New men came to steal a glimpse of the Nolier Knight Destroyer and see what impressive sword skill he must possess. Most watched from further back in the trees, thinking to remain unnoticed. The aura flock that surround him during his practices with Dietrik or Chiksan made him feel as though he stood nude in the center of a Thoenar public square.

  Why now?, he kept wondering. They had the first half of winter to watch all they wanted on the training areas. Dietrik speculated that the amount men talked increased when on the road, since nothing else filled the dull time nearly as well.

  Their eyes were a weight on his shoulders. It upset him greatly when he made minor mistakes for no better reason than he was conscious of their stares. Marik was determined not care one whit what interest anyone else might take in him. Colbey certainly did not, and look what incredible fighting talent the scout possessed. Despite having narrowed the gap between their skill levels, the scout would always be the bar by which he measured his ability.

  In spite of the nervous slips he continually made when the number of spectators grew, both on the sideline and in the woods, he felt just as glad the scout had abandoned his relentless sparring sessions. The morning they left Kingshome, Colbey had become serene. His intense drive had abated, for all appearances. He still hovered near Marik at times. Mostly he wandered wherever he felt the urge to go. It relieved Marik to see the fire dampen. Dietrik reserved judgement. Marik chalked that up to Dietrik’s over-cautiousness, remembering well how his friend had hesitated to accept Ilona at first.

  The band left the road only once, in order to skirt around Spirratta’s walls. They had no business within, and the entrance procedure for the enclosed city with so many men would consume far too much effort. Far quicker to plow through the snow drifts and regain the road on the opposite side.

  Every day new recruits trickled nearer to Marik. Most said little, if anything, contenting their curiosity with a short study before drifting away. Only a handful pestered him with questions, and the ones who did were always awestruck youths barely of age. To counter this, Marik took Dietrik and waded through the crowd until he found Maddock, Harlan and Chatham.

  The trio walked with the Sixth Squad. Maddock welcomed Marik with a friendly smile. Harlan acted indifferent. Chatham took the opportunity to bewail at length what he considered a great tragedy. With so many men, they would never be able to stop over for an evening at the Randy Unicorn and partake of the inn’s splendorous comforts.

  With his friends surrounding him, the exuberant curious tended to keep their distance. The passive wall held steadfast and Chatham’s belittling comments did much to keep this unsought attention from inflating Marik’s ego.

  Several times the band intercepted small groups riding for Kingshome. Torrance always stepped off the road to speak with these representatives who usually hailed from lords close to the border. The riders would return from whence they came after learning King Raymond had already secured the entire band for border patrol services, pleased at the prospect of receiving extra protection at no cost to their coffers.

  At the Varmeese River, the band split, two-thirds walking north to where the cargo ferry docks were, where caravans loaded or offloaded merchant goods to or from the Southern Road. They would travel north by boat. Where the Varmeese and the Pinedock merged, they would depart westward, separating as each squad angled for their destination. The Kings would be strung approximately a third Galemar’s length, with the Thirteenth Squad covering the northernmost point by the Whetstone Mountains and the Ninth Squad covering the southernmost point by the Stoneseams near the Rovasii Forest.

  Squads peeled off the closer they drew to the border. Only four squads remained on the snow-flanked road when they came to Tattersfield at midday. Marik felt peculiar walking past the town, and not merely from Chatham’s enthusiastic suggestion that they walk to Pate’s woodshop and order an entire furniture set they would never return to pay for.

  Maddock walked by his side, stoically silent as was his habit. Marik appreciated it but also thought it unnecessary. When he’d first set out into the wider world with these three, their guiding hands had kept him from untold blunders. Their experience had shielded him from the rougher consequences inherent to life. He had matured considerably since then. No longer did he need a sturdy presence to support him.

  Still, he appreciated both his and Dietrik’s gestures when they stayed near at hand until they passed beyond the town.

  Little of what he could see in it had changed during the three years since leaving. Hardly a surprise, except for one significant difference.

  No townsfolk paid attention to their passage beyond a quick glance. Most stayed inside the town unless they had business with the mills or other fringe enterprises on Tattersfield’s outskirts. There were always two or three townsmen to be seen near the road, though. Marik gazed as blandly as any other mercenary, uninterested in calling attention. None of the locals cared about the passing fighters, let alone him.

  Around each waist dangled a weapon.

  Before, hardly anyone in the town had bothered to carry a weapon during their daily life. Most men possessed weapons of various sorts, hunting spears as often as old blades. Those arms usually rested on pegs over doorways or hearths if they had escaped being stuffed into a storage crate in the rafters. He despised Tattersfield, yet its people were never soft the way the city dwellers were. They had taken out their blades, honed the edges, then gone about their normal lives.

  Tattersfield was prepared to fight in case trouble flared.

  Riley’s stories had worried him. The various rumors, so wild he discounted most he heard, had left him concerned.

  Nothing had struck him so deeply as this.

  The sight of a sword dangling from a sawmiller’s belt awakened him to danger far more effectively than a border captain’s troubled countenance. For the first time, he pondered whether a simple border patrolling contract was what they were truly walking toward.

  Chapter 29

  Chiksan’s spearhead whistled under Marik’s blad
e, the tip rushing past so close to Marik’s tunic he felt the wind pulling at the fabric. He leaned back from the Tullainian while pushing off from the cold, hard-packed dirt. The short leap earned him a moment to ready the next assault, but Chiksan pressed him in only half the time he expected.

  This time the spear slashed diagonally upward from his lower left. The veteran warrior held his spear shaft with one hand near the base, the other halfway to the steel head. When Marik danced away a second time, Chiksan held the back end stationary as his forehand described a broad circle, still clutching the shaft as he slid forward on one foot.

  The spearhead rotated so fast it blurred, arcing over Marik’s head to spin around and slam into his ribs when he had expected the follow-up strike from the opposite direction.

  “That,” Cork announced to the yard at large, “is why a sword fighter should never go one-on-one against a spearman. It doesn’t matter than Marik’s blade is longer. You just can’t beat the spear’s reach!”

  Arvallar ignored Cork’s typically decisive statement and approached Chiksan, who had stepped back to his honor position immediately upon striking Marik’s chainmail. He wore his usual expensive ensemble, today sporting a green silk button-shirt, only half the buttons fastened despite the cold. A broad V-neck resulted from this, baring his chest to the winter morning. His tight pants, tucked into his turned-down boots, did nothing to hamper his movements the way Marik had first expected they would, and he wore an impressive hat as well. Its brim extended a foot all around the crown. The ends curled up in a half-roll. Marik always saw phantom roses bedecking it. Apparently Arvallar drew the line before completely imitating the court poofs.

  The man of taste halted five feet from the two sparring men, his finger and thumb rubbing his chin in thoughtful contemplation. Arvallar finally spoke while Cork continued commenting in the background to the others watching the match. He addressed Chiksan. “Most curious indeed. But I hardly expect a Tullainian line to perform with such…agility, in the turmoil of battle.”

  Chiksan held his spear horizontally in both hands, parallel to the ground at waist level. He shifted to return Arvallar’s statement. The spear butt thumped into the ground. “No, we do not. Such tactics as for duelists are not suited for battalions.”

  Arvallar nodded, still fingering his chin. “But no style is flawless. Even your Tullainian Spear Forms. Come and I will demonstrate the weaknesses I noticed in your style.” He withdrew his rapier from its sheath.

  “As you desire, so shall I comply,” Chiksan replied, as he did to every challenge made to him thus far. Both his hands reclaimed their grip on the shaft, holding it in a new diagonal slant. One leg bent slightly as the other extended in a straight-line.

  Marik, rubbing ribs bruised through his chainmail, offered no protest at Arvallar’s intrusion. He brushed snow off one of the many crates piled in the yard’s east side before sitting and shrugged out from the links. Once free of the iron shirt, he lifted his tunic to probe the area Chiksan’s spear had struck.

  Three crates away, Cork commented on Arvallar’s obvious lack of common sense, taking on a long spear with his rapier the way he did. No one returned a reply. Wyman sat on the highest crate in the pile, endlessly flipping his ten-copper coin. Churt sat one crate lower, his crossbow propped against his shoulder from atop his knee. The boy’s mood had grown increasingly sour during their long trek, probably, Marik felt, because he could not practice his precision shooting by chewing new holes in his bedside wall every morning.

  Bancroft sat beside Cork on the lower crate row, along with most in the Fourth Unit. The men were more interested in the spar than in Cork’s opinions.

  While shorter in length, Arvallar’s rapier used its speed well to fend off Chiksan’s spear. Marik could see Arvallar working various strikes in a design meant to gradually close the distance to the spear’s wielder while avoiding blows from the heavier weapon.

  It was an excellent display of advanced footwork and sword control, yet Chiksan had fought all his life and learned a great deal. Before Arvallar could close enough distance to render the spear’s length a hindrance rather than a boon, the Tullainian switched tactics in a flash. He dropped low to the ground and lashed out, his spear streaking for Arvallar’s fancy boots.

  Surprised, caught off guard, Arvallar nevertheless avoided the blow. By luck mostly, Marik judged. He yanked one foot off the ground an instant before the spear would have made contact. In a bad position, he was forced to jerk the other one up as well. The spear sliced through the inches of empty space between boot soles and dirt.

  Arvallar landed off balance with several wobbles. He recovered his form while Chiksan followed the spear’s sweep with his whole body, twisting up in a twirl that brought him back to his feet. They faced each other, both studying their opponent, deciding their next strategy.

  Marik watched. Both of their ability as warriors was impressive. Arvallar tended to annoy him with his preening and his ‘noble’ attitude. Yet any implication that he imitated the bluebloods would unfailingly elicit a challenge. He felt much more at ease with Chiksan, the Tullainian veteran who had left his kingdom during the civil war three years back. Chiksan usually remained quiet, caring little that Marik possessed mage talent, and always accepted a challenge to spar. Though he favored his spear, he would fight with swords or flails or axes as well depending on the challenger’s wishes, all of which he could use effectively and sparred with to keep up his skill in each.

  Churt and Wyman remained mysteries, for the most part. Marik could not approach the youngster without either having a quarrel shot at him or having Churt turn his back, eyes tight with anger. Wyman kept to himself, a loner who liked his solitude. Somehow Churt had developed a loose relationship with him. If either spent time with another band member, it was usually with the other.

  His ribs were sore. The cold bit with sharper teeth at the forming bruise than at the surrounding skin. Marik lowered his tunic and shivered. These yards might be swept free of snow every day, except the cold could not be carted away with it.

  Baron Atcheron’s holding would not impress a moderately successful merchant, much less the inland nobles. His personal manor barely matched the town hall in Tattersfield for size, and the barracks for his men only equaled a single wing in the Ninth Squad’s building in Kingshome. The border baron’s holding also housed the storehouses for the three nearby villages, storehouses that together required double the space of his manor and barracks.

  Marik had thought the Fifth Storage Depot on the Galemaran line against Nolier was the smallest holding any noble would willingly lay claim to. Seeing Atcheron’s holding, he better understood Landon’s explanation on the relationship between the inland lords and those nobles on the kingdom’s edge.

  Arvallar and Chiksan closed on each other, the rapier man turning so his shoulder faced the spearman, providing a narrower target while enabling him to maximize his blade’s efficiency. Dietrik rounded a storehouse corner, pausing to watch the sparring match only for a moment before commenting, “Our Tullainian brother is keeping busy, I see.”

  “There are worse ways of keeping your weapon skills honed than by accepting every challenge made to you. I’ve been wondering if I should start taking up those offers I got on the road.”

  Dietrik’s mouth pulled back. “It’s not a smart chap who takes offers to spar from strangers, even if we are all members of the Kings. For all you know, those buggers might have been best friends with Beld, and looking for an opportunity to lay you low.”

  “Not likely, Dietrik! No friend of Beld’s is cause for any concern to me.”

  That brought a look from Dietrik; definite unspoken opinions. He kept them unspoken. “Captain Riley sent me looking for you.”

  Marik shifted his gaze away from the match. “For me? Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

  “No, not you by name. He sent me to ‘find that mage running with my pack’.”

  “I like the sound of that even less! Ho
w did he know we have a mage in the squad at all?”

  “You can ask him when we get there. He did not sound overly upset, though.”

  Marik rose from his seat, lifting his mail with a hand and tossing it over one shoulder. “Overly?”

  “The good captain did seem a tad anxious. About what, I have no idea.”

  They speculated while they walked, but Dietrik had no information Marik lacked. Whatever Riley might want, it boded ill that he had summoned Marik specifically, and especially by such a moniker as ‘that mage’.

  Not that Marik had made any effort to hide his powers. Nor had he made an issue of them either. During the last two eightdays of patrolling under Riley with Atcheron’s forces, they had encountered no disruptions. What they had come across was numerous refugees fleeing Tullainia. Those ragged people wanted no trouble, much less to cause any. Brief words from Chiksan directed them to the Southern Road, along with short descriptions of what they would be in for as homeless vagabonds when Galemar was already clogged with such.

  Baron Lysendra, Atcheron’s immediate neighbor to the north, had captured a shady group that proved to be a smuggling collective looting well-off homes in Tullainia abandoned before the troubles could advance to their doorstep. Other than the smugglers, Marik had not heard of so much as a highway robber anywhere near the border baronies.

  As far as the Ninth Squad saw it, this contract was the easiest they’d ever had. They were not so foolish as to discount the terrifying stories on the lips of every refugee they encountered, but trouble, if it ever came so far, still lay in the future. Eightdays into the future, if not months.

  Which made his sudden summoning all the more unsettling.