Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  He aimed for their faces, hoping they would be vulnerable there. None hit except for one that burned away after striking a curved horn. A spark shower, as of a hundred smiths all sharpening swords at their grindstones, cascaded in every direction. The monster fell to roll on the ground. It regained its feet in short order to Marik’s dismay. Did nothing put these beasts down for good?

  His new assault made the beasts pull back to renew pacing them. He cursed that it had not broken them, though thanked Ercsilon it had forced them to keep their distance…he stopped himself. Was such a prayer appropriately offered to him, of all the Twelve? A stumble quickly alerted him to his new problems before he could sort it out.

  He could not maintain the stamina technique while working his mage talent, and he could only form so many orbs before depleting his physical strength as well as magical. Gathering fresh energy from the mass diffusion would replace the stores needed for the orb working until exhaustion overcame him. Using the stamina trick between workings dulled the edge except it was too much to maintain for very long.

  Marik knew that the trap formed so neatly around them was unbreakable. He shifted his efforts to keeping the beasts at a distance. Hopefully, the units would find an opportunity to lose them.

  With every step taken that seemed less likely. The beasts kept with them. Black-armored figures were visible at times depending on the terrain. Morning aged into noon while their pursuers chased them further away from the battle.

  After two marks the sergeants gave up on returning to the outpost. The men were weary. Alternated pacing kept them from dropping. Kineta had spent most of the run thinking aloud when not barking orders to aim for a lone grove or curve around a narrow stream in an attempt to shake their hunters. Her plans had shifted to simply escaping with their lives. Sloan contributed little, spending his energies on the hard trot and keeping his eyes darting from beast to beast.

  An offhand remark from Chiksan looked to hold an unpleasant reality rather than a cynical prediction. He had commented, hardly panting as he did so, that these unnatural creatures would chase them to the Rovasii’s edge and beyond if nothing changed.

  At mid-afternoon, while Marik fired orbs to keep the white-robes from getting ideas, he thought the Tullainian would prove correct. The mercenaries only slowed long enough to work out the stitches formed in their sides from running too long. It would have taken an entire day to journey past Atcheron’s holding and reach the forest at an ordinary pace. They would be within the trees before nightfall if Marik kept them from being overtaken.

  If we last so long, he thought bitterly. We’re all hardened men, but we can’t run all day with heavy equipment burdening us!

  Still, they had already run five candlemarks. He would have refused to believe they could manage that much. Amazing how men could outperform their limitations when their lives were in the balance.

  But not even their lives could keep them running endlessly. They were close to collapse when they neared Sorrensfield, one of the three villages under Atcheron’s care. It lay a mile to their east.

  Kineta and Sloan never considered for a moment running to Sorrensfield. It would provide no shelter to them or aid against the monsters. Nevertheless, it did provide them with time, in the end.

  The beasts veered east when the village came to their attention. Figures could be seen moving among the buildings before alarm obviously took root. Marik could see the distant people running to the town’s center for lack of any other idea in the face of a dark dream come to life. When the beasts stormed into their midst, the cries and destruction drifted faintly to their ears across the distance.

  They stopped a mile further south. Men, except for Colbey, fell to their knees or collapsed completely, their limbs shaking from the long, sustained exertion. Marik watched his knees shiver and felt the involuntary twitches through his leg muscles. The stamina technique only mildly abated the shakes. If he had maintained the technique throughout the entire run, he might still be as fresh as at the start. He needed to find a way he could keep it in place while working his mage talent.

  Sergeant Kineta was no better off than the men. She continued urging everyone to press on despite that. Her wishes alone were inadequate to restore lost stamina, so she sat as well, never ceasing her calls for them to find new strength. They might be able to curve back north with this opportunity so the men better push onward.

  After twenty minutes, most felt they might be able to stand. They shakily regained their feet. Kineta hastened the slow to rise when Sloan called out. He pointed northwest to where armored figures were coming into view.

  She wearily decided, “Let’s go back north. We can slip past the beasts while they’re in the village.” No sooner had she said that than the monsters reappeared. Attacking the village had taken them scarcely any time at all.

  The Kings resumed their run south. Cramps and aches quickly set in. Perhaps halting had been a bad idea, Marik reflected. Stopping the monotonous, regular motions only made their bodies start feeling the effects.

  Marik kept both enemy groups back with etheric orbs at irregular intervals. The Rovasii tree line formed on the horizon, its definition clarifying with every step closer. By late afternoon, they were within half a mile of the forest.

  Kineta noticed that the beasts and black soldiers alike had paused. What little the Kings could see of their movements at this distance suggested they were hesitant about the forest. The trees had been their last hope since Sorrensfield. Seeing their pursuers waver at following them into the Rovasii raised their spirits.

  Colbey had kept pace with the units all afternoon, the only man displaying no traces of fatigue. Marik would have been surprised if he had. While they covered the last hundred yards to the forest, he increased his step, running forward. That was only proper, Marik believed. The land ahead was unfamiliar and could hide any number of hardships, including black soldiers if any of those mounted detachments had ridden hard.

  And that aside, it suddenly occurred to him that this was the Rovasii! He had lived in Tattersfield, a town only a short journey from the forest. In a single instant, every tale of haunts, spooky occurrences and thinly veiled hostility regarding the Rovasii Forest flashed through his mind. The scout was right to run in first, looking for danger.

  Were they leaping from the cooking pan into a blazing fire? Regardless, Marik launched one last orb before following Colbey, who led the mercenaries into the trees.

  Chapter 32

  Men were strewn about the clearing. Each mercenary had simply fallen were he happened to be when they’d finally found this refuge a mile into the forest. Soft grasses, protected from falling snow by a thick branch canopy, were all that had cushioned their bodies for the night’s slumber. Hardly anyone had possessed enough energy to untie packs and retrieve blankets.

  Once they had stopped, they could not have risen to save their lives. Their muscles cooled until they were all stiff as old boards, cramps hitting everyone with painful twists. Marik’s legs had tightened, his muscles turning as adverse as gate hinges that persist in rusty immobility due to years of neglect.

  A night in the cold air without a blanket’s enclosing warmth finished their flesh’s hardening. Marik’s body needed more than a night’s unsheltered sleep to recover, although the rest restored enough stamina that he could struggle to his feet. Cracks and loud pops were quickly drowned beneath his groan when he forced his back to straighten. His limbs did not wish to be on speaking terms with the rest of him, especially when he insisted they bend at the joints. They believed he had no call to ask for any favors after what he had put them through the day before. Several moments of terse negotiation were required before they grudgingly agreed to service their host.

  He ached uniformly, worse than he could ever remember unless he included time spent in the chirurgeon’s wing. A slow study revealed that few others had yet stirred. Sloan sat propped against a dead tree, watching the clearing’s northern edge and listening for sounds that mi
ght reveal strangers crawling through the forest. Kineta still snored lightly, flat on her back with a swaying longgrass stalk tickling her nose. Colbey was nowhere in sight.

  Water flowed sluggishly through the western clearing. It pooled under a miniature forest of dormant cattails waiting for the warmer spring days to loosen their seeds. Small ponds only seven or eight inches deep dotted the murky edge. Marik knelt with a strained groan by the nearest.

  The water sparkled in the soft sunlight filtering through the heavily interlaced branches. Its slow flow kept it clear as glass, unclouded by mud or silt. Still, swamp water needed to be consumed with caution. He dipped his finger, then licked the drops from the tip. Sharp, cold and clean, the tinges that characterized foul water were absent. This hardly guaranteed it was safe, but he cared little at the moment. It passed the finger test.

  Marik had drained his water skin during the endless run. Snow packed into the skin overnight would have been safest, had there been any available. Whatever light coating usually penetrated the thick trees melted soon after. The ground he’d slept on had been far from bone dry.

  He drank deeply, bent over the water, his knees sinking into the soft, saturated mud. The cold liquid cut his mouth as he partook, his throat freezing, the water chilling his stomach like swallowed ice. It felt wonderful, and went a fair step toward reviving him.

  A second body knelt beside him before he finished. Dietrik fell to his knees rather than a controlled descent. He looked worse than Marik felt. His hair resembled a cattail in bloom, puffed out in spikes and fuzz, and his eyes sagged.

  Dietrik leaned to the water. His hands slipped through the mud until they were submerged, water pooling up around his knees. He plunged his face into the shallows to drink and wash away his weariness. After a minute, Marik grew concerned and tugged at Dietrik’s shoulder, worried he had either fallen asleep underwater or lacked the strength to extricate himself.

  Marik sighed in relief when his friend pulled back. Dietrik tossed his head, flipping his drenched hair back out of his sight. Yesterday’s strain still clung to him. He slowly overcame the weariness an inch at a time while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “I see we were not all slain where we lay, as Kineta was predicting last night.”

  “No,” Marik agreed. “Though we might have company any moment.”

  “Why? What did I miss?”

  “Nothing. I meant those bastards might have stopped for the night to rest before following us into the woods. Small forces can turn the tables around in this kind of cover, if they’re smart. They must know that if they have any experience at all.”

  “A lesson we learned well, did we not?” Dietrik took his own survey of the clearing. Men slowly stirred, the ones awake struggling to rise and stretch stiff limbs. “I don’t see Colbey. Did Sloan send him out to watch our friends change their smallclothes?”

  “I don’t know. He was gone when I woke up. I guess he’s out scouting.” He shivered as the cold overcame the dull aches throughout his body. “Too bad we can’t risk a fire.”

  “No, not unless you can conjure smokeless flames. Our bloody breakfast will be as bloody cold as we are.”

  “You sound like a man with second thoughts,” Marik teased. “You left the army when it disagreed with you. Wishing you’d left the Kings yesterday morning after all?”

  Dietrik replied without matching his flippant tone. “I’ve been pondering that very question.” At Marik’s concerned expression, he added, “I think it was too late to leave as soon as we walked into Armonsfield, mate. I very much doubt I could call it quits at this point if I decided I wanted to.” He strove for a lighthearted tone, saying, “I shudder to think where we will awaken tomorrow. Yesterday we were crammed in every frozen cranny at the outpost, today it is in a wet meadow without a tent to our name.”

  “I’d rather not consider it from that viewpoint, if you don’t mind,” Marik replied. Chiksan came to drink. Even the willowy Tullainian, built from tanned leather and whipcord, showed the aftereffects of running all day. Others staggered over, four crawling after losing the battle to stand.

  “Not the best portrait we’ve ever painted,” Dietrik observed while he and Marik retreated to a fallen log they could sit against. Marik’s concern returned when he noticed Dietrik was unable to match his own movements, which were already much slower than normal. His friend’s steps were hesitant and graceless.

  “What do you suppose our next move will be?”

  “I don’t know, mate, but Kineta and Sloan can’t do anything with us as we are. No choice but to wait until we regain our wind.”

  They groaned at lowering their bodies to sit, Dietrik louder than he. Marik decided Dietrik suffered from nothing worse than extreme fatigue, and that he would be aching as badly too if he had not siphoned off his excess exhaustion during the run.

  “You need to practice the stamina trick until you can do it.”

  “Oh, bloody Twelve, don’t start in on that now.” Dietrik tilted his head back until it rested against the soft, mossy bark.

  “I used it a little, and I’m better off than you. And you must have noticed Colbey while we were all toppling like lumberjack trees.”

  “Colbey is a class unto no one. Try to keep up with him and you will only kill yourself.” Dietrik rolled his head on the moss to look at Marik. “That’s a truth you should take to heart.”

  Marik scoffed. “It’s not so hard. The stamina technique is only focused concentration, and I’ve already caught up with him in sword skill.”

  “Have you? Are you certain of that?” Dietrik sounded less than convinced.

  “I’ve been able to hold my own against him lately. All that sparring with him, and my practice on the road, paid off. My fighting skills are top draw. If I hadn’t needed to use my mage talent yesterday, I could have run along as easily as him.”

  “You sound like most of the blighters in my old division, convinced of your own invincibility.”

  “I’m nobody’s fool. I know how dangerous combat is, but I also know how far I’ve come. That I can fight Colbey on equal footing is proof of that!” Dietrik still appeared skeptical. Marik wanted to avoid an argument. He changed the subject. “How do you feel? Do you think you can move soon?”

  “I can move, but not well,” Dietrik admitted bitterly. “Give me a mark or two to stretch and work out the kinks, and I might be able to walk for awhile. I’ll not be up to a run like that again anytime soon.”

  Marik nodded. “If everyone is in the same shape, I think we should move by noon.”

  “Better to wait for Colbey to return and inform the sergeants if any unfriendlies are about.”

  “Whether they are or not,” Marik stated, “we need to move anyway. This is the Rovasii. It’s not wise to spend too much time sitting still in here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know about this forest?”

  At Dietrik’s negative, Marik spent the next candlemark recounting the various tales he had collected at Puarri’s Tavern. Dietrik’s skepticism was palpable. Marik insisted that if he had lived near the forest’s edge all his childhood, then Dietrik would also take the talk seriously.

  The Kings revived during his stories. Men performed knee bends or other light exercises designed to loosen their muscles. Everyone drank at the pond and refilled water skins. With no orders forthcoming from either sergeant, the men sat and withdrew jerked meat from their packs while they waited for Fate to reveal Her next hand.

  Churt and Wyman sat side-by-side near a brown bolder away from the water. Wyman had withdrawn his ten-copper coin to engage in his usual ceaseless flipping. The young archer also held a coin. Rather than flipping it, he practiced rolling it across his knuckles, though usually needed to retrieve it from the dirt before it completed the four finger journey.

  Arvallar sat atop his pack to keep from staining his trousers. He had been the only man to fight his blanket free of his pack before spreading it
flat and collapsing onto it. Without his hat or rapier, he seemed smaller than usual. At some point in the run he had discarded the bent blade. Only the companion dagger remained. Dietrik spent greater time with the narcissist that he did. Marik still had trouble thinking of this strange man as a shieldmate.

  Floroes forced his body to move so he could check on the men who remained supine. The amateur chirurgeon stopped to speak quietly with each. Since he raised no alarm, they must be only temporarily disabled.

  The rest simply sat and either stared at nothing or checked their equipment. Edwin pulled each arrow from his quiver to check the fletching. Only half his usual number remained. Chiksan sat with his spear leaning on his shoulder. Cork sat next to him, quiet for once. Talbot and the rest in both units looked like men awaiting the hooded figure who would lead them to their executions.

  By the time Marik finished, he finalized his decision. Sloan still sat by his tree. Kineta had returned to life enough that she started her own circuit among the men. Marik had no wish to talk with her. She might be the senior sergeant, having held the position in the Fifth Squad before her transfer, but Sloan commanded his unit.

  Sloan glanced at him when he approached with Dietrik, who moved a little easier than earlier. Dietrik halted several paces back in order to be disassociated from the conversation he suspected would take place. The sergeant rose to see what Marik wanted without a sign that he might be feeling any worse off than normal. This made no impression on Marik, who had long since learned that Sloan possessed a sort of other-self who took over when facing combat situations, an alternate personality for whom fatigue and physical strain held no meaning.

  He said nothing, waiting for Marik to speak first, which also ran true to his form. Marik considered the best way to make his point without sounding superstitious. No great strategies beckoned so saying it straight out would probably work best.