by Damien Lake
The snow finally chilled his knees enough that he tottered to his feet. While he brushed the packed freeze from his breeches, he abruptly remembered that he had not heightened his battle senses at all. He had begun fighting without bothering to open his sight, hearing, smell and even taste to the multitude of sensory information around him. Chatham would have knocked him over the head with a sneer. Colbey, who had taken such teachings to a level beyond Chatham’s, would never have bothered. No, the scout would simply have trounced him effortlessly seven or eight times in as many minutes.
That explained the trouble these two had presented him with. But he had killed them in the end anyway. Truly their fighting skills were incomparable to his.
He glanced at the fighter who had died from a spear to the heart via his armpit. Chiksan had actually killed him, yet who knows how events might have run had the Tullainian not intervened. Probably he would have managed a defense before the soldier’s blow connected. In all likelihood, he would have turned that into a victory over them both!
The soldiers’ numbers were down to seven, and the Kings allowed none of them a retreat. No sense letting them run off to bring reinforcements for a second battle. He reached for his sword when a fiery explosion shook the air to the east.
Everyone immediately glanced sharply in that direction, costing three of the remaining soldiers their lives. With no threat to his body imminent, Marik left it to drift on etheric winds to the larger battle taking place.
Celerity had mentioned a magic user, Henodd, Marik recalled, would be traveling with the force making the assault. He had been the only army mage near enough to join in time and, coincidentally, the man whose conversation Marik had interrupted through the mirror. An enchanter, she’d said in passing, though Marik had very little idea what the specifics of that magical branch might be. All he knew for certain was that enchanters combined the mage and magician talents the way wizards combined magecraft and geomancy.
Henodd must have finally brought his abilities into play. From the etheric, Marik found him quickly. The swirling in the mist energies, as he had learned, made it easy to locate magician-type magic being used.
Two of the beasts had been caught in Henodd’s spell. One had fallen, its life energies dispersing from its corpse while Marik watched. The other struggled on the ground, flailing in blind pain. Its fur burned in flames that must be spectacular from the physical plane. Henodd launched a second attack.
The Galemaran force was switching tactics. A lone rider waving his sword directed others. His new orders took advantage of Henodd’s confusion. Kingdom fighters were reorganizing and using their numbers to wash against the invaders in a relentless tide. If the black soldiers and their monsters tried to hold their position, they would be crushed under the flood.
That must be the Arm. Marik watched the man for a moment, seeing the tableau for what it was. Somewhere in that sprawling mess would be an officer who whispered in the Arm’s ear, the actual leader who ran the Galemaran side of the engagement. The Arm would call out those orders, ride impressively at the frontline, gleam in polished steel armor under the sun, bellow encouragement to boost morale, and generally inspire the soldiers to greater effectiveness. They fought beside the Arm of Galemar, a hero who had single-handedly protected the kingdom countless times since the Unification.
Marik would have spit had he a mouth to do so with. What utter foolishness. That figurehead over yonder was no unrivaled hero, outwitting enemy forces ten times the size of his own, or holding a pass against rebellious factions, or dueling to the death in single combat against fifteen enemy warriors in a row. Such legends were born when the times demanded the best of men, not in times where a border war with Nolier was the worst conflict seen in over a hundred years.
Would Hilliard have sat there and pretended to be a man long dead? The question occurred with a strangely soothing effect. He felt his scorn melt, quick memories of his former charge flashing through his recollection.
Hilliard probably would leap straight into the fighting with little care for anything except fighting his kingdom’s enemies until they were vanquished to the last. He would die quickly. As impressive a lad as he might be, Marik doubted he possessed the sheer cunning to match the accomplishments of past Arm’s. Anybody could grind a force only a quarter the size of his own under their boots. That might be the truth, but the bards would work it into the Arm’s most brilliant victory yet.
And that would make the men who had fought in the Arm’s force proud to have done so and proud to be soldiers in Galemar’s army. Every other soldier would be envious and work that much harder, so that they might be worthy to serve with him when next he needed fighters by his side.
Strange, Marik thought. But then the Arm’s purpose has always been to find victory for the kingdom despite the odds. Is this way any less valid than personally snatching the victory with his own skills?
It might not be…yet Marik disliked the whole idea. The Arm should be what the Arm should be. With the nobility restricting the position as Arm to their bloodlines these days, was it any wonder that a soft Arm had been born from their softer ranks?
Sensation from his far-off body made him speed back. Dietrik shook his shoulder. “Hey, mate. Are you with us?”
Marik shook his head, then quickly stopped when the motion renewed the glass in his lower ribs. “I am now. Looks like the Arm is leading the forces to the east. They’re starting to crush the invaders.”
“Nice to hear a spot of decent news for a change. Anyway, we’re moving off north before any more buggers come for our skins.”
“Right.”
Marik leaned over to grasp his hilt, gritting his teeth despite the pain’s lessened bite. Perhaps the damage was minimal after all.
The snow around the hilt had scraped down to the dirt from the soldier’s death throes. When he tugged, the sword remained stuck fast in the dead man’s torso. Mostly his armor refused to let go rather than the flesh behind. Marik nearly needed to reinstate the strength working before it finally pulled loose.
He followed behind Dietrik. The sergeants started north at a faster clip this time, hugging the stone mountain wall close enough to touch it. With luck they would avoid any further conflicts before rejoining the kingdom forces. They had lost four men, which for the Crimson Kings was a high number to lose against an equally sized force of regular fighters. Glancing around revealed most of the people he knew. How had Arvallar survived the battle in which he’d been so hard-pressed when the flashy peacock only wielded a dagger?
The throbbing in his side brought his attention to other matters. That odd leather the black soldiers wore was trouble. It captured his blade whenever he cut it and left him open to attack. Surely that accounted for the high number of losses in their two units.
It would burn up his reserves quickly, but it would be best to use dual channeling in the next fight. With the blunt trauma from his shielded blade, he would be able to deal lethal damage without risking his blade becoming stuck. The pain in his side testified to the effectiveness inherent in a bludgeoning force.
That decided, he focused his gaze on Dietrik’s back while slowly filling his reserves from the mass diffusion.
* * * * *
No good. They siphoned off from the line’s rear, damn them! There’s still too many!
Colbey’s view through the tangled bushes revealed fewer men surrounding his quarry, but still too many to make attacking a viable option. Twenty soldiers that he could see were clustered around that vainglorious tent like flies hovering over a garbage pile.
Why had the murderer ordered men off the line to destroy the threat behind him? The fight against the invaders waged furiously, especially with the Galemaran’s witch stirring up trouble. They needed every man they had to defend least they be overrun. He should have sent his own guards since they were the only fighters unengaged at that moment! He should have, the gods curse him for eternity!
Instead the coward gave greater care to h
is hide than to battlefield strategies that would help ensure his men victory. Colbey’s hand twisted unnoticed on the shrub branch concealing his presence.
The long years spent with no thought given to anything except this moment; to finally having his people’s murderer within his sight. At last he had tracked his prey to this time, to this day.
He had left the few village survivors behind, resolved to cut his way through entire armies if need be…and he crouched like a child, afraid to move because the man he sought stood among allies. Only twenty men stood between him and the author of his village’s demise. Twenty men under the mistaken impression that they knew how to fight.
Such a pittance should surely pose no impenetrable barrier to a true Guardian! Hard, fast, efficient. Dead before a man could raise his sword. He could slay the first six or seven before they could organize, then use speed to keep changing positions, prevent them from surrounding him. Kill every dark mongrel his fluid dance would bring him near until none remained but he and the worst criminal in the lot.
:Yes. Stop cowering in fear and go! Bring them down! Send them all to the Abysmal Gates and let them burn in perdition’s flames and drown in seas of tormented souls!:
Yes, Colbey agreed. Liam was right. A fate befitting the evil pulsating in their black hearts. Yes. Yes. Their righteous due. Yes.
When he pulled back his arm, his hand remained fastened to the stout branch. He glared at his knuckles, willing them to move. They refused to respond with their usual alacrity. His fingers gripped the rough wood tighter before loosening marginally. Colbey jerked hard to free his grip. The bush shook violently enough that any soldier happening to glance toward the forest could never fail to notice.
His hand came free after a prolonged tug. Colbey stared at it in fury. He would not be betrayed by anyone! Least of all a traitorous appendage! If it continued to disobey him, if it meant to hinder, then he would simply cut it off.
Colbey rose to his feet to leap into the fray and finally exact his vengeance. Or so he meant. He tumbled into the bush. Branches scraped at his face and exposed skin.
Amidst the bush’s grasping clutches he yanked his sword from its sheath. He rolled to lash back at whoever had grabbed his ankles. Anyone preventing his quest after so long, so very long, would surrender their lives as payment for their foolishness.
No one. He was alone.
All over he sent his gaze, searching every shadow and leaf for the person responsible.
No one.
Confusion rolled over him. The one interfering must have escaped like the wind into the deeper trees. Well, he would show this misguided jokester the error of his ways.
He made to stand and nearly tumbled for the second time. Colbey studied his legs in shock. No hindrance bound them, yet they denied his will as surely as his hand had. They refused to unbend from their crouch.
The fury consumed him until the faint touch of Sylvia’s fingers cooled his shoulder. It dampened the rage enough that his rationality returned. His hand rested on his knee. He took several deep breaths as he peered into his soul.
I am no coward. I do not fear my enemies, nor do I fear death. If death must be offered my life in exchange for his, then I have long accepted that price. The time is arrived. The day is come. I am a Guardian! I am no coward!
He slowly rose. His body obeyed him as it always had before. Colbey flexed his grip and tested his knees by squatting. Whatever temporary gutlessness had afflicted him no longer froze his limbs.
The implications unsettled him. It had been a long time since he last engaged in serious self-examination. If this day ended with him still alive, he would need to search his soul, to find any lingering apprehensions and purge them.
Troubles for a future that would unlikely concern him. The final leg to his journey had begun. He leapt from the forest to confront his fate.
Colbey burst into the open snow fields intending to rush the semi-vulnerable command force. He stopped immediately. During the few minutes spent overthrowing his body’s rebellion, matters had changed.
Galemar’s forces had finally organized with effective tactics. Along the invaders’ frontline, black-armored fighters were being pushed back. The southern flanks were in danger of folding.
Rather than fight to the last with his men, the cowardly murderer had started a retreat with his men shielding him. His personal guard force ran north with him in the center. Soon enough his force’s pitiful remains would be ground through the snow into bloody rags by the kingdom fighters.
Colbey watched in disbelief until their diminishing size drove home their flight. They were escaping! Escaping from him!
It could not be allowed! He ran, giving chase. Nothing mattered
:Against…:
except killing the one responsible! The one responsible! Colbey would pay his life in forfeit if he needed to, but oh, he prayed, prayed that the gods would grant him the opportunity to stab under his fingernails, to flay his skin, to cut
:Against…:
his living scalp from his head and to pierce his eyes with a burning steel dagger until the fluid within boiled and his eyeballs exploded! Yes, how he prayed, but simply to kill him would be enough if he accomplished nothing else. He focused on the fleeing cravens, the dark fog blocking out all else except his goal, helping him fly as an arrow to his enemy’s heart. Even if they never slowed again, he would never rest until he closed the distance. Slow them down, yes, and those miserable mercenaries could not accomplish so much as that! Especially that two-faced mage who had seduced his trust, had wormed his way into Colbey’s confidence for his own selfish desires. That betrayer had only ever wanted what Colbey could teach him, had never intended to pay his promised aid. Probably he, too, was truly after his village’s long protected power, just like every other mage in this foul land. Yes, if he survived after killing the murderous Dead Man, then he would next kill that lying mage
:Against…:
who had dared to work his witch charms on him! On a Guardian! A vile, filthy mage bent on stealing everything he could for his own ends! Well, the deceiver had not been killed by the soldiers he was meant to be distracting. Obviously the mage meant to take everything from him if he could, including his vengeance. No, it would not be. He would cut that deceiver’s throat
“Against…”
and throw his heart into a blazing fire after ripping it from his chest. Then the deceiver would finally learn the price of greed.
Colbey laughed as he ran across the snow, seeing nothing except the black-armored men guiding his way.
* * * * *
“We actually might make it through this alive,” drifted to Marik’s ears from Wyman, the observation floating from somewhere among the huddled group. At the same moment a sickening glow on the horizon filled Marik’s stomach with acid. He stopped dead, taking no notice of the others while he leapt fully into the etheric plane. The speed with which he flew across the ground would have terrified him witless had he traveled at such insane speeds in his physical, mortal body.
He returned before Dietrik could finish calling ahead to the sergeants. His friend read his expression with grim ease. “Trouble then, is it mate?”
“Yeah.” Marik heard the dead tone his voice carried. Kineta trotted back to demand an explanation. “There’s a new force coming south straight at us. Black soldiers.”
“How many?” Kineta growled.
“Too many. I read it at nearly a thousand easy, though it’s hard to tell through the magesight.” He glanced around while Kineta stared through him at nothing. “Straight at us. And we don’t have a single damn place to hide.”
* * * * *
Too many men were crowding the field. From the etheric, the different aura masses collided in a churning chaos. Marik only stole instantaneous glances during the two or three second intervals he was allowed to stop and catapult into the high plane.
His news never eased Kineta’s burden. A detachment, probably escaping enemy officers, quickly ret
reated north. They should miss them if the mercenaries clung to the mountain’s base. The Galemaran forces had broken the remaining southern line and pursued the enemy fragments in every direction across the field. If they had detected the new hostile army approaching their flank, they evinced no sign of it.
Kineta had finally decided that playing it safe was not an option any longer. Any direction they moved would bring them into contact with others, so she elected to return southeast and join the kingdom fighters. Sloan offered no objection. The men all looked grim.
They ran, as they had days before. Kineta ordered Marik to run faster to reach the head, then pause only long enough to see if any soldiers, friend or foe, had neared. Once Cork and Chiksan at the rear passed him, he needed to stop searching in order to run faster than the rest to the head in and endless cycle.
Marik’s concerns centered on avoiding an assault from their presumptive ‘allies’. If they came running full-tilt at the Galemaran soldiers, they might attack before the Kings could declare their identity.
“Over there!” he shouted. Kineta and Sloan stopped thirty feet ahead. They followed Marik’s pointing finger to the east. “There’s a hundred or so men hunting down a black soldier group!”
He expected her to order everyone to run. Instead the sergeant called for every archer available to go forward. With them forming a miniscule frontline, the two units trotted behind at a slower pace. The archers held arrows at the nock, ready to loose them in a heartbeat.
After several minutes the remaining invaders came into view. Fortune favored the mercenaries. These fleeing enemies had been running mostly westerly. This brought them straight to the Crimson Kings.
The kingdom forces had already destroyed the greater share. Nine soldiers had escaped and were running for their lives with Galemaran fighters on their heels. Both sergeants ordered the flight release.
Only four arrows and one quarrel flew. Each found a mark. Churt’s crossbow flung his target off his feet while three other soldiers tumbled with shafts in their bodies. One fell screaming from an arrow through his arm.
