Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  The archers readied their next shots quickly. Churt was only seconds behind them. His crossbow’s stirrup allowed him faster reloading than Marik would have guessed.

  With half their number suddenly gone, the remaining soldiers hesitated in confusion. They started running before the archers could fire clean shots at stationary targets. Only one arrow found a target, then Churt’s quarrel caught a second between the shoulder blades. His target windmilled forward to land face first, plowing drifts in the snow before collapsing.

  The two remaining thought to flee north. Shortly they discovered that their pursuers had maneuvered to block that avenue. They fought well. Soon, they too cooled in the snow with their fellows.

  Kineta walked to the larger kingdom force to find the leader. A rider quickly rode out to her and the two conferred. Marik glanced south. No magesight was needed to see the remaining army soldiers heading their way. The Arm rode at their fore. He had sheathed his namesake sword, for which Marik gave him slight credit. Only a fool caught up in his own glory would continue to wave it around during a march. Still, that silvered armor made him hard to mistake for anyone else.

  Marik briefly jumped into the etheric skies to look down on their approaching allies. He guessed they had lost roughly a quarter of their men. Most losses could be laid on the monstrous beasts.

  Gestures from the conference between mercenary and rider quickly brought Sloan to join their discussion. Similar gestures brought a pair of mounted men from the hunters. One rider dismounted to give his horse over to Kineta. Even at that distance, Marik could see the man disliked doing so, either because he felt vulnerable without his mount or because he needed to sacrifice it to a mercenary, and a female hire-sword at that. A little of both, if Marik had learned anything about soldiers.

  The second rider galloped with Kineta. Both rode hard for the approaching forces. She must have explained the larger threat imminent. Hopefully she would make the Arm advance a few minutes faster.

  Marik shifted his view and saw that the approaching invaders were less than a mile distant. Dietrik nudged him when he reentered his body. He pointed without speaking. Movement shimmered over the rolling ground, the snow seeming to roil. If they continued without slowing, the day’s second major battle would begin in fewer than ten minutes.

  He drew his sword and shrugged off his pack. It heartened him to see the action matched by every other experienced mercenary he knew. The younger among the newer recruits watched for a moment before understanding. It was another mark of his advanced experience that he had acted on instinct.

  The men all threw their packs into a pile that grew into a small hillock. If they survived then they would return to reclaim their possessions. None were so valuable as to be worth the risk of their encumbrance during the coming fight. Only coins were of any true value, and each man usually carried them in pouches or purses tied to their belts or stashed under their tunics.

  Marik gathered in energy. With the physical shield woven around his blade, his reserves would drain far quicker. That would be no problem if he ever figured out how to continually draw while utilizing his strength working. Of course by then, Sennet would have his new blade ready, and it would no longer matter. Today he would need to be cautious.

  He would hold the frontline and destroy any black bastards that dared to come near. When his reserves ran low, then he could duck back into the line long enough to refill from the mass diffusion. Or, he thought, if I can cut a wide enough swatch, then I might be able to drop the workings long enough to fully refill before they close ranks on me.

  That might work as well. He remembered the void that had surrounded him at the Hollister Bridge when the Noliers came to realize he was different from the other fighters. If that happened, he might have to lead the frontline in a charge against the enemy, forcing them to confront him.

  But he could do it. His fighting skills were top level, unmatched by these slobs who thought being a soldier also meant being a fighter! He would show them what real skill was.

  Yes, and he would show the ‘appointed’ Arm of Galemar what made a true warrior. Let him wallow in the knowledge that he only aped his predecessors. He could stew in his own shame that commoners were more deserving of being acknowledged as the greatest warriors of the age. Marik hoped a tone-deaf minstrel would write another song that would endlessly warble through the nobility’s halls and forever torment this grandiose kingdom defender.

  That might send the puffed-up nobles a clear slap to the face. He grinned at the thought before reentering the etheric. This time he sank through the insubstantial ground to search for any lines flowing near the Rovasii. The faint sensation of heat baking across his being quickly led him to two.

  Both lines were very thick and strong. They flowed south, into the forest, or under it, he supposed. He hesitated to touch either. His experience with lines was limited. These were far larger than the fat lines flowing under Thoenar.

  Tollaf had assured him such a difference would not make a difference, the old fart sounding less than credible as he listed endless variations between lines, all while stating that none of them changed their nature in any significant manner. The flowing energy would answer to his manipulations as long as he refrained from reckless actions.

  Marik pulled back without opening a channel to the lines. The mass diffusion hung thickly around the outer forest. It should provide him with energy ample to his needs. Neither the strength working nor the physical shield required enormous energy supplies.

  It was good to know the lines were there, though. He opened his eyes. The black soldiers had crossed half the distance. Behind the mercenaries, the Arm led his forces at a hard gallop. An even toss of the coin as to which would arrive first.

  Battleground. He stood at the collision point where two forces would meet. Where the battle would be joined. Marik caressed his hilt, unleashed his battle instincts, and waited to prove himself.

  * * * * *

  Furious. Had there ever been any point at which his fury glowed a burning white hotter than this? Four men had halted to stop him, stop him, once they realized they were being pursued. They dared to think four spit-bladed novices could prevent his justice? After the long road he had followed to meet them here?

  Colbey chewed his lip, tasting blood droplets through the flesh his teeth opened. The damnable fodder had slowed him too long. Long enough that the coward had escaped into the advancing invader army.

  He had taken too long, dawdling when he should have pelted. A delicious anticipation had overtaken him when he’d drawn closer to the man, delectable as pure spring water after months of only muddy streams to partake of. It had slowed his pace to a near skip as he felt the murderer within his grasp.

  Then the trickster’s butchers appeared. They had deceived him into believing the minor camp by the Rovasii was their entire southern forces. Once he had broken cover and revealed himself, they sprung the trap they had built for him. Foul and dirty tactics. Only to be expected from such filth as these.

  Sylvia’s cool hand was a counter to Liam’s barking demands that he attack hard and destroy them to a man. His feet twitched to carry him onward…but the cold truth faced him, undeniable, its presence filling the northern snowfields. The Dead Man had disappeared into that fresh hoard. Rooting him out…that would take…would take…

  Colbey shook though the cold did not touch him. For a moment he wanted to curl into a ball and weep.

  Liam slapped him with a mental shout. :Sniveling coward! First you fail us to our deaths! Now you fail us in our vengeance!:

  It stiffened his spine. He wanted to shout back in a red rage that he would succeed, that he would kill every betrayer and desecrator as he’d cut down these four rearguard fools. Colbey kicked the gaping wound in one throat where his sword had found the opening between helm and collar. Blood splattered across the already stained snow.

  The head lolled from his blow’s force, the helm slipped from a seated position on the dead skull. He
noted it, then Sylvia’s calmer voice whispered a suggestion to him.

  Perhaps. They were not so far off. Was it not justice for both? Betrayers killing desecrators. Covetous liars fighting murderers.

  Colbey crouched, his fingers fumbling while he worked. Moments passed before he understood that his hands had lost their precision because he laughed, his body shaking with jubilee.

  Why should he not laugh? Liam roared with the old bellowing guffaws he had always effected. Sylvia beamed down on him with her broad smile. Colbey joined them as two armies closed to squeeze him between them in a bloody vice.

  Chapter 35

  The Kings led the charge, or perhaps had been pushed ahead by the thundering soldiers running in the Arm’s wake. Being the first to cross swords was business as usual for the mercenaries; they would have felt odd fighting in any other position.

  With the Arm in the point, Galemar’s forces reached the snowy swell that held the Kings as enemy footsoldiers stormed over a matching roll in the land a hundred yards north. The kingdom fighters never slowed, absorbing the mercenaries and their own hunter force on the fly.

  Marik ran unencumbered, holding off the strength working until the swords started swinging. Conservation would play a telling roll over the next candlemark, or several marks if any further surprises lay in store. Several times his feet slipped across the frozen ground. He had practice in winter fighting though, and had learned the simple tricks to help maintain balance on slick footing. All his winter abilities had been garnered over the last eightdays, which he would mention to Tollaf when he returned. Loudly and clearly. To what use did spending a few marks falling over each other in a Temperature Reality make when practical experience proved time without end to be the best teacher?

  He pounded across the open field with his shieldmates in a charging line. Dietrik, as always, watched one flank. This time Cork ran to his right. Marik would have preferred anyone else in the unit, even swordless, prissy Arvallar. They would all have the sense to give him the room his blade needed. Cork might not so much as realize being shoulder-to-shoulder only leant an advantage when every man wielded similar short swords.

  Floroes loped in his customary bound to Cork’s opposite side, with Wyman the next in the line. Churt pattered behind the older man. It had become a given that the two would usually partner together when given the opportunity.

  Covering Dietrik’s left flank was Talbot, which might also cause problems stemming from the man’s good-intentioned efforts. Edwin ran with his bow held low behind the bumbler, arrow loosely nocked. Perhaps the archer could provide enough distraction that Talbot could make use of the skill that had earned him a place in the band.

  Beyond Talbot ran a First Unit swordsman, name unremembered by Marik who never made much effort with the mercs outside his unit. Chiksan jogged one man beyond with his spear leaning on his shoulder, the pole arm’s head nearly braining the man behind him at times.

  Everyone knew this would be a hard battle with a high death count. Their numbers were too closely matched to make anyone optimistic in spite of the baritone rallying calls from the Arm, which only enthused the soldiers. Equal clashing forces meant a death-battle. The only worse propositions were being cornered by a larger force or walking unknowing into an ambush. A commander who finds his forces in a battle where the odds are even is a commander who has not planned properly. One of Landon’s observations, recalled so clearly by the situation that Marik nearly heard the voice true.

  But the Kings would fight their best, and with him at the fore, they would destroy most any soldier force which they might face. Let the army soldiers get themselves killed off. They could see in person how a Crimson King battled.

  The two lines closed. Only ten steps away, and Marik could see the fabled whites of his enemy’s eyes. Matching the mercenary frontline was a line of black-armored soldiers. Behind them stretched a seeming sea wherein roiled foe upon waiting foe.

  Combed helms atop black cure-belly vests, greeves and cuisseses and rerebraces…their strange armor would not hinder him this time! Marik tapped his inner reserves with his mage talent, allowing the usual amount to flood through his body’s inner channels. He carefully prevented the outpouring channels from forming into a single aqueduct. With raw willpower, he kept one channel separate from the rest turning inward, using this one and the energy it directed to craft the physical shield around his sword.

  Marik swung with his superior might from the left, trusting Dietrik to stay aware of his blade. The blow arced into the black soldiers. His timing was perfect as both lines ran into each other with the force of an unchocked wagon crashing into a wall footing a steep hill.

  Their line had maintained tighter ranks than the mercenaries’ owing to the identical swords carried by each. Marik’s sword met a blade that swung in an opposite arc to his. His strength forced the sword backward with hardly enough resistance for Marik to notice it. The shielded blade crashed against the man’s chest, knocking him hard sideways into the next fighter.

  Cork nearly got caught in the rebound. He had dashed forward until Marik’s blow caught the two men at once, including the enemy Cork had meant to engage. The soldier who had taken the blow fell, his sword slipping from his grasp. His leather vest had caved-in and was molded to the crushed ribcage beneath.

  The second soldier had taken no damage beyond the fall. He scrambled to regain his feet, and Cork gave over his goggling to act as a proper mercenary ought to.

  Dietrik had not earned a kill on first strike, an accomplishment several men prided their abilities by. He gave no consideration to such matters. Two soldiers were pairing against him. They busied him with deflecting their quick sword lashes, leaving him very few openings to counterattack with his faster blade.

  Marik swung in an opposite slash to his first before the second line could push forward, filling the hole left by the first two Marik had brushed aside. Dietrik’s soldier saw the strike coming but his blade did as little to stop Marik’s broadsword as the earlier had. His sword struck, bent the foe’s wrist back, forced the blade against the soldier’s upper arm, then continued to crush blade, arm and ribs together into a shattered mess.

  That soldier too was hurled sideways by the terrific force. Dietrik killed the second soldier without hesitation. His blade tip ripped under the man’s chin before he finished falling.

  Marik brought his sword back around to fend off an attack by the second line soldiers who had leapt over the first corpse. He continued to fight, marveling at the beauty of his shielded sword.

  Without need to worry over the blade’s edge or weaknesses due to cracks in the steel, he could be less discriminating in his attacks. As long as they connected with his opponent, they would severely cripple, if not kill his foe outright.

  A casual swipe from the west caught the next in the gut, folding the man in half despite his treated leather. The reverse stroke glanced off a different soldier’s shoulder guard, dropping the man to his knees, howling. His shoulder might be broken, or simply dislocated. That arm would not hold a sword for the rest of this battle. Other Kings or Galemaran fighters would finish the man off.

  After six blows, he estimated his reserves were down twenty percent. The constant drain from his strength working had always consumed energy in surprising amounts. Every contact the sword made with an enemy degraded the shield around it, requiring nonstop patching to keep it from collapsing.

  But his power had become unstoppable! He might be able to cut his way straight through to the invaders’ rear guard!

  The snapping of his shielding channel quickly brought him back to his senses. He had allowed his concentration to slip too much. Just as well he could afford to focus less on the fighting, that a casual blow from him dealt massive damage. Dual channeling still required most of his mental strength. Marik paused long enough to force the channel to separate from the primary outflow from his reserves.

  Arrows streaked past his shoulders into the churning enemy mob. On sever
al occasions a quarrel would puncture the cure-belly vest on a man Marik meant to kill. He always forced his eyes to look straight ahead when that happened. Churt would not backshoot him in battle no matter how much the boy disliked him. Probably. Besides, unless he could resupply from the kingdom forces, he only had a few quarrels left to shoot.

  Battle currents swept Cork away after the first few minutes. Bancroft edged into his position to fill the gap. Dietrik was forced to retreat through the frontline after a sword got around his rapier’s guard and gashed his arm. He would be back soon enough, Marik knew, once an emergency bandage had been wrapped around the wound.

  Whoever these strange soldiers might be, wherever they came from, they were no more or less worthy than any other fighters Marik had ever faced. In the grip of battle, the old, comfortable rhythms settled into him. Private guardsmen, blue uniforms or black armor, the enemy always screamed the same way when they were defeated, always fell to superior skills, always smelled of the same sharp, hot stench when their kidneys were ground beneath uncaring boots and their intestines stretched from where their stomachs had been sliced open to where they had finally stopped crawling.

  Eight minutes after the first clash, Marik stepped back between Bancroft and Talbot. His reserves had been expended. He reached for the mass diffusion. To his surprise, the mists surrounding him had thinned considerably.

  He switched to magesight to find the diffusion shredded in many places. The density in the immediate area had changed enough that he’d noticed by its feel.

  Marik glanced around. For the first time he saw the fires among the stands of trees to the east. A moment after noticing them, he saw an energy mass burning through the etheric plane. It streaked from the invading force’s heart and burst across a shield. He could not see it, but that must be what happened. The energies cascaded across an invisible convex barrier without breaking through.