by Damien Lake
“Of course I do. I’m surprised you don’t.”
“Meaning?”
Colbey rose to his feet, knowing it would make the point better, even if it irritated his fellow trainees. “It is because we are brothers.” Sylvia coughed, and Gwendda joined Enid in arching her eyebrows at him. “Or sisters,” he allowed. “We are family. Family by choice, not happenstance. We choose the scouts. We believe in our duty and mission. Closer than real brothers, closer than the family we happened to be born to. That is why we look after each other in all aspects of our lives. Because we are deeper than blood.”
Enid and Ramon both looked surprised, not by the fact, but by the youngest in their number seeing the most clearly. All knew it for the true answer, none needing Thomas to confirm it, as was usually the case when the correct response finally came forth.
Thomas spoke anyway. “That is exactly correct, Colbey. We are all of us family of the heart. But that is not exclusive to us alone. It extends to our friends and family, people we know. A person need not be a scout or a Guardian to be treated with respect by a scout or a Guardian. A community is never a single society, so though you are always loyal to your fellows in your society, a true scout treats everyone with equal respect for we are all of the same community. To betray that simple truth is a betrayal of all that the scouts are supposed to stand for, especially since we are charged with the village’s safety. To do otherwise goes
“Against all teachings.” Colbey felt cold, his body shivering. Was it time to wake up? He knew not, and felt sore. Sore and achy. Too much to think about with his head throbbing so badly he felt his pulse beating through his temples. May as well dissolve back to
“No! Such is proscribed!” Farr looked indignant beyond normal, or normal for when Colbey was close at hand. Colbey cast an annoyed glance at Kell, who had hardly run off to fetch the overseer, but certainly had welcomed him into the discussion when Farr happened by. “May as well open all the sealed areas and let them run free as they please! Then what’s the point of the last few thousand years, I ask you?”
“That is an absolute, and not what I suggested at all,” Colbey grimaced. “Stories and rumors aren’t keeping the outlanders from the Euvea groves as they once did! They have increased their frequency by three or four times lately!”
“That is hardly unusual. And consistent with established patterns since the village was founded. It is only an indication that it is time to switch routines, to put a fresh wave of superstitious fear through the fringe towns.”
“That is exactly what I was suggesting! If we pick a ferocious creature from beyond the seals,” he urged, then added when Kell frowned mightily, though Kell had not approved of this idea either, “or one that has died but not decomposed yet, then the outlanders will never enter the forest again. Or not for fifty years at the soonest!”
“And parade it around the forest border until a wandering hunter encounters it, correct?”
“Exactly!” Colbey snapped his fingers. “They would never come into the trees after that.”
“And if your ‘tamed’ beast kills the hunter before you can control it? What then, young master tactician?”
Colbey shrugged. “Natural hazards of a wild area. People die while out hunting all the time.”
“Dies, and takes your wonderful story with him.” Farr held up a hand to halt Colbey before the protests could begin. “And before you suggest a hunting party with members escaping to spread your horrid tales, allow me to add this. Rumors are always more terrifying when the person’s mind fills in the unknowns with whatever personally frightens them the most. If it became a certainty that such wild beasts prowled the Rovasii, then the king of Galemar would be honor-bound to send hunters into the forest to eliminate such a dangerous threat and ensure the safety of his people. Or else he would offer a fortune as bounty for the beast’s head and let every fool with visions of riches do the job for him. Your magnificent plan would only bring down and endless stream of outsiders into the Rovasii’s depths.”
“But—”
“But nothing, young Colbey. You are still a Guardian trainee, so please remember any idea you might have had has, in all probability, been considered by several minds before it found yours to settle in. Using the beasts beyond the seals in such a fashion is nearly the equal of a Guardian misusing the Higher Skills for personal profit. You remember the scout laws?”
“Of course,” Colbey mumbled, and since Farr undoubtedly expected a quote, “To be a village scout is to put the village’s well being before your own. All skills and privileges of the scout must follow approved practices as set down by those before him.”
“And that goes double, no triple, for the Guardians! To break approved practices goes
“Against all teachings.” His head hurt horribly. Straight through his scalp, all the way to the innermost regions of his brain. It felt bruised, felt burned…felt raw. White lightning lanced from one side of his head to the other and he cried from the agony. Gods, deliver him! Why did his head feel like a melon dropped so the rind spit open? Please, make it stop! Give him release, give him
A high-pitched whish split the air. One Nolier archer fell, feebly pawing at his chest. His partner turned and, too late, understood their foe had armed himself with one of their bows. He jumped the rail to the next wagon, but a second arrow pierced his unprotected back before he landed.
Colbey dropped the bow onto its former owner’s corpse and checked the last two he had shot. A clean shot had killed the first. The second still shuddered. His weak struggles made it plain he would die soon enough but it went against all teachings he had received as a Guardian to leave an animal, or an enemy, in such pain when mercy could be quickly granted with a swift stroke of his knife.
Those who delighted in the suffering of their enemies were no better than the enemy they slew.
“Against all…against all…” Colbey stared blankly across the cold battleground. His cheek lay against the frozen dirt. He mumbled words that were beyond his ability to quell.
“Against…all…teachings…”
To delight in pain and suffering, for any reason, was not accepted by the Guardians. No matter the reasons for needing to kill a person or creature, it must be done quickly and painlessly as possible. To relish the killing went
“Against…all teachings…”
To hunt down an enemy of the village using Higher Skills was perfectly acceptable. Using those skills to kill men whose only crime had been to cross a Guardian, or held a different opinion than his, went
“Against all…teachings…”
To take a man as an acquaintance, if not an outright friend, hardly entitled him to the same unwavering loyalties as taking a man as a heartbrother. But it did make him a part of one’s personal community, no matter the distance between homes or the time between visits. Betraying a member of one’s community meant betraying oneself. And such a betrayal went
“Against all teachings,” Colbey whispered, his voice empty. “Against all…gods, what is happening to me?”
He rose to a kneel, staring at the ground between his knees. Pain shot through his head behind his eyes. Liam? Sylvia? What is happening to me? Answer me! What is happening?
No answer came. Why did they ignore him? Why did they leave him struggling for an answer?
If they were unable to reach the correct conclusion on their own, then it would be necessary to reevaluate that person’s aptitude for serving as a scout.
That truth slapped him, the stunning simplicity a physical blow. He had always been the best at seeing straight to the heart of those self-taught truths. Cold consideration and an open mind had always allowed the obvious answer to fill him without equivocation.
An opened mind. Cold consideration. Cast away the clouding emotions that blind others and let the answer fill you.
It had been long since he sought an inner truth as he had while a scout trainee. Lessons learned, teachings to cast away a misshapen belief or world view. Neve
r easy to accept a truth that conflicts with one’s convictions, but the way of the scout had always been about overcoming difficulties, including your personal nature.
Colbey cast away his confusion and distracting emotions and yearned for the answer to surface. He left his mind open and clear…and came there the horrible truth.
Obsession. Hatred. Outright dementia. A burning rage so profound it would drive a man to create voices of the dead who assured him that violating everything they stood for would be acceptable, as long as it delivered what he most wanted. To shove all he was into a third personality, a sacrificial martyr to suffer in his place for the sins he waged. Sins he would have hunted down a brother Guardian for committing.
His hands clutched at his ears and his head threatened to split apart. Sweat ran into his eyes from his brow, his hair plastered to his head. He stared wide-eyed at the scraggly grass made dormant by the winter months.
No! I…I have always been a master of self-control! Always had the quicker mind than any of the others! They all were in awe of me because I was the best trainee in over a hundred years! No one was as cool and calculated as I!
The rage was returning, the emotion he felt most comfortable with after the long, long months. A stupid trainee’s trick, with no applicable value in the real world! As trustworthy as…as predicting your future by the stars! Stupid, stupid! This confusion must be a mage playing tricks on him! A soiled, untrustworthy mage bent on destroying him!
He snarled at the ground between his knees, the black fog roiling in from the sides to obscure all but the stunted grass. The fog that helped him concentrate on nothing except his targets. Fog which—
Fog? His snarl froze. Black fog? What fog would…
What would make a black fog appear? Why would it appear at all, unless… What could it be? A kind of…madness? A fog produced by nothing but the madness of an unbalanced mind?
A madness in…his mind?
Colbey began to scream.
* * * * *
“Not bloody gods-damned to every hell again,” Marik muttered less than ten heartbeats after awakening. It was a place other than the chirurgeons’ wing in Kingshome, but the cot was the same, and the private tent would never do for anyone but a man on the recovery roster.
Dietrik shifted on the squat stool from where he had been peering out through the narrow entrance flap. “Only two days this time,” he observed with very little humor. “You are getting much quicker at waking up after taking a solid thrashing.”
“Too much cursed experience at it.” Marik tried to sit up. Most of his muscles seized. Skin all across his body tightened enough to put a drum to shame. “Oh, gods! Don’t tell me I got burned alive all over!”
“Not so bad as that, though your worst misadventure since that particular scrape.”
He could talk this time. That alone backed up Dietrik’s claim. “What’s news then? What did I miss.”
Dietrik leaned back, then fell from the stool since he had forgotten it sported no back. He kicked the short stool away with a grunt and propped his back against a chest that could have contained enough armor to outfit five knights. “What haven’t you bloody missed? Where did you leave off?”
Marik considered. “I beat down that mage. Or…actually, I think I did. Didn’t I? No. He popped back out and did a number on my—” He halted after the memory returned.
When he had nearly died from the fireball in northern Galemar, he’d awakened with no recollection of the actual incident. To this day he still could recall none of what happened after leaving to search the upper slopes and catching a quick glimpse of the gaunt magician.
He remembered this pain. The searing pain of molten metal eating into his flesh. And the horrible, eager reaching for death to grant him release.
“Do you…have a mirror, Dietrik?”
“Only the one Celerity sent. It’s in my pack, which is buried in a wagon with everyone else’s. We haven’t had the chance to dig them out yet.”
Marik raised a hand, his right arm which was free of the bandages, to his face. Half his head had been cocooned under thick wraps that were all too familiar. Herbal salve aroma wafted thickly to his nostrils. The knowledge of what must lay beneath nearly made him weep.
“Don’t go buying troubles you haven’t got, mate. You’ll have a few healthy reminders of that battle for the rest of your life, but not so many as you think.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can see you. You’re thinking about Ilona, and how she might take to your pretty face after this.”
He hadn’t been thinking of her, but that thought made him want to not only weep, by do so for the next year. “Ilona…”
“She doesn’t have much to cluck over. Once the salves are done, the right side of your face will be a shade lighter than your left, or so they tell me. You’ll hardly be an Evesham Night horror.”
“Damn it Dietrik, I know what I felt! And that…” His throat choked on the words.
“I bet you didn’t feel Glynn putting your hide back together.”
“Gl…Glynn?” His unbandaged eye narrowed.
“That is part of all the fun you missed. Fraser and Atcheron and one or two others were driving south. Atcheron mostly wanted to collect his townspeople before the monsters ate them, and Fraser had it figured that we’d sceedaddled on south, so he was looking for us. If Celerity had known, she might have put back the initial attack a half-day so the forces could join.”
“An extra half-day and the enemy reinforcements would have joined with the first five-hundred and all the beasts besides.”
Dietrik shrugged. “They were following that trail too. Apparently the reinforcements came through the pass and made a straight shot south.”
“Fraser must have cleaned up the remaining black soldiers then.”
“Not as such. We’ve all been wondering at this.”
“At this?”
“Were there any other mage types floating around out there?”
“Not that I know of. Henodd was the one fighting them, so you’ll need to ask him.”
“That mage who came with the Arm’s forces, right? Well, he’s a grease spot on a pile of melted boulders.”
“Ah. I see. That’s why that bastard suddenly started focusing on me.” Marik rubbed his covered face, damning Henodd for not being the battle mage he’d claimed to be during their brief, tense conversation while waiting for Celerity.
“Don’t pick at that. Glynn spent sixteen straight marks patching you together, and re-growing the parts that went missing, so you better believe you will be hearing from him if you undo all that work.”
Marik forced his hand to the sheets. “Parts…missing? I, uh…I don’t like the way you said that.”
“Maybe not missing,” Dietrik allowed, “That was a joke in poor taste. Sorry. But I saw you laying there on the ground after it happened. I could see your bloody cheek bones, mate. And I did not care for the sight, let me tell you.”
“I didn’t care to be the sight,” he replied with a shudder running through him. “I thought you could only repair so much with a Healing.”
“Ask Glynn when he comes in next time. The army chirurgeons wrapped you up under his instructions. I watched, and he gave you all your face back. I doubt any random Healer could have done that.”
“I’ll have to thank him.” He scowled. “And Celerity too, I suppose. I know she’ll call that debt in one day.”
“Start calling him Glynn Allegra Eyollandish the Third every time you see him, and he will be happy as a pig in slops.”
Marik decided that would be small enough repayment, as annoying as it would be. He cast his mind back over Dietrik’s last question. “If you want to know about other mages, something must have happened after I, uh, I fell. And ‘other mages’ must mean the mage I fought wasn’t around to cause the mischief.”
“No, Colbey took care of your playmate.” Dietrik gave an odd pause before continuing. “But the biggest bloody
cloud you can build in that fine imagination of yours came crashing down over the northern field. That might not have been a problem if it hadn’t been made of fire and lightning.”
“Oh that,” Marik said.
“Oh that? Oh that? What do you bloody well mean, ‘oh that’? That better not have been a trick of yours!”
“Calm down. It wasn’t me. The mage started building it before his mount tossed him. If he was killed, then the working must have gone out of control.”
Dietrik stopped leaning forward to slouch back against the chest. “In that case, it might have fallen anywhere would be my guess. Cursed lucky the thing landed mostly on their men instead of ours.”
He continued describing the events, how every man on the field had been lifted and tossed like kittens in a sack before being thrown to the ground. Half of the remaining black soldiers had been incinerated. The remaining had been collected as captives and would be escorted by the Arm to Thoenar for extensive questioning.
“If they can get anything out of them,” Dietrik finished. “They have their own funny language no one can put a name to. Maybe they will find a fish big enough to throw into the bucket, but I’m wagering none are worth the boot leather to bring them that far.”
“So that’s the end of this whole mess. What a restless winter.”
“The end? Mate, we’ve still got two or three thousand black soldiers tearing around the lower kingdom corner! They still hold the pass, and every man on the other side waiting to cross over! We’re twenty miles from the battlefield because a whole bleeding army came trotting down south to express their displeasure. Them with their monsters to boot.”
“Dietrik, I’m lying here with half my face burned off! You could let me have my little pleasant fantasies during my down time.”
“Sorry mate. Everyone in the whole camp is uptight at the moment. And for good reason.”
“Ah, forget it.” He waited for Dietrik to cool down before asking the worst post-battle question. “Who didn’t make it?”
The frown this elicited boded ill. “Most of the friendlies in our unit pulled through. The loners did not fare so well. The ones you probably care most about are Floroes. He fell in the battle. Bancroft too. And Edwin.”
