by Damien Lake
He sensed the Red Man outside his door a moment before it swung open. “He has announced his intentions.”
“He what?” Surprise made Rail leave off his massaging. “Then every jack-one straight man in Arronath will have his head on a pike!”
The Red Man’s head ponderously moved in a negative. “You misunderstand, friend. He has announced his next ploy upon the game board. As the duly appointed commander of the Arronathian Armed Forces, he will cross the ocean to continue his war.”
“He’s going back to Merinor?”
“As it would appear. His sight has long been on the kingdoms of your birth, though I still know not why. We must track his movements with superior caution. A weakness may arise while he travels to which he is not susceptible in his underground stronghold.”
“Not…not like last time.”
“We will watch closely until his departure. Then, friend, I am afraid I must subject you to the kkan’korsa as before. We must arrive on the far shore before his foot makes landfall.”
Rail moaned. He had wanted to never ever again travel in such a fashion, not from where he sat in his room down to the ale hostel’s dining tables, let alone back to Merinor. Given the choice, he would rather swim the whole way home. “Have you figured out what in the ninth hell he’s up to yet?”
“You know well what he ultimately desires. The details of his plan remain closed to my comprehension.”
“He’s after something in Merinor! Something he needs!”
“You have the correct belief, I am certain. What he searches for is yet unknown. He might reveal clues while we track in his shadow.”
The Red Man departed after telling him that black-jilly Xenos meant to leave on the next ship loaded with geomancers who would ensure the boat’s safe crossing over the vast sea. Too much still remained in question, and the Red Man always hesitated before committing to any action. He was not afraid, Rail had decided, just overcautious.
That damned murderer Xenos had no such hesitations. He used speed to his advantage, and now he moved ahead of them once more before they could make a seventh bid for his head. Crossing the bleeding ocean again.
But not to dodge their pursuit this time.
Perhaps they would find an opening in his defenses while he moved. The bastard had certainly proved well fortified so far. Rail retrieved his custom sword from the corner, offered a quick prayer to the gods as he always did these days, and hoped the long road might be nearly at its end.
So ends the second volume of Marik’s and Colbey’s adventures!
BUT……
While Colbey struggles to come to terms with his anguish, Xenos himself pushes the relentless carnage ever closer to the secret heart of the forest. Only Marik and the rest of the Crimson Kings are available to stand fast in the face of forces that would have overwhelmed even the greatest of the Arms!
War, ferocious battle, deadly magics and chains of duty abound in Volume Three of the Chronicles of the Crimson Kings, “Forest for the Trees”!
Other books by Damien Lake:
World of Folcrist:
Chronicles of the Crimson Kings:
Steel and Flame
Arm of Galemar
Forest for the Trees
Masters of the Wind:
Silver in the Darkness
**Silver in the Daylight
** = In Production
Abbreviated Excerpts from “Forest for the Trees”, Volume Three of The Chronicles of the Crimson Kings:
By the time they reached Thoenar, Marik would have gladly cut the head from each of the prisoners personally, if such were to be their fate. Seventeen had died in escape attempts during the march. None had succeeded in their bids for freedom, earning instead only tighter bonds and heavier guard watches.
They followed a road northeast to the capitol city, one that would bring them across the Pinedock River before they reached the first buildings. It was the worst part of the city, the closest to slums that Marik knew of. Refineries, renderers and other enterprises of fragrant aroma were located outside the western city, which meant the western districts were the least desirable living space to be had, especially on a windy day.
Marik was familiar with the area, having visited it the previous summer in order to track down a group of assassins. He expected the company to journey to the main road which he knew led into the city proper, except the Arm chivied his white horse off the path a few miles short. No road markers or side roads were visible, leaving Marik confused until he noticed a man clad in a Galemaran soldier uniform standing beside a copse of trees. Clearly he had waved the kingdom’s preeminent warrior aside.
The mercenaries were exhausted. They had been looking forward to genuine sleeping quarters and fresh food upon arriving in the city. Following the Arm back into the wilderness brought forth a colorful round of expletives.
Within a quarter-mile they discovered what had prompted them into the trees. They broke out of the small wood into a broad field that held similar forested walls bordering its sides. The field, mostly grass and wild growth in the parts as yet untouched, contained hundreds of tents, piles of supplies and a lookout tower constructed from whole logs.
Easily over two-thousand soldiers moved about the camp. To the side, in a vast cleared area, groups of men engaged in what Marik instantly recognized were training exercises. Shouted commands from the column’s fore directed the prisoners to be handed over to the soldiers coming from the camp to meet them.
Guard duty had, since the beginning, fallen on the Crimson Kings men. With so many prisoners, fighters from the Arm’s forces had been required, but it was to the mercenaries that fell the duty of prodding the captured invaders. Only after several harsh pokes did the prisoners reluctantly moved forward into the care of guards far better suited to the duty than a ragged band of war dogs.
The Arm called for his men to rest while he conferred with the leaders in this odd outpost. With no place to go, the soldiers and the mercenaries milled about, never mixing, until Dietrik nudged him in the ribs.
“There’s a familiar chap, unless I’m much mistaken.”
Marik followed his friend’s gaze to see the man with whom the Arm conversed. It took him a moment to place the face. “Curse me, that’s Trask!”
As if his oath had attracted the man’s attention, he saw the captain shift his gaze sideways in his direction. Trask raised a single eyebrow upon seeing Marik before returning his focus to what the Arm said.
“What’s Trask doing here?” Marik asked Dietrik in a lower voice.
“From the look of matters, it is a training facility. I went through a year in a similar place before they assigned me to my division.”
“New soldiers, right? Not a bad idea, but anyone they gathered in a hurry probably wouldn’t be worth the cost of their uniforms.”
“Don’t assume anything, mate. This looks like final boot days, if you understand my meaning. Remember the recruitment drive they pushed so hard on during the tournament? I’d wager these are a handful of the fellows they gathered at the time willing to throw in their lots with the army.”
Marik examined the field with a closer eye for detail. “That would make Trask a training instructor.” He nodded, the idea appealing to his sense of logic. “An experienced field commander would be best for training green recruits. He can teach them what’s truly important in a battle. And he proved he’s a decent strategist when he led us against the Nolier depot in the Green Reaches.”
Trask’s men finished dividing the prisoners into smaller clusters. At his bellowed order, they escorted the invaders to a corner of the camp near the watch tower.
The Arm stood before his men, raising his voice barely enough that the mercenaries to the side could also hear. “It is well, and an excellent march. After all we have been through, these trainees will look to you for examples of true Galemaran men. This is an opportunity for you to help your fellows in the steps that will take them toward being stalwart warriors such as yo
u have proven to be!”
He personally led the men into the camp. Clearly they would be sleeping in the wilds rather than a warm bed within the city. Scowls graced every mercenary face while they trudged in his wake. Marik only made it seven steps before a hand fell on his shoulder.
Captain Trask’s expression was the same determined neutrality Marik remembered. “Still trying to dodge out, eh?”
Marik faced him. “Captain, I am certain I have no idea what you mean by that.”
Trask shrugged. “You’ve saved me the trouble of coming to look for you. As I understand it, you’ve received private orders.”
“That’s not what I would call it.” Marik hesitated to admit Celerity’s directive, especially considering how her orders had come to him. What did Trask know about it?
“I’m to tell you to report as you were ordered to. Which is to say, at once.”
“It’s nearly nightfall!”
“I doubt that makes a difference. Those witchy types in the court passed along the word that you’re supposed to do whatever you’re supposed to do the moment you arrive.” When Marik continued gaping at him, the man snapped with the hard attitude the mercenary also remembered so well. “Whatever you are to do, I suggest you be about it! Matters of warfare don’t wait for you to catch up on your sleep.”
He departed abruptly to see that the prisoners were correctly dealt with. Marik swore.
Dietrik clasped his shoulder for a moment in sympathy. “You’ve handled the likes of Mistress Celerity before, mate. And come out none the worse for it, I should point out.”
“I don’t like this one little bit.”
“Neither would I. But I imagine whatever they have in mind might go for the worse if you irritate them by dallying.”
Marik handed Dietrik his pack, keeping only his borrowed sword. He’d had enough experience in the city’s western districts to know walking through them unarmed would be foolish. “You’ll probably be asleep when I get back.”
“We won’t wait up. Not after a march since bloody sunrise.”
* * * * *
“Simplistic plans can be easily seen through.”
“If it’s effective because it’s simple, then it probably would also be hard to counter,” Marik said. “And if it wasn’t enough, I’d come up with a simple backup plan. If you try to be complex just so your enemy won’t guess what you’re planning, then you will probably outsmart yourself. Complexity is not my strongest point.”
Marik said the last before he considered the impact it might have on his credibility later when he delivered his reports. He winced inwardly, then stiffened instinctively when the knight-marshal sharply assaulted him with an angry glare of burning ice.
Whatever the man intended to say, he imprisoned it behind his teeth. Marik feared he’d insulted the man when those teeth ground for several moments before, with strained reluctance, the knight-marshal grunted, “Except for your one oversight, your…guess is correct. That is exactly what the solution to the problem was.”
He stepped away with a gesture of his head that anyone would understand was a command to follow.
Few enough of the hallway lamps were lit. Walking through palace corridors where two out of every three iron-bracketed lamps were dark lent the moment an ominous quality. Most of the people had vanished while Marik discussed the finer points of military strategy with the knight-marshal. From appearances it could have been halfway to dawn after the midnight bell.
The knight-marshal angled to a door larger than that of the previous room, passing a group of dignified men and women who exuded a miasma of power. These individuals were important figures in the halls of statehood. Marik’s head followed them until an irritated cough from the knight-marshal drew his attention back. He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed while he pointedly waited for the young mercenary to hustle.
With luck the dim lighting would hide the flush that rose anew to his cheeks. Marik could feel them reddening.
Brighter light illuminated the room’s interior, like stepping from the dappled shadows of a forest into a clearing brilliant with unfiltered sun. It was a circular room, continuous walls without corners. Several doorways were set at irregular intervals. Wood paneling had been shunned in favor of plaster painted green and brown in Galemar’s colors. A table as circular as the room followed the walls in a massive ring. Flag stanchions flanked chairs resembling thrones on the room’s far end.
And thrones they might indeed be, Marik knew, when he saw who else stood in the room. King Raymond Cerella possessed features that would easily pass from the mind moments after meeting the man, if one encountered him as a fruit seller or a clerk in the city’s counting houses, a lifetime of strain showing on his face from keeping track of other people’s wealth. His wife Ulecia on the other hand…Marik’s eyes instantly recognized the streaming locks rippling over her shoulders. From a distance, that one feature recalled her to his mind.
The knight-marshal made his way around the table toward the group. In every sizable room Marik had been in, the ceiling rose in proportion to the floor space. Here, the low ceiling lofted lower than the hallway’s, creating the impression that they had entered into a hollow space inside a coin.
Their entrance had been noticed. Several eyes followed their progress across the room. Drawing closer to the group of standing figures, Marik could see Celerity, the head of Raymond’s mages and, most shocking of all, Torrance, the commander of the Crimson Kings. A woman unfamiliar to Marik stood to the Raymond’s left, dressed in an austere blouse with a collar tight enough to do a hangman proud and a matching skirt that brushed the floor. Also present were two men of an age where gray had begun a hostile war against their receding hairlines, neither in any sort of uniform though carrying the same competent air about them as the knight-marshal.
None introduced themselves. For all they noticed Marik, he might have been a speck of dust hovering in the air.
The two men, Raymond and the lady ceased their quiet conversation so the king could nod at his knight-marshal when he approached. Marik held back near the seats several feet away. Raymond followed his nod by simply stating, “Tybalt.”
That must have been the knight-marshal’s name. Knight-Marshal Tybalt nodded back before entering into the murmured conference.
Marik felt conspicuous with that group’s eyes constantly flicking sideways at him. He averted his own to meet Torrance’s. Coming face-to-face with his commander always made him nervous. On multiple occasions Torrance had yanked the carpet out from under his feet, forcing him to make choices Marik would much rather have forgone. Not every meeting had ended on an unpleasant note, true enough, but experience denied him peace of mind whilst in the man’s presence.
At the moment, Torrance gazed unflinchingly at his fellow band member. Marik read only half of what that gaze contained, and what he could interpret left him all the more uneasy. Anger might not be there, yet an emotion not far from it seethed in his eyes. The resolute determination to have things his way was there as well.
As for the rest…
Marik looked away, hating to be the first to break the gaze even if to a man as worthy of respect as the commander. His eye fell on Celerity, standing beside Ulecia. Unsurprising to find that stiletto gaze on him. She nodded slightly to words the queen whispered at her side, her eyes locked on him tighter than prison shackles.
In all of it, Marik had never felt so out of place. He had no idea why he was there, why he had been summoned or to what purpose his being among such august leaders might serve. Celerity he could understand. The knight-marshal’s interest as well, on one level.
Raymond would have a keen interest in the threat facing his kingdom…but would he be there to personally question a common fighter despite the knowledge he might possess? Would it not be likelier that the king’s advisors or analysts would gather in the knowledge and prepare it for the king after they had pieced together as much of the picture as they could reconstruct?
The w
hispers were growing thick in the air. Only Torrance kept his silence. Repeated glances at him made Marik’s legs quiver slightly. He had long since learned that the unknown could prove to be the fatal factor in any battle. This conference room felt as dangerous as any battlefield he had been on, and lacking complete knowledge was making his instincts flair. Worst of all, he felt a churning in his gut that usually accompanied his sense that life had a nasty trick in store for him.
Raymond’s group stopped their quiet talk. Each man and woman shifted to study the vagabond in their midst. The knight-marshal kept his distance, arms folded across his chest, countenance as stern as a magistrate about to pronounce judgement over a heinous criminal. His look was only marginally short of hostile.
King Raymond gave a slight nod to Celerity, who returned the gesture. A nod at Torrance only made the commander’s head lower an inch, eyebrows beetling, the corner of his mouth twitching. Nods were selling cheap today. They passed between everyone present save Marik. When all the head waggling was finished, Celerity, presumably the pre-selected spokesperson, donned a slight smile Marik had seen once before. He barely stifled his natural reaction to drop into a crouch and send his hand flying to his sword hilt.
“No introductions are needed,” the woman said softly, yet with strength in her words all the same. “We all of us have come to know you, Marik Railson. And you have come to know us in return through the course of your…career.”
He could have argued the point; nearly did out of a perverse urge to struggle against a descending axe he sensed rather than saw. Only half of those present were known to him.
Except as the thought formed, he recognized one of the two men standing at Raymond’s side. The king’s seneschal, less recognizable out of his formal robes of office. Marik only placed him from the time he organized the various contenders at the tournament during the opening ceremony, arranging them into parodies of garden statues in a line extending away from the outdoor thrones the monarchs would inhabit.
