by Damien Lake
The senior Guardian found Ceryl sitting on an upswell of dead roots left undulating through the ground when they broke from their former host. She glanced slightly at him as if she had been waiting which, in all likelihood, she had been. Thomas expected nothing, and the matronly woman continued twisting the twine threads she wove into a thicker rope.
If anything had changed, she would have mentioned it. The usual scene greeted him when he pulled back the canvas draping that serving as a doorway. Thomas ducked his head to descend the sloping entrance. Dirt scattered onto him when his hair brushed the bare ceiling. Sacks and provisions crates filled most of the room except for the blankets wrapped around piles of leaves to form a rude mattress. He squatted on his heels easily, arms balanced on his knees, his hands dangling while he studied the man before him.
The wraith’s eyes told Thomas most of what he wanted to know without the need to ask inane questions. “You’ll stay dead until you accept the truth.”
Colbey did not stir. He remained laying on his side, staring blankly at the wall carved into the earth and wormy roots.
“Trying to kill yourself again won’t pay your lien either. The debt you owe won’t be filled by removing yourself from the world, and it would be a despicable waste as well. Better to spend it balancing the scales with hard work and service.”
The younger scout appeared not to have heard the older man. Thomas sighed and rose to his feet.
Colbey looked a ragged mess in the faint light filtering through the hole. His unshaven countenance matched the ragged clothing, which would have remained unwashed by the man but for Ceryl looking after his needs. For ten days he had kept to this underground den, refusing to reenter the light, only eating when food or water were forced into his hand.
“Nothing is ever so bad that you can’t make atonement for your mistakes.”
Thomas stared a moment longer until it was clear he would receive no response. Colbey would have to willingly decide he wanted to live before there could be any hope for recovery. Nothing forced on him would do him an ounce of good.
It nearly broke the older Guardian’s heart, seeing his most gifted pupil so. Leaving Colbey as he was took all his willpower, and yet he could be treated no differently. In the way of the Guardians, the strongest lessons were always the ones learned on one’s own.
Chapter 02
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 you 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.”
With a nod, Marik departed into the growing darkness. There were any number of possible needs that would demand immediate attention on the part of men and women organizing a kingdom’s defenses, needs that required tireless attention with no regard for sleep or rest. It was imagining what possible connection he might have to any of those that left him baffled.
Celerity was the one who demanded my presence, both through the mirror and again through Trask. It took no great powers of reasoning to put that much together. She had expressed singular interest in him before. Likely this summons was for exactly the same reason as last time. The chief mage must have no faith whatsoever that he’d honed his scrying abilities to the point where a new attempt to locate his father, and thus the red-eyed man she obsessed over, would prove any different than the last try.
Except…when last he had seen her in the flesh, she’d promised to pass along any information regarding his missing father that her investigations pried loose. Yet summoning him from across the kingdom, and leaving orders with Trask for his immediate appearance seemed extreme if the matter were so simple. The issue of Rail Drakkson could hardly be of much importance to the royal enclave.
Only the fact of the red-eyed stranger manifested any interest in Celerity at all. By now, after her various efforts, and the efforts of her subordinates, she must have either located the man or decided she never would. His summons could have no relation to the search.
Nevertheless, Marik hoped she would have news. Since leaving his hometown of Tattersfield, he had exhausted all the possible leads he could think of in the search for his father. Scrying Rail had resulted in nothing except having the mirror explode in his face. Searching through traditional means would be fruitless, as he would ask thousands of questions of people who certainly would never remember seeing Rail after so many years. What little evidence he possessed declared the man had left Galemar anyway, meaning he could be anywhere in the world. Marik simply had no trail to follow, nor the skill to use his mage talent to locate his father.
The master scryer of King Raymond’s mages, a man named Tru with skin darker than sodden mud, might have finally broken through the barrier that prevented Rail’s image from forming in the mirror. He might have learned more of his father’s current whereabouts.
But if that were all, the information could surely sit on the shelf until such time as he or Celerity had the opportunity to pass it along. They would never go out of their way to demand his presence, let alone alter their busy schedules over it. The search was important to him; merely a bit of inconsequential fluff to them.
He had considered the summons at length during the trek to Thoenar. Between him and Dietrik, their conclusions fell flat. Neither had conceived of a solid reason behind the summons. Having Trask underscore the orders with a directive to continue without delay only confused it further in Marik’s mind. By the time he picked his way through the ramshackle buildings in the city’s southwestern districts, he had decided that the search for the red-eyed man persisted. Tru must have used up all the blood, hair and nail clippings Marik had previously left in whatever spells his own scrying techniques demanded. If so, then it made sense that the magician needed to re-supply from his only available source.
Thoenar at night might be less active than during the daylight candlemarks, but it was by no means still. The night was in its infancy. General businesses had closed for the day, not that there were many in the seedier residential districts. Only the taverns, eateries, places of social gatherings and the odd brothel remained open. Main streets remained thronged, the vast herds of human livestock thinning as each head wandered off down various byways in search of more interesting places.
To Marik, the flows were both familiar and alien. He had grown used to them during his last summer, living in the city for a month. At the same time, without the tournament running nonstop through day and night, the crush of pedestrians thickened in the city streets after sunset. Marik needed to push his way through the crowds with greater force than he remembered.
The number of people lessened slightly when he passed through the city wall separating the Third Ring from the Outer City, then still more upon entering the Second Ring. He unexpectedly encountered resistance at the wall that shielded the Inner Circle from the commoners living without. Cityguards charged with admitting only the residents or those with business inside the original city needed convincing that he fell into the latter category. Obviously Celerity had grown so used to living in the old city, and seeing him there during the tournament, that she’d forgotten that at any other time he would have trouble passing through the wall.
He talked his way through without much trouble in the end. After all, the purpose of the guards was mostly to keep out beggars and possible thieves. Anybody who looked well-to-do or in possession of a plausible story could enter, and the guards knew they would catch four different shades of holy hell for denying entrance to anyone expected by a noble resident. Their eye had caught on his clothing, which he explained away as being fresh from the battlefields. Marik lied only slightly in order to speed the process along, describing the military camp outside the city and implying he bore messages from Captain Trask to the palace.
That satisfied the cityguards. Marik walked on, startled by the numbers in the streets within the Inner Circle. Last summer, as soon as night fell, the streets emptied to the point of nearly being deserted. The current crowds hardly merited the name, leaving only twenty people or so within sight along the streets. Still, that alone told him exactly how much of a draw the tournament had been. He would not have guessed, despite knowing that an enemy army could have hidden within the sprawling confines of Tourney Town without the local cityguard’s knowledge.
Marik proceeded directly to the palace as if he’d last been there yesterday. As before, he presented himself at the gates to learn that he was indeed expected. He assumed the man leading him onto the grounds would turn left, toward the separate tower the mages apparently resided in. Instead, the man brought him directly to the palace. Only once before had Marik entered these hallowed buildings, on his very last visit when he’d come to tell Celerity he would be departing the city.
The guard led him through the corridor he remembered, passing numerous folk scurrying frantically about their business. Everyone looked intensely focused, even the maids and the servants.
They departed the large corridor to climb stairs and wind their way deeper into the palace complex. After a dozen directional changes the guard opened a door that loomed ten feet tall, with brass handles designed to look like thick ropes. Marik heard no squeaks from the massive hinges supporting the dark wood, which must have weighed a considerable amount.
He entered a large room with a lofty ceiling cloaked in shadows. Lamps were lit solely to illuminate the floor space. The walls and floor were of a similar dark wood as the door, though Marik could not readily identify it. No one would ever guess he had once been an apprentice in a woodworker’s shop. Several throw rugs of various shapes, each an earthy hue, were scattered around as many comfortable chairs. E
ach wall was concealed by endless shelves filled with old books and random objects.
Dietrik had once mentioned, off the cuff while they lounged about Baron Atcheron’s meager holding beside the Stoneseams Mountains, that one could usually tell whether a woman or a man had decorated a particular room. Men, according to Dietrik, would unfailingly choose a darker motif, while women preferred lighter, airy décor. The only rooms men cared to take the trouble of outfitting were the ones they personally used on a regular basis for their work, play or other endeavors. If that were true, then this wooden, cave-like atmosphere gave tell to whom made use of the space over the course of its normal days.
The door shut behind Marik. He looked back to see that the guard had departed without a word. Marik wanted to find Celerity and hand her a piece of his mind concerning leaving people in the dark with no idea what was expected of them.
By far the most interesting feature of the room lay off to one side. It was a huge table, larger than any he had ever encountered except the one at the Sestion mansion. Rectangular, it held a realistic model of a vast valley. Short walls were raised around the table’s edges to contain the diorama.
Miniature trees, buildings, a river, boulders, shrubbery and other landscaping had been rendered so realistically that Marik needed to study it closely to see the marks of craftsmanship. Scattered throughout the valley were tiny figures of soldiers, some on foot, others mounted with lances at arms, still others holding bows at the ready. There were three armies on the field, as represented by green, red and blue soldiers.
He slowly wandered around the table, studying the incredible display. In the narrow walkway left between the table’s long side and a bookcase crammed with ancient volumes, he noticed words writ on a plaque set in the six-inch table wall.
Battle of Thrae Valley
Year 2243
Decisive Clash Between:
