by Damien Lake
The energy altered when he drew it through his shield. He felt its raw nature change while it joined with his own. It refreshed him as cool water down a dry throat would, and it filled every corner of his being. More followed, the act of drawing energy similar to siphoning water. Until he cut it off, the energy would continue flowing through the channel he had built.
After a moment, he did cut it off. He had drawn enough energy to easily contain. Any further would swell his reserves. Marik had no workings yet that required energy beyond what he could easily draw from within himself, and the excess power would be discontented to sit unused for long. The energy he now contained could be expended in his practices or bleed off back into the etheric naturally.
He checked his shield and found it holding fine under the mild barrage radiated by the line, protecting him from a second exposure headache. With his new energy he returned to himself inside the workroom.
“Good. It’s nice to see you can occasionally get your lessons right on the first try,” were the words that greeted him. “Now that you can draw properly, you can begin working on the next set of shields.”
“More shields? What about the scrying workings you were going to show me? I have what I need to work them now.”
“We’ll get to those after you’ve mastered basic apprentice skills. Listen to me. The next time you go out with the Kings, you will know four basic shields that can handle most of what you’ll encounter from enemy spell casters and at least one attack. If you don’t know them, I won’t release you. Seeing as there’s only four eightdays left until the end of the winter, I’d say you’d better get cracking.”
He turned to leave, obviously meaning to make an impressive exit. “Wait, old man,” Marik growled. “You promised me information.”
Tollaf paused, either having forgotten or having hoped Marik would be so flushed with success he would fail to remember. “So I did,” he finally admitted and returned, taking a stool.
He spent a moment clearing his throat and adjusting his position. “Using your father’s sword, I’ve been able to determine he did head north after leaving Spirratta.”
“That’s all for a month’s work? How did you get the chief mage position around here?”
“Be silent, whelp! I told you scrying is not my specialty! Your father headed north and crossed the borders into the Kello-beii desert six years ago.”
“The Kello-beii? Why? Where did he go then?”
“I can’t see that yet. The problem is he never used the sword, only carried it. It must have been battle loot; equipment he’d intended to keep as a spare or pawn for a few coins. Also, he didn’t take the sword with him on this trip so I’m having to match his residual signature against the trail he left separately instead of merely tracking the movements of the sword. And you’ve actually used it, and for far longer than he ever carried it, so the predominate signature on the thing is yours, not your father’s.”
“Then what next? At least I know he passed out of the kingdom.”
“Unless you have anything else of his, there are few options. The sword has told me everything I think it ever will in regards to Rail.”
“Few options. The same old story all over again,” Marik muttered with sharp bitterness.
“I concentrate on other areas of magecraft, but I collect books and writings by other mages whenever I can. They are very hard to come by. I have two books listing a few scrying methods I’ve never used. If you intend to specialize in scrying, then you will learn them yourself. One is a method for finding a specific person by using either hair or blood from them or their direct family. Ancestors or descendants, as long as they’re from a direct bloodline. I feel this will be your best shot.”
Marik perked up slightly. “Using my hair?”
“Blood draws a purer signature, but perhaps the hair will be enough as you’re his son.”
“Well, I don’t have anything else left from my old life besides the sword, so I guess that’ll have to do.”
“Fine. Now go find Caresse and tell her to teach you the next shields. She already knows which ones I mean. If you intend to march out with your squad in a few eightdays, you’d better master them quickly and learn a basic attack. They can be difficult to use, so they’ll take you a substantial block of time.” He rose to walk for the door again. Intending to make his important exit after all, he turned to declare, “Don’t test my sincerity on this! I won’t release you until you master all of them!”
He decamped and Marik muttered under his breath, “Old showoff.” Then he left to search out Caresse.
Chapter 20
A commotion erupted on the first official marching day of the new fighting season, though not the one most in the Ninth Unit had anticipated. Tollaf’s mandate that Marik would remain behind in Kingshome to continue his development during the contracts had become a contest of wills no one wanted to involve themselves in, including the officers, who dismissed it as a matter to be settled between apprentice and master.
Strangely, the orders for the band were closely guarded this year. Only a handful of squads knew what to expect in the coming months, the Ninth among the few who did. The Ninth would break into halves for the first few eightdays this fighting season. Units One and Two were returning to Baron Dornory’s lands to make a show of force to the recalcitrant Fielo, while Three and Four would head north, though far shy of the distance the previous contract had brought them. They would cooperate with the authorities in the port town of Rawlings to track down a burglary ring that continually cleaned out warehouses off the waterfront. Local law enforcement had proven unreliable in the matter, and the merchants pooled their funds to raise the contract fee.
Marik insisted that his mage skills were progressing nicely and would be damned before remaining at the beck and call of a senile old fool for the next year. Tollaf tried to pull Torrance into the argument to enforce his authority, except the band commander suddenly seemed reluctant to take sides. It made little sense to Marik, who had expected him to rally with the old mage, but he would not look this gift horse in the mouth. Instead he rode the horse given to him, quarreling with the old man continuously until the first marching day.
The Ninth was due to leave the next day. Most unit members were eagerly anticipating a blowout between the two. Naturally Kerwin ran as many betting pools as he could manage by himself and everyone rooted for their boy, even if the odds favored the cranky old Tower resident.
The goodwill of the men in the Ninth only added to Marik’s determination. He had feared that his new abilities would create a wedge between himself and his friends. That proved groundless with the mercenaries of equal or greater seniority, and yet he could see caution in the new squad members’ eyes. After pointed questions, Dietrik, Landon and Hayden finally admitted the new recruits were wary of him.
“But do you truly care, mate? Once they’ve been on the road with you awhile, they’ll loosen up as they come to know you.”
“If they live that long. What about you, Hayden?”
“I’ve already told you three hundred times, damn it! When are you going to finally believe me?”
“About the new fish?”
“Naw! I mean about you! You ain’t no magiker or trickster or whatever you want to call it. Not at heart, at any rate. You’re a frontline fighter. Always will be no matter what fancy new tricks you learn.”
“Thank you. I hope you’re right.”
“But I still won’t dice with you no more.”
“Thanks.” This repetition came out considerably sourer.
His survival also fostered goodwill among his lesser known shieldmates. Several disagreed with the majority but they were, by and large, from remote corners or from outside Galemar entirely.
Superstition was a strange force, ever changing from region to region, based on vagueness. If ever lived a breed of man as riddled with it as sailors, they were mercenaries. Never mind the hoodoo surrounding him, never mind the tougher skin and scars. Marik had f
elt the touch of Death’s bony hand, and either the Goddess Fate, the warrior’s god Ercsilon or Marik’s own raw fighter’s spirit had turned it away. As such, he was a good man to be near when the fighting grew thick and the risks ran wild. Perhaps his luck would extend beyond his own skin.
The dissenters believed a man unlucky enough to draw the disaster Marik had was a bad one to be near in a similar situation, lest it happen anew. Kerwin remarked offhandedly that they all bet on old Tollaf.
So with heightened anticipation, the Ninth greeted the first marching day. The Seventh and the Twelfth marched a candlemark after dawn. Two marks later most in the Ninth lingered around their dining area. Few had found business elsewhere, unlike a normal morning.
Marik and his friends ruled the table nearest the kitchen window enjoying fresh bread still warm from the ovens. He knew everyone waited because he still lingered, and they hoped Tollaf would storm in to pick another fight in full view of the dining area. Well, let him. The old man did not command the support he had expected from Torrance, and he also could not make the case that Marik remained unable to perform the requisite workings.
He spared a moment to wonder why Torrance suddenly seemed uninterested in him, then laid the problem aside when shouts were heard from outside. Little enough noise had filled the hall this morning. Everyone went silent in anticipation at the sudden ruckus.
Here we go, could be clearly felt in the air of the vast room. Glad I waited around after all. This should be good for a laugh and maybe up the ante a little on the betting odds.
The commotion arrived. It was not what they had expected.
* * * * *
From his third floor office, Commander Torrance watched the dustup between the lieutenants of the Seventh and Twelfth Squads and the king’s messenger. He liked the view the window afforded him of men practicing on the Marching Grounds or the main gate admitting people to his tiny kingdom. Today it showed his two lieutenants nearly coming to blows with the messenger’s guard escort while they demanded answers. Or tried to at any rate, the messenger having entered the building moments before, leaving the grunts behind to face his irate officers. The grunts probably possessed none of the answers his men sought, for they ignored both the lieutenants and the two full squads who were shouting at them.
Torrance closed the shutters, leaving the view, along with most of the noise, outside the room. He took a moment to arrange his desktop. Being an oversized dark mahogany desk with gilt, carving and an inlaid top, it hardly needed embellishments to make it impressive. It had rested in this same spot, facing the door with its back to the window, since the building had been constructed. The desk had served many a Crimson Kings commander.
His office was not quite large, but still roomy enough to qualify as a library in a minor lord’s holding. It looked somewhat like one, too. Walls paneled in the same dark wood as the desk were lined with shelves containing all manner of paperwork. The east wall held one shelf running the entire room length, containing only books lined spine to spine. There must have been nearly seventy there, if he ever bothered to count them. Shelves below and above the books overflowed with scrolls, sheaves of paper covered with writings and dozens of large, rolled-up maps. Torrance’s office gave the impression of a scribe’s mind brought to life, filled with stacks and piles threatening to tip over on their neighbors.
Despite the seeming chaos, he could find every paper he needed at a moment’s notice. Janus had been after him for ages to allow his staff to sort these documents and store them with the rest of the Kings’ records. Torrance would never allow it. Every single scrap in his office contained valuable information he needed to run the Kings efficiently. Notes on disputes between several dozen Galemaran lords, minor and major alike as well as many in the bordering kingdoms, were available on the instant. The troubles in the major towns and cities were cataloged until he knew more about their problems than many of their citizens. Craftsmen of skill and quality were known to him in all the corners of Galemar. Their files could be in his hands in eye blinks, helping him plan the larger campaigns he would send his men into.
Information was the name of the commanding game, and he kept his ear very close to the ground indeed. The Kings commanded the highest fees of all the mercenary bands in Galemar. They funneled a large portion of that gold into the Kings’ information gathering network. Not that Torrance had placed spies inside any noble’s inner circles, but dropping a steady line of coin into a struggling local butcher’s hands or a failing mill’s operator easily paid for itself in the long run. Torrance had been greatly amused when the former commander prepared to turn the reins of leadership over to him. Many informants feeding the Kings information were the sons and daughters of previous informants, who in turn had been the children of still more. Nosing out a rumor here or there became a profitable family enterprise, at least as far as the Kings were concerned.
This network of folk friendly to the Kings and their coin kept Torrance informed of the goings-on in the kingdom at large. So prepared, he had expected this visit from the king’s messenger. In fact, he had expected it some time ago. He’d had the necessary papers on his desk for the past two eightdays, waiting for the man’s arrival.
Deciding he would be cordial after all, Torrance rose to retrieve a decanter of spiced brandy from the cabinet against the west wall. This wall was less cluttered than the eastern one, yet still sported shelves as well as a small fireplace with three overstuffed chairs arranged around it. Above the fireplace hung a large map showing Galemar with its current land distributions and borders marked clearly.
Torrance heard his official secretary speak in the outer office, meaning the messenger had arrived. Seeing no point in keeping him waiting, despite the clear message it would send regarding Torrance’s feelings about those who came to his home to tell him his business, he returned to his seat behind his desk, enjoying the feel of the imported carpets on his bare feet. Although he always dressed in a quasi-military uniform to remind his men both of his position and the fact they were better than a rugged collection of cutthroats, he never wore his boots in his office. Why spend the funds on expensive floor covers and then tromp them beneath your soles, never enjoying their texture?
He spent nearly a full heartbeat considering whether to put his boots on for this meeting, decided he did not need to be that deferential to the intruder, then relaxed in his leather chair, sinking as his weight settled into the thick padding.
Torrance arranged the decanter and four glasses at the desk side, away from the many paper piles, when his secretary knocked on the door.
“Yes?”
Wainright cracked open the door and slid through sideways, allowing no view into the room from outside. He stood lightly, avoiding the rigid postures so loved by the personnel in the army. Torrance always approved of his easy, competent grace. “A messenger representing King Raymond Cerella wishes a conference with you.”
“Right now, I gather.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then show him in. Can’t keep the king’s man waiting, I suppose. And summon Janus and Tollaf immediately. Tell them whatever they’re doing, it can wait. Send them in immediately when they arrive.”
Wainright nodded before opening the door further. He spoke to the man waiting, stood aside as the messenger entered and shut the door behind him.
This man did stand rigidly, and at full attention, which made Torrance wonder if he cared little for dealing with a merc, had himself been in the king’s army, or if he acted this way with everyone he met in his official capacity. His hand twitched as if he stifled the urge to salute.
He bore the look of a man long on the road, or at minimum one who had traveled a hard journey thus far. His riding leathers and tunic were overlaid by a tabard displaying the king’s device. All looked in need of a thorough cleaning. Accustomed to the road dust and wear of a season-long campaign, Torrance accepted the appearance, but further wondered if the man would have taken the time to freshen up if he h
ad been meeting the nobles or a lesser lord.
“Commander Torrance?”
“That would be me, yes.”
“I am Fredrick Irons. I apologize. I do not know your family name.”
“It’s not important, and I don’t make an issue of it at any rate. You are here on the king’s business.” The last came out as a statement of fact.
“Of course. I have missives and orders for you.”
“Well, ‘orders’ is a rather strong word, Fredrick.” Torrance’s tone hardened.
Fredrick’s expression tightened at the familiar use of his name. “I assume you are familiar with the articles in the agreement between the Crimson Kings and the Kingdom of Galemar. Failure to adhere to the agreement will constitute a breech of that agreement, and a direct challenge to the sovereignty of the king.”
“The agreement stands,” Torrance softly assured. “The articles I assume you refer to state the band will heed a call to muster by the king as any of his lords must. In return, we are not pestered by the agents of the king as long as we regulate our numbers. Are you saying such a call to muster has been issued?”
“It has.”
“Then why did you not state so in the first place?”
“The call has long since been issued to all of the lords to muster their tribute for march!”
“But I am not one of the king’s lords, am I? How am I to know of such?”
Tollaf’s arrival spared Fredrick from making an angry comment. Torrance saw the messenger’s face pinch in irritation when he turned toward the opening door. In all likelihood people rarely challenge his words, which in his mind were the king’s words.
His chief mage arrived sooner than Torrance expected, which must mean he had already been on his way to see the commander, intending to again plead his case regarding his troublesome apprentice. Just as well then, since this messenger struck him as less intelligent than he had hoped, or at least less informed, so would require special handling.
