by Damien Lake
He had reached his mental hands to grasp his aura’s energy, but the only actions familiar to him in such circumstances were drawing or sending. Since the energy had lain on the far side of the conduit, he had instinctively pulled on it.
Better not to try that again until you have more experience under your belt.
Or he could track down Colbey and get the man talking. The camp sounded quiet for the most part. Any fighting still waited in the future, baring a sudden sally by the Noliers. That seemed unlikely.
A cook handed him a small loaf of brown bread and a cheese hunk without pausing in his conversation with a man clothed in a soldier’s uniform.
“But there won’t be enough food for them all! Fall is on the way and winter not far behind.”
“Then they should all be turned back across the border,” the soldier replied.
“And who’s going to do it, eh? All of you fighting boys are over here. The garrison rats you left behind can’t near handle the task. Besides, word is things in Tullainia are horrible right now, worse than anything you can imagine.”
It sounded as if the problems to the west were growing worse. Bad news. The best thing to do, in the eyes of the officers, would be to end this conflict with the Noliers as soon as possible so they could start moving men. Marik decided to see Tollaf after all and find out what the mages were up to. That might give him an idea of the overall battle strategy.
But first he wanted to find Colbey, except he had no idea where to start looking. He decided Fraser would know where to find the scout.
Gnawing on his breakfast, he found Fraser a moment after he swallowed the last bite. The sergeant waited at the crescent’s edge nearest to the Hollister, standing with Giles, Bindrift and Earnell. Further down the line rose a newly erected pavilion. Marik could see a number of men sitting inside on small leather stools and large cushions. You’d think they were out on a country holiday! It could only be the nobles.
Everyone watched two men advance along the road leading to the former border garrison. Normally the gates remained open to travelers or merchants crossing into Nolier. No longer. The men each held a long pole, blue pennants fluttering from the tips in the warm breeze. They carried words to the Noliers from the commander.
Marik watched with everyone else. The two men walked cautiously. A wise precaution, because as soon as they were inside arrow range, several shafts flew from atop the wall in their direction. Whether they meant to hit the men or not, they sent a clear message and the two ran before the first arrows struck the ground.
“Shit,” Earnell cursed under his breath. “They want to do it the hard way.”
“That’s what we’re paid for,” Fraser observed, then addressed Marik. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for that scout I was paired with in the Reaches. Do you know where I can find him?”
Fraser did not ask why. “Scouts are bivouacked to the north, closest to the trees.”
Without his mount, which roamed in the larger herd two miles west in a green, lush valley, and in no hurry, the walk across the camp took much of the morning. Marik didn’t know exactly how many thousands of men were serving their king. The camp stretched on like a small city. He almost expected to see shops hawking their junk to the passing soldiers or a few enterprising ale wagons with their tailgates dropped, serving as an impromptu tavern.
Instead, the only business conducted in their army town passed between the men and the countless camp whores looking for customers. Marik had thought the following outside the Sixth Depot was large. It palled to the sheer numbers of them gathered here.
The further north he walked, he more he found himself in error. There were merchants dealing wares. An old woman offered potions from her small hand wagon, the qualities of which she claimed would prolong stamina, her assurances accompanied by a salacious wink disturbing from her withered features. Two or three honest tinkers practiced their craft, mostly repairing damaged mail or replacing leather laces on favorite boots. One man approached Marik and asked if he wanted to open his mind to the gods, showing him a small bottle filled with evil smelling black paste while shielding the sight of it from others.
When Marik refused, the man scurried away into the crowd, vanishing with uncanny speed.
The northern crescent curve arced toward the gorge, and Marik questioned men there until directed to the scouts. Their camp corner looked no different from the others. Several questions led Marik to a captain who directed Marik still further north.
“Yeah, I know who you mean. Quiet guy, bad attitude, but damned good.”
“Sounds like him.”
“He likes to stay by himself. He’s been sitting by the edge of the Reaches since dawn, I think.”
Marik thanked the man. He walked toward the forest, two hundred yards from the scouts’ camp. Further to the west, men worked hard with axe and saw. The sounds carried across the whole of the camp. Once beyond the last tent, Marik could see the army engineers at their craft. Trees fell, to be quickly stripped of branches. Logs rolled away as wagons unloaded, revealing giant wheels or unidentifiable metal parts that would all combine into siege engines. Surely the Noliers could see this labor from atop the tower and its walls. Marik hoped it made them nervous.
He found no sign of Colbey, so walked along the tree line until he discovered the man sitting on a weather-worn stump.
The scout rested his elbows on his knees, head propped on one hand. He stared straight at Marik when he came to a stop.
“What brings you after me? I doubt you wandered over here by accident.”
“No. I wanted to talk to you.”
“I guessed. Tell me what about.”
“That trick of yours.” Colbey closed his eyes. He acted as though he had never heard Marik. “I tried it last night and almost killed myself.”
“Good.” The eyes stayed shut. “But obviously it hasn’t taught you not to meddle in other’s affairs.”
“I’ll keep trying, you know. Sooner or later I’ll get the trick of it.”
Colbey opened his eyes to pierce Marik with his gaze. “You think so, do you? A mage who can’t remember the basics and argues with his master in front of an entire force of soldiers is going to ferret out my secrets?”
Marik felt his face turning red. “I’m no mage. Not in the normal sense of the word, anyway. You say you aren’t either, yet you’re definitely not an average fighter! Would you rather be as you are or would you rather toss away that sword for the powers of magic?”
“That’s not even a question for me.”
“And not me either!”
“Then why practice as a mage?”
“Because I don’t want to leave the band. And because…I have another reason.”
“That being?”
“My own business.”
Colbey sighed. “You want to convince me you have no desire for power, but you admit you have hidden goals. What am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t care what you think. I’m a swordsman, not a mage. That’s how I see myself. If I’m going to be forced to learn magecraft, then I’m going to learn it my way,” Marik declared while jabbing his thumb into his chest, “Not anyone else’s.”
Colbey nodded, mostly to himself rather than in agreement. “I’ve never met a mage like you. You wield a sword instead of your power. You wear chainmail instead of a robe. I’ve been taught to never trust mages, but I must admit you seem different.”
“The only workings of magic I’m interested in at this moment are ones that help me fight like a true warrior.”
“You are an interesting person, do you know that?” Colbey suddenly rose and met his eyes. “You are the first interesting person I’ve met since I left my village.”
“So will you help me then?”
“In truth, I have never been forbidden to teach the techniques I’ve mastered to anyone else, though I believe that’s because my teachers never imagined an outsider would be around one of us long enough to so
much as learn of them.” Colbey continued to study him for several moments before asking a question. “Tell me mage, why you joined the Crimson Kings in the first place.”
“It goes to the heart of my second reason for learning what Tollaf wants me to.”
After nodding, Colbey paused one last time. “Mage, I’ll teach you the technique you lust after on two conditions.”
Marik restrained himself from bursting into a fool’s grin. “Those being?”
“I have my own reasons for joining the band. Perhaps I’ll tell you one day. In exchange for my teaching, I want you to help me when I ask you to.”
“Doing what?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I can’t promise without knowing what you would have me do.”
Colbey considered that. “Fair enough. Let’s say this then. You will promise to help me unless you have a legitimate moral reason to refuse.”
“Sounds fair. And the second condition?”
“Tell me of your second reason. I need to know I’m not handing over my secrets to one who would misuse them.”
Marik refrained from sighing. So far during this war he had spared little time for thoughts concerning Rail Drakkson. Since he could not yet scrye his father, he had seen no point in getting himself worked up with the old unanswerable questions and the complex emotions connected to him. “It’s a long story. If you have the patience, I’ll explain.”
“Good.” Colbey gestured to a matching stump six feet away from the one he squatted upon. “Then have a seat and let us start, shall we?”
Chapter 27
After an eightday spent camping around the Hollister, the Galemarans began increasing the pressure. The engineers had finished three catapults and dragged them to the frontline. A dozen horses pulled each. Twice as many men tugged on tethers to position the machines until the engineers were satisfied.
Soldiers had dug defenses since the first day. A long mound already curved along the camp’s frontline, enclosing the cliff-mounted tower. Once the war engines were in position, the soldiers set to digging new mounds to anchor them. Two-hundred men were assigned to each for protection.
While the men at the catapults buried their foundations to keep the recoil from jarring the frames out of position, a wagon detachment departed to collect ammunition. The ground at the camp consisted of soil and trees. They were forced to cart loads from the northern river gorge, which provided ample rock fragments.
Stone used to build the tower three-hundred years before had been cut from a natural quarry a mile north where the river eroded the gorge’s walls. Men returned to gather fresh stone, this time with the purpose of destroying the garrison’s walls rather than constructing them.
Backbreaking labor continued without respite while men filled the wagons with boulders. Horses dragged them back, clearly ill-pleased with the heavy task, but the handlers kept them under tight rein. Soldiers unloaded the wagons beside the catapults before returning for fresh cargo.
The engineers tested their equipment by firing loads to establish the range. Noliers who had crowded the wall top quickly fled the raining stones.
“No!” one engineer shouted at another. “That will send them too far! We have orders not to damage the tower! Only the wall!”
Getting two engineers to agree on anything seemed nigh on impossible the soldiers noticed, and the day wore on with minimal progress. At least they had the easy jobs.
Or so they thought until it became clear that guarding the war machines described only half their duties at this post.
“What do you mean load it?” became the common cry from six-hundred men in uniforms on a hot day. Men suddenly discovering they were expected to break their own backs wrenching massive rocks into the cradles.
The boulders were of a particularly dense granite, requiring entire teams to move. Swearing soldiers quickly grew hot, exhausted and irritable under the engineers’ conflicting orders, engineers who stood beside their creations and never helped with the hard work. A few nearly suffered the wrath of an angry mob for changing instructions again and again while the men’s strength quickly waned.
After an entire morning spent testing, the catapults began firing larger stones capable of damaging the seven-foot-thick walls, the engineers having calculated ranges for standard weights. Several boulders struck the lower wall exactly as the engineers intended, but the differences between stones sent lighter ones higher while others fell short, missing the wall and contributing nothing to the cumulative damage. The soldiers cursed aloud at these misses, almost as loudly as they had cursed upon seeing how little damage resulted from a solid strike.
Noticeable damage from a single rock could not be seen, except for a handful of flying stone chips. Whether these were from the wall or the boulder was rarely clear. Assaulting the walls from this distance would be the work of days and eightdays. After the first day, the wall no longer looked smooth, instead appearing dented as an old iron rim from a well-used wagon wheel.
Every now and then the engineers would order the catapult cradles filled with loose fragments and fist-sized stones. The load’s lighter weight sent them higher, coming down in a hailstorm across the compound. It kept the Noliers on their toes.
If they had wanted to destroy the tower rather than retake it, they would have loaded the cradles with flaming barrels of war oil to set the place ablaze.
Tollaf kept trying to corner Marik and missing, the latter harboring no wish to hear whatever the former might want to say. Marik spent the eightday with Colbey, learning from the scout. That Colbey knew techniques beyond the one he had agreed to teach quickly became apparent. The scout would never talk about anything else, and Marik worked hard enough on the one in any event.
For his part, Marik’s quick mastery impressed Colbey, though the scout kept that private. In under an eightday Marik mastered the trick of it and could feel fresh strength flowing though his limbs. Two factors contributed to his rapid learning. The first, his own training as a mage in manipulating etheric energy. Familiar with the energy flows in his body, he already possessed half of what he needed before the first lesson.
The second, Marik’s own mental training, which he practiced whenever he had the opportunity. Visualizing the fights against phantom opponents had sharpened his ability to imagine. Always remembering the weight of his body and blade as well as the limitations of speed and endurance significantly increased his mental capacities as far as forming accurate visualizations.
Dietrik exercised with Marik, though not near enough to alarm Colbey. The scout held his training sessions in a clearing beyond the tree line, away from the army camp. He wanted no one else to know the Guardians’ skills so much as existed. When Dietrik showed up one day with Marik, Colbey reacted with fury.
“Oh, calm down old boy,” Dietrik had waved away with one hand. “It’s nothing to pop about. I’ll simply be over here like, getting my exercise in.”
He walked across the clearing, too far away to hear anything they might discuss. Whatever those two were up to did not concern him, and he needed to practice. In a battle for one’s life against the Noliers, one eschewed finesse and polish. One slashed and gouged until the man striving to kill you no longer moved, then one repeated the action with the next enemy on the line.
The scout eventually decided he was of little consequence. He and Marik spent a candlemark talking, yet otherwise moved little.
In the end, the scout left and Marik trotted over to join him. “I need to loosen up. How about we go a few rounds on spar?”
“Sound fine, mate. What was all that about?”
“If I ever manage to get it down myself, I’ll show you first.”
“It’s a deal. Ready?”
The two dueled until dinnertime. Marik’s blade skills balanced the difference against Dietrik’s rapier and main-gauche dagger combination despite the faster speed of the smaller blades. Sweaty and exhausted, yet feeling good, they returned to their tent. They continued
the pattern for the next several days. Colbey seemed to accept his presence even if he still gave Dietrik searching looks from time to time.
Kerwin spent his time making coin hand over fist with each passing day. With a small stool and campaign table he stole from a temporarily unoccupied army tent, he set up shop beside the southernmost catapult. A crowd had gathered around him. He swore to Marik, Dietrik and Landon that when the war ended, he would have enough hard coin to open his own inn to rival the famous Randy Unicorn.
No matter how the engineers adjusted their engines, the boulder flights were never entirely predictable. Kerwin had started by making an idle bet with the exhausted soldiers taking a break as to whether the next missile would hit the wall or not. By day’s end he had three primary bets running with every launch; whether the boulder would fall short of the wall, strike low or strike high. He also ran a fourth about the stone flying too high and completely over the wall, but that rarely happened so the odds were higher.
As each day rolled into the next, news of Kerwin’s gambling parlor spread. Soldier hoards converged on him during their off duty candlemarks to enjoy one of the camp’s few recreations. After the long spring and summer on campaign, Kerwin had a greater number of customers than he might otherwise have been blessed with.
He displayed his takings to Marik, who nearly fell over.
“Damn, I hope you’re watching your back, Kerwin! A thug’s going to knife you and desert with your winnings!”
“I’ve already had a few slobs give it a go. I made sure they discovered the difference between an army man and a Crimson King!”
“Better be careful or they’ll put you under army arrest.”
“As it happens, several minor officers enjoy playing the odds at my table. I’m not too worried about cutting rough.”
