Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (101 page)

His foe had thought him neutralized.  He’d pulled back
for a final strike to kill the mercenary.  Marik’s blade struck his chest.  The
sword tip punctured the leather vest and the flesh beneath.

Marik’s working shattered under the horrible pain. 
Only the lingering energy pumping through his channels endowed him with
strength enough to finish the thrust.  The sword cut halfway through the
soldier before meat and body suction halted its progress.

When the soldier fell to twitch in the snow, he took
Marik’s blade with him.  The hilt slipped from Marik’s fingers.  His hand
spasmed from the relentless stiletto stabbing into his ribs.  He dropped to his
knees clutching at his side.

Chiksan stooped to check his condition.  Once
satisfied Marik’s wound was not crippling, he searched for other black-armored
figures nearby.  The few remaining were engaged by multiple Kings.

Marik’s pain faded when he pressed hard against his
flesh.  He felt no blood or torn skin.  What his rib might look like he cared
not to contemplate.  Later, when they had the time, he would need to examine it
through his magesight to see if bone fragments had splintered off to cause
damage to surrounding tissue.

His thoughts were a turmoil while he caught his
breath.  Anger, fury, indignation and outrage seethed within him.  He ranted
silently and demanded answers from Ercsilon, who offered no reply through any
venue Marik could understand.

The snow finally chilled his knees enough that he
tottered to his feet.  While he brushed the packed freeze from his breeches, he
abruptly remembered that he had not heightened his battle senses at all.  He
had begun fighting without bothering to open his sight, hearing, smell and even
taste to the multitude of sensory information around him.  Chatham would have
knocked him over the head with a sneer.  Colbey, who had taken such teachings
to a level beyond Chatham’s, would never have bothered.  No, the scout would
simply have trounced him effortlessly seven or eight times in as many minutes.

That explained the trouble these two had presented him
with.  But he had killed them in the end anyway.  Truly their fighting skills
were incomparable to his.

He glanced at the fighter who had died from a spear to
the heart via his armpit.  Chiksan had actually killed him, yet who knows how
events might have run had the Tullainian not intervened.  Probably he would
have managed a defense before the soldier’s blow connected.  In all likelihood,
he would have turned that into a victory over them both!

The soldiers’ numbers were down to seven, and the
Kings allowed none of them a retreat.  No sense letting them run off to bring
reinforcements for a second battle.  He reached for his sword when a fiery
explosion shook the air to the east.

Everyone immediately glanced sharply in that
direction, costing three of the remaining soldiers their lives.  With no threat
to his body imminent, Marik left it to drift on etheric winds to the larger
battle taking place.

Celerity had mentioned a magic user, Henodd, Marik
recalled, would be traveling with the force making the assault.  He had been
the only army mage near enough to join in time and, coincidentally, the man
whose conversation Marik had interrupted through the mirror.  An enchanter,
she’d said in passing, though Marik had very little idea what the specifics of
that magical branch might be.  All he knew for certain was that enchanters
combined the mage and magician talents the way wizards combined magecraft and
geomancy.

Henodd must have finally brought his abilities into
play.  From the etheric, Marik found him quickly.  The swirling in the mist
energies, as he had learned, made it easy to locate magician-type magic being
used.

Two of the beasts had been caught in Henodd’s spell. 
One had fallen, its life energies dispersing from its corpse while Marik
watched.  The other struggled on the ground, flailing in blind pain.  Its fur
burned in flames that must be spectacular from the physical plane.  Henodd
launched a second attack.

The Galemaran force was switching tactics.  A lone
rider waving his sword directed others.  His new orders took advantage of
Henodd’s confusion.  Kingdom fighters were reorganizing and using their numbers
to wash against the invaders in a relentless tide.  If the black soldiers and
their monsters tried to hold their position, they would be crushed under the
flood.

That must be the Arm.
  Marik watched the man for a moment, seeing the
tableau for what it was.  Somewhere in that sprawling mess would be an officer
who whispered in the Arm’s ear, the actual leader who ran the Galemaran side of
the engagement.  The Arm would call out those orders, ride impressively at the
frontline, gleam in polished steel armor under the sun, bellow encouragement to
boost morale, and generally inspire the soldiers to greater effectiveness. 
They fought beside the Arm of Galemar, a hero who had single-handedly protected
the kingdom countless times since the Unification.

Marik would have spit had he a mouth to do so with. 
What utter foolishness.  That figurehead over yonder was no unrivaled hero,
outwitting enemy forces ten times the size of his own, or holding a pass
against rebellious factions, or dueling to the death in single combat against
fifteen enemy warriors in a row.  Such legends were born when the times
demanded the best of men, not in times where a border war with Nolier was the
worst conflict seen in over a hundred years.

Would Hilliard have sat there and pretended to be a
man long dead?
  The question occurred
with a strangely soothing effect.  He felt his scorn melt, quick memories of
his former charge flashing through his recollection.

Hilliard probably would leap straight into the
fighting with little care for anything except fighting his kingdom’s enemies
until they were vanquished to the last.  He would die quickly.  As impressive a
lad as he might be, Marik doubted he possessed the sheer cunning to match the
accomplishments of past Arm’s.  Anybody could grind a force only a quarter the
size of his own under their boots.  That might be the truth, but the bards
would work it into the Arm’s most brilliant victory yet.

And that would make the men who had fought in the
Arm’s force proud to have done so and proud to be soldiers in Galemar’s army. 
Every other soldier would be envious and work that much harder, so that they
might be worthy to serve with him when next he needed fighters by his side.

Strange
,
Marik thought. 
But then the Arm’s purpose has always been to find victory
for the kingdom despite the odds.  Is this way any less valid than personally
snatching the victory with his own skills?

It might not be…yet Marik disliked the whole idea. 
The Arm should be what the Arm
should
be.  With the nobility restricting
the position as Arm to their bloodlines these days, was it any wonder that a
soft Arm had been born from their softer ranks?

Sensation from his far-off body made him speed back. 
Dietrik shook his shoulder.  “Hey, mate.  Are you with us?”

Marik shook his head, then quickly stopped when the
motion renewed the glass in his lower ribs.  “I am now.  Looks like the Arm is
leading the forces to the east.  They’re starting to crush the invaders.”

“Nice to hear a spot of decent news for a change. 
Anyway, we’re moving off north before any more buggers come for our skins.”

“Right.”

Marik leaned over to grasp his hilt, gritting his
teeth despite the pain’s lessened bite.  Perhaps the damage was minimal after
all.

The snow around the hilt had scraped down to the dirt
from the soldier’s death throes.  When he tugged, the sword remained stuck fast
in the dead man’s torso.  Mostly his armor refused to let go rather than the
flesh behind.  Marik nearly needed to reinstate the strength working before it
finally pulled loose.

He followed behind Dietrik.  The sergeants started
north at a faster clip this time, hugging the stone mountain wall close enough
to touch it.  With luck they would avoid any further conflicts before rejoining
the kingdom forces.  They had lost four men, which for the Crimson Kings was a
high number to lose against an equally sized force of regular fighters. 
Glancing around revealed most of the people he knew.  How had Arvallar survived
the battle in which
he’d
been so hard-pressed when the flashy peacock
only wielded a dagger?

The throbbing in his side brought his attention to
other matters.  That odd leather the black soldiers wore was trouble.  It
captured his blade whenever he cut it and left him open to attack.  Surely that
accounted for the high number of losses in their two units.

It would burn up his reserves quickly, but it would be
best to use dual channeling in the next fight.  With the blunt trauma from his
shielded blade, he would be able to deal lethal damage without risking his
blade becoming stuck.  The pain in his side testified to the effectiveness
inherent in a bludgeoning force.

That decided, he focused his gaze on Dietrik’s back
while slowly filling his reserves from the mass diffusion.

*        *        *        *        *

No good.  They siphoned off from the line’s rear, damn
them!  There’s still too many!

Colbey’s view through the tangled bushes revealed
fewer men surrounding his quarry, but still too many to make attacking a viable
option.  Twenty soldiers that he could see were clustered around that
vainglorious tent like flies hovering over a garbage pile.

Why had the murderer ordered men off the line to
destroy the threat behind him?  The fight against the invaders waged furiously,
especially with the Galemaran’s witch stirring up trouble.  They needed
every
man
they had to defend least they be overrun.  He should have sent his own
guards since they were the only fighters unengaged at that moment!  He
should
have
, the gods curse him for eternity!

Instead the coward gave greater care to his hide than
to battlefield strategies that would help ensure his men victory.  Colbey’s
hand twisted unnoticed on the shrub branch concealing his presence.

The long years spent with no thought given to anything
except this moment; to finally having his people’s murderer within his sight. 
At last he had tracked his prey to this time, to this day.

He had left the few village survivors behind, resolved
to cut his way through entire armies if need be…and he crouched like a child,
afraid to move because the man he sought stood among allies.  Only twenty men
stood between him and the author of his village’s demise.  Twenty men under the
mistaken impression that they knew how to fight.

Such a pittance should surely pose no impenetrable
barrier to a true Guardian!  Hard, fast, efficient.  Dead before a man could
raise his sword.  He could slay the first six or seven before they could
organize, then use speed to keep changing positions, prevent them from
surrounding him.  Kill every dark mongrel his fluid dance would bring him near
until none remained but he and the worst criminal in the lot.

:Yes.  Stop cowering in fear and go!  Bring them
down!  Send them all to the Abysmal Gates and let them burn in perdition’s
flames and drown in seas of tormented souls!:

Yes
, Colbey
agreed.  Liam was right.  A fate befitting the evil pulsating in their black
hearts. 
Yes.  Yes.  Their righteous due.  Yes
.

When he pulled back his arm, his hand remained
fastened to the stout branch.  He glared at his knuckles, willing them to
move.  They refused to respond with their usual alacrity.  His fingers gripped
the rough wood tighter before loosening marginally. Colbey jerked hard to free
his grip.  The bush shook violently enough that any soldier happening to glance
toward the forest could never fail to notice.

His hand came free after a prolonged tug.  Colbey
stared at it in fury.  He would not be betrayed by anyone!  Least of all a
traitorous appendage!  If it continued to disobey him, if it meant to hinder,
then he would simply cut it off.

Colbey rose to his feet to leap into the fray and
finally exact his vengeance.  Or so he meant.  He tumbled into the bush. 
Branches scraped at his face and exposed skin.

Amidst the bush’s grasping clutches he yanked his
sword from its sheath.  He rolled to lash back at whoever had grabbed his
ankles.  Anyone preventing his quest after so long, so very long, would
surrender their lives as payment for their foolishness.

No one.  He was alone.

All over he sent his gaze, searching every shadow and
leaf for the person responsible.

No one.

Confusion rolled over him.  The one interfering must
have escaped like the wind into the deeper trees.  Well, he would show this
misguided jokester the error of his ways.

He made to stand and nearly tumbled for the second
time.  Colbey studied his legs in shock.  No hindrance bound them, yet they
denied his will as surely as his hand had.  They refused to unbend from their
crouch.

The fury consumed him until the faint touch of
Sylvia’s fingers cooled his shoulder.  It dampened the rage enough that his
rationality returned.  His hand rested on his knee.  He took several deep
breaths as he peered into his soul.