Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (11 page)

The old man yelped to Marik’s immense satisfaction. 
Pained dancing and curses resounded until the chief mage retreated.  Marik’s
glee faded as he studied the knife.

A quick jab cut open his index finger.  He swept away
the hair and dripped blood into the bowl until the flow stopped.  When it did
the porcelain held a thin layer resembling the dregs of a tomato soup lunch.

Three candlemarks later, he nearly fell from his
stool.  He had never channeled so long in his life.  The etheric energy poured
through him without needing any shaping, but he had to work to maintain
conduits he normally did not need to think about once created.  His body
shuddered as if he had spent the entire day digging trenches again.

And the bastard etheric serpent had barely completed
half its circuit.

A thump at his elbow nearly startled him into losing
his hold on the power.  Surprisingly, when he looked sideways, Tollaf’s aura
moved away from him.  On the table he found a tankard of water and several
biscuits.

Drinking the water refreshed him as much as a quick
nap.  He grudgingly admitted the old man might not be
all
bad.  Perhaps
only ninety percent so.

Marik bit into his fourth biscuit when the seeking
serpent reached its two-thirds mark.  It pointed almost due west.  Night had
fallen long ago and he hoped the working would finish before midnight.

A sudden shimmer from his peripheral vision grabbed
his eye.  He bent his attention to the silvered glass,
willing
it to
show his father.

The image solidified.  Marik drank in the entire scene
in an instant.

Two men sat before a blazing hearth.  One could be no
one other than Rail Drakkson.  Marik recognized his entire body’s set in an
instant, but he sat with his head held in his hands.  His cheeks had not been
shaved anytime recently.  He looked haggard.  Deep breaths bellowed from his
lungs as if he had just run a race.  Under his eyes were deep shadows. 
Everything about his bearing suggested that Rail was an ill man.

Marik had instantly focused on his father, back
straight as a sword while he studied the scene in Tollaf’s mirror.  A sharp
movement from the other man drew Marik’s attention to him.  In that one bare
fraction of an instant, Marik saw much while learning nothing.

In the firelight, the second man looked to be garbed
in dark clothing.  Marik thought most of it was red.  Certainly the man’s hair
burned with a color that nearly matched the flames in the hearth.  The dancing
firelight made even his
eyes
look red.  Crystalline red, scarlet as a
ruby, crimson as stained temple glass.  Eyes sparkling in the firelight.

The man’s head jerked toward Marik as if he could see
the intruder watching him.  Marik looked straight into those flashing,
jewel-red eyes.

The mirror shattered outward.

Fragments flew in every direction.  Marik flung an arm
over his eyes and cried out as sharp edges cut his face.  He instinctively
recoiled backward off the stool and crashed to the floor amidst shards of raining
glass.

“What in the hells did you do?” Tollaf screamed while
he charged across the room.  His feet crunched over fragments of his onetime
mirror.  He took one look at the frame.  It contained only jagged silver teeth
around the edges.  “Gods bloody damn it!  Do you have the faintest notion how
much a mirror like this costs?”

The chief mage shot a furious gaze loaded with venom
down at his cursed idiot of an apprentice, expecting one of the fool’s flippant
remarks.  His rage gradually abated when Marik remained motionless.  “Boy?” 
Kneeling, he rolled the young man over, feeling the blood from where he had
cracked his head against the stone floor.

Tollaf muttered under his breath as he walked out the
door.  The Homeguard would haul him to the chirurgeons’ wing.  What in the
hells had that damned fool done?  Marik could not regain consciousness soon
enough for Tollaf, who would grill the disrespectful whelp alive.  But with
that thought came a cold chill running up his spine.  Whenever that happened, it
was usually a bad sign.

Dietrik’s blow rang off Marik’s blade to the left, and
Kerwin dashed in from the side for a flanking strike.  Unable to reposition his
sword in time, Marik twisted away out of range.  Kerwin’s blade swept through
air.  Marik landed in a defenseless posture, his rear sticking out as though he
had nearly pitched forward into a mud puddle.

A strike against his back sent him sprawling to his
knees.  Landon’s blow stung despite his chainmail.  With the target down, the
three backed off to prevent accidents.

Marik flipped to a sitting position.  “I suppose
that’s enough for today.  I’m too tired to work any longer.”

“Agreed,” Landon replied.  “We’ll lose the light soon
as well.  I lack the energy for a nighttime training session today.”

Kerwin stretched after sheathing his blade.  “I don’t
think you need any more practice anyway.”

Marik glanced up.  “Why?”

“Why?”  Kerwin’s eyebrows shot into his hair.  “Gods,
it took us a full minute to bring you down that time!  I don’t know about them,
but I was nearly going full out!”

“Full out at your normal training level, you mean.  We
never fight with our combat strength.  I haven’t improved that much.”

Kerwin scowled.  Landon seemed amused.  Dietrik took a
seat next to Marik.  “Our jolly lad never has been able to accept praise.”

Still irritated, Kerwin officially called it a day. 
“I’m going to go see what Luiez’s cooked up.  You coming?”

“Yes.”  Landon departed the training area with Kerwin.

Marik persisted to Dietrik, “I don’t think I’ve
improved much.  It doesn’t feel any different.”

“It sure
looks
different.”

“I’m still not used to this new sword yet.”

Dietrik shook his head.  “Is that supposed to make me
feel better?”

“I don’t know.  But I
do
know I’m not good
enough yet to be a B Class fighter.”

“That is the rank you hold.”

“Torrance gave it to me as a reward.  The lieutenants
wouldn’t have re-classed me on skill alone yet.”  He glared at his sword.  “I
need to keep training until I’m equal to the rank.”

Absently, he fingered the bandages wrapping his face. 
Marik considered the previous battle against his friends.  So far, Colbey had
taught him nothing new about wielding a sword.  The scout had only awakened him
to his own sensory perceptions.

Marik had learned from Chatham about heightening his
senses before a battle, to stop ignoring the constant input from his eyes and
ears.  He thought he had become adept at that, but Colbey knocked the scales
from his eyes.  Comparing Chatham’s teachings to Colbey’s was like placing a
tool hut next to the command building.  The scout instructed him in
interpreting every slightest sigh of wind and hint of movement.  Due credit to
Colbey had not been acknowledged by Marik until this very fight against three
of his shieldmates.

His friends still moved with all their superior speed,
yet he guessed what their actions would be an instant sooner based on subtle
clues.  This greatly helped his blocks, dodges and counterattacks.

Then there was his own speed.  Beyond anything else,
Colbey kept ranting about Marik’s speed.  It never satisfied the sadistic
scout.  Advanced speed had always been Dietrik’s forte, but he knew Colbey
would keep shouting until he somehow pushed his sword to greater speed than
Dietrik’s rapier.  Marik glumly accepted that this meant Colbey would shout at
him for the rest of his life.

His gaze wandered while he rested.  He noticed a straw
mockup dummy still sitting to one side.  Earlier, he had been practicing when
Kerwin and Landon arrived.  The temptation to leave it seduced him
.  Slacking
off is the first step in going to seed.
  With a sigh, he rose to claim it
from beside the first six’s sad remains.

“What’s news?”

“I noticed I missed this one.”

He set it on the wooden post.  His new sword was
suited well for slashes.  Less well for thrusts.  Still, Colbey remained
adamant.  Six points on the straw man had been painted with small red circles,
the scout having used the same paint that highlighted the torso’s customary
centerline.  The circles were scattered instead of clustered together, nor were
they in any pattern.

Thrusting quickly, Marik hit the first circle’s edge,
high on the shoulder.  Before his blade could come to a rest, he pulled back
and thrust for the second.  The point must never be allowed to stop, must
thrust as fast as he could, keeping the blade constantly moving.

He missed the second circle on the opposite shoulder
by two inches.  The third landed even further from the mark.  When he thrust
for the fourth, he nearly hit the fifth instead.  Without altering his angle,
he struck for the fifth time, hoping to stay on target.  Instead he went astray
by the widest margin yet.  The sixth thrust missed the straw torso entirely.

Marik swore and flopped to the ground, deciding his
fatigue could be blamed for his worst performance ever.  Each subsequent strike
would always be less accurate than the previous, but he had never missed
completely before.

“Mind if I have a go?”

“Help yourself,” Marik grunted.

Studying the setup, Dietrik added, “I’m surprised I
never thought of this.  This is perfect practice for my rapier.”

“Have fun.”  Marik’s mood festered.  This exercise was
designed to improve speed and accuracy, and yet his average results were no
noticeably different than when he’d first started.

Dietrik loosened his arm.  This was an activity Marik
always found fascinating.  While gripping the rapier hilt, he shook his hand up
and down.  The blade’s center moved none at all but the tip whipped down and
up, opposite to the direction his hand traveled.  Such fluid motion always played
with Marik’s eyes.

With quicksilver thrusts, Dietrik struck the first
circle a glancing blow.  The next strike landed dead on and he ran the entire
six, thrusting forward and back in a single heartbeat.  Only seconds after he
began, the last circle met its end.

Dietrik beamed down at his friend.  “And how’s that,
eh?”

Four of the six displayed holes in the center while
the remaining two bore wounds on their edges.  Imitating Kerwin’s scowl, Marik
replied, “So what?  You’ve been thrusting with that thing for two years.”

“Try not to let the envy gobble you up.”

Marik fingered his bandages again.  Dietrik went a
second round against the straw target.  This time he only landed two solid
kills, missing two others by an inch.  Straw flecks fluttered away and the red
circles started losing their defined shape when the stalks were shorn.  Several
rounds later, Marik almost laughed at Dietrik’s consternation.  His first
attempt had been his best.  Each performance since grew progressively worse. 
It rankling under his friend’s skin.

He averted his gaze so Dietrik’s irritation would not
provoke that laugh from him.  On the field’s far side, Kineta made a fool out
of a large First Unit man.  Why were they still trying to prove their
superiority?  She had beaten every one of them into the ground, most several
times.  The way she moved with her scimitar recalled festival dancers; fast,
fluid, graceful.

“Damn it to the hells!”

Dietrik glared at the dummy as though it had insulted
him.  Marik held his tongue while his friend flung the mangled wreck into the
pile with the others.

He dropped to a seat on the ground beside Marik.  “Is
your face still hurting?”

“Why?”

“You’ve been playing with those wraps every time you
slow down.”

Consciously placing his hands in his lap, Marik said,
“I don’t like the way they feel.  But Delmer says two days minimum, and he’ll
be checking up on me.”

That made Dietrik chuckle.  “He seems to have become
somewhat more authoritative since he became fully qualified.”

“He’s earned it, at least from me.”

“You need to watch yourself.  At this rate, he’ll end
up as your personal chirurgeon!”

Marik kept silent.  The instant his thoughts wandered,
his fingers drifted to his face again.  Dietrik read the concern behind his
friend’s impassive mask.

“So what really happened, mate?”

“I don’t know.”  Marik sounded distant, talking while
he thought.  “Tollaf doesn’t believe me.  He’s positive I’m either lying to
save my butt or I did something strange to the working.”

“Did you?”

“No.  I’m sure I performed it correctly.  I bumbled a
little bit at first, but that’s normal the first time you do anything new.”

“And you truly saw your father?”

“That
was
him.  There’s no doubt about that! 
But he didn’t look good. In fact, he looked sick.”

This time Dietrik remained silent.  He was unsure what
he should say.

“He’s
alive!
” Marik declared vehemently.  “As
soon as Tollaf gets a new mirror I can find out where he is!”

“If he lets you, you mean.  It’s public knowledge how
angry he is with you over that mirror.  A piece of work like that does not come
cheap.”

Marik set his jaw.  “I don’t care what he says!  I
didn’t get any clues about where father is.  The mirror exploded before I
could.”

“What makes you think that won’t happen next time?”

“It was that other man, I’m sure of it.  There was
something…”  Marik shook his head after reexamining the brief memory.  “There
was something about him.  As if he were looking right at me.” 
Like the
clerks, when they were talking through the mirror last spring.  But he
couldn’t
have seen me!  He had no matching mirror!

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t try it.  Tollaf might rip
the town apart if you break another one.  None of us wish to share the town
with an angry master mage.”

“That red-eyed man can’t spend all his time with
father!  It was probably only a fluke, anyway.”

“You might not have time in any event.  There’s only
two eightdays left before the first marching day.  Can your able master replace
such a splendid mirror in so short a time?”

“Probably not, but we won’t be marching out until late
spring.”  At Dietrik’s curious expression, Marik expanded.  “I thought you knew
that.  The tournament opens on Summerdawn.  We’ll pick up our charge in
Spirratta and escort him to Thoenar so we arrive close to the first day of
summer.”

“So we don’t need to leave home until roughly a month
prior,” Dietrik concluded.  “Unless we have to walk.”

Marik shook his head.  “Bodyguards for important
nobles can’t keep up with their exalted lord’s thoroughbred mount on foot, can
they?  We’ll be drawing horses from the corral.  Torrance said he’s already
left orders for the showiest ones to be held in reserve for all bodyguards.”

“We’d better start taking care.”

Marik raised an eyebrow.  “Sorry?”

“We haven’t actually
marched
an entire contract
since our first one.  We’ll go soft at this rate.”

The first evening bell rang, making the two aware of
the time.  “We’d better get a move on,” Marik decided.  “Chatham will go
nonstop all night if we’re late.”

“Maybe Harlan will glare him into the floor for us.”

“That hasn’t worked so far.  Let’s go.  The dining
room will be filling up.  We won’t get a good table.”

Being late, they carried their gear to the tavern
instead of stopping by the barracks first.  Dietrik asked, “So if Merry Tollaf
can’t get a new mirror soon, what will you do next in the course of your hunt?”

“I don’t know.  This was supposed to be the best
method for finding father, the one guaranteed to get results.”

“And so it did.  You know Rail is alive somewhere.”

“It’s the
where
part that bothers me.  Where is
somewhere?
  The second half of the working was supposed to determine the
location of whatever you scryed, but obviously it didn’t last long enough! 
Three seconds!  At best!”

“So you will try again?”

“What else can I do?  But Tollaf will have to swallow
his ego and admit he’s a fool.  He was supposed to help me with the second
part.  It’s too hard for me to do.”

“Perhaps you could practice while you wait for the new
mirror.”

“Tollaf and Natalie’s book say it’s hard because it’s
delicate.  I’d smash the working apart if I tried it.  I don’t have the skill.”

“Well, you’ll never develop the skill if you never
work at it.”

Marik gave Dietrik a withering sidelong look.  “You’re
starting to sound like Tollaf.”

“With age comes wisdom, son.”  Dietrik patted his shoulder
while Marik pondered which remark would best capture his attitude.  Before he
could reply, Dietrik pointed ahead.  “Look there.  Seems we’ve been keeping
them waiting.”

Standing together as they always did, Chatham and
Harlan were in discussion.  Maddock stood nearby, listening while remaining
apart.  It still lifted Marik’s heart to see the trio of men with whom he had
escaped the prison of his hometown, Tattersfield.  When they drew nearer,
Chatham threw his arms wide in dramatic exuberance, declaring lifelong loyalty
to stalwart companions as long as they paid the ale tab.  Marik smiled, though
avoided the jester’s embrace, and led the way inside to see what might be on
the dinner menu tonight.