Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (16 page)

When he glanced around, Marik raised a hand to capture
his attention.  Firm strides quickly brought the youth to their small group. 
“Are you the men my father hired?”

“Yes.”

Extending a hand, as the other two had not, he grasped
Marik’s firmly, saying, “I am Hilliard Garroway.  Thank you for coming to look
after me.”

“Uh, yeah.  I mean, yes.  We’ve been assigned as your
bodyguards during the tournament.”

Hilliard nodded.  He ignored Marik’s surprised
fumbling.  “Father has sent me several letters.  We have always been on good
terms with the Crimson Kings.  I feel safer, knowing I can depend on you.”

“I, uh…I’ve been talking with the duke’s seneschal. 
It sounds like we might have an eventful journey.”

“Truly?”  Hilliard’s forehead wrinkled.  Apparently
the news had yet to be passed on to the fosterlings.  It must indeed be fresh.

“He told us about Earl Westcot’s son,” Marik
temporized.  “He fell to an attack.”

“Oh.  Yes, I imagine there is always a threat, but you
take a risk every time you leave your bed in the morning.”

“True enough, and I’m sure any danger from local
cutthroats will be left behind once we’ve gotten on the road.”

Slight embarrassment reddened the youth, the reason
for which Marik thought he knew.  He spoke matter-of-factly so as not to make
an issue of it.

“We’ll be heading up Steelpin Road until we can cut
over to Capitol Highway.  All told, it should only take about two eightdays to
reach Thoenar.”

“I’m…sorry…we can’t afford the ferry.  My father’s
barony…”

Kineta and Sloan would be taking their charges further
west to the Varmeese.  From there they would take a direct ferry to Thoenar. 
As expensive as such traveling methods were, the contractors were required to
provide additional coin to cover the cost.  The contract between Garroway and
the Kings specified land travel and had been carefully spelled out by the clerks
when writing the document.  Baron Garroway’s financial capabilities could not
support the extra coin.

“It’s no hassle.  I prefer to ride anyway.  It gives
me room to practice when we make camp.”

Hilliard might doubt the honesty in that statement,
yet accepted it with a grateful smile.  “I had better be off to pack, then.  I
will see you tomorrow morning.”  The youth departed.

Dietrik commented, “I say!  Where did his parents go
wrong?”

Marik could not help but grin.  “He must be the bad
apple.  The other nobles must be scandalized by him.”  Becoming serious, he
added, “I’m glad, though.  The last thing we needed was to fight our own charge
over every little detail the whole way to Thoenar.”

“It is a pity we shan’t be traveling with Sloan.  I’d
like to watch him spar with Eberhard’s ego.”

“At least we drew the long straw this time.  I’ve
become too used to drawing the short one.  Let’s go see where we’re going to
sleep and get our dinner.”

Landon and Kerwin stayed behind to paw over several
maps they had found on a shelf.  If they dallied too long, Marik mused, all the
food left in the kitchens would be gone, filling his and Dietrik’s bellies.

Thanks to the information imparted by Seneschal Locke,
Marik spent the next two days jumping at shadows.  The slightest movement from
the corners of his vision would send his hand racing to his hilt while he
whirled to confront an old lady selling mushrooms.

Dietrik found this vastly amusing, and Kerwin made
sarcastic comments concerning his fitness as leader.  When they merged with the
Steelpin from a lesser road they had ridden north on from Spirratta, his
paranoia lessened somewhat.  If the city thieves had only recently begun
debating an assassination strike then the Kings had whisked away their charges
before the dark guilds could organize.  Into the third day, the five discussed
idle matters to pass the road-time, riding close enough to each other they
could speak without shouting.

“So you weren’t there after all,” Kerwin stated.

“No,” the baron’s son admitted unhappily.  “Neither
were any of us under the care of Duke Tilus.  We were forbidden to join the
forces mustering for the war.”

“For the best, I’d say.  It turned into a bloody
mess.”

Hilliard’s well-schooled posture straightened a little
further in his saddle.  “Duke Tilus felt our education in matters of warfare
was as yet insufficient to have been of any aid.  Despite our repeated pleas,
he would not allow us to ride.”

“Us?  How many fosterlings are in Spirratta?”

“There are eleven noble-born sons fostered to Duke
Tilus.”

“And you were all pestering him?  I surprised he held
out.”

“Oh, well…I, spoke…for most of us.  At the time.” 
Kerwin cocked his head in amusement, which prompted Hilliard to assert, “I am
sure we each made individual appeals on his own.”

“I’m sure you all did.”

“But you
were
there!  Tell me about how it
was.  Giving your all to defend your king and homeland.  It must have been
exactly like the songs!”

A skeptical Landon said, “War is no picnic, my young
friend.  Nor is it to be glorified in gilt and splendor.”

Hilliard twisted to face the archer, replying, “I am
not unaware of that.  My eyes are not blinded.  I refer to the honor of the
dedicated warrior, not the gore and the bloodshed.”

“They go hand in hand.  You can’t walk the path of the
warrior without staining your boots.”

“But to be true to your beliefs, to never waver from
your ideals;
that
is what honor is all about.  To stand as a rock
against the forces which eat away at a man’s core!”

He quickly became enraptured with his own passionate
delivery.  Marik was unsure what to make of the young man, who struck the four
mercenaries as beyond a little naive at first glance.  Kerwin delivered his
opinion on the matter.  “A rock, huh?  In my experience, rocks only get stepped
on.  Or thrown at enemy walls.”

Hilliard apparently realized he had been on the verge
of making a speech and smiled sheepishly.  “It is part of Duke Tilus’ teachings
to those in his care.  Anyone can succumb when life becomes difficult and take
an easier path by sacrificing his values.  The measure of a real man is how
long he stands fast under pressure.”

“I imagine he holds to his own words, then.  And
that’s why these thieves are after you and the rest.”

“That is not Duke Tilus’ fault!  Only true cowards
would target people around their enemy!  It only goes to show what a great man
he is that they cannot touch Duke Tilus!”

“We were hardly blaming him, lad,” Dietrik soothed.

“Those criminals need to be dealt with!  I would never
want Duke Tilus to forgo his stance on corruption solely for my benefit!”  The
future baron rolled his shoulders to throw off an invisible weight.  “But he
hasn’t, and he won’t.  Duke Tilus is not a man to waver from his beliefs.”

Landon said, “I surmised as much during our discussion
with his seneschal.  Despite his soft words, he painted a picture of a
determined man.”

Clearly surprised, Hilliard’s eyes widened. 
“Seneschal Locke?  Soft?”  He broke into laughter, ending with the remark, “I
have never heard him described so!”

“He treated us with respect and thoughtfulness.”

“That is because he wanted something,” Hilliard nodded
judiciously, arms crossed over his chest.  “He wanted you to sweep us away from
Spirratta on the sands of time.”

Marik remembered the moment of tension when Kineta had
challenged Locke, while Landon answered, “Unfortunately, none of us has the
ability to ride a sandglass grain and freeze time in its tracks.  I take it he
is not usually so cordial?”

“To guests, he most certainly is.  But you never want
to him to think that a problem around the estate was caused by you.  Especially
when he’s as busy as he has been of late.”

“Trouble with the thieves?”

“No, they have been quiet for quite a while.  I had
meant that in addition to his normal duties, he has needed to manage the
details concerning the men lost during the war, and correspondence from all our
fathers has been coming in nearly every day for months by messenger.”

“Have the three of you caused him that many extra
headaches all by yourselves?” Dietrik asked, sounding impressed.  “Your fathers
must not trust him to see to the details overmuch.”

Hilliard waved his hand.  “Not only myself, Eberhard
and Valerian.  Nine of us are competing in the tournament.  The other six
departed with their family’s guardsmen.”

“I see,” Landon mused aloud.  “Then you’ll be meeting
with them in Thoenar?”

“Well…”  The embarrassed hesitancy re-entered the
youth’s tone.  “We are staying at separate inns, so I imagine I won’t see them
until the tournament commences.”

To take his mind off the financial state of his
father’s barony, Kerwin started asking him about Thoenar.

“Yes, I’ve been there twice before.  Both times with
father.”

“You have any idea where I might find a good
architect?  I only need advice, so I don’t need one who designs palaces or like
that.  I don’t need one who’ll
charge
me a palace either.”

“I’m afraid I cannot help you there.  Yet I’ll wager
one could be found without difficulty.”

Dietrik leaned closer.  “Be careful how you phrase
things around this man.  You’ll lose your purse.”

“Don’t go giving him wrong ideas about me, Dietrik! 
I’ve never cheated anyone in my life.”

“What are you talking about?”

They spent the rest of that afternoon retelling their
favorite stories, Kerwin talking most.  Hilliard was in awe over Kerwin’s
catapult gold mine.  The gambler still refused to reveal, even to his friends,
exactly how much coin he had won.

Time passed quickly and before they realized it the
afternoon gave way to evening.  It relieved Marik to see Oxfields come into view
when the light shifted to a glowing orange, precisely where the town should be
according to the map provided by Locke.  Their journey’s every step had been
charted.  If the man had been required to map out routes for nine separate
groups, Marik could understand why he might have been irritable of late.

Oxfields was a largish town, twice the size of Marik’s
hometown, Tattersfield.  He glanced about before entering the town proper,
noting that horses and cows were the only livestock at hand.  The oxen, assuming
there must be a few for the town to warrant its name, were elsewhere.

Their fine mounts drew the townsfolk’s casual
attention as they rode.  Their charted inn lay off the main road, a sizable
building under the creative sobriquet of, ‘The Oxfields Inn’.  The stables were
part of the main structure around to the rear.  When they dismounted in the
inn’s private yard, Marik’s paranoia leapt to the fore as a man dashed from the
shadows toward him.

Caught in mid-dismount, he was unable to fumble for
his sword when the man closed.  Marik actually saw a long knife in his hands,
poised to slash, before its bearer smiled, revealing several missing teeth. 
Landon spoke to the stableman while Marik shook his head to clear the cobwebs
out.  The man slid his horse brush into a back loop on his belt.

After they settled in their rooms, Marik concluded
that he needed to work off his energy with a hard sword practice.  Maybe then
he would stop jumping at every scrape.  He poked his head in to see the common
room on the way past.  It was cleaned regularly.  Dinner would start being
served at nightfall.  Also, no blasted
minstrels
, thank the gods!

A rail fence surrounded the stable yard behind the
inn.  Horses coming in or going out meant the yard was in use.  He walked to the
furthest corner where a lone birch tree stood.  No pells, straw dummies or
sparring partners were to be had.  In light of their lack, he fell back on the
mental exercises that had served him well.

With his sword held ready, eyes closed, he visualized
four different enemies surrounding him, imbuing them with as much realism as
his mental abilities could project.  When he was satisfied that the constructs
were capable of no more or less than a genuine, physical foe, he set them in
motion, working as a team to attack him.  Thanks to all the imagery practice
Tollaf forced him through, these mental exercises were more realistic than
ever.

Through countless marks of trial and error, he had
worked out numerous movement patterns for his foes.  Letting them run wild
meant one or two would come to a halt after his attention drifted.  Also,
becoming skilled at defeating enemies who always followed the same movements
would never advance his swordsmanship past a certain point.  Despite knowing
what they would do, his concentration shifted among them, so the blows from
each were as difficult to deal with as fighting real-life opponents.

Sweat dripped from his brow due to the hard effort of
both fighting off four enemies and the mental strain required to create them. 
Marik worked his seventh pattern, pushing his body to defend against the second
and fourth foes, when something soft struck his head.  He opened his eyes while
his feet strove for balance.  Dietrik and Hilliard watched from several feet
away.  His friend consumed an orange, a rare treat, part of the peal now
bouncing off Marik’s boots.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing, mate.  Our young charge spied you
playing around from his window and wanted to come watch.”

Hilliard added, “Dietrik would not let me come outside
alone, and insisted on accompanying me.”

“Good,” Marik responded.  “Do me a favor and don’t go
anywhere without one of us.  Probably nothing would happen, but our job is to
not take that chance.”

The youth agreed with a nod.  “Your duty is to see to
my welfare.  I have no intention of interfering with your duty.”

Marik smiled, wanting to impart his appreciation for
such acceptance.  “I’m glad you think that way.  It makes it easier on both of
us.”

“I wanted to see you practice.  In our correspondence,
father has told me what a great fighter you were against the Noliers.”

He felt like groaning.  Instead he said, “I wouldn’t
say that.  I’m not much better than anyone else, right Dietrik?” 

Dietrik glanced back, one eye a gimlet commentary.

“
Right,
Dietrik?”  Marik glared at him.

“I suppose you could say that, mate.”  Addressing
Hilliard, he added, “Though he likes to practice quite a lot, so his edge is a
tad sharper than most.”

“But father says you defeated the lord of the Nolier
Knights in open combat!”

“Listen,” Marik said mater-of-factly.  He refused to
let the youth see him as a living tavern tale.  “You haven’t been in a massive
battle.  Let me tell you that nothing happens the way you want it to.  I was
fighting for my own skin when our paths happened to cross, and I didn’t beat
that knight alone.  I had help from a great fighter with more talent than me.”

“That is true,” Dietrik allowed.  “Colbey is a force
of nature with his sword in his hands.”

“And without it,” Marik stated.  “The point is, I’m
only a mercenary.  Better than some, not so good as others.  If I’m alive, it’s
because I’m lucky.”

Hilliard clearly doubted that, yet he also seemed as
though he would keep from pestering Marik about the incident every time they
had a free moment together.  Hopefully, it would be enough.

“Be that as it may, I’ve never seen anyone handle a
sword in quite the fashion you just did.  What school was that?”

“School?”

“Oh, perhaps you have a different name for it. 
Um…what style of combat were you practicing?”

On the road, Hilliard had impressed Marik with how
unlike the other nobles he was.  Apparently the boy had not entirely escaped
his blueblood upraising.  “The style of smash-and-slash.”

Confusion settled over Hilliard.  Dietrik elucidated. 
“Form and proper stance have limited use on a true field of combat.  Our
fighting styles are a hodgepodge of devious wiles and power strikes.  Whatever
does the trick, that is to say.”