Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (17 page)

“The trick being to kill and not be killed at the same
time,” Marik concluded.

“Then where did you learn to wield a sword?” Hilliard
asked.  The concept of a patchwork collage of fighting maneuvers sat ill at
ease with him.  “Surely a sword instructor must have taught you a style as a
basis.”

Marik chopped the air with his palm.  “Us common-born types
have to make do with whatever we can.”

“How have you survived, then?”  The young noble was
legitimately interested rather than merely being polite.

“As I said before, I’m a lucky one.  My first teacher
taught me what he knew, then I moved on.  Most aspiring mercs
don’t
survive.”

Hilliard plunged deep into thought only to emerge a
moment later.  “Will you please show me your fighting style?  Your instructor
probably didn’t know the name of his school.  I might be able to tell you what
it is!”

Marik opened his mouth to ask why he was so fixated on
this style issue.  Dietrik placed a hand on his arm before he could speak.  “A
moment, if you will.  Please excuse us for a moment,” he said, tugging Marik
several steps away.

“What is it?” Marik asked in a whisper.

“I could see that whatever you were about to say might
upset him,” Dietrik whispered back.

“Upset him?  I wasn’t going to insult him!”

“I know you wouldn’t, but that is not what I meant.  I
didn’t want you to say anything to challenge his world.”

“What?  I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Think for a moment.  He has spent his entire life
behind walls, taught about the world by whichever scholars his father or the
duke had on hand.”

“And?”

“And I am certain he has been taught a rich load of theory,
but schooling is short on realism.  It is a common enough symptom of the
aristocracy.  This is a good example.  According to what his swordmaster must
have taught, in his world sword fighting has rules, principles and set
procedures.  He is struggling to make what we do fit into his model of the
world.”

Marik shrugged.  “If you’re right, then he needs to
learn the truth sooner or later.”

“Then let it be later.  Our duty is not to wake him up
to the reality of anything, but to protect him.  If we keep him happy and
content, our job will be so much the easier.”

“I’m not a nursemaid.”

“And he is not a child.  He’s a good lad, in many
ways.  So play to his views for the moment.  I’m sure he will gradually learn
the difference between theory and fact as time moves on.”

Gritting his teeth and scratching his head, Marik
decided
, to the hells with it
.  When they turned back he saw Hilliard
had faced away from the huddled pair, respecting their wishes for privacy
though the conversation obvious centered on him.  How many other nobles’ sons
would have behaved in that manner?  Dietrik was right.  Hilliard was a good
lad, and Marik could play along out of gratitude for the lucky seven Lady Fate
had rolled him on Her dice.

“Very well then!  I’ll start with the basics, and you
can tell me if I’m smarter than I think.”

Hilliard smiled happily at the outcome.  He took a
place under the tree and watched Marik run through a series of basic strikes,
slower than normal so his audience could observe the details.

“This is very odd,” Hilliard commented much later when
the light faded.  “At times your movements strike me as hailing from the Iantha
Long Sword Defense, yet then the next could be from nothing but the Standard
Galemaran Legion training program.  And your feet almost always move in the
Jutsinn School patterns, except when you execute a following strike after a
defensive posture!  And that one ready stance!  That is nothing I have ever
seen before.”  The young noble was intrigued, deep in thought, working to solve
a puzzle set before him.

“I’ve picked things up here and there as I go along.”

“Here and there…”  Hilliard shut out the world while
mulling this conundrum.

Human sounds increased from their lodgings.  They must
have started serving dinner in the common room.  “I think that’s enough for
tonight.  Let’s eat.”

Marik led the way while Dietrik guided a still musing
Hilliard by one hand on his shoulder.

*        *        *        *        *

Dietrik, Landon and Hayden also became enmeshed in
fighting demonstrations over the next several days.  Their styles, each unique
to their wielders, fascinated Hilliard.  The more he struggled to untangle the
origins of each, the more animated he became, escalating the simple initial
inquiry into a full-scale investigative project.

“At least he’s happy,” Landon commented to Marik.  His
sword skills being the weakest among them, he drew the least questions. 
Apparently skill with a bow interested the young noble less than skill with a
sword.  “And that makes him tractable.”

Marik wanted to be angry at Hilliard’s constant
questions, as a hard-bitten mercenary ought to be expected to.  Except he was
not.  Much of what Hilliard shared was interesting.  These historical bits and
details of particular sword masters did nothing to improve his swordsmanship,
yet they were intriguing.  He had always known there was more to fighting than
simply swinging his blade.  That knowledge lent him a superior attitude when
watching bumbling idiots get sent away during the entrance trials.

Still, he had never quite grasped exactly how much
that simple statement could encompass.  He equated his earlier views to looking
at an oak and knowing certain trees grew leaves while others grew needles.

An offhand comment from Hilliard prompted Kerwin to
inquire, “Exactly how many sword instructors did you have in Spirratta?”

“Oh, eight…no nine!  I forgot Stannish.”

“Nine?”

Hilliard missed Kerwin’s incredulous tone.  “Stannish
is my rapier instructor.  Pollack and Bubuor instructed me in several long
sword styles hailing from Rubia, Olander and Gusturief.  Most of the Perrisan
sword styles center on scimitars, which I don’t use, so I did not have Hallack
for an instructor.  But most of the fosterlings skip him.”

He continued, casually mentioning his various
instructors in other areas of his education as well, as if having so many
dedicated to his future welfare were perfectly normal.  The mercenaries looked
at each other behind his back.  They held their comments.

Around them, the road steadily filled.  The good time
they made on the Steelpin’s southern reaches was now cut short by the need to
guide their mounts around every manner of traveler.  Half of Galemar must be
clogging the roads, walking to the tournament, the citizens outnumbering the
refugees.  Marik worried that their schedule would be pushed back until a
closer examination of Locke’s instructions showed the seneschal had calculated
even these delays in.

The majority of their fellow travelers were afoot. 
They carried only packs strapped to their backs.  Others rode by cart, the
flatbeds loaded with every type of goods, most concealed beneath wide canvas
tarps.  Only their little group stood out in the crowds.

Ten days after departing Spirratta, they reached the
intersection where the Steelpin crossed the Capitol Highway.  Construction of
the highway had begun during the third king of the Cerella family’s reign.  The
major road currently stretched across three-quarters of Galemar.  Paving
smoothed half its length, the laying of stones still proceeding to the present
day by prisoner work gangs.

Fortunately, the section near the Steelpin had been
completed two hundred years previous.  Their speed improved once they joined
the flow northward.

Capitol Highway was actually three roads
side-by-side.  The central road, paved with stone and carefully maintained
whenever damaged, stretched fifteen feet wide.  To either side, hard-packed
dirt paths paralleled, seven to ten feet wide depending on locations.

The highwayguards constantly rode the king’s highway. 
They were out in force to maintain the peace with so many traveling to
Thoenar.  Their primary duty demanded they clear the central road of walkers
since the paved surface was reserved for mounted riders, carts and carriages. 
Though horses in greater numbers graced this major road than had the Steelpin,
all were headed north at roughly the same speed.  Without the foot traffic to
contend with, their pace increased substantially.

Once a day they encountered a toll across the
highway’s paved section.  At two coppers a rider, four coppers a cart and ten a
carriage, it hardly taxed their expense purse.  Besides, the funds were
provided for beforehand by Janus.  Marik handed over the coins with no
hesitation.  Other travelers chose to delay the lines by indulging in loud
complaints regarding the pedestrians to either side, none of whom were required
to pay the toll.

“It is simple economics,” Hilliard paused to explain
to the first such loudmouth.  “The cost of building and maintaining the road
must come from somewhere.  As those on foot are not materially degrading the
road by traveling upon it, it is only right that they be exempt from such
tolls.  The alternative is to raise the township taxes collected each year, but
is it fair to tax people who have never made use of this road?”

Hilliard’s reward was a glare from a rough cart
driver, as well as a smothered laugh from the toll collector, who probably
dealt with several such highhanded remonstrators every candlemark.  The laugh
darkened the carter’s face further.  This prompted the mercenaries to hasten
their charge away, especially after Marik’s mount tried to bite off the
carter’s horse’s ear.

“Please don’t do that again,” Landon requested after
they rode a significant distance from the carter.

“It is the plain truth!  I only wished to explain it
to him.”

“I know, but caravan masters and porter services hate
everything that cuts into their profits.  They must complain about every
expense they incur.  As the road exists due to prisoner labor, they don’t feel
the tolls are justified.”

“That is the wrong point of view.”  He glanced back,
apparently ready to return and further educate the cart driver.

“At any rate,” Marik announced, drawing Hilliard’s
attention.  “Let’s get a move on.  The world is full of stupid people.  No
point in worrying about them.”

With so many strangers surrounding them, Marik’s
unease heightened at first.  It gradually ebbed when the days progressed with
no trouble directed at them.  He settled into his normal travel routine by
participating in the conversations around him.  Hilliard enjoyed talking though
rarely spoke of himself.  Other than dissecting the specifics of each
mercenary’s peculiar combat style, he usually orated on Duke Tilus.

That he was Hilliard’s role model had been apparent
since they set out from the duke’s residence.  With each new story learned,
Marik judged the young noble could have done far worse.  Even taking into
account that everything Hilliard said about the man would be biased in a
favorable slant, enough honor and steel ran in Tilus to impress Marik.  Why
weren’t the other nobles like the duke of Spirratta?

Seventeen days after leaving, they came to Thoenar,
the largest city in Galemar.  Marik expected an expanded version of Spirratta. 
His assumptions proved entirely false.

Between two rivers that joined several miles southwest
of the capitol, Thoenar sprawled in an untidy mess at first glance.  They
followed the descending road down a hill to the lower plain.  The hills
southeast of the city all hosted farms.  None were of the type familiar to
Marik.  His idea of a farm was a few decent sized fields, on which would be a
small cottage housing a family with a chicken flock scratching in the yard.

These farms were anything but.  All the trees close to
Thoenar had been felled for lumber or firewood long ago, leaving plenty of open
space.  Crop fields, most wider than he could see across from the road, covered
the low hillsides.  Row upon row of vegetables or fruit trees extended to the
horizon, in the center of which would be the farmhouse.  The main buildings always
looked larger than the council hall in Tattersfield and each supported
additional wings.  Laborers by the dozen ignored the travelers as they worked
the land.  A few near the roadside fences caught his eye from time to time. 
Marik could tell they were as kin to each other as Hilliard and Kerwin.  Paths
to the farmhouses would lead from the road, usually framed by poles suspending
a plank signboard over the entrance.  Each bore such names as ‘Cityview’, or
simply, ‘Toft’s Farmstead’.  It seemed alien to Marik.

Hilliard pointed to the city.  “It is nearly nine
miles across if you draw the line east to west through the central palace. 
Basill Cerella chose this site for his capitol city because it allowed him to
respond quickly to almost every area in his kingdom.  He could travel overland
east, west and north, he could quickly take the Pinedock River to the Varmeese
to head southwest, or he could ride for the Spine and take that southeast.  He
could reach nearly any part of Galemar within two to three eightdays.”

“And yet the palace,” Landon countered, “was not begun
until after his death.”