Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (72 page)

“I forgot,” Marik mumbled.  He felt as a small child
caught playing in the rain.  “Everything happening suddenly…but
he
didn’t tell me, so why blame me?”

Janus scoffed with derision.  “Do you honestly think
he would correct your error as you drop nearly a month’s hard labor into his
grasp?”  A snort preceded his continuance of examining every copper logged
across each ledger page.

Every single last one.

Numbers crowded Marik’s mind during five marks of
inquisition from the head clerk.  They swelled, gathered, collided into a ball
within his brain, lost definition and ceased to hold meaning.  By nightfall
Marik could not coherently judge whether two coppers for a tankard of ale was a
fair price or not.

The worst came when Janus ripped him to shreds over
the golden bracelet.  Marik had allowed the cityguard to take it away,
completely disregarding the bounty that the kingdom owed the band for a
recovered magical object.  If Janus had clawed the skin from his body, Marik
would have felt less flayed.

All the while an assistant clerk sat in a corner,
scribbling notes on every word mentioned.  In between his explanations on the
price of horse feed and soap cakes, Marik recounted the contract’s various
events.  The scribing man emitted noises from time to time, ignored by Janus. 
To Marik it sounded suspiciously like muzzled mirth.  Most likely he found the
boss’ relentless shredding of the mercenary amusing.  Marik might have taken
issue with that had he the energy to do so.  Instead he only prayed the man’s
notes would serve as an adequate report to the commander.

When he had entered the building to report to
Torrance, a man whose sole duty consisted of greeting visitors directed him to
Janus’ office instead.  He considered while he walked, realizing that most
reports for ended contracts probably never required the commander’s personal
attention.  If Torrance needed to address issues, the clerks would bring them
to his notice.

But did those same contracts require the head clerk to
oversee them himself?  He did not know enough to guess with certainty, but he
suspected not.  All in all, he thought Janus had chosen to handle Marik’s
contract personally.  An intense dislike radiated from the old man as he loomed
from his side of the desk.  Why did Janus obviously hate him so?  To the best
of his knowledge, he had never done anything to cross the old fart.

When at last the head clerk released him, without
docking his pay for a wonder, Marik trudged back to the Ninth’s barracks.  Cold
reached up from the muddy earth to make the night air chiller than it otherwise
might have been.  A slight breeze blew over the town’s walls to slink through
the cramped network of buildings.  His leg slowly throbbed.  The cold seeped
in.

Marik could still sense men around Kingshome engaging
in evening activities.  Tavern discord drifted to his ears from the Row while
he walked.  Shapes moved through the gloom, most heading westward.  Talk
reached him when he drew abreast of the barracks.  A cook from a different
squad rotated a well’s crank in the space between barrack rows.

The town had never held this many men during the few
times Marik had been in residence in the midst of a fighting season.  Not
nearly enough to make the town feel full, yet hardly a number to discount out
of hand.  How many units were broken apart and assigned for tournament duty? 
Enough that the returned bodyguards for the disqualified could lend Kingshome
an occupied air.

Marik entered the Ninth’s barracks, blessing the warm
blast that enveloped him the moment he crossed the threshold.  Six mercenaries
sat scattered around the dining tables.  They picked at plates containing only
miniscule shreds of whatever food remained from their repast, engrossed in
their conversations rather than their meals.  A glance to the right revealed
Borneo and Luiez moving about their domain, returning order to the kitchen
since dinner had been served.

Dietrik and the others were absent.  Marik walked back
slowly to allow Luiez’s blazing kitchen fires to work their magic on his aching
leg.  Once within the north wing he silently thanked whoever had set the fire
going in the large hearth that opened on both sides of the half-wall.  He
looked for his friends when he passed the dividing barrier, finding no one
except a figure who surprised him.  The man sat on his cot, staring upward with
an intense, yet blank, gaze.

“What are you doing in town, Talbot?” Marik asked his
fellow unit member.  “Eberhard must have lost the jousting if your group came
straight back home.”

Talbot shifted his head to return Marik’s gaze.  The
man looked worn down.  He never had been a shining example of physical
superiority during the years Marik knew him, average sized with bits of pudge
here and there.  His broad face displayed new lines.  Bushy eyebrows topped
crow’s feet that added years to his apparent age.

“Oh, Dietrik said you came back too.”  He paused
before adding, “No, Hardhead didn’t drop out in the lists.  I don’t think so
anyway.”

“Don’t think so?”

“I’m lying here, thinking out how much time I have
left before I get kicked out through the gates.” Talbot muttered in a flat
voice.  “As soon as Sloan gets back I’m gone.”

His posture wilted, despite lying flat on a cot. 
“What’d you do?”  Marik nearly let
‘this time’
slip out after his
question.  He cornered the words before they could complete their escape
attempt.

“I didn’t do anything.  Not on purpose.”

“But what happened?”

“We were helping Eberhard into his armor for the
jousts.  You know how much of it there is in those full suits.  They left out
for the lists and I was supposed to finish cleaning up our odds.  Well, I
noticed a big shield lying where we’d been working and thought Eberhard had
forgotten it and ran after to catch up since our block was next.”

Marik kept a concerned expression plastered to his
face with effort.  “Whose was it?”

“Not his.  I didn’t notice the device was different. 
For the sake of the gods, if the officials had provided the contenders their
personal shields more than half a mark in advance, it wouldn’t have happened! 
I thought they would be waiting in that spot by the track we usually watch
from, but they’d already gathered for the next run.  I ran all over the damned
place looking for them so I could give them his shield before their block
ran.”  He glanced up again, and Marik felt his amusement drain away.  Instead
he felt sorry for Talbot, who always tried his best but usually wound up as the
butt of the unit’s jokes.

Talbot, caught up in worry for his future, continued. 
“Turns out it was Earl Sherbourn’s shield.  They were suiting up next to us and
his shield fell over.  The whole jousting event got delayed while the officials
sorted things out.  Then when they finally found me, Sherbourn accused me of
stealing it on purpose so he couldn’t run against Eberhard!  Sherbourn was the
favorite to win the block, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.  I only paid attention to what
went on in our own block.”

“Hardhead went off on me, like usual.  Tore into my
hide, saying I’d shamed his name.  The tournament was delayed for over a mark
and the crowd was calling for someone’s head.  Sherbourn came near to declaring
a duel on Eberhard right there.  The spoiled sod fired me and told me never to
step foot near him again.”

“But he can’t do that,” Marik replied, surprised. 
“His father made the contract, and the son has no say in the matter.  Sloan
didn’t stand up for you?”

Talbot barked a bitter laugh that sounded like a
cough.  “Sloan?  He sided with him!  The only time they ever agreed on
anything, far as I know.  Told me he’d had enough and I should go back to
Kingshome straight.”  A massive exhalation punctuated the announcement.  “I
half-expected him to beat me back, since I had to ride and they would sail down
on the ferry.  But now I have to wait.  You
know
what he’ll say to the
commander when he reports, don’t you?”

“It might not be all that bad,” Marik comforted. 
“Even if Sloan does ask him to boot you out,” he said, pushing on despite the
one-eyed wince it elicited, “we’re so short-handed it should take more than an
irritated noble to have you expelled.  You’ve survived plenty of hard battles
over the last few years.  That proves you’re worth having in the Kings!”

“I’m only a C rank,” he mumbled through mashed lips. 
His gaze returned to the rafters.  “And on the low range at that.  Hardly what
you’d call valuable.”

“Valuable enough!”  Marik slapped him with the words. 
“Remember all those soldiers in the army?  If they worked on the same ranking
system as we do, nineteen out of twenty would only rate at D level, if that! 
They teach the soldiers three or four sword patterns and have them train by
doing them over and over, when they bother to train at all.  That’s not
fighting.  That’s dancing!  As long as an enemy attacks them with the same
pattern of attacks that they’ve practiced with, they might be able to defend. 
And that’s not set in stone!”

Talbot looked thoughtful, so Marik finished by stating
a fact he had known and relearned during his time with Hilliard, a young man
who took an interest in their various fighting styles.  “There’s a world of
difference between knowing how to swing a sword and being able to use a sword. 
Who cares what fancy styles a fighter is trained in if he can’t adapt to the
chaos of combat?  I doubt Torrance will expel you after all the years you’ve
proved you can survive.”

“I hope so,” Talbot muttered.  He seemed less empty,
but not as buoyed as Marik had hoped.  “You didn’t see Sloan’s face.”

“Don’t worry so much.  We’ll still be short on
fighters after this year’s hiring trials.  Do you know where Dietrik got off
to?”

“He and Landon and Kerwin said they were going to go
draw their pay, then hit the Row.  That was about a mark ago.”

Marik nodded.  He spent a moment distributing his
pack’s contents through his closet, storing away the various items in their
proper place when at home.  After collecting forty coppers worth of coins, far
more than he would surely need, he left the barracks to search Ale House Row
for his friends.

During the walk he considered Talbot and the general
state of affairs for the band.  Old friends would go.  New men would take their
place.  As sad as that was, the band, as a whole, would remain the same.  No
matter who comprised the individuals, Kingshome would always be Kingshome.  It
would remain the town he willingly chose to call home.

With a lighter heart than in several eightdays, he
walked the pathways of the town where he most belonged.

The remaining summer days continued as though winter
had arrived early.  Rain soaked the land around Kingshome, breaking only one
day in three.  Dietrik predicted it might actually snow on the town this year
if it persisted into the colder days.  Despite this, Marik doggedly persisted
in his training regimen.

Dietrik accompanied him when he could bear the frigid
water pounding his body.  His contributions usually consisted of sarcastic
remarks or speculations on the nature of his motivation.  To gag him, Marik
would set him to practicing the stamina boosting technique.

Whatever his friend might think, there were plenty of
legitimate reasons for his focused training.  The longer he studied his
strength working, the more he came to the conclusion he had guessed right that
day by the Hollister Bridge.  It worked by increasing his existing strength
through factors.

He thought it might be a factor of three, or
thereabouts.  The natural channels in his body could swell roughly three times
in size when he completely flooded them with fresh life energy.  His muscles
drank deeply of the new energy, enhancing his strength, while his body
toughened to withstand the increased strain.

So he exercised, working to build his natural muscle. 
The greater their capacity in an ordinary state, the stronger they could become
under the strength working.

But try to get Dietrik to accept that!  If Marik chose
to keep a measuring string in his closet to wrap around his upper torso each
night, why couldn’t his friend simply accept that he wanted to see if his
muscles had developed?

Marik reverted to his old training drills.  While
Dietrik squatted under a tree, frowning in concentration, hoping to visualize
areas in his body he would never see, Marik stood in the rain, swinging his sword
until he could no longer lift it for the next strike.  Straight as an iron pole
he would be, lifting his arms high so his hands raised above his head, his
sword pointing down behind his back.  A hard swing at the ground preceded the
exertion of his full strength to stop it sharply an inch from the mud.  He
strove to make each strike last no longer than a single second.

Unlike his first sword, his present blade was much
larger.  The effort to continually do this brought out sweat across his brow in
short order.  To increase the difficulty, Marik attached weights to his sword
to make it heavier.  After many experiments he settled on four thick branches
cut a foot in length as the most suitable.  Nothing else at hand worked half as
well.

Nearly logs, he would lay two along the blade’s flat
immediately fore of the hilt.  Two matching branches lay on the other side,
then he bound them securely to each other and the T-guard to prevent them from
moving.  This added nine or ten pounds to the weight.  It quickly became a
normal sight to the other men to see him in a training area, swinging his odd
construction endlessly.

While he trained, the days inched inexorably toward
the fighting season’s end.  Men on tournament duty trickled in when the last
events, and then finally the contest, closed.  Word spread that the Arm’s
position had been claimed by the son of an earl in the sixth block, relatively
unknown for his lack of rivals.  The popular contenders had either lost to each
other or to his quiet advance.

What did it all matter to him?  It would have been
nice if Keegan had won, if only so he could imagine how much that must stick in
the Baron Sestion’s craw, but he held no brief for figureheads.  The Arm hadn’t
led them in any battle Marik had ever participated in.  He could continue
surviving future battles without such as well.  His sword mattered more than a
noble with delusions of grandeur.

With that in mind, he paid a visit to the armory one
afternoon to see what Sennet had available as a secondary sword.  He and
Dietrik spent an entire day sifting through the upstairs rooms.  They left
unsatisfied.  None of the smaller swords called to him.  Each would break under
the stress of his strength working the way his first had.  Also, he disliked
the claymore types after all.  Their size hardly bothered him any longer since
he would only use it when a situation called for it.  Yet while nicely thick in
the blade, they had an increased flexibility that annoyed him.

They might be designed that way to suffer less damage. 
His few practice swings always landed slightly off the target.  The horses
these blades were designed to be used against made a large target, so striking
two or three inches off the mark might not matter.  But when fighting the foes
Marik would, it could make all the difference in the world.

“What then?” Dietrik wanted to know.  “Why not simply
use a blade like your last?  You could switch to this monster if you need to
push yourself up.”

Marik scratched his head.  “I don’t want to unless I
have to.  The shorter length is nice, but I’d rather have a blade that can
stand up to the stress for longer than four or five hard strikes if I’m trapped
and can’t switch.”

They left without finding a weapon Marik felt
satisfied with.

Kerwin took his leave one afternoon.  He said his
farewells to his friends, dressed in one of his costly shirts and the leather
vest with the dice designs tooled in.  The gambler promised to return as soon
as his inn opened to let everyone know the time had come for them to spend
their hoarded coin.  Landon followed him through the gates and the Fourth
Unit’s bunk area was much quieter for their departure.

It saddened Marik.  He strove to hold onto that
feeling from his first night back in town.  People come and go, yet Kingshome
would always be his home.

Whole squads returned when their contracts closed. 
Summer gave way to autumn, and gradually drew closer to winter.  Men who wished
to apply for the band began camping outside the walls.  At last the clerks
showed up among the barracks with their carts and their canvas sacks, the burly
Homeguard helping them empty out closets.

“Trials start tomorrow,” Dietrik mentioned that
evening when Marik returned, exhausted.  Today had been one of the few where he
unsuccessfully avoided Tollaf.  Each subsequent session with the old man became
increasingly tortuous.  Celerity had spoken with him through the mirror before
Marik’s return.

Either Tollaf came to agree with her on matters of
disrespectful apprentices or else Marik had embarrassed the old enclave member
with his profound lack of ability.  Whichever the case, the old man kept
locking him away in a workroom to practice the few workings he knew, or
subjecting him to long, boring lectures on magic that Marik never comprehended.

“Hope we’ll actually get our share of them this year,”
he replied to Dietrik.  “We’ve only got eight men in the unit, if you still
count Sloan.”

“Or seven-and-one-half if you count Talbot.”

“That’s not fair to him.”

Dietrik shrugged.  “I know he means well, but look at
what’s left of the unit, mate.  Edwin’s the only archer remaining—”

“He was the best even when we were full.”

“Granted, but he can’t make up for all the rest
alone.  You and I are fair hands with our swords, Talbot tries, Sloan might
walk us into a ten-to-one battle on purpose so he can fight everyone in sight,
and the others are lone wolves.  I think conversation is banned by whichever
religion they follow.  It is difficult to remember their names!”

“If the officers know what they’re doing, they’ll give
the choice picks to the squads that got skipped last year.”

With a sad head shake, Dietrik moaned, “Our survival
depends on officers having the sense to piss downwind?  Maybe I’ll spend the
day looking for a nice gravesite.”

*        *        *        *        *

Exhaustion flooded Marik the next morning.  His mind
rebelled at the thought of working on his strength training exercises.  The
idea of any strenuous activity, such as moving, made him want to curl under his
blanket and escape back into the half-death of sleep.

He was familiar with the sensation after his winters
in the band, each with never enough time to accomplish all he needed to.  His
mind wished to rest.  It had sunk into a depression and wanted nothing to do
with him.

The exhaustion that usually brought this on frequently
came after a long day enduring Tollaf, Marik had noticed.  Silently he cursed
the old man for costing him not one, but now a second day of useful training as
well.

Fighting the lethargy would result in limited success,
he knew.  Many times in the training areas he would shake himself to awareness,
realizing he had been staring into space without moving for nearly a
quarter-mark.  No point in going out today, truthfully.

Dietrik bounced from his cot, full of pep.  “Come on,
mate!  Shake a leg, eh?”

“Beghh,” Marik groaned from his cocoon.  “What’s got
into you?”

“I’m curious, a need which I do not savor.  So come
with me to help satisfy it.”

Marik sat up and stared at his friend.  “What
are
you talking about?”

“The application trials will commence today.  I want to
watch and see how capable our future shieldmates will be, especially seeing as
how over half of the unit will be filled out by them.”

“You won’t know which ones to watch until the officers
assign them, and then it will be too late.”

“I am also curious to see if that ox friend of Beld’s
will make a fourth bid for membership.  I can’t wait to see what magnificence
he will display to awe the judges with his sheer thick-headedness.”

“Why are you so obsessed with him?  Isn’t it enough
that we put them all in their place years back?”

“Write it off as my own odd hobby.  I was the first to
send that brute rolling down the slope.  I have a vested interest in making
sure others continue performing well at the job I started.  Besides, after all
the hassle his friends put us through our first winter, do you wish to see him
enter the band?”

“I don’t know about you at times, Dietrik.  Beld
stopped bothering us after we trounced him into the dirt.  I said we wouldn’t
have to worry about them anymore, and I was right.”

“It is not as if we have any other demands on our time
today.  You intend to avoid your master, and non-stop physical training is less
effective if you don’t take a breather now and then.”

“Fine, fine.  But they won’t start until noon.  We
have plenty of time to grab our breakfast.”

*        *        *        *        *

While he pulled on his clothing, Marik decided it
would be interesting to watch the trials in their entirety this year after
all.  With his experience, would he be able to discern deeper traits in each
fighter than he could have during his application?  Also, Dietrik had a point. 
These men would become their shieldmates.  Though he had no way of knowing
which would be chosen for the Ninth Squad, watching them fight earnestly for a
slot might reveal useful information about each.  Seeing any flaws before
relying on their skill during a contract might be vital information for his own
survival.

Luiez prepared folded eggs with melted cheese and
fried bread for breakfast.  With fewer men in the squad than usual this year,
Luiez prepared a larger quantity of food per man on fewer rations.  Marik
scooped an extra serving without guilt, heaping his plate from the holding pans
left on the counter by the kitchen window.  The bounty would only last another
day, after all.

Marik and Dietrik left the barracks two candlemarks
after first light.  The rain held off for a wonder.  That might make the trial
less miserable but the mud would add a new dimension of difficulty to the
fighting.

They were crossing the Marching Grounds, intent on
reaching the shop that sold the best cloaks to replace Marik’s worn out
garment, when Marik noticed a group of men being led toward the command
building.

“What’s that all about?” he pointed at the group.  He
estimated it at nearly forty in number.  “They have to be applicants from their
look.  What are they doing inside the walls already?”

Dietrik glanced at them only briefly.  “The archers,
in all likelihood.  Let’s hurry, shall we?  I can see that more men are lined
along the wall to watch than usual.  The good spots will all be taken.”

“Archers?”  After Dietrik pointed out the obvious,
Marik could see they each carried unstrung bows across their backs.

“Of course,” Dietrik replied, responding to the
surprised tone in Marik’s voice.  “You hardly expect the officers to judge men
listing archery skills on their application by setting them against sword
fighters, do you?”

“When did they start doing that?”

Marik felt his friend studying him a long moment.  He
watched the men walking northwest toward the archery range, an act that enabled
him to avoid meeting Dietrik eye-to-eye.  “Since when?  At a guess I would say
since the band first formed.  You never noticed the Homeguard escorting them
through the gate?”

“No,” Marik admitted.  “I spent the time before our trial
reviewing all of Chatham’s advice while we waited.  I never saw the crowd
getting any smaller.”