Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (73 page)

Dietrik relented.  “In a crowd that size, missing
thirty or forty men can be easy.  I watched them on the range the next winter
while you were in the chirurgeon’s wing.  There is little difference.  The
judges watch each man one at a time, although they spend much longer on the
questions.  It took them nearly three candlemarks to work their way though the
entire group.”

“Only forty new archers,” Marik mused.  “I don’t think
I like that, especially since half will probably wash out.”

“Forty full archers,” Dietrik corrected him.  “I
gather those are the archers with no other skills to fall back on.  Like
Edwin.  Chaps like Landon are good with bow and sword, so the archery is a
bonus for whatever unit they place him in.  If you want to enter solely on the
strength of your archery, you need to prove you are good enough to warrant the
extra protection your shieldmates will need to provide you.”

“Edwin is hardly crippled without his bow,” Marik
countered.  “I’ve seen him using his sword.”

“But only when he must.  And since you have seen him,
then you know he is no great shakes with it.  Just good enough to be able to
use it when he must.”

“Being ‘good enough’ in the Kings means you’re better
than most outside!”

Dietrik shrugged, surrendering the argument.  “If you
want a new cloak before the next rainfall, then let’s stop standing still. 
See?  There are already over a hundred men up there.  The Ninth was not the only
squad shorted this year.”

Marik could see what Dietrik meant.  Men gathered
along the wall top, coming to rest in places where their view of the gathering
below would be unobstructed, moving only enough to keep their legs from
stiffening.  With that prompting him, he hastily chose a new cloak with less
discrimination than he customarily would have engaged in.

They carefully climbed the planks up the inner wall. 
Marik always hated this.  His unease with heights pulled at him every time he
carefully stepped higher onto each protruding stub of wood.  The constant rain
from the early winter never allowed the wood to entirely dry.  Slippery and
damp, he gave serious consideration to abandoning the climb.  Let Dietrik watch
the trials alone if he cared so much.

Eventually he gained the top, but not before two other
men crowded him from behind.  They wanted to watch.  His slow assent elicited
many comments Marik would have challenged them on if he had not then been
three-hundred feet above the gods themselves.

Most of the mercenary audience clustered directly
above the main gate in the southern wall, spilling eastward behind the
sharpened points.  Dietrik walked until they reached the congregation’s edge. 
This placed them slightly west of the road leading up the hill, yet still close
enough to afford a decent view of the battleground where the sparring would
take place.

When he glanced back into the town, Marik could barely
see the men on the archery range.  Most were concealed by the larger
buildings.  The archer currently shooting stood far enough into the clear area
to be made out.  Resting near him were the tables familiar to Marik, holding
five officers and six clerks.  He watched for several moments.

Edwin might find it exciting from a professional
viewpoint.  To Marik there was little interest in watching bowmen fire arrows
one at a time across the field.  At least at the tournament the prospect of
advancing or being disqualified leant adrenaline to the moment.  Here he felt
nothing as he watched this current man miss nearly every shot at the hay bales
across the range, except to hope that the judges never placed him in Ninth
Squad.

The blended crowd murmur drifted from below.  Marik
commented, “That’s one less mystery in the world.”

“Sorry?”  Dietrik lifted his gaze from the men waiting
for whatever process the band would put them through to determine their value
as fighters.

Marik elaborated.  “Given how many men needed to pair
off and fight for the judges, it never made sense to me why they waited until
noon to begin.”  He gestured at the archery range.  “Now I know why.”

Dietrik shrugged before returning to sifting through
the crowd with his eyes, as if he could read each man’s skills plain upon their
milling bodies.

Noon drew closer.  Marik listened to the idle
conversation from the long-time band members around them.  Some commented on
particular individuals below flashy enough to catch their eye while others
speculated on the current events around the kingdom that might call for them to
fight.  Overall the talk centered on the number of applicants and whether,
after culling, there would qualify enough to bring the band back to full
strength.

Darker skin tones, loose flowing pants and that
peculiar hanging tunic populated the crowd in larger numbers than Marik had
ever noticed.  So many filled its ranks that he marked them in his mind where
he would normally remain unaware of the foreign clothing style.  Tullainians
who no longer wished to live homeless on Galemar’s roads sought to earn places
as Crimson Kings.  This made the crowd nearly twice the size as usual; refugees
flocked to Kingshome’s walls in addition to the normal bevy of Galemaran
hopefuls.

This did little to comfort Marik, who assumed most of
these desolate foreigners probably had never held a sword much less used one. 
He expected a number of disqualifications far beyond normal this year.

Ten minutes before the noon bell the judges left the
shooting range.  Marik watched the clerks lift the light, portable tables while
the Homeguard led the archers away.  Curious, Marik followed them from the
etheric to see what happened next.  The Homeguard led them across the town to
the stable gate, bringing them out through the horse’s entrance.  Roughly
two-thirds were motioned to the woods encircling the vale’s upper ridge.  They
set to making fresh camps while the other third, under the guards’ watchful
eyes, trudged downhill.  Upon attaining the Southern Road, they departed in
various directions.

The Homeguard reentered Kingshome, stopping by the
training sally to pick up the ironwood practice weapons the trials would need. 
They rejoined the clerks below the gathering on the wall.  After one last
double check to ensure they carried all they needed, the gates opened and the
panel exited.

Their arrival quieted the murmuring crowd.  Once the
tables and chairs were set and everyone in place, Janus stepped forward to
address the gathering.  His gnarled hands lifted the speaking horn to his
mouth.

His words were little different from the first time
Marik had heard them years ago.  The only information of interest came when the
head clerk revealed the numbers for this year.

“The band has over five-hundred openings!  Don’t get
your hopes up because there’s nearly eight-hundred of you!  If you don’t have
what it takes to catch our notice, we’ll cut every last one of you and go
through the next season with tighter belts!”

“Five-hundred slots,” Marik whispered in horrified
awe.  “That’s almost as bad as last year!”

“Not quite, mate,” Dietrik replied from his shoulder. 
“We replaced nearly half our losses last time, but after a season’s fighting,
the number of losses must have crawled back upward even with the fewer number
of full squads out on contract.  We’re better off, and with this mess of people
we might come near to our normal round-out this winter!”

“I’ll reserve judgement until I see them fight.”

Janus finished laying out the rules.  Marik nearly
missed his added announcement that the sparring trial would be split across two
days this year, as might the secondary trial depending on how many qualified to
advance.  He picked the first pair to come out and demonstrate their skills.

A Tullainian stepped to the tables along with a
scruffy, mean-looking man who could pass as a bandit in any corner of the
world.  After their interview with the judges, the bandit took up a mock axe
while the Tullainian chose a long pole arm.

Marik expected either the longer pole to knock the
axeman senseless on the first blow, or the axe to send the pole flying away
quickly from the inexperienced hands of the refugee.  Instead, he witnessed an
impressive battle between well-trained men using their chosen weapons.

The Tullainian used his mock spear well, thrusting
accurately, stepping lightly to maintain the distance his weapon needed to remain
effective, swinging it in broad sweeps when least expected to keep the bandit
wary.  In response, the axeman displayed moves Marik had never witnessed
before, slashing, leaping to and fro with deceptive dexterity and proving that
it really was possible to use an axe defensively.

They traded blows for five minutes, moving across the
ground as the battle’s opportunities demanded.  A gesture from the center judge
made Janus call a stop to the bout before a victor could be decided.  Several
of the men around Marik shouted uncomplimentary remarks about that.  The judges
had seen enough.  If they allowed every fight to continue to its completion,
they would reach nightfall before so much as a quarter of the men were
processed.

Both men were interviewed, then both walked to the
road’s western side, the first men to qualify for the next trial.

This boded well.  Marik chided himself for making
assumptions based solely on race and outward appearance.  He paid closer
attention to the next pair Janus called, determined to assess their potential
using his professional expertise rather than his suppositions regarding their
motives for attempting entrance.

Janus picked a tall man who looked Galemaran.  He
sported muscle built from regular physical labor, such as a dock worker or
caravan loader.  His movements were lithe.  Marik guessed Dock-man might be
highly dexterous or evasive in combat.

The second picked by the head clerk seemed average in
every way except for his long hair pulled back into a tail.  Marik watched him carefully,
finally deciding by the time Tail reached the judging tables that he possessed
a measured quality to his movements.  Each motion seemed carefully considered
and efficiently performed.  This man might possess deadly accuracy with
whatever weapon he chose.

After their questioning they each chose a sword from
the pile.  They faced each other until Janus called for the battle to start.

Dock-man swung wildly at Tail as soon as Janus
shouted.  With several feet separating the two, the ironwood sword swished
through empty air.  Regardless, Tail stumbled back several paces to avoid the
blade.  This prompted Dock-man to dash forward.  He apparently forgot he held a
sword, though.

While he ran forward, the blade knocked between his
ankles, making him stumble to his knees.  Tail regained his balance to launch
his own attack.  He swung downward at Dock-man in an overhead strike.  Rather
than hitting his target, he pounded his blade into the wet earth a full foot to
the left.  Mud splattered across Dock-man’s face.

Dock-man slipped when he tried to reclaim his
footing.  Tail raised his sword for a second strike which landed where his
opponent had been before his attempts to regain his feet.  Several times Tail
repeated the maneuver, as though hammering at a tent stake.  Each time he
missed completely.

Finally Dock-man managed to stand firmly while Tail
readied another overhead strike.  Desperately he swung his sword upward to
attack Tail.  The two swords met, struck, then spun away from their hands. 
Both men scampered through the mud to reclaim them.

Janus ordered them to stop.  He sounded as disgusted
as Marik could ever remember hearing the man.  The interviews consisted of only
two questions each before both were sent away down the hill to the Southern
Road.  Catcalls from the mercenaries on the wall followed them.

“What is the matter?” Dietrik asked when he noticed
Marik’s expression.

“Nothing.  I’m just glad Kerwin isn’t here.  I doubt
I’ll pick many winning bets today.”

Pair after pair sparred, few displaying skill on a
level with the first two.  The acceptance rate transposed from Marik’s
experience.  Three out of four were
dis
qualified.

Under such a lousy showing, the mercenaries who came
to enjoy the fights gradually departed in disgust.  Those who remained hailed,
as he and Dietrik, from squads shorted on recruits last season.  Their interest
ran deeper than a moment of diversion.  Mouths drew thin into tight lines as
they watched the talentless pool from which their new shieldmates would be
chosen.

“Tomorrow is another day, I’ve heard it said,” Dietrik
commented when twilight called an end to the matches.  “It is quite possible
that all of the bad apples were pulled from the barrel today.  If half were
terrible fighters, then the good half could be waiting for the call tomorrow.”

“It is quite possible,” Marik mimicked back,
concentrating on not plunging to his death from the narrow planks, “that this
was
the good half.”

“There you go, as usual.  I’ve noticed you tend to
take the darkest outlook on any given situation.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“You shouldn’t frown so much.  Your lady friend won’t
like the lines it leaves.”

They returned the next morning to watch the rest of
the sparring trial, albeit early enough to claim a better position from which
to watch.  Marik’s cynical observation seemed prophetic during the first
half-mark.  Today’s applicants fought as badly as yesterday’s worst.