Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (74 page)

That abruptly changed with the calling of a man Marik
instantly dubbed ‘The Peacock’.  His black hair had been slicked back with a
tonic that hardened it into his own natural helmet.  He wore a brilliantly
green shirt that Marik could identify even from the heights as silk.  The cuffs
were layered, as if the tailor had forgotten how many each sleeve should bear. 
Two flaps of silk encircled the sleeves above the fanned cuffs so his wrists
fluttered in bird flight.

Hanging around his neck rested a necklace, though of
what design Marik failed to discern.  The necklace hung between the open
leather vest not unlike Kerwin’s.  He wore tight green pants a lighter shade
than his shirt.  Black leather boots with intricate designs and turned-down
cuffs twice as large as his legs completed the ensemble.

“Must be a noble on the run from his peers,” Marik
commented with derision while he studied the man.  “Only one of them would
think to wear a shirt like that.”

Dietrik refrained from comment until Marik scorned the
boots.  “Actually, mate, that boot style is not so uncommon in the northernmost
reaches of Galemar.  You see them around the port towns on the Stygan.  I
believe they are of Gustur origin, or perhaps they are Vyajjonese.  I saw them
quite often during my childhood.”

“They still look ridiculous.  How can you walk with
your boots taking up all the space?”

Janus chose a Tullainian from the crowd to face him. 
The Peacock chose a narrow sword from the pile while the Tullainian picked the
pole arm.  Most Tullainians who qualified seemed to prefer it.  Marik
anticipated watching the Peacock receive a thorough pounding.

But the joke would be on him.  Janus called the
start.  The Peacock shifted his weight so he stood idly, waiting for his
opponent to approach.  His sword dangled almost effeminately from one hand. 
Slowly the Tullainian approached.  The sense of hidden danger made him wary.

When the Tullainian stepped within feet, preparing to
strike with the longer weapon, The Peacock reacted.  Graceful yet eye-blink
quick, he lunged.  His ironwood sword rose.  It cut in a single downward
diagonal.  Marik would later swear he could see the precise line cut by the
sword, as though The Peacock had wounded the very air, leaving a perfectly
straight scar on reality.

The ironwood blade connected with the ironwood pole
arm with force enough to wrench it free of the Tullainian’s grasp.  Though he
still retained a grip on the backend with his other hand, the Tullainian jumped
away, dragging the mock spear through the wet dirt.  He quickly lifted it to
correct the grip.

Fortunately for him, The Peacock chose not to press
the attack.  Instead he resumed his lazy posture, waiting for the Tullainian’s
next attempt.

Wary, narrow-eyed, the Tullainian approached,
circled.  Six times he either drew too near or launched an attack.  Each time
the blade’s exacting strike deflected his assault.  The Tullainian kept his
grip firm on each subsequent clash, yet the obvious precision in the blows
shocked him.

Janus ordered a stop.  The Tullainian acted nervous
when The Peacock stopped on their way to the tables.  Marik could not hear
what, but the flamboyant man spent a minute speaking and gesturing at length
with his opponent to punctuate his view while Janus glowered.  When he
finished, The Peacock confronted the judges, leaving a confused Tullainian to
follow in his wake.

Every mercenary watching from the walls speculated on
the ostentatious figure.  Not surprisingly he took to the western side of the
road.  After many questions, the Tullainian did as well.  The match marked a
turning point in the day.  Fewer green non-combatants emerged.

At day’s end, the hillside held roughly four-hundred
men qualified to participate in the team battles on the north slope beginning
the next day.  Dietrik and Marik returned to the barracks for Luiez’s meal of
yams stuffed with ham and cheese, debating the whole way whether or not to
watch the remaining trials.  Marik’s lethargy had ebbed over the last two
days.  He was anxious to resume his training.

“Your drive is admirable, if a tad suspicious,”
Dietrik teased him.  Luiez filled their bowls with the cooked vegetables that
accompanied every meal.

“And what will you do when one of the lieutenants
challenges you this winter?” Marik returned, poking Dietrik’s non-existent
gut.  “Better not let Nyla see you going soft or else she’ll have you carrying
fifty pound shields all over the Marching Grounds again.”

Dietrik shuddered theatrically at the thought of their
orientation instructor.  “Ordinarily I welcome the attentions of a woman, but
not her.  I wonder if she’ll be doing the D Class training this year?”

Marik shrugged and claimed his food from Luiez.  “Who
cares?  They assign new instructors each year.”

They sat while Dietrik mused, “At the very least,
whoever ends up with the job won’t be plagued with Dellen’s company.”

Eyes raised, Marik commented, “Oh?  I’d forgotten all
about him.  What, did he get knocked out in the first round this year?”

Dietrik shook a negative.  “He did not enter.  I
watched each spar, but he did not put in an appearance.  I suppose it shows
that anyone can eventually learn when to give failure up as a bad job.”

“Or else the clerks wouldn’t let him enter.  Failing
three times in a row might blacklist you entering at all next time.”

“I suppose.  Oh well, one less amusement to keep me
entertained.  Still, I wonder where he got off to?”

Marik lifted an eyebrow, then lowered it in lieu of a
shrug.  “Who gives a damn?  As long as his gang of idiots leave us alone, I
couldn’t care less.”

*        *        *        *        *

Gloria stood on the staircase long enough to make sure
Dellen threw the two ruffians out into the night good and proper.  When the big
man finished knocking their heads together, she returned upstairs to ensure
Marina had suffered no serious harm at their rough hands.

Dellen slammed the door after the two.  No other men
waited in the common room of Gloria’s tavern for a turn upstairs so he lumbered
over to sit at Beld’s table.  He looked bitterly at the tankard filled with
water sitting beside Beld’s ale.  Gloria never let him to drink while on duty.

“Ya’ see that?  I gotta put up with another year of
this turd job.”  He picked up the tankard, then replaced it on the table
without drinking.  “How come ya’ wouldn’t let me enter, huh?  I would of made
it in this year!”

“I told you I smelled them out,” Beld replied.  His
brow knitted in anger.  “Last year I saw that dirty bastard on the wall,
tricking on you with his magic.  Left as soon as he made sure you fell out.”

Dellen growled low in his throat. 
“Son-of-a-whore…Why’s he got it in for me then?”

With a snort, Beld stated, “Those mage types like
toying with us natural folk.  Like showing they can rub our faces in the horse
manure when we’re stronger than them.”  He clenched the tankard tightly.  “I
saw him and his sidekick up on the wall waiting for you, wanting to screw you
over again.  He’s been tricking on us from the first and walking around, saying
he beat us skill-for-skill!”

He cocked his arm to throw the tankard, then caught
himself.  Beld forced his muscles to relax.  If he starting destroying the
crockery, Gloria would revoke his right to patronize her establishment, just as
she had with Albin.  Since then, whenever Albin felt the itch, he needed to
keep walking past Cedars to the next closest town where willing ladies could be
bought, a journey of an extra day roundtrip.

Across the table, Dellen steamed in impotent rage. 
“So whatcha gonna do about it then?  I can’t get in the town!  You have to
break his neck for me!  I’ll never join you with him trickin’ me up!”

“I’m working on it,” Beld growled back.  “He’s sneaky,
that one.  And his friend’s no slouch either.  If we rush him, he’ll cheat with
his magic like before.  I’ve been trying to figure something out.  We need to
use our heads.”  Lower, nearly a whisper, “No one cheats on us.”

Dellen watched Beld settle into his thoughts, then
added, “Maybe nothin’, but a fellow’s been askin’ around Cedars about him.  Any
friends he has, too.”

Beld jerked his head to gaze fully at Dellen.  “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” Dellen grunted through his nose.  “Came by
yesterday.  Askin’ about the merc town back down the road.  Fishin’ for info,
like ya’ used to say.”

“And asking about him?”

“Heard already from guys around town what he wanted. 
He said he found out I had a run-in with that mage from the merc town, and what
could I tell him.  But it didn’t sound like this fella’ knew he was a mage.  I
told him come back tomorrow, I’m busy now.”  Dellen sipped his water.  “I knew
ya’d come by tonight and thought ya’d wanna talk to him.”

Beld nodded.  “This sounds interesting.  He say why he
wanted to know?”

“Nope,” Dellen responded.  “But he should be by
anytime.”

Together they waited for the mysterious man to
appear.  Gloria came downstairs, walking past the table without pretense to
ensure only water inhabited Dellen’s vessel.  She retreated to the kitchen. 
Despite little by way of food ever being served, the kitchen remained warmer
than the rest of the building.  The door had long been removed from the frame. 
From the chairs Gloria had positioned by the cutting table, she could fend off
the chill while keeping a watch for new arrivals.

Men, mostly from Kingshome, arrived at a regular
pace.  Individuals or small groups would arrive every quarter-mark on the
average.  If they needed to wait, they usually only occupied a table for two or
three minutes before Gloria would call them to the staircase.  Beld shook his
head when she called for him.  Gloria shrugged, uninterested in why he decided
he would rather spend the evening in her common room.

Veji eventually returned from his romp.  It surprised
him to find Beld still waiting.  Any questions he had were forestalled when
Dellen grunted at the entrance.

A man entered.  He spotted Dellen immediately as he
wriggled free from his cloak and hesitated at seeing the others sitting with
the man he wished to speak to.  They all took note of the carved club hanging
from his belt.

Dellen nodded at a free chair.  “Ya’ wanted to talk
about that fella’ I fought against, the one who sucker hit me when I wanted
into the merc band?  Then ya’ can talk to my friends too.”

The newcomer’s eyes flicked from man to man, taking in
their appearance, making snap judgements.  Veji, confused, asked, “You talking
‘bout that magiker?”

“Magiker?”  The club wielder sounded as lost as Veji. 
Beld shot a silencing look sideways before he addressed the new man directly.

“Yeah, that’s right.  I know you’ve been asking
around, so if it’s the same man we’re thinking of, he’s one of the band’s
mages.  You didn’t know that.”

“No,” admitted the man.  He restudied Dellen,
calculating how much of his business might be known by this stranger.

“First off I want to know who you are and why you care
about him,” Beld took control.  “You’ve been asking around.  How did you find
out about Dellen?”

Once again the stranger paused before answering.  When
at last he made his decision, he said, “Call me Tallior.  As for my interest,
all I will say is this man I’m looking for stepped on the wrong toes.”  At
Beld’s accepting nod of a deeper story that would remain unrevealed, Tallior
continued.  “The men I’m after go by the names of Landon Ailock and Marik Railson. 
They have two companions named Dietrik Balledry and Kerwin Lucress.”

Beld nodded.  “I don’t know about that Landon or the
other one, Ker-something.”  Hot malice saturated his features.  “But I know all
about that Marik bastard, and his jackrabbit friend.”

“One of them is a mage, you say?”

“That’s right,” Veji waded in.  “He ain’t no normal
man.”

Veji silenced at Beld’s cracking knuckles, sounding
off like exploding pine knots as the large man’s fist clenched.  Tallior read
the reaction, evaluated Beld as their little group’s leader and so directed his
conversation solely at him.

“I knew they had associations with a mage, but I
didn’t know it was one of them.  But you,” he glanced around at their group
quickly.  “How did you become involved with them?  I unearthed rumors
concerning your friend Dellen because he tends to rail against life after a few
drinks.  His grudge against two mercenaries in particular is hardly a secret
around Cedars.”

“That doesn’t explain how you knew the names of the
guys who crossed him.”

Sly knowledge passed over Tallior’s face.  “You would
be genuinely surprised at what ordinary people know.  At what secrets they
learn, things they have no business knowing.”

Since Tallior clearly did not intend to tell them,
Beld recounted their vendetta regarding the mage and his friend.  How the mage
had used his magic to distract Dellen during his first entrance trail, fending
off strikes with his unnatural art that should have properly laid him low,
setting him up for a cheap blow from behind.  How the mage used his talent to
ensure none of Beld’s strikes would connect during their duel months after. 
Later, once the trickster stopped making a secret of his abilities, he found it
entertaining to disrupt Dellen’s warrior senses, confusing his mind during the
trials so he hesitated or acted foolishly.