Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (89 page)

It snarled at the second, which remained focused on a
guardsman, pushing forward to kill.  The first lashed out in challenge.

Whatever hold kept the monster at its purpose broke
when its fellow snarled and clawed.  They turned on each other, snapping,
swinging massive hands, until they wrestled on the frozen ground, locked in
battle.

It made no sense.  Men running with demons?  Demons
turning on each other?  Marik comprehended nothing he saw.  Were these
creatures Devils summoned from a different plane of existence by a sorcerer? 
They certainly
sounded
like such, as described by Tollaf, but their
eyes, bestial and ferocious, were ordinary for all that.  Celerity said a Devil
always had red eyes…or some other color…hadn’t she?  Hadn’t—

Colbey struck him a harsh slap across the face.  When
the confusion cleared from Marik’s gaze, he commanded, “The white-robes!  Kill
them quickly, if you value seeing tomorrow’s dawn!”

The scout dashed away, straight into a different fight
involving three demon-beasts.  He dodged around the conflict to disappear amid
furry, savage legs.

His raw shock abated in part.  Marik looked at his
sword.  It would be no good; a useless metal lump.  Colbey had shown him what
to do.

Marik ran back into the surviving men on shivering
legs, aching head darting everywhere until he found who he wanted.  He grabbed
Churt’s shoulder while the boy fumbled for a new quarrel from his waist quiver.

Churt leapt at Marik’s unexpected touch.  His eyes
were wider than Marik had ever seen, the demeanor beyond his years vanished. 
Marik gripped his arm and shouted into his ear, telling the young man what
needed to be done.  As soon as Churt understood, or said he did, Marik dashed
away to find the other archers.

He needed to spread the word quickly to everyone with
a bow.  While explaining to the eighth man, a renewed earth-shaking howl ripped
apart the world.  The archers had killed a white-robe, or else Colbey had found
one wherever he’d run off to.  Monsters at various points in the line paused
before the savage beasts continued battling.

Unfortunately, Marik quickly learned, this enemy
weakness was no simple matter.  Though the beasts would fight each other, they
were also equally pleased to continue killing men.  These demons delighted in
warring against any living creature within reach of their claws.

The opportunity came when four beasts, each one
combating the other three, pushed their battle into a knot comprising eight
monsters engaged in fighting Atcheron’s and Fraser’s failing defense.  Marik
never heard the shouted commands, yet it took no imagination.  Every surviving
man ran as angry demons shifted their attention from the smaller, weaker prey
to their own.

With the beasts occupied, the savaged defenders were
able scramble away from the Stoneseams pass.  Exhaustion plagued every man from
the long march that had ended in a sudden life or death struggle.

Despite that, even the wounded found energy to run for
the town while night descended, each man listening to the hell-born cacophony
dogging their stumbling steps.

*        *        *        *        *

They ran as Marik could never remember doing before in
his life.  The distance to the town never shortened; a far longer journey than
returning to Kingshome, surely.  Steps flagged.  Wounds took their toll on men
still unable to accept what they had just been through.

When at last they gained the first buildings, Marik
felt like kneeling to sing praises in Ercsilon’s name.  Hymns of deliverance
were cut short before they could begin when the distant battle roars shifted,
uniting into that rising howl that announced a pack on the hunt.

Whatever they had gained by killing those white-robed
figures abruptly vanished.  The beasts ceased their squabbling to resume their
focused battle against the Galemarans.

Fraser and Atcheron immediately ordered wagons to
carry those wounded who could no longer move under their own power.  If any
could be found.  Marik, with several able-bodied mercenaries, ran through the
rapidly emptying village to search out conveyances.  Three were located, along
with the horses to pull them, but they were too few.  The duty switched to
confiscating wagons from those who sought to flee.

Most residents had already run, escaping from the
carnage they could see and clearly hear.  Others, primarily the few merchants
who ran the village’s trade businesses, had loitered, hoping the conflict would
remain in the pass, or else they had been too busy loading wagons with every
possession they could lift.

Marik would have felt ill at ease under normal
circumstances, stealing wagons from honest people wanting only to survive with
their livelihood intact.  Snarling, fanged demons with curving horns leapt
through his mind, as frighteningly real as when he’d fought them.  He shoved
piled boxes and crates from flatbeds or tossed bags over the railed sides
without much care for anything beyond his shieldmates’ lives.  Goods could be
replaced, whatever the outraged merchants thought.  Lives could not be.

Most merchants fled on horseback after realizing the
fighters would deny them their wagons.  A handful refused to leave, instead
sorting through the piles to repack the smallest valuables into their travel
packs.  Three demanded compensation and followed the mercenaries back to where
Atcheron worked beside his men to lift wounded bodies into a cart.

Marik ignored their arguments.  He was too busy
searching through the still forms while he rapidly provided help wherever it
was needed.  His sick worry mounted into a painful knot twisting his stomach
until he finally found Dietrik binding Floroes’ head wound.

His friend glanced over briefly when Marik arrived,
refocusing his attention on the amateur chirurgeon’s injury as he bitterly
commented, “Tall tales and unfounded exaggerations, eh?  Bloody curse it all!”

“The joke’s on us.  Are you all right?”

Dietrik nodded.  Floroes gasped in pain.  “Sorry,
chum.  No time for finesse, though.”

“I know,” the big man assured in a faint voice.  “Keep
the wrap tight over the pad, or the flow will never staunch.  You can bleed out
from head wounds, shallow ones too, if you aren’t careful.”

“Yes.  Mate, come put your finger on this.”  When
Marik held the bandage wraps tight so Dietrik could tie them without adding
slack, the smaller man continued.  “A fine lot of bloody good I was.  I stayed
behind the line.  Not so much as a bow to fire.  I thought I could thrust
through that thick hide of theirs with my rapier.  No other blade can match
rapiers for thrusting power, but I saw how much good it did him.”  He gestured
with his nose off to one side.

Marik found Arvallar sitting atop a crate.  His fine
clothing was ripped in many places, his customary hat gone, no doubt being
flattened under demonic feet at that very moment.  Every inch of him exuded
shocked dejection.  Wide, unbelieving eyes stared blankly at the rapier in his
hands with its severe bend.  Only a skilled smith would ever be able to
completely restore it.  If it could be repaired at all.

“Those things…”  Marik’s voice faded.  He searched for
any words that would comfort either of them.  None came, so he voiced a
different concern.  “They caught us by surprise but I’m not sure it would have
made any difference.  They aren’t men.”

Dietrik snorted.  “Is that supposed to be a
revelation?”

“I meant you can’t kill them the way you can kill
us…men I mean!  They…”  He shook his head.  “They are
monsters
.  We can
kill them, but not like this.  Though…though Colbey knew what to do.”

“Sorry?”

“Colbey knew to kill those white-robed people the
monsters were carrying.  I don’t know who they are, but he called them
controllers.”

“Controllers?”

“I don’t know what that means either.  Whenever one
died, the beasts rampaged.  That
must
mean they hold the monsters to
their
purpose.”

Dietrik stared hard at Marik.  His voice came harder
still.  “Do you realize what that suggests?  Which is worse?  That these
hell-beasts are ravaging the land?  Or that men are using them to do so as a
hunter uses his dogs?”

“How in the hells should I know?” 
But if these are
the dogs, then please, Ercsilon, I don’t ever want to meet the hunter!

“How did Colbey cotton to that?  Is it what he learned
during his time scouting across the border?”

“I suppose, perhaps...  Where is he?  Have you seen
him?”

“No, I have not,” Dietrik said.  Sloan came stalking
through their corner, snapping harshly at everyone and shouting that they would
be moving out in the next two minutes.

Both mercenaries set to working hard.  The intense
labor kept them from the unanswerable questions ringing through their heads. 
Wagons were overloaded with wounded men, many piled atop each other.  Legs were
propped atop torsos opposite their bearers.  Axles creaked ominously.  Horses
pranced and the drivers strained to prevent the distant roars from panicking
them into a terrified gallop.

They pushed hard, their only concern to increase the
distance between their limping group and their pursuers.  Marik cared for
little else during the first candlemark.  The beasts were pursing them, the
sounds drawing closer.  A quick drift into the etheric confirmed what his ears
already knew.  Barely a quarter-mark after leaving, they could hear the town’s
unmistakable destruction.  Wood splintering, walls tumbling, roofs collapsing.

And through it all, the chilling, bestial cries.

The leaders pressed on despite the exhaustion sapping
the men and the nighttime darkness obscuring their vision.  It soon became
apparent that Atcheron meant to retreat as far as the Eighteenth Outpost. 
There they would find reinforcements.  There they could send reports and
desperate requests to the scattered army detachments.

Though mostly unwounded, the men afoot staggered when
the outpost’s lights at last shone through the darkness.  Marik stumbled, close
to collapse, while sentry cries alerted the army posting to possible attack. 
He hardly cared when soldiers rushed from their tents with swords drawn.  They
lowered their blades after Atcheron declared his name, but Marik would have walked
into the steel points regardless.  The roused outpost soldiers could kill him
if they wanted.  All he wanted was to find a spot to rest.

Their ragged state quickly put the outpost on guard. 
A quartermaster with shirt hanging open soon directed the newcomers to
temporary quarters, a ridiculous stocking sleep-cap still perched atop his
head.

There were not enough available tents to house
everyone.  The baron’s men and the few survivors from Lysendra’s guard quickly
filled the limited space.  As usual, Marik and Dietrik bitterly reflected, the
mercenaries drew the short straw, each man being stuffed into crannies about
the outpost.  They, along with Floroes, Cork, Wyman and a Third Unit man were
left crouching in a canvas alley between crates beside the large command tent’s
western wall.

The Ninth Squad scattered across the entire outpost. 
Two chirurgeons dashed from nook to cranny, several assistants accompanying
them carrying bandages or other medical implements mounded in their arms. 
Other men made rounds for no reason apparent to Marik, each stopping to ask
inane questions without substance before scurrying away to annoy someone else. 
Glynn eventually appeared, extremely flustered, asking Marik if he had
sustained any injures.  When Marik replied he had not, his relief noticeably
blossomed.  He started to leave before suddenly stopping, then, stuttering in
an embarrassed manner, asked the others present the same question.  Their
denials allowed Glynn to stiffen his spine, nod as though he had accomplished a
grand deed, followed by an imperious departure.

Dietrik stared through the gloom in a silent
commentary Marik ignored.  His friend had spent the entire time since leaving
the battle in shock.

Marik cast the whole mess away.  Glynn could pretend
he only had as much interest in him as any other fighter all he wanted, and
Dietrik would collect his thoughts sooner or later.  After the long, terrible
day, he only wanted to sleep, to ignore the bustle so it would finally come to
an end.

Sleep eluded him.  As exhausted as his body was, as
numbed as his mind might be, wakefulness plagued him.  He felt too tired to do
anything, even to fall asleep, absurd as that would have sounded to him at any
other time.  Propped against his crate, he allowed the strangeness to wash over
him.  The crazed rumors come to life, the horrible battle, the nightmares made
flesh…

The aftermath.

“I am not denying the evidence of my eyes,” a strange
voice, sounding angry, drifted to him.  Marik shifted his head to stare dumbly
at the tent wall through which had floated the declaration.  “And the
Eighteenth Outpost
is
preparing to defend.  Messengers will leave within
the next quarter-mark to warn the nearby armed forces as well.”

“Damn it all!”  Marik dimly recognized this voice as Baron
Atcheron’s, cursing vehemently.  “I’m
telling
you that’s not good
enough, captain!  You need to call for reinforcements!  For more men!  You need
to report this straight to the nearest regiment and get them here at once!”