Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) Read online

  Colbey caught sight of soldiers with decorations gracing their chest. The symbols’ meanings were unclear, yet the deference from the lower soldiers plainly pointed out their rank.

  At mid-afternoon, Colbey moved. He had learned some minor details about the soldiers, except the soldiers would not be the telling factor in this battle. Soldiers alone he could have handled.

  On Durrac’s east side he found what he wanted. Several long houses used for storage had been taken over for the bull-creatures. Nary a single Tullainian could be seen. Every native had abandoned this section of the town since the conquest. Colbey could hardly blame them.

  New rail fences surrounded four buildings to form oversized pens separating the structures from the town. In the wide open space, three dozen creatures contended with each other. Five mages in white robes stood apart, supervising their beasts.

  At first glance, the blows and swipes exchanged between the creatures appeared a death battle. Their sheer power fostered the misconception. Colbey, familiar with animal behavior, recognized it as simple pent-up energy being expended. The snarls were pale echoes of the hunting roars that had followed him.

  He had a problem with no other Tullainians nearby. If he sat down to study the creatures for an afternoon, he would quickly be noticed. His mere presence was an aberration. No choice except to move on and plan a better approach later. For today, he would finish scouting locations.

  Colbey left behind the creatures’ pens. He continued to the town’s northern edge. Upon his approach the evening before he had noticed activity there. No mountains graced central Tullainia, but a sizable cliff rose from the ground outside town. Durrac had cut further into it for centuries, harvesting stone from the quarries. Brownstone was the town’s principle export.

  Though only two miles away, Colbey needed to wait until evening before he dared cross the town’s perimeter. The scattered trees were his home and he avoided detection the entire distance. He studied the cliff face after coming close as he dared.

  Several darker shadows lay across the stone at irregular intervals, like moth holes in an old shirt. They would be caves, or hollows in the rock at the least. Flickering light came from two when full dark descended. Within those short caves, men kept fires. Why would they bother climbing the vertical face? He could see no ropes dangling from the top.

  While pondering this, he gradually became aware of a growing buzz. He dismissed it at first as simply the evening insects taking wing. Soon it grew far too loud to be that. Colbey crouched and searched for threats.

  It arrived in the form of another possible inhabitant of the Rovasii’s inner heart. Despite his familiarity with such weirdling beasts, the thing amazed Colbey.

  He only saw it when it landed. It flew to a lit cave and clung to the lower edge like the insect it appeared to be. In the dim light it seemed a dragonfly, bigger than a horse, longer than two carts. The long body dangled over the cliff’s face while it gripped the cave lip. Transparent wings, long and paper thin, were wider than the cave mouth. Once it folded them backward they flanked the man sitting atop its back.

  The man maintained a firm grip on the leather saddle arrangement designed for the creature. When it crawled into the lighted cave, he dismounted and led the insect further inside by reins attached to the giant head wider than its own body.

  Colbey’s teeth gnashed. The difficulties increased by the moment! Who were these people? Where had they found so many unnatural creatures to fill their ranks? How could the giant dragonflies and the bull-creatures exist anywhere in the world without the Guardians knowing of them?

  Seven additional insects came in for the night before Colbey returned to the village. His teeth ached from continual pressure. A downward spiral had swept him into its treacherous coil, despair creeping through his being. Every time he uncovered new information, it made his vengeance harder to achieve rather than easier.

  The voices of Liam and Sylvia spoke to him, accusing him, repudiating him for his weakness. His gorge stirred again as the dream, vivid as when he had experienced it, replayed through his mind. Sweat clustered across his brow while he leaned against an empty building trying to collect his wits.

  His head pounded in throbs that made his ears twitch. Silvery pain arced across his brain from left to right, then back without pause. Stop it, he silently shouted. It is not over yet! It is not! No one is invincible! I will strike them down!

  The pounding lessened, though he still felt his friends present within him. Felt their cold, dead eyes watching his soul.

  Movement attracted his attention. A white robe strode past. She was alone, unaccompanied by others. His eyes locked on her walking form.

  No one else was around. No one at all.

  Silent as the clouds drifting by, Colbey fell in behind her. Her hood had been pulled up. Just as well. It would hamper her peripheral vision. Colbey withdrew his knife.

  When they came abreast of a shadowy alley, he reached around her. Faster than she could register he placed the steel to her throat, feeling the softness of her flesh through the knife. He felt the edge severing tendons, slicing deeper to open her windpipe. Warm blood drenched his knuckles as it flooded along the blade.

  With a shove, she fell into the shadows. She twisted to face him. Her eyes held greater surprise than pain. Blood pumped from her throat in a waterfall, saturating the whiteness of her robe, obscuring the red trim beneath its crimson flow. She raised a hand to feebly clutch her neck in a vain attempt to hold onto her fleeing life. Then blood cascaded from her mouth.

  “You see?” Colbey asked quietly. Who did he speak to? The woman? The ghosts of his life? Himself? “Not invincible at all. I can kill them. I can slaughter every last one of them. I can!”

  But not yet, the voices of his instructors cried. You must still plan! You must use your allies!

  Colbey snarled, “Three years! They have lived on borrowed time! They must be brought to account!” His breaths panted quickly. Short exhalations shook his entire body. The sweat dripped.

  Control your emotions, the inner voice shouted. It bore the rough edge Thomas’ tongue always held whenever the younger scout began to rant. Colbey’s spine straightened with a snap. You’re blinded by anger! You haven’t been trained by the best so you can act like a damned outlander fool!

  His teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped, then, gradually, he loosened his coiled muscles. Colbey breathed deeply. He inhaled as much air as his lungs could hold. The pounding fading.

  He studied the dead woman on the ground. “Very well,” he whispered. “Control. I have mastered it. I will use it. I can still wait.”

  Colbey walked away, leaving her to be found by whoever would find her. He listened to his instructors and accepted their teachings as he had ever done.

  But he still clutched the knife, dripping blood as he went.

  Chapter 11

  Standing in a gardened pavilion located in the main palace, Marik felt exceedingly self-conscious surrounded by men and women of the highest stature. Surely he was one of the few mercenaries present. He ranked lower than the personal stewards standing at attention beside their master’s elbows. Normally he spat on social rank, but today…

  Tomorrow would be the first event for the contenders, presuming they ever finished the opening ceremony today. Though the competitions would be held on Thoenar’s outer edges, this ceremony invited the upper echelon only. Marik stood with his three friends behind their charge resplendent in the best tunic he owned and in chainmail laboriously cleaned during the last several days.

  All contenders stood in a long row, separated from each other by five feet. Their personal guardsmen waited at attention behind them in small clusters. This impressive gathering flanked the eastern edge of a wide lawn that was part of the palace gardens. On the western side, among the floral masterpieces, milled men and women by the hundreds. Many were family of the various contenders, others were aristocrats who would rather die than miss showing off at such an extravagant c
ourt function. More men than women displayed, strangely enough, cheeks unnaturally blushed red or pink. Marik figured each blueblood wore a minimum of twenty silvers in clothing alone, never mind the jewelry bedecking the women. Many were so gaudily rigged that they brought to his mind an image; a wandering peddler, bereft of his pack, forced to strap his goods to his person to prevent their loss during the long travels.

  All held crystal glasses filled with drink, talking vapidly while wandering from group to group. Their overlapping voices drifted to the bodyguards in the soft tones of a gurgling creek in early springtime. A near silent snort from Kerwin told Marik the gambler found this as irritating as he did. The contenders, and by de facto their guards included, were stuck in their places. They were trapped in a formation carefully arranged by the king’s seneschal until such time as Raymond Cerella deigned to present himself.

  Only part of Marik’s foul mood stemmed from the oblivious disregard displayed by the blue bloods over yonder. Mostly his nerves were on edge after spending nearly an eightday waiting for an attack from the shadows. Hilliard had persisted in not being cowed. Every day he put forth new arguments to alter their decision about staying under cover. For the most part he made his pitches to the other three. The young noble’s attitude wilted and became uneasy whenever Marik entered his vicinity. Marik relegated it to the fact that most people trusted mages about as far as they could toss an ox. It was too bad, since a loose friendship had been developing between him and the future baron.

  The days passed with nary a single suspicious gesture from so much as a serving girl. Hilliard argued this could only be further proof that the attacks against them at the order house, while unusually persistent, had simply been retaliatory actions by an angry street gang. In fact, if one of the thugs killed during their night run had been a high ranking member in Thoenar’s dark guilds, it could very well explain the unrelenting pursuit over the following days. Members in the dark guilds never permitted a serious transgression to go unavenged.

  In the face of the perfectly ordinary activities filling their days at the Swan’s Down, a small, doubtful worm ate away at Marik’s wariness. Still, whether Hilliard’s assertions were true or false, he had vowed to maintain a constant guard until they saw the youth safely back to Spirratta.

  He glanced around this kingdom of a garden. The lawn alone must be acres in size. The distant wall that surrounded the entire palace complex lay beyond his sight. Elaborate flower beds were arranged in impressive milieus, shunning simple flat squares in the ground. Unpretentiousness of any sort was snubbed. Shrubbery sculptures populated the grounds between floral displays in wild menageries.

  Three places down the line, closer to the tail than to the palace, Marik recognized Ferdinand Sestion, who they had never actually met at the Central Guild Hall. Everyone else was unfamiliar but he felt several glares directed his way. Given that the cost for his own attire would equal perhaps a single boot worn by the servants, he strove to ignore the unfriendly, if silent, derision.

  Movement to his right at the palace doors finally caught his attention. Figures emerged. An elaborate patio with twin stone thrones rested under sweeping trellises. Broad-leaf vines twined around the beams and shaded the royal seats along with a gurgling fountain from the harsh sun. A low, knee-high wall surrounded the patio. It opened in two places for short steps that led southeast and southwest down to the lawn.

  The new arrivals were too far away for Marik to clearly discern who they were. From the positions they took, he could see they were arranging themselves for the main event.

  “It’s about time,” he muttered sideways to Dietrik. “Must have finally run out of blush.”

  Hilliard ignored the comment. He had done a masterful job of ignoring their observations thus far, standing rigidly at attention ever since the seneschal had left them like newly planted trees. Dietrik stifled a yawn with his good hand. Across the way, the babbling gossip died to low murmurs.

  Sunlight reflected off brass as six heralds announced King Raymond’s arrival with their horns. Beside him strode Ulecia, his bride and queen. Both were garbed in rich green and earthen brown, Galemar’s colors mixing well with the surrounding garden.

  Their young attendants busied with small details while the two royals settled on the stone thrones. Royalguard, protective as a mother bird, fanned out around the low wall, matching it by forming a second, human wall enclosing the patio.

  Metallic notes still blared through the air. The seneschal stepped to one side of the low wall so as not to be directly in front of either the king or queen. He wore robes of lighter green than the monarchs’ and held a long staff elaborately carved. In a solid one-handed grip, he lifted the staff high when the last notes faded and orated to the assembly.

  “You who stand before your king, stand proud! Sons of Galemar, you have come forward during pressing times to compete in the two-hundred-and-seventh tournament for the Arm of Galemar. Each of you have displayed patriotic loyalty worthy of your homeland. The Arm of Galemar is more than a prize; it is a position, a sacred duty, which lends its strength to all the people it represents. As the strongest warrior of Galemar, you will lead out our armies to defend against those who would see us vanquished. Whichever of you today earns the right to bear the Arm will be a very symbol unto justice.”

  A background roar interrupted the seneschal, so full and so rumbling it could only be the voices of every man, woman and child in Thoenar unified in a single cheer. Whatever opening ceremony the common citizens were enjoying must have reached a high point. Without a doubt it would be more exciting than this, Marik mused, given that the crowd could be heard all the way from where he stood in the Inner Circle’s very heart. From the monotonous drone put forth by the seneschal, he wondered if the cultural elite made it a policy to present even the most exciting events in as boring a manner as possible.

  The seneschal’s only concession to the noise was to wait a moment for it to wane before continuing. “Your duties to Galemar’s people as the Arm supercede all duties your ordinary positions require of you. For the next three years, the Arm is all you will be, all you will think, all you will do. This responsibility is a terrible burden, and so I urge you to consider deeply all it entails. It is not too late to step down if the burden will bow your shoulders.”

  Unsurprisingly, no one made to leave. A quick glance at Hilliard revealed the young man’s shinning eyes. Though the seneschal had said nothing yet that struck Marik as impressive, Hilliard looked a man living his wildest fantasy.

  Dietrik hissed from the corner of his mouth while the seneschal continued on about the importance of the Arm in regards to the common citizens. “Did you see the last Arm leading us against the Hollister?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Marik whispered back. “I doubt the Arm has fought in a legitimate battle for at least two-hundred years.”

  Hilliard twitched, but maintained the fiction that their words fell on his deaf ears.

  “Seems like a giant cockup then, wasting all this time. With hostile borders on both sides, we’re too busy throwing a bleeding party to prepare for what may come.”

  About to agree, Marik lost his chance when the heralds let forth anew and the contender line applauded. Obviously he had missed the end of the seneschal’s speech. That man stepped back to stand beside the king. Both king and queen rose to stand in front of their garden thrones.

  Once the horns and the crowd noise died to a faint buzz, the seneschal thumped the ornate staff against the stone patio. That was a signal. The first contender climbed the short southeast stairway and walked behind the wall of royalguards until he came into view in the blank space before the monarchs.

  He dropped to one knee before them. His three guards arranged themselves behind him in a likewise line. Words passed between the monarchs and the kneeling noble before he rose, leaving his men supplicated. The contestant offered his arm and the queen tied something around it below the shoulder.

  Now free, the noble ex
ited the king’s patio via the southwest stairway. As no requirements regarding a new formation had been delivered, the first contender mixed with the milling aristocrats, instantly engulfed in a clique of bluebloods eager to socialize with the man of the moment. The entire affair last two minutes at most, yet Marik cursed silently as the seneschal pounded the staff a second time.

  At two minutes per contender, and with over two-hundred contestants left to be spoken to or greeted by the king, they might finish the job in roughly seven candlemarks. While Hilliard was not at the end of the line, they were close enough to swap sugar for salt. Being the one-hundred-eighty-first noble to register at the guild hall, that had been the position the seneschal ordered them to after consulting the papers he carried.

  While the second man knelt before King Raymond and Queen Ulecia, the faint ripple sweeping the line caused by the first man stepping forward finally reached them. Four steps closer to the king.

  Marik reflected how odd it was that everything in life was relative. As a boy in Tattersfield, he would have thought it the proudest moment in his life to be present among the warriors during the tri-annual tournament’s opening to prove who the strongest man in Galemar might be. And to actually be within feet of the king…

  But those views were the domain of a child with a child’s cares and woes. His responsibility as a bodyguard whose charge seemed to have been marked for special attention by the dark guilds leeched away any responses other than worry and caution. Even on the palace lawns, in the most heavily protected area in the kingdom, he could not entirely let his guard down. Seeing the king felt like a nuisance instead of a thrill.

  “Same routine going back tonight, do you imagine?” Dietrik asked, the second ripple catching up to them.

  “Yes,” Marik replied, causing Hilliard’s mouth to tighten despite his refusal to acknowledge his guards/captors. “It’s the safest bet.”