Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (9 page)

“No introductions are needed,” the woman said softly,
yet with strength in her words all the same.  “We all of us have come to know
you, Marik Railson.  And you have come to know us in return through the course
of your…career.”

He could have argued the point; nearly did out of a
perverse urge to struggle against a descending axe he sensed rather than saw. 
Only half of those present were known to him.

Except as the thought formed, he recognized one of the
two men standing at Raymond’s side.  The king’s seneschal, less recognizable
out of his formal robes of office.  Marik only placed him from the time he
organized the various contenders at the tournament during the opening ceremony,
arranging them into parodies of garden statues in a line extending away from
the outdoor thrones the monarchs would inhabit.

Celerity left him no time to be smart with her. 
Perhaps because she had come to know how stubborn he could be after their brief
encounters last summer, or from whatever gripes Tollaf had vented against her
regarding his misfortune in having the ungrateful whelp as an unwanted
apprentice.

“It’s as well you arrived after the council
adjourned.  For many reasons it would be best to make as little noise as
possible for the moment.”

Marik frowned.  “Noise?  Listen, if you try to handle
these monsters the invaders brought with them
quietly
, then you’ll never
be able to drive them back.  It doesn’t matter who knows about them!  All that
matters is assembling enough strength to smash them!”

Her arms folded in imitation of the knight-marshal. 
“So we are doing.  But we can’t ignore Nolier continuing to violate our border
to the east.  Their army is still suffering from their heavy losses in the last
war, as is our own.  The Nolier king does not seem to care much about that. 
His greed has gotten the best of him.”

The tone beneath her words firmed further, coming out
as when she had spoken to Sloan and Kineta, speaking at the time with her full
authority and rank.  “The majority of the army will be needed to make it clear
Nolier may not set foot on our soil without reaping the consequences of their
actions.  As for the Tullainian border, we intend to question the prisoners you
brought to Thoenar and learn what we can, but in the meantime we must marshal
the forces available and plug the gap in our western defenses.  With the
invaders’ strike force defeated and their command in apparent disarray, they
will not be able to organize quickly.  During that time we will prepare.”

His father’s voice abruptly spoke within the recesses
of his mind, clearer than it had been in a very long time. 
Be careful what
you ask for boy, because the gods love nothing better than to give you exactly
that.

The churning in his stomach intensified.

Marik’s teeth refused to unclench while he demanded,
“What…does that have to do with me?  I came here…to tell you everything I can
about these beasts that nearly destroyed us.”

“Your knowledge of them will be invaluable, it is
true.  Especially since,” she said flatly, her lips pursing, “you will be
responsible for the campaign to defend the western border.”

A blasted field of scorched stones over blackened
earth scarred the meadowlands outside the Rovasii’s tree line.  Grass and
dormant wildflowers had been seared away in the explosion that had ended the
pitched battle against the Arronaths on the forest’s edge.  Spring’s thaw had
come early when the snow had succumbed to the volcanic heat shaking the ground.

It would be years before life returned to these
killing grounds, to judge by the wastelands Jide beheld.  He sat atop his horse
at the mountains’ base, viewing the aftermath in the rapidly advancing
nightfall, puzzling over what could have possibly happened in such a serene
setting.

Rumors flew with wild abandon through the ranks,
especially at the few organized encampments the army had succeeded in
establishing this side of the mountains.  Jide had listened to gossip ranging
from a mutiny by the Taur controllers to heathen gods materializing and
slaughtering the ranks.  No one knew what had actually happened to Adrian’s
forces.  Given the condition of the few survivors, as well as the land itself,
any explanation seemed feasible.

Jide swung his leg over the mount and dropped to the
ground.  He ignored the lingering winter chill.  His clothing was ample enough
for colder climates than this.

The chill through his knee passed without notice when
he knelt in the center of the blast zone.  He bent until his lone eye hovered
inches over a deceptively small, flat stone.  In truth it was the crown of a
buried boulder.

Numerous times Jide had poked through the aftereffects
of fires.  In the early days it had been a great way to score undamaged goods,
to hide them away and then claim they too had been destroyed.  Later, under
Adrian, he had learned to recognize infinitesimal signs that meant the fire had
been no accident.  That it had been set in order to eliminate evidence after a
corrupt officer sensed the number of his days dwindling.

He knew what fire-touched stone looked like, which was
to say it looked about the same as it ever did once the soot and grime was
cleaned away.  This stone struck a discordant note with him.  His senses
insisted it was far too smooth for stone of its type.  Jide ran his fingers
across the surface, his touch confirmed what his eye already saw.

His mouth tightened into a deeper frown.  He walked
back across the field into territory unmarked by fire damage.  In moments he
located similar stone patches peeking through the lush grasses.

Examining these provided him with exactly what he
would have expected.  He stood to gaze about the field while he rubbed his
eye-patch in thought.

No reason to believe the stone might be a different
type.  They both looked to be exactly the same.

Which meant the bastard rock had
melted
.  No
conventional fire could create that much heat.  Else all the warehouses he’d
crawled through would have been slag.

Adrian had brought none of the mages with him.  Hardly
surprising, since most of the army mages were tied to the Citadel.  The few who
were free of that endless exertion were the ones weak enough to be of no use,
assigned instead to tasks such as testing local water for flux-inducing
taints.  What few mages of any battle strength left were kept in mobile
reserve, ready to be sent to specific points if enemy forces slipped wild cards
out from their sleeves.

This type of damage must have been mage-wrought.  No
shock that the locals, these Galemarans, would bring into play whatever
strengths they had…yet it boded ill.  The Taurs were always a shielding wall
between Adrian and the natives, but a mage’s powers could have cause serious
damage among the commanding ranks.  That is why it was inconceivable that Adrian
would have pushed so hard without adequately positioning his available assets.

“What in the blue sky happened to us?”  Jide murmured
the unanswerable question while his fingers ceaselessly rubbed circles around
his leather-covered socket.

A cockup of a mission objective in the first place,
hostile lands on a continent cutoff from Arronath for centuries where the
damned
pollen
attacked their health, vipers slithering through the ranks
and their forces spread from hells to breakfast!  Since he had ‘borrowed’ a
horse after crossing the mountains, he’d had to dodge each of the patrols. 
Mendell was running the Galemaran territories according to
his
rules,
his
writ.  Jide’s usual accepted slinking around would likely not be shrugged away
with a sly wink.  In all probability they would take him back to answer a slew
of inquiries.

That had become painfully clear in the town by the
pass.  Every aspect of the campaign east of the Stoneseams operated under
strict regulations imposed by Mendell, down to how much tea should be used to
brew a single pot.  The locations of all personnel were to be reported and
damned near imprisoned until they received orders.  It left him operating
completely on his own.

“Which is how it’s always been,” he grumbled, making
his way back to his horse.  The mount, along with the scented oil he rubbed
into his skin that would tell any Taur patrols happening across his scent trail
that he was an Arronath, were about the only assets he had for moving around
unnoticed.  For long years he had worked alone…except he hadn’t, had he? 
Adrian had always stood in his shadow, providing minimal aid, yet giving Jide
the minute assistance each situation required.

The battlefield told him little, other than that a
calamity had erupted there.  Jide prayed harder than he had in years that
Adrian had survived it.  In such a short time, Mendell was stripping away the
pride and values of Adrian’s army, remaking it into his personal rouges
gallery.

Hovering in the back of his mind was the certainty
that Mendell, along with Xenos probably, was making a play to screw them over. 
It was the same old shitstorm, ignominious men maneuvering to seize power
enough to satisfy their lusts.

What they never realized was that it was
never
enough.  If they jumped a rung up the rank ladder, they always felt cheated
that there were still other rungs above them.  Power gluttons were never
satisfied, always hungry.

This marked the first time he and Adrian had been
outflanked by the scheming bastards.  Jide felt it in his gut.

If only Xenos were not so involved with the king,
Adrian would be able to accept the man’s true nature readily, and thus deal
with him and these vipers who owed their positions to the councilor.  The
general’s patriotism had been a real problem at times.  It would take the gods
personally appearing for a private chat before he admitted King Lambert’s error
in judgment.

“Tomorrow’s problems are tomorrow’s problems,” he
grunted.  The stolen horse held still while he remounted.  “But what, by
Leander, am I to do next?  You tell me that, you monkey of a general.”

He gazed eastward.  In that direction, the local
survivors must have departed.  Had the Galemarans taken any prisoners?

Follow?  Return to the base camp and mingle, hoping
for an opportunity?

What in the hells could he do if he did follow an
enemy army on his own?  One undoubtedly riled by the cheese grater they had
been ground across.  On the other hand, what could he hope to accomplish under
Mendell’s baleful eye?  Would it be worth staying in the devolving army after
he’d been reforged in Adrian’s fire, or should he give up and make his way back
to Arronath and his sweet Jazelda?

Fingers circled the leather patch from habit.  His
eighth since the loss of his eye.  The others had eventually worn to nothing
from constant friction.

Alone, he could make his way through enemy territory. 
There might be battle lines, fronts established to repel the bestial wrath of
the Taurs, yet once beyond them he would find towns.  Roads.  Countryside.

Usually he would be confident that he could make his
way through any civilized setting.  Wherever shone the light, shadows were cast
as well.  The underworld beneath the law would always be his kingdom.  But
language would be a barrier, unmasking him for the stranger he was.  Could he
still swim those dangerous waters with only the Traders Tongue he had mastered
between his tasks for Adrian?

The base camp, along with every station under
Mendell’s control, decayed by the day.  With the pestilence named Colonel
Mendell in command, and the outright plague of Xenos on the way, army doctrine
would inevitably decompose under their diseased influence.  Simply being there
would be dangerous as taking the luncheon meal in hell amidst a salivating
horde of Vernilock’s soul torturers.

Meaning…after the Galemarans, then.  For too many
years he had been a mover in the Arronathian Armed Forces, if an unacknowledged
one.  Being a nobody supply officer worrying about higher-ups hanging everyone
on the gallows of their personal career advancement held no appeal.  Adrian, if
he still lived, needed to be found.

“And so with my canvas snapping, my fears palling in
the face of destruction,” Jide muttered grimly, quoting the ancient epic lines,
“I sailed again into the maelstrom’s heart.”

He spurred his horse eastward into the night.

*        *        *        *        *

Marik stared at Celerity.  His exalted company flew
from his mind, and his disbelief made him exclaim, in classic Dietrik style,
“Are you out of your damned tree?  What in the hells are you yammering about?”

Her declaration moments before had reduced him to a
fox frozen by the baying of dogs catching its scent.  He knew he could not have
possibly interpreted what she meant correctly, cared not in the least that her
countenance frosted over in the manner he knew so intimately.

“For a man in your position, I suggest you watch your
tongue!”

“What position?  No one’s bothered to tell me a bloody
thing so I’ll say whatever I damned well please to!”

“You—” Celerity began angrily, except the
knight-marshal burst forth with hotter venom.  “This!  This!”  He faced the
king.  “This…
man
is what you plan to place so much hope in?  Raymond,
you can’t still mean to commit such folly!”

The outburst abruptly reminded Marik of the others. 
Looking past the fuming Celerity to the small assemblage, he noticed Torrance
first.  His commander’s glare out-sharpened even Tybalt’s.  To simply cast his
gaze across the room, Marik would expect tables to be cleaved and chairs to
slice cleanly into tumbling fragments.  That those eyes furiously drank him in
left Marik even more unbalanced.

Raymond responded to his senior-most soldier.  Marik
could scarcely credit it after his vulgar outburst, but there could be no
question that a slight smile played across the monarch’s face.  “It is a
decision already made, Tybalt.”

Knight-Marshal Tybalt’s anger was plain, unmasked for
Marik to see.  The queen saw it as well.  Ulecia touched her husband’s arm.  In
a tone resembling a directive rather than a suggestion, she said, “Perhaps our
presence is superfluous.  This might best be a matter discussed with the fewest
needed.”

The king nodded.  “A valid point.”  Whether he meant
to take his wife away from the coarse mercenary or the knight-marshal away
before he started frothing, Marik was left to wonder.  He gathered everyone to
him, leaving only the seneschal, Torrance and Celerity.  Before he passed
Marik, Raymond stopped long enough to meet his eye.  “I expect we will speak
further soon.”  In spite of his confusion, part of Marik’s mind was free to
observe how wrong it was that Raymond Cerella was shorter than he was.

Tybalt offered no words, only allowed Marik to feel
the full force of his ire while sailing past.

When the doors closed behind the entourage, he seized
the initiative before anyone could fog the issues at hand by opening their
mouths.  Anything they said would surely only muddy the waters further.  He
advanced on Torrance, demanding, “Are they leaving the Kings to clean out the
western border?  Is that what they mean?  I haven’t given my report to them yet!”

Torrance returned Marik’s frantic inquiry with razor
determination.  “No, it is not so.  I mentioned once before that you were
beginning to build a reputation of your own among the nobility.  Now, it
precedes you.”

“Pre—”

Celerity interrupted, regaining control through force
of her indomitable will.  “That is one point of view, though not one I would
say adequately describes our current situation.”

“I came to make you appreciate what these monsters
controlled by the black soldiers are like!”

“No,” she shot back, “you came because you were
ordered to.  As long as you are a member of Torrance’s band, you are beholden
to the crown under wartime conscription laws.  You will go where you are
ordered and do what you are told!”

The seneschal spoke up to drive a verbal wedge between
the two agitators.  “I think,” he announced in a soft tone that nevertheless
carried weight, “it would be best to address the matter plainly.  Marik
Railson, I would draw your attention there.”

He pointed to the floor in the center of the
ring-shaped council table.  For the first time Marik noticed the floor was a
mosaic comprised of several thousand stones the size of his fingernails.  They
formed a massive map of Galemar.