Steel And Flame (Book 1) (58 page)

“Can they?”

“Of course they can!  There’s always coin to be found
when you decide you really need it.”

*        *        *        *        *

The eight sergeants in the Seventh and the Twelfth had
taken to spending time together in whichever tavern the courier’s guards were
patronizing for their current meal.  While they sat perched around a table,
they would watch with great intensity as the guards shoveled down their food. 
In other settings, the guards might have decided to make an issue of it, but
while surrounded by dozens of men who would undoubtedly leap to the sergeants’
aid, they must have reached the conclusion that discretion would be the better
part of valor, at least in Kingshome.

Anything that would drive the courier Fredrick Irons
to greater speed worked fine in Torrance’s book.  Over the past two-and-a-half
days, as predicted, little had been accomplished through the link Tollaf had
established with Celerity, a crown mage.  Clerks scurried back and forth verifying
everything they could, until in the end Fredrick finally convinced one to find
the king’s seneschal.  Fortunately he had yet to leave the palace complex, and
if this delay in his own duties irritated him, his diplomacy concealed it well.

After listening to the situation, he twisted within
Tollaf’s mirror to see Torrance over Fredrick’s shoulder.  He cut through all
the crap and asked, “How much?”

“The normal rate is three silvers per man per
eightday.  Higher rates apply to specialists and mages.”

“This discount you mentioned?”

“My head clerk tells me we can work at a ten percent
discount and still cover our expenses for the season.  Of course, hazard fees
for actions such as capturing enemy strongholds or clearing choke points and
K.S.A., that’s Key Strategic Accomplishment bonuses, must still remain in
effect at the standard prices.”

The seneschal’s lips pursed.  “How many men all told?”

“We have ten squads at the ready in addition to the
squad owed in tribute.  The extras number around nine-hundred-fifty.”

“I know you have more men than that, commander.”

“Two of my squads departed eightdays ago for contracts
in Tullainia.  The other three are already committed to fairly local contracts,
but have yet to depart.”

“We need every man we can muster, Commander Torrance. 
Hasn’t the courier given you the troop information on Nolier?”

“Not yet.  We had other matters to sort out between us
first.”

In the mirror, the seneschal’s less than friendly gaze
shifted back to Fredrick.  “Then he will do so as soon as this meeting is
concluded.”

“Very well, seneschal.  I can hold back the three
squads due out but I need the crown to provide recompense to the contractors as
well as an official letter of explanation.”

“Why so?”

“I can’t see the Kings’ reputation tarnished without
just cause provided.  Our reputation is our life’s blood.”

“The letter of explanation is perfectly understandable
and justified.  I’m asking why we must repay the fees given to you rather than
you returning them yourself.  Those same men will be earning coin to replace
the coin returned.”

“Except that we no longer have that coin.  The advance
coin generated by early contracts is all spent on the band.  Repairing or
replacing damaged weapons.  Care and maintenance of our mounts.  Winter pay for
the men to keep in fighting trim during the months of rest.  Food and supplies
to last through that same winter.  I could name countless other expenses
generated by the band if you care to listen, all invested in ensuring our men
are the best to be had.”

The seneschal looked bitter again, but not at
Fredrick.  He thought carefully before replying, “Very well then.  Have your
mage send a list of who needs what.  And I want to see you personally
face-to-face as soon as you arrive at the staging ground.”

“As you wish, seneschal.”

The busy man left the mirror, and the face of a clerk
stepped in to replace it.  He began speaking.  Fredrick hushed him long enough
to say to Torrance, “I still have matters to see to.  I will stop by this
evening to discuss your orders with you.”

“See that you do.  But come nightfall, I close my door
and tell my assistants not to disturb me for any reason.  If you wish to be on
your way tomorrow morning, you had best not keep me waiting.”

He turned his back on the courier’s insulted expression
and departed to walk with Janus to the command building.

“Sharp play, there,” the older man commented.

“Which one?”

“Getting the palace to reimburse our employers.”

“It’s the honest truth.  We have spent all the coin we
received so far.”

“Or an equal amount at any rate.  I notice you didn’t
go into the current status of the band’s treasury.”

“He didn’t ask, and his responsibilities are keeping
him harried.  The man must have a hundred matters to see to before the end of
the day.  Had we been in a less rushed conversation, I’m sure it would have
crossed his mind.”

“And that hazardous bonus bit.  K.S.A.?”  Janus
actually chuckled.  “Since when have we ever been paid extra for being
expendable fighters?  I noticed you neglected to mention any costs associated
with these new fees you made up.  How much coin will you bleed them for, after
offering to work at a discount to make them feel they came out on top?”

Torrance gazed at his head clerk, a portrait entitled
‘Innocence’.  “However much I feel we deserve by the end of this conflict.”

Later that evening, with himself behind his desk and
Tollaf and Janus flanking Fredrick on the other side, discussions resumed.  The
courier refused the spiced brandy, this time stating his need to leave before
dawn.

“The Tenpencia River forms the border between the
kingdoms of Galemar and Nolier,” Fredrick began, stating the obvious.  “The
Nolier king sent his forces across four days before the first winter snowfall. 
They claimed a strip of land from where the Tenpencia meets the Springbarrel to
the northern Cliffsdains.”

“They must be spread thin through those mountains in
the north,” Torrance observed.  “I believe that’s where the king’s new gold
strike was.”

“Is,” corrected the courier forcefully.  “We believe
the gold mines were the primary target of the Nolier incursion.  They’ve had
all winter to work the mines and transport the gold back to their side of the
river.”

“How did they cross the Hollister?  Both sides of the
bridge maintain military outposts and facilitates.”

“The survivors of the border detachment say all was
normal one moment, but the next a force of Nolier troops suddenly stormed their
courtyard.”

“Do you suspect magery at work?” asked Tollaf.

“That is undetermined,” replied Fredrick.

“I didn’t ask if it was determined or not,” shot back
Tollaf, out of temper.  “I asked if it was suspected!”

“I have no knowledge in this area,” Fredrick admitted.

Torrance wanted to know, “Is there any intelligence on
the Nolier mage capacity?”

“Certainly the Nolier court mages could be involved. 
At the last count, there were two mages, two magicians, two espers, one
geomancer and one warlock.  If the king recruited others to participate in this
war, then we don’t know of it.”

“And the army mages?”

“Moderately talented magic workers good at
communicating with the court mages, each with various spells from person to
person.  The numbers should be standard.”

“In other words,” Tollaf thought aloud, “they’re about
equal with Galemar in terms of mages pledged to their crown.”

“Which is one of the reasons the seneschal didn’t play
hardball,” added Janus.  “He’s counting on us and our mages.  We’d add six more
skilled combat mages to the clique.  Well, seven I suppose if you count your
newest apprentice.”

“He’s not ready for anything like a battle,” countered
Tollaf.  “He might be useful in a very few specific circumstances, but other
than that he stays away from the fighting!”

“That’s for the knight-marshal to decide,” Fredrick
put in, earning no love from Tollaf.

The chief mage opened his mouth to deliver a
hot-tempered reply when Torrance cut him off.  “
We’ll
decided it when I
speak to him and the seneschal personally.  So we have fifteen to twenty known
combat mages.  If the Nolier king has been recruiting secretly, we might face
double that, but I have my doubts.  Mages are hard to find, harder still to
convert to your cause, and I think I would know if there had been active
searches for them.  Now, what about their troop strength?”

“Our information tells us most of the Nolier Armed Forces
are involved.  Either they are on our side of the border acting as guards to
discourage our attempts at reclaiming our land, or they are waiting across the
river, ready to cross the Hollister on a moment’s notice.”

“Which is why the king issued a full muster call,”
Janus added.

“Yes.”

“What’s the estimate on their troop size?”

“The last estimate before I left named troop strength
in the vicinity of seventy-thousand.”

Torrance mused, “Galemar’s typical army numbers are
about thirty-thousand, with half no better than garrison men scattered across
the kingdom.  Summon the reserves and every levy to gather in the nobility’s
private guardforces, and we might be able to field twice that.”

“That still leaves us ten short,” Janus added.

“I think it’s close enough.  This shouldn’t be a
pitched battle, one against the other.  They’re either planning to retreat as
soon as we show up in force at the mine or push us back in a series of smaller
confrontations.”

“That’s for the knight-marshal to decided,” Fredrick
repeated.  It sounded like his fallback position.

Torrance walked to his map on the wall over the
fireplace.  “Where’s the staging ground?”

“The Cracked Plateau, east of Ramshead.”

“That’s north of us for nearly two eightdays, if we go
full company.  Show me the frontline from north to south.  Janus, are we well
provisioned enough to spend that long on the road?”

Janus answered while Fredrick rose to study the map. 
“Should be.  We were preparing to send out everyone for the season.”

“What about Nolier?”

He sniffed.  “If they’re holding the Hollister, they
can send as many wagonloads of provisions back and forth as they want.  They
have their entire kingdom to provide for their fighting men.”

“They’re not about to starve themselves out then.”

“Not too damned likely.”

Fredrick began pointing on the map, tracing his finger
down the kingdom’s length.  Torrance asked further questions, and the other two
drank brandy while they chimed in here or there.  When they finally finished
for the night, the commander of the Crimson Kings had left the king’s courier
little time to sleep.  All in all, Torrance felt he came out ahead.

Marik awoke in the night, unable to remember his
dream.  For several moments he remained unaware he no longer slept.  Everything
looked as bizarre as the halfworld of sleep.  Upward slipped sideways while the
ground rotated slowly, refusing to stay beneath him.  After a moment he
realized why.

He slapped his face once and blinked several times,
regaining his sense of balance and shutting his inner eyes at the same time,
returning his sight to the ordinary vision he had known over a lifetime.  The
magesight closed, the auras of the world around him concealed themselves. 
Things made a little more sense.

To gauge the time, Marik poked his head past the loose
flap that formed the low tent.  Morning still lay several marks off.  The
troubling dream that had jerked him from his sleep faded from memory, leaving
only this new matter to worry over.  Why had he awakened with his mage senses fully
active?  That had never happened before.

He lay back down between Dietrik and Kerwin, listening
to the rainfall on the canvas ceiling, or he did when Landon’s snores kept from
drowning it out.  The fabric vibrated from the drops pounding against it above
his head.  These small army campaign tents might sleep four men, but they
needed every available inch to do so.

At least Landon’s snores were familiar.  He listened
to the sound and pondered.

He knew nothing outside himself had triggered his mage
senses.  A quick check with those senses reassured him no magic worked in the
vicinity, or none he could make out.  Tollaf had yet to teach him any genuine
knowledge associated with this craft.  The old man merely showed him an action,
then demanded that Marik replicate it.  Marik had learned his shields and a
weak attack he could use on a limited scale, yet if anyone asked him to explain
exactly why what he did worked, he would be at a loss to respond intelligently.

To solve his dilemma, this only left, as far as he
could see, the tales of his youth and his own feelings. 
Think back.  You
didn’t spend all those nights listening to every ballad or tavern tale at
Puarri’s for nothing.
  He could remember tales where magic ran out of
control, except none seemed to fit this situation.

After thinking carefully, he decided on two
possibilities. 
One, my talent is growing and starting to take on a life of
its own.
  Further self-examination revealed nothing significantly different
now than at any other time over the last season, except that the cold ground
and rain were slowly freezing him.

Which means two; I need more training to gain better
control of my talent.
  He could guess
which theory Tollaf would support.

But then, he had made no use of his skills in nearly a
month.  He’d walked two eightdays to the staging ground on the Cracked Plateau,
then departed immediately for the front.  Three-and-a-half eightdays since
leaving Kingshome without once invoking his mage talent.  Maybe it felt
restless.

He severely disliked his talent yet the thought of it
acting on its own beyond his control disturbed him.  So…starting tomorrow he
would use the magesight once or twice a day during the march.

That would even be in keeping with Tollaf’s wishes. 
Once they had arrived at the staging ground, accompanied by levies from other
lords they’d met along the way, Tollaf had summoned him for a quick talk.

Marik’s first instinct when Yoseph delivered the
command was to send a message back telling the old man what he could do with
his summons.  At the time, his immediate concern had been to find the nearest
cook wagon, except Yoseph had already turned away.  Besides, he
had
made
a deal with the old man to take his lessons seriously so the senile old
bastard’s life would be easier.  Maybe he should ante up a little, especially
after clashing so often in the days before the departure.  Kerwin still fended
off demands for payment on wagers, stating that none of the predicted outcomes
had come to pass and therefor nobody had won.

So Marik had gone to the old man, only to be told not
to make an issue of the fact he possessed mage talent.  As if he needed to be
told that!  Tollaf had also instructed him not to use his talent until the
mages decided what to do with him.

Reassured that his apprentice felt no urge to do so,
Tollaf had entered a large tent with a woman Marik recognized from Tollaf’s
mirror.  That would be Celerity, one of the top court mages.  She shunned robes
or any garb that Marik’s mind associated with magic users.  Riding leathers, a coarse
gray skirt, an embroidered vest, a heavy cotton tunic and a threadworn shawl
constituted her wardrobe in the field.  His brief glimpse through the tent flap
revealed perhaps a dozen men and women sitting around a flat, portable campaign
table.

Marik started to leave until he saw Commander Torrance
standing in the falling drizzle with several others.  Again Marik only
recognized one other man, this being the king’s seneschal.  They stood before
an enormous pavilion tent with the flaps tied up to keep them open.  Inside, a
hundred other men sat, stood or huddled around braziers of smoldering coal.

Torrance noticed him, nodding only once.  A muffled
voice called the group inside the flaps.  Marik had glanced in when he walked
past.  The seneschal had taken a position at one side.  Beside him stood a man
with a full head of gray hair and a clean uniform in the king’s colors with
decorations covering his chest.  Anyone wearing a clean outfit and that much
brass in a rainy, muddy staging field must be the pack leader; the
knight-marshal.  The other men in the pavilion had all worn high quality
clothing.  Silks, velvets and tight weave all around.  These would be the lords
and nobles who’d come in person to answer the muster call, rather than merely
sticking to the letter of their duty by sending only a tribute of men.

The commander would be one man among many in there,
one voice from the choir of personal interests and blue blood self-importance. 
Except he would not be one of
them
, would not be an equal in their
eyes.  He was a merc, a hire sword, a coin-grabbing opportunist to them, no
better than most back alley cutthroats who populated the dark byways in the
larger cities.  Just better organized.

Marik started to worry about the placement the Crimson
Kings would receive in the overall battle strategy.  He’d kept his eyes open
from then on and noticed no other merc bands at the gathering.

In the end, they decided that the Kings, as a whole,
would split into thirds, each assigned to different points along the frontline. 
That might be good or it might be bad.  Only time would reveal which.  On the
third morning, a day-and-a-half after arriving, they had marched out. 
Commander Torrance took his third north to the area around the gold strike,
while Lieutenant Baxter took his south to prevent a flanking movement by the
Noliers.  Marik and the Ninth were smack in the middle between them, along with
whatever kingdom forces they would join.  Each of the thirds were supposedly
only another part of the larger army forces, yet Marik believed that point duty
would unfailingly be assigned to the Crimson Kings detachments.

Lieutenant Earnell had addressed his squad upon
departure, justifying Marik’s fears.  The knight-marshal had decided the
mercenaries would work most effectively under the lords they’d last contracted
with.  He theorized that the familiarity between the two would lead to
efficient cooperation between the mercenaries and the regular forces.  As
Earnell spoke, a sinking feeling grew in Marik’s stomach, solidifying with the
lieutenant’s final revelation.

“The last lord the Ninth served with was Baron
Dornory, as you recall.  He had to stay in his barony to keep an eye on his
neighbor but he sent his son Balfourth to the muster as the head of his levy
detachment.”

If anything could have been worse than taking the
point in a full scale battle against thousands of enemy soldiers, it would be
with Balfourth making the decisions for his company.

A noise drew Marik back to present, made by Kerwin
throwing an elbow into Landon’s ribs.  “Will you for the gods sakes shut the
hells up already!” he hissed.  Landon grunted in his sleep and shifted
position, his snoring damped only by the blanket covering his face.

Marik tried to go back to sleep, unable to avoid
thinking of his bunk in Kingshome.  He had slept on the ground for a month. 
The closest he had come to comfort was the softer grass atop the Cracked
Plateau, beside the canyon cutting halfway across the western stretch.  The
knowledge that no comfortable inn room or even a spot by a tavern’s fire waited
once he reached his destination depressed him.  While he tossed in his efforts
to find a comfortable position wedged between his comrades, Marik wished he had
thought to ask Tollaf for any workings that could help him fall asleep.  If he
must have this talent, he might as well know a worthwhile way to use it.

*        *        *        *        *

The rain had stopped, though Marik and the rest in the
Fourth Unit were beginning to wish it still fell.  An unforgiving sun replaced
it, hammering down through a patchwork quilt sky, evaporating the rainfall and
raising the humidity to unbearable levels.  It felt hotter than it should, for
the wind had also decided to take a holiday and vacate for more interesting
locations.  All in all, it made digging through the hard-packed ground a
grueling task.

Marik wielded a heavy mattock while Dietrik, Hayden,
Kerwin and Sloan attacked their sections with spades.  Pierce used a similar
mattock.  He and Marik were resting as the shovels removed the earth and clay torn
free by the two.  Marik collared a passing page.  The men nearly drained the
lidded water bucket the boy carried.

Most of the youths fulfilling page duties were acting
as waterboys during the construction.  Though they performed a never-ending
task, Marik bore no sympathy for their constant running back and forth from the
water supplies to carry heavy, to their young arms, water loads for thirsty
men.

Movement caught his eye when he dropped the dipper
into the bucket.  An army officer walked down the line, inspecting the
workers.  He pointed the man out to the others.  The sight urged them back to
their labors.  Given the slightest opportunity, they knew from experience, the
kingdom officers would seize on any excuse to spend entire candlemarks chewing
on a group of slacking mercenaries. 
You’d think we were slaves at the whim
of a sadistic taskmaster wanting to test the flexibility of his new sting whip.

On this second day, the officers were especially
displeased already, since the men digging the earthworks around the encampment
had failed to finish the job on the first.  They hesitated not in the least to
let the workers know it.  The mercenaries were of the opinion that if the
officers were in such a screaming hurry to get the job done, they ought to grab
a spade and lend a hand.

This would be the stronghold for the Galemaran forces’
central division.  They needed to hold the middle at all costs while the war
waged on, which meant it needed to be as well protected and defensible as
possible.  That meant digging a dry moat around the camp while building layered
earthworks lined with sharpened stakes.

With nearly seventeen-thousand men, Marik would have
thought the task would be a quick chore.  They soon discovered that the ground
chosen by the higher-ups concealed hard clay under a foot of soil with a large
quantity of stones mixed in for good measure.  Also, the encampment, empty as
it would be when the men were out in the field, still exceeded Kingshome’s size
by several times.  That excluded the supply wagons, which were bunched together
to the west.

Once they established the main camp, smaller
strongholds and supply depots would be placed in strategic locations across the
Galemaran map.  Marik knew when they finished with this backbreaking labor,
their next duty would be to travel north and do it all over on a smaller
scale.  Of course, there would be fewer men doing the work, so the job would
likely be just as hard.  After that he thought his time would be divided
between guarding the supply lines or skirmishing with the Noliers.

Provided these plans survived the various engagements
with the enemy, which, he had learned, rarely happened.

Sloan dropped a last shovel of clay chunks atop the
canvas square, then grunted toward Kenley.  The young man elbowed Knox and
rushed forward to lift his end before Sloan could lose his temper.  Kenley
usually acted that way around Sloan now, the loner having finally had his fill
of the newcomer.  Owning the neighboring bunk would make anyone wary of the
man, but Kenley’s exuberant attitude had pushed Sloan too far one day, and he’d
threatened to cut the boy’s tongue from his head if he refused to still it. 
Most would have made the threat in the heat of anger yet Sloan had delivered it
with such cold assurance that everyone, including Kenley, understood he meant
every word.

Kenley had become easier to live with since then,
whenever Sloan stood near at hand.

Knox grabbed his two corners while Kenley pulled on
his.  Together they made their way up the slope of dug earth to dump the load
wherever the earthwork foreman directed them to.