had no idea what
the corresponding date might be on the post-Unification calendar, and suddenly
realized that it wouldn’t make much difference to him if he did. The
historical events he knew of were few, and their chronological placement was
beyond his knowledge. Most of what he had learned of the Tristans he’d found
out from Landon, but only about the events themselves. When they had taken
place in relation to the rest of Basill’s bloody years, he had no idea.
It startled him to realize that. He had believed he’d
learned quite a lot from Landon thanks to the archer’s hobby of collecting the
history of every area he ever passed through. Now he could see that what he
knew hardly so much as scratched the surface.
What reasons could have collided three separate forces
together? He did not for an instant believe it to be coincidental. Did the
blue and red forces come under an alliance against Basill? That made sense
based on what he knew, yet the layout of the soldiers suggested several
discrepancies. The overwhelming implications of the particular formation in
each ranks suggested they were arranged to defend against one another.
Of course, that wholly assumed that this toy’s layout
was accurate in the least. If the display were simply meant to amuse visitors,
the last one in this chamber could have entertained himself rearranging the
soldiers to suit whatever fancy he indulged. No universal law demanded that
the diorama must remain historically accurate.
Still, he had nothing else to occupy him in the room.
The battle display was far more interesting than whatever the books might
contain. He let his eyes wander across the field, leaving the figurines
untouched, imagining how a battle such as this might proceed if the arranged
forces had, in fact, been arrayed exactly as shown in miniature. None of the
possible scenarios he envisioned would bode well for the Unifier of Galemar’s
small forces. It must have been the hells own battle.
Marik was left to his musings for nearly a half-mark.
So enthralled had he become that he lost his sense of time passing, and his ire
at being mysteriously summoned no longer rankled. The heavy door opening
surprised him into an abrupt spin.
In walked a man who immediately made the surrounding
room vanish in Marik’s sight. Instead of the room, surrounding the man were
the canvas walls of rain-soaked tents, his features illuminated by scattered
braziers filled with coals rather than oil lamps. The bizarre displacement
held for only a moment before Marik saw him as he was; a man bearing up well
under the weight of his years, dressed trim and still fit as a horse. Marik needed
no explanation to understand his peculiar moment. Once before he had seen this
man close up, on the Cracked Plateau prior to the Nolier war.
The knight-marshal advanced with the bearing of a man
about an assigned duty. He wore none of his rank’s insignia, as when Marik had
seen him distantly during the tournament’s opening ceremony. His clothing
remained of a military cut, color and material, though. Marik’s spine
stiffened slightly when the man stopped to study the mercenary without much
fondness evident in his expression.
It was Dietrik who had once been a solider in
Galemar’s army, not he. Marik spurned a reflexive action to stand at rigid
military attention…though he accepted the older veteran as a warrior worthy of
respect. Clearly the knight-marshal lived his rank and
responsibilities, rather than donning them to wear at court while filling a
position appointed to him.
Since Marik felt as a fish pulled from a flowing
stream to flop in confused bewilderment on the shore, he remained quiet, letting
the knight-marshal speak. The man still gazed upon him with hard appraisal,
measuring Marik against a standard unknown to the subject of that inspection.
It increasingly disconcerted him by the moment.
At last, he glanced down at the display.
the corresponding date might be on the post-Unification calendar, and suddenly
realized that it wouldn’t make much difference to him if he did. The
historical events he knew of were few, and their chronological placement was
beyond his knowledge. Most of what he had learned of the Tristans he’d found
out from Landon, but only about the events themselves. When they had taken
place in relation to the rest of Basill’s bloody years, he had no idea.
It startled him to realize that. He had believed he’d
learned quite a lot from Landon thanks to the archer’s hobby of collecting the
history of every area he ever passed through. Now he could see that what he
knew hardly so much as scratched the surface.
What reasons could have collided three separate forces
together? He did not for an instant believe it to be coincidental. Did the
blue and red forces come under an alliance against Basill? That made sense
based on what he knew, yet the layout of the soldiers suggested several
discrepancies. The overwhelming implications of the particular formation in
each ranks suggested they were arranged to defend against one another.
Of course, that wholly assumed that this toy’s layout
was accurate in the least. If the display were simply meant to amuse visitors,
the last one in this chamber could have entertained himself rearranging the
soldiers to suit whatever fancy he indulged. No universal law demanded that
the diorama must remain historically accurate.
Still, he had nothing else to occupy him in the room.
The battle display was far more interesting than whatever the books might
contain. He let his eyes wander across the field, leaving the figurines
untouched, imagining how a battle such as this might proceed if the arranged
forces had, in fact, been arrayed exactly as shown in miniature. None of the
possible scenarios he envisioned would bode well for the Unifier of Galemar’s
small forces. It must have been the hells own battle.
Marik was left to his musings for nearly a half-mark.
So enthralled had he become that he lost his sense of time passing, and his ire
at being mysteriously summoned no longer rankled. The heavy door opening
surprised him into an abrupt spin.
In walked a man who immediately made the surrounding
room vanish in Marik’s sight. Instead of the room, surrounding the man were
the canvas walls of rain-soaked tents, his features illuminated by scattered
braziers filled with coals rather than oil lamps. The bizarre displacement
held for only a moment before Marik saw him as he was; a man bearing up well
under the weight of his years, dressed trim and still fit as a horse. Marik needed
no explanation to understand his peculiar moment. Once before he had seen this
man close up, on the Cracked Plateau prior to the Nolier war.
The knight-marshal advanced with the bearing of a man
about an assigned duty. He wore none of his rank’s insignia, as when Marik had
seen him distantly during the tournament’s opening ceremony. His clothing
remained of a military cut, color and material, though. Marik’s spine
stiffened slightly when the man stopped to study the mercenary without much
fondness evident in his expression.
It was Dietrik who had once been a solider in
Galemar’s army, not he. Marik spurned a reflexive action to stand at rigid
military attention…though he accepted the older veteran as a warrior worthy of
respect. Clearly the knight-marshal lived his rank and
responsibilities, rather than donning them to wear at court while filling a
position appointed to him.
Since Marik felt as a fish pulled from a flowing
stream to flop in confused bewilderment on the shore, he remained quiet, letting
the knight-marshal speak. The man still gazed upon him with hard appraisal,
measuring Marik against a standard unknown to the subject of that inspection.
It increasingly disconcerted him by the moment.
At last, he glanced down at the display.
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