The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Galbin gaped at him, mouth hanging open, completely in disbelief that Jurel would commit such an act. Then as though a flood gate cracked open, roaring laughter bubbled from the very depths of his bulging belly.

  “Jurel did that? Your Jurel? Why that little scamp,” he chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. “Ingirt was some put out with Valik about it. And he came out and told you all about it, did he?”

  “Aye, that he did. Out by the well when we were coming over earlier tonight. I should have known something was up when I first saw him. He was so preoccupied. So serious—even more so than normal. Even his chores were poorly done. I never minded him going out and playing before getting his work done because he always did it well before I got home. But tonight...I should have seen it.”

  “Ah but you were preoccupied yourself. My Ingirt was not exactly flattering of your lad before you left to get him.”

  “Aye. Maybe that's it,” Daved responded but he was not totally convinced. “Anyhow, I'll pay to clean or replace the shirt as you see fit, of course.”

  Galbin was shaking his head before he even finished. “No, put it from your mind, Dave. I think I'll keep this between us. As I said, Ingirt was quite put out with him. She dotes on him too much, I think, and perhaps it will do Valik some good to see that his mother is capable of being vexed with him.” He laughed again and shook his head. “Though I must admit, I really didn't think your boy had it in him.”

  “And I'll make sure he doesn't keep it in him,” Daved muttered darkly. Boyish nature or not, ruining property was an entirely dishonorable thing to do.

  “Don't be too hard on him, Dave.” Again, he seemed to read Daved's mind when he continued, “Boys will be boys after all.”

  “Of course, but I would have preferred it if he had stood toe to toe with Valik and vented his grievance to his face instead of sneaking around like a thief. He's a good boy, but he'd too damned timid. I don't want him to be a bully-”

  “Like Valik,” Galbin muttered.

  “Aye. Like Valik. But I don't want him to be afraid to stand up and fight if the situation warrants.”

  More dark thoughts intruded. Memories of a past life. Flashes of sword and ax. Sprays of blood. Screams of dying men. Soot billowing from burning buildings. A city grievously injured. He stared into his empty glass, seeing in the bottom of it things that he had tried to push into the deepest recesses of his mind for years.

  “Sometimes, I wonder. I think maybe...”

  But again he trailed off, left the thought unvoiced.

  “Will you not finally tell me?” asked Galbin.

  Daved's heart wrenched, though whether from the gentle caring in his friend's voice or from the thought that he should actually put the dark memories into words, bringing them back to life in a way, he was not certain. Perhaps he should. The memories were as fresh then and there as if it had all been yesterday. Perhaps telling someone would be a relief, would heal in the way that a poultice on a wound healed. His gaze was pensive and pointed inward as he again considered telling Galbin of the battle, of how, even as the last of the invaders were being put to the sword, he had found the lost child in the street. How at that moment, his life had become clear.

  But something held him back. A wall, or a door that must remain closed for fear that what was held within was too powerful, too wild, to control. He shook his head.

  “No Galbin. Not yet,” he sighed and his sorrow was so profound that Galbin could not bear to hear it.

  “Of course. Never fear, my friend. I will not push for things that are none of my business. Forgive me for prying.”

  “Thank you. It is not a thing lightly remembered let alone told.”

  He stared into the fire, wishing that he could dump his dark thoughts into the flame, wishing he could watch them wither and burn alongside the wood.

  “Some day. Some day I will tell you all. But not yet.”

  After what seemed like hours, the silence became unbearable, as heavy as stones, and Galbin changed the subject back to safer territory, back to things of little consequence and a short time later, they sat comfortably chatting about equipment maintenance and man power, washing away sour memories with dry brandy.

  * * *

  In the wee hours of the morning, far too late for proper folk to be out of bed, Daved sat on his small cot trying to stop the room from spinning sickeningly about his buzzing head. His loft was warm, too warm, and even bare-chested as he was, the scars crisscrossing his chest pale and glistening as if they were wet in the light of the single candle, the heat made his guts turn a little. It could have had something to do with the river of brandy he had drunk earlier.

  At the other end of the loft—three paces at best, and small ones to boot—his son snored lightly, twisted in his blanket so it seemed the square of wool was trying to tie him down. His hair was already disheveled, mussed by the fitful tossing and turning that always plagued him in the first hour or two that he slept but his face was peaceful, innocent.

  In many ways, Jurel had never recovered from his experiences of Killhern city. As much as a year afterward, he had suffered nightly the terrible nightmares that on better nights let him sleep, though badly, unevenly, but on the worse ones, caused him to wake screaming as if he were being tortured. Daved was always there for him. Even though they were not related by blood, in his heart—for Gram and Wendilla had been like family to him—Jurel was his son. Daved would rock him, tunelessly humming songs that he dredged from his memories, songs that his own father used to hum to him until the boy fell back into troubled sleep.

  Even now, he would waken sometimes, whimpering and shaking, but thankfully not nearly so often. It was almost too painful for Daved to bear most nights. Here was his son terrified and hurt, and he could do nothing about it. Some nights he hated himself for that weakness.

  Those bloody memories had stayed with Jurel, affecting him so profoundly that he loathed violence of any sort. Even the suggestion of it, like stories of ancient battles told around a fire, sent the boy running. It had grown like an infection in him so even the merest confrontation was to be feared. For an ex-soldier, a veteran of many campaigns, that idea was as alien as sunshine at midnight.

  Shaking his head, as much to clear the muzziness of drink as to clear the thoughts, he blinked and sighed.

  “Don't worry lad,” he said in a voice so quiet a mouse would have strained to hear. “In time, it will fade. God grant you mercy, you will never forget, but it will fade, like one of my scars. Then maybe you'll become the man I know you should be.”

  Jurel stirred. Muffled by the pillow over his face, he asked, “Pa?”

  He had not called Daved 'Pa' in, what, two years? His eyes burned and he cursed himself for a sentimental fool as he crossed the small space between them.

  “Hush boy,” he murmured, brushing sweaty hair away. “All is well. Go back to sleep.”

  “Yes Pa.”

  Satisfied for some reason, he blew out the single candle and lay down to join his son in sleep.

  Chapter 8

  His eyes snapped open and he sat upright. Not knowing if it was the incessant bird song or if it was the smell of cooking bacon that woke him—and not caring, really—he jumped out of bed and dressed quickly, giving himself a good knock on the head when he stumbled into one of the roof beams while trying to push his legs into his pants that seemed intent on making the simple act of dressing an epic battle.

  A strange disorientation held him as if he had awakened somewhere he should not have. Had his father spoken to him last night? Must have been awful late since he did not really remember it. But he shrugged off that confusion as well since it did not really matter. He smelled bacon and that mattered. He was starving.

  He clambered down the ladder as quick as a cat, jumping the last few rungs to the ground and when he turned he almost staggered in shock.

  There sat his father in his chair, a splash of sun lighting his features, drinking a cup of that ghastly brown stuff that
he liked so much in the morning, and riffling through a small stack of papers in front of him. Then it dawned on him that the sun was much too bright through the small window. It was late, well past his time to be up and about. He had slept in. His father would be furious.

  But then, his father did not seem furious. In fact, he smiled when he saw Jurel standing there like a startled rabbit. Another important fact dawned on him as he watched his father lean back and flip the sizzling slabs of meat in the skillet. Why was he even home?

  He expected angry remonstrations. Or maybe a cuff upside the head for his laxity. He steeled himself to it even as his father continued to smile. Just the calm before the storm. That was all this was.

  “Ah, there you are you lazybones.”

  Here it comes.

  “I was beginning to think you'd sleep the whole day away. That would have been a shame. It's another nice one.”

  Baffled, Jurel looked around the tiny cabin. Whoever this was sitting in his father's seat looked like Daved but certainly, it was someone in disguise. Perhaps his real father was hiding somewhere. But where? He was probably right outside the door, listening, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

  “Father? Is everything all right?” Jurel ventured carefully like he was walking on thin ice over a fast moving river.

  Eyebrows furrowed, Daved nodded. “Of course. Why wouldn't it be?” Then as clear as the sun, realization struck home. “Oooh! I see. You're wondering why I'm home are you? Well it seems there's not so much to do so Galbin told me to take the day off.”

  He flipped the bacon again and in a tone that seemed pensive, weighted by terribly important issues, he added, “It occurs to me, that if I have the day off, it just would not be right to make you work.”

  He could not help himself. His eyes bugged open with pure hope and his father snorted.

  “Now don't be thinking your old man's gone soft. I've not forgotten what happened yesterday. I will expect you up bright and early tomorrow, you hear?”

  “Yes father. Of course.”

  He could barely contain himself. What would he do today? He had been resigned to a long day of work and now he was free.

  “Before you go, have a bite to eat.”

  Jurel almost laughed. When he woke up, all he could think about was food but he had forgotten that quickly enough. Of course, when he saw what his father had prepared, he figured he could wait to go outside for a minute or two. Toasted rolls covered in melted cheese and sizzling bacon: his favorite. He ate with gusto, ignoring the stinging burns caused by the cheese, and when he licked the last bits off his fingers, he looked at his father.

  Daved's generous good mood perplexed him. A part of him said that he was still sleeping, that he was having a pleasant dream and at any moment, he would wake up to his father's gruff voice, “Time to get to work.” It must have been so. His father was fair and honest almost to a fault. If Jurel received a word of praise, it was because he deserved it. If Jurel was punished, well, he deserved that too and his father was not one to make exceptions. He felt as skittish as a deer as he got up from his place and inched his way toward the door.

  “Should I do the dishes first, father?” he asked even as he gripped the latch.

  “No,” Daved said, with a wave of his hand, his eyes bright with amusement. “Go on with you. Enjoy yourself. I'll have dinner ready at sundown.”

  The last words reached him as the door slammed shut behind him, then he was off and bounding across the farmstead under the sun, and he was so excited he did not even feel the coolness of the breeze.

  * * *

  “Ho there.”

  At the top of the hill he saw Wag wave. “Jurel! Hey everybody it's Jurel,” Wag's voice drifted down the hillside.

  “Thanks for the info. We never woulda guessed,” came Darren's retort.

  “I saw Valik this morning,” Erin said primly when Jurel caught up with them. “Is he ever sore with you.”

  “Yeah. He's awful sore,” Frieza echoed.

  What could he say? He shrugged uncomfortably and kept his mouth shut.

  “So what happened?” Wag asked, hopping from one foot to the other. “Did your da whup you? I bet he whupped you good.”

  “No, Wag. He didn't whup me. I told him what happened. He told me to be more careful.”

  “That's all?”

  “That's all.”

  Jurel could not help the stab of resentment at Wag's disappointed tone. Nor could he help the satisfaction when Darren punched him in the arm.

  Changing the subject, he looked around, business-like and rubbed his hands together. “So what are we doing today?”

  What do children do when given free rein in an expansive field with the warm sun smiling down upon them? They play of course. They run. They laugh. These children did just that. Every once in a while an argument would break out over some rule infringement or other—an odd thing since there were no rules—but more often than not, they laughed and, well, cavorted. Frieza shrieked when Wag chased her with a dung smeared stick, Trig and Darren wrestled as Jurel watched (uncomfortably), and Erin sniffed haughtily.

  When they got tired of that, they climbed trees at the edge of the woods pretending they were wild cats hunting their prey. Until Trig twisted an ankle jumping from a low branch. It was not a bad hurt and after a few minutes of limping like an old man with a case of the joint flares, hissing through clenched teeth, everything was all right again. Wisely, they decided to keep out of the trees for a while.

  Then they were pirates on the high seas. They picked up dried branches which, in their minds at least, became cutlasses and they attacked each other, whacking and thrashing and all the while giggling gleefully.

  Except for Jurel who felt a tickle up his spine and decided he did not really want to be a pirate, instead preferring to climb a nearby tree where he could watch his friends.

  “Arrr, ye scurvy dogs,” shouted Wag in what was possibly the worst imitation of a seaman's brogue any of them had ever heard. “I've come fer yer booty, I ave!”

  Trig and Darren followed suit and a general melee broke out as the girls shrieked. Erin and Frieza played their roles as the damsels in distress to perfection. Erin was always at her best when someone, usually a knight in shining armor, had to save her from the depredations of the evil brigands or dragons or ogres. Or pirates.They tumbled about playing out a rip roaring little battle until abused branches broke.

  Even watching them from the comfort of his perch, he felt unease settle in his belly like a hot stone. When he could no longer stand it, when his discomfort threatened to ruin his day, he turned his eyes outward, scanning the horizon.

  They had played away a good part of the day; the sun had begun to lower toward its rest and the world was bathed in rich golden light, the sky a sapphire with a velvety topaz base. Soon, he knew he should head back, but for that moment he wanted no more than to witness the majesty of it all. He pushed away the sounds of the mock battle that raged beneath him, pushed away Wag's protests that Trig's branch was longer than his own—and his yelp when Darren punched him in the arm—and he watched the fields undulate like a green ocean, pushed by the cool breeze. He saw the new buds on the trees glistening like emeralds, and beyond all of it, in the crop fields, he watched the distant forms of men working their way through the last of the season's sowing.

  When his eyes turned to the farm, he caught a flicker of movement near the silo. The flicker resolved into the form of a man, a man that was plodding toward them, head bent low, and shoulders slumped in what was probably exhaustion. He squinted, trying to make out the identity of the man but the distance was great and the man was in the shadow of the silo. When he broke free of the shadows, Jurel had to sigh in dismay for that was no man approaching them. It was Valik.

  Another fine day, it seemed, was about to be ruined.

  Yesterday's events were too new in his mind, too fresh. Valik was never his favorite person to see but right then, right there, Jurel would have
rather faced the father of the Underworld before Valik. Twisting himself, agile as a chipmunk, he gripped the branch that supported him in his hands and he let his weight roll off until he dangled by his arms before lightly dropping to the ground.

  Still engrossed in their adventures, the others had not noticed the approaching figure and so it was up to Jurel to warn them.

  “Guys, I'm off to the pond for a bit.” As he started his trot, he called over his shoulder, “Oh, and Valik's at the bottom of the hill.”

  Did Darren groan? Did Trig sigh? Jurel was not sure but the idea was comforting as he made his way down the steep slope toward the water. The pond rippled like wrinkled silk and tufts of reeds poked out like unruly hair. The sun reflected so it looked like he was seeing a glowing pool of quicksilver. It was for this reason that he did not notice the presence of the three boys that sat at the pond's edge until he was no more than a score of paces away from them.

  A little surprised—it was a rare thing indeed to see newcomers of any sort—he called out, “Halloo.”

  In unison the three figures jumped, went ram-rod straight as though they had been caught at some crime. One of them twisted and almost fell over in the process. In the midst of regaining his balance a hint of clay caught Jurel's eye. A pot? A jug?

  The boy handed whatever it was to another and rose on unsteady legs to face Jurel. Of an age with Jurel and the others, he glared bleary eyed and wavered where he stood.

  “Whaddaya want?” the boy slurred.

  Jurel had continued his approach and now that he was barely more than an arm's length away, he saw that it was an earthenware jug. A flash of shock accompanied the realization that these boys were quite drunk. He was proud of the fact that he hid his surprise and he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage.