by Remi Michaud
They ate in silence, concentrating on swallowing one revolting mouthful after another, following each bite with a swig of watery mead, until finally, Jurel plunked his spoon into his empty bowl and sighed.
“I can't eat another bite.”
“Full?” Kurin asked.
“No, I just can't eat any more of this...stuff.”
Kurin laughed sourly. “Well, at least it filled a hole.”
“The question is, will it stay there?”
They each drank another tankard, trying their level best to wash away the taste of their meal and when they finished, Kurin rose.
“I need to go out for a time. Why don't you go up to the room and get some rest?”
“Maybe I should come with you.” Jurel did not relish the thought of spending time in the dirty little room.
“No my boy,” Kurin said. “I've been here before and I know the streets. I may have to move quickly and I can't have a big oaf like you bumbling about, tripping me up.” He smiled to remove the sting from his words. Jurel decided to take the bait.
“An old man like you can move quickly?”
With a laugh, Kurin started for the door. “Touche!” he called back over his shoulder and then he was gone.
Seeing no sense in tarrying, Jurel left the common room and made his way back to their room to await Kurin's return. He thought bitterly that waiting for one thing or another was quickly becoming the story of his life as he slumped down on his cot, mildly surprised that it managed to hold his weight, and rubbed his face with his hand.
There was a fresh taper in the sooty iron candle holder; the light in the room was marginally better, so to pass the time, Jurel decided he could read a little more from the book he had started on their journey here. He propped up what passed for his pillow, thinking that they must have used a few handfuls of straw from their stables and lay back. He managed to wade through three pages of the tome, fighting his way through the badly written text when the trials of the day caught up to him. The book slowly slid from his fingers to lay flat on his chest as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 33
Xandru, sweating profusely in the oppressive heat, waited in the featureless room that seemed carved from a single massive piece of stone while the deformed little half man with the pasty gray skin and green glowing eyes stood in front of the massive door that loomed high overhead. Nearly as wide as it was tall, it was constructed of ancient wood held together with black iron bands the thickness of his not inconsiderable chest.
At some unseen, unheard signal, the gnarled creature stepped aside and informed him in his dry voice that the master waited inside. The doors swung inward, ponderous and oddly silent for such a large thing, to reveal a black hole, a gaping maw that he was forced to step into, trusting that there was, in fact, a room to step into and a floor to step onto.
His armor creaking softly, he crossed the threshold and strode forward. A few paces in, a circle of light a pace across appeared on the floor, marking the spot where he was to stand. Without hesitation, he strode forward and halted in the center of the circle of light. Whenever he found himself here, he always wondered where that light originated; scrutiny of his surroundings never revealed its source. Or anything else for that matter. He stood in his oasis of light, surrounded by a blackness so deep, so complete that even the door behind had disappeared, and he waited, breathing in the faint scent of wet stone and sulfur. Soft whispers reached him, surrounded him, rustling and hissing like innumerable snakes, so faint he could not make out any words, but close enough that he could feel the anguish and the terror of the thousands of damned souls who occupied the darkness. He had been in this position often enough; he should have been used to this by now.
He waited, motionless except for the rivulets of sweat that ran down his face, back and chest, until—
“Xandru,” a sibilant voice hissed from the darkness, reaching his ears from every direction and yet from nowhere.
Immediately, Xandru knelt, turning his eyes to the ground and splaying his arms out with upturned palms in a gesture of obeisance.
“My lord, I have come as you summoned,” Xandru said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. He knew the forms.
“What news do you bring me?” the voice of his lord penetrated to the depths of his soul.
“My lord, my agents bring disturbing reports to me, from the center of the southern kingdom, from a small town called Tack,” Xandru said, not daring to move until his master allowed him, no matter how painful maintaining his position was.
“Yes, we have felt the stirrings in the Mist. The time is near. He walks the land.”
“Yes my lord. What is your command, my lord?”
“Bring him to me. Immediately.”
“Yes my lord.”
His heart sank as he hurriedly backed away, scuffing his knees. He did not raise his eyes until he saw the outline of the door in his periphery and when he did, he rose and strode from the room without so much as a glance to the misshapen figure who stepped back in front of the doors that swung shut as silently as they opened.
This place was a long way from Tack, and he was not sure how he would manage to find the man and return him as quickly as his lord commanded. He had no choice. His lord did not tolerate disobedience. He would have to move quickly to gather his men and proceed south. It never left his thoughts for a moment that time was of the essence. If he ran his men to death, then so be it. He had no choice.
He did not want to become one of the whispers in the dark. He had no choice.
Chapter 34
“Are you trying to poison me?” Jurel grumbled, staring at the slop the ugly serving girl had placed before him. “How can anyone dare to call this breakfast? I've served pigs better fare.”
“Just eat,” Kurin sighed as another spoonful found its way to the old man's mouth.
“But Kurin, look at this. I'm sure that the fellow who came up with the word 'egg' all those years ago did not have this in mind. Honestly, who ever heard of eating bacon and eggs with a spoon?” He poked at a floppy piece of yellow-brown goop.
Kurin pounded his fist on the table, and glared at Jurel. “If you want to give the cook lessons, then be my guest. I'm sure you'll make a lot of patrons very happy. Otherwise, shut up and eat.”
“Fine. You don't have to get snippy,” Jurel said before shoveling a spoonful of the unidentifiable stuff into his mouth. “Where were you last night?” Jurel mumbled, his mouth still full.
“I went to see a man about an ass,” Kurin replied with a pointed look.
Confused, Jurel glanced up, knitting his brow together.
“I don't understand.”
“Never mind. Just eat.”
Sunlight caught Jurel's attention and he looked across the room to see the front door swing shut behind a short man wearing a black cloak, scanning the tables. When the newcomer's eyes fell on him, he altered course, directly for their table. Alarm flooded through Jurel and he leaned forward.
“Kurin. Someone approaches,” he whispered.
The man strode with purpose, covering the distance quickly and with a grace that verged on fluid. His cloak billowed behind and Jurel saw he wore a hardened leather vest with bands of steel running in horizontal rows from neck to waist over his heavily muscled torso. His features appeared to have been carved from granite, like a statue of some mythical hero.
Kurin nodded and bit down stoically on another spoonful.
“Kurin, he's coming right for us. And he's armed,” Jurel whispered, noticing for the first time, the long, slightly curved sword that rested in its scabbard on the man's hip and swung in perfect rhythm with his stride like it was as naturally a part of his body as, say, his right arm.
He did not have time for anything but to rise before the man was on top of them, leaning down to whisper into Kurin's ear. Jurel paused, half standing when Kurin glared and motioned him to sit down. The newcomer whispered another few words, and Kurin nodded once, tersely.
“I think it's time to be off, Jurel. Let's get our things.” Following his own words, Kurin rose and made his way out of the common room, closely followed by the man in the cloak.
Completely lost, Jurel ran to catch up, questions bubbling in his mind like a pot of boiling water. He caught up to them halfway up the stairs but he judged by their determined pace, that his questions would go unanswered for the time being, so he kept his mouth shut, and set about the tasks necessary for them to leave.
* * *
The strange man guided his horse down the main street followed by Kurin and Jurel in the cart, just as Kurin had the day before: pulling to a stop every few yards to keep from trampling various living obstacles comprised mainly of dirty children, wagons, and milling throngs of townsfolk, before continuing slowly, navigating his way carefully through the sea of humanity dotted with equine islands. Though Jurel was sorely tempted to ask his questions, Kurin's far away look told him that he probably would not even hear the young man.
So he waited. He waited while the city of Merris passed them by. Stone buildings eventually gave way to wood and the vibrant reds, greens and yellows faded until all the buildings took on the same dirty white color of paint too long exposed to an unforgiving sun, peeling away to leave patches of exposed lumber and giving the impression that they were afflicted with some horrible plague. Just like the buildings, the people changed: near the plaza, bright silks and satins dominated as though the populace vied with the city about them, perhaps hoping to win some prize that only they knew of for being the most gaudy. Merchants and professionals and perhaps some minor nobility rubbed elbows in the affluent trading square to haggle and squabble, but the farther south they traveled, the more the rainbow faded, becoming the monotone of brown linens and coarse cotton that denoted the peasantry. He waited until the last of Merris was behind them and growing dim in the distance. He waited until, finally, he could not restrain himself for one more heartbeat.
“Kurin, who is that?” Jurel whispered, poking a thumb over his shoulder to their companion.
“Eh?” Kurin blinked rapidly, seemingly awakened from a deep sleep. “Who? Him? Have I not introduced you?”
Jurel responded with a withering glare.
“Oh. I guess not. I apologize, Jurel.” Raising his voice so the man could hear from his position, Kurin said, “Jurel, I'd like you to meet Mikal, a friend of mine for many years. Mikal, this is Jurel. Mikal's going to accompany us for a while.”
Mikal stuck a calloused hand over the back of the cart and Jurel automatically gripped it. With a firm shake that ground the bones of Jurel's hand together, Mikal glanced down and smiled pleasantly.
“Pleased to meet you, Jurel,” Mikal said with the raspy voice of a man accustomed to bawling orders. “I look forward to sharing the road with you.”
Part 4:
Trials
“Some face the journey with careful trepidation, some face it with
careless excitement. Only the former shall succeed.”
-excerpt from A Philosophy on Life,
Author anon
Chapter 35
Jurel sat in his regular spot in the back of the cart, disconsolately staring at the river that lazily meandered its way along, carrying sections of drifting ice like vast river barges to the ocean far to the north and west as the high sailing sun followed their progress. The forest to their right held no interest for him; it was the same interminable expanse of trees that had been accompanying them since they set out. He did not even bother to lift his head when they passed through another village, a tiny speck in the road, a minute change in the monotonous vista. They had passed through four—or was it five now? Jurel could not remember—of the little villages since leaving Merris nearly a week ago, each one identical to the last: a small inn welcoming travelers, each one somehow looking like it was as bored as he was, surrounded by a dozen homes that were really no more than glorified shacks. The villages were so remarkably similar that Jurel wondered once again if someone, God perhaps, played some cruel joke and kept them turning in circles, only to pass the same cluster of buildings over and over again.
He thought back to the farm, remembering how he had imagined a life of travel and grand adventure. He had looked forward to it, dreamed of the wondrous sights he would behold and the brave deeds he would perform. He grunted a chuckle, soft and bitter, at his own childish innocence. So far, except for a few guilty, terrifying moments of bloodshed, he did not have much to tell his father if he ever returned. He imagined that conversation, ran it through his mind: “Well, I killed a couple of soldiers,” he would say, “then I saw a farm. Then another farm. Then there was that inn. And another farm. Oh, then I killed someone else. And then...did I mention the farm?” His father would surely be proud.
And that was how their days went. When night fell, they made camp among the dubious shelter of the thin, leafless trees at the edge of the forest, ate a meal, idly conversed amongst themselves and went to their bedrolls to catch a few hours of sleep. They woke at the break of dawn, shivering in the chilly mornings, ate a quick breakfast, and after a hasty clean up, they got back into their respective positions and rode on. Another few days of this and Jurel was certain he would go insane.
“How much farther?” Jurel asked.
Kurin turned in his seat, the reins dangling loosely from his hand, and shot Jurel a warning glance.
“Almost the same distance as when you asked a half hour ago,” he grated, “and a little less than when you asked a half hour before that.”
Mikal, sitting his horse as comfortably as anyone he had ever seen, snorted. Jurel was still not quite sure what to make of the newcomer. Though he supposed that after six days together, Mikal might not actually be a newcomer anymore, but rather was just another member of their unlikely little party: a healer, a farmer, and a soldier. Neat. Nonetheless, the man remained an enigma to Jurel. Repositioning himself among the stores that Mikal had replenished before they left Merris, he shot another glance at the man who rode with them. It was obvious that Mikal was an experienced rider; the slump of his shoulders, the way he casually rested his hands on the pommel and steered his horse with his knees, the steady rocking, so perfectly in tune with his mount's gait, told Jurel that this man had spent many days in the saddle. It was also obvious that he was a warrior of sorts. The man moved with a natural grace that somehow seemed threatening. It did not matter whether he was tending a fire, or stepping behind a tree to relieve himself, he moved like a wolf. He had never seen Mikal draw the sword that always hung at his hip, but he had no doubt that when Mikal did, people ran or they died. Beyond that, Jurel could ascertain nothing of him. He had tried on several occasions to drum up a conversation, but the man spoke fewer words than his horse did, opening his mouth only when he told them of some need; “wood for the fire” or “water for the horses” seemed to be the limit of Mikal's conversational ability.
“Blockade ahead,” Mikal grunted, causing Jurel to snicker. One more added to the list.
“How many?” Kurin asked.
“Perhaps twenty. Hard to tell at this range. They span the road.”
Jurel sat up and, leaning forward, he peered down the road to where he could just make out a dark smudge spanning the width of the road. A glint of sunlight announced the presence of metal.
“They're armed,” Mikal reported, confirming Jurel's fears.
“Soldiers?”
“No. Bandits maybe.”
“Can we ride around them? If we break into a gallop when we approach, we may surprise them.”
“Not enough space on the right. Ground's too rough on the left.”
“Well you're just a fountain of good news aren't you?” Kurin muttered. “There's no help for it. We'll have to convince them to leave us alone.”
As they approached, the smudge coalesced into a group of men dressed in common linens, and frayed bear skins. Each one carried a weapon of sorts; there was a scattering of axes, picks, a couple of scythes, and
two rusty swords as they watched their prey draw nearer with tense faces and anxious eyes. These were obviously not soldiers trained in the art of war, but an ax buried in his chest, whether by soldier or peasant, would still do the trick quite nicely. A few paces from the ragtag group of bandits, Kurin reined in and the two groups eyed each other over the short distance. Tense moments passed with no one saying a word until a tall, lanky man of perhaps twenty-five years, presumably their leader, stepped forward and gestured with his simple wood ax.
“Come on then,” he called in a strangely high pitch voice. “Hand it over and we can all be on our way.”
“Oh? And what is the price for our freedom?” Kurin asked blandly.
“Ten silver pieces.”
Someone in the crowd loudly cleared his throat.
“Er, ten gold pieces,” he amended.
Kurin barked a shocked laugh. “Ten gold pieces? Are you mad? Why, everything we have would not cover your demand.”
Mikal leaned sideways in his saddle until he could whisper into Jurel's ear, “Get your sword ready.”
“But they're simple folk. They don't deserve to be cut down,” Jurel muttered back, aghast.
“They're thieves who will gladly bury those farm tools in our skulls if we don't stop them,” Mikal growled with a penetrating glare.
“Well then,” the leader of the band said in response to Kurin, glancing around at his compatriots, “I suppose that means that we'll have to make do with keeping everything you have, won't we?”
A harsh chuckle rose from the throats of several of the men and several of them hefted their weapons in anticipation.
“No no no, this will not do. This will not do at all,” said Kurin, sadly shaking his head. “We are simple travelers who mean you no harm, but I must insist that you stand aside and let us pass lest we take umbrage.”
“Three against twenty? I think we'll take our chances,” he said with a confident smirk.
“All right. Wait a moment while my friends and I discuss this.”