The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  The two could not be more different. Garvus was short and slender. If he did not have a balding head of gray hair and deep worry lines engraving the corners of his eyes, he could easily have been mistaken for a child. He was a finicky little man who did not tolerate anything he considered nonsense—which was nearly everything—and that made him the natural enemy of the young acolytes that attended his theology classes. Fagan, on the other hand, was a great bull of a man. Jorge would have been considered tall and well built even at half his age, but Fagan towered over him at nearly seven feet. The joke around the Abbey was that he was nearly as wide, a joke that was never uttered within his hearing; very little of his girth was flab. A garrulous man by nature, he took everything in stride, heaving great belly laughs at the slightest provocation. Somehow, in spite of their disparate natures, the two had managed to form a relationship; they were the best of friends, nearly inseparable even if most of the time, their words to each other sounded like the mortal insults of lifelong nemeses. Where one was seen, it was a sure bet that the other was nearby.

  “She'll be along,” Fagan said loudly enough that the acolyte squeaked and nearly dropped her trencher. “Give her time to prepare.”

  “Lower your voice, you great ox,” Garvus ordered with a disdainful sniff.

  “'Ox'?” Fagan said indignantly though much more quietly. “I'll have you know, you little runt, that-”

  “Gentlemen,” Jorge interjected. “Let's not start, shall we?”

  When the door opened again and Salena entered, they blew out their cheeks in relief. Jorge raised a hand to catch her attention—not hard to do; except for the acolyte and two other brothers, the dining hall was empty—and she trotted over to sit beside Jorge.

  “What news do you have?” she demanded sharply.

  Jorge had never really understood Salena. Most times, she seemed lost in her own world, her eyes vague, almost vapid, as she pursued her abstract interests. She was not a stupid woman, however, and she had the remarkable ability of setting aside her eccentricity the moment things got serious.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Jorge measured the expressions of his fellow chaplains, thankful that they were all sitting down. We should have chosen somewhere more private, he thought ruefully but it was too late for that. They were there and they were impatient to hear what he had to say. Besides, there were only three others and all sat at far tables out of respect for their superiors.

  Leaning forward, Jorge looked at each one in turn before speaking. “They've been attacked by Soldiers of God.”

  Groans of dismay followed his words, and he nodded solemnly.

  “What shall we do?” Salena whispered.

  “What can we do?” replied Garvus.

  “We need to act,” Fagan chimed in on top of the other two.

  For a moment, Jorge lost control as they started whispering furiously amongst themselves—“We must retaliate!”, “Are you mad?”, “Too far to do anything.”—until he slammed an open hand on the table, silencing them.

  After ensuring he had their undivided attention once again, and ensuring that the other occupants of the hall had turned back to their meals, he continued.

  “The fact that Kurin was able to send word should be enough to tell you that they escaped,” he said with a pointed expression. “The young man has been injured, but not too seriously. They are resting now in a clearing in the great forest.”

  “But then, what can we do?” Salena asked, echoing the question that was forefront in all their thoughts. The plump woman pulled her shawl tight and hugged herself, shivering, as if she were cold even though the spells woven into the very stonework of the Abbey ensured that every room was pleasantly warm.

  “That is why I have asked you here. At present, I don't know if there is any way we can assist them.”

  “How far away are they?” Garvus asked. His expression was intense with the seed of an idea beginning to form in his quick mind.

  “One, perhaps two days north of Twin Town. Why?”

  Jorge leaned forward expectantly. Garvus was a devious little man. If any of them could think of a way to save Kurin's party, it would be him. It was that deviousness that had convinced Jorge to enlist him into his small group. He and Salena had argued heatedly over it; although she respected the man's mind, she knew he would not be able to keep anything from Fagan, and Fagan was not known for his propensity at keeping secrets—not with his natural tone of voice that caused stone foundations to tremble. Jorge had argued that they needed Garvus and even if it meant revealing what they knew to Fagan, it was worth the risk. She had conceded but reluctantly.

  “It's quite a distance yet but we may be able to send a cloaking spell to them,” Garvus said.

  “A cloaking spell? At this range? Impossible,” Fagan said with a resolute shake of his head.

  “We would need to combine all our energies, of course,” the little man continued, ignoring Fagan. “And even then it would be weak. But it may be enough to get them the rest of the way.”

  Dubiously, Jorge pondered the idea, turning it over in his head. “At this range, the cloak may be too weak to hide the underlying signature. If they have a priest of their own, surely it would be detectable.”

  “That is a problem,” Garvus conceded. “But if they had a priest with them, I would think Kurin would have mentioned it.”

  Nods all around, and as knowing looks passed from one to the next, Jorge said, “So we shall risk a cloak then. How long before we can commence?”

  More looks passed as the small group assessed each other and themselves.

  “We must all prepare ourselves. It will be draining to say the least. Perhaps tomorrow morning?” Garvus asked.

  Jorge nodded in agreement. “Fine tomorrow it is. Right after services. I will Send to Kurin.”

  “That'll give me enough time to store up some energy at the food counters,” Fagan said with a broad grin as he patted his gargantuan girth.

  Jorge smiled a sickly smile. He could not help thinking that it was far too little help, far too late. Kurin was on his own.

  * * *

  The tiny lick of flame that Mikal had allowed barely provided any warmth but to Jurel, it was wonderful. He sat stiffly with his arms outstretched to catch what little heat the fire had to offer, trying not to disturb the fresh stitches in his side. He wanted to sleep but the nasty wound—and the wretched poultice Kurin had applied that was apparently an amplifier for the pain—ensured that he would find precious little of that.

  Mikal sat on a large stone that looked like a sea turtle emerging from water, with his back to the camp, keeping silent watch while Kurin sat staring into the fire, warming his hands around a cup of steaming tea. All three of them had mounds of blankets covering them to stave off the chill and they looked like a parody of the rock garden that had once decorated the front lawn of Galbin's home.

  Not much had grown in that garden except weeds. Ingirt had never had much of a green thumb and Galbin had always been too busy tending to the crops that would feed them to worry about inconsequential flowers. When he closed his eyes, he saw Wag running as fast as his legs could carry him looking over his shoulder to see Darren gaining on him during another rousing game of Catch-Me-If-You-Can. He had not watched where he was going as was usual for the little bugger and Jurel had called out a warning just as the boy ran into the garden, tripped over one of the rocks that looked so much as he did right at that moment and tumbled head over heels, landing hard on his rump and narrowly escaping injury on the jutting stones. Laughing, Darren had closed the distance between them at a leisurely walk and saucily tapped him on the head. “You're it,” he had laughed.

  A wrench of homesickness took Jurel and he wondered how everyone was doing. He missed Trig and Darren and even Wag. He missed Frieza and...

  Guilty realization dawned on Jurel. It had been days, weeks even, since he had thought of Erin. An image of her soft blond tresses and beautiful eyes filled his mind. The memory of her sweet smile
and delicate, graceful fingers as she entwined them at the base of his neck made him ache with loss and pleasure alike. The way they had danced on that last night spent together tugged at him, left him empty.

  He tried to tell himself that his lapse was due to the fact that so much had happened to him in the past few weeks, there simply was no time for idle ruminations of his past life. He loved her and he would never see her again.

  That was what he tried to tell himself. But he knew better. He knew he did not love her. No one goes so long without at least a passing thought to the ones they love. How many times had he thought of Daved since leaving the farm? Or even Galbin? He had even thought of his friends but it was only now, weeks later, that Erin entered his mind and even then, it was more out of lucky remembrance than any true longing to see her again.

  “Kurin, have you ever loved anyone?” Jurel asked.

  From his rock, Mikal snorted and shifted his position to better hear the old man's answer.

  “Thoughts of home, my boy?” The old man smiled sympathetically, readjusting his blankets to better cover himself. “There was one many years ago,” Kurin said, his smile turning whimsical. He stared into the fire for a long time, motionless and silent and Jurel could not be certain if Kurin's expression changed or if it was just a trick of the firelight that danced and cavorted and sent shadows in all directions like they were so many shards of broken glass, emulating the passing fragments of memories long forgotten.

  “And?”

  “And what? The gods had other ideas about the direction of my life.” He said it simply, a man who has utterly accepted his lot.

  “Do you ever wish things could have been different?”

  “Why? This is my life. I don't regret it. Certainly, I have thought of her and of how my life could have been, but to wish things could be different is to live in the past. It's a waste of time and it can only serve to cause bitterness and resentment.” Kurin picked up a stick, poked at the fire and fell silent.

  Without warning, Mikal rose and in two steps reached their little fire. Silently, he kicked their source of light and warmth down. It guttered with a surly hiss and settled to dimly glowing spots. Both Kurin and Jurel glared into the dark, their mouths opening to protest his act of sabotage but Mikal was quicker.

  “Someone comes,” he whispered.

  Then they all heard it. A branch snapped in the near distance. Jurel could not tell how far away for the forest seemed to twist sounds, but he feared it was too close for comfort.

  “We have no choice. We must go. Now,” Mikal said in the voice of an officer who would brook no argument from subordinates.

  Thankfully, they had had the foresight to keep most of their things packed; it took them only minutes to store their few things and start out again. The rest, though brief, had helped Jurel immensely and although his side still burned and his eyelids still felt they were weighted by stones, he found he was able to continue. For a time, at least.

  Mikal took the lead as usual, to break their trail, while Kurin walked behind, holding their horses's tethers. Jurel brought up the rear to keep an eye on their path behind. Not that he could make out much.

  They made their way through darkness only slightly mitigated by the slice of moon casting uneven patches and piebald spots of haunted gray through the dense canopy, and by their own night vision. Details eluded them; if someone had asked what kind of trees they passed, Jurel at least would have been unable to answer. But at least they saw enough to keep from walking headlong into unyielding trunks or tripping over the uneven ground.

  “They're to our right,” Mikal said softly.

  Jurel turned as if he thought the faint light would provide a glimpse of those who followed them. Of course, he saw only the faint moon playing in the dark shadows. Nervously, he checked his sword, hesitated, then decided he would feel better if he held it in his hand. A faint hiss from ahead caught his attention as Mikal drew his sword. Somehow, it made Jurel feel better to know that he was not alone in his anxiety.

  “How many?” Kurin asked.

  “Six, maybe seven.”

  “Can you fight, Jurel?”

  “I think so.”

  A ring of steel came from ahead. Then a thump of flesh striking flesh and the deeper thump of a body falling to the ground.

  “They're here,” Mikal said tightly.

  Jurel barely saw the shadow move within the trees, separate from them. It was only his instinct that told him to raise his sword. Just in time. As soon as his sword was up, something crashed against it, sent a shiver up his arm. Bulling forward, Jurel hunched over and took his man in the middle with his shoulder. As soon as he felt contact, he heaved upward and sent the man flying back into the tree that he had been hiding behind. There was a dull ringing sound that signified the man had struck the tree head first and he slumped limply to the ground. The dim moon showed Jurel what he had suspected all along: a black cross on red. More bloody Soldiers of God.

  A howl of pain erupted from Mikal's position, and cut off suddenly with a wet gurgle. Jurel had no time to ask what was happening. Another sword flashed his way. He ducked, let the blade whistle harmlessly overhead and in one swift motion rose and spun, extending his arm until he felt resistance. He pushed. A gasp as he struck home, and another Soldier fell to the ground.

  He was about to strike at the next man who came from the trees but for some reason the man stopped mid-stride, stood rigid, clawing at his throat and fell.

  “Got him,” Kurin muttered triumphantly.

  It was over as quickly as it began. Jurel frantically moved past Kurin and saw Mikal standing amid three man-sized lumps. Relieved that the scream he had heard a moment ago was not Mikal, he felt the adrenaline rush out of him, leaving him breathless and with a renewed burning in his side. He was pretty sure he had torn some stitches.

  More of Kurin's pain poultice for me. He laughed. It was a terrible sound.

  * * *

  Thalor rubbed his hands gleefully as he gazed down into his scrying bowl. The platoon from Threimes had failed. They were dead to a man and Thalor could not have been more pleased—surprised but pleased. How one swordmaster, one heretic, and one farm boy could best fifty trained Soldiers, he could not fathom, but they had. There was still the platoon from Grayson to worry about but from what he had seen so far, they should pose little threat.

  This calls for a drink, he thought smugly. Following his own advice, he rose and poured himself a nip of the finest brandy he had, savoring the mellow scent of the amber liquid as he did so. Calen had nearly ruined his plans, had nearly ruined him, with his little ploy but Thalor would come out on top. He knew that. He was the better man. It was only his right.

  Maten, as Calen had foreseen, had had some unpleasant words for him, rebuking him scathingly for his failure to communicate the discovery of the renegade's whereabouts. It had only been by the skin of his teeth that he had avoided a ritual lashing. But Calen's own plans were falling apart. One platoon down, one to go. Even if the second platoon was successful, Calen would have much to answer for. Fifty men dead.

  There was planning to do. Thalor poured himself a second drink and mulled over his options. If Kurin could escape the second platoon, then he would be in a position to undermine Calen permanently. He would have to speak with his allies. He would need back up if he wanted to destroy the fat thorn in his side. There would be deals to draw up and concessions to be made but in the end it would all be worth it.

  He downed his second drink, savoring the burn as it coursed down his throat, then sat and picked up a quill and a blank page.

  Fifty men dead. He could not be more pleased.

  Chapter 42

  They set up camp after the moon set. They had no choice. The forest was no longer a maze of shadows, it was one solid black mass. Each one knew he was not alone only by the sounds of the others's footsteps and the odd grunts of surprise when one stumbled into a depression or over a branch. So, Mikal had reluctantly called a halt.
>
  There was no other sound in the forest; even those animals who thrived in the darkness seemed to be waiting breathlessly for something more to happen. It had been quite an exciting night. Men had battled and men had died and perhaps those nocturnal creatures thought to stay up a little longer so as not to miss any of the action. So they waited silently, and watched as these three set up their little camp and lit a little fire and sat, staring fixedly at their little pin prick of light as if that light would provide answers to their unasked questions.

  Jurel sat with his back leaned up against a knotty old tree trunk and his legs splayed out in imitation of a puppet cast aside by its master to wait until the next tug of its strings, uncaring of the whorls that poked into his back. He tried not to jump at every shadow hurled at the trees by the tiny camp fire that Mikal had expertly started. How in the name of the demon's pits had the man seen the flint he was striking in the blackness?

  Who cared? It was warm. It was light.

  Kurin sat cross legged across the fire from him, hands resting on his knees palms up, and head bowed low. He could be asleep except that every now and then, quiet words, too quiet to make out, escaped the confines of his hood and crept furtively across to Jurel. The words were indecipherable but the tone was unmistakable. Not sleeping then. Praying. Appropriate.

  Mikal, as usual, sat ramrod straight, watching the night for shadows that did not belong, wordlessly surveying their fortress, calmly honing his sword blade to a mirror finish and a razor's edge. Strangely that sound, the faint scratch of strop on steel, was as a sedative to Jurel.

  He sat, listlessly staring at the fire, trying to ignore the symphony of aches and pains that played its discordant harmony on every string in his body, and buried himself in his thoughts. How much longer? No. Wrong question. Where were they going? That was it. Kurin had some place in mind. Of that, Jurel had no doubt. But, bollocks and whores, though the old man liked to hear the sound of his own voice, he could be entirely too reticent when he set his mind to it.