by Remi Michaud
A fury overtook Jurel and he attacked with renewed vigor. Kurin and Mikal lay in heaps at his feet and he would not join them. He would fight. He would defend. He would prevail. Men fell like wheat under his adrenalized blows, though he could no longer differentiate one attack from the next. He moved, dreamlike, from stance to stance, from arcing swing to vicious thrust. He did not notice the cuts and scrapes that covered his body and turned his cloak and flesh to tatters. He did not notice the way his ankle twisted in a rut.
He did not notice the new arrivals that came from the forest behind him.
The world shattered into shards of light and darkness, and pain flared across his skull like the aurora borealis. He staggered, gasped, and the ground rocked under his feet like an angry bull. Another streak of lights, red, white, and green, crossed his vision, blinding him at the same time a line of fire streaked across his arm.
With gongs sounding in his head like the bells of the underworld, and with the world spinning around him until he thought he would sick up, Jurel's sight went dark. Then he was falling, screaming a soundless scream. He did not stop falling for a very long time.
Chapter 44
Calen jumped with a whoop of victory from his seat, sending it clattering against a cabinet where it jostled a bottle to the ground. It shattered and the expensive carpet greedily drank the burgundy liquid. The office filled with the bitter-sweet scent of alcohol and wet fabric but Calen did not care. Not one bit.
They were captured. That's what mattered. That bloody swordmaster had cost them dearly as had the country lout but Kurin had fallen easily enough. Maten would not be happy at the loss of an entire platoon and nearly half of a second, nor would he be happy that Calen had kept him waiting, but at least Calen could report success. That should mollify the old man.
It had been a pricey victory but it was a victory. That was what Calen would tell Maten. His chances for a prelacy were all but gone, dust in the wind, but at least he could still curry some favor from Maten.
And of course, Thalor would be green with fury. He thought about his long time nemesis and his lips twisted into a cruel grin. The battle between the two would rage on; no one would gain the upper hand from this. Thalor had as much chance for a promotion as he did. That mattered.
He strode from his office, his step light despite his bulk, and in his mind he rehearsed his meeting with Maten. He would apologize. He would bow his head in contrition. He would show Maten that he suffered for the loss of those Soldiers and he would announce that Kurin, that great heretic, that wily old bastard, was in custody and would arrive in Threimes for trial.
He pictured the pyre that would be crowned by the old man. He pictured himself standing beside Maten and praying with him for Gaorla to be merciful with the soul of a heretic (while simultaneously hoping in his heart that Gaorla would consign him to the deepest pit He could find). He pictured these things and as he walked toward the ornate wing that housed the Grand Prelate's personal chambers, he smiled his cruel smile.
* * *
“Piss and bollocks! Bloody piss and bollocks in the bloody demon's bloody blasted underworld!”
Thalor hurled his scrying bowl, sending the holy water sprinkling through the air where it sparkled like diamonds, against the wall and stared with impotent rage as it shattered and rained bits of porcelain across his office.
His nostrils flared under his wild eyes and his fists trembled at his side. Damn that fat bastard Calen and his bastard sneaky ways! Were it not for him, Thalor would have had more of his own men pick up Kurin. He should have been the one to drag that old man kicking and screaming to trial, not that corpulent bag of waste.
He stared at the splash on the wall and at the jagged shards scattered across his floor and saw his dreams of prelacy there among the wreckage. For a moment, despair took him, a black hopelessness that gaped its terrible maw under his feet and left him feeling shaky, empty, and tired. He was not an ambitious man, but that prelacy had been so close. Within his grasp. It was a loaf of bread and a dollop of butter proffered to a starving man, only to be yanked away as his fingers grazed the crust.
His survival instincts kicked in. He schooled his emotions, pushing away those useless hostile ones, as well as his momentary lapse into self-pity, until they were no more than easily ignored flutters in the back of his thoughts. There was no point in worrying about what was done. Perhaps an opportunity would arise that would allow him to redeem himself. Perhaps he should plan for the eventualities. He might even figure out a way to turn this debacle around.
Calen would not prevail. He would make sure of that. He just needed a plan.
He sat at his desk with quill and ink, and started to write.
* * *
The voice roared, shredding his dreams and scattering the tattered ribbons to the four corners of oblivion. He leaped up, drawing his viciously serrated sword and spun, staring at the black, blank walls of his tent. The voice roared again and he dropped his sword to clutch his head between his hands to keep it from splitting in half.
When the voice receded, he was on his knees, mewling like an injured lamb and he did not care. Carefully, he rose to his feet, tottering like an old woman and caught his balance on the support pole that rose up the center of the tent.
“Master?” Xandru croaked, searching his tent again as though the conic wall would suddenly change, as though maybe he missed something when he first scanned the interior of the tent that he knew full well contained only his bedroll and the ground.
“You have failed me, Xandru,” the voice of his master hissed in his head.
Xandru began to quake. It was not a good thing if his master thought he had failed. Others had failed and others had paid the price. Others suffered eternal, unimaginable torments as bodiless voices that whispered for mercy in the dark.
He fell back to his knees—on purpose or from terror, it was difficult to tell—and placed his forehead on the soft mud. “Forgive me, master. I do not understand. How have I failed you?”
It was an honest, earnest question but it was dangerous. It was a question that he knew could be construed as doubt. One did not question unless one was insane. Or one has failed and had no other choice but to grasp at straws.
A hiss burned through his mind, seared through his thoughts and Xandru was faintly grateful that he was already down. If not, he certainly would have been, under the burning lashes of his master.
“You question me?”
“My lord, no. I do not know to what you refer. Please master. Anything I can do, I will. Please.” He did not like begging. It rankled him. There were those in his tribe that begged and he viewed them contemptuously, as the lowest form of life. Groveling like a lame oldster who is unable to tend to himself went contrary to everything Xandru was. But it probably saved his life.
Like a tidal wave breaking on the shore, wiping away all before it, the voice rolled through his head, paralyzing him. “The boy has been taken by Gaorla's children. Why have you not captured him?”
“My lord, we have traveled a thousand miles and still there is a long way to go before we approach. I promise you, we will succeed. I will present to you the boy you seek.”
There was a long silence fraught with perilous meaning; his life hung in the balance. When another may have believed the voice was gone, may have risen with a sigh of relief and began to search for clean, dry trousers, he remained still, not daring to move from his penitent position.
“Very well. I will allow it,” his master whispered in his thoughts. “But I warn you, if you do not bring him to me alive, I will reserve a special place in my hall for you.”
“Yes master. Of course master. It will be as you say master.”
He hated groveling. He waited with his forehead pressed firmly to the ground until he thought it would be safe to rise. When he got as far as his knees, he was made fully aware that he was mistaken.
A blast of ruddy orange like oily fire blew away all thought. When it cleared, images pass
ed through his mind, stark and painful. He saw a gargantuan city, just south of a huge forest, spreading for miles in every direction along a thick band of water. He saw a mud road, heavily traveled, leading south to warmer climates and a long way down, he saw a group of armored soldiers escorting two disheveled men who were obviously injured. All of this he saw as if he were a bird, soaring high above the world.
When the images ceased, he was alone. The oppressive presence of his master was gone and although it was still night, the walls of his tent seemed brighter as if a depthless shadow had evaporated like a spring sun evaporates night's mist.
The images were directions. The city must have been Threimes for no other city in the world was as vast as the capital city of the Threimes Kingdom. The river would be the Sharong and that meant the road would be the primary trade route that shuttled everything from fabrics, spices and gems, weapons and food and livestock to the various cities within the borders of the kingdom and to realms outside the borders. His master had graced him with a boon.
Xandru knew where to find his prey.
“Thank you, master. You are most generous.”
He would not fail. Failure was unthinkable. The price was untenable. He, Xandru An Tifons, had been promised great rewards when he succeeded.
He would not fail.
He threw on his leather jerkin and strode outside roaring orders to his men. Middle of the night or not, they were going. He would not fail. He could not.
Chapter 45
The sun shone bright and harsh. Puffs of clouds moved fitfully across a sea dark sky like sheep. He was in a field, cool and wet with morning mists. He wore a suit of black armor that seemed to eat the light, with strange golden gilt patterned in whorls that seemed to change shape every time he moved. It confused the eye, turned dry cheeks wet.
He stood in the center of a field where, at each end, an army stood. The anonymous, vaguely inhuman soldiers glared at each other, weapons drawn. He saw swords, pikes, axes, maces, lances. He saw cold steel and hot eyes.
They were motionless, silent, unlike any army he had ever heard of in the stories.
He wept though he did not know why. Something tugged at his hand, dragging it down with unimaginable weight as though he held the world in his palm and it was too heavy to hold on to. Looking down, he saw not the world. He saw a sword. It was familiar, that sword. The steel blade glowed dully, each scratch and scuff screaming out mutely that this sword was a killer's weapon. The crossguard was a simple bar of iron, nothing fancy, and the hilt was simple, bound in fraying leather. The leather was dark with sweat and old blood. He had been carrying it for weeks. He had killed with it more than he cared to admit. Or remember.
No longer able to bear the sight of such a thing, he averted his gaze, looking back to the silent armies that waited. For what?
“For you,” a deep, resonant voice spoke at his back and he whirled with his heart hammering in his chest.
An old man stood there. But old was not the correct word. Ancient. Yes. An ancient man stood there, dressed in a simple gray robe of fine wool. His face was wrinkled, rutted with the tracks of eons of care. His brilliant blue eyes gazed at him with such profound sadness that he wept all the harder. Those eyes penetrated him to the core of his soul and he smiled the smile of a man with terrible tidings as though trying to soften the blow of the words he must speak.
“I don't understand,” Jurel said, looking down to the sword in his hand. Gods, that sword was heavy!
“You will, my son. You will.”
With that pronouncement pouring into Jurel's soul like the sands of fate, the old man took a step backward. Then another. Then he faded from sight and left no trace of his presence except for the ominous words, laced with love, coursing through Jurel's being.
Still weeping, Jurel turned and raised his suddenly feather-light sword above his head. “Attack!”
And they did.
As the first swords clashed, the world faded around him, turned midnight black, and then it vanished.
He was lying in his bed. He opened his eyes and saw the familiar rafters of their cabin overhead. He closed his eyes, at peace, though for some reason, his arm ached terribly. It did not bother him. He was at home. He was safe. Drawing the thin blanket over his shoulders, he closed his eyes and he slept.
Time passed. He felt a nudge. He heard a voice. It was familiar, though its tone was alien.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said the familiar voice that was alien.
He opened his eyes and saw a form standing over him. Daved. Jurel smiled, and waved him off.
“I'm tired, father. So tired. Just a little longer.”
And he closed his eyes.
“Come on, boy. Wake up.”
When he looked up again, with words of rebuff on his lips, he saw Gram gazing down at him with a twinkle in his eye and a broad smile spread across his face. And a vicious, serrated sword stuck hilt-deep into his belly. His white apron, usually so pristinely spotless it glowed, was smudged, sooty, and a red splotch, like a poppy, framed the hilt of the sword.
Jurel frowned.
Gram nudged him again, though he saw no movement.
“I said wake up.”
Pain. White hot, all consuming. The attic where he slept with his father disappeared in a blinding flash of light and he cried out in agony. Suddenly, he could not move. His arms and legs did not respond to his commands and fear crept into his thoughts like an infection. He tried to raise his head but it was too heavy. Like the sword. (What sword?) It was too much.
Pain. Scratching at him like a thousand knives, pummeling him with a thousand hammer blows. He opened his mouth to scream and nothing came out. Dimly, he thought he must look quite the fool with his mouth gaping open. His rictus grin must have been quite the sight.
Then he opened his eyes.
“Ah, there you are, young man,” the voice said. “I thought you would never wake up.”
Pain.
* * *
Waking can be a terrible thing. When one wakes, life returns with all its miseries. All the aches and pains that are forgotten in the oblivion of sleep return with a savage ferocity, seemingly all the more furious for being forgotten even for only a moment, and resolving to make themselves known in no uncertain terms that can leave a man fragmented, winded, dizzy.
With a groan, Jurel opened his eyes and blinked, squinted when the sun bored through his skull and out the other side. His body was on fire, from head to toe, and he whimpered in the nearly overwhelming wash of agony that threatened to plunge him back into darkness. That would not be so bad, he thought. The smell of horse manure, mingled with sweat and steel assaulted his nose and his gut threatened to empty itself, adding another facet to his misery.
Tents surrounded him, a handful of white peaks mingled with the snowy landscape so it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Ah, there you are, young man,” a strange, lilting, feminine voice said above him. “I thought you would never wake up.”
He opened his eyes again, muzzily, and the world resolved into blurs of light and dark. Above him, a shadow crouched, framed by the sun so that all he could make out was a silhouette of longish hair fluttering in a cool breeze.
“Where am I?” he croaked. His mouth was dry. Drier than leaves in autumn. Drier than burnt wood. He tried to turn his head to survey his surroundings but all he received was another fiery reminder to remain still for a while.
“You're on the ground,” she said in a voice as sunny as the day.
Jurel barked a laugh that sounded like a rasp scraping on wood. He fell silent, trying to remember what had brought him here. Slivers of memory skittered like broken glass. A battle. Blood. A gash in his side. An explosion in his head. Nothing definite. Just ragged, jagged bits of flotsam. Every time he managed to piece a few of the shards together, the sun seemed to renew its assault on his skull, driving recall away.
A face emerged from the flotsam. Old man. Wrinkled. His dr
eam? No, this was not the man from his dream, though this visage looked somewhat similar in the way that the sun and a roaring campfire look similar. It took him an eternity to put a name to this new image. And when he did...
“Kurin?” Another bit of flotsam. “Mikal?”
“He has yet to wake up. He took quite a beating back there. Almost as bad as you. As for the swordmaster—Mikal, you say?—I imagine he is where we left him. Not much chance he'll be going anywhere.” The shape rose and stood over him like a judge pronouncing sentence. “You killed a lot of my men,” she said and iron slipped into her words. “I don't think that was very wise.”
Fear began to sneak its way into Jurel, grabbing hold with tiny poisonous thorns, battling with the shock and grief that Mikal was lost. He had begun to think of Mikal as an older brother. Or perhaps a favorite uncle. The reticent man had taken him under his wing and, even though Jurel knew none of his story besides the obvious, he had somehow managed to work his way into Jurel's trust. No mean feat these days.
A few nights ago, they had been sitting around their fire, eating the last of the rabbit that Jurel had bagged earlier in the day. When Mikal tossed the last of his bones into the fire, he had leaned back with a contented huff of air and nodded appreciatively at Jurel.
“Damn me, boy,” he had said, loosening his belt. “If you put half as much time into cooking as I've made you waste with your sword, you'd be the greatest cook in the entire land before the end of spring. A few more meals like that and you're going to make me fat.”
It was possibly the longest string of words Jurel had ever heard at one time from the quiet man and Jurel had beamed with pleasure at the unexpected compliment. He trusted Mikal. Mikal would never say anything unless he absolutely meant it. And when he had thanked him for the compliment, Mikal had shot him the widest grin he had ever seen gracing that grizzled mug and replied, “No. Thank you,” and patted his gut.
Where Kurin was his teacher, Mikal had become his ground. He was the person that berated Jurel when his sword slipped through a sloppy guard, or when Jurel honed his sword at the wrong angle and almost ruined the edge. He was the one that praised Jurel when he made an especially fine shot that assured their dinner that evening, or kicked his feet out from under him. No, not a brother. Not an uncle. A mentor.