The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Fifty paces. Wait for it. Wait. Thirty. Well within range but he wanted to be absolutely sure. The old man was one of the southlander priests. Xandru felt it might be wise to not give him time to send that ball of fire his way. Just a little more. Twenty. Ten.

  “Fire!”

  * * *

  The war horse's breathing was slow and steady though it still steamed, thin phantom tendrils that rose into the growing light. Jurel was glad to see the dawn. It meant that they had survived their first night of freedom. His mount—he had decided to call him Hurricane, for that was how he ran—was trotting at a comfortable, ground-eating pace and Jurel was thinking about asking Kurin for another gallop. The snow had stopped an hour or so before and he was certain their tracks would be easily picked up. He wanted more distance between them and the Soldiers, between him and Gaven.

  A shriek like a hundred knives scraping on rock erupted from Kurin's mount and Jurel turned, dumbfounded when the old man's horse stumbled. Then Hurricane shrieked just as Kurin's mount had and lurched sideways, and it was all Jurel could do to keep in his saddle.

  A roar exploded from his right. Men dressed in rough leathers, with long, greasy hair tied in the back flowed from the edge of the trees. His mount whinnied in pain and stumbled again, and this time he could not keep his place. Leaping from Hurricane's back, he felt his cloak snag on something. An arrow. There was an arrow protruding from Hurricane's neck. How had that happened? A quick glance confirmed that Kurin's horse, like his was mortally wounded.

  The savage men stormed toward them with the intensity of a tidal wave, brandishing serrated swords held high overhead. No time left to think. Jurel's sword rang like a whispered wind as he pulled it from its sheath and he raised it just in time to deflect the first blow.

  Even as he fought, even as the first man fell with his life pouring red hot on the mud, Jurel recognized them. How could he not? These were the men that had left his mother splayed in a corner. These were the men that had laughed as they ran his father through.

  It was almost a relief when, from far away, he heard that ringing in his ears. It was like a long lost relative suddenly showing up at his door. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, power infused his muscles, and he fought. Two more men fell, one missing an arm and the other, his head held on by the merest of sinews, and Jurel quickly scanned the killing field. Where was Kurin?

  Another attacker approached, looking like an enraged demon and swung far too hard. Easily, Jurel stepped back and let his attacker's momentum carry him past and into the slicing edge of Jurel's sword. Nearly cut in half at the guts, the man flopped like a grounded fish.

  The ringing intensified, playing its discordant music in his ears, sending thrills of rage through every fiber of his being and energizing his sword arm which lashed out, thrust, and swung faster than the eye could follow. These people had killed his family. These people would pay. Pirouetting like a dancer around a clumsy thrust he ran someone through and, with a wet crunch, a tremor ran up his arm as he struck spine.

  The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, mingling with loosed bowel and the odor of men too long unwashed, and he reveled in it. It seemed to intensify the music he alone heard. Men died and Jurel was the instrument of that death, a whirlwind of steel that no one could stand against.

  The music stumbled, hesitated. The discordant notes of that symphony of blood turned sour and quieted. Confused he continued his attack. He struck and he slashed. Then pain erupted in his shoulder and the ringing stopped completely. Somehow he had gone blind but he could not understand it. He tasted something. Blood? No. Mud. Why did he taste mud? Did someone throw the road at him?

  When his eyes started to work again, he understood. Someone had not thrown the road at him. Someone had thrown him at the road. An angry thunder rolled in his head and his shoulder felt it should explode. Perhaps it already had. It was difficult to breath too.

  Silence descended and he saw feet approach. From his vantage, it was like those feet and their owner walked along a wall of mud and somehow that made everything clear. He understood. Someone had struck him in the head. Once, twice, who knew? Stunned, he had fallen and when he hit the ground, someone jumped on his back and wrenched his sword arm. Well, that explained that. Of course.

  Gasping as much air into his lungs as he could he spat out curses to the feet that stood before him. Panting, he thrashed and yanked and pulled but his hands were already bound. White light burst behind his eyes, the world tilted, and then he was on his feet. In front of him stood the most hateful man he had ever seen. A short-trimmed though scraggly black beard covered the bottom of his face. Dark eyes glittered cruel triumph. He was dressed much like the rest of his men but by the way the others looked expectantly to him, Jurel knew this was the leader. He roared the most vicious curses he could think of and the man smiled, barely more than a quiver of his beard.

  He saw the fist coming but it was too late to do anything. His head snapped sideways when the fist connected squarely with his jaw and the world turned upside down in a flash of blue-white agony.

  Groggily, he raised his head. The man was talking. What did he say?

  “-is Xandru, yes?” he said in guttural, broken english so thickly accented that it sounded like the man spoke through a mouthful of rocks. “And you are my elkh-eth? My...prisoner, yes?”

  Jurel struggled against the soldiers holding him and another stream of profanity spewed from his mouth, along with a thick cord of blood, until Xandru stepped forward and drove the wind from his lungs with a cudgel-like fist to his midsection.

  “Jurel, stop struggling,” Kurin called weakly from his right. “Keep your temper before the bastard decides to kill—oof!”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Kurin double over and another grimy soldier withdrew his fist.

  “We will go north, yes?” Xandru said. “My master has—brokhinch, how say—interest to meet you.”

  His tone was mild, almost pleasant, but the glitter in his eyes spoke of pent violence, like a drawn arrow. Jurel nodded. At least they were alive. That was something.

  Despite that small bit of optimism, despair gnawed at the edges of his rage. They had been so close. They had escaped Salma and Tight-ass. And Gaven. They had gotten away without hurting anyone—though Kurin said a few might sport headaches for a day or two. Dawn had broken and they had been free.

  Now, with the edge of the sun peeking over the mountains far to the east, a bubble of fire on the horizon, mere hours since they had left the Soldiers of God behind, they were, once again, prisoners. The day seemed to close in around Jurel, to darken even as the light brightened. It became heavy and his shoulders slumped under the weight of it. So close.

  Xandru shouted some orders in his native tongue and Jurel felt a savage tug at his bindings. His keeper dragged him, stumbling and swearing into a semblance of a walk and back into the forest where the shadows added to the oppression. The dead were left in a gully, stripped of all valuables. The wounded were left to keep up as best they could.

  Kurin did not seem to be faring much better. Bound as he was, he looked very old, ancient, and tired. When he caught the old man's eyes, he tried to smile though he knew it was weak. Kurin stared bleakly at him. He did not even try to return the smile.

  Chapter 55

  Gaven sighed and it was a mixture of relief and frustration tinged with just a hint of fear. The ground had been churned, frothed by an intense struggle. Blood stained the mud and fouled the air, and Gaven prayed to god that none of it was Jurel's.

  It had not been very difficult to find their tracks in the end. They had ridden hard until the sun was well up and the clouds had begun to dissipate. When the clouds had become patches dotting the azure sky and the sun had neared its zenith, they had found two sets of hoof prints; Gaven knew they were close.

  They found the trail leading into the forest with ease. Whoever had been there had not tried to be secretive about it. They had also found drag marks, gashes in
the mud then in the snow with red streaks, like the ground had been cut and bled, and those streaks told the story. Finding the bodies in the gully had sent a chill up Gaven's spine like icy spider's feet. Jurel and Kurin had not been among the dead, though the dead were enough to frighten Gaven badly. Dakariin. Here.

  They followed the trail deeper into the forest and north. There were at least twenty to thirty men, by Gaven's reckoning. Salma pushed her men hard and Gaven had eaten his midday meal in the saddle of one of the spare horses, a bitter nag that seemed intent on doing everything that Gaven did not want. He missed his own horse and he gazed fondly across the lines at him. He glared at the man in his saddle. Higgens, in customary Tight-ass fashion, had requisitioned it. In Higgens's opinion, since it was Gaven's fault their prisoners had gotten away, he could be the one to ride the surly old nag. It was Gaven's unspoken opinion that Higgens was simply afraid of the mare.

  A scout appeared through the trees and Gaven's heart sank further at the expression on his face. The scout reined in beside Captain Salma, and bent forward to whisper in her ear. The captain nodded curtly once, then twice, and her eyes searched until she found Gaven and gestured him forward. He had to saw at his reins to get the unruly beast to comply, but in short order, he approached and saluted.

  “Yes sir?”

  “It seems this is your lucky day. Sergeant Falster here reports that there is a group of Dakariin warriors, twenty strong, approximately two miles out. They have with them our two prisoners.”

  “Are they alive?” Gaven blurted and the captain's expression darkened. “Sir,” he added belatedly.

  Higgens snorted. “You ever know Dakariin to bring along dead, corporal?”

  “No sir.”

  “Here is what we'll do,” Salma continued. “Our troop will charge the Dakariin. You, corporal, will be responsible for safely recovering the prisoners. Do what you must. But make sure they live. Can you do that, corporal?”

  Hope flared in Gaven's heart. She was giving him a chance to redeem himself, to prove that he was not a completely inept fool prone to letting prisoners escape. Higgens's scowl was sure evidence that he would not have done the same. Not willing to pass up the opportunity, Gaven nodded.

  “Yes sir!” he barked and saluted again.

  Higgens tossed something black and when it hit the ground, it clanked with a metallic chime. Shackles. His eyes found his lieutenant's and then his captain's.

  “Understood,” he said.

  He was glad to hear that Jurel was still alive. He liked the young man, he did. But his friend had a lot of explaining to do. He would not make the same mistake twice.

  * * *

  The day had begun to dim and shards of cold penetrated his cloak, leaving him numb, almost breathless. The trees crowded around him, jeering him, taunting, and he kept his eyes on the ground to avoid their disapproval. The air smelled of sweat and a rancid tang like rotting meat.

  They did not go slowly and several times, Jurel found himself dragged along the ground by the horse his leash was tethered to until he could get his feet back under him. He tried to find Kurin but all he could see was an impenetrable circle of poorly tended horses and laughing men that looked like demons with their long scraggly hair, their ragged leather armor, lined with filthy fur to protect against the cold, and angry expressions.

  Stupidly, he found himself wishing that they had not escaped the Soldiers of God. It occurred to him that if they had stayed with the Soldiers none of this would be happening. Right on the heels of that thought, of course, was the more pragmatic idea that hind sight was always perfect sight. And staying with the Soldiers would ultimately have proven...uncomfortable.

  That was when he could think. Most of the time, his entire being concentrated on keeping himself standing, placing one foot ahead of the other. He had stumbled twice, had been dragged through the mud and over exposed roots and brambles and he was scraped and bruised from head to toe for it. He was exhausted, as much from dejection and hopelessness as from the necessity to keep up a horse's pace on foot.

  So it was that when the Dakariin to his right stiffened, grunted, and toppled from his saddle, thudding to the ground to lay in a crumpled, unmoving heap, he barely noticed. Then the Dakariin to his left did the same, and he was confused. Three more Dakariin fell soundlessly before a cry was taken up by the savage men that surrounded him.

  There was a thudding sound, like a hundred large rocks falling onto soft earth and a cry from a hundred voices pierced his shell of exhaustion.

  Turning proved to be a mistake. His eyes had just an instant to spy out several glimmers of steel before the leash that held his wrists tightened and yanked him off his feet. Pain in his shoulder; he landed on a rock. Ignoring the clamor around him, he worked his legs, trying to get them under him. He tasted mud and spit out musty bitter clumps of rotting leaves, scrabbling furiously for purchase. His wrists felt they must shatter. His shoulders burned, strained, protested. His hands were numb as he bumped along the ground, dragged like a child's doll.

  More noise rose into the forest air, a cacophony of men roaring in rage, an off-key symphony of steel battering steel, and high pitched shrieks as flesh was violated by sword.

  Without warning, he suddenly stopped, his face plunging in the mud. Rolling over he gasped and brought his bound hands to his chest. He moaned as the world lurched sickeningly. Slowly, the sounds in the forest abated and when Jurel turned his head, he saw leather-clad mounds that had not been there a few minutes before. Among those mounds were steel clad feet, walking back and forth.

  Then a face entered his view. A young face. A face that had not so long ago been friendly but was now as cold as he felt. As from a distance, he heard a voice that he knew well.

  “You promised you wouldn't try to escape, Jurel,” Gaven said, and the hurt, reproachful expression nearly broke Jurel's heart. “You promised.”

  “I'm sorry, Gav,” he croaked. “But I had to try. You know I had to try.”

  Then Gaven disappeared and another face loomed overhead.

  “You owe me a new horse, you bastard,” Higgens growled and landed a vicious kick to Jurel's ribs. A roaring flare of agony and a sickening crack bespoke ribs giving under pressure.

  Just before he blacked out, he thought he heard another voice far, far away and from the north. It sounded like the frustrated screech of a hundred demons denied.

  Chapter 56

  “You promised you wouldn't try to escape. You owe me a new horse.”

  The shadowy face taunted Jurel. He could not make out the features and he could not think of a name though he thought he should. The voice was strange, oddly comforting yet at the same time, terrible with the promise of pain and blood. Terror gripped him, closed his throat and he tried to run but his legs refused to function.

  “You bastard. You promised you wouldn't try to escape.”

  He gasped weakly and thrashed as shadows filled his vision, obscuring the too bright lamp of the sun. He moaned.

  “You bastard. You promised.”

  “But I had to!” he cried out. “You know I had to!”

  A gigantic hand reached down and wrapped around his body. It shook him. It shook him until his teeth rattled and his bones creaked. It shook him.

  Then, “Jurel. Jurel wake up.”

  His eyes snapped open and he screamed.

  “It's all right, Jurel. You're safe.”

  Panting, cold and sweating, Jurel glanced wildly about. His heart thundered in his chest and his side was on fire.

  “Jurel. Calm down. It's me. It's Gaven.”

  And then Jurel saw him. There, sitting on the edge of his cot, was the young Soldier who was paradoxically his friend. A thought skittered bitterly across the stormy sea of his mind that perhaps 'friend' was too strong a word at this point.

  He took in his surroundings. There was not much to see. The brazier cast its golden glow on the dirty gray walls of his tent. It was the only light, as though the entire extent of hi
s world was right there.

  “Gaven?” Jurel breathed.”Gaven, what's happening?”

  He raised a hand to wipe sweat from his eyes and noticed that his other hand rose unbidden. Shackled. Of course. He sat up, slowly, nursing his wounded side.

  “You're back with us,” Gaven said quietly. The usual warmth was gone. Yes indeed, perhaps 'friend' was too strong a word. “Though you cost us eight more lives.”

  Unaccountably, a pang of guilt, hot and sharp, settled in Jurel's belly, and he looked down in shame.

  “I'm sorry, Gav,” he muttered. “You know I had to try.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Gaven hissed. There was anger for certain, but Jurel thought he detected a tricky undercurrent of pain. “I trusted you. I thought you were my friend, and you...”

  Gaven turned away but not in time. Jurel saw the tears in the young man's eyes.

  “Gaven, please,” Jurel began and had to clear his own throat of the lump that formed. “You know what's going to happen to us. We'll be burned as heretics.”

  “And perhaps you should!” Gaven growled before he could get a hold of himself. “Kurin is well known to be a heretic. If you're his friend then maybe you are too. I thought you didn't know what you had gotten into. I thought that maybe you were innocent of the charges, duped into following the old bastard. I thought a trial would have been conducted and you would have been found innocent.”

  He glared Jurel in the eye, a hard stare, like stone, a stare that caused Jurel to quake. A glare from a Soldier of God to a heretic. “I thought wrong.”

  “I'm sorry, Gav. I never meant to-”

  “Enough! I'll hear no more of your lies!”

  Lurching upright, Gaven stormed from the tent and left Jurel to his misery.

  “But I'm not lying,” Jurel called after him.

  * * *

  The next two days were a blur of steel and horse manure to Jurel. He was forced to walk along side Gaven's horse, trying to keep from stumbling, though mercifully their pace was slow enough that it was relatively easy to keep his feet under him. He searched the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Kurin, hoping that the old man was all right. Most of the faces he saw were those of soldiers, and they returned grim, cold-eyed stares that he quickly looked away from. Every once in a while, he thought he saw a shock of gray hair, walking stolidly beside Captain Salma's horse and he tried very hard to convince himself that Kurin was all right.