by Remi Michaud
Gaven shivered. Kurin captured? For what? Torture? A slow pitiful death? Oh gods. Jurel gone and Kurin gone. He closed his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea. Oh gods.
“Gaven,” Metana asked. Her voice was plaintive, her eyes were bright, fraught with unspeakable fear. “Have you seen Jurel?”
“I did.” Gaven sighed. “I woke up a couple hundred paces from where he sat his horse. He looked...mortified. Terrified. He looked like an animal caught in a trap. He ran into the forest. I followed him, found him kneeling in a clearing, but he disappeared in front of my eyes in a small clearing.”
Metana closed her eyes and breathed deeply, relief flooding her features. “He's alive then,” she murmured. “He's in his place.”
Gaven twisted his lips. “Oh, he's alive as far as I know, but what is he doing? Why did he abandon us?”
Surprisingly, it was Mikal who answered, and not gently. “Think, Captain. Think of who he was, and of who he is supposed to be. Think about that disparity. Then, think about the fact that his very first battle ended in disaster. Most of his army dead, the rest routed. Wouldn't you run?”
“No! I would stay and I would fight to the death.”
Would you? A small, treacherous voice said in his mind. Would you really?
“It's a good thing he has better sense than you,” Mikal growled. “If he had stayed, he would be dead. Even though the prelacy went to great lengths to capture Kurin alive, I doubt they would have extended that privilege to Jurel. Not after what he's done.”
“So, what? Are you saying it's all right that he deserted us?”
“We don't know that he has!” Metana fumed.
“Oh? Then where is he?” Gaven demanded.
Mikal's relentless glare bored into him, flayed him where he stood.
“I imagine,” he grated, “that he's gone off to think things through.”
“What things?” Gaven demanded rounding on Mikal.
“Whether or not he believes what everyone has been telling him. Whether or not he is in fact the God of War. Whether or not to return and fight or turn tail and run.”
“He wouldn't, would he?” said Metana. “He wouldn't abandon us. He'll be back.”
The shining light in her eyes almost broke Gaven's heart.
Mikal shook his head. “I don't know. I hope not. That boy is stronger than he thinks but he's been dealt a savage blow today. He might very well believe the world would be better off without him.” He eyed both of them sharply. “Remember this: if he returns, it will be because he has decided to see this through to the end. He will be determined. He will be the stronger and wiser for what he has experienced.” Mikal scowled then. “And likely much changed. The young man we knew will no longer exist. In his place will be an entity of unmatched force and will, a being of unstoppable strength and ruthlessness. The God of War.
“If he does not return,” Mikal shrugged, “it will be because he is broken. If that is the case, then we don't need him.”
“Then he must not be broken,” Metana declared. “I will Send to him. I will make him see reason. The big oaf. I will get him back here and we'll finish this bloody war.”
“And in the meantime,” Gaven said, “we should search for any survivors and gather them.”
“Aye,” Mikal said. “That's a start. Then we need to get to the Abbey as soon as possible. They're going to need all the help they can get.”
Gaven and Metana traded fearful looks. Mikal, being Mikal, met their eyes evenly, his features carved from stone.
Chapter 24
Oh how he wished he had not taken command of this expedition personally. His men had won a decisive victory and that looked good for him; he could not argue that he gained more prestige from being here than if he had commanded from his rooms at the temple.
But the living conditions were abominable. Bags of exhaustion sagged under his eyes, his belly ached and burned acidly from the constant slop they fed him, and to top it off, he was filthy. His once fine clothing was barely fit to be used as rags. He could have overseen the entire thing from the comforts of his rooms and still get plenty of accolades for the victory. He could have sent a trusted underling to relay his commands while he dined on fresh pork, or beef, or fowl, fresh vegetables and great plump fruits, followed by pies or cakes, all prepared by his personal cook, all while he drank good, honest wine. He could have gone to sleep in a real bed: feather stuffed mattresses, satin sheets, plump pillows as soft as clouds, more than any single man could ever possibly need cocooning him...
It was not that things were going badly for him. Of course not. After having scried the Salosian ambush and expertly turning the tables on them, Thalor enjoyed an almost divine respect from the men and women of his army, and they waited on him hand and foot—which was how they should have treated him from the beginning, he thought bitterly. Maten himself had Sent his congratulations, and Thalor knew he was one step closer to his destiny.
It was the terrible pressure of living on the road that had him wishing for his comfortable rooms, his personal chef, and the other amenities that he had come to take for granted in the last decade. Like bathtubs. And privies, he added, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Squatting over a filthy hole in the ground to tend one's business like an animal? Honestly!
Add to that the orders he had received from Maten just a few moments ago and it caused him to seethe. Make camp, the old bastard had told him. Make camp and await the arrival of the main force. He was to sit here, in the dirt, for weeks as the armed might of Gaorla trudged ever so slowly south.
He should have stayed at home.
But the old bastard had told him to go. What choice, really, had he had? Oh, he understood now the deliciously underhanded way that Maten had accomplished the whole thing. In one breath, Thalor had been promoted to prelate, set a task of such importance that successful completion would nearly guarantee him the Grand Prelacy, and sent him packing into the ass end of Gaorla's wilderness. Buzzing from one promotion and the near certain probability of the next, he had not thought to question; he'd seen only the glory of his victory.
He stumped across the camp, passing line after line of dirty one-man tents, startled Soldiers hastily bowing when he stalked by. Muttering to himself, he glared straight ahead, trying hard not to think of the soft stuff that squished beneath his expertly tooled leather boots. It seemed to him that the farther he got from his own tent—the biggest in the commanding circle in the middle of the sprawling camp but still only recognizable by the prelacy's banner that flapped lazily in the breeze at this distance—the worse conditions got. It was a lot like a city to him, where the slums of the poorest peasantry were found farthest from the grand palaces of the nobility and the merchant princes at the center of power.
Considering his destination, it was as it should be, for he was heading for the roughest, grimmest part of the camp. Specifically, for one man who currently enjoyed the camp's hospitalities there. Thalor smirked inwardly.
Beyond the tents and the pervasive cloud of rank smoke that blanketed the camp, he could just make out the spiked wall of the stockade. Eight foot stakes spaced no more than a foot apart, rose grimly from the broken, muddy ground, each one ending in a vicious point like a long row of shark's teeth. A platform had been raised around the outer perimeter so the guards could keep their crossbows trained upon those inside over the deadly spikes.
The inhabitants of the stockade had proven these guards were vital; twice the occupants had quite forcefully protested their treatment. Twice, blood had been shed. He had ordered, loudly, that at the merest hint of insurrection, the crossbowmen were to fire at will. Not surprisingly, the uprisings had stopped.
Thalor strode unhesitatingly to the crude but heavily fortified gate, where the two sentries flanking the barricade saluted crisply. Thalor motioned without speaking. Along the bristling wall, leather creaked and metal jingled; the guards, knowing what was coming, were upping their vigilance. Without so much as a glance, Thalor strode th
rough the barricade which had been opened just far enough for him to slip through.
As the door thunked behind him, he surveyed his prisoners. At last count, there were eighty-seven men and women here, all of them taken after the battle that had shattered the Salosians. There had been a few more than two hundred when this stockade had been erected shortly after the battle, but injury, illness, starvation, questioning, and quelled escape attempts had taken their toll.
Those that were left were as pathetic a bunch as Thalor had ever seen. Hollow eyes, stared woodenly from gaunt, pale faces. None of them wore chains but most appeared rooted to the spot nonetheless, apparently too devoid of hope to care enough to bother with movement. A few shuffled slowly, raising puffs of dust, their eyes downcast, knowing what would happen if they dared look at Thalor.
All except for one man. This one glared with all the haughtiness of nobility, with all the indignant rage that Thalor would expect of him. Tall and lanky, this man should not have seemed so imperious even at the best of times. As disheveled as he was, and even with the nasty burn that disfigured the left half of his face, this man seemed to glare down at him from a throne. Thalor suppressed a shiver, chiding himself for a fool. He knew it was empty bravado. This man posed no threat. There were plenty of Thalor's priests keeping watch as well.
Heavy shackles clanked as the form moved to sit up. Thalor glanced up when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Half the crossbowmen on guard were now taking a bead on this one man.
No, this man was no threat. Thalor allowed a small smile to curve his lips as he came to a stop two paces from the man who sat in the dirt with all the pomposity one might reserve for presiding at court.
“So have you considered my words?”
The spindly old man made a harsh barking noise that, after a moment, Thalor realized was a laugh. Glaring from bruised eyes, the man uttered a string of words interlaced with the vilest obscenities that seemed to question Thalor's parentage, sexual preferences, and genitalia. Even as Thalor thundered inside, he could not quell the small voice that congratulated the man's eloquence. Finally, the old man's tirade petered out. He drew in a deep breath.
“What do you want this time, Thalor?” His voice was still deep, resonant, too full of life and assurance. Thalor would have to order the acceleration of the man's education. He smiled coldly.
“I want you to give up your charade. I want you to finally understand that you cannot win. Your cause is lost.” He paused, rearranging his expression to display regret. “Your army is shattered and I did it with naught but a small fraction of the forces at my disposal. The rest of my forces are marching now; I expect they'll be here in a few weeks. There's nothing left for you. Why, I even have it on good authority that your pet has run off and abandoned your cause. He's thrown you to the wolves.”
He searched, carefully, for any reaction but this old man, beaten though he most certainly was—several times a day, in fact, by Thalor's order—maintained an impressive self-possession. His search was rewarded with nothing more than the same, unmoving steely glare.
Thalor shook his head slowly, sadly, tsking. “You make this difficult. You understand what will happen to you? You will be tried and executed for your crimes. If you speak, if you answer my questions, perhaps I can put in a good word for you and commute your sentence. Where is your headquarters? Where is this Abbey of yours. We will find it anyway. It will just take a little longer if you continue to resist. Who are your leaders? What are your numbers? It will go much easier if you tell me. I might even be convinced to send a healer to attend to your injuries.”
The same indecipherable glare. A statue had more expression than this man was showing. Their gazes locked, a battle of wills, but in the end, the old man once again proved stronger than he appeared.
“So be it then,” Thalor declared. “Let this be my final warning. You will burn. Your confederates will burn. I will see the Salosian Order destroyed and wiped from the pages of history. Remember my words, Kurin. You have made your last and most costly mistake.”
Angrily, Thalor spun on his heel and stalked several paces before the old man behind him uttered words that made Thalor unaccountably cold.
“No, Thalor. You have made yours.”
* * *
Gods, but he was seething. Kurin sat where he had been sitting for the past week—except for when he was taken to the nondescript tent where the questioners plied their trade—his body hurt, his legs were cramped and his ass was sore. And he seethed. He knew he had to find a modicum of calm. Certainly, the seething rage had its advantages; it helped him ignore the thousand agonies that turned his body into a pillar of fire, and it kept the black feeling of helplessness that threatened to engulf him at bay. But he was reaching his breaking point. He had already considered, on more than one occasion, unleashing every bit of arcanum he possessed. Doing so would likely incinerate half the camp. Unfortunately, such an action would also incinerate him and the eighty-odd surviving Salosians he had sworn to see through this ghastly situation.
He snorted softly to himself. Situation. Good word. Very politic. 'Bloody mess,' he thought, described it much more accurately, or perhaps 'disaster'.
He had to admit that Thalor had played the game well. The blasted man had expertly maneuvered Jurel, fooling even Mikal, into the catastrophic ambush. The ambush where Kurin had lost half his face, and nearly his life. Tentatively, he touched the ruined flesh with the pads of his fingers, drawing in a hissing breath that sounded like boiling water when daggers of pain lanced into his skull. The rest of the injuries he had suffered since at the hands of the questioners—the bruising, the broken ribs, the torn flesh—were nothing compared to the agony in his head. Those smaller pains were in their own way, a relief of sorts. The freshness of those wounds allowed him, for short stretches of time at least, to forget the fire that burned his cheek, his jaw, his skull.
He had to admit too that Thalor continued to play the game well. Physically beaten, physically exhausted, Kurin found his mental guards being ground down, like a stone in a river. Strong and unyielding in the beginning, even the largest stone was eventually pounded to silt and taken where the tides would have it. Every day, he found it more and more difficult to rebuff the man's advances. Yet another advantage to the rage within. Possibly the only reason he held with such unreasoning tenacity to the hatred. To give up his hold on that would be to give up his hold on himself.
The man's words a few moments ago had a profound impact on Kurin. Jurel fled? Could it be possible? Or was it simply a lie, another ploy to weaken him further? He told himself over and over again that Jurel would never abandon them. He was made of sterner stuff than any man Kurin had ever met—of course; after all Jurel was far more than any man. It was hidden most of the time under the self-effacing, meek exterior but Kurin had glimpsed traces of Jurel's true strength on occasion. It was a strength that had caused Kurin to quail worshipfully, and—dare he think it?—fear.
Oh, but Thalor's words were far more insidious than he realized. There was a core of indomitable strength in Jurel but it was still paradoxically weak. The passion was there but it was overlaid with years of difficult lessons learned. The boy hated violence. Yet he had been forced to kill, to watch the people closest to him killed. The boy hated blood. Yet he had seen more of it flow in the past year and a half than most would see in a lifetime. He knew who he was, certainly. But despite Kurin's best efforts, he had yet to accept it, to incorporate it into his self. On his very first conscious effort to do so, he had watched a thousand men butchered because his decision. Jurel's instinct-driven steel core, Kurin knew, would have a hard time arguing its case against the more concrete forces of experience and memory.
Kurin knew something else as well. If Jurel had abandoned their cause, it would not be out of cowardice, but because of an honest desire to stop hurting people. He knew Jurel would argue that the bloodshed would stop if he was out of the picture. No God of War, no war. It was the naive view o
f an injured man cornered by consequence.
Kurin's heart went out to Jurel. He wished for nothing more than the chance to sit down and talk to the boy. But that was most definitely out of the question. Just as there were dozens of soldiers who guarded his body, ready to turn him into a pincushion the moment he tried something physical, there were others who guarded his mind and would gladly turn him to mush if he tried to Send.
Had Jurel persevered or had he fled? It was a question—the question—that he needed to answer. And there was no possibility of doing so for at least the foreseeable future. Resting his back against the coarse wood of a pointed eight foot stake, he sighed, wondering what, if anything, he could do from here. His answer, no matter how he turned the matter over in his head, was a wholly predictable and entirely unsatisfactory 'not much'.
Two guards arrived and while one was unlocking his chains from the heavy bolt driven into the ground, the other brusquely ordered him to his feet. Time for another question and answer period, Kurin supposed. The points of a dozen crossbows kept a bead on him as he walked while eighty-odd sets of eyes within the stockade watched him go. He straightened his back, walking as erect as his chains and injuries would allow. He kept a stern expression on his face. Pointless gesture or not, it did not hurt to try. Much.
As he was prodded by spear point toward the dark tent that he had begun to know so very well, Kurin found himself in the unenviable position of needing to continually stoke the furnace of his rage to keep from losing hope, while needing to douse the same furnace to keep from doing anything drastic and entirely too permanent.
Chapter 25
He had no idea how long he sat motionless while the wind howled viciously. He spent a little while thinking about that before deciding he did not care. The windstorms blew endlessly, the sands scoured him painfully, and that was just fine. Perhaps he could stay there for a while longer. Perhaps he could live his life there, grow old and die there. That was just fine. And if he grew too hungry, or too thirsty, if he expired from lack of nourishment, or withered and collapsed into a dry husk, well, that was just fine too. Anything to stem the mad flow of memories and recriminations that bit painfully, that tore and gored, as they sped past. Like a sandstorm.