by Remi Michaud
Turning to the source, he gasped. A wide swath of tents were gone, leaving only blackened spots to mark their departure. The fires were all out, smoking like candles extinguished by wind. Armored men poured from the remaining structures, bellowing, brandishing their great swords. Behind them strode three priests glowing with their arcane auras, their hands held high. Energy crackled; Kurin felt the hair on his body prickle up. Of the priests, Kurin recognized the one standing in the middle.
He raised his hands just as the priests of Gaorla thrust forward. Great gouts of fire erupted from their outstretched fingers, pouring forth like volcanic spew over the crusted remains of the camp. The fire shrieked and roared its way forward at stunning speed, but perhaps no more than two hand spans in front of Kurin, the fires seemed to strike an invisible barrier. Kurin grunted with the force. It felt like a punch in the gut.
The fire split on Kurin's shield, the two halves circling the edge of the unseen barrier, leaving behind a streaking trail of ghostly blue light, and splashed to the ground igniting everything they touched.
Kurin responded. Drawing in as much arcanum as he could hold, enough that he felt his eyes would melt, that his teeth would shatter, that he would blow apart at the seams, he thrust his arms wide. In front of the onrushing horde of Soldiers, a wall of blue-white light burst from the ground, so bright that it made the previous blast seem like the dead of night, so hot that even he felt the waves of heat, streaked skyward and stretched from one edge of the devastation to the other.
For the Soldiers who could not halt their momentum, there was no escape. As soon as they touched the wall, arcs of electric light surged into them. Not able to do more than emit one final shriek, those men blew apart. Shreds of meat, and shards of shrapnel sliced into the men behind, causing more to drop.
Not satisfied, Kurin pushed his wall and it began to inch its way forward. There was a pressure from the other side, a heat, a pulsing stitch of agony that lanced straight into his skull as the priests desperately tried to counter his spell by pushing it back at him. For a moment, he thought they would. The pain crescendoed into a blasting furnace that consumed him from head to toe, and icicle stabs seemed to penetrate him in a thousand places at once.
The pressure increased but his wall lurched forward inch by agonizing inch.
But the priests of Gaorla were not beaten yet. He felt it as a crushing weight on his chest and he gasped. Sparkles of blackness darted across his vision as he tried frantically to claw a breath into his burning lungs. For what had to be an eternity, nothing seemed to change except the ever-increasing pressure. The sparkles of black expanded and they were joined by raven feathers that crept in to obscure his peripheral vision.
There was a sensation of snapping. Almost audible, like a bone cracking. He cried out. The pressure abated and he was finally able to draw a great gulping breath. From across the arcane wall, he heard a squeal as if a pig had been stabbed. In shock, he realized that the snapping he had heard, felt, was not him. It was one of the Gaorlans.
“I got you now,” he rasped and he narrowed his eyes, concentrating.
His wall intensified in heat and brightness, and it surged forward suddenly. He groaned with the immensity of his efforts. A second squeal broke through the roar of the wall. Then a third.
The pressure collapsed. The wall collapsed. And somehow, when Kurin opened his eyes, he found he had collapsed too. He stared upward into Mikal's grizzled face and he smiled, too exhausted, in too much shock to wonder at that. Probably his imagination, some part of his mind whispered.
“You done showing off now?” Mikal growled.
Too weak to answer, he moved his head in what he hoped would be understood as a nod.
“Then I guess you'll be expecting me to carry you out of here.”
Nodding again was just too much effort. Instead, he closed his eyes, and let a sweet darkness enfold him. And from somewhere above him, just as the last light vanished, he felt strong hands grip him, and he thought he heard Mikal mutter something. Something like, “You crazy old bugger.”
Chapter 39
Even in the light of day, the forest was gloomy, forbidding. The cool wind that rustled the browning leaves brought a musky, musty scent of decay. The boles pressed close; low hanging branches and tall shrubs reached out with wooden fingers to snag garment and flesh alike. The sounds of boots tramping and pained grunts were the only ones to be heard.
Exhaustion lay like a pall on Gaven's shoulders. He and the rest continued their quick march through the forest. No one had slept since their daring—and maybe foolish—raid on the Soldier's of God two days before. Food was scarce and what there was, was eaten as they marched.
The success of the raid, Gaven thought through the torpid haze, was the only thing that kept any of them going. Two had been lost in the raid, but they had saved nearly a hundred, including Kurin. Six more had been lost as they traveled south; too injured or too exhausted to continue those few had been, by necessity, left behind. That did not count Jurel who, after seeing them safely away, had vanished as suddenly as he had arrived—and that was something Gaven did not want to think about. Even so, the combined total of the battle's survivors amounted to nearly a hundred and seventy-five.
Now only a few days north of the Abbey, and about an equal number of days ahead of the behemoth war machine that followed, they kept their breakneck pace. Mikal had assigned the best scouts left to cover their tracks but in their haste Gaven had no doubt a blind child could have tracked them.
Stopping to rest would not be advisable.
Gaven herded the men and women that Mikal had hastily assigned to him, ensuring that they remained close enough to communicate any distresses. Out beyond his makeshift platoon's perimeter, he heard branches snapping and underbrush rustling as Mikal pushed his own group along.
Then he pulled up short, signaling a halt. Because he heard similar disturbances on his other side. Where there should have been no one. He turned to Sergeant Tak, a grizzled man thinned by his captivity but still exuding strength. Tak's return look did not instill confidence. With a series of quick hand signals, Gaven communicated with Mikal's troop.
But before he could do much more than that, the trees erupted. The forest came alive with the sound of horse shrills and hooves. White capes flashed brilliantly where shafts of sunlight lanced them. Swords glittered threateningly.
Shouts broke out among Gaven's fugitives. Those who had weapons raised them and took up positions around those who did not. Most did not. Counting quickly, Gaven saw there had to be a hundred Soldiers of God rushing to surround his men. From the sounds coming from the other side of the trees, he knew Mikal faced the same.
Heart quailing, Gaven took his position at the forefront with his sword drawn and he faced the wall of white. He hoped Mikal was seeing to Kurin's and Metana's escape. With a hardness he never would have credited in himself, he snarled, “Come on then you bastards. Let's see what you got.”
Somewhere beyond the front line of armed and armored soldiers, Gaven heard a tinkling laugh. Then a voice he recognized called out.
“You always were one for dramatics, Gaven.”
Numbed by shock, Gaven let the tip of his sword drop a fraction before catching himself and bringing it back to the ready. The men in front of Gaven parted and a single rider pushed his horse through. The horseman studied Gaven for a moment, then slowly removed the shining helm.
Not his horse. Her horse. Gaven gasped. “Captain?”
Captain Salma Baccus, Gaven's commanding officer from his days in the Soldiers of God regarded him with a wry smile.
“Hello, Private. How have you been?”
Gaven stared, a great weariness washing over him.
From somewhere behind her, another familiar voice called out. “Major, we've rounded up the last of their scouts.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she called then turned back to face Gaven. Her eyes sparkled as though she were in on some joke.
“S
o. I always thought you and I would meet again, Private.”
Conflicted, Gaven scowled. A major now. Gaven wondered if she had been promoted for bringing Jurel and Kurin to the temple at Threimes. His jaw clenched painfully, his sword remained rigidly erect. It had been at her command that his two friends had been consigned to cells deep beneath the temple in the bowels of the earth. There was enough anger that he would not feel too sorry for sliding his sword into her guts. But she had treated him well, even after the debacle with the Dakariin, even during his court-martial for his role in getting a lot of Soldiers killed. She had treated him with respect. For that, she deserved a chance.
Though greatly outnumbered, there were three swordmasters in this group. Gaven was one of them. He knew they would lose if it came to battle but he also knew that the Soldiers, being average swordsmen at best, relying on their numbers, ferocity and reputation to see them through battles, would take heavy casualties—which meant the Abbey would have a few less of these bastards to fight. He also knew he was good enough that he would make her bleed before he was killed.
Marshaling all his remaining strength, Gaven rose to his full height and glared at her. “Major, we do not wish to fight you.” He smiled predatorially. “Not yet in any case. We may be weary but there are several swordmasters among us and some powerful Salosian brothers. Your victory is by no means certain. Losing many, many of your men is.”
The wry smile spread and she added to it by leaning nonchalantly on the pommel of her saddle.
“You mistake me, Private-”
“Captain,” he barked.
“My apologies, Captain,” she murmured with a bow. “You've mistaken my intentions.”
She barked a sharp order and in unison every one of her Soldiers snapped their sword points up and sheathed them. Then, as Gaven looked on in confusion, holes formed in the line and his scouts were ushered through. None appeared injured in any way, none were shackled. Their confusion mirrored his own.
“You see, Captain,” Salma continued, “we are not here to fight you or arrest you. We are here to join you.”
* * *
His head throbbed in time with his aching heart. His flesh crawled as though a thousand spiders skittered, somehow surviving the dry, sand blasted heat. He held his sword in a white-knuckled death grip; the thorns pierced his flesh, spattering the ground and his lap with fresh blood.
Jurel scowled, staring at the gore that he had not yet cleaned from the blade. The raid on the enemy army had gone according to plan and for that he was pleased. Kurin and a few dozen others had been saved. Metana and Gaven and Mikal were alive. It mitigated, at least marginally, the anguished remorse he felt for killing a more than a thousand men and women.
A hot wind whipped his hair, ripped his tattered clothes. A merciless sun beat relentlessly at him, grinding him down. Exhausted, he leaned back against the blasted stump that was all that remained of his lilac tree and shut his eyes.
He had done what he'd set out to do: he saved Kurin. Now he could do everyone a great favor by simply disappearing from the world forever. Everyone would do much better without his bumbling, stumbling, playing at things best left to his betters. Wouldn't they?
With that thought tumbling like lead weights, Jurel Histane, God of War, slipped into a fitful slumber.
* * *
His sword slipped from nerveless fingers; the clatter as it struck the ground seemed to come from a long, long way away.
He did not notice when Mikal slipped up beside him to face Salma, nor did he hear his commander's words. Salma spoke and he did not hear that either. It was not until Mikal elbowed him in the ribs that he finally snapped back to himself.
“I don't understand,” he croaked.
“It's simple,” Salma responded. “The atrocities that Prelate Thalor has visited upon innocents has been too much for us to swallow. None of us joined up to burn down entire villages just because they didn't know where you were.”
“What assurances do we have that you won't betray us?” Mikal growled.
“I bring you about two hundred men today. I have arranged through secure channels to transport any others who are willing to leave the Soldiers of God. And believe me: there are many more.”
“That does not answer my question, Major.”
“No I suppose not. I do not know what assurances we can offer. If you refuse us then we will simply leave. At least you will face two hundred less in your war. On the other hand, two hundred trained Soldiers of God fighting for you with who knows how many more to follow...it's a distinct improvement to your situation, wouldn't you agree?”
And Gaven was immensely relieved—and feeling an oily guilt coiling in the pit of his stomach for it—that Mikal was there to make the decision.
After a heavy silence, Mikal said, “Why?”
“As I said to Captain Gaven,” she shot him a wry grin “we didn't sign up to-”
“Why?” Mikal interrupted gruffly.
This time when she opened her mouth nothing came out. She stared contemplatively into the trees as though gathering her thoughts. It was another surprising voice from Gaven's past who answered. A horse pushed its way through to Salma's side.
“Frankly,” said Lieutenant Titius Higgens, “we don't know.”
Seeing Lieutenant Higgins (now wearing Captain's epaulets—my, how everyone is moving up in the world, thought Gaven), referred to as Tight-Ass by those under his command for his strict, unswerving adherence to the rule book, Gaven had to again fight to maintain his composure.
“Captain Higgins is right,” Salma said after a moment. Her eyes took on a haunted cast. “We don't really know why we're here. We felt a...need.”
“As though something was pulling us,” Higgens said.
“We all feel like this is what we're supposed to be doing.”
“I don't understand,” Mikal said but Gaven caught a tone, a hint in his commander's voice that indicated that perhaps Mikal understood more than he let on.
Major Salma shook her head and blew out a frustrated breath.
“We don't either. All I know is that we feel this—this pulling and we're compelled to...to desert our posts.” Her lips twisted in distaste as she said this last.
“I think,” Tight-Ass continued, “that all of us feel it. Every last Soldier of God. I've heard muttering amongst the men. Many continue to resist the temptation. We could not.”
Mikal smiled, a tight twist of his lips, a wolf's glare. “Then you are welcome to join us.”
For the third time in twenty minutes, Gaven fought to keep a straight face.
Chapter 40
All things considered, things were going quite well for Prelate Thalor Stock. Certainly he missed his bed, and the meals prepared by his personal chef, and now that the days had turned chilly and the nights downright cold with the onset of autumn, he missed his cozy fire. But with the arrival of the main body some time back, he had reacquired at least some of the luxuries of home. He had to give that old fool, Maten, credit. When the man traveled, he traveled in comfort. Maten had invited Thalor to raid some of his personal stocks, and now at least Thalor's living accommodations were not quite so spartan: thick rugs now covered the ground, and he even had a portable fireplace instead of a lowly brazier; his cot had been scrapped for a much more appropriate bed; and he now had a plethora of servants to tend to him, including a personal cook! The man was not as good as his own cook at the temple, but he was a far cry better than the army cooks. All in all, despite his lingering headache—damn that vile dog Kurin, damn him to the hells!—he had reason to be happy.
His army was nearing its goal. He looked down from the top of the rise to the grubby wooden spires of Twin Town. A wind carried the cloying odors of wood smoke and too many unwashed bodies crammed too closely together, causing his nose to itch.
He smiled. Memories of his first battle were still fresh in his mind. He pictured with relish the destruction of the so called Salosian army. He had lost only a handful
of men—a few hundred—in the battle. Barely a scratch to his army. He still had plenty left to wipe whatever paltry resistance the Salosian infection could muster from the land. The loss of that bastard Kurin rankled but Maten had already arrived and taken charge; none of the blame fell on Thalor for that debacle—though still sported a lingering headache. Seeing the Twins in the near distance, knowing that they were only days from knocking on their precious Abbey's front door mitigated his frustration at losing the wily old bastard. Thalor would cut his retribution from the old man's hide. He would personally strip the bastard's bones bare, slowly, while Kurin screamed and begged for mercy.
After another moment cherishing the fine morning and the fine vision, breathing deeply of the brisk air, he brought himself out of his reverie with a small shake and turned in his saddle, scanning the ranks of pristine white capes to find Major Reowynn Vash. Seeing the man conferring with one of his lieutenants, whose name Thalor did not know, Thalor signaled. Being so far beneath him in station, he did not bother learning their names. He knew Major Reowynn only because, as commander of the vanguard and Thalor's right hand, they had to speak often.
With a slight nod and a few last words for the lieutenant, he cantered his mount to Thalor's side and snapped a sharp salute.
“Tell your men to set camp, Major,” Thalor ordered. “We will wait here until the main body arrives and then we will occupy Twin Town. Once I am satisfied that all is in order, we march for the Abbey.” He smiled and the smile turned into an amused grin. “I wish to finish this by the Day of Shadows. I find it appropriate.”
“My Lord,” Major Reowynn responded, and with another sharp salute, turned his horse and cantered away, barking orders.
Thalor breathed deeply of the chill autumn air, wrinkling his nose slightly at the stench wafting from the dung hole town a half mile away.
He surveyed the town ahead for some time, thought he saw an occasional denizen look his way and disappear quickly into the maze of hovels.