Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  Squirming under her hard gaze, Jurel meekly raised a hand. “So...you're saying that prophecy is meaningless?”

  “Very good. Close, but not quite. Prophecy is a guide, an idea of what could be. But that doesn't mean it's what will be. No matter what all those stupid bloody books and scrolls told you, you still have choice. Do you hear me? You. Still. Have. Choice! You don't have to do anything those bits of paper tell you.

  “So this idea of yours that everything important must happen on a specific day is beyond stupid.”

  “But so far, a lot of it has come true.”

  Throwing her hands high, she huffed. “Of course it has, you great pea-brained twit! First, I didn't say that prophecies never came true, just that they might not. Second, you've been striving so hard to make them true that it was pretty much a given that some of the things you've read would happen.”

  Three things struck Jurel, as she continued her lecture: first, her tone became more moderate, assuming more and more the voice of a teacher and less that of an aggrieved lover; second, he found himself interested despite his misgivings; and third, he was surprised that one person knew so many different ways to describe stupidity.

  “In your case,” she continued, oblivious to the relief he felt at the first thought and consternation at the next two, “I think there is a certain amount of truth. But only in the broad picture.

  “It has been well known for centuries that the God of War would waken. According to the histories in the library, this information was passed on to Salos by Gaorla Himself. No,” she cut him off before he could voice his protest: Gaorla Himself had told Jurel he had only spoken to one mortal. “The story is a long one and this is not the time or place.

  “Knowing that the God of War would walk the land at some point in the future, Salos understood that certain tasks had to be accomplished—not through any divine sight but rather through plain, simple deduction. He realized that,” she raised a finger, “the God of War had to discover who he was. Obviously.” Another finger rose. “The God of War had to accept that he was in fact the god of war. No easy feat, all things considered.” A third finger, “Since the prelacy is based on a monotheistic belief system, Salos knew that the God of War would have to prove them wrong and that it would be difficult and probably bloody.”

  She glared fire at him. “Is this all starting to sound familiar?”

  Jurel nodded mutely. His mouth felt packed with coal dust.

  “Finally!” she huffed raising her arms as though in thanks that someone somewhere had answered a prayer she never thought would be heard. “There's more that needs to be done, but the prophecy,” she loaded the word with scorn, “is too cryptic yet to understand. But if it happens, the meaning will come clear. And if it doesn't then it was meaningless to begin with. Useless gibberish.

  “This, all of this,” her hand made a broad sweep to encompass not just they two, but the Abbey and the predatory army arrayed beyond the walls, “this is what it boils down to. This battle must happen in order for you to take your rightful pace at your Father's side.

  “This battle that we wage may be lost, or it may not. We've had some surprises before. It doesn't matter. We, all of us might die to defend you. But even if every last one of us ends up in a shallow grave, I don't think you will.”

  “But why?” Jurel cried, no longer to abide in silence. “Why would you—all of you—die for me?”

  “Half-witted boob,” she muttered. “We wouldn't die for you—well a few of us would: Kurin, Mikal, Gaven.” She paused. He barely heard the next word for she barely breathed it and yet it still smote him to his core: “Me.” She shook herself, spoke her next words more clearly, “We die for our beliefs. But that too is a discussion for a different time and a different place.”

  This time when he surged to his feet, she did not contest him. He felt as though he was on the verge of some sort of breakthrough, a mental connection that had so far eluded him, an intersection of ideas which, once revealed, would answer many questions. But, as with all meaningful understanding, his did not become readily apparent.

  “I do this because I must,” he said. “No one has to do it with me. I never asked anyone to die for me. I'm not worth it.”

  One ebony eyebrow raised as she regarded him with speculative humor. “Oh no? Then what is there worth dying for, if not for the power of conviction? And if there is nothing worth dying for, then what is there to live for?”

  His mind trembled at the implications, both the perceived and the as yet nebulous. What did he believe in? Did he, in fact, believe in anything? Or did he just drift from day to day, accomplishing, or failing, the tasks set before him, with no thought to whether a greater purpose was served? And if he was to believe in something, what should it be? His Father? Metana? Himself? Humanity? Some other thing that, as yet, remained hidden from him?

  “But...why me?”

  “Because you are the proof we've sought for two thousand years. Though I'm sure everyone would have been happier to discover the God of Peace, or the God of Love in order to make our case, you're what we've got.

  “Because of you, we know we're right. We know the prelacy is wrong. We think even, that the members of the prelacy themselves understand, at some level, their erroneous philosophies, and that's why the Grand Prelate and his lackeys subjugate with an iron fist. Control is still control, whether it is through love and justice borne of confidence and righteousness, or through terror and torture borne of uncertainty and greedy suspicion. For some, the terror and the torture is enough, as long as the control remains.

  “We don't want control. We want simply to be free to practice our rites and beliefs without fear of condemnation and death. The only way we can achieve that is to see the prelacy discredited or destroyed. Honestly, we would have been content with simply proving to the king and the people our case without bloodshed, but these events have been forced upon us and we must see them through to the end.” Here, her gaze stole the breath from his lungs. In her eyes was revealed all the strength of her beliefs. Not the fevered mania of the over-impassioned zealot who dons belief as an armor and wields scripture as a sword—he had seen that look often enough in the eyes of Soldiers of God—but the calm conviction of a person who stands firm in her knowledge, who has taken that knowledge, understands it, accepts it as part of her heart and soul. “Even if it means that every single one of us ends up dead.”

  And Jurel, given but a tiny inkling of a truth that each and every Salosian adherent understood intimately, felt profoundly unworthy of their trust.

  Of a sudden, Metana knelt before him and gripped his hands in hers. She gazed into his eyes, beseeching with mind and body.

  And with words. “Please, Jurel. We need you. We need you as much as you need all of this. I know you don't believe that, but it's true. You need this. Not to clear your enemy out of your way, not to vindicate our plight over the last centuries. Not even to fulfill some ridiculous prophecy. You need this for you. You need this to believe.

  “Forget their numbers. Forget their strength. We will not falter. We will follow through with this until the last one of us has breathed our last breaths. If we lose, so be it. I know that, somehow, you will go on. You will truly become who you are supposed to be.”

  As suddenly as she knelt, she rose, and strode swiftly to his door. He could not find the strength to call her back, or even to raise a supplicating hand. The door had begun to close behind her when it halted.

  From the other side, her voice reached his ears like an angel's song on the wind. “And Jurel? I love you.”

  As the door clicked softly shut behind her, he fell back into his darkness. Though this time, it was not blankly mysterious. This time, it had teeth.

  Chapter 53

  Arcane mist hung heavy in the dull slate of early morning, smelling of thunder and fire. Thalor wiped the sting of sweat from his eyes, grunting as another Salosian attack battered the shield surrounding his priests. Hard, blinding pricks of light pi
nwheeled and cascaded like sparks from a smith's anvil.

  He had to give the Salosian dogs some credit, he admitted grudgingly. They knew how to fight. He had not expected them to last even one day and now they had begun the second. No matter though, he thought, their forces were too diminished to survive another day.

  Even more grudgingly, he had to admit he had made a grievous error in starting the conflagration in the forest to the west. He had let his emotions slip his iron control, had let them get away from him. He had thought no further than to destroy any rebels that lurked in the forest's opaque depths. Then, he had patted himself on the back when he saw that the Salosians expended vast energies to hold the fire at bay. Until the previous night when the shield the Salosians had erected had flickered and winked from existence. The fire had begun to spread east, consuming new fuel with insatiable vengeance. Thalor had been forced, late last night, to assign a dozen of his priests the task of holding back the flames. It was either that or let their western flanks be burned to ashes.

  Sneaky Salosian bastards. In one fell swoop, they had gained a great deal of strength while weakening Thalor. Thank almighty Gaorla Maten was here somewhere to take the blame.

  The call of the horns sounded in the distance, signaling the advance of his Soldiers of God. Thalor Sent a thought to his cadre, more, increase intensity. Get our men to their walls. In answer, he felt the river flow of arcanum turn into a torrent and he grinned in satisfaction.

  Sneaky or not, they were too few to survive another day.

  * * *

  The day brightened marginally. The smoke was still too thick for the sun to be more than an obscure disk high over the eastern mountains, like a tarnished coin at the bottom of a wishing well.

  Thalor and his priests continued to pummel relentlessly at the Salosian priests as the Soldiers of God swarmed the walls. Catapults and ballistae hurled their lethal shot, though as yet, the reinforced Abbey walls continued to hold with little more than fine cracks spreading like spider webs. The gates did not fare so well. They began to bulge inward, then, as the abuse continued, they began to lean at dangerous angles as the heavily spelled battering rams continued their earth-shaking assaults.

  The Salosians, to their credit, fought valiantly in the face of death, ever repulsing the Soldiers, though they grew weary of limb and heavy of step. Wave after wave of white capes flowed forward and up countless scaling ladders, and though they were pushed off the walls, they gained more and more ground each time.

  But for the shining pillar of light in their midst, it seemed likely they would have given up already. Where ever that blue flame was, the Soldiers of God were not only repelled but hurled back over the walls, their blood painting ghastly trails behind their broken bodies.

  * * *

  That bloody bastard. Thalor watched the blue flame that ranged across the battlements of the Abbey, always in place where the Soldiers of God struck hardest, always somehow able to throw back his forces. To make matters worse, every time that young cretin managed to stave off another attack, the Salosian priests somehow seemed to gain in strength. Not by much, but enough that no matter how hard Thalor's cadres attacked, no matter what form of power they threw at the walls, the heretics continued to hold them at bay. Thalor would see the head of that young cretin decorating a pike before this day was done.

  Digging deep into his reserves, he screamed the thought, now, to his cadre. A ball of energy so potent it should have turned a sizable portion of the Abbey's walls to smoldering rubble, seared the morning, screaming furious agony until it struck the Salosian shield.

  With a curse of frustration, he watched as, yet again, the shield harmlessly dissipated the crushing power.

  Atop the battlement, the beacon that Thalor hunted burned. It raised its blazing sword high overhead. Thalor's eyes narrowed. Was the fool looking at him? Smiling victoriously? That smug bloody peasant bastard. His pathetic army faced annihilation and he smiled?

  He fought with himself, resisting the temptation of throwing everything he had at the young wretch. He had made that mistake once back in the forest. He would not make it again.

  Above all, he would see the fool dead, and the Salosian threat destroyed before this day was out. He would show the old dolt Maten that he deserved the mantle of Grand Prelate. It was already as good as his. He just had to finish this.

  “My Lord,” Reowynn's voice cut through the surrounding din. “Prelate!”

  Thalor spun, searched the milling horde, saw Reowynn cantering his horse toward him. The major's face was pale as though he had seen a ghost.

  “What is it, Major?” he hissed as Reowynn reined in beside him. “Can you not see I'm a little preoccupied?”

  “My lord, I apologize.” Reowynn sounded anything but apologetic but he continued before Thalor could warn him to watch his tone. “My Lord, you need to see this.”

  “See what?” Thalor snapped.

  “I don't rightly know, My Lord. Please.” He extended a hand as if in invitation.

  Thalor did not respect very many and though he would not say he respected Reowynn—after all, Reowynn was no more than a simple soldier, a tool to be used until the job was done or it broke—he knew that Reowynn would not interrupt unless there was something of significance afoot.

  He nodded sharply. “Get me a horse.”

  It was not far. The priests of Gaorla were positioned at the rear, behind the catapults. As they rode, Reowynn began to fill him in.

  “Our pickets spied them coming, Prelate.”

  “Who?”

  “One of ours, from the seventh I think, came riding in like a demon to tell us.”

  They began climbing a rise along the track that had been widened to a road by the Soldiers of God. To their right, the trees pressed close, ruddy lights flickering only fifty paces away, ash raining a layer of gray, heat radiating from the depths like there was an open gate to the hells. Thalor swallowed. He really should have been more careful.

  “I didn't mean who came to report. I want to know who's out there.”

  “See for yourself.”

  As they crested the rise, Reowynn pointed. In a shallow depression blackened by fire, stubbled with blasted stumps, and with tendrils of smoke still lazily coiling upward, a mass, a swarm—another bloody horde, he thought—of men, both mounted and afoot, arrayed in organized columns. All of them were armed to the teeth. Thalor was no military expert but even he could see that they were in a battle formation.

  In the distance, he saw a pennant fluttering fitfully in the heated breeze: two red circles on a field of deep gray.

  Rocked to his core, Thalor gasped, “What's Grayson doing here?”

  Chapter 54

  Gritting her teeth, Metana strained against the forces that battered at her. The world about her flared and spun; dizzying, dazzling lights blinded her. A roar like an overheated forge thundered, pierced by shrill ululations, deafened her. Smells of brimstone, sulfur, and decomposing flesh threatened to spill the contents of her stomach.

  Staggering, gripping the coarse stone of a crenelation, she struck back with a lance of arcanum, trusting to the shield-holders to protect her in her moment of vulnerability. Her lance rocketed away, briefly illuminating the writhing mass of Soldiers below in harsh incandescent glare, before slamming into the weakened point of her opponent's shield.

  She was rewarded by the brilliant flash of light and by the lessening of the assault upon her. Fortifying her own shield, she sagged momentarily, her limbs suddenly watery, her eyes blurring with fatigue.

  And it was not even lunch time yet.

  She caught sight of her Jurel far down the battlements, his liquid fire form hurtling relentlessly from struggle to struggle. As she watched, her heart swelled with pride at his fierceness, his strength, even as it quailed at his power and destructiveness, and even as it broke at what he was becoming.

  Pull yourself together. She shook herself, took herself in hand with furious viciousness. You're not some hear
tsick teenager. You're a sister of the Salosian Order.

  Her anger changed targets; she glared across the bloody, roiling battlefield to those responsible for all her heartaches, for Jurel's descent into what she could only call a kind of madness, for the rift that now existed between them, for the death, pain, destruction. For all of this.

  Raising her power, she called forth another withering blast, this one aimed at the mind, a bombardment of will that would erase thought, consciousness, and the very life of anyone caught in its way. She nursed it, called up more power, felt it grow like a newborn baby within her. She concentrated more, drew more searing energy into herself. The ecstasy inherent in drawing forth her arcanum began to take on a sharp edge, ragged with a deep-seated agony as she began to plumb the limits of her capacity. Her jaw began to ache with the force of her teeth clenching.

  She concentrated so strongly on her attack that she neglected her defenses.

  At the moment she released the seething ball of energy, cast it hurtling with a howl like souls damned to an eternity of torment toward her enemies, she felt a blistering pain in her skull as though she had been stabbed. She cried out and sagged to the ground, clutching her ringing head in shaking hands.

  A river of fire burned her from the inside. The roar of her pounding blood drowned all sound. Her eyes shut tight, she saw a panoply of iridescent colors swirl and dance across the darkening panorama of her mind. Her thoughts became shards of glass that cut her to ribbons before scattering to the abyss.

  She screamed, though she could not hear herself, feeling as though she was being torn in half. She writhed, kicking spastically, but she was lost too far within herself to feel the pain when her heels began to bruise and her elbows split open on the rough stones.

  Oh Jurel. I'm sorry. That thought too cut her as she descended lower into herself. I love you.

  At first, the easing of her pain was barely noticeable. In gradual increments, her writhing slowed; her rasping, uneven breaths lengthened and became more successful in drawing in much needed air. Gold and pink sparks drifted lazily behind her closed eyes, and wherever they swept, the harsh, incandescent, evil colors seemed to hesitate, weaken and finally fade.