Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  In truth, Thalor did not feel well. Not at all. His head had begun a slow pounding, his vision swam, his guts had tied themselves in knots. He downed his wine, hoping that might settle him.

  A glance at Reowynn rocked him. The major was ashen with bruised bags forming under his eyes. The man seemed to be gasping for breath as though he had run a marathon.

  Muzzily, he tried to concentrate.

  “Would you care to lie down, Prelate?” Jon asked.

  Thalor glared at the seneschal, a hot retort trying to form but his tongue stumbled over the words. Jon rose, his bearing that of concern. But his eyes...

  Thalor registered it finally. Though Jon bore the look of solicitousness, his eyes said otherwise. The man was...satisfied.

  “Perhaps it was not the food,” the seneschal remarked. His lips spread in a smile. “Perhaps it was the wine.

  “You see, Prelate, at the king's command, the duke ordered me to march to your aid two weeks ago. I mustered our forces and we set out the very next morning. But he was more than slightly put out with your decision to light half his countryside—and a goodly fraction of his income—on fire. He became uncertain that he wished to support a cause that wrought such wholesale destruction.”

  It struck Thalor then, like a hammer. Desperation clawed some of his energy back to him. Haltingly, his voice barely more than a croak, he said, “You were sent to support the heretics.”

  With a pained expression, Jon sat back down. “Well, not quite. Although my duke did send new instructions through his priest. As I said, I was sent to assess the situation and lend assistance as necessary. When I arrived, there was still the possibility that I would join with you.”

  “But you said...you would assist...”

  “Where necessary. Yes. Now I'm repeating myself. It was your arrogant assumption that I would automatically assist you.”

  His expression hardened. He appeared a judge about to pronounce a harsh sentence.

  “I've spoken with the duke of my findings. I've spoken of your recklessness. I've spoken of the beacon of fire atop the Abbey walls and the continued repelling of your Soldiers of God. That is no work of a mere adept. How else do you explain a force of a few thousand holding off the might of your church without invoking such words as deity? Even your utter incompetence could not explain such a disastrous effort.

  “The duke agrees with me. Therefore, Prelate Thalor Stock, I hereby charge you with wanton destruction of property, with acts of war committed against citizens of the Duchy of Grayson, and,” a raptor's smile showed the man's teeth, “with heresy.”

  “Impossible! I am a prelate of-”

  “You are a prelate of a church that is being investigated by the king himself. With the proof of this young god roaming the land, we now know that it is not the Salosians but the Gaorlans who are the heretics. Word has already reached us from the king's general staff, one Theissen, I believe. The king has had his suspicions for years but your Soldiers of God have always caused him to wait. He did not want a holy war waged in his kingdom that would beggar his population.

  “Thankfully, most of the Soldiers of God are here. Those remaining garrisons in the west have already been ordered incarcerated until the king can finish this business with the Dakariin and formal inquiries can be made into the depth of the corruption in your ranks.

  “We march against your Soldiers of God in moments. Your game is over.”

  “You are...outnumbered.” Thalor blinked owlishly, dragged a burning breath into his lungs. “My Soldiers will crush you.”

  “I think not.” Jon smiled mysteriously, his eyes twinkling with hidden knowledge. “If I had been feeling charitable, I would not have drugged your wine. I would have kept you awake so that I could show you my greatest surprise. Oh, I can only imagine the look on your face when you saw your army destroyed. Alas, it is too late. The deed is done.”

  Trying to rise from his seat, Thalor reached for his power. This fool servant thought he would contest against a prelate, did he? It was difficult; his concentration kept slipping and his power went with it. He tried again.

  But not quickly enough. Before he could utter a protest, a black hood was draped over his head and he was lifted roughly from his seat. The first ragged edges of fear began to gnaw at his edges.

  “Get them out of my sight,” Jon barked.

  Thalor was dragged out of the tent into the coolness of the autumn day. The chill served to enliven him. He began to try again for his source, but he was brought up short as Jon's voice drifted to him.

  “Oh, and Prelate? If you happen to wake up, I don't suggest trying to use your arcanum. I have three Salosian priests guarding you. They were only told to keep you alive for the investigation. They were not told to be gentle.”

  The second cup of drugged wine began its insidious work adding its effect to the first. His thoughts scattered like chaff on the wind, his limbs felt miles away. His head felt it must weigh as much as a mountain.

  The only thing that was coherent about former Prelate Thalor Stock as he was dragged to his destiny was the sense of astonished horror and black dismay that followed him even into the depths of poison tainted torpor.

  Chapter 56

  Jurel watched the scene unfold beneath him, not entirely believing his eyes. Had he gone mad? A river of men flowed over a rise in the distance and slammed into the rear of the prelacy forces. The white-caped forces faltered like a shock wave, and heads began to turn. The front ranks continued to assault the Abbey's weakening walls—the enspelled battering ram had caused the main gate to lean dangerously; a few more solid hits and even the Salosians who actively fortified the gate with their arcanum would crumple under the devastating pressure—but the attack seemed hesitant, half-hearted, as though they were not sure whether to attack or defend.

  He was whirled by Gaven who had an exultant look.

  “That's Grayson, Jurel, Grayson. He sided with us!”

  “Grayson?” Dumbstruck, Jurel could think of nothing useful to say.

  “I recognize his colors. It's his garrison marching all over the prelate's ass! We have to help them.”

  Jurel turned blank eyes back to the battlefield, watched pillars of fire erupt as the Grayson forces set torches to the last of the prelacy's catapults. As he watched, he saw the tail end of the Grayson forces crest the rise in the distance. Dismay gripped him. There were many, perhaps as many as ten thousand, but they were still dwarfed against the prelacy forces, outnumbered perhaps three to one. Facing off on the field this way, they would be overwhelmed.

  “Jurel! What should we do?”

  Shaking himself, Jurel gave the only orders he could think of. He did not know if it would be enough, but maybe...maybe...

  “Redouble our attacks from the walls. Get as many cavalry as you can to the gate for a sally. Call Mikal.”

  Gaven nodded, grinning tightly, his eyes slitted with pent bloodlust, before he spun and sprinted away, shouting commands.

  Archers and ballistae sent their missiles within heartbeats. The sizzle of arcanum raised the hair on his arms. The courtyard before the failing gate filled with cavalry as though they had all been waiting just out of sight for him to give the order. A horn, long, eerie, hollow, echoed from the other end of the battlements.

  Though Grayson's men fought fiercely, the Soldiers of God had already begun to push them back. Jurel had been right: they were too outnumbered to pose a real threat to the Soldiers of God.

  Jurel got his next shock.

  His horn call had been answered. Mikal rode at the forefront of the thousand men that had been hiding in the forest to the north and east of the Abbey, away, thankfully, from the hellish infernos that bloody prelate had set. This was no surprise; indeed, it was all according to plan. No, the surprise was that there were far more soldiers out there than Jurel could have thought possible.

  The swordmasters rode as liquid silver, hooves thundered. Their blades drawn, held high, firelight and gray daylight a dread pro
mise flickering along the razor edges. Behind them, flowing from the trees, battle cries shaking the earth with cataclysmic force, was another army that wore Grayson's colors. This second army, nearly as large as the one on the southwest flank, hit the eastern flank of the reeling Soldiers of God like a boulder flung by the gods.

  It took Jurel's breath away.

  Cheers rose clarion bright along the battlements and parapets of the Abbey. The last of the Soldiers of God, those who had been actively attacking the Abbey, apparently heeding new orders from their officers, fell back and turned to face this new onslaught.

  Without hesitation, Jurel leaped from the Abbey wall, dropped the thirty odd feet to the ground, and landed lightly, running for the gates with his sword drawn. Some few gaped in astonishment at him but wisely, they continued about their tasks. He vaulted into the saddle of his waiting horse and made for the gate.

  “Sortie! Sortie!” Jurel shouted. “Open the gates now while they have their backs turned.”

  But unfortunately, the gates had been badly damaged by the abuse visited upon them over the last two days. Those manning the winches strove mightily to move the heavy chains, but the gate steadfastly refused to so much as budge.

  Feeling time slipping away Jurel impatiently calmed his agitated, prancing horse.

  “My Lord,” called a sergeant from the door that led to the gearworks. “The winches won't move. The gates are jammed.”

  With a growl, Jurel urged his mount forward.

  “Move away,” he boomed. “And be ready to ride.”

  Men and women scattered, hastily clearing an alley between him and the front gates. He brought his hand up as he continued to canter his mount toward the sealed barricade. He delved within himself and, though he would never be able to explain how he had done it, he created a pulse of...something...that surged forward with an ominous hum that was almost identical to the blast he had unleashed in his place those months back. When it struck the gate, the gate vanished, simply evaporated in a cloud of smoke and some few bits of finger size wedges of burnt wood.

  “Ride,” Jurel shouted. “Harrying attacks only. We don't have the numbers for head to head confrontation. But, blast it, keep them distracted!”

  He set his heels to his mount's flanks. Behind him, he heard the cries of his cavalry as they fell in. There was an anticipatory edge to their shouts and howls; they had been on the defensive for two grueling days. They were ready to take the fight to their enemy.

  Jurel himself was not free of this savage glee. His sword held high overhead, he spurred his horse to more speed, roaring his own calls of vengeance and blood. He flew past the abandoned battering ram, sending another burst of energy which turned it to splinters. Behind him, his men shouted their approval.

  Angling north past the blurred wall, Jurel focused on the roiling sea of white ahead. Though he did not look back, he could feel when his force spread out behind him, creating a scythe of riders that angled back to his left.

  The Soldiers of God heard the thunder of hooves, but too late. A half dozen paces from the startled Soldiers, Jurel angled his horse hard right. They did not clash with the Soldiers of God. Instead they rode the edge of the storm, strafing the outer line with their swords outstretched. Like shaving my beard, he thought inanely. He laughed. Clouds of arrows from the walls above streaked overhead, darkening the sky. Screams filled the air.

  They reined in hard after passing the last ranks, Mikal's swordmasters and the eastern Grayson army visible in the near distance going about their bloody work. Spinning his horse, Jurel called for a second run. Eagerly, his riders followed, and again, they strafed the confused mass of Soldiers of God who did not know whether to turn back and fight, to continue forward and reinforce against the greater threat of Grayson's army, or to flee.

  Deep within his soul, Jurel knew victory was theirs. There was no way this army could withstand attacks on three fronts. With a savagery that even earlier that year he would never have credited he was capable of, he lashed out with his sword, letting his power flow freely so that those who were touched by his blade burst into fine red mist, and those within a dozen feet of him still fell with gaping wounds appearing beneath their suddenly battered and rent armor.

  He knew it would deplete his energy; he knew he would likely be bedridden for days, but this was it! This was the final push! After this, he could afford to rest.

  They managed a third pass before the white capes managed to mount any sort of coherent defense, but by then it was too late. The prelacy's army was mortally wounded.

  A strange feeling stole over Jurel, a feeling of vastness that opened within the gulf left by all the pain, terror, and rage. A primal feeling of oceans battering against reefs, of worlds spinning endlessly through the cosmos far above, of stars birthing, burning and bursting with terrible force. A force that could be felt for endless miles, miles beyond comprehension. Though, he thought that if he concentrated, if he could stop and listen, he might be able to grasp...something. Deep in his mind a voice whispered, a voice he knew though he had only heard it once. The voice of his brother. Almost, almost, he could see the spectacles glittering with rainbow light. He nearly understood the title on the heavy tome his brother carried. He did not know the word his brother whispered—

  “Light-years.”

  —but it tickled him with a strange familiarity, like seeing a face in a crowd that one would look at a second time because, was that...? No, no it could not be. Of course. But though strange and evasively, tantalizingly familiar, it felt right. It felt...right.

  Without knowing why, without even consciously knowing, Jurel dismounted and stood facing the dying army before him.

  The vastness within him swelled, pushed outward against his pitiful shell of flesh and blood. Behind him, he heard gasps, but he did not turn. Ahead of him, through the eye slits in his black, black helmet, he saw Soldiers of God staring at him, gaping, eyes wide, faces ashen.

  He took a step forward. Swords and pikes fell forgotten from numb fingers. He took another step. Men and women in white capes spattered with mud and blood fell to their knees, some appeared to be weeping.

  He raised his arms and closed his eyes. A surge, a pulse like a heartbeat vibrated in his bones, his blood, his soul.

  When he opened his eyes, the spell nearly broke. Shaken, he stared down at the heads of the army spread before him. Looking back over his shoulder, he was now able to look over the crenelations and see his own archers lining the battlements of the Abbey, though his feet were firmly planted on the ground that was suddenly much farther down.

  The shock did not last, for this too, felt right. His power coursing through his veins like war's blood, he exulted. He closed his eyes. Another pulse. More gasps.

  When he reopened his eyes, he knew what he would see. Lightning flickered and traced the whorls and whirls of his armor. His sword was a bonfire of glowing blue energy that writhed impatiently in his grip.

  He looked over the heads of those nearby, his glare taking in all those on his battlefield. All was preternaturally silent. Forty thousand sets of eyes gazed in awe at the towering figure he had become. Forty thousand soldiers and Soldiers were now dropping to their knees before their god.

  He spoke, and in the immense stillness, his voice boomed and echoed metallically.

  “My soldiers. I am Jureya.” The spell almost broke again. Where had that name come from? In the depths of his mind, he heard a familiar soft chuckle. He stifled his surprise and continued. “You all know me. You are soldiers, warriors, men and women who partake in the sacred rites of battle, who observe the forms of sword and lance, who sacrifice upon the altar of war.

  “I am Jureya. I am War.”

  A moan passed through the crowd. Forty thousand foreheads pressed to the churned, bloody earth as each and every one of them made their obeisances to their god for the very first time.

  “This battle is concluded. There is a greater one that awaits us in the north.

  �
�I give all of you this chance to join me, to put down arms against each other, to welcome one and all here into one congregation, borne of battle, baptized in blood.

  “You, soldiers, are my priests. You warriors, masters of the sword, are my disciples. Join me. As one, we will wipe the forces of the north from this land!”

  A roar shook the field. Swords pierced the sky as men and women held them aloft in jubilation. To Jurel's—Jureya's?—pleasant surprise, he already saw several Salosian soldiers trading handshakes with Soldiers of God. He noticed, as his gaze swept the field, that there were still some few officers wearing white who glared grimly, ashen faced at this mass mutiny but they did nothing to stop it. How could they? Their god commanded them.

  Smiling behind his helm Jurel raised his sword to the bruised sky.

  “I am Jureya! I am war!”

  A flash of lightning shattered the air and met the responding roar that resounded across the field and shook the earth.

  Chapter 57

  “-you must not overextend yourself.”

  His Father's words filtered into his mind as he stood in the center of the courtyard. Wave upon wave of exhaustion rolled over him, threatening to sweep him from his feet and drown him.

  “Like a baby, you lack strength.”

  Maybe he had overdone it a little, he mused wryly. Maybe his little show had been a bit too much.

  To his right and a step behind stood Kurin with Mikal and Gaven, to his left, Goromand and the other chaplains of the Salosian Order. And behind, rank upon rank of soldiers and priests. In front of him knelt a lean aristocrat with a severely pointed beard and, beneath a tightness of fear, an amused twinkle in his eye. Jurel had been informed his name was Jon Brightwood, seneschal to his lord, Duke Grayson.

  “My Lord,” the seneschal said, “It pleases me to bring you the goodwill of Grayson on this fortuitous day.”