The Narrowing Path: The Complete Trilogy (The Narrowing Path Series Book 4)

by David J Normoyle

  “In your research, you must have read about a lot of different wars,” Bowe said. “Did many have such pure goals as yours? Did any manage to be bloodless? How many involved the invader just leaving after a wrong has been righted? Those Romans that you have studied—their empire didn’t come about from just conquering a country and then leaving afterward, did it?”

  “You don’t believe me?” Washima seemed surprised.

  Before Bowe could answer, Paulini walked in. Washima stood and addressed the doctor. “Thanks for doing such a good job with the patient. In fact, I think he’ll be able to leave the hospital tomorrow morning.”

  Paulini touched his palms together and bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.” He glanced over at Bowe. “Will he be executed?”

  Washima shook his head. “No, he’ll be released. He has a message from me to the other leaders.”

  “You can’t do that! Begging your pardon, sir. You can’t just let him go. He’s evil—he hides it well, but it’s clear. He’s one of the Arcandi Guardians, after all. What did we come for if not to see those at the top punished for their crimes?”

  Washima tightened his right hand into a fist. “We came here to liberate, not to punish. I’m surprised at you, Doctor. I’d heard you’d made a special effort to heal this young man.”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I didn’t want to heal all illnesses,” Paulini said. “Even ones of the mind. That’s why I gave him so much attention. I wanted to wash away his ignorance so he could look inside himself and see the evil there. I wanted him to be able to see and admit his own wrongdoing. It was in your reports that the ascor didn’t see the evil in their actions. I thought I could make him understand his crimes. But he must be punished. I didn’t for one moment conceive of that not happening.”

  “Well, if he is to be punished, it will be in another time and place.” Washima walked out past the canvas screen then turned back. “He looks healthy now. If any harm should come to him before tomorrow, I’ll see you tried for murder.”

  “No.” Paulini took a step after Washima. “He could still suffer a bad reaction. Someone else could decide he deserves to die.”

  “Well, I suggest you take very good care of him tonight and make sure that you trust any guards you decide to place around the hospital.” Washima left.

  Paulini glared at Bowe and Bowe smiled back. “Can we do more therapy now? I’ve got this upwelling of evil inside me and I feel I’ll explode unless I have a chance to talk about it.”

  Paulini stalked out of the room.

  Chapter 19

  Day 37

  Bowe woke to the prodding of the reverse end of a spear. Two soldiers stood in front of him. His old clothes were beside the bed and he was given the time to dress before he was marched out of the hospital. Paulini gave Bowe a murderous look as he passed, so Bowe wiggled his fingers at him. “Thanks for taking such good care of me, Doctor. Despite our short time together, I feel like I’m leaving behind a friend.” Paulini’s expression darkened and he turned away.

  At the entrance, Bowe reached out for the tent-door flap, but he wasn’t given a chance to open it. He was shoved from behind. He fell through the door and landed face-first on the ground. He bit down on a mouthful of mud before he had a chance to jam his mouth shut. He turned his head, spat out the mud, and wiped dirt off his face before looking behind. He expected laughter, but the soldiers just stared down at him with grim eyes.

  “Up,” one demanded, jabbing Bowe’s stomach with the butt of his spear. Bowe flinched and pushed himself to his feet, but he slipped and fell again. It was difficult to get back to his feet in the mud with only one hand to do the job. He received a kick in his backside for his troubles.

  Bowe knew the soldiers weren’t going to make it easy for him to get up, so he needed to do it as quickly as possible. He gathered himself, stuck his stump into the ground on the right, used his hand on the left, and pushed upward. He roared in pain as the stump took his weight. It had healed well, but it was in no condition to take any pressure. He bit his lip and kept pushing until he got one knee under himself. He stood and looked around. Many soldiers had stopped what they were doing and were watching him. No one showed any sympathy; they all knew who he was. They didn’t know him, but they hated him because of what they’d read about Arcandi Guardians in Washima’s reports.

  Bowe received another jab in the back from the butt of a spear. His scribe’s cloak hung off him, heavy with wet mud. Bowe half-staggered and half-ran forward toward the edge of the camp, not wanting to give the soldiers behind him another excuse to knock him to the ground. He cradled his right stump in his left hand. The pain within it was like something alive, twisting and writhing. He sensed it had started bleeding again, but it was hard to tell with all the mud.

  There was no barrier around the camp, so he just walked past the last of the tents and he was outside it. He kept walking, picking up the pace now that there was no mud to drag at his feet. Once he’d put some distance between himself and the edge of the camp, he turned back. The soldiers who had taken him from the hospital tent hadn’t followed beyond the perimeter of the camp.

  “We’ve been ordered to let you go and not pursue,” one of them shouted. “But you wouldn’t want to be captured again. A lot of us now know what you look like.” Both soldiers turned around and walked back into the center of the camp.

  Bowe decided he’d better get moving before some enterprising soldier decided he had some free time and wanted to use that time Guardian hunting. The edge of the forest wasn’t too far away, so Bowe swiftly walked in that direction, keeping an eye behind him to make sure he wasn’t being followed. When he reached the first tree he stopped and leaned against it, bending over to pant. His body was still weak from the gangrene infection and amputation.

  He didn’t want to risk stopping for long so he ignored the pain in his stump and pushed on, summoning all his reserves of energy and willpower. He found an animal trail that at least allowed him to make progress without having to thrash through the undergrowth. Unfortunately his strength was depleted quickly. It was a lot easier to believe he’d recovered when lying in a bed all day.

  He sat down on an overturned tree trunk, wrapping his left hand tightly around his right forearm and sucking in deep breaths. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel any pain while moving, and it all came rushing back once he stopped. There was some small evidence of bleeding, but it was hard to tell by the mud and Bowe didn’t want to examine it too closely. The bandage hadn’t come loose, at least.

  Now that he was away from the camp, he had to decide what to do. He was perhaps three days from Arcandis, but he was only a day from Belldeem—if he could find the way. He guessed that Iyra was in Belldeem. Washima had mentioned that Iyra was doing a task for him, and Bowe suspected that the Guild leader who was helping the Jarindors was in Belldeem. Washima had also mentioned that he expected the villages and countryside to surrender to him shortly. It all fit.

  There wasn’t a particular reason that Bowe needed to see Iyra, but he hadn’t figured out anything better to do. He missed her; he knew that shouldn’t matter with hands being lopped off and armies invading, but he couldn’t help how he felt. Even if she hadn’t bothered to check whether he recovered from losing his hand, he still wanted to see her.

  He hadn’t come to any conclusions about what to do with all he’d learned about the Jarindors over the past few days. He certainly wasn’t sure that Iyra was right that this would be a good thing for Arcandis, even for the escay. The Jarindors seemed to think they were invading for good reasons, but they were like gilded jewelry. Scratch the thin layer of gold away from the surface, and what was underneath was not so pretty.

  * * *

  With light failing, Bowe wasn’t sure whether he was still heading in the right direction, but he kept going because he at least had found a decent-sized trail to follow. His body had gradually gotten stronger over the course of the day. The muscles in his legs were more tired, of co
urse, but there was less weakness inside him and the pain in the stump was gone. He’d kept moving as much as possible, just at a slow and steady rate. He was glad of the trail right now, glad not to have to perpetually watch his feet and push past branches.

  He was thinking about finding somewhere to rest when he heard some rustling in the undergrowth behind him. He swiveled around. The noise stopped, and Bowe peered in the direction from which it had come, trying to make out the shapes in the gloom. Some animal, he decided, ready to turn and continue on his way. Then he heard it again, closer this time. He could see leaves moving, but couldn’t see what caused it.

  Bowe backed away. A branch snapped off to the left and a dark shadow detached itself from the vegetation and charged at Bowe. Bowe raised his arms as the shadow grabbed him and brought him to the ground. Bowe fell heavily on his back, and roared in pain as something struck his stump. His left arm got tangled up in a branch and the figure, who now straddled him, rained down blows upon Bowe’s shoulders and face. Bowe turned his face sideways and lifted the elbow of his right hand to try to protect himself without getting his stump hit again. Once his panic subsided, he realized there wasn’t much force behind the blows.

  “Wait—what are you doing?” Bowe shouted.

  “I’m not going to stand by and let invaders take over our country,” came the reply. It was a boy’s voice; he seemed taken aback at being addressed.

  Bowe managed to get his left hand free and was able to block more of his young opponent’s blows, though they were now only half-hearted. “I’m not an invader. I’m not from Jarind.”

  The small fists stopped above Bowe’s face. “What else would you be doing sneaking around on Elmando’s Trail? Prove you’re not from Jarind.”

  “Listen to my voice,” Bowe said. “Those from Jarind speak in a strange accent. I don’t, do I?” Bowe figured the boy was about ten or eleven and that he could easily throw him off now that he’d recovered from the initial shock, but he preferred to talk his way out of it if possible. He didn’t want to get another blow on the stump, which was still smarting from the initial hit.

  “I guess not,” the boy said. “But how was I to know the Jarindors speak funny? No one told me.”

  “You know now. Come on, let me up. You can’t just go attacking everyone you run into.”

  The boy stood and backed away. “Dad sent me to check the traps for rabbits. He said to be careful because when the Jarindors come, it would be from this direction. I was supposed to come straight back if I saw anything strange, but when I saw that there was only one of you, I thought I could take you.”

  “Of course you did.” Bowe stood. Now that Bowe could see him better, the boy was about half Bowe’s size with thin arms and a big head. Bowe felt embarrassed for getting knocked over.

  “If you’re not from Jarind, what are you doing sneaking around here?”

  “I escaped from the Jarindors.” Bowe decided the boy might be able to help him. “I need to get to Belldeem.”

  “You escaped? Really? What are they like? Dad says they ride on dragons.”

  “What’s your name?” Bowe asked.

  “Gefkin, but everyone calls me Gef. I’m going to be a marshal one day—one of those marshals who swordfight, not the ones who sit on councils and talk—then I’ll be able to fight off these outlanders when they come. Dad says there’s nothing we can do, that we just have to hope they won’t kill us, but I want to fight.”

  “Doesn’t your dad think that the marshals will be able to fight off the outlanders?”

  “Dad says that the marshals are nearly as bad as the outlanders, and that expecting help from them is like a fly expecting help from a spider.”

  Bowe decided to change his mind about asking Gef to take him to his dad’s house for the night. “You said this was Elmando’s Trail. Does it lead to Belldeem?”

  “No. It leads from Dad’s house to the sea. Why are you coming this way if you want to go to Belldeem?” The boy noticed Bowe’s stump. “Your hand’s missing. Did the Jarindors do that?”

  “Kind of. Is there a trail that leads to Belldeem?”

  Gef nodded. “Course. Yaxman’s Trail. I’ve been to Belldeem plenty of times, it’s not far. I’ve never been to the city, though; Dad says that the size of it would blow my mind.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get to see it someday soon. Will you take me to Yaxman’s Trail? It’ll mean you’ll be helping in the fight against the Jarindors.”

  “‘Course. It starts down by Dad’s house, but we can cut through over here and get there quicker.”

  Gef ducked under a branch to the right and dived between two ferns and disappeared. Bowe followed him. He couldn’t see him, but he was able to follow the shaking branches and rustling leaves.

  “Not too fast or you’ll lose me,” Bowe called after Gef.

  Gef kept racing ahead, and then coming back when he realized Bowe wasn’t behind him. He didn’t have the patience to keep to a steady pace. It was close to full dark now, so branches loomed out of the darkness without warning. Bowe took his time, but even so, he nearly collided with a tree trunk several times.

  Gef’s father doesn’t see much difference between the outlanders and the ascor, Bowe thought. Everyone had a different opinion about the invasion. Iyra presumably thought that nothing could be worse than the present system. The Guild was split, with Coensaw wanting to fight against the ascor alone, but the Guild leader in Belldeem seeking out Jarindor help. The boy, Gef, was possibly surer than anyone else.

  Bowe pushed around a bush and out onto another trail where Gef was waiting for him. This one was wide enough for a wagon, and there was a narrow slit in the canopy of trees allowing moonlight through. The effect was that the wagon trail was lit up, forming a glowing path. If it stayed like that, Bowe could walk through the night.

  “Here you are,” Gef said.

  “And Belldeem is in which direction?”

  Gef laughed hollowly, trying to determine if the question was a serious one. “That way,” he said in the end, pointing.

  Bowe nodded. “Thanks. You better go back to your dad. He might be wondering where you are this late.”

  “‘Course.” Gef started back down the trail, then stopped. “I have to go back and check the rabbit traps first.” He started back the way he had come.

  “Wait,” Bowe said. “Next time you see someone you think is from Jarind, don’t attack them. Go back and tell your father about it.”

  “But that’s cowardice,” Gef said. “I’m not afraid of them.”

  “I know you’re not. But maybe your father is right. It probably doesn’t matter to you whether the outlanders are in charge or the ascor and the marshals.”

  “He’s not right,” Gef said fiercely. “This is our country.”

  A tingle ran down Bowe’s spine. It was strange, but those simple words from the mouth of a ten-year-old boy made Bowe feel something deep within him. The boy didn’t understand the problems of Arcandis; he just knew that this was his world and it was being invaded by outsiders. Sometimes problems were solved by considering them at their most complex. Perhaps it was true that looking at a problem in its simplest form also held possibilities.

  “You’re right.” Bowe didn’t like the idea of Gef ambushing an armed Jarindor. He could be dead before the soldier figured out it was just a kid. “You want to become a marshal, right?” Bowe lifted his stump. “You won’t be able to if this happens to you.” Bowe didn’t want to scare him, but couldn’t think of a better way of getting through. “You have to leave the fighting for grownups this time. And then when you are older, and a marshal, you’ll be able to fight off any further invaders.”

  “They’d do that to me?”

  “Just don’t attack anyone until you’re a bit older.” Bowe left Gef behind and headed up the path. He decided to keep walking all the way to Belldeem if it was at all possible. He needed to get something to eat and didn’t fancy spending the night in the forest. As he followed the
moonlit path, Bowe had plenty to think about as he walked.

  * * *

  When the lights of Belldeem came into view, Bowe let out a long sigh of relief. He’d been close to giving up for the night, but he gained a spurt of energy in seeing his destination so close. As he reached the outskirts of the village, he wondered if he should walk straight through the middle of it. There had been a major search for him not so long ago. But he was unlikely to have anyone recognize him in the dark and he was too tired to do anything except walk down the main street, past the square where Iyra had attempted to sell her carvings, to the house where she stayed. He walked up to the door then stopped. He wasn’t sure that Iyra was even in Belldeem, and even if she was, she mightn’t have come back to this house. He might be waking the farmer who owned the place. As he was hesitating, he heard voices. He leaned in closer.

  “You should go back to Washima.” It was a man’s voice. Bowe didn’t recognize it but he had a feeling he’d heard it before.

  “Do you have a message for him?” It was Iyra’s voice. Bowe’s heart beat faster. She was here. Suddenly he didn’t feel so tired.

  “No, I’ve already sent word to him that everything is ready. Lears has already fled with all the Grenier marshals. Jakelin and the council have agreed not to oppose the Jarindors—not that they have any choice. Washima can claim Belldeem and the rest of the Arcandis countryside as soon as he marches in. Without bloodshed, as he wished.”

  Bowe had been ready to walk in once he heard Iyra’s voice, but now he realized she was talking to the Guild leader who had conspired to bring the Jarindors. He leaned closer.

  “I’m happy to go back,” Iyra said. “But what do you need me to do?”

  “He’ll trust you. It’ll be good to have someone on our side advising him.”

  “Isn’t he on our side?” Iyra asked.

  “Perhaps. All we know for sure right now is that we have a common enemy in the ascor. We’ll figure out if we’ll be friends once that enemy is defeated.”