The Path of the Sword (3 page)

He performed a quick count of the remaining enemy and felt relief wash over him at his result. By his estimation, the enemy force, about eight thousand strong at the beginning of that hellish day, had dwindled to perhaps a little less than fifteen hundred. It was time to finish this. Spinning on his heel, he quickly searched his own ranks, searched for his second in command, Major Tomis. Who was nowhere to be found. Odd.

He left the battlement, descending a set of stone stairs to the courtyard below where he spied one of his junior lieutenants deep in discussion with his own subordinates. He called out to the young officer who glanced up. The lieutenant's annoyed expression melted when he saw the owner of the voice that interrupted him.

Cracking off last minute orders to his sergeants, who immediately saluted and rushed away to see to their superior’s orders, he scurried over to his commander with a salute of his own.

“
Where’s Tomis?” Ferril snapped.

“
Major Tomis was injured sir. Took a blade in the thigh. He should be at the infirmary now,” the lieutenant’s voice was brisk, business-like and, even amidst the chaos, even as a thorn of unease pricked him, Ferril found himself approving the young officer’s efficiency.

“
Is it serious?”

“
By all reports, no sir. Looks nastier than it is. The wound took him out of commission for the duration of the battle but he should be up and about in a day or two, I’m told,” the lieutenant reported, standing at attention. Ferril noted that as professional as he seemed, he could not hide the fire of pride burning in his eyes. Like Ferril himself, the men thought highly of Tomis and would not like to hear of anything serious happening to him.

“
Good,” Ferril grunted. He was far better at schooling his emotions. His subordinate did not see the relief he felt at that news. “Has the second company of cavalry been prepared?”

“
Yes sir.”

“
They have their orders. Send them.”

“
Yes sir.” Another quick salute and his junior officer ran off.

Wanting to see the outcome, and praying to God that this time, things would go according to plan, he retraced his steps to the battlements above, to almost the exact same position he had stood in for most of the day.

As he ascended, his thoughts were dark. The duke would have someone’s head on a platter for this debacle. Ferril had a pretty good idea whose head it would be.

At least,
he thought ruefully, climbing the final steps,
Tomis is alive. He will make a fine garrison commander after I’ve been removed.

Chapter 4

Daved opened his eyes and for a moment he thought they were still closed before he realized that he lay in impenetrable darkness. He lay unmoving trying to recall where he was, how he had gotten there. It was the sickly sweet odor of stale liquor backdropped by the bitterness of ashes that reminded him.

He raised his head and the muscles in his neck went limp when an agony of fire erupted between his ears, behind his eyes. A wave of nausea threatened to empty his belly though there was not much in there. He lay still, closing his eyes—
that
helped not at all—head lowered again, and concentrated on settling the acidic churning.

After a time, he tried again. Gingerly, slowly, he undertook the monumental task of standing. He might have been trying to scale sheer cliffs with rocks tied to his feet, or swim across the ocean and he thought it would have been no harder to do. He reached his knees before vertigo took him, caused the room to tilt and whirl like a bucking stallion. Panting, his gorge threatening to reverse itself, he hung his head between his arms, and thanked his luck that he was in total blackness—at least he did not have to
see
the room dance a merry jig around him
.

He hoisted his battered frame off the ground with a quiet grunt, clutching the bar that had been both his savior and his undoing, and he rose to his feet, inordinately proud of himself for accomplishing such an easy task, such an impossible feat.

Opening his eyes, he peered through the gloom. Through the broken roof and the shattered door, he saw night had fallen; the only light in the tavern was a pale hint of moonlight that teased across the floor, so dim that perhaps he imagined it. He tried to suppress a shiver, failed. It had grown cold and the sweat, blood and garbage covering him, that made him stink worse than any smoke or stale liquor ever could, felt like it was all freezing to him. At least the air was bracing; it had the effect of rousing him somewhat, of waking him.

But still he felt he was in a nightmare.

He rifled behind the bar, searching, clay clattering and glass shattering as it tumbled to the floor, until he wrapped a hand around the neck of a bottle that felt comfortingly heavy. He uncorked it, raised it gratefully to his lips and drank. His parched throat screamed when bitter wine touched it—not Gram's best stuff, not by far; probably the stuff he served peasants for a copper a glass—but he drank until the bottle was nearly empty. Thirst quenched, he rummaged around on the floor, and with a hiss, he found his sword. Blade first, of course.

Sheathing his weapon, vaguely surprised he still
had
his sheath, he stepped around the edge of the bar, and stumbled. The floor was littered with dented goblets and shattered bowls, overturned tables and smashed benches. It was an obstacle course through which he carefully wended, his feet rustling the filthy, sooty rushes that covered the floors in uneven lumps.

In the depths of the murk, he spied a darker dark, a shadow in a shadow. It was a familiar shape, like something he had seen often, like something...like some
one...

“
Oh Gram,” Daved sighed quietly.

The owner of the tavern lay cold near a hearth that was even colder. He thought he should search for Gram's wife, he thought he should search for their son (
bright eyes gazing at the spinning top Daved had brought with him, staring with the innocent wonder that only the very young can have, little hands clapping merrily. A squeal of pure delight...no. Not now).
They were like family to him, their door always open for him and he felt he owed them that much. But he could not bear to see them. Not like this.

(
Not now)

Time for that later. Time to mourn the dead only if one did not become a member of that exclusive club. There were other things to attend to.

Shivering again, the cold leeching into his very bones, he crossed the rest of the room to the front door and peeked out, surveying the square. It was exactly as it had been when he had arrived earlier, when he had found safety and solace from roaming hunters, but the moonlight added an even eerier quality to the macabre scene. Now everything was painted bone pale, the shadows like blood. Something nagged at him, nipped at the edges of his consciousness like gnats. The elusive thought would not go away no matter how he swatted at it, but neither did it make itself easily known like a word that lurks at the tip of one's tongue.

He stepped out into the silent street, kept his eyes peeled, darting, watching for anything, everything. His ears strained, as alert as his eyes, and as he listened, he was comforted with the knowledge that he should be able to hear a bird fart from the next street over in the...

Silence. That was the nagging thought. As distant as the sounds of battle had been, they had been there. They had accompanied him on his mad dash through the city, nipping at his heels like a pack of coyotes, and before that the vibrant sounds of a thriving city. Now, there was naught but deafening silence. Like a graveyard filled with crumbling mausoleums.

The battle was over. He was suddenly certain of it. But who won? He scanned the skyline to the south, and another emptiness greeted him. Through the wisps of smoke that streaked the air like ghosts he saw no telltale glow. No fire then. Above, the stars ducked in and out of hiding behind ephemeral scarves, winking and twinkling as if they laughed at some joke that was too great, too profound for him to understand. If the Dakariin had won, surely the entire city would be a bonfire. Those savages lived to pillage, to burn. To kill.

He made a decision at that moment, a collapse of thought, of mind that anyone who knew him would have gasped a startled breath to see. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps it was the wine starting to work its magic, but either way, he threw caution to the wind. He trudged south down the middle of the road, not caring if some Dakariin were left, not caring if he suddenly felt the searing pain of sword or arrow, toward the keep and his garrison and his bed in the barracks. If he made it, great. If not, well, that would be fine too. He had his fill of blood and death, of terror and sorrow. He was done.

As he walked, he wondered what he would do after he filed for his discharge. Perhaps he could sign on with a merchant, but what would he do? Be a guard? Too close to his current career path. Or maybe he would see about working in a mill. That was more like it. No. A farm. Yes that's the ticket. He would find a farm out in the middle of nowhere where he could spend the rest of his days encouraging things to grow and to live. But he would worry about it later (
not now)
. Tonight, he wanted his bed and nothing more. He fixed his eyes on the skyline, no longer able to stomach the horrors that littered the streets of the city he had spent the last five years defending, afraid he would not be able to contain the tears which threatened to wash away his sanity.

He did not see the mound in the road that tripped him.
Face in the dirt again,
he thought grimly amused.
Becoming a habit today. At least there's no garbage.
Mad laughter fought bitter tears but he stifled both. Spitting dirt, he rolled to see what had felled him.

The tears won after all.

At his feet lay a small bundle, a tiny form with arms outstretched. A mop of tousled hair covered the face but Daved knew. He knew. Reaching down, Daved choked back (
not now!
) a sob. So small, so young. The Dakariin had not discriminated. He drew the small form into his lap and brushed hair away, saw the pale face that seemed too peaceful, too calm. He was right, of course. He knew. He knew this boy. He had given this boy sweets, toys (
bright eyes gazing...Not now
), he had played with this boy as Gram poured them drinks. He had not found Gram's wife, but he had found his son.

He thought of the last time he had seen this boy. He was nearly drunk and this boy had stepped to his side, tugged at his sleeve to get his attention.
“Haven't you had enough?”
the boy had asked and so innocent was the question, so immensely beyond the boy's five years was his tone, that instead of taking offense, Daved had laughed even as Gram had chastised his son for rudeness. He was a quiet lad, strangely serious for one so young, but there was always a mischievous sparkle lurking just behind eyes and Daved had found it endearing, and he knew that this boy, this tiny young creature had caused his parents grief from time to time. Of course he knew. He had heard the stories.

(
bright eyes gazing...NOT NOW!
)

The entire day seemed to be summed up by the tiny form in his arms. The surprise invasion at dawn, the burning city, the botched sortie that saw all his fellows butchered, the mad flight through death filled streets: it all came to this.

(
Okay. Yes, now.)

He wept then, great choking sobs bursting from his gut, and he bowed his head, letting the grief take him, letting the horror be washed away by a bitter flood of salt water.

He pulled the boy close to him, hugging him to his chest and let his grief out.

A movement. A twitch. He gasped and stared down at the still figure, frozen, hope burgeoning like the sun in his chest, but still he had seen too much. He would not let the hope shine through. Not yet. He felt no more from the boy. Perhaps he had not felt anything anyway. It was too much to hope for, too unlikely.

The boy moaned and if there had been any noise anywhere, it would have been drowned out, but the streets were silent, the city dead, and Daved heard it. He fixed his eyes on the boy, watched for any sign of movement, felt for the expansion and compression of breathing.

It was there. Barely, but it was.

The boy's eyelids fluttered slightly and he shifted minutely in Daved's arms. The tears of sorrow turned to tears of joy and where, a moment before, he had to stifle cries of rage and bitterness, now he had to stifle shouts of joy. He was not alone. He was not the only living thing in the graveyard. Somehow, he felt a connection to the boy, a rightness that he could not explain and he made his second life-changing decision then.

“
I'm going to take care of you, boy. I'm going to see to it that you have the best life I can provide for you.”

As impulsive as it was, it
was
a life-changing decision. He knew that. What he did not know was how
many
lives he had just changed.

Part 2:

Of Swords and Plowshares

“
A simple life leads to a simple mind”

-proverb

Chapter 5

The cabin stood as it always did, stoic and enduring. It was a plain building with simple logs stacked one atop the next, white-washed to keep them from rotting, and mortared together to keep out the weather. That is not to say that the cabin was slapdash or ramshackle. Not at all. It was plain, but it was meticulously constructed, and any master craftsman would have been proud to call it his work. The walls were straight and true, and if a carpenter laid a level, one of those newfangled gadgets just now filtering into the kingdom from the great and advanced empire of Kashya, down along any of those logs, he would have seen the mysterious, magical little bubble in the glass tube was dead center between the notches. It was not a large cabin—an average man could have walked the entire length of it with less than a dozen average paces, but there was definitely an impression about it that an army with battering rams would not have succeeded in knocking down those walls or even the plain wooden door sitting flush in its jamb with not even the slightest crack to let in either the hot summer sun or cold winter air.