The Path of the Sword (41 page)

They came to a halt and the four soldiers spread out, ringing the cart, one to a side, and Jurel got his first look at real Soldiers of God, fireside characters come to life. Sitting proudly atop tall mounts, with drawn swords, it was easy to believe all the stories. Each was attired identically. Under their mud splattered white capes, they wore crimson tabards emblazoned with a black cross. Each one was heavily armored, wearing a breastplate and chain mail, and a polished helmet that shone like liquid silver even in the grayness with slits for eyes. A blood red tassel rose from the center of each flat top. They carried oval shields, embossed and painted with the same crosses as their tabards. They could have been heroes of myth out to slay the mighty beast and save the captive maiden.

The lead soldier, the one at the front of the cart, removed his helm revealing a man of perhaps thirty years with disheveled blond hair and handsome features under ice cold eyes. He perused them, taking in everything with those calculating eyes. A small smile, as icy as his eyes, spread across his clean shaven face.

“Well well, what do we have here?” he asked with a fluid and cultured voice, and his men chuckled quietly, muffled and oddly metallic under their helms. “Two fat hares running from a pack of wolves, hmm?”

“M'lord,” Kurin said in a quavery old man's voice, the complete opposite of his usually velvet baritone and Jurel tried not to gape at him. “Forgive an old man for not recognizing brave young Soldiers of God. I did not mean to flee from such glorious men.”

“Yes. And yet you were fleeing. Why, pray tell, would you feel the need to do such a thing?” the soldier asked.

Jurel had the sinking feeling the man was baiting them, was waiting for just the right moment to spring an unseen trap.

“I beg forgiveness, Major. I mistook you for common brigands. My eyes are failing in my dotage, you see.”

“It's Captain. Captain Markens. And what of the young man who rides with you? Are his eyes failing too, I wonder?” The Soldier's voice was quiet, dangerous.

A bead of sweat ran down Jurel's side from his armpit and the ringing in his ears intensified so it could no longer be ignored. He could still hear the words exchanged among the men but he had to concentrate.

“Oh him? He's spent his entire life on a farm. He's never seen such magnificent men as you. What do you say, Willis? Have you ever seen such splendor?” Kurin turned to face him, his eyes hardening for a moment.
Pay attention and play along, boy,
they said.

Jurel could not speak. As he stared at Kurin, all he could manage was a slight shake of his head. Turning back to Captain Markens, Kurin spread his arms in appeal.

“You see, Major? Living legends have gone sprung up and it's addled his already dim wits. Please, my lord, let us pass. I regret the misunderstanding but we mean no harm.”

“And what, then, brings a blind old man and a young boor out onto the roads at this time?” Markens asked. The trap quivered.

“I promised young Willis on his birthday that I would show him a real town and since I have need of some medicinal supplies, I thought to bring him to Merris to fulfill that promise,” he shrugged.

The captain snorted and shook his head.

“What say you, men? Shall we let these poor souls pass?” Markens called derisively to his troop, looking from one to the next. “Shall we believe their story?” Again the men surrounding the cart chuckled coldly.

Kurin smiled, no more than a sickly twist of his lips. He felt the trap closing too. A handful of heartbeats later, Markens turned back to them, his face stony.

“Enough of this. I think my men and I agree that we need to ask you a few more questions, Master Kurin.”

Jurel tensed as a chill finger climbed his spine, the hair on his arms prickled as gooseflesh rose. He heard Kurin sigh.

“Well, it was worth a try, Captain,” Kurin said in his normal voice. “So then, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“So this is your new pet then, is it?”

“I will thank you kindly to show a little respect, Captain,” Kurin said. His tone was like thunder rumbling in the distance, an ominous portent of an impending storm. “He is no pet. He is a young man and he is my friend.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Markens smiled again, anything but apologetic. “Well then, I must
respectfully
demand that you and your...friend...accompany us.”

“I would really rather not.”

“That is unfortunate. You see, my orders are quite clear: you are to be taken to Threimes and tried for heresy. The boy is an accomplice and will be tried alongside you.” He raised his sword over his head. “Take them!”

The three Soldiers urged their horses forward a pace. It was a dream, a nightmare brought on by a meal gone sour, Jurel's mind feverishly asserted. A few short weeks ago, he was just a farmer's son, a young man with no more care in the world than making sure the silo was in order and now he was an exile, hunted for murder, nearly assassinated in a forest at night, surrounded by living legends who knew Kurin by name and threatened them both with violence. It was just too surreal. His attention returned to Kurin as the old man muttered hasty words under his breath to him.

“Be ready my boy. I know you hate this kind of thing but if they take us, we won't survive very long. We have no choice but to try to fight our way clear.”

“Against four armored Soldiers? Are you mad?” Jurel gasped louder than he intended.

“Die now in an attempt to gain freedom, or die later, burned on a pyre for heresy. Probably after several vicious torturings. You choose,” Kurin whispered furiously.

The soldiers moved forward another step in unison, leveling their blades and Jurel shrank back in fear.

“Oh god, no,” he moaned.

“Alive or dead, you choose,” he heard Markens say to Kurin before that horrible ringing in his ears drowned out everything.

He did not realize what he did. He just did it. Reaching under the packs, he felt for his own sword, felt the hard leather of the sheath cold in his hand and, in one fluid motion, stood and drew his weapon, letting the sheath drop to his feet. Waves of rage battered him, threatened to overwhelm him as he stood panting, slavering like a rabid dog. He quivered in anticipation, fire flowing through his veins, as the promise of blood sent an electric thrill through him.

He heard as from far away one of the soldiers cry out in warning—no words, just meaningless noises—and he saw shields raised protectively. The soldier in front of Jurel spurred forward, and swung his sword powerfully, intent on cutting Jurel in half. Jurel's own sword rose unbidden and deflected the blade harmlessly over his head. His free hand shot out and tore the soldiers shield away; in the same motion, he brought his sword down at the soldier's exposed chest. The sword rang as it bit into the armor, penetrating the steel like it was made of nothing more solid than soft, wet wood. The soldier howled in pain and toppled from his horse. He tore his sword free, blood streaming in small droplets, forming a red arc in the air when he swung around to face his next opponent.

A flash of steel, instinct screamed, and he dove under the sword, rolling neatly on the ground before rising, driving his sword with an upward thrust at the second soldier. The soldier hastily raised his shield and pushed out, causing Jurel's blade to bounce off, spinning him around. He turned again to the mounted soldier and saw another glittering arc as the soldier swept his blade again. Jurel danced back, felt a breath of icy air as the point whistled past no more than an inch away from his nose. He brought his sword back up and caught the soldier's backhand swing stopping the blade dead. Gripping the metal, he plucked it from the Soldier's hand, numb from the force of the impact and tossed it aside.

Unarmed, the Soldier turned his horse, trying to get out of Jurel's range but Jurel, gripped in his bizarre blood-lust, would not be denied. He jumped inhumanly high off the ground, clearing the horse's shoulders with ease, and swung two handed with all his considerable strength. The sword met the Soldier's shoulder and sliced diagonally, amidst a gout of spurting blood, almost to the man's waist. There was no howl from this one as he toppled limply to the ground.

Spinning on his heel, Jurel spared a glance for Kurin, saw the third soldier on the ground with the hilt of Kurin's dagger protruding from his neck, saw Kurin dive off the cart, as Captain Markens blade cut the space he had occupied an instant before.

Jurel leapt again, this time over the side of the cart and onto the driver's bench to face Markens. The captain recoiled in shock at the young man, expression contorted with rage, splattered with the blood of his men, and spurred his horse. The horse reared, kicked at Jurel's head, forcing him to duck out of the away. Taking advantage of that momentary reprieve, he wheeled his mount and viciously kicked its flanks, spurring it into a gallop. Jurel surged forward, trying to catch the retreating Soldier, missed and stopped. At some level below his rabid mind, he knew that it was useless to try to catch him on foot.

He stood, gasping, swallowing great lungfuls of air. The wintry air cooled him, doused the raging inferno inside and he started to tremble. His sword slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the ground at his feet. He turned slowly, taking in the carnage: three men lay dead, two at his own hands, no more than broken heaps of meat encased in torn metal. He was cold. So damned cold.

“By the gods, Jurel,” Kurin whispered. Jurel turned to the old man who faced him, wide-eyed. He struggled for coherent thought but every time his mind grasped at an idea, it turned to mist and slipped away. The world grew dark as he stared wordlessly at the old man. His knees stopped responding to his commands. Surprised, he suddenly found himself sitting on the ground, wondering how he had gotten there and the last thing he saw before the light of the world winked out was Kurin standing in front of him, concern etched in his features, calling out to him.

Chapter 29

The room was dark. The single candle flickered, sending its light almost hesitantly to the stuccoed walls, dirty with the accumulation of countless years of soot. Jurel circled slowly trying to get his bearings, trying to find any clue that would reveal his present location. There was a small bed, its covers drawn tightly; no one had slept there recently. There was a small table—four sticks that held up a plain board—on which the candle sat. There was a small door, certainly too small for someone of his size to fit through unless he crawled. He saw a mirror, and felt drawn to it.

Confusion welled in him as he stood gazing at his reflection. He blinked, certain that he was mistaken, but no matter how many times he did, still the reflection remained. He wore armor so black it seemed to gather and absorb the meager light, and gilt with golden whorls that glimmered like lava, beautiful yet somehow terrible.

He looked down and saw that he held his father's sword by his side, shining eerily, imbued with its own inner light, a light that did not touch its surroundings but instead seemed to disappear into nothingness. When he tried to release it, he found he could not open his fingers. It seemed appropriate that he held it; he did not fight it.

Stepping to the door, he found that it was not too small after all. It was, in fact, just the right size for him, inviting him to pass through. It swung open, untouched, and he was looking down a faint hallway, dimmer even than his little room, most of it hidden in inky darkness. He stepped through the door.

Light exploded.

It was cold in the field he stood in, a deep cold that seeped into his bones, chilling him from the inside out. A hundred or so paces ahead of him, he beheld two vast armies facing each other, weapons drawn, expressions grim, bestial, as they glared across the verdant field at each other. The two armies were silent, motionless, a tapestry of death waiting for...something. Beyond them, Jurel could not see anything for there hung a bank of fog so dense that it created a border obscuring all beyond. He turned wonderingly, noting that the fog circled the battlefield, and when he turned back to where the door should have been, he was not surprised when he saw nothing but that bank of fog in the near distance.

When he faced the armies again, he found himself compelled to join them, to walk amongst them. And so he took a step forward. Then another step. Then more, not altogether sure he controlled his own motions, not sure it really mattered. He walked down the middle of the empty ground, feet swishing the dew speckled grass, between the armies until he stood at the very center of the motionless maelstrom.

He raised a hand to his face, felt wetness and when he drew back, he saw tears on the tips of his fingers. He wept. He wept for the soldiers who were about to die. He wept at the meaningless bloodshed that this arena would see. He wept because...

He raised his sword over his head and he heard his voice ring like a clarion, clear and angry, though he had not spoken. His voice that was not his voice called, roared one single word.

“
ATTACK!”

A deafening roar rose from the two armies, a thousand,
ten
thousand, voices merged into one single terrifying sonata and the men rushed forward, flowed past Jurel and began cutting each other down. Men hacked, blood flowed, men screamed. None of it touched him though he stood in the center of it all, the eye of the storm. He understood. He wept because men died and it was his doing.

Jurel watched the unfolding horror, weeping freely, sword in hand, and he turned.

He gasped. In front of him, an arm's length away stood an ancient man, tall, taller than Jurel even, with long white hair flowing around a face covered in crags. His eyes, so tired, so careworn, shone a brilliant blue. Jurel recognized him. Or thought he should. The man smiled quietly, sadly at Jurel and nodded once. Realization dawned on Jurel. He
did
know this old man. He gaped, unable to speak.

He gazed upon Gaorla.

The god's smile widened a little with Jurel's dawning recognition.

“So,” a deep voice said, “it is to be you.”