The Path of the Sword (48 page)

They faced each other across the fire like two combatants, one young and full of vigor, the other, old but experienced, prepared to fight a duel until one succumbed. This time, it was Jurel.

“Who's he then?” he muttered, turning his eyes to Mikal.

With a mere twitch of his lips that was probably what passed for an amused laugh, Mikal dropped his stick into the fire, and responded, “I'm Mikal.”

Jurel waited for more, but nothing came until Kurin cleared his throat loudly. Mikal sighed.

“I'm a swordmaster in the Salosian Order,” he said, with the look of a man fighting with his basic nature as though he was not used to stringing more than three words together and the effort cost him dearly.

“Technically, he is Commander Mikal Burens,” Kurin said, “and we are working together toward the same goal. In essence, he is here as my bodyguard.”

A strangled gasp brought Jurel's attention back to Mikal who was glaring at Kurin in indignation.

“First,” the powerful man grunted, “Let's just stick with 'Mikal'. Second,” his glare intensified until Jurel was certain that Kurin must wither under the terrible gaze, and with a voice that sounded like the earth was cracking apart, “'bodyguard'?”

Kurin grinned, and winked at Jurel. “I thought it was a more polite term than 'gofer'.”

Even Jurel could not resist a chuckle at Mikal's expense as he watched the man's eyes bulge and the color drain from his apocalyptic expression. That small chuckle released the tension; Jurel felt some of the connection with Kurin that he had come to cherish, though it was more tenuous than before they had set out that day, and it eased him, loosened his shoulders and even calmed the anger that had threatened to consume him.

“At any rate,” Kurin quickly went on, changing the subject, “I think Mikal is correct. You need to learn how to use your weapon Jurel.”

Jurel's expression turned stony, sullen like a stubborn child refused his favorite toy.

“If Jurel knew how to use his sword effectively,” Mikal said to the fire as though talking to himself, “he would be able to stop attackers without killing them.”

“What do you mean?” Jurel asked.

“Hmm?” Mikal glanced up at him, seemingly surprised he had said anything. “Simply that if you knew how to wield your sword effectively, you wouldn't have to hack and slash. You could disable without killing.”

Dumbstruck, Jurel stared. How does one wield a sword without hacking one's victim to pieces?

“You'll never know unless you try,” Kurin said and again Jurel had the feeling that the old man read his thoughts.

Chapter 36

“Don't forget to breathe, boy,” Mikal murmured as Jurel drew the bow, bringing the arrow to his cheek as Mikal had shown him.

Following his instructions, Jurel took a deep breath, smelling the faint sweetness of the maples that stood dormant, the musty wetness of the rotting foliage at his feet, and even, he thought, a slight musky tinge of the boar that rustled through the bare bushes forty paces away. It reminded him of the little wood that he and his friends used to play hide-and-seek in before his life had turned to dust. The calming odors of the forest tickled his nose as he began to exhale.

He released the taut bowstring.

The arrow whistled through the air like a diving kestrel and, as the boar glanced up, buried deep in its neck. The animal squealed once, and flopped over, its legs still going through the motions of running as though it did not yet realize that its feet no longer touched the ground. Then it was still and a red stain began to spread around its head.

“Nice shot.” Mikal nodded his approval with a powerful clap on Jurel's shoulder that almost dropped the young man to his knees. “We will eat well tonight.”

The fact that the boar was going to provide them with food was the only thing that kept Jurel's guilt at bay.

Bemused, he eyed the felled boar. For the past week, Mikal had been teaching him how to walk through the woods without making as much noise as a rampaging bull and warning every living thing within a half a mile of his presence, and how to use a bow to bring fresh food to their camp. He was good. Much better than he would have expected he could be a week ago. Certainly much better than he was when he had tried his aim on that first boar four days ago.

He and Mikal had made their way up to the crest of a small rise, carefully worming their way up to peek over the edge. On the other side, that boar, immense in Jurel's eyes, had been rummaging around at the base of an oak tree snuffling, maybe, for some winter truffles. Jurel had tried to remember everything Mikal had told him, and when the arrow embedded itself in the boar's rump, Jurel had been proud of himself; a strange dichotomy of exhilaration and guilt had washed through him.

Until Mikal swore and snatched the bow from his hand, and nocked another arrow. Perplexed, Jurel had been about to demand what his problem was until he heard a snort and turned back to see the boar charging them at full tilt, vicious tusks gleaming with a terrible promise. Thankfully, Mikal's aim had been better; the second arrow punched through the beast's thick fur right under its extended snout and it dropped, rolling through the snow almost onto their feet.

Trotting down to his latest kill, Jurel plucked the arrow from the boar's neck and after wiping it clean, stuck it back with its mates in the quiver that Mikal carried. With a grunt, he hefted their dinner onto his shoulder and they made the trek back through the silent forest, crunching through the brittle snow, to the small fire that Kurin tended.

“When we stop tomorrow, I'll start you on the sword,” Mikal said. “But first, I need to teach you how to dress a boar.”

* * *

Pain flared along the side of Jurel's head just above his ear where the flat of Mikal's sword bounced off. Dropping like a sack of potatoes to the ground, Jurel clutched his head and tried to dispel the jangling stars that bounced and gamboled across his sight.
Once again, he mentally thanked Kurin for bringing so many bandages. Most were currently wrapped around the blades of their swords and the rest were wrapped around various bits of him.

“Come on boy. You need to anticipate your opponent,” Mikal growled as he stepped back and motioned Jurel to stand. “Stop looking at my eyes. They only tell you what I want you to know. Watch my chest.”

With a groan, Jurel numbly gripped the hilt of his sword, point down in the earth, hoping that somehow the weapon would stop his world from spinning so nauseatingly, as he levered himself to his feet.

With what Jurel could only call sadistic pleasure, Mikal had been teaching him how to wield a sword every evening after dinner for the better part of a week and Jurel was certain his bruises were bruised. Panting, leaning over his sword like it was a cane, he raised his trembling hand in abject supplication.

“Please,” he begged between gasps, too exhausted to straighten his back or lift his chin from his chest. “Wait a moment.”

“Do you think your opponent will wait for you?” Mikal said. “If this were real, my sword would be stuck in your heart right now.”

Finally managing to look up—a monumental effort—Jurel caught Mikal's glare. It was made all the more menacing by the black eye Jurel had managed to inflict the day before with a lucky elbow.

“Don't forget to breathe, boy. Don't forget to measure your stamina as you fight. Getting winded in the midst of battle will kill you.”

Easy for you to say.
Jurel grimaced. It was true: Mikal did not seem to tire no matter how
long they were out there in their makeshift arenas under the trees. As far as he could tell, Mikal never even seemed to sweat. Unlike Jurel; water seemed to gush from him in streams as though he were melting. He wondered if the muddy ground they practiced on was snowless due to their heavy steps during their sparring or if Jurel had thawed it all away himself.

“Come on, Jurel. Enough dallying. Get that sword up and remember to breathe.”

As if he could forget. His lungs were heaving, dragging in great heaping mouthfuls of cold air and blowing them back out, and it made him wonder at each exhalation if his lungs might leap out in a desperate bid to escape their agonized torture. He almost hoped so.

Mustering every reserve of strength he could find in his sizable yet spent frame, he tensed and lunged with an overhand swipe he knew would surprise Mikal and get through the man's iron clad defense. With a victorious shout, he felt his blade connect...then he felt it slide harmlessly off Mikal's own sword. Stumbling, he flew past the smirking man—he was smirking, damn him!—and he felt a solid, bruise-inducing thwack on his rump that sent him diving face first into the churned mud, his victorious shout changing to a confused, indignant squawk.

Rolling over, he glared at Mikal who was bent over holding his belly as he let out a great braying laugh.

Wiping a tear from his eye Mikal watched Jurel climb to his feet and sobered. “I think we're done for the day. You're not thinking. That was beyond sloppy.”

The only response Jurel could manage was a glare and an entirely obscene gesture that sent Mikal back into gales of laughter.

Chapter 37

Except for the sound of booted feet tramping through the snow and the muted jingle of metal striking metal, all was quiet. No birds sang their defiances of winter, no foxes scrabbled for prey, no boar snuffled for savory little tidbits at the base of trees, nothing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as the troop made their way south, flowing between the trees like wraiths in the morning air.

At the edge of the great forest, Xandru called a halt and his men fell silent, waiting for his next command. He scanned the horizon, squinting his eyes to see better. Scattered bunches of trees dotted the vista like freckles, and far, far to the east, he could just make out a gray blur rising up like a swelling that had to be the Eastern Mountain range, the traditional boundary between the Kingdom of Threimes and the Midlands Kingdom. Those mountains rose far into the sky, soaring until their peaks were lost in the clouds above as though Gaorla had decided at some point in the distant past that He needed a place to rest his feet. The fact that they were still visible even at this distance was a testament to their immensity.

Xandru chuckled. Soon, he thought, soon his master's designs would come to fruition. Then Gaorla would not need a footstool. No, instead he would need a grave. And how does one inter a God anyway? Interesting question; he hoped he would be there to see the answer.

In the nearer distance, he glimpsed the outline of Squid lake, named for the tentacular rivers that flowed from its southern shores. Closing his eyes, he pictured the geography of the land, referring to a map of Threimes that he had memorized before they set out.

“My lord,” Kufix strode up and saluted, banging his fist on his chest. “What are your orders?”

Xandru pondered their next course before responding sarcastically. “Perhaps a visit to Icetown would be in order.”

Icetown was a city located on the eastern shore of Squid lake. At first glance, one might consider it odd that a city, so densely populated and so heavily fortified, would exist in this remote region of the kingdom. The secret was in the mines that dotted the hills of the countryside; gold, silver, and a rainbow of precious stones were routinely carted out of the district and transported to Threimes along the small but well maintained highway that was the only route to and from the city.

“Yes, my lord.”

Xandru heard the tone of resignation in his lieutenant's voice. At any other time, he would have had the man flayed for daring to use such a tone in his presence but in this instance, he could understand the transgression: only fifty strong, a raid on a city as heavily fortified as Icetown would be the last thing this troop ever did.

“Fool,” Xandru growled. “We will steer clear of Icetown. We will make our way south from here, ford the primary river and continue at all speed. Send the scouts to clear the way.”

With another bone-breaking salute, Kufix trotted off, calling orders.

Xandru returned to his study of the landscape, taking in every detail with his sharp eyes. His quarry was out there and he must hunt. When he was successful, his master would praise him and reward him richly. Perhaps he would even be granted command of the army that would avenge his people against that wretched city of Killhern.

Then the Dakariin would sweep south. They would ride, like death itself, to rise once more and the world would bow to their mighty glory.

* * *

Captain Salma wiped her face to clear the drops left by fat, wet flakes of snow that melted as soon as they landed. Disgruntled, she looked down at her uniform in the waning light and sighed. Her tabard hung sodden and limp, and the black cross seemed to be melting down the front of her armor which was already beginning to rust despite her best efforts. Her cape, normally so spotless it gleamed, was covered in gobbets of mud and she made a mental note to requisition another when they returned to their garrison in Grayson City after the completion of their mission.

“Higgens,” she called, searching the faces for her lieutenant.

“Sir!” his voice rose from somewhere in the ranks.

A flurry of activity from the rear of the line caught her attention and she saw the young man push through, harshly demanding the soldiers make way, until he pulled his horse up beside her, matching her pace. Ever the proper soldier, he sat ramrod straight and threw her a salute so perfect that she was momentarily certain he had written that section of the rule book.

“Time to make camp, lieutenant.”

“Yes sir!” Higgens replied. “Anything else, sir?”

“No. You know the drill.”

He turned and waded his horse back into the line, barking out entirely redundant orders as he went and Salma sighed again. He was a good man, but even if she had not been present at his promotion three weeks ago—indeed, she had been the one to pin his new insignia on his tunic—she would have known he was a new officer. He was too...vigorous.

The men did not like him. They resented his constant nagging and his overly strict adherence to the rules but she saw a glimmer of promise on the rare occasion when he thought for himself outside the confines of the book, so she let him take command of the daily routines with the hope that he would find his stride. If he did, he would be a fine officer. Perhaps one of the finest the Soldiers of God would have, but until then, until he could gain the respect of his men, he would have to live with the little mutinies that plagued him: the shit smeared on his tabard, the oatmeal he had found in his boots (with his toes), along with various other little inconveniences that drove the man wild with rage.