The Path of the Sword (50 page)

“You have no idea who you are dealing with, you corpulent bag of shit,” Thalor grated when he found his voice.

Calen froze, his expression changing from insincere welcome to icy haughtiness in the blink of an eye.

“Be very careful how you tread, Thalor,” he warned quietly, his tone as frigid as his features. “I hear that Grand Prelate Maten is not very happy with you about keeping your knowledge of Kurin secret. Were I you, I would not want to add to the list of reasons for him to be angry with me.”

Thalor felt the blood drain from his face. He tried to find words but there was nothing he could say. A stab of unfamiliar emotion passed through him. Was that helplessness he felt? Mingled perhaps with fear? Suddenly, he wished he had taken Calen up on his insincere offer of wine. His mouth was so dry, he thought surely he would spit a cloud of dust.

Without uttering a word, Thalor spun on his heel and fled, not seeing the malicious grin that twisted Calen's obscene lips.

Chapter 39

How many more days was he going to have to do this? Jurel was splayed out in the back of the cart, staring at the overcast sky, resting his eyes after finishing another of Kurin's small collection of books. 'Sacred Writings of the Salosian Faith' was an ancient text and obviously translated from some other language—one that Kurin informed him was now long lost in the mists of time—and it had nearly driven Jurel insane with its twists and muddled phrasing. Even after spending hours concentrating on it, deciphering it, he was not so sure that he understood more than half of what he had read. He had understood enough to realize the basis of Kurin's faith; it gave him some insight, though patchy, of the old man, and how his mind worked.

According to the book, the primary mission of the Salosian Order was peace, preferring to train healers and scholars over soldiers and preachers (though they had those too). They, like the Gaorlan Order, worshiped Gaorla above all but unlike the Gaorlans, the Salosians believed in polytheism. When they worshiped Gaorla, each brother or sister chose a subordinate god to praise, believing that it was through their chosen deity that Gaorla heard their prayers. So, in a way, Gaorla's pantheon was somewhat akin to an ambassadorial delegation, a bridge between humankind and all mighty Gaorla—or so the ancient philosopher Salos believed when he inked his original work nearly two thousand years before.

Jurel wondered who Kurin's patron god was. If he had read things right, then Valsa was the goddess of life and healing. It seemed likely that Kurin would have chosen her, all things considered. Then again, that part of the book had been cryptic, a mishmash jumble that Jurel had had to read four times over before he felt he understood it. If he was right, then Shomra was the god of death and Maora was the god of knowledge. If he was right.

One thing still nagged at him. There were several instances where Salos had referred to missing gods. Gods that had yet to rise to their rightful places at Gaorla's table but besides a few vague references, Salos seemed to have been at a loss as to who these mysterious newcomers were and what their roles would be.

With a deep sigh and a frustrated curse, Jurel repositioned himself, getting rid of the ubiquitous rock that had mysteriously managed to hide itself in the cart, waiting for him to find it with some tender part of his anatomy.

The gentle swaying of the cart along with the rhythmic sound of horse hooves thudding in the dirt threatened to put him to sleep. Pulling himself up from his lethargic musings, Jurel figured there was only one way to find out more about the old man who, for all their time together, was still an enigma.

“The book says that you have a patron god. Who's yours?”

Kurin stared forward as if he had not heard the question.

“Kurin?”

With a sigh the old man turned slightly and glared down over his shoulder. “It's not a polite thing to ask.”

“He does not know our ways, Kurin,” Mikal rumbled from his horse. “You cannot blame the man for wanting to ask questions.”

Kurin remained silent for so long, Jurel turned away in disgust before he finally spoke.

“You must understand, Jurel, that to discuss these matters with outsiders—that is, folk who are not of the Salosian Order—can mean my death. Remember that we are considered heretics. It is not that I do not trust you. It is rather that my reticence has become ingrained and I find it difficult to speak. However, you are, in essence, one of us now even if you have not taken the oaths. I suppose it is only fair to answer your questions.

“My patron is the goddess Valsa. She is the goddess of life and healing and I have sworn to dedicate myself to aiding people in need. That is why I spend my life as a healer.”

“And you Mikal?”

Mikal grunted and it took a moment for Jurel to realize he chuckled. “My patron is, as yet, unnamed.”

“I don't understand.”

“Did you read the book?” Kurin asked.

“Of course. I noticed that there were several references to other gods that no one knows about but I didn't really understand it.”

“Well, my boy, there is another book in there that you have yet to read.”

Jurel thought of that last book and shivered. He had been avoiding that one though he did not really know why. Call it an instinct, a vague impression. Like that feeling one sometimes gets when he opens a door to a dark room and knows, just knows, that there is already someone in there. Digging through the mess of books, he pulled out the black leather bound tome and once again read the blood red title: ANCIENT PROPHECIES: GOD OF WAR.

It felt cold in his hands, colder than the chill winter air could account for yet somehow, it seemed alive. It called to him, a taunting call that set his teeth on edge, daring him to open the front cover and read its story. When he touched the front cover with his free hand, the book seemed to tremble in breathless anticipation, like a lover quivering under a caress. The world seemed to fade around him, contracting: the sound of the river quieted to a muted grumble, the trees faded until they were barely a memory, and even the cart he rode in became a distant thing as though, somehow, the book transported him to another world or another time. Just
else
where.

Holding his breath, he carefully turned the front cover over, revealing a page of purest red with golden letters repeating the title of the book embossed delicately into the parchment. His vision tunneled further; all he saw was the book. Carefully, ever so carefully, he turned the brittle bloody page.

A flash of blue-white light. An angry crackle. Pain lanced through his fingers and jolted his arm.

Jurel yelped and recoiled, dropping the book to the bed of the cart. The world crashed back in around him. The roar of the river seemed too loud, the trees loomed tall and even though the sun seemed unnaturally bright, the book remained obscured by shadow, as if the sun could not touch it.

“Why didn't you warn me it would do that?” Jurel asked.

Kurin stared, quite surprised by the young man's reaction, quite surprised by the tiny lightning bolt
that passed from Jurel to the book.

“That, Jurel, was something that I would not have expected. It is just a book.”

“Just a book?” Incredulity stretched Jurel's features as he stared at the book the way he might stare at a venomous snake. A tendril of smoke lazily coiled its way up from the singed cover where Jurel had held it. “The bloody thing tried to kill me.”

As if to prove a point, Mikal reached over and picked up the book, carelessly flipped open its front cover and riffled through the pages with his thumb. “Just a book,” he echoed with a shrug, handing it back to Jurel.

Backing away was no mean feat in such a small cart but Jurel managed it, pressing himself against the slat wall and deliberately putting his hands behind his back as he stared at the thing in Mikal's hand. “Oh no. I'm not touching it.”

“Be sensible, Jurel,” Kurin said. “The book did nothing to you.”

“Tell that to my fingers,” he muttered. He inspected the shiny pads of his fingertips, prodding the red spots that looked like little sunburns.

“It was not the book, Jurel,” Mikal rumbled. His face was expressionless as he continued to hold the book outstretched toward Jurel. “It was you.”

“Me?” He snorted. “That's impossible.”

Throwing his hands in the air as if in supplication, Kurin blew out a disgusted, “Why me?” He reined in, pulling the cart to a stop and turned to glare at Jurel. “It's time to stop denying yourself, Jurel. It's time you faced some truths.”

Taken aback, Jurel's eyes flicked from Kurin to Mikal and back. “I-I don't understand.”

“Think boy. You're a farmer's son, no?” He waited for Jurel's hesitant nod before continuing. “How do you suppose a farmer's son was able to take on trained and armored soldiers, killing two of them and come out unscathed? Damn it, you nearly cut one in half and he wore a full
breastplate.

“How do you suppose that inside a week, you're able to fire arrows as accurately as a man who has been practicing the martial arts for decades?” He gestured to Mikal.

“And how do you suppose that in just a couple of weeks, you've managed to become more than competent with your sword? I've seen the two of you return to camp after your training sessions. Every night, Mikal returns with more wounds. He is a swordmaster, capable of besting nearly anyone with his weapons and yet, somehow, you get behind his guard. Somehow, you manage feats that soldiers with ten times your experience can only dream of.”

His mind was blank. He did not know how these things had happened. He had tried very hard not to think of it. Before he could think up any excuses to explain away his seemingly prodigious grasp of weaponry, Kurin broke in with one final blow.

“
And how about your injuries. When you first came to my door, you presented bodily damage that would have left almost anyone comatose and some dead. You, on the other hand, managed to trek through a forest in the depths of winter, leaving only Valsa knows how much of your blood behind. Most people in that condition would have taken months to recover
if
they recovered at all. It took you days.”

“Yes, but-”

“And your leg? How long has it been since that bandit stuck you with that dagger? Not long enough for you to be able to walk without a limp let alone practice swordcraft and yet, there you are, every night, moving with enough agility to knock Mikal around. I don't need to check your leg now to know that it no longer even requires a bandage.” Kurin's voice rose as a fervor took him and he was almost shouting, caught as he was in some sort of religious paroxysm.

“But-”

“No Jurel. No buts,” his voice dropped to a tender whisper. “There is something about you. Something special. I intend to find out what and I intend to help you understand it. I intend to help you if you will let me. But first, you must learn to admit it.”

Staring at the old man, Jurel felt something within unravel. Admit what? How could he admit to something when he did not even know what that something was? He knew strange things had happened. Never minding all the other instances that Kurin had mentioned, that archer in Merris should have skewered him yet somehow—
time slowed—
he had picked the arrow out of the air with no more haste than he would have picked cherries. And Shenk? Something...

He knew that whenever he heard that hellish ringing in his ears, he was about to perform deeds that were outside his normal abilities. It was as though that awful ringing were a harbinger, an omen of bloodshed to come, his subconscious mind's way of telling him to expect bad things. But he did not know where the ringing came from, or how it made him able to do
more
.

He was faster and stronger when that ringing started. His senses always felt heightened; sensations that he should have been able to register only at the lowest level as no more than a blur, became fully realized. In the middle of the conflict with the Soldiers, aromas, so faint he could barely make them out over the smell of horses, resolved themselves into the stench of sweat and leather, blood and bad breath. And fear. With the ringing pulsing in his head, he could see every nick and scratch in the surface of sword and armor no matter how diligently they had been polished.

And somehow, whenever that ringing pealed away, like the bells at the gates of the underworld, his sword always managed to find the flaw in his opponent's defenses, always seemed to know exactly where to be at just the right time to slip in and spill his enemy's blood. It was like, for all his hatred of violence and for all his fear of bloodshed, he had been built specifically for it.

So, it is to be you.
The words rose through the miasma of his thoughts forcing their way to the forefront, rattling him further. He seemed to recall hearing those words but he could not quite put his
finger on it as though they had come from his distant past or from a dream long forgotten.
He could not
place the words, but he knew they were important. He picked at the memory like it
was an old scab but
no matter what he tried, the only other thing he managed to get from those words was the sensation of holding a sword and an intense feeling of horror.
What
is to be me?
Who am I?
What
am I?

When he finally managed to climb the slippery slopes of his thoughts and emerge back into the sunlight, he felt the gentle rocking of the cart in motion.

“I don't understand.”

“Ah Jurel. I'm glad to see you have returned to us,” Kurin remarked idly from his vantage point. “I was beginning to wonder if we'd ever dig you out of your daydreams.”

With a glance up to the sun, Jurel realized with an unsettling lurch that he had been deep in his own thoughts for at least two or three hours; the sun had not only reached its zenith, it was now well on its way toward the end of another day's journey.