The Path of the Sword (6 page)

“Here you are, you young scamp. Now be off with you. This kitchen is no place for boys who haven't the sense to eat lunch at a sensible hour,” she said and shooed him away.

He managed to dodge his way back to the door without incident, clutching his prize to his chest like gold and with Marta's voice trailing after him like wind, “And don't be going announcing to all your friends that old Marta hands out freebies else you'll never gull a favor from me again.”

He stood for a moment, a little out of breath, a little dazed, before gingerly spreading the waxed cloth and staring at the treasure buried within. A slab of golden chicken, still hissing faintly, as thick as his finger dripped grease into a warm roll as soft as a cloud and slathered with fresh yellow butter. He almost moaned with delight when the first hint of steam reached his nose. He did moan softly when he took his first bite and it took two more bites before he remembered why he was here in the first place.

Stuffing the rest into his mouth—which made him look like a gathering squirrel—he pounded his way up the stairs to the second floor and went directly to the room he knew was Valik's. He scanned the floor littered with clothing, polished rocks, a long branch with whittle marks, and a thousand other useless bits and pieces, until he saw his prize peeking out from under a soiled work shirt. He was about to grab it up when he remembered his fingers were coated in grease and butter and a day's worth of dirt.

It was an extremely rare occasion when Jurel did something that might be considered unkind. He rarely joined Trig in playing his largely harmless pranks—though he sometimes watched the outcome. He most
certainly
never joined Valik. But on that day, at that moment, a malicious smile, the most malicious grin he had ever worn, worked its way across his lips. He found, hanging from a rod in Valik's closet, a snow-white shirt. Valik's best shirt. Childish rationale butted its way into Jurel's thoughts. His hands were filthy after all. He had to wipe them clean before picking up Valik's most prized possession, right? Right.

Very carefully, he cleaned his hands on the spotless garment, ensuring that he got all the grease from between his fingers, under his nails, and anywhere else grease might hide. Stepping back, he scrutinized his work like a painter, eying this brush stroke and that, ensuring that every one was just so, and when he was satisfied, he plucked the ball from the ground and bolted from the scene of the crime.

Under the sun once again and on his way back to the field on the other side of the fence, he felt vaguely uneasy, like eyes were watching him in disapproval. Perhaps his prank had not been the best way to get back at Valik after all. He did not like Valik but he had set him up for a good thrashing when the greasy shirt was discovered. But Jurel was nothing if not pragmatic, and he figured what was done, was done.

“Hey new kid, what took you so long?” Valik called when he spotted Jurel rounding the main barn. “Did you forget your way?”

Even at that distance, Jurel could hear the cruel edge to Valik's laughter; he found himself a little less regretful.

“No Valik. It just took me time to find it in all your stuff.”

The girls went off on their own—which is to say, Erin did not want to play and Frieza did another admirable job of emulating the older girl.

“Women don't play with balls,” Erin sniffed and her expression was the one most people use when someone passes wind at the dinner table.

“Yeah! Women don't play with balls!” Frieza echoed.

Jurel found that to be something of a relief, if a little confusing; was it not just last week that Erin had muddied her yellow skirts, getting just as filthy as the boys? He liked them well enough he supposed but they were, after all, girls.

They played and laughed in the way that boys do while the sun began its journey downward, in the field that had been stamped flat by livestock en route to and from the grazelands outside the farm compound. There were not many rules to their game except those Valik made up on the spur of the moment and changed whenever it was most convenient for him. It did not matter. The grim memories of earlier were gone and it was a lovely afternoon to play.

An awkward kick sent the ball bouncing and rolling off target, and Trig had to lunge for it. His own kick went wide and it careened toward the fence. Wag, ever the enthusiastic player, raced after it, galloping like a horse, squealing, “I got it, I got it.”

Barely slowing, he spun and kicked...

...And missed completely, nearly belting himself in the head as he went skidding and rolling alongside the slowing ball. He jumped to his feet and the others, laughing, could see his face redden.

“It jumped out of my way,” he called to them defensively amid their gales of laughter.

Eying the ball accusingly, he kicked viciously, and sent it back toward the little group who were still trying to regain their own breaths. Jurel aimed his kick toward Darren but caught it just so and the ball sailed high, seemed to float forward, to slow down as if giving everyone a fine show:
“Look ma! No hands!”
It landed with a hollow thud right on Valik's protruding rat nose. Sitting hard, spluttering, Valik glared at Jurel while a line of redness fell from his nostril.

That's not good
, Jurel thought, his innards clenching like a fist.

“Oh! Valik! I'm sorry. I-”

“You did that on purpose,” he shrieked.

Valik rose to his feet and took threatening steps toward him, his face contorted with rage and drops of blood dripping from his chin, until they stood nearly nose to nose. Though three years his junior, Jurel was quite large for his age and he topped Valik by an inch. The advantage in size did nothing to halt the quaver of fear that Jurel felt.

“No. I swear I didn't mean it,” Jurel cried plaintively. “I was kicking it toward Darren and I missed. I didn't mean-”

Again he was cut off. This time by a wildly swung fist. Jurel recoiled instinctively and Valik missed. Even more enraged Valik howled like a mad coyote and threw himself at Jurel, tackling him to the ground. He swung and swung, and even though Jurel raised his hands protectively, several blows struck home and lances of pain stabbed Jurel's face and chest while he pleaded with Valik to stop.

It was with monumental effort that Trig and Darren hauled Valik off Jurel and to his feet. As soon as the weight lifted off him, Jurel scuttled backward, crab-like to escape the punishing attack. The older boy heaved and struggled, spitting curses at Jurel, his glittering eyes promising more retribution as soon as he got himself loose.

“Enough Valik,” Trig ordered. “He didn't mean to hit you. Leave him alone.”

Like a wolf in a trap, Valik continued writhing and squirming, growling and gnashing his teeth. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or perhaps it was the realization that the two boys would not let him loose, but whatever it was, Valik stopped struggling and slumped in the boys's arms, glared at Jurel and wiped his nose on his sleeve leaving a red line like a paint stroke.

“I'm going to get you for this new kid,” he said and his voice dripped with venom.

When Trig and Darren finally let him loose, Jurel tensed prepared for another attack. But instead, Valik turned and, picking up his ball, stalked off to leave four stunned boys staring after him.

“Now look,” Wag said, spinning to face Jurel with a pout. “He's gone and took his ball cause of you.”

“Shut up Wag,” growled Darren, punching the young boy hard in the arm.

“You all right?” Trig asked, inspecting Jurel's bloody nose and puffy red eye.

“I didn't mean to Trig. Honest. I didn't.”

He fought to keep the tears that threatened at bay, but even so his eyes stung and the world wavered and blurred.

“We know you didn't,” Trig comforted him wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Don't we guys?”

Even Wag did not argue, though because he actually believed it or because he did not want another shot in the arm, no one was certain. They were silent for a moment, shuffling their feet, not letting eyes meet until Jurel tried on a smile which to his mortification trembled alarmingly.

“I don't think I've made my life any easier round here,” he said, more to hear someone speak than anything.

“Aw don't worry about him,” Darren said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He'll piss and moan extra hard for the next few days and then he'll be back to his usual sunny self.”

They all laughed a little at that and things were mostly all right again.

It was not much later, after the sun had dropped a little further in the west, fading from white to yellow and then to orange, that Jurel bade his friends good bye for the day.

“Father will be back soon and I still have my chores to do.”

He waved as his friends called their farewells and he trudged off toward his little cabin, his mood soured considerably. The day had started so well too.

Chapter 6

He sat at the table that dominated the main floor of the cabin, a wooden circle about the size across as his outstretched arms, spotted and pitted with age. It was a cast-off. Galbin had given it to Daved when they moved into the cabin a couple of years ago and it was where father and son spent most of their evenings in discussion and lessons.

The pot-bellied stove in the corner was lit and ready for the dinner that would be cooked as soon as his father got in, and it made the small space a little too hot in spite of the cooling effect of the setting sun. Even the low-ceilinged loft where they slept at the top of the ladder was too hot and Jurel knew he would spend most of the night without a blanket.

The remains of the day glowed purple like a bruise through the side window and mingled with the red gash from the open door on the front of the stove until the room seemed somehow injured. Shadows filled the corners, left endless wells of night there until it seemed that the table and chairs, wood stove and window were all that remained, that this tiny bit of world he could see was all there was and it floated in an empty void. That suited him just fine. It matched his mood.

His chores were finished. He had rushed through them when he got home, too distracted to put more than a passing thought into his duties and he hoped his father would not scrutinize his efforts too closely. His face hurt like someone had punched him—which, of course, someone had. He changed into new clothes as if casting off the muddy, bloody clothes and changing into fresh trousers and shirt, could cast away the events of the day, and he sat in his chair sipping from a cup of cold water, awaiting his father's return.

Which proved to be soon. As the last of the purple faded to black, the latch rattled and he jumped, looking up as the door swung open. His father halted in the doorway, eying him for a moment with hawkish eyes, one eyebrow raised but he said not one word and that made Jurel nervous. He was silent as he climbed the ladder to their loft. He was silent as he changed his own muddied clothes.

The silence was oppressive and heavy, like air before a thunderstorm but he held his tongue, preferring to wait until his father spoke. Feet reappeared at the top of the ladder and started down before there were finally any words, and when they did come, Jurel jumped again.

“We're going to the main house for dinner,” his father said.

His father did not sit. Instead he looked expectantly at Jurel who obediently rose to his feet.

“So how was your day, Jurel?”

Wincing, Jurel stared at his father's broad back as they walked out of the cabin. His father was a good man, an honorable one. But he was not a soft man and that question was too soft, too calmly spoken for Jurel's liking. It was the kind of question a wife asked her husband when she knew of his secret affair.

“It was all right,” Jurel mumbled.

“Oh? Anything special happen today? Anything interesting?”

Of course something interesting happened. I wiped grease all over Valik's best shirt for no good reason and when he finds out he'll beat me to mush. And then I hit him with his ball and he beat me up because I bloodied his idiot nose.

“Not particularly.”

“Really? That's not what Ingirt said to me.”

No one would have missed the warning tone in those words. Last year, Jurel had watched as the hands piled a wagon far too high with bales of hay. They yoked a team of oxen to the overladen wagon and the driver jumped up onto the high seat. With a call and a light crack of his whip, the oxen had pulled and even over the sound of creaking wood and squeaking axles, everyone heard the crack that came from underneath. The driver had jumped off, flailing wildly in the air as, a moment later, a mere heartbeat, the left wheel toppled and the entire wagon tilted crazily, sending bales of hay ramming against the side rails. Those groaned under the strain and snapped, not at all designed to handle that much weight, tumbling all that golden straw to the ground. The driver was caught under the largest bundle and he had screamed as his leg broke with another audible—and much wetter—snap. Jurel thought he heard the same axle-crack quality in his father's voice now. He resisted the urge to look up, to see if something heavy was about to fall on him.

“It was an accident,” the words bubbled out. “I didn't mean for it to happen. I kicked the ball to Darren and Valik's fat nose got in the way. Then the big idiot attacked me.”

“I can see that.”

He raised his hand to his face, to the tender lump under his eye. “I didn't mean to,” he mumbled.

His father spun on his heel, crisply, like a soldier, and he knelt in front of Jurel. Pinning him with his gaze he gripped Jurel's arms in hands that could have doubled as vises.

“It was naught but an accident? You're certain, boy?”

Speechless, almost breathless, he stared into eyes that were hard as diamonds and piercing as daggers, and he could only manage a nod. He thought his father would say more. He thought perhaps his father might not believe him. But then his father abruptly rose and walked on down the dusty path.

“Then that is how you will explain it to Galbin.”

As they passed the squat stone column that was the water well, Jurel could not remain silent any longer. His prank had gnawed at him all day and the moment seemed ripe for truth. His gut clenched again, roiling like an angry serpent but he would not let it deter him. He took a deep breath.