The Path of the Sword (75 page)

Jurel strode on until the major stepped in his path. Instead of destroying the man where he stood, Jurel caught the man's sword in his hand and crushed the blade like it was made of parchment. Tossing the twisted ruin of steel away, he gripped the major by his gorget and brought him close.

“Where are our horses,” Jurel asked and his voice was colder than deepest winter, deeper than a lion's roar and louder than a roar of thunder.

The major trembled. His eyes grew wide and he stared at the young man who stood before him, stared at the eyes that were made of lightning, and jerkily he raised his arm and pointed.

“Thank you,” said Jurel and he tossed the major aside.

And on he strode while Kurin, Mikal, and Gaven trailed after him, keeping their distance, uncertain if Jurel remembered enough of himself to stop from destroying them if they strayed too close. They crossed the finely landscaped temple grounds, through gardens of flowers and waist high hedges, past trees that stood tall in rows as straight as any platoon of soldiers, and Jurel dispatched any resistance that dared approach him with no feeling, until they reached a squat wooden structure that hid behind the temple as if the temple architects had been too ashamed to let this structure be seen alongside the grand splendor of the immense stone walls and colored-glass windows.

When they entered the stable, Jurel saddled horses with all the efficiency of a farmer with years of experience, or perhaps a soldier long trained in the cavalry, and he extended the reins of three newly saddled horses to his followers. They froze, unsure of his intentions, but he gestured with his hand, and Kurin saw the first hint of human emotion, aside from the all consuming rage, in his face since Jurel had risen from his father's dead body: impatience.
Come on. Take them,
that expression said.

They mounted and left the stables with Jurel's light sword leading the way, and they followed, huddled close together as chastised children do when they follow an angered parent. There was no more resistance. They passed through the open gates and down streets that were mostly deserted though if anyone had bothered to look more closely, they would have seen frightened eyes peeking out from behind curtains and through doors that were open a crack. They continued at a walk and if Kurin had not known better, he would have sworn they were out on a simple leisure trip, a nice, friendly ride to the market to do some shopping.

As they rode down streets and through alleys, they began to encounter more of the city's denizens, people who did not know of the terror in the temple, people who did not know that the God of War walked among them, though when they caught sight of Jurel—and it was hard not to since he shone like the noonday sky—they scurried aside and watched his progress fearfully.

Some few guards at the city gates, perhaps to fulfill their duty, or perhaps to impress their fellows, thought to stop him, to demand what he was doing, but Jurel did not slow.

“I have no quarrel with you at this time. Stand aside,” he said.

And, as though their own commander had barked the order, they did, all thoughts of valor forgotten.

They rode for quite some time and the sky began to darken from steel gray to the color of a bruise, and the tall buildings of stone that pushed against each other as peasants jostling for space at the arena on a tournament day gave way to shorter buildings, wooden and more spaced out. And by the time full night took them, they had passed beyond even the lowliest hovels at the edges of the great city of Threimes, and they rode in the darkness that was lit only by Jurel himself with the wide Sharong river flowing beside them their only other companion.

* * *

When the faintest hint of light appeared in the east hours later, they were still riding. Mikal had brought his horse beside Kurin hours before, letting the exhausted old man who had already tumbled from his saddle twice lean against him. They rode on even as the band of predawn light spread upward until it seemed to erupt and the entire sky took on the gray light of a cloudy morning.

They rode on until Jurel's horse, with no apparent signal from him, stopped. Kurin lifted his head from Mikal's shoulder, though it was an effort to do so. His body felt leaden and he had developed a wracking cough that brought up bloody phlegm; he was not sure if he would be able to continue much longer. He held himself up in his saddle by sheer force of will as he watched the God that had once been a polite and meek young man falter.

A look of confusion entered Jurel's face, a strangely touching expression that managed to tug Kurin's heart, and the blazing sword flickered, distorting like a curtain in the wind, before winking out of existence. Jurel raised his hand and stared at it, his brow knotted and his lips pursed. He looked up and seemed to see them for the first time, and Kurin watched the light in his eyes die the same flickering death as his sword had. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. The three stayed like that for a moment, a bewildered God and three of his terrified subjects, then:

“I don't...I think...” he began but said no more.

His shoulders slumped, his head bowed forward, and then as dry sand rolling down a hill, he slid out of his saddle to fall in a boneless heap on the ground.

Chapter 65

The temple was a shambles. Soldiers hurried back and forth carrying litters of the dead while servants scuttled with buckets and cloths and mops to clean what remained. Thalor had to pick his way, holding the hem of his robe off the floors, around the remaining dead like a performer on a high wire. The congealed puddles of blood that spotted the floors like lakes and seas on a map, almost black against the dark stones or woods of the various chambers were hard to avoid and by the time he reached the Grand Prelate's office, his slippers were ruined. He would never get them as pristinely white as they were just an hour before.

When the guard announced his presence, he was ushered directly into the opulent office. Gold and silver were everywhere: in the sculptures along the mantle, in the inlays that decorated the vast mahogany desk, in the heavy satin drapes that framed the tall stained glass window, in the carpet that he walked on, and most especially in the garb of the ancient man who sat behind the desk.

Old and gnarled, Maten still had an air of authority that made everyone—except the king perhaps, but that was another story—bow in reverence and respect, and Thalor was no exception. He bustled quickly to his master's side and bowed low, kissing the huge ruby set in the fat golden band that was the symbol of the Grand Prelate's godly authority in the world.

“Your Excellency,” Thalor greeted him as he rose to his feet.

“Thalor, my dear man. How are you?” Maten's voice was heavy, burdened certainly with the weight of the atrocity visited upon his church so short a time ago.

“As well as can be expected, your Excellency. I've a few brothers assigned to funeral rites for the brave men who gave their lives.” Brave! Ha! Useless, more like. One stupid boy and they could not even slow him. “Those who are injured are being tended. We are still ascertaining the extent of our losses.”

“
Ah but the losses are great. Too great,” Maten said and Thalor almost believed the lamenting
tone. “I believe I have misjudged, Thalor. I was too quick to let Calen take over, too quick to believe that you did not have everything well in hand.”

“
Your Excellency, no. It is I who am humbled,” Thalor said and it was all he could do to keep the fire from his eyes.
If you hadn't pulled me from my plans, if you hadn't humiliated me, they would be long dead. I would have seen them burn on a heretic's pyre weeks ago. Or in a shallow grave a hundred miles from here. Too late now, you old bastard.

“No, Thalor. I accept the responsibility. It was my error. I will redress that immediately.”

He handed Thalor a page, carefully folded and with the great seal of the Grand Prelate's office affixed in red wax. When Thalor broke the seal and read, he nearly jumped with a cry of victory.

General Proclamation:

Let it be known to all that as of this day, High Priest Thalor Stock is hereby promoted to the rank of Prelate. He is charged with the duty of overseeing the return of the faith to all those in the realm. All are to bow to him as they would to me.

By My Hand, and in good faith,

Maten III, Grand Prelate of Almighty Gaorla, Protector of the Faith

It was more than he could have wished for though it was less than his rightful due. He was not ambitious, but he knew this should have been his years ago.

“Your Excellency. I cannot. I-”

“No my humble servant. You must. I will hear no argument. You are tasked with bringing the heretics Kurin and Jurel to God's justice as well as the annihilation of the Salosian Sect. You will be appointed a team to aid you and I will turn over command of two battalions of our Soldiers for your use. If you require more, bring your requests to me and we will discuss them.”

He put on a great show for Maten. He bent low and kissed that ring again, the ring he knew would
soon be his and he thanked Maten from the depths of his holy soul for the opportunity to redeem
himself. He even impressed himself by forcing two great quivering tears from his eyes.

Maten smiled and shooed him off.

“Go on now, Prelate. You have duties to perform.”

Thalor took his leave, grinning like a fool, a grim, predatory fool, and he near bounced down the corridor to his office. He thought of his favorite sculpture, the stallion that seemed about to run right off its pedestal, and he smiled. He would have his day. He was halfway there. Soon, he would be loosed just like the stallion wanted and all the world would be his.

But first, there was the matter of heretics to deal with.

* * *

He had walked for mile upon mile, league upon league. He had walked even though he knew he should not be able to, knew he should have succumbed to the bitter mercy of death long ago, so long ago. He wept for it, prayed for it, dreamed of it, but still his master would not release him and he walked.

When he entered the city, his city, the people stared at him, watched him pass wordlessly, and there was contempt in their eyes. Disgust. A few pelted him with rotten tomatoes, a few used stones. Either way, when the projectiles struck, new redness flowed thick and sticky.

He walked out of the city and across a mile of barren tundra until he approached the great broken mountain that rose to the clouds above. He walked between great stone pillars and past the square door that rose so high over his head that he could barely make out the roof and into the darkness of the great castle that was a cave, a massive structure that was carved from the very cliffs of the mountain.

He walked, but perhaps it was more accurate to say that he stumbled, or lurched, that he was pulled along like a puppet on tangled strings. And when he reached the great doors that led to his master's inner sanctum, that dark place, that deep pit from the other end of the nether realms, he began to weep softly. There would be no escape for him. There would be no easy death.

The doors swung open silently of their own accord and he lurched forward, tugged by those invisible strings into the blackest black. There was no circle of light for Xandru An Tifons. The circle of light was reserved for those with honor.

“
Xandru.”

He shuddered when he heard his master's voice, tried to cringe away but he was held tight.

“
Xandru, I have been waiting for you”

“My lord,” Xandru wailed and he tried to supplicate himself, he tried to fall to his knees, but he could not move. “Please my lord.” Suddenly, groveling did not seem so distasteful to him. “It is not my fault. I could not have known-”

“
SILENCE! You have failed me Xandru. Again. I promised you great rewards if you were successful and I promised you equally terrible consequences if you were not. You were not.”

That voice. That terrible voice, so filled with wrath, rage, roared around him, over him, through him, made him loose his bladder and he felt hot wetness spread down his already soiled breeches. He did not say anything. There was nothing to say. He closed his eyes.

“
You must suffer the consequences for your failures and I must suffer as well. I will appoint another to your place and perhaps the next will be more diligent in obeying my wishes. I will prevail. I will retake my rightful place in the world, over the world. I will make my father pay for what he has done to me. Look at me Xandru. Look at me.”

He opened his eyes. No, not he. His master opened his eyes and he found himself staring into blackness. He heard a hissing noise, like a serpent slithering on stone and he heard those inhuman voices, calling out their agonies farther back in the chamber. He felt a hot wet breath upon his face and he smelled death and decay, fire and terror. A flicker of light, almost too dim to perceive appeared in front of him. The flicker came again, and it strengthened, grew until it was almost as powerful as a single candle's flame.

Terrible black eyes, emotionless, remorseless and relentless gazed from a ruined face, a face that
looked like melted wax, gazed at him,
into
him, and he felt a tearing in his chest. He tried to scream as the tearing continued but he could not get his breath. The tearing expanded until his entire torso felt shredded, felt as though some giant had gripped him by his shoulders and hips and pulled. His gaze was fixed on the eyes before him and he gurgled and grunted like a dying animal. The pain crescendoed into a cacophony of fire and light and darkness.