Blood of War (15 page)

Andrus turned back to Goromand. “I think the young man shows promise insofar as he would be a powerful wielder of arcanum, but not more than that. He should be enrolled immediately in the novice books and sent to rigorous training. He should not even be permitted to remain here during this council session.

“One way or another, he is a fool child mucking about in the business of his superiors and he should be sent on his way before we proceed any further.”

As many members clapped or called their agreement as there were those who began shouting offended imprecations at Andrus for his temerity.

His self control slipped. The torrent surged free. He shot to his feet.

But Andrus was not yet done. “Better yet, it's him they want. Why don't we hand him over to Maten with our apologies at the atrocity he committed and ask them to leave those of us who live in peace alone. It was his massacre that is inspiring the prelacy to this new level of retribution anyway!”

Dead silence met this final outburst. Everyone seemed frozen to the spot, many, even many of his own supporters, casting horrified gazes at him.

“That would be a death sentence,” Kurin whispered.

“If the greater good would be served by handing him over to what many would argue was justice, then so be it,” Andrus declared and crossed his arms, turning an accusing glare on Jurel. The glare withered when he caught sight of Jurel's expression.

A commotion rose as those who did not notice Jurel began yelling over each other to be heard. Insults and threats were shrieked over the top of heated arguments. The Custodian beat ineffectively at the floor for attention and even Goromand was on his feet shouting for order. But the riot only increased.

And Jurel heard none of it. He continued to glare at Andrus as he battled the mounting pressure within. A small, unheard part of him quailed as the surging forces continued to rise; he had felt this sensation once before. In the temple at Threimes. Just moments before he began his bloody rampage. That part, though small, maintained an iron grip on him.

With his attention entirely on Andrus, he did not notice when Kurin, ashen faced, began to tremble. He did not see Mikal step hastily away from him, he did not see Gaven, who was standing amongst the crowd at the back of the hall, begin quietly urging everyone to escape.

He did not notice either that the din within the hall quieted as eyes found their way to him and inevitably to his lightning blue eyes.

Into the dread, deafening silence, he spoke. But instead of shattering the brittle quiet, his voice, barely more than a whisper, seemed to amplify it like the terrible promise of a predator preparing to strike. And somehow, though quiet, his voice seemed to echo from the buttresses.

“If my execution would serve to save all of you from what is coming, I would go gladly. I would walk into the temple and tell them myself to do whatever they desired.

“Do any of you truly believe that it would end there? Does a single person here actually believe that now the prelacy is stirred they will stop until every last one of you has been hunted down?

“Andrus is right about one thing: it was I that caused the prelacy to act now. It is because of me that they are gathering their forces to annihilate us.” He raked the hall with his glowing eyes. “It would have happened eventually with or without me. Does anyone doubt that? The only thing that has kept you safe to now is your secret location. Sooner or later, you would have been compromised.”

Without understanding why, he left his spot and made his way to Goromand's dais. Those in his path moved quickly away, the parting sea of bodies leaving an aisle for him. At the dais, Goromand and his Custodian stepped aside. Jurel stood, wrath incarnate, upon that dais and surveyed his captive audience. As he shifted to take in all of them, his gilded midnight black armor creaked. He drew his sword and, placing the point gently on the stones, leaned his gauntleted hands upon the pommel. The hall was silent; hundreds of wide eyes stared back at him fearfully.

“It will not end,” he shouted. Dust sifted from the trembling buttresses. “It will not end until every last one of you has burned on a pyre. It will not end until the Salosian Order is nothing but a distasteful footnote in the history books.

“It is time to stop hiding. We will face the prelacy. We will face the king. We will face the whole world if we have to. We will face them and we will prevail.”

His glare found Andrus who had sat back down and now slumped bonelessly in his seat. His erstwhile tutor shrank from his terrible look.

“And we will be united. There will be no more dissension or back hall muttering.

“We will make a name for ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. And I will be the one to lead us to it!”

There was no cheering, no applause, no noise at all as Jurel stepped from the dais and marched back through the aisle, up to the main entrance doors and out into the afternoon sun.

He missed Kurin's expression as he left. He did not see that though his old mentor was pale and trembling, he threw Mikal a look of triumph.

A look that was returned with a nod and a small smile.

Chapter 12

Out of sorts since his outburst at the council meeting a few days prior, Jurel stoically endured one of Metana's scathing chastisements—though they were much less severe these days. Her attempts to teach him what she called high mathematics were beginning to frustrate her. Or, more precisely, his inability to grasp some of the concepts (how exactly does one add
x
and
y
?) was the problem.

The slate hanging on the wall behind Metana was covered in chalk scribbles, more letters than numbers, looked to Jurel more like literature gone terribly wrong than any math he had ever seen.

It was a profound relief then that just as Metana began really getting upset, Mikal stepped into the classroom. The stocky man motioned to Metana who huffed a sigh and strode briskly out the door behind Mikal. Though the door was thick, he still heard Metana's voice. She sounded rather annoyed. Whatever she was saying, Mikal did not seem to appreciate it; his voice cut hers off with a sharp command. A moment later Mikal re-entered followed by a rather chastised Metana.

“Let's go Jurel. You're with me.”

Hoping he was not being dragged to another council meeting, Jurel rose. “What about my classes?”

“Your classes are done for the day. Metana has been made very clear on that. She has also been made aware that any outstanding work she assigned you is no longer due.”

Metana simply looked more miserable as Jurel and Mikal left the room.

When they were far enough that Jurel was certain they were out of earshot, he asked, “I've never seen her looking so cowed. What did you say to her?”

“I reminded her that I outrank her.”

Jurel cast a sharp look at Mikal but the man returned it with a bland look that said nothing. Jurel would have wagered all that he owned that Mikal was a superb player of Bones.

Soon, Jurel found himself back in Mikal's office. This time there was no line-up outside the door, but there were a half dozen men and women waiting—Mikal's senior staff—who rose and bowed as Mikal entered. Jurel was shocked when they then bowed to him, then stunned frozen when he realized they bowed lower to him than to Mikal.

After reintroducing his staff, Mikal picked up a heavy piece of parchment which he handed to Jurel.

He received his third shock in as many minutes once he managed to assimilate what the message said. It was an order signed by Goromand handing control of the Order's military might to Jurel. Though Mikal would remain second in command, Jurel now had an army of nearly forty-five hundred soldiers.

“I don't understand,” he muttered, numbly handing the page back.

Mikal snorted. “You got what you demanded at the council meeting. You've been given command, boy.”

Slowly, Jurel met the eyes of each person in the room. Some returned his look, others quickly averted their eyes. In all of them, Jurel sensed a deep unease.

“Of course they're worried, Jurel,” Mikal said. “You're now in command of more than four thousand men. You will use those men to face a force that may be twenty or thirty times your size. Do you have any training in tactical warfare? Any at all? Because I'll tell you what. It's going to take a genius of a tactician to even survive this let alone prevail. And if you fail, all of us will be worm food.

“Goromand seems to think that just being who you are will assure us the victory. He's a good man but he has even less understanding of warfare than you do.

“That's why I pulled you out of your class today. You will continue your training with us while we prepare for the march. You're damned good with your sword and you got that way in a very short time. Now we're going to hope that you pick up tactics as quickly.”

Beside Mikal, Major Kellen muttered, “And as effectively.”

“So here's what we're going to do,” Mikal continued. “Today, you're going to sit in on your first strategy meeting. You're going to keep quiet because every man and woman in this room has decades more experience than you do. You're going to listen.

“Tomorrow, you're going to start new training courses. You'll spend the mornings learning tactics and military formations in the yards with Gaven and his lot. You'll spend the afternoons working out the logistics of our march with Rafel and Kellen. Any questions?”

It brought comfort to hear Mikal speak so frankly, to bark orders as he always did. Jurel may be technically in command but he felt exactly as all the rest here did: he had no idea what he was doing.

And if that did not change quickly, he would kill them all.

Chapter 13

At the fore of his smallish army—a thousand Soldiers handpicked for this mission—Thalor eyed the speck of village disdainfully. Veloth, the crude plank of weathered wood that served as a signpost proclaimed. Hovels hunkered on both sides of the road and under the trees like peasants praying, ramshackle little structures that barely seemed sturdy enough to hold their own weight. Especially the inn. By God but how could any traveler sleep in that place and not worry the roof was going to fall on his head?

Among those seedy shacks, and around them, a few of the villagers gawped at Thalor and his men, standing stock still in the road. Other villagers were a little more prudent; they continued on doing whatever it was that peasants in a mudhole did but they did it off the road, hidden in the shadows. Thalor did not think back to his childhood, to his own roots as a dirty peasant; it was behind him, so far in the distant past that sometimes he wondered if he had actually ever lived it.

Thalor glanced at his major, Reowynn, and nodded curtly. Reowynn turned and barked a few terse orders and the men fanned out, quickly and efficiently surrounding the village. As they should. They had practice. This was the third village they had encountered since embarking on this rather distasteful little jaunt. By the time the last homes were surrounded, all the villagers had stopped what they were doing and stared fearfully, gasping exclamations of surprise, pointing, gesturing at this strange and, though none would say it out loud, dangerous new turn of events.

Thalor and Reowynn, and the clot of guards at their back cantered their mounts into the center of town. With a searching glance he knew was haughty, Thalor drew in a deep breath, trying not to gag on the stench, heartily gladdened when he expelled it.

“Who is your mayor?” he called into the silent pall that had descended.

A sturdy man, perhaps in his early forties, stepped from the small crowd that was gathering. His expression, though mostly hidden beneath the shock of reddish-brown beard like fuzzy rust, was one of unbridled terror. Sometimes instincts were a powerful thing; this man knew that something very bad was about to happen to him and to his village.

“I am sir,” the man quavered. “I be the headman here and the owner o yon inn, The Veloth Inn.” He poked a meaty thumb over his shoulder to the hunk of dilapidated timber behind him. “Me name's Morgen.”

“Well, Morgen, owner of the Veloth Inn, and headman,” Thalor smiled. It was a toothy smile, one that a predator might show prey in the moment before ripping its throat out. “I am Prelate Thalor Stock of Threimes here on special orders from Grand Prelate Maten. I think perhaps we should find somewhere a little more private for we have some matters to discuss.”

Morgen bobbed his head and turned halfway, indicating with one hand raised, his fingers catching the sun, cupping it like he held a handful of light, a beacon for Thalor to follow. Very pretty, thought Thalor. Too bad the boor is likely to lose that hand before the day is out.

As though the villagers thought they could mimic their martial visitors, an escort of sorts, each about half a dozen folks, flanked both sides of Thalor's party. As they neared the inn, which again Thalor eyed distastefully and with no little trepidation, the men surrounding the village began the second phase of their plan. They began moving inward, swords drawn, pushing the villagers toward the overgrown square in the center of this little mire that polluted the road. Efficiently; they had plenty of practice.

Morgen's office was far too small to accommodate the knot of Soldiers that entered with Reowynn and so Thalor stood impatiently at the door of the common room, waiting for Morgen to clean a table and chair so he could sit without feeling instantly soiled. When that was done—and it took a surprising amount of time, what with the thick layers of grime—Morgen scuttled to his bar to pour Thalor a cup (also subjected to a vigorous scrubbing) of the best wine he had. Which was, Thalor thought with a grimace, as might be expected from a hole like this barely tolerable.

Settling himself in his chair, Thalor finally trained his eyes on Morgen who stood waiting on the other side of the table.

“Now then, good Headman Morgen. I will be blunt. We are searching for certain individuals who, we think, would have passed by here some months ago. Have you had many strangers through here?”

“Sir—Yer Grace—with all respect,” Morgen licked his lips nervously, “we be on the caravan route. There's always strangers passin through here.”