The Path of the Sword (12 page)

“Good day, sir,” Jurel said.

“Jurel lad. How goes it?”

He was sweating and flushed red with exertion so that he looked like a man who just finished running halfway across the world. Everyone had seen Galbin work hours on end without a break in the past. No matter the task, whether it was baling hay, herding cows, or digging, he had done it and he never seemed to break a sweat. It was a testament to the force of the heat that he looked like he was about to have a heart seizure. His eyes crinkled at the corners like wrinkled parchment with his smile and a hint of curiosity.

“You seem to have strayed into our little wood. Might I be correct in assuming that you thought a slight detour would avail you of a little shade? A little reprieve from our harsh sun?”

“Yes sir,” Jurel said feeling his face heat up as he looked at his toes. “But I wasn't dallying. I swear.”

If Galbin wondered what was so interesting about his feet, he had the courtesy not to ask.

“I was implying nothing of the sort lad,” Galbin laughed and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “I'll wager you haven't stopped all day, have you?”

“No sir.”

“Aye, I figured as much. These men here,” he called jovially over his shoulder, could learn a thing or two from you.”

A round of chuckles, tired but merry, followed Galbin's dig and he suddenly found himself pelted with dirt across his broad back.

“And whiles we're diggin our lives away, breakin our backs, yer leanin on yer shovel prattlin to the young'un, malignin us. Where's the justice I asks?” Meran, a veteran hand and one of Galbin's closest friends, moaned with false righteousness.

The men laughed, Galbin included, and even Jurel smiled. Every single man working on the farm was hand picked by either Galbin or Daved. They were all chosen for their ability to work, and their desire. A man did not last long on Galbin's farm if he tended to gripe or to sleep past sunrise. All except for the blacksmith, Jax, and he was given leeway only because the work he wrought was masterful—when Galbin managed to lever him from his chair. Even items as simple as nails seemed almost magically well done. The rest of them did their work and not a one complained; there were far worse places to work than Galbin's farm after all.

“You see Jurel?” Galbin moaned throwing his hands up in mock despair. “You see the level of ungrateful insubordination this poor old man must endure?”

Following another round of laughter, Galbin narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Jurel. “Turn around. Let me see your back.”

Bewildered Jurel did as he was bade, unsure of what was to come.

“Yer gonna be sore young'un!” Meran hooted.

“By God lad!” Galbin gasped. “You really haven't stopped all day! You're red as a beet.”

Galbin tried to find the sun but under the dense canopy; nothing but those golden lances penetrated to the forest floor.

“What time is it anyway?”

“About midafternoon sir.”

With a start, Galbin's eyes widened a notch. “Is it now? Well the day is just flying past us then. Once you've gotten those buckets back to the field, you're done for the day. I would suggest asking your father to spread some balm on your shoulders else you'll feel like the sun decided to take up residence.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I don't envy you lad. You've days of feeling like one of Marta's roasts then you'll molt like a snake.”

Bidding them all good day, Jurel continued on his way, picking up his pace, anticipating the last buckets and the end of his very long day. Behind him, echoing hollowly through the trees, he heard the men laugh at some bit of wit.

He reached the perimeter of the woods, passing back into the brutal sun without pause. He was almost done for the day. He looked forward to kicking off his shoes which chafed his feet raw and resting his aching body in his chair. Of even more importance, he wanted water. Lots and lots of water. He briefly considered throwing himself down the well when he got back. The well seemed to have an endless supply of cold water, deep enough that it never dried even in the worst drought. Surely he could never drink it all. But he could certainly try.

As he daydreamed of immersing himself in cold water, hot coals straight from a fire pelted him. He yelped and hissed as tingling pain spread like angry ants. He staggered, spluttering grit from his dry mouth and squeezed his eyes shut against the burn. As he wiped his offended eyes, he heard a malicious laugh. Searching through what looked like dirty glass, he saw a blurry form at the edge of the trench and his heart dropped when he recognized the voice that spoke.

“Well if it isn't the crazy coward,” Valik sneered, tossing another load of dirt at Jurel.

He fought to keep his calm. He continued walking as if he did not even notice the older boy.

“Hey, crazy boy. I'm talking to you,” Valik called angrily but Jurel kept walking.

Valik's spade hit the ground with a muted clang and two footfalls later, a hand gripped Jurel's shoulder and spun him roughly around.

“Oh hello Valik. What can I do for you?” he asked, ignoring the searing heat where Valik gripped him.

He tried for nonchalance. Maybe even a little feigned surprise as if he noticed Valik for the first time, but even he heard the resignation. Could he not go one day without this weasel bothering him?

“For starters, you can drop dead, you little turd,” Valik spat, a neat trick considering the moisture sucking heat. “You don't answer when your elders speak to you,
boy?
Where's your manners,
boy.
”

“I'm sorry Valik. I just spoke with your father and he bade me finish as quickly as I can.”

His gambit seemed to work, at least marginally. Mention of Galbin made Valik hesitate, eyes clouding with uncertainty. His father was relentless about ensuring Valik was on his best behavior in front of Jurel. He would not like being reminded of the fact. But his eyes narrowed and he seemed to regroup like a nearly routed platoon of infantry.

“So what? That mean you can be a disrespectful little turd?”

“No, I was just trying to do my work,” he replied and indicated the trench. “Just like you. I think your father will be very happy with your progress when he gets here. Probably any second now. He and his men were just inside the trees when I passed.”

“Don't you dare compare your whiny sniveling self to me,” Valik hissed, red faced with anger but he seemed to consider for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder as if he expected his father to be standing there with arms crossed, tapping one foot in the dirt. With a shove, he turned and went back to his task, growling, “Get lost. Get out of here.”

* * *

He knelt at the pond's edge, filling his last buckets of the day, still thinking of his latest encounter with Valik. Why was Valik such a mean bastard, he wondered? Why did he seem to delight in tormenting him? The others never endured half of what Jurel had to. Why? Even before the fight, Valik had hated him, had reveled in making Jurel feel small. Maybe the fact that Jurel, for all that he was two years younger, had always been bigger had something to do with it. The first time he had met Valik, the older boy had looked up at him and sneered. “You look like a troll,” he had said and Galbin had clouted him for it. It would seem entirely in Valik's nature to make himself feel bigger however he could.

Things had gotten worse since the fight, since Jurel had run like a coward while his friends were beaten black and blue. But that was not his fault. They should never have gotten into that fight in the first place. Yet they had, and they had been soundly thrashed and Valik blamed Jurel for it.

He lifted the pole onto his shoulders, grunting with effort as exhausted and baked muscles protested, grunting with pain as the pole settled into his sunburns like a branding iron, and began the last leg of his journey, his mood once again tainted by sour memories. He decided to eschew the shade of the forest for the more direct path. He would be done quicker taking that route, and he would avoid anymore encounters with Valik.

It was with surprise, almost stunned disbelief, that he lay his load on the ground with the other full buckets. He was done. It felt like ages since he had picked up his first buckets earlier that day and now staring down at them, aching, burnt, parched, he was done.

Spinning on his heel, he sprinted, grunting with every jolting step, toward home, a sanctuary that promised shade, water, and a chair. And, his grumbling belly reminded him, food. Food would definitely help.

“But first, water.”

He blasted through the front door of the cabin, and following his own advice, he upended the clay pot filled with water that, though lukewarm, felt like he jumped naked into a snowbank during a blizzard as it washed into his mouth and down his shoulders. It was bliss.

Finally sated of that need, he flopped into his chair, ignoring the protests from his sun-blasted flesh and closed his eyes. Just for a moment though. His belly was still taunting him.

* * *

“Jurel. Wake up lad.”

Bolting upright in his chair, Jurel gasped as he scraped against the wooden slats. It felt like he left half his back behind as he peeled away.

“Galbin wasn't kidding was he?” Daved remarked with an amused chuckle. He shook his head wryly. “Lad, whatever possessed you to take your shirt off?”

“It was too hot,” he said with a shrug, noticing that Daved had not burned. Of course not. He had gone brown, like mahogany, and though Jurel was not sure if it was sun tan or dirt, he felt a moment of envy at his obvious lack of discomfort.

“Aye, and I bet not so hot as your hide feels right now, eh?”

His face flushed as he felt the tightness in his shoulders, the stinging pain.

“No I suppose not.”

“Well let's get a better look then. I have some salve that should ease the burn a little. It doesn't smell so pretty and you'll feel like a greased pig, but it works.”

After rummaging around in their storage bin for a moment, Daved returned with a small pot covered in thick leather.

“Turn around. Let me have a look.”

Jurel sat silently while his father smeared the bitter stuff liberally, tsking and tutting the whole time like an old mother hen, grumbling about the foolishness of youth and Jurel had to smile. Wherever the paste was applied, his flesh went through the most interesting phases: first there was almost unbearable heat like a forge fire, followed by icy cold that almost made him shiver, then lastly, numbness, a pleasant painless numbness that spread across his back like a comfortable blanket, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“There. All done,” Daved pronounced wiping his hands on an old rag. “Leave it uncovered for a while to let it breath. I'll add more to it tomorrow morning.”

Tossing the rag into a hamper used for soiled clothes, he asked more conversationally, “So how was your day?”

Jurel shrugged again. “Busy enough. I walked so much I thought my feet would fall off.”

“This coming from the same lad I've seen run across the fields with his friends from sun-up until sun-down without pause?” Daved snorted and rolled his eyes theatrically and Jurel had to smile, abashed, for he supposed his father had a point.

“Aside from that I spoke to Galbin for a bit. I see the trenches are almost done.”

“Aye, finally,” Daved said with a minute nod.

“And then I had the good luck to see Valik.”

He was like a canker sore, was Valik. Every time Jurel was having a good day, he had to come along like an infection and ruin it. Sometimes, he believed that when Valik was having a bad day, he automatically searched for Jurel so that he could feel better with a little torment, like spinning a cat by its tail.

“What is it with him? Why can't he just leave me alone?”

Daved's smile fell away. “What did he do this time, boy?”

After describing the encounter, he finished with, “Why father? Why does he do it? Is it because he's a mean little bastard?”

Gazing upon his son with his hawk eyes as if pondering some deep mystery, or perhaps as if Jurel was some sad artifact unearthed from a previous age, evidence of an ancient disaster, he breathed in deeply, before answering.

“It's because he has no respect for you,” Daved stated so matter-of-factly that Jurel flushed and turned his head down. “Granted, he has little enough respect for anyone—as you say, he's a mean little bastard—but you, he thinks you're a coward.”

He hesitated, regarding his son, evaluated him as if he had to say something that Jurel was not prepared to hear and probably would not like to. He was right.

“I don't think I blame him for thinking that way either.”

Jurel surged to his feet, indignation and anger bursting so strongly within him, he thought he could almost see it flickering before his eyes like cinders.

“Father!” he cried out, bunching his fists at his side, trembling with the effort of holding back his rage like a sapling trying to hold back a team of oxen.

He felt a stab, an itch between his shoulder blades: betrayal. His own father thought he was a coward? Him? Just because he did not like to fight? Just because he thought there were better things to do than trade fists with someone until one or the other fell down? What did it prove anyway? What did it matter?

“Sit down, Jurel.”

Daved waited, his glare piercing to Jurel's core until Jurel ceased quivering and sat once again inspecting the floor in front of him with resentment gnawing at his insides.

“Look boy. Look at you. You're big for your age. Hells, you're big for damn near
any
age. If I didn't know you, I'd peg you for nearly a full grown man but the moment anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, you back off. You scamper away like a frightened chipmunk. That's why Valik thinks you're a coward and because of it, you're an easy target for him. Do you understand?”

Not moving, barely daring to breath, Jurel sat waiting for the end of this miserable little nightmare. He would not cry! He would not! His own father thought...

“No. You don't, do you?” Daved sighed. “You need to stand up for yourself. I'm not suggesting you start picking fights every time someone glances askance at you, but there's nothing wrong with defending yourself.”