The Path of the Sword (28 page)

What happened?

He had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it? No. He had
rejoiced
every time his fist made bone crushing contact, reveled with every injury he had caused. He stumbled away into the darkness, clutching at his abdomen, got no more than a dozen paces before he fell to his knees and vomited violently in the snow, tainting it with his filth.

What have I done?

“
Please, I'm sorry.”

Valik's words bounced in his skull, echoing endlessly like a shriek in a cave, and he stumbled on heedless of direction, heedless of the burst of pain when his ankle twisted on a buried rock, heedless, even, of his own inhuman grunts of shame and misery. He fell into a door without realizing it, opened it without knowing that he did. He moved forward in jerky motions through the darkness, shambling like some undead creature too long in the grave animated by vilest sorcery, not really smelling the scents of dung and dust that hung heavy in the stale air.

Up the rough wooden ladder he climbed on pure instinct alone for his mind was not his at that moment. It was too busy trying to run, to hide, to bury itself away where no one, not even he himself could find it. At the top he collapsed under a ceiling that rippled and flapped lightly in the remnants of the wind that gusted erratically by outside as if some mortally wounded dragon of ice were breathing its last breaths.

He clutched a piece of moldering canvas that the farmhands had not deemed worthy of serving as a makeshift roof, and he wrapped it around himself because he was cold. So cold, and paradoxically though it was winter, it was a chill that started from inside and worked its way out. He huddled in a corner, burrowing under a mound of hay and shut his eyes tight, trying to will away the storm that raged within, trying to keep himself anchored, moored, for if he let go even for one instant, he knew he would be swept away as surely as a dead wood on a raging river.

As his thoughts tumbled and swirled, a blackness worked its way from the corner of his eyes, and as he fell into a deep sleep, as endlessly deep as an abandoned well, a thought skittered across the edges of his mind, furtive yet insistent:

What have I done? What have I become?

Chapter 20

“
Wake up boy!” The grating voice reached down into the blackness of his torpor and he distantly felt himself roughly shaken, dragged from the depths of sleep. He surfaced like a drowning man, his eyes snapped open, and from under his blanket, he saw Daved's solemn visage eying him sternly.

“
Father? Wha-what is it?” he mumbled. His head ached, his brain kept trying to escape the too small confines of his skull. His glazed eyes scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. “Where am I?” He was not in his bed, and he could not understand why.

“
You're in the barn, lad. Wake up,” Daved commanded. “What in blazes is going on? What have you done?” A tinge of anger colored his voice and Jurel stared afar as his memory returned in bits and pieces, poking like an auger through the black shroud that resisted, resented wakefulness. One memory tore through, hard as granite, sharp as broken glass: a bloody fist, a broken face. Gored beyond repair, the black shroud collapsed. His eyes widened in shock as the last of the previous day's events came crashing down in a mangled heap around him. Bolting upright, Jurel gasped.

“
Oh god,” he breathed. “Valik!” He gaped at his father wild-eyed and his father nodded gravely.

“
Aye. Valik,” he confirmed. “He said a lot of nasty things about you but I thought to reserve judgment until I spoke to you.” He examined Jurel's bruised, puffy face under the dim light before continuing. “It seems my decision was a good one.”

“
How is he?” Jurel asked before his father could say another word. He did not want to hear the answer. He had to. He'd done considerable damage. Two white specks floated across his mind's eyes, a jaw hung improperly. Valik would not be chewing anything solid for quite a while.

“
He's beat up pretty bad. How do you think he is?” Daved snorted. “Marta found him in the dining room this morning, unconscious and covered in blood. She also found your coat hanging over the chair where you left it last night.” An accusing glare accompanied Daved's words. “After raising a big stink, Marta got a few of the men to carry him up to his bed. Some ladies, including Ingirt, of course, are tending to his wounds as we speak. Of which there are many. Now answer my question: What happened?”

Jurel stared, gathering his muddled thoughts for a moment before he answered. Was it really him? Did he really do it? Now that he was a little more awake, he certainly remembered the fight but in the light of the gray dawn, it was like he had been a bystander, witnessing the unfolding events from the sidelines. He touched fingers to his throbbing cheek and winced when a knife of raw pain stabbed him.

Not a bystander then
.
No, definitely a participant.

“
He attacked me,” he began and went on to describe to his father how Valik had entered, drunk and belligerent, into the house late the previous night. He haltingly spoke of Valik's threats and recriminations and no matter what Jurel said to him, he became more worked up.

“
He struck me, father. Over and over, he struck me. I asked him to stop. I begged him,” he said, a spark of heat lighting in his eyes, “but he wouldn't.”

Jurel's tale stumbled to a halt. He remembered all too clearly what happened next. He wished for nothing more than to forget. He had snapped. He had raged and he had hurt Valik. He had picked Valik up, thrown him with no more effort than an angry child throws a toy and when Valik begged and sobbed, Jurel had ignored him, and beaten him. He could not tell the rest; it locked in his throat and fought him—admittedly he did not fight back very hard. A glance at his father showed the implacable expression that he had seen so often before. The one that said Daved would not relent until he was satisfied that he had all the facts. He sighed.

“
Something in me broke then, father,” he muttered. “I don't understand it. I just...broke. I'd had enough. So I fought back.” He shrugged, feeling miserable and alone. Very, very alone.

“
You fought back?” Daved barked an astonished laugh. “Is that what you want to call it? You fought back?” He rolled his eyes. “It's an incredible thing, Jurel, that you fought back at all, but
this
?”

A wave of resentment seeped into Jurel like a poison at his father's accusing tone.

“
You told me to defend myself, father. You've told me a hundred times if you've told me once.” An image rose unbidden to his mind's eye of Daved, once again wearing Gram's body, looking up at him. “Defend yourself,” Daved/Gram told him and he had.

“
I know Jurel. I
have
told you countless times to defend yourself. That does not include beating a man to within an inch of his life.” He gripped Jurel's shoulder with vise-like strength. “What were you thinking?”

“
I was thinking that I wanted him to stop,” Jurel growled. His glower was so forceful that for the first time in Jurel's life, Daved retreated beneath his gaze and snapped his hand away from Jurel's arm.

“
All right lad. Fair enough but I hope you understand the situation you've put yourself in.” Daved raised his arms in a placating gesture yet his words echoed with an ominous tone and Jurel averted his eyes, squirming.

“
What situation father?” Jurel asked though he had a pretty good notion. Daved echoed his thoughts aloud.

“
Well let's see,” he muttered. His lips twisted with a sardonic smirk and he raised a finger, “Number one,” he ticked off, “you beat the bloody hell out of a man whose father's corpse was still warm. That probably won't make you many friends around here no matter how justified you thought you were or how much people don't like the man. And number two,” another finger, “you beat the bloody hell out of this farm's new owner. Something of a pickle, wouldn't you agree?”

Every word pelted Jurel making him flinch and quiver. The shame of his vile actions were matched only by the numb resignation at the knowledge that he would be leaving the farm after all. He felt like a child all over again, turning to Daved to save him from his own foolishness.

“
What am I going to do father?” he cried. He felt a lump rise in his throat though he could not decide whether it was a lump of sorrow or of anxiety. An irrationally rational voice spoke in his mind.
Perhaps it's a little of both,
it said. He had to leave. As a child he had entertained idle ruminations of leaving on a grand adventure to see wondrous sights and perform heroic deeds. Even yesterday, he had been thinking it. But he knew he had just been daydreaming. He did not want to strike out on his own anymore. He wanted to stay with his father and with...

He froze, his thoughts jumbling into each other, one slamming into the next. He felt he walked the edge of a precipice; one wrong step and he was certain he would tumble into a never ending abyss like in his nightmares. Sitting bolt upright, he could barely breath as some part of his mind cruelly whispered the end of his thought in his ear.

Erin.

He had Erin. He was meant to woo her, perhaps wed her and have children, a family, a life. His foolish act had erased that future, leaving a blank slate of uncertainty ahead. What could he say to her? How would he explain? What would she think of him after this? He had to speak to her. He had to assure her that what he had done, he had done in self-defense. Would she believe him? He did not believe it himself.

Fool!
I'm a bloody fool!

So, he had been right after all. He had always been sure that confrontation never led to anything good. He had always avoided any kind of fight like a farmer avoids a stampede of cattle. If he had not heeded Daved's words, he would have awakened in his own bed that morning, black and blue perhaps from the beating Valik would have inflicted, but still relatively certain of his place on the farm. Last night, something had come over Jurel. He had finally found the courage to do as Daved had so often advised. He had not wanted to find it. At least, not like that, not with such vehemence, but he had found it. He fought back. He fought back and he would be exiled from his own life for it. Being right should have brought a certain satisfaction, a sense of victory. But of course, nothing was ever so easy. It was an empty victory, and a costly one.

“
What am I going to do, father?”

“
I don't know, Jurel. What you must, I imagine,” Daved sighed and leaned back. “Well, let's go get packed and we can be off before someone finds you.”

Following his own advice, he stood and made his way to the ladder leading to the barn floor. Jurel started up, throwing off his canvas blanket, and followed his father all the way to the barn door before Daved's words truly hit home.

“
What do you mean, 'we can be off' father?” Jurel asked. “Your life is here. I dug my own hole and fell into it and I have to suffer the consequences. I can't ask you to fall into it with me.”

Daved turned to Jurel with a wry smile, his hand on the door latch. “You've a good heart lad but you don't know anything of the world out there. What would you do? Where would you go?”

Jurel pondered for a moment, not knowing what to say. He knew only that he could not drag Daved out there with him. Daved had settled on the farm to get away from the world.

“
I don't know yet. But this is something I must do. I cannot ask you to do this. Please father. You've raised me well. I'm certain I'll find somewhere to fit in and make a good living. With a bit of luck, it won't even be very far from here.”

Daved snorted but said nothing as he turned and went out into the cool morning air.

“
How did you know where to find me?” Jurel asked. The question had been nagging at him, picking at the back of his thoughts, whispering insistently to be heard, but with everything else he had to think about, it had not seemed very important. His curiosity won out in the end.

“
As you said, I raised you. I know you, Jurel. I know you far better than you know yourself,” he said over his shoulder, not slowing their quick march to the cabin. “Though I admit you surprised the living shit out of me today. Come on now lad. We need to get you packed. I'm sure there are others on the farm who might like to get their hands on you.”

They arrived at the cabin without seeing a soul. “They've already been here,” Daved said. “Been and gone. Good thing there's no soldiers hereabouts. Otherwise, they might have been smart enough to set a guard.”

Daved told Jurel to go pack what he wanted. Daved himself pulled out a single sheet of parchment and a stub of lead, and sat at their little table to write. Without argument, Jurel climbed the ladder. Now that he must leave, Jurel gazed about, dismayed that this was probably the last time he would ever stand in this room.

Nothing had changed in the loft for as long as he could remember. His cot, far too small for his massive frame, was as it had always been, still neatly made from the morning before, with the gray wool blanket tucked neatly, hiding the tattered edges as his father had taught him. Across the loft, Daved's own slightly larger cot, a twin to Jurel's in all other ways. On the far wall, their humble chest of possessions hunkered with the familiar chunk torn out of one corner caused when Daved and Galbin dropped it while getting it up the ladder the day Galbin told Daved the cabin was his. Even the plain white porcelain chamber pot with all its chips and scratches seemed to be a part of this place as if its absence for whatever reason would be strange, would make the place incomplete.