The Path of the Sword (40 page)

Jurel broke off his reading and craned his neck to look up at Kurin questioningly.

“Is the entire book like this?” he asked.

“What, do you mean to ask whether it continues to be so long winded?” Kurin chuckled. “Annoying, isn't it? His first sentence spans three full pages. By about page thirty the writer seems to realize that he is being quite a windbag and changes his style. You'll notice that he goes from one extreme to the other. Some of his sentences are just single words and that might be even more annoying. Not much information can be imparted with one word. He does settle in though, by page fifty I think. I never said it was a well written book but for the most part, it is informative.”

Kurin spoke offhandedly, still distractedly searching, but at least he spoke. Jurel missed hearing the old man's banter and even that small taste was a comfort. Kurin lapsed back into silence, so Jurel resumed his reading, plodding through the confusing mess of words until the sun set and, since Kurin forbade the use of a candle, he could no longer see the page in his lap.

Chapter 28

It was late, the sun's warmth long forgotten, the deep chill of night closing in with a vengeance perhaps in recompense for the warm day past, nipping at exposed flesh, when Kurin pointed to an opening in the tree line, to a small indent where they would set up camp. Pulling the wagon up in front of the hole in the trees, Kurin reined in and hopped nimbly from his seat. Speaking quietly, he told Jurel to take out the tarp and lay it on the ground over the muddy snow. It would leave them exposed for the night but the alternative was not very appealing. With that accomplished, Jurel busied himself with digging a fire pit and collecting wood from the surrounding trees—eminently grateful that he had convinced Kurin they needed a hot meal. When there was a cheery, although small, fire burning Jurel gathered ingredients from the cart and prepared a simple stew of beef and onions, with some potatoes and a few carrots thrown in for good measure, mixing them in the small pot with some clean snow. Placing the pot over the fire, he sat next to Kurin and extended his hands to the fire, grateful for the warmth on the icicles that were his fingers.

Everything was quiet; the only sound to be heard was the pop and crackle of their fire, as though the world was in suspense, waiting with pent breath for something to happen. The light of their fire extended out to the closest trees that surrounded their campsite, illuminating them, creating a boundary, a sort of barrier like a fence beyond which nothing seemed to exist in the impenetrable blackness.

“Quiet tonight,” Jurel said and Kurin jumped. “Are you all right?” Jurel peered at the old man bathed in ruddy firelight, noting the shadows under the old man's eyes.

For a moment, the old man remained silent, gazed out into the night, still as stone before answering.

“I'm fine, Jurel. I just...there's something...”

“What? What is it?”

More time passed as Kurin searched, an intent frown barely visible on his shadowed features.

“Nothing. It's nothing. Is that stew ready yet?” Kurin reached forward and stirred the simmering concoction with a wooden spoon, almost upending the pot in his distraction.

Jurel sighed, annoyed and apprehensive. The old man was always so sure of himself, so confident yet here he was jumping like a spooked rabbit at a friend's voice. He produced two small wooden bowls and ladled some watery stew into each. It was not a meal to grace a king's table but it was food and it was hot.

They ate in silence, Jurel shoveling heaping spoonfuls into his mouth, Kurin nibbling discontentedly, until his head rose, his eyes wide in alarm. He stood abruptly, dumping his bowl to the ground and spun left and right, peering into the woods.

“Wait here. Do not leave this camp. And douse that fire,” Kurin said, and bounded to the edge of their camp, disappearing like a wraith into the trees.

“Kurin? Kurin!” Jurel called, but only silence answered him.

He rose, listened, tried to see beyond the edge of their camp, indecision gnawing at him. He strode to where the old man had disappeared and peered out into the night, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Even then, he could make out nothing except shadows, black on black. On the ground, he saw the only evidence of Kurin's passage: a faint line of footprints, spaced wide as the old man ran, vanished into the trees. He returned to the fire, its light blinding in his night eyes and dumped snow on the embers, extinguishing the light in a haze of steam and an angry hiss.

With nothing else to do, he sat in the stillness, blind, deaf, waiting for Kurin's return. A sense of oppression came over him. The trees seemed to advance, intent on surrounding him, hemming him in. On the road, he had felt that the trees had stood guard over the cart, silent sentinels watching them pass. No longer. They threatened to pen him in, to keep him there until their unseen commander had the chance to arrive and decide what to do with the trespasser in their midst. He rose again, restless, and paced, jumping when a howl somewhere in the near distance caused him to start.

“Fool,” he muttered to himself. “Just a bloody wolf.”

He shook himself, pushed his anxiety away. What did he have to fear anyway? Angry trees? A hungry wolf? He chuckled at his foolishness yet he did not stop his pacing and his searching.

Nearby, just outside their camp, he heard a snapping twig and he froze, turned his head toward the sound. The moon, a dim and ethereal fingernail, was no help; even where its pale light found the ground beneath the trees, it did nothing to push away the gloom. Jurel could sense something, a presence somewhere in the dark.

“Kurin?” he called softly. “Kurin, is that you?”

A shadow coalesced in front of him, emerging from the trees and halted a few paces away. Jurel stared hard, trying to make out details of the newcomer, but the gloom obscured all but the most obvious features. It appeared to be a man, tall but not so tall as Jurel, and broad shouldered. He wore a cloak with the hood turned up, making his face seem no more than a black pit in the deep shadows. The shadow took a step forward, and Jurel took a corresponding step backward when he saw a vagrant moonbeam reflecting from the sword the man brandished.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Jurel asked. His voice quavered, weak and breathy.

A menacing chuckle, low and deep like a predator's growl was his only answer as the stranger took another step forward.

“I'm not alone. Help will be arriving soon,” Jurel tried.

“You are mistaken, boy. I think that one old man will not pose my friends any problem,” the man said. His voice was deep, raspy, like an avalanche. Another feline step forward.

Jurel shuddered, fear coursed through his veins and that ringing, horrible and insistent, started in his ears again.

“Please, go away. I don't want to hurt you,” Jurel said, eliciting an astounded laugh.

“You? Hurt me? I think you have it the wrong way around, don't you?”

“I'm warning you-”

He was cut off when the man surged forward, extending his blade, aiming for Jurel's midsection.

Jurel dove to the ground, felt a tug and heard a tear as the sword pierced his cloak. He rolled ungracefully and gained his feet just in time to see the sword arc with the man's backhand swing toward his head. He recoiled and fell backward, sitting down hard on the icy ground, a jolt of pain thudding up his spine. The man stood over him, his hood fallen away from his head, and for the first time Jurel caught a look at his attacker's features, a blocky face with a scar running from right eye to chin framed a toothy grin.

“Stay still, boy, and this'll be over before you know it.”

With a grunt, he brought up his sword and swung a wide downward stroke, intent on cutting Jurel in two. Another desperate heave and Jurel rolled away, hearing a loud clang through the jangle in his head when the sword bounced off a rock. Jurel leapt to his feet and ran, trying for the forest's edge. It was instinct that told him to duck. If only it had spoken a second sooner.

There was a blinding flash of multi colored light and pain flared in his skull. He fell, tasting mud and snow when his head crashed into the ground. He rolled over stiffly, saw a glint in the snow beside him, the thick bladed dagger that had bounced off his skull, and tried yet again to get to his feet. His legs mutinied, would not listen to his commands, and he lay there, staring with glazed eyes at the bulky man that approached him. With a reproachful look, the man placed a heavy boot on Jurel's chest, pinning him down and setting the point of his sword on Jurel's throat. Hot wetness welled up as the point of the man's sword broke his flesh, and a line of blood tickled its way down his neck.

“I told you to stay still. Now you've gone and muddied up my favorite dagger.”

Jurel tensed, waited for the final thrust that would end his life, and closed his eyes. He heard a grunt, felt the sword slide away and it thumped to the ground beside him. Opening his eyes, he watched his killer, expression slack with shock, jaw dropped open, turn on watery legs before he dropped like a felled tree. Jurel scrabbled backwards, wondering at this, wondering if the killer was playing some sadistic trick, wondering if-

“Well, it seems I got back just in time,” Kurin said.

His eyes glued to his attacker's inert form, he shivered, working the dryness from his mouth. It was then that he saw Kurin's own dagger buried to its hilt in the man's neck. His belly roiled, heaved uncontrollably and rolling onto his side, he vomited.

Afterward, he wiped his mouth and rose, shaking, to his feet.

“Are you all right, my boy?” Kurin asked placing a calming hand on Jurel's back.

“No I'm not all right,” Jurel shrieked. “What in bloody demon infested blazes is going on? Who was that bastard and why the hell was he trying to kill me?”

“It doesn't matter. He's dead now,” Kurin said, trying to appease Jurel.

“It does matter damn it. I had a bloody sword at my throat!”

Kurin stared at Jurel, eyes inscrutable before turning back to their belongings and beginning the process of breaking camp.

The world spun, coughing and hiccuping. He trembled, though whether from the adrenaline surging fiery hot through his veins or from the nearly irrepressible urge to throw up again, he would never know.

“Let's get moving first. Then I'll tell you what I can. It's not much,” he warned.

Jurel hastily piled their things in the cart, not bothering with any kind of order, while Kurin searched the body of the dead assailant, rifling through his pockets. He did not find much. Just a small purse containing a few silver pieces which he deposited in one of the pockets of his own cloak.

“You're robbing him?” Jurel gasped.

“What, do you think he'll need it where he's gone?”

When they were on the move again, Jurel took several slow deep breaths to calm down.

“All right, Kurin. He was no town guard and he said there were others. Who were they?”

“I still don't know, but you are correct. They were no simple guardsmen,” Kurin shook his head, frustrated. “They seemed more like hired thugs though that too isn't quite right. They were too skilled for that. Assassins maybe.”

“Hired by who?” Jurel said in a whisper, too shocked to move.

“I don't know but they seem intent on keeping us from continuing our journey.”

“But why?”

“There are currents that run deep here, Jurel. I don't know exactly who we're dealing with but we would be wise to keep our eyes open and to quicken our pace. The sooner we reach Merris, the sooner we can disappear into the crowd.”

Unsatisfied, Jurel leaned back and closed his eyes, knowing full well that Kurin would say no more. He felt the lump growing on the back of his head, a hot cherry, and winced. There did not seem to be any blood; the man had knocked him with the haft rather than the blade, perhaps so he would have the opportunity to watch his victim die face to face. A cold thought, that, and it caused Jurel to shudder. Next he checked his throat, gingerly probing the hole with a finger. The blood was drying and his finger came away sticky but there was not a lot of it and the fact that he was still breathing told him the wound was not serious.

Satisfied that he had sustained no serious injury, he looked up to the featureless sky and tried to silence the humming in his ears. It was not loud but oddly it did not go away either as if some instinct, some deep part of him that he had never met, was not convinced that their troubles were over.

* * *

He awoke from his fitful sleep with a start, and sat up in alarm with the cart pitching and bucking under him while the roan, urged ever onward by Kurin's calls, strained for more speed. The light of day filtered dimly through a thickly overcast sky allowing him to see the source of Kurin's concern. Behind them, perhaps five or six hundred paces back, he saw mounted men wearing white capes whipping in the wind, galloping after them.

“Who are they?” Jurel called over his shoulder.

“Soldiers of God,” Kurin's response was almost lost in the clatter of their mad dash.

Jurel stared back, stunned. He had heard of the Soldiers of God as everyone else had, in tales told around a fireplace. They were legendary for their strength and their dedication to the church; tales of their exploits were famous amongst the common folk. Men and women respected them, feared their reputation for ferocity and utter lack of mercy toward their enemies, and boys wanted to join them when they grew old enough. Since their formation, they had never lost a battle, so the story goes. Their reputation was so fierce that, according to some, when enemy forces saw Soldiers of God step onto the battlefield, they turned tail and bolted.

And some of them were currently chasing a farm boy and a peasant healer. The riders were so closely grouped that Jurel could not be certain how many there were. Not many, three or four, but enough he imagined, and they were rapidly gaining.

“What do they want?”

“I don't know, Jurel. Do you want me to stop and ask them?” Kurin retorted, not taking his eyes off the road.

The trees had become a blur at their speed, melding one into the other until it seemed to Jurel that the south side of the road had become one solid wall, yet still the men behind, their horses not encumbered by heavy carts, caught up to them within minutes. The lead riders, one on each side of Kurin's cart raced forward while the two rear riders flanked them, keeping pace. Swords drawn, the lead riders slowed, blocking the way with their bodies and Kurin had no choice but to rein in.