The Path of the Sword (45 page)

“I think everything will be right where we leave it,” Kurin said as he took an inventory of their remaining supplies, separating what would accompany them to their rooms with what would be left in the cart. “Would you be so kind as to carry those bags in with you?” Kurin gestured to a stack and Jurel cast him a withering glare which Kurin returned with far too much bland innocence. Apparently, everything would be right where they left it because Jurel was about to carry almost everything they had in with them.

“I hope our room has plenty of storage,” Jurel grumbled, beginning the process of organizing the sacks on his person, strapping them over his shoulders in a criss-cross fashion until he resembled a big leather and burlap bear.

“Mmm,” Kurin said without even a glance, and turned to go, carrying one little satchel in each hand.

Passing through an ill fitting back door that did little to shut out the draft, they turned up the narrow stairs, trying to keep their footing on the cracked and warped planks as they climbed. The hallway they emerged into was no better. One torch spluttered on a wall, casting a ruddy glow that did little to stave off the oppressive gloom, spewing an oily smoke that probably explained why the walls were dirty pus yellow. Kurin opened the third door and entered without hesitation.

The room that Jurel entered made him gag. In a perverse imitation of his old room at the farm, there was a small cot on each wall with a chest located under the window at the far end of the room. Beyond that, there was no relation. Where the room Jurel had shared with Daved had been spotless, this room was filthy. The window was covered in a layer of grime so thick that almost no light was allowed to enter; the only light was from a guttering stub of taper on the chest. The beds were each covered in what Jurel surmised passed for a blanket in this establishment, but they were threadbare and stained. He thought, at one time, they had been some shade of green, or perhaps blue, but as he looked at them, he could only see a shade that resembled the infected walls in the hallway.

He stood, motionless, not wanting to let any part of him touch anything, unsure whether to be shocked or disgusted and settled on feeling both, until Kurin cleared his throat.

“Couldn't we have gotten something—
any
thing—better?” Jurel asked.

“I thought we'd already covered this,” Kurin said, sitting on a cot that creaked alarmingly under his diminutive frame.

“Well, yes but...
come on!
I wouldn't let my worst enemy stay here.”

“It is not the most pleasant of accommodations, I admit,” Kurin said with a perfunctory glance, “but remember: the Soldiers of God are after us. They have a small garrison here in town—probably the garrison the men who attempted to arrest us came from, and I think it would be wise to keep our heads down. We'll survive for one night. Although...”

Kurin picked up a small pack, and rummaged around inside, muttering to himself. His eyes brightened and he held up a strange plant that Jurel had never seen.

“This should help keep the room's other occupants at bay.” He took a deep breath, smelling the plant and a smile creased his features. “Help with the aroma as well,” he added.

He scattered sprigs that he broke off liberally around the room, and to Jurel's amazement, he immediately noticed a difference in the air quality. It smelled to him like spring.

“What is that stuff?”

“Just a little air freshener. Come. Put those bags down and let's get some dinner. The food here is about what you might expect, but beggars can't be choosers, after all.”

In the common room, they found a table near the back and sat. To Jurel, this inn looked much the same as the tavern in Tack Town: long tables with an aisle down the middle; fire pits at each end of the room, spewing acrid black smoke; a bar along the back wall with a fat, surly barkeep wearing a spotted white apron; and a wench who circulated, despondently reciting the day's menu to the few patrons who sat scattered in small pockets around the room.

When the extraordinarily ugly serving girl, pock-marked and filthy, with emotionless eyes, returned with their order and left with their copper, all Jurel could do was disconsolately stir at the contents of his bowl. The smell was far from appetizing.

“Are you sure this is pork?” he asked while inspecting a lump of grayish meat.

“That's what she said,” Kurin replied, shoveling another greasy spoonful into his mouth.

“But it doesn't smell like pork.”

“Just eat. Don't think about it. Just put it in your mouth, chew, and swallow.”

Plugging his nose, Jurel tentatively poured some of the brown glop into his mouth. It tasted better than it smelled but only fractionally; a bee's sting is less painful than a wasp's but neither is particularly pleasant.

They ate in silence, concentrating on swallowing one revolting mouthful after another, following each bite with a swig of watery mead, until finally, Jurel plunked his spoon into his empty bowl and sighed.

“I can't eat another bite.”

“Full?” Kurin asked.

“No, I just can't eat any more of this...stuff.”

Kurin laughed sourly. “Well, at least it filled a hole.”

“The question is, will it stay there?”

They each drank another tankard, trying their level best to wash away the taste of their meal and when they finished, Kurin rose.

“I need to go out for a time. Why don't you go up to the room and get some rest?”

“Maybe I should come with you.” Jurel did not relish the thought of spending time in the dirty little room.

“No my boy,” Kurin said. “I've been here before and I know the streets. I may have to move quickly and I can't have a big oaf like you bumbling about, tripping me up.” He smiled to remove the sting from his words. Jurel decided to take the bait.

“An old man like you can move quickly?”

With a laugh, Kurin started for the door. “Touche!” he called back over his shoulder and then he was gone.

Seeing no sense in tarrying, Jurel left the common room and made his way back to their room to await Kurin's return. He thought bitterly that waiting for one thing or another was quickly becoming the story of his life as he slumped down on his cot, mildly surprised that it managed to hold his weight, and rubbed his face with his hand.

There was a fresh taper in the sooty iron candle holder; the light in the room was marginally better, so to pass the time, Jurel decided he could read a little more from the book he had started on their journey here. He propped up what passed for his pillow, thinking that they must have used a few handfuls of straw from their stables and lay back. He managed to wade through three pages of the tome, fighting his way through the badly written text when the trials of the day caught up to him. The book slowly slid from his fingers to lay flat on his chest as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 33

Xandru, sweating profusely in the oppressive heat, waited in the featureless room that seemed carved from a single massive piece of stone while the deformed little half man with the pasty gray skin and green glowing eyes stood in front of the massive door that loomed high overhead. Nearly as wide as it was tall, it was constructed of ancient wood held together with black iron bands the thickness of his not inconsiderable chest.

At some unseen, unheard signal, the gnarled creature stepped aside and informed him in his dry voice that the master waited inside. The doors swung inward, ponderous and oddly silent for such a large thing, to reveal a black hole, a gaping maw that he was forced to step into, trusting that there was, in fact, a room to step into and a floor to step onto.

His armor creaking softly, he crossed the threshold and strode forward. A few paces in, a circle of light a pace across appeared on the floor, marking the spot where he was to stand. Without hesitation, he strode forward and halted in the center of the circle of light. Whenever he found himself here, he always wondered where that light originated; scrutiny of his surroundings never revealed its source. Or anything else for that matter. He stood in his oasis of light, surrounded by a blackness so deep, so complete that even the door behind had disappeared, and he waited, breathing in the faint scent of wet stone and sulfur. Soft whispers reached him, surrounded him, rustling and hissing like innumerable snakes, so faint he could not make out any words, but close enough that he could feel the anguish and the terror of the thousands of damned souls who occupied the darkness. He had been in this position often enough; he should have been used to this by now.

He waited, motionless except for the rivulets of sweat that ran down his face, back and chest, until—

“
Xandru,”
a sibilant voice hissed from the darkness, reaching his ears from every direction and yet from nowhere.

Immediately, Xandru knelt, turning his eyes to the ground and splaying his arms out with upturned palms in a gesture of obeisance.

“My lord, I have come as you summoned,” Xandru said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. He knew the forms.

“
What news do you bring me?”
the voice of his lord penetrated to the depths of his soul.

“My lord, my agents bring disturbing reports to me, from the center of the southern kingdom, from a small town called Tack,” Xandru said, not daring to move until his master allowed him, no matter how painful maintaining his position was.

“
Yes, we have felt the stirrings in the Mist. The time is near. He walks the land.”

“Yes my lord. What is your command, my lord?”

“
Bring him to me. Immediately.”

“Yes my lord.”

His heart sank as he hurriedly backed away, scuffing his knees. He did not raise his eyes until he saw the outline of the door in his periphery and when he did, he rose and strode from the room without so much as a glance to the misshapen figure who stepped back in front of the doors that swung shut as silently as they opened.

This place was a long way from Tack, and he was not sure how he would manage to find the man and return him as quickly as his lord commanded. He had no choice. His lord did not tolerate disobedience. He would have to move quickly to gather his men and proceed south. It never left his thoughts for a moment that time was of the essence. If he ran his men to death, then so be it. He had no choice.

He did not want to become one of the whispers in the dark. He had no choice.

Chapter 34

“Are you trying to poison me?” Jurel grumbled, staring at the slop the ugly serving girl had placed before him. “How can anyone dare to call this breakfast? I've served pigs better fare.”

“Just eat,” Kurin sighed as another spoonful found its way to the old man's mouth.

“But Kurin, look at this. I'm sure that the fellow who came up with the word 'egg' all those years ago did not have this in mind. Honestly, who ever heard of eating bacon and eggs with a spoon?” He poked at a floppy piece of yellow-brown goop.

Kurin pounded his fist on the table, and glared at Jurel. “If you want to give the cook lessons, then be my guest. I'm sure you'll make a lot of patrons very happy. Otherwise, shut up and eat.”

“Fine. You don't have to get snippy,” Jurel said before shoveling a spoonful of the unidentifiable stuff into his mouth. “Where were you last night?” Jurel mumbled, his mouth still full.

“I went to see a man about an ass,” Kurin replied with a pointed look.

Confused, Jurel glanced up, knitting his brow together.

“I don't understand.”

“Never mind. Just eat.”

Sunlight caught Jurel's attention and he looked across the room to see the front door swing shut behind a short man wearing a black cloak, scanning the tables. When the newcomer's eyes fell on him, he altered course, directly for their table. Alarm flooded through Jurel and he leaned forward.

“Kurin. Someone approaches,” he whispered.

The man strode with purpose, covering the distance quickly and with a grace that verged on fluid. His cloak billowed behind and Jurel saw he wore a hardened leather vest with bands of steel running in horizontal rows from neck to waist over his heavily muscled torso. His features appeared to have been carved from granite, like a statue of some mythical hero.

Kurin nodded and bit down stoically on another spoonful.

“Kurin, he's coming right for us. And he's armed,” Jurel whispered, noticing for the first time, the long, slightly curved sword that rested in its scabbard on the man's hip and swung in perfect rhythm with his stride like it was as naturally a part of his body as, say, his right arm.

He did not have time for anything but to rise before the man was on top of them, leaning down to whisper into Kurin's ear. Jurel paused, half standing when Kurin glared and motioned him to sit down. The newcomer whispered another few words, and Kurin nodded once, tersely.

“I think it's time to be off, Jurel. Let's get our things.” Following his own words, Kurin rose and made his way out of the common room, closely followed by the man in the cloak.

Completely lost, Jurel ran to catch up, questions bubbling in his mind like a pot of boiling water. He caught up to them halfway up the stairs but he judged by their determined pace, that his questions would go unanswered for the time being, so he kept his mouth shut, and set about the tasks necessary for them to leave.

* * *

The strange man guided his horse down the main street followed by Kurin and Jurel in the cart, just as Kurin had the day before: pulling to a stop every few yards to keep from trampling various living obstacles comprised mainly of dirty children, wagons, and milling throngs of townsfolk, before continuing slowly, navigating his way carefully through the sea of humanity dotted with equine islands. Though Jurel was sorely tempted to ask his questions, Kurin's far away look told him that he probably would not even hear the young man.

So he waited. He waited while the city of Merris passed them by. Stone buildings eventually gave way to wood and the vibrant reds, greens and yellows faded until all the buildings took on the same dirty white color of paint too long exposed to an unforgiving sun, peeling away to leave patches of exposed lumber and giving the impression that they were afflicted with some horrible plague. Just like the buildings, the people changed: near the plaza, bright silks and satins dominated as though the populace vied with the city about them, perhaps hoping to win some prize that only they knew of for being the most gaudy. Merchants and professionals and perhaps some minor nobility rubbed elbows in the affluent trading square to haggle and squabble, but the farther south they traveled, the more the rainbow faded, becoming the monotone of brown linens and coarse cotton that denoted the peasantry. He waited until the last of Merris was behind them and growing dim in the distance. He waited until, finally, he could not restrain himself for one more heartbeat.