The Path of the Sword (46 page)

“Kurin, who is that?” Jurel whispered, poking a thumb over his shoulder to their companion.

“Eh?” Kurin blinked rapidly, seemingly awakened from a deep sleep. “Who? Him? Have I not introduced you?”

Jurel responded with a withering glare.

“Oh. I guess not. I apologize, Jurel.” Raising his voice so the man could hear from his position, Kurin said, “Jurel, I'd like you to meet Mikal, a friend of mine for many years. Mikal, this is Jurel. Mikal's going to accompany us for a while.”

Mikal stuck a calloused hand over the back of the cart and Jurel automatically gripped it. With a firm shake that ground the bones of Jurel's hand together, Mikal glanced down and smiled pleasantly.

“Pleased to meet you, Jurel,” Mikal said with the raspy voice of a man accustomed to bawling orders. “I look forward to sharing the road with you.”

Part 4:

Trials

“
Some face the journey with careful trepidation, some face it with

careless excitement. Only the former shall succeed.”

-excerpt from A Philosophy on Life,

Author anon

Chapter 35

Jurel sat in his regular spot in the back of the cart, disconsolately staring at the river that lazily meandered its way along, carrying sections of drifting ice like vast river barges to the ocean far to the north and west as the high sailing sun followed their progress. The forest to their right held no interest for him; it was the same interminable expanse of trees that had been accompanying them since they set out. He did not even bother to lift his head when they passed through another village, a tiny speck in the road, a minute change in the monotonous vista. They had passed through four—or was it five now? Jurel could not remember—of the little villages since leaving Merris nearly a week ago, each one identical to the last: a small inn welcoming travelers, each one somehow looking like it was as bored as he was, surrounded by a dozen homes that were really no more than glorified shacks. The villages were so remarkably similar that Jurel wondered once again if someone, God perhaps, played some cruel joke and kept them turning in circles, only to pass the same cluster of buildings over and over again.

He thought back to the farm, remembering how he had imagined a life of travel and grand adventure. He had looked forward to it, dreamed of the wondrous sights he would behold and the brave deeds he would perform. He grunted a chuckle, soft and bitter, at his own childish innocence. So far, except for a few guilty, terrifying moments of bloodshed, he did not have much to tell his father if he ever returned. He imagined that conversation, ran it through his mind:
“Well, I killed a couple of soldiers,”
he would say,
“then I saw a farm. Then another farm. Then there was that inn. And another farm. Oh, then I killed someone else. And then...did I mention the farm?”
His father would surely be proud.

And that was how their days went. When night fell, they made camp among the dubious shelter of the thin, leafless trees at the edge of the forest, ate a meal, idly conversed amongst themselves and went to their bedrolls to catch a few hours of sleep. They woke at the break of dawn, shivering in the chilly mornings, ate a quick breakfast, and after a hasty clean up, they got back into their respective positions and rode on. Another few days of this and Jurel was certain he would go insane.

“How much farther?” Jurel asked.

Kurin turned in his seat, the reins dangling loosely from his hand, and shot Jurel a warning glance.

“Almost the same distance as when you asked a half hour ago,” he grated, “and a little less than when you asked a half hour before that.”

Mikal, sitting his horse as comfortably as anyone he had ever seen, snorted. Jurel was still not quite sure what to make of the newcomer. Though he supposed that after six days together, Mikal might not actually be a newcomer anymore, but rather was just another member of their unlikely little party: a healer, a farmer, and a soldier. Neat. Nonetheless, the man remained an enigma to Jurel. Repositioning himself among the stores that Mikal had replenished before they left Merris, he shot another glance at the man who rode with them. It was obvious that Mikal was an experienced rider; the slump of his shoulders, the way he casually rested his hands on the pommel and steered his horse with his knees, the steady rocking, so perfectly in tune with his mount's gait, told Jurel that this man had spent many days in the saddle. It was also obvious that he was a warrior of sorts. The man moved with a natural grace that somehow seemed threatening. It did not matter whether he was tending a fire, or stepping behind a tree to relieve himself, he moved like a wolf. He had never seen Mikal draw the sword that always hung at his hip, but he had no doubt that when Mikal did, people ran or they died. Beyond that, Jurel could ascertain nothing of him. He had tried on several occasions to drum up a conversation, but the man spoke fewer words than his horse did, opening his mouth only when he told them of some need; “wood for the fire” or “water for the horses” seemed to be the limit of Mikal's conversational ability.

“Blockade ahead,” Mikal grunted, causing Jurel to snicker. One more added to the list.

“How many?” Kurin asked.

“Perhaps twenty. Hard to tell at this range. They span the road.”

Jurel sat up and, leaning forward, he peered down the road to where he could just make out a dark
smudge spanning the width of the road. A glint of sunlight announced the presence of metal.

“They're armed,” Mikal reported, confirming Jurel's fears.

“Soldiers?”

“No. Bandits maybe.”

“Can we ride around them? If we break into a gallop when we approach, we may surprise them.”

“Not enough space on the right. Ground's too rough on the left.”

“Well you're just a fountain of good news aren't you?” Kurin muttered. “There's no help for it. We'll have to convince them to leave us alone.”

As they approached, the smudge coalesced into a group of men dressed in common linens, and frayed bear skins. Each one carried a weapon of sorts; there was a scattering of axes, picks, a couple of scythes, and two rusty swords as they watched their prey draw nearer with tense faces and anxious eyes. These were obviously not soldiers trained in the art of war, but an ax buried in his chest, whether by soldier or peasant, would still do the trick quite nicely. A few paces from the ragtag group of bandits, Kurin reined in and the two groups eyed each other over the short distance. Tense moments passed with no one saying a word until a tall, lanky man of perhaps twenty-five years, presumably their leader, stepped forward and gestured with his simple wood ax.

“Come on then,” he called in a strangely high pitch voice. “Hand it over and we can all be on our way.”

“Oh? And what is the price for our freedom?” Kurin asked blandly.

“Ten silver pieces.”

Someone in the crowd loudly cleared his throat.

“
Er, ten
gold
pieces,” he amended.

Kurin barked a shocked laugh. “Ten gold pieces? Are you mad? Why, everything we have would not cover your demand.”

Mikal leaned sideways in his saddle until he could whisper into Jurel's ear, “Get your sword ready.”

“But they're simple folk. They don't deserve to be cut down,” Jurel muttered back, aghast.

“They're thieves who will gladly bury those farm tools in our skulls if we don't stop them,” Mikal growled with a penetrating glare.

“Well then,” the leader of the band said in response to Kurin, glancing around at his compatriots, “I suppose that means that we'll have to make do with keeping everything you have, won't we?”

A harsh chuckle rose from the throats of several of the men and several of them hefted their weapons in anticipation.

“No no no, this will not do. This will not do at all,” said Kurin, sadly shaking his head. “We are simple travelers who mean you no harm, but I must insist that you stand aside and let us pass lest we take umbrage.”

“Three against twenty? I think we'll take our chances,” he said with a confident smirk.

“All right. Wait a moment while my friends and I discuss this.”

Without waiting for an answer, Kurin motioned for Jurel and Mikal to move closer.

“What do you think, Mikal?” he asked.

“I think that alone, I would be hard pressed but with Jurel's help, no matter how inept, we should win easily,” Mikal's voice rumbled like a far away avalanche, and just as relentless.

“They look like beggars,” Jurel whispered, trying to stop this madness before things got out of hand. “Can't we just offer them a few silvers and be on our way? We might be keeping them and their families from starving. We might be saving their lives.”

“
As I'm sure the last traveler they waylaid thought. And the one before that. These men are bandits, Jurel,” Kurin whispered with a tone of finality. “I would wager everything we have that they already have blood on their hands. I would also wager that no matter what we give them, they will do
their very best to keep us from going anywhere except to a shallow grave in the woods.”

“But-”

“No. Enough. If they will not let us pass, then we must stop them. Will you fight?”

Jurel's eyes moved from one implacable face to the next, wordlessly imploring them to reconsider. They did not. A spark of anger ignited within Jurel and he drew himself up.

“No. I will not fight,” he announced loudly enough for the other group to hear. “If you want to pursue this folly, do it without me.”

“Fool!” Kurin hissed. “Bloody young fool!”

“Here they come,” Mikal noted.

He slipped from his horse and strode toward the oncoming thieves, his sword appearing in his hand as if by magic. The first of the attackers swung his scythe and Mikal easily redirected the blow with the edge of his blade. He spun around like a dancer and buried his elbow in the man's face. A spray of blood erupted from the man's ruined nose as he stumbled back and fell to the ground. The second man's pick whistled over Mikal's head as he came out of his graceful twirl. He ducked, lunging forward in one smooth motion, burying his blade deep in the man's chest.

“He can't win, you know,” Kurin said quite matter-of-factly.

Mikal spun again, an ax missing his ear by inches, wrenched his blade free and sliced upward, cutting a young man diagonally up his torso from waist to armpit.

“What? Look at him. I've never seen anything like it.” And Jurel had not. Mikal fought brutally and efficiently, each movement carefully planned to provide maximum damage to his opponents while sustaining minimal damage to himself but for all that, the man flowed from stance to stance, attack to attack like water, leaving a trail of blood wherever he went.

“There are too many of them. It's only a matter of time before one of them gets a lucky shot on his exposed back, or he loses his footing on the mud.”

As if his words were prophetic, Mikal's foot twisted, slipped into a pothole, and he stumbled. Ironically, the misstep saved his life; the ax that should have been buried in his neck instead glanced off a pauldron as he lurched away. With a roar of pain, Mikal, still off balance, managed to retaliate; his sword came up awkwardly, and took the axman's hand off at the wrist.

“Do something,” Jurel shouted as he watched Mikal try to regain his rhythm.

“Do what? I'm a healer and an old man. I am useless in situations like this,” Kurin replied sadly.

“Damn it, Kurin! I saw what you did to that Soldier. You must help him!” Jurel, feeling desperation, gripped the hilt of the sword he could not recall having picked up.

Kurin did nothing but stare mutely at Mikal as if in a trance.

With a growl, Jurel yanked the scabbard off, threw it in the cart bed, causing it to bounce and fall into the mud. He followed it with a leap and ran to Mikal's aid. Mikal had managed to stave off more attacks with the desperate acts of a badger trapped in a corner and two more men lay on the ground, surrounded by their own blood when Jurel joined the fray. A pick whistled through the air directly for Mikal's exposed back, and he lunged, cutting the handle in two. Emulating Mikal, he spun, burying his own elbow into a shocked face, felt a sickening crunch and a jolt that numbed his entire arm.

Not waiting to see if the beleaguered thief went down, Jurel swung his blade again, hacking into another unprotected chest with a noise like cabbage being sliced and eggs being broken. Kicking the dead man off his sword, Jurel spun, recoiling barely in time to avoid the ax that cut the air directly in front of his chest. His newest attacker, off balance from the wild swing he had been sure would find its mark, stumbled, trying to regain his footing. Jurel did not give him the time. A powerful overhand blow split through the man's shoulder and down into his torso. The
man hacked one agonized cough, spewing oily blood so deep red it was almost black, and
collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He turned again, caught sight of Mikal beset on two sides crouch below a scythe and sweep the attacker's feet out from under him. Without hesitation, Jurel lunged in, plunging his blade into the man's abdomen at the same instant he hit the ground while Mikal, now behind Jurel, rose and thrust a dagger, through the other man's throat.

They were back to back as the remainder of the attackers circled just out of reach, flexing fingers about their makeshift weapons, waiting for an opening. They traded nervous glances; these two were more than they bargained for, but the leader berated them.

“Come on you bloody fools! There's only two of 'em and they're hurt. Look, the big 'un even has a dagger stuck in his leg!”