The Path of the Sword (52 page)

Strangely, that horrible sound was different. Almost leisurely, he pondered the change as his horse frantically scrabbled for purchase on the slippery snow-soil mix. The ringing clamor was as loud as ever but, somehow, he was able to hear the gallop and panting of his horse, the sounds of the gaining soldiers, and the sound of Kurin urging Mikal to more speed. It was as painfully ear-piercing as ever, digging claws into Jurel's mind but somehow it was more welcoming, like it belonged there in his head, like his ears were its natural habitat.

With the grating, disorienting, glorious sound roaring through his skull, he sat up and turned to scan the distance behind. Flashes passed through the murk between the trees, dark smudges of movement that told him where every single enemy soldier was. He counted quickly, five, ten, fourteen, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-seven...

“We'll never make it,” he said, still calmly searching the forest behind him. Thirty, thirty-one...

“They are gaining?” called Mikal from ahead, straining to be heard over the thunder of hooves and the roar of wind.

“Of course,” Jurel said still surveying the trees, trusting his horse to keep up with Mikal. He wished Mikal had left his bow with him. He could have picked a few off on the run, maybe slow them down a little, buy a little time. Thirty-nine, forty...

A whistling sound melded with his own ringing, creating a strangely hypnotic symphony. Turning slightly to his left, he saw the arrow approach and ducked letting it pass harmlessly over his head and into the forest beyond. He really wished he had Mikal's bow.

“They have archers,” Jurel said and thought he saw Mikal nod.

Hard to tell though, since, at that moment, Mikal's horse screeched like steel torn asunder, seemed to skew sideways, its back legs locked in an inverted V as it lost its balance and spun until it very nearly faced Jurel's own roan. Jurel's horse screamed, and reared, as though it thought it could jump over the stumbling leader. Mikal's horse bucked and Kurin rose into the air, a tangled mass of arms and legs that rolled like tumbleweed until he landed with a thump, sliding to a stop at the base of a massive tree. Mikal still hung on, but when Jurel's horse threatened to behead him with flailing hooves, he rolled gracefully from his own stumbling mount, landed lightly on his feet and tossed himself sideways away from thrashing hooves.

Tugging the roan's mane, Jurel managed to slow it enough to dismount and check on Mikal.

“You all right?” Jurel asked, scanning the man for injuries.

“I'm fine,” came the terse reply as Mikal spun and ran toward Kurin.

The soldiers were only a short distance away; the exhalation of equine breath was audible even with the thunder of hooves all around.

“How is he?” Jurel asked, for all the world sounding like he and Mikal chatted about a fire, gossiping about friends.

“I'm fine,” Kurin growled shakily. “But that blasted horse—look out!”

It happened so fast, Jurel was not sure what he saw until much later when he had time to think about it. Kurin's arm shot out, his fingers spread wide, and a crackle of sound, a flash of ruddy orange light erupted, streaking past Jurel's shoulder faster than he could follow. Behind him, there was an inhuman howl of pain and he spun to see a pillar of flame shaped approximately like a man. The howl came from that inferno but amidst the roar of the flames, it suddenly cut off and the form crumbled to the ground leaving nothing but a heap of smoldering embers.

The world stood still as though stunned by the sudden blast of light and heat. Sound ceased and motion stopped leaving an imprint of his surroundings etched in his mind's eye, like acid on a tarnished copper backdrop.

It was Mikal who broke the spell with quiet words of warning, “They come.”

As if the Soldiers of God had been awaiting just those words, figures coalesced from the shadows of the trees, armor glinting in the dull light that remained, swords held forth, at the ready. They had dismounted. Mikal had been right; fighting in such close quarters with so many obstacles broke their charge, made it impossible to fight from horseback.

A unified rasp grated as Mikal and Jurel drew their blades. Soldiers rushed forward, eating the distance in loping strides until, with a dissonant clash, their swords fell and met those of the two waiting men.

Jurel knocked the first blow away and kicked out, felt his foot connect with his opponent's knee and the soldier cried out. Without pause, he brought his sword around and neatly drove the point between seams in the armor. He kicked again, and the soldier slid off his sword, falling into those that approached behind. At almost the same instant, he saw Mikal from the corner of his eye drop and swing a leg out agile as a cat, toppling his own foe. Jurel stabbed down and pinned Mikal's opponent who convulsed and coughed, spewing blood between the open slats of his helm.

“Never mind me,” Mikal said. “See to your own.”

Sure enough, Jurel had just pulled his sword out of the dying man's chest when he heard a sword whistling toward him. Instinctively, he ducked and, reversing his grip, drove the sword up and under the man's breastplate into the soft tissue of his abdomen.

Before he had time to straighten up, there was another flash, another blast of heat, another ruddy streak that flashed through the surrounding trees, and two soldiers rushing in, still ten paces away, burst into flame so hot that Jurel had to shield his eyes. Ghastly though it was, the flames lit up the night, allowing Jurel to see the soldiers that were massing at the trees, as though preparing for a charge. They hesitated, unsure of the fiery death of their comrades and that gave Jurel a moment to be grateful that Mikal had been so hard on him during their training sessions. He had no doubt that if it had not been for Mikal's efforts, he would already be dead.

Don't forget to breathe.

There was no more time to think. From the edge of the trees, a gruff voice called demanding to know what they were waiting for. As if prodded, three men lurched forward, followed by others that took position along their flank. Jurel had the urge to step out and meet them but the massive trunk of the tree that Kurin had landed against when Mikal's horse threw him provided them with some protection and kept them from being completely surrounded.

“Stand fast, Jurel. Protect Kurin and let him do what he needs to do,” Mikal said, raising his sword once again to meet the soldiers that were coming into range.

The battle quickly became a blur of slash, parry, thrust, punctuated by blasts of heat and light, as the dead and dying began to pile up around them, affording them, strangely enough, even more protection; it was as if he and Mikal were erecting a wall of steel encased flesh.

Ripping his blade through a throat and spinning to deflect another attack, Jurel gasped. A surge of pain coursed through his side and he felt wet heat flow. At the end of his spin, Jurel pushed forward, thrusting the point of his sword into the third man who had arrived unnoticed while Jurel was busy deflecting the other's blade. Behind him, he felt a gust of wind, heard a whistle of steel cutting air. Desperately, he lashed out with his foot and felt a solid thump as he connected.

A thud and a gurgle told him his opponent was dead. Turning himself back, he saw Mikal pull his sword from the soldier's chest and fluidly spin, sword flashing in the light of another ball of fire, to sink into his opponent's neck.

With a manic laugh, Jurel called out, louder than he had intended, “What ever happened to 'see to your own?'”

His only answer was a grunt and Mikal stumbled backward when an errant elbow connected with his shoulder, almost knocking Jurel over. Without another sound, Mikal lunged forward, and another man fell, gripping his erupting abdomen, gurgling his last breaths.

They fought on—parry, thrust, parry, slash—while Kurin remained motionless behind them. The soldiers were coming with greater frequency, trying to hem them in, trying to get close enough that their swords would be useless, trying to exhaust them. And still they fought on, staving off the inevitable by a hair.

Sweat poured into Jurel's eyes, obscuring his vision even further in the deep dimness of dusk. Kurin's fires had gone out and they fought in shadowed black, hacking almost wildly wherever they thought they detected movement or heard words grunted in an unfamiliar voice. Jurel earnestly hoped he would not mistake Mikal for a Soldier.

A rumble began at their feet, no more than a slight tremor, barely perceptible at first, but it rose quickly into the insistent, angry groan of stubborn earth roused from dormancy. There was a
crack
, a noise so loud that the gods must have taken notice, so violent that everyone was thrown to the ground.

And the world exploded into light so brilliant it would leave sparks in his eyes for hours, with a sound so dreadful, it managed to drown out the ringing, and with a heat so intense, it sucked the wind from his lungs.

Sitting up, Jurel could do naught but gape at the wall of fire that exploded from a great tear in the earth, spreading end to end a hundred feet, that rose high enough to engulf entire trees. And the remaining Soldiers of God. His eyes watered with the sheer intensity of the monstrous inferno that reached for the heavens, seemingly intent on reaching the stars themselves. Heat washed over him in waves, a blast furnace, causing him to gasp and cough, tasting the bitter scent of sulfur, burnt wood, melting metal and scorched flesh.

It roared on, that hellish fire, for a heartbeat, for an eternity, casting its light on everything that it did not burn to ashes and for the second time that night, an image imprinted itself on Jurel's mind: trees standing in a tidy circle, surrounding them, guarding them, while death lay in broken, bloody tangles at their feet and a wall of fire, impossibly high, impossibly long, nearly blinding but not so much so that he could not make out the vaguely man shaped smudges that stood within its core, slightly darker than the rest of the inferno, arms raised skyward in tortured supplication.

As quickly as it began, it winked out, plunging all back into black silence.

Disoriented, Jurel tried to gain control of his legs, pulling them under his body and carefully rose. He felt strong hands grip him under his armpits as he did and he cried out, clumsily throwing back an elbow and felt a satisfying thump as he caught this newest attacker in the side of the head. The hands released him and with the support suddenly vanished, he fell back, sitting down hard, wind blowing from his lungs in a great gasp.

“Damn it, Jurel,” Mikal growled. “Careful with those things. You almost took my head off.”

Awkwardly, Jurel turned his head and looked owlishly up at the shadow that stood over him. He thought he saw a hand cradling the side of Mikal's head and Jurel swallowed convulsively.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I couldn't see you.”

“If you two are quite finished sparring, would you mind lending me a hand?”

Both Jurel and Mikal turned at the sound of Kurin's voice. The old man's tone was cross, and as tinny, as rickety as an old chair.

“What happened?” Jurel asked as he helped Kurin gain his feet. For his part Kurin seemed as wobbly as Jurel felt.

“It appears we were attacked.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jurel retorted scathingly. “I mean where did that fire come from?”

“Oh that. Just a little thing I cooked up.”

“I didn't know you could do magic.”

“Of course I can. Most priests can to some degree or other,” Kurin said with a dismissive wave. “Call it a perk, if you will. Though we don't call it magic. That's for street corner hucksters. We prefer the term
arcanum
.”

“We must go,” Mikal broke in. “There may be more.”

As quickly as their exhaustion would allow, they gathered themselves and went in search of the horses. Their luck was in. The horses stood side by side back a way in the trees, heads bent low to the ground, searching for forage without a care in the world.

Oh, to be a horse.

With the horses in tow, they walked through the underbrush. The fall of night also brought a corresponding fall in temperature and soon the sweat they had shed during their battle began to grow chill, then freeze. As they walked, they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands, trying to work some warmth back into digits that quickly grew numb in the frigid air.

Added to the cold, the slice in Jurel's side began to sear him, making each step more difficult than the last until he was gasping with the effort of putting one foot in front of the other, gingerly placing his weight with each step to lessen the pain. He stumbled several times, emitting a yelp of pain as soon as his hands touched the ground. He felt like he was being torn in half by a giant made of ice.

“I need to stop,” he gasped when the pain of falling to his hands and knees cleared. He could not seem to get his feet back under him.

Mikal strode back to him, lifted him in one smooth, powerful motion. “We can't stop,” he said. “Soon, Jurel. But not yet. Come on. Keep walking.”

But as soon as Mikal's hands released him, he sagged back to his knees.

“Can't,” was all he managed to huff out.

“Let's get you in the saddle then,” Kurin said, joining them.

“No...Falling asleep.”

And he was. Blood seeped from his side, numbness spread from his extremities to his limbs, and black feathers brushed the edges of his sight; his mind, seemingly stuffed with straw, whirled, disjointed. Jurel clutched his side. The pressure helped a little.

Kurin's eyes narrowed. “Are you hurt?”

“Little scratch,” Jurel waved the old man off. “Just need to rest. A moment.”

Without another word, Kurin gently pried his hand away and leaned in close to see better. It felt as though the old man stabbed him and he winced, hissing in pain. But Kurin was simply probing with light fingers.

“This is serious,” Kurin muttered to himself. Then, for the benefit of his companions, he straightened and said, “Serious but not life threatening.”

“Then we go on,” Mikal said, already turning away.

“No Mikal. Jurel is right. We must rest. And as little as you will like it, we must have a small fire for warmth.”