The Path of the Sword (55 page)

Around the bend, of course, there was more of the same: trees and river and snow glare, and Jurel was unaccountably disappointed.

Another village consisting of a few rough wooden hovels, a tiny general store, and an inn that would perhaps house three or four weary travelers, came and went but beyond that, their journey remained as boring as ever.

“Are we almost there yet?” Jurel asked, rousing himself from his reveries.

“No Jurel.”

To him, it was as if they wandered aimlessly. Perhaps Kurin did not have a destination in mind after all. Perhaps he was just playing the vagrant, looking for just the right village to hole up in. Then he and Jurel would settle down and Jurel would learn about healing and history from the old man. He turned in on himself, letting those images soothe him. After the blood and the killing, it was like cold stream of fresh water on a hot day. The images of setting a broken leg and tending to a case of ague let him forget for a little while that just a few hours ago, he had been fighting for his life.

In the forest, fifty paces past the first trees, an unnoticed shadow passed silently.

* * *

High Priest Calen sat, eyes fixed on the depths of his scrying bowl. He was sweating though his office was quite cool. His left hand drummed a nervous staccato on his desk as he watched the progress of two horses carrying three men and he breathed too heavily, his ruddy cheeks puffing in and out slightly with each breath, for a man who had spent the last forty-five minutes sitting at his desk, staring into a porcelain bowl, even if that man was corpulent.

He was having a very bad day.

A few minutes earlier, a young acolyte had timidly knocked at his door and entered before Calen could answer. Calen had berated the young lady but his tongue froze when the acolyte interrupted him, weakly informing him that it was Grand Prelate Maten who ordered her to deliver a message and that she had leave to do whatever it took to see that Calen received it. Immediately.

The message was a summons. Calen was ordered to attend the Grand Prelate as soon as possible and Calen heard the underlying tone: 'as soon as possible' meant 'right now'. It did not take much imagination to know what it was that Maten wanted. Fifty men dead. Damn those inept fools!

The plan had been a simple one: exceeding expectations, Kerwal had provided two platoons, one northbound, one south, to converge on the heretic and his allies and trap them in a pincer. It should have been an easy thing. But the Threimes platoon had smelled victory when they detected their prey. Like starved wolves smelling blood, they had rushed in to attack at first sight. Unfortunately, the wolves found their prey were lions. And now they were dead. Damn them!

Maten was not happy. This was supposed to have been an easy mission. Three men against a hundred would have ensured triumph. Fifty should have been enough, but that blasted Kurin was as wily as a fox. There was only one hope left. The platoon from Grayson City were set up, prepared to ambush the renegades and Calen prayed to Gaorla that they would be successful.

It would happen soon. They were nearly there. Just a few more minutes and then he would answer the summons in all haste and humility as anyone should when the Grand Prelate demanded their attention. Right now.

He wiped hot sweat from his brow, blinked salt from his eyes, and he watched.

* * *

“Can't you just give me a hint?” Jurel begged. He had a plan. Pester the old man enough and he would tell Jurel their destination out of sheer desire to shut him up.

“Soon, Jurel. We will be there soon. Less than a week,” Kurin replied with exasperation.

“A week? You call that soon?” Jurel scoffed. His plan was sound, based on years of observation. It had been used by countless children for countless ages and, ultimately, the children always managed to wheedle what they wanted from their frustrated parents. Kurin was not a parent. Or maybe he was just an exceptionally stubborn man, because for all of Jurel's efforts, Kurin's defenses remained in place. “Come on Kurin. What does it matter if you tell me where we're going?”

“It matters.”

“But-”

“Silence,” Mikal ordered. “Listen.”

He was grim, intent on something, but when Jurel strained his ears, he heard nothing but what he always heard. The river grumbled as usual, trees whispered in the wind, the odd crack-
thump
that announced snow overburdening a branch. Through it all, the dull thud of hooves. That was all.

It took a moment for Jurel to register what it was that bothered Mikal. There was no bird song. There was no shuffling in the underbrush, like every animal had embarked on a mass exodus from the area. There was only one reason for that. Jurel tensed, unconsciously checked his sword and squinted his eyes to see better in the glare.

He searched the trees, carefully picking out every detail. Knotted oak, tufts of brush like badly cut hair, brown and yellow leaves, a bright glint of sun reflecting from ice; all seemed normal. Consciously, he forced his shoulders to relax, and he took his hand off the hilt of his sword.

Then the piece of shiny ice moved. A roar erupted from within the trees, the sound of men charging into battle, and the treeline exploded with steel and dark tabards.

“Move!” Mikal cried out and spurred his horse to a gallop.

Wasting no time, Jurel did likewise and held on as his roan surged forward, trying to keep pace with Mikal's charger. Men appeared in front of them, three, four, five, and bows were raised but Mikal did not slow down. Instead he ducked his head and Kurin let loose with another blast. Two of the men erupted into flames, and loosed their arrows simultaneously. The arrows, lit by Kurin's arcane fire, flew wide over their heads like glowing kestrels, and Mikal bore down with his sword drawn, passing through the remaining three like death's reaper. His blade swung scythelike, and a head tumbled to the ground.

Jurel, right behind, was reminded of Valik's most prized possession: the ball that they kicked in the field. He mimicked Mikal's attack, and a second head flew through the air and tumbled to the ground.
He scores!

They did not slow. They did not look back. They kicked their horses to ever greater speed and hunched their heads as low to equine necks as they could, feeling the tickle of mane on their noses, feeling tickles between their shoulder blades as though arrows were already embedded there. Arrows appeared in the road ahead, seemingly growing from the ground as they landed, quivering as if in frustration at having missed their targets. At his side, Kurin responded. The sound of fire crackled to life and whistled backward.

Then the fires stopped. There was a yelp of surprised pain and when Jurel glanced over, he saw Mikal was alone on his horse.

A glance over his shoulder provided a dismaying sight. Kurin was rolling on the ground, end over end like a cart wheel that had broken from its axle. Jurel pulled the roan's mane with all his might and the horse screamed, rearing up onto its hind legs. Even before the horse settled, Jurel jumped off, flailed frantically for purchase in the air and landed heavily.

Rolling to his feet, he ran to Kurin's inert body and knelt. It took only a glance to see the arrow that protruded from the old man's thigh. It took another glance to see that he was breathing though only the gods knew how.

Metal men thundered down the road with drawn swords, crying savagely for blood, closing the distance between themselves and the young man standing over his hurt friend.

They clashed. Jurel swung, a mighty blow that cut the air with a hum, and he was rewarded with a screech of metal and a sickening liquid crunch. He dove, rolled between hooves, pulling his sword free in the process and spun, delivering a vicious backhand swipe, cutting into a leg that spouted hot red like a belching volcano.

Before he could get a third attack off, a shield battered into his side and sent him reeling. He responded with a wild swing that missed its mark. It was enough to hold his attacker back but not enough to slow the others.

As he lunged back through the line, his sword bounced awkwardly off a shield and his arm went numb. It was only by sheer force of will that he kept his fingers wrapped around the hilt. It was his lifeline. Standing over Kurin, he was joined by Mikal whose arrival was announced with the fall of two Soldiers in quick succession.

As if in a nightmare, Jurel pressed himself to ever greater speed but each attack seemed to fly in slow motion. It felt as though he were underwater, surreal and ponderous. Every time his sword struck home, felling a man, two more jumped into the gap and pressed the attack.

The world blurred into a haze of blades and blood and bodies, and no matter their efforts, the soldiers came on. His chest heaved great wagonloads of air that entered his mouth cold but somehow burned when it reached his lungs and the wound in his side ached savagely, pulsing at the same break-neck tempo as his tripping heart. His arm grew leaden as he fought. Each strike came a little slower, a little less powerfully. He heard a grunt of pain that nearly paralyzed him with fear. Beside him, the swordmaster stumbled and with legs that turned to water, Mikal fell, clutching at his belly.

A fury overtook Jurel and he attacked with renewed vigor. Kurin and Mikal lay in heaps at his feet and he would not join them. He would fight. He would defend. He would prevail. Men fell like wheat under his adrenalized blows, though he could no longer differentiate one attack from the next. He moved, dreamlike, from stance to stance, from arcing swing to vicious thrust. He did not notice the cuts and scrapes that covered his body and turned his cloak and flesh to tatters. He did not notice the way his ankle twisted in a rut.

He did not notice the new arrivals that came from the forest behind him.

The world shattered into shards of light and darkness, and pain flared across his skull like the aurora borealis. He staggered, gasped, and the ground rocked under his feet like an angry bull. Another streak of lights, red, white, and green, crossed his vision, blinding him at the same time a line of fire streaked across his arm.

With gongs sounding in his head like the bells of the underworld, and with the world spinning around him until he thought he would sick up, Jurel's sight went dark. Then he was falling, screaming a soundless scream. He did not stop falling for a very long time.

Chapter 44

Calen jumped with a whoop of victory from his seat, sending it clattering against a cabinet where it jostled a bottle to the ground. It shattered and the expensive carpet greedily drank the burgundy liquid. The office filled with the bitter-sweet scent of alcohol and wet fabric but Calen did not care. Not one bit.

They were captured. That's what mattered. That bloody swordmaster had cost them dearly as had the country lout but Kurin had fallen easily enough. Maten would not be happy at the loss of an entire platoon and nearly half of a second, nor would he be happy that Calen had kept him waiting, but at least Calen could report success. That should mollify the old man.

It had been a pricey victory but it was a victory. That was what Calen would tell Maten. His chances for a prelacy were all but gone, dust in the wind, but at least he could still curry some favor from Maten.

And of course, Thalor would be green with fury. He thought about his long time nemesis and his lips twisted into a cruel grin. The battle between the two would rage on; no one would gain the upper hand from this. Thalor had as much chance for a promotion as he did. That mattered.

He strode from his office, his step light despite his bulk, and in his mind he rehearsed his meeting with Maten. He would apologize. He would bow his head in contrition. He would show Maten that he suffered for the loss of those Soldiers and he would announce that Kurin, that great heretic, that wily old bastard, was in custody and would arrive in Threimes for trial.

He pictured the pyre that would be crowned by the old man. He pictured himself standing beside Maten and praying with him for Gaorla to be merciful with the soul of a heretic (while simultaneously hoping in his heart that Gaorla would consign him to the deepest pit He could find). He pictured these things and as he walked toward the ornate wing that housed the Grand Prelate's personal chambers, he smiled his cruel smile.

* * *

“Piss and bollocks! Bloody piss and bollocks in the bloody demon's bloody blasted underworld!”

Thalor hurled his scrying bowl, sending the holy water sprinkling through the air where it sparkled like diamonds, against the wall and stared with impotent rage as it shattered and rained bits of porcelain across his office.

His nostrils flared under his wild eyes and his fists trembled at his side.
Damn
that fat bastard Calen and his bastard sneaky ways! Were it not for him, Thalor would have had more of his own men pick up Kurin.
He
should have been the one to drag that old man kicking and screaming to trial, not that corpulent bag of waste.

He stared at the splash on the wall and at the jagged shards scattered across his floor and saw his dreams of prelacy there among the wreckage. For a moment, despair took him, a black hopelessness that gaped its terrible maw under his feet and left him feeling shaky, empty, and tired. He was not an ambitious man, but that prelacy had been so close. Within his grasp. It was a loaf of bread and a dollop of butter proffered to a starving man, only to be yanked away as his fingers grazed the crust.

His survival instincts kicked in. He schooled his emotions, pushing away those useless hostile ones, as well as his momentary lapse into self-pity, until they were no more than easily ignored flutters in the back of his thoughts. There was no point in worrying about what was done. Perhaps an opportunity would arise that would allow him to redeem himself. Perhaps he should plan for the eventualities. He might even figure out a way to turn this debacle around.

Calen would not prevail. He would make sure of that. He just needed a plan.

He sat at his desk with quill and ink, and started to write.

* * *