The Path of the Sword (64 page)

Dax did not budge. With a terrible suspicion worming its way into Gershan's thoughts, he ran to the closest prisoner's tent where that young bastard murderer should have been. Of course, the cot was bare. They should never have let him free of those damned shackles. They should have kept a closer eye on the two outlaws. Oh boy, Corporal Gaven would be in a heap of trouble.

He ran from the tent yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Alarm! The prisoners have escaped!”

* * *

Kurin rode them hard for perhaps a half hour before he reined in and slowed his horse to a trot. Jurel did likewise a few steps and thirty paces later. His mount steamed, filling the chill air with tangy darts of musky horse sweat, and panted great bellows of air. They needed to rest their horses. For all their need for haste, they did not want to ride their mounts to death. That would be a most unfortunate circumstance.

When he pulled abreast of Jurel, he panted and laughed. “That was fun, wasn't it?”

Jurel wore a grin that threatened to cut his head in half, his eyes bright with the fever of exhilaration. Out of breath himself, he simply nodded.

The snow was falling more heavily as they trotted their horses and Kurin clicked his teeth in mild dismay. The road was covered in a fine layer of white powder and he could clearly see the black circles of their horses's prints like a trail of bread crumbs. Perhaps with a bit of luck, the snow would continue and cover their trail. He could only hope.

They were hours ahead of pursuit. They needed to be at least a day ahead. Two would be better. They would keep riding until they were incapable of sitting in a saddle, then they would rest only long enough to remount and go. They had to. Salma was a bright young lady. She would quickly deduce that they traveled south. They had decided that Threimes would be too dangerous; their only hope was to reach a large town farther south—Merris for example—and lose themselves in the crowd.

He did not look forward to the grueling days and weeks ahead. But it was better than the alternative. He hoped Jurel was strong enough to handle the pressure. That thought almost caused him to laugh bitterly. Jurel? Jurel was as strong as an ox. No, he hoped
he
was strong enough to handle the pressure.

He had to. It was their only hope.

* * *

Captain Salma and Lieutenant Higgens were bent over a map of the land, intently studying it as if somehow, if they looked hard enough and long enough, it would tell them the location of the fugitives. Gaven stood at attention near the captain's tent flap and tried not to draw any more attention to himself. He struggled to ignore the tickling line of sweat that rolled down his back. Did she have to keep her brazier so hot? He barely dared to breathe.

Things had not gone well for him. When news came that the prisoners had escaped, the captain had immediately ordered that the camp be struck and stowed, that they would be leaving as soon as possible. Then without skipping a beat, she had turned furious eyes on Gaven and ordered him to follow her. Ordering a private to strike his tent and stow it, Gaven had obeyed (what choice did he have?) while his guts roiled acidly.

What had followed was a dressing down the likes of which he had never seen, let alone experienced in all his admittedly short tenure in the corps. When Salma had run out of breath, she had turned to Higgens and casually invited him to take his turn. With no more care than offering her place in the mess line. “Your turn,” she had said mildly. It might have gone better for Gaven if the two fugitives had chosen different horses. But no, they had taken the captain's and the lieutenant's mounts and that was like poking a sharp stick at a hungry bear. With a thorn in its paw. And a tooth ache.

“I say they went north, sir,” Higgens stated and poked a thick finger onto the map. “They know that if they make it to Threimes, they can hide in the crowds. We'd never find them.”

“Valid point. But they also know that we can trap them in the city and scour the streets until we do,” the captain's tone was rough, tinged red with residual anger.

“Yes sir. But it's only two days away and surely they know that we'll be hot on their heels. They need a place to go to ground. And fast. They can worry about getting back out later.”

Gaven too was angry. Angry at Jurel for breaking his word. Angry at himself for trusting too easily. Angry because it was easier to be that than to admit Jurel had hurt him. He had
trusted
Jurel. He thought they were friends, that they had bonded at least a little. Certainly, Jurel was a captive and he was the captor, but they had gotten along so famously. And Jurel had used Gaven's naivety to his
benefit. He had simply connived and bided his time until he could walk out of here and leave Gaven to the wolves. He was betrayed.

He knew which way they had gone. He knew Jurel. Well, he
thought
he knew Jurel. He needed to speak up. He was scared witless of drawing their attention back to him. But he had taken an oath.
Only three more years.
Ah damn.

“They went south, sirs,” he said in a quavering voice.

Two sets of eyes like embers snapped up and burned holes through him.

Quietly, so quietly, like silk sliding over steel, so Gaven had to strain to hear, Salma spoke, “Did anyone give you leave to speak, soldier?”

“I-I'm sorry, sir. I take full responsibility.” His voice quavered all the more and he had to clear his throat twice before he could continue. “But I know they went south.”

“Really,” Higgens said with a falsely encouraging smile. “And how, pray tell, do you know that, corporal?”

Standing stalk still, he faced ahead, not looking at either of them, but instead looking fixedly over their shoulders as a good Soldier should, and he wished he could rip off his chain mail and wipe that bloody sweat off his spine before the itch drove him mad.

“Because I have gotten to know Jurel, sir,” he responded, shoe-horning a note of confidence into his voice.

“And if you knew him so well, how is it that you did not know he would escape? Or did you know?” Higgens's face went red and spittle flew in tiny droplets as he erupted.

Fighting to keep himself steady, Gaven spoke quietly. “You are right of course, sir. He-they tricked us all. But I am certain that they went south. I would stake my military career on it.” Then before he could think better of it, he bitterly added, “If I have one left after this.”

Higgens snorted, turned back to his captain, and drew breath to speak. Without taking her eyes off Gaven, she raised a hand to her lieutenant, a silent command for silence.

“Corporal, I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to think very hard before you answer,” she said and her stony expression would brook no argument. Her glare was like hot knives, like molten lead, like twin spears. “Are you absolutely certain?”

Was he certain?
Could
he be certain? If he was wrong, he would be lucky to get out of this with no more than a dishonorable discharge. He blinked several times to clear sweat that clouded his vision, resisted the urge to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Jurel had lied to him. All those pleasant evenings, all the time spent together, all those games of Bones had been nothing more than a ruse to lull a stupid, gullible fool into helping him escape. How could he be certain? But he was. He was sure of it.

“Yes sir. I am certain.”

“Captain, his judgment has proven less than spectacular,” Higgens scoffed but the captain raised her hand again, stilling his tongue.

“I hope for your sake corporal, that you are right. Higgens, we ride south.”

And she strode from her tent without another look at either of them. Higgens was two paces behind, but he stopped when he reached Gaven.

“You better be right,” he growled. “Else I'll make sure you hang for this. You hear me?”

Then he too left the tent so Gaven was left alone to tremble and breathe deeply, to try to slow his hammering heart. He fought the urge to cry, wanted to curl up right there on the floor and rock himself to sleep. But that would be unseemly. He was a corporal in the 2
^nd
platoon, 5
^th
battalion, Grayson Regiment. Crying was not what corporals did. He hoped he was right—was sure of it—but not because he worried about discharges, or hangings, or whatever other punishment might be allotted for his gullibility.

He had questions that he wanted answered and, if need be, he would bleed those answers out of Jurel.

Chapter 54

Far to the east, a faint bar of light extended from horizon to horizon, announcing the arrival of dawn. The land had already begun to warm and if he listened closely, he could hear the faint
drip, drip
of icicles giving up their lives in the trees. The musky scent of wet decay rose from the exposed undergrowth, puffing up and tickling his nose at every step.

The light was still there though much smaller, maybe the size of his head. Even better, the pace had slowed considerably to no more than a trot. The owner of that light obviously did not want to wear his horse down. Smart. Well, it would have been smart if there was not an ambush waiting for him.

Xandru still did not know who he was following. That mystical orb had given him only enough to let him know that there were two horsemen riding, and that one was a large man, muscular. The other seemed leaner but it was hard to tell with his cloak draped around him. Still, it was promising. His master had told him there were two: one tall, young and heavy; one tall, old and lean. Perhaps his luck had changed.

He whispered orders to his men and they slowly crept forward to the very edges of the trees. The unmistakable croak of bows being drawn sent a shiver of delight up his spine and he grinned. They were close now. Eighty paces and closing. Limbering his sword arm, he passed one more whispered command down the line: a reminder that the two were to be taken alive.

Fifty paces. Wait for it. Wait. Thirty. Well within range but he wanted to be absolutely sure. The old man was one of the southlander priests. Xandru felt it might be wise to not give him time to send that ball of fire his way. Just a little more. Twenty. Ten.

“Fire!”

* * *

The war horse's breathing was slow and steady though it still steamed, thin phantom tendrils that rose into the growing light. Jurel was glad to see the dawn. It meant that they had survived their first night of freedom. His mount—he had decided to call him Hurricane, for that was how he ran—was trotting at a comfortable, ground-eating pace and Jurel was thinking about asking Kurin for another gallop. The snow had stopped an hour or so before and he was certain their tracks would be easily picked up. He wanted more distance between them and the Soldiers, between him and Gaven.

A shriek like a hundred knives scraping on rock erupted from Kurin's mount and Jurel turned, dumbfounded when the old man's horse stumbled. Then Hurricane shrieked just as Kurin's mount had and lurched sideways, and it was all Jurel could do to keep in his saddle.

A roar exploded from his right. Men dressed in rough leathers, with long, greasy hair tied in the back flowed from the edge of the trees. His mount whinnied in pain and stumbled again, and this time he could not keep his place. Leaping from Hurricane's back, he felt his cloak snag on something. An arrow. There was an arrow protruding from Hurricane's neck. How had that happened? A quick glance confirmed that Kurin's horse, like his was mortally wounded.

The savage men stormed toward them with the intensity of a tidal wave, brandishing serrated swords held high overhead. No time left to think. Jurel's sword rang like a whispered wind as he pulled it from its sheath and he raised it just in time to deflect the first blow.

Even as he fought, even as the first man fell with his life pouring red hot on the mud, Jurel recognized them. How could he not? These were the men that had left his mother splayed in a corner. These were the men that had laughed as they ran his father through.

It was almost a relief when, from far away, he heard that ringing in his ears. It was like a long lost relative suddenly showing up at his door. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, power infused his muscles, and he fought. Two more men fell, one missing an arm and the other, his head held on by the merest of sinews, and Jurel quickly scanned the killing field. Where was Kurin?

Another attacker approached, looking like an enraged demon and swung far too hard. Easily, Jurel stepped back and let his attacker's momentum carry him past and into the slicing edge of Jurel's sword. Nearly cut in half at the guts, the man flopped like a grounded fish.

The ringing intensified, playing its discordant music in his ears, sending thrills of rage through every fiber of his being and energizing his sword arm which lashed out, thrust, and swung faster than the eye could follow. These people had killed his family. These people would pay. Pirouetting like a dancer around a clumsy thrust he ran someone through and, with a wet crunch, a tremor ran up his arm as he struck spine.

The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, mingling with loosed bowel and the odor of men too long unwashed, and he reveled in it. It seemed to intensify the music he alone heard. Men died and Jurel was the instrument of that death, a whirlwind of steel that no one could stand against.

The music stumbled, hesitated. The discordant notes of that symphony of blood turned sour and quieted. Confused he continued his attack. He struck and he slashed. Then pain erupted in his shoulder and the ringing stopped completely. Somehow he had gone blind but he could not understand it. He tasted something. Blood? No. Mud. Why did he taste mud? Did someone throw the road at him?

When his eyes started to work again, he understood. Someone had not thrown the road at him. Someone had thrown
him
at the
road
. An angry thunder rolled in his head and his shoulder felt it should explode. Perhaps it already had. It was difficult to breath too.