The Path of the Sword (69 page)

One of who? The Soldiers of God or the prisoners?

Seeing Jurel's name, knowing that his friend must be suffering unimaginably down there, freezing, starving, quite possibly insane, caused a sort of drowning sorrow in Gaven's heart. It should not be so. Jurel's name should invoke anger in him, should make him go all red in the face and quiver with pent up rage. Jurel had betrayed him, lied to him. Jurel was the reason he was here at all.

I'm sorry Gav. You know I had to try.

Those words played over and over in his head. In hindsight, it all made sense and he almost laughed for it. Jurel had not actually promised anything had he? He had demanded Jurel's promise, and Jurel had expertly avoided saying the words.

Would I do that?

Gaven did not laugh but he did chuckle low in his throat.
Of course you would,
Gaven responded,
far too late to make any real difference.
You didn't promise anything. After all, you had to try.
With that
admission, he felt relief like a cool breeze at midsummer. Jurel's betrayal was not so bad, now was it? Not nearly so bad as he had imagined.

He had played the good little Soldier when they captured their quarry. He had done his duty. He had done what he
thought
a Soldier of God was sworn to do. He had shown pity. He had shown good will as Gaorla would have wanted, even if the recipients of that good will were suspected heretics. He had done God's work, and he had been punished for it.

This whole Soldiers of God thing had been a mistake. He knew that now, more than he had ever realized it before. His inheritance was enough that he could have lived in decent comfort, if not all out luxury, for the rest of his life. He was an intelligent man, he knew. He could have perhaps started as a merchant. He could have doubled, maybe trebled his inheritance in a matter of a few years with a few shrewd choices.

But instead, after being ousted from his family home by his fool of a brother, a stupid notion of piety had taken him. Or perhaps it was a desire for adventure, some misplaced remnant of his childhood fantasies. He could have joined the priesthood. He had the money to get into the seminary, but no, he had done the one thing his father would have scorned him for. He had gotten drunk one night and he had joined the bloody Soldiers of God. He had joined on a whim and he had not even bothered to buy his commission. Five years. He had signed up for five years, thinking he would have his fill of adventuring and he could retire and buy a small estate.

Two years later, he found himself regretting that whim to his very core. His five years had turned into a life sentence.

He huffed a sigh and threw the sheaf of papers down where they splayed out like molted feathers. He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head and his heart skipped a beat when his chair creaked so alarmingly that he thought the legs were going to snap out from under him. At least there would have been some excitement.

Something nagged at him. Something just at the edges of his senses. Something that was not supposed to be. He stopped, held his breath. A tiny alarm was ringing in his head and he tried to find the source. Instinct told him to draw his weapon. So he stood, and his crude shortsword rasped as it slid from his scabbard.

There. A noise, a faint rapping noise. A footstep perhaps, but if it was a footstep, then the stepper was trying to be stealthy. And it came from the outer hall. Certainly no Soldier would be trying for stealth. Unless they were playing another practical joke.

Gaven hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to expect. Thinking that he would be better safe than sorry, he stepped around the desk and faced the door, crouching with his sword pointed low and waited, fully aware of the irony: he was supposed to be keeping anyone from getting
out
, not
in
. He drew deep steady breaths as he had been taught during his weeks of training and he waited, all thoughts of foolish decisions swept from his mind by a surge of adrenaline.

The single torch on the wall sputtered and smoked, making his shadow dance eerily, making the room seem to jitter, and his eyes had difficulty resting on one thing. Then the latch moved ever so slightly. Sweat beaded on his forehead. This was not right. He tensed, watching the latch, seeing it pull ever so slowly of its own accord with but the merest of hissing that was nearly completely covered by the sound of the torch and his own suddenly heavy breathing.

Without any more warning than that, the door flew open, creaking, protesting, and a black phantom swept into the room. A glitter, a whoosh of air, and Gaven brought up his sword with a cry. Steel rang, echoing in the small room like an out of tune gong, and Gaven spun away, trying to get around his attacker but his office was too small and he found himself pressed against cold stone.

Dismayed, he lifted his sword and steel sang again, and for the first time, Gaven saw that this was no phantom come to take his soul, but a man in a black cloak. The man's intense eyes were savage, his expression twisted in a grimace filled with hate. He moved like a viper and Gaven found himself hard pressed to keep his opponent's blade from opening his belly.

He managed to catch the next strike, and the next, only a hair's breadth from his boiled leather cuirass—no steel for the disgraced. He kicked out, and heard a grunt, the first sound he had heard from this mysterious attacker, when his foot connected. His opponent stumbled backward but before Gaven could press his advantage, he had to dive away from a wild slash that would have left him without his head.

Coming to his feet again, fear began to work its insidious magic. This man was good. He handled his sword almost as well as any veteran though a little more clumsily. From the way he moved, from the way his tactics kept changing, and Gaven guessing, he ascribed that clumsiness to disuse; this man had once been a formidable opponent, more than likely a soldier, but he had not wielded his sword in a long time. It did not seem to matter. Gaven was not sure he would last beyond the next few gasped breaths.

Fear made him desperate. With an insane stroke that left him wide open to counter attack, he was able to bull into the man, and slam him up against a wall. He thought he might have a chance then, but white hot pain poured from his back across his shoulders and he fell to his knees, with a groan. He looked up in time to see another flash of gray light. Somehow his sword managed to leap up seemingly of its own accord and once again, he narrowly avoided a bloody death.

A flicker of light distracted him and he glanced at the door. A figure entered, short and barrel-chested, wearing an identical black cloak. The whistle of air saved him; he ducked, rolling backward, more of a tumble really, until his back hit the wall and his breath whooshed from his lungs.

Black despair gripped him, as black as the cloaks of his two enemies. He was dead. He could not face two. He was dead.

“I yield,” he croaked and forced his cramped, numb fingers to release his sword. It dinged lightly as it hit the ground and he forced his eyes up to meet his adversary's.

A wild rage filled the man's eyes like a fever and Gaven felt the tip of the sword when it pricked his throat. The other man appeared from behind a shoulder and he stayed the killing blow with a hand.

“We need him,” the second man growled in a voice that sounded like stones grating together.

Gaven gasped and felt his face drain of all blood.

“You!” he breathed, numbness driving away all sense. For perhaps these men were phantoms after all.

Chapter 60

He smelled wild roses and tulips, honeysuckle and jasmine. Bees droned distantly and birds twittered their airy conversations. He strolled across a wild field, virgin territory as yet untouched, unknown. Knee-high grass, damp with morning dew kissed his knees with moisture that glittered like diamonds among the swirls and whorls of gilded black armor, that wrapped him, confined him in a prison of sorts. An old man, ancient, careworn, with eyes that were timeless and bright all at once, strolled beside him but neither spoke. Instead, they enjoyed a comfortable silence as a father and son would.

A look right and then left revealed two armies. The men of these armies were faceless, anonymous. They stared across the innocent field at each other but their eyes were no more than sullen, thoughtful. There were no threatening glares, no bloodthirsty snarls. Their weapons were visible but lowered. Pikes and sword tips touched the ground, maces and axes rested casually, comfortably in lax fingers. Armor glowed dully in the light, a light that seemed sourceless, coming from nowhere yet was everywhere.

“I don't understand,” Jurel said and his voice was hollow as if it came through a cave.

The old man chuckled.

“I know,” he said. “But you will.”

“I don't think it matters anymore,” Jurel said and he gazed at the ground. Sorrow settled deep in his belly, made him weak, made him care a little less. “I'm dying, you know.”

The old man turned and those bright, timeless eyes gazed at him with a love so profound and a sadness so complete, that Jurel's chest squeezed, choking his breath. Hot spots burned in his eyes, blotting the armies from existence.

“You will not die this day, son,” the old man spoke gently and his voice seemed to bear all the weight of eternity. “There are hardships ahead, trials that you may not survive, but this day, you will not die.”

And Jurel believed him. How could he not? This man—his father? He had called him son, after all, and it felt right and proper, but he looked nothing like either man Jurel had called father. This man spoke with foresight. With knowledge that Jurel could not imagine. With the power of prophecy. His heart soared and the tears turned to joy.

“Truly? I will not die?”

“Not today, no.”

There was laughter in the old man's voice, under the sadness and the gentleness. Then the laughter faded and the sorrow, so all encompassing a moment before, became even more so. Jurel was certain his shoulders must slump, his back must shatter under the weight of the old man's gaze. But it did not matter for he would not die this day.

“I am glad.”

“Son, I must show you something,” he spoke and for the first time Jurel heard, or thought he heard, a hesitation, an uncertainty. His brow furrowed as he regarded the timeless figure beside him.

“Show me what, father?” he asked. It
did
seem right and proper.

“It will be difficult to see. You are strong, as you should be, as you must be. Yet I fear you might break.”

Fear pricked at Jurel, a pointy thing, like a pin in his thumb. “Must I see it then?”

“Yes, my son. You must.”

Fear pricked, but he trusted this man, his father. “Then I will see it.”

They strolled through the knee-high grasses that kissed Jurel's armor and left behind diamonds. Once again they were silent. He smelled wild roses and honeysuckle and tulips and jasmine. He smelled blood and smoke and excrescence. He heard bees droning and birds twittering. He heard men screaming and metal clashing.

* * *

“Hide Jurel, you must hide,” his father whispered urgently.

Father's face was bloodless and he moved with the odd, jerky motions of a man consumed by panic.

“There. Get under the table and don't you move, you hear? No matter what happens.
Don't. You. Move.
”

“Gram, they're coming. Hurry!”

Jurel turned and saw mama standing at the front door of their inn. She peered out from the tiny crack left by the slightly open door and she shook. She turned and her eyes lit on Jurel. They were filled with a fear he had never before seen. A fear so terrible, his young mind could not begin to comprehend it. A fear so horrible that he was not even sure what it was that he beheld, at first.

Father shoved him with one meaty hand and Jurel stumbled, cried out. Tears stung his eyes. Father was never rough with him. Well unless they were wrestling in their den. But that was different. They laughed while they wrestled. Father was not laughing now.

“Please Jurel. For the love of all that is holy, please, get under the table and be quiet,” Father whispered and Jurel, confused, feeling very much alone, complied.

Mother closed the door and bolted it. Strange that, since it was still early. Soon, the regular patrons would arrive and there would be laughter and noise and maybe a mummer would come tonight. He always liked it when a mummer came. They were so strange with their bright, patchy cloaks, and their sly smiles. The men always laughed at the jokes and the women gasped, red faced as though embarrassed, but Jurel never got those jokes. Father told him he would when he was older.

Maybe that nice soldier would come tonight. That fellow with the mean eyes, like the pictures he had seen in a book filled with the prettiest pictures of hunting birds, and the sour face. He looked mean but really he was not. He always made Jurel laugh with his jokes. He always had a sweet candy or a toy for Jurel. Why, just the other day, he brought this little bit of pointy wood he called a 'top' and when he made it stand up on that little point with a twist of his hand, Jurel had laughed and clapped his hands, delighted and amazed that such a thing could be.

His mother scurried up and knelt down in front of the table where Jurel hid. Tears were pouring down her face. Her voice hitched. She laid a hand on Jurel's cheek and spoke.

“I love you, Jurel. I love you so much,” she said and the tears redoubled their assault.

Then she rose and father's face appeared. Just like mama, wet streaks traced their way to his chin and Jurel was afraid. But why? This was home. Home was safe. Nothing would hurt them in their home. Would it? It was quiet in their home but Jurel thought he could hear a lot of men yelling at each other outside and he found that strange. The city was always noisy but this was different. This was sharp and hard and scary. Something else was strange too: he smelled smoke. Not the nice, friendly, warm smoke of their big fireplace. No, this smoke smelled bitter and angry. It made his throat itch and his nose want to sneeze. Where was that coming from?