The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  “Oh, I don't know exactly.” Kurin paused and stared at the sky as though Galbin had asked a question of monumental importance. “Riverfang calls to me but I must admit that my old bones are weary and it is a long, long journey across dangerous lands. I have pondered Master Daved's words and I may decide to settle somewhere, open a little shop and stay warm and comfortable beside a fire.” Then he chuckled before adding, “At least until the call of the road lures me away once again. Such is the life of a vagabond I suppose.”

  Eyes twinkling, he turned back to his packs, checking and rechecking as though he had mounds of possessions to sort through instead of the meager change of clothes and a few small packs of food wrapped in oilskin that seemed lost in the heavy leather bags.

  Jurel found himself wondering, once again, about this old man who had turned his life upside down with no more than a few words. On the one hand, he was most definitely strange; his words and actions—imagine a man his age climbing a tree like he was a boy!—left Jurel bewildered. He was obviously an educated man, and well cultured but he roamed the land as poor as the lowliest peasant. On the other hand, he had an open nature, a warmth that seemed to invite easy friendship. And for all his strangeness, his words rang true. It was quite a conundrum.

  “Posh, sir! You are obviously no common vagabond,” Ingirt announced archly.

  “I thank you madam for your charitable words.” Kurin bowed deeply as he had the previous night. “We vagabonds must, by need, take all the charity we are offered. Especially when it is offered by one so beautiful that the gods must have blessed her.”

  Once again, from the depths of his bow, he caught Jurel's eye and winked and Jurel could not help but smile at this roguish display. Ingirt tittered and fanned her reddening face with a hand.

  “I should not tarry any longer. I am keeping you from enjoying this lovely day.”

  Taking his reins from Kaul, he swung easily into his saddle as limber as any of the herders on the farm, as limber as his own father who was well known to be the best horseman on the farm and reached down to shake Galbin's hand. “Thank you for your hospitality and your generosity. I pray the gods will smile kindly upon you.”

  “It is we who thank you, sir,” Galbin returned, obviously trying to emulate the old man's elegant form of speech, though not entirely successful at it. He was too much a farmer. “It has been our pleasure to open our door to you. I fear a bite of food and a hayloft is ill payment for the news and the stories you have brought to us.”

  Kurin extended his hand to Daved, who ignored it pointedly. “And you sir,” he said with a smile that could only be described as mischievous, “I thank you for your refreshing candor.”

  “Always a pleasure,” Daved said with a tight smile.

  “I'm sure it is,” Kurin laughed. “And you, young man,” he turned to Jurel, “I give thanks for pleasant conversation and much needed exercise.”

  His grip was firm, almost as solid as Darren's father's, and his hand felt like dry leather.

  “Thank you sir. For the same,” Jurel mumbled looking down to his feet.

  “I told you,” Kurin said with an exasperated shake of his head, “to call me Kurin.”

  Daved shot Jurel an inquisitive glance. He had not seen the need to burden his father with the knowledge of the treetop conversation the previous night.

  Straightening up, Kurin beamed at the small group.

  “I bid you all farewell. Perhaps I will have the honor of seeing you again.”

  Although he took in the whole group, his eyes seemed to linger on Jurel for an extra moment. With a prod, he urged his horse around and followed the path to the road. Jurel watched until he was out of sight, half expecting Kurin to look back at him, and disappointed when he did not.

  “What was that all about?” his father asked.

  “He came by while I was in my tree last night. We spoke for a moment and he told me to stop calling him 'sir'.”

  He had an urge to say more, to tell Daved all that had been said. After all, they shared no secrets. Of all the people in the world, he trusted his father most and he liked to think that his father trusted him. But something stopped him.

  “That's it?”

  “Yes father.”

  For a moment, Daved's gaze sharpened, piercing Jurel, and he was sure his father doubted he told the whole story. He did not say anything more about it; he kept his eyes on his father's with as much innocence as he could muster and decided to change the subject.

  “Is there anything you need me to do father?”

  With a laugh, Daved shook his head. “No lad. Go on. Enjoy the day. There are few enough of them left this summer.”

  His father's words were still hanging in the air as Jurel ran around the corner of the house to see if his friends could be convinced to let him join in for some shallow, childish play.

  Chapter 13

  The trees were bare, ragged skeletons that reached up to the sky, stretched out as if trying to grasp leaves, red and brown and yellow, that sped by borne on the wind, trying to hold on to them, to protect them, trying to keep them near a little while longer like a parent tries to hold on to a grown offspring. The sky was a solid gray mass that pressed close, a thick blanket for a world that prepared for a long, cold slumber.

  The farm seemed to hunker in on itself, dark, saddened by the passing of an old friend. The fields lay fallow, bare earth prepared for its own protective winter blanket, and almost empty; the hands had other tasks at that time of year: repairs, storing and stocking, and chopping mountains of wood to keep their fires stoked and their homes warm when the winter's chill came.

  As he bounded out of the cabin and into the brisk wind, slamming the door behind him, Jurel could barely contain his excitement. He breathed deeply holding the tang of autumn in his chest and shivered, though not from poor garb; he was well dressed for this day. It was anticipation that sent him quivering. He would be sixteen in a few days and on that day, he would be a grown man. But though cause enough for excitement, that was not what he thought of right then. Nor was it the thought of the great feast that Galbin always held on the Day of Shadows that so thrilled him. As an early present Daved, who was going into town for supplies, had agreed to take him along. As far as Jurel could remember, he had never left the farm. It was the prospect of seeing a real live town, and more of seeing something new, that had him in such high spirits.

  Daved, as usual, was already up and about long before Jurel had stirred from his bed, but on that morning Jurel was certain he knew where to find him. He did not bother going to Galbin's house where his father was most certainly finalizing the shopping list with Galbin. Instead, he made his way to the main barn where their horse and cart would be waiting. But when he entered the barn, he almost panicked. There was no cart, and one horse was missing. He spun and ran back outside. His father had promised. He had gone ahead and left without Jurel. But it was so early! And he had promised! Certainty gripped him as he ran toward the main house: his father had left before sunrise. He would have wanted to be off so that he could be back for dinner. He should have risen earlier. Why did his father not wake him? He should have-

  “Jurel! Come on lad. We need to get going.”

  Daved appeared from around the corner of the house, glaring impatiently at him. Relief washed through Jurel, left him dizzy on wobbly legs. He's always glaring. Even when he's happy, he's glaring, he thought and laughed out loud as he trotted up to his waiting father.

  “What were you doing? We need to be off. No time to go playing in the barn.”

  “Sorry father,” Jurel muttered in his new deep tenor. “I thought to prepare the horse and cart for our adventure.”

  Daved grunted, mollified. “It was a good thought but I prepared them almost an hour ago. I've been waiting here for you to drag your lazy bones from your bed for that long.” He chucked Jurel in the shoulder, his knuckles digging in and Jurel had to rub the soreness from his arm. “And there's no adventuring going on. We'r
e going into town, getting supplies, and coming back. So I'll have no running off from you, chasing imaginary brigands and ogres.”

  “Yes father,” Jurel responded and he could not suppress the resentment that flared up in his chest. He was not some boy to go running off playing foolish games. He was nearly a grown man.

  Seeing his son's scowl, Daved grunted again. “Now don't go getting all offended on me boy,” he growled. “I know you're nearly a man grown but you're not yet. You still have a few of those boyish tendencies and I'm heading them off before they jump out of you and make you do something silly.”

  When Daved hopped up onto the driver's seat, Jurel rolled his eyes.

  “Get on up in the back, Jurel. You'll be more comfortable there.”

  “Can I drive?” Even as he asked the question, a vagrant thought made him wonder how many teen aged boys asked that same question of their fathers.

  “I don't think so.” How many fathers had uttered the same response?

  No point in arguing about it. His father was not one to reconsider once his mind was set.

  When he was settled in the back of the empty cart, Daved clicked his teeth and gave a light snap of the reins. The cart lurched as the stocky gray mare pulled on the traces and they were on their way.

  His excitement returned, replacing the resentment his father had called forth, and he looked to the road ahead. What would a town look like? Vague memories, broken bits and pieces of the city he had lived in with his real parents, did not answer his question. They were too dimmed by time. Any memory that came to mind—a stone building with a wooden sign hanging in front showing a red shield, wide cobbled streets teeming with horses and people, a green grassy flat area where he spent some days while his parents watched with tolerant good nature—were seen as through dense fog; washed out and gray, fading into and out of memory like birds flying through clouds. No matter how much he concentrated, he could not even remember the name of that place. He could ask Daved but his father was not fond of remembering those days and rarely ever spoke of them. He did not wish to bring up any bad memories.

  It was with a darkening of his mood and a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the air, that he pushed away that train of thought, instead deciding to live in the here and now, to enjoy the view of the passing countryside. The great impenetrable and haunted forest that filled the center of Threimes kingdom and cut off the road some distance west followed the south side of the road. Great trunks rose high, and so closely together that he could not see more than a few paces into the trees as if they guarded some dark secret, some grim view that no mere mortal was allowed to set eyes on. Their branches mingled and intertwined higher up; it was as though the trees were embattled in an ancient melée and even leafless they formed a canopy so dense, they would keep all but the most stubborn snows from the ground.

  As children, Jurel and his friends had spent many hours recounting tales to the younger ones, tales of hapless travelers who lost their way and wandered into the forest, never to be seen again, taken as they were, by the ghosts and monsters who were storied to reside in its shadowy depths. The stories were meant to frighten the younger children and they did; Jurel was honest enough with himself to admit that he had experienced his own shivers and goose-pimples. Sometimes. His father always scoffed at those stories, calling them superstitious drivel for fools and children, but looking at the gloomy wall of wood and shadows, Jurel could not help but wonder.

  Where the south side held deep darkness to it like a mantle, the north was wide open and airy. A few trees spotted the ground in clumps but they were as interlopers in the vast farm fields, now barren for the season, their crops picked clean, and the soil turned. It was as if the narrow track of mud that passed for a road, rutted by farmers running the same kinds of errands that they were, was a border of sorts, a battle line drawn between the mortal and the eternal, the known and the unknowable.

  He gazed at a farmhouse similar to Galbin's, as the cart trundled and bounced its way through the ruts and Jurel started in surprise. He had never before seen that house and the realization dawned on him that though they were no more than maybe twenty minutes from their own farm, thirty at the outside, he had never been out this far. Words formed in his mind, floating up from the depths like errant bubbles from a drowning man: provincial farmboy. He had not thought of Kurin in quite some time but now as he watched the new scenery pass him by, still virtually on his own doorstep, he had to concede that the strange old man might have been right after all.

  He felt like a child all over again—a feeling he did not much like; he was nearly a grown man after all—as he discovered for the first time lands and sights that had probably been unchanged for decades, maybe even centuries. He saw a herd of cattle grazing in the yellowing grasses of a lea while an unfamiliar boy a little younger than Jurel tended them, playing a simple, haunting tune on a reed flute as he watched them trundle by. Another mile passed, and he saw the remains of an abandoned barn, moldering in a skirt of weeds that reached halfway up the gray, rotting hulk. He watched as every once in a while, another house or barn or silo came into view only to disappear behind them, all of them looking almost exactly as the previous ones and before too long Jurel began to wonder if someone played a cruel prank on them, making them ride the same stretch of road over and over again. It did not take very long for him to feel the first stirrings of boredom.

  “Are we there yet father?”

  “We've been on the road for perhaps an hour. I told you it's a three hour trip,” said Daved over his shoulder. “Besides, do you see a town surrounding you?”

  “No but is this all there is to see? Farms and trees? I can see those things at home.”

  “Well what did you expect? Parades of singing elephants?” Daved snorted and shook his head disdainfully.

  “I don't know. I just...well, I thought things might look different out here than they do on the farm.”

  “Now why would that be? It's farmland we're passing through. One farm looks much like any other. Sit back and be patient. We'll be there soon enough then you can get your fill of new things to see.”

  With a sigh, Jurel sat back and resigned himself to a long boring trip. He gazed unseeing at the passing landscape (farmhouse, white...silo, missing part of its roof...cows...farmhouse, a little less white...) while his thoughts drifted. His remembrance of Kurin's words brought more memories of that treetop conversation of so long ago. Kurin had told him that he could leave the farm. Indeed, he had pointed out that Jurel might be forced to leave if Valik ever took control. Now Jurel was nearly a grown man and he wondered. Would he leave? So far, being off the farm had proved to be disappointing. Could he leave?

  “Father, would you ever leave the farm?” Jurel asked even as the question sprang to mind.

  “Haven't we?”

  “No, no. Not just for a bit. Not just for supplies and then go right back. I mean for good. Would you ever leave forever?”

  Daved turned in his seat to regard his son with raised eyebrows and asked with distinct incredulity, “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Well,” Jurel hesitated and considered his options. He could suggest that Daved might be bored and want some adventure, but he rejected that quickly, certain that his father would call it a childish notion. Perhaps then to do something new, to change his surroundings. But no, Daved had told him on countless occasions that he had enough of exploring the world. That left only one option. “What would happen if Galbin died? Wouldn't Valik...?” Jurel broke off, not wanting to finish the unpleasant thought out loud.

  “Now that's a grim thought. Where did you come up with it?”

  Daved sighed and fell silent to stare out at the road ahead. He was silent for so long that when he finally said something, Jurel started.

  “I don't know lad. I really don't. I suppose it would depend on whether Valik can become the man his father is,” he said quietly, pensively. His tone changed then, becoming more a growl, and he continue
d, “At his age, I begin to doubt anything can redeem him. He's the complete opposite of his father. Why do you ask?”

  It was Jurel's turn to remain silent as he formulated his answer. Leaving the farm, striking out on his own might have been more interesting than plowing and digging, even if what he had seen so far of the outside world was less than riveting. On the other hand, the farm was not all that bad a place to live. Food and shelter were always close at hand and his relationship with his friends had improved over the last couple of years as the old memories faded further and further until they were dusty with disuse.

  Then there was Erin. It seemed that, lately, whenever he thought of her, his mind went blank and his gut tightened. When she looked at him from under those impossibly long lashes and smiled her delightful smile, he felt dizzy, felt he might sick up, and his tongue seemed to rebel, turning him into a blathering idiot. Somehow, the discomfort was not entirely unpleasant. It confounded him so much that even as he tried to see her at every opportunity, he tried to avoid her too.

  “I guess the thought of seeing new things, of doing something else is just tempting.”

  Daved nodded understandingly. “There is an appeal to the thought, lad. I grant you that. Keep in mind that before we settled on the farm, I led another life. I saw things and did things that you cannot begin to imagine. Some, I remember fondly. Others, I would rather not remember at all. That's the trade off. On the farm, things are easy and safe, but it is often a tedious existence.

  “Out there,” he gestured, spreading an arm in a wide gesture to take in all the world, “you can experience wonders and excitement to boggle the mind, but there is an equal share of terror and sorrow.”

  Jurel pondered his father's words, wondering if the excitement would mitigate the danger. Daved had made his own choice obvious. But as he watched the world pass by under its gray blanket, cool and serene, he wondered if it was really so bad. And it came to him that he was singularly unqualified to answer that question. He had no experiences of his own off the farm—well none that he really remembered anyway. He had no idea what was out there. How could he decide?