The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  As always when he pondered these questions, his mind began to tumble in circles, turning the same thoughts over and over until they began to blur and make little sense, and he was no closer to his answer.

  Chapter 14

  “Take a look, lad.”

  His father's voice cut into his mental stalemate like an arbiter at a tournament and he rose to his knees to look over the driver's seat. They crested a hill and Jurel followed the narrow road as it ribboned its way down a gentle descent, still bordering that interminable forest. There had been a brush fire at the far reaches of the farm the previous year, a raging inferno that spread so quickly that it seemed to sprint across the dried fields. Jurel remembered how the hands had cut a wide swath along the edge of the fence. His father had told him that it was a barrier to keep the fire from spreading. For some reason, the road almost seemed to serve the same purpose, only it was the forest itself that was kept from spreading, as if the forest was the fire that needed curbing.

  Perhaps a half mile ahead, the road disappeared into a different kind of forest. Tack Town, a village inhabited by maybe as many as a thousand people—so his father told him, but he found it hard to imagine that many people in one place—mostly tradesmen, traders, or minor merchants and their families seemed to huddle. It was an outpost, a tiny speck, fearful of the vast enemy that encroached on its southern flank, but gamely standing in its way.

  Wooden buildings with thatch or slate roofs (depending on the success of the owner, no doubt) crouched close to each other but there seemed no order to their placement as if some giant child had dropped his favorite building blocks. Streams of smoke rose from a hundred chimneys, thin ribbons of ash that rose into the mid morning sky to merge with their larger brother above. Even at this distance, Jurel could make out movement in the narrow streets, the hustle and bustle of townsfolk out and about on their daily business like a hive of bees.

  Seeing his son's expression, Daved could not help but smile sadly. Jurel did not register it. He was far too busy taking in the sights in front of him. All those buildings pressed side by side, so close that it seemed impossible anyone could get between them. And all those people! Jurel had never seen anything like it.

  As the cart approached, the town opened like a flower and other things began to make themselves known to him. There was a veritable cacophony of sound; a smith's hammer clanking out a steady beat underscored the thudding of horses hooves which melded with the rumble of a score of wagons. A creaking noise, like an unoiled axle chirped, and a whirring growl of wood being split by a heavy saw shouldered its way into his hearing. Underlying it all was a deep thrum, the hum of human interaction. Smells assaulted his nose, of wood smoke, of cooking meat and baking bread entwined with the stench of dung and sweat and refuse, until he was not sure whether it was appetizing or revolting.

  Then they were making their way along between the buildings toward the market plaza that Jurel could just begin to make out in the middle of town. As they went, he saw various shops along the way in various states ranging from immaculate with new coats of paint to ramshackle, so worn down that Jurel doubted the soundness of the structure, each with its own crude but colorful sign hanging by hemp or chain above the door. A spool and thread on one indicated a seamstress or maybe a tailor. Across from that, a squat building wider than the others had a sign with three kegs; presumably a tavern. An apothecary indicated by a beaker, a smithy proclaimed itself with a forge embossed in iron, and dozens of other shops that he could not recognize fronted the street, pushed together so closely that the narrow alleys in between were perpetually in darkness.

  Threading his way carefully through the traffic, Daved concentrated on keeping his cart off the children who ran squealing by, unmindful of being run over, until he reined in, halting in front of a large general store, with a window on each side of the door showing off various goods to passersby. Along the edges of the street, hawkers had set up their crude stands and were loudly vying for the attention of passersby, calling out loudly—as though volume and truth were directly related—that their wares were the best in town. No, the best in the region. The best in the kingdom. An old man with no teeth standing behind a rough wooden counter with a sign that read MEET PYES: TWO COPERS! was holding up a stick with some brown substance stuck to the end as if he displayed some kind of prize, while at another, FREWTS AND VEGTEBLES FRESH FROM THE FEELDS, a plump lady with ruddy cheeks was arranging rusty heads of lettuce and a few shriveled apples. He saw knives displayed and jewelry, he saw varicolored cloth, either in pre-cut squares or rolled up in large bolts, and even bits of armor adorned the front of one stand. He saw these and a dozen more, a dozen dozen more.

  “Here we are, lad. You wait here and mind the horse. I'll be back shortly.”

  “Yes sir,” Jurel said without even glancing at his father. There was too much to see and hear; he felt giddy, light-headed by it all. Then he moved to follow him.

  “Hey, Jurel!” barked Daved. “Did you hear me? Stay here.”

  He paused, blinking owlishly like a drunkard before stepping back to the cart. Shaking his head and grumbling under his breath, Daved stalked away and disappeared into the general store, leaving Jurel to continue his slack-jawed gaping. Jurel was so enrapt that he did not notice the approach of the last person he would have expected to see.

  “Jurel?” a deep resonant voice called.

  He was so shocked that when he spun in the direction of Kurin's voice, he almost lost his feet. As his searching eyes lit on the old man, he gasped. “Kurin? Is that really you?”

  He rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing as though the chaotic activity around him caused the light to play tricks with his eyes.

  “Of course it is,” Kurin laughed, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Who else would I be? How are you child?” He looked Jurel up and down before amending himself. “Though perhaps you are a child no longer, hmmm? More a man grown from the size of you. As I recall, you're nearly sixteen, is that right? A man grown indeed. Look at you. Your shirt is too small.” He shook his head as though he could not believe what he was seeing—a feeling Jurel knew only too well. “My how the time flies.”

  It was too much. Jurel stared blankly, not entirely sure where to begin his replies.

  “Never mind, never mind,” Kurin said. “How I ramble sometimes. It is not often an old man stumbles across dear friends. How are you?”

  Shaking his hand, Jurel responded with the only thing that came in his head. “I'm fine. And you, sir?”

  “I am well, thank you. And the name is Kurin, remember? My how you have grown! Or perhaps I've shrunk.”

  Kurin was a tall man, easily head and shoulders over the throngs who passed by. Jurel noticed then that he was eye to eye with him, but where Kurin had the look of a scarecrow with his gaunt features, nearly emaciated limbs and bony knees, Jurel was heavily muscled from his labors on the farm.

  “It's nice to see you Kurin. May I ask what brings you here?”

  Spreading his arms wide, he smiled but before he could answer, he was forestalled by Daved's gruff voice.

  “Master Kurin, isn't it? What business do you have with my son?”

  His glare was icy enough to cool the day even further and Jurel groaned in dismay. The old man was strange but he seemed harmless enough; Jurel did not understand what his father had against him.

  “Master Daved. A pleasure to see you as well, good sir.” With a sardonic smirk, Kurin continued, “I am well thank you for asking.”

  Even as it was when last they met, his extended hand was pointedly ignored.

  “I didn't ask,” Daved snarled, the thin veneer of civility dropping away as he stepped between Jurel and Kurin—a wolf protecting its cub. “What do you want with my son.”

  “Me? Why I'm simply renewing old acquaintances,” Kurin said with wide, innocent eyes.

  “He was just saying hello father.”

  Well now that was stupid. What made him jump in like that?

&nb
sp; Daved rounded on him, glaring heatedly before he faltered, grimaced, seeming to swallow the harsh words that were on his tongue. Instead he turned back to Kurin.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I decided to heed your words,” Kurin said, lowering his unacknowledged hand. “My old bones were tired of life on the road and so I decided to settle down for a time. Shortly after I left your company, I decided that the first town I came to, I would stop and set up shop.” Turning slightly, he pointed down the street to a narrow windowless shop that had a sign with a green cross painted on it. He shrugged. “There's my place.”

  “You've been here for the past three years?” Jurel asked incredulously and immediately regretted it when both men turned to face him like he were some mischievous, mythical creature come to life in front of them.

  What is wrong with me? Shut up already.

  Handing Jurel a silver coin, Daved told him to go get something to eat at the tavern across the street. Jurel knew a dismissal when he heard one. Disgruntled he thanked his father, bade Kurin—who seemed disappointed—good day, and walked away.

  “I'll come and get you when the wagon is loaded and ready to go,” Daved called after him.

  Crossing the street proved to be quite a challenge, reminiscent of a certain kitchen at a certain farm. Darting out from behind a two-wheeled cart, he was nearly trampled by a team of oxen yoked to a dray, the driver hollering imprecations as he passed by with barely a hair's breadth to spare. Behind him, Daved roared at him to watch where he was going but Jurel did not bother to slow. Each step he took reminded him that he had not eaten since early that morning and he was ravenous.

  When he pushed open the coarse tavern door, the sight that greeted him was not particularly welcoming. He found himself in a dimly lit stone hall with uneven tables running the whole length of the room, broken only in the middle to allow access from the door to the spattered, sooty bar at the other end. Two firepits, one at each end of the hall, spouted oily black smoke and the entire room was hazy, almost ethereal.

  There were only a few other people in the tavern with Jurel but they did not even bother to look up when he entered. Whether the food was that engrossing or they did not care, Jurel could not tell but judging from the smell of the place, which was worse than the sight, the latter seemed more likely.

  He negotiated the narrow aisle between the tables, rustling the rotting rushes scattered sparsely across the wooden floor and waited at the counter for the tavern keeper, a balding fat man with a red face wearing a spotted apron that in some previous lifetime had probably been white, to notice him. So busy was he wiping dirty mugs with an even dirtier rag that he did not even look up to his newest customer.

  So Jurel knocked timidly at the bar, avoiding the mass of sticky congealing...something on the counter. The keeper looked up with unfriendly eyes and taking in Jurel's slightly tattered farm wear, glared disdainfully at him.

  “What do you want boy?” he growled already going back to his vain attempts at cleaning.

  “I would like some food sir.” He wanted to keep a civil tone, but the man was making it awfully difficult. What had he done to be treated so unpleasantly, he wondered sourly?

  “No beggars,” was the terse reply.

  Opening his hand, Jurel showed the keeper the glint of silver and almost pleaded, “I can pay, sir.”

  What a magical thing it was to have money. It opened doors that seemed impenetrable; it bought any bit or bauble imaginable if there was enough; it brought smiles from the surliest, most cantankerous bastards. It made strangers into friends faster than the eye can blink.

  The keeper smiled, gesturing to the tables. “Have a seat, good lad. Delia will be out shortly to serve you.”

  Muttering his thanks, Jurel made his way to a seat in the corner that faced the door so he would notice when his father arrived, as the keeper bawled out for Delia to get her fat backside out of his chair and do something useful.

  When Delia arrived a short time later, heralded by her bright orange and very frizzy hair, Jurel was less than impressed. She managed to look even filthier than the tavern keeper himself in her greasy brown skirts that may or may not have been purchased with those polka dots, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Jurel had to fight the urge to cringe when the row of rotted, crooked stumps that he supposed passed for teeth were displayed.

  “What'll yer ave?” she asked Jurel in a wooden tone, staring at him with dead eyes from her pock-marked face.

  “I don't know. Is there a choice?”

  “Beef or lamb stew. With a tankard. Eight coppers.”

  “Beef, I guess.”

  And she walked away without another word.

  He sat pondering Kurin's anomalous story as he waited for his meal. He found it doubtful that a passing comment from a near stranger would make Kurin, who proudly told them of his love for life as a wanderer, settle down but that seemed to be exactly what had happened.

  Despite that, he was glad he had the chance to see the strange man again. Surprised, he realized that he even missed him, though in all honesty he barely knew him, and it struck him that he liked Kurin. The old man was strange, secretive for all his wagging tongue, and seemed a little senile but he possessed an amiable air that Jurel found himself drawn to.

  With a clatter, Delia interrupted his musings, setting down a bowl in front of him followed by a greasy wooden cup. Handing her his coin, he looked distastefully at the slop in the bowl. Brown chunks of what he hoped was beef floated in a thick dark sauce, almost a jelly, amid what he assumed were supposed to be potatoes and carrots—well some of them were sort of orange anyway. She handed him his change and waited with her hand extended. She cleared her throat meaningfully.

  With a flash of insight, he looked up sheepishly and smiled. “I'm sorry. Where are my manners. Thank you very much. It looks delicious.”

  She barked out an astonished, “You jokin?” before realizing he was not. As she stomped away, muttering something about tight-fisted farmers, Jurel wondered if he had made an error of some sort. With a shrug, he looked to his bowl.

  As unpleasant as it looked, it tasted worse but Jurel was starving—when is a sixteen year old boy ever not?—so with each mouthful of stew (whoever had the nerve to call what he was eating stew should be hung, he thought) he downed a mouthful of bitter ale.

  And while he ate, he wondered why Kurin had never come to visit at the farm. Three whole years, he had been here, and yet Jurel had not had any idea until a few minutes ago with their chance meeting. Perhaps it made sense. One night begging for shelter does not a friendship make. There really had not been much reason for Kurin to drop by especially considering his father's obvious dislike of the man.

  He knew his father. He knew that under that rock hard shell, there resided a fair and even kind man—though he would never say it to his face. His hostility toward Kurin was perplexing. He was a keen judge of character too and his impressions were rarely wrong but Kurin seemed no more than a nice old man who was slightly off kilter. So why the coldness? Why did it seem that when Kurin showed up, his father turned into a rabid bear?

  Again, there were no answers. He would just have to ask his father later. Pushing away his thoughts, he leaned back from the empty bowl—at least his wandering mind had distracted him from the inconvenience of tasting the stuff—and nursed his tankard. There were more people in the tavern, a dozen or maybe a few more sitting at benches with heads bent low over their own unsavory meals. A few spoke quietly to each other but it served little to liven the place. It was still early; most people would still be at their work, but considering what passed for food Jurel could not help but wonder if, even at its peak, this tavern ever saw more than half its benches filled.

  He rose from the table, deciding to go find his father, deciding that he could no longer stomach the smell of the place, its surly keeper, or its filthy waitress, when the front door opened and Daved stepped in. Quickly making his way to his father's side, they l
eft.

  “How was your lunch?” Daved asked as they crossed the road.

  “It was all right.”

  “New management,” Daved informed him. “A few years ago, that tavern was the best in town. When Harrold took over, the place went to shit. I should have sent you elsewhere. Sorry, lad.”

  Jumping into the bed of the cart, Jurel stood on the only sliver of wood that was not covered and wondered where he would sit. It was laden high with sacks and crates, and there was not enough space for Frieza let alone him. If their poor horse managed to drag it all home, she would deserve a reward. Maybe a medal or something.

  “Well Jurel, have you had enough?”

  The town almost overwhelmed him. It was like a typhoon inside a hurricane. Even busier now than when they had arrived, the streets were crowded with a mass of sweaty bodies even though it was a cool day, an ocean of people that moved back and forth like the tide. Dizzy, and a little nauseated from his meal, he nodded.

  “Well then, hop up beside me and let's go.”

  As they made their way through the crowds, Jurel got the last of his sight-seeing in but he was distracted, more interested in learning about the old man who had magically reappeared in his life after such a long absence. And in such a surprising way, too.

  “What was Kurin doing there father?”

  “As he said,” Daved responded, gently pulling their horse around an overloaded wagon that had snapped an axle and around two individuals shouting at each other, gesticulating wildly, “he's opened himself a little place in town and he's plying his trade.”

  “Yes but why here?”

  “He said it was the closest town to him when he decided to take root.”

  His answers were clipped and he did not even glance at Jurel as he spoke. It would have been easy to assume that he was too busy keeping their cart off inattentive children and away from the other wagons that trundled slowly by, but Jurel knew his father. He knew intentional vagueness when he heard it.