The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  “I'm not really sure,” he shrugged. “I might head back to the silo for a bit. There was still a lot to do when we left. I thought, too,” he smiled, “of spending some quality father-son time with you and that jug of brandy...if I'm bored enough, that is.”

  “My son has no respect,” Daved moaned. “What's an old man like me to do with such a delinquent child?”

  They both laughed, and passed inconsequential words and the dwindling jug of brandy deep into the night. When their eyes began to feel heavy and their heads spun pleasantly, they stretched and stood (with just a hint of difficulty) preparing to retire in anticipation of the festivities ahead.

  Tomorrow's going to be a good day, Jurel thought in the dubious comfort of his too small bed. The heavy clouds that boiled above seemed to promise otherwise.

  * * *

  The old man sat in his favorite chair, once a plush and expensive piece but now so worn and threadbare that it seemed destined to become firewood soon, and he stared into his fire, subconsciously rubbing at his aching elbow, the elbow that always throbbed when a storm was approaching. By the intensity of the pain, it would be a big one.

  But it was not thoughts of impending snow, or of aching joints that filled his mind then.

  It must be soon. He was growing increasingly anxious, increasingly frustrated by the fruitless waiting. Always waiting. I know I'm right this time. It must be.

  The signs all seemed to point to a breakthrough but he had been waiting for years and he could not shake the insidious doubt that wormed its way into his resolve. Had he erred? Had he misinterpreted the signs?

  Frustrated, feeling as a cat who lost his mouse, he rubbed his aching elbow and made his decision: if, by the end of the week, nothing happened, he would concede that he was wrong and he would move on to continue his search.

  With a shake of his head, Kurin rose and made his way to his bed, while his nerves gnawed at him. There was nothing to do but wait. Just a few more days.

  The first snowflakes settled gently to the ground outside, a harbinger of the coming storm.

  * * *

  Snow sprinkled lightly from the skies above, from clouds the color of wet stone. Glancing up and around the bale of hay he carried on his shoulder, Jurel knew they would get a whole lot more of it before the day was done. The air was cold and the wind cut through his fur overcoat sending little knives of ice against his chest and he shivered.

  He had spent the entire morning working to finish the reorganization of the stores—and there had been much to do. The piles of produce were haphazard from months of sifting and gathering: supplies gathered to feed the farmers and their families, supplies purchased by merchants. The stores always needed reorganizing at least once or twice through the long winters.

  He had done enough for the day, he decided. He would tote his one last bundle of hay to the main barn to ensure that the horses had enough feed for their own New Years feast then it was time to head home to prepare for the evening of festivities ahead.

  He picked his way carefully over the fresh layer of snow that had fallen over night and he had to resist the urge to hurry. Under the snow, like a second skin, a fine layer of ice had grown. It was enough of a treacherous walk as it was; if there was such a thing as a good time to break an ankle, this was not it.

  Everyone would already be gathered at the general quarters engaged in revelry—even though it was only midday he knew there would already be a fair amount of drunkenness—and he wanted to be there, to join in for some fun. A drink, a few laughs: it would be just the thing he needed to rid himself of the lingering headache he sported from the time spent with his father the previous night. A wry thought: his father had been right. One more had turned into two, then several. He did not regret it. They had always been close, he and his father, and he enjoyed Daved's company even when his old man was as grouchy as a hungry bear.

  As for drinking too much, well, it was a holiday fit for letting loose. A little over-indulgence was not a horrible thing, though he thought it might be a good idea to pace himself when he arrived at the party. There was a great deal of work left to be done and he did not relish the thought of starting the next day with his belly tangled in knots and his head feeling twice its normal size.

  He entered the barn and stood nearly dumbstruck for a moment as he watched the livestock. Animals, he had found, were very good at predicting the weather and if what he saw was any indication, the weather would be turning nasty indeed. The horses were shifting, restlessly stomping their hooves and snorting. Their high pitched whinnies, almost like children squealing in delight or screaming in fear, melded with the bass lowing of the cattle on the other side and even the chickens were raising their own ruckus; so many chickens were squawking and clucking that it sounded like the milling mass of people on the main street of Tack Town.

  At the hay loft, he hoisted his bale, tossing it to land with a muffled, whispery thump and a puff of musty dust amongst the pile that was already there.

  He reconsidered his plan to give the horses a quick brushing down before leaving; in their agitated state, he had to admit that he worried about getting a hoof in his ribs. No better than a broken ankle, he mused. Instead, casting one last nervous glance at the agitated animals, he left, shutting the door and the warning behind him.

  Now that he was finished his work, he began to shiver in earnest. He had worked up quite a sweat and his damp clothes leeched his body heat away and into air whose temperature continued to tumble precipitously. Above, the clouds seemed to agree with the livestock: slate gray, ominous, they boiled and raged as an angry god might, preparing to unleash heaven's wrath upon the land. He hurried home, shivering, as the wind picked up, gusting in his face, pushing at him like it was trying to slow him down, as if to say, “what's the rush? Stay and enjoy the show.”

  He did not really relish the idea.

  At home, he washed up with ice water that stung against his bare flesh, raising goose-pimples, and a coarse bar of lye, and dressed in his best clothes anticipating the party ahead, anticipating the time spent with his friends. Though perhaps friends was too strong a word, he thought with a faint grimace. Perhaps coworkers or colleagues was closer. It was not that they were unfriendly. It was just that they were not really friends, not as they had been in their youths and when he thought about it, things had been that way for years and try as he might, it never really got any better.

  Never trust a coward.

  He pushed the unpleasant thought aside, thinking instead of the one person on the farm—besides Daved and Galbin—that would truly welcome the sight of him. With her golden tresses, a figure like a wood nymph, and eyes that shone like a clear sky at dawn, Erin had shown a fondness for him that though not untoward still seemed to hint at more to come. So he had courted her awkwardly, as an eighteen year old does, with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull. Especially an eighteen year old who had no other knowledge of the fairer sex except what his father, a life-long bachelor and ex-soldier told him, and more and more they could be found together, heads close in deep conversation. He adored her laugh. It tinkled like wind chimes in his ears and he tried to hear it as often as possible. He loved her mind. She was quick-witted, always able to make him stop and think, to revise his ideas on one topic or another.

  In the privacy of his bed late at night, he often fell asleep thinking of her, wondering time and time again if she would be interested in more than a friendship. He had even imagined—fantasized—on more than one occasion that if he did strike out on his own, she would accompany him but that thought never survived the first light of day; she would never leave her family and friends, the security and comforts of the farm, to follow a fool like him out into the unknown. Surveying himself in the small cracked mirror, he licked his hand and pushed down on a lock of hair that never seemed to obey the order to stay put and he scrubbed his teeth with a brush made of hay.

  His sense of anticipation wound up another notch by the idea of spending some time
with Erin, he threw on his overcoat and pushed open the door. A savage blast of white, icy wind greeted him and he staggered back, stunned by the force and dismayed by the turn of the weather. As always, the livestock proved to be an eerily accurate weather vane. Gathering himself, he stepped out into the gusting wind, bowing his head against the force, squinting his watering eyes and hurried across the yard. As unpleasant as it was then, he knew it was just the beginning; in a few hours, being outside would be nearly suicide.

  Pushing his way through the door into the farmhands's quarters, he was just as surprised by a different kind of storm, a storm of celebration in full swing. The scene of joy: the fire that blazed merrily across the room in the huge hearth greeted him, immediately warming him, and made him forget the weather; adornments of red and gold and blue were hung on the walls and from the rafters, along with garlands of intertwined pine boughs, holly and mistletoe. The room was crowded with every denizen of the farm dancing or drinking or both while the music of fiddles, a lute and even a raucous voice or two washed over all. In the center of the great room, where space had been left, dancers danced, spinning and twirling in organized chaos and the younger children raced between legs playing their own games. At the tables, people sat at their ease and all wore broad smiles, even Jax, the grouchy smith.

  As he surveyed the room, he caught sight of his father sitting in his usual spot beside Galbin at the head table. So that's where he's been. It should not have surprised him. No matter that their sons detested each other, the two men remained as close as brothers, often spending their time together in Galbin's den, drinking brandy and discussing whatever it was that brothers discussed.

  Carefully picking his way through the seething mass of bodies, he worked his way forward to share a few words with his father when a hand gripped his sleeve and tugged. He spun, half afraid of who he would see but when those blue eyes, the ones he dreamed of almost nightly met his, he sighed his relief and grinned.

  “Would you like to dance Jurel?” Erin asked and somehow she managed to sound timid even though she fair had to yell to be heard over the din.

  Grinning like an idiot, Jurel extended his hand and let himself be drawn into the lively reel that, with everyone half soused, had more in common with the storm outside than it did with any real dance, which suited him just fine. He fit in better. Erin twirled her skirts, light as a feather on her feet and Jurel could not help feeling a little like a lumbering ox. He was not much of a dancer; he felt supremely overmatched by Erin's light grace but soon, the sheer pleasure of the moment took him and he forgot about his lead feet, and he let himself become immersed in the dizzying dance. Laughing, they spun and twirled, seeming to meld into one entity as the people around blurred, became unimportant, faded until all that was left was the two of them and the music that was punctuated by her wind-chime laugh and somehow, all seemed right with the world.

  Nothing outside the farm could be as perfect, as pure, as what he felt then. Now that they had started their dance, he wanted it to last forever. Her hands were light on his shoulders, hot points that made his heart flutter, and his rested at her waist, feeling the lithe form, hard and yet somehow soft at the same time beneath her bulky skirts, making other parts of him tremble.

  She had been such a brat when they were children, always injecting her opinion wanted or unwanted into every conversation, always looking down her nose at everyone when she showed them how much she knew and how much they did not. Who would have imagined that such a pain-in-the-rump know-it-all could have evolved into this graceful, beautiful creature, as light of mood as she was of step? He felt an intense almost overwhelming hunger for her, a desire to remain here with her and give her everything she could ever need or want.

  He gazed at the lovely woman in his arms and almost fell when she returned his look boldly before lowering her eyes demurely with a smile playing across her sweet lips, lips that he suddenly realized he wanted very much to taste right then. Was she blushing? He grinned and lifted her effortlessly, twirling her, and her tinkling laughter seemed to caress him. They danced for many songs, though it was hard to tell; one song melded into the next without pause, and they were lost in each others company so that neither noticed the knowing glances and the smiles and the snickers that others had when they beheld the young couple.

  Finally, after what seemed to be mere heartbeats (that thundered in his chest) they stumbled to a halt panting and laughing, and her shining eyes rested on his features, darted from his eyes to his mouth, his strong chin and his wide chest as if she would greedily drink all of him in and he was bemused by her intensity. She stood up on her toes and craned her neck so that she could speak into his ear and he bent down for even on her toes, she barely reached the middle of his chest. He felt a thrill as her breath tickled his neck.

  “Enough for a moment,” she giggled. “I'm parched.”

  “Shall we get a drink then?”

  “That would be lovely!” she almost gasped. “Then perhaps a few moments of rest?”

  He nodded, relieved that he would be spared the effort of trying not to step on her toes, disappointed at no longer having an excuse to rest his hands on her. He offered her his arm and he led her through the still dancing crowds to a table near the back of the room where they could sit with at least the illusion of privacy.

  “I'll be right back,” Jurel said. “Wine?”

  “That would be perfect,” Erin replied.

  As he walked away, negotiating the various living obstacles toward the long table that served as a bar, he heard her voice call, “Hurry back!” and when he glanced over his shoulder, he caught her coy smile and her gaze from under long eyelashes.

  Hurry back. Now that sounded like a very good idea.

  Making haste toward the refreshments, he caught sight of his father, who was smiling mysteriously at him. His eyes were most definitely twinkling with amusement as he raised his cup, saluting his son. Beside him, Galbin threw his head back and even over the near deafening roar of the crowd Jurel heard his booming laughter. His father gestured for Jurel to join them. He altered course with a sigh. He did not want to keep Erin waiting but he could not be rude to his elders, now could he? It would be just a momentary detour anyway. Certainly, his father had no tasks to set him on. Not on New Years.

  He turned and caught sight of Erin, her head resting on her hand, gazing at him with a smile and he gestured that he would be but a moment.

  “Hello father,” Jurel said as he stepped to the head table. “I haven't seen you all day. How are you?”

  With a grunt and a widening smile, Daved regarded his son with a sly expression. “Not so well as you, I'd imagine. So, ah, what have you got there, eh lad?”

  “Who? Erin?” Jurel asked as innocently as he could manage. “Why, just spending time with a friend is all.” He tried to sound off-hand, casual, but the heat rising in his face gave him away. As if the dancing and ogling had not. He cursed inwardly; his father would ride him about this, he knew, gibing and jesting until Jurel would want to crawl under the nearest rock, or manure pile.

  Galbin laughed and leered. “A friend you say?” the big man asked then transferred his look to Daved. “You know, Ingirt and I used to look at each other like that. As friends. That was, oh, about nine months before Valik was born.”

  “Well my son better have more sense than you, you old lecher,” Daved growled though the twinkle remained as strong as ever in his eye and Galbin roared a great guffaw.

  Jurel would not have believed that his face could have gotten any hotter but someone seemed to have lit a bonfire in there.

  “Do you mind if I go?” he squeaked. And cringed. Clearing his throat, he tried again, “She's waiting for me.”

  “Go on lad,” his father said with a good natured chortle. “You mustn't keep a young lady waiting, you know. I won't wait up for you.”

  Jurel barely waited for his father to finish before he made good his escape but he was not quick enough to miss his father's wo
rds to Galbin.

  “I hope the hayloft is well stocked,” Daved said. “I expect some may need the padding before too much longer.”

  Trying to quell the raging fire in his head, he finally managed to pour drinks—spilling only some—before making his way back to his seat at Erin's side.

  “What was that all about?” she asked before taking a sip of the spiced wine he handed her. “Mmmm, wonderful,” she sighed happily and to Jurel it sounded like a contented purr.

  “Oh nothing. I haven't seen my father all day and he wanted to wish us a happy season's greetings.”

  Once again, he tried for non-chalance. Once again, his blasted face did not seem to want to cooperate. Eying him over the rim of her cup, Erin smiled.

  “Really?” she asked with one beautiful eyebrow raised. “And do you always blush so sweetly when your father greets you?”

  He choked on his mouthful of ale, not sure how he should respond, not entirely sure he should respond, and felt his face grow hotter. Again. He began to wonder if constant blushing could cause permanent damage.

  Her laughter was intoxicating, as sweet as honeyed wine, as magical and bewitching as a siren's call and he could not hold back his own.

  “Well, they made some suggestive comments that I would not care to repeat in front of so gentle a lady,” he replied archly.

  “Perhaps you should.” She drained the rest of her cup and eyed him in a most uncomfortable yet pleasant manner. “A bit more wine and we may need those suggestions.”

  Before he could formulate an answer, even before his mind picked itself up from the belly-flop it had just undergone, he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder with the force of a smith's hammer.

  “Hey Jurel,” Darren slurred. “Y'not come see yer friens or what?”

  Suppressing a flash of irritation, Jurel turned to look up at his drunk friend.