The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  He heard as from far away one of the soldiers cry out in warning—no words, just meaningless noises—and he saw shields raised protectively. The soldier in front of Jurel spurred forward, and swung his sword powerfully, intent on cutting Jurel in half. Jurel's own sword rose unbidden and deflected the blade harmlessly over his head. His free hand shot out and tore the soldiers shield away; in the same motion, he brought his sword down at the soldier's exposed chest. The sword rang as it bit into the armor, penetrating the steel like it was made of nothing more solid than soft, wet wood. The soldier howled in pain and toppled from his horse. He tore his sword free, blood streaming in small droplets, forming a red arc in the air when he swung around to face his next opponent.

  A flash of steel, instinct screamed, and he dove under the sword, rolling neatly on the ground before rising, driving his sword with an upward thrust at the second soldier. The soldier hastily raised his shield and pushed out, causing Jurel's blade to bounce off, spinning him around. He turned again to the mounted soldier and saw another glittering arc as the soldier swept his blade again. Jurel danced back, felt a breath of icy air as the point whistled past no more than an inch away from his nose. He brought his sword back up and caught the soldier's backhand swing stopping the blade dead. Gripping the metal, he plucked it from the Soldier's hand, numb from the force of the impact and tossed it aside.

  Unarmed, the Soldier turned his horse, trying to get out of Jurel's range but Jurel, gripped in his bizarre blood-lust, would not be denied. He jumped inhumanly high off the ground, clearing the horse's shoulders with ease, and swung two handed with all his considerable strength. The sword met the Soldier's shoulder and sliced diagonally, amidst a gout of spurting blood, almost to the man's waist. There was no howl from this one as he toppled limply to the ground.

  Spinning on his heel, Jurel spared a glance for Kurin, saw the third soldier on the ground with the hilt of Kurin's dagger protruding from his neck, saw Kurin dive off the cart, as Captain Markens blade cut the space he had occupied an instant before.

  Jurel leapt again, this time over the side of the cart and onto the driver's bench to face Markens. The captain recoiled in shock at the young man, expression contorted with rage, splattered with the blood of his men, and spurred his horse. The horse reared, kicked at Jurel's head, forcing him to duck out of the away. Taking advantage of that momentary reprieve, he wheeled his mount and viciously kicked its flanks, spurring it into a gallop. Jurel surged forward, trying to catch the retreating Soldier, missed and stopped. At some level below his rabid mind, he knew that it was useless to try to catch him on foot.

  He stood, gasping, swallowing great lungfuls of air. The wintry air cooled him, doused the raging inferno inside and he started to tremble. His sword slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the ground at his feet. He turned slowly, taking in the carnage: three men lay dead, two at his own hands, no more than broken heaps of meat encased in torn metal. He was cold. So damned cold.

  “By the gods, Jurel,” Kurin whispered. Jurel turned to the old man who faced him, wide-eyed. He struggled for coherent thought but every time his mind grasped at an idea, it turned to mist and slipped away. The world grew dark as he stared wordlessly at the old man. His knees stopped responding to his commands. Surprised, he suddenly found himself sitting on the ground, wondering how he had gotten there and the last thing he saw before the light of the world winked out was Kurin standing in front of him, concern etched in his features, calling out to him.

  Chapter 29

  The room was dark. The single candle flickered, sending its light almost hesitantly to the stuccoed walls, dirty with the accumulation of countless years of soot. Jurel circled slowly trying to get his bearings, trying to find any clue that would reveal his present location. There was a small bed, its covers drawn tightly; no one had slept there recently. There was a small table—four sticks that held up a plain board—on which the candle sat. There was a small door, certainly too small for someone of his size to fit through unless he crawled. He saw a mirror, and felt drawn to it.

  Confusion welled in him as he stood gazing at his reflection. He blinked, certain that he was mistaken, but no matter how many times he did, still the reflection remained. He wore armor so black it seemed to gather and absorb the meager light, and gilt with golden whorls that glimmered like lava, beautiful yet somehow terrible.

  He looked down and saw that he held his father's sword by his side, shining eerily, imbued with its own inner light, a light that did not touch its surroundings but instead seemed to disappear into nothingness. When he tried to release it, he found he could not open his fingers. It seemed appropriate that he held it; he did not fight it.

  Stepping to the door, he found that it was not too small after all. It was, in fact, just the right size for him, inviting him to pass through. It swung open, untouched, and he was looking down a faint hallway, dimmer even than his little room, most of it hidden in inky darkness. He stepped through the door.

  Light exploded.

  It was cold in the field he stood in, a deep cold that seeped into his bones, chilling him from the inside out. A hundred or so paces ahead of him, he beheld two vast armies facing each other, weapons drawn, expressions grim, bestial, as they glared across the verdant field at each other. The two armies were silent, motionless, a tapestry of death waiting for...something. Beyond them, Jurel could not see anything for there hung a bank of fog so dense that it created a border obscuring all beyond. He turned wonderingly, noting that the fog circled the battlefield, and when he turned back to where the door should have been, he was not surprised when he saw nothing but that bank of fog in the near distance.

  When he faced the armies again, he found himself compelled to join them, to walk amongst them. And so he took a step forward. Then another step. Then more, not altogether sure he controlled his own motions, not sure it really mattered. He walked down the middle of the empty ground, feet swishing the dew speckled grass, between the armies until he stood at the very center of the motionless maelstrom.

  He raised a hand to his face, felt wetness and when he drew back, he saw tears on the tips of his fingers. He wept. He wept for the soldiers who were about to die. He wept at the meaningless bloodshed that this arena would see. He wept because...

  He raised his sword over his head and he heard his voice ring like a clarion, clear and angry, though he had not spoken. His voice that was not his voice called, roared one single word.

  “ATTACK!”

  A deafening roar rose from the two armies, a thousand, ten thousand, voices merged into one single terrifying sonata and the men rushed forward, flowed past Jurel and began cutting each other down. Men hacked, blood flowed, men screamed. None of it touched him though he stood in the center of it all, the eye of the storm. He understood. He wept because men died and it was his doing.

  Jurel watched the unfolding horror, weeping freely, sword in hand, and he turned.

  He gasped. In front of him, an arm's length away stood an ancient man, tall, taller than Jurel even, with long white hair flowing around a face covered in crags. His eyes, so tired, so careworn, shone a brilliant blue. Jurel recognized him. Or thought he should. The man smiled quietly, sadly at Jurel and nodded once. Realization dawned on Jurel. He did know this old man. He gaped, unable to speak.

  He gazed upon Gaorla.

  The god's smile widened a little with Jurel's dawning recognition.

  “So,” a deep voice said, “it is to be you.”

  Jurel screamed.

  Chapter 30

  Calen knocked quietly on the door, trying not to let his jubilation get the better of him. He was a high priest after all, and there were forms to observe. He waited as patiently as he could until he heard a muffled voice from the other side curtly ordering him to enter. Raising an eyebrow, Calen pushed open the door.

  Kerwal's parlor was austere, utilitarian, with a simple round table flanked by two wooden chairs, a plain oak desk pushed up against the far
wall, and a sideboard being the only furnishings in his outer room. There was not even a rug on the floor, though at least it was polished to a high sheen. On the wall hung several implements of war; two broadswords hung crisscrossed between a two-handed war ax with a cruelly curved blade and a three-headed mace, each iron ball adorned with several nasty spikes. Each weapon was highly polished but had the appearance of having been used at some time in the past. They were probably, Calen thought, the weapons that Kerwal had wielded before his promotion to High Priest, during his days as a Soldier of God. The coldness of the room was barely mitigated by a welcome fire crackling in the brick hearth.

  Kerwal himself, a tall, handsome man—he had had quite the reputation with the ladies before joining the priesthood, by all accounts, and apparently still did though, of course, he was more discreet about it—filled the door to his bedchamber with his muscular frame, his rugged features a thundercloud. Despite his martial past, he hated being awakened at dawn.

  “What is the meaning of this, Calen?” Kerwal barked. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Calen walked to the table and carefully negotiated his bulk onto one of the chairs, which creaked alarmingly as he settled his weight, before answering.

  “Good morning to you too, Kerwal,” Calen said, smiling brightly up at Kerwal's deepening scowl. “Aren't you going to be a good host and offer your guest some wine?”

  “Bugger that,” he growled but nonetheless stepped to his sideboard where he poured two goblets of red wine. He stalked to the table and shoved one glass into Calen's hand, nearly sloshing the stuff on his white robe. Taking the other chair, he glared. “What do you want?”

  “Tut tut, my friend,” Calen chided. “I come bearing wonderful news and you treat me like some interloper.”

  With a sigh, Kerwal rolled his eyes. “Fine. I'm sorry. Now, what do you want?”

  Leaning forward confidentially, Calen smiled.

  “It would appear that Thalor's plans have fallen apart.” He could not hide the triumphant tone but it did not matter. “Kurin still walks free with his newest project.”

  Eyes widening, Kerwal stared at Calen. “What do you mean? What has happened?”

  Calen sipped his wine, savoring the robustness. Unlike most soldiers, Kerwal had good taste. He closed his eyes and smiled again.

  “Mmm. Good. This is a fine vintage. Is it Kashyan?”

  “Would you quit stalling and spit it out?”

  Blowing out his breath, he glared at Kerwal. The man had no sense of humor whatsoever.

  “His ambush failed. Three Soldiers are dead and the one that survived—Markens, I believe. Captain Markens—barely escaped.”

  Kerwal sat back in his chair, silent and mournful. The man may now be a high priest but he had never forgotten his roots. He had never forgotten his time with the Soldiers and he still held a deep loyalty to them. To Calen, his loyalty was inappropriate. He was no longer a Soldier of God, had not been for years, he was a high priest and should act accordingly. The Soldiers of God were no more than a tool, a hammer to be used when necessity dictated, to achieve their goals. Kerwal would do very well to remember that, in Calen's opinion.

  “Three Soldiers dead. Life needlessly wasted to further a vain man's ambitions,” Kerwal said, downing his goblet in two thirsty, throat-bobbing swallows. “How did this happen?”

  “Is it relevant?” According to Markens's report, Kurin's companion, a young man who was no more than a peasant, had bested two of the Soldiers, tearing through their armor like so much parchment. He pushed the implications aside for the moment, suppressing a shiver. God help them if Kurin had, in fact, found the one he sought. It had to have been luck. That was all it was. “Yes, Soldiers are dead. But they are, after all, soldiers. They know the dangers they face. It is their duty to do as they are commanded.”

  “Do not lecture me, Calen,” hissed Kerwal. “I know exactly what it means to be a Soldier of God and I know any one of them will gladly lay down his life if he must. Thalor is a fool.”

  Calen, thinking quickly, changed tactics. “A good reason to keep him from realizing his ambitions, no? We must put behind us the unfortunate deaths of the Soldiers and take advantage of this turn of events. If we can be the ones to bring Kurin to Gaorla's justice, then Thalor will be disgraced.”

  Kerwal nodded pensively, eyes staring at the empty goblet in front of him.

  “We need to send our own men. Twenty or thirty should suffice to bring Kurin and his whelp to heel. But more is always better. Once we have them in our grasp, Thalor will not dare try anything.”

  “Twenty or thirty? Why so many?”

  “They've already shown that they are not willing to submit to Gaorla's judgment. They fought four of our men with tragic results. They would surely think twice before attacking a force so large,” Calen spread his hands in a gesture that indicated it was the obvious solution. What he did not mention was that with twenty or more men loyal to him, Thalor would be hard-pressed to wrest his prize away. He wanted to see Thalor's expression when it was he who received Maten's blessing and favor. The prospect of a prelacy certainly did not hurt either. Kerwal seemed to be deep in his own thoughts, his lips twitching mysteriously, but finally he nodded.

  “I think I know just the man for the job, Calen. Leave it to me,” Kerwal promised.

  “Excellent. I am glad we have been able to have such a fruitful discussion, you and I. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

  Calen rose, draining the dregs of his own cup. With a pleasant smile, he turned to leave. At the door, he stopped.

  “Oh Kerwal,” Calen said, as if just remembering, turning back to the still sitting man. “I received a message from someone by the name of Maranda—actually it was addressed to you though I did not notice until after I'd opened it, since it somehow ended up in my office. Our messengers can be so fuddle-headed at times.” He sighed dramatically. “She wrote to inform you that your son was born alive and is healthy. He is, according to her, quite a handful. Of course, I scoffed at such a thing. Imagine! A high priest bearing children? It is just unthinkable. I'm certain it is nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.”

  He watched Kerwal's expression carefully, and suppressed a smile when he saw what he hoped for: the man's eyes widened a notch and he paled visibly. Calen was now absolutely certain of Kerwal's loyalty to him. As a Soldier, he had been free to pursue any dalliance that took his fancy, but he was no longer a Soldier. Maten would not look kindly on one of his priests breaking their vows. Of course, his was not an isolated sin. There were always rumors circulating about the priests and their appetites but most were at least discreet about it, taking steps to ensure that unsubstantiated rumors remained just that. Now that Calen had proof, Kerwal would do exactly as he was told or he would face charges of misconduct and, if Maten was in a bad mood, censure.

  “Good day to you, Kerwal.” And with that, Calen strode through the door, leaving Kerwal to stare at his back.

  * * *

  Jorge strode down the bright corridor, ignoring the colorful, deftly woven tapestries, and the fine sculptures, masterfully wrought, that lined both sides, not responding when a brother or sister bade him good morning, not even seeing them as he passed by lost in his thoughts. He turned a corner, almost bowling over a young acolyte who barely had the time to jump out of the way with a startled squeak, nearly upending the mound of fresh linens the girl carried, and stormed out a door that led to an atrium.

  It was warm and green, as it always was no matter how bitter the winds blew outside the walls, and Jorge slowed his pace, breathing deep the scent of roses and peonies that grew in neat rows along the path. Halfway across the arbor, the door leading back in visible just beyond a slight bend in the path, he stopped completely, closed his eyes, and let his senses drift. He felt the determined flitter of bees darting back and forth between the flowers, and the flighty scampering of squirrels in the trees, and he felt a sense of calm. It was soothing, a much
needed oasis of serenity after the news he had received a short time ago. His Sending with Kurin—no Calling had been needed this time—had been exhausting, both for the sheer physical effort needed to maintain such a long distance link for so long, and for the content of the discussion.

  Kurin's latest candidate—Jaren? Jarel? No, Jurel. That was it—worried Jorge. Kurin had told him of his astonishing transformation that morning and he had difficulty believing that the meek young man Kurin had described could be capable of such violence. Two trained Soldiers of God slain by a farmer who barely knew what end of a sword to hold? Almost three, he amended, remembering that it was only through an act of desperation that the captain of the squad had managed to escape. Jurel had fought like a demon possessed, Kurin said, moving so swiftly that, at times, he was no more than a blur, punching his blade through plate armor and nearly cleaving one of the men in half.

  Has Kurin done it? Has he found the one?

  Kurin had been so sure in the past when others seemed to fit the conditions laid out by the ancient scriptures but there was always something, some detail, that disqualified them. But this Jurel was different. So far, he met all the requirements. Salvation or damnation? Jorge shuddered at the thought and strode on, refreshed by the spell laid over the atrium, yet uneasy by the spell Kurin's words seemed to have on him.

  Back inside the palace, he continued, trying not to break into a run, trying to keep some modicum of decorum, before finally reaching his destination. He knocked perfunctorily and entered without waiting for a response. He took in the chamber with a single glance. Frilly pink drapes hung open in the two little windows, allowing the light of day to bathe the chamber in warmth. A feather of amusement brushed the borders of his worry at the sight of all the little bits and pieces that cluttered every spare bit of shelf and table; dusty little statuettes depicting animals, people, buildings, and landmarks lined the hearth with no discernible sense of organization, and it was made more so by the mirror, framed with mother-of-pearl, that hung over the mantle. As cluttered as the room was, it somehow did not look messy but rather comfortable, welcome, a pleasant little nest that made him think he had stepped out of the Abbey and into a country home.