The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Without waiting for an answer, Kurin motioned for Jurel and Mikal to move closer.

  “What do you think, Mikal?” he asked.

  “I think that alone, I would be hard pressed but with Jurel's help, no matter how inept, we should win easily,” Mikal's voice rumbled like a far away avalanche, and just as relentless.

  “They look like beggars,” Jurel whispered, trying to stop this madness before things got out of hand. “Can't we just offer them a few silvers and be on our way? We might be keeping them and their families from starving. We might be saving their lives.”

  “As I'm sure the last traveler they waylaid thought. And the one before that. These men are bandits, Jurel,” Kurin whispered with a tone of finality. “I would wager everything we have that they already have blood on their hands. I would also wager that no matter what we give them, they will do their very best to keep us from going anywhere except to a shallow grave in the woods.”

  “But-”

  “No. Enough. If they will not let us pass, then we must stop them. Will you fight?”

  Jurel's eyes moved from one implacable face to the next, wordlessly imploring them to reconsider. They did not. A spark of anger ignited within Jurel and he drew himself up.

  “No. I will not fight,” he announced loudly enough for the other group to hear. “If you want to pursue this folly, do it without me.”

  “Fool!” Kurin hissed. “Bloody young fool!”

  “Here they come,” Mikal noted.

  He slipped from his horse and strode toward the oncoming thieves, his sword appearing in his hand as if by magic. The first of the attackers swung his scythe and Mikal easily redirected the blow with the edge of his blade. He spun around like a dancer and buried his elbow in the man's face. A spray of blood erupted from the man's ruined nose as he stumbled back and fell to the ground. The second man's pick whistled over Mikal's head as he came out of his graceful twirl. He ducked, lunging forward in one smooth motion, burying his blade deep in the man's chest.

  “He can't win, you know,” Kurin said quite matter-of-factly.

  Mikal spun again, an ax missing his ear by inches, wrenched his blade free and sliced upward, cutting a young man diagonally up his torso from waist to armpit.

  “What? Look at him. I've never seen anything like it.” And Jurel had not. Mikal fought brutally and efficiently, each movement carefully planned to provide maximum damage to his opponents while sustaining minimal damage to himself but for all that, the man flowed from stance to stance, attack to attack like water, leaving a trail of blood wherever he went.

  “There are too many of them. It's only a matter of time before one of them gets a lucky shot on his exposed back, or he loses his footing on the mud.”

  As if his words were prophetic, Mikal's foot twisted, slipped into a pothole, and he stumbled. Ironically, the misstep saved his life; the ax that should have been buried in his neck instead glanced off a pauldron as he lurched away. With a roar of pain, Mikal, still off balance, managed to retaliate; his sword came up awkwardly, and took the axman's hand off at the wrist.

  “Do something,” Jurel shouted as he watched Mikal try to regain his rhythm.

  “Do what? I'm a healer and an old man. I am useless in situations like this,” Kurin replied sadly.

  “Damn it, Kurin! I saw what you did to that Soldier. You must help him!” Jurel, feeling desperation, gripped the hilt of the sword he could not recall having picked up.

  Kurin did nothing but stare mutely at Mikal as if in a trance.

  With a growl, Jurel yanked the scabbard off, threw it in the cart bed, causing it to bounce and fall into the mud. He followed it with a leap and ran to Mikal's aid. Mikal had managed to stave off more attacks with the desperate acts of a badger trapped in a corner and two more men lay on the ground, surrounded by their own blood when Jurel joined the fray. A pick whistled through the air directly for Mikal's exposed back, and he lunged, cutting the handle in two. Emulating Mikal, he spun, burying his own elbow into a shocked face, felt a sickening crunch and a jolt that numbed his entire arm.

  Not waiting to see if the beleaguered thief went down, Jurel swung his blade again, hacking into another unprotected chest with a noise like cabbage being sliced and eggs being broken. Kicking the dead man off his sword, Jurel spun, recoiling barely in time to avoid the ax that cut the air directly in front of his chest. His newest attacker, off balance from the wild swing he had been sure would find its mark, stumbled, trying to regain his footing. Jurel did not give him the time. A powerful overhand blow split through the man's shoulder and down into his torso. The man hacked one agonized cough, spewing oily blood so deep red it was almost black, and collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  He turned again, caught sight of Mikal beset on two sides crouch below a scythe and sweep the attacker's feet out from under him. Without hesitation, Jurel lunged in, plunging his blade into the man's abdomen at the same instant he hit the ground while Mikal, now behind Jurel, rose and thrust a dagger, through the other man's throat.

  They were back to back as the remainder of the attackers circled just out of reach, flexing fingers about their makeshift weapons, waiting for an opening. They traded nervous glances; these two were more than they bargained for, but the leader berated them.

  “Come on you bloody fools! There's only two of 'em and they're hurt. Look, the big 'un even has a dagger stuck in his leg!”

  Jurel hazarded a cursory glance down and was shocked to see the bandit was right: a plain, leather-wrapped hilt protruded from his right thigh. Now when did that happen?As if seeing the hilt made it real, a flood of searing pain washed through his leg. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as he fought to keep from stumbling. Either would mean a grisly end for them. And a shallow grave in the woods.

  An idea came to him, then. A crazy idea. One that at any other time and in any other place, he would have scoffed and jeered at. Battling the waves of pain that blackened the corners of his eyesight, he managed to pull his lips back in a toothy, predatorial grin and, keeping his glare firmly fixed on the leader of the bandits, he wrapped his fingers around the protruding haft. He pulled, slowly, deliberately, until the knife slid free and he felt wetness run down his leg. He was glad his jaw was already clenched; it helped him bite back the scream. Another insane idea came to him in that moment, one fueled entirely by the urge to dramatically drive home his point, to end this horrible farce. Still grinning that devil's grin, he lifted the blade and deliberately licked his blood off of one side, felt a dribble of warmth trickle down his chin. He flicked his wrist and the blade spun away. All eyes followed it as it sliced through the air and buried itself at the leader's feet. His heart thudded in his chest as he battled waves of pain induced nausea while everyone except Mikal gaped at the dagger as if they were worried it might leap up and bite them.

  “Go ahead,” Jurel said. “Pick it up.”

  The leader's eyes snapped up from the bloody dagger to Jurel's manic grin, his face draining until it was as white as the snow that surrounded them. With a choked gurgle, the man spun and bolted, disappearing into the trees. He left his knife. The remaining bandits were motionless, staring in horror at him, surrounded by their dead and dying cohorts. It was like a demonic tapestry, an image woven by a murderous madman.

  “I guess he didn't want to play anymore,” Jurel said. “Shall we continue?”

  As one, the men threw down their weapons and raced after their leader.

  He stood, staring after them until the last one disappeared from sight, before he loosened his grip on his muscles. He sagged, stumbled and almost made it to the ground before powerful arms caught him, and held him steady.

  “That was...dramatic,” Mikal said, half dragging, half walking Jurel back to Kurin, steering him around the bodies, the blood, and the bits of entrail.

  Jurel sat in the cart. The motion caused his leg to flare in pain, and he gasped, biting back an oath.

  A fire sends up a spark into th
e air to flutter wherever the wind would take it, searching for a spot, something dry, something that it can use to spread its heat so that it may grow, implacably spreading into an uncontrolled inferno. Jurel was that spark. Kurin was the tinder.

  “Let me see that,” Kurin said, putting a bag of medical supplies beside Jurel.

  “Don't touch me,” Jurel growled.

  “Don't be a fool, my boy. Let's get that bandaged.”

  “It wouldn't have needed bandaging if you hadn't been so damned bloodthirsty,” Jurel yelled. Rage gripped him, clouded him, choked him until, trembling, he saw naught but a distorted image of Kurin at the end of a red tunnel.

  “And what should we have done then?” snapped Kurin. “Do you really think that giving them everything we had would have kept them from killing us? They knew full well that if they had let us live, we would have gone straight to the nearest army garrison to report them. They would have been hung for highway robbery.”

  “He's right Jurel,” Mikal said.

  “But you're a healer. How can a healer enjoy seeing simple farmers die like that?” Jurel screamed, ignoring Mikal.

  Kurin froze, eyes wide. “You think I enjoyed that?” He spat. “You are right: I am a healer. And sometimes a healer must make the regrettable decision of amputating a limb to keep a stubborn infection from corrupting the rest of the body. I do not enjoy making that decision, and I do not like carrying out that decision, but I will not hesitate to do it if it means the patient will live.”

  “You thought of those men as nothing more than an infection?” gasped Jurel. “They were men, Kurin. Men! How many widows did Mikal and I create today? How many children did we orphan?”

  “Would you have preferred letting them gut you?” Mikal asked. “Would that have been better?”

  His rage wavered, trembled at the truth of Mikal's words.

  “Well, no but-” Jurel spluttered. He had no answer for Mikal. Once again, it was a question of kill or be killed.

  Mikal was relentless. “Would you have felt better if we had eluded them, left them be so they could be free to gut others, maybe women and children?”

  The spark vanished, doused in icy cold truth. All that remained was limb-dragging exhaustion and empty dejection. It was appropriate, somehow, that they followed that road, so wide yet it seemed razor thin. On one side, that impenetrable cursed forest, a maze where one wrong step would mean being lost forever, while on the other side, the river flowed, its gray-black waters waiting for stumbling fools to drag down to its icy depths. One misstep, one slight deviation from his course and, poof! he would be gone forever. And he was just a spark, a puff of smoke, waiting for any errant breeze to push him in either direction.

  Jurel wished vehemently that he could go back to the farm and forget everything about the last few weeks.

  Kurin tended Jurel's wound swiftly, silently, and none too gently, and Jurel stoically endured the angry healer's ministrations while Mikal took on the unpleasant task of removing the barricade of bloody bodies from the road and dumping them inside the treeline.

  “We must go,” Mikal said upon returning from his grisly garbage collecting.

  Jurel avoided looking at the scene when they passed. Instead, he searched the trees hoping to find understanding or maybe even forgiveness. The trees stared silently, accusingly back like sentinels guarding a murderer bound for the gallows.

  When they stopped for the night, and set up their camp, Jurel sat at their fire, poking at his trencher, unwilling to eat the roasted beef that, to him, tasted like ashes. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, until surprisingly, Mikal spoke.

  “Jurel, you must learn to use that sword properly.”

  Acting of their own volition, Jurel's hands jerked sending his tasteless meal to the ground, where the beef, still pink in the middle and oozing bubbling blood, reminded him of dead farmers. He could not tear his eyes from the bloody reminder.

  “Jurel?” Kurin asked.

  His eyes rose. There sat Kurin bathed in firelight, his expression one of concern. Behind him, his shadow danced malevolently on the golden snow, stretching all the way to the trees and melding with the darkness beyond. Jerkily, Jurel rose and stumbled away. Perhaps the twists and turns of the forest was better than the path. He made it as far as the first trees before he felt a hand gently grip his shoulder.

  “No my boy,” Kurin said, his voice as gentle as his hand, “I won't let you get lost.”

  “I think I already am.”

  “Then let Mikal and I guide you. Our route is sometimes unpleasant, but it is the safer one.”

  “I don't think I can. I trusted you, Kurin.”

  He would not—could not—face the man that had saved his life only to turn it into a nightmare.

  “I know. I can only hope that there remains some trace of that trust. I can only hope that you can believe me when I tell you that all we have done has been necessary. You do not understand it yet, but there is a reason.”

  Jurel barked a bitter laugh. A reason? Perhaps he should tell that to the widows of those farmer bandits. “I know your loss has been grievous,” he could say, “but believe me when I tell you that there is a reason.” Perhaps they would nod sagely and squeeze his arm comfortingly, smile and say, “Of course there is. Think nothing of it. My children did not need to eat after all.”

  “What reason, Kurin? What possible reason could justify the bodies I've left behind me since leaving the farm?”

  Kurin drew a deep breath before answering. “You...” Hesitation. A pause longer than a thousand lifetimes but shorter than a heartbeat. Then, “You are not ready to hear it yet.”

  “Fuck that!” Jurel spun so suddenly that Kurin took a startled step back, letting his arm fall to his side. “If you want me to follow you one more fucking step, you will tell me your 'reason', old man. Otherwise, I am going to go for a very long walk.”

  Lips pursed, Kurin studied him as one might study an angry scorpion. Another hesitation. Another infinite wait, another heartbeat.

  “Fine. I will answer some of your questions,” Kurin said. “If you come back to the fire. It's cold out here.”

  Kurin had reseated himself by the fire and was warming his shaking hands before he decided to hear the old man out. Sitting down, he waited, watching Kurin gather his thoughts.

  “Understand, Jurel, that I don't have answers to every one of your questions. Those that I can answer, I will attempt to do so to the best of my ability.”

  As if they discussed nothing more important than the weather, Mikal stretched and picked up a stick which he used to idly stir the fire.

  Jurel wondered what he should ask first. Questions came and went so quickly, he had difficulty focusing on one until Kurin, impatient to get it over with gestured to Jurel. “Well?”

  “Who in blazes are you?” The question popped out almost before he realized it was there, surprising him.

  Kurin nodded appreciatively as though he had not expected Jurel to think him anything other than what he said he was. “A good question. I am Kurin, a brother of the Salosian Order and your friend.”

  “The Salosian Order?” Jurel tried to remember where he had seen that name before but the answer taunted him with its evasiveness, sitting tantalizingly just out of reach like the proverbial word on the tip of the tongue.

  “Yes. Ours is a peaceful order that is considered heretical by the laws of the kingdom and by the church of Gaorla.”

  “So they are after you,” Jurel breathed, feeling strangely guilty for the relief he felt.

  “Well, not quite, though I am certain that the party responsible for my arrest would be rewarded quite handsomely.” His lips twisted wryly as he added, “They don't like me very much.”

  “So then who are they after?”

  “You, of course.”

  His world spun, leaving him teetering on the brink of an abyss. He should have expected that answer but hearing it, actually having someone come out and say it left him de
void of anything remotely resembling coherent thought.

  “Why?” was all he could manage.

  “Because a lot of people think you are someone very important, Jurel. We think that you could be the answer to a lot of questions that have been asked for countless ages. The problem is, those answers could topple the current religious and political powers in the kingdom. My order would rather like to see that but, as you might suspect, there are others that would keep things as they are.”

  He had wandered into the farm's slaughterhouse one day, a walled off room located in one corner of the smaller barn adjacent to the silo. He had watched as two men murmured low and comforting words to a cow while a third approached from behind and struck the hapless animal with a massive hammer in the center of its forehead. With a wet crunch, the spike on the end of the hammer drove into the animal's brain and, with only a single twitch, the cow's legs gave way and it slumped to the ground. He had been horrified by the sight, had almost sworn off eating meat forever as he ran out of that room. Now, as Kurin spoke, he imagined he had some idea of how the cow felt in its last moments. He fought the urge to turn around, afraid there would be a man with a viciously spiked hammer approaching him.

  “I don't understand,” he croaked.

  “What shall I clarify?” Kurin asked as Mikal prodded relentlessly at the fire.

  “Why is the Salosian Order outlawed?” It was not the question that burned most brightly in his mind but he needed to change the subject. He needed a moment of reprieve to pull himself together.

  “Well, mainly because the Gaorlan Order had more money to buy King Threimes II in about the tenth year of his reign. They petitioned the king and, at the time, we did not have the means to mount a proper counter petition.”

  Jurel performed a quick calculation in his mind and realized that the Salosian Order had been outlawed some seventeen hundred years ago. “Why does the Salosian Order still exist then?”

  “The Gaorlan's believe that there is only one god, Gaorla, and that he rules the world and all within it alone. We of the Salosian Order believe something quite similar: We believe that Gaorla does rule, but that there is a pantheon of gods beneath Him. There are ancient writings, far older than Threimes that allude to such a polytheistic heirarchy. We believe it strongly and we pursue those beliefs no matter what the consequences may be.”