by Remi Michaud
Jurel yelped and recoiled, dropping the book to the bed of the cart. The world crashed back in around him. The roar of the river seemed too loud, the trees loomed tall and even though the sun seemed unnaturally bright, the book remained obscured by shadow, as if the sun could not touch it.
“Why didn't you warn me it would do that?” Jurel asked.
Kurin stared, quite surprised by the young man's reaction, quite surprised by the tiny lightning bolt that passed from Jurel to the book.
“That, Jurel, was something that I would not have expected. It is just a book.”
“Just a book?” Incredulity stretched Jurel's features as he stared at the book the way he might stare at a venomous snake. A tendril of smoke lazily coiled its way up from the singed cover where Jurel had held it. “The bloody thing tried to kill me.”
As if to prove a point, Mikal reached over and picked up the book, carelessly flipped open its front cover and riffled through the pages with his thumb. “Just a book,” he echoed with a shrug, handing it back to Jurel.
Backing away was no mean feat in such a small cart but Jurel managed it, pressing himself against the slat wall and deliberately putting his hands behind his back as he stared at the thing in Mikal's hand. “Oh no. I'm not touching it.”
“Be sensible, Jurel,” Kurin said. “The book did nothing to you.”
“Tell that to my fingers,” he muttered. He inspected the shiny pads of his fingertips, prodding the red spots that looked like little sunburns.
“It was not the book, Jurel,” Mikal rumbled. His face was expressionless as he continued to hold the book outstretched toward Jurel. “It was you.”
“Me?” He snorted. “That's impossible.”
Throwing his hands in the air as if in supplication, Kurin blew out a disgusted, “Why me?” He reined in, pulling the cart to a stop and turned to glare at Jurel. “It's time to stop denying yourself, Jurel. It's time you faced some truths.”
Taken aback, Jurel's eyes flicked from Kurin to Mikal and back. “I-I don't understand.”
“Think boy. You're a farmer's son, no?” He waited for Jurel's hesitant nod before continuing. “How do you suppose a farmer's son was able to take on trained and armored soldiers, killing two of them and come out unscathed? Damn it, you nearly cut one in half and he wore a full breastplate.
“How do you suppose that inside a week, you're able to fire arrows as accurately as a man who has been practicing the martial arts for decades?” He gestured to Mikal.
“And how do you suppose that in just a couple of weeks, you've managed to become more than competent with your sword? I've seen the two of you return to camp after your training sessions. Every night, Mikal returns with more wounds. He is a swordmaster, capable of besting nearly anyone with his weapons and yet, somehow, you get behind his guard. Somehow, you manage feats that soldiers with ten times your experience can only dream of.”
His mind was blank. He did not know how these things had happened. He had tried very hard not to think of it. Before he could think up any excuses to explain away his seemingly prodigious grasp of weaponry, Kurin broke in with one final blow.
“And how about your injuries. When you first came to my door, you presented bodily damage that would have left almost anyone comatose and some dead. You, on the other hand, managed to trek through a forest in the depths of winter, leaving only Valsa knows how much of your blood behind. Most people in that condition would have taken months to recover if they recovered at all. It took you days.”
“Yes, but-”
“And your leg? How long has it been since that bandit stuck you with that dagger? Not long enough for you to be able to walk without a limp let alone practice swordcraft and yet, there you are, every night, moving with enough agility to knock Mikal around. I don't need to check your leg now to know that it no longer even requires a bandage.” Kurin's voice rose as a fervor took him and he was almost shouting, caught as he was in some sort of religious paroxysm.
“But-”
“No Jurel. No buts,” his voice dropped to a tender whisper. “There is something about you. Something special. I intend to find out what and I intend to help you understand it. I intend to help you if you will let me. But first, you must learn to admit it.”
Staring at the old man, Jurel felt something within unravel. Admit what? How could he admit to something when he did not even know what that something was? He knew strange things had happened. Never minding all the other instances that Kurin had mentioned, that archer in Merris should have skewered him yet somehow—time slowed—he had picked the arrow out of the air with no more haste than he would have picked cherries. And Shenk? Something...
He knew that whenever he heard that hellish ringing in his ears, he was about to perform deeds that were outside his normal abilities. It was as though that awful ringing were a harbinger, an omen of bloodshed to come, his subconscious mind's way of telling him to expect bad things. But he did not know where the ringing came from, or how it made him able to do more.
He was faster and stronger when that ringing started. His senses always felt heightened; sensations that he should have been able to register only at the lowest level as no more than a blur, became fully realized. In the middle of the conflict with the Soldiers, aromas, so faint he could barely make them out over the smell of horses, resolved themselves into the stench of sweat and leather, blood and bad breath. And fear. With the ringing pulsing in his head, he could see every nick and scratch in the surface of sword and armor no matter how diligently they had been polished.
And somehow, whenever that ringing pealed away, like the bells at the gates of the underworld, his sword always managed to find the flaw in his opponent's defenses, always seemed to know exactly where to be at just the right time to slip in and spill his enemy's blood. It was like, for all his hatred of violence and for all his fear of bloodshed, he had been built specifically for it.
So, it is to be you. The words rose through the miasma of his thoughts forcing their way to the forefront, rattling him further. He seemed to recall hearing those words but he could not quite put his finger on it as though they had come from his distant past or from a dream long forgotten. He could not place the words, but he knew they were important. He picked at the memory like it was an old scab but no matter what he tried, the only other thing he managed to get from those words was the sensation of holding a sword and an intense feeling of horror. What is to be me? Who am I? What am I?
When he finally managed to climb the slippery slopes of his thoughts and emerge back into the sunlight, he felt the gentle rocking of the cart in motion.
“I don't understand.”
“Ah Jurel. I'm glad to see you have returned to us,” Kurin remarked idly from his vantage point. “I was beginning to wonder if we'd ever dig you out of your daydreams.”
With a glance up to the sun, Jurel realized with an unsettling lurch that he had been deep in his own thoughts for at least two or three hours; the sun had not only reached its zenith, it was now well on its way toward the end of another day's journey.
“I don't understand.”
“I think you said that,” Mikal snorted at the same time that Kurin asked, “What is it that you don't understand?”
Shooting a glare at Mikal, Jurel said, “All of it. I don't understand all of it.”
With a fatherly look, Kurin looked down and patted Jurel on the shoulder.
“None of us do until we do.”
Well that was useful.
* * *
“Riders approaching,” Mikal said glancing backward and checked his sword to make sure it would slide freely out of its scabbard. Just in case. “From the rear.”
“How many?” Kurin asked.
“Too far to tell. More than one. Many more.”
“Any banners?”
“Yes. Too far to tell yet what the insignia are.”
“We can probably guess,” Kurin muttered.
A stone settled in the pit of Jurel's gut
. “I can see them,” he said drawing sharp gazes from both men. “Black cross on red.”
“Bloody bollocking whores,” Mikal muttered.
Jurel could not be certain if Mikal was dismayed at the prospect of facing a large party of Soldiers of God or if he were angry at being upstaged by him. Probably the former.
“You are certain?” Without waiting for Jurel's response, Kurin tensely searched the edges of the forest for a place to hide but Mikal, having apparently anticipated Kurin's intentions, shook his head.
“There's no way to hide in the forest. Not without losing your cart. Even then, we'll leave a trail.”
“What do you suggest? We just turn ourselves over?”
“We must fight or run.”
“Can we try running?” Jurel asked. “I would really rather try running.”
“How far are they?”
After scanning the space for a while, Mikal cleared his throat and spat into the mud. “Half mile. Maybe a little less.”
“Well, that's not very encouraging,” Kurin muttered. “All right, let's pick up the pace. With a little luck, we can stay ahead of them until we reach the Twins.”
“Two maybe three days hard ride,” Mikal informed him. “Not likely.”
“You're just a fount of good news aren't you?”
With a tight grin, Mikal urged his horse to a canter and told them to keep pace.
Amid the jostling and tossing of the cart, Jurel did his best to keep stray articles from causing him bodily injury, but as soon as he moved to hold down one sack, another immediately jumped up, intent on clobbering him.
The trees crowded the road, waving them on like cheering spectators in the arenas that were so popular in the major cities where chariots raced and drivers whipped each other with vicious crops, spilling each others blood in a frenzied bid to reach the finish line first. The river, not to be outdone by a mere horse, lazily kept pace, not caring that its majestic rumble was lost in the thudding of hooves.
Keeping a close eye on the riders far to their rear, Jurel's hand found the scabbard of his sword and gripped, flexing and unflexing his fingers rhythmically. It was not long before Jurel saw that they had a problem. Although still a quarter mile ahead of their pursuers, Jurel was still able to make out an arm rising over what presumably was the leader's head before the horses broke into a full gallop.
“They're gaining,” he called over the thunder of hooves.
Risking a glance over his shoulder, Mikal nodded. “He's right. They'll be on us in thirty minutes. Maybe forty if we pick up the pace as much as your horse will allow.”
Cursing, Kurin whipped his reins. The poor animal was already winded yet it did its best, and soon they rumbled along at nearly a gallop.
“We can't keep this up for long,” Kurin called to Mikal. “My horse is already frothing from the strain.”
“Perhaps next time, you'll think better of bringing your entire house along when you flee.”
If Jurel were not so occupied with keeping his seat, he would have seen an entirely impious gesture aimed at Mikal.
“There! There's a break in the trees up ahead. Can you get your cart in there?”
“I thought you said it would be best to run.”
“Plans change. There's at least a whole platoon after us. We'll not survive a charge by those men. We need to slow them down. We need the trees to break their attack.”
Mikal took the lead, plowing his mount into the deeper snow and the scraggly brush at the side of the road and into the trees. The cart veered, throwing Jurel to his side as he held on. For a brief heart stopping moment, the cart tilted onto one wheel, creaking and shuddering before crashing down. Jurel was thrown across the width of the cart and he threw his hand up to brace himself. He missed. Jurel watched the edge of the cart approach at an alarming rate and, amidst a sea of stars, he fell into blackness.
Chapter 40
“Should we strike?” Kufix asked.
Xandru surveyed the terrain from the cover of the small stand of trees at the top of one of the gently rolling hills that made their way across the land like a wave in an earthen sea. In the distance, almost out of sight, he made out the brown ribbon that wended its way south-west toward the city of Threimes. On the other side of the road, was the steel gray of a river. He caught another glint from the road, a flash of metal that denoted armor or perhaps the point of a spear.
A simple trade caravan that was making its way toward the capital city with its excavated bounty had caught the attention of his scouts and now, surveying their vulnerability, he had a notion to give his men the chance to stretch their muscles. They were becoming restless with nothing to occupy their time but travel. None of them had shed blood in weeks. That by itself was nearly sacrilege.
He visualized the attack in his head, playing out the scenarios. It would be a quick strike. His men would rush in, under cover fire, pushing the caravan crew to the river. With their escape cut off, the caravaners would be forced to stand and fight but against the odds. Merchants were a greedy lot. They would do anything to cut costs; only a handful of mercenaries were visible for protection. He scanned the road to the limits of his vision in either direction and seeing not a single flutter of movement anywhere else along the flat, muddy stretch he chuckled. Merchants were not just greedy, they were stupid.
Nodding in satisfaction, he turned to Kufix and gave the orders. “Archers first. Tell them not to kill everyone. Our foot troops need some exercise too. Push them to the river and eradicate.”
With a crocodile grin, Kufix saluted and called quiet orders to the men.
He watched as his men deployed, clinically observing where the men were acting within formation and what areas he would need to improve with nightly drills. As his men melted over the first hill, he was proud to note that his list of improvements was short. Following at a distance, he watched as his archers took position behind the last crest before the road, waiting for the squads of infantry to move into place.
When they were in proper battle formation, they waited. In the near distance, a hollow rumble and a voice raised in ditty approached. A sharp whistle from Kufix sounded and the archers surged to the hilltop and loosed their rain of death on the hapless caravan. Even before the arrows landed, his infantry sprinted forward with their viciously serrated swords raised, bellowing their battle cry: “Glory in death!”
Mercenaries cried out warnings but it was too late. Arrows punctured chests and necks and half the dozen soldiers were dead or dying before they could even draw their weapons. The remaining six formed up as best they could across the front of the wagon but they were vastly outnumbered. Dakariin swords fell mercilessly, and in mere moments filled with a haze of crimson, the last of the soldiers lay in bloody heaps.
The trader, sitting on his bench, stared in horror at the marauders, raised his hands in supplication. He barely had time to utter a terrified, “Please! No!” before an arrow pierced his chest with a wet thwack! His face contorted in agony and he crumpled, toppling from his seat to land heavily in the mud.
Shouts of triumph rose as the Dakariin waved bloody swords in the air and Xandru approached. Kufix strode to his side, his sword dripping gore, his eyes still wide with adrenaline and reported that they had secured the area. Xandru nodded, pleased that his men had been so swift, so efficient, that they had not even needed to drive the caravan to the river as he had originally planned. Only one of his men had been injured; a spear had punctured his leg near his groin but the injury was minor. It would barely slow him down.
Of course, that left the task of cleaning up. It would not do to announce their presence. Issuing orders, he turned and strode back toward their encampment as the men set about their grisly tasks, dragging bodies to the river and ransacking wagons, laughing and joking. Some of the men were needling his injured soldier about being the only one to sustain any wounds.
“Yer lucky you've such a small cock,” one man gleefully roared. “That's probly why that spear mi
ssed.”
“Least I got one Karlan,” was the hearty response, eliciting more laughter and even Xandru smiled as he passed over the top of the hill that just moments ago his archers had used for cover.
This was how he pictured taking his target. A swift, bloody strike followed by hearty laughter and a long trek back to Dakariin lands where he would victoriously present his master with his prize. This exercise had proven his men were ready. Yes, this would go very well. Very well indeed.
He pushed the flap aside and stooping, he entered his small tent with a smile on his lips.
* * *
When he opened his eyes, everything was a blurry muddle of eye-piercing light zig-zagged by darkness. Then warmth suffused him and, with pale golden and pink sparkles cavorting at the edges of his sight, the scene solidified into sunlight filtering through a thousand branches entwined overhead like an arboreal quilt.
A lance of pain shot through his head when he tried to sit up. With a hiss, he gripped his skull between his hands. A gentle hand pushed against his shoulder, encouraging him to lay back down and he did.
“Not yet, Jurel,” Kurin said. “We need to get moving, but wait a moment to regain yourself.”
“What happened?” he grunted. He probed the side of his head and gasped when he felt a red hot lump just above his left ear.
“Our entry into the forest was bumpy,” Kurin informed him. “You took quite a blow.”
“We need to move, Kurin,” Mikal stepped to the old man's side and looked at Jurel, appraising the young man with an experienced eye. “That rocky patch has concealed our tracks but it will not take them long to find us.”
“Yes of course. Can you move, Jurel?”
“I think so.”
“Take your time. Slowly, now. Slowly.”
He sat up gingerly, letting Kurin guide him to a sitting position. A wave of vertigo threatened to topple him and oily nausea nearly laid him flat again, but he shut his eyes and willed himself up. Staggering to his feet, he noticed for the first time that the cart's bed was nearly empty.
As if reading his mind, Kurin nodded. “We leave it here. It would be impossible to guide that thing through this forest. Especially with cracked spokes. Mikal has, in his efficient manner, repacked our things to carry on our horses.”
