by Remi Michaud
The young man cleared his throat and kicked a stone at his feet. “Well,” he began and broke off when his voice squeaked. Just a little. “Well,” he said, more gruffly, forcing his voice into a false basso, “I have been ordered to see you to Threimes. If I am to be your nursemaid, I will not see you drop dead of thirst.” He looked as if he would say more. Then he looked embarrassed as if he had said too much. Then he cleared his throat again. “If you need anything, my name is Corporal Gaven.”
The young soldier had taken three steps when Jurel asked for food.
Gaven turned back. “What?”
“Might I have a bit of food?” Jurel repeated, trying to ignore the throb in his head.
Gaven nodded and gestured to a burly soldier. “Bring him food. Now.”
“Yes sir,” the soldier grunted and hurried off to the fires.
“Anything else?” Gaven asked with one raised eyebrow, shifting his weight from foot to foot, obviously impatient to see to his other duties.
“No.” Jurel hesitated. Then he extended his hand, wincing when the clink of iron dragged his other hand forward too. “My name is Jurel.”
Gaven stared at the outstretched hand as if it might bite him. Slowly, he reached his own hand out and gripped Jurel's. For all his lack of age or experience, for all his lack of imposing size that soldiering would undoubtedly provide him with in the next few years, his grip was viselike.
“Charmed. Do me a favor. Don't try anything foolish. Lieutenant Higgens was quite clear with his orders: he prefers that you arrive in Threimes alive. But if you pull any funny shit...”
He did not need to finish. Jurel got the message. No funny shit.
Once the young soldier was gone, Jurel lay back down and stared at the sky. Injured, captured, and being taken to some city he had only ever heard of in stories to be tried for some crime that he did not even know had existed until a few weeks ago. Heresy? Kurin had explained that, ideally, it was a crime against God. But in this case, it seemed to be a crime against the priesthood. He was to be burned on a pyre because he traveled with an old man that, in reality, he barely even knew. That did not seem particularly fair.
“Stop moping. Here comes your food.”
Just as Kurin's voice came into his head, a shadow came into his view.
“Here.”
Brusquely, the soldier handed Jurel a bowl, plain and wooden, that smelled of wet socks. Wrinkling his nose, Jurel prodded the gray goo with a spoon. With a snort, the soldier kicked Jurel.
“Be thankful for it, boy,” he grated. “Up to me, you could starve to death.” Then he stomped off.
“Thank you,” Jurel called sweetly after him.
“Don't antagonize them, Jurel.”
“How are you-”
“SSSSHHH! Don't say anything out loud. Think it and I'll hear you. I can't do this very much. It's very difficult with an untrained mind but at least we can communicate a little. Any thoughts on how to get out of this mess?”
Deflated, Jurel shook his head, belatedly realizing that Kurin probably could not see the gesture. “No,” he tried. Jurel had been wondering what Kurin was cooking up, certain that the resourceful old man would have some ideas on how to escape. “You have no thoughts?”
“Plenty of thoughts. Nothing certain. As lax as they seem, they're watching us like hawks. It's as though they expect us to try to escape.”
“Aren't we?”
“Of course.” Kurin's amusement tinkled clearly in Jurel's head. It sounded almost like the fool was having fun. Irritated, Jurel took a hesitant bite of the slop he had been given while Kurin continued. “The shackles won't be a problem. A bit of arcanum and poof. Gone. The horses and gear on the other hand...they will be a problem.”
Jurel understood. Although they could see their horses picketed with the others—heavily guarded, they had no idea where their things were. If they were to survive an escape attempt, they would need at least enough food to reach town. As nice as Gaven seemed, asking him for enough food to last a week might not be a shining moment in the annals of bright ideas. Perhaps if they could get a hold of a bow and some arrows. Then Jurel could hunt for their food. But then he did not want to leave without his sword. He still hated the thing, but it was the only item he had left that reminded him of Daved. Of home. Then again, burning on a pyre because he was too attached to a sword was not too intelligent either, now was it? That settled that.
“A distraction.”
“Yes. That would do. But until we have a better idea on how things stand, we wouldn't get very far. Besides, you're in no shape to go anywhere.”
He was right. Jurel ached everywhere. Moving was a masochistic endeavor. Moving quickly enough to escape would probably kill him.
“No matter, Jurel. We have weeks before we reach Threimes. With the way you heal, we should be able to play our hand soon—whatever that may be.”
“But what about-?”
“Enough for now. I begin to tire. Besides, you have company. We will speak later.”
There was a void in his mind, quickly filled as though Kurin's presence had been physical like a rock suddenly scooped from a pool. When Jurel looked up, he saw the same grizzled soldier who had brought him his bowl of goo approaching. He extended the now empty bowl to the soldier who sniffed in disdain.
“What, am I your waiter now?” His scornful expression changed to one of mock servility. Wide-eyed with false earnestness, he asked, “Shall I get you anything else, young master?”
“Someone promised me a steak.”
A part of him cringed. One of these days he would learn to watch his mouth. One of these days, he would think before he spoke. Unfortunately, for this day, it was too late.
“Why you little-” The soldier delivered a wicked kick to Jurel's leg sending a lance of pain up Jurel's thigh He lunged forward, reached down quick as a viper, hauled Jurel to his feet. “You think you're funny, eh?” he growled, and Jurel gagged on the man's fetid breath. “You think you're just a laugh, don't you?” He shook Jurel like a doll.
Out of no where, Jurel was blinded by a searing white light and arcs of sparks streaked across his vision. “You think I'm just going to stand here and-” The rest of what he said was lost as he struck Jurel a second time. Dizzy, head-exploding, Jurel's legs buckled but the soldier held him upright and struck him again. “You shit-stained little-” And again.
“Here now! What's going on?”
Jurel thought he heard Gaven call out angrily. He could not be sure. The irate soldier drew back his arm and Jurel watched in horror, unable to make himself move, unable to do more than tense, as the great beefy battle-hardened fist plowed forward and connected with his abdomen. It could not have been worse if the soldier had used a hammer.
He vomited. The goo that he had just finished choking down came out and splashed on the soldiers chest, soiling the scarlet tabard with brown-gray sludge. Roaring, the soldier released him and stepped back. With nothing holding him up, Jurel collapsed and curled into a ball, rocking himself back and forth, and groaned pitifully.
“My uniform! You dirty little-”
More agony. This time in his back.
“Stand down, soldier!” Apparently, it was not enough to stop the raging man. Another ball of pain lodged itself in Jurel's side and Jurel vomited again. “I said stand down. Now.”
Above him, he distantly heard scuffling noises but he did not care. He lay in a heap, curled up fetally, soiled by his own filth and blood, and mewled.
“Private, I am putting you on report for this,” Gaven roared.
“But sir, look at what the murderin' little shit did to my uniform.”
“What did you expect? You beat an injured man who had just eaten a bowlful of what our esteemed cook dares to call food. Be thankful he didn't decide he needed to piss too. And now, you've disobeyed a direct order. I will see you peeling potatoes for the next month for this. Now get out of my sight.”
He heard all of this but he could not quit
e make sense of it. Cooling wetness between his legs told him that he had, in fact, decided he needed to piss, but it did not matter. What mattered was laying there, as still as possible. Maybe that would lessen the pain.
A hand rested on his shoulder and he yelped, tried to escape, to cringe further away.
“It's all right,” that same soothing voice from earlier said. “He's gone.”
Who cared? The damage was done.
“Jurel? Can you sit up?”
Not wanting another beating, Jurel moved, stiff as a wooden doll, and managed to get himself into a semblance of a seated position with Gaven's help. He panted from the effort and stars whirled around in his sight, emitting jagged little bolts that seemed bent on pushing away his consciousness. Dizzily, he supported himself with hands pressed to the cold, wet earth. He tried to spit the taste from his mouth, sour and metallic. Hazily, he wondered at the blood that spattered and pooled on the ground.
“Why did he-?” Jurel croaked but broke off to cough weakly.
“I told you not to try anything,” Gaven said softly with an unmistakable tone of rebuke. “These men are right pissed off with you. You killed a lot of their friends and they would like nothing more than to make you pay for that. You need to behave yourself.”
“Yes mother.” He had heard Darren say that countless times when he had been caught at one of his pranks. His mother had used the same tone that Gaven was using on him now.
A snort followed his words. “Don't get sarcastic with me.”
“Why are you helping me?” When Gaven was silent, Jurel pushed his head up to look the young soldier in the eyes. “Why are you protecting me?”
Gaven's expression was stony. “I have my orders. I'm following them.” Then he stood and walked a few paces before asking Jurel, “Do you need anything else?”
“More water?” He was not thirsty. He just wanted to get the horrible taste out of his mouth.
“Fine.” And without another word, Gaven faded back between the tents.
“Are you all right?”
“I'll live. I think.”
“Gods damn it, boy! You gave me a scare. Don't go riling them up. You need to behave yourself.”
“Yes mother.”
He could not help himself; in spite of the pain, he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.
Chapter 48
Things were not going well. Four of his men were dead courtesy of an ambush, two of his scouts were barely fit to travel after he had made an example of them for not finding the ambushers that had waited for them in a stand of trees, and his master was definitely getting impatient with him. To top it off, Kufix, his lieutenant and most trusted advisor, had begun eying him askance, as if it was his fault that events had started to slip from his grasp.
Xandru stood atop a rise, lost in thought. He barely noticed the steel gray of the clouds, the nip in the air, or the smell of approaching snow. What he did notice was the silence. His men had been as excited as boys when they set out on this expedition and it was often all he could do just to keep them quiet. Now they spoke barely a word, only enough to pass on vital information or instructions for the daily running of their camp. Where before the camp had been alive with tales of bravery—most ridiculously far-fetched, eliciting laughter and derision—and jokes, now all he heard were infrequently grunted requests, “More food,” or “Give me the whetstone.”
Certainly, he himself had something to do with the morale of his men dropping so low. He was pushing them hard. These men were strong, battle-hardened, some of the best in all the lands, but even when the strongest of them flagged from the grueling pace, he still drove them relentlessly. He did not have much of a choice though, did he? His master had made the price of failure abundantly clear.
So he drove them, and they began to grumble amongst themselves, where they thought he would not hear, that he would kill them all, and his closest friend looked at him when he thought he could not see like he was some sort of monster.
The worst of it all, and maybe a blessing in disguise, was that since his master had shown him the whereabouts of their target that day nearly three weeks ago, he had received no new information. He had no idea where the young man was, but at least he had not had to face the master's ire. That last was small comfort. The day of reckoning would come soon, one way or another. Of that he was certain. His only hope was that he would get lucky and happen upon his target.
Xandru roused himself from his reveries and returned to the camp shouting orders, angry with himself for indulging in such foolish thoughts. Time to get moving.
* * *
“And so Gaorla looked down upon the cold masses and said, 'Yea, I shall provide you with shelter from the winter that I have created,' and the people rejoiced.”
“Amen!”
“And He gazed with all his eternal love at the starving, and He said, 'I shall provide sustenance so that you may live,' and the people rejoiced.”
“Amen!”
“He then turned to a young man whose name was Shoka and He said, 'I shall place you above all, my son, so that you may guide my people into prosperity and health,' and the people cried and bowed to their new Grand Prelate.”
“Amen!”
No matter what his mood was, no matter how bitter he was, Thalor was always able to conduct a sermon with the best of them. He was proud of that fact. It was a skill that had taken a long time to master. It was not easy, after all, to gaze serenely at the massed congregation when all he wanted to do was kick things, choke people, and drink.
Damn that Calen! Damn him to the deepest pits of the underworld! His soldiers were bringing Kurin within the next few days. His soldiers! Thalor's men had been tracking them from a discreet distance for the past three weeks as they made their way north. He himself had been keeping an eye on the remainder of the platoon from his new scrying bowl.
That still irked too. It had taken him hours of painstaking work to consecrate his new bowl and still it did not work as well as the last one. It would take months to get it just right. With one careless act, committed while in a high dudgeon, he had destroyed the best scrying bowl he had ever created.
No matter. The new one served his purposes well enough and in time, it would be just as good as the last. His real concern was Calen's upcoming victory, tainted with blood though it was.
“And do you know what Shoka said?”
He paused for effect, letting his eyes roam across the congregation of peasants to catch the eye of a few lucky souls who would go home later that day and brag about how high priest Thalor had looked at them directly with his kindly, wise eyes, how Thalor had graced them with his personal attention. He hated them. They all wore filthy rags. They all stank of a midden. They soiled this grand chamber, Gaorla's own audience hall, with their very presence. They reminded him of his own parents, those festering fools that had made him live in filth until he left for better things.
The hall itself was a beautiful homage to his god. The walls were really no more than squared pillars sheathed in gleaming marble. On each side of each pillar, a magnificent stained glass window, depicting the various saints rose to meet the base of the domed ceiling whose peak soared nearly two hundred feet above the floor. Rounded pillars, twelve in all, rose from the floor in two symmetrical rows and arched delicately, high overhead to meet in the center where the ceiling peaked and between the pillars, in the wedges they created, bright, gem encrusted frescoes covered the ceiling that depicted Gaorla's creation of the world. The pillars themselves were works of art, carved with the icons of his religion. Torches hung from each one, spilling light onto the polished marble floor, the gleaming pews, the rapt masses, which was washed away by the soft rainbows shining through the stained glass.
He stood, as was appropriate, in front of the altar at the end of the hall. The altar, a table carved of more marble, this of the purest white, was covered in the standard linen cloth, snow white with a red cross dyed expertly into the center, and on top of that stood
two golden candelabra each holding twelve candles. High overhead, a golden chandelier, seemingly too delicate to hold up its own weight cast a warm golden glow that bathed Thalor in a light that, from the audience, looked like Gaorla himself was shining His holy light down upon His chosen one.
The ragged masses, dressed in brown and dirty purple rags, looked like bruises on the splendor of the hall. They stared wide-eyed at him, expectantly awaiting his next words. They all knew the story; it was a testament to Thalor's ability as an orator that they were completely enthralled.
Satisfied with their attention, he continued, “He said, 'O, my God, you have saved your people. You have brought hope and peace. You have shone your blessings down upon us, your humble servants. But I am not worthy of the gift you have bestowed upon me. Please, I beg you. Choose another, more worthy than I.' He dropped to his knees with these words, and prostrated himself at Gaorla's feet.”
A quiet moan rose from the congregation and Thalor stifled a disdainful sniff. They knew this story. Everyone knew this story. Why did they act as if they were in suspense? Boors.
He lowered his voice, coloring it with sadness and pride. “Gaorla knelt in front of his most humble servant and laid a hand upon his shoulder...”
Yes, everyone knew this story. No one better than Thalor. As he recounted the story, he let his thoughts go elsewhere to more pressing matters. Calen would have his victory, balls and ashes! There seemed no way to avoid it. He had planned and hoped and dreamed for weeks that some way may appear before him to turn the tables.
“...and he said...”
Nothing appeared. Nothing obvious. Nothing that was not too risky. In a moment of desperation, he had toyed briefly with the idea of sending out his own platoon to annihilate Calen's force but that would have left far too many threads unaccounted for, far too many ways for his own involvement to become known.
“...'My son, you have proven yourself worthy. Your humility only serves to strengthen that proof.' He smiled down upon his most favored servant and bade him to stand.”
