The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Silently, Jurel withdrew his sword and clutched it in one hand while Kurin sifted through the sacks for their supplies, adding food from the stores. Provisions in hand, they approached the horses. One nickered a quiet greeting and Jurel rubbed its glossy nose. Taking a closer look, he recognized the coloring. This was Lieutenant Higgens's horse. He smiled.

  “There, there boy,” he whispered. “It's all good. Be a good lad now.”

  The horse bowed his head and nudged at the pack that Jurel had slung over his shoulder.

  “Oh, you want what's in here, do you? Well, if you're good and quiet, I might be able to find you something.”

  Rubbing the horse's sleek neck and whispering in its ear, Jurel turned and found Kurin rubbing a piebald mare three tethers down. Anyone watching might have wondered why these two escapees would spend so much time playing with the horses before making good their escape. Especially when they were surrounded by a band of some thirty Soldiers of God. But they knew horses. A horse was like a person. A horse could hold a grudge for a good long time. One does not just hop onto a strange horse's back and expect it to do what was desired. Not if one wanted to avoid bruises. The animal might play along for a while but sooner or later—and often at the most inopportune moment—an impatient or disrespectful rider might suddenly find himself on his backside in the mud. It was always best to take the time to get to know the horse and to let the horse get accustomed to the new voice, the new scent. They wasted precious minutes but those minutes could mean the difference between escape and capture, between life and death.

  Satisfied that his new mount had taken a liking to him—it only took two carrots—Jurel gave one final pat and went to Kurin's side.

  “Saddles?”

  Kurin hesitated, searching the darkness and pointed. There was a tent, larger than the others at this end of the camp. Presumably, this was the tent where the tack was kept so it would remain dry. Nothing, but nothing, was as nasty as riding in a wet saddle all day, for rider or horse.

  Keeping to the deeper pools of shadows, they reached the tent where they were relieved to see that Kurin's deduction had been correct. A light flickered to life and Jurel started, barely keeping an exclamation of shock locked in his throat. Kurin smiled apologetically over the candle flame worth of fire that hovered a hand's breadth above his palm then rummaged along the row of saddles until he found one he liked. Doing likewise, Jurel almost laughed when he saw Higgens's saddle and picked it up.

  “Sentries,” Jurel whispered urgently. “Did you take care of the sentries?”

  Kurin responded with a wolfish grin and a wave of his hand. Jurel understood: Kurin had ensured that they would not be bothered.

  Leading the horses out of the camp, they picked their way carefully through the treacherous field, the darkness hiding all manner of pitfalls and potholes, until a few hundred paces on, they veered slightly and stepped onto the road. The mud that made up the road bed had frozen over again as the temperature dropped for the night. It was their ardent hope that it would be enough to throw off their trackers for a while.

  When they were a stone's throw from the camp, they mounted, soothing their new mounts for these were trained war horses and did not take easily to new riders, and kicked them to a canter. Another hundred yards and they kicked to a trot, letting the night air pinch their faces and caress their cloaks. It was cold; they both knew they should gather their cloaks close for the warmth but they had been confined for too long, and they did not want to feel caged, even by their own clothes.

  They rode for a time, savoring the air that riffled their hair, savoring freedom. When the cloud cover thickened and obscured what little light they had, Kurin waved his hand and raised his palm. A spark, a sputter, and then a ball of fire woke to burn cheerily and cast its yellow light for maybe ten feet ahead of them. Jurel eyed the ball of light in admiration. Useful trick, that.

  After what had to be one or maybe two hours, Kurin glanced up to the depthless void of the sky and nodded to himself.

  “I think,” he said, “that the snow will start soon. Now that the horses are warmed up, perhaps we should give them a little run.”

  Jurel spurred his horse and with a powerful kick of its legs, it lurched forward and stretched out into a gallop. Kurin kept pace, his own mount flowing smoothly over the ground. He had brightened the ball of flame and sent it out ahead so that it seemed to hang twenty feet ahead of them and the pool of light was plenty for them to see by. They pounded on, the air turning to a wind that billowed their cloaks behind them like flags. They flew ahead, exhilarated; though they could not see the world slip by, still they felt it, felt the river struggling to keep up, felt the blur of long, rolling hills slide past, felt their prison recede into the distance.

  When the snow started, their tracks would be visible. The farther they were from the camp when that happened, the longer it would take for their trail to be found. So they ran.

  Chapter 53

  There it was again. That light that flickered on and off. Xandru could not see much in the darkness of the stand of trees, but he saw that light. It seemed to be moving at about the speed of a horse's gallop, he guessed, and it was perhaps a half mile or so off and heading south toward him and his men. It beckoned him, that light, flickering through the trees, teasingly calling out to him like a whore that begged for him to come see what could be revealed to him for the right price.

  Rarely in his lifetime had he ever been torn by indecision. This was one of them. Should they investigate the light or should they continue on. They were not far from the big stone cesspool that the southlanders called Threimes and that meant his time was running out. Could he afford the price demanded of him? Could he afford the time? But what if whoever controlled that flame knew something about his target? He hesitated. Then just as the first flakes began to sift through the dense weave of limbs he decided.

  * * *

  He could not help it. He laughed gleefully as his mount thundered under him and his cloak whipped and snapped behind him like a banner. Kurin, hunched over his mount's neck, glanced over and shot Jurel a tight smile. They flew down the road at breakneck speed though not once, not for an instant did Jurel believe that either of their two splendid mounts would trip. And they did not. They flew as only trained cavalry mounts can, with a fluid grace that could leave hardened men breathless and a deafening power that could break walls of steel and flesh without slowing, and even if it was broad daylight, even if they could have seen the undulating hills spotted with dense copses of pines, maples and birches to their right, they would not have been able to discern one tree from the next, for they were as the wind.

  A cold prick touched Jurel's cheek then, and another alit upon his forehead. The snow was starting and he laughed all the harder.

  * * *

  “Come on, you lazy bastard. If Tight-ass caught you sleeping on the job, he'd have your hide,” Gershan rumbled and nudged, none too gently, the sleeping Dax with his boot. It was enough that he had pulled lots for the last shift, had to climb out of his warm blankets so that he could sit here and freeze to death while he watched blackness, now he had to cover for Dax not being able to keep his bloody eyes open? He hated waking up so early. Damned bloody pits of darkness, but he hated waking up so early.

  “Dax. Dax! Wake up.” He kicked again, harder this time, and Dax slipped from the tree trunk he leaned against and toppled to the ground. “Dax?”

  Confusion began to replace anger as he crouched and shook Dax by the shoulder hard enough to wake a dead man. Hard enough to jar Dax's helm loose and expose his face. He was pale, almost the color of the snow and his eyes were half open and glazed.

  “Oh shit,” muttered Gershan as a slow horror started to creep up his spine on icicle feathers. “Dax!” he called, louder this time.

  Leaning closer, he noticed a faint puff of steam emanate from his friend's parted lips. He was alive. That was a relief. But...

  “Dax!” he barked. “Wake up!”

/>   Dax did not budge. With a terrible suspicion worming its way into Gershan's thoughts, he ran to the closest prisoner's tent where that young bastard murderer should have been. Of course, the cot was bare. They should never have let him free of those damned shackles. They should have kept a closer eye on the two outlaws. Oh boy, Corporal Gaven would be in a heap of trouble.

  He ran from the tent yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “Alarm! The prisoners have escaped!”

  * * *

  Kurin rode them hard for perhaps a half hour before he reined in and slowed his horse to a trot. Jurel did likewise a few steps and thirty paces later. His mount steamed, filling the chill air with tangy darts of musky horse sweat, and panted great bellows of air. They needed to rest their horses. For all their need for haste, they did not want to ride their mounts to death. That would be a most unfortunate circumstance.

  When he pulled abreast of Jurel, he panted and laughed. “That was fun, wasn't it?”

  Jurel wore a grin that threatened to cut his head in half, his eyes bright with the fever of exhilaration. Out of breath himself, he simply nodded.

  The snow was falling more heavily as they trotted their horses and Kurin clicked his teeth in mild dismay. The road was covered in a fine layer of white powder and he could clearly see the black circles of their horses's prints like a trail of bread crumbs. Perhaps with a bit of luck, the snow would continue and cover their trail. He could only hope.

  They were hours ahead of pursuit. They needed to be at least a day ahead. Two would be better. They would keep riding until they were incapable of sitting in a saddle, then they would rest only long enough to remount and go. They had to. Salma was a bright young lady. She would quickly deduce that they traveled south. They had decided that Threimes would be too dangerous; their only hope was to reach a large town farther south—Merris for example—and lose themselves in the crowd.

  He did not look forward to the grueling days and weeks ahead. But it was better than the alternative. He hoped Jurel was strong enough to handle the pressure. That thought almost caused him to laugh bitterly. Jurel? Jurel was as strong as an ox. No, he hoped he was strong enough to handle the pressure.

  He had to. It was their only hope.

  * * *

  Captain Salma and Lieutenant Higgens were bent over a map of the land, intently studying it as if somehow, if they looked hard enough and long enough, it would tell them the location of the fugitives. Gaven stood at attention near the captain's tent flap and tried not to draw any more attention to himself. He struggled to ignore the tickling line of sweat that rolled down his back. Did she have to keep her brazier so hot? He barely dared to breathe.

  Things had not gone well for him. When news came that the prisoners had escaped, the captain had immediately ordered that the camp be struck and stowed, that they would be leaving as soon as possible. Then without skipping a beat, she had turned furious eyes on Gaven and ordered him to follow her. Ordering a private to strike his tent and stow it, Gaven had obeyed (what choice did he have?) while his guts roiled acidly.

  What had followed was a dressing down the likes of which he had never seen, let alone experienced in all his admittedly short tenure in the corps. When Salma had run out of breath, she had turned to Higgens and casually invited him to take his turn. With no more care than offering her place in the mess line. “Your turn,” she had said mildly. It might have gone better for Gaven if the two fugitives had chosen different horses. But no, they had taken the captain's and the lieutenant's mounts and that was like poking a sharp stick at a hungry bear. With a thorn in its paw. And a tooth ache.

  “I say they went north, sir,” Higgens stated and poked a thick finger onto the map. “They know that if they make it to Threimes, they can hide in the crowds. We'd never find them.”

  “Valid point. But they also know that we can trap them in the city and scour the streets until we do,” the captain's tone was rough, tinged red with residual anger.

  “Yes sir. But it's only two days away and surely they know that we'll be hot on their heels. They need a place to go to ground. And fast. They can worry about getting back out later.”

  Gaven too was angry. Angry at Jurel for breaking his word. Angry at himself for trusting too easily. Angry because it was easier to be that than to admit Jurel had hurt him. He had trusted Jurel. He thought they were friends, that they had bonded at least a little. Certainly, Jurel was a captive and he was the captor, but they had gotten along so famously. And Jurel had used Gaven's naivety to his benefit. He had simply connived and bided his time until he could walk out of here and leave Gaven to the wolves. He was betrayed.

  He knew which way they had gone. He knew Jurel. Well, he thought he knew Jurel. He needed to speak up. He was scared witless of drawing their attention back to him. But he had taken an oath. Only three more years. Ah damn.

  “They went south, sirs,” he said in a quavering voice.

  Two sets of eyes like embers snapped up and burned holes through him.

  Quietly, so quietly, like silk sliding over steel, so Gaven had to strain to hear, Salma spoke, “Did anyone give you leave to speak, soldier?”

  “I-I'm sorry, sir. I take full responsibility.” His voice quavered all the more and he had to clear his throat twice before he could continue. “But I know they went south.”

  “Really,” Higgens said with a falsely encouraging smile. “And how, pray tell, do you know that, corporal?”

  Standing stalk still, he faced ahead, not looking at either of them, but instead looking fixedly over their shoulders as a good Soldier should, and he wished he could rip off his chain mail and wipe that bloody sweat off his spine before the itch drove him mad.

  “Because I have gotten to know Jurel, sir,” he responded, shoe-horning a note of confidence into his voice.

  “And if you knew him so well, how is it that you did not know he would escape? Or did you know?” Higgens's face went red and spittle flew in tiny droplets as he erupted.

  Fighting to keep himself steady, Gaven spoke quietly. “You are right of course, sir. He-they tricked us all. But I am certain that they went south. I would stake my military career on it.” Then before he could think better of it, he bitterly added, “If I have one left after this.”

  Higgens snorted, turned back to his captain, and drew breath to speak. Without taking her eyes off Gaven, she raised a hand to her lieutenant, a silent command for silence.

  “Corporal, I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to think very hard before you answer,” she said and her stony expression would brook no argument. Her glare was like hot knives, like molten lead, like twin spears. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  Was he certain? Could he be certain? If he was wrong, he would be lucky to get out of this with no more than a dishonorable discharge. He blinked several times to clear sweat that clouded his vision, resisted the urge to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Jurel had lied to him. All those pleasant evenings, all the time spent together, all those games of Bones had been nothing more than a ruse to lull a stupid, gullible fool into helping him escape. How could he be certain? But he was. He was sure of it.

  “Yes sir. I am certain.”

  “Captain, his judgment has proven less than spectacular,” Higgens scoffed but the captain raised her hand again, stilling his tongue.

  “I hope for your sake corporal, that you are right. Higgens, we ride south.”

  And she strode from her tent without another look at either of them. Higgens was two paces behind, but he stopped when he reached Gaven.

  “You better be right,” he growled. “Else I'll make sure you hang for this. You hear me?”

  Then he too left the tent so Gaven was left alone to tremble and breathe deeply, to try to slow his hammering heart. He fought the urge to cry, wanted to curl up right there on the floor and rock himself to sleep. But that would be unseemly. He was a corporal in the 2nd platoon, 5th battalion, Grayson Regiment. Crying was not what corporal
s did. He hoped he was right—was sure of it—but not because he worried about discharges, or hangings, or whatever other punishment might be allotted for his gullibility.

  He had questions that he wanted answered and, if need be, he would bleed those answers out of Jurel.

  Chapter 54

  Far to the east, a faint bar of light extended from horizon to horizon, announcing the arrival of dawn. The land had already begun to warm and if he listened closely, he could hear the faint drip, drip of icicles giving up their lives in the trees. The musky scent of wet decay rose from the exposed undergrowth, puffing up and tickling his nose at every step.

  The light was still there though much smaller, maybe the size of his head. Even better, the pace had slowed considerably to no more than a trot. The owner of that light obviously did not want to wear his horse down. Smart. Well, it would have been smart if there was not an ambush waiting for him.

  Xandru still did not know who he was following. That mystical orb had given him only enough to let him know that there were two horsemen riding, and that one was a large man, muscular. The other seemed leaner but it was hard to tell with his cloak draped around him. Still, it was promising. His master had told him there were two: one tall, young and heavy; one tall, old and lean. Perhaps his luck had changed.

  He whispered orders to his men and they slowly crept forward to the very edges of the trees. The unmistakable croak of bows being drawn sent a shiver of delight up his spine and he grinned. They were close now. Eighty paces and closing. Limbering his sword arm, he passed one more whispered command down the line: a reminder that the two were to be taken alive.