The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Part 5:

  Knowledge

  “He will rise to life from the darkness.

  He will bring darkness to life.”

  -Chronicles of Gaorla

  Chapter 59

  Well, this was just dandy. Six days ago, he was sentenced to live. Six days, and already he wished the sentence had been more severe. Or less severe, depending on how one wanted to look at it. Colonel Caf had ridden him relentlessly, picking at the tiniest nits and assigning extra duties at every imagined slight until his schedule was so full of duty shifts that he was sure he would not get more than an hour of sleep on any given night for a month. He had so many shifts that he brought his mess with him to his post so that any time off he did have would not be wasted eating.

  The other members of his regiment shunned him, completely ignored him much to their colonel's delight. Until his back was turned. Then they snickered amongst themselves at the corporal who would be a private. At the gullible fool who had believed a heretic's promises. To them, he was already no more than a heretic himself. Six days and he had already found himself the target of more practical jokes than a hundred green recruits could expect in a month. But then he was lower than a raw recruit, was he not? A raw recruit at least had sheer lack of experience to explain away any stupid gaffes, any boneheaded mistakes, they made. He was no new recruit. He had two years. He was nearly a veteran. An experienced soldier who, with one foolish act, had condemned good men to death. As if his own nearly overwhelming guilt was not enough punishment, there was no one to turn to. There was not a single friendly face to be found anywhere in Threimes.

  Four days ago, on one of the few occasions when he'd had no assigned duties, he had gone into the city to find a bit of peace away from scornful eyes and spiteful comments, and bought a cold beer from a surly innkeeper. A comely wench had smiled at him seductively, eyed him suggestively, and he had thought he might avail himself of some company, even if that company had to be paid for. Then two sergeants had walked in, drunker than drunk and even though he had ducked his head, they had seen him. They had roared out their scorn, deriding him. Heretic, and half-wit were about the nicest things he heard from their mouths. By the time they were done, everyone in the tavern knew his story. The innkeeper had coldly informed him that he was not welcome there, and even the pretty whore had turned away in disdain. Baser than a whore: that was rich. The sergeants had allowed him to leave unmolested but somehow, the story had raced on ahead so the entire way back to his bunk, he saw cold, accusing eyes glaring at him from the streets, from windows and from shops suddenly closed.

  And more duty shifts assigned by Colonel Caf with the reasoning that any private who had enough time to go dallying off in town, had enough time to do a little work.

  No, not a friendly face anywhere.

  Private Gaven sat in his rickety chair at his tiny desk, in his musty office, an office he shared with the other guards when it was their duty shift—guards who loved reminding Gaven often that they rarely saw that office anymore since Gaven's arrival. He was certain that the first person to call this little stone box an office had likely snickered as he said it. Except for the fact that there were two doors, one leading to the outside world and fresh air, the other leading to the rank intestines of the dungeons he guarded, he would have sworn this was no more than a converted cell.

  He was nearly halfway finished his fourth double-duty shift, supposed it was somewhere around the mid of night, and he shuffled through pointless paperwork. Meaningless names blurred in his exhausted vision, names of prisoners and their cell numbers imprinted themselves in his dulled mind. Not because he had to memorize them and not because he grieved for them, but because there was nothing else to do but stare at those neatly written lines until the black ink stuck in his mind, until they began to lose all meaning. Almost all the names.

  Near the bottom of the last page, he saw two names that he recognized. One of those two names brought a dull ache whenever he saw it. Jurel Histane. Kurin was down there too and from the cell numbers, it really was down there. As far as Gaven could tell, they were both on the very bottom level of the dungeons, at opposite ends from each other. They were so far down that no one else, not one, occupied the same level. He was a little surprised they were still here. He did not understand why they had not had their fair trials yet. But then, it had been made very clear to him that it was not his place to judge. They were still down there because his superiors deemed it necessary. That was all that mattered.

  Gaven had been given a tour of the dungeon by a corporal who probably wanted to lock him up in one of those cells and throw away the key. He saw the animals that were once men and women, covered in filth and blood, their faces pale and thin as phantoms, and their eyes as dull and blank as the stone that surrounded them. Broken voices had called for mama or papa, a favored brother or loving wife. One had called out his little daughter's name in such an anguished voice that Gaven had covered his ears and fled with eyes watering and the corporal's laughter nipping at his heels.

  This then was his real sentence. Not the demotion, or the extended service contract, not the letter of reprimand that would forever be on his file. Not even the torments of, and isolation from, his comrades. This. The knowledge that he must endure the suffering, must harden his heart against it, that he must know his friend was down there in the pits. It seemed designed to change him, to break him so that he well and truly became one of them.

  One of who? The Soldiers of God or the prisoners?

  Seeing Jurel's name, knowing that his friend must be suffering unimaginably down there, freezing, starving, quite possibly insane, caused a sort of drowning sorrow in Gaven's heart. It should not be so. Jurel's name should invoke anger in him, should make him go all red in the face and quiver with pent up rage. Jurel had betrayed him, lied to him. Jurel was the reason he was here at all.

  I'm sorry Gav. You know I had to try.

  Those words played over and over in his head. In hindsight, it all made sense and he almost laughed for it. Jurel had not actually promised anything had he? He had demanded Jurel's promise, and Jurel had expertly avoided saying the words.

  Would I do that?

  Gaven did not laugh but he did chuckle low in his throat. Of course you would, Gaven responded, far too late to make any real difference. You didn't promise anything. After all, you had to try. With that admission, he felt relief like a cool breeze at midsummer. Jurel's betrayal was not so bad, now was it? Not nearly so bad as he had imagined.

  He had played the good little Soldier when they captured their quarry. He had done his duty. He had done what he thought a Soldier of God was sworn to do. He had shown pity. He had shown good will as Gaorla would have wanted, even if the recipients of that good will were suspected heretics. He had done God's work, and he had been punished for it.

  This whole Soldiers of God thing had been a mistake. He knew that now, more than he had ever realized it before. His inheritance was enough that he could have lived in decent comfort, if not all out luxury, for the rest of his life. He was an intelligent man, he knew. He could have perhaps started as a merchant. He could have doubled, maybe trebled his inheritance in a matter of a few years with a few shrewd choices.

  But instead, after being ousted from his family home by his fool of a brother, a stupid notion of piety had taken him. Or perhaps it was a desire for adventure, some misplaced remnant of his childhood fantasies. He could have joined the priesthood. He had the money to get into the seminary, but no, he had done the one thing his father would have scorned him for. He had gotten drunk one night and he had joined the bloody Soldiers of God. He had joined on a whim and he had not even bothered to buy his commission. Five years. He had signed up for five years, thinking he would have his fill of adventuring and he could retire and buy a small estate.

  Two years later, he found himself regretting that whim to his very core. His five years had turned into a life sentence.

  He huffed a sigh and threw the sheaf o
f papers down where they splayed out like molted feathers. He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head and his heart skipped a beat when his chair creaked so alarmingly that he thought the legs were going to snap out from under him. At least there would have been some excitement.

  Something nagged at him. Something just at the edges of his senses. Something that was not supposed to be. He stopped, held his breath. A tiny alarm was ringing in his head and he tried to find the source. Instinct told him to draw his weapon. So he stood, and his crude shortsword rasped as it slid from his scabbard.

  There. A noise, a faint rapping noise. A footstep perhaps, but if it was a footstep, then the stepper was trying to be stealthy. And it came from the outer hall. Certainly no Soldier would be trying for stealth. Unless they were playing another practical joke.

  Gaven hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to expect. Thinking that he would be better safe than sorry, he stepped around the desk and faced the door, crouching with his sword pointed low and waited, fully aware of the irony: he was supposed to be keeping anyone from getting out, not in. He drew deep steady breaths as he had been taught during his weeks of training and he waited, all thoughts of foolish decisions swept from his mind by a surge of adrenaline.

  The single torch on the wall sputtered and smoked, making his shadow dance eerily, making the room seem to jitter, and his eyes had difficulty resting on one thing. Then the latch moved ever so slightly. Sweat beaded on his forehead. This was not right. He tensed, watching the latch, seeing it pull ever so slowly of its own accord with but the merest of hissing that was nearly completely covered by the sound of the torch and his own suddenly heavy breathing.

  Without any more warning than that, the door flew open, creaking, protesting, and a black phantom swept into the room. A glitter, a whoosh of air, and Gaven brought up his sword with a cry. Steel rang, echoing in the small room like an out of tune gong, and Gaven spun away, trying to get around his attacker but his office was too small and he found himself pressed against cold stone.

  Dismayed, he lifted his sword and steel sang again, and for the first time, Gaven saw that this was no phantom come to take his soul, but a man in a black cloak. The man's intense eyes were savage, his expression twisted in a grimace filled with hate. He moved like a viper and Gaven found himself hard pressed to keep his opponent's blade from opening his belly.

  He managed to catch the next strike, and the next, only a hair's breadth from his boiled leather cuirass—no steel for the disgraced. He kicked out, and heard a grunt, the first sound he had heard from this mysterious attacker, when his foot connected. His opponent stumbled backward but before Gaven could press his advantage, he had to dive away from a wild slash that would have left him without his head.

  Coming to his feet again, fear began to work its insidious magic. This man was good. He handled his sword almost as well as any veteran though a little more clumsily. From the way he moved, from the way his tactics kept changing, and Gaven guessing, he ascribed that clumsiness to disuse; this man had once been a formidable opponent, more than likely a soldier, but he had not wielded his sword in a long time. It did not seem to matter. Gaven was not sure he would last beyond the next few gasped breaths.

  Fear made him desperate. With an insane stroke that left him wide open to counter attack, he was able to bull into the man, and slam him up against a wall. He thought he might have a chance then, but white hot pain poured from his back across his shoulders and he fell to his knees, with a groan. He looked up in time to see another flash of gray light. Somehow his sword managed to leap up seemingly of its own accord and once again, he narrowly avoided a bloody death.

  A flicker of light distracted him and he glanced at the door. A figure entered, short and barrel-chested, wearing an identical black cloak. The whistle of air saved him; he ducked, rolling backward, more of a tumble really, until his back hit the wall and his breath whooshed from his lungs.

  Black despair gripped him, as black as the cloaks of his two enemies. He was dead. He could not face two. He was dead.

  “I yield,” he croaked and forced his cramped, numb fingers to release his sword. It dinged lightly as it hit the ground and he forced his eyes up to meet his adversary's.

  A wild rage filled the man's eyes like a fever and Gaven felt the tip of the sword when it pricked his throat. The other man appeared from behind a shoulder and he stayed the killing blow with a hand.

  “We need him,” the second man growled in a voice that sounded like stones grating together.

  Gaven gasped and felt his face drain of all blood.

  “You!” he breathed, numbness driving away all sense. For perhaps these men were phantoms after all.

  Chapter 60

  He smelled wild roses and tulips, honeysuckle and jasmine. Bees droned distantly and birds twittered their airy conversations. He strolled across a wild field, virgin territory as yet untouched, unknown. Knee-high grass, damp with morning dew kissed his knees with moisture that glittered like diamonds among the swirls and whorls of gilded black armor, that wrapped him, confined him in a prison of sorts. An old man, ancient, careworn, with eyes that were timeless and bright all at once, strolled beside him but neither spoke. Instead, they enjoyed a comfortable silence as a father and son would.

  A look right and then left revealed two armies. The men of these armies were faceless, anonymous. They stared across the innocent field at each other but their eyes were no more than sullen, thoughtful. There were no threatening glares, no bloodthirsty snarls. Their weapons were visible but lowered. Pikes and sword tips touched the ground, maces and axes rested casually, comfortably in lax fingers. Armor glowed dully in the light, a light that seemed sourceless, coming from nowhere yet was everywhere.

  “I don't understand,” Jurel said and his voice was hollow as if it came through a cave.

  The old man chuckled.

  “I know,” he said. “But you will.”

  “I don't think it matters anymore,” Jurel said and he gazed at the ground. Sorrow settled deep in his belly, made him weak, made him care a little less. “I'm dying, you know.”

  The old man turned and those bright, timeless eyes gazed at him with a love so profound and a sadness so complete, that Jurel's chest squeezed, choking his breath. Hot spots burned in his eyes, blotting the armies from existence.

  “You will not die this day, son,” the old man spoke gently and his voice seemed to bear all the weight of eternity. “There are hardships ahead, trials that you may not survive, but this day, you will not die.”

  And Jurel believed him. How could he not? This man—his father? He had called him son, after all, and it felt right and proper, but he looked nothing like either man Jurel had called father. This man spoke with foresight. With knowledge that Jurel could not imagine. With the power of prophecy. His heart soared and the tears turned to joy.

  “Truly? I will not die?”

  “Not today, no.”

  There was laughter in the old man's voice, under the sadness and the gentleness. Then the laughter faded and the sorrow, so all encompassing a moment before, became even more so. Jurel was certain his shoulders must slump, his back must shatter under the weight of the old man's gaze. But it did not matter for he would not die this day.

  “I am glad.”

  “Son, I must show you something,” he spoke and for the first time Jurel heard, or thought he heard, a hesitation, an uncertainty. His brow furrowed as he regarded the timeless figure beside him.

  “Show me what, father?” he asked. It did seem right and proper.

  “It will be difficult to see. You are strong, as you should be, as you must be. Yet I fear you might break.”

  Fear pricked at Jurel, a pointy thing, like a pin in his thumb. “Must I see it then?”

  “Yes, my son. You must.”

  Fear pricked, but he trusted this man, his father. “Then I will see it.”

  They strolled through the knee-high grasses that kissed Jurel's armor and left behind diamon
ds. Once again they were silent. He smelled wild roses and honeysuckle and tulips and jasmine. He smelled blood and smoke and excrescence. He heard bees droning and birds twittering. He heard men screaming and metal clashing.

  * * *

  “Hide Jurel, you must hide,” his father whispered urgently.

  Father's face was bloodless and he moved with the odd, jerky motions of a man consumed by panic.

  “There. Get under the table and don't you move, you hear? No matter what happens. Don't. You. Move.”

  “Gram, they're coming. Hurry!”

  Jurel turned and saw mama standing at the front door of their inn. She peered out from the tiny crack left by the slightly open door and she shook. She turned and her eyes lit on Jurel. They were filled with a fear he had never before seen. A fear so terrible, his young mind could not begin to comprehend it. A fear so horrible that he was not even sure what it was that he beheld, at first.

  Father shoved him with one meaty hand and Jurel stumbled, cried out. Tears stung his eyes. Father was never rough with him. Well unless they were wrestling in their den. But that was different. They laughed while they wrestled. Father was not laughing now.

  “Please Jurel. For the love of all that is holy, please, get under the table and be quiet,” Father whispered and Jurel, confused, feeling very much alone, complied.

  Mother closed the door and bolted it. Strange that, since it was still early. Soon, the regular patrons would arrive and there would be laughter and noise and maybe a mummer would come tonight. He always liked it when a mummer came. They were so strange with their bright, patchy cloaks, and their sly smiles. The men always laughed at the jokes and the women gasped, red faced as though embarrassed, but Jurel never got those jokes. Father told him he would when he was older.

  Maybe that nice soldier would come tonight. That fellow with the mean eyes, like the pictures he had seen in a book filled with the prettiest pictures of hunting birds, and the sour face. He looked mean but really he was not. He always made Jurel laugh with his jokes. He always had a sweet candy or a toy for Jurel. Why, just the other day, he brought this little bit of pointy wood he called a 'top' and when he made it stand up on that little point with a twist of his hand, Jurel had laughed and clapped his hands, delighted and amazed that such a thing could be.