The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  As they rode down streets and through alleys, they began to encounter more of the city's denizens, people who did not know of the terror in the temple, people who did not know that the God of War walked among them, though when they caught sight of Jurel—and it was hard not to since he shone like the noonday sky—they scurried aside and watched his progress fearfully.

  Some few guards at the city gates, perhaps to fulfill their duty, or perhaps to impress their fellows, thought to stop him, to demand what he was doing, but Jurel did not slow.

  “I have no quarrel with you at this time. Stand aside,” he said.

  And, as though their own commander had barked the order, they did, all thoughts of valor forgotten.

  They rode for quite some time and the sky began to darken from steel gray to the color of a bruise, and the tall buildings of stone that pushed against each other as peasants jostling for space at the arena on a tournament day gave way to shorter buildings, wooden and more spaced out. And by the time full night took them, they had passed beyond even the lowliest hovels at the edges of the great city of Threimes, and they rode in the darkness that was lit only by Jurel himself with the wide Sharong river flowing beside them their only other companion.

  * * *

  When the faintest hint of light appeared in the east hours later, they were still riding. Mikal had brought his horse beside Kurin hours before, letting the exhausted old man who had already tumbled from his saddle twice lean against him. They rode on even as the band of predawn light spread upward until it seemed to erupt and the entire sky took on the gray light of a cloudy morning.

  They rode on until Jurel's horse, with no apparent signal from him, stopped. Kurin lifted his head from Mikal's shoulder, though it was an effort to do so. His body felt leaden and he had developed a wracking cough that brought up bloody phlegm; he was not sure if he would be able to continue much longer. He held himself up in his saddle by sheer force of will as he watched the God that had once been a polite and meek young man falter.

  A look of confusion entered Jurel's face, a strangely touching expression that managed to tug Kurin's heart, and the blazing sword flickered, distorting like a curtain in the wind, before winking out of existence. Jurel raised his hand and stared at it, his brow knotted and his lips pursed. He looked up and seemed to see them for the first time, and Kurin watched the light in his eyes die the same flickering death as his sword had. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. The three stayed like that for a moment, a bewildered God and three of his terrified subjects, then:

  “I don't...I think...” he began but said no more.

  His shoulders slumped, his head bowed forward, and then as dry sand rolling down a hill, he slid out of his saddle to fall in a boneless heap on the ground.

  Chapter 65

  The temple was a shambles. Soldiers hurried back and forth carrying litters of the dead while servants scuttled with buckets and cloths and mops to clean what remained. Thalor had to pick his way, holding the hem of his robe off the floors, around the remaining dead like a performer on a high wire. The congealed puddles of blood that spotted the floors like lakes and seas on a map, almost black against the dark stones or woods of the various chambers were hard to avoid and by the time he reached the Grand Prelate's office, his slippers were ruined. He would never get them as pristinely white as they were just an hour before.

  When the guard announced his presence, he was ushered directly into the opulent office. Gold and silver were everywhere: in the sculptures along the mantle, in the inlays that decorated the vast mahogany desk, in the heavy satin drapes that framed the tall stained glass window, in the carpet that he walked on, and most especially in the garb of the ancient man who sat behind the desk.

  Old and gnarled, Maten still had an air of authority that made everyone—except the king perhaps, but that was another story—bow in reverence and respect, and Thalor was no exception. He bustled quickly to his master's side and bowed low, kissing the huge ruby set in the fat golden band that was the symbol of the Grand Prelate's godly authority in the world.

  “Your Excellency,” Thalor greeted him as he rose to his feet.

  “Thalor, my dear man. How are you?” Maten's voice was heavy, burdened certainly with the weight of the atrocity visited upon his church so short a time ago.

  “As well as can be expected, your Excellency. I've a few brothers assigned to funeral rites for the brave men who gave their lives.” Brave! Ha! Useless, more like. One stupid boy and they could not even slow him. “Those who are injured are being tended. We are still ascertaining the extent of our losses.”

  “Ah but the losses are great. Too great,” Maten said and Thalor almost believed the lamenting tone. “I believe I have misjudged, Thalor. I was too quick to let Calen take over, too quick to believe that you did not have everything well in hand.”

  “Your Excellency, no. It is I who am humbled,” Thalor said and it was all he could do to keep the fire from his eyes. If you hadn't pulled me from my plans, if you hadn't humiliated me, they would be long dead. I would have seen them burn on a heretic's pyre weeks ago. Or in a shallow grave a hundred miles from here. Too late now, you old bastard.

  “No, Thalor. I accept the responsibility. It was my error. I will redress that immediately.”

  He handed Thalor a page, carefully folded and with the great seal of the Grand Prelate's office affixed in red wax. When Thalor broke the seal and read, he nearly jumped with a cry of victory.

  General Proclamation:

  Let it be known to all that as of this day, High Priest Thalor Stock is hereby promoted to the rank of Prelate. He is charged with the duty of overseeing the return of the faith to all those in the realm. All are to bow to him as they would to me.

  By My Hand, and in good faith,

  Maten III, Grand Prelate of Almighty Gaorla, Protector of the Faith

  It was more than he could have wished for though it was less than his rightful due. He was not ambitious, but he knew this should have been his years ago.

  “Your Excellency. I cannot. I-”

  “No my humble servant. You must. I will hear no argument. You are tasked with bringing the heretics Kurin and Jurel to God's justice as well as the annihilation of the Salosian Sect. You will be appointed a team to aid you and I will turn over command of two battalions of our Soldiers for your use. If you require more, bring your requests to me and we will discuss them.”

  He put on a great show for Maten. He bent low and kissed that ring again, the ring he knew would soon be his and he thanked Maten from the depths of his holy soul for the opportunity to redeem himself. He even impressed himself by forcing two great quivering tears from his eyes.

  Maten smiled and shooed him off.

  “Go on now, Prelate. You have duties to perform.”

  Thalor took his leave, grinning like a fool, a grim, predatory fool, and he near bounced down the corridor to his office. He thought of his favorite sculpture, the stallion that seemed about to run right off its pedestal, and he smiled. He would have his day. He was halfway there. Soon, he would be loosed just like the stallion wanted and all the world would be his.

  But first, there was the matter of heretics to deal with.

  * * *

  He had walked for mile upon mile, league upon league. He had walked even though he knew he should not be able to, knew he should have succumbed to the bitter mercy of death long ago, so long ago. He wept for it, prayed for it, dreamed of it, but still his master would not release him and he walked.

  When he entered the city, his city, the people stared at him, watched him pass wordlessly, and there was contempt in their eyes. Disgust. A few pelted him with rotten tomatoes, a few used stones. Either way, when the projectiles struck, new redness flowed thick and sticky.

  He walked out of the city and across a mile of barren tundra until he approached the great broken mountain that rose to the clouds above. He walked between great stone pillars and past the square door that rose so high
over his head that he could barely make out the roof and into the darkness of the great castle that was a cave, a massive structure that was carved from the very cliffs of the mountain.

  He walked, but perhaps it was more accurate to say that he stumbled, or lurched, that he was pulled along like a puppet on tangled strings. And when he reached the great doors that led to his master's inner sanctum, that dark place, that deep pit from the other end of the nether realms, he began to weep softly. There would be no escape for him. There would be no easy death.

  The doors swung open silently of their own accord and he lurched forward, tugged by those invisible strings into the blackest black. There was no circle of light for Xandru An Tifons. The circle of light was reserved for those with honor.

  “Xandru.”

  He shuddered when he heard his master's voice, tried to cringe away but he was held tight.

  “Xandru, I have been waiting for you”

  “My lord,” Xandru wailed and he tried to supplicate himself, he tried to fall to his knees, but he could not move. “Please my lord.” Suddenly, groveling did not seem so distasteful to him. “It is not my fault. I could not have known-”

  “SILENCE! You have failed me Xandru. Again. I promised you great rewards if you were successful and I promised you equally terrible consequences if you were not. You were not.”

  That voice. That terrible voice, so filled with wrath, rage, roared around him, over him, through him, made him loose his bladder and he felt hot wetness spread down his already soiled breeches. He did not say anything. There was nothing to say. He closed his eyes.

  “You must suffer the consequences for your failures and I must suffer as well. I will appoint another to your place and perhaps the next will be more diligent in obeying my wishes. I will prevail. I will retake my rightful place in the world, over the world. I will make my father pay for what he has done to me. Look at me Xandru. Look at me.”

  He opened his eyes. No, not he. His master opened his eyes and he found himself staring into blackness. He heard a hissing noise, like a serpent slithering on stone and he heard those inhuman voices, calling out their agonies farther back in the chamber. He felt a hot wet breath upon his face and he smelled death and decay, fire and terror. A flicker of light, almost too dim to perceive appeared in front of him. The flicker came again, and it strengthened, grew until it was almost as powerful as a single candle's flame.

  Terrible black eyes, emotionless, remorseless and relentless gazed from a ruined face, a face that looked like melted wax, gazed at him, into him, and he felt a tearing in his chest. He tried to scream as the tearing continued but he could not get his breath. The tearing expanded until his entire torso felt shredded, felt as though some giant had gripped him by his shoulders and hips and pulled. His gaze was fixed on the eyes before him and he gurgled and grunted like a dying animal. The pain crescendoed into a cacophony of fire and light and darkness.

  And he finally did scream. It was a scream of eternal torment, a scream of never ending agony.

  The scream suddenly cut short and the husk of dessicated flesh and dusty bones that was Xandru An Tifons collapsed to the floor like a discarded rag. The empty eye sockets stared terrified into the darkness. The room fell to silence except for a dry hissing sound and those unearthly voices whispering and moaning their ceaseless sufferings.

  And if someone had paid attention, if someone had listened very carefully to those voices, that one would have heard an extra voice, a voice that was not there moments before.

  Chapter 66

  He sat though he did not remember sitting. He did not remember the actions of bending knee, or checking balance, but nonetheless he sat. His vision was narrowed to two horizontal diamond shapes; verdant grass speckled with crystal dew was surrounded by hard edges of darkness. He pondered this strange fact for a moment, certain he should feel concern that his vision was so limited, but certain also that he did not feel much of anything except perhaps a hint of sadness, of regret that edged his numbness as his eyesight was.

  He pondered and he realized that his vision was limited because he wore a helm. Now when had he donned a helm? He reached up and felt cold hardness, strange impressions, and he tugged until the strange thing came off his shoulders and up over his head. Clean smells poured in: grass, honeysuckle, wild roses and tulips and jasmine. He looked at the thing in his hands, a helm all of black, black as the night, so black it seemed to drink the light around it, and there were strangely compelling gilt swirls around the eyes and on the forehead. He looked down and saw he wore the matching armor and his father's sword rested in the sheath that hung at his hip. He looked up to a sky that was featureless. It was not cloudy, nor could he see the sun. It was bright but the light came from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

  He remembered this place then. He turned his head left and then right but something was missing. What? He rose to his feet and turned and almost fell again when he saw the two armies behind him. He seemed to recall that those armies were supposed to be facing each other across the empty plain, snarling silently, brandishing weapons threateningly. But it was not so. They sat together around a hundred campfires—a thousand—and they ate and they laughed. Some honed weapons, others mended broken armor straps. He perceived that they were a noisy bunch, his armies, but he did not hear them. No. He heard them, but he had to strain to do so. It was like listening to snow fall.

  He watched them for a time—he knew not how long—and somehow it heartened him. A faint smile twitched his lips. They belonged with him. He knew that now. Or perhaps he belonged with them? No difference really. He took a step forward, then another. One of the creatures looked up at him and he saw his smile reflected in its own not-quite-human features.

  “So there you are then,” a voice said from behind him and he whirled and he saw the old man with the blue eyes that seemed to contain the whole of the sky, the craggy face that seemed to be the whole of the world. The old man who was a God, who was his father.

  His smile broadened until it was almost joy.

  “Father,” he said simply.

  “You have passed your first trial it seems. You know now, don't you?”

  He did know. He knew who he was. It was bitter-sweet that knowing. It was life and death, war and peace. “Yes father. I know.”

  “There are still trials ahead. This was but the first.”

  His father gazed at him with a mixture of pity and reproach as if Jurel was a child who had done some task he thought would be helpful but instead only made matters worse.

  “I know father.”

  He turned and faced the army that camped in the field, that broke bread together, mended armor, performed all the mundane tasks that made the camp seem peaceful though it was a war machine. He watched them, knowing he was one of them, knowing he was first among them.

  “What comes next, father?”

  “Ah ah, not so fast, young man,” the God said and raised a finger, and Jurel heard amused forbearance in that eternal voice. “You remind me of my other children. So hasty. So impatient. All will become clear in time.”

  “I understand. But I have to say, I'm awfully curious.”

  The old man laughed and it was a sound like birds singing, like thunder rolling, like stars twinkling in a clear sky. “Of course you are, my boy. Of course you are. You would not be my son otherwise.”

  Knowing he would get no more out of his father, he decided to ask something else. “What is this place? I have been here a few times and still I don't know where we are.”

  Gaorla's eyes widened in surprise. “You do not know yet?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Well, yes. Though perhaps it is too early for you to understand that part of it. Here I will begin you on the path: It is your place.”

  Confusion made Jurel's features twist, made him cant his head like a curious puppy. His father laughed.

  “Do not look at me so. I say it true. This is your place. You will understand more in time.”
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  “Yes father.”

  “I think it is time to be off. There is much to be done and there are those who need you. Times will be difficult but you must persevere. Even when your path is unclear, even when you would wish to lay down and rest, you must continue. Can you do that?”

  “Yes father.”

  And he knew he could.

  * * *

  When he opened his eyes, he wished he had not. His head ached and he thought it might fall off if he moved too quickly. His legs burned like he had just run a hundred miles uphill at a dead sprint and his arms felt like an elephant had decided to use them as a platform. He groaned and curled himself into the smallest ball he could, wrapping himself around a gut that must have been preparing some kind of daring escape from the confines of his abdomen.

  “Kurin. He's waking up.”

  Mikal? What was he doing there? How did he...?

  Memory flooded back. Of course Mikal was there. Had he not saved Jurel and Kurin from those dungeons? Had he not been accompanied by...? Had he not...?

  With memory came a different kind of pain, the kind of pain that could not be eased by changing position, by relieving the tension of muscle or sinew, and Jurel wept. Visions of his father floated before him, smiling at him, glaring at him with those relentless hawk's eyes.

  I love you son.

  I love you too father.

  His father was dead. His second father. Dead because of Jurel. Guilt and shame and rage and sorrow intertwined, fused until it was one ball of blackness, one angry bruise to his self.