Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  A look that was returned with a nod and a small smile.

  Chapter 12

  Out of sorts since his outburst at the council meeting a few days prior, Jurel stoically endured one of Metana's scathing chastisements—though they were much less severe these days. Her attempts to teach him what she called high mathematics were beginning to frustrate her. Or, more precisely, his inability to grasp some of the concepts (how exactly does one add x and y?) was the problem.

  The slate hanging on the wall behind Metana was covered in chalk scribbles, more letters than numbers, looked to Jurel more like literature gone terribly wrong than any math he had ever seen.

  It was a profound relief then that just as Metana began really getting upset, Mikal stepped into the classroom. The stocky man motioned to Metana who huffed a sigh and strode briskly out the door behind Mikal. Though the door was thick, he still heard Metana's voice. She sounded rather annoyed. Whatever she was saying, Mikal did not seem to appreciate it; his voice cut hers off with a sharp command. A moment later Mikal re-entered followed by a rather chastised Metana.

  “Let's go Jurel. You're with me.”

  Hoping he was not being dragged to another council meeting, Jurel rose. “What about my classes?”

  “Your classes are done for the day. Metana has been made very clear on that. She has also been made aware that any outstanding work she assigned you is no longer due.”

  Metana simply looked more miserable as Jurel and Mikal left the room.

  When they were far enough that Jurel was certain they were out of earshot, he asked, “I've never seen her looking so cowed. What did you say to her?”

  “I reminded her that I outrank her.”

  Jurel cast a sharp look at Mikal but the man returned it with a bland look that said nothing. Jurel would have wagered all that he owned that Mikal was a superb player of Bones.

  Soon, Jurel found himself back in Mikal's office. This time there was no line-up outside the door, but there were a half dozen men and women waiting—Mikal's senior staff—who rose and bowed as Mikal entered. Jurel was shocked when they then bowed to him, then stunned frozen when he realized they bowed lower to him than to Mikal.

  After reintroducing his staff, Mikal picked up a heavy piece of parchment which he handed to Jurel.

  He received his third shock in as many minutes once he managed to assimilate what the message said. It was an order signed by Goromand handing control of the Order's military might to Jurel. Though Mikal would remain second in command, Jurel now had an army of nearly forty-five hundred soldiers.

  “I don't understand,” he muttered, numbly handing the page back.

  Mikal snorted. “You got what you demanded at the council meeting. You've been given command, boy.”

  Slowly, Jurel met the eyes of each person in the room. Some returned his look, others quickly averted their eyes. In all of them, Jurel sensed a deep unease.

  “Of course they're worried, Jurel,” Mikal said. “You're now in command of more than four thousand men. You will use those men to face a force that may be twenty or thirty times your size. Do you have any training in tactical warfare? Any at all? Because I'll tell you what. It's going to take a genius of a tactician to even survive this let alone prevail. And if you fail, all of us will be worm food.

  “Goromand seems to think that just being who you are will assure us the victory. He's a good man but he has even less understanding of warfare than you do.

  “That's why I pulled you out of your class today. You will continue your training with us while we prepare for the march. You're damned good with your sword and you got that way in a very short time. Now we're going to hope that you pick up tactics as quickly.”

  Beside Mikal, Major Kellen muttered, “And as effectively.”

  “So here's what we're going to do,” Mikal continued. “Today, you're going to sit in on your first strategy meeting. You're going to keep quiet because every man and woman in this room has decades more experience than you do. You're going to listen.

  “Tomorrow, you're going to start new training courses. You'll spend the mornings learning tactics and military formations in the yards with Gaven and his lot. You'll spend the afternoons working out the logistics of our march with Rafel and Kellen. Any questions?”

  It brought comfort to hear Mikal speak so frankly, to bark orders as he always did. Jurel may be technically in command but he felt exactly as all the rest here did: he had no idea what he was doing.

  And if that did not change quickly, he would kill them all.

  Chapter 13

  At the fore of his smallish army—a thousand Soldiers handpicked for this mission—Thalor eyed the speck of village disdainfully. Veloth, the crude plank of weathered wood that served as a signpost proclaimed. Hovels hunkered on both sides of the road and under the trees like peasants praying, ramshackle little structures that barely seemed sturdy enough to hold their own weight. Especially the inn. By God but how could any traveler sleep in that place and not worry the roof was going to fall on his head?

  Among those seedy shacks, and around them, a few of the villagers gawped at Thalor and his men, standing stock still in the road. Other villagers were a little more prudent; they continued on doing whatever it was that peasants in a mudhole did but they did it off the road, hidden in the shadows. Thalor did not think back to his childhood, to his own roots as a dirty peasant; it was behind him, so far in the distant past that sometimes he wondered if he had actually ever lived it.

  Thalor glanced at his major, Reowynn, and nodded curtly. Reowynn turned and barked a few terse orders and the men fanned out, quickly and efficiently surrounding the village. As they should. They had practice. This was the third village they had encountered since embarking on this rather distasteful little jaunt. By the time the last homes were surrounded, all the villagers had stopped what they were doing and stared fearfully, gasping exclamations of surprise, pointing, gesturing at this strange and, though none would say it out loud, dangerous new turn of events.

  Thalor and Reowynn, and the clot of guards at their back cantered their mounts into the center of town. With a searching glance he knew was haughty, Thalor drew in a deep breath, trying not to gag on the stench, heartily gladdened when he expelled it.

  “Who is your mayor?” he called into the silent pall that had descended.

  A sturdy man, perhaps in his early forties, stepped from the small crowd that was gathering. His expression, though mostly hidden beneath the shock of reddish-brown beard like fuzzy rust, was one of unbridled terror. Sometimes instincts were a powerful thing; this man knew that something very bad was about to happen to him and to his village.

  “I am sir,” the man quavered. “I be the headman here and the owner o yon inn, The Veloth Inn.” He poked a meaty thumb over his shoulder to the hunk of dilapidated timber behind him. “Me name's Morgen.”

  “Well, Morgen, owner of the Veloth Inn, and headman,” Thalor smiled. It was a toothy smile, one that a predator might show prey in the moment before ripping its throat out. “I am Prelate Thalor Stock of Threimes here on special orders from Grand Prelate Maten. I think perhaps we should find somewhere a little more private for we have some matters to discuss.”

  Morgen bobbed his head and turned halfway, indicating with one hand raised, his fingers catching the sun, cupping it like he held a handful of light, a beacon for Thalor to follow. Very pretty, thought Thalor. Too bad the boor is likely to lose that hand before the day is out.

  As though the villagers thought they could mimic their martial visitors, an escort of sorts, each about half a dozen folks, flanked both sides of Thalor's party. As they neared the inn, which again Thalor eyed distastefully and with no little trepidation, the men surrounding the village began the second phase of their plan. They began moving inward, swords drawn, pushing the villagers toward the overgrown square in the center of this little mire that polluted the road. Efficiently; they had plenty of practice.

  Morgen's office was far
too small to accommodate the knot of Soldiers that entered with Reowynn and so Thalor stood impatiently at the door of the common room, waiting for Morgen to clean a table and chair so he could sit without feeling instantly soiled. When that was done—and it took a surprising amount of time, what with the thick layers of grime—Morgen scuttled to his bar to pour Thalor a cup (also subjected to a vigorous scrubbing) of the best wine he had. Which was, Thalor thought with a grimace, as might be expected from a hole like this barely tolerable.

  Settling himself in his chair, Thalor finally trained his eyes on Morgen who stood waiting on the other side of the table.

  “Now then, good Headman Morgen. I will be blunt. We are searching for certain individuals who, we think, would have passed by here some months ago. Have you had many strangers through here?”

  “Sir—Yer Grace—with all respect,” Morgen licked his lips nervously, “we be on the caravan route. There's always strangers passin through here.”

  Thalor painted on a frosty smile. “Yes. Of course. I think this group might have stood out. There were four of them, on horse. A tall brute with blond hair and blue eyes. An old man, also tall, looks almost emaciated. A short bulky man with a sword. A young man, with the bearing of a soldier. Do these descriptions ring any bells?”

  Morgen licked his lips and his sweating increased until it was nearly a torrent. His eyes darted as he searched for an answer that would satisfy, that would get this hostile army out of his town, that would avert bloodshed.

  “N-no, Yer Grace. I seen no one like that.”

  “Really? Are you certain?” Thalor leaned forward, pinned Morgen with dagger eyes. “They must have passed by here. As you say, your village is on the caravan route.”

  Shouts erupted from outside; Morgen's eyes flicked to the door.

  “What's this-?”

  A scream, high and filled with pain, punctured the air, followed by another. Morgen took a step toward the door. “What's goin on?” he shouted.

  Before he made his second step, as the scream was joined by more shrieks, turned into a veritable chorus of agony, one of the Soldiers stepped in front of Morgen and placed the point of his sword on Morgen's chest.

  For the first time since their arrival, Morgen showed something other than fear in his features. Outrage? Anger? Could the man have larger stones than Thalor had first presumed?

  “What's goin on?”

  Thalor could not help it. He smiled. It was a real smile, the smile of a man who was enjoying himself. And as Morgen gazed upon the terrible smile, his face drained of all color—even his flaming beard seemed to pale.

  “That,” Thalor said quietly, very quietly, like a strop on a blade, “is my men asking your folk the same questions I am asking you. I would surmise that my men are as happy with the answers they are receiving as I am.”

  The cloying stench of burning slowly began to filter in around the crack of the door jamb and the badly sealed windows. The grimy windows that looked onto the main street, began flickering with blurry orange light. Thalor held Morgen's eyes as the smell of smoke intensified.

  “Private, please stand aside so that the good headman may see what comes of thwarting the church.”

  The sword snapped back and Morgen raced to the door. When he opened it, he let out a cry and sank to his knees.

  In the center of the village, great pillars of flame were shooting from the homes and shops of the residents licking hungrily at the already hazy sky. The villagers themselves, those that were not lying in spreading pools of blood, were being herded toward the central square. A dozen Soldiers trotted past the door in perfect unison, swords drawn.

  “What in the name of God are ye doin?” Morgen shrieked.

  “In the name of God, I am cleansing the land of heretics. Any who would aid the men we seek are summarily convicted. As you can see, the punishment is swift and severe.”

  Thalor rose and gestured to the private with the sword. “Please escort him to the square where he may join his neighbors.”

  Morgen had one more thing to say as he was pushed into the street with the tip of the private's sword: “You bastard! You sick twisted bastard!”

  Thalor's lips quirked as he glanced at Reowynn. Reowynn's expression was stony but there was a light in his eyes. He, too, was enjoying himself. As the two stepped through the front door into the chaos that had upended Veloth, Thalor heard the distinct crackle of fire taking hold in the inn behind him. It was for the best, he thought. This heap was a danger to anyone who stepped foot in it. Burning it down would be doing a lot of innocent travelers a favor.

  Remounting his horse, he took one last look at the scene. A knot of villagers huddled in the square, gazing with dead-eyed fear at each other, at their burning homes, at anything except for the line of Soldiers that faced them. One woman carrying a caterwauling baby broke free from the cluster and bolted. She managed to get seven or eight steps before three arrows sprouted from her back. She fell forward as though tripped by a stone. When she landed, the baby's crying cut off sharply.

  “You know what to do, Major,” Thalor said and turned his mount toward the camp that was being erected outside the village, searching the peaks for his own tent.

  “Of course, Your Eminence,” Reowynn acknowledged, and trotted off calling orders for more torches.

  And why wouldn't he? After all, they had plenty of practice.

  * * *

  Gixen surveyed his growing army with pleasure. He had been traveling for weeks, gathering men the way a farmer gathers carrots—grub around in the muck and yank them out. Brush off the excess mud and there it is: one army, ready to go. The mass of sweaty men in the camp was, at last count, up near twenty thousand. Not enough. Not yet. But soon.

  He walked between the ragged tents, mostly made of untanned or at best badly tanned animal skins, off-white or brown, and he breathed deeply of the sickly-sweet odor, relishing it. It was the scent of his people, the scent of warriors and of violence. He thought perhaps it was the sweetest thing in the world. A great thing to wake up to and to fall asleep with. He inspected the men that surrounded him, glancing at armor and at swords, checking for rust or mold. The stains did not matter. The men could still fight if they were covered in old chicken fat or dirt. It was the mold and the rust that could get them killed. He did not really care if they died. As long as they did it in battle, after he had completed his mission.

  Every once in a while, he would point and bark a sharp order; the men surrounding the unfortunate he pointed at would jump up and grab the hapless victim and drag him forward until he stood in front of Gixen. Depending on the severity of the man's laxness—how far the mold and rust had spread—he would either be whipped, or in the worst cases, flayed. Of those who survived, not many made the same mistake twice. Every once in a while, he had a man whipped, or flayed, simply because he could, for no other reason than because he did not like how the man looked, or sat, or perhaps just because it amused him.

  As he walked, and turned his eyes from one campfire to the next, and the next, men looked away from him, were frightened of him, as they should be. They were wolves. He was the pack leader.

  It took him some time to get from one end of the sprawling camp to the other, carefully picking his steps over the broken, uneven ground, and when he did, he took another route back, picking out more men who needed discipline. Screams melded into the landscape, punctuated by the sharp crack of whips, and they became as ordinary as the crackle of fire.

  The next day, more would join his force. And more, the day after. Until finally, there would be enough of them to sweep south in a ravening horde, killing everything in their path starting with that great hump of man-city, that great infected lump of wood and stone and plaster, the one that the southers called Killhern.

  Well, killing almost everything in their path. There would be time for a little leisure, after all. A little sport with the local wildlife, a little hunting. He liked that: wildlife. Wildlife on two legs with brown eyes and
skin the color of bare wood instead of the pale creatures that dwelt here in the north. Wildlife that would try to fight him off, to retaliate by scratching his back or maybe by trying to knee him in the groin as he impaled them on the end of his spear. He chuckled, well pleased with himself. Wildlife.

  He would hunt. He looked around as he walked, surveying the hundreds upon hundreds of campfires, eying the thousands of men as he passed. He was the wolf leader and they were his pack. He smiled. Everything was as it should be.

  Part 2:

  War Cries

  “We know until we don't.”

  -Mikal

  Chapter 14

  In the end, it took them nearly two months to prepare. As winter's tenuous hold snapped like icicles hanging from an eave, the Abbey was in a furor. Supplies were gathered into great heaps in the main courtyard, counted and sorted by three harried sergeants—and dozens of underlings—who had been assigned the task of logistics, counting mountains of arms, armor, pots, pans, food, tents, medical supplies, uniforms, and the hundred other sundry bits and pieces that must accompany large groups of men on their way to battle. The air resounded with the heavy clash of metal on metal as smiths busied themselves at their forges, hammering out new shoes for the herds of horses that arrived almost daily, or striking out new blades, or arrow-heads.

  The children of the brothers and sisters and various servants in the employ of the Abbey were chased from the fields to make way for soldiers—from single squads to entire platoons—who engaged in drills and field exercises, mock battles and maneuvers, though many of the children watched fascinated from a discreet distance as men and women pummeled each other with their practice swords or pikes, or practiced their archery on hastily erected, vaguely man shaped targets constructed of straw bundles wrapped in burlap.

  Jurel, as the nominal commander in chief of the army, spent most of his time with Mikal and Gaven, the former being the commander of the forces at the Abbey, the latter being given the rank of captain at Jurel's behest, and placed in command of a platoon that would make the journey. Most of their time was spent in a dingy office set aside for Jurel's use (Jurel was certain that it was, in fact, a linen closet hastily cleared out; lit only by a single taper, without even the smallest window to alleviate the gloom, it smelled distinctly of a laundry room), poring over reams of paperwork, or engaging in impromptu lessons as Jurel's egregious lack of knowledge in the area of warfare became apparent. Learning how to fight effectively was one thing; learning how to get large groups to fight effectively was entirely another.