by Remi Michaud
By the end of the first week of the preparations, Jurel was ready to tear out his hair in frustration. By the beginning of the third, he was ready to commit foul murder. By about the fifth week, having managed to avoid killing anyone—sometimes by the skin of his teeth—he spent most of his time stunned, wearing a permanently startled expression.
“How the hells do you remember all of this?” he demanded for the umpteenth time, throwing down his quill, his chair creaking alarmingly as he leaned back.
With an annoyed grunt, Mikal glared at him and sat back down on the rickety stool across from Jurel's rickety desk. “Because it has to be done. Don't interrupt. Just pay attention. Now. When you manage to locate the exact position of your enemy, the first thing you need to do is...”
Oh gods.
Reports came in of troop movement to the north; more villages burned to the ground, though thankfully, they came sporadically. Whether that meant that less villages were being burned or that the information was not getting through, no one could say. Jurel chose to go with the former. Reports of troop movements from the south were a prime concern to the command council; the primary danger seeming to be a pincer movement by the enemy as the two armies move toward each other with Jurel's force in the middle.
His meal times were most often spent swallowing his food without bothering to chew, knowing full well that he likely would not have time for even that much before someone interrupted him with urgent, can't-wait-for-five-minutes business, such as how many shirts he wanted packed with his things. Even after he dragged himself to his bed each night, well past moonrise, his head feeling like it was turning slowly to boiling mush and his eyes trying to push their way out of their sockets, he knew he would not be given more than the barest minimum time to sleep. To him, it was as though someone must have taken up position just outside his door every night whose sole duty it was to inform everyone the moment he drifted off so they could form a line to present their ever so urgent demands. Like whether he preferred his collars starched or not.
During these weeks of preparations, he found himself asking one question more and more often: What had bloody well possessed him to, in perfect mulish fashion, assert his authority and personally take command of this nightmare? By the end of the month, that question had distilled itself to the very essence of what he felt, and a different, more distilled question came clear in his mind: Why me?
On the morning of their departure, before the sun was more than a hint on the eastern horizon, but long after the moon had gone to its daily bed, with stars still sparkling sharply high above like an omen, Jurel strode from the wide double doors that were the main entrance into the Abbey and down the few steps to the courtyard. His army was arrayed in platoons, each one fronted by an ensign who carried their standard, though with only torches lighting the yard, the limp flags were as yet no more than dark smudges like tar oozing down the sides of the pikes.
Along the top of the compound walls, and in doors, and windows, other soldiers stood—those selected to remain behind to continue fortifying the Abbey.
Mikal and Gaven waited nearby with Kurin and Metana. Goromand, Garvus, Fagan, and Selena rounded out the small group. Their heads were bent close in quiet conversation; upon sighting Jurel, they fell silent and watched his approach.
With one eyebrow raised, Jurel halted in front of them. “What?”
“Nothing, my boy. Nothing,” Kurin said grandly, a grin creasing the corners of his eyes. “We're just waiting for you.”
“Well, I'm here.” Jurel shrugged.
Mikal, his second-in-command, his back to the men, glared at him. “Have you not heard anything I've told you?” His voice rumbled deep in his chest, a sure sign of his displeasure.
Jurel stared blankly back. Obviously, he had forgotten something, but Mikal had shoveled a lot of information at him these past months, and try as he might, he could not seem to part the veil of sleep that still wrapped tightly around his mind.
“It's traditional for the general to address his men before marching, Jurel,” Gaven said quietly. “Not too much, you know. Just a few words of inspiration so the troops will have something when they're slogging along the road wondering what they're doing there.”
Jurel gaped at the men and women in the courtyard, a shadowy mass that seethed slightly. Here and there, the faint jingle of bridle, or the creak of leather, bespoke soldiers settling themselves in saddles or checking weapons. He turned, aiming a glare at Gaven.
“Can't you do that?” he whispered to Mikal. “I mean, you're still their commander and-” And his whisper died away at the flat look Mikal leveled at him.
“And what, exactly, am I supposed to say?” he demanded in a furious whisper. “Hello everyone, my name is Jurel but you already know that. Now I know you'd like to be all snug in your beds right now, but instead I'm going to take you on a merry traipse around the kingdom, maybe to find the vanguard of an enemy army which might be twice our size with the intention of attacking them. We may or may not live to see the next Day of Shadows but hey! it's all in good fun. Of course, even if we manage to not get slaughtered, there's likely going to be another army hot on our heels so even if we beat the first army, we still stand a good chance of being slaughtered. How does that sound, Gaven?”
Gaven simply stared at him with a half-smile that twisted one corner of his mouth down.
“You know the plan, boy,” Mikal grated. “There's not going to be an army hot on our heels.”
“Don't be difficult, Jurel,” Kurin joined mildly. “Just give them the standard line. We journey for the cause of righteousness, honor and glory. We have the gods on our side, including you, and blah blah blah. It doesn't need to be a long speech. Just a few words will suffice.”
Staring helplessly at the clot of bloody people he thought of as his bloody friends, he gave up and sighed. At the front of the courtyard, several supply wagons waited, each one tethered to two horses because they were piled high. They would be last out behind the troops, each one guarded by a squad as they made their way north. He picked one at the front and climbed on the side rail, using a stack of burlap grain bags as a support.
Perching on the rail, he wobbled slightly for a moment, but when he managed to gain his balance and turn to face the army—his army—all eyes were on him. There was not a sound in the courtyard as the first bar of golden light broke over the mountains in the east, illuminating the rows on rows of expectant faces, each with their own stories, their own lives and foibles, but as a whole, became one anonymous sea. The silence was deafening.
Swallowing—a difficult task; his throat suddenly felt lined with sand—and coughing to clear the lump in his throat, Jurel frantically rifled through the jumble in his mind to find words appropriate to the situation. His gaze went from face to blank face as sweat beaded on his forehead, cool prickles that did little to alleviate the sudden swampy heat of his flesh.
The wall around the Abbey began to glow red-gold with the slow breaking of dawn, each stone sharply limned by umber filaments. The herbs and flowers that grew in neat rows along the base seemed to stretch in lazy luxury upward as he might to bathe in the warmth. This was, in its own way, a sort of war, he thought: the battle between the light of dawn and the dark of night, waged every sunset and sunrise, and ever kept in perfect balance.
“Well,” he began, “here we are.”
He gave himself a mental forehead slap at the inanity of his first words to his army. A thousand pairs of eyes stared at him impassively, motionless; a thousand pairs of shadowy points, blank and black. Behind him, he thought he heard Gaven groan, and was that Mikal who sniffed? Resisting the urge to tell them exactly what he thought of their opinions, Jurel cleared his throat and tried again.
“As you know, we will be marching shortly toward an enemy of unknown size. This enemy is comprised of Soldiers of God and perhaps the king's own men. Our mission is a simple one: we will eradicate them.”
Behind him, Mikal muttered, “Too soon.�
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Beginning to settle into his speech, he ignored it. Some minor shuffling broke out as soldiers shifted uncomfortably; he ignored that too.
“The church, the prelacy, has reigned unchecked for too long. They rule with fear and suffering. They promise peace and salvation, and when the suffering masses ask when they will deliver on those promises-” now Jurel smirked, “-they send their warriors and assassins, their Soldiers of God.”
A low rumble passed among the troops like a minor earthquake. His mouth was still dry, and his stomach was tying itself into oily knots, but he began to feel a strange exhilaration. These men and women hung on his every word. He let himself be swept up in this new role, and he found the feeling strangely familiar, exhilarating, somehow wild.
Squealing in delight as he hurtled down a snowy hillside toward a frozen pond on an old blanket that was frozen to a stiff board. Watch out for the trees!
He tapped a finger against his lower lip, and squinted one eye up to the sky which had brightened just enough to obscure the last of the night's stars.
“I wonder if the Soldiers of God provide the relief their masters promise.” He continued in a mild, pensive tone. Those in the back leaned forward to catch his words. “Somehow, I doubt it.” The rumble turned into a dangerous chuckle. “Last I heard, they were burning entire villages to the ground, and killing countless numbers in the process. Because of rumors of heretics. Nothing substantial, mind you. Just rumors.”
A voice, Darren, calling encouragement at the top of the hill. Trig, already at the bottom, half buried in snow, laughing breathlessly. His impromptu sled, a thick, frozen blanket struck a hidden bump, canted crazily, began to spin.
Now his voice raised until it thundered. “These townsfolk were brothers and sisters, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. Killed because of rumors. Because the Prelacy has grown smug and bloated and complacent with power!
“For too long there has been an imbalance-” An imbalance? Now what did that mean? “-an imbalance that has allowed evil to run unchecked for centuries. An imbalance that has caused more suffering than the worst plague or bitterest war.”
Wide-eyed, whooping, laughing, he clawed at the edge, trying to keep it straight, trying to hold on.
Here he paused, letting his glare rake across the faces that were no longer blank pools. Brows had drawn down, eyes had hardened, glittering in the early dawn light. Mouths had pinched to thin white lines. Across the yard, those who stood, stood straight as though they were tied to poles. Those who were in saddles, sat stiff, the reins gripped tightly in gauntleted fists.
“We are the check. We are the balance. We will ride, we will face this monstrosity. We will even the tally. We. Will. Prevail!”
And finally, finally, the courtyard erupted into a thundering cheer as fists pumped the air, as swords were drawn and held high, the newborn sun glinting violently off the polished blades.
As the cheering continued, he leapt nimbly from his perch and strode to his small group of friends. He smiled giddily at them.
Laying beside Trig, his sled somewhere beyond him. Both still laughing, their flesh, overheated in the excitement of the wild, uncontrollable plunge, growing cool in the snow.
“Do it again?” asked Trig.
“You bet!”
“How was that.”
Gaven and Metana stared at him as though he had grown an extra eye in the middle of his forehead and Kurin graced him with a small, secretive smile. Mikal was more forthright.
“Not bad,” he acceded grudgingly. “The start was shit but the end was all right.”
With a snort, Jurel strode through the aisle the troops created for him, while his friends and the small cadre of swordmasters who were to serve as his personal bodyguards fell in behind him.
The gate swung ponderously open ahead of him, and as he crossed the threshold, his army following in orderly ranks, the sun caressing the world, lighting the pure gold and green and blue of mid-spring, he smiled grimly. Messages had been sent to all the agents in all the corners of the kingdom, encoded of course against the possibility of interception. Preparations were under way, events were happening almost too quickly to keep pace with. But it was all to the good. It was all happening as it should. Yes, he thought, caught up in his own emotions, yes, they would prevail.
* * *
Jurel watched the trail of dust disappear in the distance from his hiding place in the trees. It had been a small force, only about thirty or so, from Grayson. They could have been dispatched with ease but that would have jeopardized his secrecy. If thirty men from Grayson suddenly vanished, there would be questions and searches. If anyone had spotted Jurel's force, they would have been done for. But his outriding scouts had orders to remain invisible. The Salosian force that traveled north through the forest along the Eastern Caravan Route had ground to a halt and gone into hiding in the forest and the threat of discovery passed without incident.
Jurel was morbidly amused at the change in his thinking. Little more than a year ago, he would have fled screaming at the possibility of thirty men being butchered. He would have been unable to countenance the violence. Now, not only did he not flee, he spared the lives of those thirty men only to maintain the viability of his strategy—those men only escaped brutal massacre because there was a much larger massacre to undertake.
With a nudge, Mikal rose from his spot beside Jurel and brushed off bits of decayed foliage and dirt.
“Safe now. We should go.”
Jurel nodded. “Pass the order, Gav.”
For a few more hours, they wended their way north. Near sundown, they set camp in a clearing. Most of the soldiers were strung out between the trees; sentries had a difficult time maintaining a proper watch but, relying more on their stealth, they felt the danger of discovery this deep in the forest was remote.
Supper was brought to Jurel's tent, a huge, drafty (which, with the early coming of summer's heat, Jurel was eminently grateful for) hunk of canvas which served the dual purpose of being the army's command center as well as Jurel's quarters. The small group—Kurin, Mikal, Gaven, Metana and Jurel—bent over their trenchers, and continued to discuss the upcoming battle.
The main topic of conversation was how slowly they traveled. Mikal, as usual, chafed at their progress. Fifteen hundred men pushing through dense forest did not cover a great deal of ground in a day. Kurin pointed out that though they moved slowly, the Soldiers of God, with all their numbers, were likely slower, even though they had the benefit of the road.
“Oh aye they travel slowly,” Mikal growled. “But they can, can't they. There's no one chasing them.”
“Except us,” Gaven chimed in.
“But that's not the reason. I'd say they're conserving their strength, and perhaps giving their main force time to fully mobilize. They don't want to be completely cut off.”
“There's no help for our speed,” said Jurel. “Are the brothers and sisters still maintaining the cloak?” asked Jurel.
Kurin nodded. “Yes we remain invisible to their scrying.”
“Not that they haven't tried,” Metana added. “We've felt several sweeps in the past three days.”
“But they haven't seen us?”
“No. At least...” Kurin trailed off, his craggy brow drawing down into a frown.
“At least what?”
“It seems odd that they're scrying at all.”
“I don't understand,” Jurel said, noting that Gaven and Metana were giving Kurin looks that verged on horrified. He did not understand, but it seemed the rest did.
Mikal filled him in. “Why are they looking for anything, Jurel? We left in secrecy. No member of the prelacy should know we're out here and yet they're searching hard. The occasional sweep of the land just to make sure would be sensible, but I'm told we're detecting a scry every few hours.”
“Not to mention,” Kurin added darkly, “that they seem to be concentrating on this part of the world.”
With understanding came t
he same horror the others were feeling. “Are you saying we've been discovered?”
Kurin stared helplessly. “I don't know Jurel. I don't think so but I can't say for sure.”
“What do we do, Jurel?” quizzed Mikal. Leave it to him to teach Jurel a lesson in tactics at a time like this.
What would they do? What should they do? If they had been discovered they had to turn tail and run. The entire point of this expedition was to whittle away at the overall enemy forces with a series of quick raids, harrying them all the way to the Abbey's doorstep. The hope was that they would face a greatly reduced force that was also jumping at its own shadow. It also gave the Abbey's remaining forces more time to fortify their defenses. If they had to abort this mission then the Abbey would face overwhelming odds.
But if they continued and they had been found out, well, then the Abbey would face even worse odds: no defenses; mind-bogglingly outnumbered; and facing an enemy force that, like sharks, had tasted blood and were circling for the kill.
Damn it all, why would they leave this to him? He stared helplessly at them. Mikal, with his decades of battle experience, stared stonily at him. Gaven had trained with the Soldiers of God and would have some idea of how they thought, but held his tongue. Even Kurin, for all his devotion to the healing arts, knew more of warfare than he did.
But he was supposed to be the God of War. He should know this. He would have thought that this kind of thing would come as naturally to him as swordcraft had. Yet here he sat, regardless of Mikal's heavy tutoring over the last weeks, torn.
