by Remi Michaud
“I don't understand the humor in-”
More carefully, more thoroughly he checked their stance then: Jurel with his arm around her and she, snuggling into him like they were...like...
Oh. Oh boy.
He felt himself deflate as understanding gushed in. He glared helplessly at them, then opened his mouth. When nothing more than faint gurgling sounds came out, he spun on his heel and almost ran into Gaven, who was laughing behind him, in his effort to storm off with as much dignity as he could muster.
Chapter 18
The gloomy pall of the upcoming battle notwithstanding, the weeks that followed were some of the most blissful ones he could remember. Jurel spent much of his time in quiet conversation with Metana. He made time for Gaven who wanted to take him out to the impromptu training grounds for a sparring session or sit and play a few hands of Bones over a cold tankard of ale (a small perk to having so many Salosians trained in arcanum close at hand: the ale was always cold). He made time for Kurin too. The old man wanted to talk, always wanted to just talk. Yet while Kurin asked seemingly innocuous questions—“How are you faring, Jurel?” or “Have you been keeping up your studies? Tell me about it.”—he had a glint in his eye as though he was probing for...for something.
And of course he made time for Mikal. The needs of the army were never far away; it was a blight on the almost honeymoon quality of the time he spent exploring his new found closeness with Metana. He could never forget that they were marching to war.
But now, so close to their enemy, he began by necessity to spend less time with Metana. His army spent most of their time marching or finishing final preparations for the upcoming battle under his watchful eye. His cadre of priests stayed mostly out of sight. They traveled in a tight cluster, glancing worriedly at each other, at times exchanging low words, as they kept constant watch on the enemy forces via scrying, disappearing into Kurin's tent as soon as camp was set in the evening. Jurel, with his continuing difficulties, kept himself occupied on the training fields, either sparring with various soldiers, or standing in the middle of a crowd of his officers like a hen surrounded by a brood of chicks listening to the cacophonous cheeping.
That was what he was doing at that moment. He watched, from the shade of a stand of maples, over the heads of the cheeping officers that ringed him, platoons in the field perform their drills under the scrutiny of their lieutenants and their sergeants's bellowed commands. At his side, Mikal scratched his cheek, glaring critically at the rushing figures on horseback. The platoon thundered forward, pikes up, in a tight line. With only a few paces to spare, a bellowed command caused every pike to drop, point flashing in the dull light of dusk. There was no target for the charge; they were simply practicing the art of charging. Their victory would depend on this knowledge.
“Not too bad,” Mikal said quietly as the platoon reined in.
Jurel still didn't know much about the arts of war but he had become quite adept at combat; he agreed with Mikal's assessment. The day had been hot and dry, leaving most of the army covered in a layer of dust turned sticky with sweat yet they moved crisply, as a cohesive unit. If the entire army was this prepared then perhaps they would emerge victorious after all—at least from their first encounter.
Another platoon stepped forward to take their turn at the exercise.
The enemy was perhaps three days away, camped across the middle of the caravan route. It would soon be time to melt into the forest and make the final preparations. In theory, the plan was a simple one: hide in the forest until the enemy was beside them, then ambush. As far as Jurel was aware it was the largest single ambush ever planned. It would be difficult to accomplish. Mikal had listed the problems they faced with such a plan and near the end, Jurel had quailed. Hiding so many people in a forest was a daunting task. The enemy, after all, had their own scouts and presumably their own scriers.
The first order of business had been figuring out how to keep his army from being discovered. That was solved by the simple expedient of moving farther back into the forest, and keeping everyone as tightly grouped as possible.
The next problem was that the soldiers, scattered amongst the trees, would emerge more a milling horde than a unified force. That was the reason behind these added drills every evening. Get the men so used to working together that when the moment came, they would instinctively seek each other out the moment they were out of the trees.
But that brought up the third issue. Scattered amongst the trees until the very last moment, how would they see the signal to attack? They could not use horns or any other audible means; this ambush was meant to be a surprise until the very moment Jurel's force rammed the prelacy's western flank. Jurel wanted to see a thousand Soldiers dead before they knew what hit them. The only viable solution seemed to be to spread his priests among the forces so they could send the signal via Calling, but this solution was imperfect. It meant his priests would be spread very thinly indeed when the attack came. It also didn't stop the prelacy's priests from hearing the signal being passed. It would give them some extra time—the prelacy priests could alert their commanders only so quickly—but it still left them with a disadvantage that he could only hope would be mitigated by the surprise and speed of their strike.
And they left him to iron out these and a hundred other matters that should have been left to the more experienced commanders. What a mess.
“They'll do very well, sir,” Captain Cordale cheeped beside him as a third platoon rode up to its place, glaring proudly at his soldiers. His mouth seemed too wide for his face, his slightly beady, wide-set eyes glinting. To Jurel, he looked a bit like a frog.“They are ready.”
Mikal snorted softly.
“My lord,” quiet, unperturbable Captain Flain rumbled. So dour, that man. So depressingly melancholy all the time. But good. Mikal had expressed respect for this man, and respect from Mikal was not easily earned. “Have you reconsidered my request?”
He had not. When he was not here on the fields, he was with Metana. She often left him no time to think on much else except...well. He hoped the others did not know what his flushed cheeks signified. It still shocked him, left him breathless and a little light-headed every time he thought of how they had come together. Ever since he had taken her to his place, she had looked at him differently—which was to be expected, all things considered. Whenever they were busy at their own tasks—he with commanders of his army, and she with Kurin and the priests—and he glanced her way, he caught her staring at him. In the brief moment before she invariably turned hastily away, he caught what was the most confusing mess of expressions under her blush. After days of deciphering, he managed to come up with equal parts exasperation, possessiveness (usually most evident when he was around other women; her glare was like pins and needles poking him in those instances), and a tenderness that he had never before suspected she harbored.
Her attitude had changed. Oh, she was still quick of temper, mercurial, prone to fits of wrath at the slightest word, but they were blunted now, like a sword with a dull edge. At least when he was the target of her anger. With the others, she was still the same.
When she did get angry with him, it was because he still made no progress with his training. Not that they'd had much time these last few days to try; more often than not, his training took place on horseback during the day's march. Never an easy task during even ideal circumstances, it was made nigh impossible while jouncing on the back of a horse who always seemed intent on sliding out from under Jurel's bottom the moment his concentration was off riding.
“Jurel.” Mikal grunted. “Stop thinking about Metana and pay attention.”
The flush in his cheeks deepened and he nodded.
Unfortunately, thoughts of Metana—and the accompanying warm flutters that invaded his belly—had to wait, for here was Captain Flain, asking him again about the placement of his men. They had been over it but Flain was a tenacious man. With a glance at Mikal—who simply raised an eyebrow in response—Jurel sighed.
Except for a slight tightening of his lips, Flain remained as impassive as ever. “I understand My Lord, but my men are the finest in the army. Their charge is second to none. We can be of most benefit at the forefront.”
Jurel hurriedly answered, overriding the indignant protests of the other commanders, “As you say, your men are some of the finest in the army-” Flain's lips thinned further; he had heard the distinction “-and that is why I need you to hold the south. You are our road out when it's over. Who can I trust to maintain our lifeline but the best?”
“My Lord-”
“Flain,” Jurel said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder and Flain flinched. “We've discussed it. I've listened to what you have to say and I've decided. I need you on the right.”
The dour captain hesitated for a moment, no doubt weighing the merits of pursuing his demands, but finally he gave Jurel a brisk salute and strode back into the tents. Jurel watched him go, doubt gnawing at him.
The exercises ran down as the light changed to umber laden gold shot through with roseate spears. The sky was a blaze of crimson and violet as the questions and requests of the remaining officers were seen to and they followed Flain into the camp until it was only he and Mikal left.
The field was quiet, churned earth being the only evidence that anything had happened there. On the other side of the trees in a large clearing, the main camp buzzed with activity. Fires outlined the soldiers, many who sat at their evening mess, many others hurrying about their duties before they could take their meals and seek their bedrolls. The horses were picketed in several lines at the other end of the camp yet underlying the bitter, clean scent of burning wood, the welcome smell of dinner, and the less pleasant sour stench of more than a thousand unwashed bodies, he could still smell the equine musk. Ruefully, he shook his head. The latrines were at the other end of the camp. If the breeze had been blowing the other way, it would not have been the relatively pleasant scent of horse and sweat that permeated the air.
Jurel watched his camp for a time, unsure of what it was he thought he was doing. Leading an army? Leading men to war and death? Why, just a year and a half ago, he had still been battling guilt and self-loathing over the beating he had delivered upon Valik, and now here he was, a swordmaster (and yes, he had indeed been awarded the insignia of the swordmaster by Mikal himself in a private ceremony the week before, though Mikal had advised him to keep it quiet since the God of War should not be bound by mortal ranks) in his own right, and the leader of an army.
And what right did he have to be the leader? Standing beside him was a man who had spent his life learning and perfecting the arts of war, a man who had seen more battles and blood in his life than Jurel had seen cows. Yet here he was, looking to Jurel for orders. What right did he have besides who he was supposed to be?
“Am I doing it right, Mikal?”
Beside him, Mikal sniffed quietly. “Never let your men know that you're afraid or unsure.”
“Even you?” Jurel smiled.
“Even me. My Lord.”
“Now don't you start!”
“Relax lad. You're doing fine.”
“But what gives me the right to lead? Why shouldn't you be in charge?” Jurel burst out, louder than he intended. A few soldiers at the edge of the camp glanced doubtfully his way.
“Keep your voice down,” Mikal growled. He shot a look to the hesitating soldiers and they scurried away, eager to escape the angry glare. Mikal was silent, then, for a bit, leaving them wrapped in a breathy cocoon of sound as leaves soughed in the light breeze. He stared out into the growing twilight, pensive, before speaking again.
“Some lead because they possess uncommon acumen and bravery, an uncommon ability to earn and keep respect. Most lead because they are born to it. Like nobility. These people lead because they have a title. Whether they are qualified to lead or not, they are given the right by birth. A wholly unfortunate circumstance in many cases.
“So far, you lead because of who you are, because of your title. Who would question command of an army to the God of War? But the more I see you in action, the more I think you deserve that leadership. The more you learn, the better you get, and you learn quickly, Jurel. At the beginning of all this, I would have cut off my right hand before following you into battle. Now, I think I should be glad for the opportunity to fight for you.
“Even your question does you credit. It's no easy thing to send more than a thousand men into battle and the fact that you worry about it, well, it shows strength of character. But you shouldn't voice it about. Too easy for common soldiers to misread strength of character with lack of confidence. Your soldiers need you to appear confident, even if you aren't.”
Then, without another word, he strode away.
Jurel was not entirely sure what he felt. Gods, if he wanted to be honest, he was not entirely certain what he should feel. Pride, certainly, for apparently having earned—or at least being in the process of earning—Mikal's respect. But among the spoken warnings there had been an unspoken one as well in his teacher's words. Warning what? That Jurel needed to keep his wits about him? That he should keep going as he was, should perhaps not let his new found power go to his head, should not let confidence—if he ever found it—turn to arrogance? Arrogance turns too easily to complacence and then inflexibility: what worked last time must work this time. He thought it sounded right, but he was not certain.
With a sigh, Jurel stared into the sky, seeing the first pinprick star wink into existence. It all came down to uncertainty. That was what it was. A God of War unable to use his abilities so not quite a god. A man who was not quite a man, burdened with a title that supposedly elevated him above others and so kept him isolated. A warrior who hated violence. A farmer who was a frighteningly proficient killer. He was all of these things, and all of these things battled violently against each other until in the end, though he knew who he was supposed to be, he was unsure of who he was.
Chapter 19
It was still murky as Jurel trotted through the trees with Mikal silent at his side. The sun had just broken over the horizon but could not yet penetrate into the depths of the forest. Mist clung low to the ground; walking was deceptively treacherous. They passed squads of men, many already on horseback, their lances reaching into the lowest layer of the canopy above, but most were on foot, not yet ready to climb into the stirrups if they were cavalry, or prepared for the final march if they were infantry.
Two days had passed since his conversation with Mikal under the trees. Two days, during which he had spent any free time he had brooding, moodily passing through the camp like an angry wraith. Even Metana had not been able to draw him out of his mood, and late the previous night, she had stormed out of his tent after telling him exactly what she thought of big sulking oafs and their temper tantrums.
Everyone he passed with Mikal seemed jumpy. No wonder; the enemy was only three miles away. The battle would be well and truly joined in only a few hours. The priests, one every few hundred paces, seemed preoccupied. Every one that Jurel spoke to responded with single distracted syllables. The officers were not any better. Everyone was respectful, but their minds were on other matters.
In a break between the trees, he caught sight of Captain Cordale and Kurin conferring. Their bottom halves were obscured in scarves of mist, their tops, by shadow, but Kurin's lanky height was unmistakable.
“How goes it?” Jurel whispered.
Cordale shook his head; his grim expression, bathed in darkness, seemed surreal. “I'm not certain. The men, at least, are ready.” He glanced doubtfully through the trees.
“Then what's the problem?” Mikal said.
Cordale blew out his breath. “We're only a few miles from them, but there hasn't been any report of activity. Not even a single scout has been spotted.”
“And my priests are reporting strange t
hings as well,” Kurin joined. He too had a deeply shadowed expression not solely caused by the darkness. “I don't quite understand it. There are...ripples.”
“But our scouts have seen them?”
“Yes, Milord,” Cordale said. “A few over two thousand. They travel in the open, on the caravan route, without a concern in the world. They outnumber us but with our element of surprise, we still have the advantage.”
Jurel glanced at Mikal who shrugged.
“It's up to you, Jurel.”
Something was wrong here. Jurel felt it like an itch that could not be scratched. It was not a conscious understanding but more like an instinct, like knowing when someone was watching him. He wavered in that instant: should they continue with their ambush, or should they retreat and try again farther down the road after these anomalies had been explained? Gods, why were they looking to him as though they expected him to solve all their problems?
But the enemy force had been seen. They were on the road, they were almost within range, and they were being lax. It seemed they had no idea what was about to befall them; everything was going according to plan. If Kurin was right about these arcane ripples, then surely he and his priests could handle it. They were there, after all, for precisely that purpose while Jurel's soldiers took care of the rest.
He eyed Mikal, then Kurin and Cordale, who watched him without expression. He shrugged, as he decided.
“Then we proceed.”
* * *
The forefront of the prelacy's force came into view around the bend less than a half mile away. Armor reflected in the early sun, hard sparks of light. Pristinely white cloaks fluttered, so many of them that the force looked more like a moving glacier than an army. A rank of cavalry rode in the vanguard, followed by ranks of infantry interspersed with platoons of archers. In the center, a group of robed men rode with heads bent. That would be the priests.
Jurel watched their steady approach from his hiding spot inside the tree line, marching in tight formation; even with his limited understanding of warfare, Jurel was impressed by their discipline. He glanced at Mikal who answered his unspoken question with a slight shake of his head: not yet.
