Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  Indignance warred with hurt and he glared at her sullenly, touching fingertips to his stinging cheek. “Why-”

  “Never, never say that. Never!” she screeched. “Do you hear me?”

  When he had first met her, she had seemed an oddity, a harmless old hermit woman who seemed to have some strange abilities. As she towered over him, seeming twice as large as she had been a moment ago, with her wide eyes crackling with pent fury, he felt a pang of dread.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  Time stood still for a moment as she glared at him with all the rage of a hurricane. Two bright circles colored her otherwise ashen cheeks, fire reflected from the hearth turned the pits of her eyes into flaming brands, and her lips were compressed to a jagged slash. For the span of a few heartbeats, he was certain she would strike him again and he knew that if she did, he would find himself on his back, probably with a broken jaw.

  Instead, she let out the breath he did not realize she was holding and she seemed to deflate. Her hand dropped to her side and her shoulders hunched again, and soon she was back to being no more than a small and very odd old woman.

  “Self-pity does not become you, Jurel,” she muttered and shuffled her way back over to her chair. When she had settled herself, when she had taken a sip from her cup of tea, she continued as though he had not spoken. “You must be victorious because there is more ahead. There is...more. The toppling of the prelacy is only one step in your journey. That is all I can readily say.”

  “You mean the thing in my nightmare, don't you?”

  A small smile appeared. “Ah, so there is some intelligence between all the muscles packing up your ears after all. Yes, I mean the thing in your nightmare.”

  “What was that?”

  “That is something you are as yet unprepared to deal with. That is something that comes later. First, you must complete the task in front of you.”

  He tried to be satisfied with her words. He really did. But he had come for answers. And damn it, he would not be denied at least something. So he started simply, obliquely, with questions he already had a fair answer for.

  “How am I to defeat the church then?”

  “I believe you already have a good start on that. You have an army—albeit a small one—prepared to fight and to die for you at the Abbey, who believe in you and don't care one whit about your unfortunate defeat at the hands of the Prelacy. Though I think your apparent desertion has sorely tested their trust in you.”

  Easy enough; it was the answer he was expecting. Now, on to the next bit.

  “And what of these prophecies I've heard mentioned? What of them?”

  “You've heard of them have you?” she said with a wry smirk.

  “Not often. I read a book a little while ago at the Abbey.”

  Ursula snorted, an entirely undelicate sound. “Let me guess. A stodgy old book called 'Ancient Prophecies: God of War'?”

  Jurel nodded. “That's the one.”

  “It's a funny thing about prophecies,” Ursula said quietly as though thinking out loud. “They are supposed to point the way, like a map, but really they are no more than a possibility. You see, the thing is, you can stumble and fail at any given step but it does not mean that the prophecy is undone. It means very little actually. As a matter of fact, you can do everything all wrong and still come to the right ending. Or you can do everything all right but still ultimately lose. I never really cared for prophecy.”

  “So what's the point then? I can just ignore it.”

  “As I said, it's like a map, a guide. It points you in the right direction but it doesn't tell you exactly the route you have to follow. There may be a thousand routes that will take you toward your goal and there may be a thousand routes that will lead you away from it. Ignore a good map and you become lost.”

  “I see.”

  But really, he did not.

  “No you don't.”

  “Fine, whatever. But then what? If I take that book as my map—and it's an entirely undecipherable map at that!—then after defeating the church, I have some long journey to go on. What journey?”

  “If you are successful at toppling the Grand Prelate, you will...”

  She stopped, her mouth hanging open half forming the next word she was about to utter. A sly smile crossed her face and her eyes narrowed.

  “Very clever, young man. I must be growing senile in my old age to fall for that old flanking maneuver. No. This is not the time to go into that.”

  She rose to her feet, slowly, stiffly, with a pained grunt.

  “And now I think it is time that you go. I have said enough. Perhaps too much.”

  “Just one more thing.”

  She huffed an impatient sigh. He considered letting it go, considered telling her to never mind but he needed to know and his need was desperate. Inside, a child's voice begged, struggled to be free, to understand. Images of Kurin rose in his thoughts, images of Gaven and Mikal. Over all of them, insistent to the point of overpowering, images of Metana. A part of his fear and longing must have shown because, though she sighed, obviously impatient to see him on his way, when she looked at him her face softened.

  “Will it ever end? Will I ever have a normal life? Will I...will she-?”

  He was not sure she would understand his question and he was not sure she had an answer but he had to ask.

  And she came around the table and wrapped her arms around him and pulled his head to her bosom as a mother might when comforting her hurt child, and she gently stroked his hair.

  “Everything will work out if you stay strong and focused.”

  It was an evasion, but it satisfied him for the moment. He rose and reached for the door. As his hand closed on the catch, Ursula spoke once more.

  “Oh, and Jurel? There is one more thing.”

  He turned.

  “Kurin and Metana are grave in danger. Seek out the high priest named Thalor.”

  * * *

  Much of what Ursula had told him made no real sense to him. Her words concerning prophecies and road maps buzzed in the back of his mind like a swarm of gnats. He knew he would have to give them more thought. But later. For now, he had much more important information to concentrate on.

  Kurin was alive. Metana had mentioned it, but she had not been sure.

  He did not know how Ursula knew but he did not doubt it either. He was alive. It was like a ray of sunshine through dark clouds; he saw at least some small hope of redemption for himself. Maybe not total redemption; he could never pay enough for the thousand and more men and women he had sent to Shomra's gates, but at least perhaps partial payment could be remitted.

  Kurin was alive.

  Now, Jurel only had to find him.

  Part 4:

  Lessons

  “Anyone can change who they are.

  But only a few change for the better.”

  -Anonymous

  Chapter 36

  He traveled south. He did not stop for much of anything. If he grew tired, he found whatever shelter was handy and slept before continuing. If he grew hungry, he hunted and foraged.

  The road was eerily empty. This was the Eastern Caravan Route, the greatest highway in the kingdom; Jurel was used to seeing wagons, either alone or in caravans, trundling toward their next trade stop. But for days he did not see a single one. He passed a few villages, all of them abandoned, as he walked and at each one, he found signs of hasty departure: A child's toy forgotten in a street; a chest, open and upended, presumably deemed too heavy to move quickly; bits of clothing trampled and muddy. Everything seemed somehow diminished and lifeless without people, disjointed, out of place. The only life he saw was a mangy dog, thin and ragged, that limped along a street in one of the villages he passed, and disappeared as soon as it spied Jurel.

  At each village, Jurel conducted hasty searches for anything that might aid him in his journey, noticing that searches had already been undertaken by others not so long ago. There was no livestock or food not go
ne sour, all the stables were empty and musty. If he found himself arriving at a village near sundown, he would find the inn and catch a few hours sleep in a bed, but he did not linger.

  Somehow, as the days passed without food, he found he was not hungry. Or rather, he was hungry but only as one might be no more than a few hours after a feast. Water was easy enough to come by; there were wells at each of the villages and plenty of freshwater springs and streams along his way. Though at times he wondered if he needed that any more than he needed food.

  Late one morning, a week after he had left the woods, Jurel spied a thin streamer of smoke rising into the sky a short way to the east beyond the shores of the river Sharong. Curiosity piqued, Jurel ranged the riverbank, seeking a place to ford. Foolish, he thought after a few fruitless hours. This was the Sharong river, the largest, widest, and deepest river in the kingdom. The chances of finding a place to cross seemed slim at best. But, he imagined that since there was still plenty of kingdom on the east side of the river, then there must be bridges; he had seen a few such the previous year when traveling with Kurin and Mikal. They were few and far between, but there was no harm in looking.

  Sure enough, no more than an hour later, he found one. It was a rickety thing, looking as though it would not hold his weight but for all that, he made it across without too much difficulty. Ranging toward the dark line of smoke, he crossed grasslands that slowly gave way to a fallow farm field.

  Ahead, the farm house hunkered in the shadow of an old, lop-sided barn. He hunkered down in a small stand of trees to survey the terrain.

  The days had cooled substantially since he began his walk. Autumn was full on the land but it was still cooler than normal for that time of year. His breath misted the air in front of him. The farmhouse, a single story structure constructed of wood and worn to grayness, appeared to be locked up tight. He could smell the smoke from the chimney; it smelled of baking bread and roasting beef. Homier smells did not exist, he was certain. The barn was quiet too; its side door and larger main door shut tight against the elements. Seeing no movement around the property, Jurel assumed that whoever lived there was either inside the house or out in the fields.

  His instincts were quiescent. Sensing no danger, Jurel stepped from the cover of the trees and strode resolutely forward. At the front door, he rapped twice, smartly and waited. Movement inside, scuffling sounds, someone, a woman, calling out.

  The door opened a crack and Jurel saw one eye peer out suspiciously. When it caught sight of Jurel, it widened and the door slammed quickly shut. Jurel distinctly heard the sound of a bolt being thrown. That was a little much in Jurel's estimation.

  He rapped again, harder this time, and called out, “Hello resident. I mean no harm.” His voice sounded hard in his ears, harder than he intended. Oh well. Too late to take it back now.

  The response came a moment later. “Go 'way!” a man shouted.

  Huffing a sigh in irritation, Jurel glared at the door. “I said I mean no harm. But I am going to speak with you.”

  “Go 'way!” came the response.

  With a shrug, Jurel took a step back. He eyed the door. Then, with one solid kick, he tore the door from its hinges. It was only thanks to his reflexes that he dodged, for in the instant that he vacated his position, a dark blur streaked by, cutting the air where his throat had been. His sword fair leapt from his scabbard, the thorns jutting from the hilt cutting deep into the flesh of his palm, as he charged into the dark main room of the house. He moved quickly to the back where a man of middle years was frantically cranking his crossbow. He whirled, his sword blade whistling, and the dagger that was being driven toward him by a matronly woman fell to the ground with a clatter. She cried out and held her numbed hand as he swept past. Before the man had managed one more turn of his crank, the point of Jurel's sword flicked out like a serpent's tongue and with a resonant twang, the string snapped.

  The man froze and stared slackjawed at the deadly point that stopped a mere inch from his eyes.

  Quietly, but with enough ice to raise goosebumps, Jurel said, “The next person who tries to attack me dies.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the man's temple. Swallowing audibly, the man flicked a look across the room. Beyond that, the man made no movement whatsoever. Jurel held the man's gaze for a moment longer, until the man nodded minutely.

  “I'm glad we understand each other.” Jurel withdrew his sword but did not sheath it, instead using it to indicate the woman should join her husband.

  The room was a large one, bigger than the outside of the house suggested. The shutters were sealed tightly; the only light in the room was the low fire that crackled in the hearth. Shadows pooled in the corners and along the walls but Jurel had no problem seeing that besides the man and the woman, there was no one else in the room. The wide table, probably built by this farmer, that dominated the room was surrounded by six stools.

  “Where's the rest of your family?” Jurel asked.

  In response, he heard a thump from above. Glancing up, he saw four sets of eyes peaking over the edge of an attic loft. Though he could not see more of them than their eyes, Jurel judged the eldest to be no more than ten or twelve. No real threat then.

  He turned his attention back to the man and woman who huddled together. The woman was weeping quietly with her face buried in her husband's shoulder but the man was doing a decent job of maintaining his equilibrium. Neither were particularly old; in Jurel's estimation, they were both in their early or mid thirties.

  “What do ye want?” the man croaked.

  Jurel shrugged. “News.”

  At this, the man gaped at him. “News? Ye broke into me home, threatened me family, and scared us all to death for news?”

  “You tried to kill me with your crossbow.”

  “Ye broke down me door!”

  “Enough,” Jurel said, suppressing another flash of irritation. “Tell me what I want to know and I'll be on my way.”

  Sighing in resignation, the man tenderly detached his wife, muttering softly, and stood. “All right,” he said. “But why don't we go outside? They're ascairt enough as is.”

  “What do ye want to know then?” the man asked after passing through the front door.

  “For starters, how about your name?”

  His eyes flashed suspiciously, but he answered, “Duma.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Duma. My name is Jurel.” He stuck out his hand.

  The man reached out, hissed and drew back as though stung. Jurel glanced down and saw the red streaks that lined his palm courtesy of the thorns in his sword's hilt. He wiped his hand on his pants but he did not offer it again.

  Sheathing his sword, Jurel leaned his elbows on the rail fence that bore evidence of being a makeshift corral and stared off into the distance. From here, the river was barely more than a twinkle of reflected sun and the road was invisible. The wind had a slight bite to it; before long, the etched glass white of frost would leave a daily coating.

  “So Duma. What has been happening in the last few weeks?”

  “Not much. Old Lacy's dried mostly up. We'll be havin troubles with milk soon. Two o me chickens was taken by foxes but I fixed up the coop. Won't be no more troubles there I think. The crop yield seems good. Should have enough for me family with a little left over for merchants, assuming any pass by this year.”

  “No. I meant what's been going on out there?” Jurel waved a hand in the general direction of 'out there'.

  “Oh. O course.” Duma passed a nervous hand through his hair and sighed. “Well, I guess the biggest news is that an army passed by a week or so ago. Big it was too. Didn't count em or nothin meself—I didn't get particular close-like—but it took a whole day for em all to pass by.”

  “Did you happen to notice their standards?”

  “Eh?”

  “Their banners? Flags?”

  “Oh. Well now. Seen a lot o them white cloaked buggers. Friggin armloads of em. There were a bunch o fancy bits o cloth a-
flutterin in the breeze but I ain't none too familiar with em.”

  “How many would you guess?”

  Duma glanced askance at him. “Told ya, I didn't get so close.”

  “I heard. Just a guess.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, Duma rubbed a hand along the three day's worth of stubble. It made a rasping sound. “Well. If it's just a guess you're after...”

  “It is.”

  Duma nodded. “If it had been cattle, well that many cows woulda fed a good size city for weeks 'n weeks.”

  Jurel gaped at Duma, too stunned for words. Having lived on a farm for the majority of his childhood, Jurel could use that to estimate—very roughly—that the force that passed by here consisted of some forty or fifty thousand soldiers. Either Duma was wrong or there were five or six regiments. Five or six full regiments, give or take, to face, optimistically, two thousand soldiers if the recruiting had continued—most of whom were barely more than hopped up peasants. It defied comprehension. What could he possibly hope to do against those odds?

  But he had no choice.

  He was who he was.

  * * *

  Jurel wandered over to the barn and pulled open the smaller man-sized door set into the larger sliding gate. Distracted for a moment, he inspected the big door set in its rail system. Never having seen anything like it, the farmer that remained in him marveled at the ingenuity.

  Jurel stepped onto the carpet of light dropped by the open door and stared into the darkness. The smell of horses and cows assaulted his nose. There was a quiet rustling in the darkness interspersed with the odd low neigh or bovine grunt. The barn was in need of repair, a good coat of whitewash, and a major cleaning but for all that, it still reminded him of the only place he truly remembered being able to call home. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Though the memories were nice, they now held a bitter edge; home no longer. It was in the past. It was behind him. He was who he was. He pushed the memories away.

  “I need a horse,” he said.

  “Well,” Duma hedged, “I do have a mare that's in decent shape. I could let her go for a couple o gold pieces.”