Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  “Always was a little slow on the uptake.”

  Gram's powerful belly laugh caused Jurel to blush even as it caused a spiky barb to lodge itself in his soul. Jolted more by embarrassment than anything, Jurel hurried and sat between the two men. For a time, all he could manage was to alternate his gaze between the two, drinking in their long lost features greedily while they stared impassively, pensively into the gurgling brook. Until Daved chuckled.

  “Yes, yes, we're glad to see you too and all that,” he said, pointing an amused glare—something that only someone with Daved's unique features could accomplish successfully—at Jurel. “I wish we had more time to chat, Jurel, for both Gram and I have missed you a great deal. Your mother wanted to be here too, but our lord told us only two could go.

  “Our time, however, is short. There have been a lot of rules broken to get us here and it was impressed most vigorously on both of us to make this quick.”

  Though no names were mentioned, Jurel had a pretty good idea who did the impressing. He grunted noncommittally and stared sightlessly across the thin trail of water.

  “You must go back, Jurel,” Gram said softly. “You must return to those who need you.”

  Jurel grunted.

  “Now don't be getting all ham-headed, boy,” Daved growled. “You have tasks to complete and you can't do them while you're running away. I taught you better than that.”

  This time, Jurel's grunt was accompanied by a small smile that held no trace of humor.

  “Oh? And do you know what happened before I ran away?”

  “Of course,” the two men uttered in unison.

  “So then you know that wherever I go, people die.”

  He cuffed Jurel upside the head; it was possibly the most bittersweet response Daved could have offered. How many times had he done that while Jurel grew up? How many times had he followed up with a scathing lecture designed solely to dispel whatever bit of idiocy Jurel had just spouted?

  “That's just possibly the stupidest bit of idiocy I've ever heard, boy. What, did you think you could wage a war without bloodshed? Let me explain a little something to you: at its core, war is nothing more than two large groups of armed men who beat each other until one or the other falls down. That's it. It's not glorious, it's not beautiful, and its not romantic. It's bloody, it's violent, it's terrible, and it's often shameful.

  “It is, however, at times, necessary. To defend your home and family from invaders. Or to overthrow an oppressive regime.” This last was emphasized with a pointed look.

  “But I got a thousand good people killed because of my stupidity.”

  He was visited by another slap upside the head but this time it was Gram who spoke.

  “Lad, did you do it on purpose? Did you knowingly and willingly send those men into an ambush? No. No, you didn't. It was a terrible mistake and it was one that you continue to suffer for.” Gram smiled and placed a beefy hand on Jurel's shoulder. The weight was comforting. “Will you make the same mistake again?”

  Comforting or not, Jurel could no longer tolerate it. He rose and turned to face his two fathers with a glare to match Daved's. “No it won't. You know why? Because I'm not going back! I'm not going to make that mistake again, because I won't be there to make it!”

  Both men regarded him silently, one stern and hard, the other soft and full of empathy. Daved's sternness he could withstand. Gram's sad eyes tore a hole in his heart.

  “You must,” Gram said. “If you don't...” the large man faltered and trailed off. He sighed and rose to face Jurel. For the first time, Jurel noticed that Gram was of a height with him and they gazed eye to eye. “If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

  Jurel gasped as though the wind had been knocked from him. His head spun and his guts felt like they might empty themselves on the ground. His eyes passed from one grim expression to the next as he tried to gather his thoughts. All he could manage was one word:

  “Why?”

  “That will become clear in time, Jurel,” Daved said as he stood to join them. “For now, what you must know is this: the prelacy must fall. You must succeed in placing the Salosians in power. To do so, you must harden your heart. You will be required to do things that would destroy a weak man. You must be stronger than anyone. You must overcome. You must prevail. If you don't, nothing but oblivion will be left.

  “Here, I have something for you.” Daved stepped forward, and handed Jurel a small, flat box wrapped in oiled paper. “Open that when the time is right. You'll know.”

  Staring at the package numbly, Jurel muttered, “So I have no choice then?”

  “You are who you are. Embrace that knowledge. Accept it, Jurel, and perhaps you will survive.”

  Jurel shut his eyes hard, overwhelmed by the emotions that clawed at him. When he opened them again, he saw that his two fathers were half a dozen paces away. He also saw that they had become ethereal; he could see the blurry outlines of the trees behind them.

  “But why?” he shouted. “Why does it have to be me?”

  Even as he watched, the men receded further, and became more insubstantial. The only thing that remained entirely rock solid real were their twin expressions of sorrow.

  “Because you are who you are,” Gram said. His voice seemed to come from a very long distance away.

  “No!” shouted Jurel. “Don't go. Don't leave me. I need you!”

  “Harden yourself, Jurel.” He was not sure who spoke this. The voice was too thin, too distant, and neither man's lips moved. “Be who you must be. But do not forget who you were.”

  Then Jurel was staring at blank trees, at warm shafts of sunlight, at verdant underbrush, and at delicate flowers. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing.

  He fell to his knees and he covered his face as he wept.

  Part 5:

  The Return

  “If you get knocked down, stand the hell back up. Even if you're dead.”

  -Sergeant Daved Histane, to his platoon during training

  Chapter 45

  The morning before the Day of Shadows, the overcast painted gray over the Abbey washing out all color and lending a grimness that lodged itself in the hearts of the men and women who worked stoically, endlessly.

  As Mikal watched over the mass of milling workers, sheets of arcane lights flickered and sparked around the central spire, pressing closer until they seemed to dissolve into the bricks and tiles. Mikal nodded approval; they were adding extra strength to the structure. It would not do to have two hundred feet of brick and wood collapse on their heads in the middle of battle. He knew, too, that there were dozens of brothers and sisters performing similar feats to weapons and armor, and to the wall that surrounded the Abbey.

  A few soldiers had stopped to watch the work done on the spire.

  “Get back to work, you slackers!” he roared.

  He watched, satisfied, as they hustled away. They and about a hundred other people who heard him.

  He strode past several supply depots, wooden shacks layered in wet wool to keep them from burning, and glanced into a few to see how their weapons stores fared. He was pleased to note that each shack was filled to its ceiling with bows and arrows, swords, halberds, pikes, pots of pitch, even a few hastily assembled field medic kits.

  Satisfied, he jumped up stone steps to the battlements, dodging to avoid soldiers and Salosians who rushed about their own duties.

  At the top, he pushed his way through the throngs of people. They began to growl recriminations at him to watch where he was going until they saw who it was, then scuttled out of his way with hasty salutes.

  He leaned over the crenelations and cast a critical eye on the soon-to-be battle field. At the bottom of the wall, a trench had been dug—or, more precisely, the ancient moat that had filled in over the centuries of disuse had been excavated. There was no way to fill it with water with what little time remained, but someone had had a viciously brilliant idea and the floor of the trench, some
ten feet below ground level, was bristling from end to end with sharpened stakes.

  With a satisfied nod he looked farther out. The refugees had been moved into the Abbey compound, leaving the field outside the walls an empty, churned morass. It looked as though a battle had already taken place. That churned ground proved to be an advantage. The field was pocked with traps and pitfalls. In various places, pits had been dug and lined with more sharpened stakes. These were covered with thin wooden frames that would not take a great deal of weight. Then, each wooden frame had been covered with a thin layer of mud and grass. Because the entire field was a mess, there was no visible indication that the ground had been disturbed again for the pits. A corner of his mouth quirked. When the Soldiers of God mounted their charge, they would be in for quite a shock.

  Scattered amidst the pits were balls of arcanum, hidden Kurin assured him, from the eyes and senses of the prelacy. At first contact, they would, as Kurin had so dryly put it, “warm the cockles quite nicely.”

  And just on the other side of the trench that now surrounded the Abbey, was a berm. Like the pits, it was a thinly camouflaged trap. Nets of grass and mud covered more sharpened stakes, these fashioned from entire tree trunks, that pointed outward, promising a very painful end to what would most certainly be a very painful charge.

  Mikal nodded again. While the Soldiers of God were stumbling through the deadly field, they would be under a constant barrage of arrows and ballista and catapult fire. The Soldiers numbered enough that they would most certainly reach the walls with a still overwhelming force, but each step would be costly.

  And all this would be only after the Soldiers of God managed to break through the dozens of ambushes and powerful wards that were set out farther in the forest.

  Jorge had done a good job on the defenses, Mikal conceded. He was almost surprised; he had never had the high esteem for Jorge that Kurin had. The man was a fine scholar but Mikal never would have thought him a tactician. But Jorge had put to good use the arms and backs of those who had come seeking sanctuary, and a great deal had been accomplished in the weeks since Jurel had led the doomed army through the gates.

  His look turned as cloudy as the day. He looked over everything again, knowing the Salosians had given everything to this effort and he hoped it would be enough.

  * * *

  The forest was eerily silent as Soldiers of God poured between the trees, trampled underbrush, cut their way through thicker sections of dried vines and branches. They poured into the forest like an avalanche, an unstoppable force of nature.

  Prelate Thalor Stock urged them forward with the force of an enraged teamster urging stubborn mules. From his position near the edge of the trees, he railed at them to move faster, screamed at them, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Some small part of him knew he was being irrational. Some part knew he had let his emotions take the reins. Most of him did not care. He was furious, livid, and, yes, insane with rage.

  And it was thanks entirely to that bastard, that mangy, dirty, heretic swine, Kurin. Two thousand Soldiers of God had died in those tunnels. Two thousand men, tricked, trapped, buried alive.

  But they were of little consequence. Thalor himself had barely escaped. He had felt the first sprinkling of power while he stood in the room beneath the tavern. Confused for a moment, he searched for the source. Then the ground had begun to shake. With burgeoning horror, Thalor had shouted a warning and scrambled up the ladder only moments before the tunnels fell in on themselves.

  Those Salosian cowards! Those vile dogs! They could not even stand and fight like men. They skulked about in the shadows like roaches, stealing and sullying everything that was good and pure. They destroyed, they ruined, they upset the natural order. They nearly killed him!

  When the last of the troops disappeared into the trees, Thalor barked an order to Major Reowynn, still wan from the healing he had undergone after being dragged from the debris under the tavern. Thalor's guards surrounded him in a wall of steel and they moved out, angling slightly north as they pushed their horses into the brush and scrag.

  All seemed quiet as they trekked through the dense forest, and though Thalor was still fuming, he still felt that things were going well. They would be at the Abbey's gates by the end of the day, and that meant that tomorrow, on the Day of Shadows, he would finally finish this damned thing and go home to his warm bed and proper meals. But first, he would see Kurin bleed.

  His army continued to march past, picking up their pace as he pushed them ever harder. He had to admit, even in his black rage, they made good time. Yes, all things considered, they were doing very well indeed.

  He was a pragmatic man, was Thalor. He had always known that when things go wrong, they go stupendously wrong. He had told his acolytes many times in the past that it was always better to be prepared for everything than to be caught off guard by anything. Later, he would have to admit that when two of his guards grunted and fell off their horses, and when cries rose from the ranks ahead, he had not been prepared. He simply stared dumbly down at the soldiers lying still on the ground near his horse's hooves and wondered why the men would choose that moment to take a break.

  The initial cries of surprise were spreading until all along the ragged columns, shields were raised skyward. Reowynn shouted commands and various lieutenants and sergeants began assembling their men into fighting formations—no easy feat in a dense forest for troops trained in open field warfare. A shrill sound, like a whistle cut the air near his left ear and he cringed instinctively away. A second whistle quickly followed and a lance of fire raced up his arm. Looking down in shock, Thalor saw an arrow protruding from the fleshy part below his bicep.

  Well, that wasn't right.

  “Get down! Get behind your horse!” Reowynn barked at him.

  Thalor drew himself up, assuming his most commanding expression (Which Reowynn thought was more haughty than commanding but that was a discussion for a different time). No one ordered him! Except perhaps the Grand Prelate and soon, he himself would be the Grand Prelate.

  A soldier suddenly came into his field of view directly in front of him, arms reaching out to grab him when his face contorted into a rictus of pain. Somehow the soldier had gotten a grip on his robes and when the man fell from his horse, he dragged Thalor off with him. He landed in a graceless heap on top of the soldier, his breath whooshing out in a great burst, and his arm erupting as if someone had struck it with a hammer.

  Men were yelling and screaming in all directions. Thalor lay gasping for breath, trying to clear the odd colored stars that darted in and out of his vision. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the distinctive peal of steel on steel. He did not care, he struggled simply to stop the world's crazy spinning around him, struggled to keep from emptying his guts all over the soldier under him.

  He turned his head, was surprised to see that everything was on its side until he realized that they were not on their sides, he was. Between the legs of horses, framed like pictures in a macabre art gallery, he saw feet run back and forth and to him, this was just too discomfiting. He saw feet connected to legs but no bodies; those were somewhere behind the horses. A soldier, a Soldier by his tabard, fell into his field of view with the shaft of an arrow protruding from his ruined mess of a right eye. His left eye stared at Thalor in shocked accusation.

  He was busy watching the spectacle when a glint of light shone into his eyes. Then a face appeared. There was yelling and cursing all around and when he focused on the face—a young soldier—he thought it was he who was cursing. His lips were moving. It had to be him. Thalor wondered why the man would be cursing at him. He wanted to ask him but it seemed that somewhere along the way, he had forgotten how to use his tongue. He stared blankly, tried to bring some sort of order to his thoughts but it was like trying to gather smoke. The soldier was still cursing at him. No, not cursing. He was asking something.

  The soldier glanced down and Thalor distinctly saw him go pale. The young man's head tur
ned and this time Thalor did hear what he said though it sounded hollow, and very far away.

  “He's hurt,” the soldier shouted. “Need some help here!”

  And finally, as if those words were an incantation, some sort of arcane release, Thalor's tongue worked again. “Help me,” he croaked.

  “We will, Prelate. Never fear.”

  Other faces appeared, other soldiers. Reowynn's face came into view and it was grim. A few barked orders and someone else—how many blasted soldiers were there anyway? Oh right. He had an army. Forgot.—began ministering to his injuries. Was it bad? There was fire in his arm. More than that. Someone had doused it with pitch and lit it. They should be beating it out, throwing water on it. Somewhere behind him, amidst the roaring that sounded like an angry sea, someone screamed and it was a terrible scream, filled with fear and pain.

  “Hang on, Prelate.” Something hard and flat was shoved between his teeth. “Bite down on this.”

  He bit. If he thought there was fire in his arm a moment ago, then what the young Soldier did, turned it into a volcano. He screamed around the thing in his mouth and blackness crept in at the edges of his sight. All the color washed out of the world and it blurred, seemed to bounce up and down crazily.

  “Got it,” the Soldier muttered.

  “Here. Drink this.” The hard thing was removed from his teeth and something cool and bitter trickled into his mouth. “It'll help with the pain.”

  It was about then that he realized that the sounds of yelling and cursing had eased. He tried to look under the horses again but there were too many soldiers around him. He could not breath. Too many people.

  “Make some room for him,” Reowynn's voice cracked and Thalor could have kissed him when the crowd moved back, letting in blessed air. And, to Thalor, “Things are settling down, Prelate.”

  “Wh-what happened?” he croaked.

  “An ambush. There are reports of others coming in throughout the forest.”