Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  There was a bandage on Reowynn's shoulder, white with an irregular red spot in the middle.

  “You're hurt.”

  Reowynn grunted and Thalor thought it might have been a chuckle. “Not so bad as you, My Lord.”

  “Me?” He was hurt? The fire. Right. He would have to check his burns later.

  “They took two arrows from your arm. You won't be arm-wrestling anyone for a while.”

  Oh. He looked down and saw the bandage wrapped around his arm. It too had its own red spots. His robe was a ruin of shredded linen and blood.

  “You think you can stand, Prelate?”

  He was standing. But. No. No, he was on his back, on the cold, damp earth. How odd. How had that happened?

  “Yes,” he said. But it was a whisper. He cleared his throat, spat a wad of mud tasting stuff and tried again, “Yes.” Better.

  Slowly, carefully, he was lifted and again the world spun, bounced up and down, and the blackness at the edge of his vision encroached further until all he saw was gray light at the end of a long tunnel. He shut his eyes tight and shook his head.

  Life trickled back into him. When he opened his eyes again, he breathed deeply and the world settled and stilled under him. He looked down, saw the soldier who had given his life to protect him, face buried in the dirt, with an arrow sticking out of his back, high up, where it had likely punctured his lung.

  “What happened here?” he demanded. Suddenly he was angry, furious. “What in the name of the pits of darkness happened?”

  “Ambush,” Reowynn repeated. “A dozen or a few more were hiding in the trees. I don't know what they expected to accomplish.”

  It did not take a genius to know what the fiends had tried to do. Was Reowynn protecting him from learning that someone had tried to assassinate him?

  Reowynn eyed him strangely. It took Thalor a moment to realize he had spoken his thought aloud. “No, My Lord. Killing you would have been a pleasant bonus for them, but my personal feeling is they're trying to slow our advance and whittle our numbers.”

  Reowynn turned and gave terse orders to one of his captains. They were to make camp. Double the sentries. Prepare areas for the wounded.

  “How many?” Thalor asked. “How many of ours were wounded?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen. Nineteen confirmed dead and probably three or four more before nightfall. All ours.”

  All ours. He took the meaning. No bloody Salosians then. Interesting. He shook off the men who were still holding him up, suddenly revolted by the contact, suddenly revolted by his own weakness.

  He turned his glare to the forest. The lack of sound suddenly made sense. There were heretics in the forest scaring off the animals, waiting, just waiting for their moment to pounce, to attack the forces of good, of right, the forces of God. Him.

  “Burn it,” he hissed. “Burn it all.”

  “My Lord,” Reowynn said. “Your army would be trapped-”

  “To blazes with them!” he shrieked. He breathed deeply, regaining control. “This place must be cleansed. Burn it.”

  He turned, pushed the pain in his arm away from his mind and grasped for his Source. The warmth of arcanum infused him as he raised his hands over his head. He almost shrieked in ecstasy as heat flowed from his fingertips.

  His power pulsed within him, beating in time with his hammering heart, then flowed from him in raging torrents that slammed into the trees with earth-shaking force. Blasts shook the world and entire trees were blown to burning splinters. Those splinters shot deeper into the forest to join his expanding wave of energy. Great fires started in a dozen places at once, raging infernos that reached the canopy and began licking hungrily at the dried branches above.

  Waves of heat washed over him and he rejoiced. Lowering his arms, panting, he turned his crazed grin on Reowynn.

  Reowynn, wan, wide-eyed, whispered, “What have you done?”

  * * *

  Jorge stood transfixed on the rampart, staring west at the thickening blanket of smoke over the forest. It had grown quickly. The afternoon sun was partially blotted out; only a ruddy circle peeked through the ever thickening pall. He already breathed the scent of burning wood.

  Though miles away, every brother and sister at the Abbey had felt the immense surge of power from the forest. It had been like a slap in the face. Now the ramparts on the outer Abbey wall were lined three deep with Salosians who gaped pale-faced at the oncoming onslaught, and the courtyards below where filled with warriors and workers all staring questions upward at the brothers and sisters.

  Still miles away, the prelacy forces had not reached their defensive wards. Jorge had believed that those wards would hold the Soldiers of God at bay for a time at least, but now with the addition of this widespread blaze battering at the shields, well, Jorge was not so certain they would hold at all.

  “Here they come,” muttered Mikal at his side.

  He nodded weakly, sickened.

  Chapter 46

  He leaned forward holding the heavy limb for balance. It would not do to fall out of the tree from this height. He watched as the sun vanished into smoke above the trees to the west, watched as the massive army poured through the trees ahead of the growing fire like blood through veins, watched as the building perched on the plain near a shallow cliff seemed to shrink in on itself.

  He continued to watch as the last of the failing light dissipated into diaphanous veils of dusty rose and rotten orange and those veils parted, leaving behind pure, sweet black. To him, it was like the world was shedding its disguise, its cosmetics, and was now showing—he tittered at this—its true colors.

  He stifled the laugh that bubbled in his throat before climbing down, letting himself drop the last few feet to the ground. He found his lieutenant waiting for him.

  “We move closer, Herkan. But we do nothing until things get really confused. Then we get our prize.”

  Once the sea of white capes—mostly gray now, due to the smoke and dust—began their siege, the defenses would be concentrated on the west. The invisible yet deadly wall that surrounded the building and its environment had posed something of a problem, but Gixen gave silent thanks to his master for exerting its power and seeing them through safely. The eastern end of the cowering building would be largely unmanned. Perfect for a small force to get in and out without being detected.

  Herkan nodded and saluted. That was why Gixen liked Herkan. No questions asked, no need to repeat orders, no need to hear the particulars of plans already laid. He simply listened and did as he was told. He was a fool, certainly, but at least he did as he was told.

  Gixen looked south as though he could see through the trees and smoke, and again he stifled a laugh.

  Chapter 47

  Kurin had once told him, a long time ago, long before any of this madness began, that the sunrise seen from the west coast of the Sun Sea was breathtaking. He had been up in his tree, near the little cabin he and Daved had shared, admiring the moonlit gauze that stretched across the velvety blackness when Kurin—then, passing himself off as nothing more than an old vagabond healer—had joined him. That night, Jurel had heard more about the world outside Galbin's farm than he had heard ever before.

  With a sigh, Jurel kicked a stone, sending it skittering along the beach where it disappeared into the moonless night. It made a barely audible splash as it skipped into the Sun Sea, slipping below the surface, stealing into the depths, another drowned soul. Empathy, Jurel thought, sometimes took the strangest forms. He snorted. Hard as stone. Hard as iron.

  Hard as a sword.

  Behind him, past the stretch of satiny beach, beyond the trees of the park where the rich often broke fast with fruits and spiced wine while the sunrise took place, Grayson City was a slumbering beast. A foul, stinking, dangerous, slumbering beast. Its fetid breath oozed past him, causing him to wrinkle his nose. As Jurel was discovering, cities were disgusting places; he had no idea how anyone could live in such warrens, like rats in their dens. The alleys were
filled with garbage, the streets were layered with a hundred years of manure—even the horses and oxen displayed their disdain—and a million chamber pots filled with offal thrown from windows. The city, living up to its name, was charcoal gray, splotched and mottled as though the beast was diseased by the smoke of the thousands of fires used for cooking and heat every day. There was, carried on the feathering, salty breeze, the stench of death from the docks and the fishing district a mile or so up the beach.

  Jurel found it difficult to believe Kurin's story that people came from all over the kingdom to be here.

  Thoughts of the city were secondary to Jurel. His mind was far too embattled remembering his encounter in his place. He put a hand to his breast pocket, unconsciously tracing the straight edges of the small box that rested there like a promise, or a threat.

  Far to the east, far, far away, across the vast Sea of the Sun, the Eastern mountain range caught fire. Even at that distance, Jurel could see the ragged peaks biting into the simmering sky as the sun began to bubble over the cauldron, strewing a million oscillating sparks onto the sea.

  Without thinking about it, he reached into his pocket and stroked the oiled paper. Slowly, gently, he pulled the package from his pocket and lowered his eyes to its dully glistening surface. Tenderly, reverently, he unwrapped the paper and stared at the plain greenish box, slightly tattered at its edges, in his hands.

  As the sun grew over the distant mountains, he pulled the top off the box and stared at the object inside. It was a medal. A medal of valor. He had seen this medal many times. It was the one Daved had earned after the attack at Killhern where he had found Jurel. The one he had earned only moments before turning in his walking papers.

  Jurel lifted it by its purple silk ribbon from the box with numb fingers and stared at the graven image of the eagle with its outstretched wings lovingly crafted in bas-relief. A stray shard of light reflected from one eye.

  For a moment he was mesmerized but took an instant to look in the box. At the bottom of the box, Jurel found a ratty, raggedy piece of folded parchment. This parchment had not fared well; it was torn in places, and there was a large bloodstain on it.

  And just like that, he knew what it was. Carefully, hesitantly, and with trepidation, he unfolded the page and read again words written in Daved's utilitarian hand that he had already committed to memory a year before:

  Master Kurin,

  Good day, sir. If you are reading this then it means that Jurel has arrived safely. In this, I would rejoice and I would appreciate word of my son's welfare, if you are able and willing.

  I write this not out of desire for friendship or courtesy but because my son needs your help. Things have not gone well for Jurel here and he has been forced to leave the farm at once. He knows very little of the world and, as resourceful as I know him to be, I fear he would not survive long. So I send him to you, as the only person he knows outside this farm, and in hopes that you will be able to provide some assistance. Perhaps no more than a bed for a few days.

  He is a good man, hard-working, intelligent, and courteous. Perhaps you or someone you know might offer employment to such a diligent young man.

  Please, tell my son I love him and will endeavor to see him when next I am in town.

  Sincerely,

  Daved Histane

  The ratty page fell from fingers that were beyond numb, beyond remembrance. Hot tears welled up in Jurel's eyes.

  “Why?” he croaked.

  Because you need to be strong for what will come and you need to remember who you once were, came a familiar gravelly voice riding on the breeze and the strengthening light.

  He stared at the medal that still dangled from the ribbon entwined in his fingers. The eagle stared back tauntingly, its eyes glinting. The first thought that managed to break through was, why did he have to show me this? Damn him. Damn him. Damn him!

  He breathed deeply, tried to quell the rage that beat at him, that battered at his painstakingly erected walls. He needed to focus, to think; he could not let these distractions turn his attention from what was important.

  But they did. He stooped jerkily as though he was disjointed and not entirely in command of his muscles. His fingers gripped the ratty page convulsively. Unable to take his eyes from the glowering eagle, he slumped to his knees. In that instant, the sun broke free of its confines and blazed across the world like a heralding trumpet. The sea shimmered and itself turned to blinding light.

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

  Inside, deep inside, he felt something crack.

  “Harden yourself Jurel. Be who you must be.”

  That was what he had done! He had hardened himself! He knew he had to. He knew he must be strong. He was going to get a lot of people killed—he had already gotten a lot of people killed!

  “But do not forget who you were.”

  The eagle glared at him. The page crinkled in his fingers. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. The crack widened.

  “You are who you are.”

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

  “If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

  He trembled as though cold. His jaws were clamped so tightly, his teeth hurt.

  “You are who you are.”

  In his mind's eye, he saw Daved and Gram once again standing before him in an idyllic little glen. It was so clear he could almost hear the burbling of the brook behind him. His very core shook. The crack changed to an earthquake: new mountains raised, old ones plunged into the sea. The landscape of his soul changing, changed.

  “If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

  A low growl emerged from the bottom of his throat and there, there in his mind's eye, behind the implacable yet tender men who were, who had been, his fathers, he saw the light, the one he had striven for so mightily while Metana guided him. It was bright-

  “You are who you are.”

  as bright as a star, as the sun and it was

  “Embrace that knowledge.”

  getting closer. Closer. So close he could almost...he could

  “-accept it. If you don't-”

  feel it. Know it. Understand it. It was him. It was not separate at all. It was him.

  “If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

  The growl raised in volume as it went down in pitch. The eagle glared at him but there was something different in the glare. It was not accusing anymore. It was...triumphant.

  “Embrace that knowledge.”

  And so he did.

  He touched his power consciously for the first time. But it was not as Metana had described, or Kurin or that idiot Andrus, for they described something that was separate from him, like picking up a sword or a hammer and using it as a tool. His power was not like that. His power was him. It was a part of him as much as his arms were, as much as his heart was. It was him.

  And he understood.

  “I am the God of War,” he growled.

  A deep thrill coursed through him, powerful, almost like an orgasm, but where an orgasm was a victory gained in the joining of two bodies, this was a violent, angry, thrilling, euphoric surge as his own body joined, and truly became whole for the first time.

  “I know what I have to do.”

  He stood and turned his angry blue eyes to the sea before him, saw the sun hanging violently over the mountains, saw the reflection of the sun sun plunged deep in the sea and he smiled terrible smile full of teeth.

  “I am who I am.”

  With a grating sound, the earth beneath his feet trembled and quailed under the force of his will.

  “Yes. You are.”

  Jurel whirled. The light was still sunrise dim but the old man who stood a few paces away was bathed in light as though he stood in the noon sun.

  “Father.”
<
br />   “Jurel,” Gaorla said with a slight smile. “I see you have managed to discover the truth.” Then his lips twisted wryly. “Took you long enough too. We almost had to beat it into you.”

  “You sent my fathers to me.”

  “Well,” Gaorla hedged. “I wasn't the one to actually accomplish it but it was my idea.”

  Jurel nodded.

  “There are some things you need to know, Jurel, and I think now is the time to tell you.”

  Jurel glanced doubtfully at the rising sun. “Forgive me please, father, but is this a good time? I need to return to-”

  Gaorla chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “Never fear, Jurel. We have a great deal more time than you might think.” He gestured to three figures who were walking under the trees in the park.

  Or at least that's what Jurel imagined they would be doing if any one of them was moving. All of them stood frozen like statues. He gaped at Gaorla.

  And again Gaorla chuckled. “We're in a time bubble. We will not be here for long but it gives us a few moments to speak.”

  Sitting on a fancifully carved alabaster chair, Gaorla motioned Jurel to a second identical chair.

  “Sit,” bade his Father.

  Somewhat perturbed, Jurel sat.

  “So you have discovered the truth at last. You now know the difference between us and the priests. They tap an external power to perform their—what word do they use? Ah yes, arcanum. It is outer, it is like a tool, like picking up a hammer. You understand now that the power you wield is you. It is as much a part of you as your heart. It is who you are.

  “There are a few things you must remember before you go running off to your war. You are very young and very new to your power. Like a baby, you lack strength. It will come in time but in the meanwhile, you must not overextend yourself.

  “Consider the priests: they tap into the power, our power to be precise, but because it is external there is a finite amount they can draw. Like water flowing through a pipe. It's like a natural failsafe. They can certainly draw enough to harm themselves but it would be difficult to actually die. You on the other hand, are not so fettered. You may draw as much as you like—it is you, after all—but that means it is easy to overextend yourself. You already have some idea of what happens. Remember those Soldiers of God who accosted you and Kurin on the road? You were unconscious for three days after. Or after your little escapade in my temple—we're going to have a talk about that some day, young man, but later. Again you fell unconscious for days after. You must grow into your power. That will take time but it will happen.