by Remi Michaud
“You must also learn to control yourself. Have you noticed that my eyes do not glow? Nor did Valsa's when you met her, or Maora's. Yours do. That is because power leaks from you like a sieve. Again, it will take time but you will learn to use only as much as you need. Until then, you may find that no matter what you try, you will overdo it. Try picking up that stone over there and bringing it to your hand.”
Jurel stared at the stone, about the size of his fist, and willed it to come to him. He felt a surge run through him, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. The pale gray rock rose unsteadily, spinning lazily in the air. Slowly, haltingly, it made its way toward him until, halfway to him, it crumpled like a dry leaf, turned to sand and sifted to the beach.
Jurel gaped as his concentration faltered.
Gaorla chuckled, his eyes twinkling merrily. “You see? Now imagine what would happen if you tried to do something that required more strength than that. You would likely knock down anything around you—trees, buildings, mountains—and then you would fall into a coma. You are weak yet, but you are stronger than you realize.”
Then the ancient rose and like a sudden avalanche, he fixed Jurel with a glare that seemed to encompass all the world. Jurel felt pinned to the spot, barely able to breath under the sudden power the god leveled at him.
“There is one more thing. You must be wary. You have difficult tasks ahead yet. You have more challenges that must be faced if you are victorious today but one stands above the rest. You have started down a dark and perilous road. Your intentions are good ones, but if you do not pass the next test, you will be destroyed. And if that happens...” Gaorla turned away and gazed across the sea at the blazing bar of yellow-red light at the horizon. More wistfully, with an eternal sadness, he continued, “If that happens, then all, all, has been for naught.”
Jurel screwed up his expression. Everything Gaorla said passed through him as water through a net. He shook his head.
“Father, there is so much I don't understand. Please, can you answer some of my questions?”
Gaorla smiled, his eyes softening, but he shook his head. “No, my son. You must answer your questions for yourself. No one can tell you who you are. Not even me.” He raised a finger to quell Jurel's protest. “Never fear. You do not go unarmed. Remember that Maora gifted you some time back with knowledge. Your mind is, as yet, too untrained to assimilate all he gave you but in time, the pieces of the puzzle will fall into place.”
“But I don't have time.”
“You have enough. You can answer—or have already answered—those questions that are most pressing now. The rest can wait for later.” The ancient lips quirked. “Some mysteries will take millenia to unravel.”
“Why can't you stop this?” Jurel blurted. He surprised himself. He had not known the question lurked, but now it was spoken and now he knew he wanted, needed, the answer. “Why can't you tell the Grand Prelate that he's wrong? That this war is stupid?”
Gaorla Himself seemed taken aback by his young son's vehemence. For a moment he was still, silent, his mouth slightly ajar as though he was about to say something. Then he sighed.
“It is not that easy. We cannot interact directly with mortals. We are...too much for them. Or to put it another way, their view of us is too narrow, too limited by their finite perceptions of the world. When you have leisure, you may wish to ask Kurin. He had some surprising insights some years ago. Perhaps he can help you a little.
“I tried once to speak directly to mortal kind through a man named Shoka. I spoke but few words to him and I thought my message clear but, with his limited understanding and his human conceptions, he misinterpreted what I said. This, all of what you are now embroiled in, is the outcome of Shoka's misunderstanding. It was not his fault. I should have foreseen the consequences but my thoughts were filled with other matters. Fearing to do more damage, I have refrained from trying again. I've only communicated with one other man, and that one, not directly, but only as he dreamed. He went quite mad.”
“But I can speak with them.”
“You were born a mortal of Gram and Wendilla. The seed of what you would become was planted but it was—and still is—but a seed. You are in a unique position; you bridge both worlds: the mortal and the immortal. Right now, you are the only one who can do that.”
Gaorla rose then and sighed. “I am sorry this has fallen on your shoulders, my son. In time you will understand. Perhaps you will even forgive me.”
The world seemed to skew sideways, a jolting sensation that left Jurel somewhat nauseated. His vision blurred as though everything around him seemed to move at incredible speed. He blinked and shook his head. Gaorla was gone.
The breeze, like a breath, brushed at his neck. He glanced up and saw the three people making their way through the trees. One spotted him and pointed. He exchanged hurried words with his friends and the other two stared wide-eyed at him for a moment before all three broke into a run, disappearing into the park. He smirked.
He rose from his alabaster chair and turned to face the dawn. The brilliant sun high above and its twin far below shared triumphant looks with him.
His eyes glowed dull blue as he straightened himself to his full height and took a deep breath of the tangy sea air. His hair seemed to gleam in the magnificent brightness of the twin suns. He looked down at himself, was not in the least bit surprised to find himself encased in armor so black that not even the blazing twin suns could touch it, and traced in an eye-wateringly confusing patterns of golden swirls and whorls that smoldered like molten steel.
He had answers, though vague, but for every question put to rest, three more had arisen. But he had some answers. It would have to do, for he had other concerns to attend to. As his father had said, the rest could wait for later.
He breathed deeply, the smell of clean sea and sandy beach mingling with the odor of shit and dead fish. He smiled, for today was a new day. But it was a hard smile. Hard as a sword. Hard as a hammer. Hard as armies locked in bloody battle, no quarter given, none taken.
Hard as War.
Chapter 48
The Abbey seemed to hold its breath as the world burned. In the distance beyond the outer perimeter defenses, the forest fires blazed out of control, butting against the Abbey's shields trying to claw through. During the day, thick, acrid smoke choked the sky and even at midday, the shadows in the Abbey were deep. At night, there were no stars or moon to be seen. There was only a deep hellfire red that spread for miles, a fiendish glow that brightened and grew every minute until more than one priest began quaking with the idea that this must be what the hells in Shomra's underworld must be like.
The preparations were as complete as they ever would be. The proud tower soared, gleaming with its new arcane reinforcements. Sheds and depots were overflowing with supplies.
Soldiers and priests and laborers lined the battlements and gazed west, watching the hellish smoke billow skyward. All that could be heard were the occasional muttering of either quiet orders or quiet prayers.
They lived in this eerie calm before the storm, all of them wandering as though in a dream, a fragile one that was on the brink of mutating into nightmare, all of them keeping a squinted eye on the burning trees, as though assessing the extent of the damage they should expect.
As though they thought there might be anything to salvage after the storm blew over.
They waited and they watched. And late in the afternoon of the eve of the Day of Shadows, as the sun was a sullen dome cresting the western forest that had protected them for generations, a cry rose from a sentry. She saw movement. That movement coalesced into soldiers a half mile distant emerging from the raging inferno: nightmare begets nightmare.
Thousands, and more thousands, began gathering on the plain in the distance, and still they continued to emerge from those woods. The horde—they were too organized to actually be a horde, but that was the word all the Salosians tacitly agreed on—was still emerging, swelling like a cancer, as the sun burn
ed the billowing clouds, keeping its light close like a selfish child. Mine! And even when darkness spread its blanket across the land and all that was left of the horde were innumerable points of hazy firelight scattered across the plain like earthbound stars against the backdrop of lacerated red, everyone behind the dubious safety of the Abbey's walls knew it was only the tip of the iceberg.
The Abbey exhaled.
* * *
The horde did not attack then, of course. Night was falling; no one in their right mind would attack a fortified position when they can barely see their own sword in front of them. Especially against an enemy who wielded arcanum. Even for a force that size with their own contingents of priests, it would have been suicide.
It appeared the fires were being held in check by the Abbey's outer defense shields: a double edged sword. On one hand, it protected the Abbey from the raging infernos. On the other, it protected the army camped not more than a half-mile away, but for that night, the defenders chose to be relieved. Well, most of them anyway.
* * *
“How many did we lose?”
Gaven fought through his exhaustion to remain standing at attention before his general, and ran the lists through his mind. Even though the fire was banked low, Mikal's office was stifling hot, stuffy, due to the group clustered shoulder to shoulder. It did not surprise Gaven to see all of Mikal's ranking officers present (much to his continued amazement, he was one of them) but it did surprise him to see Kurin sitting near the fireplace poring over a pile of parchment in his lap.
The old man seemed even older, had since they had freed him from that madman Thalor. His shoulders sagged, and when he stood, he did so with a pronounced stoop. More than that, Gaven could not tell; Kurin had taken to wearing a hood at all times. Thalor, that bastard, had ordered Kurin's face healed of the nasty burns sustained during the ambush but he had made sure to leave thick, jagged ropes of disfiguring scars.
What was most shocking, though, was his voice. Only a few months past, Kurin had had an incongruously deep, rich baritone. Though traces remained, his voice was but a shadow of its former self, thinner, reedier.
But the old man's spirit remained. In fact, if anything, his spirit was stronger, harder, than it had ever been in the time Gaven had known him. When the old man spoke, his voice was quiet so that Gaven had to lean in to hear him. But hard. So hard. Like chips of ice.
Kurin had always been confident, always in control, but now...now, though he maintained control of events and his surroundings with an iron fist, Gaven sometimes caught a glimpse of something—something that made him wonder if the old man was in control of himself.
Gaven respected Kurin; he had since that first day when Gaven's troop had apprehended him—and Jurel—fleeing south on the caravan route. In his way, he loved the old man like a grandfather. He still respected Kurin, but now the respect bordered on fear.
“Answer him,” Kurin uttered in barely more than a whisper that still carried the force of a shout.
Gaven started, suddenly aware that he had been staring. “About seven. Thirty were wounded but they are in the infirmary. Most will be able to fight on the morrow.”
“So.” Mikal growled. “That bastard Thalor did not accomplish much with his wanton act of arson.”
“Oh no,” responded Kurin, his voice deathly quiet. “He accomplished a great deal. The summer has been very dry. He managed to start forest fires that will spread for hundreds of miles in every direction. He managed to endanger the lives of a million and more innocent people.”
Mikal grunted. “It seems most of the surrounding population is here with us.”
“Not Twin Town.”
That, Gaven did not want to think too deeply on. There had been a rumor in the days before they fled through the tunnels that the prelacy was moving in a regiment of Soldiers of God to occupy the town. No one in, no one out.
There had been another rumor that Grayson was marching. No one knew if that bode well or ill for the Salosians. Though the king had proclaimed this a religious matter to be handled by the church, Duke Grayson was as ambitious as any man, one who might disobey his king if he thought he could get away with it. And, of course, if he thought it would prove advantageous to his coffers.
The dwellers of Twin Town, then, locked in place—and most certainly not well treated—by a heavily armed regiment of Soldiers of God, might soon find themselves beset on three fronts: the regiment of Soldiers of God who were there ostensibly to keep the peace but more likely had already begun to decorate pikes with fresh heads; the forest fires roaring in from the east; and, if the rumors were true, an angry army storming in from the south.
No, Gaven did not want to dwell on it too much.
“Perhaps more importantly,” Jorge said, “how many did they lose?”
“I can only say that our ambushes have managed to account for some six to seven hundred of them. I don't know if Thalor's fires helped us there.”
“So, along with the thousand or so who perished under the streets of Twin Town, perhaps sixteen hundred losses to our half dozen,” Fagan boomed. He wore a vicious grin.
“Be careful, Fagan,” Mikal rumbled. “The bastards have the numbers to spare. The odds are still overwhelmingly against us.”
“If only Jurel...” Sometimes, Gaven wished his mouth would wait for his brain to catch up. He clamped his mouth shut, looked at his feet, could not see Kurin's eyes, nevertheless felt the glare pin him.
“'If only Jurel' what?”
Gaven merely grimaced, shuffled his feet.
“'If only Jurel' what, Gaven?” Kurin rose fluidly from his chair, some of his old strength apparent for the first time in weeks. “Will he turn back the waves upon waves of Soldiers of God that bear down upon us single-handedly? Will he call down fire and lightning and wipe the fields clear? The last time we saw him he could not even light a candle. Will he now miraculously appear and raze the enemy to the ground?”
“I don't know if I can do all that,” said a quiet voice from the corner of the room, “but maybe I can help a little.”
Gaven spun along with everyone else in the room. The unmistakable sound of swords rasping out of scabbards cut the brittle tension.
There, standing in the corner, draped in shadow, was the shape of a huge man, vaguely familiar but distorted by the heavy armor, all black with strange waterfalls of golden gilt.
And with eyes that glowed a soft blue.
Chapter 49
The morning of the Day of Shadows dawned dull, iron gray, heavily layered in a gauzy mist that lent an ethereal, otherworld quality. If one did not look too hard, one could almost miss the sea of white capes gathering a half mile away. Except...
The clarion call of the warhorns split the morning air, shivering through the mist.
The air shimmered, the trees and soldiers beyond the walls seemed to waver as though heat waves radiated, but it was late autumn and the day was far too brisk for heat waves. As he strode across the battlement, Jurel watched.
In the distance, near the rear of the enemy army, a massive catapult armed rose with a deceivingly ponderous slowness. He might have heard the heavy thud as wood met wood, or he might not have, but he certainly saw the heavy stone, at least as big as he was tall, lift into the air with the same sort of deceiving ponderousness of the catapult arm. It sailed high, becoming a pebble before cresting its apex and beginning its descent. It sped up, bearing down on the battlement upon which he stood like a giant fist, and slammed with a dull thump into an unseen barrier some twenty paces above his head. Shattering, bits of it fell harmlessly into the moat outside the earthworks. In the courtyard below, beneath the cover of the wall, a half dozen priests with closed eyes and linked hand to hand swayed slightly.
He had been told of this; this forcefield, Jorge had called it, would keep the worst at bay—at least for a time.
Jurel spun as a second missile rose into the air, and to Gaven, barked, “Return fire.”
Taking command had
been surprisingly easy. They had all been so stunned to see him that when he started issuing orders, they simply went about carrying them out. That was fortunate, he thought. He did not have to battle for control. He did not have to waste time convincing them that he needed to be in charge. It made things easier.
Gaven saluted and broke into a run, hollering as he went. The second stone slammed into the forcefield and archers lining the wall three deep, instinctively ducked behind crenelations. As if crenelations would slow a stone that size. As if anything less than a magical forcefield created by a dozen powerful priests would slow a stone that size. A hail of fist sized rocks flew over his head, a response from one of his own catapults. They passed effortlessly through the forcefield and Jurel exhaled. He had not been sure they could manage it, but now that he saw it, he smiled nastily. He watched as the stones struck the front line a little to his right, watched a small, bloody dent appear in that line. The shrieks of the wounded were thin with distance but still Jurel felt a thrill of exultation.
The screams were as prayers offered to the God of War. This was his paean.
Some cavalry and infantry divisions—these latter led by squads of swordmasters—waited in the courtyards and along the earthworks barricade for Jurel's command. A sortie at this stage would be suicide, but later, if the right opportunity presented itself...
Jurel put them from his mind. At that moment, what occupied his thoughts was the approaching horde. Infantry in front, row upon row, at least twelve deep and stretching across the entire western and northern faces of the Abbey. Behind them, archers strode behind a long row of rolling contraptions covered with layers of heavy hide: portable cover. Jurel was impressed. Behind them, came rank on rank of cavalry, a veritable sea of horseflesh. The horde was huge. He could not make out any individual faces; they all melded into one massive predatory organism that covered the plain as it stalked the Abbey.
