The Narrowing Path: The Complete Trilogy (The Narrowing Path Series Book 4)

by David J Normoyle

  A growing rumble of shouts made Bowe turn around to see the disorganized mayhem of his army as they all tried to get through the gate at the same time. Red-faced priests hollered at them to try to get them under control, but it wasn’t having much effect. Pots and pans were dropped in the squeeze and being picked up again outside, sometimes causing arguments when two people claimed the same utensil. It would have been comical if it weren’t so serious.

  It took time, but everyone did manage to get through the gate. They spread out, with the priests imposing some semblance of order. Florence moved forward to join Bowe.

  “That was a bit of a squeeze,” Bowe said.

  “I only hope they show that kind of life when they return,” Florence replied. “Your army awaits your orders.”

  “Now we march on the Jarindor army,” he told Florence.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to rethink this.” Florence nodded toward the Jarindors. “They look like they mean business.”

  Bowe could sense the nervousness around him, and he remembered what Florence had said about the priests having no authority to lead. Bowe needed the army to want to march.

  Bowe took Thrace’s ladle from him. “Hold up the pan,” he instructed Thrace.

  He banged eight times on Thrace’s pan with the ladle as hard as he could. “For we are the army of pots and pans.” He repeated the same again, then a third time, with eight bangs each time. By the second time, the noise had quieted down. By the third time, others were banging their pots in time with Bowe. Bowe did it again. “We fear no armies, we fear no man,” he said this time.

  Bowe added more lines, making it up as he went along until he had the whole army banging in time, and everyone reciting the pots and pans line. “Give instructions that we march on our enemy,” he said to Florence. Bowe then began to march forward, continuing to bang and recite.

  “We fear no armies, we fear no man,

  For we are the army of pots and pans.

  We offer our lives, against swords we dance,

  For we are the army of pots and pans.

  Life’s not forever, give someone else a chance,

  For we are the army of pots and pans.

  We fight for home, we fight for our land,

  For we are the army of pots and pans.”

  He recited the set of eight lines in full twice, then handed the ladle to Thrace. “Keep it going. Sing out at the top of your voice.” Thrace did, and his voice was stronger than Bowe’s, so it sounded even better.

  Bowe glanced behind. Everyone was marching behind, banging and proclaiming themselves to be the army of pots and pans. It looked like the priests barely had to give the order to march.

  “Where do you come up with this stuff?” Sindar asked, shouting into Bowe’s ear to make himself heard over the racket. “‘We fear no armies, we fear no man.’ Seriously?”

  Bowe shrugged and shouted back, “Seems to be working.”

  “What happens when an army of pots and pans meets a real army? I can’t imagine anything good,” Sindar said. “Why didn’t you arm them properly? And bring Grenier marshals, people trained with weapons.”

  “No. That would be a disaster. Look at them.” The Jarindor army was closer now and looking even more impressive. The front rank of each square held a row of interlocking shields like an impenetrable barrier. The sun glinted off the helms and the shields. “We don’t have the numbers they do, but even if we did, it wouldn’t matter. They have knowledge of ancient wars and battles. They have trained in military tactics. They’re better armed and armored. The Grenier marshals are only trained for one-to-one fighting—they wouldn’t know how to defeat a square of soldiers like that one.”

  “Then why not stay in the city and defend the walls?” Sindar suggested. “They won’t be able to stay in their armored squares then.”

  “I’m willing to bet that in those ancient battle tactic manuals, they outline strategies to win in sieges. The Jarindors want a popular uprising from the escay to happen, so that they win without even fighting. I mean to show them both that the escay don’t want them here and that the Jarindors don’t have the stomach to win in a real war.”

  That was why the army wasn’t carrying weapons that could hurt the Jarindor soldiers. The pots and pans were just something for the escay to hit out with—they wouldn’t do any real damage. The opposing soldiers, though, would be forced to use their swords and kill their attackers in cold blood.

  They were within a hundred paces of the Jarindor army now. Thrace and the rest of the army continued to chant and bang on their pots. Bowe wondered what the Jarindors must think of this. He seriously doubted that anything in their army manuals prepared them for this. Bowe turned, located Florence, and gestured him forward. “Get word to your priests. Make sure that those in the front ranks are those who are most anxious to save a member of their family.”

  “You mean those who are most willing to die.” Florence’s mouth twisted in disgust.

  Bowe hoped he was doing the right thing. “If some are going to die, isn’t it better that it’s the sickest and oldest? Just give the orders. And tell them to be ready to charge.”

  Florence hesitated, then nodded his head and went back to speak to those he had designated runners.

  Fifty paces short of the Jarindor army, Bowe could sense that the marching and chanting was beginning to falter. Bowe touched Thrace’s arm, and he stopped moving forward and chanting, and the army behind followed suit. A silence descended upon the battlefield. Opposite them, the Jarindor army hadn’t moved; they waited in their armored squares.

  Bowe hadn’t intended to actually be one of those to throw themselves on the shields. But having come this far, he didn’t see how he could order a charge without being at the forefront of it. As Florence had pointed out, the priests hadn’t the authority to give actual orders. These people were following Bowe.

  Even after only this small delay, Bowe could sense that whatever confidence had been built up in the march was quickly dissipating. If he gave the order to charge and no one moved, he’d have lost control and might not get a second chance. It had to be done right and he had to lead it.

  Bowe gripped Thrace’s arm. “The chant one last time, this time with real passion.”

  Thrace lifted his pan over his head and beat on it eight times. “We fear no armies, we fear no man,” Thrace shouted with an effort that made his voice hoarse.

  The army raised their pots and pans into the air, bashed on them eight times, and replied, “For we are the army of pots and pans.”

  “We offer our lives, against swords we dance,” Thrace roared.

  “For we are the army of pots and pans,” the army responded.

  “Forward,” Bowe shouted, and he marched toward the waiting shield wall. Thrace, Sindar, and Sorrin walked alongside.

  “Life’s not forever, give someone else a chance,” Thrace screamed.

  “For we are the army of pots and pans,” the army responded.

  “Faster,” Bowe roared, waving his left hand in the air and starting to jog. Beside him, Thrace and Sindar kept pace. Sorrin began to fall behind.

  Thrace let his pan and ladle dip to chest height, but he beat it eight times once more. “We fight for home, we fight for our land.”

  In front of them, Bowe heard the Jarindor soldiers, as one, unsheathe their swords. They were close now, so close. Behind him, the beating of the pans and pots became ragged now with the army running forward, but they managed the refrain one last time just in front of the enemy. “For we are the army of pots and pans.”

  “Charge,” Bowe shouted. He pointed his hand forward as he sprinted at the enemy. He wished he had at least brought a pan himself, something to hit a shield with before he was cut down.

  A few paces before he reached the shield, hands grabbed him. Before he could figure out what was going on, he’d fallen. He was trampled by the feet of those running behind him, and let out a roar of pain as an errant foot kicked his stump. Bowe c
urled up with his stump tucked under his chest, covering his head with his left arm.

  There was an almighty clatter as pans crashed against shields. Then heart-wrenching screams filled the air.

  When the trampling stopped, Bowe looked up. His army was throwing themselves against the shield wall of the Jarindor squares. Pots and pans crashed down, and swords darted out in response. The Arcandi were dying in the hundreds. The Jarindors were slowly retreating, leaving blood and bodies in their wake.

  Bowe looked to either side to see Thrace and Sindar holding him. “Don’t try to get up,” Thrace said. “We came to protect you, and if it means hitting you over the head, we will do it.”

  Bowe scanned the battle line. An old man grabbed hold of the top of a shield and vaulted over it. He was stabbed several times as soon as he landed. A middle-aged woman took advantage of the distraction to push her way between two shields. She crashed a large heavy pot against a soldier’s helm before two swords simultaneously entered her chest. Farther away, a youngish-looking man banged eight times on a shield with his pot and declared, “For we are the army of pots and pans.” A sword snaked out and gashed his arm and the pot dropped from it. The shield was then slammed into his face and he fell backward.

  They are all dying, Bowe thought. What have I done? He tried to struggle to his feet, but Thrace and Sindar wouldn’t let go. “I have to do something,” he cried out, but it was too late to do anything. The bodies of the dead were trampled by others as the hopeless charge continued.

  A horn sounded in the distance. The Jarindors began to swiftly march backward. They used their shields to block attacks but didn’t try to engage. Several escay pursued, running after them, and the rest milled about, uncertain as to what to do.

  “It’s over, let me go.” Bowe shook himself free and stood up. “Cease pursuit,” he shouted. “Hold where you are.” No one could hear him. The priests were hanging back, and Bowe ran to the nearest. “Give the order to hold. Tell everyone else.” Bowe then ran through the ragged line of his army. He tried to avoid the bodies but there were so many of them. He stepped on a hand and nearly slipped on someone’s blood. He emerged in front of his army. Most of those who had chased the Jarindors had given up and were now wandering back.

  “Come back,” Bowe shouted at those who continued to run, but they couldn’t hear him. The Jarindors must have been given the order not to kill any more, though, for those few who reached the lines were now being captured rather than killed.

  A solitary man walked out of one of the Jarindor squares and approached slowly. Thrace, Sindar, and Sorrin joined Bowe. “What’s going on?” Sorrin asked.

  “I’ll find out. Stay here.”

  Thrace started to object but Bowe placed his hand on Thrace’s shoulder. “You’ve done your job. I recognize this man; I won’t be in danger.”

  Bowe slowly walked to the center of the battlefield to join Washima. His back prickled with the knowledge that thousands on both sides were watching them. Washima dragged his sword behind him, and when Bowe got closer he could see that the blade was splattered with blood. Washima gazed down at his own feet.

  Bowe stopped and waited for Washima to look up. When he did, his expression was bleak, though Bowe imagined his own was similar.

  “I see you didn’t get the Guardians to surrender,” Washima said.

  “That wasn’t going to happen,” Bowe said.

  “Are you saying that this...this slaughter,” Washima said, shuddering, “had to happen instead?”

  “You read the military histories. Did you read about any bloodless wars?”

  “There’s never been anything like this. Unarmed people throwing themselves onto the swords of the soldiers.” Washima looked behind Bowe. “They are the everyday people of Arcandis. We came for them. I thought they wanted us to help them.”

  “I think they made it clear what they’re willing to do to resist you. You still have the numbers to defeat us,” Bowe said. “You’ll just have to get that sword of yours an awful lot redder.”

  Washima raised his sword and looked at the blade. Then he threw it away from him. It turned end over end in the air and fell into the dirt with a thud. “We’re done. I won’t lead this army any farther, and I’ve seen in the eyes of my men that they wouldn’t follow me into more bloodshed even if I wanted them to. Evil runs through your society—it’s evidenced even in this act of bloody sacrifice—but we cannot help those who do not wish to be helped.” Washima placed his palms together under his chin and bowed his head. “May your future be brighter than your present.”

  Bowe touched the fingers of his left hand to his chin and he bowed his head in response. “Look for evil within yourselves before trying to help others.”

  Washima didn’t reply to that; he simply turned and walked away.

  Bowe returned to the army of pots and pans. “We’ve won,” he told them. He didn’t speak in a loud voice, but the message was whispered from one to the other. There were a few cheers but not too many. It was hard to be joyous when people were dying all around. One person in the distance couldn’t stop screaming, and several closer were groaning in pain. Those who were healthy had bent over to help the wounded.

  “What do we do now?” Bowe asked Sorrin. “About the wounded?” He realized he should have thought of this before.

  Sorrin nodded toward a large group who had emerged from the city and were approaching the wounded. “Someone has organized a medical response, and they seem to need bandages and medicine. I guess we need stretchers and should set up makeshift hospitals in the city. I’ll go back and help with all that. And I’ll make sure that Oamir and the other families are set up to record the names of those who took part and those who died. Are you coming?”

  “I might stay here a little longer.” Bowe wasn’t sure that there was anything he could do, but he couldn’t leave yet.

  “Okay, I’ll take Sindar back with me. Thrace, can you stay with Bowe?”

  Thrace nodded.

  “I don’t need anyone,” Bowe said.

  Sindar grabbed Bowe’s arm. “You shouldn’t be left alone right now. This victory came at a high cost and there will be those who blame you for it.”

  Bowe nodded. He had recognized one of those supplying medical attention, and he wanted to talk to her. “Thrace, come on, we might as well help those treating the wounded. Find someone in need of an extra pair of hands.”

  Bowe went over to where Iyra was bent over an old man whose belly had been cut open. She had the old man’s head in her hand and she was helping him sip from a waterskin.

  “Can I help?” Bowe asked.

  “Put some pressure on the stomach to stop the bleeding,” she said.

  Bowe knelt to do as she said, pulling off his tunic and using it to stem the bleeding.

  Iyra looked up. “Oh, it’s you. Haven’t you done enough for one day?”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Shouldn’t you just be admiring your handiwork?” She stretched out her arm and opened her palm to encompass the hundreds of dead and wounded. “You won, after all.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a victory.”

  “Well maybe it wasn’t one. Just a dumb boy playing games without considering the cost.”

  “That’s not fair. I did what I thought best.”

  “For yourself. You’ve ensured that the Bellangers have returned to power with you at their head. You did think about this scene, didn’t you?”

  Bowe shook his head. “You’re still mad at me.”

  “Mad at you, mad at you.” Iyra showed Bowe her fist. “Imagine this fist contains the amount of anger required for me to be shouting and screaming at you. Right now I hold enough anger to fill the Refuge. It’s a cold fury that’s sunk into the core of my bones. It’s way beyond shouting and screaming.” Iyra didn’t raise her voice but the intensity of the tone gave Bowe chills. He felt like he did when he knew he was inside a nightmare.

  The man that Iyra was nursing gave
a groan and seemed to come to some recognition of where he was. He lifted his hand and gripped Iyra’s sleeve. “Am I dying?”

  Iyra stroked the hair at the top of his forehead. “You’ll be okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I want to die.” The old man stared wildly. “I have this beautiful granddaughter. She’ll be of age by the time the next Infernam comes. I want to make sure she’ll have a place in the Refuge.”

  “Don’t worry,” Iyra assured him. “Your granddaughter will have her place. You don’t have to die.”

  “It’s true,” Bowe said. “Those who are seriously wounded will have a place guaranteed too.” That wasn’t in the agreement, Bowe would have to make sure he told Oamir and the other families to note those who were injured and how badly. It didn’t seem fair that those who would survive dangerous injuries should lose out.

  He wasn’t sure the man heard him, though. The old man didn’t lose consciousness, but he became unaware of his surroundings again.

  “See what you’ve done,” Iyra said. “He wants to die. You’ve turned our willingness to help one another into a weapon for your own gain. You promised me we were coming back to try to end this without bloodshed and I trusted you. You slept in my arms, and all the time this was what you had planned.” Tears fell down Iyra’s cheeks. “This slaughter.”

  “It’s for the best. I’m sure of it.” Bowe didn’t feel the slightest bit sure; how could he, with all the dead and dying around him?

  “And who are you to decide? All these people have died because you decided it was for the best.”

  “I’m a leader. I have to make tough choices.”

  Iyra leaned in close to the old man and touched his neck. She paused, then closed his eyelids. “You don’t have to keep trying to keep his guts in with your tunic. He’s dead. Get out of here. You’ve done your part. Let those of us who have come to heal do what we can.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She shoved Bowe in the shoulder. “Get out of here.”