The Path of the Sword (25 page)

For the sake of expediency, he forewent the bit, instead making do with simple loops of rope around the necks of the frightened animals, and he led them two at a time through the raging storm. The horses balked and threw their heads, whinnying like terrified children as soon as they felt the first bite of cold wind but he held on, had to nearly drag them through the growing drifts of snow before leaving them with Daved and the three other hands who where clearing space for them in the smaller barn. It was frantic work made nearly unbearable by the wind and snow that chafed raw any exposed flesh; within minutes, even as a sheen of sweat coated him, he was shivering.

When the last of the horses were moved, he returned to the loft to see Galbin and his men struggling with the massive limb still wedged in the supporting rafters. A dozen other men were shepherding the animals that remained; half the herd of cattle, the chickens and several pigs, animals that would not fit in the other barn already full to bursting, were all being re-situated at the far end of this barn where there was as yet minimal snow and less chance of the roof falling on them, though the wind still found ways to kick up eddies of dust.

“Galbin,” he called up to the loft, “if I can get two or three men to help, we can erect a makeshift wall across the loft using the spare rolls of canvas. That would protect the livestock until-”

Without turning away from his work, Galbin shook his head and interrupted. “Good thought lad, but no. We're going to use the canvas to cover this bloody hole as soon as we can get this bloody limb free. We need to effect repairs on the roof before everything else, before the thing caves in on all of us. Give us a hand, would you?”

As if agreeing, the structure groaned again, a deep grating sound that set Jurel's teeth on edge. He clambered up the ladder, and stood surveying the mess. Shattered bits of roof tile littered the loft and spattered the hay, along with spears of ripped timber. The hole itself was a ragged mess of roof lattice like teeth, and drooping boards rent jagged. Three of the rafters had been snapped clean through, a fourth was cracked so it was near useless, and the roof had begun to sag dangerously. The whole thing creaked again, alarmingly, shuddering, juddering screeches that vibrated along the fat beams, warning ever more urgently that at any moment, the whole thing would tear itself apart and crash down on the heads of anyone unfortunate enough to witness it. He began to understand Galbin's hastiness.

Once the hole was covered, they could set to work installing temporary braces to hold up the weakened structure. But first, they needed to get rid of that limb. Following Galbin's lead, he set his shoulder to the rough bark between two others and heaved. They grunted with the effort, their muscles strained to their very limits but there was not so much as a twitch from their stubborn foe.

“Try again,” panted Galbin. “Ready? One...two...three
...heave.
”

And again they strained, muscles trembling, teeth gritted, faces twisted into grimaces of exertion. Flashes of blue light crossed Jurel's vision like fireflies. There was a creak, a trembling of wood, but no other effect.

“It's no use sir,” Jurel said. “It's wedged too firmly.”

With a scowl and another stream of acidic curses, Galbin nodded.

“You're right. I wonder if we can get it out the same way it went in? I wonder...”

“Sir? I don't understand?”

Perplexed, Jurel watched Galbin watch the tree limb, his sweaty face mottled red, with a look of concentration so deep he seemed almost in a trance. Below, men were preparing the first of the braces, long timbers attached by cross-members that would reach from the ground to the roof and hold the failing frame up. As the silence stretched in the loft, Jurel started to ask again what it was Galbin meant but even as he opened his mouth to speak, Galbin ran across the loft to the roof hatch, the trap door that was used during the summer months for easy access to repair broken tiles. But never during winter months. It was suicide.

He climbed two rungs before Jurel could speak around his shock.

“You can't be thinking of going on the roof.”

“Yes I can lad, and I am. When I get up there, you'll push with the other men while I pull.”

“But it's ice up there. If you don't misstep, the wind'll blow you off.”

“I'll be fine. Just do your part and it'll be over before you know it.”

“Galb, you fool,” Lon shouted over Jurel's shoulder. “You're mad.”

But it was already too late. Even as Lon spoke, Galbin's feet were disappearing into the night above.

For a breathless moment, Jurel thought his heart would stop. He waited to hear the inevitable scream, thought he could hear the inevitable crunch of bones from below. He waited, trembling, and the other hands huddled close as they all stared up at the ragged hole in the roof. Time passed. Too much time, it seemed. Galbin should have been there. He should have-

Galbin's head poked over the edge above them, smiling a wild smile like a man who had just faced down a very hungry lion and lived to tell the tale.

“Told you I'd be fine. Now get your shoulders in there and let's get this thing done. It's cold and I want a drink.”

Jurel did not need to be told twice. Again, the hands set their shoulders, and again Galbin urged them to push. Jurel's shoulder was on fire and his legs began to ache, but he pushed and even when he thought he might pass out, he pushed all the harder.

The branch moved. An inch. Maybe.

“Rest,” called Galbin.

Jurel and the others let their muscles go lax; their pent breaths exploded from them.

“That's the ticket boys,” Galbin exulted. “We got the bitch by the tail now. One more like that and it'll break free. Tell everyone below to clear the way. There's no way this thing is coming back out here so it's going to fall to the ground.”

When the instructions were relayed and the men below had scattered like ants who saw the foot of a man dropping toward them, they reset their shoulders. One more.

“Ready?”

Grunts and nods. Galbin set his feet and wrapped his meaty hands around the limb.

“Then lift damn you.
Lift.
”

They strained. They heaved, pushing with every last bit of strength that remained. Above, Jurel heard a creak as the roof shifted, a sound like rusty hinges.

“Keep going boys,” Galbin rasped.

There was another shudder as the tree limb slowly began to rise, followed by the sound of tortured wood giving way. The limb twitched as if some tender spot had been poked by a needle. With a groan, like a mortally injured soldier, the limb began to slide, slowly at first, in fits and starts, until with a final cracking of timbers and a squeal like a petrified girl, the log broke free and plunged to the ground, landing with a resounding boom.

Shouts went up and Jurel looked up to Galbin with a victorious smile on his face.

It froze as he went cold, oh so cold.

There stood Galbin, his eyes wide as saucers, returning Jurel's look, his mouth forming an O of surprise. His arms pinwheeled desperately as he teetered on the brink.

Time stopped. The sound of the driving wind died and the driving snow seemed to hang in the air like motes of white dust. The hands with him gasped. One shouted, “
NO!
” but Jurel did not hear him. Galbin was there, framed, as if he was a portrait, by the ragged edges of the hole.

And then he was gone. A gut-wrenching shriek cut through the air, made the wind seem timid by comparison, but was too suddenly cut off.

For a moment, Jurel stood rooted to the spot, his mind a blank slate. They had gotten the limb out. They had succeeded. That was that. They should be getting the canvas up, bracing the broken rafters and then going for that drink, right? He must have seen wrong. The storm was playing tricks on him. Galbin was right then making his way gingerly to the hatch. That was all. That was it.

Time restarted and the world rushed back in around him slamming him in the chest with a physical force.

“
Galbin
,” Jurel screamed.

He spun and raced to the ladder, slid down, ignoring the splinters that wedged themselves deep in his hands like thorns. Men were glancing at him, curiously at first, but with budding alarm when the other hands followed behind Jurel as fast as they could.

“Galbin fell off the roof,” Jurel yelled when some hand—he did not know who it was, he did not care—inquired what the hubbub was.

He sprinted from the barn, nearly knocking the door off its hinges as he went, sliding in the snow as he rounded the corner closely followed by the horrified hands. His father was there, just dropping to his knees in front of the inert mound of coat and cotton, strangely colored—Galbin wore a light brown coat, why was it so dark?—that rested beside the fallen tree.

As Jurel skidded to a halt on his knees beside his father, Daved rolled Galbin's still form to face upward.

“Galbin, talk to me,” Daved called and Jurel quavered at the horror in his father's voice. “Wake up.”

But Jurel saw Galbin's face then, saw the features still contorted in fear, saw the wide open eyes that stared at nothing, or perhaps at something, some world, that the living were not allowed to see. Blood leaked from his nose and ears, dripping on the snow, a lurid black-red that disappeared immediately, obscured by new pristine white that blew over top as if the storm itself were trying to hide damning evidence.

“Get him inside,” Daved ordered the men who gathered in a tight circle around them. No one moved. Jurel saw his own blank incredulity reflected in each of their expressions.

“But Daved,” Jevin said. “He's dead.”

His father surged to his feet with a glower that would have sent an entire army running.

“I said get him inside,” he roared causing the men to jump.

It took a great deal of effort to hoist the remains of their master and friend for he was very large indeed and he somehow seemed heavier in death than he ever had in life, but they managed it, gripping him by arms and legs and hoisting him until he rested on their shoulders, and they marched with their heads down through the snow to Galbin's home like pall-bearers.

Daved spun on Jurel with teeth bared and eyes fevered by grief and shock. “What happened?”

Jurel took an involuntary step back, an alien terror seizing him—oh, he had felt terror, plenty of times; this time it was different, this time...

“We were trying to free the tree limb and we couldn't move it.” His words stumbled over each other in his haste to get them out, breathy and full of tears. “So Galbin said he would go on the roof. I-”

Daved surged forward and grasped his son's coat. As if he was not a foot shorter than his son, as if he did not weigh half what his son weighed, he shook him like a dog shakes a toy. His rage exploded with all the force of a volcano. “Why would you let him go out on the roof?” he howled.

“No! Father I-I didn't. I told him not to. I told him it was too slippery and windy. He wouldn't listen, father. He said it was the only way.”

Poker-hot eyes glittered, gored him, gutted him. Teeth bared, face carved in a rictus, he looked more like a demon than like Daved. Jurel swallowed with an audible click as he stared helplessly. A low growl burbled from deep in his father's throat; Jurel was certain he was about to be struck across the face.

His father released him then with hands gone suddenly numb. Jurel stared miserably, trying to get a grip on the roil of feelings that threatened to leave him cored, to leave him as scoured as the farm itself would be when the wind died down.

“I told him not to go. I said he should hang the canvas to make a wall. But he went anyway. He said they had to get that tree out or the barn might collapse. What was I supposed to do?”

Daved glared into his son's beseeching expression, his nose flaring like a bull's. It was with obvious effort that his father took hold of the rage that gripped him, took hold of it and pushed it down, away, so he could think straight. “What happened next?'

“He went on the roof. We got the limb loose. When I looked up, Galbin was fighting for balance. And then...and then...”

The words caught in his throat, refusing to emerge as if the very act of putting voice to what had happened would make it real, as if by not saying it—
Galbin fell. Galbin's dead.—
they could somehow deny it and Galbin himself would come sauntering around the edge of the barn with a chuckle and a wave.
“Got you good, didn't I?”
he would say.

Daved's glare was relentless. It drilled with the strength of a thousand men, burned as hot as a thousand suns, and he trembled. A long moment passed and Jurel knew he awaited judgment. And sentencing. But then, his shoulders slumped, collapsed downward and for the first time in his life, Jurel saw his father not as the powerful man that always got his way, but as a frail man past his prime, a man, though middle aged at most, seemed even older, as decrepit as the most ancient of ancients and Jurel mourned that almost as much as he mourned Galbin's death.

“I'm sorry father. I tried. I did.”

In the howling wind, he was not sure if his father heard him but Daved's eyes met his, and he nodded.

“I know, lad. Galbin is a-” He cut himself off and his voice hitched strangely. “
Was
a stubborn fool. He should have known better.” He kicked at the powdery snow, sent a cloud up that was torn apart by the storm. “We'd better go to the house. Ingirt should hear what has happened.”

He turned and trudged, not waiting for his son, after the men who had disappeared into the night like phantoms already transporting their newest member into their private world.

Even though it was New Year, the day had not felt special, any different from all the other anonymous days that came and went, filing past in a procession that made life what it was. There was a brutal storm, but it was the middle of winter. Those things happened. Earlier, he had been toting hay, and sorting stores. Nothing special about that. Nothing new. Then there was the party. Not an every day occurrence, certainly, but still there was nothing special there; parties happened every holiday. Perhaps the discovery of the mutual feelings he and Erin shared was something noteworthy. If he thought about it, he could still see those eyes gazing at him as if she were standing right there in front of him, he could still taste honey and spices and wine when their lips had brushed ever so briefly and he ached with the memory. But even that, though new to him, was certainly nothing that did not happen often enough.