The Path of the Sword (57 page)

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he creaked politely. “But I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure of an introduction.”

Even if she were no more than a silhouette, he saw that she gaped at him, shocked that he would ask such a thing. Her hand moved reflexively to the hilt of her long, slender sword and motionless, she watched him, gauged him.

Jurel waited.

With a shake, she came back to herself and nodded slightly. “My apologies, young man. Where are my manners?” With a flourish, she bowed to him, extending one leg out with all the grace of a courtier. “I am Captain Salma Baccus of the Soldiers of God. I am charged with escorting you back to Threimes.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Jurel responded gravely. Then he smiled as best he could through swollen and cracked lips. “I am Jurel Histane, and I am charged with finding any way I can to escape with my friend after I gut you like a pig.”

Again, she stood motionless and Jurel almost laughed. Would have, in fact, were it not for the pain in his chest and throat.

The captain was, unfortunately, not amused.

“I think you will find that exceedingly difficult,” she growled, dropping all pretense of civility. “Quite difficult, indeed. And probably very, very painful.”

She spun on one heel gracefully, moving in a practiced way that suggested years of drilling with her men, and she stalked off, calling orders.

“You think you're quite the funny one, eh? Talking to the captain that way?” A new voice grated and a new shadow entered his periphery.

Jurel squinted, trying to bring his sticky eyes into focus. This fellow did not sound quite so pleasant as his captain and Jurel decided he needed to see the face of this new threat. Jurel was not heartened, when the soldier's haughty expression, tight with anger, came into focus.

“The name's Lieutenant Higgens and you will address me as 'sir'. Clear?” He paused, glaring at Jurel, his meaning clear in his eyes. “Try any funny business with me and you'll taste my boots.”

Higgens lurched upright and as if to prove his point, he delivered a fierce kick to Jurel's mid-section before he stalked off in a fashion so like his captain's own departure: quick, efficient, angry as a bear with a thorn in its paw. Not as graceful, but the point was made.

Higgens called, singling out two of the men who were at that moment sitting down by a fire. He said words that Jurel could not quite catch and the two soldiers glared at him, rose slowly to their feet and took up positions a couple of paces away. As they sat with their swords across their laps, the shorter of the two turned and shot Jurel a glare so filled with malice that Jurel winced as if struck. His guards, then, and none to happy about it. Wonderful.

Quietly, Jurel tried to move. A difficult thing to do when one is shackled hand and foot, and covered with liquid fire. He tested the limits of his shackles; he was not reassured when his arms spread no more than a few inches before they were halted by the cold, pitted iron. His legs were in no better shape. Left with no real choice, he did the only thing he could. He took stock of his situation.

The easy answer was that his situation was not good. His head felt like a mummer's drum. His arms and legs balked at his every command, lighting up like a raging thunder storm every time he made a move. His chest was heavy and each breath was a chore. The short time he had spent as Kurin's assistant in Merris did nothing to inspire his confidence. He could hear the old man's voice as if he lectured:
“Respiratory distress is most often swelling caused by anaphilaxia, or by fluid filling the lungs. The first thing you must do is find out what is causing the patient's distress and then...”
Jurel coughed and spit. Blood. At least he was not dying of an allergic reaction. But there was a tear in his lungs, and that would explain the deep, searing pain in his side above the gash that had undoubtedly ripped open again. At least one broken rib, probably three or four, and at least one had punctured his lung. On top of that, his throat was dry. Dryer than the sands of Moden far to the south if he remembered his geography lessons correctly. Dryer than the stones of Jerak. Daved had once described Jerak to him. A godless hell where only a few hours of exposure saw the hardiest men reduced to dried husks. His tongue felt thick and gritty, like sandpaper in his mouth. He cleared his throat, and coughed. More blood. It did nothing to abate the desert between his lips.

Turning his head ever so slightly toward his guards, he croaked, “Water?”

They ignored him.

A little louder then. “Water? Please?”

The shorter one, the one with the painful glare, cast one disdainful eye at him and sighed as if Jurel had asked for a hundred gold pieces and a fast horse to leave on. But he rose anyway, and carried a skin to Jurel. “Water, is it? Is there anything else my lord would like? Shiny new clothes? A steak dinner, perhaps?” His voice was surprisingly smooth, liquid. He sounded like a back-alley swindler. “How about I give you back your sword, let you free of those shackles and close my eyes for five minutes. Would you like that?” He gave Jurel an oily smile that did nothing to alter the iron in his eyes. His compatriot chuckled appreciatively.

“That would be nice,” Jurel said before he could think better of it.

The oily smile dropped away and left icy-hot fury. “You little turd. You want water? Here.”

With that, the guard upended the skin over Jurel's head.

If Jurel had not been so desperate, he might have yelped with indignation. He might have squirmed away from the deluge of icy water. He might have glared at the petty man. He might have done
something
. But he was desperate. Cold water washed over his head and his chest, trickled along hurts that he had not even realized were there until the water touched them, biting at first, then blessedly soothing. He opened his mouth, felt lips crack and felt water pour in and mingle with the metallic taste. He drank until the water stopped and he sighed, wishing there was more.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little less creaky.

His guard did not bother to answer. He simply sat back beside his chortling friend and ignored Jurel.

Soon, the water, so welcome a moment ago, began to freeze. It was only a mild discomfort at first, easily outweighed by the soothing effects. Within a few minutes, it began to bite. Then it burned. He began to shiver so hard it was more like convulsions while crystalline adders slithered their way down his limbs, injecting their blue venom into his veins. Fingers and toes stopped sending their signals, and it seemed they were no longer there at all. He dragged his feet up to his chest, ignoring the protests of damaged tissues and broken bones, to keep as warm as possible. It was no use. He was freezing to death. He knew it.

Soon, he grew tired. So tired. His limbs grew heavy, felt weighted down, like he wore full armor made of ice. The color seemed to wash out of everything, leaving his world a vista of muted grays that darkened until he stopped shivering. His thoughts scattered like a jar of molasses dropped on a stone floor. Maybe a little nap would help. Maybe a little sleep would make him feel better. Maybe...

His eyes closed. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat slowed.

Chapter 46

The sun shone bright white on white. The air bit with the needlelike teeth of a wolf pup with bad breath. Smoke, horse dung, sweat, steel: it all mingled to turn his fragile belly. He rolled over and gasped.
Gods,
he was sore! He grunted with bitter amusement.
Never fall off a galloping horse
, he advised himself.
Got to keep
that
useful little tidbit in mind for the next time.

Carefully, he prodded his thigh, noting the bright red sting of the fresh arrow wound, the ruddy throb of the early stages of infection, and the angry tension of punctured muscle. With a surreptitious glance about to ensure he was not watched, he placed his hand over the hasty field wrap and let his mind focus. Tingling warmth began to spread, radiating from his splayed fingers, deep into the tissues of his leg. A glow, barely noticeable in the brightness of the day, colored his hand a pale pink. The pain in his leg receded and he could almost see the infection retreating. When he was certain that the danger of permanent or disfiguring injury was passed, he let the glow die away. Feeling better, he sighed. Although aimed at his leg, he felt the effects of his spell run through his body, easing the aches and pains of bruises and abrasions. When the glow petered out, exhaustion washed through him and threatened to topple him. Arcanum, especially healing arcanum, was very difficult to perform on oneself but in this instance the benefits definitely outweighed the costs.

“Well done, Master Kurin,” a voice called from behind him. “I was beginning to worry that we would arrive with nothing but a corpse.”

Startled, he leaped up, coming to his feet with a jolt. A jolt that was amplified by the sudden stop when his shackles snapped taut, biting painfully into his ankles and wrists, and he fell back to the ground. With a groan, he rolled onto his back and waited for the wave of pain in his wrists and ankles to subside. Shackles? How had he not noticed those? Had the fall from Mikal's horse addled his wits?

“Please, no need to stand. We won't stand on ceremony in these circumstances,” the voice, quite amused, said.

Opening his eyes, Kurin looked up and saw a rather fetching young lady. Blond hair was tied behind her head in a utilitarian tail and reached to her shoulders. Eyes the color of chocolate sparkled down at him above lovely, aquiline cheekbones. The only blemish was a tiny scar that ran from the outer point of her left eye downward for no more than an inch, and had all the appearance of a thin flesh-colored tear drop. Her perfect complexion and lips, full and ripe, quirked with the tiniest hint of a smile. If she were not covered head to toe in steel plates, he imagined he would see a shapely figure, finely sculpted from hours upon hours of training.

“My name is Salma. Captain Salma Baccus,” she said as she crouched beside him, leather creaking, steel clinking, and rested her bare hands—oddly feminine, with long slender fingers and finely manicured nails, despite the callouses that hinted at her proficiency with the sword that hung at her hip—on her knees. “And you, I presume, are Kurin.”

Irritated, Kurin clicked his tongue. “And who else would you have expected, captain?”

“Your reputation precedes you, sir.” Her voice was cultured, her words crisp and clean like a mountain spring. “I would have expected no more than I have seen: a powerful man, able to perform feats that most would say are impossible,” she gestured to his thigh at that. “And, of course, everyone has heard of your sly sense of humor.” Her smile spread.

Kurin felt his breath catch and revised his previous opinion: fetching? No, this woman was beautiful. Too bad she was a Soldier of God.

“Yes, well, my sense of humor does tend to get me into more trouble than it's worth more often than not.”

She chuckled and gazed at him fondly, like an old friend, and sadly. “It is almost a shame that I must return you to Threimes to stand trial for your crimes. I imagine you would make quite the conversationalist.”

“I imagine you would match me, word for word.” He struggled to keep himself composed. “Might I ask after my young friend?”

A slight tightening of her eyes, the merest twitch of her smile.

“Of course. He is over there.” She gestured over her shoulder and when Kurin spied the lump of dirty fabric on the ground, it took him a moment to make out the lines of a man curled up in a ball. He could not make out any more than that but it was enough. His heart quailed.

“Is he all right?” Kurin asked and he hated himself for the hint of pleading that entered his voice.

“He is alive,” the Soldier told him firmly. “For how long, I don't know.”

She gave him a pointed look. He understood. He had been wrong. He had thought they were after Jurel and capturing him was a bonus. He'd had it backwards. They did not care so much what happened to Jurel. Their orders were to bring
him
in. Jurel was the bonus.

“He looks hurt. Might I tend to him?”

“No.”

“But, my lady-”

“I'm no stuck up noble,” her face reddened with anger and her eyes flashed. “You call me captain or sir. As for your friend,” her tone changed, lowered, and she nearly hissed, “he killed a lot of my men. I find myself disinclined to help him. Do you understand? Stay away from him.”

Kurin swallowed his response with an audible click. He nodded, hoping he looked properly cowed by the foolish, if beautiful, young officer. He was not sure he needed to bother. He was not sure she caught it. She was already storming away, calling two lollygagging soldiers to guard duty.

Chapter 47

When Jurel opened his eyes, the world spun in lazy, crazy circles, immediately causing his stomach to flop about like a grounded fish. With a groan, he rolled over and heard the clink of iron, felt the shackles bite his wrists. His body was a symphony of agony, from the sharp piping pains of lacerations to the baritone of deep bruises, to the bass booming of broken bones and a headache that seemed to reverberate across the worlds.

Suppressing a shiver, he gingerly worked himself to a sitting position, resting on his arms with his head hanging down when it threatened to erupt from his shoulders.

Mamma had a baby and its head popped off.

The words and the memory came unbidden to his mind. Erin and Frieza had enjoyed that silly little game where they would pick dandelions and, after chanting their childish line, they would flick their thumbs and pop the head of the flower off into the air.
“Mamma had a baby and its head popped off,” flick.
Then they would laugh. He had no idea where that silly game came from but they used to love it. They would play endlessly at it.
“Mamma had a baby and its head popped off,” flick.
Thinking back, it was a pretty morbid thing to do. Somehow, they would keep score:
“Mamma had a baby...”
Erin 4, Frieza 3. Like the rest of it, their scoring system was a mystery.