The Path of the Sword (58 page)

Mamma had a baby and its head popped off. Flick.

He groaned as the pain thrummed from one end of his skull to the other. He put a hand to the side of his head, perhaps to support his aching skull, or perhaps to see if Mamma had succeeded in popping baby's head off, and he sat very still, waiting for the nauseating pain to dampen even a little.

Mamma had a baby...

Crossing his legs under him, he was free to use both hands to hold his head in place. A noise, strange. He heard a noise. What was it? A voice? Yes. Focus.

“A little water should help with that,” a soothing voice said, and Jurel cringed—
Mamma had a
baby..
.

When he managed to slit one eye open, he caught sight of a set of highly polished steel greaves standing in the mud no more than a foot from him.

“What?” he croaked.

“Water. A bit of water would help with the ache.”

Water? No, no. The last time he had asked for water, a spiteful guard had doused him and left him to freeze. Spring was coming. It was only a few short weeks away, but the world was still fully in winter's terrible grasp. No, no water thank you. He had no urge to be soaked in concentrated liquid winter again. He waved the intruder away. Or he thought he did. He was not entirely sure.

At his side, a creak of leather and a clink of steel told him the guard crouched beside him.

“Come on, now,” the voice said gently, soothingly, as though Jurel was a wild horse who would buck and flee if startled, “Water will do you some good. Here.”

Something nudged him in the shoulder and he cringed. Something nudged him in the mind and he cringed again.

“
Take the water, Jurel.”

With a cry, Jurel snapped his eyes open, ignoring the blinding stab of light—
...baby and its head popped off—
and he frantically searched the camp. It looked different somehow. There were still tents and fires. There were still men, half-armored, sitting and eating or performing duties and tasks of all sorts, from honing swords and polishing bits of armor, to cooking and cleaning. Sentries paced the borders of the camp while grooms tended to horses, filling makeshift troughs with oats, and checking hooves for damage, brushing coats and chatting idly amongst each other. But the horses were picketed in a different location. The tents were in the wrong spots. Dimly, he understood that he had been unconscious while the camp had moved. The surroundings outside the camp looked the same. The same anonymous stretch of river, the same regiment of trees. The same road.

None of that was important. Where had that voice come from? He scanned the camp and there, at the far end, Kurin was eying him intently. When Jurel started in surprise, the old man smiled and winked.

“
Take the water.”

Dumbfounded, Jurel reached up to the waterskin that still pressed against his shoulder, and drank deeply until his gut felt it must erupt from the pressure of an ocean.

When he lowered the skin, he looked his benefactor in the face. A young man stared back at him with sad eyes. No more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, the smooth-cheeked young man was obviously a new addition to the platoon. The veterans were grizzled, scarred and scratched from countless battles, and had leathery skin that spoke of countless hours spent under the sun. Anything their eyes touched seemed to wither under the fevered glare of men and women who had killed in the name of their god, in the name of holy righteousness. The soldier gazed at him with sad eyes that still harbored a ray of hope as if his armor and his black-crossed scarlet tabard had yet to crush him under the weight of the deeds they would heap on him.

He tried to smile but it felt stiff, as though he wore a wooden mask. “Thank you,” was all he could manage to mumble as he looked down to his feet.

The young man cleared his throat and kicked a stone at his feet. “Well,” he began and broke off when his voice squeaked. Just a little. “Well,” he said, more gruffly, forcing his voice into a false basso, “I have been ordered to see you to Threimes. If I am to be your nursemaid, I will not see you drop dead of thirst.” He looked as if he would say more. Then he looked embarrassed as if he had said too much. Then he cleared his throat again. “If you need anything, my name is Corporal Gaven.”

The young soldier had taken three steps when Jurel asked for food.

Gaven turned back. “What?”

“Might I have a bit of food?” Jurel repeated, trying to ignore the throb in his head.

Gaven nodded and gestured to a burly soldier. “Bring him food. Now.”

“Yes sir,” the soldier grunted and hurried off to the fires.

“Anything else?” Gaven asked with one raised eyebrow, shifting his weight from foot to foot, obviously impatient to see to his other duties.

“No.” Jurel hesitated. Then he extended his hand, wincing when the clink of iron dragged his other hand forward too. “My name is Jurel.”

Gaven stared at the outstretched hand as if it might bite him. Slowly, he reached his own hand out and gripped Jurel's. For all his lack of age or experience, for all his lack of imposing size that soldiering would undoubtedly provide him with in the next few years, his grip was viselike.

“Charmed. Do me a favor. Don't try anything foolish. Lieutenant Higgens was quite clear with his orders: he prefers that you arrive in Threimes alive. But if you pull any funny shit...”

He did not need to finish. Jurel got the message. No funny shit.

Once the young soldier was gone, Jurel lay back down and stared at the sky. Injured, captured, and being taken to some city he had only ever heard of in stories to be tried for some crime that he did not even know had existed until a few weeks ago. Heresy? Kurin had explained that, ideally, it was a crime against God. But in this case, it seemed to be a crime against the priesthood. He was to be burned on a pyre because he traveled with an old man that, in reality, he barely even knew. That did not seem particularly fair.

“
Stop moping. Here comes your food.”

Just as Kurin's voice came into his head, a shadow came into his view.

“Here.”

Brusquely, the soldier handed Jurel a bowl, plain and wooden, that smelled of wet socks. Wrinkling his nose, Jurel prodded the gray goo with a spoon. With a snort, the soldier kicked Jurel.

“Be thankful for it, boy,” he grated. “Up to me, you could starve to death.” Then he stomped off.

“Thank you,” Jurel called sweetly after him.

“
Don't antagonize them, Jurel.”

“How are you-”

“
SSSSHHH! Don't say anything out loud. Think it and I'll hear you. I can't do this very much. It's very difficult with an untrained mind but at least we can communicate a little. Any thoughts on how to get out of this mess?”

Deflated, Jurel shook his head, belatedly realizing that Kurin probably could not see the gesture. “
No,”
he tried. Jurel had been wondering what Kurin was cooking up, certain that the resourceful old man would have some ideas on how to escape. “
You have no thoughts?”

“
Plenty of thoughts. Nothing certain. As lax as they seem, they're watching us like hawks. It's as though they expect us to try to escape.”

“
Aren't we?”

“
Of course.”
Kurin's amusement tinkled clearly in Jurel's head. It sounded almost like the fool was having fun. Irritated, Jurel took a hesitant bite of the slop he had been given while Kurin continued. “
The shackles won't be a problem. A bit of arcanum and poof. Gone. The horses and gear on the other hand...they will be a problem.”

Jurel understood. Although they could see their horses picketed with the others—heavily guarded, they had no idea where their things were. If they were to survive an escape attempt, they would need at least enough food to reach town. As nice as Gaven seemed, asking him for enough food to last a week might not be a shining moment in the annals of bright ideas. Perhaps if they could get a hold of a bow and some arrows. Then Jurel could hunt for their food. But then he did not want to leave without his sword. He still hated the thing, but it was the only item he had left that reminded him of Daved. Of home. Then again, burning on a pyre because he was too attached to a sword was not too intelligent either, now was it? That settled that.

“
A distraction.”

“
Yes. That would do. But until we have a better idea on how things stand, we wouldn't get very far. Besides, you're in no shape to go anywhere.”

He was right. Jurel ached everywhere. Moving was a masochistic endeavor. Moving quickly enough to escape would probably kill him.

“
No matter, Jurel. We have weeks before we reach Threimes. With the way you heal, we should be able to play our hand soon—whatever that may be.”

“
But what about-?”

“
Enough for now. I begin to tire. Besides, you have company. We will speak later.”

There was a void in his mind, quickly filled as though Kurin's presence had been physical like a rock suddenly scooped from a pool. When Jurel looked up, he saw the same grizzled soldier who had brought him his bowl of goo approaching. He extended the now empty bowl to the soldier who sniffed in disdain.

“What, am I your waiter now?” His scornful expression changed to one of mock servility. Wide-eyed with false earnestness, he asked, “Shall I get you anything else, young master?”

“Someone promised me a steak.”

A part of him cringed. One of these days he would learn to watch his mouth. One of these days, he would think before he spoke. Unfortunately, for this day, it was too late.

“Why you little-” The soldier delivered a wicked kick to Jurel's leg sending a lance of pain up Jurel's thigh He lunged forward, reached down quick as a viper, hauled Jurel to his feet. “You think you're funny, eh?” he growled, and Jurel gagged on the man's fetid breath. “You think you're just a laugh, don't you?” He shook Jurel like a doll.

Out of no where, Jurel was blinded by a searing white light and arcs of sparks streaked across his vision. “You think I'm just going to stand here and-” The rest of what he said was lost as he struck Jurel a second time. Dizzy, head-exploding, Jurel's legs buckled but the soldier held him upright and struck him again. “You shit-stained little-” And again.

“Here now! What's going on?”

Jurel thought he heard Gaven call out angrily. He could not be sure. The irate soldier drew back his arm and Jurel watched in horror, unable to make himself move, unable to do more than tense, as the great beefy battle-hardened fist plowed forward and connected with his abdomen. It could not have been worse if the soldier had used a hammer.

He vomited. The goo that he had just finished choking down came out and splashed on the soldiers chest, soiling the scarlet tabard with brown-gray sludge. Roaring, the soldier released him and stepped back. With nothing holding him up, Jurel collapsed and curled into a ball, rocking himself back and forth, and groaned pitifully.

“My uniform! You dirty little-”

More agony. This time in his back.

“Stand down, soldier!” Apparently, it was not enough to stop the raging man. Another ball of pain lodged itself in Jurel's side and Jurel vomited again. “I said stand down.
Now.
”

Above him, he distantly heard scuffling noises but he did not care. He lay in a heap, curled up fetally, soiled by his own filth and blood, and mewled.

“Private, I am putting you on report for this,” Gaven roared.

“But sir, look at what the murderin' little shit did to my uniform.”

“What did you expect? You beat an injured man who had just eaten a bowlful of what our esteemed cook dares to call food. Be thankful he didn't decide he needed to piss too. And now, you've disobeyed a direct order. I will see you peeling potatoes for the next month for this. Now get out of my sight.”

He heard all of this but he could not quite make sense of it. Cooling wetness between his legs told him that he had, in fact, decided he needed to piss, but it did not matter. What mattered was laying there, as still as possible. Maybe that would lessen the pain.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he yelped, tried to escape, to cringe further away.

“It's all right,” that same soothing voice from earlier said. “He's gone.”

Who cared? The damage was done.

“Jurel? Can you sit up?”

Not wanting another beating, Jurel moved, stiff as a wooden doll, and managed to get himself into a semblance of a seated position with Gaven's help. He panted from the effort and stars whirled around in his sight, emitting jagged little bolts that seemed bent on pushing away his consciousness. Dizzily, he supported himself with hands pressed to the cold, wet earth. He tried to spit the taste from his mouth, sour and metallic. Hazily, he wondered at the blood that spattered and pooled on the ground.

“Why did he-?” Jurel croaked but broke off to cough weakly.

“I told you not to try anything,” Gaven said softly with an unmistakable tone of rebuke. “These men are right pissed off with you. You killed a lot of their friends and they would like nothing more than to make you pay for that. You need to behave yourself.”

“Yes mother.” He had heard Darren say that countless times when he had been caught at one of his pranks. His mother had used the same tone that Gaven was using on him now.

A snort followed his words. “Don't get sarcastic with me.”

“Why are you helping me?” When Gaven was silent, Jurel pushed his head up to look the young soldier in the eyes. “Why are you protecting me?”

Gaven's expression was stony. “I have my orders. I'm following them.” Then he stood and walked a few paces before asking Jurel, “Do you need anything else?”

“More water?” He was not thirsty. He just wanted to get the horrible taste out of his mouth.

“Fine.” And without another word, Gaven faded back between the tents.

“
Are you all right?
”

“
I'll live. I think.”