The Path of the Sword (59 page)

“
Gods damn it, boy! You gave me a scare. Don't go riling them up. You need to behave yourself.”

“
Yes mother.”

He could not help himself; in spite of the pain, he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

Chapter 48

Things were not going well. Four of his men were dead courtesy of an ambush, two of his scouts were barely fit to travel after he had made an example of them for not finding the ambushers that had waited for them in a stand of trees, and his master was definitely getting impatient with him. To top it off, Kufix, his lieutenant and most trusted advisor, had begun eying him askance, as if it was his fault that events had started to slip from his grasp.

Xandru stood atop a rise, lost in thought. He barely noticed the steel gray of the clouds, the nip in the air, or the smell of approaching snow. What he did notice was the silence. His men had been as excited as boys when they set out on this expedition and it was often all he could do just to keep them quiet. Now they spoke barely a word, only enough to pass on vital information or instructions for the daily running of their camp. Where before the camp had been alive with tales of bravery—most ridiculously far-fetched, eliciting laughter and derision—and jokes, now all he heard were infrequently grunted requests, “More food,” or “Give me the whetstone.”

Certainly, he himself had something to do with the morale of his men dropping so low. He was pushing them hard. These men were strong, battle-hardened, some of the best in all the lands, but even when the strongest of them flagged from the grueling pace, he still drove them relentlessly. He did not have much of a choice though, did he? His master had made the price of failure abundantly clear.

So he drove them, and they began to grumble amongst themselves, where they thought he would not hear, that he would kill them all, and his closest friend looked at him when he thought he could not see like he was some sort of monster.

The worst of it all, and maybe a blessing in disguise, was that since his master had shown him the whereabouts of their target that day nearly three weeks ago, he had received no new information. He had no idea where the young man was, but at least he had not had to face the master's ire. That last was small comfort. The day of reckoning would come soon, one way or another. Of that he was certain. His only hope was that he would get lucky and happen upon his target.

Xandru roused himself from his reveries and returned to the camp shouting orders, angry with himself for indulging in such foolish thoughts. Time to get moving.

* * *

“And so Gaorla looked down upon the cold masses and said, 'Yea, I shall provide you with shelter from the winter that I have created,' and the people rejoiced.”

“
Amen!”

“And He gazed with all his eternal love at the starving, and He said, 'I shall provide sustenance so that you may live,' and the people rejoiced.”

“
Amen!”

“He then turned to a young man whose name was Shoka and He said, 'I shall place you above all, my son, so that you may guide my people into prosperity and health,' and the people cried and bowed to their new Grand Prelate.”

“
Amen!”

No matter what his mood was, no matter how bitter he was, Thalor was always able to conduct a sermon with the best of them. He was proud of that fact. It was a skill that had taken a long time to master. It was not easy, after all, to gaze serenely at the massed congregation when all he wanted to do was kick things, choke people, and drink.

Damn that Calen! Damn him to the deepest pits of the underworld! His soldiers were bringing Kurin within the next few days.
His
soldiers! Thalor's men had been tracking them from a discreet distance for the past three weeks as they made their way north. He himself had been keeping an eye on the remainder of the platoon from his new scrying bowl.

That still irked too. It had taken him hours of painstaking work to consecrate his new bowl and still it did not work as well as the last one. It would take months to get it just right. With one careless act, committed while in a high dudgeon, he had destroyed the best scrying bowl he had ever created.

No matter. The new one served his purposes well enough and in time, it would be just as good as the last. His real concern was Calen's upcoming victory, tainted with blood though it was.

“And do you know what Shoka said?”

He paused for effect, letting his eyes roam across the congregation of peasants to catch the eye of a few lucky souls who would go home later that day and brag about how high priest Thalor had looked at them directly with his kindly, wise eyes, how Thalor had graced them with his personal attention. He hated them. They all wore filthy rags. They all stank of a midden. They soiled this grand chamber, Gaorla's own audience hall, with their very presence. They reminded him of his own parents, those festering fools that had made him live in filth until he left for better things.

The hall itself was a beautiful homage to his god. The walls were really no more than squared pillars sheathed in gleaming marble. On each side of each pillar, a magnificent stained glass window, depicting the various saints rose to meet the base of the domed ceiling whose peak soared nearly two hundred feet above the floor. Rounded pillars, twelve in all, rose from the floor in two symmetrical rows and arched delicately, high overhead to meet in the center where the ceiling peaked and between the pillars, in the wedges they created, bright, gem encrusted frescoes covered the ceiling that depicted Gaorla's creation of the world. The pillars themselves were works of art, carved with the icons of his religion. Torches hung from each one, spilling light onto the polished marble floor, the gleaming pews, the rapt masses, which was washed away by the soft rainbows shining through the stained glass.

He stood, as was appropriate, in front of the altar at the end of the hall. The altar, a table carved of more marble, this of the purest white, was covered in the standard linen cloth, snow white with a red cross dyed expertly into the center, and on top of that stood two golden candelabra each holding twelve candles. High overhead, a golden chandelier, seemingly too delicate to hold up its own weight cast a warm golden glow that bathed Thalor in a light that, from the audience, looked like Gaorla himself was shining His holy light down upon His chosen one.

The ragged masses, dressed in brown and dirty purple rags, looked like bruises on the splendor of the hall. They stared wide-eyed at him, expectantly awaiting his next words. They all knew the story; it was a testament to Thalor's ability as an orator that they were completely enthralled.

Satisfied with their attention, he continued, “He said, 'O, my God, you have saved your people. You have brought hope and peace. You have shone your blessings down upon us, your humble servants. But I am not worthy of the gift you have bestowed upon me. Please, I beg you. Choose another, more worthy than I.' He dropped to his knees with these words, and prostrated himself at Gaorla's feet.”

A quiet moan rose from the congregation and Thalor stifled a disdainful sniff. They knew this story.
Everyone
knew this story. Why did they act as if they were in suspense? Boors.

He lowered his voice, coloring it with sadness and pride. “Gaorla knelt in front of his most humble servant and laid a hand upon his shoulder...”

Yes, everyone knew this story. No one better than Thalor. As he recounted the story, he let his thoughts go elsewhere to more pressing matters. Calen would have his victory, balls and ashes! There seemed no way to avoid it. He had planned and hoped and dreamed for weeks that some way may appear before him to turn the tables.

“...and he said...”

Nothing appeared. Nothing obvious. Nothing that was not too risky. In a moment of desperation, he had toyed briefly with the idea of sending out his own platoon to annihilate Calen's force but that would have left far too many threads unaccounted for, far too many ways for his own involvement to become known.

“...'My son, you have proven yourself worthy. Your humility only serves to strengthen that proof.' He smiled down upon his most favored servant and bade him to stand.”

No. His only option—and it was not much of an option, really—was to let Calen have this victory. It was tainted. Maten was not happy with the losses to his men. Calen, though not fallen from grace, was only a small step away from complete unrecoverable humiliation. Perhaps when the remainder of the platoon arrived with their prisoners, an opportunity would present itself.

“'From this day forth, you will be my voice among the people. You will tend to them and care for them. You will lead them to great things.' And Shoka wept. He wept tears of joy. He wept tears of love for his God. And he turned, weeping, to his people and he said...”

That was all there was to it. Thalor had lost this round, but he would take home the prize. He
would be wary. He would be observant. As soon as his opportunity arrived, he would take it in both hands and he would destroy Calen once and for all. And he would get his prelacy. He was not an ambitious man, not by any means, but he was not aiming too high, after all. He was simply striving for that which was rightfully his in the first place.

“...My friends, Gaorla has spoken. I will lead you into a world of peace. I will tend to your needs and see to your prosperity. I will do this and I will pray to Gaorla, the one true God, and he will guide my steps. Follow me, for I will see it done as our God has commanded!”

Once he had his prelacy, it would be a small step to Grand Prelate. No, he was not ambitious. But he would dutifully take that which was rightfully his.

“
Amen!”

Chapter 49

Thankfully, they had given him use of a small tent. The late season storm that raged outside would have made laying in the snow unbearable. There was not much of anything in his tent, which was little more than a piece of leaky canvas staked to the ground and supported in the center by a rotting pole, but the furnishings were irrelevant. He was out of the wind. Besides his cot—and the pathetic moth-eaten blanket on the rickety wooden frame could barely be called that—there was a brazier that provided just enough warmth to keep him from shivering.

Jurel sat on his cot and stared at his hands. Nearly four weeks had passed since he and Kurin had been captured. Since Mikal had been run through and left for the vultures. Only four weeks and he was in remarkably good health. His ribs were only sore when he moved the wrong way, the gash on his arm was little more than a scar, and his head, well that was like night and day. Barring the occasional bout of abuse that he endured at the hands of one vengeful Soldier or another, he was almost completely back up to snuff. He could probably start training again—if he were not still shackled of course. And if he had his sword.

The tent flap opened, letting in a gust of snow-laden wind that swirled around the cramped confines like a dervish, and Gaven, hunched over to clear the low hanging tent, smiled at Jurel.

“Good afternoon, Jurel,” he said, stretching his hands out to the brazier. “Miserable day out there.” Fully armored as though he was waiting to ride into battle, and covered from head to toe in snow white trousers and cloak, he looked like one of the legendary snow beasts that reportedly roamed the eastern mountains. Rubbing his hands vigorously over the glowing embers, he sighed. “Much better.”

“Hello Gaven,” Jurel said. “What brings you to my neck of paradise today?”

Though he was his captor, Gaven had proven to be conscientious and kind. He was more like a host than a jailer and over the past few weeks, Jurel had found himself involuntarily liking the young Soldier. He had an easy going attitude that Jurel found quite disarming despite the less than ideal circumstances, and he was certain that if they had met under different conditions they would have been fast friends.

“Oh, not much,” Gaven replied airily. “I just thought I'd pop by for some tea and biscuits.” He searched the tiny tent with disappointed eyes. “I see you weren't prepared for company. Well, I suppose if there's no tea or biscuits, a little chatter will have to suffice.”

His face took on a dolorous expression and Jurel could not help but laugh at his friend's morbid humor. Gaven joined in, laughing quietly, then they settled into a comfortable silence.

The third son of a minor earl in the south, Gaven had joined the Soldiers of God because there really was not a whole lot for him at home. His eldest brother, Morgan, hated him, slighted by the fact that Gaven had won the heart of a young lady that Morgan had wanted to marry, and he had been turned out almost as soon as their father had died of heart failure, some two years gone. Being a pious, idealistic young man with nowhere else to go, he had joined the Soldiers of God in the hope of being able to help bring peace.

It was an unfortunate choice. He had been disillusioned within weeks of joining. The corps was not at all what he had envisioned. There was no saving innocents from barbaric invaders, no repairing flood washed homes, no providing aid to the less fortunate. There was only the hunting down of men and women that some priest or other heard had broken one tenet or another. But, having signed a five year contract of service, he was bound for another three years. He had made it abundantly clear to Jurel that the moment his service was up, he would bow out gracefully and without hesitation. He had his inheritance to live on and he was certain he could find something more palatable than hunting and burning folk who were guilty of no more than being overly gifted healers who mentioned off-handedly that Valsa must have guided their ministrations, or of having the wrong book in their collection.

If he chose to apply himself, Gaven's natural charisma and intelligence would have gotten him far in the Soldiers of God. Perhaps all the way to major or colonel. He was thankful then, that Gaven had no intention of staying on. Once Jurel and Kurin put their plan into effect, once they escaped, Gaven would probably be in for a tough time. He was sorry for it.