The Path of the Sword (62 page)

Finding out that Kurin had already been gone more than a week, presumably with Jurel in tow, well, that had been more difficult.

“Aye. My kid. Stupid of me.”

“Well, no matter. I'm sure he's doin fine. If he's anything like you, he'll be an officer before the week is out. Then it's all easy sailin for im. I'm sure of it.” Finishing his tankard, he gestured to Karn who rolled his eyes and drew another. “I heard somethin else though,” Janks said in a low conspiratorial voice, scootching his stool forward until he was only a handspan from Daved.

“Aye? You're wife was found in another man's bed again?”

Janks guffawed. “No. Not tonight. That I know of anyway,” his eyes sparkled for an instant then dimmed and he was serious again. “Listen Dave. Tanner up t'other end told me someun's been askin fer you. Some short feller but wide like a bull. Walks with a hunch and a limp like he's hurt or somethin.”

“A short, injured man is asking about me,” he said in a monotone. Daved was not too certain that he cared. His work on the sixth tankard was progressing apace and his head was full of cotton for it. “Thanks. I'll keep it in mind.”

“You should. Don't know what he wants but...” He left the thought unfinished and stared meaningfully at Daved as though he thought Daved's own imagination could fill in the blanks. Daved's sodden wreck of an imagination. The same imagination that would soon start to forget what his name was. Nice fellow, Janks, but none too bright sometimes.

“Thanks.”

He did not notice the man that took the stool on his other side until a gravely voice called out to Karn for a round and a meal. The man was stocky, short. He wore a green cloak that looked new and his attention rested on Daved, all too intent.

Fine then. Maybe Janks had something between his ears after all. A little.

“You Daved?” he asked.

Daved tensed, warily eying the stranger. Being an ex-soldier, he knew the bearing. This man was trained. From the way he sat to the way nothing seemed to escape his attention, Daved knew this man was a professional. From the aura of danger that he emitted (the same aura that Daved's friends noticed around him though they never mentioned it), he knew that this man was dangerous. Even hurt, this man would be a formidable, maybe insurmountable, opponent in battle.

“What's it to you?”

“I'm looking for Daved. I have news of his son.”

All thoughts of danger fled. This man knew Jurel. His mind cleared, the fog of intoxication parting like a curtain when adrenaline seeped into his system. An injured soldier had traveled who knew how far to give him news of his son. Was Jurel hurt too? Or worse. Was he...? No. Not that.

“I'm Daved,” he said, his voice tight.

The man smiled and that too Daved recognized. It was the hard smile one soldier gives another when there's trouble afoot.
“Captain's dead and we're surrounded by pissed off cavalry that outnumber us twenty-five to one,”
that smile said.
“See you on the other side.”

“Perhaps we should find a more private place to speak. My name is Mikal.”

Chapter 52

When asked, Gaven had reckoned that they were only two days from the great city of Threimes. That would not give them much head start. They needed to act. They needed to move. Their escape plans had been put on hold for too long. They had not had much choice; Jurel had taken much longer to heal from his wounds than expected. Probably due to the near constant beatings he received when one soldier or another snuck into his tent, bent on exacting revenge for comrades slain by his hand.

The sun began its reluctant descent in the west, though it was hard to tell with the iron gray clouds that covered the land from horizon to horizon. Only the barely perceptible darkening of the sky warned that nightfall was just a couple of hours away. It was a warm day, a little above freezing, and Jurel could smell spring in the air like the promise of a thousand flowers kissed by a thousand bees. The snow was melting, leaving muddy patches so the land looked like an oversized pinto, and the road itself was more mire than anything.

As usual, the day's march was uneventful. Jurel kept himself occupied by trying to communicate with Kurin with that mental link Kurin had said was a 'Sending'. It was not an easy thing to do while walking. Indeed, Kurin told him several times that even he, with decades of experience, found anything more than a few words difficult unless he was lying down and undisturbed. Jurel persisted and by the time they made camp, he was becoming fairly proficient but not before he had scraped hands and knees several times when his feet found rocks or ruts that his distracted eyes did not. Making matters worse were Gaven's constant interruptions. Jurel liked the man despite their situation, but he had an unfortunate propensity to talk. Usually, just as Jurel was reaching that most delicate point in the process where even the tiniest break in concentration meant failure. All in all though, Kurin was very pleased with his progress.

The first time Jurel had succeeded in reaching Kurin he had heard the old man yelp from where he walked at the other end of the line. Apparently, Jurel had had all the subtlety of a rampaging rhinoceros. With a thorn in each of its feet. In heat. Kurin had scathingly rebuked him for his clumsiness, told him to calm down. There was no need to yell. Properly contrite, Jurel had tried over and over, sometimes successful, sometimes not, until finally, Kurin begged him off.
“Enough for now,”
the thought echoed in his mind.
“Too much more and we'll be too tired to do anything later but sleep.”

Jurel relented in his efforts. The old man was right. He was getting tired. Besides, he was confident that when the need arose, he would be able to make contact. If he did not, then certainly Kurin would.

Some time later, after the sky had darkened from iron gray to slate and torches had been lit along the line, Lieutenant Higgens's voice drifted back to where Jurel walked, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Another day's march was at an end.

One of his earliest memories was of the time his father, his real father, had taken him to a festival one night. Jurel could not recall which festival but he recalled people, hundreds of them,
thousands
, milling about in a large square at the center of a city whose name he could not bring to mind. An eerie silence had settled on the crowd and Gram had pointed to the sky.
“Look there, Jurel.”
Sitting on his father's shoulders, he followed the finger until high overhead, a burst of light erupted. Bright yellow lines of fire, bright as day, had spread from a central point so that there appeared to be a cartwheel made of light high in the sky. Gram had called them 'fireworks'. There had been many more after that, all different colors and sizes, shaped like wheels, mushrooms, flowers, and he seemed to remember one that looked like a dog, but it was that one, that first one that Jurel remembered most clearly.

With their torches, the soldiers reminded Jurel of that one burst. As soon as Higgens's voice reached them, they spread, their torches leaving blazing trails shimmering in the night air, in a wide circle; there was a sudden frenzy of activity to set their camp and dig in for the night. Every evening they performed the same ritual and every night, Jurel felt his throat tighten with ancient sorrow. Only Gaven was left to stand guard over Jurel and up ahead, Kurin stood beside Captain Salma's horse.

The tents went up, growing from the earth under the steady, disciplined hands of Soldiers and fires appeared at three different points. Jurel watched very carefully. He needed to know the entire layout of the camp tonight. The horses were picketed a few yards from the farthest tents, their reins tethered to the one wagon the platoon had brought to store their supplies—they did not need more; a stop at any village, and a few words from Salma always saw the cart overflowing with stuff. He imagined his sword was in that cart. He wondered if he could somehow manage to retrieve it.

As if sensing his unease, Gaven looked askance at Jurel from his saddle. “Are you well?” he asked.

“Uh? Oh-oh yes. Yes, I'm fine,” Jurel mumbled with a weak smile. “Just tired is all.” He lay his hand across his ribs and grimaced. “Tired and sore.”

With a sympathetic smile, Gaven climbed down from his saddle and stood in front of his friend. “You need a healer?”

“No thanks. I just need to rest.”

He walked to the supply wagon, ostensibly to pull out his own tent. No one set it up for him. He had to do that himself ever since Captain Salma had grudgingly agreed to let Jurel remain unshackled. His ratty piece of canvas was not hard to find. Gathering it up, more carefully than was needed, he scanned the cart, and felt his heart leap into his throat. There, right there in front of him, the pommel of his sword glowed dully in the firelight. Beside it, he recognized the packs that he had spent weeks sleeping beside. Or on. Or under.

Satisfied, he wandered back, tent rolled up and stuffed under his arm, found a spot not far from where Gaven was setting up his tent and he erected his own as quickly as he could. He wanted to get inside. He wanted to tell Kurin what he had seen. It would be tonight. Stifling his excitement, he set up his bedroll, foregoing the rickety wooden frame that kept him up with its creaking.

His brazier kicked up its first flame when Gaven entered, followed by a lean woman with gentle eyes.

“I know you said not to bother, but you looked sore so I brought the medic.”

“I'm fine, Gaven. Really. I feel much better,” Jurel said. He hoped Gaven did not hear the begging tone of his voice. He did not have time for this.

“Nonsense, young man,” the medic said with a gentle smile. “Gaven tells me you favor your side. Take your shirt off and let me see.”

With no alternative, Jurel complied. Perhaps he could get this over with quickly. Crouching beside him, the medic, wearing corporal's bars deftly ran her fingers along Jurel's ribs, mumbling to herself the whole while. “Hmmm. Nothing too serious.” She poked and Jurel jolted. It tickled. “A few bumps, some bruising...hmmm.” She was a very pretty woman. She reminded Jurel of Erin with her gold spun hair and blue eyes. She wore no armor and although her uniform left her looking shapeless and generic as uniforms are wont to do, there were hints of curve and valley where her outfit pressed tight against her skin. Her figure was spectacular, the kind that men dream about from the age of adolescence. Her eyes pored over his flesh far too thoroughly for his liking as she ran fingers and palms down various parts of his torso, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. Gaven noticed and chuckled.

“You dirty knave you. She's a healer. You're her patient. No more,” he said which made Jurel heat up even more.

Amused, the medic glanced up. “Don't worry,” she smiled knowingly. “It happens all the time.”

He prayed fervently, silently entreating all the gods of all the known worlds, that she would not look farther down.

“You don't look too bad,” she said, leaning back from him to rest comfortably on the balls of her feet. “Surprising really, considering the injuries you sustained.” She considered him for a moment before nodding to herself. “Tell you what. I think all you need is a good night's sleep so I'll give you a drink that will let you sleep comfortably.”

“
No
,” Jurel cried far too loudly.

Both Soldiers eyed him, their expressions suddenly stony. “I-I mean, thank you but those potions leave me groggy and sick the next day. We're not far now, right? You said two days, Gaven? That's not far. I'll be fine.”

They continued to stare. He began to grow exceedingly uncomfortable. He thought he could already hear the shackles reclosing around his wrists and ankles, feel the cold bite of the iron. He had ruined it. They knew. He kept a smile plastered on, hoping it would encourage them to leave him alone. It was the medic that saved him.

“Those elixirs do tend to have unfortunate side effects. Some have complained of feeling hung over the next day.” She nodded. “It is up to you, of course.”

“I don't want to walk all day feeling like I'm going to sick up,” Jurel said. “I can handle a little soreness.” His eyes stayed on Gaven who was looking at him with a hint of suspicion. “Really, I'm fine, and after an entire day of marching I'm sure I'll have no trouble sleeping.”

That seemed to do the trick. Gaven's eyes softened and he nodded. A smile broke across his features and he asked, “So then, are you up for a game of Bones while we wait for mess?”

Careful not to show his disappointment, Jurel nodded. “Sure,” he said.

He desperately wanted to contact Kurin but considering how close he had come to ruining everything, well, that would have to wait.

* * *

“Bones!” Gaven cried out triumphantly as he displayed his hand of four Skeletons, three Royals, two Knights and a Jester. Jurel sighed and threw his own hand face down on top of the pile between them on his bedroll.

“You've got all the luck,” he grumbled and Gaven laughed.

Their platters were on the ground near the door, wiped clean of the less than stellar slop Gaven had brought them. They had played a dozen hands of this frightfully complicated yet enjoyable game since finishing their food and Gaven seemed ready to play a dozen more. He would; he had only lost two hands.

“What time is it?” Jurel asked.

He had to admit he was enjoying himself. Time spent with Gaven was always enjoyable. The young Soldier was quick-witted and engaging. He had a black sense of humor that always made Jurel laugh. They grew ever closer during Jurel's confinement, but it was well past time to shoo Gaven out. It would soon be time for him and Kurin to play their own cards. Kurin had tried to contact Jurel twice already but of course with Gaven sitting beside him, it was impossible to answer.

“Oh, I would imagine it's somewhere near midnight,” Gaven replied. “One more hand?”

Damn it. “Okay. One more. Then you have to bugger off. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Beauty sleep? You'll need to sleep a whole year through for that,” Gaven retorted and they laughed.

Jurel shuffled and handed out the cards, but only half of his mind concentrated on the game. The other half played out scenario after scenario in anticipation of everything that might happen that night. Best case was that they would slip out with no one the wiser and be hours away before anyone noticed their absence. Worst case was that they would both be killed in the attempt but that did not matter. They would be dead in a few days anyway. Best at least to try.