The Path of the Sword (70 page)

“I love you son. Never forget that, you hear?” his voice was gruff but Jurel heard the pain, the sorrow.

A thunder came from the door. Mama jumped and squeaked like a mouse. Then another. Then there was the sound of wood snapping, cracking, and it was so loud Jurel had to cover his ears. Mama squeaked again and father hugged her close. Jurel could see his lips moving. He was saying something into mama's ear but Jurel could not hear what.

The door fell in little pieces so suddenly that Jurel jumped almost bashing his head on the table above him. Men ran in, dirty men with long, oily hair and grimy faces. Men with nasty looking swords that had ugly little teeth all the way up the edge. He had seen swords before. Soldiers came in all the time with them. Like that nice soldier that brought him toys and candy, Sergeant Daved. Sergeant Daved had shown him his sword once and it did not have all those mean little teeth on it.

Two of the dirty men rushed up to mama and father and pulled them apart. Mama was thrown really hard into a corner near the fireplace and Jurel saw her head bounce like a ball. After that, she did not move. Two more men rushed in and father swung his heavy cudgel, the one he used when someone got too drunk and tried to start a fight. He hit a man in the shoulder, but right away, it was taken from him and two men grabbed his arms and held him there.

Jurel thought he should get up. Jurel thought he should tell the mean men to be nice or soldiers would get them but father said not to get up. Father told him to keep quiet no matter what. Jurel was a good boy and even though he made mama and father angry sometimes, he did as he was told. He had to. He was getting big. He was a whole five years old after all, and big boys did as they were told. Besides he was so scared he thought he might pee right there in his pants.

The men were laughing but Jurel did not hear any jokes. He heard them talking in a weird way that was all spits and grumbles and maybe that was funny to them. One man crouched down beside mama and Jurel was glad. He would help her. Then the man got up and he yelled. He was awfully angry. He kicked mother so hard that she jumped and rolled over. Her eyes were open and she was looking at him. But she was not moving and when he thought about it, she really did not seem to be looking
at
him, she was looking
past
him. At what, he wondered? He looked, but all he saw was the broken door. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was angry because the men broke the door.

A hard laugh made him turn his head back and he saw father staring at him. Jurel stared back and watched as one of the dirty men stuck his sword in father's belly. He could almost see each of those little teeth disappearing into father's white apron. Red blossomed like a rose around the sword and Jurel understood. He looked up to see father's eyes, filled with sadness and fear. Father's mouth fell open and his body shook like he was cold. But it was not cold. Especially between his legs where he discovered he really had to pee after all. He thought he saw father's lips move. He recognized the shapes the lips made even though they barely moved.
I love you.

The men dropped him, laughing a cruel laugh. One went around the bar and rummaged through the bottles of stuff that father told him he could have when he was older. A lot of them fell, and he heard the sound of cracking glass and sloshing liquid.

They stayed for a minute, laughing and yelling at each other with all those spits and sneers, and Jurel did not want to be a good boy anymore. He wanted to run. He wanted to run until his feet were sore and until his pants were dry again.

“I'm sorry father,” he whispered staring at the bulky hillock that was his father, begging, willing him to understand. “I'm a good boy. You know I am. But I'm scared.”

Then he did move. He jumped up with all the agility and speed that he could manage and he ran out the front door just as fast as the wind. He heard the men shout out behind him. He had surprised them and that made him happy. He heard footsteps behind him but he was too far ahead. They would never catch him. He was the fastest runner he knew.

He got all the way past Fallon's Butchery before white light blinded him. Pain burst in the back of his head and he saw sparkles like those fireworks father had taken him to see last year. Those were pretty.

Was he falling? It felt like he was falling but all at the same time, he did not feel much of anything. The lights started to go out. He whispered in his head, “I love you mama. I love you father.” He fell farther and farther, and the pretty lights went darker and darker until everything was black.

* * *

The sun shone so brightly that everything seemed to glow with its own inner light. A faint breeze riffled the grasses and carried the warm scents of spring, of growth and life, of
newness
. Birdsong carried on that breeze and it was as if the world was the perfect piece of art, a sculpture rendered by the greatest master ever to exist, that had a little surprise for every sense.

Jurel had enjoyed it just a short time ago, but Valik's arrival had soured that. He had decided to go down to the pond to enjoy the sunset which promised to be spectacular after such a perfect day, and that seemed a splendid idea, a wonderful way to forget Valik's constant torments. Until those drunken boys from the other farm chased him off.

Now, he barely noticed the musky scent of newly thawed earth wafting from the forest or the sweet scent of trees and flowers and grass waking after a cold winter sleep. He barely registered the brilliant coin that was the sun and how it lit everything until even the finest detail could be seen from impossible distances. He no longer heard robins calling and sparrows trilling, trading their gossips like the ladies at the farm when they scrub pots and wash dirty shirts.

When he reached the crest of the hill, his attention was entirely focused on his group of friends—and Valik—who sat in a tight circle in the grass. He glanced back over his shoulders to the group of boys who once again sat drinking from their jug, and then they were lost behind the crest of the hill.

Trembling, Jurel ran up the circle, catching a tiny bit of one of Valik's stupid stories. He told them like they actually happened. Like that time he told them he went to Grayson City far to the south. He said his father had sent him to be a soldier and he fought all sorts of outlaws. He bedded a hundred women—they threw themselves willingly at him, he assured them, because he had defeated the dread outlaw leader whose name Jurel could not remember and that did not matter because Jurel knew it was all a sham, a tale as transparent as the waters of their pond—and told them that bedding a woman was as nice as anything they could imagine. Better even than the sweetest honey pie that Marta could bake. What a crock. Even Jurel had been around long enough to know that he had never left the farm. Unless his father had sent him when he was six years old. Besides, better than Marta's honey pie? Not likely.

He broke into the story, not caring about the whore that Valik had gulled into servicing him (whatever that meant) for free and that earned him a fiery glare and snarky words from the oaf. When he finally managed to get his own story out, gesticulating wildly the whole time, the others were rightfully upset. But maybe a little too upset. He did not like the look in Valik's eyes, or Trig's. Even Darren, the mildest of them looked bent on doing something foolish.

Calming them down did not work. Anything he said seemed to bounce off them and away into thin air. His only hope was to follow them as they stomped off up the hill and toward their pond, with Valik, so angry Jurel was certain he could see a thundercloud over his head, in the lead. Maybe he could keep them from getting into trouble. They neared the other boys far too quickly for Jurel's liking. With every step, Jurel felt unease creep along his spine and down his limbs, felt slow like something physical weighed him down.

Nasty words were spoken, threats were traded and something began to happen to Jurel. A coldness wormed its way in, freezing him to his spot and even when the first blow was thrown, the first cry of pain expelled, even when Valik exhorted him to help, he could not make his limbs work. They were disconnected from him and would not listen no matter how loudly his thoughts screeched at them.

They locked in combat, arms pinwheeling and bodies twisting and turning, striking blows with all the power that boys can manage, screaming bitter rage in brittle voices made somehow bird-fragile by their ages. Still, Jurel could not move. His breathing was labored, rasping in and out and searing his throat like fire.

Then it was no longer his friends battling each other. Trig no longer swung fists, and Valik no longer called his name. It was men, large men, filthy men with oily hair and faces blackened by grime and soot. Men with vicious swords, serrated with angry teeth meant not to cut but to rend. Meant to gash flesh so that it could not be mended, so that death would be merciless and inevitable. Men who stood laughing over his father as blood stained the normally spotless apron. His father stared at him with sad, frightened eyes and his lips moved,
I love you,
before he crumpled to the ground.

He was running. He was running for his very life down a dark street and simultaneously across a bright meadow. He was screaming, mindless, an animal tormented by a cruel master until it reached its breaking point. He was falling. Always falling. Even when he opened his eyes and saw the comforting silhouette of Daved against the bright, bright sun, he was falling.

And darkness gathered, wrapping him in its sweet, cold embrace.

* * *

The fire, small as it was, warmed his body though it could not banish the chill in his heart. Outside, the storm was abating. The wind had ceased its savage howling and the snow fell gently. He sat in the high backed chair at the table he knew so well, taking a long pull from his tankard, keeping his lonely vigil for just a while longer. The alcohol did not warm his heart though it filled his belly with fire. The dining room was quiet at that hour. It would have been quiet on any normal day anyway; everyone would have sought their beds hours ago. But this day was not normal. No, this day was not normal at all.

He sat, buried in his own thoughts. Bitter thoughts mostly, introverted thoughts. Thoughts of life and death, thoughts of good and evil and on the nature of the world. Idly, he ran his hand along the polished surface of the table, barely registering the tiny nicks marring the slick smooth expanse that glowed even in the dimmest light.

He blew out his breath. His thoughts were indeed dark and they dragged him down, weighted with stone as they were, slumping his shoulders and causing his head to sag. Or maybe that was the ale. Regardless, they served no useful purpose and he pushed them away.
What will
be, will be,
he thought. Life was just...life. Sometimes there was good and sometimes there was bad but what was important was the battle to keep going, no matter what.

As this thought passed from consciousness through the fine line of darkness into the subconscious, he heard the front door open. He raised his head just in time to see a shadow flow by, indistinct and soundless.
Now who could that be at this time of night?

His answer came quickly when the shadow returned and the flickering light of the dying fire outlined hard features wracked by grief, showed red-rimmed, bleary eyes crazed by loss, and hair that could easily have doubled as a sparrow's nest.

Valik roared at him. The words were unimportant. To Jurel it was simply the roar of an injured animal. An animal whose territory had been invaded. An animal who had learned how to tip a glass. When Valik stepped forward menacingly, the combined stenches of rancid sweat and sickly-sweet alcohol like rotting corn, assaulted Jurel's nose.

Jurel stood and his belly knotted alarmingly, sloshing suddenly sour ale. He knew how this must end. He knew and yet he still tried to stave off the inevitable. His voice low and sad (but not scared, oh no! Animals can sense fear), he tried to console his long-time nemesis.

The only thing his compassion achieved was to rile Valik even more and the young man took a step forward raising his fist like a sword in front of him. He tried again. This was not a time for belligerence. This was not a time for old animosities. Galbin was dead. Fallen from a stupid roof to the stupid ground and he broke his stupid neck. This was a time for sharing the memory of the man they both honored and loved.

The first answer he received was a hand that suddenly clenched his shirt front and drunken threats from a fool who did not care about anything but his own pride. The second answer was a blow to Jurel's cheek that rocked him and sent stars flitting across his vision. He pried himself loose, heard and felt the fabric of his shirt tear.

Stepping back he raised his hands, palms out, declaring truce. More slurred words, quieter now, loaded with loathing, and suddenly he staggered under another mighty swing. Then, he saw his father. Cruel men surrounded him, held him up and laughed. He did not know that laughter could express so much savage rage. He saw a rose blossom on his father's apron. He saw a hilt sticking out right in the middle of that rose.

His father looked up, slack-jawed, caught Jurel's eyes with his own and as cruel laughter sullied the air of the room that had held so much joy in better days, Jurel saw his lips move.
I love you
.

He did not fall though. Should he not be falling? For some reason he thought so, believed it so strongly that he tensed, waiting for the impact. The dirty men disappeared like smoke on the wind, the evil laughter faded, leaving an echo that sounded far off, an echo that stretched into the sudden silence, too stubborn to realize that it no longer existed, and then that too was gone.

His father did not fall.

He rose to his feet and walked to the table that Jurel occupied, and took the seat across from him, and their eyes met, creating a bridge over the coarse wood. He smiled and in that smile, Jurel found something he had lost so long ago on that very day.