Author: Remi Michaud
Date: 2011-09-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: Rites of Ascension II: Blood of WarThe exciting sequel to Rites of Ascension I: The Path of the SwordThe Journey Continues.After his foster father's brutal murder, Jurel Histane unleashed powers beyond his comprehension, perpetrating a bloodbath that left him horrified to the core of his soul.That day, he discovered the truth. He knows who he is, he knows what he is.And now he is on the run, accompanied by his only friends: Kurin, a Salosian healer; Mikal, the commander of the Salosian army; and Gaven, once Jurel's enemy.He is on the run from a relentless foe: the Soldiers of God, the military

Rites of Ascension II:

Blood of War

By Rémi Michaud

Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved

To my children, Leanna and Alex.

Daddy loves you.

Prologue

Threimes wished he had never gotten out of bed that morning. He wished he had just rolled over, pulled the blankets tight to his neck and closed his eyes again. But he had not. As if he'd had any choice in the matter. Piotre, his valet, had come striding in at the crack of dawn, when the light filtering through the windows of the king's bed chamber was still more muted gray than white or gold, had tossed aside the velvet curtains of his canopy, and smiled dazzlingly at him as he pouted.

“Rise and shine, Majesty!” he had said cheerfully. “Tis another good day to be alive.”

That's when he should have decided. Right then. He could have told Piotre to bugger off. He could have rolled over and pulled his blankets to his shoulders, maybe over his head.

Because no more than three hours later, he sat in the mammoth throne that had been installed the week before, the great gaudy thing that made him feel like a child when he sat in it, trying not to yawn, listening to the ridiculous bickering of the two ridiculous men who stood before him. The men may have been ridiculous, but the discussion was not. His final decision would have far reaching effects.

Salosian or Gaorlan? That was what he had to choose. For him, for his kingdom, still only a generation old, his father having pulled it out of the ashes left by two bitter (and supremely powerful) rivals, for the future.

But at the moment, the two lead delegates, Shoka and Salos, were bickering like two senile old men.

Except for their ages—which Threimes thought waspishly had to be north of a hundred but was in reality closer to, say, sixtyish—the two men were as disparate as could be. Shoka was a dour, haughty man, prone to dressing in very expensive and garish robes, who demanded obeisance. Rumors had it that Gaorla himself had visited him, had blessed him, chosen him to be His representative here on earth and though there were plenty of witnesses who could corroborate it, Threimes was not sure he believed it. Most of those witnesses were Shoka's allies. Salos on the other hand, was a ball of spindly energy, with bright, laughing eyes that contrasted sharply with his simple robes.

Threimes's choice seemed obvious. Shoka was a joke. Too self-righteous, too greedy. Salos, at least, was able to show a little humility—real humility, not that fakery Shoka paraded: “Look at me! I bow to Gaorla so readily! I'm humbler than you!”— and a real desire to help the people of the new kingdom thrive. The problem was, Shoka had a lot of supporters especially among the nobility, most of whom came from the wealthier merchant families that had existed before his father had created the Kingdom of Threimes. And that meant Shoka had a lot of gold to throw around. Gold that could be used to continue the process of building Threimes into the kingdom his father, the great Threimes I, had wanted it to be.

Oh gods.

“I tell you, you heretical fool, that Gaorla has spoken to me. I am His chosen and I shall lead the church-”

“Yes, and then what?” Salos retorted with a smirk. “You want Threimes here to hand over the keys to the kingdom? The keys to the treasury? You not plumped up enough with your fancy silks and gold and stuff and such?”

Face mottling with fury—which was a pleasant change from the smugness, in Threimes's eyes—Shoka raised a fist, and hissed between clenched teeth, “I will not tolerate this from you, you filthy swine. I will not-”

“Oh spare me. I love Gaorla as much as the next man but I think if he actually chose you to be His representative, well then he obviously is capable of the simple human act of error.”

Now Shoka's face drained of blood, paling until Threimes thought he could see the bone beneath. “How dare you,” he howled. “How dare you-”

“Gentlemen,” Threimes said. He tried for authority, for strength, but with his head pounding like a miner's hammer, he was afraid it came out as more of a whine. Not very kingly. Then again, when he had been a child, he had never imagined he would be wearing a bloody crown. He had never imagined he would be required to make decisions that would affect thousands of people, millions maybe, for generations to come.

He was not cut out for it.

“Can we please lower our tones a notch? I fear your squabbling is leaving me a little light-headed.”

The two men fell silent and turned their glares on Threimes. Salos was indignant. Shoka was, once again, smug. This deliberation had been ongoing for weeks. The day of choice was quickly approaching. Which one? He thought he knew, was pretty sure of it actually. He was not proud of himself for it.

He had never been meant to be king. A merchant, perhaps a merchant prince, like his father had been before the powers that be (had been) had thrust the damned crown at him, but a king? His young self would have laughed at the very notion. His old self, his current self, still did sometimes when it was not too aghast to be able to conjure up more than a dark horror.

As for these two men, he knew who had to be chosen, who would lead the kingdom's church, for there was too much support, too much at stake.

Feeling a bit of that dark horror, trying not to shrivel under the calculated gazes of these two and of the score of others in the new throne room, he thought to himself again that he was just not very good at this.

Part 1:

The Abbey

“Without a proper contextual framework, knowledge becomes meaningless gibberish...”

-excerpt, On Logical Thinking, Geldram

Chapter 1

Rumors spread as rumors do.

The spring was quite beautiful as springs go. Crops flourished under warm rains and the warmer sun, and men were kept occupied throughout the land with the hundred sundry tasks required of farmers and merchants. Trade was brisk; the caravan routes were teeming with everything from single mules packed to overflowing with sacks and hampers, to full caravans of a dozen wagons and more, these latter normally accompanied by a dozen mercenaries for protection.

Banditry was rare, for the king had decreed that each section of road be patrolled regularly by bands of soldiers, but sometimes, enterprising young men and women, not particularly interested in performing an honest day's work, did try their hand at it. Generally much to their regret, and thick tree limbs along the caravan routes bowed under the weight of swinging bodies. Children gamboled in fields, fished and swam in ponds, or rivers, or lakes—whatever was nearby—or played in the streets of towns and villages and cities alike.

Overall, the kingdom of Threimes seemed to hum like a well oiled machine as the weather warmed and the events that had occurred in the capital city earlier that spring faded from the minds of the populace.

All seemed well as far as things went, but rumors abounded. It was general knowledge that the Soldiers of God were massing—they were not circumspect about it—though for what, no one could say for certain. Most would stop there, and change the topic—you never knew who was listening and what might give offense; the Soldiers of God were known as a prickly lot. Some few, if plied with enough ale, would whisper in dark corners of taverns that it had something to do with the terrible massacre at the temple, but there was never more information to be had, no matter how many drinks were purchased for the speaker. In fact, no one seemed to know exactly what had transpired at the temple except that it had been bad. Though rumors abounded.

Less commonly spoken of, was that the king seemed to be quietly marshaling his own army, and where there was at least some speculation as to why the Soldiers of God were massing, there was no better reason for the king to be gathering his troops than to say maybe he felt threatened by so many Soldiers of God in his city.

Word also filtered in that far to the north, the Dakariin seemed restless, but it was a distant thundercloud; there was almost nothing but vague innuendo traded only by the most paranoid souls about what it might mean.

And far in the south, there seemed to be more reports of some kind of unrest. Witnesses reported seeing ships drafting low, almost swamping under too much cargo, making their way toward the deserted northern shore of the Sun Sea.

Messengers on horseback raced through the villages on the Eastern Caravan Route; a few were waylaid by roving squads of Soldiers of God, but the messengers always fought to the death. When messages were found, they were either written in an undecipherable gibberish or they burst into flame the moment their seals were cracked.

No one seemed to know what this meant. No one seemed to know that all of these things were symptoms of the same disease. A disease that would soon blanket the land in war and blood.

* * *

Prelate Thalor Stock sat perched on the edge of his desk, idly tracing a finger along the cool smoothness of the sculpture. It was his favorite one: a jade stallion about the size of a man's head, that had been carved so skillfully, so perfectly capturing moment of stretching its legs in full gallop that sometimes, in those rare moments when he indulged in woolgathering, Thalor imagined it might leap right off its pedestal and fly like the wind. It reminded him of him: powerful, graceful, beautiful, immobile only because of circumstance, yet ready to break free and leave an indelible mark on the land.

His assistant continued to read the daily report to him but he only had the barest attention trained on the young lady. He was still fuming from the first item she had read him. Three weeks ago, that heretic bandit Kurin and his monstrous ally, Jurel, had escaped his clutches along with a traitor, one of their own Soldiers of God, leaving behind a trail of devastation and blood the likes of which had never been seen in the sacred halls of this temple. Now, the report came in that they had vanished, eluding the best trackers and spies the temple had. Fools!

Finally, the droning litany stumbled to a halt and his assistant stood fidgeting, staring at the pages in front of her as though she was busy memorizing the prelate's schedule. He allowed a small smile to ghost across his lips. Most of his assistants acted this way in his presence; he was by all reports an intimidating man. He allowed a tense moment to pass before he spoke.

“Tell me my dear,” he said, his voice so quiet, so silky, he may as well have screamed, “how did those men manage to slip past our nets?”

Her wide blue eyes flicked to his and the color drained from her as she struggled to suppress a tremble. Realizing her blunder, she hastily averted her gaze. Another smile shaded his lips though his eyes bored like ice picks. It was only right that those beneath his station should fear him.

Her pretty lips moved soundlessly for a moment before she managed to stammer, “I—I don't know, Your Grace. The trackers are flustered. They had the track one moment and the next...” She shrugged her shoulders.

She really was quite comely. Perhaps Thalor should be more pleasant toward her. It had been quite a long while since he had enjoyed the attentions of a woman. It was not a proper way for a prelate to behave; it was not accepted for any member of the clergy but it was not unheard of. There were always rumors, though the keener members knew how to keep silent. If he played his cards right, then he might enjoy a tumble or two. If she played hers right, then she may find herself in a position of greater respect, greater power.

He let the silence stretch before drawing in his breath and letting it out in a long sigh.

He affected a grandfatherly smile and regarded her. “My dear, perhaps it is time we set up a general meeting with the head trackers and...yes, include March. We will need his contacts.”

She nodded. “Yes Your Grace. Is there anything else?”

Take your robe off. Let me see if you're worth the effort. He fought to suppress a chuckle. “No. Let me know when they are all assembled. I will speak to them here.”

She curtsied and hurried from his office.

Thalor returned to his chair and rubbed his eyes. If that bloody fool Calen had not bungled things, he would not be stuck with this task. Then again, he might have thanked Calen; it was due to Calen's utter failure that Thalor was now a prelate. Yes, in retrospect, he might almost have been inclined to thank Calen. If the fat fool had not had his head torn from his shoulders by the young man, Jurel. Thalor shivered.

He would not fail. He was so much more than Calen had ever been. He would see Kurin on a pyre, he would watch as the flames licked hungrily, would listen to the screams, would smell the flesh cooking. He would see Jurel put to the question and flayed. He would see that the Prelacy remained strong.

After all, he did not want his church to be weak when he rose to his rightful position. And as soon as he completed this task, Grand Prelate Maten would most certainly name him his successor.

Behind steepled fingers, he smiled.

* * *

Gixen passed through the monstrous doors set in featureless stone and into the pitch black chamber beyond—or he supposed it was a cavern; this place was carved from the bowels of a mountain. The chamber was warm, almost hot as though there was some great furnace that sent its fires invisibly into the great blackness. Gixen marveled at the heat. It was not often that he felt warm enough to sweat. Not so far north.

He walked with a confident stride, surrounded by the only illumination in the chamber-cave, a small circle of light with no apparent source, that showed only inches of the floor around him and did nothing to penetrate the ink beyond. Like shining a light through oil. His stride was confident but (and he would never admit this out loud) he was not. There were strange things here: he heard a slithering noise like there were a hundred snakes resting in a tangled pile trying to get comfortable; and worse, far away moans, cries, screams, like a dungeon was just a stairwell away. But of course he knew the stories. There was no dungeon. The sounds were here. In this chamber. And as hot as the chamber was, he shivered. His predecessor was among them.

Fool Xandru.
We all knew you were too weak to lead us.

He walked until the circle stopped and he stopped with it. For some reason, he was very afraid (again, something he would never vocalize) of what would happen if he stepped from that circle of light into the darkness beyond.

“Ah, Gixen. So good of you to come,” his master said and his voice sounded like the pile of snakes he thought must be here somewhere, only louder. Not loud like an earth tremor, or like a roll of thunder. Nothing like that. If there had been no other sound in the chamber, Gixen would have had to strain to hear his master's words. But combined with the whispering slithers and the far away moans, the voice became easy to understand as though it was somehow fed by those other sounds, like it was a melody that became apparent only with the intertwining and counterbalancing of the harmonies. “I have a task for you.”

Bowing low—but not so far that he groveled; he hated grovelers and would not stoop to that level for anyone—he touched his hand to his forehead.

“My lord, I serve you,” he said simply, too loudly. His voice cut into the darkness like an ax and the far away song of the tormented seemed to hesitate, to go still for a moment. He winced. But, just like the circle of light, his words disappeared only inches from him, swallowed into the depths: the ax sinking into thick oil, touched it, was swallowed by it, but did not harm it.

“Of course you do,” his master said and he shuddered. Perhaps a little more care would be in order. “You will get me my prize. The prize that Xandru, my last pet, failed to get.”

There was almost a fondness when it spoke Xandru's name. Gixen could imagine that his master preened his predecessor like a spinster strokes a beloved cat in her lap. But he knew what had happened to Xandru.

“Where may I find this prize you seek, my lord? I will bring it to you.”

“Far to the south. Beyond our borders. Beyond...”

The rest of what his master said was washed away. In his mind, an image appeared, forced its way in like a violation, like a kind of mental rape that he could not fend off. He cried out but it did no good. When did it ever? He had taken part in his share of rapes. They always cried out, always screamed in terror, begged him to stop, please stop. Please no. It was what thrilled him. It was what made it special. He controlled, took what he wanted, and they feared and gave it to him. It was a connection deeper than love. Nothing was deeper, more satisfying, more all-encompassing than fear. And now he was the fearing one, he was the giver. He found it...arousing. Oh, he would enjoy this memory the next time!

The image expanded until it went to all corners of his vision, grew until it ate him, became him, or he became it. He recognized the mountain he stood in the center of but he did not see it from the center. He saw it from far above, from the eyes of a bird. A hawk maybe. A crow. He looked down and saw the town his people lived in, a haphazard collection of huts and tents strewn like scree at the bottom of the mountain about a mile north of the entrance to the chamber-cave. Beyond and to the south, he saw the great vista of his homeland, white and brown and blue. Fields blanketed by snow gave way to rocky tundra with only sporadic growths of mosses and lichens and the odd stunted tree, bent and ragged like old men who wore too little clothing and hunched for protection from the chill winds; and south, far away south, the barren wasteland gave way to a forest. A huge, great monster of a forest that sprouted too suddenly, and went on for miles and miles, leagues and leagues in every direction, and from his height, it seemed like a green quilt covered the land.

He passed over the great forest and it blurred under him, so fast was he flying. When the edge came into view and passed behind him, fields of green sprinkled with bursts of color rushed by. He saw a road like a ribbon, followed it, plotted its course from his vantage. He passed a great city that looked like a ragged mountain with its peaks and spires, that looked like an injury on the land.

He accelerated. He followed the road and it followed a river, a wide swath of blue that seemed even from that height to flow with a purpose, to be alive. Another great city, this one much, much larger than the last, spreading for miles, biting deep into the natural, into the true and good, with its stone death and its human infection. And on he went, faster and faster, over lands that were so green that emeralds would have wept with envy, so full of life that he could scarce believe it.

Villages like pricks of a thorn passed, farms and another great swath of forest passed, and then he passed over two towns, tiny from his vantage, that flanked each side of the great river. Beyond the towns, the river spread, grew, widened until it was a great inland sea, as if the towns themselves choked the river. It was a sea so calm that a perfect twin of the sun glared back at him.

The world tilted suddenly; common sense told him that he should slide eastward as though he was on a steep hill and could not keep his footing, but instead he turned left—west. The oddness confused him, nauseated him. He had never paid much attention to the ways of birds. Except as a meal, they were useless to him.

He flew for a time longer along the northern shore over another verdant swath of trees until he spied a bit of brown-gray nestled against the edge of a cliff that tumbled into the living sea. As he began to descend, he realized that he was aiming straight for the brown-gray. Soon, it resolved itself into a town of its own—no, not a town, a compound, a...monastery? He had heard of such complexes but he had never seen one before.

He slowed, saw a long building that kinked in the center so it reminded him of breaking a piece of wood over a knee. A spire rose from the center, a needle that stabbed the sky. He dropped further, and fast too. So fast the world turned to a blur, so fast he thought certain he would be dashed against the flagstones below. His guts roiled like a butter churn—which was strange to him. Did he have guts where he was? But at the last second his descent slowed and leveled off, and he flew to one of many windows set into the pale brown walls.

He flew into the window and all movement stopped so that he seemed to hover in the center of the sparsely furnished room: a cot, more like a pallet on flimsy wooden legs, a bookshelf—almost empty, except for one black book whose title he could not make out but that seemed to almost glow—and a couple of plain chairs around a wooden table. The only color in the room was a too-bright rug with silly geometric patterns in the southern style that covered the center of the floor.

As he hovered, he turned until he faced the door that presumably led to the rest of the main building. Just as his eyes focused on the door, it opened and a man strode in. Tall, very tall, muscular, with dark blond or light brown hair, the man stopped and his brow furrowed. Eighteen, or maybe nineteen turnings old, thought Gixen. Young. The young man scanned the room as though he was trying to find something though there was not much to see. He took two paces toward the cot and turned again, his head swiveling, then he stepped to the desk where he froze. His back stiffened as though he had just heard unpleasant news. Slowly he turned until he seemed to be facing Gixen and though Gixen knew it was not possible, the man's eyes, blue like the afterimage of lightning, seemed to focus on his own and he frowned.

“That is my prize,” his master whispered and Gixen shivered. “That is who you will bring to me.”

* * *

Throughout the spring and summer, industry hummed like well oiled machinery. Harvests were abundant, trade was brisk. The land was blanketed with an air of single-minded attention to work. The people smiled and gossiped and traded and worked together as always but there was an underlying edge as though all understood there were portentous events occurring that would change their lives in ways yet unknown, like an earthquake brewing just beneath the surface.

And the rumors spread as rumors do, like an infestation.

Chapter 2

Jurel had wondered for months what it would be like at the Abbey. Kurin and Mikal had told him stories of course, but the stories differed so drastically, they could have been describing two entirely different places. Kurin, being an adherent of Valsa, the Goddess of Healing, spoke of quiet days in study and meditation. He spoke of the joy and fulfillment inherent in the healing of the ill and the injured. He took on a dreamy quality as he reminisced of days spent poring over texts and tomes devoted to understanding physiology and the various ways to keep each part of the body running smoothly. Mikal, on the other hand, being a follower of the god of war—Jurel, as fate would have it—was a warrior, a swordmaster, and commander of the entire martial arm of the Salosian Order. His stories of life at the Abbey tended to be more...dramatic, involving weapons and action in lieu of meditation. Jurel had not been quite sure what to expect.

As it turned out, the Abbey was rather a dull place. Or, at least, so it seemed to Jurel. Upon arrival some few weeks back, the haggard party was met by a large delegation headed by Abbott Goromand. There had been plenty of bowing and flowery speeches welcoming Jurel to this humble place. Jurel had painted a smile on his face and thanked everyone for their graciousness and hospitality. Goromand had attempted humor: “Of course. It's not every day one gets to play host to a god!” The key word being attempted.

After Jurel attended the necessary grand welcoming feast as guest of honor (by the end of which he had found it nearly physically impossible to maintain his wooden smile), he had been assigned rooms. The Abbott himself had proudly informed him that he would be vacating his own chambers for Jurel's use. Jurel had demurred. He had no desire to displace anyone. Though Goromand had insisted, Jurel continued to decline, asking for only a bed and a table. Disgruntled, Goromand had ordered his subordinates to return his furniture to his chambers.

Once he was settled in his cozy little room, which consisted of a small but comfortable bed, a simple yet sturdy table, a bookshelf filled with dozens of titles ranging from simple treatises on farming techniques to more esoteric subjects (like the one that purported to discuss trigonometric considerations in kinetic manifestations of arcanum—even the title gave him a headache), and a thick, expensive rug from Kashya, he had settled into a rut very quickly.

For the first few days, he had wandered the compound aimlessly, sometimes joining in with the sparring soldiers under Mikal's sharp eye, or lending a hand to the construction crews who were rebuilding the southern face of the Abbey. The latter had not lasted long; as soon as word of his identity spread to the construction crews, they refused to let him so much as lift a finger, horrified at the very notion. As if he had not carried a ton of stone just the day before. They had begged his forgiveness while fawning at his feet.

Fawning! At his feet! Honestly! After he had demanded for the fifth time that they stop treating him like a crystal vase—and after he had been ignored for the fifth time—he had stormed away, utterly disgusted.

Goromand and several of the chaplains had subsequently tried to engage him in discourse. On one such occasion, he had happened upon them while they were discussing philosophy and had asked Jurel's opinion on some of the finer points of theology. Jurel had stared blankly at them, understanding approximately one word in three that they spoke.

That was when things went from aimless to mind-numbing. He soon discovered that a tutor had been assigned to teach him everything from languages, to history, mathematics, alchemy, theology, and arcanum. The discovery of his new tutor came early one morning when the sun had barely peeked over the horizon; a timid knock at the door woke him. When he grumpily swung his door open, there stood a gaunt man of middle age and little hair, fidgeting at a large tome he carried while constantly pushing little round spectacles back up the bridge of his nose and restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The brother bowed with bird-like tics and jerks, smiled nervously, adjusted his spectacles, and introduced himself as Brother Andrus. He was a devotee of Maora and had been selected—much to his deep honor, he assured Jurel—to be the one to expand Jurel's education.

That first morning, Jurel had slammed the door in Andrus's face and went back to bed.

Later, he had been visited by Kurin who had suggested it might be for the best if Jurel knew a little more about the world. Jurel had heard the rebuke in the gently spoken words, but he had argued nonetheless. What more did he need to know? He could tie his own laces, he could handle a sword, he was even a passing fair reader. Kurin had simply stared at him dolefully. He sighed, and agreed not to slam the door in Andrus's face again.

Now, weeks later, Jurel sat staring out his window into the verdant fields beyond the Abbey proper. In the distance, a band of ragged children silently gamboled under the smiling sun. Behind him, sitting at his table, Andrus continued to prattle on about some obscure mathematical principal. Jurel did not listen. He did not hear the silence that suddenly filled the space behind him as he watched the sunbathed vista that spread before him.

“Will you please pay attention, milord?”

“Hmm?”

Jurel turned, realizing belatedly that he had stopped paying attention some time ago, and focused on Andrus.

“I'm sorry Andrus. My mind wandered. What did you say?”

Andrus sighed and ran his fingers nervously through the thin gray wisps that remained of his hair and resettled his spectacles on his nose.

“You must pay attention, milord. I know this is boring to you but it would behoove you to face the world with knowledge.”

“I know Andrus. It's just-”

“You are a god-” his eyes flickered as he said this; Jurel wondered what that meant, “-and perhaps that means the knowledge I impart is useless to you-”

“No, it's not-”

“-but I think you must start somewhere. I know we are mere mortals and we must seem so small to you, but we are doing the best we can, milord.”

If anyone else had said that, Jurel might have suspected sarcasm. But he knew Andrus well enough by now to realize that sarcasm simply did not exist in his nature.

Jurel sighed and raised his hands placatingly. “Andrus, it's not that. I'm not bored because this is beneath me. You've taught me so much and I am grateful for it. It's just a beautiful day out there and I want to go do something. Use my hands, work, maybe spar a little in the yards. That's all. I'm sorry.”

Andrus sniffed. “Perhaps if you paid closer attention, these lessons would go more quickly and you could get out earlier.”

Maybe Andrus was capable of a little sarcasm after all.

* * *

Much of what he did at the Abbey that summer was boring. But he needed it. He needed to keep himself occupied. If he did not, then his thoughts inevitably turned to the spring just past and his time at the temple in Threimes. And Daved.

I love you son...

He simply did not have the necessary defenses to keep that memory from driving him mad.

I love you too, father.

He had to keep busy.

Chapter 3

There was one thing to be said about Brother Andrus: he was persistent. He was also a fidgety, prissy little man who knew a great deal about everything—and knew it—which only made sense; after all, he was a devotee of Maora. The area where Andrus did not seem to have any knowledge whatsoever was on how to be interesting. He had the singular ability of rendering even the most interesting of subjects to a procession of raw facts that were so dry they puffed dust. Jurel had never known anyone to have the ability to cause suffocation with mere words.

But by the gods, he was persistent.

Every day, over the last month, at some point during the interminable lessons, Andrus would shut his massive tome with an authoritative clump, adjust his spectacles, and say, “Now Jurel, we turn to the subject of arcanum.”

At which point Jurel would inevitably groan.

Andrus's monotonous drone that day, a thorough dissertation comparing various political ideologies, petered out and he shut his tome. Pushing his spectacles up, he said, “Now Jurel, we turn to the subject of arcanum.”

And, as always, Jurel groaned.

Arcanum, Andrus explained, was simply a process by which humans tapped the power of the gods. Through meditation and devotion, a person could connect to his or her patron god. A sort of conduit is created—the exact nature of which was unknown but there were several groups working on theories, Andrus assured him—through which a limited amount of arcane power flowed.

“And what exactly is this arcane power then?” asked Jurel, interested despite the dry bird chirp tone in which Andrus spoke.

Andrus hesitated. “We are not entirely certain. We know what it can do. We know how to use it, but we cannot say exactly what it is. Like the conduits, the power itself is being studied by many.”

“Any theories?”

Andrus adjusted his spectacles and shrugged. “Some believe it is the power of the gods. Some believe it is more than that. The latter group believe that it is the power of the universe itself and the gods are embodiments of various aspects of that universe—life, death, knowledge and so on. The arcane power that we tap, therefore, would be a miniscule fraction of the universe's power, filtered through various levels and delivered to us through a constricted vessel for our use.”

Andrus gazed in consternation at Jurel. “This is why I have difficulty understanding your recent inability to touch your power, Jurel. All things considered, it should be as natural for you as, say, walking.”

“Yet I can't.”

“So it would seem.”

They stared mutely at each other across the table for a moment before Andrus shifted. Adjusting his spectacles, he said, “Right then. We will try. This time, I want you to really concentrate.”

As if Jurel had not the previous dozen times they had tried this.

“Now Jurel, open your mind. Let me in.”

Jurel had never understood this part of the process. It was something that Andrus always did but Jurel had never been entirely comfortable with it. It always felt like an invasion to have another muddling about in his thoughts. Up until now he had kept his curiosity to himself but Andrus was there to teach him after all.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Andrus looked nonplussed.

“Why do I have to open my mind? Why do you have to join with me?”

Adjusting his spectacles, Andrus said, “Two reasons. Number one, it facilitates your connection. I know what I am doing and can guide you. Number two, I can help you avoid the hazards.”

“Hazards?”

“Well, yes.” Andrus gave him an astonished look. “Do you not know of them?”

Jurel glared back flatly. “No. It would seem my tutor neglected to mention them to me.”

“Well...I...well.”

Andrus began pacing the small room, adjusting his spectacles as he went. After gathering his thoughts, he stopped and spun to face Jurel.

“I apologize. It seems I have been remiss. I should have been more diligent in my duties.” He sighed. “Yes, there are hazards when one seeks out his source. The human mind is filled with pitfalls and traps that vary in seriousness. Some will do no more than cause your concentration to fray and keep you from tapping your power. Others are much more serious. If you stray off the proper path, you may be driven mad, or even sent into a deep sleep from which there is no waking. I believe the Valsans call it 'coma'.”

Jurel leaned back with a sour smirk. “Sounds like fun.”

“That is why a novice always has an experienced teacher for guidance.”

Andrus resumed his seat. “Now, open your mind.”

With a sigh, Jurel closed his eyes. It had taken him a week to figure this out; opening one's mind is harder than it sounds. But it came easier with each success.

Soon, he felt Andrus's familiar presence floating beside his consciousness.

“Remember Jurel: concentrate.”

He steeled himself and allowed himself to float in his own mind. He searched. He knew what to look for; they had done this many times. Ahead of him, shining in the distance was what appeared to be a star. Jurel fixed his sight upon the star and moved slowly forward.

As always, it was a difficult process. He felt as though he was being buffeted by gale winds as he slowly clawed his way toward the shining beacon. Memories and emotions roiled like storm tossed sea currents threatening to blow him off course. Voices whispered from the darkness—

I love you son...

—causing him to tremble. There was incredible pressure here as though a mountain was pressing down on him. He was sweating from exertion, gasping burning air, though his body had not moved a muscle.

“Steady, Jurel. Steady.”

Jurel inched forward, the shining star growing slowly. So slowly. Images began to form before his eyes, the whispers becoming more insistent, more cutting.

Valik, a hate filled expression: You're a coward Jurel! A useless pig shit coward!

Jurel turned away and pushed his way forward.

Erin, beautiful blue eyes dulled by hurt: You left me Jurel. Why did you leave me?

I didn't! I didn't want to!

“Ignore it Jurel. It's not real.”

Again he turned away and pushed forward.

But he was not yet finished. As the light grew in his mind's eye, another image flashed before him. He stopped short and stared in horror at the visage that emerged. Blunt, rugged features framed piercing hawk-like eyes.

No. No, not you.

I love you son...

The severe expression softened, a smile spread across the blunt features. Jurel drifted closer. His horror was splintering. In the cracks was a happiness he had not known he was able to feel. The form of Daved materialized, expanding until he was fully there. Daved reached out a hand.

Father, I...

I'm here son. I've always been here.

Father...

“...rel! Jurel! Come back! You must not touch...”

Jurel brushed away the annoying buzzing noise and began to reach his hand forward. He smiled.

Something struck Jurel between the shoulders, knocking him off balance. He spun, angry words forming on his lips. There was no one there. When he looked back at Daved, he frowned: Daved's form was wavering as though Jurel was seeing him through water.

Father?

Daved reached for him, still smiling that gentle smile. He tried to take his father's hand but lurched off balance again as a searing light blinded him. He staggered, gasped, fell backward. Pain exploded in his head. The world tilted sickeningly. He shut his eyes.

And when he opened them, he found himself staring at Andrus across his table. Andrus was trembling, sweating, ashen faced. They regarded each other, neither speaking a word. The only sound was the rasping of unsteady breathing.

Andrus swallowed with an audible click, and muttered, “Well that was interesting.”

Rising, Jurel stalked to his window. He needed to see the sun. He was not sure how else to banish the sudden darkness that threatened to engulf him. All the memories were fresh again, ripped open and bleeding. He took deep breaths to calm his trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut but opened them quickly when Daved's image appeared.

“I am sorry Jurel,” Andrus said quietly.

A tear leaked from Jurel's eye and coursed its way down his cheek. “Why did it happen? Why didn't it do that before?”

Silence.

Jurel turned slowly, woodenly, to face Andrus who gazed back sorrowfully, sympathetically. “Why?”

Adjusting his spectacles, Andrus shrugged. “I'm not entirely certain. Perhaps the suggestion of the dangers inherent in seeking your source put doubt in your mind.”

“Are you saying that telling me about it made it happen?”

Andrus smiled wanly. “Well...I don't know that I would put it quite that way, and there is a little more to it than that, but essentially accurate.” Andrus resumed his teacher's expression. “Now come. We must not let this discourage us. We shall try again.”

Incredulous, Jurel glared at Andrus who went ashen faced.

“Try again? Try again!” He took a threatening step forward. “Why you gods-be-damned callous bastard.”

“Now Jurel, I understand you are upset but-”

“Get out.”

“-you must not let this discourage you.”

“Get. Out.”

“You must be strong and-”

“I said GET. OUT!”

For a moment, Andrus stared at Jurel in the way a disappointed parent looks at a wayward child. Then he picked up his tome and walked primly to the door.

When the door latch closed with a quiet snick, Jurel sank back in his chair and buried his face in his hands. His body shook as the memories continued their assault. Daved was joined by Galbin; the two men had been the best of friends and a constant in Jurel's life for as long as he could remember. They had been the pillars that Jurel had held Jurel's life together. They had been his friends, his mentors, and above all they had been his family.

Within months of each other, both had been taken.

And now Jurel was lost.

He had discovered that he was chosen to be the God of War. He had proven his power at the temple in Threimes just this past spring, though he had been unsuccessful in tapping that power since.

But what did any of that matter without his family? He was adrift, without direction, lost.

He wept.

* * *

The knock at his door roused him from a fitful doze. He raised his head from the cradle of his arms and blinked to clear away the cobwebs. His room was gloomy; the sky outside his window was overcast. Yet even so, he was able to estimate that it was late afternoon and he had been asleep for three or four hours. The memories tried to encroach again but he managed to keep them at bay.

He glanced at the door. “Come in, Gaven.”

Gaven entered and favored Jurel with a bright grin. “How'd you know it was me?”

An ex-Soldier of God, Gaven had found it difficult to fit in at the Abbey for the first month. There had been too many suspicions. His skill with a sword and tactical training, along with his upbringing as the son of a minor noble, made him a natural leader and shrewdly, Mikal had enlisted him under his command as a lieutenant. He had thrown himself at his assigned tasks with an eagerness and honesty that had ultimately won over the men under his command. His aristocratic good looks and confident charisma, on the other hand, had made him quite popular with the ladies. Still attired in his leather cuirass and tight fitting breeches, his blond hair swept wildly back, he cut quite a figure. It was a rare evening indeed that Gaven was not seen in the company of one beautiful young lady or other.

Jurel shrugged. “You knock funny.” Jurel had never thought of it. He always seemed to know who was at his door. He shrugged again uncomfortably.

“Uh-huh,” Gaven grunted, eyeing him askance. “Anyway, listen, I'm done in the yards for the day. Thought I'd pop in and get you out of your cave here.”

Jurel smirked. “No young ladies waiting in line for their turn tonight?”

Gaven laughed. “No, not tonight.” At least he had the good graces to blush.

“So you figured with nothing better to do, you'd settle for wasting some time with me?” His smirk widened. “That's just selfish, Gav.”

“Well if you were prettier, then maybe I would spend more time with you.”

With a laugh and a rueful shake of his head, Jurel rose. “Where to?”

“I dunno. Let's just go where the wind pushes us.”

With nothing better to do, Jurel shrugged and followed Gaven out the door.

The Abbey was a huge place. Not as large as the king's palace in Threimes but certainly larger than the temple, it was a long complex of hallways spread out over several stories. In the southwest wing were the living quarters; hundreds of doors lined the long red stone hallways leading to chambers like Jurel's. The northeast wing was the business end. It was there that audience chambers, shrines, temples, workshops, and the huge library with its endless shelves covered in everything from ancient scrolls to the latest literature could be found. It was also where the Grand Hall was. This majestic hall, adorned with tapestries, frescoes and intricately carved stone trim, was lined end to end with benches. At the head of the hall, the Abbot's chair dominated from its place on a dais. This was where the Salosian council met; this was where the future of the Salosian Order was decided.

Outside, they made their way through arbors and gardens, past stables where workmen and acolytes busily tended to their affairs, through training yards beyond which the squat barracks housed Mikal's forces, and on to a heavy iron door that led through the thick wall that surrounded the Abbey compound.

In the course of his tutoring, Andrus had informed Jurel that at one time centuries past, this had been a border fortress, the last major outpost between Threimes (though at that time it was not yet Threimes, but unclaimed wilderness that held strategic significance) and the great empire of Kashya in the south. It had been abandoned as useless and soon forgotten by the kingdom after a massive earthquake had caused the land just south of the fortress to flood with what was now the Sun Sea.

About a hundred years after the abandonment, Andrus had informed Jurel, a Salosian brother, hiding from the roving bands of the then newly formed ranks of the Soldiers of God, had happened upon this place and had sent out the message to all Salosians. Its remote location and the fact that it had been largely forgotten by the kingdom and the prelacy had made it an ideal place for the Salosians.

Its martial mien remained. The wall towered some forty feet over their heads, and this side door that led out to the small plain beyond was set inside a tunnel some eight or ten feet long.

In the near distance, beyond tall grasses that waved gently in the mild summer breeze, the treeline to a dense forest ringed the grounds like a border.

By unspoken consensus, Jurel and Gaven made their way for the forest. As they walked, they spoke.

“I heard you had some trouble earlier this afternoon with Andrus.”

Jurel snorted. “Yeah. You could say that.” He shook his head as he stepped over a depression almost hidden in the carpet of grass. “He's just...he's so...” At a loss for words, Jurel simply went silent.

“Birdlike? Boring? I've spoken to a few acolytes who are in his regular classes-”

“Female acolytes, no doubt.”

Gaven ran a hand through his hair and grinned boyishly. “Maybe. Anyway, they all agree on two things: One, he's a good man who simply wants to educate; two, he's as interesting as mud.”

“And he's persistent.”

“Okay, three things everyone agrees on then.” They shared a laugh. “So then what happened today? Why did you kick him out of your room?”

So Jurel related the story of his experience during his trance. When he was done Gaven winced.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Ouch.”

His mood curdled by the memory, Jurel strode into the shade of the first trees silently. Gaven hurried to keep up. He was tall, but not as tall as Jurel; Jurel's natural walk was a long stride that most people could only keep up with by loping.

“So what are you going to do?”

That was the question. That was what Jurel had been mulling over for weeks. What would he do? What could he do? He was supposedly a god but he could not touch his power. He was supposed to be the herald of some great future but he could not let go of the past.

Sensing his friend's mood, Gaven changed the subject and soon they were off meandering along game trails that wound along the forest floor exchanging jokes and gibes until, after nightfall, they returned to the Abbey where Jurel sought his bed.

Though Gaven had been moderately successful in raising Jurel's spirits, Jurel still fell asleep with dark thoughts and darker memories hanging over him like a shroud.

* * *

The sun shone on grasses that glittered with a million dew drops and the whole field seemed like a giant emerald. He stood on that emerald, breathing deeply the scent of wild flowers and he smiled. When he looked up at the sky, a sky so blue, so pristinely, purely blue that it would have made any artist weep with envy and lust, he let his breath out slowly.

He turned, his black armor with the strange gold-gilt swirls making a sound like a footstep in fresh snow, knowing what he would see, surprised that he did not. The field was empty. Where were his men? Where were his armies? Confused, his smile fading, he turned again, and again. But the field was most definitely empty.

What had his father called this place? His place. This was his place. He did not quite know what that meant but he knew it was significant. He thought about that for a while, playing his father's words in his mind over and over again—“Here, I will begin you on your path: It is your place.”—trying to pry loose anything new like someone might pick his teeth after a feast. But there really was not much to work with.

Your place.

Perhaps he should sit, get comfortable, give himself time to think-

“Hello.”

He spun at the sound of her voice, like a burbling brook, like wind in the trees, like birds singing. He saw her where just a moment before he knew there had been no one. When his eyes met hers, he was struck. Struck by the deep aquamarine, like a sea, or was it sky-cerulean? It seemed to depend on which way the light came. Golden hair that seemed to shine independently of the sun hung in waves and those waves moved languidly, languorously, though there was no breeze. Her crimson lips were like the petals of a rose under the delicately aquiline cheeks and nose. Her skin was the color of the first buds in spring, and her lithe, naked form bespoke life. Her breasts were full, round, perfectly formed, as ready to be caressed in acts of passion as they were to give nourishment to a suckling babe; in the center of each was what appeared to be a rosebud. Her hips gently swelled outward like the world's most perfect hourglass: perfect for birth, perfect for the act that presaged birth. Her legs, were long and slender, willowy and graceful.

And then he knew. He knew because it made sense. He knew because—well, who else could she be?

“Hello sister,” he said.

She laughed, a golden tinkle, and her eyes turned azure, cyan, then so deep blue that he did not have a name for it. “I see father picked well,” she said.

He blushed, looked down, and he was not sure if it was the praise that made him do so or the intense lust that woke in him, heated him, and thrashed sensible thought to tatters. Of course, the lust was merely a side-effect of who she was; he could not expect to be in the vicinity of the Goddess of Life and not feel something. Still, it was off-putting to be thinking thoughts like that about his sister. It was disturbing.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Who? Shomra and Maora?” Valsa asked. “Oh I imagine they'll be along in their own time. They're rather busy right now.”

She stepped toward him, extended her hand and caressed his cheek. She smiled and he had to stifle an animal growl that rose in his throat, had to resist pressing his face into those silken fingers, had to resist...

That's my sister!

A dissident part of his mind chuckled maliciously. More like an adopted sister though, it said. That would be all right, right?

“I'm glad to finally meet you,” she said and she sparkled like a thousand fireflies. “The other two are always so boring. Shomra is always dour and sad. He's always mourning. You'd think he'd be used to it by now. Maora can't ever seem to stop spouting useless trivia.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “It's enough to make a woman weep! I think you're going to be much more interesting.”

Interesting? He had an idea that all he would really be doing was keeping Shomra very, very busy.

“Oh don't say that,” she scoffed and he had to wonder if he spoke aloud. He did not think so. “No you didn't. But your thoughts are so loud that you may as well have.”

Could she see his other thoughts? Could she see the other shamfeul imaginings that went on in the dim, secret recesses of his mind? Oh her? And him? Oh gods!

She laughed again, and patted his cheek with one soft hand. “Oh don't worry about that,” she said. “I got used to that a long time ago. It's part of my charm.”

“So what brings you here?” he asked. There was certainly real curiosity to know, but there was also an intense desire to change the subject. Before his head popped.

“I just wanted to meet my new brother. I wanted to take your measure. So far I'm not disappointed.”

She leered at him! Her eyes took him in with a slow sweep from head to toes and back, and where they passed, it was like a physical contact, like fingers. Soft, warm...tracing, exploring.

Your sister, you bloody fool!

Uncomfortable almost to the point of fainting, he backed away a pace and turned to walk through the grasses. He could feel her eyes on his back but it was better. She caught up with him and they wandered through his field—his place—and she twined her fingers with his.

“It's a beautiful place you have here. Full of life and color. Odd considering your warriness. Is that a word? Warriness? I should ask Maora. He'd know. Would it be better to say 'martial disposition'?”

“I suppose,” he mused, “though I'm still getting used to the whole idea. I'm not sure I particularly like it.”

“Oh but you must! You're important. Vital. You are as much a part of the world as I am, or the others, or father.”

“Maybe, but still. God of War? I'm not really interested in war, you know? To be honest, I'm not too interested in being a god, but if I could choose, it certainly would not be war.”

“Who you are is the past. It's not what you make of yourself in the future. A flower grows from its roots but it doesn't necessarily grow straight up. It grows toward what it needs to survive.”

“The sun.”

She clicked her tongue. “Of course, the sun. But this is a metaphor. Stay with me.”

“Sorry.”

“A flower is a flower. It knows it. But no matter what, there is always room to change. To grow toward what it needs to survive even as it remains a flower.”

She extended a hand out and under her fingers, those fingers that reignited his lust, those fingers that he will find out later keep him up at night with their implicit promise, will make him waken from his dreams in a hot, guilty sweat, a tendril of green grew from the grasses, willowy at first, then thicker. Leaves sprouted from the side of it like reaching arms and a delicate bud formed on top, a vegetable teardrop that grew, trembled, until it burst open like fireworks. Deep red in the center faded toward the edges of the petals until it was a gentle pink, like a kiss. As he watched, he saw the flower, no bigger across than his extended finger, quiver, shudder, and twist until it faced the sun.

“You see? Always toward the sun.”

He saw. It was something to think about.

His eyes snapped open and he stared at the blackness of his room. There was a sense of loss, an empty feeling of loneliness as he lay on his cot. There was a sense of waiting like a pent breath.

Chapter 4

The kingdom of Threimes was founded nearly two thousand years ago, according to Andrus. At that time, the inland kingdom to the east known as Madesh and the empire of Kashya in the south were tangled in war to gain dominance over the region which was rich in lumber and precious stones.

After nearly two decades of bitter, bloody war, the two powers came to realize that they were evenly matched and neither would easily overcome the other; the cost of continuing the war began to outweigh the benefits of victory.

Embassies from both sides were sent into the territory in question to begin peace talks with the ultimate hope being a mutually beneficial treaty between Madesh and Kashya. For another three years, these talks continued. Most of the issues were quickly resolved to everyone's benefit, but one remained outstanding. For obvious reasons, neither of the great powers wanted a citizen of the other to rule.

The delegates had decided that since it was not feasible for either Madesh or Kashya to take control of the territory, they would recognize a sovereignty, thereby rendering the territory, as an autonomous entity, neutral ground that both the larger powers could establish trade with. It was not ideal for either land, but a prolonged war of attrition that would leave both Madesh and Kashya weak, unstable, and beggared was much less palatable.

It left the question then of who would become this new land's first king.

This territory was sparsely populated at the time. Most of the native inhabitants were bands of brigands hiding in the great, dense forests. Some few were traders who had established a caravan route between Kashya and Madesh and had managed to amass enough wealth to provide their own protection from the bandits. These traders had their own posts and estates along this caravan route—heavily guarded of course—and both sides agreed that perhaps one of those would suffice. After all, the territory did not need a strong king; it would behoove both powers, in fact, if the king were weak, soft, amenable to their suggestions.

In the end, they had decided on a young man who seemed to fit the bill exactly. He smiled obsequiously at them, nodded his head vapidly at anything they said, and asked no questions. They proclaimed him to be king in a ceremony cobbled together for the occasion and left feeling rather proud of themselves.

That man was Threimes I, and it would not take long for the delegates from both Madesh and Kashya to realize their error. Threimes turned out to be a canny ruler, expertly playing one great power off the other and within a few years under his sure command, the budding kingdom of Threimes rapidly became a viable, self-sufficient kingdom in its own right.

“I thought Threimes wrested the land from the Kashyans and Madesh, pulling it out from under them in daring raids and expertly executed attacks,” Jurel said cutting Andrus off in mid-sentence.

“Yes, that is how it is generally taught.” Andrus adjusted his spectacles and gave Jurel a look filled with derision. “Romantic notions, foolish legends grown from a few grains of truth and fed to the children to instill a sense of loyalty and patriotism toward a kingdom with such a brave and heroic past. That is all those stories are.”

“So it's all fake?”

“Embellished would be a more accurate description. In a way, he did pull it out from under them with daring raids and attacks. It was just done in a political theater rather than a battlefield.”

Jurel gazed out his window at the land, noting that the mid summer sun had yellowed the grasses. It had been a dry, hot summer. There had been enough rain to avoid a full blown drought but for the past few weeks the heat had been intense. Thankfully, there were heavy spells woven into the bricks of the Abbey; the temperature inside remained moderate all year round.

Behind him, he heard the thump of Andrus's heavy tome closing. “Now Jurel, we turn to the subject of arcanum.”

And Jurel groaned.

* * *

Jurel sat staring dolefully into his hands. Andrus paced the Kashyan rug, hands clasped behind his back. With a stormy expression, he muttered to himself. Which was just fine in Jurel's book. He did not particularly feel like listening to another musty lecture delved from the depths of the moldy tome.

The reason for Andrus's current state was, of course, obvious. Jurel had again failed to reach his source. With Andrus's guidance he had managed to avoid the pitfalls his own mind threw at him, which had been a relief, but as was usual, he was stopped just short of the shining beacon in his mind by some form of invisible barrier.

He had no idea what that barrier might be though Andrus had suggested it was some sort of mental block that Jurel could get past with enough concentration and commitment. To Jurel it felt as solid as stone.

As usual Jurel had pounded at it, picked at it, tried to find a way around it, and as usual it remained impassible. What had not been usual was the voice that had interrupted Jurel in his efforts to break through the barrier. During the heights of his efforts, the voice had whispered in his ear, “Not this way. Not for you.”

His concentration had snapped and he had found himself exchanging a dazed look with Andrus across the table.

Jurel had recognized the voice. He did not know if he should enlighten Andrus.

So he sat staring at his hands, while Andrus paced.

And why would Gaorla speak to him anyway? Why would He present Jurel with the shining beacon in his mind only to keep it out of reach, only to inform Jurel he would not gain access to his supposed birthright that way? For that matter, Jurel had not known there was more than one way. Which should he follow? What were the other ways?

Wracking his brain for answers did no good; there were too many questions vying for attention. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to do it? How will he know? Will it become apparent in time or must he fumble along blindly? How was he supposed to embrace his future, become who he was supposed to be when the past rested so heavily on his soul? And why did the past remain so central to his thoughts? He thought he had learned to accept his lot when he had realized who he was.

“Are you sure you concentrated?”

Jolted from his thoughts, Jurel snapped his attention to Andrus. The man stood facing Jurel, glaring down at him as though preparing to dole out disciplinary measures.

“You were there Andrus. You saw.”

“Yes but I thought I felt you waver at the crux. Then there was that voice. I think perhaps it was a subconscious hesitation on your part.” His pacing began again. “You need to concentrate Jurel. You must want this. If there is even the slightest doubt in your commitment, you will fail. As you have done so far.”

Suddenly, this bloody bird-man was too much for Jurel to countenance. Rage fired through him, blazing its way forth in a flash burning the questions to cinders. He surged to his feet, slamming his fists on the table. Andrus jolted in surprise.

“How dare you?” Jurel hissed. “How dare you? I'm not trying hard enough for you? Is that what you think? You bloody buffoon, I've done nothing but try. I've listened to your bloody dusty lectures, I've completed your pointless assignments, I've journeyed through my own mind, almost losing myself in the process. I've done everything you've asked, and it's still not enough for you?”

Rallying himself, Andrus returned Jurel's gaze with one of haughty superiority. “I'll have you know that in my years I have taught hundreds of students and all of them have shown more progress in a week than you have in months. My teaching techniques are above reproach and I am offended that you-”

Again, Jurel's fists came down on his table. This time a ragged crack ran along the surface of the lustrous wood.

“You pompous bastard. You bloody pompous bastard.” But no other words could work their way past his choking rage.

Andrus took this as a victory. He smiled primly. “You see? You have no cogent argument. You are blocking yourself. You are not performing as I have taught you. I bring as evidence your own mind balking each time you are about to touch your source.”

“Oh really?” His voice went quiet, silky, laden with portent. “Are you by chance referring to the voice we heard this last time?”

Andrus, uncertain of Jurel's sudden change of voice, muttered, “Well yes, that's part of it.”

“That was my father, you bloody dolt! That was your almighty bloody Gaorla that spoke to me!”

Andrus blanched. “But, that's not-”

“Possible? Is that what you were going to say? It's not possible that Gaorla would communicate with me? I'm supposed to be his son. You say that you have taught hundreds successfully but how many of them have been the son of a god?”

“Well, I—I'm sure I don't-”

“No. No you don't. You think it might be possible that your teaching techniques, as effective as I'm certain they are, are inadequate here?”

“No...yes—I don't know-”

“No. No you don't.”

Jurel glared at him with such force that Andrus's teeth clicked as his mouth shut.

“I think, Andrus, that we are done here. Leave.”

“But, Jurel, you need to learn. You-”

“I said leave,” Jurel pointed to the door while pinning Andrus with his glare. “It has become obvious that you have nothing left to teach me so don't bother returning. I'll not see you again.”

Andrus gaped. “Are you...?”

Jurel said nothing. He simply kept glaring flatly. He would have no more of this intolerable pomposity.

“I am sorry that you see it that way young man,” Andrus said after a silence. His own mien was one of haughty righteousness. “I shall be going now.”

True to his words, he tucked his tome under his arm and stalked from the room like an offended feline.

When the door shut with perhaps more force than was necessary, Jurel sank into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Not only Andrus had fled, but Jurel's rage too, and now he regretted his words. Andrus was arrogant and boring but he had not truly deserved such a reaction. It had only been Jurel's frustration at his own failure. But it was done now. The words could not be unsaid. He supposed he owed Andrus an apology but he truculently refused to consider it seriously.

Gods, what a mess.

In time, he pulled himself together and stood. He felt pent here in his room, caged. He had a powerful urge to move and stretch his legs. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do; he just needed to be out of his room.

It never ceased to amaze him how beautiful the Abbey was. His door on the fourth floor, the highest in the Abbey except for the tower that soared from the center, spilled out into a long corridor. The floor was granite but had a wide runner of intricate design which muffled sound. Along the wall midway between doors—of which there were hundreds spaced evenly on both sides of the corridor—were niches in which stood marble pedestals. On each pedestal was a sculpture of a beautifully rendered animal, icon, or bust. Each was lit by a ball of heatless yellow luminescence, an arcane form of lighting that was generously used throughout the Abbey.

Andrus had told Jurel of many of the spells that were woven into the very structure of the Abbey. There were defensive spells—one of which was a spell designed to make the Abbey difficult to locate or remember by outsiders; one of the ways they had managed to keep their presence here a secret for so long—spells to moderate climate, spells to ease the heart and calm the mind, and spells to power these lights, among many others.

The ceiling was arched; intricately carved quartz buttresses rose at intervals and met at the cusp high above his head. The lighting was only just able to graze the highest point of the vaulted ceiling. Between the buttresses, red stone whose identity Jurel did not know glimmered like fine wine.

He made no noise as he wandered, the heavy carpet beneath his feet absorbing all sound; he was like a wraith haunting these ancient halls. At intervals, he stopped to admire a sculpture that caught his eye but his interest waned when, passing a line of what had to be representations of the gods, he spied one standing tall, clad in black armor that had fanciful gilding, gauntleted hands resting on the pommel of a massive sword. Shuddering, he turned away from it and hurried down the corridor.

Wandering farther, choosing turnings at random, he soon found himself in what appeared to be a little used section of the Abbey. Though still cleaned on a regular basis, this corridor felt dimmer, grayer, as though without human habitation, the soul of the Abbey was thinner here.

His ears pricked at the sound of voices drifted from around a corner ahead. He paid only enough attention to make sure he would avoid the speakers. He wanted to be alone; he had no desire to deal with grovelers or fawners. This had become a problem since his arrival. Salosian brothers and sisters, acolytes, novices, soldiers, servants: whenever he passed, they bowed and begged for his blessing. No, not begged. Prayed. At first, it had been amusing, if embarrassing. As time went on and more and more people prostrated themselves at his feet, it become a minor annoyance, then a major frustration, and it seemed that no matter how many times he begged or commanded people not to do that, they did anyway.

He was about to rush past the corridor junction from which he heard the voices emanating, but was stopped dead by a few stray words. He sidled up to the corner to listen, pushing away the sense of guilt at the intrusion.

“I do not trust this situation,” a voice muttered, one that he knew well. After all, the man had tutored him every day for months.

“Yes but Kurin has Goromand's ear,” said a second voice, this one unfamiliar. “What can we do about it?”

There was a heavy silence followed by a sigh. “We need to prove that he is not who Kurin claims.”

“And how would we accomplish that, pray tell? Remember what he did at Threimes.”

“We're already half way there. His power is like ours, only he remains blocked. I cannot imagine how a god could be blocked from his own power. There are several others who agree with me.

“The boy is certainly gifted, I'll grant you that. In time, with proper training, he could be the most gifted brother in the order. But divine? Bah! He says that Gaorla Himself revealed his true identity. I think the boy is delusional. Or perhaps Kurin convinced him to lie.

“No, I've had plenty of time to assess him. There are many words I could use to describe him and divine does not make my list.”

“Oh?” The second voice said with a definite tinge of amusement. “And what words would you use?”

There was a birdlike chuckle. Jurel could almost see him adjusting his spectacles. “Fractious, impatient, stubborn, undisciplined. I tell you the Abbot is too lenient on the boy. He should have been enrolled as a novice by now and given a proper course load. If I had not been burdened with such an onerous list of limitations, I would have had him unblocked weeks ago. As it is...”

“As it is, we have a boy with massive potential who is being mistaken for the god of war. I understand. We still don't know what we can do about it.”

“Well...”

But Jurel could not listen to anymore. He spun on his heel and silently hurried back the way he had come.

His mind was spinning. Could it be? Could he be no more than a powerful priest? There was evidence to the contrary; despite what Andrus said, Jurel knew he had spoken to Gaorla. And Valsa for that matter. But Andrus had a point: if Jurel was indeed a god, how was it that he could not touch his power?

His surroundings passed by in a blur as the weight of what Andrus said pressed down on him. Perhaps Kurin had been wrong. Andrus, as he had said, had spent every day with Jurel for months. He had most definitely delved Jurel's mind more in the first week than Kurin had during all their time together traveling.

Did Kurin's opinion count? Kurin was, after all, biased; he had been, by his own admission, searching for the God of War for decades. It had been his life's mission. He would certainly have pounced on any likely candidate to prove he had not wasted those years. Andrus, on the other hand, was a more objective observer. Upon meeting Jurel, he had neither inclination nor disinclination to believe that Jurel was the God of War. He simply had his observations to work with and apparently the conclusion to his observations was that Jurel was a pretender, or an unwitting puppet.

But Jurel knew he had spoken to Gaorla. His father. The God of gods. Gaorla had confirmed that Jurel was the God of War.

Upon further reflection, Jurel thought of something that shook him to his core: every time he had spoken to Gaorla, and even that once he had spoken to Valsa, he had been asleep. Had those meetings been simply the products of an overactive imagination? Could he have dreamed it all? A most disturbing idea came to him then: could those dreams have been planted?

Arriving back at his room, he slammed the door and threw himself on his bed. The sun was low; his room pooled with shadows, edged by ruddy light that did little to alleviate the gloom which suited him just fine. As he lay there, staring into the night that was coalescing on his ceiling, the questions clamored:

Who was he? How could he know? What should he do?

Chapter 5

The three men sat across the table from each other in Goromand's office, silent, each staring into his brandy with furrowed brows like fortune tellers. Between them, on the table, lay a scatter of parchment, some of the pages yellowed with age, with curled edges, and with ink in various stages of decay from somewhat legible to barely visible, while others were crisp, clean, new sheets, a little worse for wear, but with bold black letters.

The old pages, some of them predating the founding of Threimes were from their own archives, four levels below their chairs, some containing the words of prophecy, some containing obscure lore, all of it having to do, one way or another, with the young man Kurin had brought to them this past spring. The others: missives hastily scribbled by one or another of their agents that were spread to the four corners of the kingdom, and comprised the eyes and ears of the Salosian Order. Though some of these were months old, a few were from the last week, and two had arrived that very day.

The network of spies was a good one as such things go, with agents in almost every village and town, almost every noble court, and almost every level of the kingdom's military hierarchy—not including the Soldiers of God; it had been tried on several occasions but it had so far proven impossible to hide an agent from the prelacy—but still information arrived too slowly. Oh there were brothers and sisters who wandered and, versed in arcanum, could Send and Scry, ensuring that the information they had garnered arrived promptly at Goromand's door, but too many of their agents were lay-folk, trusted commoners with no understanding—or in a few cases, knowledge—of arcanum, and that information often took weeks to arrive. Most disturbing when the information was of vital importance.

Such was the case with the missive that, though seemingly just another sheet in the pile, had arrived that morning. It was why they were staring silently into their brandies. Just as the Salosians had an information network in place, so too did the king and the Grand Prelate. Agents from the three camps had butted heads often; several bodies had been found with slit throat in back alleys in the last few months. Getting information sometimes seemed a miracle; getting this information, well, it was a toss-up between miraculous and disastrous.

It would seem, according to the writer, that the Soldiers of God had begun to muster. The garrisons at Sharong, Riverfang, and Oceanview were on the march. The Threimes garrison had already been recalled and, joined by a few outskirt detachments, had begun to overflow. There was an encampment outside the city walls to hold the new arrivals. All told, there seemed to be upwards of fifteen thousand Soldiers of God in or around the kingdom's capital with ten or fifteen thousand more expected to converge on the city within weeks. But that missive had been en route for weeks. Who knew what the prelacy had been up to since? And that did not include the Grayson garrison. The latest estimate from there, of somewhere between four and six thousand, may or may not have been accurate; that missive had arrived two months before.

The king had also called a general muster of his forces and no one knew what his intentions were. At the time of the writing, his own garrisons had filled to capacity with some thirty thousand men. Also not including Grayson where estimates ranged from three thousand to five times that number—not a particularly useful guess.

Not one of their agents had yet determined exactly why armies were mustering throughout the kingdom, but to the three sitting at that table, the reason seemed abundantly clear: the Soldiers of God were a hammer; the king's forces, the anvil; and the Salosians? They were the hapless bit of metal on the forge.

The Salosian forces, led by their swordmasters, numbered somewhere around three thousand and though recruits continued to filter in, it was a slow process. Their best case scenario, drawn up by the entirely thorough little Brother Garvus was that if the Soldiers of God and the kingdom military remained stationary until the end of the year, the Salosians might be able to muster as many as four thousand troops. “Three thousand eight hundred ninety-three by autumn at the current rate of increase,” Garvus had reported, priggishly referring to the clipboard he carried with him everywhere. That was if everything stayed status quo. Plenty of reason, then, for three senior members of the Salosian Order to be sitting around a cluttered table silently brooding, silently drinking.

“And how is our young charge?” Goromand asked, interrupting the solemn crackle of the small fire that did little to alleviate the gloom of the austere meeting room.

Startled by the sudden sound, Jorge nearly dropped his cup, muttering a curse under his breath as brandy sloshed on his robe.

Kurin sighed. “He's still having problems. Before Jurel so unceremoniously relieved him of his duties,” Kurin smirked wryly, “Andrus was working with him daily, but he still can't conjure so much as a lick of flame, let alone come close to what he achieved at the temple last spring.”

“I don't understand,” Jorge said. “Explain again what happened.”

Kurin's eyes rolled as he let out another sigh, this one much more theatric. “Haven't you heard it enough?”

“No.”

The even glare that Jorge shot at him made him swallow the sharper words that came to his tongue.

“As you well know-” a pointed look which was resoundingly ignored “-when we were at the temple, we met Calen. A smug, insufferable fool if there ever was one. Jurel's adopted father, Daved, said some things which did not go over well with the fat bastard and he was executed-”

“Murdered,” Gormand said quietly.

“Same outcome. Fine, murdered then, on the spot. When that happened, Jurel snapped. His divinity flowed forth and a massacre the likes of which I have never before witnessed ensued.”

His eyes darkened, turned inward at the memory of young Jurel, the God of War, suddenly displaying his power in such a spectacular fashion. He told his two friends again, haltingly, the tale of Jurel's rampage through the temple at Threimes, destroying any that stood in his way. Rivers of blood had flowed that day.

He described how, being faced by a dozen and more priests who threw arcane fire at him, Jurel had stridden through the inferno, unscathed by the blazing balls that would have liquefied any other, to cut down most of the priests with a sword he had conjured that had seemed to be made of lightning.

Then came the escape from the temple and from the city. The night that followed had been long indeed for Kurin; he had been ill and near death from his confinement in the dungeons under the temple. Mikal and Gaven had taken turns to support him lest he collapse to the road, where, he was certain, he never would have risen.

Jurel had gotten them through it all and a long way toward the Abbey and safety before he had fallen unconscious from his exertions. At least Kurin thought it was only his exertions that had caused his collapse.

When he had awakened, days later, there was no trace of the power that had held him in its grip. There had not been since.

“I don't understand fully either,” Kurin said after an uncomfortable silence. He pushed away the terrible memories and looked across to the man he had considered a brother for so many years. “It's there. It's most definitely there. I felt it at Threimes. It was more—much more—than simple arcanum. It was...a feeling. A presence. Something. I can't explain it. But there seems to be some sort of mental block barring him from fully coming into his own.”

“He needs to get past it,” Goromand muttered.

“Thank you, O wise Abbot, for that epiphany,” Kurin replied, his lips twisting sardonically. “Yes, he needs to get past it, but to do so, he must discover what is causing it. Until then, I fear there is nothing to be done.”

“We need him,” Jorge said. “The storm is coming gentlemen, and we need him to be whole. If not...” He took in his two friends, Goromand, the Abbot of the Salosian Order, nominally the master of them all, and Kurin, newly raised to Chaplain, and the man he considered a brother.

They nodded glumly, exchanging dire looks.

Kurin downed the rest of his brandy as the rest of Jorge's unspoken thought was completed in his mind.

There might be upwards of sixty thousand troops massing at Threimes. Though they did not know what the king intended, there were still thirty thousand Soldiers of God. Their target: the heretical Salosian Order, and the Salosian Order might, might, be able to muster four thousand men.

Without Jurel, without the God of War, they would be utterly annihilated.

* * *

Bees hummed, flitting from flower to flower, homing in like darts to the center of colorful bull's-eyes to collect their bounty. Birds trilled their tunes of joy and freedom as if they gloated at those bound to the ground, and squirrels skittered and scampered. The arbor was a quiet spot filled with life, gentle and serene. It was the perfect place to think. And more importantly, it was the perfect place to be alone, to get away from the constant bowing and groveling.

He would have thought that becoming a God would have prepared him to deal with the masses of priests that always jolted in surprise when they saw him, always dropped to their knees and lay their foreheads to the stone floors in what they imagined was a fine show of humility. At first, the discomfort had been laughable and he had tittered nervously as he told them to stand up. But as days wore on and his story spread like a wildfire in dry brush through the Abbey, and everyone treated him like fine porcelain, he grew annoyed, then angry. What was worse: no matter how many times he demanded they stop—“A simple hello will be fine,” he had sighed more often than he could remember—they did not listen. They were supposed to listen, right? They believed he was a God, right? They were supposed to follow his commands. Some they did with humble subservience, and most they did not. With humble subservience.

It was enough to drive a man crazy.

It was a comfort then that they had not yet found this spot. He was well hidden with his back to a tree in the overgrown arbor that had not seen another human in who knew how long. It was a minor vengeance that whenever he slipped away, he drove them all mad in their desperate searches for him. Sometimes he could hear them calling to each other, “Have you seen him?” “No. I don't know where he is.” but it was distant, on the other side of the wall that bordered the grove, and each time, he smiled.

When he was not in bed, when Gaven bade him good-bye and bustled off to his duties, or Mikal told him his lessons were over for the day (and as his martial abilities grew, those lessons had become less about learning and more about practicing), he came here. It was his spot, his solace.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It had been a bad day. First, he had upset Goromand. He had refused to allow Andrus to return. The man had wanted him to reconsider; Andrus was difficult, Goromand said, but he knew what he was doing—Jurel decided on the spur of the moment, without knowing exactly why, to hold back what he had overheard in the little used corridor the day before. He then insisted that Jurel pray, to beseech Gaorla for forgiveness for whatever sin had blocked him from his power. He had told the man to do anatomically incorrect things with himself, and possibly with various species of livestock, before storming away.

On top of it all, he could not get images of Daved from his mind. Some days he could get through from waking to sleeping without thinking of him, but the previous night, he had dreamed of his father and the dream had stuck with him, haunted him until he was afraid the memory of the man he had called father for so long would crack his already brittle mind.

It was not supposed to be this way. He was supposed to be tending cattle or checking crops beside Daved, laughing at one of Galbin's jests. He should have wooed, and possibly married Erin, had children, had a life. Instead, he was so far from that home, that life, it seemed a decade had passed, a century, and not just a few months. A million miles instead of a thousand.

“Hello, my boy.”

The familiar voice jolted him. He spun around in his seat. Kurin stood a few feet from him, hip deep in the overgrown bushes, with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

“How did-?” he asked and the old man chuckled.

“How did I find you? It's no big mystery really. I used to come here when I was an acolyte. It was my place. It let me get away from all the tedious lessons. As a matter of fact, that was the exact tree I used to lean on. Right where you are.”

“So you knew?”

“Of course. But I would never tell. This is your place now.” His eyes lit up further and his lips broadened until they were a wide, mischievous grin. “Besides, I rather enjoy seeing my fellow brothers and sisters running around like there are hornets after them while they search for you. It takes everything I have to keep from laughing out loud.”

Kurin pushed his way through the dense growth until he was beside Jurel, sank down with a sigh and leaned back against the trunk.

“I'd almost forgotten how pleasant this place is. It's been so long.”

They sat quietly as the sun slid downward, and the sky changed from the color of a jay's crest to the color of a robin's breast, not speaking, not needing to. They had been through a lot together. It was enough for them to be comfortable no matter how long they sat in silence. When the arbor was washed in shadow, when all was muted colors that were a thin shade of gray, Kurin finally shifted.

“We need to speak,” Kurin said.

“I'm right here,” Jurel responded.

“Indeed,” the old man said, but there was another silence before he spoke again. “Did you really say that thing to Goromand about strapping himself naked to the underside of a stallion in heat?”

“No! I would never! It was a mule.”

A grunt of laughter and Jurel could not help but smile ruefully in return. Perhaps he had been a little harsh.

“No matter. You two will have to bury the hatchet in your own time.”

“As long as he stops going on about praying and repenting and stuff,” grumbled Jurel. “I've spoken with my father.” I think. “He's told me many things and I don't remember anything about repenting. He doesn't seem to care one whit whether I beg his forgiveness or not.”

“Ah...yes. Well.” Kurin harrumphed. It was difficult enough for him to deal with the fact that Jurel was a God—though he tended to use the term God-in-training—but to hear Jurel speak which such familiarity of Gaorla made him uneasy. “We are getting a little far afield. For now, try to be kind to Goromand,” Kurin pleaded as he rose. “He's a good man—I dare call him a friend—but he's trying to deal with some very difficult concepts, you know, and I think he's a little frazzled by it all. It's not often he plays host to a god.”

“I'll try,” Jurel said. Flashing a toothy grin, he added, “After all, I have a hatchet to bury.”

“Gods help me,” Kurin moaned, stretching his arms out and looking to the darkening sky.

“Next time I see dad, I'll ask him what he can do,” Jurel retorted.

“Er...yes. Anyway.” The casual blasphemy rattled him. If it had been anyone else who spoke those words, Kurin would have spoken at length—and not gently. Rubbing his temples, Kurin cleared his throat loudly. He gave Jurel a pointed glare. “That's not the reason I'm here.”

“You asked,” Jurel shrugged.

“The reason I'm here is to discuss your little falling out with Andrus.”

Sullenly, Jurel brought his knees up to his chest. Unable to meet Kurin's look, he muttered, “I don't want to talk about it.”

Clicking his tongue, Kurin turned to face him. “Jurel, we have been through this already. You need to be educated and Andrus, as stodgy as he is, happens to be one of the finest teachers here. Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened and exactly why you can't just let it go.”

What was he to do? When Kurin set his mind to something, he tended to dog it until he had all the answers he sought. He had sought Jurel for more than forty years after all. Jurel heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it but to just come out and tell him. Grudgingly, he told his tale, but he left out the conversation he had overheard in the abandoned corridor.

“So you're angry because he neglected to mention some of the dangers inherent in summoning arcanum?” Kurin asked, eying Jurel sharply.

“No, I'm angry because we've been trying for months and we've made no progress and he continually hints that it's my fault.”

“I see.” Kurin said, nodding his understanding. After a pause in which it seemed Kurin was busy gravely pondering this new information, he asked, “And whose fault would you say it is?”

With a snort, Jurel glanced askance at Kurin. “He's the teacher.”

“Ah.” That slow nod continued. Jurel began to get the uncomfortable idea that he was being baited.

“I wonder,” Kurin drew it out as though thinking deeply, “What were the names of the head delegates who met with Threimes, the first to draw out the borders?”

Confused, Jurel stared at the old man before answering. “Jalal from Kashya and Saeth from Madesh.”

“Oh?” Kurin's eyebrows rose. “How do you know this?”

“Well, Andrus told me.”

“Hmmm. Yes, now I remember. Who is the current baron of Icetown?”

“Drogas, I think. The king awarded him with the position after he took command of the city's defenses and repelled a raid from Madesh that killed the previous baron.”

“Oh. And you learned that where?”

With light dawning, Jurel answered more slowly. “Andrus.”

“I see. And how does one go about accessing his or her arcanum?” Now Kurin's bright, angry eyes were riveted to Jurel's.

“Well...” He did not want to complete the thought but Kurin urged him relentlessly forward. “First, you need to meditate and float within yourself. Then you need to find your center. Once you've found it, you should see your source. It's different in appearance to each person; for me it looks like a star. Then you-”

“Needless to say,” Kurin interrupted, “Andrus taught you that as well.”

Breaking eye contact, Jurel stared at a dandelion between his feet and shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“So let me get this straight: you have learned history, politics, current events, geography, mathematics, science and alchemy, your reading is vastly improved as are your skills at analysis and logic—so I thought!—and philosophy. In a few short months, Andrus has managed to turn you from nearly total ignorance of the world around you to at least a semblance of educated understanding. This is a process that takes our novices years to complete. And you would blame him for your mental block?”

Jurel's sullen obstinacy had evaporated early during Kurin's tirade. Now guilt threatened to choke him.

“Jurel, be sensible,” Kurin continued, more gently as he crouched in front of Jurel. “I think I can convince Andrus to give you another chance. Be ready for him tomorrow.”

Though guilt gnawed at him, still he turned stony eyes to Kurin. “No.”

“No?”

Perhaps he had been too hard on Andrus. Perhaps he should have been more studious, more willing to delve his own mind, more...willing. And perhaps if that had been all, then it could be solved right there, right then. But now there was the added complication of his illicitly overheard conversation.

Jurel told Kurin the rest, thinking rather wryly as he did that Kurin had, once again, proven remarkably adept at getting all the information out of the situation. This time, when he reached the end of his account, Kurin's expression held no trace of mock thoughtfulness. He glared darkly at Jurel.

“I see,” he rumbled. “This does indeed pose a problem.”

Kurin rose quickly to his feet—Jurel was often astounded by the ease and agility with which the old man moved—and, clasping his hands behind his back, began pacing in the tall grasses. Jurel watched like a cornered animal as Kurin muttered under his breath. Some moments later, Kurin came to an abrupt halt and locked eyes with Jurel.

“All right, my boy. You won't see Andrus again. I will find you another tutor. And I hope you will treat this one a little better.”

Relieved, Jurel nodded. “And what about-”

“Never mind that. I will take care of it. Good day Jurel.”

So Jurel had managed to get rid of Andrus once and for all but now he was to be saddled with someone else. He could not help but wonder what the next tutor would be like. Knowing Kurin as Jurel did, he imagined the old man would find someone particularly unpleasant in one fashion or another, someone who would drive Jurel even crazier than Andrus had. Kurin had a strange sense of humor.

He did not see the mischievous smile that tugged at the corner of Kurin's mouth or the gleeful glint in his eye as he strode purposefully from the arbor. If he had, he would have really worried.

Chapter 6

After a few days with nothing to do, he grew bored and restless. He had imagined Kurin would hastily rectify the situation; he had awakened early the day after his conversation with Kurin in the arbor, certain that his new tutor would soon arrive. But several days had passed and there was still no one to teach Jurel. Either no one wanted to be burdened with a stubborn, short tempered young god, or Kurin was making him suffer for his previous impertinences—the suspense was killing him.

He took to exploring more, but quickly realized that there was not much else for him to see; he had haunted these corridors for months. He stopped his wanderings but not before noticing a schism among the denizens: half of those he passed bowed and groveled, while the other half barely deigned to notice him as they sailed by. Andrus, it would appear, had been busy.

He decided to seek out Gaven, but Gaven was a lieutenant under Mikal's command. He had a great many duties to see to. It was difficult for his friend to find spare time and even when Gaven did have some time to himself, it was never more than just enough to sit down to a quick meal and share a few hasty words before Gaven was again pulled away.

About a week after sending Andrus away, Jurel stood in his room staring aimlessly out the window. The gloomy overcast seemed to wash away substance from the land leaving a vista of muted dreariness.

Too rainy to venture outside, Jurel decided to visit the library. He made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Abbey, not paying attention to the tapestries and paintings that lined the walls, the statues that looked out upon passers-by from their niches, barely paying attention to his steps so that he had to backtrack on occasion when he ended up somewhere other than the library—at which point he would curse softly under his breath; the third time he had lost his way, he had muttered a particularly nasty oath and an acolyte, who had been in the process of prostrating himself jumped as though stung by a very large wasp. For such a long, narrow building, he thought, there were an awful lot of corridors.

When he finally did arrive, he stood at the door with a sinking heart. Bathed in gray light from the windows set high on the walls, with islands of gold from the candles liberally dispersed at the tables and from the torches hissing merrily in their sconces, the library was not the oasis of peace and quiet he sought, but was instead teeming with brothers and sisters populating the research tables bent over books and manuscripts, quills scribbling furiously, or wandering the long lines of shelves like window shoppers. Acolytes rushed into and out of the long stacks bearing armfuls of tomes and scrolls at the behest of their respective masters. A hum filled the air from the dozens of quiet conversations, the crinkling of parchment, the scritching of quills.

Dust and must, the scent of old knowledge, colored the air and made his eyes water. He sneezed. Instantly, all motion ground to a halt, changed into a tableau of startled expressions, wide eyes staring at him. He suppressed the image of a deer staring down the shaft of an arrow. With a tremulous smile, he raised a hand and wiggled his fingers.

“Hullo.”

As though that one word was a brusque command, everyone, every single person, either rose from their seats or came out of the stacks, and rushed for the door, bowing hastily at him on their way by, each one holding their robes close, very careful to not touch him. He watched a single page flutter to the floor in the now empty library as the door shut behind him with a firm click of the latch. Resentfully, he wondered if he was so distasteful to them, as though maybe he had the plague or something. Really, did they all have to rush from his presence like rats abandoning a sinking ship?

With a sigh, he shrugged. At least it was quiet.

He wandered the rows, staring vacantly at the shelves, vaguely amazed that so many books existed. He was not certain what it was he searched for, or if, in fact, he searched for anything at all, instead preferring the quietude to think.

And think he did. The time he had spent here in the Abbey had begun to grate on him. When he had first arrived with Kurin, Mikal, and Gaven, he had been welcomed as a hero. There had been a grand feast and a ball afterward and he had been the guest of honor. He had felt no small amount of discomfort at all the attention but he was well treated and besides being nervous under so much attention, he had rather enjoyed himself.

As time wore on, as spring had given way to summer, the denizens of the Abbey distanced themselves from him. Or, more precisely, raised him ever higher above them. Between his continuing failure and having no idea what it was they expected of him, he quickly became shamed by the pedestal they had put him on.

And of course, rumors of his lack of ability raced like wildfire through the Abbey so that every time someone bowed to him—which happened less and less—in the moment before their heads lowered, he saw the cloud of uncertainty draw like a veil over their eyes. It did nothing for his own confidence; who was more aware than he of the difficulties he was having? Who better than he knew what was at stake?

He slid a finger idly along the spines of the books, feeling the smooth almost oiliness of some, and the ancient grittiness of others, feeling the bump and ridge of embossed script, gilding made fragile by countless years flaking at his passing touch. A season had passed since his arrival here and he still felt lost, he still felt apart, that he did not belong.

He was not sure why he should have felt otherwise when he thought about it. His life was in tatters, his father—fathers—dead, his mother a hazy memory, his home so far out of reach that it may as well not even exist. The brothers and sisters of the Abbey treated him, by turns, with awe as their leader, a God, and a crippled man deserving nothing more than pity and strict education. And why not? In a strange way, he was a cripple. He could wield his sword well enough, he could pierce a fleeing pheasant in the eye at a hundred paces with an arrow. But where was the torrent of power that had inundated him at the temple in Threimes earlier that year? He could feel it just outside his reach when he strove for it. Sometimes, he thought he could just touch it, brush his fingertips against it before it receded like a drowning man whose fingers breach the surface.

God of War? God of nothing, more like, God of cripples. For here he was, having discovered his identity, a prisoner in these walls. Someone listening to his thoughts may have scoffed then, shaken his head derisively. A prisoner? Here? The listener would have said, and rightly so, that he was a respected, honored guest, that he could leave whenever he so chose, and no one would try to stop him—well not much.

Jurel would argue that he was not a prisoner of the Salosian Order. He was a prisoner of himself, of his past, and of his failings. Stepping outside the walls that penned him would get him killed inside the month. He was not sure of many things, but of that, he had no doubt.

His finger twitched suddenly, as though he had felt a static spark. He focused and could not help the sneer that curled his lips. His finger rested on a black leather cover, so black it drank the light. Above his nail, ragged from nervous chewing, letters the color of blood were embossed. It was a title he knew and though he had seen a book like this almost daily since setting out with Kurin last winter, he had never read it.

He recalled the first time he had tried. He and Kurin and Mikal had been on a cold road, fleeing from Soldiers of God, fleeing to the Abbey, though at the time, Kurin would not tell Jurel where they were going, and Jurel, still having no clue of who or what he was—what he was supposed to be, he amended—had had more questions than Kurin was willing to answer. Finally, in a pique of frustration, Kurin had told Jurel to read this very book: ANCIENT PROPHECIES: GOD OF WAR. He had said it would help. Grudgingly, hesitantly, Jurel had opened that book and had been surprised when a bolt of energy had singed his fingers.

“Why didn't you warn me it would do that?” Jurel had asked, outraged.

Kurin had simply stared at him wide-eyed, oblivious and he had sworn to himself he would never try to open it again.

Why not, he thought. Crippled, homeless, alone; why not an oath breaker too?

The book slid free with a faint hiss and fell into his hand with a weight that seemed at odds with its relatively diminutive size. He stared at it, felt its unaccountable heft, felt again the dread, and the taunting call of the thing, as though the world receded from him, as it had the first time, until all that was left was him and the book.

As if he was in a trance, he walked slowly to the nearest table and sat, never taking his eyes from the blood red letters on the front cover. For a time—a moment, a minute, ten—he simply stared at it, not noticing the occasional moment when the library door cracked open to let a set of eyes peak furtively in, only to widen in surprise when they found him, and dart back out of sight as the door closed gently.

It was with the profound reluctance of a man entering a burning building that he extended a finger and touched the hard edge of the cover. The book called to him, black as night, leering at him, daring at him to raise the cover, to discover what secrets lay in waiting just a turn of a page away. He took a deep breath, and with a convulsive jerk, opened the book. Just as with the copy he had in his own room, the same copy he and Kurin had carted halfway across the kingdom the previous spring, there was a blood red page with golden lettering embossed into the surface repeating the title.

Again, he let his finger trace the lettering, knowing that he was stalling, but also knowing that he dreaded what he might find lurking in the pages that waited, waited...

Heaving a sigh, he blew out his breath, puffing his cheeks.

He turned the page.

* * *

The courtyard was dusty, dry and gritty, the rains having cleared up early the previous day and releasing the full force of the late summer sun while he had been engrossed in the pages of the confounded book. No matter what he did, somehow stones managed to find their way into his boots, to lodge themselves between his toes and in the tender spot under the soles of his feet. Sweat glistened on his forehead and ran into his eyes as the white hot medallion that was the sun slashed the sky like a knife. Men and women, shouting encouragement and good-natured insults at him and his opponent, and wagers at each other, lined the inside of the walls finding seats wherever they could: the rim of a splendid stone fountain carved to form two leaping dolphins; a knee high stone wall that ran along the edge of a garden that was withering under the blasting sun; an old corral rail that had not seen use in at least a decade; even each other as they jostled and wrestled for a good vantage.

Jurel smiled tightly as Gaven circled to his right, trying to get to Jurel's flank. A quick feint, and a few light steps back out of range kept his friend on his guard.

“Come on now,” Gaven huffed. “Give a guy a break can't you?”

“What would be the fun in that?” he smirked.

With a lunge, a feint, and a sweep, he knocked Gaven's practice blade from his hand. Following through, he dropped as he spun and kicked Gaven's legs out from under him. Gaven landed hard on his rear and his eyes widened to the size of saucers as his breath blew out in a great wheeze.

The spectators cheered and clapped, and coins changed hands as he took a laughing bow. At the back of the crowd, he saw a mane of raven hair. Below the hair, he saw eyes the shade of a summer sea roll. Shaking his head, he turned back to his gasping friend.

Gripping Gaven's forearm, Jurel grinned and hauled his friend up.

“You're getting better, Gav.”

“Then why is it that I'm the only one covered in bruises?”

Laughing, Jurel wiped the slickness from his forehead with a rag. “Just remember, three weeks ago, I didn't even break a sweat.” He paused, staring pensively as if trying to work something out. “Come to think of it, the weather was cooler three weeks ago.”

Gaping, Gaven spluttered for a moment before breaking out in a deep laugh. “You're a bastard. Do you know that?”

Jurel laughed and clapped Gaven on the back. “What do you say we go and grab a bite to eat and a nice cold ale. You still have to finish that story you started. The one about the farmer's daughter and those ruffians that your father arrested.”

Gaven's eyes brightened. Having finally been given an afternoon off, he was more than happy to indulge. They made their way into the Abbey and to the dining hall where each downed a cold, foaming tankard of ale. After refilling, they sat at one of the few unoccupied tables where Gaven produced a deck of playing cards as he jumped back into his story.

As they laughed over the outcome—who would have believed that a single maiden could best seven armed bandits with nothing more than a flash of her ample breasts?—an acolyte scurried by and deposited two steaming bowls in front of them. As they ate, and for some time after, they played cards and spoke of nothing of consequence.

“Bones!” Gaven shouted triumphantly as he laid his winning hand on the table.

Disgustedly, Jurel tossed his own hand, full of off cards, face down on top of the pile between them.

“By the gods, Gaven can't you let me win one bloody hand?”

Chuckling, Gaven raked in the small pile of coins. “By the gods, Jurel, can't you let me land one bloody blow at the practice yard? Besides, you're the god here. You should be asking yourself.”

Grimacing, Jurel muttered something decidedly ungodlike and Gaven chuckled again.

The bruised light of the setting sun bathed the dining hall, the small fire in the hearth doing little to dispel the gloom. With meal time over, the dining hall had nearly emptied and there were only a handful of people there.

Gaven shuffled the deck and dealt them, counting quietly under his breath as he did, and when Jurel saw his cards, he barely managed to stifle a groan. Maybe Gaven was stacking the deck.

Or maybe not. The game was exceedingly difficult to begin with, with a seemingly endless list of rules that boggled the mind. Gaven had analogized the game of Bones to be the card playing equivalent of Kings and Rooks; a clear mind was needed to strategize effectively, and Jurel had anything but a clear mind.

Narrowing his eyes, Gaven studied his friend over his splay of cards for a moment. “What is it Jurel? You seem distracted.” Then he smirked. “You're playing even worse than usual.”

Jurel shrugged, turning to look into the flames that hissed quietly in the fireplace. Gaven was his closest friend, his history as a deserted Soldier of God notwithstanding. After forgiving Jurel for his betrayal, brought about by Jurel breaking a vow—tacit though it was—when he had been Gaven's captive that winter, Gaven had become his staunchest ally. He had also come to know Jurel well enough to be able to read the young man's mood like he was an open book.

Now he leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his sandy hair, riveting Jurel with a piercing look. Jurel had never been able to lie to his friend. Not because he couldn't lie if he felt it necessary but because after that first time, he had not been able to lie convincingly to Gaven. And he had vowed that unless his friend's life hung in the balance, he would not lie to him again.

So, having made up his mind, Jurel shook his head. “It's the book,” he blew out.

Eyes widened in surprise, Gaven gaped for a moment. “What, you mean you finally read the bloody thing?”

“Oh yes,” Jurel replied darkly. “I read it. And a fat lot of good it did too.”

Drawing a card from the top of the deck, Gaven frowned. “Why?”

Jurel took a moment before answering, then told him about his trip to the library, how everyone within had bolted at the sight of him—“Damned fools,” he muttered, and Gaven laughed—and how he had happened on the book amongst the racks. The feeling of dread he had felt sitting there staring at the ink black cover still sent a shiver crawling up his spine.

“A hundred and ten pages.” Jurel pointed accusingly at his own copy sitting beside them on the table, glaring at it as though it had committed a crime against his person. “And do you know what? It's a poem. A blasted long bloody gods damned poem!”

Thunderstruck, Gaven gaped at him. Then he drew in a deep breath, and he started laughing. He laughed so hard, tears were pinched from the corners of his squinted eyes, and he clutched at his ribs, drawing glances from the others in the hall that ranged from curious to disdainful.

“I don't see what's so bloody funny,” Jurel huffed, offended. Gaven laughed all the harder.

Finally, as Jurel continued to glare like a wet cat, Gaven's fit subsided. He wiped his face, hiccuping, and took several deep breaths before he could finally answer.

“So you avoided reading the book for months because you were afraid of what it might tell you and when you finally get the stones to open it, you find nothing but a poem?”

“That's what I said.” Rather disgruntled at his friend's levity—and more put out because Gaven had started laughing again—Jurel threw his cards on the pile and stood up.

“It's not funny, damn you,” he cried but Gaven's hilarity was contagious and Jurel lost the bitter battle to keep his own smile hidden.

“I'm s—sorry, Jurel, but...I—I-” he broke off, laughing again.

Really, Jurel thought, this was entirely uncalled for.

“Do you mind so terribly much, Gav,” Jurel pled.

Wheezing slightly, Gaven waved his hand apologetically. Swallowing convulsively, he took a deep drink of the ale at his elbow before finally sobering.

“I'm sorry. It's just funny. You've been petrified of reading a poem. So did you get anything useful out of it?”

He threw himself back into his chair and raised his hands wide. “Who knows? There was some stuff in there that seems familiar but most of it was just gibberish as far as I could tell. Here,” he said pushing his copy across the table. “Take a look yourself.”

A heavy silence fell as Gaven opened the book, brow furrowed as he flipped pages, furrowing further as he read. Finally, Gaven looked up, mild consternation on his face.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Jurel snorted. “That's what I thought too. But it just keeps going like that.”

In truth, as Jurel had sat in the library, reading further and further, as the gray light faded from the windows set high up the walls and he had pulled a three-candle holder near to keep reading, he had grown more and more frustrated. He had hoped that the poem would end at some point and he would find the text becoming more informative. At one point, he had even flipped ahead, but he saw nothing but lines of verse. Never much one for poetry, Jurel's mood had soured. It worsened even more because the words themselves, on top of being poesy, were vague, and almost impossible to understand.

“I mean, take a look at this.” Jurel flipped pages quickly, and settled his finger on a verse.

“'Twixt boiling orb and bitter shade/The course is set, a candle's blade.'” Gaven looked up, his face screwed up in confusion. “I don't understand.”

With a snort, Jurel threw his hands in the air. “Neither do I! It's as useful as pig slop. There are some parts that are almost understandable. Like this one here.” Again he flipped pages, again his finger settled on a verse.

“'Battle's son, publican/Child of God, thou be a man.' I don't get it.”

Pacing now, Jurel shook his head. “I think it's describing my fathers. First there was Gram, 'publican', then there was Daved, 'battle's son', and finally 'child of God': I'm Gaorla's son.”

“That's stretching it, don't you think?”

“Well, it's poetry. It's always stretched. But you're right. I may not be much of a judge but even I can see it's badly written poetry. I think it's out of order too. Look how far in that verse happens. There are parts nearer the beginning that seem to tell of events that haven't happened yet. Or, at least not that I can decipher.”

Disgruntled, Jurel stared out at the sky in flame. Mist clung like gossamer to the ground; earth seemed to merge into sky, seemed to end as though he stared at the featureless nothingness beyond the edge of the world.

“So this is useless then.” Gaven closed the book resolutely and laid it on top of the cards littering the table.

“I don't know. That's the worst of it. I don't know. I've been thinking about it ever since I read the damned thing. Sometimes I think that if I just let it sit in my head, things will come clear. Other times, I think it's wasted effort.”

“What does Kurin say about it?”

“Kurin?”

Thinking of the journey here Jurel couldn't help but remember Kurin's reticence every time Jurel asked about himself. Turning back to face Gaven, he smiled wryly. “I haven't spoken to Kurin about it. I think it would be as useful as, say, beating my head against the wall. Besides,” his expression soured as Gaven chuckled, “I haven't seen him much lately. He's been busy.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Turning back to the window, Jurel stared sightlessly at the ephemeral fields. “I don't know Gav. I really don't know.”

As he stared out the window that sparkled like crystal, Jurel had an idea that he would find out soon enough.

Chapter 7

With nothing else to do—and having spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, unable to get that blasted useless book out of his head—Jurel again found himself, sandy-eyed and muddle-minded, in the courtyard watching Gaven's platoon go through their drills. Gaven himself sat beside Jurel on the bench and watched critically as practice swords flashed jeweled shards of sunlight and fighters grunted with both exertion and pain. Gaven's sergeant, a veteran with a temper to match the scars on his face, stormed up and down the line bawling orders and insults in equal doses.

It was perhaps for this reason that he did not notice why first one, then a few, then almost all the training soldiers stopped and gaped in Jurel's direction, blunt edged swords dipping. In the sudden silence Jurel squirmed, wondering what was going on. Had he sprouted horns? Did he have a bit of his breakfast in his teeth? A few of the soldiers whispered words and one pointed at Jurel.

Or, as he looked more closely, beyond him. Ah.

He turned his head. He drew a sharp breath.

The first thing he noticed was her beauty. Long raven black hair framed an alabaster oval. Eyes the color of a thunderstorm held a mystery that he itched to solve. Full lips like roses formed a natural moue as though she was perpetually prepared for a kiss. Though she wore the same sort of shapeless robe that was common here at the Abbey, hints of curves suggested the figure underneath.

The second thing he noticed about her was her demeanor. She strode with a purpose only achievable by the gravely insulted and the explosively irate. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides. Her eyes were not only the color of a thunderstorm but seemed to rage like one too. And they were locked on him. The expression, “If looks could kill...” barely scratched the surface.

“Uh-oh,” murmured Gaven. “I've heard of her. That's Metana. Possibly the single most beautiful and sought after lady here. Most definitely one of the worst tempered.”

“What does she want with me?” Jurel choked. He had a sudden, nearly overpowering urge to flee.

“I don't know but she looks pretty upset. Did you kill her brother or something?”

Jurel gave Gaven an outraged glare. “That's not funny! What do I do? She's getting closer.” He turned again to watch the imminent arrival of his doom.

“I don't know but here's a piece of advice: do whatever she wants as quickly as you can and then be gone.”

Jurel drew a breath to ask another question but Gaven was already gone. Presumably to meld in with his platoon. Safety in numbers, thought Jurel wryly.

When she was perhaps a dozen paces from where he sat, she raised a hand and pointed one finger accusingly at him. It looked like a dagger aimed at his heart. He rose, putting the heavy bench between them. It was not much of a barrier but it couldn't hurt.

“You!” she snarled halting herself just short of driving her finger into his chest. Her head came well short of his shoulders. The fact that she had to crane her neck to glare at him did nothing whatsoever to mitigate how intimidated he felt.

“Hullo,” Jurel said, trying to smile. He was privately mortified how watery both his voice and his smile were. “I don't believe we've met.”

“Do you have any idea what you have cost me? Do you?”

Her breasts heaved in the most distracting way as she drew ragged breaths, glaring murder and mayhem at him. No one had ever called Jurel a genius but he was not stupid; he kept his eyes glued to hers.

“It's...um...a pleasure to meet you...ma'am. Is there anything I can do for you?”

It was honest. It really was. He had intended no sarcasm, no veiled insult. Daved had raised him to be polite. But she stopped breathing and somehow her eyes widened ever further as though he had delivered a fatal blow. He began to worry.

“Follow me,” she growled from between clenched teeth and spun on her heel.

Jurel turned, seeking assistance. What he found was Gaven grinning, and giving him an encouraging thumb's up. Responding with an altogether nasty gesture of his own, Jurel followed the stalking woman as though he were being led to the gallows.

She dragged him through the Abbey, down several corridors he was familiar with and a few he was not before entering a nondescript door in the north wing. Jurel thought they might be somewhere near the alchemy laboratories reserved for acolytes and novices.

Quite large and airy, the room was undecorated, almost barren; its drab, unbroken gray walls were not mitigated in the slightest by the sun shining through large window. The only furnishings in the room were a lectern with a slate on the wall behind it, and a rickety chair against a small desk.

Pointing imperiously at the desk, she strode to the lectern and waited until he seated himself. Which proved quite a chore; the desk was small and he was not. When he managed to force his massive frame into a semblance of the correct position (which he accomplished as Metana glared her disapproval) and stilled, Metana spoke.

“My name is Metana. You may call me ma'am.”

Sometimes, the mouth works before the brain can inform it not to. He tried to smile. “Pleased to meet you, Metana. My name is Jurel. You may call me Jurel.”

Those twilight eyes flashed dangerously.

“Uh...ma'am?”

“You will speak when I tell you to. I have been assigned, much against my will, to be your tutor. I do not know why I was selected and I do not care. Seeing as I have been ordered to perform this function by my superior I have no choice. But we will do this quickly and efficiently and I will not tolerate any foolishness. Are we clear?”

Jurel swallowed, his throat clicking audibly as he nodded.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes, Met—ma'am,” he replied meekly.

Metana's smile was as glorious as a sunrise in spring. His heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“You see? You're learning already,” she said, and her smile fell away. “I expect you here at sixth bell every morning. Do not be late.”

Introductions and expectations out of the way, she opened a heavy book on her lectern and began reading to him.

Oh gods. What had he gotten into? Andrus had been pompous and as interesting as an old shoe but at least he had been civil. Now he understood Kurin's joke. Jurel had not wanted Andrus to teach him anymore and sent him away. So Kurin had given him time to understand just how boring life was here at the Abbey with nothing to do. Then, when Jurel thought he would die of boredom, Kurin had sent the meanest, nastiest replacement he could find. But he knew Jurel well: Jurel could not treat a lady, especially one as beautiful as Metana (which made him frown inwardly; why exactly did his behavior toward her depend upon her beauty? He was not certain he would like the answer very much, for it seemed to hint at something not entirely pleasant about his fundamental nature), the way he had treated Andrus.

Very fine joke, Kurin. Very fine indeed. Lesson learned: never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or maybe, the lesson was that no matter how bad things seem, they can always get worse—especially after a rash act. He vowed to have a few choice words with Kurin the next time he got his hands on the old man.

He yelped when a streak of pain ran across his back at shoulder level as though someone had switched him. He felt the lingering crackle of arcanum in the air.

“Pay attention, Jurel,” Metana growled, glaring at him.

What had he gotten into?

Chapter 8

If he had thought for an instant that life under Andrus's tutelage had been difficult, then life with Metana was nigh impossible.

Each morning, he rose before sunrise—to avoid being awakened by any more dousings with ice water; Metana was not shy in the enforcement of her demands—washed from his basin of water, dressed, and hastily made his way through mostly deserted corridors, yet unlit for the day, carrying his satchel of blank parchments and quills to Metana's classroom. Most days he made it before her. Some days he arrived at the same time as her. He had learned early to make sure he never arrived after her. Aside from the watery waking, she had ways of making things unpleasant for him when he displeased her. Arriving after her most definitely displeased her—along with almost anything else he did.

What followed was an eternity of grueling lessons delivered in a fast-paced staccato tone and accompanied by accusing glares as though he was somehow being willful though he listened raptly and studiously took notes. The lessons always ended with an assigning of work that he was expected to have done the following morning. And no matter how much the after hours work rankled him, he did it. He was wise to do so. Like waking late, he had only committed the crime of neglecting to do his homework once; she checked his work first thing every morning—and she had ways of making things unpleasant for him if he displeased her, after all.

Between the lessons with Metana, and the work she piled upon him to complete after class, he soon found he was effectively isolated from everyone at the Abbey. He no longer had a chance to visit with Gaven or Kurin. He never had a chance to spend time in the training yards with Mikal and his troops. As exhausted as he was from the constant studying, he found himself restless and edgy as time wore on.

During these months, he tried to draw Metana out. Or at least thaw the glacier that existed between them. He had a continuing suspicion that if he could break through that barrier he would find Metana to be a warm, vibrant person—albeit one with nettles—underneath the granite surface. He was polite, friendly, studious and courteous. In short, he was as charming as he could be, but no matter what he tried, she remained cold as though he had grievously insulted her and she had as yet not forgiven him.

Yet still, throughout the grueling months, he had no success in touching his source. That too seemed to insult Metana.

On the Day of Shadows, Jurel entered Metana's classroom with a lightness of step and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was his nineteenth birthday. Surely, he thought, surely she would give him a reprieve to enjoy his birthday.

Sitting at his desk with his work prepared in front of him, he looked up when she entered with a bright smile. “Good morning, ma'am,” he said.

She glared at him. “You have finished your assignment?”

He nodded earnestly and handed her a sheaf of parchments which she snatched from his hand on her way to the lectern. He sat patiently watching her as she began poring through the treatise he had worked up the previous evening to explain the shifting temperatures of the various seasons. As always, she held a quill ready to correct any mistakes she found. She usually found many.

Soon, she sniffed and laid down her quill. “It will do, though there are some issues you and I will discuss.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

Her eyebrows crept up her forehead and her beautiful lips opened to form a wide O of surprise.

“Go? Go where?”

A little flustered, he hemmed and hawed for a moment before he was able to respond. “Well, it's the Day of Shadows and I thought you might let me have the day off.”

Her expression closed up. She regarded him with bafflement. “Why would I do that?”

“Because...well, it's the Day of Shadows.”

“And?”

“And it's my birthday.”

“Happy birthday. And?”

This was not going as well as he had expected, though in retrospect he did manage to wonder why he thought it might have. His smile curdling, he lowered his eyes and muttered, “Never mind.”

And of course, she did not mind. Not in the slightest.

On Galbin's farm, Jurel had often worked himself to the bone and fallen into a deep restive slumber as soon as he touched his bed. He knew what it meant to be tired. But these months under Metana's tutelage, though not physically strenuous, were some of the most grueling times in his life and though he fell into bed exhausted and generally with a pounding headache, he was often too restless to find sleep.

* * *

Metana was a demanding taskmistress. She heaped work on him during the day and if he did not manage to get it complete by the time Metana called a halt to the day's session, she demanded that he have it complete the next morning along with the regular homework she assigned. When she found errors in his work, she upbraided him loudly for not paying close enough attention. When she found no errors, she glared accusingly as though he had cheated. Though it was brutally difficult to keep her pace, he did. He still harbored hopes (foolishly, he castigated himself if the day had been particularly strenuous) of breaking through the shell he was certain she hid behind. He had to admit too that he had learned a great deal in a few short months.

But as difficult as learning all the mundane minutiae that made up the world could be, none of it came close to how she pushed him when they practiced arcanum.

“Close your books,” Metana ordered.

Jurel stifled a groan; Metana hated groans.

She sat across the table from him and gripped his hands roughly in hers. She glared into his eyes. Her hair fell in ebony waves to her shoulders; her lips, though pursed in perpetual irritation, appeared to him at that moment to be pursed in preparation for a kiss; her twilight eyes glared as though daring him. Only a man with ice in his veins would not think to try. Only a man with rocks between his ears would try.

“Now let go,” she commanded.

He sighed quietly, then closed his eyes.

He let his mind open and immediately felt Metana's dominating presence. She pushed her way in with all the subtlety of a raging bull; she was never gentle. She insisted it was a lesson of sorts. He had to learn to protect his mind from unwanted invasion. He wondered wryly on occasion what would happen if he resisted her entry.

As always, flickers of light emanated from her presence. Vague images winked in and out of existence like birds passing through a thick fog. She had explained that these were vagrant memories that leaked from her own subconscious...and they were to be ignored at all costs.

“There.”

Though they were merely mental presences inside his skull, there was still a feeling of physical presence; she seemed to point.

“I know.”

Ahead in the vaulted distance, he saw a flickering pin-point of light. Slowly moving toward it, he evaded the vagrant memories and turmoils that passed his way. He silently thanked Andrus for his final lessons on avoiding these pitfalls. He ignored the voices that floated in as from a great distance though one always sent a thorn through his heart, always left him feeling as though he betrayed the memory of the man who had raised him. The pin-point light grew to the size of a melon, then a barn, and soon, he was facing a vast wall of blazing energy, as though if he reached out he truly would touch the surface of a star.

But, as always, it remained just out of reach.

Once again, with Metana's harsh urgings, he beat ineffectively at the invisible barrier that blocked him. With an urgency brought on by months of frustration, he beat at the barrier with every bit of strength he could muster and let out a mental howl of such power that even Metana's presence faded as she backed away. But the barrier did not so much as waver.

As his rage faded to defeat, he began to feel a distant discomfort; he had worked his body into a sweat with his exertions. He could feel strained muscles in his arms and chest. He felt his body draw in a long breath as he connected enough to loosen himself.

As he backed away from the light—Daved used to tell him that finding a solution to a problem sometimes entailed looking at it from a more distant perspective, to view it in its entirety; in this case, he followed that advice literally—a different flicker out of the corner of his awareness drew his attention.

Metana had drawn closer again and began berating him for his latest failure, but this new light far in the distance held him and he tuned her out. There was something about this new light; it was somehow familiar to him. Unable to curb his impulse, he drifted toward this new light at the back of his mind. Behind him, Metana's receding voice took on a tone of bewildered shock.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“I see...there's something...” he sent the thought back.

“Get back here. There's work to do.”

But he had already tuned her back out. He passed more buffeting memories and vagrant thoughts, ignored more voices from his past—even in his memories, Valik's viciousness and selfishness was nearly palpable. As he moved forward, he felt a tug from behind; Metana was trying to reel him back in. But he was relentless and he continued forward. The light expanded much as his source light did, though this one had a greenish tinge to it as of fresh grass.

“Jurel! Come back here! Jurel!”

He drifted closer, unable to shake the sense of familiarity. He thought to stop himself short, or at least he thought that some sort of invisible barrier like the one around his source would stop him short, but he got closer to it, then closer, and it expanded more quickly as though he was riding a galloping horse at a breakneck pace. Then...

“Jurel! Wait! Come ba-”

A brilliant light exploded, drowning out all his senses and he fell for what seemed an eternity.

* * *

He breathed the sent of fresh grass and jasmine and honeysuckle. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the velvetiest, bluest sky he had ever seen. He moved his head, feeling a springiness under his body as though he lay on a cushion. Instead, he saw a seemingly endless field of fresh grass.

Lifting himself off the ground, he shook his head like he was clearing the effects of a blow.

Could it be?

He spun on his heel, looking behind him. The verdant field continued in every direction. In the far distance, along the horizon, he spied a darker smudge ringing the field; he assumed it was some sort of mountain range or forest but it was too far away for him to know for sure.

How did I...?

He took a tottering step, suddenly wondering where Metana was. He closed his eyes and searched his mind but found no trace of her. He imagined she was back safe in her own head sitting in the classroom at the Abbey. He hoped so anyway.

“Ah, young brother. I see you have finally discovered how to get here without being unconscious first. Good for you.”

Jurel yelped and spun at the sound of the voice, a long, heavy sword appearing in his hands as he assumed a defensive stance.

A few paces away, a prim looking man stood facing him. He wore a bright white shirt and linen trousers under a simple robe that dangled loosely open. He had a massive tome under one arm, the title of which was in a language Jurel had never before seen and could not decipher though he somehow almost understood it. Middle-aged by the look of him, the man gazed through a pair of delicate golden spectacles that perched on the edge of his prominent nose. He had a scholarly air that Jurel recognized from the brothers and sisters at the Abbey, only more intense, almost tangible.

Then it came to him.

The man smiled knowingly and nodded. “Yes. I see you have figured me out.” He spoke in a clipped, precise tone.

“How could I not? You're supposed to be my brother.”

Maora, the God of Knowledge, extended a hand and gripped Jurel's in a firm shake. “Indeed. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Then a smile broke across his face. His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Though I feel I already know you.”

Jurel chuckled. “I hear you know a lot.”

The smile broadened. “Quite.”

As one, they turned to face out across the field. As they stood shoulder to shoulder, a silence fell, one so deep it passed beyond uneasy to as comfortable as a down filled comforter on a cold day. The air was warm but not uncomfortably so. There was no breeze; the grasses were a calm sea sparkling under the golden light that came from no known source but was everywhere.

Though Jurel was loathe to break the silence, he had questions he wanted to ask.

“How did I get here?”

“It helps first to understand the nature of this place.” Maora shifted, assuming a lecturer's pose. He clasped his hands behind his back—an interesting feat with a massive tome under one arm—and swayed as he rolled his balance from the balls of his feet to his heels and back. “Do you know anything about where we are right now?”

Jurel looked around, searching. He had been here several times. But each time had been while he slept. He had thought it some sort of dream world but Gaorla had implied it was much more. It is your place. What did that mean? He thought about it for a moment but he had to admit he had no idea. He shook his head.

Maora squinted appraisingly at him. “Hmmm. Have you learned anything about interplanar or intraplanar physics?”

Jurel stared blankly.

“I'll take that as a 'no' then. The world as you know it is an infinite plane-”

“A what?”

“A plane. Think of it as a huge flat space-”

“But how can it be flat? I can see up and down.”

“I know. It's a difficult concept to grasp. It's flat only in comparison to the multiverse because it is made up of only four dimensions instead of-”

“Multiverse?”

“Yes. Think of the multiverse as a universe of universes. When you look up into the night sky, you see stars-”

“Unless it's cloudy.”

Now Maora turned and glared at Jurel. His tone went flat and he spoke through clenched teeth. “When you look up into the night sky on a clear night, you see stars, right?”

Jurel thought about that. It made sense—the only thing so far that did. He nodded.

“Well, if you could look into the multiverse, it would look similar except that each individual star would be a full universe.”

“What's a universe?”

“Oh father,” Maora muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, “please help your child.”

Jurel wondered which of them Maora was referring to.

“The universe is the world comprising everything you know: grass, trees, sky, stars, everything,” Maora continued. “It is infinitely large, containing countless stars and planets and myriad other breath-taking objects and phenomena.

“The multiverse is similar but infinitely bigger than the universe.”

“How can it be infinitely bigger when the universe is already infinite?”

“Well, though the concept of infinity is widely misunderstood, in this case it's a matter of dimensions. This universe is comprised of four dimensions: longitude, latitude, altitude, and time.”

“Huh?”

“Forward and backwards, side to side, up and down, and time. Can you please stop interrupting? This is taking much longer than it should.”

“Sorry.”

“The multiverse is comprised of twenty-one dimensions. In the multiverse then are infinite planes of universes of lesser dimension. Within each universe, an observer sees that it is infinite but an observer in the multiverse sees each universe as finite because he is seeing it from a position where there are twenty-one dimensions. Do you understand?”

“No.”

Maora stared helplessly at Jurel. He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut before saying anything. Jurel began to squirm as Maora's gaze turned speculative.

“All right then. Let's try this a different way. Close your eyes.”

Jurel did as he was told, feeling slightly foolish as he stared at the inside of his eyelids. Without warning, like a kick to the gut, he was bombarded with imagery. Sun-bright light seared his mind, shifting colors at blinding speed. Jurel cried out, lurched, fought to keep his balance. He thought he recognized some of the imagery but they came too hard, slamming into him like stampeding horses and disappearing so swiftly, he did not have time to decipher what he saw. Gritting his teeth, he clutched the sides of his head.

Then, as suddenly as they had started, the images vanished. He slumped bonelessly to his knees, as though cut from a noose, only barely managing to catch himself from pitching forward onto his face.

Dazed, he opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly to clear the last vestiges of his experience. The world, his world, his place, seemed dark to him. He wondered if he had somehow affected it or if it was because his eyesight seemed darkened, with an imprint like the after effect of seeing lightning.

It took him a moment to find his voice. He croaked, “What was that?”

“Your education was too sorely lacking for me to explain it well enough for you to understand. If we had continued to rely on words, it would have taken me weeks to give you all the information necessary to answer your question.”

“So you're saying I know the answers now? Why didn't you do that at the beginning?”

Maora chuckled softly. “As you may have noticed, it is not the most comfortable way to pass information. It is easier with a trained mind—Shomra or Valsa would not have been affected nearly so strongly—but with so much to assimilate in so short a time, the mind reels and must adjust. I hesitated at first to subject you to that experience since to join with a human mind is not only uncomfortable, it is dangerous. If you had not been sufficiently advanced in your progress toward divinity, that passing of information might very well have erased everything you ever knew, and perhaps killed you in the process.

“And, no, you do not have your answers yet. I have simply provided your mind with all the necessary tools to discover the answers on its own.”

“I don't understand.”

Again, Maora chuckled. This time it was accompanied by a rolling of his wise eyes. “You say that a lot. I think you are impatient. Give yourself time. You will understand.”

As he said this, Jurel was struck by the notion that Maora was not only referring to understanding the nature of this strange world that Jurel had created. A memory emerged, a memory of him speaking with Valsa in this same place not too long ago. She had likened him to a flower seeking sunlight to continue growing, to become what it needs to be while still remaining a flower. Had she been saying more than that? Had she been hinting at a deeper truth? The same deeper truth that Maora now seemed to be implying?

It seemed likely. But as Jurel thought of it, he still did not know what that deeper truth was. Maora had said to stop being so impatient and give himself time to understand.

The problem was that he did not seem to have time. The Abbey was riven, split in half by those who believed in him and those who did not, and if that rift was not soon healed, he feared it would spell the beginning of the end for the Salosian Order. Because certainly, the prelacy was not sitting still. Not after the massacre at the temple in Threimes the previous spring.

Thanking Maora, he tried to smile. He assured Maora that he would think deeply on all he had been taught. With a smile of his own Maora gave him one last piece of advice before departing.

“Be open Jurel. You have difficult conclusions to reach but you must remain prepared to accept them.”

Alone once again, Jurel lost himself in his thoughts for a short time before deciding he should try to get back to the Abbey. There was no doubt that Metana would have...words for him when he returned but there seemed no help for it.

With a sigh, he concentrated and found the pin-prick of light that was apart from his source. He felt a wrenching tug, a disorienting sense of displacement.

The grasses of his field, his place, were empty; the only residual evidence that anyone had been there was the trampled grass where Jurel and Maora had stood and talked. And soon, even those grasses sprang back up, leaving no trace that anyone had ever been there.

Though there remained a sense in the empty air, a feeling, as of a pent breath, of waiting.

Chapter 9

As the winds of autumn cooled and became laden with winter ice and snow, a deep melancholy began to infuse Jurel's soul. At first, he ascribed this new sadness to exhaustion caused by his schedule. Metana worked him harder than ever, heaping work on work until most nights he did not sleep at all so that he could complete all the assigned tasks she had set him.

This new schedule had begun upon his return from his place. She had been apoplectic, demanding to know what had happened and where he had gone. Jurel, feeling that his visit with Maora had been too personal to share, had answered her vaguely. So vaguely, in fact, that her apoplexy had grown to epic proportions.

And the homework list grew. He had not even been able to join in the New Year's festival.

He soon came to realize that his dolor had very little to do with his exhaustion. In fact, the heavy workload seemed to mitigate his melancholy as though entrenching himself in his textbooks and his papers helped him forget something...

And then he understood. The understanding was not pleasant. So much so, that for the first time since he had been handed over to Metana for his education, he purposely avoided her. He did not want her to see him weeping. It had been a year since he'd been exiled from his life and almost a year since he had witnessed Daved's murder. With his hectic workload, he had almost forgotten, had in fact barely thought of his foster father at all in the last few months.

He escaped to his secluded arbor located deep inside an unused section of the Abbey to think. Metana would make him pay full recompense for this transgression but at that moment he did not have the heart to care.

Leaning against the bole of his tree, he let his memories have free rein. Days spent in the fields under the sun working alongside his father; evenings spent studying history and geography as Daved knew them; the memories were a cool breeze over the simmering cauldron of his emotions. Even the upbraidings—and there had been many, he thought wryly—were now a cherished memory. The only memory he would not entertain, would not allow a chance to materialize, were the last ones he had. The ones from Threimes. Where everything changed.

At intervals, Jurel wept, chuckled quietly, or simply gazed wistfully at the foliage and the wild roses and lilacs without really seeing them. How his life had changed! In a little more than a year, he had gone from being an ignorant boy on a farm leading a near idyllic life—save for the constant minor torments Valik visited upon him—to being thrust onto the world stage, killing hundreds, and discovering that he was...a god? If it had not been for the apparently genuine visitations by Gaorla and Valsa and now Maora (he wondered if Shomra would be next) he would have discounted this whole business as the insane imaginings of a deranged mind. As it stood, he still had doubts. How could he—he!—be a god? How could a timid nobody from the back end of nowhere turn out to be one of the most powerful beings in creation? And if he was one of these powerful beings, then where was his power? Where was the power to topple mountains or set the sun to rising in the west? He could not even convince skeptics that he was who he was supposed to be let alone cause oceans to dry up.

Who was he? He was the God of War. Was he? Knowing was easy. It was accepting that was nearly impossible.

* * *

The westering sun was gilding the trees and the wall surrounding the arbor when he finally stirred and rose to his feet. Melancholia nibbled at him and he was feeling wistful and not quite substantial as though he was not fully in the world. Except for his belly which rumbled all too real protests. He had not eaten yet that day and his body was making him fully aware of that fact.

He made his way through the corridors of the Abbey, passing through uninhabited wings and into more populous sections until he properly got his bearings and headed for the dining hall. At that time of day, the hall was quite overflowing with denizens but when he sat at the end of a table, suddenly those closest to him all seemed to remember important engagements elsewhere and he found himself alone. Those that remained outside the void quietened until only an occasional whisper or clinking of cutlery could be heard. He did his best to ignore the surreptitious glances various people cast his way, intent instead on the trencher and cup of ale a young novice placed before him before hastily scuttling off as if afraid Jurel would chase him and bite him.

As he sat staring at his food and chewing mechanically, his mind continued to drift. The food at the Abbey was always well made and tasty but thoughts of Daved made enjoying his meal impossible. He sopped up beef gravy with his bread, and swallowed a mouthful of ale while he chewed. He sighed.

The main door of the hall bounced off the stone wall with a resounding boom. Startled, Jurel's eyes shot up and he saw standing in the door, her eyes full of fire, Metana, searching the hall.

Fantastic, he thought.

When her eyes caught his, her lips pinched and she raised one finger to point directly at him. With such power did she glare that it had almost a physical weight, like a slap, and Jurel flinched. She strode toward him, still pointing with one hand while her other was clenched into a fist at the end of a ramrod straight arm.

Knowing what was coming, and knowing there was no escape, Jurel rose and headed toward her.

“Do you have any idea how furious I am with you?” she growled, glaring lightning bolts at him.

She spun on her heal and stormed from the hall. He, not being completely without sense, knew that she expected him to follow. Which he did. With all the enthusiasm of a child expecting a whipping.

She spoke not one word until they reached their classroom. She held the door open for him, pointing at his chair. He sat. She slammed the door and stormed to her lectern.

He did not bother looking at her. In truth, he barely cared. She could rant and rave all she wanted and, for the first time, it did not matter to him. He had other things to occupy his thoughts.

Her hands were white-knuckled claws as she gripped the sides of her lectern; she continued to glare at him silently. Her breath rasped in and out of her nose as she tried to rein her anger, but still he did not pay much attention. The memories continued to wind through his mind and coil around his thoughts, constricting them, suffocating them. It was as though the overwhelming power of his recollections left him empty now. Left him cold.

“What did you think you were doing?”

It was barely more than a rasping whisper but it carried the force of an avalanche; Jurel, jerked back to the present, flinched.

“Do you think I'm here for the fun of it? Do you think I wake up before the crack of dawn champing at the bit to get here to try and pound a modicum of education into a boorish oaf of a pretender?” As her anger gained fervency, so too did her tone, until she was screeching. “I'm only doing this because I was expressly ordered to. I have other projects that I was working on. Things that actually interest me.

“And then, just when I start thinking you're actually starting to make progress you go and insult me by not even showing up. You overgrown, callous, selfish, unthinking...oaf!”

As her ire increased, his did too. As she screamed her last words, he shot up from his chair with enough force to send it skittering across the floor. He slammed his fists on his desk; it cracked and fell to the floor in two pieces. It was Metana's turn to flinch, the first time since he had met her that she had shown him any reaction other than annoyance or outright anger.

Trembling, Jurel managed to curb the first words that tried to leap from his tongue. But not by much. Instead, he took a deep breath, finding it did little to cool his seething rage.

“Since the first day I met you when you dragged me away from one of the very few friends I have as though I was a recalcitrant child, I have done my best to treat you with nothing but courtesy and respect. I have taken the work you shoveled at me and I did it all with a smile on my face. I sat here silently as you belittled me. I sat here and didn't complain even when you wouldn't let me enjoy the New Year's feast or even my own damned birthday.

“I don't know what I pulled you from but whatever it was, I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't ask for you. Hells, I didn't ask for anyone. And let me tell you something: whatever little pet projects you were working on that you were pulled away from, you cannot begin to compare your loss to mine. My entire life has been ripped out from under my feet. Everything I knew, everything I was is gone!

“You asked what I thought I was doing today. You know what? I was mourning. My foster father, the man who rescued me when I was newly orphaned—I watched my parents murdered by Dakariin, by the way—from a battle torn city and raised me from childhood was himself murdered before my eyes nearly a year ago in Threimes.”

This, the actual saying of his troubles, finally had the effect of stemming his surging anger, dulling it and cooling it. It left him numb. It did not really help that for the first time since he had met her, she finally showed a trace of human empathy when her eyes softened. He did not need or want her pity.

He continued, “So if you want to think that me not showing up today was intended as an insult to you, then go ahead. I really don't care. What I needed was some time to pull myself together.

“As for who I am, or who I am supposed to be, I guess you would be one of the disbelievers. I understand. I've noticed that many here don't put much stock in Kurin's claims.” He smiled weakly as she snorted quietly. “Most days I don't really believe it myself. Except for what happened in Threimes, I can't seem to do anything I'm supposed to be able to.”

At that, Metana's brow drew down and she canted her head inquisitively. She spoke calmly and mildly. “What did happen in Threimes? There are rumors, but no one who knows will talk about it.”

Jurel still had no desire to discuss it. Like the others who had shared the experience with him, it still left the sour taste of horror at the back of his throat to even remember it. She was honestly curious though, expectant without expectation. He had the impression that she did not want to know for the sake of satisfying some base bloodlust and fuel the fires of vengeance like so many others but because she truly wanted to understand him a little better by knowing what he had gone through the previous spring.

As wind gusts rattled the rapidly darkening windows in their casements, Jurel slowly and quietly began to tell the tale, starting with the harrowing running battle and subsequent capture by Salma's platoon of Soldiers of God. He had intended to tell a heavily edited version, but as his account wore on, he found himself telling the whole thing, every painful detail. By the time his story petered to a halt, Jurel was panting as though he had run ten miles and tears were coursing unabashedly down his face. His sight was a blurred, dirty window onto a reality that was unrecognizable and undecipherable.

He had, during the course of his telling, retrieved his chair and now as he sat with his hands clasped between his knees, he felt warm arms envelop him. It made him weep all the harder as he felt a soft hand gently smoothing his hair.

“It's all right, Jurel,” she crooned. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. It's all right.”

And he wept all the harder.

* * *

In time, his weeping subsided to sniffles and the occasional hiccup. He was surprised to realize how drained he was. Not just emotionally—that, he would have expected—but physically as well. He was certain that if he could lie down and shut his eyes, he would sleep for days.

And a strange paradox: though he felt like he weighed a thousand pounds, he also felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He was surprised, then—physical and mental exhaustion notwithstanding—to realize that he felt better. It was as though he had lanced a painful boil and was getting all the infection out. He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in weeks, perhaps months, as Metana disentangled herself and crouched to be at eye level with him. After a brief inspection of his features, she winced.

“You look like you fell off a mountain,” she said softly.

“I feel it,” he responded, chuckling.

She rose and stepped to her lectern. Jurel, not particularly interested in listening to any lectures, nonetheless settled in wondering what exactly he would do for a desk. But she stood silently for a moment, gazing down thoughtfully at the sheaf of parchment she had there. Then she nodded, apparently making a decision.

“Tell you what,” she said, turning to face him. “Tomorrow, you and I will go for a picnic in one of the arbors. I will still give a lesson, but it will not be here—like we have a choice; you have no desk, oaf.” The words did not sting; her eyes were soft, and she smiled gently. “Instead we'll be under the sun and I promise it won't be quite so arduous.”

He could not help it; he breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled wryly.

“Yes, yes. I think for today, there is nothing here for us. Let's get some sleep and meet here in the morning. Say one hour after sunrise?”

* * *

For the first time in months, Jurel walked with a buoyancy in his step. Through corridors that were beginning to show evidence of the Abbey waking, he whistled tuneless ditties to himself until he reached the classroom.

When he entered, Metana looked up from her lectern and smiled, greeting him shyly. With no further ado, she gathered up a ream of parchment, a thin book and a large wicker basket which she handed to him, and motioning him to follow, walked from the classroom.

Soon, they were in an arbor much like the one Jurel used as a refuge on occasion, though this one was much more frequented by the denizens of the Abbey, as evidenced by the neatly trimmed grass and pruned hedges. The sun had not yet broached the top of the wall so they were still deeply shadowed, but the spell cast by the Salosians ensured that even at that time of morning and even though it was only a month past midwinter, it was pleasantly warm. The flowers were always in bloom here; as the sun peeked over the wall, the arbor transformed into a dazzling oasis of tranquility sprinkled liberally with lush, velvet colors.

They settled on a bench in the middle of the arbor where the path widened, creating something like a glade, and sat in silence for a time. Jurel enjoyed the idyllic scene while Metana, with her head bowed and her hands held loosely in her lap, seemed to be praying. He wondered, briefly, to whom? Valsa? Perhaps, but it did not feel quite right to him. Certainly not Shomra. There were plenty of brothers and sisters who worshiped the God of Death but they were all dour, somber people who shambled about the Abbey silently with their heads bowed. Metana was anything but somber and she did not shamble anywhere. With the amount of knowledge she had stuffed between her ears, probably Maora he decided.

Soon, she roused herself with a shake and flashed him a tentative smile.

“Well then, Jurel, do you want to start the lesson now or eat first?”

He gave her a sheepish look after his belly answered for him, grumbling impatiently. She grinned and began laying out their picnic.

Soon they were munching on soft rolls, still warm and slathered in fresh butter, tart yellow cheese wedges, and apples, and sipping water from flagons. Neither said anything for a time. Though they both made an effort to appear comfortable and simply too busy eating, Jurel kept casting nervous glances, wondering if this new, more amicable Metana was here to stay. Every once in a while he caught her eyes just before she snapped them back to her food.

Soon, they were licking butter and fruit juice from their fingers and leaning back with sighs of contentment. They gazed silently into the depths of the arbor, ostensibly enjoying the view but Jurel knew that they were each trying to figure out a way to begin a conversation that would not be awkward. It was Metana, unsurprisingly, who broke the heavy silence.

“Shall we begin then?”

He stifled a disappointed sigh as she reached for her sheaf of work. It was not quite how he wanted to start but he followed her lead and pulled a blank sheet to his lap. He poised a short stub of lead near the top left corner, waiting to begin taking notes. She opened her book, leafed through a few pages then halted. For a moment, Jurel thought she was referring to her own notes but her eyes held a far away look. She unconsciously fingered a wayward lock of her ebony hair back behind her ears, her brow drawing down, her lips pursing just slightly. She drew a deep breath which had a most diverting effect on the front of her robe.

Gods but she was beautiful!

“I...I'm...” she stuttered without looking up from her notes. “I...this is hard for me. I rarely ever apologize and I certainly never apologize to a student.”

Jurel, being Jurel, was embarrassed (though somewhat gratified, he would not lie to himself) and tried to ease her. “No. No Metana. It's fine. Really, I think...”

But he trailed off as the more familiar glare caught him like a shovel in the face.

“Jurel, I'm trying to do something nice. Shut up and let me finish.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue.

Relenting, she sighed again and he had to work hard to keep his eyes up. “I've been unfair to you. I've been so concerned about the upheaval in my life that I did not think of yours. That's a very unsisterly attitude,” she smirked. “I've forgotten one of the cardinal rules. I may be a teacher, but it doesn't mean I can stop learning. Look, I don't know who you are, I don't know if I believe master Kurin's claims, but I do know that you have caused me to ask some interesting questions. I think, if you wouldn't mind, that I'd like to stay and continue to help with your education.”

A part of Jurel wanted to shout for joy, another part cringed in fear. Up to this point, she had been brutally hard on him, quick to anger, and never satisfied with anything he did but he still had the feeling that this was a woman he would enjoy getting to know better if he could break through her armor. He was not sure he could keep up her pace much longer though.

She must have seen only the latter because she smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I promise to let up a little on you. You'll have some days off, and some evenings with little work. There will still be plenty of work, but I think you will find it manageable.”

She stared at the book in her lap for a few moments and seemed to reach a decision. With a decisive nod, she snapped it shut and said, “How about we do that today?”

At first, there was a great deal of silence interspersed with only a few words. But as the sun rose to its zenith, they began to open up more, until even Metana told Jurel some small stories from her past. Soon, they were laughing and speaking like long-time friends and the tension of earlier was forgotten. As the light hardened to a late afternoon glare, they packed up their things and headed off to share dinner.

By the time Jurel found himself back in his own room, he was electrified and enchanted by this new young lady that he had only begun to get to know. Things were looking up. They were looking up indeed.

Chapter 10

“Damn,” High Priest Thalor muttered, righting his goblet. He glared at the offending pool of red wine that spread like blood across the paperwork on his desk. Then, he glared at the door where he kept the knocker as yet waiting.

With a perfunctory twirl of his fingers, the wine lifted from the desk, and delicately poured back into his goblet, leaving his desk pristine and dry once again.

Taking a deep breath, he faced the door once again.

“Come in,” he barked.

His door opened just enough to allow the man to enter, then silently swung closed again.

Dressed in dark leathers, Kerr was not the type of man one might expect to see occupying the halls of the great temple, and certainly Kerr and his type were rarely seen. Tall and lanky, the man scanned Thalor's office with quick flicks of his eyes; his type were always suspicious, always alert. It kept them alive.

Members of the Eyes of God, a secret sect within the prelacy, were charged with the quiet accrual of information. They were, as the name suggests, the eyes of the temple. Along with those duties, they were also efficient assassins when the need arose. Kerr was among the best of them; Thalor often tapped him to further his purposes.

Thalor did not offer the man a chair or a drink, knowing full well that Kerr would refuse both. The man would make his report and disappear back into the woodwork until the next time he was called upon.

“What news do you bring, Kerr?”

As quietly as his steps, the man answered, “They are to the south, along the northern coast of the Sun Sea. They occupy an old fortress. It is, by all account, easily defended, but they do not have enough manpower to do so effectively. They rely mostly on spells woven into the stonework to prevent detection. It was difficult to retain the knowledge but we managed.”

Kerr's dark eyes continued to rove. Thalor had told him countless times that his office was heavily warded against eavesdroppers, but Kerr always responded with a perfunctory “Yes sir,” even as his eyes continued to search and his answers remained curt.

“What are their numbers?” Thalor said.

“Approximately forty five hundred total sir. Three thousand soldiers.”

Thalor let those numbers sink in and he let a gloating grin spread across his face. There were more than thirty thousand Soldiers of God here in Threimes alone and that did not count the Grayson garrison or any of the other smaller garrisons in between. He was certain that he could get Maten's approval to muster all the garrisons. With as many as fifty thousand troops and perhaps a few hundred priests, they would stamp out the Salosian Order once and for all. His grin widened as he thanked Kerr who slipped from the room like a phantom.

* * *

Gixen rolled off the pallet he shared with his newest conquest, a pretty young thing with arousingly slender legs and a perky cherub's face mostly covered by a splay of ebony hair, and disgustedly yanked his breeches on. He glared at the pale figure of the girl and spat in her face. She did not care. She was too busy staring at something far distant, something no living eyes were ever allowed to see.

Stupid bitch. She had not even had the courtesy to let him finish before she died. There was always the bright light of fire in his back when fingernails cut at him, a fire whose heat always stretched down, oozed into his own loins; his back was crisscrossed with mementos. There was always that last look, that final understanding as he reached his climax, the realization that he completely dominated them, owned them. She did not give him that last pleasure even when he wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed, urging her to fight back, begging her to show that she understood what he was doing to her. She had died and he had to finish staring into lifeless eyes.

After, he always enjoyed listening to them weep as they curled up into little balls; some people enjoyed a pipe, some people smoked that terrible tama weed, some snuggled close, reveling in the lingering glow. He liked the crying. Even that was robbed from him. If she was not already dead, he would have killed her for it. He did not always kill his girls. If they pleased him, if they truly reached their potential with him, he let them live so that they may forever remember the honor of being chosen by him.

He kicked the lifeless body and it tumbled from the bed, landing to the muddy ground with a muted thud. Then he strode from the tent into the cool air that passed for summer that far north, letting the wind bite his naked chest, trying to put the girl from his mind. Stupid bitch.

“Herkan! Where are you, you worthless shit?”

His lieutenant came running from around one of the tents and pulled up short, saluting him crisply. Not too bright was Herkan and it showed in his eyes that were almost as lifeless as the tramp he left behind. He stank too; bits of rotting food stuck in his beard like infected nodules and his clothes were weeks beyond the need for a cleaning. But he was a good lieutenant who followed Gixen's orders without question.

“Sir! What do you need?”

He stifled the urge to wrinkle his nose when the man's fetid breath washed over him, rotted teeth giving the stench of stale liquor a sickly-sweet undertone of decay.

“Have we rounded up all the able bodied men in this midden heap?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many do we have now?”

“About six thousand in total sir.”

Herkan hesitated, unsure what it was his commander wanted, unsure if he was dismissed or if there was something else.

“Well? What are you waiting for? It's time to move on.”

With another crisp salute, Herkan ran, shouting orders and Gixen watched. It was always satisfying to see his men move quickly, to see them jump to do as he commanded. They had good reason to move. The master had been very clear. He did not care if Gixen indulged himself with the odd girl. He did not care if he killed every girl in the land. As long as he returned with the prize. Soon. If his men did not move quickly, he would flay them himself.

Gixen quickly donned a shirt, and strode through the camp to his horse, distracted, still thinking about his task and the days ahead.

For Gixen's part, he did not care if the master got his prize. Well, not quite true. The master had made it quite clear what would happen to him if he failed so he supposed he cared a little. But the truth was, Gixen would have taken this task anyway. He wanted to wage war. He wanted to feel his sword slide into men, to see their life ooze to a red puddle on the ground, to feel the hot wetness of it splash on his face and body. It was like a cleansing for him.

And the thought of all those young southern sunlander girls aroused him, their smooth flesh undamaged by bitter winds, their meekness, their readiness to service him. Oh he would bring death to them, soldier and girl alike. It would be a dream come true.

But first, he had to finish building his army. He had time for that. Maybe enough time to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh once or twice more before they marched south.

As he turned his rangy horse, as he led his growing army, six thousand strong, six thousand hard, grim faced men, there was a shriek in the village behind him.

“Kahlia! Kahlia!”

So that had been the girl's name. Not that it made a difference. Names were reserved for those who mattered. As the remaining villagers—women, children and men too old to piss by themselves—broke off their sullen stares at the army that had taken all their able-bodied men and rushed to see what the problem was, Gixen smiled. He got at least some of his final pleasure after all.

* * *

Grand Prelate Maten was feeling rather smug as he approached the great sweeping doors to Threimes's throne room. He smiled beatifically at the young page who stood at attention before the door. The young boy squeaked as he recognized Maten, and slipped into the throne room. This did not bother Maten in the slightest. The news from Thalor had been wonderful. They were only months away from destroying the Salosian dogs. He had already signed orders that Thalor would round up every available Soldier of God minus enough to keep each garrison manned by a skeleton staff and, along with any priests Thalor deemed necessary, would march by the end of the spring.

When the page returned, he informed Maten in a squeaky, breathy voice that the king had granted him an audience, and the great double doors swung wide. Inside, he heard the court herald announce his presence.

His soft slippers seemed to sink into the plush velvety carpet that stretched from the doors he entered to the massive throne at the far end of the room. His robe shushed as he walked, and as he walked, the courtiers that lined both sides of the deeply purple carpet grew in status, from the lowest thanes near the doors, farthest away from the king, up to the king's chief advisors clustered around the throne like a pack of hyenas around a dead antelope: the Duke of Threimes, tall and dark and with his ice cold eyes; the minister of the treasury, a stooped and withered ancient who looked a year in the grave already; and even the Duke of Grayson, his hair the obvious color, but still powerful looking for all his age, that conniving old bastard. They and half a dozen others who comprised the privileged few who had access to the king's ear.

Murmurs reached him, muted fragments of conversation, though nothing specific, just the sounds of a crowded room, the sound of a kingdom's heart beating.

He approached slowly, purposefully, and with back straight—it would not be seemly for the Grand Prelate to scuttle like some lackey heeling a master, though under all the scrutinizing eyes, he had to admit, at least to himself, a certain amount of apprehension—and he eyed the throne room. It had been years since he had last seen this chamber and as it always used to—in better times when he himself had access to the king's ear—the grandeur astounded him. It was huge; when he entered, the king on his throne was merely a speck in the distance. Great windows, a hundred paces tall if they were one, rose from floor to ceiling, casting the entire throne room in golden-white light. Marble pillars that seemed a part of the floor, to rise from it naturally as if everything were one solid piece, rose as thick as trees and as smooth as polished steel to hold up the ornately carved and frescoed ceiling, a ceiling that showed Threimes I bowing before Gaorla to receive blessings.

The throne itself was so intricately carved, so expertly crafted that where gold and wood met, there was no seam, no indication that either material had ever been separate from the other. The king was a fair sized man, but his throne dwarfed him, its back reaching several paces above his head and spreading so far sideways that he looked like a child sitting in his father's chair. It gave the impression that this throne, the center of all power in the kingdom of Threimes was too much for any single man to fill.

Above the throne, hung the great crystal chandelier that, legend had it, was created in a cooperative effort by craftsmen from each nation that had warred incessantly centuries ago, warred over who would control the land that Threimes, the first one, had claimed for his own. It was a sort of peace treaty as much as it was a symbol of sovereignty.

“Ah Grand Prelate, so good to see you again after all these years,” the king said when Maten finally reached the bottom of the dais and knelt. Maten noted the decidedly icy undertone in the king's greeting.

King Threimes—not his birth name but the name that all the kings adopted when they took the throne (his birth name had been Malder; not very kingly in Maten's opinion) sat ensconced in his chair, lost in it, gazing down at him, his face benevolent and open though his eyes were shrewd, calculating. He had cause, Maten supposed. They had a history. He was not a young man, but neither was he old; his face was unlined except for a few faint creases at the corners of his eyes. His neatly trimmed beard, almost black, had just the faintest hint of gray streaks at the chin, like comets in the night sky. He sat at his ease, his legs stretched out so that his feet rested on his heels, and one elbow was resting on the bunched fabric of his royal mantle like it was no more than a throw pillow instead of one of the great symbols of his power. With his fingers laced together, he appeared to be more a man taking his ease in his den as opposed to a king presiding over his court.

“Sire,” Maten said, “It is my honor to serve you.”

“Indeed.”

Maten looked up sharply; the king was eying him sardonically, one eyebrow raised. A flash of irritation passed through him, but he did not let it show. Behind the king, the group of men chuckled darkly.

“Of course, my liege,” he responded with a benevolent smile.

“Well then, holy one, would you kindly serve me by telling me what you want from me?”

Maten nearly winced at the cold tone and icy glare. He and the king had at one time been close. As a matter of fact, it had been he who personally tutored the then young prince in the ways of the church and politics. For years after Threimes had ascended the throne, Maten had been constantly at his side, his most trusted advisor.

That relationship had not survived the debacle with the late princess, the king's only child. If only she had kept herself clear of that cult. If only Maten had not discovered her dabbling in the dark arts. If only Threimes had not doted on her so. If only...

What was done, was done. Maten had simply been performing his godly duties. Maybe some day Threimes would realize it.

“My liege,” he began trying to remember the short presentation he had cobbled together for this. “I come before you to reveal the location of a band of terrorists. This band has been operating without reprisal for nigh on two thousand years. I have come to tell you that they will soon be destroyed and the leaders will be brought to Gaorla's justice.”

“I assume you are referring to the Salosian Order.”

Maten lowered his eyes. “As always, the king is quick to grasp the gist.”

Threimes stirred on his throne. “Yes, yes. We have not yet come to the part where you tell me why you bothered to come down here and interrupt the day's proceedings. Surely your Soldiers of God will have this in hand.”

“Of course, sire. But these criminals have committed atrocities not only against God but against your people as well. I thought that you might welcome a chance to join forces with your church to bring them to justice.”

“Ah. That explains why you have filled my city to bursting with your men. And it is yet more troops you want?”

“Once again, your quick grasp of-”

Threimes leaned back, nearly disappearing into the depths of his massive throne. “Stop flattering me. You have a large enough army of your own to deal with this matter. Unfortunately, I am not disposed at this time to lend aid.”

“But my liege-”

“No Maten. I will not be assisting you in this. This is a church issue. I will not impede your army as long as they do not display any hostility to those not of your Salosian Order, but I will not send anyone with you.”

Maten passed a helpless gaze from man to man around the throne, silently imploring them to help him but all glared at him, mirroring Threimes' own expression. All except Grayson who, though he kept silent, had a more speculative air about him.

But Maten did not let on that he had seen the hint. He bowed once again to the king and begged the throne's permission to withdraw. Threimes waved his hand uncaringly, already turning away to speak with the Duke of Threimes.

Swallowing the sharp words that sprang to the tip of his tongue, words that would most certainly see him hung for treason, Maten bowed again, not so deeply this time—though deeply enough to hide the appalled rage he knew must be seeping from his eyes, and he strode from the throne room. His back seemed to burn as a hundred and more sets of laughing eyes watched him leave but he stood tall and walked out as gracefully as he could. I will not flee like a whipped dog.

As he stepped from the throne room, he could not help sagging a little in relief, breathing deeply to calm his surging anger. It would serve them right if the kingdom toppled. Fools.

“Your eminence? May I be of assistance?”

Maten snapped his eyes open. He caught sight of the young page boy who looked back at him with a concerned expression and a tentative smile.

“Away with you boy,” he snarled.

The pang of guilt he felt as he watched the child scuttle away did not help his mood.

He still felt a twinge as he thought of the relationship he had once had with the king. He had loved the man like a son and the feeling had at one time, he thought, been reciprocated. If only Annalise had kept to her proper studies. He pushed the thought away, for that was the past and he needed to look to the future. A future, he hoped, without the constant thorn in his side that was the Salosian Order.

As he straightened up and made his way to his carriage, he rallied, knowing that though the king would not help, he would at least not hinder. With Thalor leading the bulk of their troops, they were assured victory, with or without Threimes.

And what of Grayson? Had Maten imagined the interested look? He would have to send oblique inquiries to the duke's attention. It would be useful having allies so close to the cursed Salosian hive.

Though feeling cold fury at his mistreatment at Threimes's hands, he boarded his waiting carriage and ordered the driver back to the temple with a grim smile on his face.

Chapter 11

In the world of early spring, life begins anew. Buds appear as if by magic on on trees like emeralds; flowers peek up and gently unfurl their silken petals, dotting the landscape in a riotous rainbow; wildlife that has been ensconced in warm dens sleeping away the winter tentatively poke noses into air that has lost the chill edge of winter. Life begins. It is a time of joy, it is a time to get outside, bathe in the reborn sun, and revel in the wonder of the world, of life.

So why did Jurel feel like finding a deep, dark hole and crawling into it? Why did he want nothing more than to curl up, weep until he fell asleep, and then with a little luck not wake up for a long, long time?

A year ago, death had tainted the wonder of life quickening. A year ago, his foster father had been murdered before his eyes. A year ago, he had rampaged through a temple in vengeance, ripping, crushing, maiming, killing everything in reach, leaving an ocean of blood and broken bodies in his wake. A year ago, he had lost everything he held dear when he gained what he hated most.

A year ago, he had become the God of War.

Then what? Then he had spent the next year a ghost haunting his own life, aimless, drifting rudderless. What had he accomplished in the past year? He had learned about history and geography and politics, religion, philosophy, linguistics, mathematics, alchemy. He had learned about arcanum—enough at least to know that he would seemingly never have access to it.

And to be honest, for all his learning, the only thing he knew for certain was doubt. He understood that he had always harbored doubts, but now he was educated enough to coherently express it, and consciously understand it and all its ramifications.

Sitting near the tree line, in the shadow of the trees, some few hundred paces from the Abbey compound, Jurel gazed sightlessly at the new spring. He pulled disconsolately at long blades of grass as thought after tired thought oozed, each one dragging him down just a little bit farther.

He was useless. He was pointless. He had this great and wonderful destiny ahead of him and he had no idea how to take the first step. He had no idea what the first step even was. So instead, he wandered the corridors of the Abbey, listened with all the attentiveness and politeness that Daved had instilled in him to Metana's lectures, performed all the duties asked of him without hesitation or complaint as the disappointment and doubt grew to crushing levels in the eyes of those who saw him. He filled his days with ephemera hoping perhaps that he could fill the gaping hole in his soul. And yet here he sat, in the shadows, pulling disconsolately at blades of grass, feeling dead inside, while life stirred all around him.

What would he do? What could he do?

* * *

Wandering through the western courtyard, Jurel watched men-at-arms going through their drills while sergeants bawled encouragement. Practice swords clacked, men and women grunted, and the mass shifted back and forth like a tide as they shuffled through their stances. Surrounding the combatants in a dense ring, stood their comrades calling encouragement as they awaited their turns on the field.

He had already passed two courtyards in the east, both filled to capacity with Mikal's soldiers.

Brow drawn down, he hurried to the west courtyards, and then the south. His suspicions were confirmed when each one he passed also had soldiers milling and practicing. Even the barracks, usually half empty when every man and woman under Mikal's command was accounted for, was teeming.

Hurrying, he made his way into the main building and toward Mikal's office. At the door, he was surprised to see the mass of yet more people—some full fledged brothers and sisters; some of Mikal's officers, a few of whom Jurel recognized; some acolytes and servants who looked nervously about them as though they were not supposed to be there—lining up. Seeing no other alternative, he joined what he thought was the back of the line and waited. No one seemed to notice him, so embroiled in their own discussions were they.

Soon, he saw a crack of spilled light from Mikal's opening door and a young acolyte, a rather powerful looking young man, stepped out behind a brother who stormed away in an apparent huff. The acolyte made his way down the line, sharing a few quiet words with each person waiting and making notes on a board in front of him. He was a few paces away from Jurel when he glanced up and caught his eye. With a start, he stared, his mouth opening and shutting before he whirled and nearly sprinted back into Mikal's office, slamming the door behind him.

Jurel nervously shuffled his feet as those waiting in line, searching for what had caused the acolyte to flee, caught sight of him. All of them stared and the sounds of conversation ground to a halt.

Just as Jurel decided to turn tail and bolt, Mikal's door opened again, but this time it was Mikal himself who stepped out. The bluff, stocky man, ignoring the storm of shouted requests from those waiting in line, gestured to Jurel.

Relieved to be away from all the prying stares and guilty to have jumped his turn, Jurel stepped out of the line and followed Mikal into his office. Though Jurel had never been here, it felt familiar. A plain, serviceable desk faced the door. The walls were bare stone except for a small bookshelf behind Mikal's chair. Mikal's office was like a mirror of the man himself: strictly utilitarian, no nonsense, dour and reticent. Mikal gestured to the ladderback chair in front of his desk as he sat in his own.

The acolyte took up position by the door like a guard.

“What brings you here, Jurel?”

With a shrug, Jurel tried to hide some embarrassment. “I just wanted to ask a question, really.”

Mikal nodded. “Anything to do with why there seem to be so many soldiers lately?”

Mutely, Jurel nodded.

“I figured. There have been rumors flying for the last few months that the prelacy is starting something big. According to reports, nearly all the northern regiments of Soldiers of God have been massing at Threimes. And there are reports of a similar massing in Grayson. It doesn't take a genius to know what they plan. As long as our location remains a secret, we have little to fear but if we are found, we need as many soldiers ready for battle as we can get. I've been recruiting hard over the winter while you've been holed away with your learning. We've managed to nearly double our standing army with more on the way.”

Double? In only a few months? That was quite an achievement, though Jurel knew it meant they only had a little more than four thousand men.

Leaning back, Mikal watched him. “I'm glad you came today. At sundown, there is a meeting of the council and I think you should be there.”

“Me?”

“Of course. You will feature as the primary topic of discussion and I think you deserve to hear what everyone has to say.”

Uncertain, Jurel hedged, but Mikal overrode his weak protests and before he knew it, he agreed to accompany Mikal.

“Go get a quick dinner at the dining hall. I'll clear out the rabble outside my door and meet you there in an hour.”

It was not long—Jurel would wager one hour to the minute—before Mikal entered the dining hall and once again gestured Jurel to follow him. They passed through several corridors, corridors that Jurel knew from his explorations. As he recalled, the decor grew more ornate, more grandiose, the closer they got to the center of Salosian power. The corridors, mostly deserted when they left the dining hall, became more populated until, just outside the open doors of the great hall, there was a seething mass who seemed to be vying for position. The first to arrive, after all, had their choice of seats on the benches behind the rows of the ranking council members, while the late comers would either have to stand in the far back or not be able to enter at all if there were too many.

Though it seemed quite an uncontrolled melee outside the great hall, as soon as Mikal approached, people melted out of his way, creating a clear path through the throngs for him and Jurel. Jurel noticed that where Mikal got deferential respect as he passed, he himself mostly got curiosity tinged with suspicion, and in a few cases open resentment that he—an interloper and a pretender in many eyes—should be allowed access over them.

It would seem that Andrus continued to speak out against him. It would seem, furthermore, that he had been largely successful. There were not many sets of friendly eyes trained on him as he crossed the threshold into the great hall.

During the years that this fortress had been a manned outpost at the frontier to Kashya, this room had served as an audience hall for the lord (a duke, if Jurel recalled but he could not remember more beyond that) to host visiting dignitaries, and to impress delegates from the great southern empire. As such, it had been built to epic proportions. From here, Goromand's massive chair on its dais seemed quite small indeed. With space for hundreds, the hall was still almost filled to capacity and more were streaming in behind him.

When Jurel and Gaven had been here months before, they had conducted a little experiment: Jurel had stood near Goromand's chair while Gaven stood at the far end near the doors that Jurel and Mikal had lately come through. They had been able to speak to each other and be heard quite clearly without raising their voices. Quite a feat of acoustics considering the distance involved. Now, with hundreds all vying to be heard over the others, Jurel walked through the center of a tidal wave of noise.

He followed Mikal with Gaorla's eyes watching him (Jurel had been surprised to note the first time he had seen the huge fresco that dominated the ceiling that it actually did bear a remarkable resemblance to Gaorla) until Mikal pointed at a spot in the second row where, Jurel presumed, he was to sit. Mikal sat directly in front of him.

The clamor reached its apogee when, with no fanfare but plenty of angry and pleading calls from outside, the doors were shut by several of Mikal's men. Soon the clusters of men and women broke up as they sought their seats or a likely spot along one of the walls to stand if they did not have a seat.

The din abated only slightly as the Custodian, the Abbot's personal secretary, tottered in through the door behind the great chair, using his staff of office as a cane. He stepped in front of the dais and struck the ground three times with his staff and spoke in his quavering voice.

“The council of the Salosian Order is now in session. Abbot Goromand presides.”

Goromand himself, resplendent in his golden robes of office, stepped in and ceremoniously took his seat. And finally, the last of the noise in the hall died to a whisper.

Goromand passed his eyes amongst his waiting audience before speaking. “Dear brothers and sisters, we are assembled to decide, as you are all certainly aware, on matters of some urgency.

“We have all heard the reports coming from the north. The prelacy is gathering its forces for a strike at us. It is also reported that the king is not taking a hand in this. He seems to be distracted with strange happenings in Dakariin lands.”

A collective sigh passed through the hall followed by a low hum of muttering; facing the combined might of the Soldiers of God would be bad.

Goromand raised his hands for silence. “That, my friends, is the good news.”

Jurel squirmed in his seat, noticing that several others were doing the same.

“My friends,” Goromand continued in an ominous tone, “the bad news that has not been revealed to any but myself is that our location seems to have been discovered.”

Gasps of shock were followed by a terrified uproar. Jurel himself felt his gorge rise as the impact of Goromand's words struck home. This time, Goromand did not immediately raise his hands for attention, instead letting his council settle down on its own.

Jurel scanned the faces in the front row, seeing Kurin sitting with Jorge, Garvus, Fagan and Salena about half way down the first row. Each had paled visibly and Salena's lips were pinched tightly shut. In fact, everyone Jurel saw had bloodless faces and eyes pinched with fear.

“The question is,” Goromand said when the commotion had died suffiently, “what do we do about it? I open the floor for discussion.”

Instantly, shouts of “We must flee, we must hide!” vied with “We must stand and fight!” It was not long before the debate devolved into a shouting match between the two prime factions. Individual words became unintelligible as they all mingled and meshed into what Jurel was beginning to think was the standard volume for these sessions. It fell to the Custodian to restore order by once again striking the foot of his staff against the marble floor. The three strikes echoed like thunder, cutting through the din and all present quickly fell silent and faced the Abbot's seat.

“Please,” Goromand said. “Please, let us keep our heads about us. Much is at stake. We cannot afford to bicker. We will proceed with the standard protocols.”

The standard protocols it seemed, much to Jurel's amusement, consisted of those wishing to speak attracting the attention of the Abbott by means of raising his or her hand. And there were a lot of hands.

Choosing seemingly at random, Goromand pointed, and said, “Staman, the floor is yours.”

A bulky man rose from his seat at the other end of the front row from Kurin. He blew a breath through his thick mustache. “Do we know when they intend to begin marching?”

“I am told by the end of the spring.”

“What are their numbers?”

Goromand chuckled sourly. “The reports are slightly at odds on that point but it would seem that we face upward of forty thousand Soldiers of God if you include the Grayson garrison. Maybe as many as sixty thousand with all the smaller outlying garrisons. They will certainly send their own priests but we have no idea how many.”

There was a stunned silence. The very air seemed to crack.

Staman turned to Mikal. “And how many soldiers do we have?”

“About four thousand.”

Staman then faced the hall with outstretched hands. “Need I say anything? How can we possibly overcome fifteen to one odds even with the Abbey's defenses?” He sat back down and a hundred hands shot up.

“Jorge,” Goromand chose.

Kurin's friend rose, bluff and blocky as ever. “It seems to me that we have reached a point where we must decide whether we will flee and cower as we always have or finally stand up and, come what may, make a stand.

“If the reports are correct, then we still have several months before they arrive at our gate. I say that gives us plenty of time to prepare. We can fortify our defenses, plan our offenses. We can continue to recruit new soldiers. I am told by Mikal that our army has grown rapidly in the past few months.”

Mikal nodded.

“I, for one, am tired of hiding. Let us fight back for a change and trust that the gods will decide who deserves to be the victor.”

As he sat, Goromand pointed to Kurin who rose.

“I think brother Jorge is correct,” the old man said, his resonant baritone filling the hall with velvet. “We must fight. Now before anyone thinks we have lost our senses, I remind you that we have an advantage. A very powerful one.”

Jurel felt himself blanch. He tried to sink into his seat as Kurin pointed at him. His smile, though outwardly friendly, seemed to contain daggers.

“Jurel? Would you please stand up?”

Jurel mutely shook his head but Mikal whispered fiercely, “Stand up!”

As he rose slowly to his feet, he felt a stab of betrayal. Had Mikal and Kurin planned this? Was that why Mikal had demanded he attend this meeting? This farce?

“We all know by now who this is, do we not?” Kurin asked.

It was all Jurel could do not to wilt under the prying eyes of a thousand men and women, many of whom believed he was a charlatan, some hopped-up country oaf who had dared to rise above his station.

Mikal rose. With a look that Jurel could only call 'proud' and only served to drive the dagger deeper into his heart, Mikal asked loudly, “How can we lose with him on our side?”

From the rear of the audience, a voice spoke. One that Jurel knew well. He had heard it every day for weeks before he had told the owner to leave and never return. “I wish to speak,” Andrus called.

“You are out of order, Brother Andrus,” said Goromand. “And so are you Brother Mikal. Both of you, please be seated.”

But Andrus was not to be denied. “Your Eminence, I see what Brother Kurin and Brother Mikal are trying to do here. But I know Jurel very well. If you will recall-”

“I said sit down, Brother Andrus,” Goromand snapped.

Andrus cast a beseeching eye to the audience. Several members rose. Voices called, “Let him speak.” “Yes let him speak.”

“It is Brother Kurin's floor. All of you, sit down. You will be heard when it is your turn.”

But Kurin simply smiled knowingly and winked at Jurel.

“No, Your Eminence. I don't mind. I will gladly cede the floor to our esteemed brother. I would only reserve the right to retake the floor after, if I may.”

And did Mikal chuckle? What were they planning?

Andrus glared defiantly at him. “As you know, I tutored Jurel for many weeks before he made the terrible error of sending me away. I think I may safely say that in those weeks, I came to know him quite well.

“For all our dear, and oh so esteemed Brother Kurin's protestations, I find it more than difficult to take his claims seriously. God of War? Him? Ha! The fact that he is not who Kurin claims him to be is not in question. The only question I have is whether Jurel is a knowing abettor to this ridiculous sham or if he is simply an unwitting buffoon caught up in one of Kurin's little games.”

At first appalled and humiliated by Andrus's words, Jurel quickly felt the unmistakable seethe of rage boiling below the surface. He had never really liked Andrus but at least he had respected him. He had known that Andrus did not believe but everyone was entitled their own opinion. But this? Andrus was either calling him a gullible fool or calling him a conscienceless cretin. Both were humiliating. Both were enraging.

“Andrus!” roared Goromand. “How dare you speak that way of a chaplain and your superior!”

Jurel noted that many sets of eyes regarded Andrus with the same outrage that Goromand voiced. He also noted that many more displayed satisfaction.

“No, no,” Kurin soothed. His smile was, if anything, even smugger. “Please, Your Eminence. By all means, let the man speak. He is simply voicing an opinion which is shared by many. It is only fair to hear them out.”

Andrus sneered. “What do you plan to do, Jurel? Do you plan on calling on your divine powers to stamp out the Soldiers of God? Have you managed to even light a candle yet?”

Jurel was choking, his embarrassment forgotten. He sat. Inside, a battle raged. A torrential river of devastating power slammed against his defenses. He shook with the force of it, tried with every last vestige to hold it back before something drastic happened.

“God of War, are you? I taught you history. You can't even remember the years in which wars were waged yet I would think that you of all people should know.”

Andrus turned back to Goromand. “I think the young man shows promise insofar as he would be a powerful wielder of arcanum, but not more than that. He should be enrolled immediately in the novice books and sent to rigorous training. He should not even be permitted to remain here during this council session.

“One way or another, he is a fool child mucking about in the business of his superiors and he should be sent on his way before we proceed any further.”

As many members clapped or called their agreement as there were those who began shouting offended imprecations at Andrus for his temerity.

His self control slipped. The torrent surged free. He shot to his feet.

But Andrus was not yet done. “Better yet, it's him they want. Why don't we hand him over to Maten with our apologies at the atrocity he committed and ask them to leave those of us who live in peace alone. It was his massacre that is inspiring the prelacy to this new level of retribution anyway!”

Dead silence met this final outburst. Everyone seemed frozen to the spot, many, even many of his own supporters, casting horrified gazes at him.

“That would be a death sentence,” Kurin whispered.

“If the greater good would be served by handing him over to what many would argue was justice, then so be it,” Andrus declared and crossed his arms, turning an accusing glare on Jurel. The glare withered when he caught sight of Jurel's expression.

A commotion rose as those who did not notice Jurel began yelling over each other to be heard. Insults and threats were shrieked over the top of heated arguments. The Custodian beat ineffectively at the floor for attention and even Goromand was on his feet shouting for order. But the riot only increased.

And Jurel heard none of it. He continued to glare at Andrus as he battled the mounting pressure within. A small, unheard part of him quailed as the surging forces continued to rise; he had felt this sensation once before. In the temple at Threimes. Just moments before he began his bloody rampage. That part, though small, maintained an iron grip on him.

With his attention entirely on Andrus, he did not notice when Kurin, ashen faced, began to tremble. He did not see Mikal step hastily away from him, he did not see Gaven, who was standing amongst the crowd at the back of the hall, begin quietly urging everyone to escape.

He did not notice either that the din within the hall quieted as eyes found their way to him and inevitably to his lightning blue eyes.

Into the dread, deafening silence, he spoke. But instead of shattering the brittle quiet, his voice, barely more than a whisper, seemed to amplify it like the terrible promise of a predator preparing to strike. And somehow, though quiet, his voice seemed to echo from the buttresses.

“If my execution would serve to save all of you from what is coming, I would go gladly. I would walk into the temple and tell them myself to do whatever they desired.

“Do any of you truly believe that it would end there? Does a single person here actually believe that now the prelacy is stirred they will stop until every last one of you has been hunted down?

“Andrus is right about one thing: it was I that caused the prelacy to act now. It is because of me that they are gathering their forces to annihilate us.” He raked the hall with his glowing eyes. “It would have happened eventually with or without me. Does anyone doubt that? The only thing that has kept you safe to now is your secret location. Sooner or later, you would have been compromised.”

Without understanding why, he left his spot and made his way to Goromand's dais. Those in his path moved quickly away, the parting sea of bodies leaving an aisle for him. At the dais, Goromand and his Custodian stepped aside. Jurel stood, wrath incarnate, upon that dais and surveyed his captive audience. As he shifted to take in all of them, his gilded midnight black armor creaked. He drew his sword and, placing the point gently on the stones, leaned his gauntleted hands upon the pommel. The hall was silent; hundreds of wide eyes stared back at him fearfully.

“It will not end,” he shouted. Dust sifted from the trembling buttresses. “It will not end until every last one of you has burned on a pyre. It will not end until the Salosian Order is nothing but a distasteful footnote in the history books.

“It is time to stop hiding. We will face the prelacy. We will face the king. We will face the whole world if we have to. We will face them and we will prevail.”

His glare found Andrus who had sat back down and now slumped bonelessly in his seat. His erstwhile tutor shrank from his terrible look.

“And we will be united. There will be no more dissension or back hall muttering.

“We will make a name for ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. And I will be the one to lead us to it!”

There was no cheering, no applause, no noise at all as Jurel stepped from the dais and marched back through the aisle, up to the main entrance doors and out into the afternoon sun.

He missed Kurin's expression as he left. He did not see that though his old mentor was pale and trembling, he threw Mikal a look of triumph.

A look that was returned with a nod and a small smile.

Chapter 12

Out of sorts since his outburst at the council meeting a few days prior, Jurel stoically endured one of Metana's scathing chastisements—though they were much less severe these days. Her attempts to teach him what she called high mathematics were beginning to frustrate her. Or, more precisely, his inability to grasp some of the concepts (how exactly does one add x and y?) was the problem.

The slate hanging on the wall behind Metana was covered in chalk scribbles, more letters than numbers, looked to Jurel more like literature gone terribly wrong than any math he had ever seen.

It was a profound relief then that just as Metana began really getting upset, Mikal stepped into the classroom. The stocky man motioned to Metana who huffed a sigh and strode briskly out the door behind Mikal. Though the door was thick, he still heard Metana's voice. She sounded rather annoyed. Whatever she was saying, Mikal did not seem to appreciate it; his voice cut hers off with a sharp command. A moment later Mikal re-entered followed by a rather chastised Metana.

“Let's go Jurel. You're with me.”

Hoping he was not being dragged to another council meeting, Jurel rose. “What about my classes?”

“Your classes are done for the day. Metana has been made very clear on that. She has also been made aware that any outstanding work she assigned you is no longer due.”

Metana simply looked more miserable as Jurel and Mikal left the room.

When they were far enough that Jurel was certain they were out of earshot, he asked, “I've never seen her looking so cowed. What did you say to her?”

“I reminded her that I outrank her.”

Jurel cast a sharp look at Mikal but the man returned it with a bland look that said nothing. Jurel would have wagered all that he owned that Mikal was a superb player of Bones.

Soon, Jurel found himself back in Mikal's office. This time there was no line-up outside the door, but there were a half dozen men and women waiting—Mikal's senior staff—who rose and bowed as Mikal entered. Jurel was shocked when they then bowed to him, then stunned frozen when he realized they bowed lower to him than to Mikal.

After reintroducing his staff, Mikal picked up a heavy piece of parchment which he handed to Jurel.

He received his third shock in as many minutes once he managed to assimilate what the message said. It was an order signed by Goromand handing control of the Order's military might to Jurel. Though Mikal would remain second in command, Jurel now had an army of nearly forty-five hundred soldiers.

“I don't understand,” he muttered, numbly handing the page back.

Mikal snorted. “You got what you demanded at the council meeting. You've been given command, boy.”

Slowly, Jurel met the eyes of each person in the room. Some returned his look, others quickly averted their eyes. In all of them, Jurel sensed a deep unease.

“Of course they're worried, Jurel,” Mikal said. “You're now in command of more than four thousand men. You will use those men to face a force that may be twenty or thirty times your size. Do you have any training in tactical warfare? Any at all? Because I'll tell you what. It's going to take a genius of a tactician to even survive this let alone prevail. And if you fail, all of us will be worm food.

“Goromand seems to think that just being who you are will assure us the victory. He's a good man but he has even less understanding of warfare than you do.

“That's why I pulled you out of your class today. You will continue your training with us while we prepare for the march. You're damned good with your sword and you got that way in a very short time. Now we're going to hope that you pick up tactics as quickly.”

Beside Mikal, Major Kellen muttered, “And as effectively.”

“So here's what we're going to do,” Mikal continued. “Today, you're going to sit in on your first strategy meeting. You're going to keep quiet because every man and woman in this room has decades more experience than you do. You're going to listen.

“Tomorrow, you're going to start new training courses. You'll spend the mornings learning tactics and military formations in the yards with Gaven and his lot. You'll spend the afternoons working out the logistics of our march with Rafel and Kellen. Any questions?”

It brought comfort to hear Mikal speak so frankly, to bark orders as he always did. Jurel may be technically in command but he felt exactly as all the rest here did: he had no idea what he was doing.

And if that did not change quickly, he would kill them all.

Chapter 13

At the fore of his smallish army—a thousand Soldiers handpicked for this mission—Thalor eyed the speck of village disdainfully. Veloth, the crude plank of weathered wood that served as a signpost proclaimed. Hovels hunkered on both sides of the road and under the trees like peasants praying, ramshackle little structures that barely seemed sturdy enough to hold their own weight. Especially the inn. By God but how could any traveler sleep in that place and not worry the roof was going to fall on his head?

Among those seedy shacks, and around them, a few of the villagers gawped at Thalor and his men, standing stock still in the road. Other villagers were a little more prudent; they continued on doing whatever it was that peasants in a mudhole did but they did it off the road, hidden in the shadows. Thalor did not think back to his childhood, to his own roots as a dirty peasant; it was behind him, so far in the distant past that sometimes he wondered if he had actually ever lived it.

Thalor glanced at his major, Reowynn, and nodded curtly. Reowynn turned and barked a few terse orders and the men fanned out, quickly and efficiently surrounding the village. As they should. They had practice. This was the third village they had encountered since embarking on this rather distasteful little jaunt. By the time the last homes were surrounded, all the villagers had stopped what they were doing and stared fearfully, gasping exclamations of surprise, pointing, gesturing at this strange and, though none would say it out loud, dangerous new turn of events.

Thalor and Reowynn, and the clot of guards at their back cantered their mounts into the center of town. With a searching glance he knew was haughty, Thalor drew in a deep breath, trying not to gag on the stench, heartily gladdened when he expelled it.

“Who is your mayor?” he called into the silent pall that had descended.

A sturdy man, perhaps in his early forties, stepped from the small crowd that was gathering. His expression, though mostly hidden beneath the shock of reddish-brown beard like fuzzy rust, was one of unbridled terror. Sometimes instincts were a powerful thing; this man knew that something very bad was about to happen to him and to his village.

“I am sir,” the man quavered. “I be the headman here and the owner o yon inn, The Veloth Inn.” He poked a meaty thumb over his shoulder to the hunk of dilapidated timber behind him. “Me name's Morgen.”

“Well, Morgen, owner of the Veloth Inn, and headman,” Thalor smiled. It was a toothy smile, one that a predator might show prey in the moment before ripping its throat out. “I am Prelate Thalor Stock of Threimes here on special orders from Grand Prelate Maten. I think perhaps we should find somewhere a little more private for we have some matters to discuss.”

Morgen bobbed his head and turned halfway, indicating with one hand raised, his fingers catching the sun, cupping it like he held a handful of light, a beacon for Thalor to follow. Very pretty, thought Thalor. Too bad the boor is likely to lose that hand before the day is out.

As though the villagers thought they could mimic their martial visitors, an escort of sorts, each about half a dozen folks, flanked both sides of Thalor's party. As they neared the inn, which again Thalor eyed distastefully and with no little trepidation, the men surrounding the village began the second phase of their plan. They began moving inward, swords drawn, pushing the villagers toward the overgrown square in the center of this little mire that polluted the road. Efficiently; they had plenty of practice.

Morgen's office was far too small to accommodate the knot of Soldiers that entered with Reowynn and so Thalor stood impatiently at the door of the common room, waiting for Morgen to clean a table and chair so he could sit without feeling instantly soiled. When that was done—and it took a surprising amount of time, what with the thick layers of grime—Morgen scuttled to his bar to pour Thalor a cup (also subjected to a vigorous scrubbing) of the best wine he had. Which was, Thalor thought with a grimace, as might be expected from a hole like this barely tolerable.

Settling himself in his chair, Thalor finally trained his eyes on Morgen who stood waiting on the other side of the table.

“Now then, good Headman Morgen. I will be blunt. We are searching for certain individuals who, we think, would have passed by here some months ago. Have you had many strangers through here?”

“Sir—Yer Grace—with all respect,” Morgen licked his lips nervously, “we be on the caravan route. There's always strangers passin through here.”

Thalor painted on a frosty smile. “Yes. Of course. I think this group might have stood out. There were four of them, on horse. A tall brute with blond hair and blue eyes. An old man, also tall, looks almost emaciated. A short bulky man with a sword. A young man, with the bearing of a soldier. Do these descriptions ring any bells?”

Morgen licked his lips and his sweating increased until it was nearly a torrent. His eyes darted as he searched for an answer that would satisfy, that would get this hostile army out of his town, that would avert bloodshed.

“N-no, Yer Grace. I seen no one like that.”

“Really? Are you certain?” Thalor leaned forward, pinned Morgen with dagger eyes. “They must have passed by here. As you say, your village is on the caravan route.”

Shouts erupted from outside; Morgen's eyes flicked to the door.

“What's this-?”

A scream, high and filled with pain, punctured the air, followed by another. Morgen took a step toward the door. “What's goin on?” he shouted.

Before he made his second step, as the scream was joined by more shrieks, turned into a veritable chorus of agony, one of the Soldiers stepped in front of Morgen and placed the point of his sword on Morgen's chest.

For the first time since their arrival, Morgen showed something other than fear in his features. Outrage? Anger? Could the man have larger stones than Thalor had first presumed?

“What's goin on?”

Thalor could not help it. He smiled. It was a real smile, the smile of a man who was enjoying himself. And as Morgen gazed upon the terrible smile, his face drained of all color—even his flaming beard seemed to pale.

“That,” Thalor said quietly, very quietly, like a strop on a blade, “is my men asking your folk the same questions I am asking you. I would surmise that my men are as happy with the answers they are receiving as I am.”

The cloying stench of burning slowly began to filter in around the crack of the door jamb and the badly sealed windows. The grimy windows that looked onto the main street, began flickering with blurry orange light. Thalor held Morgen's eyes as the smell of smoke intensified.

“Private, please stand aside so that the good headman may see what comes of thwarting the church.”

The sword snapped back and Morgen raced to the door. When he opened it, he let out a cry and sank to his knees.

In the center of the village, great pillars of flame were shooting from the homes and shops of the residents licking hungrily at the already hazy sky. The villagers themselves, those that were not lying in spreading pools of blood, were being herded toward the central square. A dozen Soldiers trotted past the door in perfect unison, swords drawn.

“What in the name of God are ye doin?” Morgen shrieked.

“In the name of God, I am cleansing the land of heretics. Any who would aid the men we seek are summarily convicted. As you can see, the punishment is swift and severe.”

Thalor rose and gestured to the private with the sword. “Please escort him to the square where he may join his neighbors.”

Morgen had one more thing to say as he was pushed into the street with the tip of the private's sword: “You bastard! You sick twisted bastard!”

Thalor's lips quirked as he glanced at Reowynn. Reowynn's expression was stony but there was a light in his eyes. He, too, was enjoying himself. As the two stepped through the front door into the chaos that had upended Veloth, Thalor heard the distinct crackle of fire taking hold in the inn behind him. It was for the best, he thought. This heap was a danger to anyone who stepped foot in it. Burning it down would be doing a lot of innocent travelers a favor.

Remounting his horse, he took one last look at the scene. A knot of villagers huddled in the square, gazing with dead-eyed fear at each other, at their burning homes, at anything except for the line of Soldiers that faced them. One woman carrying a caterwauling baby broke free from the cluster and bolted. She managed to get seven or eight steps before three arrows sprouted from her back. She fell forward as though tripped by a stone. When she landed, the baby's crying cut off sharply.

“You know what to do, Major,” Thalor said and turned his mount toward the camp that was being erected outside the village, searching the peaks for his own tent.

“Of course, Your Eminence,” Reowynn acknowledged, and trotted off calling orders for more torches.

And why wouldn't he? After all, they had plenty of practice.

* * *

Gixen surveyed his growing army with pleasure. He had been traveling for weeks, gathering men the way a farmer gathers carrots—grub around in the muck and yank them out. Brush off the excess mud and there it is: one army, ready to go. The mass of sweaty men in the camp was, at last count, up near twenty thousand. Not enough. Not yet. But soon.

He walked between the ragged tents, mostly made of untanned or at best badly tanned animal skins, off-white or brown, and he breathed deeply of the sickly-sweet odor, relishing it. It was the scent of his people, the scent of warriors and of violence. He thought perhaps it was the sweetest thing in the world. A great thing to wake up to and to fall asleep with. He inspected the men that surrounded him, glancing at armor and at swords, checking for rust or mold. The stains did not matter. The men could still fight if they were covered in old chicken fat or dirt. It was the mold and the rust that could get them killed. He did not really care if they died. As long as they did it in battle, after he had completed his mission.

Every once in a while, he would point and bark a sharp order; the men surrounding the unfortunate he pointed at would jump up and grab the hapless victim and drag him forward until he stood in front of Gixen. Depending on the severity of the man's laxness—how far the mold and rust had spread—he would either be whipped, or in the worst cases, flayed. Of those who survived, not many made the same mistake twice. Every once in a while, he had a man whipped, or flayed, simply because he could, for no other reason than because he did not like how the man looked, or sat, or perhaps just because it amused him.

As he walked, and turned his eyes from one campfire to the next, and the next, men looked away from him, were frightened of him, as they should be. They were wolves. He was the pack leader.

It took him some time to get from one end of the sprawling camp to the other, carefully picking his steps over the broken, uneven ground, and when he did, he took another route back, picking out more men who needed discipline. Screams melded into the landscape, punctuated by the sharp crack of whips, and they became as ordinary as the crackle of fire.

The next day, more would join his force. And more, the day after. Until finally, there would be enough of them to sweep south in a ravening horde, killing everything in their path starting with that great hump of man-city, that great infected lump of wood and stone and plaster, the one that the southers called Killhern.

Well, killing almost everything in their path. There would be time for a little leisure, after all. A little sport with the local wildlife, a little hunting. He liked that: wildlife. Wildlife on two legs with brown eyes and skin the color of bare wood instead of the pale creatures that dwelt here in the north. Wildlife that would try to fight him off, to retaliate by scratching his back or maybe by trying to knee him in the groin as he impaled them on the end of his spear. He chuckled, well pleased with himself. Wildlife.

He would hunt. He looked around as he walked, surveying the hundreds upon hundreds of campfires, eying the thousands of men as he passed. He was the wolf leader and they were his pack. He smiled. Everything was as it should be.

Part 2:

War Cries

“We know until we don't.”

-Mikal

Chapter 14

In the end, it took them nearly two months to prepare. As winter's tenuous hold snapped like icicles hanging from an eave, the Abbey was in a furor. Supplies were gathered into great heaps in the main courtyard, counted and sorted by three harried sergeants—and dozens of underlings—who had been assigned the task of logistics, counting mountains of arms, armor, pots, pans, food, tents, medical supplies, uniforms, and the hundred other sundry bits and pieces that must accompany large groups of men on their way to battle. The air resounded with the heavy clash of metal on metal as smiths busied themselves at their forges, hammering out new shoes for the herds of horses that arrived almost daily, or striking out new blades, or arrow-heads.

The children of the brothers and sisters and various servants in the employ of the Abbey were chased from the fields to make way for soldiers—from single squads to entire platoons—who engaged in drills and field exercises, mock battles and maneuvers, though many of the children watched fascinated from a discreet distance as men and women pummeled each other with their practice swords or pikes, or practiced their archery on hastily erected, vaguely man shaped targets constructed of straw bundles wrapped in burlap.

Jurel, as the nominal commander in chief of the army, spent most of his time with Mikal and Gaven, the former being the commander of the forces at the Abbey, the latter being given the rank of captain at Jurel's behest, and placed in command of a platoon that would make the journey. Most of their time was spent in a dingy office set aside for Jurel's use (Jurel was certain that it was, in fact, a linen closet hastily cleared out; lit only by a single taper, without even the smallest window to alleviate the gloom, it smelled distinctly of a laundry room), poring over reams of paperwork, or engaging in impromptu lessons as Jurel's egregious lack of knowledge in the area of warfare became apparent. Learning how to fight effectively was one thing; learning how to get large groups to fight effectively was entirely another.

By the end of the first week of the preparations, Jurel was ready to tear out his hair in frustration. By the beginning of the third, he was ready to commit foul murder. By about the fifth week, having managed to avoid killing anyone—sometimes by the skin of his teeth—he spent most of his time stunned, wearing a permanently startled expression.

“How the hells do you remember all of this?” he demanded for the umpteenth time, throwing down his quill, his chair creaking alarmingly as he leaned back.

With an annoyed grunt, Mikal glared at him and sat back down on the rickety stool across from Jurel's rickety desk. “Because it has to be done. Don't interrupt. Just pay attention. Now. When you manage to locate the exact position of your enemy, the first thing you need to do is...”

Oh gods.

Reports came in of troop movement to the north; more villages burned to the ground, though thankfully, they came sporadically. Whether that meant that less villages were being burned or that the information was not getting through, no one could say. Jurel chose to go with the former. Reports of troop movements from the south were a prime concern to the command council; the primary danger seeming to be a pincer movement by the enemy as the two armies move toward each other with Jurel's force in the middle.

His meal times were most often spent swallowing his food without bothering to chew, knowing full well that he likely would not have time for even that much before someone interrupted him with urgent, can't-wait-for-five-minutes business, such as how many shirts he wanted packed with his things. Even after he dragged himself to his bed each night, well past moonrise, his head feeling like it was turning slowly to boiling mush and his eyes trying to push their way out of their sockets, he knew he would not be given more than the barest minimum time to sleep. To him, it was as though someone must have taken up position just outside his door every night whose sole duty it was to inform everyone the moment he drifted off so they could form a line to present their ever so urgent demands. Like whether he preferred his collars starched or not.

During these weeks of preparations, he found himself asking one question more and more often: What had bloody well possessed him to, in perfect mulish fashion, assert his authority and personally take command of this nightmare? By the end of the month, that question had distilled itself to the very essence of what he felt, and a different, more distilled question came clear in his mind: Why me?

On the morning of their departure, before the sun was more than a hint on the eastern horizon, but long after the moon had gone to its daily bed, with stars still sparkling sharply high above like an omen, Jurel strode from the wide double doors that were the main entrance into the Abbey and down the few steps to the courtyard. His army was arrayed in platoons, each one fronted by an ensign who carried their standard, though with only torches lighting the yard, the limp flags were as yet no more than dark smudges like tar oozing down the sides of the pikes.

Along the top of the compound walls, and in doors, and windows, other soldiers stood—those selected to remain behind to continue fortifying the Abbey.

Mikal and Gaven waited nearby with Kurin and Metana. Goromand, Garvus, Fagan, and Selena rounded out the small group. Their heads were bent close in quiet conversation; upon sighting Jurel, they fell silent and watched his approach.

With one eyebrow raised, Jurel halted in front of them. “What?”

“Nothing, my boy. Nothing,” Kurin said grandly, a grin creasing the corners of his eyes. “We're just waiting for you.”

“Well, I'm here.” Jurel shrugged.

Mikal, his second-in-command, his back to the men, glared at him. “Have you not heard anything I've told you?” His voice rumbled deep in his chest, a sure sign of his displeasure.

Jurel stared blankly back. Obviously, he had forgotten something, but Mikal had shoveled a lot of information at him these past months, and try as he might, he could not seem to part the veil of sleep that still wrapped tightly around his mind.

“It's traditional for the general to address his men before marching, Jurel,” Gaven said quietly. “Not too much, you know. Just a few words of inspiration so the troops will have something when they're slogging along the road wondering what they're doing there.”

Jurel gaped at the men and women in the courtyard, a shadowy mass that seethed slightly. Here and there, the faint jingle of bridle, or the creak of leather, bespoke soldiers settling themselves in saddles or checking weapons. He turned, aiming a glare at Gaven.

“Can't you do that?” he whispered to Mikal. “I mean, you're still their commander and-” And his whisper died away at the flat look Mikal leveled at him.

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to say?” he demanded in a furious whisper. “Hello everyone, my name is Jurel but you already know that. Now I know you'd like to be all snug in your beds right now, but instead I'm going to take you on a merry traipse around the kingdom, maybe to find the vanguard of an enemy army which might be twice our size with the intention of attacking them. We may or may not live to see the next Day of Shadows but hey! it's all in good fun. Of course, even if we manage to not get slaughtered, there's likely going to be another army hot on our heels so even if we beat the first army, we still stand a good chance of being slaughtered. How does that sound, Gaven?”

Gaven simply stared at him with a half-smile that twisted one corner of his mouth down.

“You know the plan, boy,” Mikal grated. “There's not going to be an army hot on our heels.”

“Don't be difficult, Jurel,” Kurin joined mildly. “Just give them the standard line. We journey for the cause of righteousness, honor and glory. We have the gods on our side, including you, and blah blah blah. It doesn't need to be a long speech. Just a few words will suffice.”

Staring helplessly at the clot of bloody people he thought of as his bloody friends, he gave up and sighed. At the front of the courtyard, several supply wagons waited, each one tethered to two horses because they were piled high. They would be last out behind the troops, each one guarded by a squad as they made their way north. He picked one at the front and climbed on the side rail, using a stack of burlap grain bags as a support.

Perching on the rail, he wobbled slightly for a moment, but when he managed to gain his balance and turn to face the army—his army—all eyes were on him. There was not a sound in the courtyard as the first bar of golden light broke over the mountains in the east, illuminating the rows on rows of expectant faces, each with their own stories, their own lives and foibles, but as a whole, became one anonymous sea. The silence was deafening.

Swallowing—a difficult task; his throat suddenly felt lined with sand—and coughing to clear the lump in his throat, Jurel frantically rifled through the jumble in his mind to find words appropriate to the situation. His gaze went from face to blank face as sweat beaded on his forehead, cool prickles that did little to alleviate the sudden swampy heat of his flesh.

The wall around the Abbey began to glow red-gold with the slow breaking of dawn, each stone sharply limned by umber filaments. The herbs and flowers that grew in neat rows along the base seemed to stretch in lazy luxury upward as he might to bathe in the warmth. This was, in its own way, a sort of war, he thought: the battle between the light of dawn and the dark of night, waged every sunset and sunrise, and ever kept in perfect balance.

“Well,” he began, “here we are.”

He gave himself a mental forehead slap at the inanity of his first words to his army. A thousand pairs of eyes stared at him impassively, motionless; a thousand pairs of shadowy points, blank and black. Behind him, he thought he heard Gaven groan, and was that Mikal who sniffed? Resisting the urge to tell them exactly what he thought of their opinions, Jurel cleared his throat and tried again.

“As you know, we will be marching shortly toward an enemy of unknown size. This enemy is comprised of Soldiers of God and perhaps the king's own men. Our mission is a simple one: we will eradicate them.”

Behind him, Mikal muttered, “Too soon.”

Beginning to settle into his speech, he ignored it. Some minor shuffling broke out as soldiers shifted uncomfortably; he ignored that too.

“The church, the prelacy, has reigned unchecked for too long. They rule with fear and suffering. They promise peace and salvation, and when the suffering masses ask when they will deliver on those promises-” now Jurel smirked, “-they send their warriors and assassins, their Soldiers of God.”

A low rumble passed among the troops like a minor earthquake. His mouth was still dry, and his stomach was tying itself into oily knots, but he began to feel a strange exhilaration. These men and women hung on his every word. He let himself be swept up in this new role, and he found the feeling strangely familiar, exhilarating, somehow wild.

Squealing in delight as he hurtled down a snowy hillside toward a frozen pond on an old blanket that was frozen to a stiff board. Watch out for the trees!

He tapped a finger against his lower lip, and squinted one eye up to the sky which had brightened just enough to obscure the last of the night's stars.

“I wonder if the Soldiers of God provide the relief their masters promise.” He continued in a mild, pensive tone. Those in the back leaned forward to catch his words. “Somehow, I doubt it.” The rumble turned into a dangerous chuckle. “Last I heard, they were burning entire villages to the ground, and killing countless numbers in the process. Because of rumors of heretics. Nothing substantial, mind you. Just rumors.”

A voice, Darren, calling encouragement at the top of the hill. Trig, already at the bottom, half buried in snow, laughing breathlessly. His impromptu sled, a thick, frozen blanket struck a hidden bump, canted crazily, began to spin.

Now his voice raised until it thundered. “These townsfolk were brothers and sisters, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. Killed because of rumors. Because the Prelacy has grown smug and bloated and complacent with power!

“For too long there has been an imbalance-” An imbalance? Now what did that mean? “-an imbalance that has allowed evil to run unchecked for centuries. An imbalance that has caused more suffering than the worst plague or bitterest war.”

Wide-eyed, whooping, laughing, he clawed at the edge, trying to keep it straight, trying to hold on.

Here he paused, letting his glare rake across the faces that were no longer blank pools. Brows had drawn down, eyes had hardened, glittering in the early dawn light. Mouths had pinched to thin white lines. Across the yard, those who stood, stood straight as though they were tied to poles. Those who were in saddles, sat stiff, the reins gripped tightly in gauntleted fists.

“We are the check. We are the balance. We will ride, we will face this monstrosity. We will even the tally. We. Will. Prevail!”

And finally, finally, the courtyard erupted into a thundering cheer as fists pumped the air, as swords were drawn and held high, the newborn sun glinting violently off the polished blades.

As the cheering continued, he leapt nimbly from his perch and strode to his small group of friends. He smiled giddily at them.

Laying beside Trig, his sled somewhere beyond him. Both still laughing, their flesh, overheated in the excitement of the wild, uncontrollable plunge, growing cool in the snow.

“Do it again?” asked Trig.

“You bet!”

“How was that.”

Gaven and Metana stared at him as though he had grown an extra eye in the middle of his forehead and Kurin graced him with a small, secretive smile. Mikal was more forthright.

“Not bad,” he acceded grudgingly. “The start was shit but the end was all right.”

With a snort, Jurel strode through the aisle the troops created for him, while his friends and the small cadre of swordmasters who were to serve as his personal bodyguards fell in behind him.

The gate swung ponderously open ahead of him, and as he crossed the threshold, his army following in orderly ranks, the sun caressing the world, lighting the pure gold and green and blue of mid-spring, he smiled grimly. Messages had been sent to all the agents in all the corners of the kingdom, encoded of course against the possibility of interception. Preparations were under way, events were happening almost too quickly to keep pace with. But it was all to the good. It was all happening as it should. Yes, he thought, caught up in his own emotions, yes, they would prevail.

* * *

Jurel watched the trail of dust disappear in the distance from his hiding place in the trees. It had been a small force, only about thirty or so, from Grayson. They could have been dispatched with ease but that would have jeopardized his secrecy. If thirty men from Grayson suddenly vanished, there would be questions and searches. If anyone had spotted Jurel's force, they would have been done for. But his outriding scouts had orders to remain invisible. The Salosian force that traveled north through the forest along the Eastern Caravan Route had ground to a halt and gone into hiding in the forest and the threat of discovery passed without incident.

Jurel was morbidly amused at the change in his thinking. Little more than a year ago, he would have fled screaming at the possibility of thirty men being butchered. He would have been unable to countenance the violence. Now, not only did he not flee, he spared the lives of those thirty men only to maintain the viability of his strategy—those men only escaped brutal massacre because there was a much larger massacre to undertake.

With a nudge, Mikal rose from his spot beside Jurel and brushed off bits of decayed foliage and dirt.

“Safe now. We should go.”

Jurel nodded. “Pass the order, Gav.”

For a few more hours, they wended their way north. Near sundown, they set camp in a clearing. Most of the soldiers were strung out between the trees; sentries had a difficult time maintaining a proper watch but, relying more on their stealth, they felt the danger of discovery this deep in the forest was remote.

Supper was brought to Jurel's tent, a huge, drafty (which, with the early coming of summer's heat, Jurel was eminently grateful for) hunk of canvas which served the dual purpose of being the army's command center as well as Jurel's quarters. The small group—Kurin, Mikal, Gaven, Metana and Jurel—bent over their trenchers, and continued to discuss the upcoming battle.

The main topic of conversation was how slowly they traveled. Mikal, as usual, chafed at their progress. Fifteen hundred men pushing through dense forest did not cover a great deal of ground in a day. Kurin pointed out that though they moved slowly, the Soldiers of God, with all their numbers, were likely slower, even though they had the benefit of the road.

“Oh aye they travel slowly,” Mikal growled. “But they can, can't they. There's no one chasing them.”

“Except us,” Gaven chimed in.

“But that's not the reason. I'd say they're conserving their strength, and perhaps giving their main force time to fully mobilize. They don't want to be completely cut off.”

“There's no help for our speed,” said Jurel. “Are the brothers and sisters still maintaining the cloak?” asked Jurel.

Kurin nodded. “Yes we remain invisible to their scrying.”

“Not that they haven't tried,” Metana added. “We've felt several sweeps in the past three days.”

“But they haven't seen us?”

“No. At least...” Kurin trailed off, his craggy brow drawing down into a frown.

“At least what?”

“It seems odd that they're scrying at all.”

“I don't understand,” Jurel said, noting that Gaven and Metana were giving Kurin looks that verged on horrified. He did not understand, but it seemed the rest did.

Mikal filled him in. “Why are they looking for anything, Jurel? We left in secrecy. No member of the prelacy should know we're out here and yet they're searching hard. The occasional sweep of the land just to make sure would be sensible, but I'm told we're detecting a scry every few hours.”

“Not to mention,” Kurin added darkly, “that they seem to be concentrating on this part of the world.”

With understanding came the same horror the others were feeling. “Are you saying we've been discovered?”

Kurin stared helplessly. “I don't know Jurel. I don't think so but I can't say for sure.”

“What do we do, Jurel?” quizzed Mikal. Leave it to him to teach Jurel a lesson in tactics at a time like this.

What would they do? What should they do? If they had been discovered they had to turn tail and run. The entire point of this expedition was to whittle away at the overall enemy forces with a series of quick raids, harrying them all the way to the Abbey's doorstep. The hope was that they would face a greatly reduced force that was also jumping at its own shadow. It also gave the Abbey's remaining forces more time to fortify their defenses. If they had to abort this mission then the Abbey would face overwhelming odds.

But if they continued and they had been found out, well, then the Abbey would face even worse odds: no defenses; mind-bogglingly outnumbered; and facing an enemy force that, like sharks, had tasted blood and were circling for the kill.

Damn it all, why would they leave this to him? He stared helplessly at them. Mikal, with his decades of battle experience, stared stonily at him. Gaven had trained with the Soldiers of God and would have some idea of how they thought, but held his tongue. Even Kurin, for all his devotion to the healing arts, knew more of warfare than he did.

But he was supposed to be the God of War. He should know this. He would have thought that this kind of thing would come as naturally to him as swordcraft had. Yet here he sat, regardless of Mikal's heavy tutoring over the last weeks, torn.

He dropped his gaze, feeling ashamed. “I...I don't know. If anyone has any ideas...”

“I suggest we continue,” Mikal stated and Gaven and Kurin nodded. Thank the gods; the decision was taken from him. Shame gnawed at his relief. “At least until we know for sure that they're on to us.”

“We keep a close eye on their movements,” Gaven mused thoughtfully. “If they make any sudden changes to their formation or speed, then we reconsider.”

Mikal nodded agreement. “And quickly.”

And it was settled. As the conversation turned to other topics and their eating resumed, Jurel heard almost none of it. He picked at food that tasted like ashes in his dry mouth. He would not—could not—meet anyone's eyes.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Jurel left his tent, too restless to sleep. He wandered to the edge of the glade and sat to brood. Though the days lately had been warm verging on hot, the evenings were still spring-time cool and his hair raised in goose flesh as the chill breeze whispered through the trees.

He sat staring, looking at nothing, uncertain now that he was here, what he wanted to brood about. There were so many choices.

He should have been surprised when he heard Kurin's voice, but somehow he had expected the old man to show up.

“There's no shame, you know,” Kurin said as he sat next to Jurel.

As always, the old man seemed to know what Jurel was thinking. Sometimes that annoyed Jurel. As it did now.

“What do you mean? I'm supposed to be the commander of this army—hells, I'm supposed to be the God of War. Yet I can't make a simple decision. I'm lost, Kurin. I have no idea what I'm doing and now I'm starting to believe that I'm going to be responsible for the deaths of all these people.”

“You need time to learn.”

“Time we don't have. These people are counting on me. In a few weeks, we're going to engage an enemy and one mistake will see us destroyed. Who do you suppose will make the mistake?”

“Jurel, being a commander is not always about knowing exactly what to do. That's why you have advisors. This may be difficult to understand, but an army tends to feel better about a leader who is willing to ask for help and listen to his closest advisors than they do about a leader who always thinks he knows the best way to do things.

“What you did tonight was perfect. You were unsure. You turned to us. You received our recommendations and made your decision based on what we said-”

“No I didn't. All I did was let Mikal take charge and make the decision for me.”

“All right. So you missed one small step. All you had to do at that point was look confident and say something like, 'All right, let's do that,' or 'Make it so,' or whatever. What's important is that once the decision is made, you endorse it. You stick to it until new information arrives and another decision needs to be made. If you trust your advisors and if they know what they're talking about, they won't steer you wrong.

“Most importantly, you need to trust yourself. Your men will sense if you don't. And if you don't, then they won't. That would be a dire, dreadful thing.”

Kurin rose and grunted as he stretched. “It's getting late. We're starting early, so I'm going to get some sleep. As your advisor, I suggest you do the same.”

He disappeared into the night.

But Jurel was not able to take Kurin's advice. His thoughts were churning too strongly to even contemplate sleep. Thoughts of trust and confidence teased him, taunted him as harshly as a bully. A grimly amusing thought: the God of War was incapable of waging war. That would be like an ax incapable of chopping wood.

It did not increase his confidence.

Chapter 15

“Oh Jurel!” Metana sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

As usual, he had managed to annoy her with his seeming inability to absorb the current socio-political structure within the kingdom. Though, to be fair, it was not that he was unable to absorb it, it was more that he was too bloody full of other concerns to care.

Mikal had agreed, at Kurin's request, to let Metana have him for an hour or two in the evenings so that she could fill him in on the current cultural climate within the kingdom. Considering the ramifications of what they were about to try, it seemed wise to give Jurel a wider view.

Except, sitting on a rock in a small clearing near the edge of the forest, with the sun dappling the earth and a slight wind whispering in the trees, Jurel wanted to do almost anything other than learn about how church and state kept their power balanced, or how the general populace was affected by changes to doctrine.

“You great bloody oaf. You need to know this stuff. If you don't...well, whether we win this war or not will be irrelevant if we don't have the support of the people.”

Huffing a sigh, Jurel leaned back against the tree behind him. “I know, Metana. I know. It's just so...boring.”

Her annoyance was mixed with amused forbearance. The mixture was strangely eclectic; her expression didn't seem to know where to settle. “I know, Jurel. There's a lot of other stuff I would rather be teaching you but this is what's important right now.”

“Yes, Mistress Tana,” he grinned insolently. She hated that name.

As expected, she threw a clump of dirt at him.

“Don't you 'Mistress Tana' me, you lout,” she growled but there was a playful edge to it.

“Yes, Mistress Tana.”

She stomped her foot and sighed gustily, glaring at him.

As Jurel had suspected so many months before, her thorny-as-a-rosebush exterior hid a soft core, full of warmth and caring. Her father was a moderately successful merchant who spent much of his life on the road. Her mother died when she was very young—in truth, she admitted to barely being able to remember her. Her father had had no choice but to uproot his children and take them with him on his travels. They had never stayed in one place long enough for her to make friends and so her only companions were her four elder brothers. She had learned to be tougher than most. It was the only way her brothers would let her tag along with them.

It did not help either that Barl, her father, withdrew into himself after his wife's death. He threw himself wholly into his work and it had often seemed that he had no use for his children except as employees.

It had been a difficult life for Metana. She had decided young that she would leave the moment she had the chance. That chance finally came late in her fifteenth year when a Salosian sister appeared one day and asked Barl to provide passage. Within days the forlorn Metana reached out to this woman who received her with open arms and took Metana under her wing.

The sister's heart broke when Metana tearfully told her story and offered promises of sanctuary and a good, full, satisfying life. Within weeks, they stole off in the middle of the night and Metana had begun her new life as a Salosian initiate.

Through her life, even as she had hardened, she managed to maintain her compassion borne by the belief that people were, in general, good at heart. Though she often seemed to chew nails and spit fire, Jurel had come to realize that it was mostly an act. An act that, since their fight some few weeks ago, she had relented on. At least with him. And that was all that mattered.

“I think we're pretty much done here for the day,” Metana declared, letting her glare abate. “You're being even more stubbornly obtuse than usual.”

With that, she grabbed up her wicker basket and stomped by him. And slapped him upside the head on her way past. Yelping indignantly, Jurel jumped to his feet and followed her. He hoped she was still in the mood for the picnic he had asked her on. His hope strengthened when she turned away from the main camp, and headed deeper into the forest.

It was still early; the army had called a halt so that the scouts could range farther ahead and pass word among the trusted few in the scattered villages of their passing. The sun was still a brilliant coin high overhead, only just beginning its westward descent. They had plenty of time.

Early afternoon progressed and the shadows began to lengthen and deepen as they ranged the woods. Green like softened emeralds melded with opal and ruby and sapphire. Mist suffused the spaces and it was as though they entered a different realm, a country of dreams and delights.

Metana told stories as she grunted and stumbled her way around great trees, over outcroppings, and up steep slopes made of soft earth and jutting roots, cursing every once in a while when her loose fitting shirt snagged on low hanging branches or when her billowing trousers caught in thatches of brambles. When she lost her breath, Jurel took over, pointing out various herbs and flowers, various leaves and fungal growths to prove he had been paying attention to her lessons (and definitely not mentioning that he had read that dreary herb and healing book the year before, while he had stayed with Kurin), as he flowed over the land as silent as a ghost. They followed game trails and Jurel pointed out fox prints, wolf prints, deer and rabbit and raccoon prints, and on one occasion, the thick heavy tread of a bear. At one point, they followed no trail at all, instead allowing the thinnest sections of undergrowth to choose their way, Jurel leading and Metana doing her level best to keep up.

That was when Jurel gasped.

“What?” said Metana between puffs, as she tried to see around him. “What is it?”

Carefully, Jurel reached forward to the patch of wild roses the color of new blood that twined and snared a shrub. Gingerly, for its thorns were long and sharp, he picked one with particularly delicate petals and turned.

“I really am sorry for not listening earlier,” he said and extended his peace offering.

“Oh Jurel. It's beautiful.”

Her eyes softened, her entire bearing seemed to somehow smooth out. Suppressing a start, Jurel was amazed to see two great tears form in her eyes. When she smiled, it was the real thing. It was a sunbeam after a thunderstorm, a warm breeze after a blizzard. She gazed at him and he gazed back. When she took the stem just above where he held it, their fingers grazed lightly. For a moment, time stood still. His heart beat deep and quick, thudding in his chest like a hammer, and the world spun slow circles. For a half dozen normal heartbeats—a dozen and a half for Jurel at that moment—their eyes locked and it was as though a chain of the finest spun gold connected them. Their surroundings seemed to fade to a blurry haze until it seemed all of creation was them, only them, fingers brushing, gazing over the heart of a rose.

After a long time, far too soon, Metana broke the spell and turned her eyes down. “Thank you, Jurel.”

She situated the rose in her hair over an ear after picking the thorns off and they continued on their way, she with a soft smile tickling the edges of her lips and he, dazed, with a welter of emotions tugging and battling.

* * *

As the afternoon continued to fade and pooling shadows thickened, he spied light between the trees ahead like the adit of a cave seen from deep inside. Curious, he made his way forward and when he reached the last tree, he stopped, too astonished to continue. At his side, Metana did the same.

A small clearing, ringed by a dark wall of oak and elm, ash and poplar and capped by the slate of evening overcast opened before them. Some few birds twittered but except for those lazy calls, the glade was silent as a sanctuary.

In the very center, stood a cottage. A small place, maybe no larger than his cabin on Galbin's farm, it was constructed of ancient logs. Its roof was pale gold thatch that looked no more than a season or two old and a stone chimney jutted from its peak. Shutters were drawn tight, the door stood firmly shut and closed up as it was, it should have seemed unwelcoming. Yet somehow the cottage had a warm, inviting air.

Finding a cottage in the heart of that great forest was surprising enough though it could be easily explained; perhaps a trapper or a hermit or a woodsman lived there. But that was not what brought them up short. A few paces from the front door, stones the size of Jurel's head formed a fifteen foot circle in the well tended yard. Inside the circle, hanging in the air, lights shimmered like earth-bound stars. Slowly the lights, yellow, red, blue, green, all the colors of the wide world and some that Jurel had no name for, moved to and fro like the wheeling of their astral brethren.

Instead of fear or caution, Jurel felt wonder and a sense of deep rooted peace. He stepped from the treeline into the clearing, slowly making his way to the ring of stones. At its perimeter, he gazed and as he did so, the lights picked up speed, spinning faster and ever faster until they were a blurred, dizzying swirl. The wonder melted. It became a strange foreboding though it was soft, distant, like a far away bank of dark clouds. His brow furrowing, Jurel backed away. As if reacting to his proximity, the lights slowed.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

He received no answer.

When he turned to find Metana, she was on her knees a few paces from the treeline. Her eyes were turned upward and her expression was one of rapture.

“Tana?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. She did not so much as twitch.

“Metana?” He shook her lightly.

As though she woke from deep slumber, she blinked in rapid succession and her eyes searched as though to recall where she was. “What? What is this place? Where are we?”

“I don't know. It's pretty amazing though isn't it?”

“It feels like this place is...” She gazed helplessly, at a loss for words.

“Like peace personified?” supplied Jurel.

“Yes. Exactly. Like peace personified.”

He smiled, gladdened by what he saw in her then. It was like she had become a child, innocent and pure, as though time had reversed and the world of suffering and blood they lived in was left at the trees bordering this clearing.

“You want to see if anyone is home?” he asked.

She nodded slowly but vehemently. “Yes. Oh yes.”

So they crossed to the front door where Jurel called—quietly for it did not seem right to raise his voice in that place, “Hello? Anybody home?”

When no answer came after his third call, he knocked lightly at the door. Still, there came no response. All remained breathlessly quiet. When he had knocked three times, he glanced a question at Metana. She shrugged and gestured. He pushed.

The door swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. The scene that was revealed almost made Jurel choke. A scarred round table with two plain ladder back chairs sat in the middle. At the far end a fire crackled brightly in the small hearth constructed of the same gray stone as the chimney. A ladder led up to the loft and what was presumably the sleeping area for the occupant. Except for the hearth, an exact copy of this room was located in Jurel's memory. Glassy eyed, he took it in, all of it evoking sorrow and joy so close together that for a moment the two seemed one and the same. Of course, there was one thing missing. One important element. It was easy to picture Daved in one of the chairs, concentrating over a sheaf of parchments, scribbling in the margins with his little stub of lead.

“Jurel? Are you all right?”

As if in a dream, he turned, the image before him sliding, skewing as though it tried to stay in front of him, until his eyes rested on Metana. The look she returned was one of concern. He coughed, cleared the lump.

“I'm fine,” he said gruffly.

They debated for a little time, argued whether or not the occupant would mind their intrusion until Metana pointed out that the door had not been locked, after all. And after all, they could leave a few coins for the time they spent and the wood they used.

In agreement, they sat and Jurel laid his pack on the table. As they ate rolls and cold meat, they passed few words. Somehow, it seemed that voices marred the idyllic nature of the place, jarred it like an off note in an otherwise perfect symphony. When they licked the last crumbs from their fingers, Jurel reached instinctively for the water bucket that was always near his old stove. The realization was just dawning on him tinged with bitter consternation that he was no longer in his cabin, no longer home, when his fingers struck wood.

And he picked up the water bucket. And he stared at it. And he swore to Metana that the splinter of wood that was missing from one of the staves was the same splinter that was missing in his own long gone bucket.

He scanned the table more carefully. Searched, in fact, for something that could not possibly be there. His fingers traced the scratches and whorls on the surface, his eyes picking carefully along the wood's grain. There had been a day where Daved had come home surly, sour from having sustained an injury in his back. He had walked with a slight hunch for a week as the kink worked itself out. On that day, Jurel had prepared dinner and they had eaten in silence. When Jurel had sopped up the last dregs with his roll and stuffed it into his mouth, he had glanced up to see his father staring into the distance.

“What's the matter, Pa?” he had asked.

Daved had grunted sourly. “Age lad, age.”

“But you're not old.”

“Oh? Then why is it that your old man can't do half the things he used to? Hells, I can't even stand up straight.”

To that, Jurel had no answer.

“Do yourself a favor, lad.” Daved's hawk glare had caught him as surely as a fly in a web. “Never grow old.”

All the while as they had spoken, his father had been distractedly, unconsciously digging the blade of his knife into the wood of the table creating a circle of bare rough wood the size of his thumbnail within the surrounding finish.

And when Jurel's fingers happened on a bare circle of roughened wood, approximately the size of his thumbnail, when his eyes latched onto the sight, his chest constricted, his heart seemed to swell until his ribs could no longer contain it. He collapsed back into his chair.

“It's not possible,” he whispered.

“What? What's not pos-”

A clatter at the door and a crotchety voice assaulted their ears and both jumped as though bitten.

“Who be ye then a-sittin at old Ursula's table?”

An ancient woman, so old that her age could not be guessed, stood framed by the door. She wore what appeared to be undyed cotton under a shawl the color of fresh soil. Her hair, so white it was almost blue, cascaded in twists and knots over her hunched shoulders and over the hump on her back. At odds, her eyes were as bright as crystal at noon.

Jurel and Metana rose swiftly to their feet. He bowed, abashed at having been caught out for their trespass.

“Our apologies ma'am. We meant no harm. We were simply footsore from walking all day and when we spied your cottage, we thought to rest a while before our return.”

As Jurel spoke, a smirk creased her face further and her eyes grew amused. “And do ye then come from a place where tis couth to wander into any home unannounced and uninvited because ye're feets is sore?”

His abashment grew. He stared at his toes. “No, ma'am. We're sorry. We'll go.”

“Ah! And I see twas ye who pilfered old Ursula's rose bush.”

Beside him, Metana drew a sharp breath. A slender finger grazed one of the silken petals. He prayed silently that she would hold her tongue, that she would not lash out at the old woman. He need not have bothered. A surreptitious glance showed him that she looked just as contrite as he; her cheeks were nearly the color of the flower in her hair.

Ursula glared at them a moment longer. She drew in her breath and Jurel tensed, waiting for the next volley. Her head flew back and she emitted a cackle like a dozen crows.

Once again surprised, Jurel glanced up and the old woman was holding her quivering belly as she wheezed and renewed her cackling.

“Tis no matter,” she wheezed when she had finally regained at least some mastery over herself once again. “Me flower is put t' good use though p'raps its beauty pales in comparison to its wearer. Please sit. Be not afeared o' old Ursula. I be just pullin yer leg.”

As they slowly resumed their seats Ursula bustled for all the world as though she was a woman half her age, or a third. She set a pot on the hearth and she swept the floor—grumbling about inconsiderate strangers tracking mud in. She went to a chest and returned with an armload of food: fresh rolls that still seemed warm, a jar of honey, conserves, strawberries, raspberries, a basket overflowing with nuts, and a dozen other victuals that all smelled as fresh as if they had just been harvested and prepared that day. Somewhere, she managed to find some plates, a knife, and some cups, though neither Jurel nor Metana could have said where. And when she joined them at the table, sitting in her chair with a grunt, she gestured impatiently.

“Well then, dig in. Twon't eat itself, y'know.”

But though Jurel was ravenous, his mind had caught on one little discrepancy: never minding the table full of food that should not have been able to fit in the small chest she pulled it all from, where exactly had Ursula found a third chair?

“So tell me then what brings ye two out so far from yer camp?”

Metana choked on her mouthful.

“You know about our camp?” asked Jurel.

“Well o' course I know. How could I not? I'm old, not blind or deef. Tis a noisome bunch who tramp about causin such a ruckus that old Ursula can barely get her beauty rest.”

“But it's hours away from here.”

“No matter. There be not much that happens here about that old Ursula don't ken.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. We'll be gone tomorrow morning. We didn't know we were unwelcome.”

“Now I never said ye were unwelcome. Tis a rare thing that there be visitors outten this way. And stop yer apologizin.”

They fell to silence. Finally managing to push aside his wonder, Jurel sampled the feast laid out. The berries were so plump they exploded into sweet juice almost as soon as they were behind his lips, the honey was sweeter than any Jurel had ever had, the rolls were soft as clouds and indeed still warm as though they came from the oven just before their arrival. He set to with a vengeance.

When everything was gone down to the last berry, they munched on nuts from a bowl she produced and sipped mulled wine.

“So where are we anyway?” Metana asked. Her voice had a dreamy quality, content, almost blissful.

“Why yer at my place.”

My place. Jurel sat up straight, his eyes widening, his guts churning.

“I think we gathered that,” Metana said with a laugh. “But where is your place?”

The old woman cackled. “I spose ye could say ye're in the Great Forest. Twould be three or four hours back to the road as the crow flies.”

“What did you call this place?” Jurel asked.

“Why tis my place o' course. What else would I call it?”

He did not know why it struck him so hard. After all, this was her cottage, her home, her place. Yet the use of those specific words, and a strange inflection when she spoke them had more than piqued his curiosity. In fact, he desired the answer with an urgency that bordered on necessity.

“Who are you?”

Her brow furrowed; the crags became crevasses. She tilted her head sideways in the universal gesture that said, “Huh?” It was a gesture that was not at all convincing. She was not a good actress.

“Ye be none too swift, be ye boy? I tole ye, I be ole Ursula.”

“I heard that. But who are you?”

“Jurel,” Metana murmured, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow. “Don't be rude.”

He shot her a sharp look and trained his glare back to the old woman. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't mean to seem boorish and you have been nothing but hospitable. But who are you?”

The crevasses smoothed back to crags. Her eyes took on a sly twinkle and the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “P'raps I miscalculated. It seems ye may be worthy after all. But me story is long and tis not the time to be startin on it. Tis enough to say that I be, in fact, ole Ursula and I be on yer side. It may be that some day ye will get to hear me tale.”

“May I ask then, what this place is?”

“Alas an that be part o' the story.”

“And the circle of stones outside? And the strangeness of your cabin?”

She chuckled. “Ye noticed did ye? Aye this cabin tends to take on the aspect of certain visitors. As for the circle, well tis many things an fer now ye may call it an alarm. Ye see, ole Ursula knew as soon as ye'd stepped into her glade that ye be here. An now me children, tis time to say farewell. I have no wish to seem rude but tis time ye be on yer way.”

So Jurel and Metana rose, gathered their meager belongings, and thanked old Ursula for her hospitality. When they reached her door, she had a few more words for them, and they rolled from her with the force of an oracle:

“Be wary, young Jurel. Yer trials have only just begun. There are many dangers on yer road. Some o them will be obvious and others will be couched in mystery an shadow. Step carefully and remember yourself always.

“And ye also, Metana, must be wary. Soon there will come a day when a seemingly innocent choice must be made. If ye should make the wrong one, all will be lost.”

* * *

When the door shut behind them, they stared at each other. Neither had any idea what to make of the visit. Neither had any idea how to decipher her words, or even where to begin.

Neither had any idea how, after spending what had to be two or three hours conversing and sharing the old woman's table, they stepped out into the same early twilight as when they arrived as though they had only been there for a few short moments.

Chapter 16

His old bones were just not what they used to be. Grand Prelate Maten grunted when he knelt before his king, groaned when he straightened up. His heavy robes, all satins and velvets, weighed him down and they made him sweat copiously. He worried he would faint if he was not soon offered a place to sit.

But so far the king was satisfied to let him stand there in his great office covered in gold, satiny woods, bookshelves and silk pillows like he was an acolyte being reprimanded for some transgression or other.

“Grand Prelate, so good of you to come,” Threimes said. Though the words were outwardly warm, they carried an underlying chill that made Maten's sweat cold. “I have heard disturbing reports.”

“Your Majesty, it is always an honor to have audience with you.”

He supposed he knew what was coming. He had prepared his defense. Thalor was only doing his job after all, if a little over-zealously. If Threimes had listened to him in the first place, then this meeting would not have had to take place.

“Yes well, let us hear what you have to say first, then we shall decide if it is an honor or something a little more serious.”

Speechless, Maten gaped. How dare he? He may be king, but Maten was Grand Prelate and had been since this man was in his swaddling, spitting up on his nanny's shoulder. He was not some lowly noble that the king could walk all over. They were almost equals damn him!

He had to restrain himself. He schooled his expression to benign smoothness, and bit his tongue with such force he thought he tasted blood, though the king saw it. He was well versed in reading the subtleties of expression and stance, was the king.

“Calm yourself. Now. I have had several reports of villages being burned by your Soldiers. Entire villages put to the torch. Hundreds of innocent people are dead. Why?”

“Your Majesty, the church is highly motivated in their search of some very dangerous fugitives. I am certain you have considered what we discussed those months ago? We must find these men. We must stop them at any cost.”

“No, Maten. The cost is too high. You're killing good people. Innocent people. Farmers, traders, millers. Those people keep this kingdom running smoothly. Your explanation is lacking.”

His eyes were cold, so cold, as he regarded Maten. Once, not so long ago, Maten had been one of his closest advisors. Once they had been friends. As friendly as their positions allowed them to be, at any rate. That had all changed with the princess. Foolish. All of it. The king knew it had to be done. His daughter was meddling in matters she should not have been. Maten had been required by law to put a stop to it.

“Sire, please understand, we do not take this matter lightly. We are striving to stop evil, and dare I say, insurrection. You did not heed my words and that has forced us to take extreme measures. At the time, my Soldiers were spread too thinly to effect a proper search so they resorted to more direct methods in flushing the vile criminals out.”

The king shot from his seat like a stone from a catapult. He leaned across his desk, fists resting on it, and he shivered with barely restrained fury. His eyes glinted in the candle light and for an instant Maten thought the fiery glow came from within.

“My people, Maten. My subjects. You do not have the authority to burn entire villages,” the king roared. Spittle flew from his lips.

Maten glared back. “If I deem them to be heretics, then I do. Your Majesty. And anyone who would harbor such fiends as we seek is a heretic. Your Majesty.”

They stood eye to eye, old man to young, master of the church and master of the realm, glaring at each other as if they were no more than dogs vying for territory. The world fell away, time stopped, seemed to reverse itself. And suddenly, they were back in the past, much younger versions of themselves, glaring eye to eye over a different matter. Different matter, same argument.

“She's my daughter,” Threimes had said.

“She has been found guilty of subversion and of practicing dark arts,” Maten had replied. “You know the consequences.”

“But she's my daughter!”

Same old battle, same old arguments. Oh different words perhaps, but it all amounted to the same thing; in the end it was all semantic. In the end, it was all a pissing contest.

“I will not allow it, Maten,” the king said. “You will cease these activities immediately. If there are any more such reports, you will be arrested on charges of treason and your Soldiers of God will be disbanded.”

“Then help me, Threimes. Let us put our differences aside. Let us work together as we once did. I truly fear what will happen if the Salosian dogs gain too much power. They will split your kingdom in half even as they destroy my church. They will make any damage caused by my Soldiers seem no more than a single drop in a storm.”

Threimes glared, muscles taut as a ship's rigging under a heavy wind. Then, as though the wind went still, the king slumped and sat heavily in his chair. Maten regarded him and saw the tired man the king was becoming. It seemed the pressures of court were trampling this man who was once so fine, so generous. Maten had once marveled at this man's vitality, his life. Now Threimes was tired, crushed under the weight of his throne.

With a wave of his hand, the king indicated a chair and gratefully Maten sat. It was a close thing; sweat crawled down his back in rivulets, his legs were rubbery and he was beginning to feel faint. Another moment and he would have sat, chair or no.

“What do you propose?” Threimes asked.

“Just as I have said, sire. We join forces and work together to rid ourselves of this dire threat. We lead a search to find these men. I leave it to you to find a commander for the combined forces but in turn, you listen to Prelate Thalor. He is the one to whom I have assigned this task. I have a church to run after all and I do not find myself with the time needed for this.”

The king's eyes narrowed. “Impossible. I told you before my forces are gathering to face a threat from the north. Certainly you've heard the news from the land of the Dakariin.”

Maten nodded. He had heard and he was as troubled as the king. According to his scryers, thousands of Dakariin had massed. It was unheard of. The Dakariin were a splintered race; they lived in tribes, battling amongst themselves ferociously and constantly. Somehow, someone was managing to bring them all together. It was, at the very least, cause for concern.

“Yes sire. It's all the more reason for us to rid ourselves of the menace within our borders as quickly as possible. Then we will all be free to face this new challenge.”

Slumping back into his plush chair, the king glared at him, considering.

“I will allow use of the Grayson garrison. I will inform the Duke and he will be at your disposal. Do not overuse him. I may need him soon.”

He wanted more, he wanted to have such a force as to utterly annihilate the Salosians, to grind them into the dirt. He had harbored a hope that the force would be a combination kingdom and prelacy men; perhaps through shared trials and victory, he and Threimes may have mended fences. But it was the best he could have hoped for.

Maten was no tactical genius but he understood the king's position. Threimes could certainly not commit all his strength so far to the south. If the Dakariin moved during that time, then the armies of Threimes would be seriously out of position, and completely incapable of responding. The kingdom would be gutted like a downed stag by the wolves of the north.

He rose from his chair reluctantly, thought he should have stayed standing after all, his old bones creaking, his guts roiling with too much heat. It was a long way back to the temple from here.

“Thank you, sire. Do I have your permission to withdraw?”

Another wave, a jerky motion, though the king still did not look up from his pondering, and Maten turned to depart. He made it as far as the door, before the king brought him up short, calling his name. He rolled his eyes but when he turned once again to face Threimes, his expression was smooth even as Threimes's was sharp, his eyes knifing into him.

“Your Majesty?” he asked mildly.

“This does not make us friends. Only allies and only for so long as this task remains. Do you understand?”

He lowered his eyes, hoping he portrayed sadness and regret when in fact he tried to hide his annoyance. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

* * *

Leaning in his saddle, Jurel strove to listen to Metana over the hiss of the rain. It was difficult; the entire forest vibrated with the weeping of the sky. He endured it stoically. He had lived on a farm a long time. Farmers tended to pay close attention to the weather and they tended to abide rain with uncommon fortitude. After all, crops did not grow without rain. He only wished the rain would do more to banish the heavy, breath-sapping heat. Instead, the rain joined forces with the heat and the entire forest drooped, sagged like boiled wool in the relentless humidity.

Metana was chattering about her first days at the Abbey and Jurel, though distracted with glum thoughts, did his best to listen. In truth, he enjoyed Metana's stories, enjoyed just hearing the sound of her voice. A sideways glance showed a wistful smile teasing her lips and that made him smile. He found himself wishing these stories could be shared in private, perhaps while they shared dinner. Or a bed.

He jolted at that, and quickly suppressed the foolish thought. He knew it was possible. The Salosians did not swear vows of celibacy as the members of the prelacy did—he had seen plenty of evidence every time he looked to the fields beyond his window and saw the children gamboling. But he had to be honest: possible it may be, but probable? No. He had considered it but though she had never said so, she had made her stance very clear: he was a student, she was his teacher.

Though lately, ever since he had given her the rose, especially since then, he had caught her peeking at him when she thought he would not notice. Her scrutiny was, he thought, considering. It made him squirmy though it was not altogether discomfiting.

His musings, and Metana's chattering trailed off when they spied Gaven approaching through the trees. He was scowling.

“Sister,” Gaven muttered and bowed from his saddle. Then, turning to Jurel, he said, “M'lord, your presence is requested.”

With a pained expression, Jurel hunched his shoulders. “'M'lord?' Really Gaven?”

Gaven flashed him a grin. “Well, seeing as I'm your aide, I thought we should observe the proper forms.”

“Please. Don't.”

“As you wish, m'lord.”

Gaven chuckled as he scampered ahead of Jurel's fist.

“You coming, Metana?”

With a shrug, she nodded.

They followed Gaven past several squads of armsmen, Jurel's swordmaster guards melting through the woods at a discreet distance behind them, until they spied Mikal and Kurin through a break in the trees. With them was a wiry man that Jurel had never seen before.

Astride his old gray mare, Kurin smiled. “There you are, my boy.”

With a nod to Jurel, Mikal spoke to the newcomer. “Repeat what you just told us, Gulgan.”

Gulgan was a lithe man who moved with a sinuous grace that spoke—no screamed—danger, that this was not a man to be met in a dark alley.

He threw a contemptuous glance at Jurel, a slight twist like a half grin, to his lips, and asked, “Who is this young ox then?”

He doesn't know me. And strangely, Jurel found a grain of disappointment in that thought. It was, of course, utterly ridiculous to think that everyone should know him as if he were the king or the Grand Prelate. Or a god. God in training, as Kurin said. Completely and totally foolish. But there it was. Even more ridiculous since it was Jurel himself who had wished on countless occasions that people would treat him like a normal human being.

“Have you not met Jurel then?” Kurin asked mildly. Then, turning to Jurel, he said, “Gulgan has been out in the land for the last few years or so maintaining our network of contacts and gathering information. I imagine he missed hearing about what's been going on at the Abbey. Namely, you.”

Jurel tensed, waiting for the inevitable response. Not everyone knew Jurel but they knew his name. And he was right. Of course he was. Jurel had gotten the same reaction at the Abbey a hundred times. Every time someone new learned his name.

Gulgan paled noticeably, his eyes widened, and he suddenly developed a nervous twitch in his left cheek. Sweat popped out on his forehead as if someone had wrung him like a wet cloth, and he backed his horse away a step as though he was afraid Jurel would suddenly take his head off with one mighty swing of his hand. Which was possible. An image of a fat high priest named Calen popped into Jurel's mind.

But Jurel had been under a lot of pressure that day. Jurel found a smirk somewhere. Chances were, Gulgan was safe enough. Gulgan hesitated, looked as though he was about to fall off his horse and drop to his knees, but instead he just sat there and his mouth moved silently. He swallowed with an audible click.

“My-My Lord. Your Holiness. Forgive me, please. I-Forgive me. I did not know.”

What? Did he expect a halo? Maybe a roll of thunder whenever I take a step?

“Of course not. How could you?” Jurel reassured the trembling man and though he tried for joviality, he knew that his exasperation shone through bright and clear. Even worse than the disappointment of not being recognized—fool, he thought, I'm a vain fool—was the reaction he got when he was.

The sinewy swordmaster blanched even more.

“It's fine. Really,” Jurel said and held his hands out in the universal gesture of calm down. “Can we get back to the issue at hand?”

“My Lord? I don't understand.”

Oh boy.

“The name is Jurel. Please. None of that 'my lord' stuff. You were about to repeat something for my benefit?”

Even Mikal appeared to be suppressing a smile.

“Ah...yes. Ah...well, you see My Lo—uh, Lord Jurel, I've been out with a few of the other swordmasters trying to get a feel for the common folk. Everyone's got wind by now of what's been happening. But you see, the villagers don't want to be involved in what they're already starting to call the Church Wars—though I heard a few name it the Unholy War. Quinn was near run from Caltown. Resik went to Soldier's Rest and he had an easier time of it before catching up with me. I guess the mayor, Pondil I think, is sympathetic to us. But even so, no one's real interested in raising arms against the prelacy.”

“Yes, I know Pondil,” Kurin said quietly. “He's one of ours.”

“Is anyone having any success?”

“I didn't stay long in Thurston. A quick bite and a tankard while Resik told me what he knew and I was gone. I rode hard to catch up with you. But before I left, Resik said a couple of the younger men had approached him, all secret-like.”

“I don't understand.”

“He means that you have some support out here,” Mikal growled. “But not much. What are you doing with the one's who approach you, Gulgan?”

“We're sending them down to the Twins as we do with any new recruits.”

“Any numbers?”

“Combined total, maybe a few hundred.”

Mikal nodded. “It'll help. Even if all they can do on the day of the battle is run supplies back and forth. It would free up more experienced hands. What other information do you have, Gulgan?”

The man shrugged. “Not much. I did manage to pick this up at Thurston before leaving.”

He handed a ratty piece of parchment to Kurin who, after scanning the contents, whistled low. Ashen faced and wide-eyed, he handed it to Jurel.

It had about the same effect on Jurel as it did on Kurin. A short missive, in bold, black letters filled with curls and swirls as though rendered by an artist, read:

PROCLAMATION

WANTED: Jurel Histane for the crimes of murder, heresy and sedition

Tall, broad of shoulder, light brown hair and blue eyes, young.

REWARD: 1000 GOLD PIECES

WANTED: Kurin Makentyr for the crimes of murder, heresy and sedition

Tall, thin, gray hair and blue eyes, decrepit.

REWARD: 1000 GOLD PIECES

The color drained from his face as he read and though the day was warm and the forest was heavy with humidity, he felt a chill. He should have expected something like this, but seeing it, actually holding it in his hands, it was a surprise.

“And lastly,” Gulgan continued, “it seems the burning of villages has stopped. I heard tell the king put a stop to it right quick. Beyond that, as you know, a huge force is marching south. A vanguard of about two thousand, followed by the main body some days behind of nearly forty thousand. There seem to be near a thousand priests with 'em too.”

He had heard the numbers before but it still affected him like a punch in the gut. The priests were fairly evenly matched, but forty thousand Soldiers of God marching to face an army of a little over four thousand. How, oh how, would he manage to bring them victory in the face of that? Victory? Posh. How would he keep them all from utter destruction?

* * *

Threimes sat at his desk sorting through yet another stack of parchments. He was weary of the stacks; there never seemed to be an end to the things. Sometimes he thought that he was no more than a glorified clerk, that he could spend all day every day in this chair and still the stacks would grow and grow. He covered his face with his hands, rubbed his eyes. He had a headache but that was quite normal. It was late, well past midnight, and he wanted nothing more than to go to his bed.

The demands of his station kept him there.

Picking up a sheet from the top of one of the piles, he eyed it, sighed. “Activity at the temple. Grand Prelate preparing for something. No word yet on what. Will advise as soon as possible.” What was the old man up to now? He seemed such a pleasant man, a good god-fearing man. Threimes knew better. He knew the old man was as sly as a fox, as treacherous as a scorpion. Did he suspect the truth? Threimes hoped not. Not yet.

The next sheet from the top: “News from the south: Movement of armed men. Neither king's men nor temple men.” That would be the Order. Good. He pondered this one for a time. The news from the temple the previous year had been disturbing. Stories of a young man showing more arcane abilities than any ten priests—a hundred—combined. If the stories were to be believed (and he did not see why not; there were plenty of witnesses, many of them missing various bits of their anatomies) then this young man was worthy of being feared.

The king had a book stored away in a secret place, a place known only to him, passed down through the centuries by generations of kings. The book was called Sacred Writings of the Salosian Faith. It was outlawed reading, even for him. If it was found in his possession, he could be removed from his throne. Perhaps even executed, burned on a pyre for heresy. But something had kept him from destroying it all those years ago, long before his daughter, long before that, when it had arrived on his desk—the very one he sat at—so mysteriously along with a cryptic note detailing how and where to hide it. Obviously, someone other than the kings knew of it, but who it was, he did not know; no one had claimed credit.

...the day will be as night. The righteous will be as demons...

He had read that book countless times, could recite entire pages from it. And something niggled at him. The young man in the dungeons. The young man who destroyed one hundred ninety-seven Soldiers of God and thirty-two trained priests single handedly.

And lo, there will come a time when...

But perhaps he was just a prodigy like that little girl who had been brought to his court the last spring. The dirty little peasant waif who, at the age of four, had been able to make his composer's harpsichord sing like the stars and the sun. It had brought tears to his eyes and he had given her family fifty gold pieces to ensure they enrolled her in his university. Or perhaps, the young man had tapped some hidden faith, some hidden reserve in his terror, would have made a good priest as it were, if it had been harnessed properly, and that was what had allowed him to nearly shake the temple down.

...he shall walk among us...

Certainly it could be no more than that. Certainly. But something niggled, tugged at the edge of thought like a loose thread.

...and wherever he shall step, it will be as thunder, and he shall leave behind him...

It had to do with that book. He was sure of it. He thought of rising, of going to the secret compartment behind his bookcase. He thought of picking up the book and reading it again. It was such a strong thought, it was more like an urge, like having to eat, or drink, or urinate. But he had work to do. He was the king after all.

He picked up the next sheet from the top of the stack. “Report from Colonel Tercibel: the company is nearing Merris Town. Will proceed south.” Fine, fine. Let them do whatever they needed. As long as the sacking of villages was done with. He wondered, briefly, if there was a way to slow them down. Perhaps the army in the south could be of assistance. The Order needed time. He needed time.

He realized what it was he was thinking. He understood his own heresy. Or at least what Maten (that sly, treacherous old bastard) and his lackeys would call heresy. A crime that some of his own nobles would be glad to pin on him. Grayson was an ambitious one, and powerful enough to cause real problems. He realized that, and he fully acknowledged that he walked a very fine line and if he stumbled, strayed even a little, he would fall.

...the blood of a thousand men times a thousand.

King Threimes sighed and covered his face with his hands again, rubbing his eyes. He did not intend to fall. He intended that someone else do it for him. And the niggling sensation that the young man was the key to it all persisted.

He rose after all, abruptly as though pulled on strings, and stepped to his bookshelf. Third row from the top, eight books over. He lifted out three books, two of them so old their titles were no more than a shadowy outline with thin flecks of gilt. They almost fell apart in his hands as he set them aside. Reaching into the new space, he felt around until his fingers found the small dent and he pushed. With a barely audible click, a board at the back came loose, revealing his illicit treasure.

He removed the book from its place and returned to his desk, sat down and with a sigh, he ran his fingers over the black leather cover. What was he doing? He could lose everything because of this book. He had already lost a daughter. And his wife. The queen had gone off to their summer estates and would not return until he had satisfied this dangerous obsession of his. At least she had not run directly to Maten's door when she found out; she was not yet beyond his reach.

He opened it. There was something that flitted at the edge of thought. Some idea, some knowledge that he knew he was missing, like an elusive name; it was there, he could feel it, could almost see it. And he thought this book, this illegal, heretical book, would shine light on it.

He read long into the night and back out again into the dreary morning. He read until the sun was little more than just a hint in the sky to the east, and on until it cast long bars of light across the dark mahogany floors and the richly woven carpets. And as he read, he began to feel a burgeoning excitement. The answer was not there, not exactly, but it was close enough. Yes, perhaps that young man was the key.

He read longer, and as he read, he did not notice the eyes that observed him from a barely visible crack in the wall.

...and a new age shall be ushered in, striding atop the blood of the fallen.

Chapter 17

“Just shut up and close your eyes,” Metana said, her eyes sparkling somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

Jurel huffed a sigh, looked up at the trees, wishing they could get something to eat. Even the forest reminded him that he had not eaten in several hours; a stiff breeze made the foliage sound like bacon sizzling in a pan. He dropped his eyes and found Metana glaring at him. Their knees were almost touching as they sat cross-legged on the ground, and Metana was holding his hands in hers.

“We've been trying this every day for weeks, Tana,” Jurel complained. “It never works. I just can't do it. Besides, Gaven wants to spar. And I'm hungry.”

“Stop whining. It'll work. We just need to keep practicing.”

“You know, it wasn't so long ago that you didn't want to help me at all.”

“That was then. This is now.”

That seemed to be truth enough. In the past weeks—and even though, since he was so fundamentally different from the other novices, no one was sure exactly what, if anything, she could teach him—she had taken to her role as tutor like a duck to water. Every day, she found them a quiet spot and they sat this way and she took him into the recesses of his own mind. Every day, they found that light shining in the darkness like a star, and every day, they ran into that invisible barrier. As frustrated as he had become with the whole mess, she had become more intent. She even managed to ignore the imagery of her that his mind conjured up; once in a while she sniped at him that her hips were not really that round or that her breasts were not really that big, but beyond that, she left his thoughts alone. And to his credit, he tried to suppress those images, though he had difficulty suppressing the emotions that came with them. The lust was tolerable, understandable. He was young and young men tended to think things like that, Kurin had assured him. It was the other ones, the deeper ones. Ones he had felt at one time—but to a lesser degree—for Erin.

And sometimes, some few times while their thoughts were melded, he thought he felt something similar in her.

But that was probably just his imagination.

When their efforts invariably failed, they would stay and talk. She tried to teach him more history or art or mathematics, but inevitably, as the pall of failure dissipated, their talk turned into fits of jesting and laughter. And the next time they would try, he had even more difficulty hiding those emotions. He did not want to scare her away. He almost had once and if he was to be honest, he had not liked it much. It was almost enough to make him weep.

She clicked her tongue and shook his hands like he would shake reins to make a stubborn horse move faster. “Would you stop dawdling?”

So he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He pushed all the thoughts from his mind, left a blank black canvas. He felt her presence joining with his and he pushed aside the inevitable images that tried to encroach (after she swatted him on the leg). Then he turned himself and floated in the darkness toward the light that appeared in the distance.

There, her thought came to him.

I know, he thought back.

They drifted closer and the light, blue-white as though someone had taken lightning, balled it up like an old piece of parchment and deposited it there, expanded, spread across his vision until he could see nothing else. They drifted closer and closer. Somewhere, he felt a stab of hope. He was not sure if it was his or hers, but it was there. Certainly they had never gotten this close before.

The light expanded further and somehow he felt the hair on his arms raise, felt an itchy sense like ants were crawling all over him. He exulted. They would make it. They were almost there.

Not that way. Not for you.

He slammed into the invisible brick wall no more than a hand's breadth from the light. Exultation fell away, dumped like spilled water—not sure if it was his or hers; probably both—and he let his mind drift back. He stared at the light, so close. So close they could feel it.

Something caught at the corner of his vision, the other light that led to his place. He ignored it, focused all the harder on the problem in front of him. He would get to that light.

Take your time, her voice came to him as quiet as a feather.

He regarded the light, puzzling it out, trying to find a crack in the invisible barrier. He did not know exactly how he could search for something that was invisible but he did. If this had been a thing on the outside, if this had been his real body instead of just a figment of him in his own mind, he would have been leaning on one foot, with one arm across his chest, and a hand rubbing his chin. His eyes would have been narrowed in intense concentration as he bit his lip.

Like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, the more distant light in the corner of his vision made itself known again, made him turn, annoyed at the interruption. He was about to dismiss it again, and resume his search when it flickered, flashed. He had a sudden idea. He wondered if Metana knew it as he thought it. He turned toward it.

Hold on.

No. Jurel, wait. He felt panic in her voice. Not there.

Too late. He was already drifting toward the light. This one was much fainter and it twinkled more sporadically like a star behind a veil of clouds. It was not blue-white, but greenish, like grass. Like...

This light expanded more quickly than it should have, and like the first time, he felt as though he was suddenly galloping at break neck speed. It expanded, filled his vision, and there was another flash. One so bright that both of them cried out in the silent stillness.

When the light faded, Jurel fell to his knees onto a soft field the color of emeralds. He breathed the sent of fresh grass and jasmine and honeysuckle. He swept his eyes over a million dew drops that twinkled like pearls under the bright light.

Beside him, Metana gasped. “Jurel? What is this place?” she whispered reverently.

He glanced at her and smiled, feeling no small amount of bemusement. It had worked. “It's my place,” he said.

“I don't understand.”

“I don't either. Not really. That's what my father calls it. My place. I'm not...” He groped for the words that would express his ideas but none came. “I met my sister and one of my brothers here too,” he said as if somehow that explained everything.

She rose to her feet and spun slowly, wonderingly, a soft smile parting her lips. “It's beautiful,” she breathed. She spun faster, raised her arms, palms up and giggled like a child. “Jurel, it's so beautiful here.” She tilted her head back, closed her eyes.

He stood watching her, smiling himself, and something came to him, an idea that was so perfect, so true he knew it had to be.

“I have something to show you,” he said.

He closed his eyes, and he envisioned his field, his place, in his mind's eye. He saw the grass, saw the sparkling dew. For good measure he added the trees that ringed his place, the trees that were barely more than a dark line in the distance. When he was satisfied with the image he had created, he added to it, embellished it. Flowers, red, gold, blue, purple. Thousands of them. Some lilac bushes in full bloom, their boughs looking like pinkish soap suds dripping from the branches. Under the lilacs, he saw a bench made of delicate ivory, fancifully curved so that it looked like a flower itself, padded with something soft. He did not know what to call the padding, but it was soft, like kitten fur.

There was another gasp beside him, this one much more profound. He opened his eyes and to his amazement—though he realized he should not have been surprised; it was his place after all—he saw that what he had envisioned had come to be. Flowers covered the field in great swipes of color, lilacs dripped sudsy boughs, and the ivory bench was there too, nearly glowing it was so white, and with an overstuffed pad of the deepest purple he could imagine. He breathed deeply and the scent of it all, the sheer sweetness of it, nearly caused him to swoon.

He turned his head when he heard a rustle of fabric, and drew in his breath sharply when Metana's knees buckled. She dropped to the ground and it must have hurt because her entire body jolted from the landing but she did not notice. Her eyes, wide and stunningly, beautifully blue, were fixed on the scene in front of her. Her mouth hung open and her hands splayed numbly in the grass and flowers at her sides.

He knelt beside her, took her hand in his. “Are you all right? Tana?”

There was no response except slowly, as slowly as in a dream, her head turned toward him, her eyes wide as saucers. Great tears were brimming though, as yet, they did not fall. She gazed into his eyes; shock and wonder gazed upon concern and yes even a small amount of guilt.

“It's...” she said. “It's...”

She got no further. Her lips worked, trying to form the words that would describe it but she did not have the words—what words could describe this? What words could convey the soul-deep wonder she felt? As slowly as her head had turned, so too did her hands raise, until they rested gently against the sides of his face.

I need a shave, he thought and bit back a laugh.

“It's...” she said.

Then she pulled him closer, pulled his lips down onto hers.

And though she could not find the words to describe the beauty of what he had done, there amid the flowers and the lilacs, she was able to show him.

* * *

Gaven strode into the camp, materializing from the forest and the night. He strode to where Kurin stood staring into the shadows of the trees and Kurin needed no more answer than to see the agitation in the young man.

“You can't find them either?” Kurin asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“No. It's like they've just disappeared.” His hands waved wildly. He looked more like a down-on-his-luck merchant bickering the price of his last inventory with someone who was in a much better position than like a soldier.

“I saw them head toward that small clearing over there.”

“So did I but they're not there now.”

More soldiers came into camp. More looks of disappointment.

“They can't have gone far. Keep looking. Expand the search circle.”

Kurin watched Gaven stride away calling orders to the soldiers, and he wondered. Mikal was out there too. Mikal was possibly the best tracker he had ever met for all the man always maintained he was no good at woodscraft. If anyone could find Jurel and Metana, it would be him.

Nonetheless, he continued to wonder, trying to ignore the slow, oily spinning of his belly. Where were they? What were they doing? What were they thinking? He dumped the remainder of his cup of coffee on the ground. It was not helping his stomach. When he caught up with them, they were going to be very, very, sorry. Never mind that Jurel was a god in his order. Never mind that Jurel's word was technically law, or that there was really nothing Kurin could do to him. He would be sorry!

* * *

Metana lay pressed against Jurel's side, her head propped up on his shoulder, and her fingers gently traced the muscles of his still sweaty chest. His arm was pressed against her back and his hand cupped her hip and she smiled. She breathed deeply of the smells: flowers, sweat, and something else, something more carnal. There was the lingering smell of sex of course, tangy and sweet and musky all at once, but there was another: his smell, and somehow it was a wild smell, a smell that hinted at emotions so deep, so visceral, so basic, that she shivered.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh nothing. It's just something about you that's all.”

“Well then, if it's about me, you have to tell me.”

“It's nothing. Really. Just a—I don't know. You're special. Different.”

He snorted and she could almost hear him roll his eyes. “Yeah. A lot of people have been telling me that lately.”

“No, no. Well, yes, I suppose they have. But it's more than that. You have a presence, Jurel. An aura. A—Oh poo, I don't have the words to describe it.”

He chuckled. “You did well enough a few minutes ago.”

She raised her head and gaped at him and his smile was roguish, almost a leer. She gasped an outraged laugh, felt her face warm up, and swatted him before nestling back into the crook of his arm.

“There's more to you than that though,” she said, losing her smile, almost musing to herself as she trailed a lazy finger across a ridge in the muscles on his belly. “There's this sense of power and danger and it's unbelievably intense. But there's also a softness about you. Look at this place of yours. With a thought, you changed a serene field into a breathtaking lea. God of War? Even with all that danger floating around you like a fog, it's hard to believe.”

“I know. Sometimes I don't believe it myself. Most of the time, if I'm going to be honest. I know I must be. Even if I could discount the things I've done, I can't help but remember what my father and my siblings said to me. It's hard to forget.”

She thought back to the day when he told her the story of his visit (that was what he called it: his visit) to the temple at Threimes. That was the day he had skipped class to mourn his father, and they had fought like cats and dogs when she found him. She had goaded him to it. She had forced his hand. He had not wanted to discuss it—it was intensely personal, made all the more so by the depth of the wound.

“My foster father, the man who rescued me, newly orphaned—I watched my parents murdered by Dakariin, by the way but that was years and years ago— from a battle torn city and raised me from childhood was himself murdered before my eyes nearly a year ago in Threimes.”

He had raged. He had exploded, he had told her with the force and the fury of a volcano. And truth be told, she had been afraid.

Her first instinct had been to cringe away and apologize, but she had kept quiet. She wanted to know. Needed to know. Something in his tone had warned her, had made her second guess herself. Maybe it was not so important to know. But it was too late. He began to speak.

As he had told the tale, the rage fell away. What replaced it was in its own way worse. A dead monotone, the voice of a soldier, weary beyond comprehension, who was reporting the account of a terrible atrocity, and she grew cold, and colder still. Goose pimples had raised all along her arms and legs, spreading until her hair nearly stood on end. He was devoid of all expression, completely empty, as he stared at his hands and continued.

The worst mixture of emotions had battled within her: horror, terror, and a nearly overwhelming pity. She had known even then that her first impressions of him had been wildly incorrect, though she had kept her anger burning out of sheer stubbornness. He was a good man, a kind man, gentle as a lamb, and to hear what had happened to him, to hear what he had done after, nearly broke her. By the time he had finished, he was weeping and so was she. Another emotion broke through the darkness in her mind like the sun breaks through a hole in a storm cloud: a bright shaft of warmth. She had wanted to reach out to him, to hold him and comfort him in her arms. Love? That was what she had thought. Later, she had told herself she had been foolish. It could not have been love. It was just pity at hearing the depths of this young man's suffering.

But the oddest thing was that by the time he finished his story, there was no more sun in the sky. Black roiling clouds had rolled in, thunder boomed in the distance, and somehow the Abbey was no longer humming with happy life, but instead weeping with them.

Hard to forget indeed.

“But that's not you. Not completely. It's a part of you. A part you have to accept as a blind man accepts the lack of his sight. That's all.”

He snorted softly. “Easier said than done.”

She got his point: it was nothing so simple as a loss of a sense that he was dealing with. No, nothing so simple as that. Losing a sense was life-altering, painful. This...well, Metana did not have the words. It was a condition she was growing used to; she had ever had something to say, much to the chagrin of many to whom she spoke, but he seemed able to tie up her tongue with nothing more than his presence.

“Then we will work at it together,” she said decisively. And then, more hesitantly, “If you will have me.”

Jurel Histane, God of War, laughed and it was a happy laugh, an innocent laugh. “I would like nothing more,” he said and squeezed her lightly to him.

She nuzzled his chest, and breathed deeply again of his scent, of his danger and wonder, and she felt a heat spread from her belly downward. She kissed him gently, teasing him lightly with one hand, heard his breath hitch. The heat spread as she rose from her place and straddled him, and carefully, she guided him into her. As she began to move her hips slowly, rocking back and forth, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, her breasts brushing against his chest. She felt his hands cup her buttocks and a moan escaped her lips at the delicious feelings that enveloped her.

And as her movements grew more urgent, as her hips rocked faster and faster, and they breathlessly called each others' names, as they approached that moment where there was bursting light and sweet scalding heat, and that unmitigated joining of two into one, the last thought she had, before all thought tattered and fled her on a tidal wave of ecstasy, was that she had been wrong all those weeks ago. It had not been pity. How had she not seen it before?

“Oh my god,” she cried.

Oh my love.

* * *

Kurin sat, watching the fire, listening to the men and women thrashing through the forest. Half the camp was empty, out in the woods searching, the other half stood watch. They had been searching for hours. It was well past midnight, and the air had grown chilly. Not cool as though it was early autumn instead of deep summer, but cold as though the land itself worried for its missing occupants.

He was spent from his own searches. Scrying, though not quite as difficult as Sending, was no easy task. He had sent his consciousness over the land for a hundred miles in every direction, over and over again, searching the same places a dozen times each and there was not a trace of them. Not even among those people-stars in that place between worlds where Sending and Scrying was made possible. Even though he had given up his efforts, he knew the rest of the priests were performing their own searches.

Torches floated past in the woods, ethereal glimmers of light in the distance that winked in and out of existence as the bearers trooped through the trees searching, calling. He sat watching, and kneaded his hands together, as his emotions swung like a pendulum from terrified worry to inconsolable rage.

Wait until I get my hands on them. Oh they will never pull this stunt again!

Oh gods, where are they? I hope they're safe.

Because if they are, I'll kill them!

He rose, paced the camp from end to end for what had to be the twentieth time, ignoring the ache in his left hip, trying to ignore the acidic roiling of his very empty stomach.

Every once in a while, Gaven strode in, bedraggled and with bits of the forest clinging to him, demanding to know if there was any news. The last time he did that, Kurin had nearly snapped his head off, “If there was news, don't you think I would tell you? Do you think I'd be pacing like this?” The young man had not deserved that, but the words had come unbidden and Kurin would not take them back. Gaven had turned with a hurt look and hurried back into the woods.

He reached the end of the camp and stared into the dark, distractedly chewing a fingernail. There was nothing to see there. Just dark. Satiny, opaque dark. He turned and slowly made his way back to his fire, thinking all the while, “What will we do? He is our only hope. We need him. What will we do?”

Some part of him knew the selfishness of those thoughts. It was the same part of him that worried whether Jurel and Metana were all right, were not lying in a shallow grave somewhere. He told that part to hush up. Of course, he worried about their safety, but Jurel was more important than that. Metana too if his suspicions about her were correct. But no. Too early to think about that. It was enough to deal with one issue at a time.

At the moment, the issue was, where in the gods's great bloody creation were they?

As though his silent question had been heard, he heard a rustle in the trees behind him, heard a quiet giggle, and spun at the sound.

They emerged from the trees as brazen as could be, smiling. Jurel's arm was around Metana's shoulders and she snuggled close to him, gazing up at him with an expression Kurin could not identify. Maybe he could have under different circumstances but his thoughts had shut off, ground to a halt. Jurel's expression was not much better. Kurin stood there, stunned, his mouth working like a landed fish. It was a rare thing that he was caught speechless. If someone had asked him how many times in his lifetime he had been so thunderstruck that he could not find his voice, he probably could have counted them on one hand. Even if he was missing fingers.

Jurel glanced up and saw him standing there. He smiled. “Hello, Kurin.”

He smiled!

Kurin began trembling, clamped his mouth shut, bunched his fists at his side and stared. Somewhere inside his head a treacherous part of him chuckled ruefully. Come on, old man. Find something to say.

“Hello,” he croaked.

Oh very good, that voice muttered.

“How are you?” Jurel looked around the camp and some of that vapid gaze, that fuzzy delirium, went away, to be replaced by at least a semblance of his intelligence. “Where is everybody?”

Later, Kurin would describe what happened as when a kettle sits too long over a fire and begins that shrill whistling, that universally understood alarm that says, I'm done. Right now. But it was not quite like that. It was more like a pot full of water with its lid welded on that sits too long over a fire. Pow! Right now.

The good news was that no one had to be sent to gather up the searchers. Kurin took care of that. As a matter of fact, approximately four words into his...discussion...eyes started to peep out of the gloom, and quietly—though rampaging bulls probably would not have been heard anyway—soldiers began to drift in well away from the irate old priest. Most cast curious, or at worst slightly exasperated glances at Jurel and Metana, and went about their business.

To their credit, Jurel and Metana (after the initial shock wore off) looked well and properly chastised. Jurel ruefully stared at his feet, one of which toed the ground bashfully, and Metana looked wide-eyed at Kurin, soft blooms of color on her cheeks and her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly.

He paused only long enough at intervals to drag great ragged lungfuls of breath and, after what seemed no more than two or three heartbeats to him, but probably felt like a lifetime and more to Jurel and Metana, his arms fell from their wild gestures to his sides and he panted erratically like he had just sprinted across the eastern mountain range. And finally, in a tone of voice that was more moderate—in the way that an arrow in the guts is more moderate than a sword in the throat—he asked, “What were you two thinking?”

“I'm sorry,” Jurel mumbled like a boy caught stealing a pie. “I didn't think-”

“Well obviously!” Kurin snapped. “While you two were off exploring the gods only know where, we've been sick with worry.”

Metana guffawed.

Kurin's eyes snapped to her and in a voice dripping with venom asked, “And what, pray tell, is so funny, young lady?”

She lowered her gaze and whispered something that Kurin could not hear. Jurel laughed! Feeling his anger bubbling up again, Kurin took a deep breath. “I did not quite hear that.”

“She said we were indeed exploring,” Jurel said and Kurin saw the slight smirk that Jurel could not quite hide.

“I don't understand the humor in-”

More carefully, more thoroughly he checked their stance then: Jurel with his arm around her and she, snuggling into him like they were...like...

Oh. Oh boy.

He felt himself deflate as understanding gushed in. He glared helplessly at them, then opened his mouth. When nothing more than faint gurgling sounds came out, he spun on his heel and almost ran into Gaven, who was laughing behind him, in his effort to storm off with as much dignity as he could muster.

Chapter 18

The gloomy pall of the upcoming battle notwithstanding, the weeks that followed were some of the most blissful ones he could remember. Jurel spent much of his time in quiet conversation with Metana. He made time for Gaven who wanted to take him out to the impromptu training grounds for a sparring session or sit and play a few hands of Bones over a cold tankard of ale (a small perk to having so many Salosians trained in arcanum close at hand: the ale was always cold). He made time for Kurin too. The old man wanted to talk, always wanted to just talk. Yet while Kurin asked seemingly innocuous questions—“How are you faring, Jurel?” or “Have you been keeping up your studies? Tell me about it.”—he had a glint in his eye as though he was probing for...for something.

And of course he made time for Mikal. The needs of the army were never far away; it was a blight on the almost honeymoon quality of the time he spent exploring his new found closeness with Metana. He could never forget that they were marching to war.

But now, so close to their enemy, he began by necessity to spend less time with Metana. His army spent most of their time marching or finishing final preparations for the upcoming battle under his watchful eye. His cadre of priests stayed mostly out of sight. They traveled in a tight cluster, glancing worriedly at each other, at times exchanging low words, as they kept constant watch on the enemy forces via scrying, disappearing into Kurin's tent as soon as camp was set in the evening. Jurel, with his continuing difficulties, kept himself occupied on the training fields, either sparring with various soldiers, or standing in the middle of a crowd of his officers like a hen surrounded by a brood of chicks listening to the cacophonous cheeping.

That was what he was doing at that moment. He watched, from the shade of a stand of maples, over the heads of the cheeping officers that ringed him, platoons in the field perform their drills under the scrutiny of their lieutenants and their sergeants's bellowed commands. At his side, Mikal scratched his cheek, glaring critically at the rushing figures on horseback. The platoon thundered forward, pikes up, in a tight line. With only a few paces to spare, a bellowed command caused every pike to drop, point flashing in the dull light of dusk. There was no target for the charge; they were simply practicing the art of charging. Their victory would depend on this knowledge.

“Not too bad,” Mikal said quietly as the platoon reined in.

Jurel still didn't know much about the arts of war but he had become quite adept at combat; he agreed with Mikal's assessment. The day had been hot and dry, leaving most of the army covered in a layer of dust turned sticky with sweat yet they moved crisply, as a cohesive unit. If the entire army was this prepared then perhaps they would emerge victorious after all—at least from their first encounter.

Another platoon stepped forward to take their turn at the exercise.

The enemy was perhaps three days away, camped across the middle of the caravan route. It would soon be time to melt into the forest and make the final preparations. In theory, the plan was a simple one: hide in the forest until the enemy was beside them, then ambush. As far as Jurel was aware it was the largest single ambush ever planned. It would be difficult to accomplish. Mikal had listed the problems they faced with such a plan and near the end, Jurel had quailed. Hiding so many people in a forest was a daunting task. The enemy, after all, had their own scouts and presumably their own scriers.

The first order of business had been figuring out how to keep his army from being discovered. That was solved by the simple expedient of moving farther back into the forest, and keeping everyone as tightly grouped as possible.

The next problem was that the soldiers, scattered amongst the trees, would emerge more a milling horde than a unified force. That was the reason behind these added drills every evening. Get the men so used to working together that when the moment came, they would instinctively seek each other out the moment they were out of the trees.

But that brought up the third issue. Scattered amongst the trees until the very last moment, how would they see the signal to attack? They could not use horns or any other audible means; this ambush was meant to be a surprise until the very moment Jurel's force rammed the prelacy's western flank. Jurel wanted to see a thousand Soldiers dead before they knew what hit them. The only viable solution seemed to be to spread his priests among the forces so they could send the signal via Calling, but this solution was imperfect. It meant his priests would be spread very thinly indeed when the attack came. It also didn't stop the prelacy's priests from hearing the signal being passed. It would give them some extra time—the prelacy priests could alert their commanders only so quickly—but it still left them with a disadvantage that he could only hope would be mitigated by the surprise and speed of their strike.

And they left him to iron out these and a hundred other matters that should have been left to the more experienced commanders. What a mess.

“They'll do very well, sir,” Captain Cordale cheeped beside him as a third platoon rode up to its place, glaring proudly at his soldiers. His mouth seemed too wide for his face, his slightly beady, wide-set eyes glinting. To Jurel, he looked a bit like a frog.“They are ready.”

Mikal snorted softly.

“My lord,” quiet, unperturbable Captain Flain rumbled. So dour, that man. So depressingly melancholy all the time. But good. Mikal had expressed respect for this man, and respect from Mikal was not easily earned. “Have you reconsidered my request?”

He had not. When he was not here on the fields, he was with Metana. She often left him no time to think on much else except...well. He hoped the others did not know what his flushed cheeks signified. It still shocked him, left him breathless and a little light-headed every time he thought of how they had come together. Ever since he had taken her to his place, she had looked at him differently—which was to be expected, all things considered. Whenever they were busy at their own tasks—he with commanders of his army, and she with Kurin and the priests—and he glanced her way, he caught her staring at him. In the brief moment before she invariably turned hastily away, he caught what was the most confusing mess of expressions under her blush. After days of deciphering, he managed to come up with equal parts exasperation, possessiveness (usually most evident when he was around other women; her glare was like pins and needles poking him in those instances), and a tenderness that he had never before suspected she harbored.

Her attitude had changed. Oh, she was still quick of temper, mercurial, prone to fits of wrath at the slightest word, but they were blunted now, like a sword with a dull edge. At least when he was the target of her anger. With the others, she was still the same.

When she did get angry with him, it was because he still made no progress with his training. Not that they'd had much time these last few days to try; more often than not, his training took place on horseback during the day's march. Never an easy task during even ideal circumstances, it was made nigh impossible while jouncing on the back of a horse who always seemed intent on sliding out from under Jurel's bottom the moment his concentration was off riding.

“Jurel.” Mikal grunted. “Stop thinking about Metana and pay attention.”

The flush in his cheeks deepened and he nodded.

Unfortunately, thoughts of Metana—and the accompanying warm flutters that invaded his belly—had to wait, for here was Captain Flain, asking him again about the placement of his men. They had been over it but Flain was a tenacious man. With a glance at Mikal—who simply raised an eyebrow in response—Jurel sighed.

“Captain, I've heard you and I've discussed this with Mikal but I still think your men are best positioned on the right.”

Except for a slight tightening of his lips, Flain remained as impassive as ever. “I understand My Lord, but my men are the finest in the army. Their charge is second to none. We can be of most benefit at the forefront.”

Jurel hurriedly answered, overriding the indignant protests of the other commanders, “As you say, your men are some of the finest in the army-” Flain's lips thinned further; he had heard the distinction “-and that is why I need you to hold the south. You are our road out when it's over. Who can I trust to maintain our lifeline but the best?”

“My Lord-”

“Flain,” Jurel said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder and Flain flinched. “We've discussed it. I've listened to what you have to say and I've decided. I need you on the right.”

The dour captain hesitated for a moment, no doubt weighing the merits of pursuing his demands, but finally he gave Jurel a brisk salute and strode back into the tents. Jurel watched him go, doubt gnawing at him.

The exercises ran down as the light changed to umber laden gold shot through with roseate spears. The sky was a blaze of crimson and violet as the questions and requests of the remaining officers were seen to and they followed Flain into the camp until it was only he and Mikal left.

The field was quiet, churned earth being the only evidence that anything had happened there. On the other side of the trees in a large clearing, the main camp buzzed with activity. Fires outlined the soldiers, many who sat at their evening mess, many others hurrying about their duties before they could take their meals and seek their bedrolls. The horses were picketed in several lines at the other end of the camp yet underlying the bitter, clean scent of burning wood, the welcome smell of dinner, and the less pleasant sour stench of more than a thousand unwashed bodies, he could still smell the equine musk. Ruefully, he shook his head. The latrines were at the other end of the camp. If the breeze had been blowing the other way, it would not have been the relatively pleasant scent of horse and sweat that permeated the air.

Jurel watched his camp for a time, unsure of what it was he thought he was doing. Leading an army? Leading men to war and death? Why, just a year and a half ago, he had still been battling guilt and self-loathing over the beating he had delivered upon Valik, and now here he was, a swordmaster (and yes, he had indeed been awarded the insignia of the swordmaster by Mikal himself in a private ceremony the week before, though Mikal had advised him to keep it quiet since the God of War should not be bound by mortal ranks) in his own right, and the leader of an army.

And what right did he have to be the leader? Standing beside him was a man who had spent his life learning and perfecting the arts of war, a man who had seen more battles and blood in his life than Jurel had seen cows. Yet here he was, looking to Jurel for orders. What right did he have besides who he was supposed to be?

“Am I doing it right, Mikal?”

Beside him, Mikal sniffed quietly. “Never let your men know that you're afraid or unsure.”

“Even you?” Jurel smiled.

“Even me. My Lord.”

“Now don't you start!”

“Relax lad. You're doing fine.”

“But what gives me the right to lead? Why shouldn't you be in charge?” Jurel burst out, louder than he intended. A few soldiers at the edge of the camp glanced doubtfully his way.

“Keep your voice down,” Mikal growled. He shot a look to the hesitating soldiers and they scurried away, eager to escape the angry glare. Mikal was silent, then, for a bit, leaving them wrapped in a breathy cocoon of sound as leaves soughed in the light breeze. He stared out into the growing twilight, pensive, before speaking again.

“Some lead because they possess uncommon acumen and bravery, an uncommon ability to earn and keep respect. Most lead because they are born to it. Like nobility. These people lead because they have a title. Whether they are qualified to lead or not, they are given the right by birth. A wholly unfortunate circumstance in many cases.

“So far, you lead because of who you are, because of your title. Who would question command of an army to the God of War? But the more I see you in action, the more I think you deserve that leadership. The more you learn, the better you get, and you learn quickly, Jurel. At the beginning of all this, I would have cut off my right hand before following you into battle. Now, I think I should be glad for the opportunity to fight for you.

“Even your question does you credit. It's no easy thing to send more than a thousand men into battle and the fact that you worry about it, well, it shows strength of character. But you shouldn't voice it about. Too easy for common soldiers to misread strength of character with lack of confidence. Your soldiers need you to appear confident, even if you aren't.”

Then, without another word, he strode away.

Jurel was not entirely sure what he felt. Gods, if he wanted to be honest, he was not entirely certain what he should feel. Pride, certainly, for apparently having earned—or at least being in the process of earning—Mikal's respect. But among the spoken warnings there had been an unspoken one as well in his teacher's words. Warning what? That Jurel needed to keep his wits about him? That he should keep going as he was, should perhaps not let his new found power go to his head, should not let confidence—if he ever found it—turn to arrogance? Arrogance turns too easily to complacence and then inflexibility: what worked last time must work this time. He thought it sounded right, but he was not certain.

With a sigh, Jurel stared into the sky, seeing the first pinprick star wink into existence. It all came down to uncertainty. That was what it was. A God of War unable to use his abilities so not quite a god. A man who was not quite a man, burdened with a title that supposedly elevated him above others and so kept him isolated. A warrior who hated violence. A farmer who was a frighteningly proficient killer. He was all of these things, and all of these things battled violently against each other until in the end, though he knew who he was supposed to be, he was unsure of who he was.

Chapter 19

It was still murky as Jurel trotted through the trees with Mikal silent at his side. The sun had just broken over the horizon but could not yet penetrate into the depths of the forest. Mist clung low to the ground; walking was deceptively treacherous. They passed squads of men, many already on horseback, their lances reaching into the lowest layer of the canopy above, but most were on foot, not yet ready to climb into the stirrups if they were cavalry, or prepared for the final march if they were infantry.

Two days had passed since his conversation with Mikal under the trees. Two days, during which he had spent any free time he had brooding, moodily passing through the camp like an angry wraith. Even Metana had not been able to draw him out of his mood, and late the previous night, she had stormed out of his tent after telling him exactly what she thought of big sulking oafs and their temper tantrums.

Everyone he passed with Mikal seemed jumpy. No wonder; the enemy was only three miles away. The battle would be well and truly joined in only a few hours. The priests, one every few hundred paces, seemed preoccupied. Every one that Jurel spoke to responded with single distracted syllables. The officers were not any better. Everyone was respectful, but their minds were on other matters.

In a break between the trees, he caught sight of Captain Cordale and Kurin conferring. Their bottom halves were obscured in scarves of mist, their tops, by shadow, but Kurin's lanky height was unmistakable.

“How goes it?” Jurel whispered.

Cordale shook his head; his grim expression, bathed in darkness, seemed surreal. “I'm not certain. The men, at least, are ready.” He glanced doubtfully through the trees.

“Then what's the problem?” Mikal said.

Cordale blew out his breath. “We're only a few miles from them, but there hasn't been any report of activity. Not even a single scout has been spotted.”

“And my priests are reporting strange things as well,” Kurin joined. He too had a deeply shadowed expression not solely caused by the darkness. “I don't quite understand it. There are...ripples.”

“But our scouts have seen them?”

“Yes, Milord,” Cordale said. “A few over two thousand. They travel in the open, on the caravan route, without a concern in the world. They outnumber us but with our element of surprise, we still have the advantage.”

Jurel glanced at Mikal who shrugged.

“It's up to you, Jurel.”

Something was wrong here. Jurel felt it like an itch that could not be scratched. It was not a conscious understanding but more like an instinct, like knowing when someone was watching him. He wavered in that instant: should they continue with their ambush, or should they retreat and try again farther down the road after these anomalies had been explained? Gods, why were they looking to him as though they expected him to solve all their problems?

But the enemy force had been seen. They were on the road, they were almost within range, and they were being lax. It seemed they had no idea what was about to befall them; everything was going according to plan. If Kurin was right about these arcane ripples, then surely he and his priests could handle it. They were there, after all, for precisely that purpose while Jurel's soldiers took care of the rest.

He eyed Mikal, then Kurin and Cordale, who watched him without expression. He shrugged, as he decided.

“Then we proceed.”

* * *

The forefront of the prelacy's force came into view around the bend less than a half mile away. Armor reflected in the early sun, hard sparks of light. Pristinely white cloaks fluttered, so many of them that the force looked more like a moving glacier than an army. A rank of cavalry rode in the vanguard, followed by ranks of infantry interspersed with platoons of archers. In the center, a group of robed men rode with heads bent. That would be the priests.

Jurel watched their steady approach from his hiding spot inside the tree line, marching in tight formation; even with his limited understanding of warfare, Jurel was impressed by their discipline. He glanced at Mikal who answered his unspoken question with a slight shake of his head: not yet.

Something was wrong. Jurel could feel it. He was overlooking something. He ran over the plan in his head again: his cavalry would charge into the infantry, hopefully shattering them at one go; his own infantry would follow closely to support the flanks; archers would pepper the enemy ranks while the priests would eliminate any arcane threat. This spot had been carefully chosen for their ambush. Once the trees ended, there was a hundred paces of field until they reached the road. It would give his cavalry enough time as they charged to form up into tight wedges after breaking clear the trees but not so much that the enemy would be able to form up properly. If all went well, there would be an out-and-out rout within the hour. But something was wrong and he had no idea what it was.

Because of the lack of scouts, Jurel and Mikal had decided to move the force forward until they were only a few dozen feet inside the treeline. The less forest his men had to wade through, the quicker the attack.

Jurel chewed his lower lip as he watched the enemy continue to walk into his trap.

After an eternity of waiting, after the sun had risen another degree, and the enemy was directly ahead, Mikal touched his shoulder.

Now.

Kurin Sent the signal as Jurel and Mikal ran to their horses and mounted, each drawing their swords. Behind, the first sounds of his army's motion could be heard: branches snapped, underbrush rustled. Within moments, his men became visible as blurs of motion through the trees.

Heart racing, Jurel watched his first line break from the trees, thundering hooves almost drowned out by the sudden howling of hundreds of voices. As he and Mikal left their concealment, a profound exhilaration took him; even though the coolness of the previous night lingered, sweat slicked his back and forehead.

The constant drilling had its intended effect. His men formed wedges that were so tight, their knees almost brushed. Lances still raised high, they thundered forward, as more and more filtered from the trees and added their weight to the charge. Arrows had begun to rain down already from the trees, archers firing on the run. It was long range, but they did not need accuracy; there were plenty of easy targets. The charge bore down, and as though given command, every lance point dipped until the wedges of cavalry became large, barbed arrow points.

His cadre of brothers and sisters joined the fray. Bolts of lightning struck liberally along the inner perimeter of the enemy force, balls of fire whistled overhead to disappear into the marching Soldiers of God.

Jurel watched, suddenly frozen. He would have expected the enemy force to be pulling up short. He would have expected to see startled expressions as soldiers turned to see the sudden charge flying at them. He would have expected cries of alarm, shouts of surprise and screams of agony, weapons being hastily drawn. But they continued to march as though they were not threatened by a thousand and more men, as though fire and lightning were not ripping them to shreds.

With only a dozen paces left for the cavalry to cover, Jurel finally noticed something truly terrifying. The shrieking fireballs did not strike anything. They did not explode, they did not cause soldiers to erupt into screaming infernos. They simply disappeared into the mass arrayed along the road. Where a fireball touched a soldier, there seemed to be a ripple like water disturbed by a stone.

Mikal had just enough time to mutter, “What the...” when the first platoon met the flank of infantry. It was like a strong wind in fog. The enemy infantry simply...blew away as his cavalry continued at full momentum. There should have been a deafening crash of metal on metal. The air should have been, right at that moment, filling with the howls of the injured, the dying. Instead, as more of his cavalry blew into the enemy ranks, soldiers began shouting confused questions.

Jurel turned his eyes to Mikal who stared back and for the first time, Jurel saw a hint of fear in the man's ashen features.

It all snapped into place. The sense of wrongness that had plagued him all morning suddenly made stark sense. A heartbeat before Kurin came galloping up frantically calling for retreat, Jurel understood.

“Illusion!” cried Kurin. “They knew we were here. Illusion!”

“Retreat,” Jurel shouted. “Mikal, get the men moving south. Out of here now!”

Mikal did not need to be told; he was already on the move, voice raised to prodigious levels, sounding the retreat.

Slowly, the sluggish blanket of confusion began to part as the constant battering of training took over. With no more need for silence, horns began to sound, urgent bleatings that shivered in the air. Squads quickly merged with platoons, bannermen waving standards in the air, as the army began to move south. Slow at first, they picked up speed until the ranks of infantry trotted then broke into a jog to keep up. If the fleeing ranks seemed a little ragged, well, why not? After all, Jurel's army was being routed without a single sword stroke.

“What happened?” Jurel demanded, rounding on Kurin.

“I don't know,” was the bitter reply. “I knew something felt wrong about all this. I knew it! We were all looking for this. We kept a close enough eye that I was positive they couldn't do this. Then, when the scouts reported visual contact, I thought we were all right.”

And it had been his, Jurel's, decision to continue with the attack as planned, even though his own instincts had screamed against it. He had rushed in before getting all the information, and now his army was exposed and in imminent danger of attack. He punched his leg in frustration, cursing.

“Don't blame yourself, Jurel. We were all fooled. Even Mikal thought continuing the attack was acceptable.”

Jurel nodded but he was not entirely convinced. “Go see to the priests, Kurin. Get them moving south too.”

With a nod, Kurin wheeled his horse and galloped into the trees.

What was the enemy commander planning? What was the next move? It seemed that this ruse was bait of some kind, but for what? To simply lure them into the open? To expose him and his army, a game of hide-and-seek? Jurel was still taut as a bow, his instincts clamoring. No. Not just that. They would not have revealed their knowledge simply to laugh at Jurel. So, what then?

Jurel had never been in a situation like this before, but if he had, if he had had the experience to draw on, he would have known a very important fact: a question like that is answered either now or later. If the answer arrives later, it often arrives when it makes very little difference. But if the answer arrives now, well, it most often arrives in the most disastrous manner possible.

He did not even see the wave of fireballs that incinerated the front line of his cavalry. All he saw was a strobe of brilliant blue-white flashes. These flashes were followed by an explosion that threw men and horses through the air like smoking rag dolls. The concussion sent a shock wave ripping through the ranks, felling almost everyone for fifteen paces. Indeed, it was so powerful that Jurel, still a hundred paces away, felt the impact like a fist in the gut.

In response, lightning struck the ground some distance ahead of the ragged remains of his front lines; his own priests were counter-attacking. He searched, straining his eyes; counter-attacking who? Where? Jurel spurred his horse with a savage kick—some dim part of his mind winced at the brutal treatment of such a fine beast—and he raced for all he was worth to the front.

Approximately halfway there, he heard a new sound from his right. He glanced to the trees, blurred by his speed, and saw movement. A lot of it. It was by sheer luck that the sun caught the shaft of the arrow at just the right angle; it threw off a glint that caused him to jerk backward in his saddle, almost unseating himself. The arrow whistled by his nose, so close he felt its breath as it blurred passed.

He righted himself, his horse stumbling, missing a step as Jurel's weight shifted, and found himself the target of a charge. Dozens of white cloaks flapped, dozens of lances pointed at him, dozens of eyes bored into him from behind glinting steel.

Gritting his teeth, he drew his sword, the metal rasping against leather, sounding angry, was a striking counterpoint to the high pitched screams of agony and death that pierced their way through his ears and into the very core of him, intent on withering his soul. He turned to face the onslaught, knowing he was already lost, knowing that his screams would join in the chorus soon.

Assuming he survived long enough to scream.

The acridly sweet stench of burnt flesh drifted to him, following more of those terrible concussions, nearly made him gag. He suppressed the urge; he had other, more pressing things to think about than the condition of his army. If he had one left.

The lances lowered in the same way as they had when his men had charged, each point aimed at his heart, each point seeming to strive, to reach, for his blood.

To his left, a resounding crash sounded as cavalry rammed cavalry. The charge that was about to end his life faltered. It gave Jurel the time he needed to surge forward and begin the grim work of hack and slash. No thinking. Just action. Thrust. Parry. Slash. Don't see the blood, don't taste it. Just spill it.

He struck with his sword, and though it did no more damage than a regular sword might, he was now skilled enough to find the chinks in the Soldiers's armor. He blocked a wicked slash, letting the blade slide harmlessly from his, and he struck, the edge of his sword slicing under the helm. It came away red, dripping, and the Soldier, dropping his weapon, clutched at his throat as he slumped, slid off his horse. A whistle of air, a frantic parry, his blade flashed. A sword tumbled to the ground, still clutched in a fist with twitching fingers. A shriek. There was a jolt, a horse bumped against his. A hand grabbed for him, he whirled, a lance of pain shooting up his arm as his elbow connected with a helm. He spun, searching frantically for the next attack, his left hand clenching and unclenching as he tried to work the pins and needles from his arm.

Hissing in pain, he swung his head, searching. Where was his power, that hurricane of destruction that had decimated countless trained soldiers a year before? Where was the God of War?

For the moment, no one threatened so he spared a moment's glance to his saviors. Two more Soldiers went down, as he watched, leaving three—no four—and Captain Flain broke away from the last of the struggle, trotting to Jurel.

“Milord,” he barked.

Infantry, without the benefit of horse to carry the extra weight, were lightly armored. It showed, for Flain was spattered head to toe in gore already turning rusty red and his sword dripped blood onto the churned earth. A quick glance at the rest of Flain's men showed the same. It appeared they had been busy.

“What's happened?” Jurel demanded.

“Difficult to say, Milord,” Flain said, his flinty eyes raking Jurel. “But I think it goes badly for us.”

The last of the Jurel's attackers fell and Flain's men formed up in two small columns surrounding Jurel, half facing the forest and half facing the battle that raged.

The air crackled; angry, ruddy explosions shook the ground while flashes of incandescence, seared the eyes. Bodies writhed in close combat, swords cut the air and flesh. As he watched, a platoon of his cavalry ground itself into a bristling wall of lances and pikes. Sparks flickered above the battle like fireflies: burning arrows, death from above. From his vantage, a hundred paces away, it looked like a churning, forest fire.

But no forest had ever screamed like this. An overarching roar covered the ground like a thick blanket. Shrieks of agony, the clash of sword, the thunder of hoof, and the blast of arcane energy penetrated the blanket in a thousand places at once, sharp as daggers.

As he watched, he saw several platoons of prelacy cavalry disengage and charge the east flank. It was not much of a charge; the Soldiers had not given themselves much room to build momentum, but it was effective. The east flank crumpled under the mighty pressure of the war horses and lances. Jurel's army bowed in on itself like an animal who had suffered a belly wound by a larger predator.

“What are we waiting for? Let's go,” Jurel said, and spurred his horse.

He was forestalled by Flain who rode in front of him.

“Milord, please forgive my impertinence,” the man said with a stiff bow. “But this battle is lost. You must flee. We will cover your escape.”

Jurel goggled, astounded that this man would suggest such a thing. Flee? Now? While his men, the men he had sent to this battle, died? His astonishment gave way to a surge of anger.

“I hope you're joking, Flain. The men are dying. They need us.”

Flain's horse surged forward until their knees brushed. He faced Jurel with a violent glare, his hand gripping Jurel's arm with vise-like strength. For all his obvious anger, Flain spoke low and urgent, leaning close enough that Jurel could smell the sweat, blood and fear.

“The men are already dead. They just don't know it yet. This battle is lost. Our back is broken here. One platoon more or less, even one with you leading, will make no difference. But you still live and you must stay that way so you can continue the war.”

“I can't let them just die, Flain. I can't.”

“Then you will die with them!” He shook Jurel. “Milord, every one of these men and women that came to your banner came so willingly. Each and every one of them would have slit their own throat if you had commanded it. You may be young and untried but each and every one of us sees what you are, even if some of those robe-wearing buffoons back at the Abbey can't. But you cannot survive here so you must flee and rebuild.”

As though to prove his point, a muffled thump shook the ground. Jurel broke eye contact with Flain in time to see twisted bodies flying through the air in the center of what remained of his army.

“But-”

“You are our leader. Sometimes leading means accepting defeat and cutting your losses. Go, damn you!”

With that, Flain pushed him away. Wheeling his horse, Flain barked orders to his men and they marched toward the battle.

Jurel stayed, frozen to the spot. How could he leave? How could he abandon these men and women who were giving their lives for him? How could he leave his friends? Kurin, Mikal, Gaven, and Metana, they were all out there somewhere. Hopefully, still alive.

He should have been able to help. He should have been able to turn the tide of this battle by himself. Memories, images of what he had done in Threimes the year before assaulted him with a force that left him winded. Blood and bodies. Vastly outnumbered, he had still destroyed everything in his path and had saved his friends in the process.

Not Daved though. No, not him. It had been Daved who had saved him. It had taken Daved's death to open him to his power.

Surely, enough of his friends were in mortal danger to provoke the same response now. Surely, he should have been able to stride into that melee and destroy his enemy. Yet here he sat, frozen on his horse.

Ahead, on the killing grounds, the butchery continued. His force was greatly reduced now. Scatterings of his men battled in clumps, hemmed in by prelacy forces. Pillars of black smoke rose like gravestones into the morning air.

Perhaps Flain was right. Or at least partially right. He needed to flee. But not to gather more armies. No, he had tried that and look what it got him, look what it got them. His first battle ending in resounding, astonishing, brutal defeat. He was not fit to lead. He was not prepared for this. Hundreds dead because he had decided, against his instincts, to go through with his pathetic plan.

God of War. God of Murder.

Some part of him, some warm part, already battered and abused, turned icy cold, and withered leaving an empty blankness in its place. Perhaps he should race in against Flain's council. He could at least die with some honor. He could at least die.

But suddenly, the thought of holding a sword sickened him. He glanced down at the weapon in his hand, the weapon given to him by Daved on his sixteenth birthday. A man's gift for a new man, Daved had said. Blood was drying in an uneven crust along the length of it, stark evidence of what he was becoming. His lip curled in revulsion as he stared at it. He did not doubt that Daved's intent had been a good one when he had given this gift. No, Daved had been a man of honor. It was Jurel who had twisted the gift, who had turned this from a weapon of self-defense to a thing of evil. Hundreds of men and women were dying—had already died—because of him.

He did not deserve something so simple, so clean, as death in battle. He deserved to suffer. Convulsively, he opened his fingers, letting the sword drop. It stuck point first in the ground, wobbling for a moment; an appropriate shrine for a fallen god.

With one last heart-wrenching look at the death and destruction he had caused, he wheeled his horse and fled the screams, the death and his own arrogant stupidity, into the trees.

Part 3:

Repentance:

“Kneelest thou, and pray unto thy god.

Thou shalt be forgiven if in thy heart,
thou repentest thy sins.”

-Gaorlan injunction

Chapter 20

Chased by the cries of the dying, he burst into the trees without slowing. He plowed his way through the underbrush, ignoring the stinging swipe of nettle and branch that tore his pants and left angry red lines on his legs and thighs. Someone called his name. He did not hear it. His world whirled dizzyingly, sickeningly, the airy birdsong overhead seemed angry, grating, like the rusty hinges of a closing door. The smell of the forest, musty, musky, and sweet turned stale, dirty, oppressive.

He found himself in a clearing similar to the one he and Metana had used, the one that had led to the discovery that they had been meant for each other. He crumpled, fell to his knees and wrapped his hands around his head. Did he hear ringing in his head? Far off? Faint? Maybe. Who cared? He put his forehead to the ground and shut his eyes. He heard a sound somewhere behind him, a voice calling his name, wished whoever it was would just shut up. He heard underbrush crack, leaves rustle.

He heard a thrumming in his head, a thrumming of almost understood words, snips and pieces of phrases that broke through, that threatened to gore him with their sharpness: So this is what I am. This is what I have to look forward to. This is...

In his mind, his storm tossed mind, his twirling, tumultuous, addled mind, he knew it would always be like this. No matter what he tried, no matter how hard he would strive to suppress himself, there would always be distance between him and those he would love, always that underlying knowledge that he was different, he was other. He was violence and death.

He pictured a bright spot. He wished himself toward it, willed it, and slowly, the outside world receded as he felt the core of himself buffeted. His mind was treacherous; as he made his way to the pinprick of light far from the shining sun of his unreachable source, he was pulled sideways as though there were undercurrents, felt he might capsize as though there was too much wind in the sails, thought he might run aground against the devastatingly sharp reefs that populated the whirling eddies in the depths of his mind. But finally he saw the light brighten, from sparkle, to distant star, to moon. It expanded from moon to sun and then finally...

* * *

Gaven opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to clear the haze. His eyelids seemed glued together. Gingerly, he wiped a hand across his face; it came away coated in sticky, half-congealed blood. He lay there, slowly letting consciousness seep back, bringing memory with it.

Gaven had been one of the first to fall in the battle. Not to the priests's arcanum; thank the gods he and his platoon had been at the north end of the cavalry charge. Shortly after beginning the call to retreat, the trees had erupted with enemy forces and his men had been overrun from behind. He had taken a sword to the head, but his helm had mostly protected him, leaving only a small gash, and knocking him unconscious. And a lingering headache. He groaned, rolled over, put a hand to his head, tried not to vomit.

When he raised his eyes, he froze. He was near the trees still, where he had fallen. On the caravan route, he saw that the battle was all but over. The Soldiers of God were in the final motions of mopping up. He saw movement closer to the trees, a hundred paces ahead of him. A lone rider, wheeled his mount and galloped for safety. He knew that rider, of course. He considered that rider a dear friend.

What are you doing, Jurel? Where are you going?

He scuttled toward the spot his friend had recently left, knowing he would not be bothered for a few minutes. The Soldiers were as sharks scenting blood. Their vision was a narrow tunnel of violence ahead of them.

Something glinted. Metal. Gaven approached carefully, keeping low in the tall grass; the army may have been preoccupied, but there was no sense being foolish. The glint was Jurel's sword stuck point down in the ground like a grave marker. He quailed. He had found the answer to his first question.

Now he had to answer the second.

He pulled the sword from the ground and bolted then, running into the forest behind his friend. A short time ago, these trees had provided welcome shelter. Now, as he stumbled amongst the groves and the undergrowth, calling Jurel's name, Gaven found himself thinking that this forest provided ample concealment for enemy troops.

He burst into a clearing, cursing at the stinging line of blood that flowed down his cheek, calling Jurel's name again. Jurel was on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth. He raced to his friend's side and reached down. As he stretched out a hand, just as he expected to feel contact with Jurel's shoulder, his friend vanished, and Gaven stumbled back, shocked, staring at the empty ground and at the still saddled mount a few paces away that cropped quietly, obliviously at the coarse grass.

* * *

He smelled flowers, millions of them filling the air with their heady perfumes. His eyes were closed but he knew delicate beads of dew sparkled like jewels on their petals. He knew that somewhere to his left, only a dozen paces from where he stood, there was a lilac tree whose boughs dripped to the ground like soap suds, and under that was a fancifully sculpted bench made of ivory.

He had never actually tried to do it by himself, had never tried to reach his place on his own. As he lay there, getting himself under control, fighting to slow the boiling cauldron in his skull, he found a glimmer of surprise that he had actually done it, but it was a fleeting thought caught in a veil of sick tears. He lay there, smelling the flowers through the lingering stench of blood and death, shielding his eyes from the light of the sun that sometimes was there but mostly was not. It seemed accusatory, glaring at him, pointing a golden finger: You are guilty. You did it.

When he felt calmer, more himself—a desiccated, empty version of himself—he sat up and let his gaze sweep the field, his place, noticing that it did not glow as it often did. It seemed darker, certainly darker than it should have been with a sun glaring like a molten coin above him. Some logical part of him shrugged. It made sense. After all, Metana had said this was a reflection of his mind, and he was feeling pretty dark.

He stood, turned in a circle, saw the distant line of trees that surrounded his place, and for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he ventured beyond them. Could he? Was there anything there?

Another time maybe. Another day.

He shored in his sight, gazed at the lilac tree, and he felt nothing when he looked at it as though he gazed upon a void. He had been so proud of that tree; he had created it, and secretly, he thought of it as his own little masterpiece. It was beautiful and somehow it had seemed to sum up everything there was to say about Metana. That was why he had imagined it as he did. She had been his inspiration. And now she was one of the thousand that he had condemned with his foolish pride.

What have I done? What have I done!

Thinking of her drew his gaze down into the flowers, and specifically to a place where the flowers were crushed. Where their bodies had entwined, merged, in their love-making. He stared at the spot, swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. He trembled. His fists clenched so tightly his fingernails were driven into his palm and red drops landed on the tulips at his feet. In his mind, he saw them again, gently kissing. He pushed the thought away, but it came back, more insistent, mocking. His trembling turned into shudders as something rose from the broken void inside him. Something red, hot, and entirely primordial. Something so powerful, he could not name it, and he certainly could not control it.

He lifted his head, drew in his breath, saw her laughing with him. The image was overlapped by one of her laying crumpled and bloody

What have I done?

in a ditch beside the road. The thing burst from the void and threatened to blow his flesh apart. He shut his eyes tightly, saw her with her head against his shoulder.

Oh, gods, what have I DONE?

He opened his mouth and he screamed.

And the thing from the void screamed with him.

The ground trembled, bucked and surged. His mouth opened further and further, impossibly wide, his teeth growing until they were the teeth of wolves, or lions. His eyes glittered like sapphires and lightning. Around him, flickering in and out of existence, barely visible but surely there, a suit of armor so black that the sun seemed to be sucked into it, with golden whorls and swirls that caused eyes to water.

He lifted his arms slowly, fists clenched and his roar continued, impossibly long, impossibly loud. When his arms were horizontal to the ground, he opened his fingers. At his feet the world warped, humped as though seen through a magnifying glass. The warp spread outward in an ever expanding circle, humming low and harsh like wasps. Where the circle of distortion passed, the flowers blew apart, shredded like parchment, then disintegrated, evaporating into nothingness like boiled water. When the circle hit the lilac tree, it simply disappeared in a hail of splinters. The perimeter of devastation continued to expand, increasing in speed until it spread faster than the eye could follow, all the way out, all the way to the far trees.

And beyond?

Jurel's place was changed. Where there had been flowers, and sweet perfume, serenity and a sense of peace, there was now a blasted wasteland, a flat landscape of mud, dried and crusted, cracked like a monotone mosaic created by a murderous madman. Arid breath-sucking heat, and sharp grit blown by winds that scoured flesh bare was what remained of Jurel's place.

As he stood, eyes blazing, saliva dripping from his too-long teeth to the crust where it sizzled and evaporated, he found it entirely appropriate.

Chapter 21

Smoke choked Kurin as he stumbled. Unnatural lights blinded him. The screams of the dying deafened him. Yet a magma hot river of arcanum continued to pour from him. Lightning and fire roared to life at his thought and where he pointed, nothing but melted steel and burnt meat remained. The earth shook and pits opened to swallow platoons whole.

He felt a battering at his defenses; the priests of Gaorla had regrouped and were attacking anew. Gritting his teeth against the new onslaught, he shored up his defenses. Above him, his ethereal shield hummed and glowed as attack after attack broke like a downpour on a rooftop. He wiped his sweaty hands on his robe. They came away filthy with ash, mud, and blood.

He spared a glance to his right where Metana was riding her own storm. Her hands high over her head, fingers spread like talons, her eyes blazed with power. Wind buffeted her; her hair flowed like shadows in the smoky gloom. He could not help but spare a thought that she was, at that moment, savagely, violently beautiful: a diving eagle; a leaping, screaming tiger; a wolf homing in for the kill. For a brief instant he envied Jurel, knew that Jurel was the only being alive capable of taming her wild energy. To his left, Mikal and a few of his swordmasters waited in a tight knot, bristling with swords dripping gore. Behind him, the last, ragged remains of the army, mustering for one final push.

And spreading before him, an endless wall of white cloaks.

Jurel's army was lost. Even as he released a vicious spell that sliced like a thousand razor blades into the front ranks of Soldiers, he felt a pang thinking it. Jurel's army was lost. The loss of so many men was a terrible tragedy. But Kurin knew that was only the tip of the iceberg. Jurel's confidence had been shaky at best. He had needed this victory. This resounding defeat would deeply affect the young man. Kurin wondered if he would ever recover from it, wondered if he would ever lead men to battle again. He wondered if the God of War would die before he was properly born.

A sledgehammer of raw arcanum slammed into his shield. He grunted, felt his shield crack, felt streams of bone crushing power fly as Metana retaliated. He had to act. He gestured to Mikal.

“You've got to go,” he said. A shiver climbed his spine as he heard the exhaustion in his voice. “Take Metana. Get out of here.”

Mikal was shaking his head even before Kurin finished his command. His eyes were shadowed slits. “You know I can't do that.”

He grunted again as more power slammed into him. Desperately, he held his defenses in place but he could feel them slipping like sand through his fingers. The line of Soldiers stepped forward and braced as Jurel's ragged army charged.

“There's no time to argue, Mikal. You need to get out of here. This battle is done. Find Jurel-”

“No, damn you.” Mikal raised a clenched fist. “We go together or we die together. It's how we've always done things.”

Kurin shook his head sadly. “Not this time, my friend. You know what's at stake. You know-”

Another blast nearly drove him to his knees. He gasped as pain ripped through his skull.

“You know,” he croaked, “what you have to do. We've searched too long and been through too much to let it end like this. Forget me. Go. Jurel needs you.”

“We don't even know if he's still alive.”

“He is. He must be. Damn it, GO!”

He turned his attention back to the battle, raking the front lines of Soldiers with fire to give the remaining Salosians any advantage.

When he glanced back, he was grateful that Mikal had listened and obeyed. He was grateful that he alone stood there. There was a crash of metal on metal and fresh screams as the Salosians engaged in their last futile attempt.

Power battered him, staggering him. He threw all his last dregs of strength into his spells. But it was no use. The Gaorlans continued their relentless assault and for every spell he unleashed at them, three smashed into his weakened, wavering shield.

Desperately he fought as he watched the last of the Salosian force cut down. Until the inevitable blast broke through his shield. His head rang like a bell and hellfire lights danced before his eyes. He felt wetness leak from his nose and ears. When his vision cleared a little, he found himself on his hands and knees. Fighting his burning lungs, he dragged in one ragged breath after another as he continued to hurl arcanum at the enemy.

His head rang again. Every nerve in his body lit up as though he had been thrown into a lake of fire and he screamed in agony. He lost all feeling in his arms, faintly felt himself topple, tasted mud mingled with blood.

His last thought before the welcome blanket of darkness took him was a prayer that Mikal find Jurel safe and alive. And not broken.

Chapter 22

He sat cross-legged on the hard crusted ground as windborne sand scoured his flesh though the blown grit never found his eyes. His shirt, which had not too long ago been white, was a dirty brown tatter, blasted to shreds by the howling winds and the grit. His elbows rested on his knees and his bared sword, an exact replica of the one Daved had given him except for the razor sharp thorns—his own personal touch—that protruded from the hilt lay across his forearms. Above, the sun was a raging, molten ball that shimmered fluidly, hazed by the shrieking storm. When the wind slowed, when the abrasive clouds thinned like mist under the hellish sun, heat waves shimmered in the distance, reflected the fiery glare from above, rising from the ground, warping the air so that it was like an alien water-world, a world of myth, of fireside stories where great sharks and sea monsters lie in waiting for hapless passers-by, waiting to drag unfortunate victims down to the mysterious depths, never to be seen again.

He sat in his personal furnace, sucking air that battled him at every breath, that seemed to resent every inhalation and exploded from him like horses escaping a burning barn at every exhalation, fought with it as harshly as he fought with himself. His mind was as violent as his place. Images whirled and tumbled over each other, scouring his inside as efficiently as sand blasted his outside. He sat on Gram's shoulders, watching in awe as bursts of light—red, green, yellow—sparkled overhead, squealed with delightful, delicious fear as the booms, like thunder, came moments later. He cowered as he watched Gram's life seep through a hole in his belly. He snuggled, warm and safe, as his mother told him his favorite bedtime story, the one about the boy who went to war and came back with a goat for a wife. He stared as she was tossed lifeless into a corner, her eyes glazed, and a line of blood dripping from one ear. He felt the torment of years of abuse by Valik, felt Daved clap a hand on his shoulder, saw him smile before he watched, again and again, a Soldier impale him. He was in the dungeon, that rotten, dank pit of darkness that had driven him mad for a time, and he was on the farm, or on the road with Kurin. Killing Soldiers, or killing bandits who were no more than farmers fallen on hard times. He heard that shriek again, the one in the middle of the worst snowstorm he had ever witnessed, the one that cut off abruptly as Galbin struck the unforgiving ground.

Through all of it, through all the memories of his life, good and bad, good inevitably turning bad, were images of Metana, twining and climbing like growing ivy. Metana smiling at him, or glaring at him, her eyes the color of the sea, or the sky, a jay's wing or newly forged steel depending on her mood. Metana rolling her eyes, as gray as a stormy sky—“you big oaf”—as she scolded him for not listening to her lessons or for forgetting something or for...being a man in general. Metana caressing his cheek, her eyes soft as cotton. Metana raising herself up, pressing her lips against his...

He shook his head as though he could rattle loose those images, let them drain out his ear or something, send them away, exile them, banish them from his mind forever. But of course things are never that easy; memories are tenacious things, things that sometimes seem as comforting as a soft blanket on a cold day while at others, were the ice of the cold days themselves, leeching life like warmth from veins, ultimately killing as effectively as any sword, and they never, never let go.

God of War? Nonsense. More like God of Sorrow.

He sat cross-legged on the hard crusted ground and the sands scoured his flesh, and the memories blasted his mind.

* * *

Shafts of rainbow light played on the liquid floor, dancing and whirling like swarms of butterflies. The walls moved as though they were waterfalls. Below them and above, pinprick stars twinkled in the depthless darkness. The four of them stood in a tight group, three of them facing the fourth like petitioners facing a king. In the middle of them, a bowl spun out of air and made of filigreed gold, and in the bowl an image of a windswept wasteland shimmered.

They spoke, their voices clearly audible, yet their lips did not move.

“I fear for our brother,” Shomra rasped in his dusty voice. His cowl was pulled tight over his head as it always was; even his siblings were unnerved by his bare countenance.

“Do not fear, Shomra,” Maora said. His voice was crisp and clear, scholarly. “He is made of sterner stuff than even he realizes.”

“You may be right, Maora. And yet there he is on his plane, blasted and alone. I would say the boy is quite desolate.”

“I too, fear for him,” Valsa said quietly, her voice wilting like a parched flower. “He seemed such a nice boy when we first met. To so drastically change so quickly cannot be a good thing.”

“He grieves,” Gaorla said. “He begins to understand. He has known for some time, but he only now begins to understand.”

“He must have realized what would happen. He's no fool,” Valsa cried.

“He is no fool but he is young. The young do foolish things,” Gaorla commented. “Besides, it presents certain possibilities.”

“This is how it began last time,” Shomra said as a shard of rainbow light surrounded him and disappeared before touching him. “It took me two centuries to finally thin the herds at my gates that time.”

“Yes, I admit I chose poorly. As I recall, I was under a certain amount of pressure at the time,” Gaorla said. His children lowered their heads at the mild rebuke.

“But that one had a dark streak right from the beginning,” said Valsa. “Jurel is different. I saw it in his place. I felt it in him. He's had a difficult time of things, lost many loved ones, but there is still light in him. I hope his light is not extinguished.”

“It will not. I am certain of it.” Maora rubbed his chin with a finger, his eyes clouded, pensive. “He is a fine choice but it will take time. Perhaps,” he said, turning to Shomra, “you can do something to help him.”

Silently, slowly, Shomra turned to his brother. “You ask a great deal.”

“You have the authority.”

“It is no small thing.”

“No. But the benefits would outweigh the costs.”

“It is a valid idea, my son, and a good one,” Gaorla said, nodding slowly. “But first, I will speak with him.”

“Please help him, father,” Valsa said. The idea that even gods must sometimes pray was lost upon her. “He must realize his importance. There is so much at stake.”

“I know, Valsa. I know.”

For a moment longer—or an eternity; time had little meaning in that place—they regarded each other. No more needed to be said. They knew.

Then, they were gone.

Chapter 23

Jorge rubbed his throbbing temples, wishing he could tune out the roar in the council hall. News of the battle had reached them by Sending an hour prior. Or more precisely, he thought bitterly, news of the massacre. His indigestion was acting up and he supposed if he was not careful, he would have to visit Geoff down at the infirmary about his blood pressure.

The council hall was again filled to capacity. Like the last time when Kurin's young man had made such an impression, the noise was enough to raise the ceiling. Unlike last time, not even the Custodian's heavy staff cut the din. Though Jorge noted Goromand's ancient aide had ceased making the effort. He leaned against Goromand's chair and held a hand to his chest like a man having heart palpitations. His useless staff rested forgotten against the wall behind him.

A pang of dread pierced Jorge. He had not heard from Kurin since the battle. He worried for his old friend. They had joined the Salosian Order within days of each other nearly fifty years before and they had been as brothers ever since. Of all of them, only Jorge knew what Kurin had spent the last forty years attempting to accomplish.

* * *

It had started with the ancient scroll Kurin dug out of the cobwebs and dust at the far back of the library. Kurin had spent the next two weeks wearing a perpetual scowl and with barely two words to spare for his best friend. Jorge, exasperated to his wits's end by the standoffish behavior of his usually ebullient friend, confronted him and, after some browbeating, had convinced Kurin to tell him what he had found.

It had been the first step on a road that Kurin would travel for the next forty years. The scroll contained text written some two thousand years prior at about the time of the founding of the Kingdom of Threimes. It detailed—in an archaic form of Kashyan that almost looked Dakariin, a similarity that had intrigued Jorge mightily—how, behind the political scene that had brought about the birth of the kingdom, there had been dark forces at work. A strange being calling himself the God of War had roamed the land causing strife at every turn. It was this being who had caused the war and, unwittingly, the subsequent treaty between Kashya and Madesh.

The scroll detailed how the being became frenzied with this new peace and began a rampage that would see tens of thousands dead in the southern half of Madesh until the gods had stepped in. There had been a terrible struggle. So much power had been released that the earth had nearly shaken itself to pieces.

Jorge had gaped in awe, while Kurin nodded knowingly, as he realized that this was the time the Sun Sea was created. The being had disappeared, the scroll continued, but there were hints that a new God of War would rise in the world again.

Though Jorge tried to talk him out of it over the next several weeks, Kurin continued his search in earnest. For the next few years, Kurin sifted through the entire contents of the huge library searching for any more references to the God of War. No matter how strongly Jorge urged him to leave it alone, Kurin persisted. He would not be stopped in this quest.

“Don't you see?” he asked Jorge one day after Jorge tried again. “This is proof that the prelacy is wrong. This is proof that the Salosians should be the kingdom's only sanctified religion.”

“So you would search for a god to prove the prelacy wrong? That's it? Kurin, this is madness. You're cutting off your nose to spite your face. You're talking about the God of War. Do you really want to unleash that on this world? This scroll you've found paints a pretty grim picture of what could happen.”

Kurin then gave Jorge a terrible look, darkness gathering about him until Jorge barely recognized his best friend.

“You know what they did to my family, Jorge. You know what drove me to the Abbey's gate in the first place.”

Jorge nodded mutely. Kurin had recounted the story once, only once, in their first year and it still gave Jorge nightmares.

“What if I can find him, Jorge?” Kurin asked. “What if I can find him while he's still a young man? While he's still impressionable? What if I can befriend him before he knows the truth about himself? Become his mentor maybe? What if I can mold him, hone him? What if, Jorge, I can then point him at the prelacy? What chance would that pack of unmitigated fools have against the God of War?”

“But, Kurin, you're a healer. The God of War? Come now, it's foolishness.”

Kurin's eyes darkened. “Sometimes you have to lance a boil before it'll heal.” Then he sighed. “I know it seems strange, but there's a little more that you haven't seen. Look.”

Kurin produced a tattered parchment, as thin and brittle as finest mica. There was writing on it, but some of it had faded, obliterated by time. It appeared to be some sort of epistle, though not much of the original message was left. Jorge squinted as he translated what remained of the spidery scrawl.

“The gods as we think of them...narrow view of their truth. There is much more...”

Here there was a large break where the words were completely illegible; only a few individual letters could be made out. But near the end, a little remained. Jorge squinted harder, forcing his eyes to pick out what was left.

“All the gods are necessary to maintain the proper balance. If even one is missing, then our world must surely spiral into nothingness.”

That was all that could be read. Jorge could not hide his bewilderment from Kurin, nor his shiver; for no explicable reason, he felt cold.

“I don't understand. What is this? Where did you find it?”

Gesturing toward the far end of the library, Kurin said, “It was back there too, near where I found the other scroll. There's a lot of stuff that seems to have been forgotten by our brothers and sisters.” Sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose, Kurin leaned back in his chair. “I don't fully understand it myself—there's too much missing!—but that last bit seems clear enough, don't you think?”

Jorge glanced down again.

Kurin continued, “Admittedly, it's just a scrap, a tiny piece to the puzzle. But the way I decipher it is that the...beings, for lack of a better word, that we call the gods are far more than we ascribe to them. Following that thought, I've made some deductions and they feel right to me.

“Valsa, for example, we call the Goddess of Life, but I wonder if she is more than that. The Goddess of Creation, maybe? Shomra, the God of Death, might be her balance, the God of Destruction. Maora, we name the God of Knowledge, but I've begun to wonder if it wouldn't be more accurate to call him the God of Information. Not just our narrow view—dates in history, alchemy, mathematics and all that—but of all information.”

“What other information is there?”

“Have you heard of what brothers Talwin, Bartle and sister Glayda are theorizing? They theorize that even light contains information. And sound. More than we presume. To date, their work spans two good size tomes. I don't fully understand it myself but it's quite interesting.

“What I'm saying is, the gods do certainly seem to fill the roles we have ascribed to them, but our view of them is far too limited. They fill much larger roles that we cannot even begin to imagine.”

“All right,” Jorge hedged hesitantly. “But then what about this God of War business? How can war be good for anything?”

Kurin grinned tightly at him. “You're still thinking within the narrow narrow lines as the everyone else, Jorge. What is war?”

“Death. Violence. Suffering.”

“Yes, yes,” Kurin acknowledged, nodding impatiently. “It's all that, but I'm talking in more general terms. Balance, Jorge. War is about balance. Balance of power. Balance of force.

“The way we imperfect humans wage war, there is always an imbalance. One army is always larger than the other, or better armed, or the commanders on one side are more experienced than the other. So one side always wins.

“But, let's think hypothetically for a moment. What if you had two perfectly matched armies? Exact same number of soldiers, exact same skills, exact same weapons, even the leaders think the same. Exactly, perfectly matched. What would happen?”

Now Jorge was thoroughly confused. “They would destroy each other by attrition.”

“Not so! They are perfectly balanced. If even one soldier dies, then that implies the perfect balance cannot have existed in the first place.”

Jorge chewed a fingernail, struggling with this idea. “All right. I suppose. But so what?”

“So what if this God of War then, if viewed in the more general terms in which I've described the others, could more accurately be called the God of Balance? What if, extending the military analogy, we were to call the opposing armies Life and Death? Or Creation and Destruction?”

The realization struck Jorge like a physical blow. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “Are you implying...?”

Kurin was already nodding, smiling bitterly. “If I'm correct, then the lack of this God of War means the world, and the universe is somehow out of balance.”

Jorge nodded, excited now that he had caught up with his friend's theories. “And that means that one way or the other, the universe, like a disadvantaged army...”

His excitement faded as cold horror grew like a parasite within.

Kurin was still nodding, though the smile was gone. He finished his friend's thought, “Must ultimately be destroyed.”

* * *

“I warned you all! I warned you!”

The shrieking voice cut through Jorge's reverie, bringing him back to the present. His eyes snapped up to the speaker. There stood Andrus, pale faced and fever eyed, glaring at the assembled council.

“I warned you what would happen if you allowed that...that pretender to lead our army. I knew this would come and you have no one to blame for this madness but yourselves. You...you fools!”

His next words were drowned out as a thousand voices rose in unison, many shouting accusations and recriminations, some agreeing with Andrus.

Gods but Jorge's guts were roiling. He would most certainly have to visit Geoff. The old man had a knack for brewing the most potent heartburn potions. They often tasted like dead skunks that had spent a week rotting under a summer sun but by the gods they worked.

Having had enough of this ridiculous display, Jorge rose and pushed his way to the dais. He glared at Goromand, challenging. Goromand shrugged helplessly. Do what you have to.

Arcanum in the council chamber was strictly forbidden, so when Jorge released a burst of power overhead that blinded everyone in the room, everyone fell instantly silent as they blinked and rubbed watering eyes.

“Enough,” he said into the sudden silence. “We can shout accusations and recriminations later. We can moan and lament later. If there is a later for any of us. Right now, we need to figure out what we should do. Keeping in mind that there is a massive army marching toward us intent on stamping us out without mercy, is there anyone here who can offer us a useful suggestion?”

Eyes glanced away from him, at each other as his words sank in.

Kurin, you better not be dead, you old fool. You got us into this. You find your Jurel and get him back here.

Please. We need you.

Finally, after an interminable silence laden with dread, one quavering voice spoke quietly from somewhere in the back rows.

“Flee.”

The roar immediately reached a crescendo as a thousand voices strove to be heard.

* * *

Gaven lay breathlessly in a small gully behind thick gorse, not daring to move a muscle. The sharp edge of a rock pressed uncomfortably into his side, but he ignored it. Worry about the pain later. Ahead, no more than twenty paces—though it was hard to tell; the forest played strange tricks with sound and light—at least twenty Soldiers of God searched for him.

Or maybe not for him specifically, but for any survivors who had managed to flee the battlefield.

He waited until the clamor of their passing faded away, then he waited a while longer. There were dozens of such patrols tramping through the forest; every once in a while he faintly heard a terrible scream that usually ended too abruptly. It was now early afternoon—or so he thought by the slim shafts of light that filtered through the dense canopy—and he had managed to get as far as perhaps a half mile from the battleground.

Extracting himself silently from the dense underbrush, he moved off, following the terrain as needs dictated, but heading in a generally southern direction. He followed a game trail, keeping his eyes peeled, his ears straining, for any of the hundred different sources of death that roamed these woods. Off to his left, in the distance, he heard more tramping. As yet, he judged they were too far to pose a threat. The Soldiers of God were skilled at the art of war but they were not very good woodsmen; it was a surprise that they managed to catch anyone with the ruckus they were stirring.

He halted for a moment, pressing himself low against a wide trunk, when he heard a branch snap nearby. Slowly, he readjusted Jurel's sword in his scabbard and wiped his palms on his breeches. It would be truly unfortunate to lose his own sword because his hands were slippery.

A rustle ahead. He swallowed convulsively, consciously breathing deeply, slowly, in...out...in... as his ears pounded to the tempo of his heart. Slowly, he eased himself around the girth of the bole, hoping he could get past without attracting any attention. Oh yes, attracting attention was definitely low on his list of priorities. He stared into the concealing wall of the forest, not at all confident with his chances. He had never been much of a gambler; except for games of Bones with Jurel, he never wagered. He never diced when he was invited. Because he never won.

Trying not to hold his breath, he eased away, toward the heavy underbrush away from the game trail. Wiping his palms again, he searched the forest, but all was quiet, all was still. Leaves shushed and rustled, streamers of sunlight turned small patches into emeralds.

Cold steel pressed against his throat.

He hissed, every muscle in his body turning hard as stone.

“You're getting better, lad,” growled a familiar voice, “but you still need to remember that there's ground behind you too.”

The tension drained from Gaven's body, his breath expelling explosively, and he sagged against the form behind him.

With a grunt, Mikal let Gaven slide to the ground.

* * *

Mikal led Gaven stealthily through the forest. Soft spears of sun illuminated the ground in patches, a faint breeze whispered in the leaves. It even smelled serene what with the heady mixture of loam and late summer foliage. For all that, no more than a few miles away, hundreds of men and women lay twisted, dead in a lake of blood, it was oddly calm in the forest; the forest did not care, the forest was simply too old and too great to worry about the short little lives of men.

Gaven soon found himself led along the base of a ridge; as he stalked through the undergrowth, he glanced up frequently, but the sun was hidden beyond the impenetrable canopy; it was nigh impossible to gauge their direction. He broke through a thick layer, and found himself at the edge of a tiny clearing. A short distance away, in the shadow under an overhang in the ridge, he heard a gasp.

It was a flurry of arms and raven hair that wrapped him in an embrace. Metana wept quietly for a moment as she squeezed Gaven hard enough to make his ribs creak.

When Metana pushed herself away, she made her way to the ridge, drawing Gaven along behind her. He was surprised to find that there was a deep indent at the base. The shadow from which Metana had materialized hid a deep depression that all three could comfortably fit in. Mikal sat stiffly, back against the uneven back wall, eyes closed.

An alarm sounded in Gaven's mind.

“Are you hurt, Mikal?”

The man grunted. “Just a scratch.” He stretched his arm, and winced; more than just a scratch then. Mikal wincing was the same as a normal man writhing in agony on the ground. Metana glanced at him, but her expression betrayed no more than mild concern. More than a scratch, but apparently not life-threatening.

“Where's Kurin?” Gaven asked, searching the trees. Where ever Mikal was, Kurin was generally close.

But Mikal and Metana shared a guarded look.

“He...” Metana said, turning back to Gaven. She could not seem to finish; she lowered her eyes and stared at her hands.

With a burgeoning sense of dread, Gaven turned to Mikal whose stony stare sent a chill scrabbling along Gaven's spine.

“He was injured in the battle,” Mikal rumbled softly. “He single-handedly destroyed nearly half the Gaorlan priests before he was felled. Never saw anything like it in my life. I tried to go back for him but this scratch slowed me down. I saw him fall but when I got close, there were too many Soldiers of God. I had to run.”

Gaven shivered. Kurin captured? For what? Torture? A slow pitiful death? Oh gods. Jurel gone and Kurin gone. He closed his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea. Oh gods.

“Gaven,” Metana asked. Her voice was plaintive, her eyes were bright, fraught with unspeakable fear. “Have you seen Jurel?”

“I did.” Gaven sighed. “I woke up a couple hundred paces from where he sat his horse. He looked...mortified. Terrified. He looked like an animal caught in a trap. He ran into the forest. I followed him, found him kneeling in a clearing, but he disappeared in front of my eyes in a small clearing.”

Metana closed her eyes and breathed deeply, relief flooding her features. “He's alive then,” she murmured. “He's in his place.”

Gaven twisted his lips. “Oh, he's alive as far as I know, but what is he doing? Why did he abandon us?”

Surprisingly, it was Mikal who answered, and not gently. “Think, Captain. Think of who he was, and of who he is supposed to be. Think about that disparity. Then, think about the fact that his very first battle ended in disaster. Most of his army dead, the rest routed. Wouldn't you run?”

“No! I would stay and I would fight to the death.”

Would you? A small, treacherous voice said in his mind. Would you really?

“It's a good thing he has better sense than you,” Mikal growled. “If he had stayed, he would be dead. Even though the prelacy went to great lengths to capture Kurin alive, I doubt they would have extended that privilege to Jurel. Not after what he's done.”

“So, what? Are you saying it's all right that he deserted us?”

“We don't know that he has!” Metana fumed.

“Oh? Then where is he?” Gaven demanded.

Mikal's relentless glare bored into him, flayed him where he stood.

“I imagine,” he grated, “that he's gone off to think things through.”

“What things?” Gaven demanded rounding on Mikal.

“Whether or not he believes what everyone has been telling him. Whether or not he is in fact the God of War. Whether or not to return and fight or turn tail and run.”

“He wouldn't, would he?” said Metana. “He wouldn't abandon us. He'll be back.”

The shining light in her eyes almost broke Gaven's heart.

Mikal shook his head. “I don't know. I hope not. That boy is stronger than he thinks but he's been dealt a savage blow today. He might very well believe the world would be better off without him.” He eyed both of them sharply. “Remember this: if he returns, it will be because he has decided to see this through to the end. He will be determined. He will be the stronger and wiser for what he has experienced.” Mikal scowled then. “And likely much changed. The young man we knew will no longer exist. In his place will be an entity of unmatched force and will, a being of unstoppable strength and ruthlessness. The God of War.

“If he does not return,” Mikal shrugged, “it will be because he is broken. If that is the case, then we don't need him.”

“Then he must not be broken,” Metana declared. “I will Send to him. I will make him see reason. The big oaf. I will get him back here and we'll finish this bloody war.”

“And in the meantime,” Gaven said, “we should search for any survivors and gather them.”

“Aye,” Mikal said. “That's a start. Then we need to get to the Abbey as soon as possible. They're going to need all the help they can get.”

Gaven and Metana traded fearful looks. Mikal, being Mikal, met their eyes evenly, his features carved from stone.

Chapter 24

Oh how he wished he had not taken command of this expedition personally. His men had won a decisive victory and that looked good for him; he could not argue that he gained more prestige from being here than if he had commanded from his rooms at the temple.

But the living conditions were abominable. Bags of exhaustion sagged under his eyes, his belly ached and burned acidly from the constant slop they fed him, and to top it off, he was filthy. His once fine clothing was barely fit to be used as rags. He could have overseen the entire thing from the comforts of his rooms and still get plenty of accolades for the victory. He could have sent a trusted underling to relay his commands while he dined on fresh pork, or beef, or fowl, fresh vegetables and great plump fruits, followed by pies or cakes, all prepared by his personal cook, all while he drank good, honest wine. He could have gone to sleep in a real bed: feather stuffed mattresses, satin sheets, plump pillows as soft as clouds, more than any single man could ever possibly need cocooning him...

It was not that things were going badly for him. Of course not. After having scried the Salosian ambush and expertly turning the tables on them, Thalor enjoyed an almost divine respect from the men and women of his army, and they waited on him hand and foot—which was how they should have treated him from the beginning, he thought bitterly. Maten himself had Sent his congratulations, and Thalor knew he was one step closer to his destiny.

It was the terrible pressure of living on the road that had him wishing for his comfortable rooms, his personal chef, and the other amenities that he had come to take for granted in the last decade. Like bathtubs. And privies, he added, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Squatting over a filthy hole in the ground to tend one's business like an animal? Honestly!

Add to that the orders he had received from Maten just a few moments ago and it caused him to seethe. Make camp, the old bastard had told him. Make camp and await the arrival of the main force. He was to sit here, in the dirt, for weeks as the armed might of Gaorla trudged ever so slowly south.

He should have stayed at home.

But the old bastard had told him to go. What choice, really, had he had? Oh, he understood now the deliciously underhanded way that Maten had accomplished the whole thing. In one breath, Thalor had been promoted to prelate, set a task of such importance that successful completion would nearly guarantee him the Grand Prelacy, and sent him packing into the ass end of Gaorla's wilderness. Buzzing from one promotion and the near certain probability of the next, he had not thought to question; he'd seen only the glory of his victory.

He stumped across the camp, passing line after line of dirty one-man tents, startled Soldiers hastily bowing when he stalked by. Muttering to himself, he glared straight ahead, trying hard not to think of the soft stuff that squished beneath his expertly tooled leather boots. It seemed to him that the farther he got from his own tent—the biggest in the commanding circle in the middle of the sprawling camp but still only recognizable by the prelacy's banner that flapped lazily in the breeze at this distance—the worse conditions got. It was a lot like a city to him, where the slums of the poorest peasantry were found farthest from the grand palaces of the nobility and the merchant princes at the center of power.

Considering his destination, it was as it should be, for he was heading for the roughest, grimmest part of the camp. Specifically, for one man who currently enjoyed the camp's hospitalities there. Thalor smirked inwardly.

Beyond the tents and the pervasive cloud of rank smoke that blanketed the camp, he could just make out the spiked wall of the stockade. Eight foot stakes spaced no more than a foot apart, rose grimly from the broken, muddy ground, each one ending in a vicious point like a long row of shark's teeth. A platform had been raised around the outer perimeter so the guards could keep their crossbows trained upon those inside over the deadly spikes.

The inhabitants of the stockade had proven these guards were vital; twice the occupants had quite forcefully protested their treatment. Twice, blood had been shed. He had ordered, loudly, that at the merest hint of insurrection, the crossbowmen were to fire at will. Not surprisingly, the uprisings had stopped.

Thalor strode unhesitatingly to the crude but heavily fortified gate, where the two sentries flanking the barricade saluted crisply. Thalor motioned without speaking. Along the bristling wall, leather creaked and metal jingled; the guards, knowing what was coming, were upping their vigilance. Without so much as a glance, Thalor strode through the barricade which had been opened just far enough for him to slip through.

As the door thunked behind him, he surveyed his prisoners. At last count, there were eighty-seven men and women here, all of them taken after the battle that had shattered the Salosians. There had been a few more than two hundred when this stockade had been erected shortly after the battle, but injury, illness, starvation, questioning, and quelled escape attempts had taken their toll.

Those that were left were as pathetic a bunch as Thalor had ever seen. Hollow eyes, stared woodenly from gaunt, pale faces. None of them wore chains but most appeared rooted to the spot nonetheless, apparently too devoid of hope to care enough to bother with movement. A few shuffled slowly, raising puffs of dust, their eyes downcast, knowing what would happen if they dared look at Thalor.

All except for one man. This one glared with all the haughtiness of nobility, with all the indignant rage that Thalor would expect of him. Tall and lanky, this man should not have seemed so imperious even at the best of times. As disheveled as he was, and even with the nasty burn that disfigured the left half of his face, this man seemed to glare down at him from a throne. Thalor suppressed a shiver, chiding himself for a fool. He knew it was empty bravado. This man posed no threat. There were plenty of Thalor's priests keeping watch as well.

Heavy shackles clanked as the form moved to sit up. Thalor glanced up when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Half the crossbowmen on guard were now taking a bead on this one man.

No, this man was no threat. Thalor allowed a small smile to curve his lips as he came to a stop two paces from the man who sat in the dirt with all the pomposity one might reserve for presiding at court.

“So have you considered my words?”

The spindly old man made a harsh barking noise that, after a moment, Thalor realized was a laugh. Glaring from bruised eyes, the man uttered a string of words interlaced with the vilest obscenities that seemed to question Thalor's parentage, sexual preferences, and genitalia. Even as Thalor thundered inside, he could not quell the small voice that congratulated the man's eloquence. Finally, the old man's tirade petered out. He drew in a deep breath.

“What do you want this time, Thalor?” His voice was still deep, resonant, too full of life and assurance. Thalor would have to order the acceleration of the man's education. He smiled coldly.

“I want you to give up your charade. I want you to finally understand that you cannot win. Your cause is lost.” He paused, rearranging his expression to display regret. “Your army is shattered and I did it with naught but a small fraction of the forces at my disposal. The rest of my forces are marching now; I expect they'll be here in a few weeks. There's nothing left for you. Why, I even have it on good authority that your pet has run off and abandoned your cause. He's thrown you to the wolves.”

He searched, carefully, for any reaction but this old man, beaten though he most certainly was—several times a day, in fact, by Thalor's order—maintained an impressive self-possession. His search was rewarded with nothing more than the same, unmoving steely glare.

Thalor shook his head slowly, sadly, tsking. “You make this difficult. You understand what will happen to you? You will be tried and executed for your crimes. If you speak, if you answer my questions, perhaps I can put in a good word for you and commute your sentence. Where is your headquarters? Where is this Abbey of yours. We will find it anyway. It will just take a little longer if you continue to resist. Who are your leaders? What are your numbers? It will go much easier if you tell me. I might even be convinced to send a healer to attend to your injuries.”

The same indecipherable glare. A statue had more expression than this man was showing. Their gazes locked, a battle of wills, but in the end, the old man once again proved stronger than he appeared.

“So be it then,” Thalor declared. “Let this be my final warning. You will burn. Your confederates will burn. I will see the Salosian Order destroyed and wiped from the pages of history. Remember my words, Kurin. You have made your last and most costly mistake.”

Angrily, Thalor spun on his heel and stalked several paces before the old man behind him uttered words that made Thalor unaccountably cold.

“No, Thalor. You have made yours.”

* * *

Gods, but he was seething. Kurin sat where he had been sitting for the past week—except for when he was taken to the nondescript tent where the questioners plied their trade—his body hurt, his legs were cramped and his ass was sore. And he seethed. He knew he had to find a modicum of calm. Certainly, the seething rage had its advantages; it helped him ignore the thousand agonies that turned his body into a pillar of fire, and it kept the black feeling of helplessness that threatened to engulf him at bay. But he was reaching his breaking point. He had already considered, on more than one occasion, unleashing every bit of arcanum he possessed. Doing so would likely incinerate half the camp. Unfortunately, such an action would also incinerate him and the eighty-odd surviving Salosians he had sworn to see through this ghastly situation.

He snorted softly to himself. Situation. Good word. Very politic. 'Bloody mess,' he thought, described it much more accurately, or perhaps 'disaster'.

He had to admit that Thalor had played the game well. The blasted man had expertly maneuvered Jurel, fooling even Mikal, into the catastrophic ambush. The ambush where Kurin had lost half his face, and nearly his life. Tentatively, he touched the ruined flesh with the pads of his fingers, drawing in a hissing breath that sounded like boiling water when daggers of pain lanced into his skull. The rest of the injuries he had suffered since at the hands of the questioners—the bruising, the broken ribs, the torn flesh—were nothing compared to the agony in his head. Those smaller pains were in their own way, a relief of sorts. The freshness of those wounds allowed him, for short stretches of time at least, to forget the fire that burned his cheek, his jaw, his skull.

He had to admit too that Thalor continued to play the game well. Physically beaten, physically exhausted, Kurin found his mental guards being ground down, like a stone in a river. Strong and unyielding in the beginning, even the largest stone was eventually pounded to silt and taken where the tides would have it. Every day, he found it more and more difficult to rebuff the man's advances. Yet another advantage to the rage within. Possibly the only reason he held with such unreasoning tenacity to the hatred. To give up his hold on that would be to give up his hold on himself.

The man's words a few moments ago had a profound impact on Kurin. Jurel fled? Could it be possible? Or was it simply a lie, another ploy to weaken him further? He told himself over and over again that Jurel would never abandon them. He was made of sterner stuff than any man Kurin had ever met—of course; after all Jurel was far more than any man. It was hidden most of the time under the self-effacing, meek exterior but Kurin had glimpsed traces of Jurel's true strength on occasion. It was a strength that had caused Kurin to quail worshipfully, and—dare he think it?—fear.

Oh, but Thalor's words were far more insidious than he realized. There was a core of indomitable strength in Jurel but it was still paradoxically weak. The passion was there but it was overlaid with years of difficult lessons learned. The boy hated violence. Yet he had been forced to kill, to watch the people closest to him killed. The boy hated blood. Yet he had seen more of it flow in the past year and a half than most would see in a lifetime. He knew who he was, certainly. But despite Kurin's best efforts, he had yet to accept it, to incorporate it into his self. On his very first conscious effort to do so, he had watched a thousand men butchered because his decision. Jurel's instinct-driven steel core, Kurin knew, would have a hard time arguing its case against the more concrete forces of experience and memory.

Kurin knew something else as well. If Jurel had abandoned their cause, it would not be out of cowardice, but because of an honest desire to stop hurting people. He knew Jurel would argue that the bloodshed would stop if he was out of the picture. No God of War, no war. It was the naive view of an injured man cornered by consequence.

Kurin's heart went out to Jurel. He wished for nothing more than the chance to sit down and talk to the boy. But that was most definitely out of the question. Just as there were dozens of soldiers who guarded his body, ready to turn him into a pincushion the moment he tried something physical, there were others who guarded his mind and would gladly turn him to mush if he tried to Send.

Had Jurel persevered or had he fled? It was a question—the question—that he needed to answer. And there was no possibility of doing so for at least the foreseeable future. Resting his back against the coarse wood of a pointed eight foot stake, he sighed, wondering what, if anything, he could do from here. His answer, no matter how he turned the matter over in his head, was a wholly predictable and entirely unsatisfactory 'not much'.

Two guards arrived and while one was unlocking his chains from the heavy bolt driven into the ground, the other brusquely ordered him to his feet. Time for another question and answer period, Kurin supposed. The points of a dozen crossbows kept a bead on him as he walked while eighty-odd sets of eyes within the stockade watched him go. He straightened his back, walking as erect as his chains and injuries would allow. He kept a stern expression on his face. Pointless gesture or not, it did not hurt to try. Much.

As he was prodded by spear point toward the dark tent that he had begun to know so very well, Kurin found himself in the unenviable position of needing to continually stoke the furnace of his rage to keep from losing hope, while needing to douse the same furnace to keep from doing anything drastic and entirely too permanent.

Chapter 25

He had no idea how long he sat motionless while the wind howled viciously. He spent a little while thinking about that before deciding he did not care. The windstorms blew endlessly, the sands scoured him painfully, and that was just fine. Perhaps he could stay there for a while longer. Perhaps he could live his life there, grow old and die there. That was just fine. And if he grew too hungry, or too thirsty, if he expired from lack of nourishment, or withered and collapsed into a dry husk, well, that was just fine too. Anything to stem the mad flow of memories and recriminations that bit painfully, that tore and gored, as they sped past. Like a sandstorm.

He sat numbed in the way that a hammer struck thumb is numb, feeling the burning of his abused flesh, wondering where his tears were, when he felt an alteration in the air. A shift in the winds both subtle and profound. He looked up and saw a figure approaching through the clouds of sand, strolling at a leisurely pace. He did not need to see the face to know who it was. He rose to his feet stiffly, hissing as chafed skin rubbed against sandpaper-like rags.

“Nice place you have here,” called his father as he emerged from the clouds. “I admit it's not quite what I was expecting.”

Jurel's face twisted and he looked away. “No.”

Gaorla approached surrounded by tranquility, smiling calmly, gently. The sands did not scour him, the winds did not scorch him. “How are you, son?”

Jurel snorted. “Wonderful. Just great. Couldn't be better.”

Gaorla chuckled. “Now, now. Is that any way to speak to your father?”

“I'm sorry. I don't feel like myself right now.”

“Who do you feel like then, if not yourself?”

He raised his eyes inquisitively to his father. “I don't understand.”

“You said you don't feel like yourself. Who do you feel like?”

“Well...like...I don't know. I just don't feel like I used to.”

“Ah, I see. Like before. When things were easy. When things were cut and dried in manageable little chunks. When you were just a simple farmboy whose most difficult decision was whether to do your chores now or later.”

A flash of outrage at his father's words. “There's nothing wrong with that,” he growled.

“No, there isn't,” Gaorla said mildly. “But that's not who you are. You know that.”

“And why can't it be who I am?”

“My boy, some people were made for farming. Some were made for trading, some for sailing the seas, and some to rule. Everyone has talents that come naturally to them. You could no more be a farmer than a fox could soar through the sky with the eagles.”

“But I used to be.”

“Too much has happened since. Now, you would not last a week on a farm.”

“My father—Daved—did it. He was a soldier, a cavalryman, and he retired to Galbin's farm with me.”

“Your father did what he needed to at the right times in his life. He knew when he was a soldier that it was right for him. And he was good at it. His men respected him, his superiors trusted him. He also knew when he could no longer be a soldier anymore. He realized that time in his life was over and he accepted it. Much to your benefit, I think. It made him a happy man.”

Valsa'a words came back to him, whispering through his thoughts: To grow toward what it needs to survive even as it remains a flower.

“But why me?”

A deep resonant laugh bubbled up from his father, so rich, so purely, serenely clean that it was contagious. Jurel could not help his own chuckle as Gaorla turned to face the storm and stared into the distance.

“There was a young lady once, many, many years ago, it was. She was pretty but not outstandingly beautiful. She was the daughter of a minor clan chieftain and her life was a violent one as the lives of clansfolk often were in those days. She was a warrior maiden in her clan, and a good one too. She could wield a dagger in ways that left many of her opponents dumbstruck, wondering where her next attack would come from. Many of them never realized that the attack had already come and they were leaking their heart's blood all over their feet.

“Yet for all of the death she caused, the pain, the suffering, this young lady had a beautiful heart and she mourned every time her blade struck home. I spoke to this young lady, chose her to be one of mine. The duties I imposed on her went against all she knew, all she had been taught. It was not long before she asked the very same question.”

“You're talking about Valsa.”

Gaorla turned to him, with a twinkle in his eye, and tapped the tip of his nose with his finger. “Of course. Can you imagine? A warrior maiden who suddenly found she turned everyone she met to lust filled jelly? A killer who became the very embodiment of life? It was the same thing with the other two. Shomra had to endure the worst of it. No surprise considering his duties. But all of them asked the same question.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Doesn't it? Think on it. You will understand.”

Lowering his head, Gaorla took a step, then another before a thought seemed to strike him. He turned back to Jurel. “I would never dictate how my children keep their planes, but I can't imagine this place is very comfortable for you. And if you bring any of your mortal friends here, they would be dead before you could blink.”

He turned again but this time, it was Jurel who stopped him. “Father?”

“Yes?”

“What is this place? Metana said it was a reflection of my mind. Is that true?” Even the act of saying her name brought a new pang to Jurel. He pushed it away. Gods help him when he allowed himself to mourn everyone else he had killed.

“Yes. Partly. But it's more than that.” He hesitated, doubt clouding his eyes for a moment before he went on. “It is difficult to explain to one who has so much yet to learn. I will try. This place is a conjuration of your mind. That much is true. But it is as real as the world you spend your life in. It is as real as any world at all. But it is not of that world. Do you understand?”

Jurel mutely shook his head. His father clicked his tongue.

“All right. Imagine this. Take a sheet of parchment,” and suddenly a page, white as snow, appeared in his hand, “and imagine this to be the world of mortals. Now take another sheet,” a second page obligingly winked into existence, “and imagine it to be this place, your world.”

“All right,” Jurel said, drawing out the words slowly.

Gaorla laid one page on top of the second, pressed them together. “This is not exactly right. In time you will understand more, but for now, you can imagine it this way. They are two separate worlds, what we call 'planes' and you can't just step from one plane to the next. You need a bridge of sorts. But they are very close to each other, right beside each other and we're able to build bridges easily enough. It's generally one of the first things young Gods learn. Probably a defense mechanism, an emergency escape of sorts. Ask Maora about that. He would know. Does that help?”

Jurel thought about it for a time. It seemed simple enough, he supposed. He nodded slightly.

“Good. Now remember: this place is real. It may be a place conjured by your mind—a reflection of you, as young Metana so astutely put it—but it is real. Anything that happens to a person or an object here will still affect them as it would in the world of mortals. You, for example, are going to chafe for days from your wind burns no matter where you go.”

Jurel did not think it was the best time to inform his father that he might just spend the rest of his life right there.

“And if you think you're going to spend the rest of your life here, remember two things.” Gaorla paused and smiled at Jurel's shocked expression. Apparently, he was cursed to have his every thought known to everyone. “One, there are people who need you and love you in the other world. Two, you are my son, and a God. A young one, but you have begun to grow. You have reached an important point in your growth; you will be here for a very, very long time.”

Chapter 26

After Gaorla left, Jurel sat against the blasted bole of what remained of the lilac tree to ponder Gaorla's words. In his distraction, he did not notice that the sandstorms slowed, waned and finally dissipated. He did not even realize that the temperature dropped from deadly hot enough to incinerate meat and turn bone to gritty gray dust, to just uncomfortably balmy.

His father had said many things, many of which would undoubtedly take years (centuries) for him to fully understand, but there was one thing that nagged at him. One tidbit, one piece of information that, on the whole, did not seem overly important, that stayed with him. He did not pause to consider that his mind may have rested on that bit of relatively irrelevant trivia because it did not want to ponder other more pressing, and far more depressing things. An emergency exit of the mind, as it were, through which he dove headfirst.

He thought of the pieces of parchment, one atop the other. What he focused on was the fact that the pages covered each other, that each sheet touched a great amount of the other. His father had said that it was not quite right, but Jurel wondered. As he wondered, an idea formed. Hazy at first, it coalesced into something that caused him to tremble with excitement. Only one obstacle remained: how? He thought for a time, picturing the two parchments, picturing them so strongly that they appeared in his own hands—which caused him to jolt and lose his train of thought for a moment—and he thought, worked it, nagged it, tugged and twisted and turned it until he had what he believed might be a working theory. Of course, he had doubts. This was a strange, unreal thing he wanted to try and if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that just a few months ago—just yesterday, really, he would have scoffed at the idea. But sitting there with two pages of parchment that had not existed a few moments before, in a world that was created from his own mind, he decided that there was only one thing that mattered.

There was no way to know for sure unless he tried...

He closed his eyes. In his mind, he carefully constructed an image he remembered from his childhood. He saw board woodfloors, rough but covered with fresh, clean rushes. Circular tables with wooden stools cluttered the floor, each with its own tiny lantern. At one end of the room, he pictured a bar, long and shining as it had always been kept by his father, his first father, its brass rail gleaming copper-gold in the smoky light. Behind the bar, he envisioned the racks that held bottles and decanters of various sizes and shapes: tall, slender, short and fat, wood, pewter, iron, or glass for a precious few. Along one wall, he envisioned the well-used staircase that led up to the second floor, the one he had leapt from as a child, to swing from the wide circular chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Lastly, he placed himself in the middle of the room. As painstakingly as he created the image of the tavern, he created his own image.

He opened his eyes.

The world, his place, was shimmering uncertainly, the light of the sun flickering like a torch in a breeze. He still sat on caked mud, but in spots he thought he saw floorboards as though someone had swept away a thin layer of dirt in random places to reveal the wood beneath.

He closed his eyes. Something was wrong. His world did not want to give up its grasp on him. Why? He kept the image of the tavern firmly fixed in his mind and let his thoughts race ahead. He remembered the tavern well—of course; it was forever etched into his memory. He saw it and knew it should work. Except...

Except that tavern did not exist anymore. That tavern had been sacked in the siege that had taken the lives of his parents. Bitter disappointment filled him. Of course it didn't work. The tavern was destroyed, disappeared beneath the sands of time. Like he himself.

All right, try something else.

He pictured, not the inside this time, but the outside. He saw the wood beam sides, like a log cabin. He saw the windows spaced evenly on either side of the door. He saw the upper floor, inset from the ground floor so that it looked like a giant step stool. He did not bother with the sign above the door. The simply, elegantly painted horse and chariot would be gone. To the right of the tavern, there was a seamstress' shop. Bella's. That was the name. He saw the sign of thimble and thread above the door. To the left of the tavern, stood a jeweler's shop. It had not been a high class place; they were too far from the rich part of the city for that. It had been mostly polished river stones and glass set in brass or iron or copper. To a five year old boy, it had been a place of glittering wonder and shining treasure. Above the door had hung a placard that denoted a sparkling gold ring with a great huge diamond set on top. Old Guy, the owner, had thought much of himself.

He pictured all this, and more. On the other side of the mud-slicked, broken cobbles of the street, there was an empty square that served as a sort of neighborhood park, a gathering place for folk to chat and relax. At one time, there had been a rambling hostel there, but it had burned to the ground and no one had bothered to rebuild after the ruined bits and pieces had been hauled away. The square was flanked by a chandler on one side, and a lumber yard on the other.

There was a lurch as though the ground shifted under him. A wave of dizziness disoriented him, weakened his knees.

Once again he opened his eyes.

* * *

In the black depths under the weight of millions of tons of granite and quartz, a hundred paces beyond a forbiddingly beautiful facade carved into the very face of the mountain, the creature stirred. It felt something different, a subtle change in the air, or in the earth. In the blackness, it raised what passed for its head and snuffled like a bloodhound catching a scent. A hissing sound, a rustling as of snakes sliding against snakes whispered harshly in the cavern, echoing hollowly. The endless moans that so comforted it, rose to shrieks; its displeasure was the closest thing to physical torment those shadows could feel.

The air changed. Somehow, the pitch blackness managed to get even blacker. Anyone who walked into that cavern right then would have fallen to the floor in terror, would probably lose their minds, would definitely loose their bowels. Even outside, under the sun and a mile away, where huts and shanties huddled against each other as though to ward off the permanent chill in the air, villagers felt shivers scrabble up their spines, knowing it had nothing to do with the weather, and they turned their frightened gazes to the mountain that rose like a broken sword into the sky.

The thing in the cavern stirred, its ruined head turning left and right, and in the darkness, two red orbs could be seen glowing brightly. It screamed.

Though the people in the village did not hear the scream, they moaned as the ground under their feet trembled.

* * *

The oxcart trundled almost right on top of him. He cried out in alarm and leaped from the path of the oncoming oxen, careening into a pair of roughly dressed men who had stopped to gape at Jurel's sudden appearance from thin air.

“Watch where yer goin, y'idiot,” roared the swarthy cart driver.

“Sorry,” Jurel called and waved apologetically. “Sorry.”

He turned and surveyed the street. Could it be? It did not look quite right. The jeweler's shop was still there, though the sign was two rings now instead of one. The seamstress shop was almost exactly as he remembered it. On the opposite side of the street, there were haphazard kiosks, roughly built, seeming about ready to fall in on themselves at any moment, in the once empty square, and the lumber yard appeared to be more a lumber store now. Slowly, with trepidation, he turned toward what had once been a tavern and a home to a happy family.

When his eyes found it, he almost choked. There, in front of him, in the place that at one time had been the Horse and Chariot tavern, his earliest childhood home, stood a brothel. The structure was familiar. The same log beams, the same neat, even windows, the same door. But when it opened and a heavyset man stepped out, arranging his shirt, smiling lasciviously back at the very scantily clad young lady inside who quickly closed the door, there was not much doubt in Jurel's mind.

A brothel!

Indignance, outrage, anger: it all flowed into Jurel as water flows into an empty channel. He surged forward and gripped the leering man's wrinkled lapels. “What do you think you're doing?” he wanted to ask, or “How dare you do that in my house!” Thankfully, Jurel had enough control to stifle his violent urges. “Where is this?” he asked instead.

As the man took in Jurel, took in his size and the look of murder in Jurel's eyes, his expression turned from shock to fear.
“Sir?”

“Where is this?”

He knew. He knew full well, but it never hurt to have confirmation, it never hurt to assure that he really saw it and that his mind did not conjure up insanity induced imagery.

“The north market place, My Lord,” the heavyset man said.

“I can see that, you fool,” growled Jurel, shaking the man hard enough that he heard teeth click. “What town? City?”

“K-Kill-Killhern, my lord,” the man wept.

Jurel let go; the fat man slumped to the ground like a rag doll. He turned, dumbstruck, eyes wide, and took in the scene. It was familiar, but different, like seeing someone after ten years: the features were the same, but the specifics had been altered by time's inexorable influence.

He threw his head back, and laughed, deeply, loudly. He laughed, and the folk of Killhern City, glancing askance at him, giving him a wide berth as they passed.

* * *

Gixen sat bolt upright in his cot. His head felt that it was about to burst apart. Roaring, he beat his temples with his fists. Trembling, hunching forward, his roar turned to a mewl.

Slowly the blazing pain faded until he was able to open his eyes. He saw nothing, nothing but that impenetrable blackness, feared that he had somehow gone blind. He could not countenance blindness. He could not survive it. Blind? Only for the weak, the pathetic. He would not—

A flicker. A fire. He breathed a sigh of relief and silently berated himself for his stupidity. It was night; of course it was dark.

Rolling from his filthy cot, he fell gasping to his knees, his head pounding like kettledrums, his bones all aflame, groped for the crude lantern, nearly knocked it over, had to grasp it in clutching, shaking fingers to steady it. It took him four tries to light the wick, and when it caught, his tent came to him in a blinding blaze of ruddy light that made his eyes water until he became accustomed to it.

He could see. He suppressed the giggle that rose in his throat.

Rising shakily, he brushed an itch at his nose, drew his hand back when he felt wetness, saw blood. He turned, searching his tent, wondering, suppressing a filament of fear.

His mind exploded. The comforting light shattered into razor shards that ripped into him, flayed him.

“Gixen.”

He shrieked, clapped his hands to his head.

“Gixen.”

There was noise outside his tent, the thud of footsteps, and the call of...of someone. It took him a moment to realize that it was Herkan, calling him, asking him a question. What? Of course. He thought something was wrong. There was. But there was nothing Herkan could do.

“I'm fine, Herkan,” he called and he would have happily murdered anyone whose voice was as weak and pathetic as his own was. He cleared his throat, forced some strength into his voice. “Stay out.”

Again, a blast took him, rattled him to his core. He groaned behind clenched teeth. His hands came up again, clamped over his ears. They slid greasily on the blood that leaked, that dripped from his lobes. He leaned forward and vomited.

“Gixen, you have failed me. You have taken too long.”

“Master, I-”

“SILENCE!”

The tent shuddered and went dark though he could still hear the faint hiss of the lantern.

“I have changed your plans. You will finish building your army. In one week, you will march south.”

Gixen trembled, had just enough presence of mind to keep his water inside. He never showed fear but how could he not? His master was displeased. His master could destroy him in a heartbeat. If it had a heart.

Images began to fill Gixen's mind, each one preceded by its own flash of agony as though they were being beaten into his skull like nails beaten by a hammer. At first, the images were unfamiliar and indistinct, and the flashes of pain were nothing he could not handle. Soon, they became understandable, but conversely, perversely, the agony increased, spreading from his head, to his guts, to his arms and legs, until his entire body felt both on fire and crushed. When the last image blazed in his thoughts, brighter than the sun, and hotter, he fell into a black, black well.

* * *

Consciousness slowly came back to him, like molasses oozing into his mind. His cheek was deathly cold. He opened his eyes and after the wave of nausea passed, after the watery shimmering of his sight settled, he saw that he was on the ground, his face pressed into the cold soil and his own vomit.

As unsteadily as an old man with the shaking disease, he pushed himself to his knees, dripping pebbles, blood, and half-digested gobbets of his dinner. With a grunt, he hauled himself to his feet, wavered there for an instant, teetering on the brink of collapse. He blinked owlishly, trying to pull himself together, trying to pull his frayed and unraveled mind back into some semblance of coherence.

When he succeeded, he shuddered. His master had been most forceful. Usually, Gixen welcomed the sweet rush that accompanied pain, that fiery ecstasy followed by the mellow dullness, the languid aftershocks pulsing, pushing further and further into his essence. It was so much like sexual release. But perhaps there were times when more was not always better.

He chuckled weakly, brushed itchy gobbets that clung to his face, and stepped to the ragged swath of half rotted leather that served as the entry to his tent. Breathing deeply, he pushed it aside and nearly yelped when Herkan's grotesque image appeared suddenly before him.

“Sir, are you well?” His eyes widened as he got a good look at his commander and he spun, opened his mouth to bellow commands.

“Shut up, Herkan. We have things to discuss.”

Clamping his mouth shut, his teeth clicking, Herkan eyed him inquisitively.

“You look like you've been in a battle, sir.”

“Perhaps I have. But it is of no matter. Come in. We have been given new directives.” He turned, hesitated as a thought came to him: “Bring goat's mead. Lots of it.”

* * *

The young man who reached for the door latch was familiar in appearance. Tall, broad shouldered, thick patch of dirty blond hair, blue eyes that recalled lightning. But even his closest friends might have called him a stranger. For though he looked the same, there was something different about him. Perhaps it was his stance: tall, straight, almost belligerent, instead of the usual hunch of self-effacement. Perhaps it was his eyes, not the color, but the set of them, the hardness that glittered like granite, where softness and smiles normally resided. Or perhaps it was his features, features that had always been open and ready to grin, but were now so thunderous, it seemed they had never known anything else.

He gripped the latch roughly and pushed. The door swung open with a surprised squeak of protest, and he crossed the threshold into the place that had once been his home, but was now home to whores, and swung the door shut behind him, the clean light of outside a thinning bar that disappeared like lost hope as the door thudded home.

His glare raked the room. Dimly lit, for the windows were covered with thick purple drapes the color of heart's blood, the furnishings still gleamed like cheap stage jewelry under the flicker of the chandelier's light. Like outside, he had the distinct feeling of recognition. It was similar: the same wooden floor, though covered now with ghastly rugs that displayed the most vulgar of scenes, amateurishly woven and dyed, or perhaps just filthy beyond all hope; the same counter at the far end of the room, though pitted and spotted with substances he did not want to guess at; the same staircase across from him that had led up to his family's cozy apartment. He was fairly certain that the chandelier was the one that his mother had so carefully designed and his father had commissioned, complaining vociferously yet entirely unconvincingly the whole time about the ridiculous cost, from the tinsmith across the square. It was all faintly familiar, but different, corrupted by the new owners of the Horse and Chariot, like an infected wound.

A pall of acrid smoke hung over the room, partially covering the sickly sweet stench of mingled sweat and sex and cheap perfumes, partially obscuring the gaudy red divans, the brass sconces, and the faces of the men and women who frolicked and giggled on the floors, the divans, the tables, engaged in activities ranging from feeding grapes by hand, bathed in the garish red glare of the standing lamps, to massages, to full intercourse in the darkened corners for those who could not afford the extra cost of a room, and they appeared hazy, indistinct, like the ghosts of some long past battle still locked in mortal struggle. It seemed appropriate to hide one's face behind smoke and shadow in a place like this. Sounds drifted from the upper, urgent moans of passion that, to his ear, as false as the lacy strands of jewelry adorning the walls.

From behind the long, dully gleaming counter at the end of the room, a plump woman approached, bustling like a woman with a lot to do and not enough time to do it. She was garbed in an overstuffed dress, dyed the most eye-watering shades of red, green, and gold. Her hair, a wig most likely, was piled on her head in a thick bee hive of tight curls, and her face was painted so thickly that he wondered how she managed to smile without cracking it like an eggshell. Behind her, two burly men kept pace. One shorter than he but wide and powerful, a goon, a thug with a livid scar on his cheek. The other, slightly taller and more slender though still bulky, with a shaved head. Both wielded ugly cudgels. Goons, no doubt hired ironically to keep out less savory types. Like him.

“Welcome to the Garden of Pleasure, young man. My name is Mistress Melinda,” the woman smiled ingratiatingly at him. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Why would I need an appointment?” he growled and the backs of the thugs stiffened. “I'm not seeking audience with the duke.”

Her smile froze, but she did her best to maintain her airs. He presumed she aimed for lustiness. She fell wide of the mark by a long mile.

“Well then, perhaps you would like to view our girls? I'm certain we can find one that would be to your liking.” She turned partly, kept her eyes on his, extending a hand out as a merchant would to showcase a rack full of wares.

Raven black hair, eyes that cycled through all the shades of blue depending on mood, on how the sun reflected, full red lips, lithe body, an acerbity of tongue to complement the beauty of cheek and breast and neck line. A mind as agile as the body...

A black gush of grief welled up, choking him, but he quelled it with a blast of rage.

“No,” he grated between clenched teeth. “I've come only to see where my past has gone. No more.”

Her smile fell abruptly away, her eyes hardened. “Well if you're not here to spend some coin, then off with you.”

The hand that displayed the wares of her shop flicked into a wave of dismissal and she turned away, already forgetting his presence.

“I would see my home before I go,” he called after her.

Scar-Face and Baldy stepped forward, brandishing their cudgels.

“The lady told you to shove off,” Baldy said.

Jurel smiled coldly. “I intend to. After I see what is left of my home.”

“You're goin one way or another.”

A cudgel swung, whistling through the air. Jurel reached up and caught it. Pain lanced up his arm, but somewhere below the torrent of rage, he was surprised: it did not seem as painful as it probably should have been. He kept his face expressionless as he twisted the weapon from Scar-Face's hand, and tossed it aside.

Shocked, the thugs stared at him, before lunging forward with twin roars of rage that brought the carnal scene in the main room to a grinding halt.

Jurel's time with Mikal was not wasted; his hand snapped out, caught a wrist, pulled, as his other hand swung under the thug's other arm and around his thick neck. Twisting his torso, he heaved, launching Scar-Face over his hip, releasing him to crash upside down into the door. He landed with an audible grunt, and he did not move. Jurel continued his spin and brought up an elbow. Baldy ran into it and his head snapped back as his nose shattered. He too fell with a crash and the carpets soaked up another spray of bodily fluids.

He turned again to face into the room. Wide eyes gaped back at him, men and whores frozen to the spot, and the room became a disgusting painting of carnal hedonism that etched itself in his mind, that tainted his memory, that repulsed and revolted him so strongly that he almost fled. A dozen whores in various states of dress, from barely to not at all, serviced their clients in various, exotic, unimagineable ways; the acrid taint of drugs hanging heavily in the thick air; goblets and cups filled with all manner of liquor scattered on the tables. Bile rose in his throat, burning. He swallowed, blinked tears away, fought to suppress the shudders that wracked him.

He closed his eyes, envisioned the same room as he remembered it. He saw tables filled with men and women laughing, drinking from tankards, jesting and playing games while a bard sang in a corner. He saw his father standing behind the bar, wiping dishes with his rag, his braying laughter so like Galbin's had been, overriding the rest of the din for a moment when Sergeant Daved delivered the punchline to his joke. His mother slapped a man's over-adventurous hand away as she set down his goblet, scolding him for his indiscretion, threatening to send Gram after him if he kept it up. The man's friends laughed at him and he hung his head, shamefaced like a chastised boy. Roasting pork scented the room, and baking bread, providing a sort of olfactory harmony, overlaying the more sour stench of stale alcohol and clean sweat earned from hard work. That was the home he remembered.

But when he opened his eyes, the scene of red greed remained.

A small hope burgeoned in him, a futile one but the only thing he had left: perhaps the apartment was still there. Perhaps some part of his earliest life remained. It did not occur to him that nearly fourteen years of depravity and a terrible siege lay between him and that past, or if it did occur, he quelled it before he realized it.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mistress Melinda hurrying back toward him, her lips pinched, her eyes wide with outrage, gripping her skirts in her hands so she would not trip on them.

“Now look here, you young ruffian. This is an honest place of business. What right have you to disturb my house so? What right have you to assault my men?”

“This was my house long before it was yours. I wished merely to see if anything of the good was left under this rot.”

He strode to the staircase, knocking a sailor sideways. The man yelped but did nothing to impede Jurel. Greedy and inflamed with empty, aimless lust, the patrons were here not to engage in battle but rather the more futile struggle of filling the desolate voids within themselves—or, for at least a short while, forgetting.

Taking the steps three at a time, Jurel bounded up and into the dark hall at the top. He did not pause; he knew the way, passing garishly painted doors, doors that had at one time hidden simple but clean beds for travelers to rest or for drunkards to 'sleep it off' before going out the next day, but now hid things far more private, far more primal, each with a sign that spelled out the name of that particular room's merchandise: Carla, Cendilla, Rachelle. He ignored the rest. False moans of passion and placebos of undying love emanated from behind a few of those doors—apparently not everyone had heard the commotion downstairs—and Jurel sneered, his eyes slitted to two slashes of glittering shadow.

He did not check his pace until he reached the far end of the hallway, where one door stood in front of him, still blessedly the proper color of deeply varnished oak that he remembered. He paused in the act of pulling the door latch, gripped by apprehension; he had gone too far and seen too much. Should he? Dare he?

He took a deep breath. He pushed on the door.

It did not budge.

He noticed then that there was something different about the door after all. Someone had added a lock. He almost laughed, thinking that asking Mistress Melinda to provide the key would likely cause histrionics. He had come so far, and he was stopped by a simple, cheap lock.

To blazes with it.

There were plenty of violations going on in his erstwhile home at that very moment. One more would not matter in the slightest. He lashed out with his foot, and the door buckled with a sharp crack, bouncing inward on its abused hinges. He stepped through.

What had he expected? To see his parents glance up from their table, smiling at him, telling him to join them? To see the wooden top that Daved had gifted him with laying on the floor, waiting to be found by either his hand or his mother's foot? Perhaps he thought he would see the counter that ran the length of the kitchen covered with the tins and pots of his mother's efforts, and smell the fresh odors of baked honey bread and roasted meat.

There was no hint of his past, of course. None of it was left. A simple table still adorned the center of the main room, but it was cracked and rough and covered with polka dots of char. In the center sat a skama pipe, some residue of the narcotic congealed half in and half out of the bowl and looking like a piece of amber amidst bits of tama leaf. A small desk rested in the corner, barely more than a plank of wood on a rough frame and covered in ratty scraps of parchment and a dried inkwell. Everywhere, there was lace or cheap silk or some other sheer material whose name he did not know, pink, green, blue, colors that gouged at his eyes, draped from the windows, hung on the walls, sweeping down from the nearly empty book case. He almost gagged on the stench: bitter skama and tama; sickeningly sweet perfume as though the entire room had been doused in it; sweat, and something deeper, a scent that Jurel thought would blend right in one level down. Something that repulsed him when he thought of who had emitted them, either with some paying regular or alone, while high on the vapors of one narcotic or another. Through the door at the far end of the room, the one that had led to his parents' bedroom, he saw a cot, its stained sheets rumpled and piled in the middle.

Jurel closed his eyes, bit back the helpless sob that threatened, bit back the bitter grief and rage that loomed. His home. A brothel. His past, a tainted memory. He squeezed his eyes tighter and pulled together the frayed threads of his concentration.

* * *

When Scar-Face, followed by half a dozen of the city guard, bounded up the stairs, they saw the open door and ran to it, weapons drawn. When they entered Mistress Melinda's cramped living space, they found no one.

It would become a much talked about mystery in the city of Killhern. Men would whisper about it while in their cups at taverns, women would gossip of it (with a certain amount of satisfaction; no one liked the thought of their husbands being in that...place) over vats of dirty water as they scrubbed shirts and trousers with lye, children would frighten their younger siblings with the tale.

Soon, rumors—most likely started by the competition, by the proprietors of the other whorehouses and cathouses in the area (one might note that a person who sells the bodies of others is not exactly a paradigm of respectability and will think nothing of resorting to any measure to line their pockets a little more deeply)—that the bawdy house called the Garden of Pleasure was haunted began to worm their way into conversations. Mistress Melinda railed at the loss of business, her whores left for better pay working at rival houses—except for the uglier ones, or the ones deemed too old, who ended up with the much more perilous job of working the streets and alleys away from the safety of torches and hired bodyguards—and ultimately, she had to shut down her business.

Jurel knew none of this, but if he had, it would not have made much difference. His childhood home, his earliest memories, would forever be sullied by what he had seen there that day.

If only he had waited a while longer, just a little while, before revisiting his home. It migh have made all the difference. Because the Garden of Pleasure, and most everything around it, would soon be burned to the ground.

Chapter 27

A hot wind gusted. The sky was dark. Not night, and certainly not daytime, but somewhere in between, as though everything hung in a balance and all that was needed to tip things one way or the other was the merest breath. In the far distance, jagged mountains rose like purple crocodile teeth, biting into the horizon.

Stiff, ankle length grasses that bent under the force of the wind patched the flat land before the mountains in a quilt of ill green and straw yellow. A single lilac tree rose from the parched grass. It was not a pretty thing. Ravaged as though by years of powerful arctic winds, it stood gnarled, bent like an old man, bark peeling away like burnt flesh, limbs lifeless, leafless except for a few shriveled shreds of rusty rotten boughs that clung determinedly, like a reminder of glory long past, to ragged branches that seemed to reach to the sky in pathetic prayer. He had neither been able to banish it entirely nor return it to its previous glory.

Jurel leaned against the coarse bole of the tree, staring at the ground, seeing nothing. His sword rested across his lap and his fingers slid along the cool blade distractedly. His thoughts were as dark as his place. His home was gone, his past was gone, his life was gone. Everything. Gone. Well, almost everything. The fact that he was the God of War remained. The fact that he was the very embodiment of the thing he hated most remained.

Images rose in his mind, unbidden for he wanted nothing more than to forget. Daved glared disapprovingly with those hawk's eyes. Gram and his beautiful mother Wendilla gazed upon him sadly. Galbin shook his head in disappointment. Metana beseeched him with outstretched arms to come home. Valik laughed viciously, and Trig and Darren turned away, ashamed of him, for him, as Erin lowered sad eyes, unwilling to look at him.

His brow furrowed further as something snagged his attention. Something that was not quite right. It caught his attention like a knock at the door. He concentrated. Thought vanished, and images fled. Most of them. Metana's image remained, with her outstretched arms and her eyes wide, pleading. He closed his eyes and saw her, every line of her, every curve and color as though she stood in front of him. He choked back a sob.

“Jurel, please answer me.”

He grunted. So caught up with her was he, so foolishly enamored, that he even heard her voice in his thoughts. Stupid. It was just a dream, an illusion. She was dead. Because of him.

“Please, Jurel. Please.”

He sighed, pushed at the image. He gasped when the image pushed back.

“Stop it, Jurel. Answer me. Please?”

Not possible.

“Metana?”

“Yes. Please come home. We need you.”

Again he concentrated, bent his thoughts to her like a flower to the sun. There was a strange feeling of displacement as though the world shifted under him and when he opened his eyes, Metana stood before him gaping like a fish, arms still outstretched though the fingers hung limp, seemingly gone numb. He rose slowly to his feet, staring dumbfounded at her.

He took a hesitant step forward.

“Metana? Is it really you?”

She flew into his arms then, wrapping him tightly in hers. The feel of her, soft and tender and hard as steel, the scent of her, lavender and something that was all her own, enveloped him. She trembled as she clung to him, like a leaf in a high wind. He trembled too as he murmured over and over again, “You're alive. Oh gods, you're alive.”

Two great tears formed in his closed eyes, slipped free from confinement and slid down his cheeks. The dominant force within the roil he felt inside was profound relief. Metana was alive. Metana was here, breathing, crying against his shoulder. He had not killed her. And if she was alive, could others be as well? He hardly dared to hope, but he had to know.

“And the others?” he asked gruffly.

She pulled back, her rapturous gaze dimming somewhat, though she tried to hide behind her smile. “Gaven and Mikal are fine. I'm with them right now.”

And of course, Jurel heard the omission. His guts turned to ice.

“And Kurin?”

Now her smile did fall away. “Captured, we think. Taken by the Gaorlans toward the end of the battle.”

Jurel let out the breath he had not realized he was holding. It was bad news, very bad, but it could have been worse. There was a chance, at least, that Mikal could mount a rescue.

“And what of the rest? Flain? What happened to him?” he asked quietly.

Her expression of discomfort turned to pain. “Jurel, I don't think-”

“Tell me,” he demanded, glaring at her.

She seemed to wilt under his eyes, her own turning to the spoiled ground beneath them. He felt her stiffen in his arms as though she were steeling herself.

“I don't know exactly,” she said. “The latest news is not promising.”

She halted again, her eyes pleading him to let it drop, to not make her answer his question more precisely.

He simply continued to gaze at her, silent, immovable. He would hear his crimes spoken aloud.

And what was she to do under such an implacable glare?

“Maybe two hundred survived. It was thanks to Flain. Mikal said if it wasn't for his last charge pushing the prelacy back, there would have been fewer survivors, if any.” she whispered.

He released her and stumbled back into the broken lilac. He slumped to the ground. Two hundred remained. He had started with over a thousand.

As though the air were suddenly too thin, he struggled to catch his breath. The landscape whirled and darkened in his vision. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He should not have been surprised. He knew he had caused a catastrophe. He knew his pride had gotten a lot of good people killed. But to hear it, to have proof of his lethal foolishness made it real, made it unavoidable. He had wanted to hear it. But gods damn him, having gotten what he wanted, he now wished...

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

His horror mingled with a white hot rage, a hatred of himself that was so profound, he gripped the hilt of his sword, the thorns ripping into his palm, almost plunged his sword into his guts. He had killed them. He deserved far worse than a sword in the guts. This self-imposed exile was but the start of the punishments he would heap on his own shoulders in the days ahead. It would also see everyone free of his terrible influences. It was the only way he could think of to stop the pointless waste of life. This self-imposed exile, however, was not yet complete. He lifted his eyes to Metana.

As though reading his thoughts, she paled. Slowly, her eyes lifted from his, and her features twisted in pain. She turned, seeking to change the subject before Jurel could hammer the final nail hone. She surveyed his place, taking in the barrenness, the lack of color, of light, life. When her eyes found his again, tears brimmed like crystals, balancing precariously, ready to tumble at the slightest provocation. It took a great deal of willpower for him to remain where he was, to keep from rising up and gathering her in his arms. Almost, he did anyway. But the thought of her trying too hard to convince him while he held her close, the thought that she would speak rapidly of his need to return, the pain that it would cause, provided plenty of incentive to stay right where he was.

“What have you done?” she breathed.

He chuckled sourly. “Not much. A little redecoration is all. A new coat of paint, moved the furniture around. What do you think?”

She leaned close, stretched a hand out, laid it against the bole above his head. He stopped breathing. To breath would be to fill himself with her scent: the flowers, the tang of her, the life of her. Now that he knew what he must do, even breathing her would drive a barbed dagger through his heart.

She shuddered. “Why?”

“Oh, no particular reason.” He waved a hand airily. “I got tired of the old look. You should have seen it before this. Now that would have curled your toes, if you had survived long enough.”

Slumping to her knees, she drew in a ragged breath. Again her hand reached out, this time toward him, but it stopped short as though a wall stood between them. A tear finally slipped free, streaking a line down her cheek.

Oh how he wanted nothing more than to taste it, to kiss it away.

“Why?”

“It seemed appropriate.” He said with all the gruffness he could muster.

She recoiled at the coldness in his voice. She breathed deeply, almost panted; it took him a moment to realize that she was stifling the urge to weep.

“Jurel, please. You...I—I thought that...”

Hot fire washed over him. The sere grasses in his place withered further: where fragile green was, dead yellow replaced it; where yellow was, the madman's mosaic appeared. The tree wilted as though melting, and the wind grew hotter.

“What? What, Metana? What did you think? What do you want?”

Her brow shone where sweat appeared, her cheeks grew flushed.

“I—I want...please. Stop this. It is too hot. I'm starting to feel faint.” True to her words, she began to sag, to waver and her eyes, pale gray, flickered on the verge of losing their light.

Puzzled, Jurel glared at her before he noticed his place. Shock replaced puzzlement as he realized what he was doing. To her.

“Oh. Oh, Metana. I'm sorry. I didn't know. Sorry.”

The heat dropped, the green returned but it seemed tentative, as though his grip on his place, on himself, was weak. The lilac remained wilted like melted candle wax.

She breathed deeply, smiled tremulously. “Thank you.”

More gently, he asked, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

“You brought me here. I wanted you to come back to us.”

A dry, sharp laugh burst from him like an arrow and he turned away. He could not bear to look upon that angel's face anymore. “Isn't it better this way? I'm a monster and you know it. This way you don't have to see me.”

“No. Jurel, I want you. We all want you back. We need you.”

“Why? Isn't there enough bloodshed in the world already?” he snapped.

She surged to her feet so swiftly that he recoiled, bouncing his head off the bole behind him. Her fists rested on her hips like an angry mother. Her eyes flashed, almost purple now with barely pent rage. Gods, but he loved those eyes.

“Jurel Histane! You know better than that. Or do you? Have we been wrong? Have you learned nothing? There are people who need you, who are counting on you. Would you disappoint them?”

“Disappoint them, or cause their blood to be spilled. Let's see, on one hand we have disappointment and maybe some anger, maybe even—heavens forbid—a sense of betrayal. But they're alive. On the other hand, there's blood, suffering, death, orphans, widows.” He smirked. “Tough choice. Let me think about it.”

Her eyes widened and her lips pinched.

“Look, Tana. I don't know what you want from me. You want me to try but trying brings heartache. For a little while there I really thought that I wasn't trapped in this nightmare. I really thought that things could be different. But then I lead over a thousand men blundering into a slaughter. I know now everyone I would want to get close to can expect that from me.

“I can't do it. I love you, Tana. Every time I look at you it feels like someone's stabbing me. Maybe it's selfish and childish but I can't face it.”

She sank to her knees, trembling. “You think I don't understand? Is that it? Of course I do, you big oaf. You're a God, Jurel. A bloody immortal, all powerful God. Gods do things that we mere mortals cannot begin to understand, even if that means that some of us have to die. It's not our place to question you. It's our place to do as we're told! Hells and damnation, we've taken vows to that effect!”

She thought that would sway him? He thought she knew him better than that.

“And I'm telling you to go. Leave me alone. I'll have no part in any more suffering. I'll have no part in this ridiculous war.”

They glared at each other, a silent battle of wills.

“Do you think the prelacy will just give up? Do you think they'll walk away when they find out you've abandoned us? They'll come for us, Jurel. They'll come for us as they never have before. They'll stamp us out. We need you.”

Try as he might, he could not think of a reasonable response.

“Can't we go back to the way things were before?” She leaned forward hopefully, placing a tentative hand on his forearm. “Can't we put this behind us and try again?”

“You know we can't.”

Each stared sadly into the other's eyes, each unable to avert their eyes as though they were linked by a chain, both knowing they had reached the impasse, the insurmountable hurdle, the bottomless, unbridgeable chasm. He drank her in greedily, guiltily, like an addict. In time, her eyes softened, taking on a light of pleading. It was like an avalanche to him. He had to get away before it buried him under its boiling hot ice.

“I think you should go, Metana,” he said looking away, breaking the chain. If he thought back, if he sifted through his life's memories, he would have found that nothing was harder than uttering those words.

She closed in then. Her expression hardened to stone and with it, he withered, fell further and further in on himself, felt a gathering of darkness in his core.

She rose to her feet. “We need you, Jurel. All of us.” Her voice held an edge that cut him.

“I can't help you, Metana. Good bye.”

He closed his eyes and pulled together the ragged threads of his concentration.

“No. Wait Jurel. Don't-”

When he opened them again, she was gone.

* * *

He awakened some time later. He had no idea how much time—he had not even known he slept. Sourly, he raised himself and stretched. He did not feel the slightest bit refreshed and there was a kink in his back courtesy of a knot in the lilac tree.

His meeting with Metana had left him empty and cold. He stared at the ground, lost in his thoughts, lost in his inky hole of self-pity. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his head, he was contemptuous of himself but he stomped that feeling away. He had enough to drag him down.

There was one more place he had to go. He was reluctant. He did not want to. He knew that if he went, it would be the final door closing on his past. But he had started his journey. He had to go. While there was even the slightest glimmer of a chance at his old life, he had to try. While there was even the barest chance the he could escape the monster within, he had to try.

He sat under his lilac tree tasting the wind as it howled past, feeling it comb his hair, ruffle his tattered clothing. The grasses were sere, piebald patches. His thoughts were dark. He grabbed hold of his courage as if it were a tangible thing, reined it in.

With a sour chuckle, he concentrated and his tattered, wind-blown, sandblasted clothing shimmered, changed, became a black silk shirt covered in a pattern of golden swirls over black linen breeches covered in the same pattern. His ragged boots, the ones Kurin had given him all those months ago in a different life, a past life, back in a small shop in a small town, the soft ones that had shone like polished iron when he had first donned them and now were scuffed and torn almost beyond recognition, became brightly polished again, and butter soft. He rose to his feet and strapped his sword to his new leather belt, not caring when one of the barbs in the hilt caught his hand, drawing a line of blood. He stood for a moment, surveying his place, his sanctuary and his prison.

He concentrated. He disappeared.

Chapter 28

At the edge of a clearing, Metana gazed at the wild rose bush that twined and tangled its way up and around some lilacs. Though the lilacs were out of season, still there remained a few boughs that stubbornly resisted, and held on. Deep red mingled with bright purple in a sort of botanic jewelry. A sweet scent filled the air, a perfume that was as delicate and lovely as the flowers themselves. The kind of perfume that a wealthy gentleman would pay more than a peasant family earned in a year to acquire to woo his chosen lady.

The sun, somewhere far to the west but occluded by the quilt of intertwined branches, illuminated the forest with ephemeral shades of gold and green, created sparks of the motes of dust that hung lazily in the air. The air was warm and soft as it can only be in the waning days of summer after the brutal heat breaks but before the full chill of autumn manages to get a grip. It was a dreamlike scene that spread before her, a spot that bards and mummers spoke of in their stories and acted out in their plays. A perfect idyllic place where, in stories, young couples came to nestle, to trade tokens, to smile and laugh, to make love. That part of the story usually happened right before the tragedy.

She sat and she gazed at the roses that mingled with the lilacs. A solitary tear left a trail on her cheek. She did not feel it.

Big oaf.

She thought it, but there was no strength in it, no force. There was not enough heat left in her for that. There was only an empty place, a place where once there had been light and laughter and, yes, love. She had taken medical courses at the Abbey. It was a requirement for all acolytes to have at least a working knowledge of anatomy and physiology, no matter which god they would ultimately choose as their patron. Old Master Yalman, her teacher, spoke into her thoughts:

...this can happen in the case of a patient who has had a limb amputated. The patient may be fooled into thinking for years after the amputation that the limb remains fixed in place. He may complain of an itch that cannot be relieved, or an ache, dull or sharp, that will not alleviate...

Is this then what a mental amputation felt like? This aching emptiness? This itch that could not, would not, be scratched, that threatened to drive her mad? She chuckled—though if anyone heard, they would have called it a pained grunt as if she had stubbed her toe. But it was a chuckle. Not so long ago, she had entirely thrown her heart at Jurel. Why? Because big oaf though he was, he was a good man with a good heart. Or so she had thought. She had never expected him—could never have believed—that he would abandon them to the wolves.

“Hanging on by a thread,” her father used to say. And, “You can't win for losing.”

She had sighed in exasperation when he used to say things like that. Too grim, too pessimistic. His idioms never fit in with her view of the world. Perhaps she should reconsider. Perhaps she would sit down and write him and apologize for all the times she had shown him the sharp side of her tongue. She seemed to recall that he had been different at one time. Before her mother had died in that terrible accident. She seemed to recall that he used to smile at everything, that he had had such a carefree laugh, a laugh that even in her earliest childhood, long before naivete gave way to wisdom, she understood was full, unreserved, complete. Of course when her mother had gotten trampled by the herd, when they had gathered up all they could find of her and buried her, his laughter had ceased. She did not recall him ever truly smiling after that. Or if he did, it was tainted; it never reached his eyes. And then his grim idioms had come. Gods that was a long time ago.

“Metana?”

Metana whirled at the sound of Gaven's voice. He gazed at her with a hang-dog expression from a few paces away. He knew the outcome of her meeting with Jurel. She could see it in his eyes and she wilted.

“You tried Metana. We know you tried.”

She had. But had she tried hard enough? She played back her moments with Jurel in her mind. She had sensed his pain, so powerful it was like a heavy chain dragging him down. He had failed. She would not argue that. He had made a terrible mistake and a lot of good men and women had paid the price. But it had not been entirely his fault. How could he have known that the Gaorlans had anticipated the ambush? Even Mikal, with all his years of experience, with all his incomparable skills, had continued to endorse their plan though there had been enough signs of something being amiss. They had all missed it. They were all responsible.

Had she tried hard enough? Jurel had failed but he was young, new to his position and responsibilities. No one could expect him to be perfect. Why, barely more than a year ago, he had been a farmboy with nothing more important to worry about than an occasional drought.

But that was not the point, now was it? Or, on second thought, maybe it was exactly the point. He had never had to make a decision which caused over a thousand soldiers to die until now. God of War he may be, but he was still Jurel Histane, farmboy, as well. Reconciling one with the other was a monumental task that Metana would not have wished on anyone. Her heart went out to him.

But she had seen something else in those few minutes with Jurel, especially near the end, before he sent her back—and how it irked that he had handled her with all the ease one might have handled a kitten! There had been a hardness to him, a darkness that had frightened her. The glitter in his eyes, the hollow echo of his voice; she did not know what it meant but she was afraid nonetheless.

She closed her eyes, remembering what he had been like when she had first met him. He had been shy, unassuming. He had been ready to smile, earnest in a sweet way, ready to please. There had been pain in his eyes, a natural tightness at the corners which had added to his sweetness, a vulnerability which had drawn her to him as though he was a lost puppy. The man he had considered a father had been brutally murdered a short time before, after all, and he had discovered some very dangerous things about himself in the process.

But now...

Now he was a different person, a different entity. Over the last few months, she had begun to notice a weight to him. Power seemed to ooze from him; no one at the Abbey had been immune. Anyone who came near him began to almost unconsciously defer to him. Those who opposed him, like that bloody idiot Andrus, had begun to avoid him; his very presence caused them to question themselves and no one who is so full of pride likes to doubt their own beliefs. Even Goromand had started having difficulty meeting his eyes.

This effect had been more pronounced in the last few weeks, since the army had marched from the Abbey. Jurel had, at times, seemed a mighty creature, a giant among midgets; at times, she had barely recognized him.

And then he had made an error that had killed a large fraction of the forces the Salosians had to tap. She knew he felt his failure keenly; each one was a thorn in his heart.

And now he was in his place, isolated, alone, surrounded by devastation, as darkness blanketed him like a pall. She stared mournfully at Gaven and shook her head slowly.

“Oh, Jurel,” she sighed quietly. “What's happening to you?”

* * *

In a cave so black that even the memory of light did not exist, a cave that echoed with distant sounds of torment and torture, the creature sat at its ease, reclining as best it could in its confinement. It did not feel the heat of its cave for it had chosen the temperature itself. It was as comfortable as it could be, all things considered. In fact, it was more than comfortable. Even with Gixen's failures, it was as close to happy as it had been in...how long had it been here?

It smiled.

It alone saw the image that played before it. It alone watched events unfold upon the square of light that was not light but was more the impression of it, like an unspoken thought. And it liked what it saw.

In the square, almost like a window pane, a tall and young man, splendidly dressed, stood near a body of water, perhaps a small lake or a pond. In the square, the man raked his surroundings with a glare as devastating as a lightning storm. Oh it was wonderful.

The creature stared, enraptured by the fortuitous turn events had taken. For a time, it had been concerned. It had been in its prison for longer than any mere mortal could comprehend, weakened and pathetic after the war that had nearly destroyed it, and its subsequent incarceration. It had lain almost dormant for centuries, millenia perhaps, but even in its torpor it had begun to plot. Over time, patiently, little by little, it had worked out its plans, attempted to consider every eventuality, every twist and turn—and why not? It had the time after all.

Everything had been going to plan until that fool Xandru had failed so miserably. Though it had worked out contingencies for that as well, it knew it would be a more desperate bid to gain its victory. If the creature had wanted to be fair, had had the inclination for it, it would not have completely blamed Xandru. Admittedly, the boy had grown in strength much more quickly than expected. But leniency was not in its nature. It did not think twice about Xandru.

Things were happening apace. The young man was past his endurance; even from the vast distance, the creature felt the darkening of his spirit, the cracks in his facade, the slow dismantling of everything he was, the doubt enshrouded by denial. It would not take more than a hint, a slight shove (something involving the young lady with the raven hair seemed a good place to start, it thought with malicious glee) and the young man would belong to it. As long as Gixen held his path, it would have what it needed before the end of the next season. It saw no reason for Gixen to fail. It had set forth the plan step by step—allowing Xandru to choose his own way, to have given him the leeway to make any decisions on his own, had been a mistake. One it had suffered for. One it would not repeat.

But Gixen would not fail. He had no choice. He would walk the path laid out for him. When he reached the end, well, then his usefulness would be at an end. Depending on the creature's mood, Gixen's reward fluctuated between being given a place of honor at his master's feet and being disposed of. But regardless, when Gixen had completed his tasks, then the creature would exact its retribution. Then it would rule all as it was meant to from the beginning of time. Oh, how the world would tremble at its every footstep. Oh, how they would bow.

In the background, voices moaned. Terror, sorrow, rage, a thousand shades of the same emotion roiled and pulsed in the blackness that held no memory of light.

Chapter 29

“You understand your orders?”

“Yes sir.”

“I expect you to get as many men through this and south to meet me on my way back.”

“Yes sir.”

He surveyed the terrain one last time. Ahead of him, through the trees, Killhern City sprawled, austere gray battlements and spires glowing blood red in the dawn light, the rest still lost in the shadows of mother night as though the sun was a kind of mid-wife, bringing forth the day from the contracting, convulsing darkness.

Behind him, arrayed within and obscured by the trees, half his army, nearly twenty five thousand strong, stood anxiously waiting. The air seemed to crackle with tense excitement.

“Now,” whispered Gixen, stifling a giggle.

* * *

Colonel Heris Dench sat at his desk, in his small, spartan office, brow furrowed, eyes squinted, as he read through report after report. On days like this, he wished fervently that he had not accepted this posting. Unfortunately, most days were days like this. At least since his promotion.

Tossing aside another request for a leave of absence, he sighed and rubbed his aching eyes. When Tomis had retired to his country estate nearly three years before, he had recommended Heris for the job. It was expected of course. Ever since he had made captain (one of Ferril's last acts as colonel before he had been relieved of his duties and...well before...God rest his soul), he had been marked for his unswerving loyalty and ability. It had been a short step from there to major and second in command of Killhern's forces under Tomis. Somehow, he had missed what the post had done to Tomis. The old man had once been open in his days as major, as quick to laugh as he was to lash, but by the end, he had the tired, worn out look of a man carrying the weight of the world on his stooping back. Heris had missed it and so he had looked forward to the day when he would take the reins.

His dreamy-eyed visions of life as colonel were quickly shattered as reality set in. Gone was the field work, gone was the honest command, gone were the days spent in the clean air under the sky and the feeling that he was truly accomplishing something useful. In fact, these days, he was more a clerk and courtier than a soldier. His days were spent poring over ridiculous reports that his subordinates should have been able to handle (and in truth he had delegated several times only to have it come down on his head), or visiting with the duke and his advisors where he was often stuck in the petty maneuvering and plotting of the court to keep his place and to keep his men properly equipped and provisioned while the nobles whispered in the duke's ears, casting derisive glances side-long at him.

And that was the worst of it. As colonel, it was not proper for him to mix with his men. As colonel, he had to keep an air of aloofness, a distance; he was above them and he could not for an instant let them think otherwise. He had to keep that line firmly drawn. But as an unlanded man, little more than a peasant—and a man with strong opinions that often ran contrary to ideas in the duke's court—he had never found acceptance with the nobility. He had been awarded a title upon his rise to command, but it was an empty one; simply viscount, no more. He had no estate, no lands, no income beyond the standard military pay (a colonel, he found, made decent coin but he certainly was not on the market for his own palace), no peasants. They viewed him as an upstart, and a thorn in their sides. Too far above his men, and too far below his peers: it was a lonely place to be.

He often found himself wishing for something to happen, some excitement. An accident, or a band of raiders, or...something. All he had was the steady stream of reports from the watch towers along the northern road that kept mentioning Dakariin movement. Lots of movement, though as yet, nothing had come of it. Was it a show of force? Was it a bit of chest thumping? Perhaps they were engaging in some sort of training exercise. He had never heard of the Dakariin engaging in that kind of thing, but times change. If only something would just happen.

Later, as he lay on polished marble in a growing pool of his own blood, he would remember the old idiom, the one that warned sensible folks to be careful what they wished for.

* * *

Gixen watched at the head of the small cadre he planned to take with him on his expedition as his men flowed from the trees silent as ghosts, led by a young but fiery lieutenant Prax—he had wanted to send Herkan but his master had been adamant: Herkan would go with him. He smiled as they drew weapons and broke into a run. He laughed as their cries and shouts turned into an overarching roar of battle-lust and rage. As the first of his men disappeared into the streets of the outer city, he turned his mount south and spurred his horse to a gallop.

* * *

When the first alarm bells began to clang, Heris's head snapped up from the comfort of his crossed arms. He bolted to his feet just as his door flew open and his second in command, Jarun, poked his very ashen face in. That did not bode well. Jarun was a stalwart man, broad and powerful and stoic, not prone to visible bouts of emotion.

“Sir, we're attacked,” his major said.

“Who?”

“Dakariin sir. A horde of them. Preliminary estimate puts their force at somewhere north of twenty thousand.”

It was a desperate struggle to keep his knees locked as he gaped. “Not possible. We would have received word from the towers.”

“We did sir. A man rode in no more than ten minutes ago. He barely had time to say that we were about to be overrun before he died of his wounds.”

“How bad is it?”

“The north west end of the outer city is already in flames. They're moving fast. The first Dakariin are going to be at the gates almost before we get out there. I've already called the alert and the men are forming up for the defense of the keep.”

How many times had he advised the duke to clear away the northern forests? How many times had he begged that even a few hundred paces might make the difference? Oh, but the duke's closest advisers waved away his concerns. Too pretty, they said. It was a conveniently short ride to find some prime hunting, they said. Those savages won't dare try again, they said, not after the drubbing we delivered to them that time.

Within weeks of the previous attack, they had forgotten. Or perhaps they had not forgotten; not a single noble had been lost in that attack. Only some few thousand peasants and soldiers and they were certainly not important enough to mitigate the inconvenience that would have been suffered by the duke when his hunting would have had to wait ten more minutes.

“Our stores?”

“The pitch is being heated, the mangonels and ballista are being loaded. We'll be as ready as we can be in twenty minutes.”

“Good. Line the walls, get the archers up there. Prepare the first and second cavalries in the main court. Get the third and fourth to the south gate. Throw half the infantry on the walls to back up the archers. Keep the other half in reserve. Let's hope the gates hold.”

* * *

When Heris reached his vantage on the western wall, he gasped. Billowing gray-black smoke covered the northern half of the city like a funeral shroud. Within the clouds, a hundred ruddy columns flickered hazily, sullenly. Even at that distance, Heris felt the heat on the breeze. Below, across the ducal square, just out of range of bow shot, a swelling sea of filthy Dakariin snarled and beat spears and swords on their cuirasses. Each one carried something strange on his back but from that distance, no matter how he squinted and stared, he could not quite make them out, seeing only a long tube-like thing, and he had to be satisfied with waiting until they closed the distance.

Behind him, and around, officers shouted frantic orders, and soldiers hurried back and forth as the first acrid stench of burning reached his position. He was not sure but he thought he could smell more than wood and tar burning out there. He shuddered. Along the lines, his archers were prepared, the front line with arrows nocked, the rear holding their arrows at the ready, all of them watching intently, listening for their captains's orders. Below in the courtyard, behind the gate that had been hastily closed, milled a mass of armored horses and men, their lances rising like a forest as each one gained their spots in the formation. More soldiers worked the great oak beams, that would effectively bar the gates, into their iron rings while others ran seemingly aimlessly carrying packs or stores, weapons or armor. The average person may have looked upon this milling mass of soldiers and thought that all was undisciplined chaos. To Heris, it was like a fine symphony. Every man had a job, every job had a man.

In a gratifyingly short amount of time, the ordered chaos of preparation diminished, the frenetic haste slowed. Soon everyone was at their post. Everyone waited. The silence that fell had an eerie quality as though the entire keep held its breath in anticipation.

Things were proceeding differently outside the keep. Across the square, more and more Dakariin gathered and instead of going quiet, the roar grew louder and louder. Now, the entire northern half of the keep was surrounded with the swelling mass of the filthy savages.

“This is not good,” muttered Jarun at his elbow.

Heris grunted. “No. It's not.”

“We're outnumbered four to one. At least.”

“We still have the walls. That evens things out.”

Aside from the idiom that warns sensible folks to be careful what they wish for, there is another saying, very similar in fact, that warned sensible folks to be careful what they say. In unison, and in a surprising display of discipline, the Dakariin stepped forward and swung the strange things they carried off their backs until each held one end facing the keep. Each one make a quick jerky motion with their free hands across the back of the contraption that was no more than perhaps two feet long.

And every one of them fell silent. All became a breathless tableau for what Heris felt was a long, long time.

“What in hells are they doing?” whispered Jarun.

In answer, a hollow thud sounded, followed by a hissing noise, like fire eating damp wood but much, much louder. There was a flash of orange light and a few sparks sprinkled to the ground near the north end of the Dakariin lines. Before Heris could more than glance that way, more flashes appeared, more sparks. A dozen at first, then a hundred, a thousand accompanied by that hissing and hellish shrieks, faster and faster the flashes came from the ends of those tubes.

Below him, the rampart shuddered. Explosions, individually no more than the size of a man's torso, melded into one long-lasting blast that stretched the length of his walls, concentrating as one might expect on the more vulnerable gates. Shock waves rippled outward. Archers and infantrymen cried out, falling to the stoneworks as the wall shook with ever greater force. The already acrid smoke was compounded by bitter sulfur and other things he could not identify.

“What the hells kind of magic are they using?” Jarun cried.

“I don't-”

The wall near the gate crumpled, crumbled. The men standing in that area disappeared into smoking, gaping chasms. As tons of rock imploded in on itself, the gate exploded with a sound like ten thousand whip-cracks, showering the front ranks of his cavalry with lethal barbs.

Slowly, the roar of explosions abated, and the terrible juddering, shuddering of the walls creaked to a halt. Heris scanned the base and what he saw horrified him. Through the haze of dust and smoke, the gate was a mass of splinters, the massive stone walls were riddled with gaping holes and cave-ins. Men stood, or sat, or leaned along the rampart and all of them, every one, wore a look that suggested the day was not going quite as planned. Medics ran to see to the injured, of which there were many, and reserve infantry were called on to cart off the dead, of which there were too many.

Into the sudden silence, Heris roared commands, “Infantry, get the walls shored up! Barricade the gate! Fifth and Seventh support and cover! Archers prepare! Cavalry, form up and keep them from getting through!”

Sluggishly, his troops started to respond. Jarun strode away bellowing, relaying orders, belting those that were too stunned to move. He spun his gaze back to the army across the square. The army that, in perfect unison stepped forward, and stepped forward again. Their roars turned to howls, weapons were raised over their heads. A harsh, guttural voice shouted something in their filthy language.

In perfect unison, they broke into a run.

“God help us all,” Heris muttered. He was trying very hard not to throw up.

* * *

They were lost and Heris knew it. Perhaps they had lost the moment that first blast had struck the wall. Perhaps they had lost months before when the reports of Dakariin activity were not taken seriously enough. But certainly, since the beginning of the battle hours before—and he was shocked to note the position of the sun. How had it become mid afternoon so quickly? It did not matter, he supposed. The dead do not care what time it is.

In a strange twist, it reminded Heris of the last attack by the Dakariin some decade and more before, the one that had resulted in Colonel Ferril losing his command before losing his head. He himself had been barely more than a cadet during that battle, a junior lieutenant only three months out of training, and still so full of piss and vinegar. He'd been more frightened of Colonel Ferril than of the Dakariin. There were differences: this time, the Dakariin had been prepared. This time they managed to breach the wall, and they were not going to be thrown back. This time, he did not fear a senior officer more than the enemy that was marching toward his position.

Heris had already called his men to fall back, to regroup them along the walls of the inner keep, but the waves of screaming rampaging Dakariin came on. Entire platoons were overrun as though they were no more than stones on a sea shore swallowed by the tide and though the Dakariin suffered substantial losses, they did not slow. Even so, he hoped that he would somehow manage to survive the day for no other reason than to award each man and woman under his command a citation of merit—though most would have been posthumous.

Now here he was, on this last wall of defense, Jarun at his side while platoons each of archers and infantry spread in defensive formation. The sounds of the ongoing battle drifted to them, riding on currents of ash and smoke from the outer keep. His cavalry was doing what they could, harassing and striking at the rampaging hordes but they were so far outnumbered that, frankly, Heris was surprised there were any left. Behind him, pots filled with pitch boiled merrily over blazing fires.

The first Dakariin to step from the shelter of the buildings immediately found themselves sprouting arrows from their chests and they fell twitching to the flagstones that surrounded the walls. A weak cheer went up along the wall. It did not last long.

Soon, masses started to appear. For every arrow his men sent their way, two came back. A steady tick-ticking arose, became a solid sibilation, as many of the missiles battered themselves against the walls but some few found their way over the crenelations. A scream, then another, and more flew into the sky as more of his men died.

“Sir!”

Blinking, Heris wondered why he was on his back. Above him, on top of him like a lover, Jarun gazed down at him. He gave Heris a strange, tight look before rolling off with a grunt. Heris sat up and glared down at his second in command.

“What was that-?”

Jarun rasped out a breath and a red bubble grew at the corner of his mouth. He coughed and blood spewed, stringy, oily down his chin and his cheek.

Oh. Oh shit.

“Jarun. Jarun where is it?” He raised his head and called, “Medic! I need a medic here.” He was fairly certain no one heard him. He was absolutely certain it did not matter.

Weakly, his major lifted his right arm and grimaced. Two inches. That was all that was visible of the two foot shaft that jutted from just beneath his armpit. But it was enough to see that the arrow was not Dakariin. It had come from the gear of one of his own dead archers.

“It was meant for you sir,” Jarun rasped weakly, coughed and more blood bubbled out. It was dark blood this time, almost black. “I saw it coming. I-” More rasping coughs. Jarun dragged in a deep ragged breath. When he exhaled, his eyes dimmed.

He did not breath again.

Heris laid his major's head on the stone and peeked over the edge of the wall. The Dakariin were moving slowly toward them under a steady hail of cover fire.

When the first scaling ladder poked over the top of the walls, his infantry moved with efficiency borne of desperation. Bubbling pots were brought forth and dumped over the edge. A gratifying symphony of screams spiraled from below split by a spitting, sputtering torch thrown over the wall that flared with a whump as the pitch caught fire. Smoke oozed upward in a black churning curtain obscuring his view and soon even the sun was barely more than a hazy yellow eye that glared sullenly through the oil thick shroud.

For a time, all was still. Except for the angry crackle of oil fueled fire, and the low moans of the injured, all was quiet. With that curtain of smoke, he might almost have been able to convince himself that it was over, nothing to worry about, the Dakariin were turning around and going home. Until he caught sight of Jarun splayed in a spreading pool of his own life. He rested his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

A deep thunderous boom shook the air, caused the keep to tremble and he staggered to his feet. Another boom and he searched wildly for the origin. A third boom, and he bolted for the stairs that led to the main courtyard, calling for a platoon to follow him, not entirely certain there was a whole platoon left to heed his command.

Slipping on debris, he stumbled to a halt in the center of the courtyard, relieved that men were starting to trickle in and form up ranks, but aghast at how few there were. The front lines were already stretched across the yard, their pikes jutting from between their interlocked shields and toward the gate that shook again under another powerful blow. More of his men arrived and he hastily formed them up: archers to the back, infantry in three rows so that they created a bowl into which the Dakariin would run as soon as the gate fell. He left captain Bernkel in command. There was not much left to command: of all the forces that occupied the Killhern garrison, there were perhaps three or four hundred left.

He trotted toward the duke's palace. As he went, he pulled together his last few ragtag men, some thirty or so that would join with the duke's own personal guard as his grace's last line of defense. One last thundering boom was followed by an ear-splitting crack. Heris spun to the great double doors that led into the heart of the keep and looked to the main gate where he had left the remainder of the Killhern garrison. The great gate that had never before been breached hung at a crazy angle and toppled with a groan from its protesting metal hinges and crashed to the ground with a resounding thud: a toppling giant.

Dakariin poured in and his remaining men, each one deserving a medal for valor, stood their ground.

As the first clashes rang, Heris stepped into the shadow of the duke's home with the bulk of the duke's last line of defense.

* * *

“This is your fault, you incompetent fool,” Darvel, the duke's chief adviser shrieked. “Never before has Killhern been so badly defended. Never before has Killhern fallen to the Dakariin. I knew it was a mistake to appoint you to command.”

Rage bubbled deep in his chest as the prim, prissy little fop of a man ranted at him. Heris, bedraggled, bloody, filthy, sweaty, glared at him, noting that the man's beard was still oiled to a perfect point, noting that the waterfall of lacy frills that spilled from the sleeves and neck of his rich velvet coat were still white as snow and his shoes still shone black and unblemished.

“Darvel,” the duke warned. “This is not the time.”

“Your grace, this man has allowed those savages to waltz in here and pillage Killhern. No one, not even that fool Ferril, has ever allowed it. We are all dead men because of this idiot.”

“You fool!” thundered Heris and his voice echoed dully from the coffered ceilings. “Had you been out there, you would have seen their numbers. Had you been out there, you would have witnessed the discipline of their attack. You would have seen how they acted not as the savages we think they are but more like our own troops. But you weren't out there were you? No, you were too busy cowering in here behind your duke while good men and women died, and you-”

“Colonel Heris!” The duke rose to his feet and his eyes flashed. Normally, from his seat, the sun shone through the tall windows and bathed him in light so that he seemed to sparkle and shine. On this day, the smoke was so thick that the light lent a sickly pallor to him, made his salt-and-pepper hair seem thin and wispy—though it may not have just been the lack of sun that made him seem so old and weary. Nonetheless, sun or no, there was an aura about him, a presence, a certain something that told onlookers that here was a man of power, here was a man to be reckoned with. “You will watch your tongue. And you, Darvel, will keep silent.”

He passed his glare from one to the next as the other courtiers of Duke Gervis III shuffled their feet. One cleared his throat quietly.

“Now, I have heard something about a new weapon. Can you shed any light on this, Colonel?”

He swallowed his rage and pulled together his frayed thoughts, recalling the hellish scene on the outer wall, recalling the shrieks, the fire, the concussions that had rocked the keep to its foundations.

“I don't know, Your Grace. I've never seen anything like it. Each carried a tube some two feet or so long. While out of bow range, they struck some sort of spark, and shortly after, the wall began to shake itself to pieces.”

“I've heard of something like that,” said Baron Henter. “They use something similar in the east. It's supposedly much like pointing fireworks ahead instead of up.”

“And they were able to shake down my walls with fireworks?” the duke asked, astonished.

“Your Grace, even the prettiest of fireworks is more powerful than it appears.”

“And they had thousands of those bloody things,” Heris said wearily.

“Apparently. What now?”

“My men are making their last stand at the inner gate but though their efforts have been heroic, they are still vastly outnumbered.” Here Heris paused, hesitant to continue, though he knew he must. No one had ever lost Killhern and oh how it galled. The duke had never been forced to flee for his life. “If Your Grace has a means of leaving the palace unnoticed, I suggest you do so now. These men and I will do what we can to safeguard your departure.” He gestured to the four score soldiers, a mixture of his and Gervis's personal guard.

Gervis hesitated before making his decision. “You have done the best you can, Heris. In light of this new weapon they carry, I do not entirely blame you for what has befallen here today, no matter what my advisors may suggest. I leave you in command of these men. Hold the savages off as long as you can.”

He spun on his heel and signaled the remaining members of his court to follow. They disappeared behind the duke's ornate chair, into the door that was normally reserved for his entrance and departure from regular audiences. Even as that door snicked quietly closed, a clash rose from outside the audience hall. Shouts reached them through the double doors.

“Right then,” Heris barked. “Form up. The duke will need time to make good his escape. I expect each of you to be dead and bloody cold before letting a single savage past.”

Weapons were drawn, hasty prayers were muttered. A battle cry erupted somewhere beyond and the doors were flung open. A veritable wave of Dakariin rolled in behind a billow of smoke, their faces contorted, distorted, their eyes demon wide.

Heris met the first sword, shoved it aside, and thrust, felt a gratifying wet resistance. Spinning, he slashed and someone shrieked as hot blood spattered his face. He tasted it and somewhere deep, somewhere lost in the battle-rage that held his reins firmly in its grip, he realized that his mouth was open, that he was bellowing at the top of his lungs.

On they came, attacker after attacker, and he felt a glimmer of hope. Bodies littered the floor, surrounded him and though he had no time to inspect them, it did not take a careful inspection to know that most of them were Dakariin. What if they could do it? What if the few remaining managed to stave off this siege? His arm rose and fell, rose and fell, and every time it did, more blood flowed, more bodies crumpled to the floor.

But the odds were astronomical, impossible. His hopeful thought was nothing more than an adrenaline fueled flight of fancy. He may as well have wished for the sun to rise in the west for a change. At midnight. Painted green. He had known that the moment the idea had struck him, but there must always be room for hope. Hope is ever the last bastion.

Even as he lopped off an arm, there was a searing pain in the pit of his belly, a white hot flash that spread fast as light through his core. He swung his sword, battering yet another away, and suddenly his arm went limp. Distantly, he heard a clatter at his feet as his legs turned to jelly. His eyes turned of their own accord as the flame in his guts intensified and he found himself staring into the triumphant eyes of a savage. The savage jerked. Agony ripped through him, threatened to tear him apart. He gasped.

He fell. He fell for a long time and that was strange. He was not that tall. His sight went blurry yet oddly, light seemed to limn everything in a sharp, contrasting glare. Blackness crept in at the edges. Suddenly breathing seemed difficult, but he did, he managed. Breath in, breath out. Just keep doing that. In and out. His cheek was blessedly cool against the marble floor, though a hot stickiness was beginning to dull the chill.

As his sight failed him, as he began to fall again into something he knew he would not come back from, his last thought was not what he might have expected while the depth of eternity was staring at him full in the face. He had hoped for some action, earlier that day. And now the thought tumbled through his fading thought: be careful what you wish for.

* * *

Killhern burned for a full month. Marauders roved the streets laughing raucously and slaughtering any they found. They set fire to anything that would hold a flame. The luckiest victims were those who were murdered out of hand. The unlucky ones, usually women but sometimes men, and children too for the Dakariin were more than depraved, were raped and tortured, often repeatedly before they were allowed the mercy of death. And every once in a while, even after one hapless victim or other had exhaled for the last time, even then, some of the Dakariin took what they wanted.

Bodies littered the streets like detritus, blood and other things that were meant to remain imprisoned within flesh flowed freely in the gutters, puddling and pooling anywhere there was a depression in the ground. Fires raced through summer-dried buildings leaving ashes and shadows behind. Screams were heard everywhere.

Some refugees escaped, perhaps a few thousand or a few more, taking to the south road when it became known that Killhern was dying. They walked as quickly as they could to flee the devastation behind them but in their exhaustion, it was best to call their pace a trudge, and they hoped that they would be far enough ahead when the Dakariin began to move again.

When the fires and the screams tapered away, when only the bones of the city remained jutting into the sky like carrion picked clean by vultures, when there was no more carousing to be found, the Dakariin formed up, still some fifteen thousand strong, and marched south perhaps a dozen miles before settling in and raising their rancid camp. They seemed to be waiting for something, but no one dared get close enough to find out what.

Behind them, Killhern City, the jewel of the north, the primary defense, the armor between the hostile savages from the wastes and the civilized sophistication at the soft core of the Kingdom of Threimes, was well and truly dead.

Chapter 30

Threimes stood at his office window, hands clasped behind his back, staring distractedly at the garden below. It was his wife's garden. Before she had left, she used to plant many of the flowers and shrubs herself. Each one had its own place; taken as a whole, the garden formed intricate patterns that dazzled the eye and stole the breath. It was why he had had his office relocated here some years before. It never failed to calm him.

Almost never.

As his senior advisors bickered behind him, he strove at length to find that place where emotion was a footnote, where logic prevailed above all else. Highly disciplined as he was, he usually had no difficulty reaching that place. Today, with the news, brought by an exhausted and thoroughly terrified messenger, of Killhern's fall still ringing like death's bells in his ears, he had no success.

Officially in a state of war, his commanders were making preparations to march within days. War. He still had difficulty assimilating the depth of it. Why had the Dakariin done it? What was their agenda?

“I will be going with them,” Threimes said, interrupting several heated debates.

Of course, his declaration was met with gasps and protests from his advisors, with raised voices that filled his office with a clamor that exacerbated his headache. He turned to face them.

“My lord, you cannot.”

“It will be dangerous.”

“There is no need.”

Threimes cut his hand through the air, silencing them. “I am going. Chancellor Gustav will be in charge while I am away.” He glanced at the man, wide-set, middle-aged, his beard making him look strangely like an inverse tiger, orange-red striped with white, and Gustav nodded mutely.

“But Your Majesty,” Grayson said. “This is not the time. There are continuing reports of activity in the south. You know what is happening there. They may have suffered a defeat but they are still a threat. And now with this unprovoked attack on Killhern...we need our king here.”

“There is no heir to the throne,” Terban, the Duke of Threimes said. “Your wife, the good queen needs to return home. We need to secure the line of succession. Your Majesty, please...”

His voice trailed off and he backed away from Threimes's dirk-sharp glare.

“You will not speak of the queen,” the king said quietly. “She will return.” I hope. “As for the succession, there is still ample time to worry about it.”

He quelled the thoughts that rose of his wife, his queen, his Tilda. Gods but he missed her. He would give away his kingdom in return for her forgiveness. At one time, she had loved him. Perhaps she still did. But there was too much anger yet, too much grief. She still blamed him for their daughter's death, still blamed him for not protecting her. So many years ago yet not long at all. Sometimes if he allowed himself to think of it, he could still feel the sting where she had slapped him, he could feel it and it was like an accusation.

She must have known he could not have done anything. She was an intelligent woman, probably more intelligent than he was, he thought wryly. She must know.

“But if you do not return...” Grayson hedged.

“I will return. Never fear, my sword arm still works as it ever did.”

“But...”

“No more. I have made my decision. I am going. The men are preparing as we speak, I will take a platoon of palace guards for my personal protection, and we will set out at dawn, three days hence. That is my command.”

They bowed their heads in acquiescence and yet...and yet, did Grayson smile?

No, time to worry about that later. There were plans to be laid, preparations to be made. He waved a dismissal at them and he sat as they filed out, leaned back and rubbed his face when the door closed. Too much to do. Too many things to think of without adding the machinations of an ambitious and devious man into the mix.

He wished that Tilda was there. She had been his oasis, always able to soothe him with a word, a comforting touch, a light smile. And more than that, she had a way of thinking, a singular insight, that made fuzzy matters clear, that made difficult decisions easy. But she was not here. She may never be again and he felt her absence like a wound, like an amputated limb.

Gods, but he was tired.

He called for General Theissen. Of all the people at his court, it was the general he most trusted. Of course he trusted Gustav, and he supposed he trusted Terban, but Theissen had been his staunchest supporter for years. Even when he had been an arrogant young crown prince, and Theissen was his armsmaster, training him in the ways of the sword and combat, there had been a bond. The bond had never kept Theissen from giving his pupil a good slap upside the head when necessary—on the contrary, perhaps it was the strength of the bond that gave Theissen the singular right to so chastise the crown prince without fear. Perhaps it was the strength of the bond that coaxed Theissen to upbraid him even now when he thought it necessary. If the laws of protocol had allowed it, it would have been Theissen and not Gustav who held the second most powerful position in the kingdom.

A short time later when Theissen, marched in and threw Threimes a cursory salute, the king spoke low and earnest words. Theissen's eyes hardened, his expression stilled, grew serious to the point of severity, but he nodded, and when the king finished, Theissen promised that all would be as Threimes commanded. No hesitation, no arguments. Just straight, simple acceptance.

When Theissen left, Threimes blew a sigh of relief. He thanked the gods that Theissen was there. He thanked the gods, for he would never have been able to trust anyone else, maybe not even Tilda, with what he had just told Theissen.

Chapter 31

Corporal Hergis Townvald had asked for his posting. He had wanted to be near the forefront, to clean the northern border of the Dakariin filth. After distinguishing himself in the line of duty against raiders in the south, his commander had cited him with a commendation and promoted him to corporal with the chance to go where he would when his next duty assignment came up. And he had chosen Sharong. The commander had gaped at him in disbelief; she had thought he would choose a nice, cushy posting. Threimes perhaps, or Grayson.

Since his arrival some eight months before, there was only one occasion where he regretted that choice: this exact moment. He plodded down the road in his position amongst the infantry, pike held loosely in his hand, hide shield dragging behind him on the pitted dirt of the road that ran through the south central portion of the Boreal forest, trying to ignore the drum beats that blasted between his ears.

Less than twenty-four hours before, he had been on leave in Sharong City along with the rest of his squad. Anyone who had wanted to find them, would have had a difficult time for he and his mates had been bar-hopping down by the docks, spending their coppers on everything alcoholic, with no thought that anyone would be searching for them. But someone had: the major, in fact, and that pissant little rookie of a private had been sent for them, had hunted them through the docks district following their drunken trail of lechery and brawling, with some news that would have been disturbing if Hergis and his mates had not been so damned drunk. As it was, they had laughed at him and Trip told him to go bugger a skunk—drunk as he was, it had sounded more like “skugger a bunk”; the night before that had been the height of hilarity. But when they saw the order in the major's own hand, they had grumblingly followed the lick-spittle little prick back to the barracks.

He still vaguely remembered his sergeant telling them to get some sleep, still sort of recalled pouring himself, still clothed, into his cot, wishing he'd had the time to pick up a tasty treat, that cute little blond that had been flirting with him maybe, to bring back with him.

But morning had come, along with the inevitable effects following a night of too much drink. Of course, he had not thought it a problem. His leave was to finish at the end of that day; plenty of time to get himself back in proper order. Shortly after waking, they had been ordered to pack up their kits and muster to march by the changing of the guard, an hour hence.

So here he was, his squad marching with him, each looking as though death had crawled in through their bungholes and settled in for a nice long visit, as the sun glared down and bored through their eyeballs and boiled the gooey stuff behind (of course; it would have been too much to ask that the sun stay out of sight for a little while, at least until his head stopped trying to remove itself from his shoulders). His guts churned acidly, and he regretted his decision to be posted up in this godforsaken back woods garrison where the real action was supposed to be good and bloody, and where leave was supposed to be a respected covenant held between officers and their enlisted charges.

He supposed, if he had any mind to be pragmatic at all—which was rather difficult, all things considered—there was plenty of reason to roust the garrison to a forced march. Rumor had it Killhern was in the process of burning to the ground and there was a host of Dakariin sporting greater numbers than any Dakariin army had in living memory, and every garrison on the north road had been mobilized to intercept and destroy the savages.

Sounded like fun. Why could it not have waited until the next day?

He coughed, choked on the dust kicked up by the cavalry and by the first several ranks of infantry ahead. To his right, Trip slogged, ashen faced and sweating freely, obviously feeling the previous night as keenly as Hergis was.

“How you doin, Trip?” he asked mildly.

From behind, Lef chuckled and groaned.

“Like shit. How ya think?”

“You look it too,” grumbled Herry from behind.

“Shut up, you pig sticker.”

“Aye, and last night I stuck a pig that looked an awful lot like your mother.”

“Aw bullshit,” shot Krendal. “You was in bed passed out like the rest of us.”

“Nice. Well done, Krendel. Way to keep up with the conversation, you bloody fool.”

Anyone happening by may have thought that a general brawl was about to commence, may in fact be led to believe that a brawl had already taken place judging by the bruises and scrapes that liberally marred the five men—mementos from their revelries. In actual fact, these five were best of friends, comrades, squad mates and drinking partners alike.

With Hergis's bloody luck, some visiting major or colonel that he did not know would pass by and think there was a bloody battle about to start, and being the corporal meant that it was up to him to keep order. Which meant he would take the blame. Besides, he was in no condition to withstand the bickering.

“All right, you turds,” Hergis growled. “Be quiet or I'll thump the lot of you.”

“Pfff. You look as bad as the rest of us, Herg,” said Lef. “I bet you couldn't thump a daisy right now.”

“Probably not but I ain't in the mood right now boys, eh? Give us a break, eh?”

They fell silent as they marched. It was a rare occasion indeed when he tossed around his rank.

At mess time, they pulled off the road to their assigned slot in their platoon formation and laid out their rolls before setting out for the fires and their waiting chow. It was never fine dining fare, but it was filling. That done, they headed back to their little part of the camp and enjoyed the evening as best they could.

And toward lights-out, a few tosses of the dice decided the watch for that night. Grumbling, Trip stalked off to take his turn while the rest went to ground, nursing the remaining traces of their headaches.

* * *

The morning dawned gray. Now that their hangovers were by and large memories (except for some remaining jitters now and then) a nice bit of sun might have been pleasant accompaniment to their march. But beyond the bruised sky, the day was a mild one. Cool but not cold, with a slight breeze that refreshed without being uncomfortable, it was a day that seemed custom made for a long march. Even the bit of rain that passed overnight was a helpful thing. It had not been enough to turn the road into a boot-sucking mire but rather just enough to keep the dust on the ground.

Being in the middle of the host on the march, they were not required to reveille until twenty minutes after the vanguard and they took advantage of it, right to the last second when their sergeant's voice cut through the quiet activity, announcing that they had fifteen minutes to get their kit packed.

He and his squad were veterans—Lef was the youngest at twenty-four but even he had nearly ten years in the king's army—and so, working like a well-oiled machine, they were some of the first in their platoon ready to march.

Without the drums in his skull, Hergis was able to more fully appreciate the march. Sure it was hard work, especially in the dead of summer or in the depths of winter, and sure he found his muscles sore after hour six or seven but really, how bad was it? All he was doing was going for a long walk in decent weather and for that, he was getting paid not just his regular rate of two coppers a day, but he was getting campaign bonus on top of it. That worked out to about another two coppers a day. That meant that he was earning nearly a full silver every two days. Not a bad haul for going on a long walk. Then there was the scenery. Early fall, this far north? He was a man whose word hoard was small; the best he could come up with was 'right pretty'. Even under the ugly gray, the colors seemed to pop from the trees as he and his crew plodded by.

Of course, he knew it would not last. He was no fool; he had seen plenty of real war. At thirty-two winters, he was getting to be considered an old-timer—few pikemen lived much past thiry-five or so though he had known a couple that claimed to be well over forty—a veteran whose opinion counted for a lot with the younger generation. When Herry and Lef started bragging about how much fun it would be to slaughter the Dakariin savages, it was up to him and Krendal (who himself was thirty-five and was the eldest of the whole platoon) to put them in their places which they did with a few sharp words.

Midday came and went, and they ate their rations on the march. Orders came from ahead that Colonel Ris was unhappy with their progress and they would be marching through lunch mess for the next few days to make up for time lost. The colonel was a good enough sort, but he tended to be a little pushy at times.

They set camp an hour later that night; the sergeant bawled for them to set bed rolls but no tents as they were to be off early the next morning. Several groans were uttered at this, including one from Lef which Hergis promptly stifled with a smack upside the head, but soon all were laid out and ready for their cold rations.

* * *

The third day passed as uneventfully—except for a good laugh when Trip caught his toe on a mostly buried rock and went sprawling. That was good for a day's worth of jokes about his nickname. The fourth day and fifth also went by with nothing to note, and Hergis found his spirits rising as the march went on. He really did love a nice walk. It was an added bonus that at the end of it, they would get the chance to blood their pikes on Dakariin swine.

On the dawning of the sixth, they arose as usual, in the gray-black of predawn, that strange time that straddled the worlds of day and night, and they packed their kit and started off.

Hergis was not quite himself that day. By sundown the previous day, he had been sneezing and coughing, and he awoke that morning with a nose that ran like a river. His joints felt achy and he just felt so tired.

Nothing serious, the medic said. Just a little chill. He will feel like death in a handbasket for the next two or three days, she said, and then it would disappear—plenty of time before the fighting started. She gave him a tonic to help him sleep, and another one to take in the morning before setting out to lessen the aches but there was nothing else to be done, and so he plodded on, his good cheer a little muffled by the cotton that seemed to have been stuffed in his ears. At least the tonic had the added effect that his mind seemed to become numb. He dimly wondered if the tonic was really no more than some whiskey with a few herbs tossed in to change the taste a little.

So it was that when the alarm came a short while later, Hergis did not notice at first. He kept plodding, feeling a little sorry for himself as the northern flank became a flurry of activity. Screams started, followed by shouts, then more screams. Odd, he thought, what was that he was hearing?

It was Krendal who gripped his shoulder with vise-like strength and spun him so that they were eye to eye. His eyes were wide, feverish with what, even in his daze, Hergis recognized as the onset of battle-rage.

“We are ambushed. Come on.”

Shaking the mucky streams of lassitude from his thoughts, Hergis gripped his pike more firmly and followed Krendal. Glancing north then west, he saw something that seemed odd. That should not have been. Dakariin? Here? Last he had heard, they were all at Killhern. The worst part was, there were a lot of them, a horde of them, an ocean, pouring from the trees and smashing into their northern flank and western rear.

He saw the banners for the fourth and fifth platoons, saw the men gathering there, preparing their shield walls. He thought he could just make out The seventh through ninth setting formation farther off. In the east, near the forefront, he saw a mass of cavalry preparing their charge as he took up his position under the banner for the sixth platoon, some few ranks behind the front line.

Arrows darkened the sky, sergeants roared for raised shields, instinct kicked in. He dropped to one knee, raised his shield, heard a thunk-thunk and twin shivers ran up his arm. Somewhere in the distance a terrible ululation picked up; it took him a moment to realize they were Dakariin battle-cries voiced by a thousand—ten thousand—throats.

To his right, Krendal peeked under the rim of his shield and grinned tightly. To his left, Trip propped his pike on the ground with the point extending into the air.

“Where're the others?” Hergis shouted to be heard over the clamor.

“Herry's behind you. Lef-”

Krendal gasped as an arrow managed to find its way between the hair width cracks in the shields and seemed to sprout from his thigh. He grunted as he flopped back to sit hard on the loose and slightly damp soil.

“Oh shit. Medic! Herry, cover me. Take it easy, Krendal,” Hergis said. “We need a medic over here!”

As if anyone would hear him over the din.

Ahead, the thunder of hooves, the clash of metal, more screams. A triumphant shout.

Pale faced, Krendal grinned and pointed at his leg. “What this? Just a flesh wound. Come on.”

Hoisting himself back up, Krendal tried. He really did. As the order to press forward came, Krendal stood at Hergis's side and kept pace but soon it became apparent that the wound was worse than they thought and Krendal stumbled once, then again.

“Lef, help Krendal. Get him out of here.”

“Lef's dead,” Herry called. “Took one in the ribs a while ago.”

A while? How long had they been at this? He glanced up, saw the sun approaching its zenith. Already? He knew time had a way of playing tricks in the middle of battle. He should; he had seen it often enough, but still it seemed strange, almost eerie, that he had managed to lose somewhere near what he reckoned was three or four hours.

He did not pause to consider Lef. Not yet. This was battle; consideration came for the living first.

There was a lull. It was not that there was quiet, not a cessation of commotion. No, just a decrease in the frenetic pace. A glance over the shoulder of the rank in front of him showed the rear ranks of Dakariin disengaging and disappearing back into the trees.

Another thunder of hooves, this one not as pervasive as the last few, metal clashing, more screams and the Dakariin broke and ran into the trees. Another triumphant shout.

For a while, sergeants bawled for order, for formation. Medics hastened across the lines, tending to those that could be saved, bypassing those that could not. It was a battle. Losses were inevitable. And the losses that day were steep. Early estimates passed down the line put their casualties at a little over five hundred. There was cause for cheer: the Dakariin dead were piled high, maybe nine hundred, maybe a little more.

Hergis sat next to Krendal, and Trip tore a strip from his cloak to bandage a gash on his arm. Herry joined them, and for a moment they were silent as they let their blood cool.

They were not given long.

The alarms pierced the day once again. With a groan Hergis rose to his feet, helped the others up and took his place in ranks.

Once again, Dakariin poured from the trees, but this time instead of charging into the Sharong troops, they stopped about twenty paces away and waited silently, each one as stone-faced as the next. Craning his neck, Hergis tried to see what they thought they were doing. Each Dakariin carried a tube of some sort, about the length of his forearm. The ends that were pointed this way seemed to be hollow. Hergis drew down his brow in confusion.

Hergis heard Captain Fax call for the advance.

Flashes. Hundreds of them. Each one followed by a dull Thub, and a low hissing noise.

Then chaos.

Ruddy bright flames erupted in the lines, and hard roars split ears. The ground rocked and churned under his feet and it was all Hergis could do to stay standing as more and more explosions rocked the Sharong troops.

“What the fuck is that?” Herry shrieked.

The next instant there was a white heat beside Hergis and it seemed a giant hand slapped him across the torso. Knocked sprawling, Hergis blinked. When he looked up, the sky and the writhing mass of bodies above him seemed to be red and somehow there seemed to be no sound anymore, well almost no sound. It was like putting a seashell to each of his ears. He wiped a hand across his eyes and that helped. Now it was just his hand that was red. It was not until he tried to lift himself that he noticed the weight across his legs.

Glancing down showed him something that he never could have imagined in his lifetime. He stifled the urge to vomit when his gaze found what was left of Herry. His friend had been torn apart and the ruined upper left half of his torso was what held Hergis down. One eye stared still seemingly surprised from the half of his head that was not a bloody mess. Frantically, spastically, Hergis kicked the gory remains from him and lurched to his feet.

He turned left and right, wondering if he was underwater because everything seemed so slow, so unreal, watched as the Sharong garrison seemed to break apart at the seams and start a general rout even as more of those insane hellfire blasts blew through their ranks like angry demons. Gasping, fear turning his bowels to water, Hergis backed away a step and another.

Why exactly had he thought it would be so great to be posted here again?

For all the fire, for all the explosions, maimed bodies and blood, it seemed that the Sharong troops had entirely forgotten the Dakariin archers. Hergis was no exception. As he turned and broke into a run, he felt that giant's punch and black spots danced before his eyes. This time it was high in his back and he fell to his knees.

He felt a tug in his chest and he looked down. There, sticking out of his chest was a bloody arrow point.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

It should hurt, shouldn't it? He had seen plenty of arrow injuries in his time and he had heard the howls. But there was no pain. Just an odd tingling heat that radiated outward. Perhaps the tonic the medic had given him was deadening the pain. There should be some. He was sure of it.

Then he coughed and along with the wetness that spewed from his lips there was a sensation of tearing deep in his chest and the pain was finally there. It raged through him unchecked and he suddenly found that he had a great deal of difficulty drawing breath. He battled that for a while, struggled to draw in one breath then the next, but he knew. He had seen enough battle in his life. He knew. The arrow had punctured his lung which was filling with his blood. Soon, he would drown in his own fluids.

Did someone mention that Lef took one in the ribs? He thought it might have been Herry, or Trip. Then he thought that this was no way to die. Poor bastard.

As crow's feathers brushed the edge of his vision, he felt suddenly cold and suddenly so tired. Perhaps he should lie down for a bit, rest up. It might help him feel better. That was what he did. As from far, far away, he felt his cheek grow cool on the ground and somehow it felt good where the other cold he was starting to feel, that spread relentlessly from his core, was an uncomfortable thing.

As the crow's feathers closed in and blotted out the world, he regretted for one last time his choice of transferring to Sharong.

* * *

In normal Dakariin fashion, the dead were left to rot where they fell, a veritable cornucopia for the scavengers who came to feast. Some few from the Sharong garrison escaped that terrible slaughter, but the Dakariin were ruthless and they spent the next few days in a frenzied hunting spree chasing down the fleeing, terrified men and women of the king's army.

There were not many.

When they were finished with their butchery, the Dakariin set camp and had a great festival to celebrate their victory over the sunlanders. There was much drunkenness as well as activities common to an invading horde when there are villages, and women, nearby.

When they set out some few days later to meet the other half of their force to the south of Killhern, they left nothing behind except for ashes and somewhere north of eleven thousand bodies.

Chapter 32

One moment, he stood beside a blasted lilac tree in a barren and lifeless landscape, and the next he stood beside a pond in an idyllic lea that brimmed with birdsong and the chitter-skitter-twitter of wildlife at play and at war. One moment, he smelled dust, and decay, and the next, flowers and grasses, earth, life.

The sun played hide and seek among the powder-puff clouds and his pond alternated between dull iron gray and sparkling quicksilver. Just seeing his pond brought a sharp pang to him, brought his past back into stark clarity. Days spent here fishing, swimming, playing games of Catch-Me-If-You-Can, or just sitting there by the shore watching the sunset and trading stories with his friends returned so clearly to his mind's eye that it might have just happened yesterday.

But of course that was just a foolish fancy. It had been more than a year—and felt like an eternity—since he had last laid eyes on the place.

He tore himself away from the well-remembered shore that was lined with thick tufts of reeds and weeds so much like a bad haircut, and he raked his surroundings with eyes that might have been made of steel. To the west, the bit of woods, the part that was cut off from the great ancient forest south of the farm, stood as it always had, oaks and elms interspersed with patches of conifers. Not a huge forest—barely more than a glorified copse—but still, for a boy, it had seemed limitless. To the east, he was just able to glimpse the edge of the fields that were a carpet of green where corn and barley grew. To the south the steep hill, that rose from the ground like a wave, that he used to roll down during the summer and slide down during the winter. Rising from the top was the tree where he had watched his friends play out countless adventures. It was all so familiar it made him choke, made him wonder how he would react when he saw other more cherished parts of his past. It made him wonder, fleetingly, if he wanted to see those parts at all.

Gods, but he was tired. The events of the past weeks had taken their toll, and now seeing this, being here, being buffeted by memories that should have remained dormant, he felt his shoulders sag, his legs go weak. Perhaps a little rest would be in order. Perhaps a few moments to sit and gather himself. He found a stone a few feet from the shore large enough for him to sit on. He picked a reed, a cattail, and he sat, slowly shaving the velvet brown end with a fingernail and let his thoughts take over, let them take the bit in their teeth and go for broke.

As he sat, lost in his thoughts, an image popped into his mind. He looked up with a start, and grunted. Right over there, just a few paces from where he sat, he recalled some boys from another farm, boys who had come here to get drunk, and who had at least in part been the reason that the course of his life had brought him here, to this moment.

He did not blame them. He knew full well they had not made him what he was. He knew if not they, then someone else would have performed the same function. They were not guilty of murdering an army with one bad choice, or Daved's death, or anything else that had happened in the last decade. But they had set him on the track. It was the first time he could recall hearing that ringing in his head, the first time his own inner self, his dark side, as the poets might have said, had peeped through. He grunted again and it was with a bitter sort of amusement that he recalled Valik storming around the farm for the next few days with a nose the size of a gopher. No, those boys had not made his life what it was. They had been the road marker: JUREL'S LIFE – NEXT LEFT. Who knew the road, broken and winding, would have led through dense forests and forbidding deserts?

He stayed and he pondered longer, as the sun began to dip, to sag as though the mugginess of the day caused it to wilt. He stayed, skipping stones, shaving more cattails, or just staring into the water that darkened from blue-white to ruddy golden to maroon and finally to black. He stayed, and when he grew tired, he rose and wandered to a nice soft spot on the ground where he lay down and watched the stars begin again their celestial theater until he fell asleep.

* * *

His pond was black. He did not know what caused this blackness but it was as black as an inkwell. This was strange to him; the sun was a great ruddy, burning ball that seemed twice its normal size. That too was strange. Not just because it was too big but because it glared down from the north. He stared at his pond, uncertain, confused, puzzling out why it should be so, why his pond did not reflect at least some of the demon sun.

He knelt at the shore and reached a hand to the still water. Water? He did not know what else to call it; for lack of a better term, he stuck with it but it seemed as much like water as wolves seemed like sheepdogs. As his hand stretched closer, his bare wrist and torn cuff caught his eye. Abruptly, he glanced down with a jolt. His silken black shirt was not there. Instead, he once again wore his tattered rags, the ones he thought he had left back in his place. It was another question.

For the moment, he decided to ignore it; there were bigger fish to fry as the saying went. Once again, he reached his hand toward the water and as he did so, a new emotion began to claw its way through the confusion. His breath shortened, turned raspy. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead and he visibly paled. His senses sharpened as his eyes widened. Suddenly, he perceived movement within the water. It was not the regular movement of water in a pond; there were no ripples, no sound of water lapping against the shore. Instead it was something in the water, a darker shadow inside the dark.

He snapped his hand back before he touched it. Terror made him tremble, made him scuttle back from the edge of the pond that he knew in that instant would kill him if he dared breach its surface.

“No, child. I will not kill you.”

The voice made him gasp, not only because it was unexpected, not because it shattered the stillness and banished the pieces of the peace, but because it was raspy, grating, oily and slithery. And most undeniably...evil.

“Who are you?” asked Jurel as he searched the area, searched for the source of that terrible voice. Even though, somewhere inside him, he knew where it came from.

“Ah ah. It is too early to reveal that.” The voice was tinged with a morbid amusement that made Jurel's skin crawl. “Rest assured that I want you very much alive. I would like you to come and visit me.”

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“That will become tiresome very quickly,” the voice responded, oddly sibilant. There was a hint of rebuke under the amusement. “Rest assured that I wish to be your friend. I wish to get close to you.” A chuckle, low and loaded with meaning. “Yes, much closer.”

Jurel's throat closed. He tried to back away but his feet would not obey him. He tried to squeeze shut his eyes, but something held them open. Helplessly, he stared at the pond, at the swirling within.

“What do you want?”

“Tsk. I told you. You do not listen well, do you child?”

The pond began to simmer, to bubble as though someone had set a flame under it. It roiled and boiled, and black steam began to rise into the air. But it did not go far. Instead of dissipating away into the atmosphere, it stopped perhaps a dozen feet above the surface. Jurel watched in horror as it began to gather, to coalesce into a midnight cloud. More steam rose to join the cloud, and though vague, hazy yet, it began to take shape.

What might have been arms spread from the sides below a ball of gas that would likely become the head. Two pinpoints of light began to glow in that ball, pinpoints the color of the medal of fire that hung bloated in the sky. The thing began to take shape, to resolve itself into its final form: arms, a torso, a head. Its legs were not formed and perhaps they would not for the thing seemed to be standing in a pillar of smoke. The eyes brightened, glowed a dirty yellow-white and the bottom of the head separated. It was smiling.

“Begone! Go on now. Tis not the time for this!”

Jurel spun to face this new voice, this voice that he recognized though he could not recall from where, but there was no one there. His eyes skipped and darted as he searched. The voice was that of a woman. An old one. An angry one.

“You!” hissed the shadow thing above the pond.

“O' course me. Go on. Go back to your prison.” Under the raging shriek was a layer of pain like bedrock under topsoil.

“Bother this young one no more. He will arrive in due time.”

The creature above the pond shrieked and Jurel clamped his hands over his ears for it was as though a thousand fingernails were dragged down a thousand slates. As yet, he did not have control of his eyes and he watched as the creature wavered, vibrated like a struck bell. His breath came in short gasps, his lips were pulled back in a rictus grin as he watched the creature's arms spread as though the creature was stretching for him, reaching, grasping, murky, half-formed fingers flexing like claws.

It blew apart into a cloud and that cloud settled to the surface heavily, like grease.

And suddenly that which gripped him, that which held him to the spot disappeared. He slumped, his knees buckled and he fell heavily to a sitting position.

“Ne'er fear young 'un,” the old lady said. “He won't be botherin ye fer a bit. Ye just keep your eyes open an yer heart guarded, y'hear?”

Somehow he knew the old lady and the creature were gone. Call it an emptiness, call it a void, like walking into a dark room and instinctively knowing whether or not someone is there. He searched anyway, but there was nothing. The terror receded like an outgoing tide, his breathing slowed to something closer to normal though there was still a raspy edge, his trembling stopped, and the sweat turned to pinpricks of ice on his brow.

His eyes found once again the sun and he was relieved, for though it was still in the north, still too large and too bloated, it had contracted to something closer to what he considered normal. He lowered his sight, hoping and dreading. Molten shards reflected from the rippling blue pond.

* * *

He opened his eyes. Herring bone clouds the color of night stretched across the sky like pathways in the roseate sky. In the east, the red-gold sun bubbled over the lip of the horizon. For a moment, he froze. For a moment he did not know where he was, and when he did, when it came to him in a flash, he rose in alarm.

His eyes found the pond, and terror gripped him. It was black. As black as ink. He backed away a step. He saw a ripple. Another. He saw a sparkle of light and he breathed a sigh of relief. When he eyed the pond more carefully, he saw that in fact it was not black. Dark yes, but not quite black. It was the normal color of water that has yet to be touched by the day. Ruddy lines played along the crests of the ripples like tiger stripes as it lapped gently at its shore. He glanced at his arms and his chest, and he was intensely relieved to see black silk and golden swirls.

Chuckling ruefully as the remainder of his woolly sleepiness dissipated, he turned and surveyed his surroundings, found everything was as it should be. Birds tweeted drowsily, a bumblebee droned past, water slurped softly, and the reeds whispered quietly as a soft breeze wandered.

Satisfied, he turned west and strolled toward the woods. His plan was a simple one. He thought it best if he avoided contact with the farm's denizens—though he was sorely tempted to seek out a certain few of them—but he wanted to see his cabin, Daved's cabin. Once he was satisfied, he would disappear before anyone knew he had been there. A nice simple plan wrapped up in a tidy package.

Into the forest he went, into the still deep shadows, and he passed as silently as a wraith, not disturbing twig or leaf. He found the edge of the irrigation trench and his memories flooded back, memories of himself, burned to a crisp, carrying a pole and buckets slung over his shoulder because the land was caught in a terrible drought and the crops were withering. Memories of seeing a fat man whom he had considered an uncle smiling jovially at him and trading laughing words with him. Memories of a petulant bully who threw shovelfuls of dirt at him. He looked along the trench, back through time and he sighed wistfully. There was a bitter edge to the memories, but for the most part they brought a kind of solace to him, a sanctuary from the present.

In the here and now, he was dismayed to see that the trench they had worked so hard to open up was lined with a year's worth of dirt and detritus. Obviously, no one had tended to them. Obviously someone had forgotten the toll that drought had taken.

Slowly, the light grew, chasing away the shadows to reveal the greens and browns, as he walked, as he thought. When he reached the western edge of the woods, the clouds were almost invisible against the sea blue backdrop. He scanned the fields ahead but there was no movement. As yet it seemed there was no one about. He angled south so that he would skirt the edge of the field. His view of the cabin and the main house was obscured by the cluster of larger work buildings that stood barring the way in the near distance but even those barns provided another sort of release for him. Soaring above the roof of the main barn, the silo was like a beacon leading a foundering ship safely home.

Passing within paces of the wheat field, he followed its edge, and kept his eyes on the barns, remembering the games they had played. Jumping from the rafters into great piles of hay, hide and seek (the barns were always a good place to hide; everyone had known that at least one of them would be in there but the barns were filled with equipment and stalls, nooks and crannies that always offered the best hiding places), catch-me-if-you-can—which had always startled the horses in their stalls as the children ran shrieking and laughing down the central aisle. An image of Ingirt's severe expression popped into his head and he laughed out loud.

The secondary barn, he mostly ignored. That was the barn with the walled off room that served as a slaughter house. There were no good memories there. Only blood. Only violence. Only memories that recalled the new Jurel, the God Jurel.

At the snaking fence, he sighed in dismay. Searching along its path, he found that several sections had fallen. That had never been allowed to happen while Galbin was the head of the holding. He stepped over a log that somehow seemed forlorn lying half obscured in the shin-deep grass and quickly reached the edge of the smaller barn.

He skirted the edge, walked near its wall, pushing away memories of a cow he had once watched get a great spike through its brain, pushing away the fleeting thought that he was nowhere near as disturbed by the memory as he had once been. He kept his eyes and ears open; the farmers should soon be out to begin their daily work. He came out from the shadow of the barn and paused. The next building he had to pass would be the most difficult. It was the smallest barn, the one that was used by the farmhands and their families as living quarters.

Carefully, quietly, he jogged until his back was pressed against the structure. He listened. He scanned. His eyes popped open and he gaped. What he had seen at the fence should have warned him. But he had not really put the pieces together. Ahead of him now, and with the sun climbing higher and brighter, he saw the secondary barn and he scanned it more carefully. Paint was peeling in great strips to reveal the aging, weathered wood beneath. The roof was missing patches of tiles while other patches were crooked, broken, sticking up like a rooster's crest. He turned his head to the right and peered down the alley created by the secondary barn on one side, and the living quarters and smithy on the other.

The narrow view of the main barn that was afforded him confirmed what he had begun to suspect. On the ground, like a fallen soldier, lay the tree that had fallen the previous winter. Tiny tenuous leaves still grew from a few branches as though the great oak was still in the midst of its death throes. Above that, on the roof, the hole that had been caused by that tree, the hole that Galbin had been trying to repair when he fell to his death was there. It was covered with old and ill-fitting planks, but it was there.

Jurel sneered. So Valik really and truly was running things then for it was only that slovenly bastard who would allow the farm to fall into such a disgraceful state.

A movement resolved itself into a lone person, a man Jurel could not recognize at that distance, crossing the alley near the smithy and Jurel pressed himself further against the wall, unaccountably afraid of being seen. Did it really matter after all if he was noticed? Yes, he decided. Yes it did. He searched for an untarnished memory of his past, not the corrupt reality of the present.

He waited until the man was out of sight, waited for a dozen more heartbeats after that, and he stole away, rounding the corner of the living quarters. Ahead, half way to the main road, Jurel saw his tree. Once again, he was flooded with memories. How many times had he climbed to its upper limbs? How many times had he perched and watched the stars roll across the sky, or the farmers toiling in the field? How many times had he enacted and reenacted new adventures in his mind while the tree and indeed the whole world seemed to spread out to eternity at his feet? But as he stood staring at it, it seemed small. It occurred to him then that somehow the entire farm seemed small, confined. Not a sanctuary but a prison of sorts, a place where one might spend an entire lifetime, but never for a moment live.

At the tree, he looked up to the canopy, to the spreading limbs that had supported him and he suddenly understood Kurin a little better. He thought, at least, that he saw what Kurin had seen all those years ago. Provincial farmboy, the old man had called him and he had been right. Jurel circled the base of the tree, found the spot where he had carved his name with his father's knife, slid his fingers along the crude blocky letters, trying to find some connection, some link that said that yes, it had been he who had done this, that yes, this was his past, his life.

But he had moved on. He had become someone else in the past year.

There was no point in stalling any longer. For that was what he was doing. He had come with one goal in mind. He had come to see his cabin, his home. With a glance to the living quarters, he jogged away from the tree that had once been his.

It is odd that sometimes as one looks ahead, one is actually looking back. So it was when Jurel first laid eyes on his home. Clean white logs laid so neatly, so exactingly that no draft could find a port of entry, a roof with perfectly straight shingles, a chimney that jutted from the roof like a finger. Two windows, one by the front door and one at the side, both a luxury usually reserved for much wealthier folks. It stood in front of him as it always had and he almost expected to see the door open and his father step out.

But...

He blinked and that made all the difference. The windows remained but the shingles were in dire need of repair, the white paint was flaking away in places, and the door hung crookedly in its jamb. The place looked diseased.

Anger welled in his throat, a white hot surge that threatened to steal his breath away. His fists clenched as though of their own accord and he trembled. It was a battle for him, a stupendous struggle, but he managed to control himself. One deep breath, followed by another, and more, and finally he was able to unclench his fingers.

Though the sadness did not leave him, he was a pragmatic young man. This was why he had come. This was what he had to see. He searched for his past but perhaps it was time to close the book, time to put it to rest, to once and for all put it behind him. There was no point being angry or indignant. On the contrary, perhaps he should be grateful to whatever lowlife had allowed his home to become such a wreck. If it had truly been as pristine as it used to be, then it may have been harder for him to let go.

But if he let go of his past, what was left? He'd come here to find his past, to escape into it, not leave it behind.

He stepped to the window at the side of the house and, cupping his hands, he looked inside, feeling a twinge of guilt, as though he were some dirty voyeur who hoped to catch a glimpse of something scandalous. He was not sure if what he saw was scandalous but it certainly was not as he remembered it. Bits of clothing cluttered the floors and the table, and what was visible of the floor was filthy and muddy. Days old dishes and spoons were piled in a corner, the ladder that led to the loft was missing a rung. More of his past slipped away.

He stepped away, musing, mulling over the changes, wondering if they had any real significance. The depths of his thoughts, of his distraction was such that he did not hear the approaching footsteps.

“Holy shit,” someone said.

Jurel stiffened. Slowly he turned until he faced someone who looked to be thirteen or fourteen, but Jurel knew he was in fact sixteen. Or fifteen? Close enough. Even though the visage was pale and twisted in fear as though he had seen a ghost, even though the face was pocked with uncontrolled acne, Jurel still recognized the big ears and the general homeliness. He resigned himself to the inevitable. Of all the people who could have found him, perhaps only Valik himself would have been worse. In approximately ten minutes, every living being within a mile would know that Jurel was there.

“Hello, Wag,” he sighed.

“Ho. Lee. Shit!”

Wag spun and darted away.

“No, wait. Wag!”

No use, that. The boy was already disappearing around the corner of the living quarters. As Jurel recalled, Wag had always been a quick little bugger.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should wait, or if he should just turn tail and run back to his place. He still wanted a glimpse of the main house though he had a pretty good idea of what he would see: aged grandeur; something once glorious, crumbling to dust and decay. He decided, with bone-deep sadness, that whatever last shreds of his memory remained intact should remain that way.

But his decision took too long. The door to the living quarters flew open and a veritable sea of people emerged led by Wag and Trig, some still donning shirts, one hopping on one leg as he awkwardly pulled on his trousers. They flooded toward him, some staring, some glaring, and they halted in a wide semi-circle around him. No one wanted to get too close. Some believed he was a murderer. Others did not want to take the chance. Some he knew, like Jax, the old smith, and Meran who had at one time been nearly as inseparable from Galbin as Daved had been. Kerv was there with his ever present squint and Porris too limped in—his leg had never healed from the bad break sustained when a huge bale of hay had broken a cart's axle and fell on it. But most of them, most of the faces that stared at him, or glared, were strangers.

“Jurel? Is it really you?” Trig asked.

Whatever had transpired on the farm in the past year and a half, whatever these people had been through, it had not been easy. Trig was a ghost of himself, pale, far too thin, his clothes appeared to be the survivors of a ship-wreck. As Jurel transferred his eyes from Trig to Wag and on to the others, he noticed that all of them were in the same general state.

Jurel sighed. “How've you been, Trig?”

Emotions battled for control of Trig's face, flickering by so quickly that Jurel saw a dozen before finally the victor seemed to emerge and Trig stared at him with guarded fear—and was that gladness almost hidden under there?

“I can't believe it's you. What are you doing here?”

“I'm fine too, thanks,” Jurel responded with a wry smirk.

Trig's brow furrowed a little and then as day dawning, his eyes cleared and a smile grew. “I'm sorry. How are you?”

“I'm surviving,” he said with a shrug.

As though that opened the floodgates for the rest, questions began pelting him.

“How are you?”

“How's your da?”

“What're you doin here?”

“Did you really kill Shenk?”

“Where you been?”

A hundred questions from twenty throats melded into one solid roaring voice. It was a little overwhelming to be honest. Trig, apparently noticing Jurel's discomfort, turned and raised his hands above his head.

“Quiet! Let the man speak.”

Jurel would have spoken but he did not know what to say. He had not been prepared to meet the farm's population. He had wanted to get in and get out without being noticed. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of just going to his place right then and there. Now that would have been interesting. The only problem was that he would not get to see their reactions as he disappeared right before their eyes. He discarded the idea, not because of that, but because in the end, he had been discovered. He figured he may as well get some good out of it and reacquaint himself with old friends.

“It's nice to see you again,” he started lamely. “How are things here?”

Trig shrugged and it was a sad thing though the man tried to hide it with a patently false smile. “As well as can be expected. The crops are doing fairly well. The silo's almost empty but there's not much worry yet. It's...” He threw a look over his shoulder and when he looked back at Jurel his eyes were filled with earnest meaning. “Maybe you'd wanna sit down somewhere. Maybe share a cup with old friends?”

Jurel understood. “Maybe we should find some privacy,” is what Trig really meant.

“Sure,” he replied.

He was not quite sure how he was going to get through the throng that tangled in front of him, but when he took a step forward, then another, the staring and glaring farmers melted out of his way creating a path through their center.

Six steps they took, Jurel and Trig. Six. Then, from beyond a corner of the cabin, a very familiar voice bawled. Six steps and his escape with Trig was thwarted.

“What in the name of the underworld are you doing on my farm?”

Jurel closed his eyes, and suppressed a groan. He turned, cringing inwardly. All things considered, this meeting seemed inevitable.

“Hello, Valik.”

The farm's owner glowered as he strode up. He had begun to grow fat. Galbin had been fat too but where in the father the obesity barely camouflaged the immense power earned through hard work underneath, Valik seemed soft, doughy. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his nose was a color that any widow of a heavy drinker would recognize. Jurel had not wanted to see anyone on the farm and this man was the reason. Had he been afraid of what seeing Valik again would bring? Had he worried that he would become once again the mousy creature that he had been in his youth? Or perhaps he feared more the demon he had become his last night here, the monster that lurked ever present beneath the surface.

Now that he stood face to face with his childhood nemesis, he searched himself for the emotions that must surely be there. But they were not. Some vague annoyance, perhaps, but that was all. It was as if, when he left the farm, he left it all behind, just up and dumped it all on his way out. Certainly there was more to it than that, but it was an explanation of sorts.

A step behind him, Merlit's beady little eyes were squinted in malicious glee. Behind them, Ingirt hurried to keep up and her eyes showed fear. Fear. Real, actual fear. For years, Jurel had lived in terror of the formidable, indomitable woman. Galbin's wife had always been quick to anger, quicker to exact retribution for any slight, any prank and her punishments had been severe—except when it was Valik who was caught out. She had been the mistress of this farm, and more. She had been queen. The woman that approached in her somber dress and her frayed mass of unruly hair now was a broken wisp of the woman Jurel remembered.

“Didn't you hear me? Your ears all packed up? I asked what you think you're doing here.”

“Oh, not much. Just thought I'd drop by and see how my friends are doing.” He said airily, then, as an afterthought, he added, “And you too, I guess.”

The farmers shuffled their feet, their eyes were, to a man, on the ground. Clearly they wanted to be elsewhere. Even the newer hands, the ones that Jurel had never met, turned their attention away. Of course. Valik would have made sure that everyone knew of the murderer that he had driven off. In a flash of inspiration, he was suddenly quite certain that it was one of Valik's favorite topics of discussion. He could almost see Valik sitting at his fire while enrapt farmhands (or at least farmers who were smart enough to appear enrapt in front of their employer) gathered close.

“Oh I tried to stop him. I fought him right in my own dining room the night he killed my father, may he rest in peace. But the sneaky bastard used foul trickery and escaped. I sent two good men to grab him until we could get the proper authorities to take him. But he left Shenk for the vultures and Merlit lying half broken in the forest. That man knows no remorse. His soul is black I tell you. Black.”

Yes, he was certain that everyone on the farm had heard something like that. A much longer version, but that would be the gist.

Teeth bared, Valik took a threatening step forward followed closely by Merlit. “What, you here to kill the rest of us now? Shenk and my father weren't enough for you?”

Jurel trained a flat glare at him. “Didn't you hear me? Your ears all packed up?” he said in imitation of the idiot standing in front of him. A few snickers greeted this. “I said I'm here to see how everyone is.”

Ingirt laid a hand on her son's shoulder, her eyes imploring. “Valik please, don't do this. He's done no wrong and you know it. Please.”

Begging. Ingirt begging. Perhaps Jurel could die now for he was certain he had seen everything.

Merlit chuckled. Valik trembled with pent rage. Jurel glared.

The eyes that regarded him, those hateful eyes, narrowed, and a small smile appeared at the corners of Valik's mouth. A snake eying a mouse.

“Of course mother dear. Where are my manners?”

And suddenly Jurel felt like he was thirteen all over again for Valik's tone, that oily sneaky tone that was as much an omen as earth tremors near a volcano, was well-remembered.

“You'll stay here and dine with us, won't you Jurel?”

Squirming just a little bit, Jurel managed a sickly smile and shrugged. “If you would like.”

“Oh I would, I would.”

What was he to do? As the farmhands eyed each other speculatively, confused by their master's sudden change of heart, he made a decision. If Daved had accomplished anything it was ensuring that his son had a good set of manners. And there was no doubt in Jurel's mind that before the night was over, he would sorely regret it.

Chapter 33

Valik himself gave Jurel a tour of the farm, and Ingirt and Trig stayed close. Whether because they were happy to see Jurel or because they thought witnesses were necessary Jurel could not tell. As they strolled the compound, Valik kept up a syrupy, friendly patter of conversation that grated at Jurel's already taut nerves. It was during this time that Jurel found out more about the farm and its remaining denizens than he wanted to hear.

There were perhaps half as many folk left as when Galbin was in charge. Valik said it was because the farm had never needed so many people, that Galbin had been wasting money and valuable resources keeping so many clothed and housed and fed. “The rest have to work a little harder but after all it's an easy job and they get far more from me than other earls would provide. Did you know that? I'm an earl. Yep, found the paperwork in my father's stuff.”

Oh, but he was a smug bastard. There passed an instant, one that Valik did not know about, when he almost lost his teeth.

But Jurel had the notion that Valik simply wanted to keep the extra for himself. As for the whole business of Valik's ascension to the noble cast, well, perhaps he was or perhaps he was just blowing hot air. Either would not surprise Jurel terribly much. The farm was a large one as farms go and Galbin had always had money. It was not so hard to think that Galbin had been a nobleman—albeit a minor one—but true to form, Galbin had never put much stock in the title; it was the first time Jurel had ever heard of it (he wondered momentarily if Daved had known) and true to form, Valik would wave his title under everyone's noses.

As they wandered, they passed folk about their daily tasks. Most contented themselves with shooting cautious, curious glances toward Jurel before going on their way. Those few who dared to speak, to presume to ask questions, were harshly reprimanded by Valik, “Have you not enough to do that you can accost your lord's guest? I will tell Merlit to find ways to fill your time. Now begone!”

Jurel was dismayed by what he saw that morning. The main barn was a shambles. Besides the damaged roof, the stables were filthy, the food troughs looked more like middens, and although the stench of manure had always been present, it was much stronger than it ever had been. Indeed, it seemed as though the place had not been properly cleaned in months.

Valik proudly showed him the project he had begun—or rather the project he had assigned others to begin. The smithy was being moved from the workshop to the area of the barn that had been damaged by the storm. He showed Jurel where a hole had been dug under the broken section of the roof, showed where the forge would go, and where shelving was being prepared.

“And I can save time and money because there's already a place for the chimney,” Valik crowed pointing to the hole in the roof.

“Why are you moving the smithy at all?”

“The existing smithy and workshop will be torn down. I'm having a guest house built. It's only proper after all. Every nobleman should have a guest house.”

Of course. Because the farm saw so many visitors. In Jurel's ten and more years on the farm, only merchants had come calling and they never stayed longer than it took to fill their carts. The only guest Jurel could remember spending the night was an old itinerant healer who had been more than content to sleep in a hayloft.

That did not even begin to touch on the real problem. The animals that remained would suffer under the constant heat and fumes that spewed from the forge, and if there was ever a fire—the workshop had been rebuilt when Jurel was six because of one—well what would happen to them then? Did Valik have an evacuation plan? Did he care? Of course not. Why should he?

Their next stop on the tour was the silo. Again, Jurel was sickened. Trig had been generous in his assessment. The stocks were dangerously low. What remained would barely see them through to the next reaping. What remained was crawling with pests and mold. Jurel asked Valik what they would do when the food ran out.

“Oh I've already ordered some from Tack. Shipment should be in within the next few days.” He waved at the stores that remained. “My employees will have all this—I know, I know. I'm too generous.”

Aghast, Jurel did his best to hide his disgust. Never had Galbin ever had to buy stores; even during that dreadful drought, when a goodly portion of the crops had withered to dust, Galbin had been able to see them through. The farm had always provided them all with more than they needed.

The living quarters were in a state too. The windows had all been removed, replaced with rough boards. “Why should peasants need windows?” Valik asked in surprise when Jurel commented on it. The floors were bare earth, the boards having been torn up and stored for future construction. “They work all day in the dirt. Surely they can sleep in it,” was Valik's explanation. The cots, previously feather stuffed and surprisingly comfortable, could barely be called pallets. Old straw poked from under ratty blankets. The back rooms, the ones that had been reserved for families had been removed. There was still a wall that separated the two rooms because, as Valik pointed out, there were still women. The men and women were strictly prohibited from intermingling.

“Why just last week, I threw out a randy fool and his hussy when there were rumors that she was with child,” Valik said with growing heat. “I'm not going to feed bloody useless mouths on my farm. Let some other sucker do that. They can come back when their kiddies can make some useful contribution around here.”

Suddenly, Jurel perceived what was wrong with the farm beyond its atrocious state of disrepair. As they walked from place to place, he had only seen three children, the same three that had been there when he had lived there, the same three who had been too young to join with the older group. Two of them could have been no more than five yet they were bustling with their own list of chores. The third was perhaps two or three years old and followed her mother around like a puppy, watching everything her mother did while the woman explained and described the duties that would be expected of her when she grew older.

It seemed that children were not allowed at the pond, or in the fields anymore. Unless duty took them there. Galbin must have been rolling over in his grave.

Next, they stopped at Daved's cabin.

“This is Merlit's place now. He's my right hand. I would have probably preferred to have Shenk but someone gutted him,” said Valik with a stony glare.

Jurel ignored it. He was too busy trying to come to grips with the fact that his home was now occupied by a cutthroat. It might have been better if this place had become a brothel. He warred with himself. A part of him wanted to enter his home. A part of him wanted to see if there was anything left of his old life. Another part snorted, told him that there would be nothing but heartache if he went in there. His experience in Killhern decided him. He would keep his curiosity unsatisfied and this last memory intact. Yet when he turned away, there was a sickening wrench in his guts. A terrible feeling of life and memory slipping into an endless abyss. He struggled to choke back his tears, to harden himself ever more.

“I've seen enough.” His voice was gruff, harder than he had intended.

“What's the matter?” Valik asked, all solicitous, all oily, smarmy, full of insincere worry. “Are you feeling a little squeamish? A little scared? As I recall you had a tendency to be a little on the chicken side.”

Once again Jurel battled the urge to punch him in the mouth. Trig shuffled uncomfortably and Ingirt dropped her gaze to her feet.

“I'm fine,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Why don't we head on over to the house and have some breakfast and a nice drink. Will that help?”

Valik continued his grating chatter, reveling in the discomfort he caused as they made their way to Valik's house. He pointed out more projects and 'improvements' that he had commissioned.

“I've finally found something to make the men useful through the winter months. The woods are to be cut down and I'm going to have the pond dammed and drained. That should be almost done by next summer. I'll have another whole field up there though I'm undecided what to do with it yet. I thought of raising horses. Nice sleek things. Ones fit for a man of my stature. Maybe I'll build a proper stable and make it my riding field.”

Jurel stopped listening at that point. Instead, he focused on the well. It was the same well, made of the same stone that he always remembered, but the opening was covered with a hinged steel lid and it was secured with a heavy lock.

“Of course,” Valik said when Jurel pointed it out. “I always thought my father was a fool for letting just anyone take his water. He was a fool about a lot of things.”

Ingirt hissed. Glancing over his shoulder, Jurel saw some of the fire that seemed to have been snuffed out by her idiot son quickly smothered under her new meekness.

“Now I charge my employees by the bucket,” Valik continued, ignoring his mother. “It's a fair price I charge and all I have to do is dock their pay. Keeps them honest.”

Coming here was a bad idea.

Too late to do anything about it now. He was there, he was bound to his course. He would see it through and leave as soon as propriety allowed. After he saw certain people.

The house—Galbin's house; Jurel would never be able to think of it as Valik's house—was a revelation. New paint gleamed so that it looked to be made of pearls or alabaster depending on how the light came. The roof was newly tiled with baked red clay. The chimneys—three now—had been rebuilt with brick and the shutters were the same color. The front door had been widened; it was big enough to accommodate a horse and wagon. The veranda, which had always been made of wood, was constructed of granite, with delicately wrought iron rails, inlaid with gold star-burst patterns.

“You like it?” Valik asked. “I'm just starting. This place is so rustic. So pathetic. By the time I'm done with it, it's going to be a palace.”

Jurel could offer no more than a grunt.

They entered the wide doors—which had been opened by two servants who bowed when Valik sailed by. The servants were dressed in red and blue livery. Jurel stared wide-eyed at them as he passed but they kept their gazes firmly fixed to the floor. He recognized neither of them. They passed several more servants on their way to the dining room and Jurel could not help but shake his head sadly. Valik ignored everyone as he strode, every inch the lord of the manor. They passed under three gold and crystal chandeliers, fine things, of good craftsmanship, the light of the dozens of candles each supported sparking through the dangling crystals underneath. Each one likely cost more than one of the farmers earned in a lifetime. The floors reflected the candlelight, gleaming with new and newly polished wood, mahogany inlaid with lighter oak to create a repeating pattern of stars similar to the ones that decorated the veranda railing. The walls were still wainscoting and plaster, but somehow Jurel knew that would not last much longer.

They were met at the dining room door by one of the servants, a darkly complected young man with fidgety fingers. He bowed and extended a hand.

“Your table is ready, My Lord. Service will begin at your word.”

“Of course the word is given, you dunce. Why isn't everything waiting for me? Do I have to do everything around here?”

The young man went pale and kept his eyes lowered. “My apologies, My Lord. We were not certain when you would be returning. I will see to it at once.”

“It had better be sitting on the table before Pol has time to settle my napkin, you idiot. Get out of my face.”

Jurel cast an apologetic glance in the young man's direction which went unnoticed. The young man was already scuttling away.

“Fools. The whole lot of them,” Valik growled. “Can't find good help anywhere these days.”

Valik took his place at the head of the table, in a chair of gold-gilt wood with red satin cushions. Ingirt sat to his right, and Trig sat to her right. Valik indicated the other end of the table, once Ingirt's place.

“Oh, I didn't tell you yet,” Valik said, lifting a golden wine goblet. “You remember those three kids that we fought down at the pond—and by 'we' I mean, of course, Trig, Darren and me. Come to think of it, even Wag wanted to join in, even though he was just a little pipsqueak. Do you remember them? Sure you do. Anyway, it seems they're all grown up now and they were working on that neighboring farm. I got some very interesting information. It seems that farm, and a couple others, are owned by my family too—that is to say, by me. My grandfather rented it out to some friend of his for a ridiculously low price saying that he couldn't farm all that land by himself. Of course I increased the rent to a more suitable level. Much to the dismay of the current tenants.” Valik laughed. “Anyway, those three were still working there and when I found out about it, I knew I had to make things right. So this past month, I called them here and told them that under no circumstance were they to remain on my land for another night.” Valik laughed again. “Oh you should have seen their faces. It was priceless.”

Throughout his telling, he kept a sharp eye on Jurel. Apparently, what he saw made him happy. But frankly, though the story did dismay Jurel, it was something else that had his eyes popping from their sockets. Standing in the door, silver platter in hand, eyes as wide as his and as blue as he remembered, her hair flowing lush and full like fine-spun gold, wearing an apron and a dress of blue and red that was too tight, stood Erin.

Something inside, something dormant, stirred, uncoiled restlessly in the back of his thoughts and down to the pit of his guts. As he sat, too flummoxed to do more than stare, time seemed to reverse itself, to unravel the past year in a blur before his eyes faster and faster, through terror and boredom, rage and uncompromised bliss until it seemed he was standing in a farm's living quarters while fiddle music played, while good folk danced and laughed and dined. It seemed he was standing there, gazing into the sky blue eyes of this woman as she reached up. As he smelled her sweet scent and felt her soft tautness under his hands. As her lips brushed his...

It was she who broke the spell. She broke the contact, jerkily setting down her platter with a clatter on the long table, in front of Valik. Then she bustled from the room with not a sound.

Valik eyed Jurel, smiling a mysterious smile. He picked up a little bell that sat on the table beside him and shook a tinkling ring from it. Soon, the young man from the door reached his side and bent low as Valik whispered into his ear. Then he was gone.

“I suppose you were hoping to get a look at her, eh?” Valik gloated. His voice seemed to come from a long way off, down a tunnel, though his eyes were clear enough, sharp and calculating. “Well, she's the head maid now that old Marta's been sent out to pasture. She got too old did our dear old Marta. Couldn't pull her weight anymore. I had to send her on her way. A shame really. She made the best honey pies.”

He continued to ramble, continued to detail the suffering on the farm caused by his ruthlessness and his depravities—though he would see them only as the good works of a landowner—and Jurel stopped listening. Instead he turned inward, trying to follow that which had awakened in him, like following fox tracks through a dense undergrowth of briars and brambles.

He heard not one word that Valik said which was just as well. As a matter of fact, he saw and heard nothing until the dining room door opened again and, covered head to toe with smears of black soot, Darren stepped in.

“Ah Darren,” Valik said. “Pleased you could make it. Come in, come in. We have much catching up to do, we old friends.”

Darren stared at Jurel, trembling. Valik smiled. Jurel suppressed the urge to knock Valik's teeth out.

Chapter 34

He sat on the shore of his pond, staring at the water that rolled gently, that lapped quietly at the reeds and the rocks, and he mulled over all that had happened that morning, all that had been said. As he sat picking at a reed, peeling hair-like strands of green from the fleshy stalk, he tried to keep himself bottled up. No easy thing. There had been a lot of news. Some of it had had the same effect on him as a horse's kick.

The afternoon sun seemed dark to him though it was only just past its zenith; it was a white-hot ball that beat mercilessly at his shoulders. The air was heavy, oppressive, without any discernible movement so that the world was a great furnace. It seemed that, though the season was winding down toward autumn, summer still had some fight left in it.

He did not feel it, really. So much had happened, so much had been said at breakfast, that his entire being was focused on sorting it all out. Of course Valik had enjoyed it all. He would. Things had been going badly enough but after Darren's arrival, it had all spiraled out of control. Talk had centered more or less on Erin for a while, and Jurel had been hard pressed to keep himself from murdering Valik.

“Oh she was good for a tumble now and again but she's a maid and I'm a nobleman. I can't marry a maid! But I could certainly get her to clean my pipe if you take my meaning.”

When Valik had said that, everything in the dining room had gone so very still, like a storm's eye. Jurel had glared bloody death at the bloody oaf, his fists clenched at his sides, Darren had lowered his head, glower in his lap, Ingirt's lips had pursed and two bright spots appeared high on her cheeks. Valik, well Valik simply smiled his infuriatingly smug smile. You like that, don't you? If it had not been for Ingirt's intercession, “Please don't do this. Not here,”
Jurel would have jumped across the table and torn his head off.

“Jurel?”

Lost in the tumult of thoughts, he did not hear the approaching footsteps. He jolted upright and spun to face the newcomer.

“Hello, Erin,” he finally croaked when his throat unlocked.

“I'm sorry, Jurel. I wish you didn't have to find out that way.”

“What? No! It's fine.” He plastered a great big smile on his face hoping against hope that there was some part of it that was convincing. “As a matter of fact, congratulations. You and Darren. That's great. I should have said that earlier. I was just surprised. And Valik was being...well...”

“Valik was being Valik,” Erin responded with a brittle edge.

“What are you doing here? Won't his lordship,” he imbued that with all the scorn he could muster, “be angry?”

“I don't care about him. We're leaving soon anyway. As soon as Darren earns his masters papers from his father. We're certain it will be this winter some time. As soon as the first thaw of spring comes, we'll be gone.”

“So how have you been?”

Erin's back stiffened and incongruously, her eyes lowered. When she spoke, her voice was level. As level as planed wood. “It's been difficult. I'm certain Valik mentioned what he did to me.”

“Yes. Why was nothing done? Why wasn't he arrested?”

She sniffed and her glance was scornful. “He's a nobleman. A minor one but he's still one of them. What good would it have done? Besides it wasn't so bad. I just thought of someone else while he was...while...”

Before she turned away, Jurel saw the tear leaking from her eye and she shuddered. He thought she might fall over. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her cheek to his chest. As a floodgate opens to let a roaring deluge free, she began to weep with great heaving sobs, and she clutched his shirt, perhaps afraid that she would be washed away.

“I'm so sorry, Erin,” he said as she wept. “I'm so sorry.”

* * *

They sat together by the pond, staring into its depths, chattering idly. He skipped little round stones while she held her knees tight to her breast and rocked ever so slightly back and forth, back and forth.

“So how's married life treating you?”

“Oh he's a good man. He tries so hard to make me happy. I wish I could be, a little more. For him. It's just...”

“I understand.” And he thought he did but he did not see the quiet glance she shot at him.

“How's your father? Have you seen him since you left?”

He remained silent. It was something he did not want to talk about. It was something he did not want to remember. Besides, no one at the farm knew anything about him, about what had happened. What could he say?

“Jurel?”

With a sigh, he shook his head. “He died. Some time ago.”

“Oh! Oh god, oh Jurel. I'm so sorry.” Her hand pressed against his back. “What happened?”

Oddly, as the memory replayed itself in his mind,
the sergeant barked a command and without hesitation a soldier drew his sword and plunged it into Daved's chest. The tip tore through his back and up, glistening wetly in the light and Daved gasped in surprise
he felt very little. Not that he felt nothing. No, certainly not. It was like the sting of fingers numbed by cold. It bit deep but it was far away, almost ignorable.

But the question was out there. How would he answer? How could he answer?

“He was injured.”

It was an inadequate answer and he knew it. He hoped she would understand.

“What happened to you?”

There it was. There was the question that, above all, he really did not want to answer. There was the real reason he had tried to avoid seeing anyone during his visit. There was the reason he escaped to here in the first place.

“I don't understand. What do you mean?” he asked lamely.

“You seem...different. Changed.”

“Changed? Me?”

“Don't be dense, Jurel. Look at you. Dressed in fine silks like a nobleman yourself. And look, you've got a sword. You of all people. What's more, it looks like it belongs there. I watched you walk this way earlier. You looked like...you looked like a wolf on the prowl.

“There's something about you. A—oh I don't know, a presence. Like you're more here. Does that make any sense? What happened?”

He barked a laugh. Changed. Yes he supposed he was, at that. “It's a very long story.”

Her eyes pled, her entire bearing was that of a woman searching for salvation, looking for some reason to go on. “Please, Jurel. Can't you tell me any of it? I need to understand at least a little.”

He owed her that much. He owed her some reason why, just as they had become close, he had run off, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, only to pop back up a year and a half later, after...well after too much had happened. So he began, starting with how he had met Kurin in Tack, and how they had run when news arrived of Shenk. At that her eyes turned down.

“It was you then. I hoped it wasn't.”

“He attacked me. It was kill or be killed. I had no choice.”

He told more of his story, though he kept great big wads of it to himself. She did not need to know what he had discovered about himself. He ended with his escape from the dungeons—which he embellished a great deal, placing the brunt of the escape on Daved's shoulder. He told her a little more of how his father had met his end, but after that, he petered off, not wanting to say anymore, wishing that he could have what he said back.

“There's more.”

That was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place. Her mind was sharp.

“Yes, there is but there's a lot I still don't understand myself. I don't know how to explain it.”

There was a heavy silence, and Jurel had the distinct impression that she was weighing whether or not to press the issue.

“So what will you do now?” she said, seeming to settle on the innocuous question.

“I don't know.”

He was surprised when she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I've missed you, you know. Your father told me that you had to go. Your father told me...what you said. I tried to be okay with it but I was so angry at you. Why didn't you ask me to go with you? I would have. Gladly.”

“Take you with me?” he gasped. “I didn't know where I was going. It was the dead of winter and it was freezing out. I didn't know if I would survive the day. I couldn't do that to you. Besides, I didn't think you'd want to run off with a monster like me.”

“Jurel Histane!” Her back went rigid and she straightened to face him with some of the fire that he had thought doused by Valik igniting in her eyes. “Never, never say that. We all thought of doing exactly what you did. We all wished that someone would but we were too afraid. That cad had it coming for years. Hells, most of us cheered when we heard what you did to him.”

He stared in numb surprise at her but he had no time to formulate a response. At the crest of the hill, there came a shouted, “Halloo!”

Both of them turned and watched as Darren descended the slope. He approached them with a wide grin and a sparkle in his eye. And Jurel knew it was forced.

“How did I know that I would find you here?” Darren asked jovially.

Jurel let a grin of his own shine through. “Oh I don't know. Maybe because this was always the best place to be?”

Darren laughed. “Hello dear,” he said to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.

* * *

It is an odd thing how sometimes life repeats itself so perfectly, so exactly, that even though the time is different and experience is a weight that changes everything, there is still that intense sense of doing the same thing over and over, or having seen something for the second time, even if there is an absolute certainty that it was the first time.

So it was as Jurel sat by the shore skipping little round stones and Darren sat beside him holding his knees to his broad blacksmith's chest as though they were ten years old again. They chattered idly about really nothing at all, both of them skirting the real issues, both of them dancing around each other like fighters in an arena.

But ultimately, they ran out of things to say as always seems to be the case when old acquaintances meet. After that first rush of excitement at seeing a familiar face from the past, and after all those things are discussed that are always discussed during the few heady moments after recognition (“How's the wife? How you been? Any kids yet? What are you up to these days?”), there is always that uncomfortable silence and for some reason Jurel began to expect Darren to say something like, “We should get together sometime.”

It would have been easier if that was all Darren said. Instead, after that awkward silence had fallen between them, with an expression like a wounded animal, and keeping his eyes averted, he spoke quiet words that wrung Jurel's very core.

“I love her, you know.”

“I know, Darren.”

“I have for years.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to take her with you?”

Jurel's heart nearly broke. Here was his one-time best friend, the boy who had protected him from the worst of Valik's bullying turned into a man that could likely break an ox in half, sounding like he was pleading for his life.

“No.”

“She would if you asked her, you know. It's you she loves. She only married me to keep Valik away from her. He's a complete ass but even he has enough sense to stay away from a married woman. His title wouldn't protect him then. We haven't even...uh...formalized our marriage yet, if you get my meaning. It's not that she doesn't care about me, it's just that it's you she's always wanted.”

“I think I get the picture.”

Repressing a flash of annoyance, Jurel sighed and leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. He had begun to understand something. He had come to find his past again, to find that idyllic time when he had been ignorant of the world, of Soldiers of God and Salosians, of himself. But things were not always what they seemed. Escaping the present is like trying to escape your own skin. Somewhere deep inside, it seemed there was a mutinous part of him, a part that operated under its own agenda. A part of him that wondered if perhaps it would be best to leave the past in the past. That would certainly have included wooing and marrying Erin. And that would explain, far more thoroughly than the reason he tried to convince himself with, why he was here at this farm again.

And it seemed that quiet, treacherous part of him was right. Here he was at the farm, here he was looking for his past but all he found were remains picked to a dry skeleton by the scavenger known as Time. Galbin was gone and so was Daved. With Valik in charge, the farm was a shambles. Erin was married, already lost to him, and all he could think of was Metana. Even when Erin was wrapped in his arms, even when he felt her warmth flowing through him, in his mind he saw raven black hair, spectacular eyes that changed color the way a sea does depending on the sky above, and a smile that always managed to stop his heart. He knew it was not possible. Not after what he had done. But he would not be satisfied with anyone else. He would rather live his life alone, in misery, than settle for second best. He shuddered. After what he had caused, after what he had become, living alone with his misery would still be best for everyone.

His past was gone. He had no choice but to admit it. What use to dwell on it? What use to pine for days long gone, days as ephemeral as yesterday's wind? Was that not the cause of so much bitterness? So much resentment? But then what did he have? Emptiness? Anger? Terror? A bunch of people who wanted him to be something that he fervently did not want to be, to do things that horrified and terrified him?

“Look Darren. There's nothing for you to fear. I didn't come to poach. I came to see if there was anything left here of my past. There isn't. Things are too different. There's no coming back for me. She's yours. Treat her right and in time she'll come to love you. Perhaps not as deeply as you love her but it could still be enough.”

Darren's gaze was sharp as he regarded his one-time friend. “What happened to you?”

“Oh gods. Not you too.”

“Seriously, you don't sound like the Jurel I remember. You barely even look like him.”

Jurel rose to his feet and clapped Darren on the shoulder. “Have a good life, my friend. Be happy and take care of her.”

Then he turned and trudged back up the slope, away from Darren, away from Erin, away from his past. Not once did he look back.

* * *

He was not entirely sure why he had agreed to stay the night. After dinner, a feast that would surely have made a king proud while beggaring his subjects—and was mostly thrown in the trash; the half dozen people at the table barely made a dent in the mound of food—after Valik had sauntered away like the cock of the walk, Ingirt and Erin had implored him and though he managed to decline the first few times, they kept at it until finally he conceded that he would not leave until the following morning.

He had spent the next two hours consoling a broken Ingirt. He should have kept news of his father to himself.

Sleep eluded him for his mind was too full, too buffeted by what he finally understood. He lay tossing and turning in the hastily prepared bed, in the dark staring at nothing, hoping dawn would soon break though he knew it was still hours away. Several times he tried to push away his thoughts, to clear his mind with a meditation exercise Metana had taught him but it did no good. The braces that his mind had created, the buffers it had put in place in an attempt to create a sort of subconscious safety-net were crumbling, tumbling away and it left him feeling raw, chafed, like being dragged across gravel behind a maddened horse.

In the midst of his thoughts there came the sound of his door opening.

A whisper, “Jurel?”

“Erin? What are you doing here?”

A faint snick as his door was gently shut and then light footsteps crossed the room to his bedside. His blanket lifted and he was shocked when she snuggled in beside him, pressing herself close. He was doubly shocked when the pale moonlight filtering in through the crack in the window drapes revealed that she wore only a thin shift and he could see every curve of her, every contour, every soft corner reflected like fresh milk. Her hands played across his chest, her lips brushed his neck as she nuzzled him, her breath tickled warmly.

If a beautiful, mostly naked woman crawls into a man's bed and makes her intentions perfectly clear, what is that man expected to do? Especially when that man has been searching for an outlet, a way to connect with something or someone from his past?

He felt himself tremble, heard a low growl escape his throat. He turned to her, pulled her close, drew her lips to his. She moaned as their lips connected, as she pressed herself closer. Her hands began exploring, tracing his muscles, running the length and breadth of him. She moaned as she gripped him, began to move her hand rhythmically. With her other hand, she lowered his trousers. He rolled on top of her and, between her thighs, he let himself be drawn forward by her guiding hand. Her heat enveloped him. He moaned, a low animal sound.

“Yes,” she moaned against his lips. “Yes. Oh I love you, Jurel.”

It was like a slap in the face. He froze, and opened his eyes to the woman under him. Her lips parted slightly, she smiled, her eyes like hot embers. He lurched backward, falling off the bed in a tangle of blankets and trousers.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

Panting, he closed his eyes. Waves of hot and cold chased each other up and down his limbs.

“We can't,” he groaned. “Gods help me, I can't.”

She sat up and pulled the blankets close as though for protection, like a shield, from a mortal attack. “I don't...”

“We can't Erin. We can't do this.”

“But I love you.” Her voice was small. “I thought you loved me too.”

“I did. I thought I did. There's been too much, Erin. Too much has happened to me. I can't.”

“I have thought of you every day for the past year and more. I have waited and hoped and prayed for your return. Every day, I longed for you. Every day, I went to bed disappointed and alone. When Valik was violating me, it was you I was thinking about. It was you who was my solace.”

“And now you're married. To a good man. To my friend. He'll treat you well, better than I could. And...” He paused. What he would say next would be that mortal attack; no blanket would shield her. All things considered, it would also be mostly a lie. Perhaps that would be all right. Perhaps it would be better this way. If it kept her safe, if it kept her comfortable and at peace, then it would be worth it.

Screwing up his courage for the inevitable outburst, he finished what he meant to say. “There's someone else. I love her and she loves me. I'm sorry.”

There was no outburst. There were no histrionics. There were not even any tears. There was only an eternity of silence compressed into one wounded moment before she hitched her breath, and before he could say anything else, she flew from his room, slamming the door shut behind her.

* * *

He tossed and turned, cursing Erin for putting them in that position, bitterly berating himself for letting it happen. He muttered curses as he tried to find a comfortable position but for some reason, no matter which way he turned, there was either some part of him stretched too far, or some unruly, ridge-like wrinkle in the linens pushing up into his flesh.

He struggled with images of Metana, the hurt look she had given him before he sent her away, the hurt look he imagined she would give him if she knew what he had done that night. He struggled with images of Erin, and a thousand others from his childhood, that floated up from the depths to haunt him like vengeful ghosts. He struggled for a long time before he finally succumbed to a fitful doze.

* * *

He did not know what awakened him. Not at first. His eyes flew open and he stared into the bruised gray darkness of predawn light that filtered through a crack between the curtains covering the window. He listened, his ears straining for whatever it was.

There was a creak, a floorboard protesting under load.

His instincts screamed.

He rolled from the bed and as he hit the floor on his hands and knees, there was a dull thump from above. He surged to his feet. For an instant, he could not understand what he was seeing. His rumpled bed had a knife hilt sticking out of the mattress right about where his heart would have been if he had not moved. He raised his eyes and standing across the bed from him were two shadows. One of them moved. The dim light caught rugged, ragged features and Merlit's beady little eyes.

The other began to circle the bed toward him with one hand extended. A very long, very sharp shadow stretched down from that hand.

It was too much. Oh but it was too much. Ever since Metana, nothing had gone right. Ever since his father, ever since Kurin, ever since...ever since...

Every person has a limit, a point, when reached, pure instinct takes over. A point when the part of the mind that is sane and rational steps back in disgust, says “Screw this. I'm outta here,” and the deepest most turbulent emotions boil to the surface unabated. Logic and thought breaks down, dissipates into a formless mist, and action becomes the order of the day. Jurel had reached that point.

“Merlit,” hissed the second man. “Look at his eyes.”

“What the-”

That was all Merlit was able to get out before Jurel leapt forward. He gripped the second man by his shirt and with all his strength, he threw him backwards. There was a bone-shaking crack, and a sickening wet crunch. The second man fell limply to the floor. Blood ran black down runnels created by the ruined plaster of the cracked wall.

Merlit's eyes widened and his hands came up in supplication. Flying over the bed, Jurel caught him and lifted him, let momentum carry him forward. Merlit struck the wall. More cracking, more rending of plaster and wood and suddenly Merlit was dropping from a ragged hole to the ground fifteen feet below. There was no scream as he fell; Merlit had died at the moment of impact with the wall when a tortured stud, sheared loose from its seating, drove through the back of his skull.

Staring through the hole in the wall to the ground below, Jurel panted like an overheated predator. Somewhere in the house, there came a call, a question, as the residents were roused from their slumber. He barely heard it. Or rather, he heard it but it was beneath his notice.

He spun on his heel, stormed through the room, through the thick oaken door that gave way like paper before him and showered the facing wall with splinters. He strode down the hall toward the master suite. The room that had once been Galbin's and Ingirt's, the room that now housed someone else. He knew who would be behind his attempted murder. Honestly, could there be any doubt?

The heads of maids and servants poked from opening doors, but when they saw him approaching, they gasped and retreated quickly behind slamming doors. Ingirt herself stepped out into the hallway and trembled when she saw him. Her hair whipped wildly in a wind that came from nowhere.

“Jurel? Is that you?”

“Step aside, Ingirt,” he grated and though he spoke quietly, his voice boomed, caused the rafters to shudder.

“But what is it? What's wrong?”

“I have no quarrel with you. Step aside.”

“Please, Jurel. Whatever it is, please tell me. I will help. Erin, tell him.”

Jurel turned. Behind him, no more than five paces away, stood Erin, her diaphanous shift peeking from the open front of her housecoat.

“Jurel? Why are your eyes glowing?” Erin whispered.

With a growl, Jurel turned back to Ingirt. Behind her, the door opened and Valik stepped out, his face a thundercloud.

“What is the meaning of all this racket?” he bellowed.

Then he saw. Squeaking, eyes saucer wide, he disappeared back into his room and slammed the door.

“Ingirt, I will tell you one last time. I have no quarrel with you but your son has been judged and sentenced. Step aside.”

It was no wonder Galbin had loved this woman so much. She had so much strength, so much will. When her world crumbled, she went on no matter what. A little repressed perhaps, and very tired, but she went on. Even in the face of death, she somehow managed to straighten herself, though she continued to tremble visibly. Her eyes flashed hot anger and defiance and fear but no hesitation.

“I will not. You will tell me what is happening.”

“Your son tried to have me murdered. Merlit is on your front lawn. A second man is in my room. A knife sticks from my mattress.”

And that was all the explanation he would afford her. He had already reached his judgment. Valik was a dead man. He just did not quite know it yet.

He reached forward. Gently, very gently, he lifted her by the arms and set her down behind him. He stepped past and shattered Valik's door with one swing of his fist. He scanned the room and there, in a corner, curled up in a ball, was Valik.

“Please don't hurt me,” Valik whimpered.

His pathetic plea had worked once in the past. Not again.

He dragged Valik kicking and screaming past the ornate canopied bed, past the dresser intricately carved from mahogany, past the shattered ruin of a door. He dragged him past horrified onlookers, down the flight of stairs. He smashed his way through the front door and out into the yard beyond the veranda.

He threw Valik to the ground so that he was only a few feet from Merlit's crumpled body.

“Did you send him?” Jurel rasped.

“What? I-no. I don't know anything,” the man cried.

Jurel kicked him in the ribs, heard a satisfying snap. Valik howled.

“Did you send him?”

Curled in a ball, Valik mewled.

Another kick, another snap, another animal cry.

“ANSWER ME! Did you send him?”

“Yes! Yes! Please. It won't happen again, I won't do it anymore. I promise.”

He picked up the groveling, sniveling creature and held it close to his face. “My brother would not have been happy with you if I had shown up at his gate. No, he would not have been happy one bit.”

“You don't have any brothers.”

Later, Jurel would think that this was one of the most ridiculous things he had ever heard. Here was Valik, facing his own dreadful demise, so scared that the stench of urine and feces lay thick on the air, so scared that the only coherent thought he could muster was that Jurel was an only child. But that would be later. As he glared at Valik, he smiled. His smile was a terrible thing. Even he knew it. It was a twisted thing, a mad thing right out of nightmare.

“Oh yes I do. I have two brothers, in fact. You are about to meet one of them and I imagine you'll have a lot of explaining to do.” He smiled again, and Valik cringed.

That smile was the last thing Valik ever saw as Jurel rammed his hand like a knife into his chest, past ribs that were as twigs, gripped the frantically pulsing heart and squeezed. Valik's head snapped back. He screamed.

Then, when the screaming tapered to a wet gurgle, and when the wet gurgle went silent, Jurel let the lifeless husk slide from his grip. Valik struck the ground with a limp thump.

“What have you done?” Erin cried into the deathly silence.

“Valik! Oh my son!” Ingirt wept.

Jurel turned his lightning gaze upon the crowd that assembled in the front yard. Blood spattered the ground, dripping, oozing from his fist. Farmers had picked up axes and spades, picks, adzes, whatever they could use as a weapon. As yet, none had the courage to approach him. As yet, they stood in a terrified pack, cowering like a herd of sheep faced by a hungry lion.

“Upon my authority, I have judged him,” Jurel rumbled. Thunder pealed though the clouds were the too-thin clouds that promised a beautiful day ahead and could certainly not have, themselves, caused the rumbling boom that shook the earth. Then he smiled causing everyone to back away a step. “Any who dare to gainsay me are free to do so now.” No one moved. “No? Fine then.”

“Why did you come here?” Erin cried.

Jurel glared at her and she shrank away. Why indeed. To find his past? To leave it behind? It seemed he had accomplished neither and both realizations mingled and meshed so effectively that they canceled each other out, managing to leave him feeling very much empty, very much alone, lost and adrift. As the sun peeked over the horizon and turned the ropes of cloud brownish yellow, he felt the last withered remnants of something within shut down.

What was I thinking? I can't escape who I am. I can't...

His eyes passed over the small crowd that bunched fearfully at the bottom step of the veranda. They stared at him, the frightened left-overs of a time dead and gone. He growled low in his throat. In rage? Frustration? Fear and sorrow? He concentrated.

When he departed that place for the last time, he thought he might have left something of himself behind. That was fine. He did not need it anyway. It was dead.

Chapter 35

There was one more place he had to go. There was one more thing he had to try. After spending what must have been days in the blasted wasteland that was his place, playing and replaying his ill-fated visit to Galbin's farm, this was the only idea he had left. It was a long-shot, a stab in the dark as some might say, but he was getting used to stabs in the dark. She had come in the middle of a terrible nightmare by his pond. She had saved him from some terrible foe that he never knew existed. At first, he thought it was no more than that: a nightmare. But the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced it had been more.

Every nightmare he had ever had—the ones that had not stemmed from his memory anyway—faded, dissipated, evaporated under the rising sun and by midday, they were barely remembered, more like uncomfortable impressions. Though the weary thudding discomfort remained and the subject of his nightmares could be recalled for days after, the details were always blanked out by the middle of the day. This one was different. This one stuck with him, and even now, days later, he could remember every detail, every nuance of that terrible dream down by his pond.

But she had saved him from it.

Wandering down a dirt track, trees imploding in toward him, pressing close enough that he did not have to fully outstretch his arms to touch them, so that the boughs intertwined above him, creating a narrow passage something like a dungeon, he felt stifled. He was not sure exactly where he was, or really how he came to be here, but he continued. He had nothing better to do.

He knew he was somewhere in the great Central Forest, and he thought he was somewhere near the eastern edge of it. It was close to where he wanted to be. It did not reduce his confusion one whit. He had imagined the place he wanted, he had fixed it firmly in his mind, he had felt that strange jolt as though the world shifted under his feet, and he had found himself in the center of the forest. Not in an idyllic clearing, not near a charming little cottage, not near a ring of stones that contained the floating sparks of a rainbow, but right smack in the middle of this dense, overgrown hunk of woods.

Considering his previous experiments with this unreal mode of travel, it seemed obvious that whatever had happened, he could not be far from the place he sought and so he ranged in ever widening circles trying to find something familiar as the meager light brightened fractionally toward midday. As he passed over and around roots and vines, stones and berms, trees—some as wide as he was tall, while others were barely more than finger wide saplings—he began to lose hope until a flash of crimson caught his eye.

Brow furrowed, he angled toward it, and when he stepped around an obscuring bush, he halted. Carefully, gently, he reached forward and played his finger along the silky petal of one of the wild roses that burst from the clump. Craning forward, he searched more intently. There, in the center, were signs that someone had picked one within the past few weeks. It could have been coincidence, he mused, but it seemed so far out of the way of any would-be flower-pickers that the obvious explanation seemed more likely.

Brushing away the image of Metana's glowing eyes gazing into his over the heart of a rose, he got his bearings and he started off again. This time, he did notice similarities. There, off to his right, was the berm with the ponytail of roots sticking from the side. A little farther ahead, he saw the tree that looked like an ancient man frozen forever. Then he passed the dogleg that was bordered by thick, purplish-green waist-high ferns. It was not much farther as he recalled.

Soon enough, he reached a line of trees that seemed abnormally straight and evenly spaced and his excitement grew. Yet when he stepped between them, there was nothing there. Well, that was not quite true. There was a small clearing but it was not the one he remembered. It was just an empty clearing. With footsteps. His footsteps. From earlier that day, when he had first appeared there from his place, right there in the center.

His excitement evaporated. In its place, frustration, an impotent anger, welled up. He kicked at a stone, sent it skipping, skittering to disappear in the wild grass. As if that helped. Aimlessly, he wandered the clearing, not really seeing it, but seeing instead what he had expected until finally, exhaustion borne of dejection made him sit down.

And that was odd, for under him, he felt something warm as though just under a thin layer of soil, there was a hot spring. He got to his knees and felt around with his hands, searching as though for something in a dark room. For a moment, he thought he was mistaken, he thought he might have imagined it, because he felt nothing-

No, wait. There it was. He pressed his palm flat to the soil, felt a prickle from a thistle, ignored that. Instead he focused on the warmth that seeped upward. He closed his eyes and he concentrated. There was something...there was something...something that flickered in and out of his mind's eye like a guttering candle.

“Fine, fine, ye've proven yer point. Try not to demolish me place, ifn ye don't mind.”

His eyes snapped open as though he had been stung by a bee.

There it was. Confused, though a passing notion told him he should not have been, he gazed at the neatly tended yard, surrounded by the wall of the forest, and the ancient logs of the little cottage. A sense of that peace entered him and ephemeral lights passed zip-quick across his vision.

“And ifn ye don't mind would ye please get out o me stones? Yer frightnin the wisps.”

With a start, he drew in his gaze, and noticed he was sitting in the center of the ring of stones. Turning, he saw the rainbow lights, darting back and forth and quietly, on the edge of hearing as though from an unimaginable distance he thought he heard agitated squeaks.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Levering himself to his feet, he quickly stepped from the circle and turned to face the one he had come to see. Ancient, with wrinkles like a craggy cliff, and a hump on her back giving her a permanent stoop, Ursula canted her head sideways, raised an eyebrow.

“Hello, young man,” Ursula said with a grin. “What brings ye back t' me corner o' the woods?”

He had searched for this place but to have found it in such a strange way left him tongue-tied. He simply stared as he tried to pull together the threads of his thoughts. Why was he here? What did he hope to accomplish? What did he expect Ursula to tell him?

“I want to know what's going on,” he blurted.

Well, it was not exactly how he had envisioned their reunion, but it would do.

She gazed at him, her eyes sparkling strangely like sun glinting off of rippling water, her lips twisted in a bemused half-smile.

“I thought ye might ave some idea by now.” She shrugged. “Well no reason to stand here bakin in the sun wonderin about the foolishness o the young. Come in, come in. I think I have some spiced tea left.”

* * *

Sipping from his steaming cup, he savored the sweetness of the marjoram and sighed. He let his gaze wander around the cottage. As neat as the yard outside, it seemed that every one of Ursula's few possessions had its spot and everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. It was all as he remembered it, which is to say it was all very much like his old home, the cabin that he and Daved had shared for more than a decade. The cabin that no longer shared much resemblance with either this place or the one in his memory.

As usual, thinking of Daved brought a pang of sorrow but it was dull, weakened, more like a mostly healed bruise instead of the searing agony he had felt just a few months prior. A vagrant memory popped up. One afternoon, he had come home dripping mud and water after a fine day of swimming in the pond with his friends. He had scampered into the cabin and called a “Hi pa!” and he had been greeted with a very stern look from Daved, who had pointed silently back outside. Bewildered for a moment, Jurel had wondered what exactly he had done to deserve that look. Of course, it only took him a moment to see the muddy trail he had left on the floor. Grinning sheepishly, he had hurried back outside. Just as the door had snicked closed, he heard Daved's gruff voice, “And bring the mop when you get back!” He smiled sadly, as he stared at the hazy flakes of tea leaf that floated at the bottom of his cup like an old memory.

“So then, tell ole Ursula again what brings ye here,” she said, breaking into his reverie.

He frowned. “I told you. I want to know what's going on.”

“And I told ye that ye know already. 'Sides what makes ye think an old woman livin all by her lonesome in the center of the forest knows anything?”

“You're more than you seem. You came to me in a nightmare. You saved me from... from...whatever that was.”

“Me?” She appeared surprised but there was a spark of knowing, almost hidden, deep in her eyes. He changed tactics. It was obvious that he would not bully answers from her.

“Please. Please help me. I-I'm lost. I don't know what to do.”

She leaned back in her chair and she smiled behind her cup. “Ah but we all of us are in the same predicament. We're all lost 'til we're not. It's the way o' the world, you know. What makes you so special?”

He leveled a flat look at her. “You know who I am. You know what I am.”

“Do I?” Again, she shot him that look, that feigned surprise.

“Please.”

Huffing a sigh, she set down her cup and leaned forward again. She pierced him with dagger sharp eyes. “You know, everything happens in its own time. That includes the revealing of knowledge.”

“Yes but-”

“No. No buts, Jurel. You must understand that there are forces at work in the world. In fact, you are one of them.”

“Me? But I'm just farmboy.”

She smirked disdainfully. “And here I had such high hopes for you. Listen, and listen carefully. You are needed to wage war against the church. The Grand Prelate must fall. Must. If he does not, if the church continues as it is, then all is lost. The king, of course, is involved but his role, his position, is uncertain.

“One way or the other, you and your Salosian faction must be victorious.”

He grimaced. “Why? What's the point? It would just be easier if I disappeared. It would have been easiest if I had never been.”

He had no idea where the flash of blue-white light came from or how he had become blind. He had no clue why bells were jangling in his head or why his cheek felt that it was on fire. When his vision cleared enough for him to see, he had no idea how Ursula had managed to round the table and stand over him, her hand raised for another slap.

Indignance warred with hurt and he glared at her sullenly, touching fingertips to his stinging cheek. “Why-”

“Never, never say that. Never!” she screeched. “Do you hear me?”

When he had first met her, she had seemed an oddity, a harmless old hermit woman who seemed to have some strange abilities. As she towered over him, seeming twice as large as she had been a moment ago, with her wide eyes crackling with pent fury, he felt a pang of dread.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

Time stood still for a moment as she glared at him with all the rage of a hurricane. Two bright circles colored her otherwise ashen cheeks, fire reflected from the hearth turned the pits of her eyes into flaming brands, and her lips were compressed to a jagged slash. For the span of a few heartbeats, he was certain she would strike him again and he knew that if she did, he would find himself on his back, probably with a broken jaw.

Instead, she let out the breath he did not realize she was holding and she seemed to deflate. Her hand dropped to her side and her shoulders hunched again, and soon she was back to being no more than a small and very odd old woman.

“Self-pity does not become you, Jurel,” she muttered and shuffled her way back over to her chair. When she had settled herself, when she had taken a sip from her cup of tea, she continued as though he had not spoken. “You must be victorious because there is more ahead. There is...more. The toppling of the prelacy is only one step in your journey. That is all I can readily say.”

“You mean the thing in my nightmare, don't you?”

A small smile appeared. “Ah, so there is some intelligence between all the muscles packing up your ears after all. Yes, I mean the thing in your nightmare.”

“What was that?”

“That is something you are as yet unprepared to deal with. That is something that comes later. First, you must complete the task in front of you.”

He tried to be satisfied with her words. He really did. But he had come for answers. And damn it, he would not be denied at least something. So he started simply, obliquely, with questions he already had a fair answer for.

“How am I to defeat the church then?”

“I believe you already have a good start on that. You have an army—albeit a small one—prepared to fight and to die for you at the Abbey, who believe in you and don't care one whit about your unfortunate defeat at the hands of the Prelacy. Though I think your apparent desertion has sorely tested their trust in you.”

Easy enough; it was the answer he was expecting. Now, on to the next bit.

“And what of these prophecies I've heard mentioned? What of them?”

“You've heard of them have you?” she said with a wry smirk.

“Not often. I read a book a little while ago at the Abbey.”

Ursula snorted, an entirely undelicate sound. “Let me guess. A stodgy old book called 'Ancient Prophecies: God of War'?”

Jurel nodded. “That's the one.”

“It's a funny thing about prophecies,” Ursula said quietly as though thinking out loud. “They are supposed to point the way, like a map, but really they are no more than a possibility. You see, the thing is, you can stumble and fail at any given step but it does not mean that the prophecy is undone. It means very little actually. As a matter of fact, you can do everything all wrong and still come to the right ending. Or you can do everything all right but still ultimately lose. I never really cared for prophecy.”

“So what's the point then? I can just ignore it.”

“As I said, it's like a map, a guide. It points you in the right direction but it doesn't tell you exactly the route you have to follow. There may be a thousand routes that will take you toward your goal and there may be a thousand routes that will lead you away from it. Ignore a good map and you become lost.”

“I see.”

But really, he did not.

“No you don't.”

“Fine, whatever. But then what? If I take that book as my map—and it's an entirely undecipherable map at that!—then after defeating the church, I have some long journey to go on. What journey?”

“If you are successful at toppling the Grand Prelate, you will...”

She stopped, her mouth hanging open half forming the next word she was about to utter. A sly smile crossed her face and her eyes narrowed.

“Very clever, young man. I must be growing senile in my old age to fall for that old flanking maneuver. No. This is not the time to go into that.”

She rose to her feet, slowly, stiffly, with a pained grunt.

“And now I think it is time that you go. I have said enough. Perhaps too much.”

“Just one more thing.”

She huffed an impatient sigh. He considered letting it go, considered telling her to never mind but he needed to know and his need was desperate. Inside, a child's voice begged, struggled to be free, to understand. Images of Kurin rose in his thoughts, images of Gaven and Mikal. Over all of them, insistent to the point of overpowering, images of Metana. A part of his fear and longing must have shown because, though she sighed, obviously impatient to see him on his way, when she looked at him her face softened.

“Will it ever end? Will I ever have a normal life? Will I...will she-?”

He was not sure she would understand his question and he was not sure she had an answer but he had to ask.

And she came around the table and wrapped her arms around him and pulled his head to her bosom as a mother might when comforting her hurt child, and she gently stroked his hair.

“Everything will work out if you stay strong and focused.”

It was an evasion, but it satisfied him for the moment. He rose and reached for the door. As his hand closed on the catch, Ursula spoke once more.

“Oh, and Jurel? There is one more thing.”

He turned.

“Kurin and Metana are grave in danger. Seek out the high priest named Thalor.”

* * *

Much of what Ursula had told him made no real sense to him. Her words concerning prophecies and road maps buzzed in the back of his mind like a swarm of gnats. He knew he would have to give them more thought. But later. For now, he had much more important information to concentrate on.

Kurin was alive. Metana had mentioned it, but she had not been sure.

He did not know how Ursula knew but he did not doubt it either. He was alive. It was like a ray of sunshine through dark clouds; he saw at least some small hope of redemption for himself. Maybe not total redemption; he could never pay enough for the thousand and more men and women he had sent to Shomra's gates, but at least perhaps partial payment could be remitted.

Kurin was alive.

Now, Jurel only had to find him.

Part 4:

Lessons

“Anyone can change who they are.

But only a few change for the better.”

-Anonymous

Chapter 36

He traveled south. He did not stop for much of anything. If he grew tired, he found whatever shelter was handy and slept before continuing. If he grew hungry, he hunted and foraged.

The road was eerily empty. This was the Eastern Caravan Route, the greatest highway in the kingdom; Jurel was used to seeing wagons, either alone or in caravans, trundling toward their next trade stop. But for days he did not see a single one. He passed a few villages, all of them abandoned, as he walked and at each one, he found signs of hasty departure: A child's toy forgotten in a street; a chest, open and upended, presumably deemed too heavy to move quickly; bits of clothing trampled and muddy. Everything seemed somehow diminished and lifeless without people, disjointed, out of place. The only life he saw was a mangy dog, thin and ragged, that limped along a street in one of the villages he passed, and disappeared as soon as it spied Jurel.

At each village, Jurel conducted hasty searches for anything that might aid him in his journey, noticing that searches had already been undertaken by others not so long ago. There was no livestock or food not gone sour, all the stables were empty and musty. If he found himself arriving at a village near sundown, he would find the inn and catch a few hours sleep in a bed, but he did not linger.

Somehow, as the days passed without food, he found he was not hungry. Or rather, he was hungry but only as one might be no more than a few hours after a feast. Water was easy enough to come by; there were wells at each of the villages and plenty of freshwater springs and streams along his way. Though at times he wondered if he needed that any more than he needed food.

Late one morning, a week after he had left the woods, Jurel spied a thin streamer of smoke rising into the sky a short way to the east beyond the shores of the river Sharong. Curiosity piqued, Jurel ranged the riverbank, seeking a place to ford. Foolish, he thought after a few fruitless hours. This was the Sharong river, the largest, widest, and deepest river in the kingdom. The chances of finding a place to cross seemed slim at best. But, he imagined that since there was still plenty of kingdom on the east side of the river, then there must be bridges; he had seen a few such the previous year when traveling with Kurin and Mikal. They were few and far between, but there was no harm in looking.

Sure enough, no more than an hour later, he found one. It was a rickety thing, looking as though it would not hold his weight but for all that, he made it across without too much difficulty. Ranging toward the dark line of smoke, he crossed grasslands that slowly gave way to a fallow farm field.

Ahead, the farm house hunkered in the shadow of an old, lop-sided barn. He hunkered down in a small stand of trees to survey the terrain.

The days had cooled substantially since he began his walk. Autumn was full on the land but it was still cooler than normal for that time of year. His breath misted the air in front of him. The farmhouse, a single story structure constructed of wood and worn to grayness, appeared to be locked up tight. He could smell the smoke from the chimney; it smelled of baking bread and roasting beef. Homier smells did not exist, he was certain. The barn was quiet too; its side door and larger main door shut tight against the elements. Seeing no movement around the property, Jurel assumed that whoever lived there was either inside the house or out in the fields.

His instincts were quiescent. Sensing no danger, Jurel stepped from the cover of the trees and strode resolutely forward. At the front door, he rapped twice, smartly and waited. Movement inside, scuffling sounds, someone, a woman, calling out.

The door opened a crack and Jurel saw one eye peer out suspiciously. When it caught sight of Jurel, it widened and the door slammed quickly shut. Jurel distinctly heard the sound of a bolt being thrown. That was a little much in Jurel's estimation.

He rapped again, harder this time, and called out, “Hello resident. I mean no harm.” His voice sounded hard in his ears, harder than he intended. Oh well. Too late to take it back now.

The response came a moment later. “Go 'way!” a man shouted.

Huffing a sigh in irritation, Jurel glared at the door. “I said I mean no harm. But I am going to speak with you.”

“Go 'way!” came the response.

With a shrug, Jurel took a step back. He eyed the door. Then, with one solid kick, he tore the door from its hinges. It was only thanks to his reflexes that he dodged, for in the instant that he vacated his position, a dark blur streaked by, cutting the air where his throat had been. His sword fair leapt from his scabbard, the thorns jutting from the hilt cutting deep into the flesh of his palm, as he charged into the dark main room of the house. He moved quickly to the back where a man of middle years was frantically cranking his crossbow. He whirled, his sword blade whistling, and the dagger that was being driven toward him by a matronly woman fell to the ground with a clatter. She cried out and held her numbed hand as he swept past. Before the man had managed one more turn of his crank, the point of Jurel's sword flicked out like a serpent's tongue and with a resonant twang, the string snapped.

The man froze and stared slackjawed at the deadly point that stopped a mere inch from his eyes.

Quietly, but with enough ice to raise goosebumps, Jurel said, “The next person who tries to attack me dies.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the man's temple. Swallowing audibly, the man flicked a look across the room. Beyond that, the man made no movement whatsoever. Jurel held the man's gaze for a moment longer, until the man nodded minutely.

“I'm glad we understand each other.” Jurel withdrew his sword but did not sheath it, instead using it to indicate the woman should join her husband.

The room was a large one, bigger than the outside of the house suggested. The shutters were sealed tightly; the only light in the room was the low fire that crackled in the hearth. Shadows pooled in the corners and along the walls but Jurel had no problem seeing that besides the man and the woman, there was no one else in the room. The wide table, probably built by this farmer, that dominated the room was surrounded by six stools.

“Where's the rest of your family?” Jurel asked.

In response, he heard a thump from above. Glancing up, he saw four sets of eyes peaking over the edge of an attic loft. Though he could not see more of them than their eyes, Jurel judged the eldest to be no more than ten or twelve. No real threat then.

He turned his attention back to the man and woman who huddled together. The woman was weeping quietly with her face buried in her husband's shoulder but the man was doing a decent job of maintaining his equilibrium. Neither were particularly old; in Jurel's estimation, they were both in their early or mid thirties.

“What do ye want?” the man croaked.

Jurel shrugged. “News.”

At this, the man gaped at him. “News? Ye broke into me home, threatened me family, and scared us all to death for news?”

“You tried to kill me with your crossbow.”

“Ye broke down me door!”

“Enough,” Jurel said, suppressing another flash of irritation. “Tell me what I want to know and I'll be on my way.”

Sighing in resignation, the man tenderly detached his wife, muttering softly, and stood. “All right,” he said. “But why don't we go outside? They're ascairt enough as is.”

“What do ye want to know then?” the man asked after passing through the front door.

“For starters, how about your name?”

His eyes flashed suspiciously, but he answered, “Duma.”

“Pleased to meet you, Duma. My name is Jurel.” He stuck out his hand.

The man reached out, hissed and drew back as though stung. Jurel glanced down and saw the red streaks that lined his palm courtesy of the thorns in his sword's hilt. He wiped his hand on his pants but he did not offer it again.

Sheathing his sword, Jurel leaned his elbows on the rail fence that bore evidence of being a makeshift corral and stared off into the distance. From here, the river was barely more than a twinkle of reflected sun and the road was invisible. The wind had a slight bite to it; before long, the etched glass white of frost would leave a daily coating.

“So Duma. What has been happening in the last few weeks?”

“Not much. Old Lacy's dried mostly up. We'll be havin troubles with milk soon. Two o me chickens was taken by foxes but I fixed up the coop. Won't be no more troubles there I think. The crop yield seems good. Should have enough for me family with a little left over for merchants, assuming any pass by this year.”

“No. I meant what's been going on out there?” Jurel waved a hand in the general direction of 'out there'.

“Oh. O course.” Duma passed a nervous hand through his hair and sighed. “Well, I guess the biggest news is that an army passed by a week or so ago. Big it was too. Didn't count em or nothin meself—I didn't get particular close-like—but it took a whole day for em all to pass by.”

“Did you happen to notice their standards?”

“Eh?”

“Their banners? Flags?”

“Oh. Well now. Seen a lot o them white cloaked buggers. Friggin armloads of em. There were a bunch o fancy bits o cloth a-flutterin in the breeze but I ain't none too familiar with em.”

“How many would you guess?”

Duma glanced askance at him. “Told ya, I didn't get so close.”

“I heard. Just a guess.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Duma rubbed a hand along the three day's worth of stubble. It made a rasping sound. “Well. If it's just a guess you're after...”

“It is.”

Duma nodded. “If it had been cattle, well that many cows woulda fed a good size city for weeks 'n weeks.”

Jurel gaped at Duma, too stunned for words. Having lived on a farm for the majority of his childhood, Jurel could use that to estimate—very roughly—that the force that passed by here consisted of some forty or fifty thousand soldiers. Either Duma was wrong or there were five or six regiments. Five or six full regiments, give or take, to face, optimistically, two thousand soldiers if the recruiting had continued—most of whom were barely more than hopped up peasants. It defied comprehension. What could he possibly hope to do against those odds?

But he had no choice.

He was who he was.

* * *

Jurel wandered over to the barn and pulled open the smaller man-sized door set into the larger sliding gate. Distracted for a moment, he inspected the big door set in its rail system. Never having seen anything like it, the farmer that remained in him marveled at the ingenuity.

Jurel stepped onto the carpet of light dropped by the open door and stared into the darkness. The smell of horses and cows assaulted his nose. There was a quiet rustling in the darkness interspersed with the odd low neigh or bovine grunt. The barn was in need of repair, a good coat of whitewash, and a major cleaning but for all that, it still reminded him of the only place he truly remembered being able to call home. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Though the memories were nice, they now held a bitter edge; home no longer. It was in the past. It was behind him. He was who he was. He pushed the memories away.

“I need a horse,” he said.

“Well,” Duma hedged, “I do have a mare that's in decent shape. I could let her go for a couple o gold pieces.”

“I have no money right now. I will pay you back at a later date.” If I survive. He started forward, his eyes growing quickly accustomed to the gloom, and he inspected each of the horses in their stalls. He stopped in front of a tall stallion.

“But...but, milord...”

Jurel turned and fixed a steely glare on Duma. Duma wisely shut up as he shrank away, swallowing with an audible click.

Jurel carefully opened the stall door and speaking in low, comforting tones, approached. The horse huffed and shook his head but seemed to recognize that Jurel meant no harm. Allowing the horse to get used to his scent and his voice, Jurel stroked the animal's nose and neck, still speaking softly. In a short time, Jurel felt comfortable enough to check the flanks, fetlocks and hooves for anything that might later pose a problem. He had no desire to meet his enemy on a horse that was one breath short of blowing out and one step short of lameness.

Satisfied, he turned back to Duma. “This one will do. I will require a saddle and bridle as well.”

“But sir!” Duma was quailing now, ashen-faced and visibly shaking. Sweat rolled down his forehead and neck. “He's me best one! Please!”

“What's his name?” When silence met his question, Jurel turned to Duma with the same relentlessness. Duma wore an expression of sourness, a petulance that almost made Jurel laugh. Almost. “His name.”

“Hopper. M'lord.”

“Fine. I need that saddle.”

Reluctantly, Duma produced a decent set of riding gear. The saddle was a little worn and the bridle had seen much use but it would suffice. After saddling the horse, Jurel took Hopper from his stall and rode him. At first the horse was skittish—it was likely Duma rarely, if ever, rode the animal—but soon Jurel had Hopper settled into a groove. It was a farm animal and was not trained for battle. It would not respond to commands delivered by Jurel's legs but that did not overly concern him. In time, Hopper would learn.

Having appropriated a sack filled with oats, Jurel turned to leave. He spoke one last time to Duma.

“I will compensate you for your troubles.” if I survive. Let's not forget that. “Watch for me.”

Without waiting for a reply, Jurel set heels to Hopper's flanks, and they were off.

He had friends to save. He had a lot to atone for.

And then he could disappear.

Chapter 37

With a jerk, he drew his blade across the sentry's throat. The sentry fell to his side with only a slight gurgle. Cleaning off his blade, Gaven figured that the sentry deserved his fate; over-confidence led to complacence. Nodding off while on duty was definitely a deadly mistake. He inspected his blade by the thin moonlight and, satisfied, sheathed his dagger.

Silently, Gaven dragged the soldier back into the woods, depositing the body in a small gully, noting a dark circle spreading down the white cloak, and keeping alert for sounds in the forest that should not have been there. Had he been more alert, he never would have killed the sentry, but in his efforts to keep his bearings, as well as the shock when he began to realize just how large this army was, he had nearly tripped over the silent sentinel in the darkness. It had only been a lucky snore close enough that Gaven could have reached out and touched the hapless sentry that had alerted him.

He and the small group of survivors had arrived a short while before, leaving their pilfered mounts in a clearing a mile west, just as the moon had begun its ascent through the thin, tattered clouds. After disposing of three far ranging outriders, Mikal had ordered several of them to scout the camp and see if they could find any weakness to exploit. And maybe, if they were lucky, locate where Kurin was being held.

Under the shelter of the trees he had crested a berm which had given him a commanding view of the army the Salosian Order would have to face. The view from his vantage on the western flank had stunned him, dismayed him, caused him to question the plans they had drawn up on their way south, caused him, in fact, to question the very sanity of even trying to face such a juggernaut. If the number of fires pricking the plain surrounding the Eastern Caravan Route and the distance between the furthest was any indication, then the Salosians were in for a rough ride.

The huge numbers were frightening but what most disturbed him was that it was barely four day's ride through the forest north of the Sun Sea to the doorstep of the Abbey.

But numbers were not enough. Mikal had taught him many things about military deployment during his time at the Abbey and marching toward the ill-fated ambush later; Gaven needed to know more about the cavalry and the infantry and what weapons each would be using—Mikal would demand that information. He needed to know how many archers they would have to contend with. He needed to know how many priests had tagged along. He would even liked to have known the general morale of the forces arrayed against them.

He wondered if there was anything he could do right then and there that could create an advantage—any advantage—in the coming siege.

He returned to where he'd stumbled on the sentry and again took his bearings. Beyond the shadows of the trees, he saw a fire. Flowing silently through the cover he reached the tree line and scanned ahead. The scent of roasting venison rode on the chill autumn breeze. In the glow of the firelight, he spied several Soldiers of God and what appeared to be pikes leaning against the sides of several small one-man tents. Infantry then.

Backing carefully away, Gaven made his way south through the trees, silently dispatching two sentries as he went (hoping that the sentries would not be missed for at least an hour or two—long enough to put some distance between him and this army) toward the clearing and the rendezvous with Mikal and the others.

The pickets alone occupied a greater area than their entire expeditionary force had before the Soldiers of God had annihilated them. His first thought of disrupting this army had been finding a way to sabotage their horses. Faced with sentries posted in pairs every hundred feet and with a sea of horses, Gaven had to wonder if he could possibly manage to do any real amount of damage here without endangering him and his friends.

He began to wonder if there was anything he could do to any part of this encampment that would have more effect than a mosquito biting a bull. There were always the food stores, he surmised but he quickly discarded the thought. They were not far from Twin Town and only a couple of weeks north of Grayson. Supplies could easily be replaced. Firing the spare weapons would accomplish little as well; from what he saw, each soldier carried his or her own weapons close at hand.

No, there was very little for him to accomplish on his own here, save perhaps riling up the enemy army and causing them to strike sooner. His only advantage, his only hope, was that they would stay here for a time longer, giving the Salosians the time they needed to organize whatever defenses they had left. His hope of winning the battle had dwindled to a hope that they could prolong the battle and kill as many prelacy forces as possible before the Salosians were annihilated.

As he slid silently between the trees, a hand clamped solidly over his mouth. Jerking, he stumbled. He tried to spin to face his adversary, but another hand snaked around his waist and held him.

“Quiet,” a familiar voice honed to an unfamiliar edge whispered in his ear.

His heart thumping in his chest, he nodded. Slowly, the hands released their steel grip and Gaven turned.

And there he was. Bloody hells, there he was. Gaven had not heard his ghostly silent approach. Yet he was solid and huge and radiating a new sense that Gaven had never felt before. He looked, felt, dangerous. Deadly. He looked not like Gaven's friend but more like a man who could smash mountains. Gaven swallowed with an audible click.

Jurel, his face hidden in shadow, gestures for Gaven to take the lead.

Stifling his questions, Gaven slipped back through the trees. He knew that Jurel followed but he heard no sound and when he glanced back to check on Jurel, he never saw him. Until he paused to ensure Jurel was not lost and Jurel materialized at his shoulder whispering for Gaven to hurry up. Gaven knew his time training with Mikal's men had changed him, knew that he was a better warrior and woodsman for it. But beside Jurel, Gaven felt like a blundering child playing at men's business.

It was shortly before sunrise, in that time when the world waited with pent breath, when the air itself held the sharp smell of anticipation for the dawn, when they entered the camp.

Having been spotted by the outer sentries, Gaven was not surprised that Mikal and Metana were waiting near the edge of the camp. Mikal nodded a greeting to Gaven then his eyes widened when Jurel stepped out of the trees. Again flummoxed, Gaven realized that none of the sentries had seen Jurel. Was he so skilled at woodcraft? Was he that much of a ghost?

Not only was Mikal shocked, Gaven saw, but so was Metana. For an instant she stood frozen. Then in a flurry of raven hair and billowing robes she flew into Jurel's arms. Her shoulders shook and Gaven looked away embarrassed. He found it difficult to watch this strong, hard-edged woman weeping.

He also could not bear the distant, disinterested look in Jurel's eyes as he hugged her stiffly in return. Then he gently pushed her away without yet actually looking at her. The shock on her face was quickly replaced by heart-wrenching hurt and shame.

And still Jurel's stone cold expression did not change a wit.

What's happened to you, Jurel?

“We must make plans,” Jurel said. His voice was as hard as his expression.

“For what?” Mikal said quietly.

Pointing back over his shoulder, Jurel said, “Kurin and about a hundred survivors are penned in a stockade. We need to break them free. About a hundred paces south of your last position Gaven.”

“You saw them?”

Jurel nodded. “Any idea on how to get them out without losing any more?”

Gaven pictured the enemy's camp in his mind: the position of the sentries, the lines of horse pickets, the supply wagons. He dredged up all the knowledge he had of the Soldiers of God.

And in a flash of insight, Gaven knew how to do it. He smiled, and it was as cold as Jurel's eyes.

Chapter 38

The sounds of battle, Kurin noted, were eerie in a forest at night. Steel clashes echoed hollowly through the trees, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once as though it was the trees themselves singing a strange song, perhaps in an attempt to mimic the tiny humans that crawled around at the bases of their trunks. Shouts of anger and cries of pain followed, just as spine-tingling, disembodied as they were.

He raised his head, his neck protesting dully, and saw the eighty-odd caged men and women of the failed assault do the same. Confused looks passed between them, darkly shadowed and oddly liquid in the flickering torchlight, though words were still taboo; there were still two dozen crossbows pointed at them, crossbows that suddenly looked sharper, more ominous, more immediate.

To those who glanced his way, he signaled silently to wait, don't do anything foolish.

In the east, blue light flickered, each followed by a dull thud that caused pebbles to shiver in the dry packed dirt of the stockade. Nearer, just the other side of the wooden teeth, shouts and stumping footsteps.

The distant clamor seemed to crescendo while at the same time, the surrounding camp went calm, as still as the eye of a hurricane. As carefully as a mouse entering a cat's den, Kurin let his mind unfurl, let his senses peak from behind his own wall of sharpened stakes he had banished them to upon his capture.

And he felt nothing. Not a trace, not a whisper. He had not spent most of his life on the road as a fugitive without learning a thing or two about detecting those who sought him. He was proficient at sniffing out the watchers. As he let his senses extend a little further, he found not a one—and had the added benefit of at least some relief from the bruises and lacerations that his hosts so graciously bestowed upon him during his days here.

In the distance, where the blue lights flickered, turned red and green, caused the earth to shiver, he felt the reverberations of the release of massive amounts of arcanum.

Now.

As though trying to get comfortable he changed position, burrowing further into the darkness where the torches did not reach. Letting only a fingernail's worth of power loose, he worked the locks of his shackles, careful to not let his expression change lest the guards see. The cuffs released with a faint snick and a sudden jolt in the thread of power.

Suppressing a triumphant shout, he breathed deeply, quickly thinking up ideas on what to do next. Just as quickly, for one reason or another, he rejected his ideas: a sudden call to storm the barricade would be stupid in the extreme; a blast of arcanum would destroy the wall and the sentries but a blast like that was not choosy and his own people would not fare well—not to mention every man, woman and child within a ten mile radius who had any sensitivity to arcanum would feel as though they had been struck by a hammer; a lesser, more focused attack might not take out all the guards quickly enough—a single shouted warning might be as effective as a telltale surge of arcanum.

He winced as a particularly strong blast of arcanum sent a shudder through him. In the forest, a ruddy glow sprang up. Someone had set the trees afire; the summer had seen enough rain for the crops to survive, but it had been drier than most. That fire would spread quickly. The battle was reaching its climax. It was time to act. It was time to make his move. It was time to...something.

Throw caution to the wind, his instincts told him. Good people would die, but this was war and good people were often lost in war. Hastily, he counted the guards on each side of the stockade. He shot looks at a few of those with him, officers, veterans with enough experience to decipher unspoken communications. Slight nods responded, and the officers nonchalantly blended in with the rest of the prisoners. Kurin knew there was urgent whispering going on; he hoped the guards would not notice. He hoped the guards would not notice the sudden but slow evacuation at the east side of the stockade. He hoped, most of all, that all the Gaorlan priests were too busy to investigate when Kurin acted. He would be stretched too thinly to protect any of them if the interest of even a single priest was piqued.

He took a deep breath, marshaling his strength and his concentration. No easy thing: besides the distracting sounds of battle and the unsettling electric hum in the air, he was exhausted, ill-fed, injured. He felt weak as a kitten. Grimly, he reached into his self, summoning that familiar light that always seemed just outside his periphery. As always, it came readily, easily, and as always, it coursed through him like fine wine, left him giddy and exultant. Suddenly, he could smell the smoke of the fires as though he were on top of them, could smell that, at one, food was burning. He smelled sweat, acrid and musky with fear, and soil, and sweet late-blooming flowers. And blood. It filled his nose and coated his tongue with its metallic, coppery flavor and he suppressed a gag. He could see the individual veins on each individual leaf, he could hear footsteps and metal clashing.

The senior officer, a captain watched him gravely. They had no weapons. They would be facing armed and armored soldiers. They were starving, bereft of hope. They needed to act. No matter the cost. The captain held his eyes, nodded.

Now.

In one smooth motion, Kurin rose to his feet to face the east wall and lifted his arms over his head. He threw up an obscuring shield behind him, a shield which would make it seem to the sentries that suddenly there was no one in the stockade while at the same time, would hopefully deflect at least the majority of the missiles that were sure to come raining down.

At the same moment, he released his power in one massive surge. The stockade along that wall exploded, the eight foot wooden stakes suddenly becoming splintered projectiles. The guards that manned that wall essentially evaporated into red mists.

And, now.

The captain barked an order; prisoners stared dull-eyed for a moment, but soon enough began to move toward the opening. Slowly at first, as quiet as a funeral procession, the men and women of the Salosian army filtered through the ragged maw that gaped, but their momentum soon picked up and within seconds, they began grumbling angrily, gladly, victoriously, some few breaking into a jog. Within moments, the jog became a sprinting exodus.

Kurin felt pinches in the shield behind him; the guards were firing blindly. Some few, he knew would have enough presence of mind to call out and begin circling the perimeter. He lashed out again, another wave of pure, violent power surging back through his shield, crushing the west and north sides.

In the gap and beyond, his soldiers had begun to race across the camp, some few stooping to pick up anything they might use as a weapon: a spade, a spare lance—not particularly effective for scattered foot troops but better than nothing; Kurin even saw occasional lucky souls brandishing short swords.

He let his rage loose as he lagged behind. He launched another volley of power into the south wall, and there was, except for the dusty packed earth and Kurin's chains, suddenly no trace of the stockade left. As the prisoners disappeared into the camp, Kurin took his time, launching more attacks, raining more destruction through the camp. Supply wagons erupted in sudden flame; larger tents that he took to be command or gathering tents were shredded; a mobile smithy, complete with forge and anvil became tattered, twisted metal. The banked but still burning coals pattered on structures for a hundred paces and flickering pricks of flame licked hungrily at dry fabric and wood.

As the last of the prisoners disappeared into the darkness, Kurin reined himself in. His shield collapsed until it was a bubble surrounding just him. He could not have done so at a more fortuitous time: almost as soon as his power was shored up, something intangible hammered him to his knees. If his shield had not been in place, he would have been no more than a very messy memory. As it was, he felt a white heat eating at the left side of his face, down to his shoulder.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, took exactly two steps when everything turned white. A terrible concussion like a mountain falling blasted through the camp, followed by a wave of heat. Eyes watering, Kurin blinked, tried to clear the black spots from his vision. Sound turned into a distant thing, nearly covered by the ringing in his ears.

Turning to the source, he gasped. A wide swath of tents were gone, leaving only blackened spots to mark their departure. The fires were all out, smoking like candles extinguished by wind. Armored men poured from the remaining structures, bellowing, brandishing their great swords. Behind them strode three priests glowing with their arcane auras, their hands held high. Energy crackled; Kurin felt the hair on his body prickle up. Of the priests, Kurin recognized the one standing in the middle.

He raised his hands just as the priests of Gaorla thrust forward. Great gouts of fire erupted from their outstretched fingers, pouring forth like volcanic spew over the crusted remains of the camp. The fire shrieked and roared its way forward at stunning speed, but perhaps no more than two hand spans in front of Kurin, the fires seemed to strike an invisible barrier. Kurin grunted with the force. It felt like a punch in the gut.

The fire split on Kurin's shield, the two halves circling the edge of the unseen barrier, leaving behind a streaking trail of ghostly blue light, and splashed to the ground igniting everything they touched.

Kurin responded. Drawing in as much arcanum as he could hold, enough that he felt his eyes would melt, that his teeth would shatter, that he would blow apart at the seams, he thrust his arms wide. In front of the onrushing horde of Soldiers, a wall of blue-white light burst from the ground, so bright that it made the previous blast seem like the dead of night, so hot that even he felt the waves of heat, streaked skyward and stretched from one edge of the devastation to the other.

For the Soldiers who could not halt their momentum, there was no escape. As soon as they touched the wall, arcs of electric light surged into them. Not able to do more than emit one final shriek, those men blew apart. Shreds of meat, and shards of shrapnel sliced into the men behind, causing more to drop.

Not satisfied, Kurin pushed his wall and it began to inch its way forward. There was a pressure from the other side, a heat, a pulsing stitch of agony that lanced straight into his skull as the priests desperately tried to counter his spell by pushing it back at him. For a moment, he thought they would. The pain crescendoed into a blasting furnace that consumed him from head to toe, and icicle stabs seemed to penetrate him in a thousand places at once.

The pressure increased but his wall lurched forward inch by agonizing inch.

But the priests of Gaorla were not beaten yet. He felt it as a crushing weight on his chest and he gasped. Sparkles of blackness darted across his vision as he tried frantically to claw a breath into his burning lungs. For what had to be an eternity, nothing seemed to change except the ever-increasing pressure. The sparkles of black expanded and they were joined by raven feathers that crept in to obscure his peripheral vision.

There was a sensation of snapping. Almost audible, like a bone cracking. He cried out. The pressure abated and he was finally able to draw a great gulping breath. From across the arcane wall, he heard a squeal as if a pig had been stabbed. In shock, he realized that the snapping he had heard, felt, was not him. It was one of the Gaorlans.

“I got you now,” he rasped and he narrowed his eyes, concentrating.

His wall intensified in heat and brightness, and it surged forward suddenly. He groaned with the immensity of his efforts. A second squeal broke through the roar of the wall. Then a third.

The pressure collapsed. The wall collapsed. And somehow, when Kurin opened his eyes, he found he had collapsed too. He stared upward into Mikal's grizzled face and he smiled, too exhausted, in too much shock to wonder at that. Probably his imagination, some part of his mind whispered.

“You done showing off now?” Mikal growled.

Too weak to answer, he moved his head in what he hoped would be understood as a nod.

“Then I guess you'll be expecting me to carry you out of here.”

Nodding again was just too much effort. Instead, he closed his eyes, and let a sweet darkness enfold him. And from somewhere above him, just as the last light vanished, he felt strong hands grip him, and he thought he heard Mikal mutter something. Something like, “You crazy old bugger.”

Chapter 39

Even in the light of day, the forest was gloomy, forbidding. The cool wind that rustled the browning leaves brought a musky, musty scent of decay. The boles pressed close; low hanging branches and tall shrubs reached out with wooden fingers to snag garment and flesh alike. The sounds of boots tramping and pained grunts were the only ones to be heard.

Exhaustion lay like a pall on Gaven's shoulders. He and the rest continued their quick march through the forest. No one had slept since their daring—and maybe foolish—raid on the Soldier's of God two days before. Food was scarce and what there was, was eaten as they marched.

The success of the raid, Gaven thought through the torpid haze, was the only thing that kept any of them going. Two had been lost in the raid, but they had saved nearly a hundred, including Kurin. Six more had been lost as they traveled south; too injured or too exhausted to continue those few had been, by necessity, left behind. That did not count Jurel who, after seeing them safely away, had vanished as suddenly as he had arrived—and that was something Gaven did not want to think about. Even so, the combined total of the battle's survivors amounted to nearly a hundred and seventy-five.

Now only a few days north of the Abbey, and about an equal number of days ahead of the behemoth war machine that followed, they kept their breakneck pace. Mikal had assigned the best scouts left to cover their tracks but in their haste Gaven had no doubt a blind child could have tracked them.

Stopping to rest would not be advisable.

Gaven herded the men and women that Mikal had hastily assigned to him, ensuring that they remained close enough to communicate any distresses. Out beyond his makeshift platoon's perimeter, he heard branches snapping and underbrush rustling as Mikal pushed his own group along.

Then he pulled up short, signaling a halt. Because he heard similar disturbances on his other side. Where there should have been no one. He turned to Sergeant Tak, a grizzled man thinned by his captivity but still exuding strength. Tak's return look did not instill confidence. With a series of quick hand signals, Gaven communicated with Mikal's troop.

But before he could do much more than that, the trees erupted. The forest came alive with the sound of horse shrills and hooves. White capes flashed brilliantly where shafts of sunlight lanced them. Swords glittered threateningly.

Shouts broke out among Gaven's fugitives. Those who had weapons raised them and took up positions around those who did not. Most did not. Counting quickly, Gaven saw there had to be a hundred Soldiers of God rushing to surround his men. From the sounds coming from the other side of the trees, he knew Mikal faced the same.

Heart quailing, Gaven took his position at the forefront with his sword drawn and he faced the wall of white. He hoped Mikal was seeing to Kurin's and Metana's escape. With a hardness he never would have credited in himself, he snarled, “Come on then you bastards. Let's see what you got.”

Somewhere beyond the front line of armed and armored soldiers, Gaven heard a tinkling laugh. Then a voice he recognized called out.

“You always were one for dramatics, Gaven.”

Numbed by shock, Gaven let the tip of his sword drop a fraction before catching himself and bringing it back to the ready. The men in front of Gaven parted and a single rider pushed his horse through. The horseman studied Gaven for a moment, then slowly removed the shining helm.

Not his horse. Her horse. Gaven gasped. “Captain?”

Captain Salma Baccus, Gaven's commanding officer from his days in the Soldiers of God regarded him with a wry smile.

“Hello, Private. How have you been?”

Gaven stared, a great weariness washing over him.

From somewhere behind her, another familiar voice called out. “Major, we've rounded up the last of their scouts.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she called then turned back to face Gaven. Her eyes sparkled as though she were in on some joke.

“So. I always thought you and I would meet again, Private.”

Conflicted, Gaven scowled. A major now. Gaven wondered if she had been promoted for bringing Jurel and Kurin to the temple at Threimes. His jaw clenched painfully, his sword remained rigidly erect. It had been at her command that his two friends had been consigned to cells deep beneath the temple in the bowels of the earth. There was enough anger that he would not feel too sorry for sliding his sword into her guts. But she had treated him well, even after the debacle with the Dakariin, even during his court-martial for his role in getting a lot of Soldiers killed. She had treated him with respect. For that, she deserved a chance.

Though greatly outnumbered, there were three swordmasters in this group. Gaven was one of them. He knew they would lose if it came to battle but he also knew that the Soldiers, being average swordsmen at best, relying on their numbers, ferocity and reputation to see them through battles, would take heavy casualties—which meant the Abbey would have a few less of these bastards to fight. He also knew he was good enough that he would make her bleed before he was killed.

Marshaling all his remaining strength, Gaven rose to his full height and glared at her. “Major, we do not wish to fight you.” He smiled predatorially. “Not yet in any case. We may be weary but there are several swordmasters among us and some powerful Salosian brothers. Your victory is by no means certain. Losing many, many of your men is.”

The wry smile spread and she added to it by leaning nonchalantly on the pommel of her saddle.

“You mistake me, Private-”

“Captain,” he barked.

“My apologies, Captain,” she murmured with a bow. “You've mistaken my intentions.”

She barked a sharp order and in unison every one of her Soldiers snapped their sword points up and sheathed them. Then, as Gaven looked on in confusion, holes formed in the line and his scouts were ushered through. None appeared injured in any way, none were shackled. Their confusion mirrored his own.

“You see, Captain,” Salma continued, “we are not here to fight you or arrest you. We are here to join you.”

* * *

His head throbbed in time with his aching heart. His flesh crawled as though a thousand spiders skittered, somehow surviving the dry, sand blasted heat. He held his sword in a white-knuckled death grip; the thorns pierced his flesh, spattering the ground and his lap with fresh blood.

Jurel scowled, staring at the gore that he had not yet cleaned from the blade. The raid on the enemy army had gone according to plan and for that he was pleased. Kurin and a few dozen others had been saved. Metana and Gaven and Mikal were alive. It mitigated, at least marginally, the anguished remorse he felt for killing a more than a thousand men and women.

A hot wind whipped his hair, ripped his tattered clothes. A merciless sun beat relentlessly at him, grinding him down. Exhausted, he leaned back against the blasted stump that was all that remained of his lilac tree and shut his eyes.

He had done what he'd set out to do: he saved Kurin. Now he could do everyone a great favor by simply disappearing from the world forever. Everyone would do much better without his bumbling, stumbling, playing at things best left to his betters. Wouldn't they?

With that thought tumbling like lead weights, Jurel Histane, God of War, slipped into a fitful slumber.

* * *

His sword slipped from nerveless fingers; the clatter as it struck the ground seemed to come from a long, long way away.

He did not notice when Mikal slipped up beside him to face Salma, nor did he hear his commander's words. Salma spoke and he did not hear that either. It was not until Mikal elbowed him in the ribs that he finally snapped back to himself.

“I don't understand,” he croaked.

“It's simple,” Salma responded. “The atrocities that Prelate Thalor has visited upon innocents has been too much for us to swallow. None of us joined up to burn down entire villages just because they didn't know where you were.”

“What assurances do we have that you won't betray us?” Mikal growled.

“I bring you about two hundred men today. I have arranged through secure channels to transport any others who are willing to leave the Soldiers of God. And believe me: there are many more.”

“That does not answer my question, Major.”

“No I suppose not. I do not know what assurances we can offer. If you refuse us then we will simply leave. At least you will face two hundred less in your war. On the other hand, two hundred trained Soldiers of God fighting for you with who knows how many more to follow...it's a distinct improvement to your situation, wouldn't you agree?”

And Gaven was immensely relieved—and feeling an oily guilt coiling in the pit of his stomach for it—that Mikal was there to make the decision.

After a heavy silence, Mikal said, “Why?”

“As I said to Captain Gaven,” she shot him a wry grin “we didn't sign up to-”

“Why?” Mikal interrupted gruffly.

This time when she opened her mouth nothing came out. She stared contemplatively into the trees as though gathering her thoughts. It was another surprising voice from Gaven's past who answered. A horse pushed its way through to Salma's side.

“Frankly,” said Lieutenant Titius Higgens, “we don't know.”

Seeing Lieutenant Higgins (now wearing Captain's epaulets—my, how everyone is moving up in the world, thought Gaven), referred to as Tight-Ass by those under his command for his strict, unswerving adherence to the rule book, Gaven had to again fight to maintain his composure.

“Captain Higgins is right,” Salma said after a moment. Her eyes took on a haunted cast. “We don't really know why we're here. We felt a...need.”

“As though something was pulling us,” Higgens said.

“We all feel like this is what we're supposed to be doing.”

“I don't understand,” Mikal said but Gaven caught a tone, a hint in his commander's voice that indicated that perhaps Mikal understood more than he let on.

Major Salma shook her head and blew out a frustrated breath.

“We don't either. All I know is that we feel this—this pulling and we're compelled to...to desert our posts.” Her lips twisted in distaste as she said this last.

“I think,” Tight-Ass continued, “that all of us feel it. Every last Soldier of God. I've heard muttering amongst the men. Many continue to resist the temptation. We could not.”

Mikal smiled, a tight twist of his lips, a wolf's glare. “Then you are welcome to join us.”

For the third time in twenty minutes, Gaven fought to keep a straight face.

Chapter 40

All things considered, things were going quite well for Prelate Thalor Stock. Certainly he missed his bed, and the meals prepared by his personal chef, and now that the days had turned chilly and the nights downright cold with the onset of autumn, he missed his cozy fire. But with the arrival of the main body some time back, he had reacquired at least some of the luxuries of home. He had to give that old fool, Maten, credit. When the man traveled, he traveled in comfort. Maten had invited Thalor to raid some of his personal stocks, and now at least Thalor's living accommodations were not quite so spartan: thick rugs now covered the ground, and he even had a portable fireplace instead of a lowly brazier; his cot had been scrapped for a much more appropriate bed; and he now had a plethora of servants to tend to him, including a personal cook! The man was not as good as his own cook at the temple, but he was a far cry better than the army cooks. All in all, despite his lingering headache—damn that vile dog Kurin, damn him to the hells!—he had reason to be happy.

His army was nearing its goal. He looked down from the top of the rise to the grubby wooden spires of Twin Town. A wind carried the cloying odors of wood smoke and too many unwashed bodies crammed too closely together, causing his nose to itch.

He smiled. Memories of his first battle were still fresh in his mind. He pictured with relish the destruction of the so called Salosian army. He had lost only a handful of men—a few hundred—in the battle. Barely a scratch to his army. He still had plenty left to wipe whatever paltry resistance the Salosian infection could muster from the land. The loss of that bastard Kurin rankled but Maten had already arrived and taken charge; none of the blame fell on Thalor for that debacle—though still sported a lingering headache. Seeing the Twins in the near distance, knowing that they were only days from knocking on their precious Abbey's front door mitigated his frustration at losing the wily old bastard. Thalor would cut his retribution from the old man's hide. He would personally strip the bastard's bones bare, slowly, while Kurin screamed and begged for mercy.

After another moment cherishing the fine morning and the fine vision, breathing deeply of the brisk air, he brought himself out of his reverie with a small shake and turned in his saddle, scanning the ranks of pristine white capes to find Major Reowynn Vash. Seeing the man conferring with one of his lieutenants, whose name Thalor did not know, Thalor signaled. Being so far beneath him in station, he did not bother learning their names. He knew Major Reowynn only because, as commander of the vanguard and Thalor's right hand, they had to speak often.

With a slight nod and a few last words for the lieutenant, he cantered his mount to Thalor's side and snapped a sharp salute.

“Tell your men to set camp, Major,” Thalor ordered. “We will wait here until the main body arrives and then we will occupy Twin Town. Once I am satisfied that all is in order, we march for the Abbey.” He smiled and the smile turned into an amused grin. “I wish to finish this by the Day of Shadows. I find it appropriate.”

“My Lord,” Major Reowynn responded, and with another sharp salute, turned his horse and cantered away, barking orders.

Thalor breathed deeply of the chill autumn air, wrinkling his nose slightly at the stench wafting from the dung hole town a half mile away.

He surveyed the town ahead for some time, thought he saw an occasional denizen look his way and disappear quickly into the maze of hovels.

Yes. Let them fear me. Let the heretics fear Gaorla's wrath.

He turned his mount and found his tent had been erected some distance away in a peasant's field. As he rode, he thought of his upcoming triumph. The Salosians would be but a bad memory in a few days. Perhaps he would order Major Reowynn to time the attack for the Day of Shadows. It was appropriate, he thought, to send so many sinners to Gaorla's gate on that day of death. He smiled.

I will bring His holy fires down upon their heads.

* * *

“They are encamped within sight of Twin Town,” Jorge yelled over the voices that filled the council hall. “They are days away. Stop your bloody bickering you bunch of fools!”

That worked. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as the din died down and shocked faces all spun to stare at him.

“That's better,” he said a little more moderately into the stunned silence.

“We should have fled when we had the chance!” Andrus's voice cut through before Jorge could finish gathering his scattered thoughts.

“Thank you, Brother Andrus,” Jorge said, glaring sternly at the slender man. “But if you speak out of turn again, I will have you removed from these proceedings.”

“It's a valid point,” someone shouted from the back.

Jorge felt his control slipping; he spoke quickly.

“If we had fled then what would have happened to the refugees that have made camp outside our walls? What is the latest tally, Garvus?”

Beside him, he heard the shuffle of parchment as Garvus reviewed his notes.

“Eleven thousand four hundred seventy seven. The last count was taken three days ago. More have arrived since.”

“Eleven and a half thousand men, women, and children,” Jorge roared, “all camped outside our doors, all having fled their villages, their homes, ahead of the blasted Soldiers of God that will be here in a few days. What would have happened to all those innocents if we had fled?”

He raked the room with his eyes, saw several of his brethren shrink away.

“How would we have explained ourselves to the gods if we had let them all fall under the sword because we were cowards?”

“They will fall anyway,” countered Brother Pols, his jowls jiggling with his anxiety. “We have barely two thousand soldiers to hold off the entire armed might of the Prelacy. Even with the improvements to our defenses, we cannot hope to survive. I question whether we can even slow them.”

Garvus cleared his throat.

“There is something interesting about the refugees,” he said as he rose from his seat. “Something that we should be able to take advantage of. We have set some of our swordmasters to patrolling their camp to keep the peace. So far, eight fights have broken out in the past week. Two of those nearly became full scale riots.”

“Very interesting,” Jorge said wryly. “Yes indeed, very interesting. But I admit, Garvus, that I do not see how this helps us in any way.”

“If you would let me finish, then perhaps something would get through that thick skull of yours.” Garvus said with a sharp glare.

Muffled titters broke out across the hall. Even Goromand on his chair smiled slightly. Swallowing his scathing retort, he smiled tightly, bowed slightly and indicated Garvus should continue.

“As the swordmasters were breaking up each fight, they noticed that those involved had some martial skill. All of them. There's even a report from Sergeant Carmichal that says-” he riffled through more pages, “-ah here it is. That says, 'With the exception of the threadbare quality of the shelters, the encampment does not bear the appearance of a hastily built refuge. On the contrary, it has more the appearance of being deployed with a thought to tactical advantage. It is deployed as I would have instructed my men to deploy our own camp if we had been in the field.'”

Uncertain what it was he was hearing, Jorge frowned. “And that means?”

“It means,” Fagan piped up, his great voice booming like thunder, “that for whatever reason, every man and woman out there is a potential soldier for us.”

Gasps resonated throughout the hall. Staggered, Jorge struggled to process Fagan's words. He had been so enveloped in the task of strengthening the Abbey's defenses that he had not paid much attention to the gathering crowd beyond the walls.

“Eleven thousand soldiers?” he gasped.

“Well, no,” Garvus hedged. “There are several thousand children amongst the refugees. They obviously cannot fight. The number of able adults is somewhere around six thousand to six thousand five hundred.” He glanced at Jorge apologetically. “I'm sorry I cannot be more precise than that.”

Six thousand. Added to their remaining army would give them a fighting force of about eight thousand. The odds were still heavily against them—five, six to one—but they had the Abbey and its defenses. A sudden blaze of hope flared up nearly choking him.

“How?” he croaked.

“Well now, that's the question of the hour, isn't it?” Goromand said, finally rising from his seat. “How is it possible that we suddenly have access to such a huge army when, throughout the centuries, we have never had more than perhaps three thousand fighting men and women.”

He was old, was Goromand. Well into his nineties. Some brothers and sisters had, in the last few years, quietly been questioning whether he still maintained enough of his faculties to lead the Order. He still possessed the penetrating gaze that Jorge remembered from his first days as an acolyte. The one that had made him tremble, certain that Abbott Goromand had seen into the core of his soul and delved everything there was to know about him in mere moments.

Goromand turned that gaze on Jorge now and still, after all these years, Jorge felt the familiar unease.

“When did the refugees begin arriving?”

“A week ago. Maybe a little more.”

Goromand nodded as a small smile creased the corners of his eyes.

“A few weeks ago. Not very long before our young Jurel left his self-imposed exile to save Kurin.”

Feeling like a child all over again, Jorge stared mutely. Kurin had Sent to him informing him that he was safe and on his way home. He also told Jorge that he had some news of import to divulge. Jorge had wanted to ask a million questions but even in the dreamworld in which Sending took place, Kurin had looked worn out as though he had...well as though he had been ill-fed and tortured for weeks. So Jorge had stifled his questions, deciding to wait for Kurin's full accounting upon his arrival. Now Jorge wished he had pressed. Kurin had not mentioned Jurel's return; Jorge fathomed that he knew what his important news was.

The implications were as mind-boggling as they were terrifying. Was Jurel influencing the people to take up arms, instilling them with martial ability that, as farmers and tradesmen, they would otherwise have no reason to have? If he was, was it intentional or accidental? Was he so powerful that his will could reach across the land and touch thousands of people without his even realizing it?

Why not? He was the God of War.

With Mikal's absence, the responsibility of the Abbey's defenses had fallen on his shoulders. Plans began spinning through his mind. With burgeoning excitement, he ignored the din that was swelling once again within the hall, and put aside the question of Jurel's involvement. He began to think of what the addition of six thousand fighters could do for them.

His preliminary calculations were encouraging. At least insofar as instead of seeing naught but annihilation as the inevitable outcome; now he saw a glimmer of hope. They were still heavily outnumbered, but they had better defenses. That was, of course, if any of the gathering refugees beyond the walls were willing to fight.

Somehow, Jorge thought with a tight smile, he knew they would be. And with such a sudden surge in their numbers, maybe they could begin thinking of going on the offensive a little. He would have to speak with Mikal because an idea had begun to form in his mind. A mad, daring, ridiculous idea. His smile broadened and it had just a hint of a predatory quality.

Chapter 41

His men advanced in orderly columns, white capes announcing their intentions, swords flashing a dangerous promise in the sunlight to those who did not cede. His columns, five abreast and over a quarter mile long, rode forth and Thalor felt a thrill.

By now, the peasants who populated the streets of Twin Town had seen the approaching army and the dirty streets teemed with people rushing back and forth.

“Remember, Major. No burnings. King's orders,” he sneered as he watched his army march to victory. Then a malicious grin darkened his countenance. “But you may most certainly prosecute those who do not cooperate as heretics.”

Major Reowynn saluted, spun his horse and rode toward the front while Thalor continued to watch. They marched past the first buildings—hovels really—and down the main streets, bristling steel on either side. At intervals, squads broke off and disappeared into the alleys and side streets. No tactician, Thalor wondered how so few could overcome so many, even if the few bore steel. He did not doubt that they would, he just wondered how the Major had planned it.

When the last men passed by, he fell in with the guards who formed a protective ring around him. The main body of the army was only hours away. They should be here, he was told, long before sunset. He planned on having the Twins secured by then. Maten (that bloody fool) might have words with him about following his orders but what, really, could the old fool say when he saw Twin Town firmly under Thalor's thumb?

As he looked on, he saw his Soldiers rounding up the populace and gathering them in the main square at the center of town. At this rate, he thought they would have total control of the town before the main body could set camp.

* * *

He sat at his appropriated desk in the common room of the best inn his Soldiers could find—which, to be more precise, was to say the best of the bad. Ruddy gold sunlight filtered through the hastily cleaned windows. He flipped through various reports, squinting in the low light, setting aside most for Major Reowynn's perusal since they had much to do with logistics and grievances within the ranks and very little to do with anything he should be bothered with overseeing himself.

The faint odor of smoke tickled his nose; he would have to question the Major on that. His orders from Maten had been clear: no more burnings. If this odor came from cook fires, there would be no issue of course. On the other hand...

But no, Thalor respected Reowynn more than he respected any other Soldier of God. The man was a boor, an oaf, as all those who made their living by the sword were, but he was also a consummate professional and would see to it that his orders were carried out to the letter. Anyone caught disobeying would never get the chance to face Thalor; Reowynn was pleasingly harsh with those who disobeyed him.

The front door creaked open and Thalor glanced up to see another major, one he had never seen before, approach. The woman's green eyes stared dead ahead from her sun speckled face as she snapped a salute. Well built, certainly not ugly, Thalor eyed her appreciatively.

“Your Eminence,” she barked, her voice unusually gravelly for a woman of her age and rank as though she had inhaled too much smoke in her lifetime. Sergeants often had voices like that after years of shouting commands damaged their throats, but majors were expected to be more reserved. Thalor did not approve. “Major Thania d'Anton reporting.”

“What do you have to report, Major,” Thalor said icily.

“The main camp is situated for the night, sir. At your order, we have cordoned off the Eastern Caravan Route to the north and south of Twin Town.”

My order? Ah. Thank you, Major Reowynn.

“Very good, Major. Major Reowynn shall return momentarily. Wait here and present him with your report.”

Though young, she knew a dismissal when she heard one and with another salute, she left for the bar at the other end of the room where Thalor had graciously allowed the innkeeper to continue plying his trade—as long as he, of course, donated his time and effort to provide for Thalor's men.

Once again the door creaked open. His cape streaked with mud and ash, his face sooty, Reowynn banged off his customary sharp salute.

“What's going on, Major?” Thalor snapped.

“My Lord?” His face impassive, still Reowynn managed to seem confused by the terse demand.

“I smell smoke. I thought there was to be no burning.”

Reowynn's eyes tightened. Good. Let him fear. “My Lord, the townsfolk started the fire themselves.”

Thalor pinned Reowynn with a glare, and gently set down his quill.

“And why, pray tell, did they do that?”

“There was a group of folk, twenty or thirty,” Reowynn reported in the calm, emotionless voice a good soldier uses when reporting facts. “They were holed up in a tavern three blocks from here. Anyone who opened the front door was instantly feathered with a crossbow bolt. I lost three men.

“I ordered the place surrounded and called for their surrender. They answered by throwing bottles of burning spirits through the windows. When the bottles struck the ground, they exploded. I lost four more men but the splashing fire caught on the tavern and burned it to the ground, along with everyone inside.”

“I see. And is this the only fire to report?”

After a brief hesitation, Reowynn shook his head. “No. There have been three such events. In each, the building was burned to the ground along with everyone inside.”

Thalor began to have an uneasy feeling, a suspicion that tickled at the back of his thoughts.

“I should like to see one of these...last stands.”

“There's naught left but ashes, My Lord.”

“Nonetheless...”

A short while later, Thalor dismounted and regarded the still smoking ruin. Water dripped from timbers that looked like charred bone, evidence of the bucket brigade that had formed to douse the flames. Three Soldiers of God sifted through the debris searching, presumably for the bones of those who remained inside. Thalor had a suspicion that they would find nothing. He also had the suspicion that he would.

“Tell them to move, Major.”

Thalor stepped to the edge of the wreckage as the Soldiers scrambled past, saluting as they went. He raised his hands, palm to palm in front of him, and opened himself to his source. Then he deliberately spread his arms and as he did, puffs of smoke and ash rising, with a sound of wood scraping and tinkling glass, the debris and charred wreckage parted down the center and moved in concert with his motion.

Soon, what was left of the tavern was swept to either side in two heaping mounds and he stared at a floor of ash streaked flagstones. He bent nearly in half as he stepped onto the now bare foundation, inspecting the stones carefully. Worn smooth by years of footsteps, they were irregularly shaped, fitting together with mud and grout to form a chaotic pattern.

Except one toward the back where, Thalor suspected, the bar would have stretched from one end of the tavern to the other. He halted and studied the stone carefully. Even under the thin layer of soot his arcanum had not swept bare, he could see that this one was a lighter color than the rest and not worn quite as smooth. It was also a near perfect square. It was not large, but...but it might just be large enough to...to...

Disregarding the filth—he had servants to clean his clothing—he knelt and ran a finger around the edge, felt the smooth edge of the stone and the grit in the seam. About two thirds of the way around, his finger sank into the grout. He cocked his head and rose.

Opening himself to his source again, he concentrated on the stone. With a hollow grinding noise, the stone lifted and revealed a hole.

“Major,” he called, not looking away from the impenetrable darkness revealed. “Come here.”

Major Reowynn gasped when he saw what Thalor had found. Without waiting for instruction, Reowynn turned and barked several orders in quick succession.

Soon, Soldiers of God were swarming down the hole on a ladder brought hastily forth. And soon, Thalor became surprised by how many Soldiers fit down there.

Moments later, a sergeant appeared at the top of the ladder, his head poking up through the floor like a groundhog. He craned his neck until he caught sight of Major Reowynn.

“Sir, you'd better come down and see this.” Then he disappeared back down the hole.

After Reowynn disappeared behind the sergeant, Thalor decided he should see whatever it was. Gingerly, mincing his way, he made his way down the ladder. When his feet touched ground, he turned. And his mouth dropped open.

Flickering torchlight illuminated an earthen room that was large enough to accommodate a table with six chairs. Along one wall, several old crates and burlap sacks were stacked in haphazard fashion. Surprising enough, but what caught his attention was that he had counted forty Soldiers descending into the hole in the tavern floor before he decided to give up. Besides himself, only Reowynn and the sergeant, who had their heads bent together in close discussion, and two guards remained posted on either side of a tunnel that opened in the wall to his right.

Major Reowynn caught his eyes and stepped to his side.

“Sergeant Humkus tells me that tunnel goes on for quite some distance,” he said softly. “He reports that up ahead, there are several side tunnels. It would appear that this network of tunnels has been in construction for a very long time.”

“What is down there?”

“More rooms like this. Secret meeting places of sorts, I assume.”

“Have they found an end to these caves?”

“Not yet, my lord. But they have been searching only a short time.”

Thalor's mind was spinning. Several things were falling into place. Twin Town was unremarkable in every aspect. A grubby, dirty little port town, it was viewed largely as nothing more than a point of entry for trade ships sailing the Sun sea from the great empire to the south. Often, port cities were wealthy ones, like Grayson City a little farther south, living off the taxes and the trade brought in by ships, but Twin Town was not one of them. It was nothing more than a muddy, grubby checkpoint for goods and traders, wishing to avoid the heftier taxes charged in Grayson, who came and left as quickly as they could.

But Twin Town, only days away from the Abbey, straddled the Eastern Caravan Route. And it was only a few days to the South Caravan route that connected Grayson City to Oceanview on the western flank of the kingdom. Anyone based in this small, unremarkable town had, given a little time, unlimited and direct access to any point in the kingdom via the main highways, as well as the empire of Kashya by both road and sea.

With dawning horror, Thalor understood something else. This town should have thrived. It should have been wealthy. Why was it not? Why was it a forgettable dump, a miserable backwater, even though it was in such an advantageous location?

Salosians. They were adept at hiding, had been doing so, in fact, for generations. Could it be? Could this entire town be a staging area for the Salosian infestation, an access gate into the rest of the kingdom, and the world? Had it been kept intentionally poor to keep unwanted attention away? Had the damned Salosians spent the last two thousand years hiding right out in the open under everyone's noses?

As it all fell into place, he gripped Major Reowynn's tabard in one claw-like hand, and spun the Major to face him.

“Bring the army in. The whole lot of them. Bring them into town. Now. I want this entire garbage heap locked down in an hour. I don't want even a fly to get in or out without my knowledge.

“And I want every single local arrested and questioned for heresy.”

His mind spinning with realizations and implications, he clambered back up the rickety steps of the ladder, calling as he did for his horse. Much as it galled, Maten was still his superior and the old man would need to be made aware of this.

The Salosians had penetrated farther than anyone in the prelacy could ever have conceived, but forewarned was forearmed. Thalor would see them burn.

Chapter 42

The day was cold, crisp, carrying the scent of the slumbering earth on the wind. The sun cast a brilliant glow that illuminated the land with crystalline clarity. Except for the tramping of boots and hooves, all was silent; there was a sense of breath held in waiting.

For weeks, the king's army had marched north at a brutal pace. If King Threimes had forced this pace at any other time, for any other reason, he knew reports of men flagging, falling between one step and the next, exhausted, would have been rampant. But, to a man, they'd heard of the atrocity visited upon Killhern. They had all heard of the butchery, the massacre. There were no reports of men faltering in their stride. There was only a sea of grimly determined faces.

And each day that passed deepened the determination. For, with each day that passed with neither hide nor hair of the murderous army that had caused the atrocity to be found, each and every soul strove a little harder to suppress the unease that grew. With no knowledge of where such a large force could have disappeared to, Threimes's army began nervously glancing behind as though expecting ambush at any moment.

Ignoring the advice of his retinue, Threimes rode in the van. Thus it was that he was one of the first to spy the devastation that was all that remained of Killhern. The feeling of anticipation was released as all who saw the ruins gasped. Many fell to their knees and wept openly. Some wailed their grief to the sky.

Killhern City, jewel of the north, first defense against the hordes of Dakariin, was no longer recognizable. The duke's tower that had once sparklingly proclaimed the wealth and power of this great city, that had proudly reached to the sky in hope, now grasped brokenly, desperately.

At its base, spread for a mile in all directions, the city was a charred wasteland. The walls were little more than crumbled rock which afforded a view of what lay beyond. Charred rubble where once stood homes and shops, ruined gardens of bare, twisted trees where children had romped and amorous couples had strolled hand in hand.

Threimes sat his horse, fighting to retain his stone-face expression, fighting to keep his composure. He surveyed the scene ahead, purposely staring unflinchingly to engrave the image of his dead city firmly in his mind.

He would find the Dakariin savages. He would find them and make them pay.

As if he did not have enough to worry him, no one had heard a word from the Sharong garrison in weeks. He had commanded Thiessen to pass orders that Sharong was to march. The last he had heard was that the garrison had set out for Killhern. And now, seeing Killhern ahead, he knew there was not a living soul anywhere within what remained of the walls. The Sharong garrison was not there.

With a few quick words to Thiessen, scouts were dispatched to travel the north road back toward Sharong in hopes of finding something, anything. Then he signaled and the army broke formation, tents and bedrolls coming out of their packs while pits were dug for fires. Meanwhile, his detachment of bodyguards surrounded him as he made his way toward his jewel in the north.

Past what had once been the city's south gates, Threimes tried not to sick up. As bad as seeing this desolation had been from a mile and more away, seeing it this close was much worse. For one thing, the extent of the damage was more visible. For another, the bodies were not visible from a mile away.

A little over a month had passed since the Dakariin had fallen on this town like a pack of hyenas. Bone glistened wetly through corrupt, black flesh of the remains scattered through the streets like garbage. Rictus grins laughed macabre jokes at Threimes. Open, unseeing eyes, shouted recriminations.

He kept a tight rein on his emotions as he continued forward; he needed a clear head. His guards kept a close watch on every avenue and alley and building. Threimes tried very hard to not look too closely at the heaping piles that spilled from the mouths of the alleys.

They marched on slowly, like a funeral procession, toward the duke's palace, passing horror after horror. The scent of death, light and ignorable when they passed the crumbled wall, now hung heavy and cloying, tainting the air. Burnt timbers rose from the ashes of ruined buildings like skeletal fingers. The twisted dead lay blackened and bloated, mocking him. Every way he looked was illuminated to stark clarity by the vengeful sun. It was hard to ignore the eyeless stares that were wreathed in a halo of mid afternoon light.

After an eternity, they reached the duke's compound. The gate was shattered. The wall was more rubble sprayed onto lawns that had been lush and well-tended when last Threimes was here but now were weed-choked mud. The palace itself was like a skull bleached in the sun. Empty windows stared at him, each one broken and shadowed. The main entrance gaped like a beast's maw awaiting its next victim.

A handful of his guards broke away and disappeared into the once splendid palace. Threimes waited, felt the bite of tension in his shoulders begin to grow with each passing moment. He blinked.

Dakariin, dozens, hundreds, of them vomited forth from the maw. Greasy hair, burning eyes, gnashing teeth; serrated swords held overhead, they shrieked their war cries in their guttural language. Threimes's breath caught in his throat. He tried to shout the alarm. He blinked.

The courtyard was empty save for his company. Exhaustion, he told himself. Exhaustion and unbearable tension and sick sorrow. He shook his head and wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. Odd, he thought, that he should be sweating on such a cool autumn day. In the distance he heard the raucous call of a vulture.

When his men reappeared through the broken doors, their swords were in their sheaths. Their faces were ashen, their eyes wide and sick. Captain Viks approached and made his report.

“Your Majesty,” he said. His heavy tone was as telling as the nervous tic in his left eye. He was a man with many years of service. He had seen too much in his long career. Threimes had the distinct impression that none of it had prepared the captain for what he saw in the palace. “Only the dead are in residence.”

Threimes sighed deeply, closing his eyes. “Any sign of the duke?”

“No, Sire. We searched, as you commanded, behind the duke's throne. We found the bolt-hole that you told us of. The door is broken in but the tunnel leading beneath the palace is empty save for three dead Dakariin.”

Where was everyone? The duke missing, the Dakariin force missing; where in the name of the gods were they? He needed answers and he needed them now. He turned his horse and passed a weary eye over the incinerated remains of his jewel in the north. In the far distance beyond the city's limits, he saw the churned earth of the farm fields that had fed this city. And beyond that, the impenetrable looming presence of the Great Central Forest.

As much as he needed the duke's input, he needed to know where the Dakariin had gone more. His eyes lingered on the dark stain of trees to the north. He did not believe for even a heartbeat that the butchers had turned tail and fled for home. There was no sign of them on the northern route. There was no sign on the Caravan Route. His eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at the forest. There was no sign of them anywhere. Except...

Except maybe Threimes had made a terrible mistake. But it was impossible. They could never have navigated the dense trees and thick, clinging underbrush. Could they? Where else could they be? Where else?

With dawning horror, he knew where the Dakariin had gone. He raised a finger and pointed, his mouth dropping open but no sound emerged.

“Your Majesty?” General Thiessen asked, concern clouding his eyes.

But still no words came forth.

Theissen followed where he pointed. At first confused, he scanned the distance to the south and west. Then he gasped. With a burgeoning horror, Theissen turned back to Threimes.

“But that would be impossible. The Great Central Forest is impassable. It's too dense. It would take even a single skilled woodsman a week to travel just a few miles.”

Yes, and it should take an army far, far longer. But Threimes trembled nonetheless. For if he was right—and he felt to the very core of his icy bones that he was, that the savages were somehow managing to do the impossible—then while most of the kingdom's remaining combined might stared at a dead city far to the north, a horde of Dakariin were spilling south, completely undetected and undeterred, toward his largely undefended capital city.

Chapter 43

The tunnels had low ceilings, just barely high enough for a man of average height to walk without stooping. The uneven floor was treacherously slippery. Torches flared at distant intervals—almost useless pinpoints of light scattered in the vast warren of tunnels. A light haze of bitter pitch smoke burned Gaven's nostrils as he hurried, limping slightly. Footing in the tunnels was treacherous; he had twisted his ankle farther back on a jutting rock.

He caught up to Kurin and Mikal, cursing under his breath after negotiating a particularly nasty zag in the tunnel, one that nearly left him with a bloody nose.

Behind him, chasing him like wolves, came the echoes of the Soldiers of God who had found their way into the tunnel.

“How far?” Mikal growled.

“Maybe a few hundred paces. Maybe a little less.”

“And you're the last?”

Gaven nodded. “Aye, sir. I made sure there was no one left.”

“How many Soldiers?”

“I'm not sure. The echoes make it hard to pinpoint. I would guess a thousand interspersed throughout the tunnels.”

Kurin chuckled. The old priest had not entirely recovered from his captivity. His eyes were sunken and hidden in shadows. His usually lean frame was emaciated. When he walked, he still teetered and often accepted Mikal's arm for support. Yet his voice held as much power as it ever did. But it was cold now. Always cold. The quiet chuckle was enough to give Gaven a shiver.

“You did well, Captain,” Mikal said. “Go join your troops ahead. Get them moving toward the Abbey end. And double time it. Anyone in these tunnels in the next fifteen minutes is going to be in for a very nasty surprise. When you reach the exit, deploy your men around the adit. Wait for us there.”

“Sir!”

With a salute, Gaven hurried on, squeezing against the wall as a handful of Salosian priests rushed past on their way to join Kurin. Reaching his men in short order, Gaven relayed their orders, and took his place at the front.

A short time later, they broke free of the gloomy cave three miles distance from Twin Town and into late afternoon light that, though dimming and shadowed by the thick trees surrounding them, still made them squint. They had been in the warrens under Twin Town for days though it felt like weeks; as happy as he was to be free of the dank, dirty network of tunnels and rooms, he still winced as the weak sunlight pierced his eyes.

Barking a few orders, he set his men up in a tight defensive circle around the mouth of the cave. Then they waited.

His men shifted their weight anxiously from foot to foot as time passed and silence reigned. All held their swords ready; none knew what Kurin had planned. None save Gaven and those still down in the tunnels. And probably Metana who had returned to the Abbey as soon as they arrived along with most of the survivors and the defected Soldiers of God. A corporal cleared his throat, spit a wad into the underbrush and Sergeant Tak growled for silence.

Beneath the earth, there came a deep rumble. The groans of tortured stone began to fill the chill air and clouds of dust began to puff out of the cave entrance. The rumble grew louder, stronger, until the ground began to shake. Just a light tremor at first, a vibration like a plucked lute string, it quickly grew until Gaven's men were shouting in dismay as they fought to keep their feet under them.

As the ground bucked underneath them, and Gaven's troop began one by one falling to their knees, Kurin and the priests, followed in the rear by Mikal emerged from the billowing cloud spewing from the cave opening like bolts from a crossbow.

Covered in grit, eyes wide, Kurin motioned frantically to Gaven. The ground was making such a noise that Gaven could not hear all the words that Kurin yelled, but he got enough of it. As one, those that had just exited the caved dove to the side, most landing heavily and covering their heads with their hands, Mikal, of course, nimbly rolling to his knees before burying his own face in his cloak.

“Move!” Gaven shrieked. “Move away from the cave!”

Just as the last of his men crawled out of the way, a deafening racket exploded as stone and earth tore itself apart. A jet of dirt and stone erupted from the entrance, a thousand projectiles that could tear flesh from bone. After one last ear-shattering, bone-jarring boom from the bowels of the earth, all fell still.

Dazed, Gaven coughed and rubbed grit from his eyes. He sat up and with a glance, saw that no one seemed injured.

Men and women began picking themselves up off the ground, brushing dust and grit off their clothing, coughing it out of their lungs. With Mikal's help, Kurin rose to his feet. The old man shook, gasping for breath as though he had run a hundred miles but he wore a crazed smile, his eyes dancing with fiery excitement.

“We did it, Mikal! We bloody well did it!”

Mikal responded with a grunt.

His guts roiling, Gaven suppressed the urge to sick up. He had to concede, tactically speaking, the plan had been a good one. Lure the Soldiers of God to the various entrances leading into the ancient warren of tunnels that criss-crossed the earth beneath Twin Town, then collapse the tunnels on as many Soldiers as possible. It would have the double effect of killing many Soldiers while the Salosians suffered little to no casualties, and leave only one route open to the Abbey: above ground, through the dense forests and powerful wards that surrounded the Abbey and past the several platoons that waited at various strategic points in ambush.

The plan had been a good one, but still Gaven strove to keep his last meal down. He could not begin to imagine what it must be like to die in the dark crushed and suffocated by thousands of tons of earth.

He avoided looking at the adit, knowing that he would no longer see an opening to a cave but dirt and stone packed solid, as he gathered his men and prepared them for the final march home where they would waste no time in finalizing the defense of the Abbey. He avoided the thought that, amid the broken twisted bodies of the dead, there were probably men and women down there, still alive, calling piteously for help that could never arrive in time. Who was he kidding, he asked himself. Help would never arrive. He avoided thinking on it because there was a chance that he knew some of those men and women, that he had fought alongside them. Though he was no longer a Soldier of God, and, in fact, stood against them, there were those that, at one time, he might have called friend.

And ultimately, he avoided it because he knew there was much more, and much, much worse, to come.

“Damn it, Jurel,” he muttered to himself as they got underway. “Where are you? We need you.”

* * *

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the sentry declared haughtily. “No one may leave the Abbey grounds. It isn't safe. Especially for a pretty young thing like yourself.”

“I said get out of my way,” Metana snarled. She raised a clawed hand to eye level and let crackles of energy play between her fingers.

He leapt as though bitten by an adder, squeaking apologies and she swept regally past.

Keep calm. Keep cool.
That's it. You didn't mean to lose your temper. It's just that everything is so bloody wrong!

She strode away from the Abbey wall, and into the trees, cool as ice but with the urge to strangle someone, anyone, boiling just under the surface. She needed time to think, time away from Mikal and Gaven and the rest of them.

The Abbey was in an uproar. The refugee camp had been transformed into a staging area where those refugees who could fight were assigned platoons and those who could not where assigned other tasks, while Salosian soldiers, the new and the old, performed battle exercises in the hastily delineated training grounds. Inside the Abbey walls, defenses were seen to, supplies were being gathered and stored where they were most useful, three audience halls had been set aside for use as infirmaries—one of which Metana was assigned to. The smithy was a roaring, stinking inferno as those who had even the least knowledge in the area of metalwork were sent to the blacksmith. Hundreds of tasks and meetings and each one took a bloody room; there was nowhere anyone could go for a little peace and quiet. She had tried to stay in her room but there was so much noise in the hallways that she may as well have sat on an anvil in the smithy.

Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter around her. Autumn was full on the land; the Day of Shadows only a few days away, cool and blustery winds scoured the earth under a quilt of gold and scarlet and brown, amidst the musty sweet scent of trees preparing for the long slumber.

It felt like just yesterday that they were toiling under the punishing heat of the brutal midsummer sun. Maybe it was her sense of time that was off. It seemed the last weeks had all welded together into one long, incomprehensible blur.

And no wonder either. First, she had tramped out with an army to fight a battle that had not only ended badly but spectacularly badly, then the great oaf had gone off all sulky, and lately she had been feeling under the weather. Not just the silly sadness of a lovelorn girl, but nausea and cramps and fatigue. Which was understandable. This little adventure was the longest she had been out of doors since she was thirteen. She was bound to catch something. What was not understandable, what frightened her and warmed her all it once, was that several weeks had passed since she had lain with Jurel in his place and she had yet... No. Best not to think of that.

With a curse, she stuck her finger in her mouth and glared at the thorn bush that had pricked her. Stupid thing. What was it thinking going and jumping in front of her like that? She pushed her way through the underbrush, feeling the morning dew seeping through her trousers. Over a small ridge, more a berm really, of crumbling soil and jutting roots, she climbed, grunting softly when a root she used for leverage pulled free almost causing her to fall back. It was only with a quick, desperate snatch at another part of the twisting network of roots that she managed to find a more solid hold.

At the top, she glanced back down. A flutter, a dash of vertigo, passed through her because though the berm was not really particularly high, from her vantage it seemed she stood on a cliff overlooking nothingness. She snapped her eyes away before she tumbled—with her luck, she would not fall back onto the berm but over its edge and into that empty nothing that seemed to go forever, and that would just be perfect. Maybe it was a good idea to step away from the edge.

She continued through the hallowed halls of the ancient arboreal temple, passing between its timber pillars, running her fingers on rough bark, or smooth, along gnarled limbs and velvety, or parchment-dry foliage. Where was she going? Nowhere, really. Just away for a bit. She would be back before anyone missed her.

And why did he have to be such a stubborn, pig-headed fool anyway? He had to understand. Why could he not understand? In the span of just a few days, she had gone from the height of perfect bliss, to the deepest dankest terror she could ever have imagined. Gods, when she had been in his place that very first time, she'd had no idea, not even the faintest clue, the drastic twist her life had been about to take. She felt her face heat up as she took a moment and thought of how he had enveloped her, heart and soul, thought of her body pressed against his, thought of his lips pressed against hers, thought of...well, she felt the chill of the day a little less.

Though in a way she was secretly glad he was gone. She loved him, she had admitted that much to herself weeks ago. But he frightened her. The weeks preceding the disastrous battle had been some of the most trying of her life. Every day that had passed, Jurel seemed to grow. Not physically—his height and his girth remained constant—but in an impossible-to-explain-rationally kind of way. Somehow, his presence had grown; every day, he had been...more there, more real, more solid, until he had become like a lodestone and they had been the human equivalent of iron filings. Every day, she'd had to fight with herself, to restrain herself from running to him and desperately begging him to spend more time with her, until she had pretty much started to avoid him lest she lose herself in his being. It was not difficult to stay away; for those last few weeks, he had been so busy that he had barely had time for more than a quick meal with her or a very rare short walk. Bloody oaf. It was all his fault. If only he did not have that bloody presence like he had his own gravity, that bloody natural way he had of drawing people to him while simultaneously seeming larger, more solid than everyone else. Now that he was gone, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

She grimaced; it shamed her that she should feel that way. Because even as she felt lighter, so too did she feel incomplete without him; he was as important to her as her right arm...no, more than that. He was as inseparable a part of her as her heart. How she had so easily and completely succumbed to him, she did not know, but there was no point in worrying over it; it was already done. What was important, what filled her thoughts, was what should she do about it?

She entered a small clearing where she saw a rock formation, jutting from the ground at an angle, one atop another so that it looked like a shoulder high staircase that had fallen. Beyond that, she heard a stream gurgling quietly, somberly, sluggishly as though it too was preparing for a winter nap. And why not? It was already in its bed. Haw haw.

Carefully, she climbed the side of the formation and she sat on the very top where she was met with quite a pleasant little surprise.

At the opposite end of the clearing from which she entered, the trees thinned, and there was a gap through which she could see, well, everything. There was the stream she heard, angling toward the gap at the end of the clearing and disappearing over a cliff. From her vantage, she could not tell how high the cliff was but it must have been high because the landscape beyond opened up; it seemed she stared at the world's most detailed map. A broad valley stretched outward hazing into the distance, bordered along one side by dense forest whose trees were glowing with nature's autumn fireworks and on the other by a craggy, barren hill that dropped precariously on the other side into the Sun Sea. The stream meandered through the center of the valley, curving this way and that, like a glittering ribbon of diamonds dropped by Gaorla. Above that, as a backdrop, rose the dark spires of the Eastern mountain range.

Her breath caught at the beauty of it, and she smiled, drinking it all in greedily. It had been too long since she had felt wonder. Too long. And it was all that bloody great oaf's fault. She had felt something like this when he had taken her to his place. Oh it had been far more intense that time, the difference between holding hands and a deep kiss, or the difference between a light kiss and running her hands through his hair while she gazed up into his eyes, into the connection that ran so deep that she could not even begin to understand it but just let it take her on its wild journey, their bodies slick with mingling sweat, their...well.

She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She was not some teenager experiencing her first crush. She was a woman grown, damn it. On top of that, Jurel was not the first man she had been with. There had been two others. Nice boys too, with plenty to recommend them. For example, neither had been the God of War.

Niklas had been twenty-two at the time and though he had not been the handsomest man she had ever seen, he had seemed so grown up, so worldly. He was a rival merchant's son and the first time she had laid eyes upon him—how long ago had that been? She had been sixteen? No, fifteen, the year she had left for the Abbey (and what was wrong with her memory anyway? She found herself forgetting plenty of little details these days, details that not so long ago had come so easily to her). She knew she had loved him, and she knew he felt the same. She smiled wryly. Their fathers had hated each other. She remembered that. So Metana and Niklas had snuck to secret, preplanned spots to meet for illicit trysts. It had been such a grand adventure.

Thinking back on it, she had to admit that the thrill of doing something her father would so adamantly disapprove of was more exciting than her co-conspirator had been. And of course, when she had finally agreed to share herself with him, she had been clumsy and frightened. She had blamed herself when he never called on her again.

Of course, she had learned a thing or two since; apparently, it was the wont of some men, she had heard, to hunt and capture. To take what they wanted and move on to the next challenge. Fishermen call it catch and release, she thought.

Then there was Pols. Such a quiet young man, so unassuming. She had found him so charming as they served their novitiate year together at the Abbey. They had quickly become friends; his shyness had intrigued her from the beginning. She had courted him, and then seduced him with wine and sweet words. At the time she had thought she loved him. But after, when they lay amid the damp sheets, the pungent scent of their sex lingering heavily on the air, they had wordlessly rolled away form each other. Before sunrise, as he slept, snoring lightly, she had snuck away, and ever after, until he left the Abbey seven months later to begin his life as an itinerant brother (much like Kurin had decades before), their relationship had been strained and awkward. The last she had heard, he was in the employ of some landholder far to the west.

Neither of them came close to what she felt for Jurel. Not anywhere close. Not a mile, or even in the same kingdom. It was an odd thing; when she had first met the big oaf, she had shied from him, pushed him away. Especially after she saw his thoughts while they trained. But Abbot Goromand and Kurin had been unyielding and she had been forced to continue in her role as tutor.

That had irked; she had been in the middle of some interesting research. She had found an ancient scroll in the library detailing the actions of Saint Jerome by a scribe who supposedly had been there to record the events as they happened. The problem was that the scroll had been written in an ancient form of Kashyan, one that looked intriguingly like an old form of Dakariin she had once seen. She had managed to translate nearly half of it before being called to her tutoring assignment.

As the weeks had worn on, she realized that, perhaps inevitably, she was being drawn to him. She did not know if it was his natural charisma, a magnetism that he seemed to exude unconsciously, or if it was some divine influence that he had. Perhaps it was a little of both; maybe the one stemmed from the other. Which ever it was, the distance between them had closed. Until that day. Until that wonderful, terrible day when they had become one.

She could not deny it. She could not ignore it, but still no matter how hard she tried to distance herself, to save herself, her emotions rebelled. She had not wanted to fall in love with him. But she had, and every day without him was a trial even as it was a relief.

It was all his fault. It was all him. If he had not been so charming, so provincially naïve, she never would have given him the time of day in the first place. If he had used glib words, been pretentious even a little, or just a touch too sure of himself, she would have been able to turn her back, to rid herself of him as she would rid herself of horse shit on her shoe.

But instead, she had gone and fallen in love with him. More the fool her: when he was around, his presence, his very essence was terrifying. And now he was not around. And he might never be again.

As time wore on and the sun began to dip toward the mountains in the distance, Metana allowed her emotions free and she wept softly.

“Oh Jurel,” she muttered. “Please come back. We need you.”

She stared sightlessly into the deepening sky, seeing his eyes, his smile and she allowed herself to admit the truth. Without realizing it, she rubbed a hand on her belly.

“I need you.”

Chapter 44

“He continues to harden his heart,” said the willowy beauty. Her voice lilted with a sadness that was alien to her.

“I know, my dear,” the ancient said and turned his head to regard another. “Will you help?”

“What you have asked of me is done.” The voice, grating like tombstones, had a tight edge as though the speaker were tired or saddened. The black cloak, blacker than a moonless night, hung limp.

The two flanking him breathed sighs of relief, while the ancient ensconced on the majestic throne leaned forward and smiled.

“Thank you, Shomra. I know it was not easy.”

Shomra bowed his head in agreement. His gate had eternally been a one-way portal. To reverse the direction, even for so short a time, could have had dire consequences and Shomra had worked tirelessly to quell them.

But he had succeeded and now it was done.

* * *

Golden light seemed to glow from everything, and everything seemed to be just out of focus. To his right, a small brook burbled merrily. Beyond that, stately trees of a kind he had never before seen stood tall, with broad flat leaves shaped like diamonds, and colored a deep satiny green. To his left, pressing close to the path, more trees, each one with a straight, perfect trunk. Ahead of him, a narrow dirt path disappeared around a bend, following the bank of the brook and the lazy contour of the land.

For a moment, he was confused. Where was he? He had been in his place thinking. It had been very late—or possibly very early; all he really knew was that he had been exhausted—and he had been working through some rather difficult questions. Now, without knowing how, he was here, staring at the trail in front of him.

Then he knew. It was not as he had left it, but the feel was there, hidden underneath this new patina. The blasted wasteland had been replaced but not by him. By whom? He wandered slowly down the path, wondering why he did not feel more for the beauty that surrounded him. At one time, he had loved woods like this. The little forest on Galbin's farm had always been a place of quiet wonder for him. Here, now, he only felt cold, and maybe a little angry, that his blasted wasteland had been replaced by this trite little scene of idyll.

As he walked, a prickle of unease rode his spine. The scene seemed so peaceful, so perfectly pleasant, that he ignored the feeling. But the feeling grew until it became an urgent warning whispered in soundless words at the back of his thoughts.

He slowed, stopped, scanned the trees. Silence. All seemed as it should for a remote glade. The trees rose tall and proud, their high branches melding overhead in a dense canopy. Shafts of golden light leaked through, sparking motes of dust to tiny flames in the air. The reeds and grasses that edged the brook glowed with health.

But the smell...

Wrinkling his nose, Jurel blew out, trying to purge the stench that, though faint, cloyed. It was as if there was an open grave somewhere up wind.

More slowly and with all the stealth he could muster, Jurel resumed his walk, but his hackles were up; he scanned the narrow spaces between the trees for...for what? Well, anything. His hand gripped the thorny hilt of his sword, held it before him. Ignoring the sharp pain of his torn flesh, he scanned the trees. The comfortable isolation of a few moments ago became a stifling dead end with no escape route.

A short distance ahead, he heard words muttered followed by uproarious laughter. He stopped dead, his eyes widening. His mind ground to a halt, gone stunningly, completely blank. The prickle of unease turned to an icy sheet that blanketed him. His sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers.

How could he not know that voice? That laugh? He had dreamed one or the other—heard them in his nightmares—for years. They were as much a part of his memories as his own name.

Splintered memories tumbled like broken glass through the void that was his mind. A bright smile; laughing and the giddy sensation of being tickled during a mock wrestling match; a voice crooning softly as he rocked, enveloped in a tight embrace; vaguely remembered sounds, smells and textures resolving for brief instances into stark yet charged imagery.

His faltering, halting steps became a sprint and when he rounded the trees that obscured the path ahead, he once again stumbled to a halt. There, sitting on a bench, facing the brook, were two men. Both men were faces from the past. Both men were...

“Ah, Jurel, there you are,” Daved said, pinning him with his hawk glare. “Gram and I were starting to wonder if you'd ever get here.”

Gram smiled, his eyes twinkling just the way Jurel remembered.

As far as he knew, he had never been one for fainting. But this, apparently, was a special occasion.

* * *

Cold water is a marvelous thing. This seemingly innocuous liquid, clear and nearly tasteless, can revive a man from the edge of death. It can cool a body on the hottest day; it can cleanse wounds that would otherwise spread poisonous infection and kill. It keeps crops alive, it can make a green wonder of a blasted wasteland.

Splashed on a fainted man, however, cold water is the equivalent of a slap in the face.

Spluttering, Jurel bolted to a sitting position. Blinking owlishly, he gathered the stray threads of his mind and focused on the silhouette in front of him. Slowly, the silhouette resolved into a face Jurel knew too well—how could he not? Daved glared at him, as he had a thousand times, with those hawk's eyes, yet Jurel knew Daved well enough to detect the concern under the hard exterior.

“You all right, lad?”

Gods, but Jurel had missed that voice. Bearing a trace of command left over from his days as a cavalry sergeant, it was gravelly, yet the years he had spent on Galbin's farm had taken some of the steely edge from the man. It seemed, by the look of him, that death had softened him even more. He looked almost serene.

Beside him, Gram crouched. Jurel remembered little of this man. What he did remember brought an aching sort of nostalgia. Somehow, all his memories of his father seemed to be summed up by his last sight of him: a pristine white apron with an expanding circle of blood seeping around the blade lodged in the center of his belly—good memories sullied.

“I-I'm fine,” Jurel croaked. “What...? How...? What are you doing here? Am I dreaming?” A bittersweet thought struck him. “Am I dead?”

The two men laughed.

“No,” Daved said. “You're not among us.”

“Well, you are, but you aren't,” Gram supplied helpfully.

The two men wandered slowly back to the bench and sat, but Jurel remained rooted to the spot. After a few moments, the two men turned their heads and shot Jurel a beckoning glance. As he took a hesitant step, he heard Daved mutter to Gram.

“Always was a little slow on the uptake.”

Gram's powerful belly laugh caused Jurel to blush even as it caused a spiky barb to lodge itself in his soul. Jolted more by embarrassment than anything, Jurel hurried and sat between the two men. For a time, all he could manage was to alternate his gaze between the two, drinking in their long lost features greedily while they stared impassively, pensively into the gurgling brook. Until Daved chuckled.

“Yes, yes, we're glad to see you too and all that,” he said, pointing an amused glare—something that only someone with Daved's unique features could accomplish successfully—at Jurel. “I wish we had more time to chat, Jurel, for both Gram and I have missed you a great deal. Your mother wanted to be here too, but our lord told us only two could go.

“Our time, however, is short. There have been a lot of rules broken to get us here and it was impressed most vigorously on both of us to make this quick.”

Though no names were mentioned, Jurel had a pretty good idea who did the impressing. He grunted noncommittally and stared sightlessly across the thin trail of water.

“You must go back, Jurel,” Gram said softly. “You must return to those who need you.”

Jurel grunted.

“Now don't be getting all ham-headed, boy,” Daved growled. “You have tasks to complete and you can't do them while you're running away. I taught you better than that.”

This time, Jurel's grunt was accompanied by a small smile that held no trace of humor.

“Oh? And do you know what happened before I ran away?”

“Of course,” the two men uttered in unison.

“So then you know that wherever I go, people die.”

He cuffed Jurel upside the head; it was possibly the most bittersweet response Daved could have offered. How many times had he done that while Jurel grew up? How many times had he followed up with a scathing lecture designed solely to dispel whatever bit of idiocy Jurel had just spouted?

“That's just possibly the stupidest bit of idiocy I've ever heard, boy. What, did you think you could wage a war without bloodshed? Let me explain a little something to you: at its core, war is nothing more than two large groups of armed men who beat each other until one or the other falls down. That's it. It's not glorious, it's not beautiful, and its not romantic. It's bloody, it's violent, it's terrible, and it's often shameful.

“It is, however, at times, necessary. To defend your home and family from invaders. Or to overthrow an oppressive regime.” This last was emphasized with a pointed look.

“But I got a thousand good people killed because of my stupidity.”

He was visited by another slap upside the head but this time it was Gram who spoke.

“Lad, did you do it on purpose? Did you knowingly and willingly send those men into an ambush? No. No, you didn't. It was a terrible mistake and it was one that you continue to suffer for.” Gram smiled and placed a beefy hand on Jurel's shoulder. The weight was comforting. “Will you make the same mistake again?”

Comforting or not, Jurel could no longer tolerate it. He rose and turned to face his two fathers with a glare to match Daved's. “No it won't. You know why? Because I'm not going back! I'm not going to make that mistake again, because I won't be there to make it!”

Both men regarded him silently, one stern and hard, the other soft and full of empathy. Daved's sternness he could withstand. Gram's sad eyes tore a hole in his heart.

“You must,” Gram said. “If you don't...” the large man faltered and trailed off. He sighed and rose to face Jurel. For the first time, Jurel noticed that Gram was of a height with him and they gazed eye to eye. “If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

Jurel gasped as though the wind had been knocked from him. His head spun and his guts felt like they might empty themselves on the ground. His eyes passed from one grim expression to the next as he tried to gather his thoughts. All he could manage was one word:

“Why?”

“That will become clear in time, Jurel,” Daved said as he stood to join them. “For now, what you must know is this: the prelacy must fall. You must succeed in placing the Salosians in power. To do so, you must harden your heart. You will be required to do things that would destroy a weak man. You must be stronger than anyone. You must overcome. You must prevail. If you don't, nothing but oblivion will be left.

“Here, I have something for you.” Daved stepped forward, and handed Jurel a small, flat box wrapped in oiled paper. “Open that when the time is right. You'll know.”

Staring at the package numbly, Jurel muttered, “So I have no choice then?”

“You are who you are. Embrace that knowledge. Accept it, Jurel, and perhaps you will survive.”

Jurel shut his eyes hard, overwhelmed by the emotions that clawed at him. When he opened them again, he saw that his two fathers were half a dozen paces away. He also saw that they had become ethereal; he could see the blurry outlines of the trees behind them.

“But why?” he shouted. “Why does it have to be me?”

Even as he watched, the men receded further, and became more insubstantial. The only thing that remained entirely rock solid real were their twin expressions of sorrow.

“Because you are who you are,” Gram said. His voice seemed to come from a very long distance away.

“No!” shouted Jurel. “Don't go. Don't leave me. I need you!”

“Harden yourself, Jurel.” He was not sure who spoke this. The voice was too thin, too distant, and neither man's lips moved. “Be who you must be. But do not forget who you were.”

Then Jurel was staring at blank trees, at warm shafts of sunlight, at verdant underbrush, and at delicate flowers. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing.

He fell to his knees and he covered his face as he wept.

Part 5:

The Return

“If you get knocked down, stand the hell back up. Even if you're dead.”

-Sergeant Daved Histane, to his platoon during training

Chapter 45

The morning before the Day of Shadows, the overcast painted gray over the Abbey washing out all color and lending a grimness that lodged itself in the hearts of the men and women who worked stoically, endlessly.

As Mikal watched over the mass of milling workers, sheets of arcane lights flickered and sparked around the central spire, pressing closer until they seemed to dissolve into the bricks and tiles. Mikal nodded approval; they were adding extra strength to the structure. It would not do to have two hundred feet of brick and wood collapse on their heads in the middle of battle. He knew, too, that there were dozens of brothers and sisters performing similar feats to weapons and armor, and to the wall that surrounded the Abbey.

A few soldiers had stopped to watch the work done on the spire.

“Get back to work, you slackers!” he roared.

He watched, satisfied, as they hustled away. They and about a hundred other people who heard him.

He strode past several supply depots, wooden shacks layered in wet wool to keep them from burning, and glanced into a few to see how their weapons stores fared. He was pleased to note that each shack was filled to its ceiling with bows and arrows, swords, halberds, pikes, pots of pitch, even a few hastily assembled field medic kits.

Satisfied, he jumped up stone steps to the battlements, dodging to avoid soldiers and Salosians who rushed about their own duties.

At the top, he pushed his way through the throngs of people. They began to growl recriminations at him to watch where he was going until they saw who it was, then scuttled out of his way with hasty salutes.

He leaned over the crenelations and cast a critical eye on the soon-to-be battle field. At the bottom of the wall, a trench had been dug—or, more precisely, the ancient moat that had filled in over the centuries of disuse had been excavated. There was no way to fill it with water with what little time remained, but someone had had a viciously brilliant idea and the floor of the trench, some ten feet below ground level, was bristling from end to end with sharpened stakes.

With a satisfied nod he looked farther out. The refugees had been moved into the Abbey compound, leaving the field outside the walls an empty, churned morass. It looked as though a battle had already taken place. That churned ground proved to be an advantage. The field was pocked with traps and pitfalls. In various places, pits had been dug and lined with more sharpened stakes. These were covered with thin wooden frames that would not take a great deal of weight. Then, each wooden frame had been covered with a thin layer of mud and grass. Because the entire field was a mess, there was no visible indication that the ground had been disturbed again for the pits. A corner of his mouth quirked. When the Soldiers of God mounted their charge, they would be in for quite a shock.

Scattered amidst the pits were balls of arcanum, hidden Kurin assured him, from the eyes and senses of the prelacy. At first contact, they would, as Kurin had so dryly put it, “warm the cockles quite nicely.”

And just on the other side of the trench that now surrounded the Abbey, was a berm. Like the pits, it was a thinly camouflaged trap. Nets of grass and mud covered more sharpened stakes, these fashioned from entire tree trunks, that pointed outward, promising a very painful end to what would most certainly be a very painful charge.

Mikal nodded again. While the Soldiers of God were stumbling through the deadly field, they would be under a constant barrage of arrows and ballista and catapult fire. The Soldiers numbered enough that they would most certainly reach the walls with a still overwhelming force, but each step would be costly.

And all this would be only after the Soldiers of God managed to break through the dozens of ambushes and powerful wards that were set out farther in the forest.

Jorge had done a good job on the defenses, Mikal conceded. He was almost surprised; he had never had the high esteem for Jorge that Kurin had. The man was a fine scholar but Mikal never would have thought him a tactician. But Jorge had put to good use the arms and backs of those who had come seeking sanctuary, and a great deal had been accomplished in the weeks since Jurel had led the doomed army through the gates.

His look turned as cloudy as the day. He looked over everything again, knowing the Salosians had given everything to this effort and he hoped it would be enough.

* * *

The forest was eerily silent as Soldiers of God poured between the trees, trampled underbrush, cut their way through thicker sections of dried vines and branches. They poured into the forest like an avalanche, an unstoppable force of nature.

Prelate Thalor Stock urged them forward with the force of an enraged teamster urging stubborn mules. From his position near the edge of the trees, he railed at them to move faster, screamed at them, spittle flying from his mouth.

Some small part of him knew he was being irrational. Some part knew he had let his emotions take the reins. Most of him did not care. He was furious, livid, and, yes, insane with rage.

And it was thanks entirely to that bastard, that mangy, dirty, heretic swine, Kurin. Two thousand Soldiers of God had died in those tunnels. Two thousand men, tricked, trapped, buried alive.

But they were of little consequence. Thalor himself had barely escaped. He had felt the first sprinkling of power while he stood in the room beneath the tavern. Confused for a moment, he searched for the source. Then the ground had begun to shake. With burgeoning horror, Thalor had shouted a warning and scrambled up the ladder only moments before the tunnels fell in on themselves.

Those Salosian cowards! Those vile dogs! They could not even stand and fight like men. They skulked about in the shadows like roaches, stealing and sullying everything that was good and pure. They destroyed, they ruined, they upset the natural order. They nearly killed him!

When the last of the troops disappeared into the trees, Thalor barked an order to Major Reowynn, still wan from the healing he had undergone after being dragged from the debris under the tavern. Thalor's guards surrounded him in a wall of steel and they moved out, angling slightly north as they pushed their horses into the brush and scrag.

All seemed quiet as they trekked through the dense forest, and though Thalor was still fuming, he still felt that things were going well. They would be at the Abbey's gates by the end of the day, and that meant that tomorrow, on the Day of Shadows, he would finally finish this damned thing and go home to his warm bed and proper meals. But first, he would see Kurin bleed.

His army continued to march past, picking up their pace as he pushed them ever harder. He had to admit, even in his black rage, they made good time. Yes, all things considered, they were doing very well indeed.

He was a pragmatic man, was Thalor. He had always known that when things go wrong, they go stupendously wrong. He had told his acolytes many times in the past that it was always better to be prepared for everything than to be caught off guard by anything. Later, he would have to admit that when two of his guards grunted and fell off their horses, and when cries rose from the ranks ahead, he had not been prepared. He simply stared dumbly down at the soldiers lying still on the ground near his horse's hooves and wondered why the men would choose that moment to take a break.

The initial cries of surprise were spreading until all along the ragged columns, shields were raised skyward. Reowynn shouted commands and various lieutenants and sergeants began assembling their men into fighting formations—no easy feat in a dense forest for troops trained in open field warfare. A shrill sound, like a whistle cut the air near his left ear and he cringed instinctively away. A second whistle quickly followed and a lance of fire raced up his arm. Looking down in shock, Thalor saw an arrow protruding from the fleshy part below his bicep.

Well, that wasn't right.

“Get down! Get behind your horse!” Reowynn barked at him.

Thalor drew himself up, assuming his most commanding expression (Which Reowynn thought was more haughty than commanding but that was a discussion for a different time). No one ordered him! Except perhaps the Grand Prelate and soon, he himself would be the Grand Prelate.

A soldier suddenly came into his field of view directly in front of him, arms reaching out to grab him when his face contorted into a rictus of pain. Somehow the soldier had gotten a grip on his robes and when the man fell from his horse, he dragged Thalor off with him. He landed in a graceless heap on top of the soldier, his breath whooshing out in a great burst, and his arm erupting as if someone had struck it with a hammer.

Men were yelling and screaming in all directions. Thalor lay gasping for breath, trying to clear the odd colored stars that darted in and out of his vision. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the distinctive peal of steel on steel. He did not care, he struggled simply to stop the world's crazy spinning around him, struggled to keep from emptying his guts all over the soldier under him.

He turned his head, was surprised to see that everything was on its side until he realized that they were not on their sides, he was. Between the legs of horses, framed like pictures in a macabre art gallery, he saw feet run back and forth and to him, this was just too discomfiting. He saw feet connected to legs but no bodies; those were somewhere behind the horses. A soldier, a Soldier by his tabard, fell into his field of view with the shaft of an arrow protruding from his ruined mess of a right eye. His left eye stared at Thalor in shocked accusation.

He was busy watching the spectacle when a glint of light shone into his eyes. Then a face appeared. There was yelling and cursing all around and when he focused on the face—a young soldier—he thought it was he who was cursing. His lips were moving. It had to be him. Thalor wondered why the man would be cursing at him. He wanted to ask him but it seemed that somewhere along the way, he had forgotten how to use his tongue. He stared blankly, tried to bring some sort of order to his thoughts but it was like trying to gather smoke. The soldier was still cursing at him. No, not cursing. He was asking something.

The soldier glanced down and Thalor distinctly saw him go pale. The young man's head turned and this time Thalor did hear what he said though it sounded hollow, and very far away.

“He's hurt,” the soldier shouted. “Need some help here!”

And finally, as if those words were an incantation, some sort of arcane release, Thalor's tongue worked again. “Help me,” he croaked.

“We will, Prelate. Never fear.”

Other faces appeared, other soldiers. Reowynn's face came into view and it was grim. A few barked orders and someone else—how many blasted soldiers were there anyway? Oh right. He had an army. Forgot.—began ministering to his injuries. Was it bad? There was fire in his arm. More than that. Someone had doused it with pitch and lit it. They should be beating it out, throwing water on it. Somewhere behind him, amidst the roaring that sounded like an angry sea, someone screamed and it was a terrible scream, filled with fear and pain.

“Hang on, Prelate.” Something hard and flat was shoved between his teeth. “Bite down on this.”

He bit. If he thought there was fire in his arm a moment ago, then what the young Soldier did, turned it into a volcano. He screamed around the thing in his mouth and blackness crept in at the edges of his sight. All the color washed out of the world and it blurred, seemed to bounce up and down crazily.

“Got it,” the Soldier muttered.

“Here. Drink this.” The hard thing was removed from his teeth and something cool and bitter trickled into his mouth. “It'll help with the pain.”

It was about then that he realized that the sounds of yelling and cursing had eased. He tried to look under the horses again but there were too many soldiers around him. He could not breath. Too many people.

“Make some room for him,” Reowynn's voice cracked and Thalor could have kissed him when the crowd moved back, letting in blessed air. And, to Thalor, “Things are settling down, Prelate.”

“Wh-what happened?” he croaked.

“An ambush. There are reports of others coming in throughout the forest.”

There was a bandage on Reowynn's shoulder, white with an irregular red spot in the middle.

“You're hurt.”

Reowynn grunted and Thalor thought it might have been a chuckle. “Not so bad as you, My Lord.”

“Me?” He was hurt? The fire. Right. He would have to check his burns later.

“They took two arrows from your arm. You won't be arm-wrestling anyone for a while.”

Oh. He looked down and saw the bandage wrapped around his arm. It too had its own red spots. His robe was a ruin of shredded linen and blood.

“You think you can stand, Prelate?”

He was standing. But. No. No, he was on his back, on the cold, damp earth. How odd. How had that happened?

“Yes,” he said. But it was a whisper. He cleared his throat, spat a wad of mud tasting stuff and tried again, “Yes.” Better.

Slowly, carefully, he was lifted and again the world spun, bounced up and down, and the blackness at the edge of his vision encroached further until all he saw was gray light at the end of a long tunnel. He shut his eyes tight and shook his head.

Life trickled back into him. When he opened his eyes again, he breathed deeply and the world settled and stilled under him. He looked down, saw the soldier who had given his life to protect him, face buried in the dirt, with an arrow sticking out of his back, high up, where it had likely punctured his lung.

“What happened here?” he demanded. Suddenly he was angry, furious. “What in the name of the pits of darkness happened?”

“Ambush,” Reowynn repeated. “A dozen or a few more were hiding in the trees. I don't know what they expected to accomplish.”

It did not take a genius to know what the fiends had tried to do. Was Reowynn protecting him from learning that someone had tried to assassinate him?

Reowynn eyed him strangely. It took Thalor a moment to realize he had spoken his thought aloud. “No, My Lord. Killing you would have been a pleasant bonus for them, but my personal feeling is they're trying to slow our advance and whittle our numbers.”

Reowynn turned and gave terse orders to one of his captains. They were to make camp. Double the sentries. Prepare areas for the wounded.

“How many?” Thalor asked. “How many of ours were wounded?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen. Nineteen confirmed dead and probably three or four more before nightfall. All ours.”

All ours. He took the meaning. No bloody Salosians then. Interesting. He shook off the men who were still holding him up, suddenly revolted by the contact, suddenly revolted by his own weakness.

He turned his glare to the forest. The lack of sound suddenly made sense. There were heretics in the forest scaring off the animals, waiting, just waiting for their moment to pounce, to attack the forces of good, of right, the forces of God. Him.

“Burn it,” he hissed. “Burn it all.”

“My Lord,” Reowynn said. “Your army would be trapped-”

“To blazes with them!” he shrieked. He breathed deeply, regaining control. “This place must be cleansed. Burn it.”

He turned, pushed the pain in his arm away from his mind and grasped for his Source. The warmth of arcanum infused him as he raised his hands over his head. He almost shrieked in ecstasy as heat flowed from his fingertips.

His power pulsed within him, beating in time with his hammering heart, then flowed from him in raging torrents that slammed into the trees with earth-shaking force. Blasts shook the world and entire trees were blown to burning splinters. Those splinters shot deeper into the forest to join his expanding wave of energy. Great fires started in a dozen places at once, raging infernos that reached the canopy and began licking hungrily at the dried branches above.

Waves of heat washed over him and he rejoiced. Lowering his arms, panting, he turned his crazed grin on Reowynn.

Reowynn, wan, wide-eyed, whispered, “What have you done?”

* * *

Jorge stood transfixed on the rampart, staring west at the thickening blanket of smoke over the forest. It had grown quickly. The afternoon sun was partially blotted out; only a ruddy circle peeked through the ever thickening pall. He already breathed the scent of burning wood.

Though miles away, every brother and sister at the Abbey had felt the immense surge of power from the forest. It had been like a slap in the face. Now the ramparts on the outer Abbey wall were lined three deep with Salosians who gaped pale-faced at the oncoming onslaught, and the courtyards below where filled with warriors and workers all staring questions upward at the brothers and sisters.

Still miles away, the prelacy forces had not reached their defensive wards. Jorge had believed that those wards would hold the Soldiers of God at bay for a time at least, but now with the addition of this widespread blaze battering at the shields, well, Jorge was not so certain they would hold at all.

“Here they come,” muttered Mikal at his side.

He nodded weakly, sickened.

Chapter 46

He leaned forward holding the heavy limb for balance. It would not do to fall out of the tree from this height. He watched as the sun vanished into smoke above the trees to the west, watched as the massive army poured through the trees ahead of the growing fire like blood through veins, watched as the building perched on the plain near a shallow cliff seemed to shrink in on itself.

He continued to watch as the last of the failing light dissipated into diaphanous veils of dusty rose and rotten orange and those veils parted, leaving behind pure, sweet black. To him, it was like the world was shedding its disguise, its cosmetics, and was now showing—he tittered at this—its true colors.

He stifled the laugh that bubbled in his throat before climbing down, letting himself drop the last few feet to the ground. He found his lieutenant waiting for him.

“We move closer, Herkan. But we do nothing until things get really confused. Then we get our prize.”

Once the sea of white capes—mostly gray now, due to the smoke and dust—began their siege, the defenses would be concentrated on the west. The invisible yet deadly wall that surrounded the building and its environment had posed something of a problem, but Gixen gave silent thanks to his master for exerting its power and seeing them through safely. The eastern end of the cowering building would be largely unmanned. Perfect for a small force to get in and out without being detected.

Herkan nodded and saluted. That was why Gixen liked Herkan. No questions asked, no need to repeat orders, no need to hear the particulars of plans already laid. He simply listened and did as he was told. He was a fool, certainly, but at least he did as he was told.

Gixen looked south as though he could see through the trees and smoke, and again he stifled a laugh.

Chapter 47

Kurin had once told him, a long time ago, long before any of this madness began, that the sunrise seen from the west coast of the Sun Sea was breathtaking. He had been up in his tree, near the little cabin he and Daved had shared, admiring the moonlit gauze that stretched across the velvety blackness when Kurin—then, passing himself off as nothing more than an old vagabond healer—had joined him. That night, Jurel had heard more about the world outside Galbin's farm than he had heard ever before.

With a sigh, Jurel kicked a stone, sending it skittering along the beach where it disappeared into the moonless night. It made a barely audible splash as it skipped into the Sun Sea, slipping below the surface, stealing into the depths, another drowned soul. Empathy, Jurel thought, sometimes took the strangest forms. He snorted. Hard as stone. Hard as iron.

Hard as a sword.

Behind him, past the stretch of satiny beach, beyond the trees of the park where the rich often broke fast with fruits and spiced wine while the sunrise took place, Grayson City was a slumbering beast. A foul, stinking, dangerous, slumbering beast. Its fetid breath oozed past him, causing him to wrinkle his nose. As Jurel was discovering, cities were disgusting places; he had no idea how anyone could live in such warrens, like rats in their dens. The alleys were filled with garbage, the streets were layered with a hundred years of manure—even the horses and oxen displayed their disdain—and a million chamber pots filled with offal thrown from windows. The city, living up to its name, was charcoal gray, splotched and mottled as though the beast was diseased by the smoke of the thousands of fires used for cooking and heat every day. There was, carried on the feathering, salty breeze, the stench of death from the docks and the fishing district a mile or so up the beach.

Jurel found it difficult to believe Kurin's story that people came from all over the kingdom to be here.

Thoughts of the city were secondary to Jurel. His mind was far too embattled remembering his encounter in his place. He put a hand to his breast pocket, unconsciously tracing the straight edges of the small box that rested there like a promise, or a threat.

Far to the east, far, far away, across the vast Sea of the Sun, the Eastern mountain range caught fire. Even at that distance, Jurel could see the ragged peaks biting into the simmering sky as the sun began to bubble over the cauldron, strewing a million oscillating sparks onto the sea.

Without thinking about it, he reached into his pocket and stroked the oiled paper. Slowly, gently, he pulled the package from his pocket and lowered his eyes to its dully glistening surface. Tenderly, reverently, he unwrapped the paper and stared at the plain greenish box, slightly tattered at its edges, in his hands.

As the sun grew over the distant mountains, he pulled the top off the box and stared at the object inside. It was a medal. A medal of valor. He had seen this medal many times. It was the one Daved had earned after the attack at Killhern where he had found Jurel. The one he had earned only moments before turning in his walking papers.

Jurel lifted it by its purple silk ribbon from the box with numb fingers and stared at the graven image of the eagle with its outstretched wings lovingly crafted in bas-relief. A stray shard of light reflected from one eye.

For a moment he was mesmerized but took an instant to look in the box. At the bottom of the box, Jurel found a ratty, raggedy piece of folded parchment. This parchment had not fared well; it was torn in places, and there was a large bloodstain on it.

And just like that, he knew what it was. Carefully, hesitantly, and with trepidation, he unfolded the page and read again words written in Daved's utilitarian hand that he had already committed to memory a year before:

Master Kurin,

Good day, sir. If you are reading this then it means that Jurel has arrived safely. In this, I would rejoice and I would appreciate word of my son's welfare, if you are able and willing.

I write this not out of desire for friendship or courtesy but because my son needs your help. Things have not gone well for Jurel here and he has been forced to leave the farm at once. He knows very little of the world and, as resourceful as I know him to be, I fear he would not survive long. So I send him to you, as the only person he knows outside this farm, and in hopes that you will be able to provide some assistance. Perhaps no more than a bed for a few days.

He is a good man, hard-working, intelligent, and courteous. Perhaps you or someone you know might offer employment to such a diligent young man.

Please, tell my son I love him and will endeavor to see him when next I am in town.

Sincerely,

Daved Histane

The ratty page fell from fingers that were beyond numb, beyond remembrance. Hot tears welled up in Jurel's eyes.

“Why?” he croaked.

Because you need to be strong for what will come and you need to remember who you once were, came a familiar gravelly voice riding on the breeze and the strengthening light.

He stared at the medal that still dangled from the ribbon entwined in his fingers. The eagle stared back tauntingly, its eyes glinting. The first thought that managed to break through was, why did he have to show me this? Damn him. Damn him. Damn him!

He breathed deeply, tried to quell the rage that beat at him, that battered at his painstakingly erected walls. He needed to focus, to think; he could not let these distractions turn his attention from what was important.

But they did. He stooped jerkily as though he was disjointed and not entirely in command of his muscles. His fingers gripped the ratty page convulsively. Unable to take his eyes from the glowering eagle, he slumped to his knees. In that instant, the sun broke free of its confines and blazed across the world like a heralding trumpet. The sea shimmered and itself turned to blinding light.

“You are who you are. Embrace that knowledge. Accept it, Jurel, and perhaps you will survive.”

Inside, deep inside, he felt something crack.

“Harden yourself Jurel. Be who you must be.”

That was what he had done! He had hardened himself! He knew he had to. He knew he must be strong. He was going to get a lot of people killed—he had already gotten a lot of people killed!

“But do not forget who you were.”

The eagle glared at him. The page crinkled in his fingers. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. The crack widened.

“You are who you are.”

“But why?” he shouted. “Why does it have to be me?”

“If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

He trembled as though cold. His jaws were clamped so tightly, his teeth hurt.

“You are who you are.”

In his mind's eye, he saw Daved and Gram once again standing before him in an idyllic little glen. It was so clear he could almost hear the burbling of the brook behind him. His very core shook. The crack changed to an earthquake: new mountains raised, old ones plunged into the sea. The landscape of his soul changing, changed.

“If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

A low growl emerged from the bottom of his throat and there, there in his mind's eye, behind the implacable yet tender men who were, who had been, his fathers, he saw the light, the one he had striven for so mightily while Metana guided him. It was bright-

“You are who you are.”

as bright as a star, as the sun and it was

“Embrace that knowledge.”

getting closer. Closer. So close he could almost...he could

“-accept it. If you don't-”

feel it. Know it. Understand it. It was him. It was not separate at all. It was him.

“If you don't, then every living thing in the world will be dead by next winter.”

The growl raised in volume as it went down in pitch. The eagle glared at him but there was something different in the glare. It was not accusing anymore. It was...triumphant.

“Embrace that knowledge.”

And so he did.

He touched his power consciously for the first time. But it was not as Metana had described, or Kurin or that idiot Andrus, for they described something that was separate from him, like picking up a sword or a hammer and using it as a tool. His power was not like that. His power was him. It was a part of him as much as his arms were, as much as his heart was. It was him.

And he understood.

“I am the God of War,” he growled.

A deep thrill coursed through him, powerful, almost like an orgasm, but where an orgasm was a victory gained in the joining of two bodies, this was a violent, angry, thrilling, euphoric surge as his own body joined, and truly became whole for the first time.

“I know what I have to do.”

He stood and turned his angry blue eyes to the sea before him, saw the sun hanging violently over the mountains, saw the reflection of the sun sun plunged deep in the sea and he smiled terrible smile full of teeth.

“I am who I am.”

With a grating sound, the earth beneath his feet trembled and quailed under the force of his will.

“Yes. You are.”

Jurel whirled. The light was still sunrise dim but the old man who stood a few paces away was bathed in light as though he stood in the noon sun.

“Father.”

“Jurel,” Gaorla said with a slight smile. “I see you have managed to discover the truth.” Then his lips twisted wryly. “Took you long enough too. We almost had to beat it into you.”

“You sent my fathers to me.”

“Well,” Gaorla hedged. “I wasn't the one to actually accomplish it but it was my idea.”

Jurel nodded.

“There are some things you need to know, Jurel, and I think now is the time to tell you.”

Jurel glanced doubtfully at the rising sun. “Forgive me please, father, but is this a good time? I need to return to-”

Gaorla chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “Never fear, Jurel. We have a great deal more time than you might think.” He gestured to three figures who were walking under the trees in the park.

Or at least that's what Jurel imagined they would be doing if any one of them was moving. All of them stood frozen like statues. He gaped at Gaorla.

And again Gaorla chuckled. “We're in a time bubble. We will not be here for long but it gives us a few moments to speak.”

Sitting on a fancifully carved alabaster chair, Gaorla motioned Jurel to a second identical chair.

“Sit,” bade his Father.

Somewhat perturbed, Jurel sat.

“So you have discovered the truth at last. You now know the difference between us and the priests. They tap an external power to perform their—what word do they use? Ah yes, arcanum. It is outer, it is like a tool, like picking up a hammer. You understand now that the power you wield is you. It is as much a part of you as your heart. It is who you are.

“There are a few things you must remember before you go running off to your war. You are very young and very new to your power. Like a baby, you lack strength. It will come in time but in the meanwhile, you must not overextend yourself.

“Consider the priests: they tap into the power, our power to be precise, but because it is external there is a finite amount they can draw. Like water flowing through a pipe. It's like a natural failsafe. They can certainly draw enough to harm themselves but it would be difficult to actually die. You on the other hand, are not so fettered. You may draw as much as you like—it is you, after all—but that means it is easy to overextend yourself. You already have some idea of what happens. Remember those Soldiers of God who accosted you and Kurin on the road? You were unconscious for three days after. Or after your little escapade in my temple—we're going to have a talk about that some day, young man, but later. Again you fell unconscious for days after. You must grow into your power. That will take time but it will happen.

“You must also learn to control yourself. Have you noticed that my eyes do not glow? Nor did Valsa's when you met her, or Maora's. Yours do. That is because power leaks from you like a sieve. Again, it will take time but you will learn to use only as much as you need. Until then, you may find that no matter what you try, you will overdo it. Try picking up that stone over there and bringing it to your hand.”

Jurel stared at the stone, about the size of his fist, and willed it to come to him. He felt a surge run through him, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. The pale gray rock rose unsteadily, spinning lazily in the air. Slowly, haltingly, it made its way toward him until, halfway to him, it crumpled like a dry leaf, turned to sand and sifted to the beach.

Jurel gaped as his concentration faltered.

Gaorla chuckled, his eyes twinkling merrily. “You see? Now imagine what would happen if you tried to do something that required more strength than that. You would likely knock down anything around you—trees, buildings, mountains—and then you would fall into a coma. You are weak yet, but you are stronger than you realize.”

Then the ancient rose and like a sudden avalanche, he fixed Jurel with a glare that seemed to encompass all the world. Jurel felt pinned to the spot, barely able to breath under the sudden power the god leveled at him.

“There is one more thing. You must be wary. You have difficult tasks ahead yet. You have more challenges that must be faced if you are victorious today but one stands above the rest. You have started down a dark and perilous road. Your intentions are good ones, but if you do not pass the next test, you will be destroyed. And if that happens...” Gaorla turned away and gazed across the sea at the blazing bar of yellow-red light at the horizon. More wistfully, with an eternal sadness, he continued, “If that happens, then all, all, has been for naught.”

Jurel screwed up his expression. Everything Gaorla said passed through him as water through a net. He shook his head.

“Father, there is so much I don't understand. Please, can you answer some of my questions?”

Gaorla smiled, his eyes softening, but he shook his head. “No, my son. You must answer your questions for yourself. No one can tell you who you are. Not even me.” He raised a finger to quell Jurel's protest. “Never fear. You do not go unarmed. Remember that Maora gifted you some time back with knowledge. Your mind is, as yet, too untrained to assimilate all he gave you but in time, the pieces of the puzzle will fall into place.”

“But I don't have time.”

“You have enough. You can answer—or have already answered—those questions that are most pressing now. The rest can wait for later.” The ancient lips quirked. “Some mysteries will take millenia to unravel.”

“Why can't you stop this?” Jurel blurted. He surprised himself. He had not known the question lurked, but now it was spoken and now he knew he wanted, needed, the answer. “Why can't you tell the Grand Prelate that he's wrong? That this war is stupid?”

Gaorla Himself seemed taken aback by his young son's vehemence. For a moment he was still, silent, his mouth slightly ajar as though he was about to say something. Then he sighed.

“It is not that easy. We cannot interact directly with mortals. We are...too much for them. Or to put it another way, their view of us is too narrow, too limited by their finite perceptions of the world. When you have leisure, you may wish to ask Kurin. He had some surprising insights some years ago. Perhaps he can help you a little.

“I tried once to speak directly to mortal kind through a man named Shoka. I spoke but few words to him and I thought my message clear but, with his limited understanding and his human conceptions, he misinterpreted what I said. This, all of what you are now embroiled in, is the outcome of Shoka's misunderstanding. It was not his fault. I should have foreseen the consequences but my thoughts were filled with other matters. Fearing to do more damage, I have refrained from trying again. I've only communicated with one other man, and that one, not directly, but only as he dreamed. He went quite mad.”

“But I can speak with them.”

“You were born a mortal of Gram and Wendilla. The seed of what you would become was planted but it was—and still is—but a seed. You are in a unique position; you bridge both worlds: the mortal and the immortal. Right now, you are the only one who can do that.”

Gaorla rose then and sighed. “I am sorry this has fallen on your shoulders, my son. In time you will understand. Perhaps you will even forgive me.”

The world seemed to skew sideways, a jolting sensation that left Jurel somewhat nauseated. His vision blurred as though everything around him seemed to move at incredible speed. He blinked and shook his head. Gaorla was gone.

The breeze, like a breath, brushed at his neck. He glanced up and saw the three people making their way through the trees. One spotted him and pointed. He exchanged hurried words with his friends and the other two stared wide-eyed at him for a moment before all three broke into a run, disappearing into the park. He smirked.

He rose from his alabaster chair and turned to face the dawn. The brilliant sun high above and its twin far below shared triumphant looks with him.

His eyes glowed dull blue as he straightened himself to his full height and took a deep breath of the tangy sea air. His hair seemed to gleam in the magnificent brightness of the twin suns. He looked down at himself, was not in the least bit surprised to find himself encased in armor so black that not even the blazing twin suns could touch it, and traced in an eye-wateringly confusing patterns of golden swirls and whorls that smoldered like molten steel.

He had answers, though vague, but for every question put to rest, three more had arisen. But he had some answers. It would have to do, for he had other concerns to attend to. As his father had said, the rest could wait for later.

He breathed deeply, the smell of clean sea and sandy beach mingling with the odor of shit and dead fish. He smiled, for today was a new day. But it was a hard smile. Hard as a sword. Hard as a hammer. Hard as armies locked in bloody battle, no quarter given, none taken.

Hard as War.

Chapter 48

The Abbey seemed to hold its breath as the world burned. In the distance beyond the outer perimeter defenses, the forest fires blazed out of control, butting against the Abbey's shields trying to claw through. During the day, thick, acrid smoke choked the sky and even at midday, the shadows in the Abbey were deep. At night, there were no stars or moon to be seen. There was only a deep hellfire red that spread for miles, a fiendish glow that brightened and grew every minute until more than one priest began quaking with the idea that this must be what the hells in Shomra's underworld must be like.

The preparations were as complete as they ever would be. The proud tower soared, gleaming with its new arcane reinforcements. Sheds and depots were overflowing with supplies.

Soldiers and priests and laborers lined the battlements and gazed west, watching the hellish smoke billow skyward. All that could be heard were the occasional muttering of either quiet orders or quiet prayers.

They lived in this eerie calm before the storm, all of them wandering as though in a dream, a fragile one that was on the brink of mutating into nightmare, all of them keeping a squinted eye on the burning trees, as though assessing the extent of the damage they should expect.

As though they thought there might be anything to salvage after the storm blew over.

They waited and they watched. And late in the afternoon of the eve of the Day of Shadows, as the sun was a sullen dome cresting the western forest that had protected them for generations, a cry rose from a sentry. She saw movement. That movement coalesced into soldiers a half mile distant emerging from the raging inferno: nightmare begets nightmare.

Thousands, and more thousands, began gathering on the plain in the distance, and still they continued to emerge from those woods. The horde—they were too organized to actually be a horde, but that was the word all the Salosians tacitly agreed on—was still emerging, swelling like a cancer, as the sun burned the billowing clouds, keeping its light close like a selfish child. Mine! And even when darkness spread its blanket across the land and all that was left of the horde were innumerable points of hazy firelight scattered across the plain like earthbound stars against the backdrop of lacerated red, everyone behind the dubious safety of the Abbey's walls knew it was only the tip of the iceberg.

The Abbey exhaled.

* * *

The horde did not attack then, of course. Night was falling; no one in their right mind would attack a fortified position when they can barely see their own sword in front of them. Especially against an enemy who wielded arcanum. Even for a force that size with their own contingents of priests, it would have been suicide.

It appeared the fires were being held in check by the Abbey's outer defense shields: a double edged sword. On one hand, it protected the Abbey from the raging infernos. On the other, it protected the army camped not more than a half-mile away, but for that night, the defenders chose to be relieved. Well, most of them anyway.

* * *

“How many did we lose?”

Gaven fought through his exhaustion to remain standing at attention before his general, and ran the lists through his mind. Even though the fire was banked low, Mikal's office was stifling hot, stuffy, due to the group clustered shoulder to shoulder. It did not surprise Gaven to see all of Mikal's ranking officers present (much to his continued amazement, he was one of them) but it did surprise him to see Kurin sitting near the fireplace poring over a pile of parchment in his lap.

The old man seemed even older, had since they had freed him from that madman Thalor. His shoulders sagged, and when he stood, he did so with a pronounced stoop. More than that, Gaven could not tell; Kurin had taken to wearing a hood at all times. Thalor, that bastard, had ordered Kurin's face healed of the nasty burns sustained during the ambush but he had made sure to leave thick, jagged ropes of disfiguring scars.

What was most shocking, though, was his voice. Only a few months past, Kurin had had an incongruously deep, rich baritone. Though traces remained, his voice was but a shadow of its former self, thinner, reedier.

But the old man's spirit remained. In fact, if anything, his spirit was stronger, harder, than it had ever been in the time Gaven had known him. When the old man spoke, his voice was quiet so that Gaven had to lean in to hear him. But hard. So hard. Like chips of ice.

Kurin had always been confident, always in control, but now...now, though he maintained control of events and his surroundings with an iron fist, Gaven sometimes caught a glimpse of something—something that made him wonder if the old man was in control of himself.

Gaven respected Kurin; he had since that first day when Gaven's troop had apprehended him—and Jurel—fleeing south on the caravan route. In his way, he loved the old man like a grandfather. He still respected Kurin, but now the respect bordered on fear.

“Answer him,” Kurin uttered in barely more than a whisper that still carried the force of a shout.

Gaven started, suddenly aware that he had been staring. “About seven. Thirty were wounded but they are in the infirmary. Most will be able to fight on the morrow.”

“So.” Mikal growled. “That bastard Thalor did not accomplish much with his wanton act of arson.”

“Oh no,” responded Kurin, his voice deathly quiet. “He accomplished a great deal. The summer has been very dry. He managed to start forest fires that will spread for hundreds of miles in every direction. He managed to endanger the lives of a million and more innocent people.”

Mikal grunted. “It seems most of the surrounding population is here with us.”

“Not Twin Town.”

That, Gaven did not want to think too deeply on. There had been a rumor in the days before they fled through the tunnels that the prelacy was moving in a regiment of Soldiers of God to occupy the town. No one in, no one out.

There had been another rumor that Grayson was marching. No one knew if that bode well or ill for the Salosians. Though the king had proclaimed this a religious matter to be handled by the church, Duke Grayson was as ambitious as any man, one who might disobey his king if he thought he could get away with it. And, of course, if he thought it would prove advantageous to his coffers.

The dwellers of Twin Town, then, locked in place—and most certainly not well treated—by a heavily armed regiment of Soldiers of God, might soon find themselves beset on three fronts: the regiment of Soldiers of God who were there ostensibly to keep the peace but more likely had already begun to decorate pikes with fresh heads; the forest fires roaring in from the east; and, if the rumors were true, an angry army storming in from the south.

No, Gaven did not want to dwell on it too much.

“Perhaps more importantly,” Jorge said, “how many did they lose?”

“I can only say that our ambushes have managed to account for some six to seven hundred of them. I don't know if Thalor's fires helped us there.”

“So, along with the thousand or so who perished under the streets of Twin Town, perhaps sixteen hundred losses to our half dozen,” Fagan boomed. He wore a vicious grin.

“Be careful, Fagan,” Mikal rumbled. “The bastards have the numbers to spare. The odds are still overwhelmingly against us.”

“If only Jurel...” Sometimes, Gaven wished his mouth would wait for his brain to catch up. He clamped his mouth shut, looked at his feet, could not see Kurin's eyes, nevertheless felt the glare pin him.

“'If only Jurel' what?”

Gaven merely grimaced, shuffled his feet.

“'If only Jurel' what, Gaven?” Kurin rose fluidly from his chair, some of his old strength apparent for the first time in weeks. “Will he turn back the waves upon waves of Soldiers of God that bear down upon us single-handedly? Will he call down fire and lightning and wipe the fields clear? The last time we saw him he could not even light a candle. Will he now miraculously appear and raze the enemy to the ground?”

“I don't know if I can do all that,” said a quiet voice from the corner of the room, “but maybe I can help a little.”

Gaven spun along with everyone else in the room. The unmistakable sound of swords rasping out of scabbards cut the brittle tension.

There, standing in the corner, draped in shadow, was the shape of a huge man, vaguely familiar but distorted by the heavy armor, all black with strange waterfalls of golden gilt.

And with eyes that glowed a soft blue.

Chapter 49

The morning of the Day of Shadows dawned dull, iron gray, heavily layered in a gauzy mist that lent an ethereal, otherworld quality. If one did not look too hard, one could almost miss the sea of white capes gathering a half mile away. Except...

The clarion call of the warhorns split the morning air, shivering through the mist.

The air shimmered, the trees and soldiers beyond the walls seemed to waver as though heat waves radiated, but it was late autumn and the day was far too brisk for heat waves. As he strode across the battlement, Jurel watched.

In the distance, near the rear of the enemy army, a massive catapult armed rose with a deceivingly ponderous slowness. He might have heard the heavy thud as wood met wood, or he might not have, but he certainly saw the heavy stone, at least as big as he was tall, lift into the air with the same sort of deceiving ponderousness of the catapult arm. It sailed high, becoming a pebble before cresting its apex and beginning its descent. It sped up, bearing down on the battlement upon which he stood like a giant fist, and slammed with a dull thump into an unseen barrier some twenty paces above his head. Shattering, bits of it fell harmlessly into the moat outside the earthworks. In the courtyard below, beneath the cover of the wall, a half dozen priests with closed eyes and linked hand to hand swayed slightly.

He had been told of this; this forcefield, Jorge had called it, would keep the worst at bay—at least for a time.

Jurel spun as a second missile rose into the air, and to Gaven, barked, “Return fire.”

Taking command had been surprisingly easy. They had all been so stunned to see him that when he started issuing orders, they simply went about carrying them out. That was fortunate, he thought. He did not have to battle for control. He did not have to waste time convincing them that he needed to be in charge. It made things easier.

Gaven saluted and broke into a run, hollering as he went. The second stone slammed into the forcefield and archers lining the wall three deep, instinctively ducked behind crenelations. As if crenelations would slow a stone that size. As if anything less than a magical forcefield created by a dozen powerful priests would slow a stone that size. A hail of fist sized rocks flew over his head, a response from one of his own catapults. They passed effortlessly through the forcefield and Jurel exhaled. He had not been sure they could manage it, but now that he saw it, he smiled nastily. He watched as the stones struck the front line a little to his right, watched a small, bloody dent appear in that line. The shrieks of the wounded were thin with distance but still Jurel felt a thrill of exultation.

The screams were as prayers offered to the God of War. This was his paean.

Some cavalry and infantry divisions—these latter led by squads of swordmasters—waited in the courtyards and along the earthworks barricade for Jurel's command. A sortie at this stage would be suicide, but later, if the right opportunity presented itself...

Jurel put them from his mind. At that moment, what occupied his thoughts was the approaching horde. Infantry in front, row upon row, at least twelve deep and stretching across the entire western and northern faces of the Abbey. Behind them, archers strode behind a long row of rolling contraptions covered with layers of heavy hide: portable cover. Jurel was impressed. Behind them, came rank on rank of cavalry, a veritable sea of horseflesh. The horde was huge. He could not make out any individual faces; they all melded into one massive predatory organism that covered the plain as it stalked the Abbey.

He almost wished he had not split his force in half, but Mikal knew what he was doing. He had to trust in that.

A young captain joined him as he squinted at the horde.

“In range?” Jurel grunted—somewhere in his mind he tried to recall the young man's name.

“No, Milord. Perhaps fifty paces out of range even with the priests's help, and a hundred from the first of our surprises.”

“As soon as they're in range, open fire.”

“Of course, Milord.”

This too was planned of course. Once his archers began raining death upon the oncoming horde, the Soldiers of God would certainly not tarry. They would make for the walls with all haste. Right into the traps. That was the plan, anyway, or at least a part of it. The first half of Mikal's plans revolved around decimating as many of the enemy troops as possible before directly engaging them in order to even the odds. Seeing the horde, Jurel knew it would take a lot more than some catapults and a few holes in the ground to even begin making a noticeable dent in their numbers.

Above him, a nearly blinding blue-white glow erupted, and a low humming began. It grated at him, that humming, seemed to vibrate in his back teeth and in the base of his skull. Chill shivers scuttled up his backbone, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood up. The Gaorlan priests had joined the fray.

The horde crept slowly forward, each rank and row delineated into highly structured, highly disciplined lines. Jurel could almost hear his officers counting the distance. His catapults continued to hurl as quickly as they could be wound. Still mostly fist sized stones, he had seen the occasional heavy boulder sail high overhead. Where the small stones pelted the approaching army, men cried out, collapsing in heaps of shuddering torn flesh and jagged, shattered bone. Jurel was surprised (and somewhat surprised at being surprised) that small stones or not, hurled at that speed, they were most definitely lethal. Even as Jurel watched, he saw a Soldier stiffen and collapse, helmet skittering crazily along the ground, the top half of his head disintegrated in a fine red mist.

Where the heavy boulders landed, still shy of the enemy catapults, no one cried out, though the crushed armor and wet bits that smeared the ground were indication enough that they too were having an effect.

Still the enemy crept forward. They tried their own luck with buckets full of stones; every once in a while, the forcefield above crackled.

Like that dried popping corn Daved used to make on occasion, thought Jurel.

He glanced down and saw that more priests had joined the defensive circle. Their faces were ashen, taut like drums. Sweat beaded on their foreheads and soaked their robes at neck and armpit. They had been joined by yet more priests; there were now several circles scattered across the courtyard, each a dozen and a half strong. That infernal humming continued to slide into the very marrow of his bones.

“Milord,” the young captain, whose name he could still not quite bring to mind, called. “They're within range in ten paces.”

Jurel nodded, and raised his sword high over his head. He watched, with captive eyes, the slow forward crawl. They narrowed the space. Eight paces, seven. A boulder thundered off the ghostly dome overhead. Five paces. His sword quivered in anticipation. Somewhere to the northwest a horn blatted. Three, two.

The front ranks of the horde broke into a trot.

“Archers engage!” Jurel's sword dropped.

Calls of “Fire!” raced up the lines. As one, a thousand bowstrings hummed and a hail of death darkened the sky, arching high and long, carried by arcane winds into the enemy. Long before the first volley landed, the second and third volleys were in the air.

Catapults fired again, but this time, their payload hissed through the sky; pots of pitch and naphtha struck the ground and shattered spraying bright burning agony in all directions. The front two ranks of the approaching horde essentially evaporated under the massive aerial assault.

A hearty cheer broke out all along the battlement and even Jurel was not immune. A thrill of vicious glee caused him to clench a fist even though the heavy losses suffered still barely made a dent in the overall horde that faced them.

But still that terrible humming grew stronger until it seemed to wedge between his joints, as though trying to separate fingers and knees and hips until...

The blaze of light that knocked him from his feet was more than blinding. It was a thousand lightning bolts ripping apart the darkest night. It was a thousand suns dropping from the sky. He cried out and rubbed his watering eyes. He blinked, looked up. And he could not believe what he saw. His tear-blurred eyes saw a jagged luminescent crack like a huge static lightning bolt in the dome. Then, like melting ice sliding from a smooth surface, the western portion of the dome sank from view.

The enemy broke into a charge. Shakily, Jurel rose to his feet. Thankfully his voice responded; he roared, “Resume fire!”

His officers began taking up the shout, and slowly, ragged lines of arrows began raining down on the enemy again. But it was not so easy this time: for every arrow sent out over the walls two homed in, searching for Salosian blood. Some found their marks but most bounced harmlessly from the battlements, causing a steady tick-ticking roar like hail falling interspersed with occasional screams. Jurel glanced to his right where a young woman, no more than twenty years of age fell stiffly gripping the shaft that protruded from her neck. Her mouth hung open but she did not scream.

His catapults were continuing their efforts; smoke hazed the western quarters of the horde on the plain, the underside of which glowed a ruddy orange. Jurel saw an enemy catapult jump and list sideways, the great arm snapping and sending sword length shafts of splintered wood into the surrounding men, but the remaining catapults were still raining heavy missiles on the Abbey. Like a martial drumbeat, the walls began to shudder under the rhythmic booming of heavy stones though so far the arcanely strengthened walls continued to hold.

Peering over the crenelations, Jurel watched, urging his enemy forward, just a few more paces, come on you bastards just a few more paces.

Almost anticlimactically, the ground gave way under units of infantry and again, he felt a thrill of exhilaration. Enemy soldiers fell into the traps, disappearing into the stake lined pits.

These traps had been carefully planned out and laid. Certainly there were paths that led to safety but it was a circuitous maze across perilous ground. Most of the paths between the pits would allow no more than two soldiers abreast to pass. If the enemy troops did not fall into the pits, then they were easy targets for Salosian archers, and even when they passed the gauntlet of booby traps, they faced the moat lined by spikes and protected by the heavy earthen barricade manned by several hundred infantry with long halberds.

More of these traps were being uncovered, some by hapless units of charging infantry who plunged heedlessly to their ripping, tearing, puncturing deaths, or vaporized as a ball of arcane energy erupted, some by more cautious sappers sent forward under hide shields who prodded the earth with pikes. Soon, the charge slowed to a crawl and more pikemen were sent to reveal the traps while the archers on the wall continued to fire. Many more white cloaked figures fell but the surprise was gone and the death rate slowed.

To this point, the enemy horde had lost maybe three thousand men—maybe even as many as four thousand. The beast was barely scratched.

Chapter 50

In the inky blackness, an eerie blue-green light glowed. It flickered and cycled, the scenes that appeared, ones of heartbreak, violence, sorrow. What was visible at the moment was the scene of a battle. Thousands upon thousands of white caped figures attacked a building like storm tossed waves battering relentlessly at a beachhead.

A dry titter came from the darkness only inches from the eerily glowing images. Nothing of the being was revealed as though the light was loathe to touch it. Things were progressing very well. The being watched avidly as massive stones thundered soundlessly against the walls, as ant sized men slammed into each other, their swords flashing like tarnished silver in the gloomy mist then coming back dripping with new, red jewelry. One in particular drew its attention. A tall, powerfully built young man wearing the light sucking armor that the being had once been so familiar with.

So. The boy had returned.

Yes, everything was progressing very well indeed.

The being wiped what passed for its chin, the slaver hot and sticky on the twisted claw, dripping and hissing quietly in the darkness. It could watch this all day—in fact, it was already aroused from the slashing, the blood, the broken bodies, the rage. But it had other things to check on. With a sigh, it leaned back away from the screen, its flesh sibilant.

The image faltered, flickered. The light dimmed, misty blue-green, replaced by a smoky sepia. Featured now was a woman with long flowing hair the color of night. She leaned over a figure in a bed, her hands outstretched over the linens that a few minutes before had probably been pristine white but now were patched with unspeakable stains that served to arouse the being further. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her exhausted eyes tight at the corners, and her hands began to glow. The figure on the bed squirmed slightly, the look of pain on his face easing to something more like comfort, though he did not open his eyes.

It growled; the blackness trembled. Damned humans. Always ending the bliss of agony. Forever pissing it off with their incessant need to pretend their compassions. Them and their damned futile desires to be more than the base animals they were. Fucking, lying, pitiful fools. They needed a firm hand to remind them that they were motes of dust, grains of sand to be trodden on, to support the weight of those who mattered. The being decided that it had seen enough. This part of his plan was moving along as well. It did not want its good mood curdled by the filth of what those pathetic bags of blood and flesh called 'good'.

The image flickered again, brightening from sepia to sunny morning. There was a wide road with a broad, forbidding forest flanking it to the west. There was already snow on the ground here though it was still far to the south from where the creature presently was. On the road, another army was marching. Rather quickly, it noted, and south. It giggled like a school boy performing an act of mischief.

It was a little soon for this army to be moving south; it had thought that the foolish superstitions would have kept their little play king closer to the burnt city a while longer. It was no matter. There were still too many miles for him to travel to make any real difference in what was coming.

Fools. Their animal superstitions kept them from broaching the borders of the great forest, kept them also believing that everyone held the same reservations. That was the delicious irony of it, was it not? He giggled. The forest was no more than that. Just a forest. A dense one, certainly, and dangerous if one did not watch one's footing, but after all, it was just trees, and mud, and rocks. Until the very center anyway, but that made no difference. What did make the difference was that their superstitions kept them away from a forest that was essentially harmless. And yet it would be from that forest that the death of the sunlander kingdom would descend. Gixen had performed admirably in that respect.

It seemed that the fool pretend king had figured that out. But too late. Oh, much too late.

Once again, The image flickered and wavered, this time going from the clear daylight yellows and blues to umber. A vision of skeletal trees appeared. Skulking silently between the groaning trunks, were men it knew very well. At the forefront of the small group, its newest pet, Gixen, looked out somewhere seemingly behind the being as it watched. Gixen grinned, his eyes alight with fanatical glee. The small troop disappeared back into the trees.

Once again, the being tittered, happy—in its own twisted way—that this part of its plan was proceeding apace as well. It let the image fade. The light evaporated into the thick, impenetrable blackness whence it came.

All the pieces were in play. The being felt its mouth stretch into an unfamiliar position, rough, sandpaper flesh cracking and pulling painfully. With mild surprise, it realized it was smiling. How long had it been since it had last done that?

And why not, after all? Everything was falling into place. He let the smile spread, tasting the bitterness as something that might have once been blood flowed from the cracks that zagged audibly, like snakes hissing, in the fetid darkness, tasting the cruel, blissful agony.

Chapter 51

The mist and overcast burned off as the morning progressed into afternoon, leaving a world of chaos painted in stark contrast, the smoky haze lending the scene an impression of a painting done by a demented artist with the borders of the dormant forest as the frame. An endless river of white capes flowed, battering themselves against the Abbey walls.

Balls, waves, sparks, discs, a hundred varied shapes of a hundred thousand varied colors flowed electrically from the priests in the field to the priests in the Abbey and back. Massive divots of earth erupted and the ground shook. The air felt charged like a thunderstorm with all the arcane energies flowing.

Scaling ladders rose one after the other, most to be knocked down or burnt to ash before they even touched the crenelations at the top of the wall, some few making the journey and Soldiers of God swarmed up to the ramparts to engage the defenders. Men and women screamed, raged, bled.

Jurel proved to be something of an equalizer for the Salosians. His tactics, which had proven so fatally ineffective a few months ago, now seemed to never be wrong. He always seemed to know exactly where the next hotspot was going to be and he always had reinforcements there before it happened.

And when it did happen, he was ever at the forefront, his sword burning the air as he swung, always with devastating effect. He rejoiced, reveled, every time his sword struck. Because every time his sword found its mark, armor crumpled, bone snapped, blood flowed.

He was War after all.

The first few times he plowed into a knot of Soldiers, he had found himself attacking alone. His sheer ferocity had caused his own men to falter and eye him hesitantly. He did not care. He simply waded in with his burning sword painting bright blue strokes in the air that always transformed to bright red.

Soon, the Salosian forces began to gain confidence that he would not, in fact, cut them down as thoroughly as he did the Soldiers of God and they joined him in attacking the attackers.

To Jurel it was as if a dirty window had been opened and light, sweet and pure, poured in banishing shadows, stripping away the lies and the obscured truths, and revealing what was, what had always been.

He fought, and he rejoiced, his battle cry a greedy call for blood that would not be denied, his paean. All the raging screams shook the air, melding, merging and urging him onward like his own personal hymn, the smell of blood and fire and death, like a powerful narcotic that drove him ever further into a frenzy.

He felt powerful, invincible even.

He leaped, sword held overhead, landing in the middle of three Soldiers of God who fought back to back, his sword hissing forward, cutting a shining arc. Mystic metal met mundane armor, sheared through the helm and deep into the torso of the Soldier in front of him. With a wet gurgle the Soldier slid to the flagstones. Jurel did not take the time to notice. He was already twisting with a broad side sweep, the glowing blade once again disappearing into the armor and viscera of the second Soldier.

By then Gaven and the others had managed to catch up and they were fending off more Soldiers as they swarmed over the wall. The last Soldier facing Jurel barely had the chance to widen his eyes in surprise before Jurel kicked him solidly in the chest, sending him flying back over the wall wailing a strangely childish wail.

His attack run continued; he rushed the flank of those cresting the walls, leaving Gaven and his troop enough space in front to continue their defense while he slammed into the side of the first Soldier in his way. With a broad sweep of his arm, he plowed his hapless opponent over the wall and drove forward with his sword. That Soldier dropped like a bag of stones too.

Gaven and his troop, meanwhile, made a good account of themselves; the remaining Soldiers in this pocket fell. But Jurel did not even notice. He was already sprinting down the battlements toward the next embattled group where he again waded in, sword singing.

The blood flowed. Screams choked the air. It was as if he had spent all his life only partly awake, a ghost who watched his own reality from outside, able to see everything that happened but unable to do anything to affect the outcome of events. But now, now...

Now he was fully awake. Now he was most definitely no longer a ghost. He laughed long and loud as his sword mowed enemy Soldiers down like a scythe.

Soon, his sword cut deep into one last Soldier who fell back over the wall with a stunned look in his already lifeless eyes and Jurel stood uncontested upon his ramparts flanked by Gaven and a dozen soldiers. He scanned the ramparts quickly and saw only his own forces continuing to pepper the field below with arrows, stones, boiling naphtha and anything else that came to hand. There were no white capes, there were no scaling ladders, Jurel's instincts were not screaming at him to be somewhere right now.

Mystic lights continued to flare malevolently in the air, crackling and snapping. The day, though only mid afternoon and with not a cloud in sight seemed dark, heavy. The sun tried valiantly to break through but in the end it had the appearance of an eye squinted in judgement.

In the field below, the sea of white seemed to have stalled, though Jurel thought they were just regrouping, preparing for another assault. Bitterly, he noted that for all the death he and his forces had inflicted, the sea below did not seem much smaller. From which of the hells were they spewing from?

The bulwark had repelled the invaders for a short while; several stakes still sported shredded cloaks and broken armor, but the sheer weight of numbers made a breach inevitable. The forces that had manned the bulwark had retreated inside the walls. The moat had been bridged by whole trees cut down and brought hastily forward from the surrounding forest, the traps, well a few of them anyway, had been bridged by the broken, gored, and now trampled bodies of those who had first discovered them.

A wave of exhaustion rocked him back on his heels. Dizzy, he clutched a crenelation, closed his eyes. He was overdoing it. He had been warned to keep control, to not exert his new powers too much until he grew stronger. His armor flickered momentarily, threatening to leave him unprotected. He concentrated through the wave of torpor that threatened to drop him, felt the comforting weight solidify again.

The dizziness held him, spun him, nauseated and disoriented him. It was quite a shock, then, when he opened his eyes and found himself facing the opposite direction, right into Gaven's rage fueled eyes.

“Where the hells have you been?” Gaven shrieked. “You bloody coward. Why did you abandon us?”

And just like that, Jurel felt like he was ten years old again, and Daved was upbraiding him for yet another foolish boy's stunt. Like the time he and Darren and Trig had used the massive piles of corn in the silo as a slide. Oh, they had had a rip-roaring good time clambering up the golden slopes and throwing themselves over the edge. It was bumpy and sometimes none too comfortable but after the first couple of slides, which had amounted to little more than tumbling head over heels until they reached the floor, they had built a good layer of corn juice on themselves and their slide. That was when it had gotten really interesting. Until he had arrived home and Daved had demanded to know where the hells he had been and why the hells was he covered in corn.

“That's food, you dolt!” he had shouted after Jurel had excitedly explained. “What the damned hells were you thinking?”

His answer then was the same he offered to Gaven now. Sheepishly, ashamedly, he looked at the worn flagstones between his feet. “Well, I-I...” and he trailed off, looking up to stare plaintively into his friend's fevered eyes.

His instincts kicked up. It felt like a sudden cold wind on a hot day, or maybe like an itch he could not quite reach. It was not very comfortable; he still had to get used to the feel of it. He glanced over Gaven's shoulder and saw the ends of a ladder slam into the stone wall.

The boyish feeling fled, chased off by his new metal determination, his exhaustion evaporated as a new wave of adrenaline coursed its fiery trail in his veins.

“Never mind that now. Can you let it lie until the end of this?”

Gaven looked over his shoulder, hesitating for an instant as several soldiers rushed to meet the new threat.

“Look, Gav, if we survive this, I promise I'll tell you everything.” He extended a hand.

Gaven's hard eyes bored into him. He seemed on the verge of demanding the explanation right now but his eyes flickered, he gave one curt nod, and gripped Jurel's wrist.

“Fine, but you will tell me everything.”

He was still angry. Jurel understood that. He had a right to be angry. They all did. Jurel had not understood before. He had run like a coward. He had been a fool. But now...

Now, he was no fool. Now he was rage and fire. He was the storm. He was divine vengeance. He would see his brother's gate in the underworld had a very long line-up before this day was done.

With a feral grin Jurel raised his sword, calling the blue fire, sending it licking up the blade.

“Let's do this.”

And they, along with the rest of the squad with them, rushed to rejoin the fray, swords high, one blazing like a star, bellowing their war cries like a hymn.

He had been mistaken earlier, he thought as his sword found its next target. It was not that he was finally fully awake. It was that he was finally fully alive.

* * *

The battle progressed as battles do. Men and women rushed forward, through the smoke and blood, over broken bodies of comrades and opponent alike to meet with a clash in the middle. After the swords and pikes stopped their brutal work, some staggered away to join in the next fray, some stayed to join with their comrades and opponents on the cold ground.

The sea of white moved inexorably forward, the sheer numbers brought by the prelacy inexhaustible. More ladders went up and siege towers rumbled forward, emerging from the choking fog and smoke like demon lords from the lower hells. No one, not even the most hardened veterans, looked too closely at the ground where the massive timber towers covered in hardened and wet leather passed. A few of these towers burst into spontaneous flame, or exploded, or simply collapsed in on themselves, sending those tasked with moving the great, lumbering beasts running...unless they collapsed as fire engulfed them, or sword-length shrapnel impaled them.

But more and more towers reached the walls as the Salosian priests grew tired and had to concentrate their remaining energy stores on staving off the Gaorlan priests. More and more Soldiers of God made the battlements, and though the defenders remained successful in repelling the attackers—with a great deal of help from Jurel and his mobile crack force—they were beginning to flag both from sheer exhaustion and from loss of numbers. It took them longer and longer each time their defenses were breached to wipe their walls clear.

Jurel's constant presence and devastating efficacy had buoyed their spirits, and lent them the strength to cause incredible casualties to the Grand Prelate's forces. When the sun dipped beneath the trees in the west and night blanketed the world, the Soldiers of God fell back to lick their wounds and rest for the next day's continuance.

That reprieve, however, gave the Salosians ample time to discover just how badly things looked. They had managed to stave off the beast for one day, but with their forces cut in half—and Mikal's force still waiting for the call, a call that, more and more seemed likely to be made out of desperation than for any tactical advantage—things did not bode well for the coming dawn.

The evening and night were spent cleaning up the bodies and the blood of friends and foes under the bone cold moon, shoring up dwindling supplies, seeing to the wounded who filled not only the infirmaries but the Council Hall with moans of pain, and the occasional call for a mother.

Occasionally, someone would look over the crenellations, past the bloody churned earth, hidden now by night's cloak, and quail at the number of fires that flickered in the distance, fires that flickered like a night full of stars, that still spread for miles end to end.

The general consensus—never spoken, no, never made real by giving it voice—was that Jurel's presence, no matter how powerful, was not enough. They needed reinforcements. A lot of them. Now.

But hard on the heels of that thought always followed a bitter question, an inevitable question, one that each exhausted fighter or healer or wielder of arcanum tried to suppress even as it took form in his or her mind: who would support a dying army of outlawed heretics against an overwhelming force sent lawfully by the kingdom's sanctioned church?

And some few, a very few, wondered deep in their heart of hearts if Jurel had been worth it.

Chapter 52

Jurel's room was dark. He had not bothered to light any candles, though knowing what he did now, he could light every damned candle in this damned building—set them all to blazing like the fires beyond the wavering defense perimeter in the forest beyond—with little more than a thought.

He had spent a year living in this room, and it was sparsely furnished. A bed, a rickety chair near a small table, a bookcase; he did not need light to navigate safely. Besides, along with a distinct lack of need for nourishment, he found he could see much better in the dark than he used to, as though the moon was always out for him.

The absence of light suited him, matched his mood. In darkness, all the joys and wonders of the world were muted, hidden. Each night, that which is laid bare in the brightness of day becomes a mystery again, an enigma buried like a lost civilization in the sands of time. It was the perfect time for the worries and the angst that ever lurk, peeking furtively from just around the first corner of the soul, fearful of the scouring sun, to come out and play.

Weak, shaky with exhaustion, Jurel raised his cup to his lips and swallowed the last of the water. Just water. This was not a time to be drowning his miseries. There was too much at stake.

An image of Metana floated up from the burial ground deep in his mind before he could stop it. He growled, pushed her image away. It could not be. He understood that now. It just could not be. Because of who he was, or, more precisely, who he had to be.

How could there possibly be room in his life for love and laughter when he was the god of all things hate? Metana did not deserve that kind of life. She did not deserve to be with the monster he had become. So filled with light and life and grace, while he was blood, violence, darkness. No, she did not deserve that. He did not deserve her.

Besides, he thought that by the end of the next day, at least one, and probably both of them, would be dead.

A timid knock at his door sent ripples through his bruised thoughts. Shaken more by his not having anticipated the knock—his senses had heightened to a point that he enjoyed a vague form of prescience—than by the knock itself, he focused. And though he should have anticipated this, he had not and was shaken all over again.

As if she had been summoned by merely thinking of her, she now stood outside his door, uncertain, hesitant. It was a Metana he had never before encountered. The Metana he knew always moved, spoke, did everything with an air of confidence that often bordered on belligerence. It was one of the things he loved about her—had loved, he corrected himself viciously, had loved. And there she was, hesitance and second thoughts notwithstanding. Of course.

He breathed deeply, getting a grip on the surge of emotions evoked by memory of her. He must speak with her, that he knew. But he thought his goals and hers were likely to be quite different. She, of course, would demand to know where he had been the last few weeks before professing her love for him, and then demanding that he be sensible and get over himself.

He, on the other hand, knew that was not possible. She did not deserve to be stuck with him. He did not deserve her love.

He breathed deeply again, centering himself, finding that place within his soul where he could do what he needed to do without thinking too much about it. It was the same place, he realized, where he went when he was charging into battle.

At the same moment the second timid knock came, he spoke.

“Come in, Metana,” he said, and though his voice was barely more than a whisper, he still felt her jump as though he had screamed.

He did not rise as a bar of torchlight—the energy required to keep the corridors illuminated by arcane means had been diverted to the defense of the Abbey—widened, revealing a cloaked silhouette framed in the doorway.

And she did not move, though he could feel the power of her gaze like a blast of sun in a darkened room, peeling away the layers of shadow, banishing mystery of what might be, laying bare the truth of what was.

Even though he could only see the formless outline of her cloak, his heart clenched. He savagely suppressed the tenderness that threatened to unman him.

Hardening himself—

I don't deserve her. She doesn't deserve the horror I bring to her life.

—he said, “What do you want, Metana?”

Yet, still, she remained a statue in his doorway, her unseen gaze gouging him, flaying him, threatening to cleave open his armor as effectively as any sword or ax.

Gathering his tattered resolve, he stood.

Then he did the most painful thing he had ever done. He glared at her and said, “Did you not hear me? I asked you what you wanted.”

Better if this were done in a way that made the growing rift between them uncrossable forever after. Perhaps it would ultimately be easier for her.

He had expected anger. He had expected sparks of her wrath at his callous demeanor. Instead, her posture softened, her hands reaching tentatively to him across the darkness. Finally, she did speak, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Oh, my Jurel. What has happened to you?”

It was by the thinnest of threads that he managed to remain still, that he managed to not rush to her and kneel before her, that he somehow, gods only knew how, did not weep and beg her forgiveness.

Instead, marshaling himself, he straightened his shoulders and leveled a glare that was polar opposite to the one she aimed at him. He suppressed the pain it caused him, the pain it must have caused her. He sniffed quietly.

“Jurel.” Forlorn, oh so forlorn, she took a hesitant step forward. Just a small one as though something pushed against her, kept her from crossing the threshold, from crossing the barrier between her world of light and his of shadow. “Jurel, please.”

Inside Jurel, something gave way. Exasperation, anger, borne of fear, of...love? But no, he had tamped down all those weak feelings. The truth poured from him, every word of it hurtful.

“What do you want, Metana?” he demanded. “What do you want me to say? You do realize that in a few hours, we're going back to battle, don't you? You realize that with the way things stand, we won't survive the day.

“The Gaorlans brought enough Soldiers of God that, if nothing else, they can simply grind us to dust with sheer numbers. Metana, our only hope was that we destroy them quickly and decisively. That hope died when the sun set.”

“But with all their numbers,” she countered, stepping further into his room, “we still managed to fend them off. We could do it again today.”

“We have at best four thousand soldiers left, and that includes the refugees and Mikal's men out there,” he gestured vaguely, wildly. “The walls are weakening, the gate shows cracks, everyone is exhausted, and damned bloody hells, the Day of Shadows is past.”

Now that she was in the room and not framed by the bloody torchlight, Jurel was able to see her expression turn to confusion.

“What does the Day of Shadows have to do with this?”

“Come on, Tana.” That one slipped; he chided himself silently for letting the intimate nickname get past his guard. “You're not stupid. Everything really important in my life always happens on the Day of Shadows. All the prophecies say so.”

He probably should not have insinuated she was acting foolishly. Even buried in his armor, he flinched when her eyes flashed dangerously. Striding forward, she raised one dagger-like finger and jabbed him in his chest.

Her voice perilously quiet, sharp as razors, she said, “You great bloody oaf. You stupid damned buffoon.” Like a dueler pressing an advantage she advanced, and he, hard-pressed under the onslaught backed away until his chair halted him. “I'm going to let the bit about me being stupid pass for the moment. But we'll get back to it after I've managed to knock some sense through that thick bloody stone you call a skull. Let's start with this ridiculous notion you have about prophecy, shall we?”

He slumped into his chair, blank-faced dazed, and she spun away from him. Waving her hands frenetically, she nearly shrieked.

“Haven't you listened to anything you've been taught since you arrived? Have you not yet understood that prophecy is just a vague idea? Just a guide? Are you that bloody stupid?”

It was his turn to flare angrily. He rose to his feet in one swift motion.

“Now see here,” he roared. “Who do you think-”

As graceful as a swordmaster, she spun on her heel; as quick as a striking serpent she lunged forward; as strong as an ox, she pushed and he fell floundering back into his chair, his outrage suddenly quenched by shock.

“Sit down and shut up,” she hissed. Her eyes were slitted bits of diamond, her teeth bared in a snarl.

“I don't care who you are,” she continued more moderately—if plain fury could be considered more moderate. “Right now, all I see is a spoiled child. One who is too busy pouting, wrapped up in self-pity to see anything beyond the tip of his poor, sanctimonious little nose.

“Tell you what: I will, perhaps for the first time, spell it out word for word. I will tell you in short, easy to understand words. I'm too tired to care about getting you to think for yourself. Let me know if you feel you're in over your head.”

Her scathing tone shocked him, seared him with anger and shame.

“First, a little light.”

He felt a surge of power, tiny compared to what he could call forth, but enough. His candelabra and his hearth erupted into sudden flame, casting away the darkness that had enveloped him and comforted him like a warm blanket, leaving him bare and unprotected against this new winter blast.

No longer obscured by the banished night, the full force of Metana's glare cut into him.

“Now then,” she stood with her fists planted on her hips, her entire posture screaming choler, glaring down her nose at him. “Let's start with something easy.

“You want to know what prophecy is? It's a series of broad statements about what's going to happen at some undisclosed point in the future. It's meaningless drivel at worst and at best an entertaining story. Until someone gives it worth...and that worth is normally not given until after the prophecy is fulfilled.

“Do you understand what that means? No, of course you don't.” Jurel just did not think he warranted such a contemptuous sneer. “You're a bloody oaf.”

“Imagine—if you can,” (he really did not think he deserved this kind of treatment) “that I were to make my own little prophecy. I might say something like, 'On the day an old man dies, a grandson will find his fortune.' Now, to everyone who hears it, it will sound pointless and absurd. But what if an old man happens to die? What if he was, say, a wealthy merchant? And what if he bequeaths his estate to his grandson? Imagine the grandson's reaction if he were to hear my words. He would say, 'By the gods, the prophecy was true!' My prophecy is given worth because it happens to fit the circumstances.”

Squirming under her hard gaze, Jurel meekly raised a hand. “So...you're saying that prophecy is meaningless?”

“Very good. Close, but not quite. Prophecy is a guide, an idea of what could be. But that doesn't mean it's what will be. No matter what all those stupid bloody books and scrolls told you, you still have choice.
Do you hear me? You. Still. Have. Choice! You don't have to do anything those bits of paper tell you.

“So this idea of yours that everything important must happen on a specific day is beyond stupid.”

“But so far, a lot of it has come true.”

Throwing her hands high, she huffed. “Of course it has, you great pea-brained twit! First, I didn't say that prophecies never came true, just that they might not. Second, you've been striving so hard to make them true that it was pretty much a given that some of the things you've read would happen.”

Three things struck Jurel, as she continued her lecture: first, her tone became more moderate, assuming more and more the voice of a teacher and less that of an aggrieved lover; second, he found himself interested despite his misgivings; and third, he was surprised that one person knew so many different ways to describe stupidity.

“In your case,” she continued, oblivious to the relief he felt at the first thought and consternation at the next two, “I think there is a certain amount of truth. But only in the broad picture.

“It has been well known for centuries that the God of War would waken. According to the histories in the library, this information was passed on to Salos by Gaorla Himself. No,” she cut him off before he could voice his protest: Gaorla Himself had told Jurel he had only spoken to one mortal. “The story is a long one and this is not the time or place.

“Knowing that the God of War would walk the land at some point in the future, Salos understood that certain tasks had to be accomplished—not through any divine sight but rather through plain, simple deduction. He realized that,” she raised a finger, “the God of War had to discover who he was. Obviously.” Another finger rose. “The God of War had to accept that he was in fact the god of war. No easy feat, all things considered.” A third finger, “Since the prelacy is based on a monotheistic belief system, Salos knew that the God of War would have to prove them wrong and that it would be difficult and probably bloody.”

She glared fire at him. “Is this all starting to sound familiar?”

Jurel nodded mutely. His mouth felt packed with coal dust.

“Finally!” she huffed raising her arms as though in thanks that someone somewhere had answered a prayer she never thought would be heard. “There's more that needs to be done, but the prophecy,” she loaded the word with scorn, “is too cryptic yet to understand. But if it happens, the meaning will come clear. And if it doesn't then it was meaningless to begin with. Useless gibberish.

“This, all of this,” her hand made a broad sweep to encompass not just they two, but the Abbey and the predatory army arrayed beyond the walls, “this is what it boils down to. This battle must happen in order for you to take your rightful pace at your Father's side.

“This battle that we wage may be lost, or it may not. We've had some surprises before. It doesn't matter. We, all of us might die to defend you. But even if every last one of us ends up in a shallow grave, I don't think you will.”

“But why?” Jurel cried, no longer to abide in silence. “Why would you—all of you—die for me?”

“Half-witted boob,” she muttered. “We wouldn't die for you—well a few of us would: Kurin, Mikal, Gaven.” She paused. He barely heard the next word for she barely breathed it and yet it still smote him to his core: “Me.” She shook herself, spoke her next words more clearly, “We die for our beliefs. But that too is a discussion for a different time and a different place.”

This time when he surged to his feet, she did not contest him. He felt as though he was on the verge of some sort of breakthrough, a mental connection that had so far eluded him, an intersection of ideas which, once revealed, would answer many questions. But, as with all meaningful understanding, his did not become readily apparent.

“I do this because I must,” he said. “No one has to do it with me. I never asked anyone to die for me. I'm not worth it.”

One ebony eyebrow raised as she regarded him with speculative humor. “Oh no? Then what is there worth dying for, if not for the power of conviction? And if there is nothing worth dying for, then what is there to live for?”

His mind trembled at the implications, both the perceived and the as yet nebulous. What did he believe in? Did he, in fact, believe in anything? Or did he just drift from day to day, accomplishing, or failing, the tasks set before him, with no thought to whether a greater purpose was served? And if he was to believe in something, what should it be? His Father? Metana? Himself? Humanity? Some other thing that, as yet, remained hidden from him?

“But...why me?”

“Because you are the proof we've sought for two thousand years. Though I'm sure everyone would have been happier to discover the God of Peace, or the God of Love in order to make our case, you're what we've got.

“Because of you, we know we're right. We know the prelacy is wrong. We think even, that the members of the prelacy themselves understand, at some level, their erroneous philosophies, and that's why the Grand Prelate and his lackeys subjugate with an iron fist. Control is still control, whether it is through love and justice borne of confidence and righteousness, or through terror and torture borne of uncertainty and greedy suspicion. For some, the terror and the torture is enough, as long as the control remains.

“We don't want control. We want simply to be free to practice our rites and beliefs without fear of condemnation and death. The only way we can achieve that is to see the prelacy discredited or destroyed. Honestly, we would have been content with simply proving to the king and the people our case without bloodshed, but these events have been forced upon us and we must see them through to the end.” Here, her gaze stole the breath from his lungs. In her eyes was revealed all the strength of her beliefs. Not the fevered mania of the over-impassioned zealot who dons belief as an armor and wields scripture as a sword—he had seen that look often enough in the eyes of Soldiers of God—but the calm conviction of a person who stands firm in her knowledge, who has taken that knowledge, understands it, accepts it as part of her heart and soul. “Even if it means that every single one of us ends up dead.”

And Jurel, given but a tiny inkling of a truth that each and every Salosian adherent understood intimately, felt profoundly unworthy of their trust.

Of a sudden, Metana knelt before him and gripped his hands in hers. She gazed into his eyes, beseeching with mind and body.

And with words. “Please, Jurel. We need you. We need you as much as you need all of this. I know you don't believe that, but it's true. You need this. Not to clear your enemy out of your way, not to vindicate our plight over the last centuries. Not even to fulfill some ridiculous prophecy. You need this for you. You need this to believe.

“Forget their numbers. Forget their strength. We will not falter. We will follow through with this until the last one of us has breathed our last breaths. If we lose, so be it. I know that, somehow, you will go on. You will truly become who you are supposed to be.”

As suddenly as she knelt, she rose, and strode swiftly to his door. He could not find the strength to call her back, or even to raise a supplicating hand. The door had begun to close behind her when it halted.

From the other side, her voice reached his ears like an angel's song on the wind. “And Jurel? I love you.”

As the door clicked softly shut behind her, he fell back into his darkness. Though this time, it was not blankly mysterious. This time, it had teeth.

Chapter 53

Arcane mist hung heavy in the dull slate of early morning, smelling of thunder and fire. Thalor wiped the sting of sweat from his eyes, grunting as another Salosian attack battered the shield surrounding his priests. Hard, blinding pricks of light pinwheeled and cascaded like sparks from a smith's anvil.

He had to give the Salosian dogs some credit, he admitted grudgingly. They knew how to fight. He had not expected them to last even one day and now they had begun the second. No matter though, he thought, their forces were too diminished to survive another day.

Even more grudgingly, he had to admit he had made a grievous error in starting the conflagration in the forest to the west. He had let his emotions slip his iron control, had let them get away from him. He had thought no further than to destroy any rebels that lurked in the forest's opaque depths. Then, he had patted himself on the back when he saw that the Salosians expended vast energies to hold the fire at bay. Until the previous night when the shield the Salosians had erected had flickered and winked from existence. The fire had begun to spread east, consuming new fuel with insatiable vengeance. Thalor had been forced, late last night, to assign a dozen of his priests the task of holding back the flames. It was either that or let their western flanks be burned to ashes.

Sneaky Salosian bastards. In one fell swoop, they had gained a great deal of strength while weakening Thalor. Thank almighty Gaorla Maten was here somewhere to take the blame.

The call of the horns sounded in the distance, signaling the advance of his Soldiers of God. Thalor Sent a thought to his cadre, more, increase intensity.
Get our men to their walls. In answer, he felt the river flow of arcanum turn into a torrent and he grinned in satisfaction.

Sneaky or not, they were too few to survive another day.

* * *

The day brightened marginally. The smoke was still too thick for the sun to be more than an obscure disk high over the eastern mountains, like a tarnished coin at the bottom of a wishing well.

Thalor and his priests continued to pummel relentlessly at the Salosian priests as the Soldiers of God swarmed the walls. Catapults and ballistae hurled their lethal shot, though as yet, the reinforced Abbey walls continued to hold with little more than fine cracks spreading like spider webs. The gates did not fare so well. They began to bulge inward, then, as the abuse continued, they began to lean at dangerous angles as the heavily spelled battering rams continued their earth-shaking assaults.

The Salosians, to their credit, fought valiantly in the face of death, ever repulsing the Soldiers, though they grew weary of limb and heavy of step. Wave after wave of white capes flowed forward and up countless scaling ladders, and though they were pushed off the walls, they gained more and more ground each time.

But for the shining pillar of light in their midst, it seemed likely they would have given up already. Where ever that blue flame was, the Soldiers of God were not only repelled but hurled back over the walls, their blood painting ghastly trails behind their broken bodies.

* * *

That bloody bastard. Thalor watched the blue flame that ranged across the battlements of the Abbey, always in place where the Soldiers of God struck hardest, always somehow able to throw back his forces. To make matters worse, every time that young cretin managed to stave off another attack, the Salosian priests somehow seemed to gain in strength. Not by much, but enough that no matter how hard Thalor's cadres attacked, no matter what form of power they threw at the walls, the heretics continued to hold them at bay. Thalor would see the head of that young cretin decorating a pike before this day was done.

Digging deep into his reserves, he screamed the thought, now, to his cadre. A ball of energy so potent it should have turned a sizable portion of the Abbey's walls to smoldering rubble, seared the morning, screaming furious agony until it struck the Salosian shield.

With a curse of frustration, he watched as, yet again, the shield harmlessly dissipated the crushing power.

Atop the battlement, the beacon that Thalor hunted burned. It raised its blazing sword high overhead. Thalor's eyes narrowed. Was the fool looking at him? Smiling victoriously? That smug bloody peasant bastard. His pathetic army faced annihilation and he smiled?

He fought with himself, resisting the temptation of throwing everything he had at the young wretch. He had made that mistake once back in the forest. He would not make it again.

Above all, he would see the fool dead, and the Salosian threat destroyed before this day was out. He would show the old dolt Maten that he deserved the mantle of Grand Prelate. It was already as good as his. He just had to finish this.

“My Lord,” Reowynn's voice cut through the surrounding din. “Prelate!”

Thalor spun, searched the milling horde, saw Reowynn cantering his horse toward him. The major's face was pale as though he had seen a ghost.

“What is it, Major?” he hissed as Reowynn reined in beside him. “Can you not see I'm a little preoccupied?”

“My lord, I apologize.” Reowynn sounded anything but apologetic but he continued before Thalor could warn him to watch his tone. “My Lord, you need to see this.”

“See what?” Thalor snapped.

“I don't rightly know, My Lord. Please.” He extended a hand as if in invitation.

Thalor did not respect very many and though he would not say he respected Reowynn—after all, Reowynn was no more than a simple soldier, a tool to be used until the job was done or it broke—he knew that Reowynn would not interrupt unless there was something of significance afoot.

He nodded sharply. “Get me a horse.”

It was not far. The priests of Gaorla were positioned at the rear, behind the catapults. As they rode, Reowynn began to fill him in.

“Our pickets spied them coming, Prelate.”

“Who?”

“One of ours, from the seventh I think, came riding in like a demon to tell us.”

They began climbing a rise along the track that had been widened to a road by the Soldiers of God. To their right, the trees pressed close, ruddy lights flickering only fifty paces away, ash raining a layer of gray, heat radiating from the depths like there was an open gate to the hells. Thalor swallowed. He really should have been more careful.

“I didn't mean who came to report. I want to know who's out there.”

“See for yourself.”

As they crested the rise, Reowynn pointed. In a shallow depression blackened by fire, stubbled with blasted stumps, and with tendrils of smoke still lazily coiling upward, a mass, a swarm—another bloody horde, he thought—of men, both mounted and afoot, arrayed in organized columns. All of them were armed to the teeth. Thalor was no military expert but even he could see that they were in a battle formation.

In the distance, he saw a pennant fluttering fitfully in the heated breeze: two red circles on a field of deep gray.

Rocked to his core, Thalor gasped, “What's Grayson doing here?”

Chapter 54

Gritting her teeth, Metana strained against the forces that battered at her. The world about her flared and spun; dizzying, dazzling lights blinded her. A roar like an overheated forge thundered, pierced by shrill ululations, deafened her. Smells of brimstone, sulfur, and decomposing flesh threatened to spill the contents of her stomach.

Staggering, gripping the coarse stone of a crenelation, she struck back with a lance of arcanum, trusting to the shield-holders to protect her in her moment of vulnerability. Her lance rocketed away, briefly illuminating the writhing mass of Soldiers below in harsh incandescent glare, before slamming into the weakened point of her opponent's shield.

She was rewarded by the brilliant flash of light and by the lessening of the assault upon her. Fortifying her own shield, she sagged momentarily, her limbs suddenly watery, her eyes blurring with fatigue.

And it was not even lunch time yet.

She caught sight of her Jurel far down the battlements, his liquid fire form hurtling relentlessly from struggle to struggle. As she watched, her heart swelled with pride at his fierceness, his strength, even as it quailed at his power and destructiveness, and even as it broke at what he was becoming.

Pull yourself together. She shook herself, took herself in hand with furious viciousness. You're not some heartsick teenager. You're a sister of the Salosian Order.

Her anger changed targets; she glared across the bloody, roiling battlefield to those responsible for all her heartaches, for Jurel's descent into what she could only call a kind of madness, for the rift that now existed between them, for the death, pain, destruction. For all of this.

Raising her power, she called forth another withering blast, this one aimed at the mind, a bombardment of will that would erase thought, consciousness, and the very life of anyone caught in its way. She nursed it, called up more power, felt it grow like a newborn baby within her. She concentrated more, drew more searing energy into herself. The ecstasy inherent in drawing forth her arcanum began to take on a sharp edge, ragged with a deep-seated agony as she began to plumb the limits of her capacity. Her jaw began to ache with the force of her teeth clenching.

She concentrated so strongly on her attack that she neglected her defenses.

At the moment she released the seething ball of energy, cast it hurtling with a howl like souls damned to an eternity of torment toward her enemies, she felt a blistering pain in her skull as though she had been stabbed. She cried out and sagged to the ground, clutching her ringing head in shaking hands.

A river of fire burned her from the inside. The roar of her pounding blood drowned all sound. Her eyes shut tight, she saw a panoply of iridescent colors swirl and dance across the darkening panorama of her mind. Her thoughts became shards of glass that cut her to ribbons before scattering to the abyss.

She screamed, though she could not hear herself, feeling as though she was being torn in half. She writhed, kicking spastically, but she was lost too far within herself to feel the pain when her heels began to bruise and her elbows split open on the rough stones.

Oh Jurel. I'm sorry. That thought too cut her as she descended lower into herself. I love you.

At first, the easing of her pain was barely noticeable. In gradual increments, her writhing slowed; her rasping, uneven breaths lengthened and became more successful in drawing in much needed air. Gold and pink sparks drifted lazily behind her closed eyes, and wherever they swept, the harsh, incandescent, evil colors seemed to hesitate, weaken and finally fade.

She struggled, her thoughts finally coming together enough to let her understand that something was happening, that someone was trying to help her. Like a drowning woman, she clawed her way toward the surface, frantically seeking the comfort and safety of cool air and sunlight.

Then she did. Her eyes shot open and she gasped a deep wheezing breath. For a moment, fear gripped her when she saw her surroundings. She did not see the sky; she did not hear the roar of battle; she did not smell blood and offal.

“Easy, sister. Easy.”

The voice that spoke was familiar but her thoughts were still disjointed, her sense of dislocation intensified as she smelled not the bitter smoke of burning pitch and searing flesh, but the tart, innocent smelling smoke of torches.

“Where-?” she croaked.

At the same moment the voice answered, she realized where she must be. Within a half blink of that knowledge came the name of her benefactor.

“You're in the infirmary. And damned lucky, too,” Kurin said. “You almost ended up in the mortuary. It was touch and go for a few minutes there.”

Kurin's withered frame swam into her field of view. The shadow cast by his hood did not abate the intensity of his piercing glare.

“What happened?” she croaked.

Carefully, she sat up. He helped her, his lean frame surprisingly powerful and yet gentle. Pressing a cup of water to her lips, he chuckled.

“Same thing as you—careful now, only a sip. Not too quickly—as you did to them. They sent a mind sapping spell at you when you sent one to them. Lucky for you, one of the forcefield holders saw you fall and rushed to your aid.”

He straightened. She could feel the anger emanating from him in icy waves. “Now, young lady, what in Maora's name were you doing up there? You were assigned to me, to work down here in the infirmary.”

Two bright pink spots appeared in her pallid cheeks. She had slipped out early that morning before the battle had truly commenced, intent on being there with Jurel. She had only wanted to see Jurel move, to see him breath. To see him be him.

She was not stupid. She knew why Jurel tried so hard to push her away. His reasoning touched her. He loved her so much he worried that, by dint of who he was, he would bring horror into her life. If she was to be honest, she would have to say she had thought it herself.

But watching him do battle, she had seen that the horror, though there, was not senseless. He fought with a devotion to right and wrong, with a strength of loyalty, that she found heart-warming even as his methods chilled her.

“I'm sorry, Kurin,” she muttered.

In truth, she was not. But, even with the changes in him since his captivity, the excision of the gentle kindness that had so characterized him, she still looked up to him and, as if he was a surrogate father, she dreaded his disappointment with an irrational intensity.

He cleared his throat loudly. “Yes, well. Truth be told I would have liked to be up there too. Even if it's not for the same reasons you went. ” She cringed slightly as his voice hardened. “I have a score to settle.”

He glared at the wall over her head as though he could see through it and to the battle beyond. Men and women moaned quietly in the beds around them; healers whispered either words of comfort or spells to mend flesh and bone. At the edge of hearing, the dull roar of soldiers fighting and dying permeated the air like a fine mist.

“It doesn't matter now,” he spoke, so abruptly that Metana squeaked. Amused, he returned his gaze to her. “You can't do anything more this day. Not in your condition.” There seemed to be a smile in his voice and...did he glance at her belly? She blushed again. “If you feel up to it, why don't you go on back to your chamber and rest? You're in no immediate danger, and we need the bed.”

Nodding, she sat up. The lights dimmed, her head swam and she sank back with a groan. Her head pounded like war drums, her mouth was suddenly bone dry.

“Hmm. Well you can have a few moments to gather yourself. I'll send Karissa to help you.”

She smiled weakly in gratitude but Kurin did not see it; he had already rushed away to see to several new arrivals.

* * *

In the end, she made it to her door, tottering down the endless, empty, and ill-lit corridors like an old woman. With Karissa's help, of course. Tall, bluff, wider around the waist than at the shoulders, Karissa had borne Metana's weight with neither a grumble nor any apparent difficulty, but with plenty of solicitous inquiries about Metana's state.

After murmuring her thanks, she closed her door and shuffled to her chair. Sinking gratefully into the not quite overstuffed padding, she groaned with pleasure. The light outside was not strong; smoke hung too thick even over this south side of the Abbey. It filtered into her small outer chamber and stung her nose and eyes.

She thought it might be a little after lunch and she briefly considered getting something to eat. Her headache, and limbs that felt like jelly, convinced her to wait a short while. Closing her eyes to block out the glare from her small window, she leaned her head back. She was asleep before she had breathed twice.

She did not hear the scuffling of soft boots outside her door.

* * *

Three riders broke away from the main column and galloped toward Thalor and Reowynn. The two flanking riders were unknown to Thalor, just garrison soldiers from the look of their arms and armor. The third, the one at the point, was familiar. Thalor had never met Grayson's seneschal but he had seen him in the duke's company on occasion. Tall, dark-eyed, whip-thin, with a beard oiled to a lethal point, he carried himself with an air of self-importance that Thalor thought was well above his station. It had been hard not to notice the man. He had a presence that was only eclipsed by the duke and the king. Try as he might, however, Thalor could not bring the man's name to mind. After all, he was only a servant. What need did he have for a name?

“My lord Prelate,” called Grayson's seneschal cheerily as the trio reined to a halt a dozen paces away. “Good to see you. I am Jon, Seneschal to my lord, Duke Grayson. The duke sends his regards. He asked me to relay his regret that he could not be here in person. He is, as I'm certain you are aware, otherwise indisposed.”

Indisposed? And so they think it acceptable to send a mere lackey to treat with him, a prelate in the Church of Gaorla? The man who was destined to become Grand Prelate? Thalor snorted in contempt. Fools. They would learn.

“For now, we have things to discuss, Your Eminence. Perhaps you would join us in our camp? I have commanded our best cooks to prepare us a late lunch.” The man shrugged wryly. “It will certainly not be as delectable as the fare a man of your stature would normally enjoy, but we do have some fine wines to wash it down with.”

“Why have you come?” Thalor called back across the blasted distance.

“Why, to treat with you of course, as I have indicated,” Jon said. “I was sent by the duke, with the men of our garrison that you see here, in order to assess the situation and provide aid as necessary.”

Reowynn did no more than shrug when Thalor glanced sideways.

“How many do you think there are, Major?” he asked softly.

“Ten thousand, or a few more, my lord.”

“How many Soldiers do we have left?”

“Perhaps thirty five thousand.”

Thalor gaped in astonishment. Thirty five thousand? They had begun the siege yesterday with a little more than fifty thousand. How had they lost so many so quickly? More, how could the Salosian dogs hold against so many with...

“How many defenders?” he croaked.

“A thousand to fifteen hundred.”

...only a thousand soldiers? Had the Soldiers of God become so secure in their dreaded reputation that they had grown soft? Were they now no more than a horde of armed thugs? They were only tools to be used as necessary but certainly tools should be of better quality than that. Axes and daggers needed to be sharpened on occasion, after all. The day he gained the mantle of Grand Prelate, he would see to the retraining of his martial order.

But that was a consideration for another day. He eyed the Grayson garrison speculatively, seeing, above all, how ten thousand reinforcements would be the death blow that would end this siege within hours.

Plastering a smile on his face, he nodded graciously at the oily sycophant who waited expectantly.

“Of course, Seneschal. My man and I will be most grateful for your hospitality.”

“Excellent!”

The seneschal clapped his hands and several mounted men surged forward. Flanking Thalor and Reowynn, they took up positions as Thalor's honor guard.

Ten thousand more men, he mused smugly. That bastard Kurin will never know what hit him.

* * *

Even as her eyes snapped open, Metana knew something was not right. Moving only her eyes, she searched the portion of her chamber that was within her field of vision. Her room was blanketed in gloom and though she had never been afraid of the dark, she suddenly felt as though the shadows could hide any manner of unpleasantness. The light had faded; the sun was already dipping to the west. Mid-afternoon perhaps.

The distant hum of the battle continued unabated, which Metana took as promising: the Salosian forces still stood.

She listened, convinced that something was amiss. Slowly, still afflicted with a weakness that appalled her, she rose from her chair. She searched the corners of the room as best she could but her eyesight was not equal to the inky murk. After a time however, after nothing happened, she snorted, disgusted with herself.

She thought perhaps she should go back to the infirmary. Weakened though she was by the attack that almost took her life, she may still be able to make herself useful. Then her stomach reminded her loudly that she had not eaten since very early this morning and she toyed briefly with the idea of going in search of food.

Deciding, she picked up her shawl.

And spun, her heart pounding in her chest, as a whisper-quiet scrape reached her ears.

Searching ever more frantically, she could not penetrate the deepening shadows.

“Who's there?” she demanded, cringing inwardly when she heard the tremor in her voice.

No response. No sound. Nothing.

Again, after a time, she felt foolish. She stepped toward the door—more hastily than she might normally have. The moment her hand touched the hasp, there came a soft knock. Squealing as she had when she was twenty years younger, she leaped back.

“Aren't you going to invite your guest in?”

The soft, heavily accented voice came from behind her.

Spinning, she raised her fists in a defensive position, once again searching. This time a shadow detached itself from a corner—a corner she would have sworn only moments ago had been vacant!—and stepped into the waning light from the window.

Greasy hair in crude braids hung in lank ropes to the middle of his back. An unkempt beard with twigs and old bits of food concealed the lower half of his face, but his eyes...

His eyes were the color of winter, and as cold.

His garb was that of a peasant: torn, filthy tunic made from burlap, saggy breeches with patches sewn in the knees, shapeless boots that at one time may have been some form of badly tanned leather. The sword strapped to his belt however was not that of a peasant. Though she had never personally seen one, she had heard the stories. Jurel had described them well to her. This was a Dakariin.

“Well?” the man demanded. His guttural accent was harsh and somehow reminded her of rage and violence. “Will you not answer your door?”

Brought back from her initial shock, she decided to take the advice of the quiet voice in the back of her head. She screamed.

The door burst open before the echo of her scream faded. Heavy steps pounded into the room behind her. At the very same instant, Metana and her attacker spoke.

“Seize him,” she commanded.

“That's better,” he said quietly, with a smile.

But the footsteps did not rush past her. Instead hard hands gripped her, holding her arms to her sides. She smelled unwashed bodies and rotting leather. She tried to look over her shoulder but she was shaken as if she were a rag doll in a dog's mouth.

The man in front of her stepped closer. Though she could not see his mouth, she could see the demented smile in his eyes.

“Yes. This is better. My name is Gixen. There is someone who would like to meet you.”

Desperately, she reached for her power. In her fright, it dribbled from her grasp like water. She tried again. But she did not get the chance to do anything.

“No, no,” Gixen admonished. “We will have none of that.”

Then, she watched in horror as he cocked a fist back and drove it into her face. Her head bounced back against the chest of the man holding her. Lights flashed behind her eyes. Pain flared.

Darkness fell.

* * *

Jurel's sword took the head off a Soldier. He spun to meet his next challenge. He thrust, the point of his blade shearing through white-clad armor. Kicking the twitching body from his blade, he scanned the battlement. For the moment, he only saw troops of his own diminished force.

Beside him, Gaven panted, leaning against a crenelation.

“We're clear for the moment,” Jurel said.

Gaven managed to nod as Jurel glanced quickly at the killing field beyond the wall. The army of Soldiers of God was greatly diminished; instead of a sea of white, it was merely a large lake. He was heartened until he glanced at the ragtag remnants of his own army.

He considered calling for Mikal's force but discarded it almost immediately. The prelacy forces were still too numerous; Mikal would be overrun in minutes. It had to be soon, though. Otherwise, Mikal's small force would be too late to change anything. Too early, or too late: it was a fine line to walk.

His thoughts turned to Metana. He was certain he had seen her earlier, wreathed in the inferno of her power like a goddess of retribution. But now his search showed no sign of her. He was grateful for that; he did not want her in harm's way. He could not bear the thought of finding her among the broken and the slain. Gods, how he wished things had been otherwise. How he wished he could be with her, hold her in his arms, feel her heartbeat against his chest, breath in the perfume of her. Angrily, he stamped out that foolishness before it could truly take hold. It could not be. She deserved better than him.

Turning back to Gaven, he began to speak, to tell him to take a few moments to gather himself. He still needed Gaven's sword. But even as he opened his mouth, he staggered, gasped a painful breath. He searched wildly for the source of this sudden attack but nothing presented itself to him. An image of Metana sprang to his mind; she appeared frightened, in danger. Foolishness, he thought. She was certainly safe down in the infirmary with Kurin where she had been assigned.

The strange attack passed, leaving him with a lump of foreboding loneliness in his soul. Trying to shake this, he again began to tell Gaven to take a break.

But Gaven interrupted him.

“What's going on out there?”

Jurel turned to where his friend was looking. At the rear of the prelacy forces, Soldiers of God were maneuvering, frantically changing position. Within moments, the rear lines faced back toward the forest and the road.

Cocking his head, Jurel frowned. “I don't know,” he murmured.

But it soon became apparent.

Chapter 55

“Here's to you, Lord Prelate,” Jon announced, raising his goblet in toast. Jon's eyes twinkled with mirth.

Thalor raised his own glass in response, then took a mouthful of the mellow red wine, surprised at the quality. He nodded his appreciation. The meal, as promised, was nothing to brag about, but this almost made up for it.

The tent was nothing to brag about either. It was large enough for the table and chairs and for the three retainers who stood awaiting Thalor's or the seneschal's pleasure. But it was spartan and dirty gray, ratty and drafty. Nothing like Thalor's own opulent pavilion. It had been quite a feat for him to not sniff disdainfully when he saw it. He deserved to be guested in better than this. The seneschal was, however, no more than a servant, no matter what the man may think. Thalor supposed that even this much must be an extravagance for a servant. It would do. Thalor just wished it was not quite so hot.

Setting his goblet down, Jon gazed speculatively at his guest.

“Perhaps, with your consent, Prelate, we may dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business.”

Once again, Thalor nodded. To which he added, “Of course. Your ten thousand will be much appreciated. Reowynn, brief the seneschal on our situation so that we may discuss how best to deploy his men.”

Spreading a survey map of the area on the table, Reowynn did, describing, in a businesslike manner, the forces they had sent against the Abbey, jabbing a thick finger where their weakest points were and the points where they had the most effect. He showed the position of the Gaorlan priests—it would not do to have allied forces stumble upon them. He described the Salosian forces and the defenses they had encountered.

“And what of the fires we noticed as we rode north?” Jon asked. “Did these Salosians set them?”

“I did,” Thalor answered.

Canting his head, Jon spread his hands. “May I ask why?”

Was this fool questioning him? Questioning his decision? How dare he?

“It was necessary,” he answered curtly, wiping sweat from his brow.

Nodding his understanding, Jon said, “They lay in wait for you? Yes, of course. The good news is, the fires seem to be burning themselves out. My lord, the duke, requested, however, that I impress upon you the difficulties this act has presented. You see, the duchy of Grayson relies heavily on the lumber harvested from these forests.”

Thalor snorted. Whatever that slop was he had been served disagreed with him. It thinned his patience. “A small price to pay to see this danger eradicated.”

Conceding, Jon murmured, “As you say. Would you care for more wine? You don't look well.” He snapped his fingers and one of the retainers promptly stepped forward and refilled Thalor's goblet, then Reowynn's. “Perhaps some of the spices we use did not agree?”

In truth, Thalor did not feel well. Not at all. His head had begun a slow pounding, his vision swam, his guts had tied themselves in knots. He downed his wine, hoping that might settle him.

A glance at Reowynn rocked him. The major was ashen with bruised bags forming under his eyes. The man seemed to be gasping for breath as though he had run a marathon.

Muzzily, he tried to concentrate.

“Would you care to lie down, Prelate?” Jon asked.

Thalor glared at the seneschal, a hot retort trying to form but his tongue stumbled over the words. Jon rose, his bearing that of concern. But his eyes...

Thalor registered it finally. Though Jon bore the look of solicitousness, his eyes said otherwise. The man was...satisfied.

“Perhaps it was not the food,” the seneschal remarked. His lips spread in a smile. “Perhaps it was the wine.

“You see, Prelate, at the king's command, the duke ordered me to march to your aid two weeks ago. I mustered our forces and we set out the very next morning. But he was more than slightly put out with your decision to light half his countryside—and a goodly fraction of his income—on fire. He became uncertain that he wished to support a cause that wrought such wholesale destruction.”

It struck Thalor then, like a hammer. Desperation clawed some of his energy back to him. Haltingly, his voice barely more than a croak, he said, “You were sent to support the heretics.”

With a pained expression, Jon sat back down. “Well, not quite. Although my duke did send new instructions through his priest. As I said, I was sent to assess the situation and lend assistance as necessary. When I arrived, there was still the possibility that I would join with you.”

“But you said...you would assist...”

“Where necessary. Yes. Now I'm repeating myself. It was your arrogant assumption that I would automatically assist you.”

His expression hardened. He appeared a judge about to pronounce a harsh sentence.

“I've spoken with the duke of my findings. I've spoken of your recklessness. I've spoken of the beacon of fire atop the Abbey walls and the continued repelling of your Soldiers of God. That is no work of a mere adept. How else do you explain a force of a few thousand holding off the might of your church without invoking such words as deity? Even your utter incompetence could not explain such a disastrous effort.

“The duke agrees with me. Therefore, Prelate Thalor Stock, I hereby charge you with wanton destruction of property, with acts of war committed against citizens of the Duchy of Grayson, and,” a raptor's smile showed the man's teeth, “with heresy.”

“Impossible! I am a prelate of-”

“You are a prelate of a church that is being investigated by the king himself. With the proof of this young god roaming the land, we now know that it is not the Salosians but the Gaorlans who are the heretics. Word has already reached us from the king's general staff, one Theissen, I believe. The king has had his suspicions for years but your Soldiers of God have always caused him to wait. He did not want a holy war waged in his kingdom that would beggar his population.

“Thankfully, most of the Soldiers of God are here. Those remaining garrisons in the west have already been ordered incarcerated until the king can finish this business with the Dakariin and formal inquiries can be made into the depth of the corruption in your ranks.

“We march against your Soldiers of God in moments. Your game is over.”

“You are...outnumbered.” Thalor blinked owlishly, dragged a burning breath into his lungs. “My Soldiers will crush you.”

“I think not.” Jon smiled mysteriously, his eyes twinkling with hidden knowledge. “If I had been feeling charitable, I would not have drugged your wine. I would have kept you awake so that I could show you my greatest surprise. Oh, I can only imagine the look on your face when you saw your army destroyed. Alas, it is too late. The deed is done.”

Trying to rise from his seat, Thalor reached for his power. This fool servant thought he would contest against a prelate, did he? It was difficult; his concentration kept slipping and his power went with it. He tried again.

But not quickly enough. Before he could utter a protest, a black hood was draped over his head and he was lifted roughly from his seat. The first ragged edges of fear began to gnaw at his edges.

“Get them out of my sight,” Jon barked.

Thalor was dragged out of the tent into the coolness of the autumn day. The chill served to enliven him. He began to try again for his source, but he was brought up short as Jon's voice drifted to him.

“Oh, and Prelate? If you happen to wake up, I don't suggest trying to use your arcanum. I have three Salosian priests guarding you. They were only told to keep you alive for the investigation. They were not told to be gentle.”

The second cup of drugged wine began its insidious work adding its effect to the first. His thoughts scattered like chaff on the wind, his limbs felt miles away. His head felt it must weigh as much as a mountain.

The only thing that was coherent about former Prelate Thalor Stock as he was dragged to his destiny was the sense of astonished horror and black dismay that followed him even into the depths of poison tainted torpor.

Chapter 56

Jurel watched the scene unfold beneath him, not entirely believing his eyes. Had he gone mad? A river of men flowed over a rise in the distance and slammed into the rear of the prelacy forces. The white-caped forces faltered like a shock wave, and heads began to turn. The front ranks continued to assault the Abbey's weakening walls—the enspelled battering ram had caused the main gate to lean dangerously; a few more solid hits and even the Salosians who actively fortified the gate with their arcanum would crumple under the devastating pressure—but the attack seemed hesitant, half-hearted, as though they were not sure whether to attack or defend.

He was whirled by Gaven who had an exultant look.

“That's Grayson, Jurel, Grayson. He sided with us!”

“Grayson?” Dumbstruck, Jurel could think of nothing useful to say.

“I recognize his colors. It's his garrison marching all over the prelate's ass! We have to help them.”

Jurel turned blank eyes back to the battlefield, watched pillars of fire erupt as the Grayson forces set torches to the last of the prelacy's catapults. As he watched, he saw the tail end of the Grayson forces crest the rise in the distance. Dismay gripped him. There were many, perhaps as many as ten thousand, but they were still dwarfed against the prelacy forces, outnumbered perhaps three to one. Facing off on the field this way, they would be overwhelmed.

“Jurel! What should we do?”

Shaking himself, Jurel gave the only orders he could think of. He did not know if it would be enough, but maybe...maybe...

“Redouble our attacks from the walls. Get as many cavalry as you can to the gate for a sally. Call Mikal.”

Gaven nodded, grinning tightly, his eyes slitted with pent bloodlust, before he spun and sprinted away, shouting commands.

Archers and ballistae sent their missiles within heartbeats. The sizzle of arcanum raised the hair on his arms. The courtyard before the failing gate filled with cavalry as though they had all been waiting just out of sight for him to give the order. A horn, long, eerie, hollow, echoed from the other end of the battlements.

Though Grayson's men fought fiercely, the Soldiers of God had already begun to push them back. Jurel had been right: they were too outnumbered to pose a real threat to the Soldiers of God.

Jurel got his next shock.

His horn call had been answered. Mikal rode at the forefront of the thousand men that had been hiding in the forest to the north and east of the Abbey, away, thankfully, from the hellish infernos that bloody prelate had set. This was no surprise; indeed, it was all according to plan. No, the surprise was that there were far more soldiers out there than Jurel could have thought possible.

The swordmasters rode as liquid silver, hooves thundered. Their blades drawn, held high, firelight and gray daylight a dread promise flickering along the razor edges. Behind them, flowing from the trees, battle cries shaking the earth with cataclysmic force, was another army that wore Grayson's colors. This second army, nearly as large as the one on the southwest flank, hit the eastern flank of the reeling Soldiers of God like a boulder flung by the gods.

It took Jurel's breath away.

Cheers rose clarion bright along the battlements and parapets of the Abbey. The last of the Soldiers of God, those who had been actively attacking the Abbey, apparently heeding new orders from their officers, fell back and turned to face this new onslaught.

Without hesitation, Jurel leaped from the Abbey wall, dropped the thirty odd feet to the ground, and landed lightly, running for the gates with his sword drawn. Some few gaped in astonishment at him but wisely, they continued about their tasks. He vaulted into the saddle of his waiting horse and made for the gate.

“Sortie! Sortie!” Jurel shouted. “Open the gates now while they have their backs turned.”

But unfortunately, the gates had been badly damaged by the abuse visited upon them over the last two days. Those manning the winches strove mightily to move the heavy chains, but the gate steadfastly refused to so much as budge.

Feeling time slipping away Jurel impatiently calmed his agitated, prancing horse.

“My Lord,” called a sergeant from the door that led to the gearworks. “The winches won't move. The gates are jammed.”

With a growl, Jurel urged his mount forward.

“Move away,” he boomed. “And be ready to ride.”

Men and women scattered, hastily clearing an alley between him and the front gates. He brought his hand up as he continued to canter his mount toward the sealed barricade. He delved within himself and, though he would never be able to explain how he had done it, he created a pulse of...something...that surged forward with an ominous hum that was almost identical to the blast he had unleashed in his place those months back. When it struck the gate, the gate vanished, simply evaporated in a cloud of smoke and some few bits of finger size wedges of burnt wood.

“Ride,” Jurel shouted. “Harrying attacks only. We don't have the numbers for head to head confrontation. But, blast it, keep them distracted!”

He set his heels to his mount's flanks. Behind him, he heard the cries of his cavalry as they fell in. There was an anticipatory edge to their shouts and howls; they had been on the defensive for two grueling days. They were ready to take the fight to their enemy.

Jurel himself was not free of this savage glee. His sword held high overhead, he spurred his horse to more speed, roaring his own calls of vengeance and blood. He flew past the abandoned battering ram, sending another burst of energy which turned it to splinters. Behind him, his men shouted their approval.

Angling north past the blurred wall, Jurel focused on the roiling sea of white ahead. Though he did not look back, he could feel when his force spread out behind him, creating a scythe of riders that angled back to his left.

The Soldiers of God heard the thunder of hooves, but too late. A half dozen paces from the startled Soldiers, Jurel angled his horse hard right. They did not clash with the Soldiers of God. Instead they rode the edge of the storm, strafing the outer line with their swords outstretched. Like shaving my beard, he thought inanely. He laughed. Clouds of arrows from the walls above streaked overhead, darkening the sky. Screams filled the air.

They reined in hard after passing the last ranks, Mikal's swordmasters and the eastern Grayson army visible in the near distance going about their bloody work. Spinning his horse, Jurel called for a second run. Eagerly, his riders followed, and again, they strafed the confused mass of Soldiers of God who did not know whether to turn back and fight, to continue forward and reinforce against the greater threat of Grayson's army, or to flee.

Deep within his soul, Jurel knew victory was theirs. There was no way this army could withstand attacks on three fronts. With a savagery that even earlier that year he would never have credited he was capable of, he lashed out with his sword, letting his power flow freely so that those who were touched by his blade burst into fine red mist, and those within a dozen feet of him still fell with gaping wounds appearing beneath their suddenly battered and rent armor.

He knew it would deplete his energy; he knew he would likely be bedridden for days, but this was it! This was the final push! After this, he could afford to rest.

They managed a third pass before the white capes managed to mount any sort of coherent defense, but by then it was too late. The prelacy's army was mortally wounded.

A strange feeling stole over Jurel, a feeling of vastness that opened within the gulf left by all the pain, terror, and rage. A primal feeling of oceans battering against reefs, of worlds spinning endlessly through the cosmos far above, of stars birthing, burning and bursting with terrible force. A force that could be felt for endless miles, miles beyond comprehension. Though, he thought that if he concentrated, if he could stop and listen, he might be able to grasp...something. Deep in his mind a voice whispered, a voice he knew though he had only heard it once. The voice of his brother. Almost, almost, he could see the spectacles glittering with rainbow light. He nearly understood the title on the heavy tome his brother carried. He did not know the word his brother whispered—

“Light-years.”

—but it tickled him with a strange familiarity, like seeing a face in a crowd that one would look at a second time because, was that...? No, no it could not be. Of course. But though strange and evasively, tantalizingly familiar, it felt right. It felt...right.

Without knowing why, without even consciously knowing, Jurel dismounted and stood facing the dying army before him.

The vastness within him swelled, pushed outward against his pitiful shell of flesh and blood. Behind him, he heard gasps, but he did not turn. Ahead of him, through the eye slits in his black, black helmet, he saw Soldiers of God staring at him, gaping, eyes wide, faces ashen.

He took a step forward. Swords and pikes fell forgotten from numb fingers. He took another step. Men and women in white capes spattered with mud and blood fell to their knees, some appeared to be weeping.

He raised his arms and closed his eyes. A surge, a pulse like a heartbeat vibrated in his bones, his blood, his soul.

When he opened his eyes, the spell nearly broke. Shaken, he stared down at the heads of the army spread before him. Looking back over his shoulder, he was now able to look over the crenelations and see his own archers lining the battlements of the Abbey, though his feet were firmly planted on the ground that was suddenly much farther down.

The shock did not last, for this too, felt right. His power coursing through his veins like war's blood, he exulted. He closed his eyes. Another pulse. More gasps.

When he reopened his eyes, he knew what he would see. Lightning flickered and traced the whorls and whirls of his armor. His sword was a bonfire of glowing blue energy that writhed impatiently in his grip.

He looked over the heads of those nearby, his glare taking in all those on his battlefield. All was preternaturally silent. Forty thousand sets of eyes gazed in awe at the towering figure he had become. Forty thousand soldiers and Soldiers were now dropping to their knees before their god.

He spoke, and in the immense stillness, his voice boomed and echoed metallically.

“My soldiers. I am Jureya.” The spell almost broke again. Where had that name come from? In the depths of his mind, he heard a familiar soft chuckle. He stifled his surprise and continued. “You all know me. You are soldiers, warriors, men and women who partake in the sacred rites of battle, who observe the forms of sword and lance, who sacrifice upon the altar of war.

“I am Jureya. I am War.”

A moan passed through the crowd. Forty thousand foreheads pressed to the churned, bloody earth as each and every one of them made their obeisances to their god for the very first time.

“This battle is concluded. There is a greater one that awaits us in the north.

“I give all of you this chance to join me, to put down arms against each other, to welcome one and all here into one congregation, borne of battle, baptized in blood.

“You, soldiers, are my priests. You warriors, masters of the sword, are my disciples. Join me. As one, we will wipe the forces of the north from this land!”

A roar shook the field. Swords pierced the sky as men and women held them aloft in jubilation. To Jurel's—Jureya's?—pleasant surprise, he already saw several Salosian soldiers trading handshakes with Soldiers of God. He noticed, as his gaze swept the field, that there were still some few officers wearing white who glared grimly, ashen faced at this mass mutiny but they did nothing to stop it. How could they? Their god commanded them.

Smiling behind his helm Jurel raised his sword to the bruised sky.

“I am Jureya! I am war!”

A flash of lightning shattered the air and met the responding roar that resounded across the field and shook the earth.

Chapter 57

“-you must not overextend yourself.”

His Father's words filtered into his mind as he stood in the center of the courtyard. Wave upon wave of exhaustion rolled over him, threatening to sweep him from his feet and drown him.

“Like a baby, you lack strength.”

Maybe he had overdone it a little, he mused wryly. Maybe his little show had been a bit too much.

To his right and a step behind stood Kurin with Mikal and Gaven, to his left, Goromand and the other chaplains of the Salosian Order. And behind, rank upon rank of soldiers and priests. In front of him knelt a lean aristocrat with a severely pointed beard and, beneath a tightness of fear, an amused twinkle in his eye. Jurel had been informed his name was Jon Brightwood, seneschal to his lord, Duke Grayson.

“My Lord,” the seneschal said, “It pleases me to bring you the goodwill of Grayson on this fortuitous day.”

“Thank you, Seneschal,” Jurel responded. “Please rise.”

With a grunt, Jon levered himself to his feet, favoring the injury to his left leg.

“I shall not occupy your time long, Lord. I wish simply to know how you would like me to deploy my forces to keep an eye on the surviving enemy.”

Jon pointed a delicate thumb over his shoulder toward the gaping maw that had been the main gate of the Abbey. Beyond, the combined armies rested at their ease around cook fires. There was some tension between the Salosians and the Soldiers of God but after the white caped officers had been segregated from their men, the tensions had eased so that the armies treated each other with cautious courtesy as two strange wolves who meet in neutral territory might.

A memory tugged at Jurel, a time when he had visited his place only in his dreams. A time when he did not know his true nature and two faceless armies squared off across a verdant, virgin field. Ultimately, those two armies joined into one, and, in so doing, joined Jurel into one.

“Deploy them any way you see fit, Seneschal. You need not worry about setting guards. They are one army now, my army. They will await my commands.”

“And the officers?”

Jurel grunted a sour chuckle. After being segregated, a few of the senior officers had been very vocal in their assertions that the prelacy would not let this blasphemy continue.

“Those that swear fealty to me will be given positions within the army, under commanders I deem trustworthy. Those that do not will be hanged.”

Jon nodded gravely. “Of course, My Lord.”

“Will that be all?”

Jon hesitated, then shrugged as though he had made a decision. “There is one more thing. I have something you might be interested in.” He smiled, his eyes lighting up like a child who had just received a present. “Very much.”

Intrigued, Jurel motioned him to continue. Jon snapped his fingers, and barked a harsh order over his shoulder.

A phalanx of soldiers wearing Grayson tabards marched into the courtyard, their pikes bristling overhead, the points gleaming dully in the gray afternoon light. Halting five paces ahead of Jurel, the men stood at attention. In the center, there was movement, a scuffle, a sound like a slap. A cry of pain, and then silence.

“My lord Jureya,” Jon intoned as though presiding over a state ceremony, “I present to you, as a gesture of goodwill by the duke of Grayson, the heretic prelate, Thalor Stock and his aide, Major Reowynn Vash.” The wiry little man gave a wry smile. “I apologize I could not present you with the Grand Prelate himself. He seems to have disappeared at some point during the night.”

Eyebrows creeping up his forehead, Jurel watched as the soldiers parted, revealing a prim old man. His garb was of fine quality silk and velvet though much the worse for wear, his iron gray hair was disheveled as though he had just risen from his bed, and his cheeks were sallow and sunken. He hunched, bent over, no doubt, by the weight of the heavy iron shackles that bound his hands and his feet. But for all that, he possessed an air of confidence and severity that Jurel could not help but respect.

Beside him, a man that Jurel remembered—though he had never known his name—was glaring hard at him. Stripped of his armor and his white cape, Major Reowynn Vash seemed smaller than the Soldier Jurel remembered had stood up to him for a moment on the temple steps in Threimes.

He heard a growl beside him. Kurin shook. Were it not for the ever-present hood, Jurel was certain he would see the kindly face twisted ugly with rage and hate. If it were not for Mikal's restraining hand on his shoulder, Jurel was certain Kurin would throttle this old man right here and now. He understood: he felt his own rage at these two. But it surprised him to see Kurin so. He had never seen his erstwhile mentor enraged, never known Kurin to succumb to urges of primal murder.

The two men stumbled as they were thrust forward, Thalor loosing an indignant shout, Reowynn keeping silent.

All amusement gone from his eyes, Jon growled, “Kneel, dogs.”

When the two were not quick enough to comply, two soldiers stepped forward, each one striking the backs of the prisoners's knees with the haft of their pikes. They dropped to the dust.

Thalor met Kurin's eyes with a malicious grin.

“It seems the tables are turned, old fool,” Thalor rasped, his words slurring as though he had had more wine than was good for him.

With a palpable effort, Kurin calmed himself. He forced his breathing deep and even, he clenched and unclenched his fists. His shoulders hunched, bunched beneath his robes.

“Well?” Thalor taunted. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

Behind Jurel, past the rank of guards and across the courtyard, gibbets stood ready to receive their first passengers. The thick rope loops swayed lightly, a grisly portent.

Finally recovering himself, Kurin said, in a voice freighted with pain, “Why?”

His vicious smile never wavering, Thalor responded, “Because you are all dirty heathens. You are an infection on the land, a blight in the eyes of almighty Gaorla.

“That fat fool Calen let you and your repugnant little pet escape, and I vowed that you would not be so fortunate the second time.”

“But I was, wasn't I?”

Now Thalor's face twisted in fury. “No thanks to the incompetent fools upon which I was forced to rely.”

Reowynn shot him a startled look. He appeared about to say something, but held his tongue, turning away with a hard look.

“And so you burned villages to the ground, slaughtered hundreds of innocent people and even sent some thirty thousand of your own men and women to their deaths to satisfy a grudge?”

“I did what needed to be done.” Thalor shrieked as though he were caught in some sort of religious fervor. “I did what no one else had the stones to do.” Spittle flew from his lips. “This was to be my last trial before being named as Maten's successor.”

“Ah.” Jurel rumbled. “The truth emerges.”

Thalor glared at him scathingly but he addressed his words to Kurin. “Keep your whelp quiet. It does not deserve the honor of my presence. I shall not be required to suffer listening to it mewl.”

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Jurel rose from his chair took a step forward. He let some of his power leak from his eyes.

Thalor shrank back from the lightning gaze but he held his head proudly upright. “Go on, you animal,” he sneered. “Cut me down. Murder me in cold blood. Show us all how high and mighty you are.”

Deep in his mind, he heard a voice, a grating voice filled with loss and blackness. Jurel smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

“Oh no,” he purred. “I will not kill you. I'm the god of war. I only kill in battle.” His smile widened, showing his teeth. “There is, however, someone I would like you to meet.”

He glanced to his left where a cloud of black appeared, oozing like ink in water. It sped up until it churned and spun as though caught in a wind that no one else could feel. A wail echoed eerily from the depths of the cloud, followed by more, the cries of the damned.

Two sparks appeared, glowing like windows into the hells. The cloud began to coalesce, at first thickening and pulling in on itself, then taking shape as a tall man wearing a black cloak. The gray light of day darkened, casting a gloomy, terrible pallor upon them all.

But, of course, this was no mere man.

Those in the courtyard shrank back, crying out fearfully. Many fell to their knees weeping uncontrollably. Some few Salosian priests farther back, and dressed in similar black cowls, bowed reverentially and began praying in earnest, for they knew their god.

The being glided forward silently, stopping briefly before Jurel. It gave him a slow nod.

“Hello, brother,” Jurel said.

But Thalor, caught as he was in some sort of fanatical madness, glared with fevered eyes at Shomra. “What form of trickery is this,” he sneered.”I will not be gulled by antics not fit for a child.”

Shomra turned slowly and regarded Thalor. For a long time, the being stood motionless. At first, Thalor simply sneered derisively. But soon his smile began to fade. He trembled, his eyes growing wide, the blood draining from his face until he was the color of wet ashes. Or death.

Shomra extended an arm. When the sleeve fell away from the hand, even Jurel recoiled. Decayed flesh sloughed from wetly glistening bone, and maggots crawled freely. The hand reached implacably forward; Thalor's trembling became spasmodic. His mouth worked soundlessly, repeating the same silent syllable over and over again, “nononono...”

Everyone in the courtyard stood still as stone, knowing they were being given the privilege of viewing a sacred rite performed not by any mere priest but by a god.

When Shomra's finger touched Thalor's forehead, Thalor threw back his head and shrieked, his voice cracking like red hot stones. The hollowness of his cheeks became more pronounced, sinking ever deeper. His hair went from iron gray to the pure white of sun-bleached bone. The fat seemed to burn from him so that his already lean form became emaciated, cadaverous.

“Please noooo!” His screech bounded from the walls of the Abbey and pierced painfully into the ears of each observer.

And as suddenly as it began, it ended. The lifeless husk of desiccated flesh fell like a half empty sack to the ground. Now that Thalor's screaming had stopped, the sound of quiet weeping was audible at various points in the crowd.

Reowynn stared in terror at the broken form of his master, sweat dripping from his forehead. Shomra's hand began its implacable journey once again. Unlike Thalor, Reowynn faced his fate stoically. He was pale, his eyes were wide, his throat worked as he swallowed, but he did not flinch away.

After seeing Thalor's obviously unpleasant demise, Jurel was rather impressed. This time, as the hand reached the halfway mark, Jurel stopped him.

“Wait. Not him. He was just a fool following orders.”

Shomra's hand halted. The decayed finger pointed as if in accusation. The cowl turned slightly in his direction.

“He has committed many crimes.”

Jurel nodded. “Yes, he has. And he will pay for them. But I think he is just a man who blindly offered his devotions and loyalties to the wrong cause. I would give him a chance to redeem himself.”

Jurel turned his look on Reowynn. The man's brow was furrowed as if confused by something.

“Well, Reowynn? Would you be willing to pay the price for your blind devotion?”

Reowynn hesitated, frozen to the spot for a long moment.

“Why would you do this?” he finally asked.

“You are a soldier. You followed orders. They were bad orders and you should have questioned them, but you did your duty as you were commanded. The unswerving dedication is commendable and, at least in my eyes, mitigates some of the blame.

“You probably even thought you were acting for the good of all—certainly Thalor would have had you believe so. But I think at the end, you saw your master for what he really was. Maybe you can now see yourself for what you were too.”

Reowynn thought about this for a time in silence. Jurel saw the change, when it happened, in his eyes, the resolve that grew as he made his choice. He finally nodded once.

Shomra's hand retracted. “As you wish.”

Shomra's form became incorporeal, returned back to the black cloud whence he had arrived. As the cloud dissipated into the afternoon, the shrieks and moans returned.

This time, Jurel would have wagered a great deal that he recognized one of the voices that screamed in eternal torment.

* * *

For the remainder of the beaten day, and well into the night, Jurel presided over the proceedings. Someone (more than one) had carted out a huge chair—a throne, really—that seemed made from solid gold and set it upon a makeshift dais. The cushioning was plush, mitigating some of the discomfort in his arms from the intricate, and in some cases sharp, designs carved in the arms of the chair.

Arrayed behind him were the Salosians—all save Kurin who had stormed off after Thalor had been sent to the hells.

Dizzy with exhaustion, Jurel barely heard the words of each supplicant as they knelt at his feet. There were so many of them that they blurred, became one long litany of “I swear upon my soul,” and “everlasting servitude.”

There were some surprises that brought him out of his trance-like state of mind. Seeing Captain Salma—Major Salma, now—again, as she knelt before him and swore her oath, her eyes twinkling, caused a small smile to appear on his face. His one-time captor winked as she kissed his fingers. He nodded his understanding, smiling slightly in return. She would be a senior officer in his army. He would see to it.

Lieutenant—Captain; they day was full of surprises—Higgens was there too but without any of the gruff anger that Jurel remembered. Instead, he seemed an empty shell of a man, a man who had had his life wrenched out from beneath his feet. Though he had not been kind to Jurel during his time as jailer, Jurel still felt pity.

After the Soldiers had passed, the priests of Gaorla—the few left alive who had not had their minds flayed from them by arcanum—bowed to him as well. He allowed that they did not swear an oath of fealty to him; they were Gaorla's children, after all, not his, and though they had fought him bitterly, they had only done so out of the same misguided belief as the Soldiers. But he required that they recognized him and accepted him as the god of war.

In the end, only three dozen of the twenty odd thousand survivors, stripped of armor and rank, were led to the gibbets where, even as they were strung up, even when the stools were kicked out from under their feet, they cried their imprecations, glaring insanely at Jurel the whole time.

He watched each one hang impassively.

Some time near dawn, it was over. Deep in his mind, he heard yet another familiar voice. This one he knew the best for he had spoken to his Father on many occasions. After listening for a time, he understood what he had to do.

The god of war rose from his throne, and the quiet murmuring of the crowd stilled as they awaited their lord's words.

“We are now one,” he called. “The prelacy as it stands in Threimes is finished, and so is the Salosian Order.” Gasps resounded throughout the yard—no one had quite expected this, especially the last bit. “In its stead, we will form a new order, one in which the two obsolete ones are merged, wedded forever.

“Each man, woman and child will, from this day forth, be permitted without reprisal, to worship whomever of my family they choose.

“The pantheon of the gods is united as one and we would see our followers united as well.

“This is my will, and the will of my brothers and sister. This is my Father's will.

“The gods have spoken.”

Without any further ado, the god of war stepped from his dais, and passed through the crowds of kneeling worshipers.

Inside the Abbey, the god of war debated with himself for a moment. Then He decided that food could wait—he wasn't particularly hungry anyway. First and foremost, He needed to sleep.

Chapter 58

Grand Prelate Maten threw his empty crystal decanter against the wall. It shattered into a sparkling blaze of bits, one of which etched his cheek as it streaked past. Not caring about the trickle of blood, he downed the brandy in his goblet in two greedy swallows, cherished the searing heat that burned his throat.

He searched his sidetable, found another decanter. Unstoppering it, he began to pour into his goblet before hesitating. Hurling his goblet at another wall, he swigged directly from the crystal mouth. Then he began searching for more things to break.

Lurching toward his mantle, he lashed out at a small sculpture that had so far been spared his wrath. It fell to the floor, but unsatisfyingly, no more than a chip appeared on the bird's head as it bounced away.

Again, he reached for his source but it slipped away before he could take proper hold, and he raged all the more. Somewhere deep inside, in a part that was not drowned in alcohol, he was glad his arcanum was dulled and distant; his drunkenness made concentrating on his source impossible. That small part of him knew the destruction he could have caused.

And it was all that fool's fault. Bloody, blasted Thalor Stock. Damned idiot had ruined everything, and in such a spectacular fashion, too. Not only had he not managed to win a battle against a foe a tenth his size, he had inadvertently managed to reveal to the world the truth of the existence of the other gods.

If the rumors were true, two gods had shown themselves.

Truths that Grand Prelates have been suppressing ever since indisputable proof had come to light, nearly a thousand years prior—said proof was now secreted in a hidden niche in the Grand Prelate's office and only ever saw the light of day when a new Grand Prelate was elected. It would not do to have the common folk knowing that the Salosians had been correct. It would have undermined the prelacy, would have rocked the very kingdom to its core. As it was about to.

And it was all that god be damned Thalor's fault.

Stumbling, tears coursing down his creased cheeks, he toggled the hidden switch near his mantle. A stone slid silently from its spot, revealing a cavity. Reaching in, he felt the rough edges that he had only felt once previously in his lifetime, the day after he had ascended to the mantle.

There were two articles. The first was a small statue no more than a hand tall. It was exquisitely crafted, each detail rendered with a precision that would have been impossible for even the best earthly sculptors to achieve. The statue depicted a man wearing black armor. The armor had fanciful golden whorls that made his eyes water all the more while he stared at it. With gauntleted hands resting on the pommel of a long sword, the statue had an air of alertness, of violence barely restrained.

The other item was a scroll made of vellum. Though Maten had only read its contents once, the import of the words had seared them forever in his memory.

Last confession of Grand Prelate Tosis.

Grand Prelate Tosis was dead these past thousand years. His long reign as Grand Prelate had begun auspiciously enough. He had made sweeping changes to the prelacy which stood to this day. He had been the one to create the Soldiers of God. But by about halfway through his governance, he had begun to act erratically, almost capriciously. The histories detailed his actions as bewildering at best, terrifying at worst. He was said to have developed a volatile temper; his priests had begun to fear him.

These changes began suddenly, some said overnight, and no one could understand how such a promising, gentle man—the beacon of light, he was called in the earliest records—could become so...dark.

Every Grand Prelate since then knew, of course. The reason was in Maten's hands. The scroll described a dream Tosis had had one night, a dream where he was visited by Gaorla.

“...and almighty Gaorla said unto me that he had children and these children were our gods. Three of these were known to Him. One had yet to walk the land and when He did we would tremble in fear, for his steps would be filled with the blood of the people.”

Maten shivered despite the heat that poured from the hearth. The scroll went on to detail how Tosis had awoken in a cold sweat, grasping immediately the ramifications of his dream. Tosis had convinced himself it was just a dream, a nightmare brought on, perhaps, by a meal overly spiced.

Until he had found the statue that Maten now held. He had kept the secret, too frightened of the reaction if he went public with his knowledge, too frightened of the Salosian response.

For an instant, a long, taut instant, Maten considered hurling this bloody cursed thing across his office. He longed to see it reduced to harmless rubble, bits of unrecognizable plaster that would never be seen, never incriminate (he, of course, had no idea that an identical statue graced a mantle in the Abbey far to the south).

His shoulders slumped. There was no real point hiding this little bit of evidence anymore—not with the real thing roaming the land.

He spun, startled by the knock at his door, almost fell over when his feet seemed to rebel at the sudden change in balance. Who in the name of the hells would be bothering him at this time? Bloody fools. He had made his wishes clear: no audiences.

Gathering himself, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The reek of pungent alcohol mixed with his own unbathed body turned his already sodden and delicate stomach.

“What?” he snapped, glaring blearily at the door as though he might scald the trespasser on the other side. He clutched the small statue in his hand.

Three acolytes stepped in, children really—and where was his assistant? Where was Mery? Who would send mere students to him? Was he not the Grand Prelate of the Gaorlan Order? This verged on insulting! The acolytes trembled, eyes wide in ashen faces.

Before he could speak, they parted and a fourth person strode through the door. Tall, bluff, built like a bull, Kerwal glared at Maten. Arms folded across his spartan robes, Kerwal did not even offer the necessary obeisance.

Sensing Kerwal's insubordination was but a symptom of a much more serious issue, Maten decided to exercise his authority.

“What do you want, Prelate?” he demanded. “I left strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed.”

The three acolytes stared at their toes; one, a young lady of no more than twenty (and rather fetching with her wheaten tresses and perky nose and full lips, Maten noted) wrung her hands nervously before her.

But Kerwal was not moved. “I'm certain you've heard the latest news? Grand Prelate?”

Maten heard the distinct pause and it galled. His nostrils flaring, he felt his anger flare white hot. Underneath, he felt stirrings of unease.

“How dare you?” he shouted. “I will have you flogged for your impertinence, Kerwal. Your prelacy days are over. I'm going to strip you of your titles so that you'll be grovelling at the feet of these whelps!”

Unmoved, immovable, Kerwal stood glaring. When Maten stopped speaking, his chest heaving great gulps of air, Kerwal said quietly, “Are you quite finished? Good. Now then. You have heard that the Salosian Order has defeated your army. You may also have heard that almost every remaining Soldier of God has defected and now call themselves the Soldiers of Jureya.

“What you probably don't know is that the king has heard all of this through Sendings, has heard the proofs offered by not only the Salosians but also by several high ranking members of our own order. He has ordered this temple surrounded by the troops he left behind.”

“On what grounds?” Maten gasped, appalled.

“We were wrong. Gaorla is not the only god. We are being given the opportunity to repent our ways and to swear new vows to the true religious order.” Kerwal smiled, and Maten wondered if the room had suddenly gone colder. “Well, most of us are, anyway.” He strode purposely across to Maten and plucked from his hands both the statue and the small sheaf of vellum. Scanning the first page quickly, his eyebrows rose. “So it does exist then. Most of us didn't believe it.” He eyed Maten again. “You are to be tried as a heretic and a war criminal. These here-” he indicated the two items he now held, “-should be more than enough to convict you.”

At those words, Maten heard the tramping of boots. Kerwal stood aside and a dozen soldiers bearing the king's emblem marched in.

A wave of vertigo as though the floor, his immaculate hard-wood floor, had opened beneath his feet. Maten staggered. He had arrived late last night with a small retinue. They had ridden several horses to death, horses that, fortified with copious amounts of arcanum had raced faster than the wind. He had arrived only days after the disastrous defeat near Grayson. He was exhausted, completely spent, and totally bent on pulling himself and his order out of the ashes of this calamity. His mind simply could not assimilate what Kerwal told him. He thought he would have more time. How can Threimes have acted so quickly?

Unless...

Unless the king had already been prepared to take these steps. Maten knew of the king's secret heresy. He knew Threimes had within his possession a banned book—Maten's agents had been watching him for years. Could it be that Threimes had harbored more than an illegal book all these years? Could he have been harboring sympathies toward the Salosians? Maten could hardly credit it. The king certainly felt animosity toward Maten but that had to do with the necessary questioning and sentencing of his heretic daughter. Surely the king understood that it had been necessary. Surely the king had been devout; he had always been present for the religious observances and he had always taken part with seeming enthusiasm.

But now... No, it had happened too quickly. The king had been waiting for this moment. That was the only answer that made sense. The book that Threimes had kept hidden had, Maten believed, been kept so the king could keep himself abreast and aware of the situation with the heretics. Only a fool discarded a source of information.

Perhaps he had kept the book for other reasons? Maten shook his head, dumbfounded at not seeing it earlier.

“He can't do that,” he muttered weakly.

Kerwal raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Odd then since he has.”

The last coherent thought the deposed Grand Prelate had before heavy iron shackles snapped shut around his wrist, and his mind cracked and fragmented into insanity, was that he wished he had not sent all his troops with Thalor.

Chapter 59

Three days. Three days since the battle ended. Three days of meetings and gatherings, of stuffy chambers and drafty halls. Three days with almost no sleep and little time even for food.

Three days since he had sent a summons to Kurin that had been promptly ignored.

Most of the issues, all the major ones certainly, that arose in the aftermath of the battle—the reparations of the damaged Abbey, the accommodations and provisioning of the greatly expanded population, the disposal of the dead—had been, or were in the process of being, resolved. Now he was left in the more mundane, and unenviable position, of seeing to day-to-day life at the Abbey. This task should have been Goromand's, as Abbot, but the old man would not hear of being seen as supreme as long as Jurel—Jureya—remained.

He sat straight, ensconced regally in his golden throne, as befitted his status (not knowing much yet about the ways of the gods, he was still relatively sure that slouching and dozing during an audience was likely a no-no) and kept what he imagined was an imperious look on his features as he faced the row upon row of Salosians who populated the benches before him—and actually served to frighten many. At least this day he was not quite so intimidating. He had eschewed his armor in favor of a pair of black linen pants, and a silk shirt with golden embroidery that was reminiscent of his armor.

Smokeless torches, those arcane sources of illumination, had been rekindled after the battle, and the gold and greens of the great council hall glowed warmly in the soft light. Rank upon rank of petitioners approached him, under the watchful, benevolent gaze of his Father high above.

Most were soldiers; Mikal's and former prelacy Soldiers, offering their obeisances to their God. Most followed up these declarations of faith and fealty with simple requests that he could easily grant: his blessing upon the soldier, the soldier's spouse and children, upon favored friends. Some he could do nothing about. A few soldiers asked if he could bless their arms or armor for more strength, or better accuracy, or more protection, and after the third refusal he managed to think up a good response to any further requests of this nature: “Unswerving belief will be all the blessing you ever need.” A few glanced askance at him when he uttered these words. They were not sure if he jested with them, or if he was just plain refusing them outright. Most, after some time to think about it, came to believe that Jurel—Jureya, right—was offering them something more than a simple spell to protect them in battle; he was offering the wisdom of the gods.

Jurel was privately very satisfied with this. On the surface his words were straight forward enough, but there was enough ambiguity built in that it left interpretation open to the listener. Jurel, for example, never actually came out and told anyone where the unswerving belief was to be aimed. Many, of course, thought it was meant to be aimed at him. A few, the more astute ones, came to think that perhaps the belief should be aimed at the cause for which they battled. And a very few, the ones he took note of, had a vague understanding that their belief should be in themselves.

It was all very satisfying.

Between supplicants, his gaze rose back to the general assembly before him. Each time, he searched the crowd for one set of eyes, one mane of raven black hair. He had done so a hundred times today already. He never saw her, had not seen her since the battle. He told himself it was for the best, but the bitter disappointment ate at him.

Some petitioners were priests of the old Salosian Order and they too had their own requests. Requests that Jurel could do nothing about since most were the province of other members of his strange family. He could not help this man speak with his wife who had been dead these past five years. He could not promise a better crop yield the next year. He could not explain why sunlight was so important to life, or how mountains formed. And he most certainly could not explain to the Maoran adherent how time and causality worked. Jurel barely understood the question, let alone the answer.

One petitioner, however, late on the third day, startled him.

As a Valsan departed, downcast that Jurel could not help her and her husband get with child, Jurel's eyes rose to the next in the waning line. Kurin stood before him, ramrod straight, not at all cowed as the others had been by the presence of the God of War.

“Kurin,” Jurel said, a smile growing. “It's nice to see you.”

Kurin strode forward without answering. Instead of kneeling as all the others had done, he stepped up on the dais and glared silently from the depths of his cowl. Without warning, his hand swung whip-quick and Jurel rocked back in his seat, gasping as stars danced in his vision. His gasp was echoed by hundreds of others. Then the hall went deathly still. Too stunned to speak, Jurel gaped at his one-time mentor as his vision cleared. He raised a hand to the stinging heat in his cheek, not really quite believing yet that Kurin had slapped him.

“Chaplain,” Goromand remonstrated. Having risen from his seat with more alacrity than his age suggested was possible—and indeed with more alacrity than he had displayed in the past two decades—he stepped quickly to the foot of the dais. Not quite daring to step up on a level with Jurel—Jureya, Jureya; it would take him a while to get used to that—he motioned Kurin to step down. “How dare you strike our lord? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Without breaking eye contact with Kurin, Jurel waved Goromand back. Uneasy, incensed, Goromand complied, taking his seat in the front row. Gathering himself with a deep breath, Jurel repressed his first instinct. He had too much history with this man to end it that way. Besides, as Jurel had said some days before, he only killed in battle. This could hardly be construed as such.

“What have I done to displease you, Kurin?” he asked quietly. Shuffling and creaks broke the stillness as everyone leaned forward to hear.

Kurin's cowl was like a portal to a deep abyss. His fists were clenched, white-knuckled with alien rage; his shoulders were taut, battle-ready. He trembled with the potency of his fury. “Where did you go?” he hissed.

Taken aback again, Jurel stammered, “Wh-what do you mean?”

“You abandoned us, Jurel. You left us to die.”

“I came back. We won.”

“You left when we needed you most,” Kurin shouted. A few anonymous grumbles of agreement reached his ears. “You ran away from your greatest duty. Your return was not enough to save us. It took the fortuitous arrival of Grayson's men to turn the battle.”

Holding calm to him like a thick cloak on an icy day, Jurel responded with a composure he did not feel. “Would it have made a difference if I had not left? We would still have been outnumbered, we would still have endured the same siege. Perhaps Grayson would still have shown up at the same time. Or maybe he wouldn't have and we would have been overrun.”

With a snort, Kurin waved away the argument with a derisive flick of his hand. “We'll never know now, will we?” he scoffed.

“What could my being here have done that was not already done by the very capable commanders I left behind?”

“I don't know!” Kurin burst out. “Maybe you would have...” His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as he searched helplessly for the right response. His head turned as if seeking a hunter over his shoulder. “You could have...I don't know. I'm not the bloody god here.”

Jurel's instincts kicked up, sending him an almost premonitory understanding. Vague at first, it began to solidify as he considered his hurt old friend.

“I could have saved you sooner from Thalor?” he asked, his voice quiet, barely more than a whisper.

Kurin gasped, staggered back as though struck. His breathing came in quick, ragged bursts.

“He tortured me for weeks,” Kurin rasped at last, his voice cracking. “Every day I hoped you would come. Every day I prayed for it. I deserved that much, didn't I? Weeks, Jurel. He did things to me that you cannot begin to imagine.

“And when you did not come, when the torture continued and those who were jailed with me began to die, I began to lose hope. I began to believe that I was wrong. About you, about my research, about everything. Within me coiled a feeling of betrayal that I tried to ignore, tried to explain away as nothing more than foolishness. But as the days passed, I could no longer ignore it, Jurel. You left me there for weeks.

“When you finally did come, I was too far gone in my anger. Anger at Thalor mostly. But you too.”

He raised a fist, his bitterness heartbreaking to see. “And then you went and took away my only outlet by calling your brother to take that monster away. I wanted him. I wanted to watch him suffer and squirm. I wanted to hear his shrieks as he heard mine.”

“Would it have helped?”

“Yes, blast you. YES!” But there was a shadow deep within his rage. A single miniscule grain of doubt.

“Really? Do you think you have it in you to do what he did? Would you become like him to satisfy your desire for revenge?”

“He deserved it.”

Jurel allowed a small smile to twist the corners of his lips. His eyes remained as hard as granite. “No doubt he did. No doubt too that my brother is doing far worse to his ghost than you could ever imagine.”

Jurel rose and as he did so he called forth into himself. Jagged blue lights rippled along his arms and torso, down his legs, and where they passed his black shirt altered, became his armor. By the time he stood tall, he once again wore the armor of the God of War. Calling forth again, blue energy blazed in his hand, stretched and crackled until he held his sword of light.

Not immune to Jurel's sheer force, Kurin winced.

Jurel reached out gingerly with his thoughts, brushed Kurin's mind. As gently as feather down, he pushed past the dark, roiling cloud of Kurin's bitter rage, past the very recent memories distorted by the foreign hatred that clouded him. He felt a buffeting at his mind: Kurin's attempts to push him out, but it was as a field of grass trying to hold back a herd of bison.

“I'm not here to hurt you, Kurin,” Jurel spoke gently into the man's mind. “I'm here to help you.”

Beyond those most recent memories—he ignored those memories of the last few days and proceeded back until he saw...

Until he saw what Kurin had survived at Thalor's hands.

“Get out!” Kurin shrieked silently, the vaults of his mind ringing with frantic outrage. “Get out of my mind!”

Jurel began to sift through those memories, allowing himself to live them while trying to screen Kurin from them, knowing he could not keep it all out, hoping he could keep enough.

“I need to know, Kurin. I need to know what happened to you. What I let happen to you.”

What he saw, appalled him, gored him with grief. Thalor had not been gentle with Kurin.

“No. No, Jurel. Please.”

Numbly, Jurel watched. He watched as a man followed Thalor into the tent where Kurin was bound hand and foot to a rough table of unfinished wood. The man set a large leather bag beside Kurin's head. Clinking tinkled like wind chimes as the man rooted around in the bag.

“Time to begin,” Thalor's voice whispered.

The images went black; a hood was drawn over Kurin's head.

Pain. Always in a different place, always from a different source. Sometimes the pain stabbed, sometimes it burned. Sometimes it pummeled like a hammer blow, sometimes it poured like acid. Always, half heard questions punctuated the pain. “...is he?” “Who...?” “How many...?”

Kurin rarely answered. Not so much because he did not want to—if it would have stopped the agony for even a few moments, Kurin would have told him anything—this too was a source of shame in the proud old man. Had he been able, he would have told Thalor whatever he had to, to stop the pain, stop the hurt; it rankled him that in the secret depths of himself, he knew Thalor had won, that Thalor had broken him. But he did not answer, because he either did not hear the question properly, or he was too busy shrieking his agony.

As if the shame of his being too weak to withstand the monster's atrocities was not enough, there was always more. Here the memories began to fragment, as the hood was removed. Images skipped, turned blood red, jolted and jerked as though trying to escape capture. In his mind, Kurin was moaning, “No. No, no, no, no. Please no.”

Disjointed imagery, out of synchronization, played in fits and spurts, cracked and jagged around the edges like a broken mirror. Here the man repacked his bag of implements. Here Thalor rearranged his robe, a flush of color on his cheeks, a cruel smile under ice cold eyes. Here Thalor dumped Kurin from the table and to the floor. Kurin begging for mercy, no please no. Not again. The coarse dirt against his cheek, taste of mud and blood, his blood. Hot tears coursing down his cheeks as he sobbed. His tattered robes being lifted over his head. Thalor. Hot, moist breath in Kurin's ear. Words: “You will succumb to me. You will give me everything I want.” Thalor, grunting like a rutting pig, visiting upon Kurin's body the final debasement, the final humiliation which drove Kurin to cower, to hide his face in shame. Which drove Kurin to hate fueled insanity. Kurin crying out in pain and shame as Thalor cried out in ecstasy.

Jurel stumbled as though struck, almost falling into his chair. A tight band constricted his chest. His sword flickered as though hesitant. Tears, squeezed from a part of his soul he had thought locked away for good, streamed from his eyes.

Kurin would not look at him. The old man—he truly did seem old now with his slumped shoulders and a hunch in his back, older than his years—seemed shrouded in darkness.

“Oh, Kurin,” Jurel said quietly. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Wretchedly, Kurin met his eye. Trembling, he whispered, “Why? Why did you have to do that?”

“I needed to know.”

He had caused this. His foolishness, his arrogance. His selfishness. He was the one who had sent the army, who had not foreseen the ambush. Who had killed more than a thousand good men and women. He was the one who ran. He who caused Kurin this pain, the scars of which had bitten deeper, and would last longer, than any wound inflicted by sword or lance.

The old man stood before him, breathing raggedly, but though he lived, Jurel felt the dead void inside him. The chill of it emanated from Kurin like a glacial wind.

Kurin cringed when Jurel laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Feeling a dagger-sharp pain at this, Jurel quickly retracted his hand.

“I'm sorry, Kurin,” he said quietly again. “I'm sorry.”

Stepping to Kurin's side, careful not to touch him, Jurel faced his audience.

“I am sorry,” he said. “Not only to Kurin and those who were captured by the former prelate, but to all of you here, and all the injured and the dead.

“But I am here now.”

He had had some ideas of making an uplifting speech, pull everyone together into one purpose, rally the troops. Begin the process of healing by promising a bright future. He had thought of it. Though he really did hurt to see Kurin brought so low, he could not have thanked the old man more for providing the perfect opening. Until, that was, the great council chamber doors at the far end swung open, cutting Jurel off mid-sentence.

A young acolyte pushed his way through the crowd, earning him shouted reprimands that he did not bother to acknowledge. In his hand, he held what appeared to be a ragged sheet of parchment. In his eyes, there was most definitely terror.

He halted a few steps from Jurel, panting. A wedge of ice lodged itself in Jurel heart.

“My Lord,” the young man said, going to his knees. “I-”

But his words stopped. He stared in horror at the piece of parchment in his hand as though it was a poisonous snake. It shook with the young man's trembles.

“What is it?” Jurel demanded.

He snatched the page away. He read. The page was dirty. Jagged crumple lines criss-crossed the primitive, angular writing. As he read, the blood drained from his face. The wedge of ice spread, threatened to engulf him.

Your woman has been invited to an audience with my master. She did not show proper gratitude when the honor was extended. This is unfortunate. We convinced her she must accompany us. Do not worry. My master has demanded that she not be too damaged.

My master invites you too. We suggest, for the continued health of your woman, that you comply.

Come north, into our lands. The way will be made clear.

For the first time in a long time his ears began to ring.

* * *

Consciousness came sluggishly. Even when it did, Metana's thoughts were oily, oozing slowly around the torrid ball of pain lodged behind her eyes. At first, she thought she was in her bed, but even her slow thoughts quickly discarded that when her body kept reporting that it was being ungently bounced and jarred. That, and it seemed that she had been thrown like a sack of potatoes over the back of a horse.

Opening her eyes was no help. Her sight remained blankly black. Groggy startlement turned quickly to fear: had she in fact opened her eyes? Yes, yes she had but the world remained opaque. Was she blind? Had she taken more damage in the battle than was previously thought? No, Kurin himself had seen to her. He was the best healer the Salosian Order had. If he said she was not in any danger, then she was not. It took her far longer to realize why she had no vision. Her breath was hot and moist, close to her face. Something rough rubbed against her cheeks. There was a hood over her head.

And with that came the memory of Dakariin in her room, a strangely pleasant smile under feral eyes. A fist. Flashes of varicolored lights followed by darkness.

Groaning softly, she raised her head.

“Ah, you waken.”

She snapped at the sound of the familiar voice, the thick accent, and the incongruously good vocabulary. Shards of sudden terror pierced her like wind driven sleet.

“You wish for food? No? Water?”

Stifling a whimper, Metana tried to hoist herself up off the back of the horse but soon cutting lines in her back and wrists informed her she had been tied down.

An ugly chuckle. “For your protection.”

“What do you want?” She was dismayed by how difficult it was to form words, how slurred they sounded.

“I have said to you already. My master wishes to see you.”

“Who-who is your master?”

Another chuckle. “He ask me to refrain from introduction. He wishes to surprise. Though I think you will find it unpleasant.”

Though she could not see it, it felt as though the world were spinning in great, lazy, nauseating circles. She worried that if she vomited in her hood, she would suffocate. He had struck her hard but a sneaking suspicion began to form.

“Am I drugged?”

“Yes. My master has told me that the jaigka leaves steeped as a tea will keep you tame. We do not wish for you to try anything foolish. I am not good with such womanly things as making tea. Is it working?”

She barked a laugh. “Is it working? Are you an idiot? What a stupid question. If it hadn't worked, I'd have burned you to bloody cinders already.”

“Ah,” he said. “Then I am glad it works. I am not glad that you choose such disrespectful words. Perhaps when you wake again you will remember you are just woman and must not speak to hunter in this way.”

“No wait,” she cried.

Too late. A punishing blow blasted her tenuous consciousness back to the murky depths of oblivion.

Chapter 60

“He has passed his second trial,” Maora said, waving away the image of Jurel and his friends preparing to travel on a drizzly afternoon.

“Yes,” Gaorla said, well pleased. “He has touched his essence. He has accepted his destiny.”

“But his light is so much dimmer than it was, Father,” Valsa said softly. “Can he triumph in his third trial?”

Gaorla's eyes clouded over. It was rare that He was uncertain of anything. But he had cast the dice; he too must wait to see how they landed.

“His light is darker, but it is harder,” Shomra grated.

Maora nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, he is now like tempered steel. The only concern left is if, like over-tempered steel, he has become too brittle.”

“His third trial will be the hardest,” Shomra muttered.

Valsa sighed in exasperation. “Of course it will be. What a silly thing to say.”

“Now, now,” Gaorla appeased. “It will be difficult but I am still confident I made the right choice. He will prevail.”

“He must,” rejoined Valsa. “If he doesn't...”

“If he doesn't, then the world will not survive,” Shomra said.

“And neither will we,” finished Maora.

As rainbow lights playfully flitted across the waterfall walls, lit the pond beneath their feet with dazzling colors never seen by mortal eyes, the gods traded anxious looks.

“What will be, will be,” said Gaorla. Then he smiled and it was more dazzling, more beautiful than any part of this magnificent chamber. “Of course, we have managed to gain an advantage, haven't we? When he finds out what role young Metana is to play...well, that might change things in our favor, don't you think?”

The younger gods smiled and nodded.

“As long as she survives the ordeal,” Shomra said.

With spirits curdled, Maora reestablished the image of the young man, and they watched.

* * *

“But surely you could just...” Gaven made a motion that Jurel imagined must indicate his ability to teleport.

“No, Gav.” Jurel shook his head, cinching straps to his saddle bags. “It doesn't work like that. I need to know where I'm going. I have no idea where she is.”

In truth, he thought Gaven's idea had merit—he had thought of it himself earlier. But though he had some thoughts on how to make it work, he did not think this was the time to start experimenting.

Metana was in trouble.

The afternoon was cool, the wind not quite bitter. Jurel shivered in the light drizzle; even under his water-proofed cloak, Gaven looked positively miserable.

There was almost no one in the side courtyard where they prepared, most being wise enough to stay inside on this chilly afternoon. The only people besides Mikal and Gaven was a stablehand assigned to help them prepare, a young acolyte rushing back to Goromand with Jurel's final orders while he was away, and a guard who stood waiting to open the gate.

“Let's go,” Mikal growled. “The day's not getting any younger.”

As if Jurel needed to be reminded.

He chafed to be off as well. Thoughts of Metana crowded his mind stifling everything else. It was all he could do to concentrate on ensuring they were properly provisioned. He tried desperately to keep from thinking what was happening to her. Images crowded, ice blue eyes smiling, raven black hair fluttering in a breeze. Images of filthy savages holding her, pawing her, hurting her. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.

Foot in stirrup, he hoisted himself up. With a signal, he pointed his mount toward the side gate. Mikal and Gaven preceded him. The guard hurried to open the gate; though it was metal, it was well balanced and swung open easily. They disappeared beyond the gate under the Abbey wall.

With a sigh, Jurel glanced back one last time, feeling as though he left a part of himself here. His party was not complete, there was one missing. He had asked—at least, he had tried to ask—but there had been no response from Kurin. He had asked Mikal to intercede on his behalf, knowing that if Kurin was going to listen to anyone, it would be his longtime companion. The swordmaster had sadly reported that Kurin would not open his door.

As he was about to turn into the tunnel, a movement caught his eye under the long veranda near the far corner of the Abbey. He squinted; the shadows there were deep and the distance was yet far.

Then he gasped. Same gray mare, same gray robes under his water-proof cloak, Kurin emerged. He paused when he saw Jurel. Then his horse moved forward and he covered the distance between them.

A few paces from Jurel, the old man pulled up again. His cowled head was bent with grief, his shoulders slumped under the immense weight of memory.

Speech was difficult for a moment. The lump in Jurel's throat would not dislodge itself. Clearing his throat, then clearing it again, he finally managed to say, “I'm glad you came.”

The old man took a deep breath. Then, “Yes. Well. We must find Metana.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Why was everything so awkward? He had traveled half the known world with this man, been through countless adventures. This man had taught him, mentored him. This man had stood beside him through, well, everything. This man had believed in him when he had not believed in himself.

“I'm sorry,” Jurel blurted. Then he turned away, grimacing. How weak can words be? How empty, even if they are heartfelt? What else could he offer? “I'm sorry.”

The cowl lifted and, though the gray day did not touch the features within, Jurel thought he saw a hint of a tentative smile. “I know. Things will be all right between us.” His voice darkened, became as hard as steel. “You and I are still going to have a very long talk, and very soon. We'll start with how inappropriate it is to break into another man's memories. But later. For now, there is a young lady who is very important to us who needs saving.”

The lump was back with a vengeance. Jurel managed no more than a nod.

“Especially in her condition,” Kurin added, and this time Jurel definitely heard amusement in his voice.

“What do you mean?” Jurel asked, alarmed. “Is she all right?”

Slyly, the old man looked sidelong at him as he urged his horse past Jurel. “What? You don't think I would ruin the surprise, do you?”

Roiling emotions battled in Jurel. Sick fear for Metana, rage at the atrocity committed by the Dakariin scum, elation that Kurin was there, confusion over the old man's words.

Brushing it all aside, he urged his horse to follow Kurin's into the tunnel, and he emerged into the gray world fearing what was to come, but hopeful. Gaven was there. Mikal was there. Kurin was there. It was a grim hope, shadowed as much by the cold drizzle as by the terrible images of what the Dakariin were likely doing to his Metana but it was hope.

Yes. Hope. He would find her. He would save her. He would and he knew this because he was who he was.

And he hoped.

Epilogue

King Threimes II plodded tiredly back to his chambers, skirting the construction that continued on his palace without really seeing it. It had been a torturous day. The headache caused by the two bickering old men had only worsened after his announcement that he would support Shoka in his bid.

It had gone badly. Shoka had openly gloated, and while Threimes had conducted his court business of the day, Shoka kept intruding, kept offering his opinions and thoughts in a tone that strongly suggested they were commands.

Threimes regretted his decision almost as soon as he announced it. When Shoka was not injecting his thoughts, he was making the rounds of Threimes's nobles, setting his hooks into each one.

Salos had scurried away and disappeared immediately after Threimes made it official. And with good reason. Just before Threimes called an end to the audience, Shoka had risen with one last request...which was, in fact, a demand.

“I request that His Majesty outlaw on pain of death those who do not accept the worship of Gaorla and Gaorla alone.”

“On what grounds?” he had asked, shocked that Shoka would go so far so quickly.

“Heresy, of course.”

Throughout his throne room, nobles nodded and grumbled their agreement. Only a few kept their expressions frozen, and Threimes was certain they hid their disapproval.

He regretted his decision. He regretted that he had been pressured by Shoka and by his court to make this decision. He regretted that future generations would certainly suffer because of the choice he made this day. He regretted being king.

He should never have been a king. He just was not cut out for it.