Blood of War (23 page)

“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.”