Blood of War (28 page)

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.