Blood of War (45 page)

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?”