The Path of the Sword by Remi Michaud Page B

his father who was being held by filthy men clad in leather. A third, standing in front of his father, facing him with his viciously serrated sword. The filthy man thrust forward...
    Flash!
    The ringing in his ears was deafening, maddening, so powerful that he clamped his hands to his head but that did nothing. It continued to rise in pitch and volume. It was so loud that it even affected his sight; he could no longer make out the battle that waged in front of him. He did not see Valik spin, eyes wide, as a tooth glittered, spun lazily in the air. Instead, he stood in a world of black, shot through with ragged colors, blood red and pus green, that pulsed like a demon's heart.
    Flash!
    His father sagged into the arms of the laughing soldiers and let out a rattling exhalation. A red rose bloomed around the hilt of the sword that protruded from his father's usually spotless white apron. Even as they laughed, they released him, dumping him to the ground like garbage. Jurel bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut. He had promised, after all, to be a good boy. To be quiet no matter what.
    Flash!
    The two worlds collided like titans at war, melding past and present, fusing them so he could no longer tell the difference. He was running through grasses that were verdant and pungent with the new spring, made bright by the afternoon sun, or perhaps he ran down a cobbled street in the darkness of night, through billowing walls of smoke and past body-shaped lumps on the ground.
    He hurdled the rough wooden fence that snaked its way around Galbin's farm, a fence that could also have been a burning cart, its driver leaning back and staring at the sky, with two shafts sticking out of his chest.
    He saw the main barn where the livestock was kept, solid and tidy, the way Galbin liked things. He saw the general store that Gram frequented for supplies, its windows broken, its door missing so it looked like a hungry demon watched him pass.
    There were farmers herding chickens back to the coop securing them before the end of the day, there were soldiers hacking and slashing.
    He careened past Galbin's house, certain he heard Daved call out, certain that at any second the dirty men with nasty swords would catch him and cut him, club him, kill him.
    Near the well or maybe it was the horse trough outside the tavern, he stumbled, lost his footing. Distant pain flared in his hands and knees as he rolled and slid to a stop. The ringing bells were torturing him, demanding that he...that he... what? That he what? What was he supposed to do?
    He screamed. The world rolled and hiccuped around him like a ship on stormy seas. He stared at the sun of that beautiful spring day and he stared at the smoke shrouded moon of that terrible autumn night. He stared and he screamed an animal scream. If his senses had not deserted him, he would have seen the terror in Daved's face.
    Pain wracked him, roared through him like molten lava, engulfing him and searing everything away, distilling him until all that remained was terror and sorrow.
    He saw a familiar figure then, appearing out of the darkness like the silhouette of an angel. A figure that was both soldier and farmer. The figure knelt beside him and gathered him up gently in strong arms. Was that someone calling to him? He could have sworn that someone called his name. But how could he hear it? His hands were covering his ears. Could they not hear the bells that sounded like a hundred deranged blacksmiths going wild with their hammers?
    He saw the sun wavering like it was under water. Or maybe he was the one looking up from his drowning death. He saw silhouettes, like specters, surround him, close in, stifling. He saw his father, terror-stricken, anxious. He saw...he saw...
    He saw blackness.

Chapter 9
    The still air was arid under the punishing sun. It was so dry that puffs of dust kicked up by his horse hung in the air like smoke, and coated his hair so that it seemed light blond instead of its usual ashy gray. A