Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (24 page)

Tulellcoe disengaged, back stepped, growled,
“If it’s a fight you want, fight me.” He gripped his sword with
both hands, called forth his power in an instant, and attacked.

Morgin retreated on the defensive again, for
Tulellcoe’s power was no small thing. Morgin could feel it, smell
it, hear it, see it. One part of him rejoiced, tried to falter, to
stumble, to give Tulellcoe an opening so that this mad orgy of
power could end as it was meant to. But his own power, now fully in
control of him, would not allow it. It was that part of him that
finally understood why it was called power. It was that part of him
that felt its strength and its majesty, and sensed that Tulellcoe’s
power was as nothing beside his own.

It suddenly became easy to back Tulellcoe
across the yard, to swat him about playfully, to toy with him for
the sheer pleasure that came with such a nightmare of power. But
the nightmare did not end as nightmares should, for when the time
came for Morgin to awake screaming in the night, there was no
awakening.

He caught Tulellcoe hard beneath the chin
with the hilt of his sword, then brought the blade around in a long
flat arc. It bit into Tulellcoe’s neck, passed through him without
stopping, took off a piece of the opposite shoulder as it exited.
Tulellcoe’s head actually jumped upward before falling. Then it
tumbled to the ground, bounced once with a sickening thud, and came
to rest in the dirt of the yard.

Morgin staggered backward. His sword and
hands were soaked with Tulellcoe’s blood. He staggered again as his
magic left him. The world about him slowed, came to a grinding
stop. The eyes in Tulellcoe’s head, glassed over in death, stared
at him without forgiveness, and Tulellcoe’s headless body, still
standing for a horrifying moment, finally toppled forward into
Morgin’s arms, twitching uncontrollably.

Tulellcoe?
Morgin thought.
Dead?
Murdered by my own hands?
Morgin dropped his sword. “No,” he
pleaded. “No.” He lowered Tulellcoe gently to the ground, trying to
understand what had happened, to comprehend the magnitude of what
he’d done. He’d murdered his uncle.

“Tulellcoe,” he whispered. Tulellcoe’s
headless neck poured forth a deep red stream that soaked Morgin’s
trousers then spilled to the ground beneath him, and in the fine,
dry dust it formed little round beads and puddles, each separate
and individual, but soon devoured by the large red stain that grew
about the two of them.

“Uncle,” Morgin whispered. “What have I
done?”

“You lost control,” Tulellcoe said
calmly.

Morgin’s head snapped up to look in the
direction of the voice. Tulellcoe stood over him, his sword still
in his hand. He stood in the shade of the porch leaning casually
against a support column, and in a cold, angry voice he said, “You
have much to learn about power, Morgin.”

Morgin looked down into his lap. No blood
soaked his trousers. No body lay at his feet, no head. The dust
blew dry and brown in the hot summer breeze. He looked back at
Tulellcoe.

“Most of us are not deserving of your
hatred, nephew,” Tulellcoe said. He stepped away from the column,
sheathed his sword, turned his back and walked away in disgust.

Morgin looked back at his hands, his
trousers, his sword, the dirt about him. It remained dry and
unblooded.

A shadow crossed the ground before him.
Olivia stood over him, with the Tulalane at her side.

“Well,” the Tulalane said with a smirk.
“He’s no coward.”

“Perhaps,” Olivia half agreed. “But he’s a
magician with no control. And that may be even worse.”

She looked at Morgin angrily. “Well, young
man. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Morgin looked again at his bloodless lap,
then back at Olivia. He could think of nothing to say, and into the
silence the Tulalane said, “As usual he has little or nothing to
say. I think he’s just daft.”

Bile rose in Morgin’s throat. He stood. His
fists clenched. His knuckles whitened. He trembled as he stepped up
to the
twoname
and stood facing him.

The Tulalane grinned casually. “Touch me,
boy, and I’ll squash you.”

“Go inside, Morgin,” Olivia commanded. “I’ve
had enough of your surly conduct.”

Morgin’s fists remained clenched as he
turned toward the castle gate and began walking.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Olivia
demanded.

He clenched his teeth as tightly as his
fists, refused to speak, did not look back and walked silently out
of the castle.

“You can’t walk out on me,” Olivia
screamed.

He ignored her, continued walking. She
screamed even louder, and as he walked down the road that led from
Elhiyne he heard her screaming out her anger at all those near her.
She ordered them to stop him, to run after him and hold him, but
none did. She threatened them. She commanded them, but nothing
happened as her screams slowly dwindled into the distance, and long
after he could no longer hear her anger, he could feel it, touch
it, taste it on the air. It was an anger to fear, an anger to hate,
an anger to match his own.

~~~

The Tulalane took great care to appear normal
as he stepped out of the hot sun and into the darkened interior of
the village inn’s common room. He resisted the urge to look over
his shoulder as if he were a lurking thief. He was Hwatok Tulalane,
a man above suspicion.

The common room possessed an odd quiet in
the middle of the day, with only a few patrons present. But in the
far corner sat the messenger from Yestmark.

The Tulalane stopped at the bar to order a
mug of ale. “Hot day,” he said by way of conversation.

“Aye, lord,” the innkeeper said. He handed
the Tulalane a filled mug. “Likely be even hotter tomorrow.”

The Tulalane nodded, crossed the room
casually and sat down at the table with the Yestmarkian messenger.
He spoke softly. “You wanted to see me?”

The messenger eyed him uneasily. “Yes, my
lord. I have a message for you.”

“Eglahan sends me messages?”

“No, my lord. The message I have for you is
not from March Lord Eglahan. It is from His Highness, Prince Valso
et Decouix.”

“Silence,” the Tulalane hissed. He leaned
forward. “Keep your voice low when you speak that name here. Better
yet, don’t speak it at all.”

The messenger cast his eyes down fearfully.
“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Now what is this message you have for
me?”

The messenger looked carefully about the
room. “I am to inform you that the time to act is now.”

The Tulalane grinned. His eyes lit up with
joy. “At last! Now we can crush these upstart Elhiynes. I assume
there is more?”

“Yes, my lord. Tomorrow you are to ride east
out of Elhiyne with six twelves of armed men to Sa’umbra Gap, your
purpose being to patrol for bandits in the mountains. And since I
am leaving for Yestmark tomorrow, I will ride with you. When we get
to Sa’umbra you and I will poison the Elhiyne armsmen so they will
die in their sleep. His Highness will meet us there with a like
number of Kulls. They will strip the Elhiyne dead, put on their
livery and ride their horses. Then, with you in the lead, we will
all return to Elhiyne.

“While we are gone, a messenger will come
from Penda Court to tell the Elhiynes that Valso’s father, Illalla,
crossed the Worshipers far to the north at Methula. The messenger
will tell them he’s riding at the head of an army and marching down
the western side of the Worshipers, sacking and plundering Penda
and Tosk lands on his way to Elhiyne. Malka will rally the local
armsmen and ride to the west to defend Elhiyne lands. When we
return from Sa’umbra in the east, Elhiyne should be all but
deserted, protected by no more than women and old men. And since we
ourselves will appear to be Elhiyne, we should gain easy
access.”

The Tulalane shook his head. “And what then
do I do with seventy odd Kulls and a castle full of women?”

“His Highness instructed me to emphasize
that timing is critical. At this moment Illalla is marshaling his
army north of Yestmark. In truth, he will march down the eastern
side of the Worshipers, cross at Sa’umbra, then assault Elhiyne
directly. The messenger from Penda will arrive here in two days,
just as Illalla begins his assault on SavinCourt. You must be gone
by then so that you will not be obligated to ride west with Malka.
And you must return within six days to take the castle. We must
stay ahead of any word from Yestmark.”

The Tulalane thought carefully. “So I take
the castle in six days, and Illalla cannot have his army here in
under twelve. What of Malka? Surely he will discover the ruse and
return before then to retake Elhiyne?”

“You will have six twelves of Kulls to guard
all entrances to the castle. You will have the Elhiyne women as
hostages, and Prince Valso’s considerable magic to help you
discover any plots they or their men attempt to hatch. The Elhiyne
men will move slowly, with care. They will consider any move
carefully before making it, and Illalla’s army will catch them in
the open, without their castle walls to protect them. It will save
him the trouble of an extended siege, and of course it will be good
sport.”

The Tulalane smiled greedily. “Brilliant,”
he said. “I have waited years for this, and I am pleased that His
Majesty will not disappoint me.”

He held up his mug of ale. “To Elhiyne,” he
whispered softly, “and its downfall.”

~~~

Morgin watched the sun rise peacefully over
his small mountain campsite, while far below JohnEngine worked his
way carefully up the mountainside, allowing his horse to choose its
own path. Morgin sensed JohnEngine’s unease about their coming
meeting. JohnEngine feared that Morgin might blame him in some way
for Olivia’s conniving schemes. And too he feared that Morgin’s
violence might not have passed, that Morgin would reject the
brotherhood between them. And all this Morgin sensed from his
vantage high atop the not-so-high mountain. He sensed JohnEngine
without the need to see him, as he sensed JohnEngine’s fears, as he
sensed the horse JohnEngine rode, and as he sensed his own horse,
SarahGirl, tied to a tether behind them.

It felt odd to have such awareness flow
through him without effort, to be constantly a vessel for the fires
of magic without the desire to be so. His magic lay upon him now as
it had since he’d walked out of the castle four days ago. It
tickled him, like the feather touch of a light breeze on the back
of his neck. It warmed him through the cold mountain nights, and it
nurtured him through the long foodless days. Sometimes it flowed
strong and demanding, as when he’d walked out of the castle, though
then he’d been too passionately inflamed with hatred to understand
what drove him. Sometimes it merely trickled out of him, like the
water in the babbling brook that crackled nearby. And sometimes, as
now, it lay dormant within him, a sleeping beast waiting to awaken
upon the next tide of power.

Twice now, feeling the need to attempt some
form of control, he had tried to stem the flow when at its weakest.
And he had succeeded, after a fashion, as a small dam of sand can
stem the flow of the merest trickle of water. But the sand only
dams the water, and the flow continues, forming an ever-growing
pool that must be constantly tended. And even with the merest of
flows the pressure behind the dam builds. More sand must be added;
the dam must be widened, thickened, strengthened, and as the puddle
behind it grows to a pool, then a pond, then a lake, the dam’s
builder must frantically scurry to pile more sand upon his
threatened creation. But the flow of water is unrelenting, and
eventually a small trickle breaks over the dam’s lip, carrying sand
with it, widening, growing, until the entire lake rushes forth in a
mighty torrent that sweeps all before it.

So had ended Morgin’s efforts to stem the
flow of his power. He had learned to yield to its whims, a
reluctant prisoner of his own magic, and it lay dormant now within
him only by its own choosing, and not by any purposeful control of
his.

JohnEngine topped the last rise and spurred
his horse into the campsite. SarahGirl followed close behind him.
Morgin, seated by the fire, stood casually, and JohnEngine, still
atop his horse, looked down at him with his eyes mirroring the
apprehension in his soul.

Morgin made an effort to smile. “Brother,”
he said. “It’s good to see you.”

Some of JohnEngine’s apprehension
disappeared. He smiled back, then dismounted. “How have you been?”
he asked.

Morgin shrugged. “Hungry. Cold. Tired.” He
decided not to mention that he had gone without sleep since leaving
the castle.

JohnEngine turned about and reached eagerly
into his saddlebags. He retrieved a lump of journeycake and tossed
it to Morgin. “Chew on that.”

Morgin dug his teeth into the hard, sweet
cake. So many times before he’d thought it crude and tasteless, but
now he delighted in it. “Thank you,” he said. “Here, let me help
you with the horses.”

He took SarahGirl’s reins, led her to the
edge of the campsite, careful to stay well clear of the teeth that
had nipped him so many times before. He expected her to begin
quivering now that he was near, to see her nostrils flare, her eyes
widen with fear, but this time that did not come. Instead, she
raised her muzzle to his face. He ducked to avoid a nasty bite on
his cheek. Her head followed him down, and she licked him sloppily,
gently, on the back of his neck. He lifted his head, looked her in
the eyes: big, round, brown eyes. Her tongue lashed out, slurping a
big kiss across his cheek.

He shook his head. “You’ve changed,” he
said.

“No,” JohnEngine said. “It’s you who have
changed.”

Morgin looked at JohnEngine carefully. He
nodded. “Yes. I believe I have.”