Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (26 page)

At that moment the road he and SarahGirl
followed crested a small hill, and the valley he knew as home
stretched before him, twilight approaching, a thin crescent moon
prematurely visible in the darkening sky. He halted SarahGirl,
gauged the sun on the horizon, estimated he could be home by
nightfall, though he’d have to push it a bit.

The impression that something was amiss grew
upon him slowly as he rode SarahGirl down into the valley. It was
not a magical sensation, not a realization of any disturbance upon
the arcane, for his power had been almost wholly dormant now for
many days. Rather, he saw no hands working the fields and he sensed
an abnormal stillness to the entire valley. The village near
Elhiyne seemed oddly deserted, and the small woodland that
separated it from the castle was possessed of a haunting quiet. He
and SarahGirl crossed the no-mans-land outside the castle walls,
stood at the castle gates themselves before he realized they were
actually closed.

The castle gates? Closed?

Suddenly he understood. Roland and Malka
were on some errand out of the valley with most of the men.

“Hello,” he cried out. “Let me in. It’s me.
Morgin.”

He waited. Nothing happened at first, then a
shadowy head leaned out over the battlements and muttered something
like, “Aye, lord.” Then it disappeared.

Morgin waited longer. Then, with a
protesting creak the gates began to open. He waited until they had
swung a good distance on their hinges before riding through. He
spurred SarahGirl forward, and immediately his magic told him to
beware. He looked about carefully as he rode into the yard, noting
that all appeared as it should. But just as he approached the main
building a figure stepped from the doorway, and even standing in
the shadow of the overhanging balcony, his face hidden from view,
Morgin recognized the Tulalane, grinning in that unholy way of
his.

“Well, boy,” the wizard said. “You’re
back.”

Morgin gave no answer. He waited, stomach
churning, heart pounding, unsure of why he sensed such danger.

There came a scream, little NickoLot’s voice
from somewhere high in the castle, “Run, Morgin. It’s a trap.
They’re going to kill you.”

The gates began to creak shut. At the same
moment Valso stepped into view and said calmly, “She’s right,
Elhiyne. We are going to kill you. But slowly.”

Morgin pulled viciously on SarahGirl’s
reins, dug his spurs in and brought her about. He bent low in the
saddle, charged for the closing gate, heard an arrow hiss past his
ear. Another sliced through the air in front of him, a third
thudded into his saddlebag, then he shot through the narrowly
closing gates and into the clear. He charged down the road,
zigzagging from side to side as arrows rained down about him. In
the distance he could hear Valso screaming, “Kill him. Kill him.
Don’t let him get away. Kill him. Kill him.”

Morgin’s only chance lay in the cover of the
small woodland, but he must first cross the cleared no-mans-land
that formed part of the castle’s defenses, and there he was an open
target for Valso’s archers.

The first trees seemed just within reach,
approaching with nightmare slowness, when SarahGirl screamed and
collapsed beneath him at full charge. They both hit the road
rolling and bouncing, and Morgin barely missed being crushed by the
pounding weight of SarahGirl’s body.

Morgin came up running, dove into the brush
filled ditch at the side of the road. Arrows hissed and thudded
into the dirt all about him. He crawled, heedless of any stealth,
counting upon the approaching darkness to give him some protection.
He stumbled up the ditch on his hands and knees, stopping in the
brush to one side of where SarahGirl lay whimpering in the middle
of the road.

An arrow protruded from her back, two from
her side, another from her hip. While he watched another buried
itself in her shoulder. Blood poured from her nostrils. She lay
there coughing and whimpering, wheezing on the blood filling her
lungs, looking at Morgin with big, round, brown eyes. She could not
understand why he didn’t help her, why he did nothing about the
pain. There were tears in her eyes, and tears in his, as he thought
of the one thing he could do, the only thing left to him.

His sword was still sheathed and strapped to
her saddle. He could see it now, the hilt protruding from beneath
her. He stood, ran into the middle of the road and grasped it with
both hands. He tugged on it, but pinned beneath her weight it
didn’t move.

The rain of arrows began anew. He pulled
harder, lunged against it, and it came free with a jerk. Then, in
one continuous motion, he raised it high over his head, pulled
power, fed it into the blade and brought it down with all his might
on the back of SarahGirl’s neck. It bit into her spine, partially
severed her head, and she died painlessly then and there. And
Morgin, sobbing like a child, sprinted into the woods carrying
nothing more than his blooded sword.

~~~

BlakeDown et Penda, leader of Penda Clan,
stood at the battlements of castle Penda and looked fearfully upon
Malka and the Elhiyne armsmen. He would never acknowledge such fear
to those about him, for a leader of men must always appear strong,
but he was honest with himself about such things. Clan Elhiyne was
a force to be reckoned with, and if they sought war with Penda, a
force to be feared.

War? No. Certainly BlakeDown and Olivia were
opponents in almost all facets of the Lesser Council, and he made
no secret of the fact that he sought to usurp her position. But
war, open and unchecked? No. BlakeDown could not believe that
Olivia would be stupid enough to choose open war.

In the distance the Elhiyne force came
slowly into full view. As BlakeDown’s scouts had reported they were
not the largest force that Elhiyne could muster, and they brought
with them no siege engines. But they were nevertheless there, a
force of armed men violating Penda land.

The Elhiynes halted cautiously well out of
range of any bow shot from the castle walls. BlakeDown had two of
his scouts waiting on horseback just outside the castle with a flag
of truce. He nodded to them, and they rode out to the Elhiyne
force. The fact that they were not cut down immediately was a good
sign. They spoke briefly with Malka, then returned at a quick
trot.

“My lord,” the head scout said. “Lord Malka
agrees to your terms of parley. He will meet you alone, unarmed,
half way between here and his own forces.”

BlakeDown nodded. “You’ve done well.” He
turned to one of his squires. “Have the stable master prepare my
horse, and tell him to be quick about it.”

When Malka rode out to the intended
rendezvous BlakeDown marveled at the girth of the Elhiyne warrior.
Even at such a distance he was an imposing man, and BlakeDown knew
he would feel small beside him.

“Your horse is ready, my lord.”

BlakeDown decided to let Malka wait a
little. It would do him good to stew a while, to contemplate the
folly of an attack upon Penda. Only when Malka seemed on the verge
of leaving did BlakeDown climb down from Penda’s battlements, mount
his horse, and trot slowly out to the rendezvous.

“What is this?” Malka barked angrily. “You
treat an ally as if he were an enemy to be feared.”

BlakeDown showed no emotion. “I treat an
ally as an honored guest. But I must know first that he is truly an
ally, and not some enemy in disguise.”

Malka grew livid with anger. “An enemy in
disguise—what game do you play, Penda? You ask our aid, then scorn
us when we come?”

BlakeDown shook his head. “I did not ask
your aid.”

Malka’s brows furrowed and his eyes turned
coal black. “Did not ask—what lies are these? You sent a messenger,
with a tale of Decouix attack.”

BlakeDown tried not to show the keen
interest he felt in Malka’s unfolding story. “I sent no
messenger.”

“But he bore the seal of Penda inscribed
with magic upon the palm of his hand.”

BlakeDown shrugged. “Then the seal was a
forgery, the messenger an impostor.”

“Impossible,” Malka said, shaking his head.
“We checked the seal for authenticity.”

Again BlakeDown shrugged. “A talented
impostor, but nevertheless an impostor.”

“But who?” Malka demanded. “Why?”

BlakeDown took great pleasure in his next
words. “If I were you, Elhiyne, I would look to my rear.”

Sudden comprehension dawned on Malka’s face,
comprehension and fear. “By the
gods
!” he swore softly. “Our
home lies unprotected.” His eyes widened. He spun his horse about
and charged madly back to his men. He screamed angry words at them.
They reacted quickly, and soon were all racing away back toward
Elhiyne.

Poor Elhiynes, thought BlakeDown. Foolish
Elhiynes. So easily duped. They would be no match for the Decouixs,
never had been a match for Decouix machinations. The Decouixs were
subtle, sophisticated, like BlakeDown himself, and it was that
subtlety that would see them victorious over Elhiyne.

BlakeDown smiled. With Elhiyne out of the
way Penda would become ascendant in the Lesser Council. BlakeDown
would finally have the opportunity to show the Decouixs how worthy
an opponent he could be. Yes. They would learn to respect Penda,
and its leader.

He had a sudden thought. The coming conflict
between Decouix and Elhiyne would be bloody in the extreme. It
might be wise to bolster his border troops, perhaps even to close
the borders entirely. Otherwise the bloodletting might spill over
into Penda lands, and that would not do. No. That would not do at
all.

~~~

A cock crowed in some yard somewhere. A dog
barked in reply. The wind gusted cold and chill off the stubby
growth of the newly planted wheat fields below, and Morgin shivered
in the morning air. He had no cloak to keep him warm as he huddled
tightly within the shadow of the castle’s man-gate, waiting. The
sun would soon rise and the shadows, for a short while, would be
long and deep.

For two days now a group of Kulls had
searched the small woodland for him. Each morning they emerged from
the castle just after sunrise, carrying lances and pitchforks. They
moved through the woodland stabbing each clump of brush that might
offer hiding for a man. Sometimes Valso would come, sniff the air,
say, “I smell his magic. He’s still here,” and the Kulls would
search on, complaining, grumbling.

What had seemed an easy task, to search the
small woodland and flush Elhiyne game, had proven frustrating and
difficult. The wood was not so small, and hiding came naturally to
Morgin, and with his magic now rising upon a strong tide of power,
it was easy to elude them.

It soon became obvious that Valso was
waiting for something. He had seventy or eighty Kulls. Not enough
to take and hold the countryside, but enough to hold the castle for
a short while if it was secured from within. He definitely had
NickoLot as a prisoner, and probably all the Elhiyne women with
her, and with hostages of that kind, the Elhiyne men, when they
returned from wherever they were, dare not try to retake the castle
by frontal assault. But, Morgin had reasoned, if they had an ally
within, then stealth might yield some gain where force would reap
only blood.

To that end he had spent half the night on
his belly crossing the no-mans-land, one more shadow in the dark.
The only thing that might have given him away would have been quick
movement, so he’d cast a shadow about himself, then, on his elbows
and knees and stomach, he’d inched his way with painful slowness
across the cold, barren landscape.

It had taken hours to reach the castle’s
man-gate, a heavy wooden door recessed deeply into the outer wall.
Its dimensions had been carefully chosen: too narrow for two armed
men to walk through shoulder to shoulder, but large enough for a
single man leading an un-mounted horse. Morgin would have to pick
his moment carefully, and do it right the first time.

A gust of wind swirled through the gate’s
recess where he hid. His jaw muscles tightened as he tried to
control his shivering. He’d stood there waiting through the cold
night, unmoving for hours, and he wondered now if his muscles would
be too stiff to take the opportunity when it came.

The sun peered over the eastern lip of the
valley. The shadow in which he hid deepened, its edges grew sharp
and well defined. That suited him. He needed shadow, for he dare
not cast strong spells that Valso might sense. He waited until the
sun rose full, until the shadows were long and deep, then he cast a
light spell, a wind spell. He built it slowly, carefully, lest he
use too much power and alert those within. And then he waited,
holding his spell in check, allowing it to gust the wind just a
little here and there so that it wouldn’t grow beyond control.

When his moment came, it came quickly. His
only warning was a shout from within, then boot steps marching
across the castle yard. He tensed as he heard voices muffled by the
thick planking of the man-gate, then its bolt shot back with a
sharp crack.

Morgin moved. He brought his shadow with him
as he stepped out of the recess and pressed his back tightly
against the outer wall. If one of the guards at the battlements
above happened to look down now, he had little hope that his shadow
magic alone would conceal him sufficiently.

The gate slammed outward. He heard voices
and boot steps. A cloaked Kull walked past him, not looking back.
Morgin watched the halfman’s back as he stomped his feet and blew
breath into his cupped hands. It made a cloud of steam in the cold
morning air. Another Kull joined the first, then another, then a
large group, all looking outward to the woodland with their backs
to Morgin.

“It’s bloody cold,” one of them cursed.