Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (32 page)

Morgin saw a face, kicked it. He saw an arm,
chopped it. He parried a stroke from a Kull saber, ducked beneath
another as a heavy boot crashed into his ribs. He gasped, stumbled
beneath a sword stroke, parried the next one clumsily. He stepped
away from it off balance, falling, knowing that once down he would
not again rise. He watched helplessly as a Kull saber descended
toward his face, knowing he was about to die. But then his own
sword leapt suddenly to meet the Kull’s with a crash of sparks, and
Morgin, holding desperately to its hilt with both hands, was lifted
miraculously to his feet.

He stood there for a moment in stunned
disbelief, staring at the blade as it vibrated in his hands. It
glowed and hummed with power, and moved with a strength of its own.
It pulled him after it and deflected a Kull’s saber with such force
that the halfman’s guard fell open, then it cut him in two. Morgin
tried to control it, but the sword fought on, heedless of his
efforts, dragging him along helplessly behind it. He fought with
all of his strength just to hold on, for it cut with a might far
beyond any he could command. The battle became a rout. The few
Kulls that remained retreated in confusion, but their only escape
led back into the sanctum, and there they were cornered.

The sword pulled Morgin in after them, and
he felt as if he were holding onto the tail of a wild animal mad
with bloodlust. His arms ached, and he feared that if he lost hold
of the sword, it would turn upon him to continue its butchery. The
Kulls fought back desperately, but the sword cut them to pieces,
hacking, chopping, dismembering, throwing Morgin from side to side
as if he were no more than a decorative tassel tied to its hilt.
Then his grip failed, and for an instant he spun crazily through
the air before he slammed up hard against a stone wall and lost
consciousness.

~~~

Gradually his head stopped spinning. He lay
on something that felt like a dead Kull. He opened his eyes and saw
red, red everywhere. Everything about him seemed drenched in red
blood.

A deep, base hum filled his ears, flooding
the room with a vibration that could be felt as well as heard. He
raised a hand to shield his eyes from an intense red light in the
center of the sanctum. But then, as if responding to his movements
the light softened. He peered carefully through slitted fingers and
was not surprised to see his sword floating unsupported well above
the floor, its point aimed toward the heavens. It hummed, vibrated,
pulsed with power, and it hovered, waiting for him to move.

He was careful to move slowly as he climbed
to his feet. The floor was slippery with blood, and littered with
parts of Kulls. He tried to work his way around the edge of the
room toward the entrance, staying well clear of the sword and close
to the wall. But as he approached the portal the sword moved,
blocking his path. He tried moving around to the other side, and it
did the same. It seemed not to threaten him; it merely floated in
front of his face, waiting.

He could think of nothing better to do so he
reached out and gingerly wrapped his fingers about the hilt. He
stood for a moment, waiting for something to happen, but nothing
did. He pulled on it, and it resisted. He pulled harder, and it
resisted harder. He pulled with all his might, almost lifting his
feet off the floor, and then it suddenly let go, sending him
sprawling among the carnage.

He lay there for a moment in complete
darkness. The sword had gone silent and its light had vanished. In
his hand it seemed now to be a steel sword and nothing more.

~~~

“MichaelOff,” Morgin hissed. “It’s me.
Morgin.”

MichaelOff relaxed. He lowered the
broadsword. “I heard the commotion and feared you’d been
discovered.”

“No,” Morgin said. “I’m safe. But I had to
kill the Tulalane and some Kulls. The gates can no longer wait for
dawn. We must move now, while there’s still confusion. Can you make
my father aware?”

MichaelOff spoke hesitantly, “I think so.
I’ve been concentrating on Roland’s image in my thoughts since I
first heard cries from the castle proper. I’ve been trying to
convey a sense of urgency.”

“Does he know, then?” Morgin asked. “Will
they be ready with so little warning?”

“I can answer neither question. The magical
bond that connects us is tenuous at best.”

Morgin hesitated, tempted to abandon their
quest and seek refuge in the old castle, perhaps open the gates at
another time, but he realized that would be foolish. “We’ll have to
assume he understands.” He took MichaelOff’s hand and started for
the gatehouse.

They moved hastily through the castle night,
aware that once the general confusion dissipated there would be
little chance of succeeding. MichaelOff stayed close, using his
magic to anticipate Morgin’s moves while Morgin tried to keep them
both enveloped in shadow. Earlier they had decided upon two simple
signals. If Morgin squeezed MichaelOff’s hand forcefully, it was a
sign to freeze in place and be still, to wait until the next
squeeze before continuing. The other signal was even less
complicated. If they were discovered, surrounded by Kulls with no
escape, Morgin would give the word, they would stand back to back,
and die fighting together as kinsmen, though MichaelOff made Morgin
promise he would be certain neither of them was taken alive.
Luckily that was never called for, although Morgin found it
necessary to use the first signal several times before they reached
the gatehouse.

There were three guards in the small room
that housed the wheel that pulled the chains that controlled the
opening and closing of the main gates and the portcullis. Two stood
peering out a window while the third sat watching the entrance
through which Morgin must pass. Shouts and cries and the sounds of
pandemonium echoed up from the castle proper. One of the Kulls
standing at the window said, “Wonder what all the ruckus is
about?”

The other answered, “Bet one of them Elhiyne
whores tried to kill Valso again.”

The one seated said, “More likely the
Tulalane tried to kill him. There’s bad magic between those
two.”

The seated Kull looked toward the two at the
window. Morgin took that opportunity to slip through the doorway
and into a shadow within. “Aye,” one of the two at the window said.
“One of those two will kill the other before this is done.”

Morgin worked his way along the wall to a
point behind the seated Kull. It was a small room, and from there
he could easily reach all three with a step and swing of his sword.
But he knew he couldn’t kill them all quickly enough to prevent an
outcry. Standing there undecided, his sword made the decision for
him. Without warning it leapt in his hand, left him no choice but
to follow, and before he realized what had happened, all three lay
dead at his feet.

He wasted no time pondering dead Kulls. He
retrieved MichaelOff from the hallway, closed the door to the room,
upturned a small table and wedged it tightly beneath the door
handle. It would not hold against a determined effort, but it might
buy them a few precious moments when most needed. MichaelOff, long
familiar with the room, had found the gate wheel by touch and stood
now with his hands upon it. Luckily, the portcullis was already up,
so the gates were their only obstacle.

Morgin stepped up to the small window and
peered out at the yard below. They were on the second floor just
above the porch roof. The yard was empty. The only sounds to be
heard were muffled cries coming from within the castle proper,
probably a response to the carnage he’d left in the sanctum. At
least that appeared to have provided a diversion of sorts.

He climbed gingerly out onto the roof tiles,
careful to make no sound lest there be a guard on the porch below.
He held tightly to the windowsill and whispered to MichaelOff,
“Wait one hundred beats of your heart, then open the gates as fast
as you can.”

MichaelOff left the wheel, groped his way to
the window. He took Morgin’s hand and placed it against his breast.
“If your heart beats like mine this night, then the count of one
hundred will come all too soon.”

MichaelOff’s heart pounded a staccato beat
of adrenaline and fear against Morgin’s hand. “Three hundred beats
then,” Morgin said.

MichaelOff held onto Morgin’s hand tightly
and for a moment would not release it. “Cousin,” he said. He
wrinkled his brow, turned his head as if to sense a distant sound
beyond Morgin’s hearing. “I think we’ll not meet again, Morgin, not
in this life, not in peace.”

“Don’t speak that way,” Morgin hissed.
“We’ll protect each other.”

“Yes,” MichaelOff agreed. “We will defeat
the Decouixs. And if I am lucky, I will die now, fighting like a
man. I could not bear to spend the rest of my life led around like
a blind pet on a leash, only half a man.”

“Promise me you’ll do nothing foolish.”

MichaelOff smiled. “Don’t worry, little
cousin.” He leaned forward and kissed Morgin gently on the cheek.
“Fare you well, Morgin. And guard your back.”

“Fare you well,” Morgin said. He turned,
tiptoed along the roof tiles, counting his own heart beats and
wiping tears from his eyes. He reached the count of one hundred as
he came to the end of the porch roof. He dropped to the ground
below, stepped into a shadow and froze. There came no cry, no
alarm, no call to arms.

He moved within the shadows at the edge of
the yard, working his way slowly toward the main gates. All
remained still and quiet. He reached the count of two hundred just
as he stepped up to the gates. He scanned the castle yard
cautiously, saw no one there. He stuck the tip of his sword in the
dirt, grasped the pegs protruding from the heavy wooden beam that
locked the gates, and pulled. To move the massive beam alone took
all his strength, and he grunted with the effort, but the beam slid
heavily to one side.

“You’re so predictable,” Valso said.

In one motion Morgin grabbed his sword and
spun about. He and Valso stood facing one another surrounded by
Kulls. Valso grinned happily. “So you would open the gates, would
you?”

Morgin’s heart climbed up into his throat.
He’d lost count of its beats. There were at least twenty Kulls, far
more than he’d fought in the sanctum. He waited to feel the
vibration in the sword’s hilt, to hear the hum of its power, but in
his hands it remained no more than a piece of steel.

“Well,” Valso said. “Now that you’ve
unlocked the gates, you must gain the gatehouse. Or do you expect
the gates to open themselves?”

At that moment the gates creaked loudly as
they began to swing open. Surprised, Valso turned suddenly to look
toward the gatehouse, and his Kulls turned to follow his gaze.
Morgin seized the moment, raised his sword high, screamed at the
top of his lungs, and with nowhere else to go, charged at
Valso.

A Kull saber got in his way. He sidestepped,
missed Valso completely, crashed into a Kull, ricocheted off the
halfman and into another. He and several of them sprawled into the
dust of the yard. He rolled out of the confusion, concentrated all
of his power into a shadow spell, sprang to his feet and slipped
into the shadows of the porch.

“Where is he?” a Kull shouted.

“Forget him,” Valso screamed. “To the
gatehouse. And quickly.”

The Kulls obeyed instantly, ran for the
stairs that led to the parapets. But Morgin stepped from a nearby
shadow and cut down the first to arrive without warning, then
stepped back into another shadow. The next, only an instant behind,
took Morgin’s second thrust in the throat. Morgin changed shadows,
but now warned, the third Kull stopped several paces short of any
shadows near the stairs. He crouched low, looked eagerly from side
to side, but by that time Morgin had melted back into the shadows
and was nowhere to be seen.

Valso stood cockily in the center of the
yard. He sniffed the air like a dog, then chose a shadow and
pointed a finger. Lightning arced outward from his hand, struck
Morgin squarely in the face. He staggered, almost lost
consciousness, alive only by virtue of his own power. But Valso’s
lightning struck again, and his world narrowed to a hazy vision of
blurred shapes as he stumbled into the center of the yard swinging
his sword blindly.

“Kill him quickly,” Valso shouted, “and be
done with him. Then to the gatehouse.”

The Kulls closed in. Morgin back-stepped
desperately, bracing himself for the sword cut that would take his
life. But MichaelOff’s bloodcurdling shout stopped them all.
“Decouix,” he screamed from high above on the porch roof, having
crawled out through the gatehouse window. He gripped the great
broadsword with both hands and stood alight with power, his
deathmagic glowing like a beacon in the night. “Now you die,” he
screamed, and jumped from the roof. He landed in the midst of the
Kulls, his eyes glowing pits of power, the sword in his hands
singing a song of death.

Morgin tried to fight his way toward him to
help, but there were too many Kull sabers blocking his way. He side
stepped a thrust, back-stepped, swung his sword through a flat arc,
and watched the Kulls cut MichaelOff down. MichaelOff fought
without quarter, but little by little they cut him to pieces, and
he died in the castle yard as he had chosen to die, while the
battle forced Morgin slowly back through the open gates of Elhiyne
and out onto the road.

He heard hoof beats on the road behind him.
He ducked beneath a Kull saber, turned, ducked beneath an Elhiyne
saber wielded by a rider on a charging mount. He tried to scream
that he was not some Kull, but the screams of battle were louder.
He ducked beneath another Elhiyne saber, then straightened up in
the path of a charging steed. He had one long instant in which to
realize it was not humanly possible to evade the animal, then the
world disappeared in a blinding collision, and unconsciousness took
him.