Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (33 page)

The impact batted him into the ditch at the
side of the road. The fighting continued without him as more
Elhiyne armsmen arrived with every second. The predawn night filled
with the screams of dying men and the clash of arms. Elhiyne
warriors on mounted steeds came from every direction, and they cut
the fleeing Kulls down without mercy.

~~~

As a faint glow on the horizon hinted at the
coming dawn, a lone figure moved cautiously through the darkness of
the castle yard, lurking in the shadows beneath the parapets,
advancing steadily toward the castle’s main gates. In the distance
the triumphant cries of Elhiyne warriors pierced the night as they
hunted down the last of the Kulls, while in the yard the only
sounds were the occasional moan of a wounded clansman, or a grunt
as a disabled Kull received the death stroke.

Valso moved hastily, conscious that he must
be well away before the Elhiynes managed to restore order. He must
get past the guard at the gates and into the open fields beyond. At
least the gates and the portcullis were open, and would not close
soon. MichaelOff, damn his soul, had done considerable damage to
the mechanism that ruled their closing. They were open, and only a
single guard stood in Valso’s way.

Valso edged closer. He clutched his dagger
in one hand and shielded it form view with the other, for it glowed
in the dark with a magic more deadly than any earthly venom. His
heart beat rapidly in anticipation of the kill, though the erection
in his pants distracted him badly. He concentrated on the mechanics
of killing the guard, tried not to think of the death itself,
sweet, glorious death. But as he thought of the kill his excitement
grew, until he literally shook with murderous desire. He struggled
against it, knowing that he must be swift, denying himself the
pleasure of tearing the guard limb from limb in an orgy of
death.

When the opportunity came, he moved. The
knife flashed through the night and the guard died instantly. The
magical poison Valso had conjured worked so swiftly the guard
uttered not the slightest sound. Valso paused over the body,
savoring the thrill of death, disappointed only by its swiftness.
He looked away, though he had to struggle to do so. He scanned the
castle yard quickly to confirm that he remained undiscovered, then
turned and vanished into the night.

The skeleton king ambled up the road toward
Castle Elhiyne like a frail, old man, using the magnificent, rune
inlaid sword as a cane. About him scampered a small child, dressed
in an array of filthy and torn rags. False dawn had arrived, the
sun still hidden behind the mountains to the east, barely throwing
enough light across the landscape to dispel the night. The ditch by
the side of the road was filled with a thick mist that easily hid
anything within it.

The skeleton king stopped at a certain spot
and looked down at the mist-filled ditch. To no one in particular
he said, “He’s here.”

He turned to the rag-draped child. “Rat. Go
find his sword.”

The small child turned unerringly to one
side, as if there was no question in his mind where to find the
battered old blade. He disappeared into the mist, then reappeared a
moment later, dragging the blade behind him across the road, for it
was clearly too heavy for him to lift.

As he approached, the skeleton king reached
down, lifted the sword by its hilt, then eased himself gingerly
down into the mist of the ditch. He knelt and reached down into the
mist, said, “Yes, he’s here,” then laid the sword down
carefully.

He stood, turned to the small child. “Here,
Rat, help an old man out of this ditch.”

With the child helping, he climbed awkwardly
out of the ditch, then paused over SarahGirl’s carcass, still lying
in the middle of the road and beginning to bloat. The skeleton king
shook his head. “He needs a new mount.”

He turned to the child. “Come, Rat. We’ll
have to get him a new mount.”

He turned to the castle, ambled toward its
damaged gates with the painful gait of an old man. With the child
scampering in his wake he said over his shoulder, “Yes, a new
mount. A special mount. One equal to the ordeal that awaits
him.”

~~~

Morgin became conscious first of a demanding
throb in the back of his head, then of his arm, twisted painfully
at an odd angle beneath him. He rolled off the arm carefully,
grimaced as a sharp pain shot through his elbow and shoulder. He
gasped, lay on his back until the pain dissipated, and when it was
bearable a quick examination by touch told him his arm wasn’t
broken.

He opened his eyes, could see nothing but a
strange, white mist that enveloped him. He wondered for a moment if
he had died and gone to some afterlife, but then he sat up and his
head rose above the mist that filled the ditch. He saw the sun
rising over the mountains to the east and realized it was just
after dawn, and the mist that surrounded him lay still and calm in
the quiet of the cold spring morning. He scanned his surroundings
carefully; dead Kulls were strewn about like broken dolls discarded
by a petulant child. He looked for his kinsmen among the dead, but
the Elhiynes had had the advantage of charging cavalry against foot
soldiers, and only Kulls littered the landscape.

He found something lying hidden within the
mist at his side, and even before he had it lifted above the
swirling gray haze his hand told him it was his sword. He shivered
in the cold, clutched the hilt of his sword, climbed slowly to his
feet, stood knee deep in mist, and swayed for a moment unsteadily.
He didn’t think he’d been unconscious for more than a few hours,
but during that time the damp cold had worked its way deep into his
bones. He looked down at himself, covered from head to foot in a
brown layer of dried and caked blood, dusted with the dirt of the
castle yard, splattered with mud from the ditch, all mingling with
the mixed sweats of exertion and fear.

He climbed stiffly out of the ditch, up onto
the dirt road. He backtracked up the road a short distance to poor
SarahGirl’s carcass, now stiff and lifeless. It was an effort to
pull his sheath from beneath her weight, but he managed it. He
wiped his sword on his sleeve, sheathed it, turned toward the
castle and limped unevenly toward its open gates.

“Halt and identify yourself,” someone
shouted from the battlements above, “or die where you stand.”

Morgin was careful not to move. “I am Morgin
ye AethonLaw et Elhiyne, son of Roland and AnnaRail.”

There was a muffled conference above. “Wait
there,” the voice on the parapets shouted. “And move not a
muscle.”

Morgin stood shivering in the cold dawn air.
After a time the voice shouted, “All right. Come forward. But move
slowly, and if you love life keep your hand away from the hilt of
that sword.”

Morgin did as he was told, careful not to
make any quick movements as he walked through the gates. He was
greeted by a dozen men armed with crossbows. More than a few of
them quivered with taut nerves and tired muscles.

Among them stood Avis. “It’s Lord Morgin,
all right,” he said. He stepped forward, bowed slightly. The bowmen
hesitated until he turned back to them. “There is no doubt. I’ve
known him since he was a child.”

With that the crowd of bowmen dissipated,
leaving Morgin and Avis suddenly alone. Morgin saw more dead Kulls
strewn about the castle yard, with an occasional corpse
respectfully covered by a blanket and marked with a bit of Elhiyne
red.

“Who were the strange bowmen?” Morgin
asked.

“They’re armsmen from the west,” Avis said,
“sent by March Lord Alcoa to aid us.”

“What of MichaelOff?”

The old servant bowed his head sadly. “I’m
sorry, my lord. Lord MichaelOff is dead.”

The words did not sting as deeply as Morgin
had expected, for he had known MichaelOff’s fate, but merely hoped
that the answer might be different.

“My lord,” Avis said. “The Lady Olivia
commanded me to wait here for your arrival. She sends instructions
that you are to join her immediately in the Hall of Wills.”

The Hall of Wills was crowded beyond
capacity. Many hovered anxiously in the corridors that surrounded
it, mostly strangers among whom Morgin saw only a few familiar
faces. He elbowed his way delicately past the crowd at the
entrance, received several unhappy glances. He took a position
against the wall just within the Hall, where he watched Olivia,
seated on her throne, speaking to AnnaRail, who stood before her in
the only clear spot in the room.

“You have been in contact with Eglahan?” the
old witch asked.

“Yes, mother.”

“And?”

“And,” AnnaRail continued, “he reports that
he can no longer delay Illalla and his army. He’s done his best to
harass and harry him, to slow him, but Illalla moves ever on, ever
south. Eglahan estimates they will battle for Yestmark as the sun
rises tomorrow.”

“And what are Eglahan’s prospects for
victory?”

AnnaRail shook her head. “Poor at best. He
has six hundred men of his own, and he will soon have the six
hundred we’ve sent him, and yet he is still outnumbered ten to one.
It is not a matter of winning or losing, merely of how long they
can fight before they must yield.”

“And how long can he hold?”

“One day of battle. Two if luck is with
him.”

Something drew Morgin’s eyes to Malka, who
sat woodenly beside Olivia, his left arm nothing but a bandaged
stump, missing above the elbow. Then he looked more closely and
realized that Malka’s eyes were not focused, that his skin
reflected a chalky white pallor.

“Grandson.” Olivia’s voice cut across the
room like a knife. Morgin turned to her, found her now looking
directly at him.

“So you have chosen to join us,” she said.
“Come. Step forward where I can see you better.”

An aisle parted in the crowd before Morgin.
He stepped forward warily, for he well knew that tone of voice, and
it always bode ill.

She spoke sharply, almost spitting her
words. “How was your stay in the forest?”

“It was restful,” Morgin said, thinking of
his sojourn in the foothills of the Worshipers, and the small camp
he had occupied for many days.

“Restful? With Kulls sniffing about at all
hours? But then you always were good at hiding.” For a moment he
thought that was all she would say, but then as an afterthought she
snarled, “. . . and running.”

As always her meaning eluded him. Morgin
said, “There seems to be a misunderstanding—”

“Do you deny running from Valso?”

“No. I—”

“Do you deny hiding in the forest to save
your precious hide?”

“No. But I—”

“Silence, coward,” she screamed. “You’re not
fit to call yourself of Elhiyne. If the Tulalane were alive I would
not insult him by hanging the both of you from the same
gallows.”

Morgin tried to say something. “But
MichaelOff and I—”

“MichaelOff died at the gates while you hid
in the woodland to save your own life. Don’t even speak his name,
coward.”

Roland stepped out of the crowd. “Mother,
please!”

“Silence,” she screamed. “This time I will
stand for no interference. I command it.” Her power sparked
fearfully, and into the silence she said, “For your cowardice I
banish you from Elhiyne. You have the burning of one small candle
to be gone from these walls and this valley. If you are not, I will
order your death myself. And after that, any man who brings me your
head will be handsomely rewarded. Now get out of my sight.”

There was no arguing with her. He considered
defending himself but knew it would be useless, so he turned about
silently and walked from the room. He held his head high, tried not
to hurry, tried not to appear the cowardly mongrel running with his
tail between his legs. But he failed, he knew, failed
miserably.

Avis met him in the hall. “My lord. I was
instructed to hold a horse ready for your departure. It’s saddled
and fully provisioned.”

“Well you can hold it a little longer,”
Morgin growled, elbowed Avis aside and continued on.

“My lord?”

“Yes,” Morgin snarled. He stopped, turned
and demanded, “What do you want?”

“I ah . . .” The old servant
faltered. “I just wanted to tell you, my lord, that I don’t believe
you’re a coward.”

Morgin froze with an angry retort on his
lips, and he remembered then that throughout his life the old
servant had never borne him any malice. “Thank you, Avis. Thank
you. It’s good to know that.”

But Avis’ reassurances helped little as
Morgin made his lonely way through the crowded castle. He had been
branded a coward, publicly, by his own grandmother, and sentenced
to death. Such news would travel throughout the clan almost
instantly, and it would take only a little longer to pass every ear
in the tribe. He was fair game for any man with the inclination to
take him on.

Morgin was not surprised to find his
quarters ransacked, that what few belongings he had were strewn
haphazardly about the room. Most of his clothing had been ripped
and torn, but by carefully searching he managed to find a clean
blouse, and breeches that weren’t too badly damaged.

The bathhouse was empty. He found one of the
tubs half filled with water, tested it with a finger. It was near
freezing. He stripped off his clothing and climbed in with a gasp.
The water quickly turned brown from the filth that covered his face
and arms. He did what he could to remove the grime and the dried
blood.

He had nothing better at hand so he used his
dirty blouse to dry off. He threw on the clean breeches and blouse,
pulled on his boots, tucked the breeches in just below the knees.
He threw the leather jerkin he’d been wearing into what remained of
the dirty bath water, made a quick job of cleaning it. He put it
on, was in the process of lacing it up, when Marjinell entered the
bathhouse, marched angrily across the stone floor and took a
position directly in front of him.