Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (42 page)

But he didn’t fear bad dreams. Bad dreams
merely disturbed one’s sleep, and were over upon waking. What he
feared was the repetition, the same dream returning again and
again, each time more vivid than the last, until the line that
separated reality and dream became gray and indistinct. It was the
total dissolution of that line that he most feared, for when he
could no longer distinguish between reality and dream, madness
would be his fate, though sometimes, as now, he almost longed to
embrace that madness and be done with it.

He gave up on sleep, opened his eyes and sat
up. He stood, walked to the edge of the stream, thinking of the
cold water there and how it would feel good to splash some on his
face. He knelt down near a calm pool, cupped his hands, bent to
retrieve the water, and as he did so he looked for his reflection
there, but all he saw was a shadow.

His hands trembled. He sensed his power
flowing about him, growing ever stronger with each passing hour,
each passing day, as if it was building to some arcane crescendo.
Perhaps that came from using it almost continuously now, day and
night. Not even Tulellcoe would attempt some of the spells he cast
now as a matter of course. And yet, with all that practice, his
control was slipping relentlessly away, much like the water that
drained slowly through his fingers no matter how tightly he cupped
his hands.

He wondered for a moment if it was the
killing. Perhaps being the instrument of so much death was
affecting his contact with the netherworld. Of late, death had
become an integral part of his life.

He splashed water on his face and looked
again at his image in the pool. He concentrated, and slowly the
shadows dissipated, and the scars of his childhood became visible,
though time and AnnaRail’s healing magic had made them faint and
indistinct.

“Morgin, lad,” France called. “The scouts
are returning.”

“I’m coming,” Morgin called back, but he
took one last look at his reflection in the water. France had
startled him and broken his concentration, and the shadows that
swirled about his face had returned. Again he banished them, though
each time he found it harder to do so.

When he walked into the camp the scouts had
already arrived. Their horses were badly lathered and they
themselves were breathing heavily. Packwill faced Tulellcoe and
spoke rapidly. “Salula has returned from Sa’umbra, my lord, and
brought Prince Valso with him. Then Salula left the main column
with twice twelve twelves of Kulls at his back. They’re riding
light; probably journeycake, water, and a blanket, and they’re
riding hard, my lord, straight for us.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not much, my lord. They’re not far behind
us.”

The Balenda laid a hand gently on
Tulellcoe’s shoulder. “Do we fight, my lord, or run?”

Tulellcoe spoke to Packwill. “Find us a good
place for an ambush, bows and arrows only. And make sure we’ve got
a good out for a quick retreat.”

To the Balenda he said, “First we fight,
Cort, then we run.”

~~~

Morgin waited with the rest of them hidden
well within the trees. He was far from comfortable, trying to
suppress his magic, fearful that Salula would sense him. He watched
the Kulls work their way slowly down the steep slope, Salula
foremost among them. They didn’t chatter and talk while they rode
as ordinary men might, but held to a dark and foreboding silence.
They were like gray black shadows in the sun: stark, deadly,
malevolent. Morgin had never feared shadow before, but
these . . . they were not true shadow. Not true
shadow.

They had hoped that Salula and his Kulls
would come in haste, that they would charge down the slope, over
the uneven ground at its bottom, and into the trees where the
Elhiynes waited. But Salula was no fool, and his scouts were good.
They had detected something at the top of the slope that made them
wary, so they came now with caution.

Salula halted at the bottom of the hill. He
stood high in his stirrups and scanned the terrain before him.
Morgin could see nothing of his face, but imagined the smile that
formed there, like the smile he’d seen the night Salula had put the
lash to his back.

“ShadowLord,” Salula called. His voice, even
when raised to a shout, was a low growl. “I am told you are called
ShadowLord, enemy of my king. Well your shadows will not hide you
from me, ShadowLord. I have come for you, ShadowLord. For you
alone. I will have you, ShadowLord, and these other men about you
cannot save you. They can die before you and beside you, but you I
will have, ShadowLord. You I will devour.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Tulellcoe hissed.

“Listen to me, ShadowLord,” Salula called.
“You can at least save your men. Come forth and fight me now, in
single combat, and your men will go free. I give you my word.”

“He lies,” Cort snarled hatefully. “Don’t
believe him. There’s no honor in that one.”

“Answer me, ShadowLord.”

Tulellcoe turned to Packwill. “Is he within
bow shot?”

The scout shook his head. “No, my lord.”

Tulellcoe nodded. “Then this ambush has no
hope of success. Pass the word to slip away quietly. We’ll try
again, but at another time and place.”

~~~

Morgin crept up to the edge of the cliff and
peered cautiously over its lip. Far below the stillness of the
valley floor was unbroken by any movement.

“Well?” JohnEngine asked. “What do you
see?”

“Nothing,” Morgin said.

“Do you think we’ve lost them?”

Morgin stared into the distance. “I hope
so,” he said. “We certainly hit them hard enough this morning.”

Cort dropped down beside him. She too stared
off into the distance. “Aye,” she said. “Salula walked right into
that one. We hurt him badly.” There was a smile on her lips. She
enjoyed killing Kulls.

Standing behind them, Tulellcoe said
unhappily, “We lost nine men this morning. How many do you think
Salula lost?”

“Thirty,” France said flatly. “Maybe
forty.”

“And yet he’s winning,” Tulellcoe said.
“Because he can afford to lose thirty or forty men, and we can’t
afford to lose one.”

Val shrugged. “No doubt that’s his strategy.
He’ll hound us until he catches us. You’ve cost Illalla dearly,
Morgin, in men and wagons and time. But mostly you’ve cost him his
pride. A few hundred Kulls is a small price to pay for your
head.”

“I think we’ve lost them,” the Balenda
said.

“Perhaps for the moment,” Tulellcoe said.
“But Val’s right. Salula won’t give up until we’re all dead.”

Morgin rolled onto his back, closed his
eyes, rubbed them gently with his fingertips, noticed the shadows
fluttering about his hands. It took a real effort of will to banish
them. Sleep! None of them had slept for two days, and Morgin hadn’t
truly slept for weeks. He considered that perhaps they should stand
now and fight, while they still had the strength to die with honor.
But then, as Cort had said—and they all wanted to believe
her—perhaps they had lost the Kulls. Perhaps it was over now.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Val said,
“Look there. There they are.”

Morgin opened his eyes and rolled back onto
his stomach. He had to search for several seconds, but he finally
located them: tiny black riders moving slowly across the valley
floor.

The rider in the lead stopped, and those
following halted behind him. At that distance it was impossible to
be certain, but Morgin felt sure it was Salula, and the halfman
seemed to look directly at them, as if he knew they were crouched
high above, watching him. Again Morgin imagined a smile forming on
that rock hard face, then the lead rider threw his head back, and a
strange sound echoed off the walls of the valley. Only slowly did
they recognize it as growling, inhuman laughter.

Morgin rolled again onto his back and looked
at his comrades. “I should probably take him at his word and fight
him in single combat.”

“No,” Cort shouted.

“Absolutely not,” JohnEngine said.

Val shook his head.

Tulellcoe spoke calmly and evenly. “Nephew.
If you fight Salula then I fight by your side, with or without your
permission.”

France said only, “And I.”

Morgin rolled onto his stomach again. “Those
Kulls will have to follow the same trail as we. It’s the only way
up out of that valley, and it’s steep. It would be nice if we could
arrange some sort of surprise. A landslide perhaps. With a few
arrows thrown in for good measure.”

~~~

Up ahead Tulellcoe reined his horse to a
stop. Morgin pulled Mortiss up beside him and wiped a dirty sleeve
across his brow. Tulellcoe looked at him with an unasked question
on his face.

Morgin didn’t have to concentrate, for
Salula’s hatred pulled at him constantly now. “They’re almost on
top of us,” he said. “If we stop now, we must fight.”

Tulellcoe nodded. “The men and horses are
exhausted. Better to fight now than when our strength is completely
gone.”

Morgin looked at the troop. They were all
gaunt and haggard; three days now without rest or sleep, three days
with Salula and his halfmen dogging them relentlessly, and always
closer. The landslide had worked well, killing many Kulls, but when
the dust had cleared Salula was still there. He and his Kulls
regrouped and they continued their pursuit, leaving their dead
behind unburied.

Morgin took a quick head count. There were
thirty of them remaining, and Salula had eighty or so.
It is
time to die
, he thought.

They were in a small, rocky ravine with
steep slopes arising on both sides. “This looks like a good place
for it,” Tulellcoe said. “We’ll ride ahead then split up into two
groups. I’ll lead one, and you, Morgin, will lead the other. We’ll
circle back on both sides and hit them here.”

Tulellcoe spun his horse about in the ravine
and led them up the trail a good distance before reining in. “Split
up here,” he shouted, then spurred his horse off the trail. Morgin
spurred Mortiss off the other side.

In the trees the going was slow. It took
time to double back and get into position, time that Morgin feared
they could not afford. But they made it with only seconds to spare
before two Kull trackers appeared in the ravine below. Morgin held
his breath and prayed that no one would give them away.

The trackers stopped in the middle of the
ravine where Tulellcoe had stopped earlier, and they paid close
attention to the tracks there. Moments later Salula arrived. He
stopped to confer with them, and behind him, stretched out in a
long line that led down the trail and out of the ravine, came the
rest of the halfmen.

This was the closest Morgin had ever come to
Salula in broad daylight. His face could have been chiseled from
stone for all the expression it held, a face that had long ago
forgotten how to look human. But Morgin would always remember
Salula best by firelight, his face splitting into a pleased grimace
as he brought the lash down one more time.

Tulellcoe’s shout from across the ravine was
their signal. Morgin spurred Mortiss viciously, shouted at the top
of his lungs and charged down the side of the ravine headed
straight for Salula. The halfman looked up, surprised, drew his
sword in an instant and met Morgin’s charge squarely. Their swords
crashed together once, and as Morgin charged past the Kull captain
he glimpsed again Salula’s leering smile. The ravine filled quickly
with men and halfman hacking away at one another.

Morgin turned Mortiss in the midst of the
melee and cut at anything in gray-black. Salula came at him; their
swords met again; both horses slammed against one another and
Mortiss went down.

Morgin hit the ground hard, took the fall
rolling and jumped to his feet. He ducked beneath a Kull saber,
grabbed Mortiss’ saddle horn and climbed back into the saddle. He
thrust out instinctively, buried his sword in a halfman’s chest.
Salula came out of nowhere. His sword whistled past Morgin’s ear
and again they separated.

Val went down nearby. Morgin saw Cort, on
her feet without a horse, running to his aid. He spurred Mortiss
forward to intercept a Kull trying to ride her down. He swung and
his sword bit into the Kull’s side, then he locked swords with
another Kull, hilt to hilt. They twisted against one another until
he raised a boot and kicked the Kull in the side. The halfman
slashed downward and Morgin screamed as the sword cut deeply into
his thigh.

Suddenly the air filled with the
unmistakable hiss of arrows in flight. The Kull Morgin faced
slumped forward in his saddle, a startled look on his face, a long
shaft protruding from his back. More arrows filled the ravine. More
Kulls went down. Someone screamed, “Morgin, behind you.”

He turned in his saddle just in time to see
the glint of steel as it cut toward his face. He ducked and threw
his own sword out awkwardly. The two blades rang loudly in his ear,
and Salula laughed as he charged past.

Salula spun about and charged at him again.
The Kull cut a straight line toward him, intending to ram Morgin’s
horse with his own. Mortiss was smaller than Salula’s mount. They
both knew that she would go down again, and that Morgin, with a
fiery wound in his thigh, would find it impossible to remount. With
no other choice, like the rest of his Elhiyne comrades, he spurred
Mortiss about and fled into the forest. Salula laughed loudly and
followed.

Morgin dodged around several trees, spun
Mortiss in her tracks, then charged back toward Salula. The Kull
continued his own charge and as they passed at full gallop their
swords crashed together once.

Morgin pulled back almost viciously on
Mortiss’ reins. He spun her about, dodged around a tree and charged
again at Salula. Again their swords rang together. Over and over
they charged at one another in a test of speed and strength and
agility, twisting and turning among the trees in the forest. Morgin
tried always to keep at least one tree between them. It forced them
both to dodge at the last moment before their swords met, and that
gave Mortiss some advantage, for she was far lighter and more agile
than the heavier Kull mount. But with each charge Morgin’s arm grew
more weary, and the sounds of battle in the ravine grew fainter.
There seemed to be a great weight upon his shoulders, and he could
not banish the fatigue that pulled at his will. Each time they met
Morgin’s arm weakened further, and Salula’s sword struck closer.
And each time they met Salula’s grin broadened.