Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (45 page)

Late that evening Jerst invited Tulellcoe to
attend a council. They had all been warned by Val to expect
something of that nature, for it was customary among the Benesh’ere
for two leaders to meet and exchange words over a fire. The custom
called for each leader to bring two of his lieutenants; Tulellcoe
chose Val for his knowledge of the Benesh’ere, and Morgin for his
notoriety as the ShadowLord and a killer of many Kulls. It was
Tulellcoe’s hope to enlist the aid of four thousand Benesh’ere, for
then there might be a chance against Illalla. But he would have to
broach the subject carefully, and at just the right moment.

They were directed to a small fire around
which Jerst, Jack and Blesset sat calmly waiting. Tulellcoe sat
down opposite Jerst, with Val and Morgin on either side of him,
and, as Val had instructed earlier, he waited for Jerst to begin.
But Jerst sat quite still for a long while and looked into
Tulellcoe’s eyes with a hard expressionless stare, and his white
face flickered in the light of the fire with shadows that Morgin
could not fathom.

“Welcome, Tulellcoe of Elhiyne, to a
Benesh’ere fire. You and your people may claim guestright if you so
choose.”

Val had coached them carefully in the ritual
of Benesh’ere guestright. The words were simple and to the point,
and would be the same between close friends and allies, or enemies
meeting under truce. The difference lay in the tone of voice, the
cast of eyes, a hundred subtle nuances of hand and body. And
Tulellcoe, as an untrained outsider, would be given only the
slightest benefit of the doubt. He and Val had practiced through
the afternoon, for his role as distant ally was cast in the hardest
of stone, and Morgin could see that he spoke now with great care.
“We do so claim, and are honored.”

The Benesh’ere remained expressionless.
“Then as long as this camp is here, and as long as you are within
its bounds, and as long as you remain with peaceful intent, you may
rest in the protection of the Benesh’ere.”

With the stylized welcome complete Jack and
Blesset appeared to relax, though Jerst remained stiffly formal.
Tulellcoe spoke further. “We are honored by your hospitality,” he
said, “and we thank you for your aid yesterday against the
Kulls.”

For just an instant Jerst glanced angrily at
Blesset: some disagreement between father and daughter of which the
Elhiynes would not be informed. But the moment passed quickly and
Jerst’s face relaxed. He said, “Killing Kulls is always an
honorable venture. We are told that you and your men have killed
many lately, and in particular this one here,” he indicated Morgin
with a nod of his head, “has tasted their blood often. You bring us
honor.”

Tulellcoe shrugged. “When vermin are about,
we kill them.”

“Aye?” Jerst said. His lips curled upward
into a snarl of a smile. “And you kill them well, Elhiyne. Well
indeed. It’s a shame you cannot kill more.”

Again Tulellcoe shrugged. “As long as there
are Kulls to kill, we will kill Kulls. Believe me when I tell you
we will kill many more.”

“But this time there are too many Kulls for
you, Tulellcoe of Elhiyne.”

Tulellcoe looked straight into Jerst’s eyes.
“One live Kull is too many, Jerst of the Benesh’ere.”

Jerst nodded. “I stand corrected. But there
are still too many Kulls for you, Elhiyne. You cannot kill them
all. Not before they kill you.”

Tulellcoe shrugged. “Then so be it. But that
means there will be Kulls left for others to kill. Perhaps you
would be interested in killing some yourself. Illalla rides now
with two thousand at his side. There is much honor to be had
there.”

Jack and Blesset both looked at Jerst
hopefully, but he ignored them. “Killing Kulls may be always
honorable, Elhiyne, but it is not always wise.” Again he looked at
Blesset angrily. “My daughter has much to learn about the wisdom of
killing Kulls.”

Jerst raised a hand and swept it expansively
to indicate the forest about them. “This land you are on is our
exile. From the river Ulbb in the north, to the Augis in the south;
from the Great Munjarro Waste in the east, to Attunhigh herself in
the west; these are the boundaries we must abide, Elhiyne, through
life, to death, and on to eternity. During the summer we live in
the mountains, for the Waste is too hot. But through fall, winter,
and spring we travel the Waste, for there lies the heart and soul
of the Benesh’ere. Illalla and his ilk are our neighbors to the
north, and while we hate them, we must abide them, and we dare not
attack without provocation. We kill Kulls only in defense, when
they come to hunt us for sport as they so often do.”

Tulellcoe frowned. “But you killed many
Kulls yesterday, and it was in our defense, not your own.”

The anger appeared on Jerst’s face again.
“Aye. We had divided our numbers into two groups. I was in command
of one, and Blesset, since she wished to test her abilities as a
leader, was in command of that which came to your aid. Had it been
I, I would have regrettably let you die. Blesset chose to fight,
which was her prerogative as leader, but it showed poor judgment.
She broke the discipline of the Benesh’ere. It will be some time
before she is allowed to lead again.”

“But she saved our lives,” Tulellcoe said,
“so what harm did it do?”

“One Kull escaped,” Jerst said. “When
Illalla hears of this, there will be retribution.”

“How could one have escaped,” Tulellcoe
asked, “with so many Benesh’ere arrows hissing about. I am told
that a Benesh’ere arrow always finds its mark.”

Blesset screwed her face up into a snarl.
“Salula escaped,” she spit, “chasing this one.” She indicated
Morgin with a nod of her head, looked at him and asked, “Did he
ever catch you? Or do you run from battle so well, Elhiyne?”

“Blesset be still,” Jerst snapped angrily.
“If none had escaped it would still not excuse your poor
judgment.”

“None did,” Morgin said.

Jerst looked at him closely. “None did
what?”

“None escaped. Salula will carry no tales to
Illalla. He did catch me, and I left his body to rot on the Plains
of Quam.”

“Where is his cloak?” Blesset demanded.

Morgin shrugged. “To my knowledge he is
still wearing it.”

“Then you speak lies,” she growled.

“Silence,” Jerst barked. “I will not have
you insulting my guests, child. And remember, it is not their
custom to take blooded cloaks.”

Tulellcoe added, “I personally have seen
this one . . .” He nodded toward Morgin,
“. . . kill at least three or four twelves of Kulls.
Can you claim such bounty, girl?”

Blesset averted her eyes.

Jerst turned to Morgin. “You bring us honor,
Elhiyne.”

“Then you will help us?” Morgin asked.

“No. We cannot. We will return to Angerah
and tell him that there is war here, a war that does not concern
us. We will wait on the plains until there is an end to this
matter. We will not war with the Decouix. Perhaps Eglahan may aid
you.”

“Eglahan is dead,” Tulellcoe said.

Jerst shook his head patiently. “There you
are wrong, Elhiyne. Eglahan is camped at the Lake of Sorrows with
what remains of his army.”

“How many men does he have that can still
fight?”

“That you will have to ask him yourself. We
saw only wounded and dying.”

Tulellcoe shook his head sadly. “We need
many more warriors than Eglahan can provide. Is there nothing I can
say or do that will change your mind?”

Jerst’s answer was flat and unyielding.
“No.”

“Very well,” Tulellcoe said. He stood, and
Val and Morgin stood beside him. “We nevertheless thank you for
saving our lives, and we thank you for your hospitality.”

Jerst stood and faced him across the fire.
“No thanks are needed, Elhiyne. We Benesh’ere will leave on the
morrow. You and your men may use this camp as long as you
wish.”

No one spoke as Morgin and Tulellcoe and Val
returned to the area where the small Elhiyne troop had camped. Cort
and the men waited anxiously to hear if the Benesh’ere would aid
them, but when they saw the look on Tulellcoe’s face, they didn’t
even bother to ask.

Morgin sat down on a flat rock near their
small fire, too tired to hold back his shadowmagic any longer. It
had been a constant struggle throughout the day to hold it at bay,
for doing so was like holding a weight at arm’s length
indefinitely. At first it was easy, but soon the arm tired and
began to tremble, and even the smallest weight became too heavy to
hold longer. He gave up, relaxed and let the shadows envelop him.
It was so easy now.

He stared into the fire in silence, and
slowly the men drifted away to their bedrolls. He wondered if they
were tired, or just uncomfortable in the presence of the
ShadowLord. JohnEngine stepped into the light of the fire, sat down
on the ground and leaned against his saddle. For a long time
neither of them spoke, then JohnEngine finally broke the silence.
“Illalla’s going to destroy us, isn’t he? He’s going to destroy
everything we know, everything we love.”

Morgin had no answer for him. He stared into
the fire and wished for sleep, to lie down and rest without the
haunt of a dream from some unknown reality. And while he stared at
the fire his magic left him, disappeared from his soul as abruptly
as it had come. By that time the entire camp was completely silent,
and most of the fires had dwindled to glowing embers. Even
JohnEngine had drifted into sleep, leaning against his saddle and
gear. Morgin couldn’t get to JohnEngine’s blanket without waking
him, so he went quietly to his own saddle, unwrapped his own
blanket and laid it carefully over his brother, then slipped into
the shadows of the forest, hoping to find peace somewhere in the
calm of the night.

The forest at night was far from empty. The
voices of an infinity of small creatures filled the air with a
roar, and in the distance the dying fires of the Benesh’ere camp
marked the landscape with faint pinpoints of light. The thick
blanket of trees overhead blocked any moonlight that might have
shown, and turned the forest floor into one infinitely warm and
comfortable shadow.

Morgin clung desperately to his shadowmagic,
savoring it as other men savored the life that pulsed in their
veins. It was the only magic left to him now, and he feared that
like his other magics it too would abandon him, leaving him as
naked and defenseless as some peasant. His magic was now totally
unpredictable, sometimes flickering like a candle in a harsh
breeze, at other times flooding through him mercilessly, always
turning his stomach with its ever-changing intensity. Even now he
sensed that it was building to something.

He tried not to think of that, thought
instead of the Decouix army, and of Tulellcoe’s plan to seek aid
from Eglahan. Victory was out of the question; Illalla would
slaughter the small Elhiyne army at Sa’umbra Gap and Elhiyne would
fall. But with what remained of Eglahan’s men they might force
Illalla to be satisfied with Elhiyne alone. If they could do that,
Penda, Tosk, and Inetka would remain intact and somewhat
independent. And then the Lesser Clans could begin again.

But would Eglahan agree to such a plan?
Morgin almost wished that he wouldn’t, for he sensed that something
awaited him at Sa’umbra. He sensed his own mortality, and his own
fear, and his own cowardice, and he felt shame.

Suddenly, walking alone in the forest, the
world about him shifted sickeningly and he froze in mid stride. His
magic came fully upon him without warning, without control. It tore
painfully at his soul and brought tears to his eyes. His dinner
threatened to come spewing up, and only by force of will did he
hold it back.

In that instant the sounds of the forest
night died, left behind a noiseless vacuum that made the previous
silence seem a thundering roar in comparison. Morgin, drowning in
his own magic, sensed the cause of it all: a presence of nameless
evil lurking somewhere within the Elhiyne camp.

A scream shattered the silence, a man’s
scream, an agonizing wail that rose slowly until it reached a
crescendo of pain that hung on the night air like a mist of death.
It was JohnEngine’s scream.

Morgin tore through the forest growth,
heedless of branches that whipped and lashed at his face. He
reached the Elhiyne fire while the others were still scrambling for
their swords, and by the dim glow of the dying embers he caught one
momentary glimpse of Bayellgae coiled like a length of rope on
JohnEngine’s chest. But in that same instant the serpent saw him,
and as he ripped his sword from its sheath it shot in the air
straight for his face spitting venom at his eyes.

Morgin threw up his left arm to protect his
face, felt the impact as the winged demon slammed into his arm and
buried its fangs in his wrist. A fiery bolt of pain shot up his
arm, an excruciating agony that pulled him for a moment deep into
the netherlife. He screamed, felt a strange, hideous coldness
creeping up his arm to his heart. The snake dropped off his arm,
disappeared into the forest, and Morgin fell to his knees near the
fire.

He struggled to hold onto consciousness, to
ignore the pain creeping toward his heart. JohnEngine lay on the
ground in front of him still and lifeless, his eyes open and
unseeing, his face a colorless mask twisted in an agony of pain.
Morgin let go of his sword, reached out and touched his brother’s
cheek; he was already cold.

Abileen knelt over JohnEngine, touched his
throat seeking a pulse, shook his head sadly. Tulellcoe knelt
beside Morgin. “Were you bitten?”

Morgin could only nod. The coldness had
reached his shoulder.

Tulellcoe shook his head helplessly. “I’m
sorry, Morgin. There’s nothing I can do against Bayellgae’s
venom.”