Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (47 page)

It was an effort to speak. “Where can I go?
I don’t know the way back.”

“I’ll show you the way.”

He had the impression that she pulled him to
his feet somehow, and that he leaned heavily on her while they
walked through the nothingness. But it was an indistinct
impression, clouded by the gray that filled his soul.

~~~

Rhianne gasped awake, sat up instantly in bed
with her heart pounding at the walls of her chest. It was several
seconds before she realized it had been a nightmare. She sighed
with relief and lay back against the mattress, but the effort
reminded her of the bruises that covered her body, and it was some
time before she returned to sleep.

~~~

Morgin awoke and found Tulellcoe leaning over
him with a worried look on his face. He spent a long moment
realizing that dawn had come, and that he was still alive.
“JohnEngine?” he asked weakly.

Tulellcoe smiled unhappily. “I don’t know
what you did, or how you did it, but he will live. And it appears
that so shall you.”

Morgin reached up with a trembling hand.
“Help me up.”

“You should rest.”

“I have to see JohnEngine. Help me up.”

“Very well. But then you rest.”

Tulellcoe pulled him into a sitting
position. He got only that far before his head began to reel; his
stomach started to churn and he shook violently. He waved his
hands, fending Tulellcoe off, unable to speak but signaling that,
for the moment, he could go no further.

He sat there for a moment, noted that his
tunic was covered with an ugly stain in which he could see the
pulpy remains of the redthorn. The redthorn! He remembered
swallowing it, and he remembered the pain, and he remembered
Aethon, and he remembered the nothingness and Rhianne, but he could
remember nothing beyond that. There was no memory of how he’d saved
JohnEngine, and he wondered now if it was even he who had done the
saving.

“Where is Aethon?” he asked. “And where are
Erithnae and Rhianne?”

Tulellcoe looked at him narrowly, but said
nothing, so Morgin demanded, “Where did you go? You left me
alone.”

Tulellcoe’s look of unease grew. He spoke
slowly and carefully. “I went nowhere. I remained by your side
through the night. And as you instructed, the men did not relax
their vigil until dawn.”

Morgin closed his eyes and tried to picture
again the still and empty forest with the gray-blue sky and the
young boy king. “Tell me what happened after I swallowed the
redthorn.”

“Within seconds you cried out and slumped to
the ground. You lay through the night near death, vomiting even
when your stomach had nothing left to yield. And though I tried
many times, I could not help you because you were surrounded by a
strong and dangerous field of magic. Dawn came an hour ago. The
field of magic disappeared, your illness passed, and JohnEngine
began to breathe again. I have been waiting since for you to
awaken.”

Morgin decided to say nothing of the
discrepancy between his memory and Tulellcoe’s words.

“Morgin,” Tulellcoe said carefully. There
was a sense of urgency in his words, and also a sense of
disapproval. “You are not wholly in this world. I can sense it.
Part of your soul is still dwelling on the Nether Plane. You’re
feeding on it, and it’s feeding on you, and the longer you remain
in contact with it, the harder it will be to break that
contact.”

For the first time that morning Morgin
became conscious of his power. He had not been aware of it before,
but now he thought of Aethon’s words, “There is a lot of power
between here and there to tempt one, and it’s so easy to succumb to
power . . .” This power had an ethereal sensation to
it, as if it were not his own power at all, and deep within his
soul Morgin knew that he would be free of this power only when it
chose to be free of him.

Morgin demanded weakly, “Help me to my feet.
I must see JohnEngine.”

Once on his feet Morgin could not stop the
trembling in his knees so he leaned heavily on Tulellcoe. His
stomach continued to churn and his head still ached, and the power
pushed at his will as if it were a conscious thing with a will of
its own.

The ring of fire had dwindled to smoldering
black ash. The men had dispersed, though since his magic chose to
remain so fully with him he could sense each of them nearby.

JohnEngine had been taken aside and wrapped
in several blankets. His face remained pale and ashen, but the pall
of death was gone and his chest rose and fell with a weak but
steady rhythm. Asleep as he was he seemed like a child that needed
protecting. Morgin wanted dearly to protect him, but he knew that
was now out of his hands.

“All danger is not over yet,” Tulellcoe
said. He touched JohnEngine’s forehead. “But the worst has
passed.”

Packwill, the scout leader, and France and
Cort came striding across the camp. The scout dropped to one knee
before Tulellcoe, bowed his head reverently. “We’re ready to leave
at your word, my lord.”

Morgin looked at Tulellcoe. “Where are we
going?”

“I’m sending you and John and Val and the
rest of the injured to Inetka now. Val’s going to talk to Wylow,
though I doubt Wylow’s fool enough to help us. Those of us who can
ride are going to the Lake of Sorrows to see if we can get
Eglahan’s help. I have no idea what shape he and his men are in,
but we’re going to try anyway.”

Morgin nodded slowly. “I’ll ride with
you.”

Tulellcoe shook his head and spoke in a flat
angry voice. “No you won’t. It’s going to be a hard fast ride, and
you’re in no shape for that.”

Morgin started to speak, but Tulellcoe cut
him off, “Don’t argue with me. As long as you ride with us, you’ll
do what I say.”

“We’d better get going,” France said.

Tulellcoe nodded, looked in France’s
direction to say something, and Morgin took that opportunity to
slip into a shadow. He changed shadows quickly and stopped to catch
his breath behind a tree.

Cort gasped. “If I hadn’t seen it with my
own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it. Even up close he literally
vanished.”

“Damn you, Morgin,” Tulellcoe shouted.
“You’re getting too good at that. I’m warning you. For your own
good. You’re spending too much time in those damn shadows.”

Packwill asked, “I take it, my lord, that
the ShadowLord will be accompanying us?”

Tulellcoe turned on him angrily. “I think we
can all take it that the damn ShadowLord will do as he damn well
pleases. And stop calling him that.”

~~~

Morgin found Mortiss waiting for him a few
paces into the forest. He climbed weakly into her saddle, but for
the first time was unsure of the direction, and the more he thought
about it the more confused he became. The netherworld pulled at
him, beckoning him to become part of the netherlife, and the power
that flooded through him kept his senses constantly overloaded.

He realized he was starting to hallucinate
badly when a nearby shadow took on a life of its own. The sun shone
brightly in the sky, and a light breeze constantly fluttered the
leaves of the trees overhead, sending thousands of shadows dancing
about everywhere. But one particular shadow suddenly coalesced into
a dark wraith shaped much like a man. It had no face to speak of,
only the poorly defined shape of head, and shoulders, and arms and
torso and legs. It turned toward him, bowed deeply from the waist,
spoke with a voice barely above that of a whisper. “My lord,” it
hissed. “This is the way you seek,” it said, then turned and led
the way up a game trail.

Without any prompting from Morgin Mortiss
followed.

~~~

Bayellgae flew into the tent of its master,
fluttered about the room once on its tiny wings, then settled on
its perch, coiling its tail tightly about the base.

“Well?” Illalla demanded impatiently. “Is he
dead?”

“Yesss, my lord. The deed isss done.”

Valso asked, “Are you certain?”

“I do not err in death,” the snake scoffed.
“Bayellgae’sss venom flowsss thisss night in his veinsss. And none
can sssurvive Bayellgae’sss venom.”

“Well done, my pet,” Illalla said. “This
campaign will now proceed rightly.”

“But I wasss dissscovered, my lord. I had to
kill another.”

“Who?”

“The Elhiyne’sss brother, I believe.”

“Even better. That is one less Elhiyne that
I must deal with.”

“But there wasss an outcry in the Elhiyne
camp. There wasss no time to sssavor the kill. That wasss to be my
reward, my lord.”

“Fear not, snake. You have done well this
night. We will find another reward for you, something equally as
pleasing, I am sure.”

Packwill dismounted, bent carefully to
examine the dust of the trail. Many horses had recently passed this
way, and in the dust their hooves had left a message for the
trained eye to read. Packwill was heartened to note that none bore
the mark of a Decouix smithy, but still he moved cautiously. If he
and the Elhiynes failed to exercise care when approaching Eglahan’s
camp, they could easily be shot out of hand, and their bodies
identified after the fact.

He rose from his examination of the ground
and turned to look back at Tulellcoe. He could see much of the old
witch Olivia in the lines of the sorcerer’s face, especially her
madness, and if anything, two days of hard riding with little rest
had hardened the look about him. Packwill raised a hand, signaled
for the rest of the party to come forward, and knowing that their
lives depended on caution they did so slowly.

“My lord,” Packwill said softly to
Tulellcoe. “I am sure the challenge point is just ahead. You must
be ready to answer for yourself.”

The sorcerer nodded without speaking.

“Wait here, my lord, if you please. I’ll
check ahead.”

Packwill turned and walked up the trail, his
sword sheathed, his hands held high, palms out. He knew the moment
would come soon, and he prayed that his friends were not too quick
with their bows. He’d gone but a short distance when a voice spoke
from the edge of the forest: “Stop there if you value your
life.”

Packwill halted.

“Now speak your name,” the voice
demanded.

“I am Packwill. A scout. Sworn to Eglahan of
Yestmark.”

“You lie,” the voice said.

“No,” a second voice interrupted. “He speaks
truth. I recognize him. But you, scout, why are you not now with
your liege lord? And who is that behind you?”

Packwill addressed the second voice. “I
recognize you, Annen, bastard son of Eglahan, as you recognize me.
And I am not with my Lord Eglahan because, like most of his men, I
thought him dead. Instead I joined with Tulellcoe of Elhiyne to
seek revenge by harrying the Decouix army. It is he whom you see
behind me in the trail, accompanied by what remains of his men. Now
why is it I sense distrust in your voice, Annen, whom I have known
since you were a boy-child bouncing on my knee?”

Annen stepped out into the trail. Like his
great father he was an average looking man, nevertheless his voice
carried the confidence of one who was not easily intimidated. “I
trust you, friend Packwill, but not these others who ride with
you.”

Behind Packwill Tulellcoe dismounted, walked
forward slowly past Packwill to stand facing Annen. Packwill didn’t
like the look on Tulellcoe’s face, and when the sorcerer spoke, his
voice cut through the air like a freshly sharpened sword. “I am
Tulellcoe et Elhiyne. Your father knows me, and so do many of his
men. And if you value your soul, puppy, you will learn to recognize
me the next time we meet.”

The two men stood eye-to-eye until Annen
slowly turned his gaze downward. “My lord,” he said.

“That’s better,” Tulellcoe growled. “Now
take me to your father.”

~~~

The hallucination of the shadowwraiths
continued as Morgin followed Tulellcoe’s small party, though now he
had the impression there were hundreds of them guiding him through
the dense forest growth toward the Lake of Sorrows. He even
hallucinated that he could hear them speaking to one another,
though their voices were so faint that all of them together sounded
more like a breeze rustling through the forest leaves.

From the side of the trail he watched the
confrontation between Tulellcoe and Annen, watched Tulellcoe’s
party admitted to the fortified encampment of what remained of
Eglahan’s army. He dismounted, let Mortiss run free in the forest,
stepped into a shadow and slipped easily past the perimeter guards.
Oddly enough, or perhaps rightly enough, the shadowwraiths did not
follow him into the camp.

He reconnoitered the camp carefully before
doing anything else, estimated there were six or seven hundred men
present, though many were wounded, and he could sense that the
souls of quite a few would soon depart the Mortal Plane. He’d never
seen the Lake of Sorrows before, but in the moonlight it was a
black mirror of calmness reflecting the moon glow.

There was a large tent at the center of the
camp. Morgin approached it carefully, stepped into the shadows of a
fluttering torch and slipped inside. There he found Eglahan and his
lieutenants already meeting with Tulellcoe and France and Cort, and
it was obvious they had been at council for quite some time
now.

It was not a formal council of war. They
were not seated opposite one another at a table, nor with a fire
between them. The hard ride had taken a heavy toll on everyone in
the Elhiyne party, and no one begrudged them a comfortable seat,
and a mug of ale.

Eglahan was an older version of Annen,
though he sat uncomfortably with one leg heavily bandaged and
propped up on pillows. “You know I would join you,” Eglahan said
unhappily, “if there were any chance at all of stopping Illalla. I
don’t even require a chance of victory, merely of stalemate, but at
best I must have something, not just more death.”