Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (8 page)

“Hush,” someone said. “Here they come.”

Old Beckett, the weapons master, approached
from across the practice yard. He was followed by Brandon, DaNoel,
a tall stranger, and many of the older boys. The old man stopped
several paces away and said, “Stand. And form a straight line in
front of me here.”

The younger boys rushed to comply. Beckett
grumbled some then continued, “Now. You boys are here because you
have reached, or will soon reach, your manhood. As
men . . .” he looked aside with a sly grin, letting
it be known that he considered them men only by clan law,
“. . . you’ll no longer practice with wooden swords.
This year you’ll use steel, dull and pointless steel, but steel
nevertheless. Take care when you strike a blow, because a dull
steel edge can still cut.

“Now. This man here . . .”
Beckett turned, indicating the tall stranger, who stepped forward,
“. . . is Lord Hwatok Tulalane, a
twoname
. He
is a clansman, and a guest of Elhiyne. Furthermore, he is an
accomplished swordsman and has entered into service with House
Elhiyne. If you disobey him, you disobey me.”

Morgin sized up the stranger: a big man,
with a hawk face and deep set eyes. Not as old as old Beckett, but
older than twenty-two year old MichaelOff, his face was weathered
and lined with experience. A scar bisected his left cheek, not a
scar like the three pocks on Morgin’s face, the result of the filth
that had been his home in the city, but a clean sharp line of a
scar, put there by some weapon. It was the stranger’s eyes, though,
that were his most distinct feature, and Morgin wondered what lay
behind them. But then he realized those eyes were looking at him,
probing him as if they could see to the layers beneath the outer
skin, and he looked away.

“Pay attention, master Morgin,” Beckett
bellowed. The other boys chuckled quietly, for Morgin was always
the one to be caught daydreaming. “Watch closely, all of you. Lord
Hwatok and Lord MichaelOff will give a demonstration of what you
will be striving to achieve. Now clear out of the way and give them
room.”

The boys moved to the edge of the practice
yard. MichaelOff and the stranger removed their sword belts and
other items that might hinder them, then unsheathed their swords
and began warming up.

While the two men were preparing for their
mock combat, Morgin asked JohnEngine, “What’s a
twoname
?”

“A clansman who claims allegiance to no one
clan,” JohnEngine said. “They usually wander about, often selling
their services to a clan where they have some ties.”

“They’re mercenary wizards then?” Morgin
asked.

“Some,” JohnEngine whispered. “But not all.
Most are more particular than mercenaries about who they sell their
services to. And the services they sell aren’t necessarily the
sword and battle. They’re supposed to be good advisers.”

“If he bears no allegiance to the clan,”
Morgin asked, “can he be trusted?”

JohnEngine shrugged. “Grandmother must think
so. He’s . . .”

“JohnEngine,” Beckett hollered. “Pay
attention. And Morgin. Stop bothering your brother.”

There were no chuckles from the other boys
this time, for their attention was wholly taken by the two
contestants. MichaelOff and the Tulalane bowed, then squared off in
the center of the yard, neither of them at all serious about the
match. Each used a lightweight rapier with a simple cross-hilt, the
preferred weapon among the clans, and without ceremony they began
trading blows sword against sword, testing each other’s
defenses.

The ring of steel came slowly at first, in
an almost dance-like cadence. Morgin could not look away, for both
men were quickly well into the fight, beads of sweat forming on
their faces as they struck at each other again and again. They were
blurs of motion in the swirling dust of the yard, the rhythm of the
battle unchanging, each ring of steel deliberate, controlled. But
then suddenly the blows came faster—slash, parry, strike, repeat.
Magic hung in the air; the shimmer of power was palpable. The two
swordsmen moved with inhuman swiftness, almost vanishing from one
spot to appear instantly in another. Then, abruptly, the contest
ended.

MichaelOff made a slash, which the stranger
did not oppose. Instead, he back-stepped, avoiding the blow,
sliding his own sword behind MichaelOff’s blade, adding to the
momentum of the slash. MichaelOff over swung his stroke, and to
maintain balance was forced to expose his side to the stranger. The
stranger completed the move by slamming his forearm into the back
of MichaelOff’s shoulders, sending him sprawling face down in the
dust of the yard.

There was a moment during which both men
appeared disoriented as they came out of their magics. But it was
over quickly, and the stranger helped MichaelOff to his feet, both
of them laughing and brushing dust from the younger man.

“You’ll have to teach me that one, Hwatok,”
MichaelOff laughed.

“Gladly, Lord MichaelOff,” the stranger said
as they walked off the field.

“All right, boys,” Beckett hollered, “Line
up again.”

They rushed to obey.

“Now what you’ve just seen is a combination
of skilled swordsmanship and magic. It will be many years before
you’ll be skilled in either, and until you are, you’ll never use
the two together. Is that clear?”

They all nodded quietly.

“Good. Others will teach you magic, but it
is I who will teach you the sword. You must learn to be a good
swordsman without magic before you can combine the two to good
effect, and that will take some years.”

Old Beckett turned away from them and walked
slowly to the edge of the yard, retrieved a large bundle, returned
to the line of boys. He unwrapped the bundle, spilling several
steel rapiers on the ground, each with a rounded tip and dulled
edge.

“Each of you pick a sword, and a partner,
and we’ll review the lessons you’ve supposedly learned in the past
two years. But remember, you’re using steel now, not wood.”

Morgin and JohnEngine were practice
partners, as they were partners in almost everything, including,
but not limited to, mischief. Most of the afternoon was spent
getting used to the feel of the heavier steel blades, with Beckett
moving among them offering advice and correcting errors. Later in
the day he had them trade partners quite regularly, even using some
of the more advanced students as combined opponents and
instructors. The day was almost over when Morgin paired off with
DaNoel, JohnEngine’s older brother. And without prelude the older
boy began immediately with a rain of blows that Morgin was hard
pressed to deflect. But it was not until DaNoel’s steel hissed
menacingly past Morgin’s ear that he realized this was no lesson,
but a venting of some anger that might leave him maimed or
crippled, or perhaps even dead. In desperation he fought back with
what little strength and skill he could command, but his arm tired
quickly, and DaNoel used that to advantage, stepping suddenly
beneath his guard and batting him to the ground with the hilt of
his sword. “Defend yourself, peasant,” he snarled viciously.

Morgin climbed reluctantly to his feet,
then, as DaNoel’s sword drove for his face, ducked quickly beneath
a stroke that could have taken off his head, dull edge or not.
“What are you doing?” he pleaded.

DaNoel’s face reddened with uncontrolled
anger. He gave no answer, gripped his sword with both hands, and
brought it down with all his might.

Morgin threw his own blade clumsily in the
way. It met DaNoel’s with a clatter that rang painfully through his
arm and shoulder. He knew that he couldn’t defend himself this way
for long, not with a heavy steel blade, nor with such intensity.
Then DaNoel again slipped beneath his guard, and while Morgin
concentrated on DaNoel’s steel, he completely missed DaNoel’s knee
until it crashed into his groin.

He fell to the ground, tried to roll over
quickly to avoid DaNoel’s sword as it bit into the dirt near his
face, but the painful knot in his crotch slowed him and he lay in a
sprawl with DaNoel standing over him, his sword clutched in both
hands and raised high over his head, his face a mask of hatred.
Morgin ignored the pain in his crotch, rolled over quickly as
DaNoel’s sword cut a furrow in the earth where only moments ago his
head had been. Morgin rolled again, then stumbled to his feet.

DaNoel’s rapier hissed past his nose. He
back-stepped blindly until DaNoel’s boot hit him in the ribs and he
went down again. DaNoel stepped quickly over him and raised his
sword high over his head, but was suddenly swept off his feet as
JohnEngine plowed into him with a full body block. The two of them
sprawled into the dirt of the yard, raising a cloud of dust that
filled Morgin’s nostrils. They separated and jumped to their feet,
facing one another.

“What are you trying to do?” JohnEngine
screamed.

Beckett interrupted, bellowing, “What’s
going on here?” He elbowed his way through the crowd of boys that
had gathered about them. “Here, here! What’s this? Are you fighting
again, Morgin?”

“No,” JohnEngine screamed. “It wasn’t him.
It was DaNoel.”

DaNoel ignored JohnEngine and Beckett,
looked hatefully at Morgin and growled, “Don’t you ever call her
mother again. She’s not your mother. She’s mine. You have no right,
whoreson.” Then he spun about and stormed off the practice
field.

“All right, boys,” Beckett yelled. “Break it
up. Practice is over today. Go clean up for dinner.”

~~~

“Morgin,” Annaline called. “Morgin.”

Morgin, caught unprepared, held his breath,
hoping to stay hidden. If he were lucky she’d not climb the stairs
to the top of the battlements where he lay idling in the sun. Today
was a holiday, and he would do as he pleased.

“Morgin. Are you up there?”

He held his silence. Maybe she would think
he had gone down to the festival in the village market. There was
always something going on down there on the monthly holiday.

“You come down here, Morgin. I know you’re
up there somewhere.”

He sighed and scanned the horizon. It was a
beautifully clear day with Attunhigh dominating the skyline, a
monolith of rock and snow standing guard over the valley of
Elhiyne, and the world of man.

“If you don’t come down I’ll send the
ShadowLord after you.”

Didn’t she realize he was too old to believe
in demon netherlords? He swung his legs off the battlement and
dropped to the parapet. If he’d been smart he would have made
himself absent from the castle long ago. “I’m coming,” he hollered
as he started down the stairs.

He met Annaline on her way up. She looked
him over quickly and said, “Good. You’re not dirty. We won’t have
to waste time cleaning you up.”

“What for?” he asked.

“For grandmother. She wants to see you.”

Morgin froze in his tracks. “You didn’t tell
me that.”

Annaline grabbed a fold of his sleeve and
pulled him along. “Well I’m telling you now. And you’d better hurry
or you’ll make grandmother angry.”

Morgin shut his mouth and followed her
sullenly. The old woman wanted to see
him
! He shivered.

In the years he’d been at the castle he’d
never personally faced the old witch. Of course he’d seen her many
times, but always from a distance, and he could count the number of
times she’d actually spoken to him on the six fingers of one hand.
There was something powerful and frightening about her that he
didn’t like, a dark presence that hovered at the edge of his senses
whenever she was near, a presence that was not fully gone from his
mind until she was completely out of the valley.

Annaline took Morgin to a part of the castle
he’d always avoided, and outside of the old woman’s haunt they met
AnnaRail waiting for them. “The Lady Olivia wants to examine you to
determine the extent of your power,” she said. “So be on your best
behavior.” She fussed at his tunic for a moment, then swept his
hair back out of his eyes. “There. You look like a fine young man,”
she said, then turned and stepped through the door that led to the
old witch.

Annaline seemed to sense Morgin’s unease as
he hesitated. She quickly whispered, “Don’t worry, Morgin.
Grandmother just likes to make you think she’s mean and nasty.
Inside she’s really just a sweet old lady.”

Annaline’s words did little to reassure him
as he stepped into the audience chamber. He halted just inside,
surveying the room with care. Beside the old woman, Roland and
AnnaRail were the only others present. But it was Olivia, seated in
cushioned elegance near a large hearth, who commanded the room
entirely.

“Come, child,” she said. “Stand before
me.”

Morgin found he could not have disobeyed
even had he wanted to. He walked slowly across the small room with
both his mouth and his eyes wide open. It was impossible not to
stare at the old witch’s face: a miasma of wrinkles, though not as
wrinkled as he’d always imagined. Her hair was black, with flashing
streaks of gray that radiated outward from her face. It was pulled
back to the top of her head where it lay knotted and fastened with
combs and braids, and studded with tiny jewels.

“Am I that fascinating, child?”

Morgin suddenly remembered his manners and
diverted his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, boy. If you wish to look
at me, then do so.”

Morgin chose to look at the floor.

“Come, child. Raise your head. Look at me
when I speak.”

He looked again at that wrinkled face and
those cold black eyes. “Yes, milady.”

“That’s better. Now you sound like a proper
clansman. I am Olivia, but of course you know that. I am a witch,
but of course you know that too. Did you know that you are also a
witch?”

“Yes,” he answered.
“Mother . . . Anna . . . the Lady
AnnaRail told me.”