The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (36 page)

••••

Where are you?

DaNoel flinched.
I’m at the rear of the mounted troops.

He’d decided it would be safest to stay near the rear, less chance of a stray arrow shortening his life.

Make your way to the front immediately.

DaNoel didn’t like that.
Why? You’re going—

Blinding pain hit him, felt as if something had punched a hole through his soul.
All right . . . all right . . . I’ll do it.

The pain disappeared in an instant.

The whoreson has proved unpredictable. I want your eyes and ears on him, and relaying everything to me continuously. We’ll stay in contact until this is done.

36
The Self-Forged Blade

A wide avenue named The King’s Way wound in a meandering path from the city’s main gates to the Decouix castle. Valso, and before him Illalla, had used it to parade vanquished enemies through the city. Morgin had ridden it once, a captive of Tarkiss, one of Valso’s lords, though he’d not been openly paraded before the people of Durin. He’d simply been a package trussed up neatly and delivered to the king.

Morgin was tempted to use one of the shadows he knew in the Decouix castle and go straight there, but that would be a foolish whim, leaving dangerous armies at his back.
Stay the course
, he reminded himself. They’d taken the wall, now take the city, and in the process neutralize the jackal hordes and Decouix armsmen.

He sent the majority of the griffins and angels directly to the castle to continue the aerial assault, kept six twelves behind to help as they advanced. With the Benesh’ere and the hellhounds ranging through the streets ahead of them to hunt Kulls and jackals, Morgin’s army progressed slowly up the wide avenue. They moved cautiously, had to stop repeatedly to dispatch archers on a roof or a balcony, or in the dark shadows of open windows. The six twelves of griffin-mounted angels helped immensely in that.

With squads out ahead of them clearing the way, Morgin rode with France and his family, though DaNoel was nowhere to be seen. It was a group among whom he felt safe, a group he trusted, even Olivia, the scheming old witch. The other clan leaders also chose to ride with family and trusted lieutenants, perhaps because now they all sensed the enormity of the power at Valso’s command, and it cowered them as much as it cowered Morgin. With the combined might of the most powerful wizards and witches of the Lesser Clans, Morgin knew they still could not defeat the power of a god.

At that thought Morgin reined in Mortiss and brought her to a halt. They all halted with him, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. Without looking at anyone in particular, he said, “Valso will soon command the power of a god, and he knows that all of us together cannot defeat him.”

He looked around, didn’t see false confidence in any of their faces, saw only defeat. Their doubts reminded him of his own, and he wondered why they should all die with him. “You should all go back. This is my fight. I’m the one he wants dead.”

NickoLot dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, and in the press of riders in the street she forced other riders aside until her mount stood beside Morgin’s. With an angry grimace, she struck out and punched him in the shoulder with her fist. It hurt, and Morgin said, “Owe.”

With tears in her eyes and shaking her hand, Nicki said, “Owe, owe, owe that hurt. You idiot, owe.”

Rubbing his shoulder Morgin asked, “Then why did you do it?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” She continued shaking her hand. “Hellhounds, archangels, griffins, we’re going to have a long talk and you’re going to tell me all about this when this is done.” She choked back tears. “You and Rhianne are going to fight this thing we all now sense, and we’re here to support you.” She swept a hand out, didn’t realize she almost knocked Olivia out of her saddle. “The clans, these nether beings, I saw it in a vision. We can’t fight the battle for you, but we must be here to support you, even if it’s only to bury you when we’re done.”

She leaned toward Morgin, holding her injured hand pressed to her breast. “Now,” she said, placing great emphasis on the word. “Your responsibility is to figure out a way to win.”

AnnaRail said, “Let me see that hand, Nicki.”

Olivia said, “A prescient vision! You didn’t tell me about that one. What else have you been up to?”

••••

“The king has sent for you,” Geanna said, tears in her eyes, her voice trembling so badly she barely got the words out. “Your guard will take you to him.”

Rhianne reached out and took the girl’s hands in hers.

“I’m sorry,” Geanna said. “I’m sorry I spied on you. I should never have done so. I didn’t realize what he was really like.”

“That’s all right,” Rhianne said. She pulled the girl close and held her tightly.

The Kull lieutenant harrumphed and said, “The king does not like waiting.”

Rhianne released Geanna, turned and walked out into the hall where her six Kull guards surrounded her. They led her down to the throne room, and peeled away from her just before she stepped through the high double doors. Courtiers lined the walls to either side, though they were strangely silent, with none of the background murmur that would normally issue from such a large crowd. And to a man and woman they all lowered their eyes, focused them intently on the stone floor beneath their feet.

At the far end of the room Valso sat on his throne atop the dais, the little snake coiled on his shoulder. Rhianne held her chin high as she stepped forward, and tried to keep any hint of fear from her features. As she slowly walked the length of the room Valso sat silently, motionlessly. She stopped at the base of the dais and refused to curtsy or bow, refused to show any courtesy whatsoever.

Valso stood, wagged a finger at her and said, “Come up here, girl.”

She had no choice but to obey, for her legs were not hers to command, and one by one she climbed the steps. His power made her walk right up to him and stop only a fraction of a pace from him. He leaned down and she felt the wind from the snake’s tiny, fluttering wings as Valso kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then he smiled and spoke in that voice that was not his. “When this is done, you will come to me gladly, without the need for spells or artifice. And you will bear my children, the children of a god. And I will rule the Mortal Plane.”

He leaned away from her and said, “Stand beside me. Your husband comes.”

••••

Castle Decouix loomed above everything at the center of the city. It stood alone, with a wide parade ground separating it from any other structure, and surrounding it on all sides. There were two motes, one immediately beneath the wall, and another at the outer edge of the parade ground, separating the empty stretch of land from the city proper. A drawbridge had been lowered over each of the two motes, and the portcullis in the main castle gates had been raised.

Morgin stopped just short of the first bridge and looked up. Griffins perched on every tower, peak and gable of the castle, hundreds of them, while hundreds more filled the air above it. Bodies lay strewn haphazardly about the parade ground: Kulls, armsmen, Benesh’ere, jackals and griffins. Quite a few of the defenders had been dismembered. He recalled how a half-bird’s talons, each the length of a man’s arm and razor sharp, could slice and rend those on the ground as a griffin swooped past. Morgin nudged Mortiss forward, and riding beside him France did likewise. As Mortiss’ hooves pounded on the planks of the bridge Morgin steeled himself for what was to come.

Behind him he heard only the hooves of a few horses on the bridge, not the hundreds that should have been following. He stopped and looked back, saw that only Olivia, Roland, AnnaRail, JohnEngine, NickoLot and Brandon had spurred their horses out onto the bridge. Behind them, the rulers of the Lesser Clans sat astride their horses, DaNoel among them. They’d stopped just short of the bridge.

That so many members of his family had come forth heartened and saddened him at the same time. It felt good to be
not alone
, and yet he didn’t want them to die with him and Rhianne.

Olivia turned about in the saddle and looked back. “Blast all of you to netherhell,” she cried. “This is your fight as well.”

They all lowered their eyes, except for a simple soldier named Abileen, a sergeant of men, a man without power. He held his chin high and spurred his horse forward, a simple act that shamed all those behind him. Morgin turned back to face the castle, ignoring them; they would come or they would not.

He had cleared the bridge, and was several of Mortiss’ strides out onto the parade ground when he heard more horses following. Apparently, shame was a powerful incentive.

Morgin crossed the second drawbridge and entered the high archway that passed through the outer curtain wall of Castle Decouix. In the outer bailey Jack the Only, Harriok, Jerst and Blesset waited with a few hundred Benesh’ere. Kull and whiteface bodies littered the ground everywhere.

Jack said, “SteelMaster, there’s good hunting here.”

With the whitefaces ranging in front of them, Morgin and France rode unmolested into the inner bailey. Morgin sensed Valso’s power hovering at the edge of his own, restlessly anticipating the confrontation to come. As he dismounted in front of the steps at the entrance to the castle proper, Abileen spurred his horse forward, and quickly dismounted near him. He held out a hand. “I’ll see to your horses, my lords.”

Several Benesh’ere sprinted up the steps as Morgin and France handed him the reins to their horses. From within the castle they heard the ring of steel, a grunt or two and a shout.

Morgin and France climbed the steps together. Inside they found the Benesh’ere standing over the bodies of four Kulls and two whitefaces.

Jerst said, “Good hunting, indeed.”

France turned to Morgin and asked, “Where to now, lad?”

Morgin considered the question. “Valso will be in the throne room. I know the way.”

••••

It bothered Rhianne to stand at the right hand of the Decouix throne. To anyone who didn’t understand the control Valso exercised over those about him, it might appear as if she willingly supported him, though undoubtedly that was exactly what he wanted. She sensed Morgin’s presence in the castle, sensed him coming, and didn’t want him to see her this way.

While Rhianne stood there unmoving—unable to move—Valso sat on his throne, one elbow on an armrest, his chin resting in the palm of the hand it supported, one leg extended casually outward, resting on its heel. He remained unmoving and silent, statue still, and his silence permeated the entire hall.

Rhianne started when she heard the dim ring of steel out in the corridor beyond the hall. Valso didn’t flinch at all, didn’t so much as blink. She thought about it and realized he hadn’t blinked in quite some time, had sat there in unnatural stillness. She sensed that thing within his soul, now always a part of him.

The sounds of the struggle outside the hall ended quickly, and a few heartbeats later two Benesh’ere stepped through the entrance at the far end of the hall. More followed, they fanned out and Valso’s courtiers edged away from them. Then Morgin stepped into the hall.

He wore the same simple garb he had that night he’d come to her here in the castle, a Benesh’ere robe belted at the waist that ended at mid-thigh, loose-fitting breeches tucked into calf-high boots, the sheathed sword hanging at his side. The blade had entered the room—anyone with power could sense it—though she thought she might be the only one present who knew it was not the steel at his side that they sensed.

Morgin walked toward the dais with the royalty of the Lesser Clans following him almost timidly. He didn’t march or stride like a king, he simply walked down the length of the hall. Even when he was too far away for her to see his eyes, she knew he looked at her the entire way. Olivia and the other clan leaders stopped midway down the hall, but Morgin continued and halted about ten paces from the base of the dais. He smiled at her, and in that look he told her he knew she did not stand willingly at Valso’s side. And that freed her of Valso’s hold.

She began drawing power, drawing as much as she could and held it within her soul.

••••

Morgin looked up at Valso, sitting on his throne with the little demon snake perched on his shoulder. If he had any hope of defeating the Dark God, it must be on the Mortal Plane. He needed Beayaegoath to manifest fully here and now.

Rhianne stood beside Valso as still and unmoving as a statue. But when he smiled at her, she broke out of the stillness and smiled back.

“How quaint,” Valso said, standing.

Morgin thought it interesting that Valso’s eyes didn’t meet his, but remained focused on the blade at his side. He said, “I brought you something.” For emphasis he lifted his left hand and rested it on the hilt of the sword. “Something I know you desperately want.”

Morgin reached across with his right hand and drew the blade, slid it out of the sheath slowly, allowing the scrape of steel to fill the silence in the hall. Valso hissed, tried to step back, but the back of his legs bumped against the throne. The little snake took to the air and shot toward Morgin. It stopped less than a pace away and hovered at eye level.

The knowledge that he could survive Bayellgae’s venom did nothing to still the fear in Morgin’s heart. While it might not kill him, he didn’t know what harm it could do, and was not foolish enough to assume he could ignore it. “I’ve tasted your venom, Bayellgae. You cannot harm me.”

The snake retreated a pace and hissed, “No one hasss ever sssurvived my venom, ssso you don’t know that, do you?” It darted back to the dais and hovered near Rhianne.

Morgin lifted the sword and looked at it, knew every nick and scratch on the plain, unadorned blade. He looked past it at Valso and said, “You fear this blade.”

Valso stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “I fear nothing.”

Morgin said, “I wonder if it’s flawed.”

He reached up with his left hand and snapped the nail of his middle finger against it. It rang softly with a faint, dull ping. Morgin took hold of that note, amplified it, brought it and the memories that came with it forth: his captivity in the Dark God’s hands, the forced labor over the steel, the quest for the perfect blade. He remembered the days at the forges, days that turned into years, then into centuries, the laughter and scorn of a god looking upon a mere mortal without pity. The memories came back to him as the intensity of the note grew to a glorious crescendo of pain. Waves of heat flooded outward from the blade; the crowd in the hall cringed away from it; Valso cringed away from it.

This blade contained no flaw. It sang with the single pure note of the SteelMaster’s forging. But Morgin continued to build onto that note, strengthening it, aligning it with a resonance that shook the core of his soul, feeding it all the power of the last of the SteelMasters. It tore at his ears as the hatred and torment he’d carried all his life flowed out of him and into the steel, and just when he thought he could take no more, the blade melted down its entire length, the note ended abruptly, and the steel dribbled to the floor where it puddled into a misshapen lump of slag. Morgin stood holding nothing but a bladeless hilt, and for the first time his soul was clean and free of pain.