The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (25 page)

Morddon scowled, shook his head. “I’m told often enough that I’m a madman. But any man who stands here in this forest today is a madman, so I welcome your company.”

The scout laughed quietly. “I’m Sarker. We’ve been looking for you. How badly are you hurt? Can you ride?”

“Some broken ribs. And if you’ll bind them properly I can probably ride, though not if we have to ride hard over rough terrain. But I don’t have a horse.”

Sarker threw back his head, cupped his hands to his mouth, called out like the jaymakaw again,
It’s safe.
To Morddon he said, “We’ve got your horse for you. Found her wandering on your track just after we picked up your trail.”

“Why you been looking for me?” Morddon asked.

Sarker’s eyes darkened. “Cynaban told us of Metadan’s treachery.”

“Then Cynaban’s alive?”

Sarker shook his head. “Only for a short while. Only long enough to tell the tale, then he died of his wounds, and maybe a broken heart too. Gilguard has all the scouts out looking for survivors, but so far we’ve only found a few, and they’re not in very good shape.”

A short time later two more Benesh’ere scouts joined them, leading their own horses and Mortiss. The other two were Takit and Bendaw. Takit was an old fellow with many years behind him in the wars, and Bendaw a young boy probably still learning the ways of a scout. Old Takit bound Morddon’s ribs carefully, decided to completely immobilize his right arm and bound it to his chest. Morddon managed to climb into Mortiss’ saddle without help, though with his sword arm useless he would be truly helpless if it came to a fight. He ate in the saddle, the first meal he’d had in days: journeycake and jerky and water.

They were two days on horse to the ford, not three as he’d guessed. Several times they came across the site of the last stand of some remnant of the First Legion, and always they found only carnage. But early in the morning of the second day they discovered the spoor of a large jackal army in front of them. They quickened their pace, but the hard riding sent stabs of pain through Morddon’s chest so they decided to split up. Sarker stayed with Morddon while old Takit and young Bendaw rode ahead as fast as they could.

That afternoon, as Sarker and Morddon warily approached the ford, they heard the cry of a Benesh’ere jaymakaw again, and they joined up with the other two in a small thicket of trees. “What is it?” Sarker asked them.

Old Takit rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

Sarker tied his horse with those of Takit and Bendaw, and Morddon let Mortiss go free. The four of them left the thicket on foot, and crept silently to the top of a nearby hill that commanded a view of the ford. Magwa’s army lay spread out before them, her pavilions pitched in its center.

“She’s come in force,” Takit whispered. “She’s got us outnumbered twelve to one. Cynaban told us it’s you they want, madman. She probably figures you’re down there with Gilguard.”

Quite a number of bodies littered the ground between the two armies. There had already been several skirmishes, and Gilguard and his company of warriors had retreated to high ground just up the river from the ford. But now surrounded, there was no further retreat to be had.

Bendaw grimaced. “We have to do something.”

Takit shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do but go down there and die with them. And someone has to bring the tale of Metadan’s treachery back to Kathbeyanne.”

“We could rush back,” Bendaw pleaded. “Get help.”

Sarker shook his head. “We’re at least three days from the nearest garrison, and this is going to be over before nightfall.” He pointed. “Look there.”

Magwa’s jackals were drawing up into ranks for a charge. They were seasoned, disciplined troops, even if their leader was a wanton bitch. It took them some minutes to assemble behind one of Magwa’s generals. They moved up the river carefully, split into three columns so they could hit the Benesh’ere from three sides.

Gilguard had chosen well the place to make his last stand. Just up from the ford the river cut through a narrow defile that channeled the water into a churning roar of white water rapids. The river then spilled downhill for a good stretch where the water lost its power as it widened and leveled off into the shallow ford.

Gilguard and his men had taken the high ground near the rapids and put their backs to the river, preventing the jackals from hitting them from all four sides. Morgin remembered the place well, for by his time the river had cut down through the earth, widening the defile and turning it into the deep gorge where Morgin had placed his magical dam and later released it to wash away a company of Kulls. But that was now in the distant future.

The jackal battle trumpets startled Morddon out of his thoughts, the first wave of jackals charged up the hill, and the Benesh’ere cut them down with arrows. With high ground, and the range of the Benesh’ere longbow, the jackals couldn’t even return fire, and they quickly retreated. The second wave of jackals fared no better, but during the third the rain of arrows diminished to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Gilguard’s warriors had used their last arrows.

The fourth wave actually reached the outer perimeter before the whitefaces repelled it with pike and sword and war ax. The fifth hesitated at the perimeter for what seemed an interminably long time, and then the perimeter began to shrink. Gilguard’s warriors were even more disciplined than the jackals. They held their perimeter, let it shrink rather than be broken, forced the jackals to take them one by one.

Bendaw turned away from the battle. “I can’t watch,” he sobbed, and he buried his face in his hands.

Takit turned away with him, threw an arm over the boy’s shoulders. “Neither can I, lad.”

Morddon watched, and so did Sarker. They had to watch. They had to know the end, even if they didn’t want to, for someone must carry the tale of Gilguard’s last stand back to Kathbeyanne.

The sixth wave pressed the perimeter back even farther, and then the seventh broke it, and washed over it like an angry storm. The Benesh’ere asked for no quarter, would have taken no quarter had it been offered. And when the battle was done the jackal army wandered about through the carnage as if disappointed, as if there had not been enough death to go around.

Morgin now knew why the ford on the river Ulbb bore the name Gilguard’s Ford.

~~~

A neigh, a harrumph of a splutter, and a wet muzzle nuzzling his cheek, Morgin opened his eyes to find Mortiss standing over him. She spluttered again derisively, chiding him for laziness.

“Ya, ya,” Morgin grumbled, climbing slowly to his feet. “You didn’t have to sleep on the ground in a wet cloak.” His clothing had dried for the most part, with white patches of salt crust that irritated his skin. The sun on his shoulders was a warm relief after the cold night he’d spent. He dug into his saddlebags and changed into fresh clothing. He’d have to find a stream to wash the salt out of the rest. The question remained: was he ahead or behind his friends on the road to Drapolis?

At that thought Mortiss snorted.

Morgin shook his head. “I guess I’m supposed to just let you have the reins and you’ll find them?”

She snorted again.

He didn’t completely release her reins, but he kept them loose and let her choose her own way. She started north up the road, moving at an easy walk. Morgin tried to remain vigilant, listening for the sound of pounding hooves on the road, anything that might give him warning of a Penda patrol. But after a few leagues of riding he learned he didn’t need to. Without warning Mortiss stopped, her head turned slightly and her ears perked up. Then she turned off the road and followed a game trail into the forest. She found a thicket of heavy brush and stopped behind it. Some instinct told Morgin to dismount and he did so. Once out of the saddle he and Mortiss were both well hidden behind the thicket.

He waited in silence for a good thirty heartbeats before he too heard the faint rumble, a sound like distant thunder just barely audible above the sounds of the forest. But it grew steadily until there was no mistaking it for anything but the sound of hoof beats on the road. Because of the undergrowth of the forest he only caught a glimpse of the Penda armsmen as they shot past, and he estimated something like two twelves, riding hard.

Mortiss proved to be invaluable, for twice more that day, with some instinct or sense beyond Morgin’s capabilities, she sensed approaching armsmen long before Morgin would have. She pulled off the road a fourth time as nightfall approached, and again followed a game trail, but this time she took them much deeper into the forest, and when Morgin heard muffled voices up ahead, he dismounted and moved forward carefully on foot.

Up ahead he saw the dim glow of a small fire, a line of horses staked out and a couple of pack donkeys. He moved forward cautiously, but then someone pressed the point of a blade to his back and Cort said, “I could have gutted you easily.”

Morgin turned to face her and she gave him a big cheesy grin.

After a quick reunion and a few pats on the back, Morgin sat down with his companions around the fire, thankful for its warmth.

France said, “We was doing a little planning, lad. Where to go next.”

“And?” Morgin asked.

Tulellcoe leaned forward and stirred the coals of the fire. “We don’t have much choice. We can’t go south, and we don’t dare go near Penda or Tosk. So that leaves only Tharsk.”

France added, “When we offloaded our horses from the
Far Wind
we couldn’t find hide nor hair of that nag of yers. Then you and she was spotted on the north end of town, then out on the road to Drapolis. So most of the rumors have you well out of Toblekan and a good ways up the road to Drapolis. That took the pressure off us, so we provisioned up.” He nodded toward the two donkeys. “And that’s why we cut off the road. We’re going inland for a while, then cut north for Tharsk.”

Morgin glanced over at Mortiss. France had said “. . . 
you
and she was spotted . . .” Again, Morgin wandered who, or what, she might be. He was still thinking on that when he curled up in his blanket that night.

~~~

Because of Morddon’s ribs Sarker set an easy pace as they rode east from Gilguard’s Ford. And with the location of the ford as a point of reference, Morgin could now correlate the countryside of Morddon’s time with that of his own.

The wondrous city of Kathbeyanne lay deep in what would someday be the Great Munjarro Waste: in Morgin’s time an endless sea of sand and blistering sun, but in Morddon’s a land of gently rolling hills and productive farmlands. The Goath had for many years occupied the land west of the Worshipers where, in the future, there would be Elhiyne and Tosk and Penda and Anistigh and Aud and Toblekan and Drapolis. But in recent years the Goath had crossed the Worshipers through the pass at Methula far to the north, and were now encroaching down through Yestmark, where Morddon had spent most of his life fighting.

After two days the four scouts reached a large outpost on what would someday be the Plains of Quam. There, they met two more of Gilguard’s scouts. The garrison had already been informed of Metadan’s treachery, and of the disastrous events that followed. The garrison commander had sent a messenger on a fresh mount to carry the word to Kathbeyanne. Morddon and the Benesh’ere scouts paused only long enough to replenish their provisions, then started for Kathbeyanne.

The city waited for them in muted silence, like an old warrior who’d lost the will to fight. Hundreds of people lined the streets to watch the six of them ride toward the palace, and like the city they watched in silent mourning as the bedraggled survivors of the massacre passed slowly by.

When they entered the parade ground outside the palace all activity came to a sudden halt. Word must have traveled ahead of them, for the eleven companies of Benesh’ere warriors that remained had gathered outside the Benesh’ere barracks. Their white faced comrades greeted Sarker and the other scouts sadly, while Morddon turned toward the barracks of the First Legion.

The building was utterly empty, and silent as a morgue. Morddon’s cot remained undisturbed among those of the dead angels. He was tired beyond imagining, and he lay down upon it in his clothes. And as he drifted off to sleep it occurred to him he was the only survivor of the First Legion.

Chapter 14: The Last SteelMaster

Morgin and his companions cut northeast through light forest. They set a steady but undemanding pace to put some distance between them and Toblekan, and late on the third day they reached a large lake into which the river Ella spilled. They were now only about a day north of Castle Penda, so they turned north and headed up the banks of the Ella, continuing until darkness made further travel impossible.

Cort found a small clearing, and as they set up camp Tulellcoe said, “I think we’re far enough from Penda to set a fire and have a warm meal.”

France added, “Aye, we’re all tired of journeycake and jerky. And hopefully we can take it a bit easier after this.”

With a warm meal in his gut Morgin had no trouble finding sleep that night.

He awoke to a bright, clear sky, with rays of sunlight slanting through early morning mists. Tulellcoe had a fire going and Morgin’s stomach growled at the smell of cooking porridge. Cort stood on the Ella’s bank, washing her face and hands with a wet towel, while the rest remained in their blankets, though a groan or two, and the sound of smacking lips, told Morgin they were beginning to stir.

Morgin walked down to the water near Cort. “Good morning,” he said as he bent and splashed water on his face. His ribs complained and he winced, more a memory of Morddon’s beating at the hands of the jackals.

“Good morning,” Cort said cheerily. “Did you hurt yourself?”

He shrugged. “In a dream.”

“Your dreams are dangerous. I think I like my dreams just the way they are. Nothing real about them.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Morgin scowled. “I’ve learned a lot about reality, recently, and I’ve found it is rarely what it seems.”

France wandered down from the camp, rubbing the back of his neck and blinking his eyes groggily. “Me old bones hate sleepin’ on the ground,” he said as he sat down near them.

Morgin walked back up to the camp, retrieved his salt-encrusted clothing and returned to the riverbank. He washed the salt out of his clothes, and after Cort left he stripped down and took a quick dip in the chill water to wash the salt from his body. After that Cort trimmed his hair and beard, and they were on their way by midmorning.

Three days later, as they approached a busy ford on the River of the Serpent well upstream from Tosk and Drapolis, they split up. A merchant caravan had camped near the ford. France and Val rode down to the ford while Tulellcoe, Cort and Morgin held back. Cort changed into a riding dress to again assume the identity of Tulellcoe’s wife. And when the three of them finally did venture down to the ford, France and Val were engaged in a little dicing with some of the caravan guards. The three of them pretended the two men were strangers, passed them by without acknowledgment, crossed the ford and headed up the road to Tharsk. An hour later France and Val caught up with them.

“Drapolis is alive with rumors,” France said. “They’ve heard Morgin slipped through BlakeDown’s fingers and they think he’s either in Drapolis or on his way there now. And fat old PaulStaff has his armsmen making regular sweeps through the city.”

Val added, “At least they got the news Morgin was separated from us in Toblekan, so they’re looking for a lone rider.”

The fortress at Tharsk commanded Methula, was garrisoned by Decouix regulars, and from all reports had never been taken. But if they could sneak, or lie, their way past Tharsk, then the pass would let them into northern Yestmark, where they could lay low for a while.

It felt like a trap, heading for Tharsk, but hunted on all sides, Morgin had no choice. At least they no longer needed to ride hard with a posse on their heels, they were well provisioned, and they even managed to supplement their supplies quite regularly by fishing in the river. A day and a half from Methula they came upon another lake. They took the opportunity to camp on its shore, and with no pursuit behind them they decided to stay through the following day and rest the animals.

That night Morgin stayed up long after the others retired. All that day he’d been trying to recall the events of his dreams. He fed the fire carefully, maintaining it as a pit of glowing embers rather than a flickering blaze, for within the glow of the coals he found a sort of peace, and he managed to lose himself there for long periods of thought.

He now understood that someone—perhaps more like something—manipulated his actions regularly, and he understood too that the manipulation was not something recently begun, but something that had gone on throughout his life. And he was beginning to suspect it had begun long before his life, and the only difference now was his awareness of the manipulation.

Val stirred in the darkness behind him, rose from his blanket and slipped into the bushes to relieve himself. When he returned he hesitated at his blanket, then turned to Morgin and the fire, stepped into the glow cast by the embers and sat down. “Can’t sleep, eh?” the
twoname
asked in a soft whisper.

Morgin shrugged. “Not tired.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. Val clearly appreciated the silent heat of the embers and he left Morgin to his thoughts. But a question occurred to Morgin. “What came after the wind?”

“Huh?” Val grunted.

Morgin recited what he could remember. “He’s going to restore the House of the Thane, free the hand of the thief, free the daughter of the wind . . . What comes next?”

“Oh! That.”

“Yes. That.”

Val considered him. “I take it you’ve freed the daughter of the wind?”

“That’s none of your damn business. Just remind me what comes next.”

Val shrugged off Morgin’s short temper. “He’ll free the Dane King.”

Morgin nodded. “Thanks.” He considered Val’s words, remembered that WolfDane had referred to the hellhounds collectively as the Dane. He thought about that while he and the
twoname
sat in silence, then Val stood without speaking and returned to his blanket. Morgin watched the embers of the fire for a time, but they’d lost their meaning, so he too went to his blanket.

~~~

Two days later they passed above the tree line about half a day from Tharsk. They camped that night near a small mountain stream and made plans for how they’d approach the fortress. Val and Tulellcoe would pose as merchants, again Cort would be Tulellcoe’s wife, and Morgin and France their hired swordsmen.

After breakfast the next morning Cort set about changing Morgin’s appearance. She cast a simple spell to put streaks of gray in his hair and beard, which added about twenty years to his apparent age, then she disappeared into the forest for a while and reappeared in an expensive looking dress. Tulellcoe and Val also put on a better cut of clothing than their dusty trail garb, and they set out for Tharsk.

The air had a decided chill that high in the mountains. Tulellcoe told them that in another month or so the passes would see the first heavy snows of the new season. Morgin tried to picture the barren, rocky slopes blanketed in white, and thought it might be a bleak existence for any animals that lived so high.

As midday approached, the trail narrowed rather abruptly, becoming wide enough to pass only a single cart or small wagon, but not two abreast. The slope above them was a steep incline of broken rock that would be difficult to climb if one were of such a mind, and the slope below, while no more or less steep, would be a long and very fatal tumble for any traveler or horse careless enough to lose footing. And then as they rounded a sharp bend in the trail, Tharsk stood above them, a black monolith carved from the solid granite of the mountain face.

The trail too had been chipped out of the solid stone of the mountain. Travelers tended to hug the uphill side away from the precipitous edge, and centuries of traffic, the constant wear of boots and hooves and cartwheels, had worn the rock there into a smooth and almost glassy surface, while the edge nearest the drop remained rough and uneven. The trail skirted the base of the fortress wall for a good distance, then entered the black shadow at the mouth of a tunnel part of the fortress itself. Any traveler wishing to cross the Worshipers through the Pass at Methula must either pass into that tunnel, or climb the sheer rock of the fortress wall above it, and of course those in the fortress would have an easy time dislodging such a fool.

Almost as soon as the tunnel came into sight a Kull voice challenged the small party of travelers. “Halt,” it said from Tharsk’s ramparts. “Identify yourselves.”

They stopped in the trail, aware that they were easy meat for an arrow or a tossed stone. Tulellcoe rode forward a few paces, and though no one was visible above, he looked up to the battlements at the top of the fortress wall. “I am Vergis ye Tosk. And with me is my associate Seurrak ye Penda, my wife Thenda, and our bodyguard of two swordsmen.”

“And the names of the swordsmen?”

Tulellcoe turned in his saddle, looked back at the rest of them. “He with the moustache,” he said, indicating France, “is named Rindal. And he with the gray-streaked beard is named Morddon.”

“State your business.”

“Lord Seurrak and I are merchants. We are traveling to Yestmark, and then on to Durin, to renegotiate certain contracts that pertain to our business.”

They waited silently through a long pause that drew out until the horses began to splutter and fidget and stomp their hooves. Morgin grew uneasy; the air was cold enough to see his breath, and the sky had begun to gray over with low clouds that clung to the mountaintops. If the Kulls delayed them too long a storm might catch them on the narrow mountain trail.

“Enter the tunnel,” the voice from above barked.

France turned quickly to Morgin. “We’re bodyguards, so I’ll ride to the fore with Lord Vergis. You take up the rear.”

France spurred his horse forward while Morgin waited for the others to pass him, then he nudged Mortiss into a walk behind them. Tulellcoe and France paused at the entrance to the tunnel, for now that they were close enough they saw a heavy iron portcullis blocking the way just within the shadows. But the portcullis rose with a clanking rattle of chains dragging across stone. Behind it another portcullis began to rise slowly, and behind that another, and another, and another. One by one they all rose into the ceiling of the tunnel, but not until the noise died completely and silence again descended, not until then did Tulellcoe nudge his horse forward.

They all followed slowly into the tunnel mouth, and in front of Morgin each disappeared as they entered the darkness of the shadow there. Morgin’s vision cleared only a little as Mortiss stepped into the darkness, but above him he sensed the murder holes between each portcullis, while behind them the portcullises descended with the same noisy scrape of steel chains on stone.

They were guided by light from the tunnel’s mouth, but the tunnel followed the curve of the mountain, and by the time they reached the center of the tunnel there was just barely enough illumination for them to see that the portcullises leading out the other side were still down. Tulellcoe waited for a few moments, then called out, “You have no cause to detain us.”

Again they waited through a long silence, and then to one side a straight crack of light appeared in the rock of the tunnel wall, and with the grind of old hinges echoing in the close air a massive stone portal slowly opened beside them. A splash of light coming from the fortress proper silhouetted France and Val and Tulellcoe. France looked at Tulellcoe with an unspoken question on his face; Tulellcoe shrugged an answer, then nudged his horse forward through the portal.

The portal let them into an empty courtyard open to the sky, circular, surrounded on all sides by high walls cut from the same black rock as the tunnel, with another portcullis on the opposite side of the courtyard. Battlements topped walls around them, manned by about two twelves of Kulls, all armed with crossbows. If the Kulls chose to kill them, there would be no escape.

One of the Kulls growled down at them, “Dismount.”

Tulellcoe turned about in his saddle and nodded at the rest of them. Morgin swung his leg over Mortiss’ rump and down to the ground, let go of her reins and stepped up beside Cort’s mount. Ordinarily she would take insult at his offer of assistance, but Morgin must act the hired swordsman, and she a lady who would expect such treatment. As he put his hands around her waist and helped her down out of the saddle he felt mischievous, and he whispered jokingly in her ear, “You shouldn’t be so helpless, woman.”

“Thank you, Morddon,” she said politely, then her eyes narrowed and she whispered closely, “You’ll pay for that remark, you young whelp.”

Morgin stepped away from her, nodded just as politely, “You’re welcome, your ladyship.”

“Welcome to Tharsk!” someone called out, not the voice of a Kull. They all turned toward the portcullis just as it began to rise, for just beyond the grate stood four people. An older man and woman waited patiently, the woman with her hand resting in the crook of the man’s arm. Beside them stood a younger man about Morgin’s age who looked upon them with a sharp, distrusting stare. And behind them stood a Kull officer.

The older man spoke as he stepped beneath the rising portcullis, “Welcome, Lord Vergis and Lady Thenda, and of course Lord Seurrak. I am Oubba ye Rastanna. This is my wife Carri, and my son Tarkiss.”

Carri let go of his arm, curtsied politely. “It’s wonderful to see you Lady Thenda. You can’t realize how lonely it gets up here. I have absolutely no one to talk to but my mistresses and these men.”

Just as Tulellcoe had not introduced his hired men, Oubba did not introduce the Kull standing behind him. But while Oubba and his wife and son greeted Tulellcoe and Val and Cort, Morgin looked the Kull over carefully. He’d never faced one like this before, not without steel between them. And then the halfman happened to look his way and their eyes met. Expressionless inhumanity had etched itself into that face, and Morgin struggled to keep his hatred from showing in his own eyes.

The Kull grinned knowingly, and the sword at Morgin’s side vibrated, something only he could feel. He rested his hand on the hilt, tried to make the action look casual and unthreatening, found it had loosened itself in the sheath ever so slightly. He pushed down on it, suppressed it, held it in check.