The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (28 page)

While Morgin and France waited for the rest they busied themselves making last minute adjustments to the donkey packs and checking the harnesses of their horses. But while doing so Morgin caught the sound of the hooves of a large number of horses clopping on the stone ground of the fortress. He and France looked up at the same instant; their eyes met and silently they agreed to take no action, to wait and see.

The sound grew quickly louder, then Tarkiss emerged from the fortress interior leading his horse and about four twelves of Kulls and their horses. Mortiss and the other horses grew skittish as Kulls and their mounts surrounded them, and Morgin and France struggled for some moments to calm them.

Tarkiss gave the reins of his horse to a groom and approached Morgin with a rather satisfied swagger. “Well now, Tosk,” he said arrogantly. “It seems the presence of so many Kulls bothers you.”

Morgin shrugged. “The presence of so many Kulls bothers most men, yer lordship.”

Tarkiss nodded. “Aye. That they do. But not those of us who command them, eh?”

“And beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship,” Morgin added, “but I ain’t no Tosk.”

“Ah yes!” Tarkiss said. “You’re not a clansman.” He looked Morgin up and down suspiciously. “I forgot that for a moment, didn’t I?”

“And thankful I am I ain’t no clansman,” Morgin said enthusiastically. “No disrespect meant, yer lordship, but that magical stuff would likely be too much of a burden fer a common swordsman like meself.”

Tarkiss smiled, not a pleasant smile. “But then if the burden was yours to bear, you wouldn’t be that common, would you, swordsman?”

Morgin wrinkled his brow, pretended to consider the thought carefully as if such an idea were a bit beyond the simple mental capacity of a hired swordsman, and he was pleased to see a momentary flash of doubt in Tarkiss’ eyes. But then Oubba and Carri diverted Tarkiss’ attention as they escorted Tulellcoe and Val and Cort from the fortress proper.

Morgin didn’t like the look on Tulellcoe’s face, an impression that Tulellcoe confirmed a moment later when he tried to conceal his unease with an unhappy smile. He looked about at the Kulls that surrounded them and announced, “Lord Oubba has kindly provided an escort to guide us down out of the mountains.”

Oubba happily added, “There are no bandit hordes in these mountains large enough to challenge four twelves of my Kulls. You should all be quite safe.”

Tulellcoe and Val must have done everything possible to turn down Oubba’s aid. But Tarkiss was suspicious of something, and all they could do now was hope his suspicions were a result of his general nature, and not based on something specific.

With the Rastannas and their Kulls and servants all present, he had no opportunity to discuss the matter with any of his companions. Standing in the wet snowfall they took swift leave of Oubba and Carri, and following Tarkiss they all led their horses out through the portcullis, the small courtyard beyond, and into the tunnel. The series of portcullises at the end of the tunnel were already up, and so their passage back out onto the mountain trail was much quicker than their entry the day before.

Like the trail from the west, that going east had been cut from the solid rock of the mountain. But that lasted for less than a league, and they quickly found that the wet snow had turned the hard ground of the trail into a slippery and often treacherous track of ankle deep mud. The conditions often forced them to lead their horses on foot rather than risk a fatal fall should the animal lose its footing, and so the going was slow through the entire day.

But the weather was not the worst of it, not when compared to Tarkiss and his Kulls. Morgin too often was forced to ride surrounded by Kulls with the nearest of his companions several positions up or down the trail, and each time they stopped for a short rest he found it impossible to speak to any of his friends in private. He watched carefully through that afternoon, and noted his companions were kept isolated in the same way. Only Tulellcoe, under the pretense that Cort was his wife, and by constant and tenacious insistence, managed to stay close to her.

The snow let up late that afternoon, but the trail was still a mess and their mood didn’t improve. During the last hour of the day Morgin noticed his sword had slid a few inches out of its sheath. He pressed it back into place, assumed it had simply been jogged loose sometime during the day.

As they set camp that evening an incident occurred that bode ill for them all. Morgin had been out gathering firewood and was returning with his arms full when one of the Kulls stepped in his way and stopped him. The halfman growled, “I’ll take that.”

Morgin hesitated, ready to do almost anything to avoid a fight. “Beggin’ yer fergiveness,” he said politely to the Kull, “but this wood belongs to me master and it ain’t mine to give. You’ll have to ask him if you want some.”

“And who’s your master?” the halfman demanded.

Morgin spoke carefully. “You know who my master is. His lordship there. Lord Vergis.”

The Kull let him go, but Tarkiss stood nearby and had watched the exchange suspiciously. His lips stretched slowly into a broad, satisfied grin, and Morgin noticed that again his sword had come loose in its sheath.

That night he and France shared a makeshift lean-to. And as they crawled into their blankets Morgin whispered quietly, “They suspect something, don’t they?”

“Aye, lad,” France answered. “That they do. Let’s do everything we can to travel together tomorrow, eh?”

Morgin nodded, a useless gesture in the dark. “Agreed,” he said without further comment. He rolled over on top of his sword and slept that way, not a terribly comfortable way to sleep, but at least the sword would go nowhere without him.

~~~

The next day broke clear and dry, though the air had cooled decidedly and small patches of ice now floated in puddles of water along the trail. A hard, frozen crust had formed on top of the mud; the hooves of their pack animals and horses no longer sank in so deeply and they made better time. By midday they were out of the rockiest and steepest parts of the pass, and moss and lichen and grasses bound the ground of the trail together, so they were hopeful they’d left the mud behind.

When they came across a small stream they stopped for a short rest and something to eat. Morgin sat down on a small boulder and chewed on some journeycake. He watched the Kulls eat in silence.

“Eh, lad.” France nudged him out of his thoughts. Morgin looked up to find the swordsman standing over him with two water skins draped over his shoulders. “Let’s go fill the water skins, eh?”

“Right.” Morgin stood. France tossed him one of the skins, and the two of them walked upstream a short distance, found a stretch of moderately calm water. They squatted down on their haunches and began filling the skins.

France looked about carefully, then looked at Morgin and spoke in a soft voice. “We have to break away from the Rastanna pup and his escort.”

Morgin nodded. “I know. Even if he doesn’t suspect something, I think he’s looking for a fight.”

“That’s obvious, ain’t it?”

Just then Morgin noticed three Kulls coming their way. The halfmen traipsed past them, found a spot just upstream, unlaced their breeches and began urinating in the stream. Morgin and France quickly lifted their skins out of the water. “Bloody scum!” France growled.

They moved farther upstream, found another spot where they could finish filling their skins. “Tonight,” France said, “just before dawn, we’re going to try to sneak away. Tulellcoe and Cort are working on a spell to keep the halfmen asleep while we put some distance between us. And we—”

A commotion down in the camp interrupted the swordsman. They both heard Tulellcoe cry out, “Tarkiss, call off your dogs.”

Morgin lifted the skin out of the water quickly, tapped the stopper in place and started back with France close on his heels. They arrived in time to find Cort helping Val up off the ground, a cut above his eye, and Tulellcoe facing Tarkiss angrily.

Tulellcoe stood a few finger spans taller than most men, and when angry something in his eyes gave any man pause, even if backed by four twelves of Kulls. Tarkiss nodded arrogantly, trying to maintain his dignity, then turned toward the Kull lieutenant and barked, “Call off your men, Brakke.”

The Kull barked half-intelligible orders at his halfmen and an uneasy peace settled on the camp.

“What happened?” Morgin demanded of Val.

The
twoname
shook his head. “One of those halfmen took affront at something.”

Cort snarled, “For no reason at all, most likely.”

Val shook his head carefully, looked about them at the Kulls now going about their own business. “No, they’ve got a reason. They’re testing us.”

Morgin asked, “Tarkiss?”

France answered him. “Aye. Tarkiss. They’re operating under his order, that’s for sure.”

After that the five of them refused to be separated for the rest of the afternoon, though they rode in an uneasy silence. That night they also stayed close to one another, and as Morgin crawled into his blanket, France whispered, “Tulellcoe or Cort will wake us when their spell’s ready.”

Morgin got very little sleep, though he managed to doze fitfully. He feared he’d wake up in his dreams in Morddon’s skin and spend months there before returning to this night. But his fears were unfounded, and though the night was long and restless, he still lay in his blanket in this world when Cort came for them. She wore breeches again with a sword strapped to her waist. “Get your gear together quickly,” she whispered. “And be quiet about it, for the spell we’ve cast won’t hold them in their sleep through any loud noises.”

Morgin and France had unpacked only their blankets and slept under the open stars, so they were ready in moments. They found the other three rolling up the small tent they’d pitched to maintain the ruse that Cort was no
twoname
. “You two go on and saddle the horses,” Tulellcoe whispered. “And pack up the donkeys.”

Morgin followed France to the string of horses where they quickly separated out the five from their party and saddled them. They then packed one of the donkeys, and while they were at that Tulellcoe and Cort and Val arrived and began packing the other. By the time they were ready the sky was beginning to lighten with the coming dawn, and there would soon be enough light to see their way easily.

Morgin took one last moment to check Mortiss’ harness, and as he did so he glanced over his shoulder at the camp. In the distance the sleeping Kulls were dark lumps on the ground, with a thin morning mist swirling about them as if it would consume them. And in that silent moment, just before climbing into the saddle, he heard the scrape of a steel blade sliding slowly out of its sheath.

He ducked just as something heavy hit him from behind in the back. He went down, saw a Kull boot arcing toward his ribs, rolled to one side to avoid it, caught it, rolled and twisted, heard the halfman grunt painfully as he too went down. Blades clashed nearby, the frightened horses shuffled and whinnied and someone cried out. Then they were all over him, pinning him helplessly to the ground, and the fight ended.

They hustled him to his feet, twisted both his arms behind his back, held him that way as Tarkiss stepped out of the forest into the dawn light that now filled the camp, his lips curled into a nasty smile.

Tulellcoe lay on the ground clutching his side, and Morgin saw blood oozing between his fingers. Three Kulls had a struggling Cort pinned to the ground, practically sitting on top of her. Two Kulls supported Val much like Morgin, and like Morgin he grimaced each time the Kulls reminded him of his situation by twisting his arms a little tighter behind his back. France was nowhere to be seen.

“Well now,” Tarkiss said arrogantly. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye. Now that’s terribly impolite, don’t you think?”

He looked about. “Where’s the swordsman. He must have slipped away. Well he’s of no matter. Without a horse we’ll find him easily.”

Cort stopped struggling as Tarkiss turned upon Tulellcoe and leaned over the wounded man. “I’m a magician too, you know. And I’m not fool enough to let you cast such a simple spell upon me without a counter spell.” Tarkiss emphasized the point by lifting his boot and kicking Tulellcoe in the ribs.

Cort began struggling again and Morgin shouted, “Leave him alone!”

Tarkiss turned toward Morgin, took two steps to stand facing him. The Kulls tightened their grip on Morgin’s arms. “And why should a common, hired swordsman care so much about the fate of his employer?”

Tarkiss looked Morgin up and down and his eyes settled on Morgin’s sword. “And you’re still armed, I see. Well we can’t have that.” He reached out, gripped the hilt of Morgin’s sword, pulled it from the sheath, and an instant before it happened some instinct told Morgin this time it would come to life.

It flared in Tarkiss’ hand, tore at their ears with the sound of its hatred, and with his eyes wide the young Rastanna lord back-stepped fearfully. The Kulls holding Val and Morgin looked at the sword flaring to life, and in that moment France appeared among them and cut down the two holding Morgin, then turned on those holding Val. He bellowed, “Get to the sword, lad, or we’re all meat for butchering.”

Morgin focused on the sword coming alive in Tarkiss’ hands, the sword that would cut them all to pieces if he couldn’t get to it and control it. He twisted past France, ignored the chaos about him and lunged at Tarkiss. The young Rastanna stood transfixed by the power in his grasp, power clearly growing well beyond his control. Morgin tore the sword from his grip, wrapped his fingers about it and immediately felt its power pounding at his soul. But it had caught the scent of Tarkiss’ blood and like a good hound it would not falter until it had tasted his life. It pulled Morgin toward him even as he fought it, though he cared nothing for Tarkiss, but if the sword tasted just one drop of blood when like this, there would be no stopping it.

Tarkiss staggered backward as the sword pulled Morgin toward him, until he backed into the trunk of a large tree and could go no further. The sword knew its prey was at hand and it fought even more against Morgin’s efforts. But in that moment Morgin, for the first time in his life, felt just an instant of control, a small fraction of a second during which the sword was his to command. The instant ended quickly, and again the sword bucked and fought his grip. But with a cunning and malign intelligence it too had been aware of that moment, and remembering that instant it retreated, then departed completely. What Morgin held in his hands was a lifeless blade of steel with the point resting just beneath Tarkiss’ chin.