The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (37 page)
Read The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within Online
Authors: J. L. Doty
That done, she stood, hunted down her horse, climbed up into its saddle and turned west. Perhaps she could find something at the Lake of Sorrows, for certainly the name of the place suited her. And if not there, then she’d seek elsewhere.
The dungeon beneath Decouix was, by nature, a damp, dark and dreary place. There were no windows, so the light of day never penetrated the darkness, and during the quiet times the only sounds were the constant drip of water leaching out of the rock, or the occasional groan from one of the tortured souls confined there. And of course there were the echoes, for in that silence every sound carried an echo.
High above a door slammed open, and light slashed into the darkness illuminating the top of a long stairway. The dungeon’s jailer, a fat, middle-aged man who knew little of bathing and even less of polite manners, stepped through the open door carrying a spluttering torch. Valso and a half dozen Kulls followed him closely as he descended the stairs rather hastily. At the bottom he moved quickly to light several torches set in the walls, and the new light revealed a large room containing implements of an unpleasant nature. And set in each wall was the black mouth of a tunnel that led to a block of dungeon cells.
Valso looked about, then barked at the jailer, “Clear a space in the center of the room and put a plain, wooden chair in the middle of it.”
He turned to one of the Kulls. “Go get the swordsman.”
While two of the Kulls helped the jailer slide a rack to one side, the other four took a torch and disappeared down one of the dark tunnel mouths. There followed the sound of a heavy latch thrown aside, an old door creaking open, then a scuffle and a single shout.
“Don’t damage him,” Valso shouted. “I have use for him healthy and whole.”
A few moments later the first Kull emerged from the tunnel carrying the torch. Two more followed him supporting France between them, dragging him across the floor. France appeared to be unconscious.
Valso pointed at the single chair sitting alone in the center of the room. “Put him there and bind him well.”
The Kulls moved quickly, bound France’s hands behind his back and his legs to the chair. When they finished France didn’t move, sat with his head hanging limply against his chest and his eyes closed. “Wet him down,” Valso snarled.
One of the Kulls filled a bucket from a barrel of foul smelling water then threw it in France’s face. France threw his head back, spluttered and coughed and choked for several seconds.
“Well now, swordsman,” Valso said pleasantly. “Have you enjoyed your stay here in Decouix?”
France shook the water out of his long, blond hair and smiled cockily. “Wonderful, Decouix. I particularly enjoyed the lice. They’re a nice touch. It just wouldn’t be right without them.”
Valso nodded. “I like you, swordsman.”
“I wish I could say the same about you, Decouix.”
Valso smiled and continued to nod. “Yes. I do like you. I even sometimes like your friend, the Elhiyne. Like you, he amuses me. He thinks you’re dead, you know. We told him you drowned in the river. I suppose that was a mistake. If he’d known you were alive he might have tried to rescue you when he escaped, and that would have given us another chance to recapture him.”
France threw his head back and laughed defiantly. “He’s escaped, eh? Good for him.”
“Yes,” Valso said frowning. “Good for him. He escaped out onto the Munjarro, and we couldn’t follow him there. He’s probably dead already, but then I don’t know that for sure and I need a hound to track him.”
France shook his head, laughed again. “You won’t catch him.”
Valso considered France’s comment with care and frowned thoughtfully. “Well now, with any ordinary hound it would be exceedingly difficult. But you see, swordsman, I have Salula.”
France stopped laughing and his eyes darkened. “Salula’s dead.”
“Dead?” Valso asked. “Salula was never alive, so how can he be dead?”
France looked confused and Valso smiled at that. “Oh, the corporal body that was Salula’s is dead. But he was only borrowing that. The body was not Salula, merely a vessel to contain him in this life, and the essence of Salula still exists. It still belongs to me, and is waiting for me to find an appropriate replacement for that body so it can again live among you mortals and hunt the Elhiyne.”
France leaned forward and screamed, “You’re mad.”
Valso smiled. “Of course I’m mad. There’s a certain madness that comes with limitless power. I’ve found that as I’ve risen above the rest of mortal mankind my understanding of the universe has grown beyond your comprehension, swordsman, and those like you. But I don’t have time for this. I’m interested in seeing my dear old friend Salula again, and to do so I need a body for him, preferable that of an excellent swordsman with a strong will and a cold temper.”
For the first time fear appeared on France’s face, and with his jaw clenched tight he spoke through his teeth. “Not me, Decouix. You need a willing partner for that, and I’ll fight you to the grave.”
“Good!” Valso said. “Good! Excellent! The more you’re able to resist me the better for Salula, and in the end the stronger he’ll be. Oh, without your consent it will be difficult, and it will take longer—in fact it might even take years—but I am a patient man, and when I am done you will be my hound, and together we will hunt the Elhiyne, and in the end it will be you who takes his life.”
It was in the springtime of antiquity that the gods first came unto the land, and there walked in mortal guise among the children of the Shahot, and blessed beyond imagining were the children who lived in the shadow of the divine.
It was in the summer of antiquity that the gods crowned the kings of the Shahot, and ordained the king of kings, the Shahotma. And with the guidance of the gods the kings reigned with wisdom, justice and mercy.
It was in the autumn of antiquity that the gods warred among themselves, and in the great clan wars that followed, the children of the Shahot lost four tribes, annihilated to the last man, woman and child, and never to walk the land again.
It was in the winter of antiquity that the gods left the land and, godless, the children of the Shahot despaired. They sought the gods throughout the planes of existence. But to no avail, for in their despair they failed to look in the heart of the Shahot, and they failed to look for the gods within.
The End
Here ends
The Steel Master of Indwallin
, the second book of
The Gods Within
, in which Morgin has learned the lies of the past and the limits he faced there. In the third book,
The Name of the Sword
, Morgin learns the power and the danger of the self-forged blade.
Don’t miss the third book in The Gods Within.
For a taste of what’s coming next, read on:
Book 3 of
The Gods Within
When the steel no longer rules, only then can the shadows within be mastered.
by
J. L. Doty
The master must ever know the heart of the steel,
the soul of the steel,
and the child of the steel.
For should his knowledge falter,
the steel will rule his heart,
and he will know only the pain of the steel.
Chapter 1: The Spirit of the Sands
Morgin forced himself to walk, to drag one foot forward through the sand and put it in front of the other, to shift his weight onto it and then repeat the process just one more time. Each step required an effort of will. The heat was unbearable, and sand had worked its way into every fold of his clothing. His lips were swollen and cracked, his eyes encrusted with dried tears and sand, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. But he also knew that all he had to do was keep heading northwest and he’d eventually run into the Ulbb, so he kept the afternoon sun in front of him and to his left. He’d walked out this far, he could walk back.
Then it struck him and he stopped dead in his tracks. He thought for a moment and he realized he wasn’t sure if it was morning and the sun was rising toward noon, or it was afternoon and it was falling toward dusk. If the latter, then his path led him northwest toward water. But if the former, then he was walking deeper into the Munjarro: more sand, more sun, more heat.
The heat was so intense he found it difficult to breathe, and his tongue had begun to swell and block his throat. He had no choice but to stagger on, and so he walked, and tried not to think of anything but the next step . . . and the next . . . and the next . . . and the next . . .
~~~
He knew he must be dreaming, for he rested comfortably on a blanket on the sand. The heat had dwindled to something bearable, and when he opened his eyes he found he lay in a cool and comfortable shadow cast by the folds of a small cloth lean-to, though almost within arm’s reach the shadow ended in a thin, sharp line, and beyond that the oven of yellow sand extended forever. And out there nothing moved but transparent waves of heat that danced about slowly, drifting of their own accord on a still, windless calm.
A man sat just within the edge of the shadow with his legs crossed, his back to the sand and the heat. Behind him the sun beat down with such blinding intensity that his features were lost in the blackness of a dark silhouette. He leaned forward slowly, held something out toward Morgin’s face, and a trickle of water passed between his lips to wet his tongue. Morgin swallowed, and as the water washed down his throat the man sat back, rested his hands on his knees and returned to his still, silent vigil. But in the distance behind him Morgin’s eye caught a flicker of movement out on the sands.
Something out there approached the lean-to, and it flowed with the grace and fluidity of a shadow. But it was yellow like the sands, not black and dark, and when it remained still it blended into the glare of the Waste so completely it might as well have been invisible. It moved like a predatory animal stalking prey, holding as still as the heat for some seconds, blending into the ripples on the edge of a dune. Then it would suddenly dart to one side and edge forward, cross to another dune and freeze into stillness again.
Whatever it might be, Morgin realized it stalked him and the man in the small lean-to, something big and sleek, with muscles that rippled like the heat waves that danced across the dunes, and he was too weak to move, too weak to speak, too weak to give warning of any kind. The man sat with his back to the sands waiting for something, and as the monster behind him approached Morgin struggled to cry out, but a nameless weight upon his soul paralyzed him. So he lay there watching the beast approach, and as it came closer he saw that it was a giant cat with sand-yellow fur and blood red eyes. Two giant fangs protruded from its upper jaw, and it ran on large paws that kept it from sinking into the sand, and in it Morgin sensed a deadly malice toward all things mortal. But when it reached the lean-to, instead of pouncing upon them as Morgin expected, it settled down on its haunches just beyond the edge of the shadow, as if it preferred the hellish fire of the sand rather than the cool shade of their shelter. And it just sat there, watching him with those blood red eyes, until finally it lifted one forepaw, and with the faintest flick of its wrist it extended its claws, five of which were razor sharp and the length of a man’s fingers. But the sixth claw was tiny, no more than the size of a small needle, and as Morgin looked at it a minute drop of venom dripped from its tip, and he understood that the smallest claw was the most deadly of all.
The beast smiled at him, and he knew her name to be Shebasha. But then he realized that it was all just a dream, or a hallucination, and that in reality he was probably lying face down in the sand somewhere with the sun baking his brains.
~~~
Morgin drifted in and out of that dream for some unknown time. Sometimes Shebasha sat just outside the shade of the lean-to, and sometimes not. The man remained unchanged, always sitting just within the shadow, though Morgin wondered if he truly was a man, for a dark silhouette always hid his features. But then suddenly the sense of a dream ended and he came fully awake. The large cat was nowhere to be seen and he realized she was just a figment of one of his dreams. The small lean-to was real, though the shade it cast was far from cool. The man no longer sat in the shade with Morgin, but Morgin spotted him out on the sands in the distance.
The first thing that Morgin noticed was the shape of his head: it was enormous and triangular. He wore sand yellow breeches tucked into calf length boots, an odd, knee length robe collected at the waist by a black belt, with a hood thrown up over his strangely shaped head. He bent down over something in the sand with his back to Morgin, and when he stood erect he had a small creature in his hand that wiggled and struggled to escape. He gave its neck a sharp twist and it went limp, then he turned back toward the lean-to, and it was then that Morgin realized his head was not really of an odd shape. Rather, he wore some sort of broad, stiff-brimmed hat, over which the hood of his robe had been thrown. The brim of the hat had the effect of making a large tent of the hood, which, in the bright sun, hid the man’s face in a deep and mysterious shadow.
As the man approached the lean-to Morgin sat up, found that he was still dressed in the torn and battered clothing he’d worn during his escape from the Decouix dungeon, but about his neck someone—he had to assume it had been the man—had added a thick ring of intricately braided leather. It was too small to slip over his head, and it had no clasp so he surmised it had been braided in place while he lay unconscious.
“You’ll grow used to the slave ring,” a voice said.
Morgin looked up, found the man standing over the entrance to the lean-to. The timbre of the man’s voice told Morgin he was still a young man, perhaps Morgin’s age. “Slave ring?” Morgin asked.
“Yes,” the young man said. “I saved you from the sands. I gave you water—” he held up a small, reptilian beast in his right hand, “—and now I’m about to feed you. Your life is mine.”
For a moment Morgin had the thought of resisting the young man, but he was facing one of the Benesh’ere, and with his memories of Morddon’s reflexes he knew this man would be a fearsome warriors. And even if he were able to defeat him, they were somewhere out in the middle of the Munjarro, and Morgin was wholly dependent upon him for survival.
The young man stabbed a finger into his own chest. “I am Harriok, your new master. You will address me as Lord Harriok.”
Morgin decided to play along, then escape at the first opportunity. “Yes, Lord Harriok.”
“Very good.”
Harriok bent down, crawled into the lean-to, sat down with his legs crossed opposite Morgin, drew a knife and began gutting the small creature he’d captured.
Morgin cleared his throat. “May I ask a question, Lord Harriok?”
Harriok nodded. “Go ahead, slave.”
“How long ago did you find me?”
“Late yesterday.”
Morgin ran his fingers through his hair. “I feel much better than I think I should.”
Harriok held up the creature he was cleaning. “A few more hours and this cratl and his fellows would have started picking at your flesh. But you weren’t bad off. A little too much heat, not enough water, both easily remedied.”
Harriok paused from his work, threw back his hood, pulled off the broad brimmed hat and tossed it into a corner of the lean-to. Harriok had the bone white skin and coal black hair of all Benesh’ere. “Speaking of water,” Harriok said. “You’ve put me a day behind schedule, and you’ve used water I hadn’t counted on. As soon as I’m done here we’ll pack up and leave.”
“Where are we going?”
“To join the tribe. I was scouting our northern flank when I came across you lying in the sand. But now that I’ve wasted a day here they’ve certainly moved on and are probably ahead of us. It won’t be easy catching up. In fact we may not be able to join them until Aelldie.”
“What’s Aelldie?” Morgin asked.
“It’s the largest oasis in the Munjarro, and the last oasis before we leave the sands for the summer.”
“You’re leaving the sands.”
“Of course we’re leaving the sands. We always leave the sands in summer. It gets too hot to survive so we go to the Lake of Sorrows.”
Morgin knew the Lake of Sorrows, knew that he could probably escape there. “You’re going to the Lake of Sorrows?”
“Yes, we’re going to the Lake of Sorrows,” Harriok barked angrily. “And you’re asking too many questions, slave.”
Morgin nodded and said, “Yes, Lord Harriok.” He smiled inwardly, for though Harriok complained, he clearly enjoyed having someone to talk with.
Harriok finished cleaning the cratl, then cut the meat into strips and gave half of them to Morgin with a small ration of water. “Raw cratl meet,” Harriok said, holding up a strip. “A good source of water.”
They dined on raw cratl and hard brown journeycake. Near dusk the temperature dropped and he took Morgin out on the sand. It was then that Morgin first saw the other, larger lean-to in which Harriok’s horse rested on its haunches in the shade it offered.
Morgin helped him clear several traps that had snagged other reptilian creatures like the cratl and a few small rodents. Harriok snapped each creature’s neck then tossed it in a sack.
“Aren’t we going to clean them?” Morgin asked.
Harriok shook his head. “Not now, slave.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “Now we travel. We’ll stop when the sand starts to heat up at sunrise. There’ll be plenty of time for that then.”
Both lean-tos folded up into an impressively compact bundle. Harriok gave Morgin a knee length hooded robe like his own, adding, “I have to take care of my property,” and they were on their way.
Harriok rode while Morgin walked close behind, and by the stars he could tell they headed due west. It was not easy walking on the sand. It shifted and slid beneath Morgin’s feet, and it often required two steps just to travel the length of one. Harriok rode a special breed of horse that Morgin had heard of but never seen. It had large, broad hooves that didn’t sink far into the sand, with a lean, compact body that didn’t require excessive water or feed. Mounted, Harriok could have pushed Morgin to travel much faster, but instead he set a reasonable pace that Morgin could maintain. A three-quarter moon lit the yellow dunes beautifully, though there was really nothing to see but an endless ocean of sand.
“What’s your name, slave?”
Morgin had been trudging along in silence for a good hour, concentrating on keeping his footing in the loose sand, and the sudden question caught him by surprise. “Morgin,” he answered, then realized he should have lied.
“What were you doing out on the sands?”
Morgin knew the Benesh’ere hated the Decouixs, so he decided a common enemy might put him in a better light with this young warrior. “I ran afoul of a few Decouixs, and it was either the sands, or get my throat cut.”
“Are you a clansman?”
“No. Just a wandering swordsman.”
“Well you can’t have wandered all your life. You must have come from somewhere.”
It would be wise to stay as close to the truth as possible, so Morgin made up a life for himself that was not unlike that of some of his childhood companions. “I’m the son of an Elhiyne freeman. My father was a soldier and my mother a kitchen maid. I was raised at Elhiyne itself, and taught some soldiering skills.”
Harriok turned about in the saddle and looked down at Morgin, his voice filled with curiosity. “You grew up in the castle?”
“Aye,” Morgin answered flatly.
“What was it like? Was it big? It must be strange to live surrounded by stone like that.”
Morgin told Harriok about Elhiyne. He described every detail of the place, and the people who lived there, which fascinated the young Benesh’ere warrior. But for himself, he grew sadly homesick.
“You miss them,” Harriok said. “I can tell.”
For all his bluster and harsh words, Harriok treated Morgin almost as an equal. They took turns riding the horse, and only occasionally did Harriok remember that Morgin was supposed to be his slave and demand that he call him “Lord.” They stopped near midnight to eat then traveled on, continuing at a steady pace until well past dawn since the air remained cool during the first few hours of morning. But as the sands began to warm Harriok called a halt. He taught Morgin how to pitch the lean-tos, and then how to set traps in the sand. And by that time the air had grown thick and hot, so they retired to the shade of the lean-to.
Morgin wanted to drop instantly into sleep, but first they had to clean their catch from the previous day, cut the meat into strips, eat some of it raw and lay the rest out in the sun to dry. And only then did they rest.
The next night went much as the first. They kept up a steady pace while Harriok quizzed Morgin incessantly about life among the clans. But near dawn, just as the sky was beginning to lighten, Harriok stopped suddenly, stood up in his stirrups and sniffed the air.
“Can you smell it?” he asked excitedly.
“Smell what?” Morgin demanded.
“Water,” Harriok said without embellishment. Then he climbed down out of the saddle, and with some urgency untied his pack.
“Help me,” he barked at Morgin.
Morgin didn’t know what to do to help him, so he hovered nearby, did what he could as Harriok, with considerable effort, slowly assembled what appeared to be a strangely shaped and oddly inverted tent. It was a contraption made of wooden stakes and a circular piece of oiled cloth about as wide as the spread of a man’s arms. The stakes supported the outer edges of the cloth about knee high off the sand, while in the middle Harriok placed a small stone which weighted the center of the cloth downward. With that done they then went about the business of making camp, though it was much earlier than the previous morning.