by J. L. Doty
Morgin crawled back to the bottom of the ravine, untied the horse’s reins, then led it quietly away from the Kulls along the bottom of the ravine. He walked the animal about fifty paces and decided that was enough. He stopped, put a foot in the stirrup, reached up and gripped the saddle horn, and hesitated. When he climbed into the saddle the horse might splutter or make some noise, so he had to do this quickly for it to work.
In one motion he climbed into the saddle, got his right foot in a stirrup, drew his sword and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. It struggled to charge up the slope, exhaustion weighing heavily on the animal. He made the lip of the ravine, got the horse up onto the flat prairie and charged toward the whiteface encampment.
“Kulls,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “about to attack. Kulls—Kulls—Kulls!”
He was about fifty paces from the perimeter when a whisper of thought told him to duck to the left. He jerked that way as a Benesh’ere arrow with a steel-tipped warhead hissed past his right ear. Instinct flashed again and he twitched to the right as another steel-tipped arrow flew past. “It’s me,” he screamed, “the Elhiyne.”
More arrows hissed past him, each missing him by only a finger’s width, and then his focus locked on one particular arrow, targeted straight for the horse’s chest. He didn’t see it with his eyes, just knew that it was there, and he had an instant to realize that its steel warhead would pierce the horse’s heart, and the horse would collapse beneath him. So as the arrow struck he jumped, the horse folded in on itself and he barely cleared its head; he hit the ground feet first going much too fast to stay on his feet. He tried to turn his landing into a roll, managed nothing better than a head-over-heels tumble that ended a few paces from the sentry line. He sat up just as a sentry lunged toward him with a spear, but the sentry hesitated, looked at him and said, “You’re the Elhiyne.”
Behind the sentry stood a dozen whitefaces carrying longbows. Morgin looked back toward the Kulls, saw a cluster of dead horses and halfmen, all badly feathered by arrows. His warning had given the whitefaces time to concentrate archers at this spot, and the battle had ended quickly.
He stood unsteadily and brushed dirt from his tunic. The sentry grounded the butt of his spear, leaned on it and said, “You sure got a crazy way of fighting Kulls. Ain’t never seen anyone fight Kulls like that. You’re kind of crazy, you know?” He considered that for a moment, half-grinned out one side of his mouth as if recalling some old memory. “Not the worst kind of crazy I’ve seen, but still crazy.”
Morgin looked back at the dead Kulls and horses, and decided it was time to make a bow of his own. With Morddon’s memories to guide him, he certainly knew how.
~~~
As Olivia and BlakeDown argued in the middle of Castle Penda’s great hall, Brandon found it hard to believe only a year had passed since the last meeting of the Lesser Council. So much had changed, and none for the better. Back then Elhiyne had been ascendant, and even some of BlakeDown’s sycophants had begun looking to Elhiyne for leadership. With Morgin’s almost single-handed defeat of the Decouix army, and his semi-mythical reputation as the ShadowLord-come-to-life, there was little BlakeDown could do to thwart Olivia’s ambitions. Brandon would not have been surprised to hear her propose they crown Morgin—AethonLaw—king of the Lesser Clans. She might not have been able to push that through the Council, but still, it would have been a close call, and then that sword had changed everything.
Standing in the center of the hall Olivia spoke, using her public voice that carried to all. “With the four Lesser Clans united, we could field an army to challenge Decouix dominance. The White Clan was badly stung by their defeat at Csairne Glen.”
BlakeDown countered, “We might have done that, a year ago, had not your grandson brought that talisman among us. Valso has had two years to rebuild, and I don’t believe he is as weak as you claim.”
Olivia gave BlakeDown a dismissive smile. “They lost six thousand men, and two years ago at Csairne—”
BlakeDown interrupted her. “At least, now that your outlaw grandson is dead, that blade seems to have quitted the Mortal Plane, and we can once again live without fear it will devastate the countryside.”
Brandon shivered at the thought of Morgin and Rhianne dying in the jaws of the skree.
“Tis a cold and dreary place, isn’t it.”
Brandon turned to find that JohnEngine had quietly come up behind him. He said, “It’s not the chill of Penda stone that makes me shiver. It’s the chill in the hearts of the Council I fear most.”
JohnEngine looked toward Olivia and BlakeDown, both of whom were red-faced with anger. “Aye. Even though Tosk and Inetka are leery of the growing rift between Olivia and BlakeDown, PaulStaff must support BlakeDown, and Wylow must support Olivia, and the Lesser Council is divided now more than ever.”
They both turned their attention back to the two clan leaders.
Olivia sneered as she said, “You seem to fear your own shadow, Lord BlakeDown.”
“And you, Lady Olivia, are foolishly fearless. That talisman was an embarrassment to all the Lesser Clans.”
“You’re embarrassed. My, my! The leader of Clan Penda is more concerned with how the Greater Clans perceive him, than with their constant threat of war. Perhaps you should go to Durin. Then you and Valso can pull out your manhoods and compare sizes.”
Brandon saw Wylow and Eglahan approaching them through the crowd. Wylow was High Lord of Inetka, Eglahan, Marchlord of Yestmark, and both sworn to Elhiyne. Olivia held both in high regard, especially Eglahan, so they could be an important means of tempering her provocations.
“It’s open insults now?” Eglahan asked.
Brandon said, “It digressed to that long ago. If Olivia were a man, by now she and BlakeDown would have probably tried to settle their differences with blades.”
JohnEngine added, “They’re just getting a bit more malicious.”
“Look,” Wylow said, nodding toward the center of the hall.
AnnaRail had stepped onto the main floor, awaiting acknowledgement before speaking. One of the counselors, obviously relieved to see someone step forward who might temper the situation, immediately said, “Lady AnnaRail, you may speak.”
“Lords and ladies,” she said. “We have much we disagree on, and yet we are united as the Lesser Council. There have been many proposals placed before the Council, and since it is just past midday, let us adjourn for lunch. We can satisfy our growling stomachs, and consider these issues for further discussion this afternoon.”
Like almost everyone else, Brandon understood she was trying to diffuse the situation. A break for lunch would do that nicely.
One of the counselors said, “Excellent idea.”
Another was about to agree, but Olivia shouted, “Wait. I have one more proposal we should consider over lunch.” She paused for dramatic effect, and a knot formed in Brandon’s stomach; he knew the calculating old woman too well. She continued. “We need unity. We have the unity of this Council, but we also need the unity of our armies. So I propose that we name, as Warmaster of the Lesser Council: Brandon et Elhiyne.”
JohnEngine groaned; they all knew BlakeDown wanted that title for ErrinCastle.
No one responded, not a word, not an utterance. Then BlakeDown threw back his head and roared with laughter. “If you think Penda will play toady to some Elhiyne whelp, then you know nothing of the most powerful of the Lesser Clans.”
They never did get to lunch that day.
~~~
Morgin limped into the whiteface encampment followed by the sentry. The sentry said, “Heard you was lost in the mist. Figured you was dead by now.”
Morgin hurt everywhere, but a dozen or more Kull saber cuts concerned him most. He rolled up his sleeve and showed the sentry a nasty cut on his forearm. “I’ve got about a dozen of these I need to treat before they fester.”
The sentry looked at the cut and asked, “Kull saber?”
Morgin merely nodd
ed.
“Come with me.”
The sentry led him to a fire pit where a young girl knelt on her hands and knees, blowing on the embers still hot from the evening meal, trying to bring the fire back to life. The sentry told Morgin to sit down, and as he did so the girl’s kindling caught, and a lick of flame crackled upward.
“Tamlea,” the sentry said, addressing the girl. “The Elhiyne needs a healer. We’ll take care of the fire while you find one.”
She looked at Morgin curiously, then hopped to her feet and ran off among the tents.
Morgin sat there in silence watching the sentry build up the fire. Tamlea arrived with the healer, a middle-aged Benesh’ere woman with streaks of gray in her coal-black hair. The woman didn’t introduce herself, just began cleaning his wounds silently, sewing some closed. Word spread quickly that the Elhiyne was still alive, and as she worked a small crowd gathered around them.
Morgin recognized one of the men: Jack the Lesser. They’d met shortly after he’d killed Salula. Jack stepped forward and said, “So, Elhiyne, we meet again.”
“Aye,” Morgin said.
Jack sat down opposite him. “Chagarin told me if you got back alive you can keep the sword, said something about it choosing you. Now why’d it do that, Elhiyne?”
Morgin shook his head tiredly. “That’s just one of many questions no one seems to be able to answer.”
“Well, you survived the last two nights. Sounds like you have a story to tell. Come, let’s hear it.”
Morgin told them about his two nights and a day lost in the mist. As he talked the sun rose above the horizon, and to his surprise, the mist dissipated completely, producing a bright clear day. The western horizon was no longer flat and unmarked, but now studded with trees blanketing low-lying rolling hills. Morgin had stumbled into the lead encampment of the March, and he estimated they were no more than an hour’s march from the first trees.
Jack noticed him looking at the horizon and said, “Yes, the March is over. At least for this year.”
Morgin finished the last details of his story. “So I ended up here by pure luck.”
“But you kept your head,” Jack said. “You stayed hidden and fought smart. And yes, you were lucky you didn’t end up with your guts up in a tree.”
Again, that curious phrase! “Fantose said something about guts up in a tree. What’s that mean?”
Jack looked past Morgin to one of the whitefaces standing behind him and asked, “Mind lending the Elhiyne your horse? He knows how to ride.”
Jack gathered up about a dozen warriors, all heavily armed, and Morgin rode with them at an easy trot toward the trees at the edge of the plain. As they approached the tree line they slowed, the whitefaces peering intently at the trees. Morgin tried to see whatever it was they were keen to spot, but not until they reined in at the edge of the tree line did he understand.
Four whitefaces had been tied upside-down high up on the trunks of four trees: two male warriors, one female warrior, and a small boy of no more than eight or nine years. They’d been tied upside down with their backs to the trees, each with his or her head about the height of a tall man off the ground, their feet tied above them. Then their abdominal wall had been slit with a saber, spilling their guts down over their chests, then over their faces, then onto the ground below. Flies swarmed about them in dense clouds. They all showed signs of mistreatment, but they’d clearly been alive when tied to the trees, clearly been alive when their abdomens had been slit and their guts spilled out, clearly been alive when they’d been turned into a feast for flies.
Without looking away from the corpses strapped to the trees, Jack said, “If we get separated from the March, lost in the mist, we try not to be taken alive. And you have to watch for a Kull that gets past the perimeter into the camp. They particularly like to take a child.”
Looking at the four corpses tied to the trees, one of the whitefaces said casually, “Only four. A good year.”
Chapter 10: Ancient Lessons Remembered
NickoLot had learned long ago that her small stature encouraged others to think of her as just a little girl, even though she was now a woman of marriageable age. If she wanted anyone to take her seriously about DaNoel, she would have to produce hard evidence. Otherwise, she’d be just a little girl having a spat with her brother. And too, she was not about to hurt AnnaRail—her own mother—by accusing her son of treason until she had fully convinced herself of his guilt.
She decided to start with the guard in the tower where they’d held the Decouix. She’d seen nothing truly incriminating the day Valso had escaped, just the guilt that flashed across DaNoel’s face in the instant she’d surprised him crouching over the dead guard’s body. And he’d been more concerned to point out that she had no proof, rather than denying any guilt, which bothered her no end.
After some careful inquiry, she learned that the guard’s mother worked as an assistant cook in the castle. NickoLot found her in the kitchens during the brief period between lunch cleanup and dinner preparation.
“Yes, milady,” she said in response to NickoLot’s inquiry. “He was me son. A brawny good lad too.”
“Do you still have any of his clothing?”
“Aye, milady. Me younger son wears it all the time.”
NickoLot frowned. “Do you have anything of his that no one else has worn?”
The woman frowned. “Might be.”
The women led her to a room she shared with two other assistant cooks, and three scullery maids. She opened a chest at the end of her bed, likely filled with all the belongings she had in the world. She dug through it, then pulled out a man’s tunic. “I haven’t altered this yet to fit the younger one, been saving it for when he grows into it.”
NickoLot examined the tunic carefully, came up with a couple of reddish-blond, curly hairs. “What was your son’s hair like?” she asked.
“Light red,” the woman said. “And curly. Beautiful curls me boy had.” She wiped another tear from her eye.
It took the rest of the afternoon to prepare the spell she had in mind; a charm to recall a person’s memories for seven times seven heartbeats before the moment of death. It was a complex weaving, in which she had to tie power into the two hairs. To trigger the spell she borrowed a bit of spittle from the old woman, a blood relative, though she lied about the reason for wanting it.
She stopped just within the entrance to the tower where they’d imprisoned the Decouix. The room at the base of the stairs was little more than a small alcove, and she pictured again in her mind’s eye the tableau of the guard lying on his back, his blood-soaked tunic, the blood pooling on the stone floor around him, DaNoel crouching over him. From the position of his feet, it was clear where he’d been standing. If DaNoel had murdered him—not if, when—his final memories would be haunting the stone there. Though, since time would slowly disperse them, she chided herself for having waited so long to do this.
She approached the spot cautiously, careful not to draw any power and contaminate the memories. She’d have only one chance, for once she triggered the spell, the memories would dissipate.
She stood where the guard must have stood, her back to the wall. Then she retrieved the charm, a small silver pentagram with the guard’s hairs woven among the five points of the star. From her sleeve, she pulled the handkerchief into which she’d had the guard’s mother spit; she could still feel the moisture in it. She closed her eyes, pressed the charm to her forehead and carefully rubbed the moist cloth across the pentagram.
The spell triggered nicely, and she felt some psychic remnant of the guard wash through her. She waited for his memories to fill her mind, and she waited, and waited. She counted fifty heartbeats, and only then realized there were no memories to be had. He must have been unconscious, or enspelled, long before he died.
~~~
Rhianne and Braunye had just sat down to a meager dinner when a harsh knock on the door startled them both. “Mistress Syllith,” a male voice shouted.
“It’s an emergency.”
Rhianne stood, crossed the small hut, lifted the latch on the door and opened it. Outside stood the innkeeper, and behind him stood two men covered from head to toe in black soot. “There’s been an accident at the mines,” he said. “A land slide.”
A problem with the mines was a problem for everyone. “How many injured?” she asked.
“We don’t know yet. A dozen or more. Won’t know until they dig them out.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “We have three at the inn right now. We’re setting up lamps so you got light to work. They’ll bring the rest down as they find them.”
“Start boiling water,” she said. “As much of it as you can. I’ll need lots of boiling water. Braunye and I will gather our supplies and be there shortly.”
“Right you are, mistress,” Fat John said. He nodded toward the two men behind him. “These men will help you bring whatever you need.”
She turned to Braunye. “Bring everything.”
Rhianne and Braunye hurriedly gathered up all of their herbs and potions. They handed most of it to the two miners, but Rhianne had certain concoctions she’d augmented with powerful spell-castings. Those she carried herself.
The three injured miners had been laid out on the floor of the inn, two of them groaning and crying out in pain, one of them silent and still. Rhianne quickly determined that the silent one had already died, while another had a compound fracture of his lower right leg, and the third a crushed hand. Both men continuously groaned and cried out in pain.
Rhianne had never treated crush-wounds before; helped once, but never done it herself, wasn’t sure if she could do this. But then Fat John took charge. “There’s more’n one of us knows how to chop off a limb. We need you to keep them alive after.” He glanced down at the two men and said, “That hand will have to come off, and that leg too.”