by J. L. Doty
Jerst looked at her carefully as if seeing something other than his daughter. “I don’t know where my honor lies, but it’s certainly not here with his death.”
Blesset staggered backward as if slapped; her eyes narrowed into hard, angry slits, staring at Jerst as if accusing him of betraying her. She turned her head slowly, looking for someone to support her, someone to agree that Jerst should execute Morgin. And in response the entire tribe seemed to sigh and lean back, as if distancing themselves from her. She saw it and her eyes hardened even further. Then she reached for the sword at her side and spoke in a cold, hard whisper, “Well if you’ll not do it then I will.”
In a single motion she drew the blade, stepped into the circle of stones and raised her sword. Shebasha materialized in front of her, sprang into the air and hit her in the chest. Blesset and the demon sand-cat tumbled in a sprawl of arms and legs and paws. Then both jumped to their feet, facing each other, and Shebasha let out a scream that resonated in Morgin’s soul.
Harriok shouted, “Blesset, he killed the demon cat. Don’t you understand? He killed it and that is why I live. And before that he righted the first four wrongs.”
Shebasha licked one paw and calmly said to Blesset, “We have invaded the circle, for which the penalty is death. But I am already dead, so that leaves only you.”
Morgin had forgotten about the archers, but the steel warheads on their arrows warned him, dozens of them knowing they were now destined to pierce Blesset’s heart. Standing only two paces from Morgin, she looked down at her feet, and only then realized what she’d done.
As the archer’s raised their bows Morgin heard the whisper of the steel, telling him that this must not end in mortal bloodshed, and only he could save Blesset. And now, as if the steel controlled him, he screamed, “No,” and lunged for her. He heard the twang of a dozen bowstrings as he stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, closed his eyes and waited to feel the steel pierce his own heart. And he waited. And nothing happened.
He opened his eyes, looked into Blesset’s face. Her eyes were focused over his shoulder, awe and wonder on her face. Still holding her, he turned his head slowly and found a dozen arrows hovering in the air only a hand’s breadth from the two of them, steel warheads aimed at their hearts.
Morgin said to the steel, “Please, no.”
The warheads glowed a little, a faint orange shimmer that grew slowly to a bright, cherry red. The wooden arrow shafts emitted trails of smoke, then flared into white-hot flame, and moments later ash and molten steel dropped to the ground.
Blesset tore herself out of Morgin’s arms. She stepped away from him and pleaded, “It can’t be. It’s not possible. He’s a plainface. How can he free us of our debt to the Shahotma?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “How can a plainface free us of our sin of betrayal?”
Morgin shook his head. “You have no debt to the Shahotma. History has it wrong. It was not the Benesh’ere who betrayed him. It was an archangel, and the Benesh’ere were the last to remain loyal to the Shahotma. Even unto the end.”
She whispered, “No. Impossible. How can you know this?”
Morgin looked slowly from Blesset to Jerst, and then to Harriok and Chagarin standing just outside the circle. “Because I was there. Because Aethon died in my arms, and I laid him to rest in Attunhigh.”
Chagarin nodded, as if Morgin had just answered a question he’d long wondered at.
Angerah called out to Chagarin, “Help me, old friend.”
Chagarin crossed the distance between them, and helped the old man stand. Then, with Angerah leaning on him heavily, they stepped across the line of rocks and into the circle. Angerah said, “I do believe you bring great change upon us.” Then carefully, with Chagarin helping him, he dropped to one knee in front of Morgin, bowed his head and said, “SteelMaster, command me.”
Chapter 14: The Obsidian Blade
JohnEngine wondered if the small stream had a name. Perhaps the local peasantry called it by some term or designation other than “the stream.” It certainly wasn’t big enough to be called a river, but its small size masked it true importance. It was one of the many features that defined the traditional border between Elhiyne and Penda lands.
JohnEngine and Brandon had decided all border patrols should be headed by someone they could trust to keep a clear and calm head. They only had a few lieutenants who fit that requirement, so that meant JohnEngine must share their duties and spend a lot more time in the saddle these days. He and Brandon had been relieved to learn DaNoel shared their disdain for Olivia and BlakeDown’s provocations. It gave them one more soul they might trust to share these duties. And Brandon had a new wife to worry about, a rather pretty blond. JohnEngine hoped that when it came his turn, Olivia and AnnaRail would find him someone as attractive.
“Lord JohnEngine,” one of the scouts said, standing up in his stirrups and pointing across the stream.
JohnEngine didn’t need to stand up in his stirrups. Across the stream and several hundred paces distant, a cloud of dust rose from a Penda border patrol riding their way. They rode at an easy canter, not at a full gallop or charge, so their approach did not alarm JohnEngine. He and his men had been riding about a hundred paces from the stream and parallel to it, so they halted, and he had them wait there. The Pendas likewise stopped about a hundred paces from the stream, and with no apparent hostility in the air, JohnEngine said, “Wait here.” Then he nudged his horse forward. The Penda lieutenant did the same.
As they approached JohnEngine was pleased to see that he was dealing with Perrinsall. They both stopped a few paces from the stream and on opposite sides, an old formula that worked to keep the borders safe, and peaceful. JohnEngine said, “Good day to you, Lord Perrinsall.”
The Penda nodded and said, “And good day to you, Lord JohnEngine.”
ErrinCastle had been good to his word, had made sure a calm head was in charge of the Penda patrol.
They compared notes on border activity, confirmed that neither clan had experienced any real cross-border banditry. Perrinsall was hunting one highwayman who’d proven to be a nuisance to a few of the local merchants, but the fellow hadn’t attempted to perpetrate his crimes on the lands of one clan, then escape across the border onto those of another. If he had, JohnEngine would work closely with Perrinsall to ferret the fellow out, and see him hung from a gibbet.
JohnEngine finished by saying, “Perhaps some time you’ll allow me to buy you a pint.”
Perrinsall said, “Gladly. I look forward to it.”
They parted and returned to their men.
~~~
Carsaris walked carefully down the corridor, his every sense focused on the Kull captain behind him. He heard the creak of the halfman’s leather armor, the thump of his boots on the stone floor, the occasional clink of a piece of metal harness, but nothing more. The halfman moved with an eerie silence that sent a shiver up Carsaris’ spine. No man felt at ease with Salula at his back, and Carsaris had now worked closely with the captain long enough to know the halfman cultivated such fear, actually enjoyed it.
When the two Kulls standing guard at the entrance to Valso’s apartments saw them approaching they perked up. And when they realized Salula accompanied Carsaris, one of them actually smiled, a strange sort of sharp grin, with no joy or happiness in it, merely hunger and anticipation. Carsaris always found it unnerving to see a Kull smile, and he hoped never to see it again.
Carsaris was expected, so they opened one of the double doors without preamble. He paused, stepped aside, and with a wave of his hand indicated Salula should precede him, saying, “After you, Captain.”
Doing so was merely an excuse to no longer have Salula at his back, but the Kull captain recognized it for what it was, and he smiled knowingly. And where the common Kull soldier’s smile had truly seemed evil incarnate, Salula’s grin hinted at depravity far beyond anything imaginable.
“No, Lord Carsaris,” Salula said, his voice a low growl with none of th
e light and pleasant tones that had once come from the swordsman France’s throat. “After you.”
Carsaris capitulated and stepped through the door. He heard Salula fall into step behind him, knew he heard Salula only because the halfman wanted him to.
Valso awaited them in a comfortable sitting room, seated casually on a chair and dining on his morning repast, with the little demon snake curled about a nearby perch and preening itself like a cat. Carsaris approached him, bowed deeply and stepped aside. Salula stepped up to Valso, dropped to one knee and lowered his head. “My king.”
Valso carefully finished chewing on something, then delicately dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin. He turned his head slowly and looked at the kneeling halfman for a long moment, then he looked up and met Carsaris’ eyes. “Is he ready?”
“Almost, Your Majesty.”
Valso’s eyes narrowed angrily, the snake hissed and a lump formed in the pit of Carsaris’ stomach. “Outwardly the swordsman is fully subdued, but apparently there is yet some inward turmoil. I think Captain Salula might explain better than I.”
Both the head of the snake and that of Valso turned slowly to look upon the Kull, and they stared at him for several heartbeats, their stillness eerie in its similarity. Valso finally said, “Rise, Captain.”
Salula rose and stood silently looking upon the king. Impatiently, Valso said, “Speak.”
The rumble of Salula’s voice sounded like rolling thunder in the distance. “This France fellow is stronger than any of us would have thought, and inwardly, like a poorly trained dog, he still pulls at his leash, which could prove to be a lethal distraction at an inopportune moment. But such incidents grow less frequent with each day, and like any dog, he will be properly trained.”
Valso demanded, “How long?”
“Not long, Your Majesty. A few more days, four or five at the most. After that, nothing will remain of him but a memory.”
Valso stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “I had hoped for sooner, but . . . that will have to do.”
He walked slowly around Salula, examining him from every angle, then stopped in front of him, facing him. He looked into the halfman’s eyes, and Carsaris saw none of the unease a normal man would feel looking into such a face. Then he looked down at Salula’s leather armor and said, “This will not do.”
He turned back to the dining table, retrieved a sharp knife, turned back to the halfman, reached out and took hold of a steel buckle. He sliced through the leather holding the buckle, had to saw at it a bit to make it come loose, then tossed the buckle onto the table next to his meal. “No steel,” he said. “None whatsoever. Not on you, on your leathers, on your horse, on its harness, in your packs. We’ll have wooden harness fashioned for you where it will do, soft iron where it will not. Absolutely no steel whatsoever.”
Salula’s head nodded, an almost imperceptible tilt of his chin. “As you wish, Your Majesty. But what of my knife and sword? Soft iron will not hold an edge.”
Valso grinned, and it reminded Carsaris of the halfman’s grin. “I’ve thought of everything, my good captain. Unbuckle your sword.”
While Salula did so, Valso turned and walked across the room to a large chest against one wall. He opened the chest and retrieved a large bundle wrapped in an oiled cloth, then returned and placed the cloth on the table. He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a sheathed sword and sheathed knife. He lifted the sword carefully, almost reverently, and turned toward the halfman. By that time Salula had unbuckled his sword belt, and held his own sheathed blade in his left hand. Valso extended the hilt of the sheathed sword he held toward the halfman and said, “Draw the blade.”
Salula reached out cautiously and gripped the extended hilt, and as he pulled on it a black, obsidian blade slid from the sheath, wicked, serrated edges glinting unnaturally in the room’s dim light. “Glass?” Salula asked. “It’ll shatter at first contact with steel.”
Salula still held his own steel blade by the sheath in his left hand. Valso, as fast as the little snake on the perch behind him, reached out and pulled Salula’s steel blade from its sheath. He held it up, looked at it carefully, then walked to the center of the room, which Carsaris noticed was oddly bereft of any furniture. Valso had planned this.
He stopped, turned toward Salula, swung the blade a few times through the air, then said, “I need a little sword practice, Captain. Will you oblige me?”
Wary and ill-at-ease, Salula walked to the center of the room and stopped facing Valso. He hesitated, looked at the king uncertainly, then carefully swung the obsidian blade in an overhead strike. Valso parried the strike easily with the steel blade; the steel on obsidian rang in a higher pitch than steel on steel, and like steel on flint it released a shower of bright sparks.
Salula raised the obsidian blade and looked at it dumbly. It remained whole and undamaged.
“It’s magicked,” Valso said. “With the aid of my master, I’ve spent a good part of winter and most of spring preparing that blade and its companion with the most powerful spells I could fashion.”
Salula’s teeth flashed in an evil grin, and he struck out with the obsidian blade more confidently, one, two, three strikes. And as Valso met each one, a cascade of sparks brightened the dim light of the room. Salula stopped, looked again at the blade, and laughed, an ungodly roar that struck fear in Carsaris’ heart.
Valso tossed Salula the steel sword and he caught it easily in his left hand. Then Valso strode across the room and sat down at the table. “As I said, absolutely no steel.” Valso lifted the sheathed knife off the table and held it out to Salula. “Here is its companion.”
Salula crossed the room and took the knife, pulled the obsidian blade part way out of the sheath, looked at it carefully and smiled. Then he shoved it back into the sheath with a snap.
He looked at Valso and asked, “I assume you have a reason for this.”
Valso smiled. “The Elhiyne still lives, the one that dances in shadows, the one that killed you the first time. And he now has unusual powers over steel.”
Salula dropped to one knee again. “I thank you my king for the boon of devouring his soul. This time I will not fail.”
“Yes, kill the Elhiyne,” Valso said. “But he’s living among the Benesh’ere, and not even you can fight seven thousand of those maniacs, so you’ll probably have to bide your time, watch and wait. You won’t be able to get to him until he leaves them, which he will eventually do. Perhaps you could spend the time making sure his wife is dead as well. It makes me uneasy that I do not have positive confirmation of her death. So sniff about as you travel, see if you can find any hint of her. She hasn’t surfaced at any of the Lesser Clan strongholds, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s dead. She could be in hiding, so if you do find her, kill her as well.”
Salula’s voice grumbled like thunder in the distance. “I have a thought, Your Majesty. A bit of knowledge gleaned from the swordsman’s soul. This France knew the two of them well, and they were connected in some way. When the Elhiyne leaves the Benesh’ere, I might have trouble tracking him. But if I found her, might there be a way to use her to do so?”
Valso threw back his head and laughed. “Wonderful, my dear captain! I so missed having you around.”
Valso stood and paced back and forth in front of the kneeling Kull. “She stayed here only recently, and when she left I had her rooms carefully swept. We have strands of hair, a few clippings from her finger nails. And I have everything of the Elhiyne, his blood, his feces, name it and I have it. Yes, I can craft a powerful spell, one to control her, and one to take advantage of that connection you say is there.”
Valso stopped pacing and turned to face Salula pointedly. “Yes, if she still lives find her and kill them both. But there is something far more important than their deaths. There were once three swords, one a magnificent, jeweled work of art, the other two plain and unadorned. Like the jeweled sword, one of the plain blades was flawless. But the other plain blade contained
a minute and undetectable flaw. My master faced the flawed blade and destroyed it centuries ago. The Elhiyne possesses the other, and I want you to bring it to me, for it is a blade of limitless power.”
Salula asked, “But the great, jeweled sword, isn’t that the AethonSword? Isn’t that the talisman?”
Valso shook his head. “Do not be fooled by the beauty of the jeweled blade; it is without power. The real blade of power, the AethonSword, is the remaining simple blade. My master cannot manifest on the Mortal Plane while we do not control that blade, for it is the only thing that can defeat him here. Bring me that blade. Yes, kill the Elhiyne. And if his wife still lives, after using her against him, kill her too. But bring me that blade.”
Valso turned back to his meal, a clear sign of dismissal.
Salula grinned, and as he spoke Carsaris shivered. “With pleasure, Your Majesty.”
~~~
BlakeDown grunted like a pig and jerked spasmodically as he spilled his seed in Chrisainne’s mouth, grasping the back of her head and jamming his manhood into her throat so hard she almost gagged. He lay on his back in his bed, and when he relaxed and finally let go of her head, she rolled off him and pretended to be tangled in the sheets for a moment as she quietly spit his foul slime into a fold in the bed-linens. She rose up on her knees, and when he opened his eyes, she pretended to swallow.
He smiled and said, “You are a little minx.”
She smiled back at him. “I take pleasure from your pleasure, my lord.”
He grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her down on top of him, and she snuggled her cheek against his beard, pretending the coarse hairs didn’t irritate her delicate skin.
Her husband had contrived an excuse to be away from Penda on business. The two of them never openly acknowledged the fact, but they both knew his real purpose was to get out of the way so she might spend more time with BlakeDown. More time beneath BlakeDown, she thought, while he grunts and sweats on top of me.