The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Three shadows appeared out of the night, slogging through the wet grass of the field, creeping stealthily up to the shed. They listened for a moment, and one asked the other, “Is he in there?”

  “Must be. He come this way.”

  “Think maybe he’s asleep?”

  “He ain’t makin’ no noise. Either he’s asleep or he ain’t in there. Let’s move quiet like, kill ‘im fast.”

  The three thieves melted through the door into the shed. Morgin would have run the other way, but Morddon stepped quietly into the shed behind them.

  “Guess he ain’t in here.”

  “Guess I am,” Morddon said in a gravelly voice.

  Startled, all three figures jumped, hesitated for a moment, then moved quickly to the attack. But again the Benesh’ere reflexes left Morgin’s thoughts behind, and the thieves lay dead on the floor of the shed before he realized the action was over.

  He searched them quickly, took the best cloak they had among them, and a small purse of coins one had tied to his waist. Then, with the cloak to keep him a little warm, he returned to his corner and curled up for the night.

  ~~~

  The next morning the dream had not ended, and that disappointed Morgin, though at least the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. Morddon returned to the road and began walking again in the same direction as the previous day. After two more days of walking the weather became warm and dry, and the countryside about him turned quite flat and featureless, though by no means barren for he passed tilled and carefully tended fields bearing grain of an unfamiliar type. He watched carefully for a farmstead, but only after quite some time walking did he spot one a good distance off the road at the end of an arrow-straight cart track. He thought of food and his stomach growled, so he turned toward the farmhouse.

  The farmer met him in the middle of the cart track where it opened out into the farmyard. He held a pitch fork in both hands across his chest like a soldier carrying a pike, and while he did not level it at Morddon, he was clearly prepared to defend himself if need be. The man was short of stature, far shorter than Morddon, and he was quite terrified, though he stood his ground bravely.

  “Who are you?” the farmer demanded. “What do you want? And why would a whiteface come to my farm?”

  Only then did Morgin realized the man was not unusually short, but Morddon was unusually tall, for in this dream he inhabited the towering, spindly body of a Benesh’ere, and by that he stood head and shoulders above ordinary men. “I’m just a soldier,” Morddon said. “As you can see I’m a bit down on my luck, but I mean you no harm.”

  “What do you want here?”

  Morgin followed Morddon’s thoughts as he gave up the idea of food. “Just a drink of water.”

  The farmer pointed at an animal trough with his pitchfork. “Drink your fill. Then be gone.”

  Morddon gulped at the water mechanically for a few seconds, then left the farmstead quickly.

  As he walked down the road he saw more farms to either side, and an occasional horseman rode past him in one direction or the other. From then on traffic on the road increased steadily, and he passed several crossroads where other, smaller paths joined the main road, until it finally descended into a dryer, browner landscape, and in the distance Morgin caught his first sight of a strange and beautiful walled city of tall glasslike spires that glistened in the sun. Morddon knew the city to be Kathbeyanne, the city of the gods, but the Morgin scoffed at such a notion.

  Like most large, walled cities, the great majority of Kathbeyanne’s inhabitants lived outside its walls. And in fact many of the most interesting and lively markets were located there. The road he traveled appeared, from a distance, to lead straight to the city’s main gates. But as it entered the sprawl of shops and booths at the base of the wall it widened and split and separated, and the traffic became so heavy—mostly foot and cart traffic—he found it impossible to determine exactly where the road itself led, and he soon became lost among the vendors, though most people made way quickly for the filthy Benesh’ere carrying a naked blade.

  He stopped at a weapons maker’s shop, feeling a strange affinity with the various tools of death on display. But this was no true weapons maker, for the steel in the shop called out to him, and the flaws in it grated at his nerves. His eye caught the motion of his own reflection in the face of a polished brass shield. He stopped and looked into it carefully, and he saw Morgin’s face reflected there, though reshaped to conform to the long, narrow lines of a Benesh’ere.

  “Would yer lordship be interested in tryin’ the shield out?”

  Morddon turned slowly to face the shop owner, but the owner, seeing for the first time the naked sword in his hand and noticing now his unwashed and road-weary condition, stepped back one frightened pace. “You’ve no need to fear me,” Morddon said. To Morgin it felt odd to speak, because it was Morddon who chose the words. “I carry the sword this way because I have no sheath for it.”

  “Ah!” the shop owner said, relieved, turning and sweeping a hand toward the center of his stall. “If it’s a sheath you want then step this way.”

  Morddon followed him, but the flawed steel about him bothered him, so he chose a sheath quickly, paid for it, and buckled it on. “Are you sure you don’t want the shield?” the shop owner asked him. “It’s a good shield, finely crafted.”

  “I don’t want a shield,” Morddon said. “But I do want directions. Aethon’s hiring mercenaries. I want to know where, and how I get there.”

  A small boy appeared at Morddon’s feet. “I can show you the way, whiteface, and for no more than the price of a small copper.”

  “He’s my customer,” the shop owner growled at the boy.

  Morddon turned carefully to the shop owner and spoke with deliberate malice. “But it’s the boy’s wares I choose to buy.” The shop owner wisely chose not to argue with a Benesh’ere warrior.

  The boy led Morddon through the gates at the wall and into the city itself. Kathbeyanne was far bigger than any city in Morgin’s experience, and each time they walked from one section to the next he was forced to revise his estimate of its size. They passed through a thieves quarter much like that in any city, but scaled up with the size of Kathbeyanne, and a merchant’s quarter where families of wealth and worldly power lived in luxury, and an oddly small clan quarter where the aristocrats of otherworldly power lived in arcane mystery. But ultimately the boy led Morddon to the heart of the city, buried in the center of the clan quarter, and for the first time his eyes fell upon the palace of the Shahotma King. Morgin knew he would never forget that first sight, of spires that reached toward the heavens, of balconies and balustrades that soared high above the city, with level upon level of parapets and battlements.

  There was a large open parade ground in front of the palace itself, and after rightfully demanding his copper coin, the boy left Morddon there to seek his own fate. At the far end of the parade ground, close to the gates of the palace itself, there were a number of contestants practicing their weapons skills. Most were in pairs refining their swordsmanship, and the almost dance like cadence of the ring of their swords was hypnotic, though the parade ground was of such a size that the distance muffled the sound considerably. But the constant activity raised a hint of dust in the dry afternoon air that gave an eerie quality to the entire scene.

  To one side of the parade ground stood several large barracks, and in front of each, with one exception, stood two smartly-dressed and well-armed guards with their backs arrow straight and their eyes keen and piercing to any who might pass by. Also, with one exception, the stone of each barracks had recently been scrubbed clean, and above each barracks door fluttered the banner of the company of warriors occupying its interior. The exception, however, had no banner whatsoever, had not been scrubbed nor cleaned in any way in a long time, and had no guards neither smart nor slovenly standing at its entrance. Instead, close to the door they’d placed a plain wooden table behind which sat three rather hard
and unsavory looking warriors of unknown rank. A long line of men of no better seeming character snaked out from the table far across the parade ground, and Morddon took a place at the end of that line.

  Several men nearby in the line looked at him oddly, and Morgin noticed then that he was the only Benesh’ere there, for he stood head and shoulders above the tallest of the rest. But he also remembered his image in the shield, and he probably appeared the most unsavory of the bunch, so he settled down to a long wait, while whatever happened at the front of the line happened. And slowly, one step at a time, the hours passed while he moved closer to the plain wooden table with the three men seated behind it.

  He lost track of the time, and in the warm afternoon sun, with the cadence of the swords ringing in the distance, he slipped slowly into the depths of his own thoughts, moved almost unconsciously with the advancing line. Morgin now understood that he and Morddon jointly inhabited this Benesh’ere body. But where there might have been strife in such a relationship, he and the Benesh’ere were so alike as to be almost indistinguishable, and yet when it came to reflexes, to moving with one’s instincts, the body always moved with the reactions of its Benesh’ere soul, and Morgin understood well which of them was dominant.

  Morgin started as a sharp, unpleasant sound cut at his nerves, a sound like that of a badly tuned harp. The other men in the line stepped fearfully away from him.

  The sound came again, an unpleasant, harsh ring cutting through the dry afternoon air. Morgin, or maybe it was Morddon, recognized the sound of flawed steel, though the distance muffled it enough to be bearable. But without question the wrongness of it commanded his attention and his eyes unerringly picked out the blade and its owner. And even though they were at the extreme limit of the parade ground, and to his eyes they were no more than shadowy blurs, he knew somehow, having once heard the flaw in the steel, he would recognize that blade instantly if he and it ever met again.

  The line moved forward; Morddon moved with it.

  He glanced upward and noticed a large black speck against the bright blue of the afternoon sky, some sort of bird gliding on a warm, dry thermal. He kept an eye on it as it circled the parade ground in a careful descent, drifting ever closer until finally Morgin heard the beat of giant wings and saw that the shape of this bird was wrong. But not until it settled to the ground in front of one of the distant barracks did he comprehend the enormity of this animal that flew but was not a bird. Part eagle and part lion, a strangely misshapen creature easily larger than any horse, coal black from head to foot, it turned its head and looked Morgin’s way with blood red eyes that pierced the distance and cut into his soul. Morddon identified it as a griffin.

  A dozen Benesh’ere poured out of the barracks in front of which the griffin had landed, and Morgin noticed then that the two guards standing in front of it were Benesh’ere. But among them came a warrior who wore only black, and walked with a grace and surety of step beyond that of any mortal man. Even at that distance Morgin recognized Metadan.

  All of the Benesh’ere but one bowed deeply in the presence of the griffin. That one, and Metadan, bowed courteously to the griffin, but only as equals. Then all, including the griffin, entered the Benesh’ere barracks.

  The line moved forward; Morddon moved with it.

  Sometime later a horse-drawn carriage left the palace through its main gates at the far end of the parade ground. It raised a cloud of dust as it crossed to the Benesh’ere barracks and came to a halt there. A tall Benesh’ere woman stepped out of the carriage. She wore robes that spoke of wealth and power, and like the griffin, Metadan and a dozen Benesh’ere warriors emerged from the barracks to greet her. Again, all but one of the Benesh’ere bowed deeply to her, while Metadan and that one bowed courteously to her as equals. Then they escorted her into the barracks and the carriage pulled down an alley to wait.

  The line moved forward; Morddon moved with it, and eventually arrived at the table facing the three surely mercenaries. One of them eyed him carefully, and asked, “What can we do for you, whiteface?”

  Morddon answered, “You’re hiring mercenaries. I’m here to be hired.”

  The mercenary rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Hmmm! I never hired a whiteface before. What’s yer name?”

  “Morddon,” he answered. “And you won’t do better.”

  “Aye, I don’t doubt that,” the mercenary said. “Never met a whiteface wasn’t worth two ordinary men in a fight. What’s yer price?”

  “What do you pay these other men?”

  “One copper a day. A bonus of twelve at the end of each month if they’re still alive.”

  Morddon nodded. “Then you’ll pay me twelve coppers a day and a bonus of one silver at the end of the month, if I’m still alive.”

  The mercenary’s brow wrinkled. “Are you worth that much?”

  “And then some,” Morddon said flatly.

  The mercenary captain rubbed his chin and considered Morddon carefully. But while doing so one of the men seated next to him leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. The captain frowned and nodded unhappily. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he said, then looked up at Morddon. “Sorry whiteface. Deal’s off. Won’t be hiring none o’ yer kind here.”

  This time Morgin saw it coming and managed to keep up with the speed of Morddon’s actions. While his right hand tore his sword from its sheath, his left reached across the table, closed in a vise-like grip about the mercenary captain’s throat, lifted him out of his chair and well off his feet. He slammed the choking mercenary on his back on the table and raised his sword high in the air in preparation for decapitating the man then and there, and not one of the mercenary lieutenants had yet managed to even get out of his seat. “What made you change your mind?” Morddon growled in the captain’s face, relaxing his grip on the man’s throat a bit so he could talk.

  “Not by choice,” the mercenary coughed out. “Gilguard wouldn’t like it.”

  “What does Gilguard have to say about who you hire?”

  “Ordinarily nothing. But he’d spit me and roast me alive if I hired one of his precious whitefaces.”

  Morddon nodded, knowing well the pride of the Benesh’ere. “Well then. Let’s go talk to Gilguard.”

  Again he picked the mercenary up by his throat, and dragging him on his heels like a piece of baggage he marched toward the Benesh’ere barracks, trailing a crowd of curious mercenaries behind him. As he passed the other two barracks he noticed the guards in front of one were ordinary human men, and those in front of the other were angels.

  At the Benesh’ere barracks the two guards eyed him curiously, and one grinned at the sight of the poor mercenary captain slowly turning blue in Morddon’s grip. But when Morddon tried to walk past them they crossed their lances in front of him, and one of them demanded, “I don’t recognize you. What do you want here?”

  “I have business with Gilguard.”

  The guard looked Morddon up and down, made no attempt to hide his contempt for the obviously low caste of the Benesh’ere who stood before him. “You need a bath,” he said.

  Morgin sensed Morddon’s anger building, and he couldn’t understand why the Benesh’ere seemed bent on picking a fight with everyone he met. “I’m not here to see Gilguard about a bath,” Morddon growled.

  The guard shook his head. “Well I don’t think you’ll be seeing the warmaster about anything.”

  Morgin felt Morddon tense. “Are you going to tell him I’m here?”

  “Gilguard’s too busy to be bothered with the likes of you. And if you’re smart, whiteface, you’ll get yourself—”

  The term whiteface was a common enough reference to the skin color of a Benesh’ere, and the Benesh’ere tolerated its use by ordinary men. But no Benesh’ere would use it in reference to another except as the most derogatory of insults. Morddon kicked the talkative guard in the crotch and simultaneously slammed the hilt of his sword into his partner’s chin. The one doubled over groaning and clutched his groin whil
e the other went down with a crash. Morddon then hit the one groaning in the back of the head and walked over the top of him through the ceiling high double doors of the barracks.

  Just inside he met a wall of Benesh’ere warriors with swords and lances leveled at him. He halted, dropped the poor mercenary captain on the floor, gripped his sword in both hands, and at the possibility that he might now die, Morgin sensed in him a joyous anticipation.

  “What’s going on here?” a voice called out. The warriors facing Morddon parted, and the Benesh’ere who had bowed to the griffin and the lady as equals filled the gap. A moment later Metadan joined him, and with an ungainly shuffling the black winged griffin, towering over them all, took a place behind them.

  “You’re Gilguard,” Morddon growled. “Well I’ve come to see you about keeping me from gainful employment.”

  The Benesh’ere warmaster frowned, so Morddon kicked the mercenary captain in the ribs. The poor fellow coughed and spluttered and rolled over. Morddon picked him up by his tunic and threw him at Gilguard’s feet. “He won’t hire me because he says you wouldn’t like it.”

  Gilguard looked at the mercenary at his feet, then at Morddon, then at the mercenary again. He frowned and shook his head. “But of course he can’t hire you. And you wouldn’t want to work for him. He’s a mercenary.”

  “I know,” Morddon snarled, “So am I.”

  A female voice shouted, “No! That cannot be!”

  To Morgin it sounded like Rhianne’s voice, but he was careful not to react in any way, for he saw in a dozen pairs of Benesh’ere eyes he’d be spitted on a dozen lances were he to move quickly.