The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Morgin dug in his heels and came to a grinding stop, looked back over his shoulder at the two men bearing down on him. A door opened in the alley wall beside him and a sailor stepped out fumbling at the laces of his breeches. Evidently several establishments used the alley for the same purpose.

  Morgin elbowed the sailor aside, shot through the door into the building, slammed the door behind him just as he heard his pursuers crash into it. There was no latch so he turned and ran down a short hall into a large room full of whores and sailors in various stages of undress. Seeing Morgin shoot into the room carrying a naked sword, one of the women screamed. A large, heavy-set bouncer appeared from behind a curtain and swung a club at Morgin’s head. Morgin ducked beneath the blow and back stepped up a flight of stairs.

  One of the hooded men stepped out of the hall on the bouncer’s right. The bouncer turned away from Morgin and swung in a single motion, caught the man squarely in the side of the head. As he slumped to the floor one of his companions cut past him with his sword at the bouncer. Now all the whores started screaming, and the sailors with them began pulling at their breeches and searching for their swords.

  The hooded man faced the bouncer squarely, unaware Morgin hid in the shadows a few steps above and behind him. Morgin kicked out, buried his heel in the man’s ribs, knocking him to the floor with his companion. As he tried to get up the bouncer finished him with his club, then turned and faced Morgin angrily.

  “I’ve no quarrel with you,” Morgin said. “I’m just trying to escape these cutthroats.”

  “Then get out,” the bouncer snarled, and hooked a thumb toward the front door.

  “Right,” Morgin shouted. He vaulted down the stairs, past the whores and their clients, into an entrance way at the front door, and there he met three more cloaked men carrying unsheathed blades.

  He swung out, met one of their swords with a crash, parried a stroke, ducked beneath another, back stepped back into the room full of whores. From the other end of the room he heard the clang of two blades meeting, caught a glimpse of the bouncer slumping to the floor clutching his side, two more cloaked figures swinging their swords at a sailor who desperately tried to fend them off. For some reason the sailor seemed familiar.

  Badly outnumbered, Morgin and the sailor had the same thought and backed toward each other, swinging wildly at their opponents. “Keep yer back to me, man,” the sailor called as he cut out at one of the hooded figures. Why he had chosen to take Morgin’s side, Morgin could not guess.

  Morgin’s hands tingled with heat and power, and his ears caught the hint of a familiar, evil sound: a deep, resonant hum building toward a berserk eruption of power. His sword was coming alive in his hands, and if it came fully to power it would slaughter everyone in the room and many beyond.

  It sliced out, cut one of the cloaked figures down, met another’s sword with such force it knocked him several steps back creating an opening. Both Morgin and the sailor shot through it, out of the room, through the front entrance and out into the street. Their pursuers followed them, and they took up the fight there, though Morgin was more preoccupied now with controlling the talisman’s thirst for blood.

  The street suddenly filled with mounted riders, men wearing the livery of the queen’s guard and swinging their swords with deadly accuracy. They surrounded Morgin and the sailor, cut them off protectively from their opponents. Pandorin appeared above them, spurred his horse into a charge at the sailor who’d helped Morgin, sliced down at the sailor as he charged past him. The sailor parried the blow, staggered back as Pandorin brought his horse about for another charge.

  Morgin sheathed his sword, quenching its power, and jumped to the sailor’s side, waved his hands at Pandorin and shouted, “No! No! He was helping me.”

  Pandorin hesitated, nudged his horse toward the sailor warily, demanded angrily, “Why would a ruffian like this be helping you?”

  “I don’t know,” Morgin shouted above the pandemonium in the street. “But he was.”

  At that moment the fighting and noise ended abruptly as the last of the cutthroats was either killed or taken into custody.

  Pandorin pointed at the sailor with his sword. “Why would you choose to help His Highness. From the look of you you’d be more likely to steal his purse.”

  The sailor looked about slowly at the queen’s guardsmen surrounding him, then carefully sheathed his sword. He bowed politely at the young captain. “Well now I got me vices, but murder ain’t one of ‘em. And I didn’t know he was a Highness.”

  Just then Morgin realized why the sailor seemed familiar. “You were the drunk in the alley. But you don’t look drunk now. You were following me, weren’t you?”

  Pandorin spurred his horse closer to the sailor. “Why were you following His Highness?”

  The sailor looked at Pandorin belligerently and turned to Morgin. “Them thieves tried to hire me to pick a fight with you. Me! Bakart, first mate of the Far Wind. I told ‘em where they could put their blood money, and they roughed me up a bit, so I figured if I stayed close I might even the score some.”

  ~~~

  Rhianne shot awake, for the sword had come to life somewhere, and she could feel Morgin struggling desperately to contain it. There was no time to place Wards so she’d have to take her chances. She closed her eyes, concentrated on her magic, brought it forth and muttered a quick spell of confidence.

  She sensed the power of the sword as if there in the room with her, and she had the sensation her hands were locked about the hilt, fighting its constant struggle to be released; an odd sensation since they were strong male hands, callused and rough. She was standing in the middle of a street somewhere fighting for her life while waves of heat washed over her hands and arms and chest and face. And slowly, the power of the sword opened like the petals of a flower in sunlight, a vast chasm of hatred that threatened to consume her. But she refused to be daunted by it, and she bent her will to stop it.

  She also sensed Morgin’s power, though of that she had only the faintest glimpse, but what opened before her was a chasm equally as vast, and equally as frightening, and she felt sorry for poor Morgin that he must bear such a burden.

  And then her own power opened fully, and that frightened her far more than the power of the sword, for she thought again and again throughout the struggle she was not meant to control such forces. Then the battle ended as quickly as it began; Morgin and the sword were gone, her own magic was gone, and she felt as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders.

  Slowly the realization came upon her that her nightgown and her sheets were bathed in sweat, as if she’d been fighting a fever for hours. And then she sensed the Wards, four of them: Sextus, Septimus, Octavus, and Nonus. She opened her eyes just as Nonus winked out of existence, but by the light of the three remaining Wards she caught a glimpse of Olivia and AnnaRail standing outside the Ward Circle on either side of her bed. Then quickly the other Wards disappeared and the power in the room dissipated.

  Rhianne sat up as Olivia spoke, “Child, you choose a strange hour and a strange place to practice the arts.”

  AnnaRail touched the old woman’s arm, a respectful gesture, but still one few people would attempt. “Mother, I don’t believe she did the choosing.”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. Nor do I.”

  The old woman stepped closer to Rhianne, reached out and carefully took her chin in one hand. There was no light in the room, but Rhianne saw the old witch’s face as if lit by a dozen lamps. The old woman’s eyes bored into her soul, and from somewhere Rhianne suspected that she’d looked so upon Morgin many a time. Then the old witch smiled, though not a pleasant smile, but rather a smile filled with avarice. “This one has power,” the old witch said happily. “More than we thought. Much more.”

  ~~~

  “The sailor’s story checks out,” Pandorin said. “He’s the first mate on a fairly reputable ship, though I use the word reputable rather loosely.”

  “Then who w
ere the cutthroats?” Morgin demanded. “And why were they after me?”

  Pandorin sighed deeply, turned and looked out the window of Morgin’s apartments at the city below. France got up unsteadily from the couch and poured another tankard of ale.

  Val asked him, “Haven’t you had enough?”

  France growled, “I should be with that wench, instead of back here in the palace.”

  Morgin ignored them, looked at Pandorin who was still looking out the window. “You haven’t answered my question, Pandorin. Who were the cutthroats?”

  Pandorin shrugged. “Bounty hunters.”

  France sat up straight, seemed far less drunk.

  “Bounty hunters!” Morgin asked. “Looking for me?”

  Pandorin nodded slowly, turned to face Morgin. “Yes. The Lesser Council has increased the price on your head to a thousand gold coins. And they’ll pay the price only if you’re dead.”

  “Whew!” France sucked air through his teeth. “Fer that kind of money even I might decide to cut yer throat, lad.”

  “Exactly,” Pandorin said. “Every rogue and cutthroat and malcontent in the land has come to Aud. We’ve already stopped five assassination attempts. And three men who fit your description have been murdered in cases of mistaken identity.”

  “Well lad,” France said. “Me thinks we’ve over stayed our welcome. Where do we go from here?”

  Morgin shook his head. “I don’t know. But wherever we go we’d better go there soon.”

  Val stood, stretched like a cat. “Yes. That’s obvious. Let’s sleep on it. I’m sure Captain Pandorin can keep you alive for one more night.”

  ~~~

  Tulellcoe sat in the dark, fingered his dagger unhappily and contemplated the gloom in his soul. He told himself again and again he was a fool; twice a fool; thrice a fool. He’d sensed the evil in Morgin’s talisman long before Csairne Glen, and yet he’d ignored it. If he’d only opened his eyes back then, listened to his soul, recognized the sword for the danger it would become, he might have been able to help the lad. But he’d failed to do so, and he could only blame himself for the consequences.

  He knew what he had to do. He’d known all along, but the knowledge of his responsibility left such distaste in his heart that even now he tried to deny it, tried to pretend that if he only gave it time a better solution would come to hand. He’d been living under that idiotic pretense ever since they’d entered Aud. Morgin was helping Aiergain immeasurably, and surely that meant he had achieved some form of control.

  “Bah!” Tulellcoe growled into the darkness. “I’m a damn fool.”

  Cort stirred, rolled over in bed, mumbled something about him returning to the sheets. Then her breathing returned to that slow, steady rhythm that signaled a deep and restful sleep.

  Tulellcoe tried to look at her in the darkness, tried to see some hint of her face. She was such a strong woman during the day, and yet when asleep her mouth opened and her face took on the aspect of childish innocence. That was the part of her she hid from everyone, even him, but a part of her he cherished.

  “Will you understand?” he asked her in a whisper. “Will you still love me when I have done what I must do? Or will you hate me? Will you think me a traitor, for certainly everyone else will?”

  He stood, resolved to do what he must, crossed the room to the door and put his hand on the latch. But even now he hesitated. He didn’t want to kill Morgin, but it must be done, and better he than some rat of a Tosk or Penda. He recalled the evil he’d sensed in the blade. It had come alive that night somewhere in Aud, even if only for an instant. He didn’t know the circumstances but he had sensed it, sensed the depths of evil within it, the chasm of hatred that struggled to be released. Morgin had just barely been able to contain it, and he knew that when it did break free the land would run red with blood.

  Tulellcoe understood it had fallen upon him to prevent that, and at least he would make some effort to make Morgin’s death an easy one. He dressed quickly, turned the latch on the door and stepped out into the hall.

  ~~~

  Morgin enjoyed this dream. He walked through a vibrant forest in a proper dream: a little indistinct around the edges, a bit surreal. And then he saw the one thing that could make it even better: Rhianne. She appeared without warning, smiled at him, opened her arms and held them out to him.

  He stepped into them, kissed her long and sweet. “I’m sorry I misunderstood you,” he said.

  “That is the past and we can put it behind us now.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her again, but she leaned away from him and gently covered his lips with her hand. “No. There isn’t time.”

  “But this is a dream,” he pleaded. “We have all the time in the world.”

  She shook her head. “No. We don’t. You’re in danger.”

  “Not here,” he said, looking about at the forest.

  “Of course not here,” she agreed. “Not the King of Dreams. But it’s not in your dreams that you’re in danger. You must go back, now.”

  “No,” he said angrily. “I don’t want to.” But even as he spoke his hands passed right through her, and she and the forest and everything about him dissipated slowly on a nether wind.

  “You must go back,” she called after him. “You must go back.”

  ~~~

  Tulellcoe put his hand on the latch on the door to Morgin’s room. He was about to turn it when something tugged at his sleeve. He looked down, found a small child dressed in filthy, tattered rags. “No,” the child hissed softly. “You are wrong. He must live.”

  ~~~

  Morgin awoke with a start and sat up in bed. The room was dark, but the lights of the city threw enough illumination through his open window to see tolerably well. No assassin stood over him or lurked in the shadows with the intention of slitting his throat. But he sensed something undefined and indistinct, though not yet of any danger to him.

  Curious, he climbed out of bed, threw on a robe and crossed the room to the door. He put his hand on the latch, hesitated as he tried to sense what might await him beyond, but no image came to mind. He knew only that it awaited him there.

  He turned the latch and slowly opened the door, saw a man standing there as if waiting for him, though the hallway was much darker than his room and he saw nothing of the man’s face. The man looked down and to one side, and he whispered, “Rat?” more a question than a statement.

  Recognizing Tulellcoe, Morgin breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Uncle,” Morgin asked groggily. “What brings you here this time of night?”

  Tulellcoe shivered visibly, still looking at the floor beside him. He looked up into Morgin’s face. “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Certainly.” Morgin stepped aside and admitted the older man to the room, though oddly, as Tulellcoe stepped past him Morgin’s eye caught the glint of some metallic object in his hand. But the room was too dark to see what the object might be.

  Morgin lit a lamp, but after the room filled with light he noticed Tulellcoe’s hands were empty. “What can I do for you, uncle? It is rather late.”

  Tulellcoe walked to the balcony doors, looked out at the city below, spoke with his back to Morgin. “Where will you go now?”

  “How do you know I’m going to go anywhere?”

  Tulellcoe shrugged. “You don’t have much choice.”

  Morgin sat down on the edge of the bed, ran his hands tiredly through his hair. “Well I think I’m no longer welcome here.”

  Tulellcoe turned and looked at him for the first time, and Morgin was struck by the despair in his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

  Morgin told him about the day he and Aiergain had gone riding, and how he’d rejected her on their return. “I tried to be kind, but I’m afraid I still hurt her. Since then I haven’t seen her, not even to tutor her in magic. Besides, I couldn’t stay here even if I were still welcome, not with every cutthroat and assassin in the land coming into the city to slit my throat. I’m just
a target, living publicly like this. I need to disappear, blend into the population again, into the countryside somewhere. I’ve been thinking I might take passage on a ship, travel north up the coast a ways, maybe spend some time in Drapolis.”

  Tulellcoe wasn’t paying attention to him, was clearly preoccupied with something else. “What’s on your mind, uncle? You have something to ask or say, so why don’t you just spit it out?”

  Tulellcoe considered Morgin for an instant, then blurted out, “The talisman. The sword. How did you acquire it?”

  Morgin flinched, told a half truth. “I bought it in a weapons maker’s shop in Anistigh. You know that.”

  “Yes I do. But I also know there has to be more to it than that.”

  Morgin’s hesitated, considered Tulellcoe carefully, wondered at his motives and desires. But he wanted to tell someone, for he’d never told anyone the truth of the matter. “It came to me in a dream.”

  Tulellcoe frowned. “You told me that once before. What do you mean?”

  So Morgin told him the story. They all knew the story of how he’d snuck back into the castle after Valso and his Kulls had killed SarahGirl in the road, but now he told Tulellcoe of how he’d been struck on the head in the corridor, and dreamed he’d been shot through the heart with a crossbow bolt. He told him of the magic alcove, and how it had come to him so often as a child, and how it came to him then as he lay dying in a corridor in Elhiyne. He told of how he crawled into it to die, how he’d dreamed of a giant burial chamber connected to the alcove, and of the skeleton king that had returned to life to heal Morgin’s horrible wound, then, as an afterthought, had given Morgin the sword.

  “The Alcove was real,” Morgin added. “That’s where I awoke. But the rest was all just a dream. The sword was the sword I bought in Anistigh. France says it’s very old Benesh’ere steel.”

  Tulellcoe seemed entranced by the story. He asked, “You say the king took the sword from a dead warrior sprawled at the foot of his throne? But when the king returned to life, the warrior remained a skeleton while everything else seemed again new. What else was different about this warrior?”