The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Cynaban stared at him hatefully for a long, last moment, as if to etch the memory of that final meeting in his mind. Then he turned his back on him scornfully and signaled for Morddon and the others to follow him. They left Metadan with his new companions.

  ~~~

  “We are surrounded,” the scout told Cynaban.

  The new warmaster of the First Legion had not allowed Morddon to go out with the rest of the scouts. “If it’s you they want,” Cynaban said, “then we’ll make sure it’s not you they get.”

  He quizzed the scout. “How many?”

  “We’re easily outnumbered twelve to one,” the scout said. “They must have closed in on us during the night. They’ve been waiting behind the hills around us.”

  Cynaban shook his head sadly. “It appears that all along they intended to betray the betrayer.”

  The scout said, “But Lord Metadan—”

  “Never speak that name again!” Cynaban shouted. “He is the betrayer, the Fallen One. That is the only name he bears.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Cynaban thought for a moment. “There’s no sense in waiting here to be butchered. We’ll go on the offensive, surprise them, head southeast, make for the ford on that river we crossed two days ago.”

  “The river is named the Ulbb,” Morddon said. “And it’s called Gilguard’s Ford.”

  “Why Gilguard?” Cynaban asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The legion stripped down to battle gear and trail rations. They knew they were doomed, and yet they went about their preparations as if their impending deaths were nothing more than the next task given to them by an unyielding master. These beings displayed no emotion, no fear, no uncertainty. Cynaban’s anger at Metadan, and Metadan’s sorrow, were the only emotions Morddon had ever seen from an angel. Watching them prepare for their own deaths was an eerie sight: beautiful, silent, and determined.

  They took only minutes to prepare themselves, and with no word or command they mounted their horses and formed up in ranks behind Cynaban. Without requesting permission Morddon nudged Mortiss forward and joined Cynaban at the fore of the legion, and while he waited silently at Cynaban’s side it occurred to him he had never seen an angel die, not up close. Since joining the First Legion Metadan had used him exclusively as a scout, so he’d never been part of a large battle. But he’d heard the stories of how, at death, an angel’s mortal body withered away as the substance of its being returned to its master. Today, he would learn firsthand if there was any truth to that.

  Near midday a large force of Goath appeared on the crest of the next hill. Cynaban looked over the terrain between them. “We’ll charge due south, try to cut our way through them, then turn southeast and keep moving fast.”

  Cynaban raised his sword above his head, then sliced it to the south and charged. Morddon spurred Mortiss, slapped her flank with the flat of his sword, and with the rest of the legion charged silently behind Cynaban.

  They dropped down into the depression between the two hills, then charged up toward their enemy without so much as a single battle cry. The Goath were only a little surprised, and turned to face them before they met, but the legion had the momentum of their charge and they cut into the Goath horde like a spear. The battle turned instantly into a free-for-all, and Morddon’s old killing reflexes came out easily. The Goath outnumbered them badly, so he let Mortiss have her rein and he cut about him with his sword while Morgin protected him with a deep shadow. But to stay and fight was a mistake, for the Goath hordes covering their flanks quickly joined the battle and the odds grew steadily against them. They lost half the legion in that first battle before they broke through.

  To reach Gilguard’s Ford they headed southeast, but the Goath constantly intervened, forced them directly south instead. Before dark they engaged large Goath forces three more times, and by nightfall they numbered less than six hundred. The night turned into a running battle of hide and seek and kill, and when dawn broke sharp and clear Morddon was part of a troupe of about one hundred warriors. He prayed there were more still alive somewhere, perhaps in isolated groups now separated, each making its own way home.

  They could have hoped for bad weather to cover their trail, but the gods did not favor them that day. About midday, while traversing a small stream, a company of jackal warriors ambushed them.

  Fighting in the middle of the stream Morddon cut down one jackal, turned on another and cut him down, spun about and met another’s sword with his own. Their swords locked together and for an instant they fought a still, silent battle of strength. But then Morddon reached out with his free hand and gripped the jackal by the throat, picked the deformed beast out of his saddle and snapped its neck.

  Something hit him between the shoulder blades and he went down into the stream. He stood up as Mortiss struggled to her feet, neighing and spluttering with her nostrils flared and her eyes wild. He struggled into her saddle, heard an angel cry, “This way, whiteface!” and he spurred her in that direction.

  That night he and about thirty angels hid in a small clump of forest. They were done for; exhausted, no food for themselves or their horses. They posted a token guard and tried to get some rest.

  The next morning it appeared they’d lost their pursuers, so they rode for a while unmolested. But before noon they came across an open glen where a large battle had recently been fought. The ground was littered with dead horses and dead Goath, and many of the horse’s saddles bore the emblem of the First Legion. But of angels, there were only empty bundles of clothing, no corpses.

  The glen was bordered on two sides by a small woodland, the air still and silent. The small group of angels with Morddon paused for some reason over the remains of their brethren. Perhaps there was some ceremony or remembrance they practiced, so Morddon, with his curiosity aroused, dismounted to examine one of the clumps of empty clothing.

  He bent down and poked at it with the tip of his sword. There were several rents in the tunic—sword cuts he guessed—but no blood, no odor, nothing of the stench of death. He did find a small white feather caught in a fold of the cloth, and he wondered if perhaps the tales were true.

  A shout broke the silence about him just as something stung him in the neck. He managed to get his sword out, then his knees weakened, the ground seemed to tilt crazily, he staggered a few steps and collapsed. His head swum as a terrible lethargy overcame him, and he lay there watching arrows arc above him to cut down his companions. His vision was clouded, but after each angel went down and stopped struggling, something fluttered up from the still corpse and rose to the heavens on snow-white wings.

  He tried to rise but his arms and legs had gone numb, with his mind in no better shape. The ground shook with the rumble of a large company of horses riding nearby, and then a troupe of jackal warriors rode into his field of view. They dispersed quickly to check the fate of his comrades. One group evidently discovered an angel still alive. Morddon saw the glint of a sword raised in the sunlight, then again he had the blurred impression some sort of white bird rose from the corpse into the sky.

  The captain of the jackal troupe rode directly to Morddon with several of his warriors at his side. They circled him warily on horseback with their swords drawn, as if they feared him greatly, then cautiously dismounted and approached him. One of them nudged him with a sword, then he heard one behind him bark, “He’s been well stung. The dart is still in his neck.”

  At that they relaxed; the captain sheathed his sword, leaned down and looked into Morddon’s eyes. “Good,” he barked. “He still lives. Her majesty would have had our heads if we’d killed him. Tie him up good, and keep any and all steel away from him.”

  They bound Morddon’s hands and legs with heavy ropes, and though it took a dozen of them to lift him, they threw him over the back of a horse and tied him there like a sack of grain. They rode to the northwest for the next three days, and in late afternoon entered a sprawling encampment with large pavilions staked in the cent
er.

  Their arrival started a chorus of barking and yipping from hundreds of jackal warriors and their camp followers. They dumped Morddon painfully on the ground. The paralyzing drug had worn off, though his arms were now numb because of the way they’d been bound. They untied him and staked him out on the ground in the middle of the camp with his arms and legs spread. Then the jackal captain told an aid, “Tell Her Majesty he’s ready.”

  The aid rushed away, and moments later a silence descended on the camp as the jackal hordes parted for Her Revered Majesty, Magwa, the jackal queen. She stood over him as deformed and unnatural as any of her warriors.

  Magwa had always coveted human mortality, and for her services the Dark Lord had rewarded her with the ability to stand erect on her hind legs, though like her warriors the stance seemed unnatural and uncomfortable. She was small, and had a tendency to waddle when she walked, and at first Morddon thought her overly fat. But the robes she wore were parted down the front to the waist, and as she came closer he saw two rows of teats swollen with milk, riding on top of a bulging, protruding belly.

  Her lips curled back into a smile and she leaned down, brought her muzzle close enough for him to smell her dog breath. “Well now, whiteface sword maker!” she barked. “We’ve waited a long time for this meeting, you and me. Though you were quite a bit younger the last time we met.”

  Lying on his back in a relatively comfortable position, Morddon felt the circulation returning to his arms and legs. Magwa leaned even closer to him, her muzzle only inches from his face. “Tell me, whiteface. How well do you remember Binth and Eisla after these many hundreds of years?”

  Several of the warriors about her started yipping with laughter. “I remember them well, whiteface, and I would wager I remember them the way you last saw them, their faces twisted with pain, the skin flayed from their bodies—”

  At that moment Morddon snapped his head forward and head-butted her in the soft tissues of her muzzle. She jumped back and yowled as tears came to her eyes. Several of her warriors jumped on Morddon instantly, started kicking him brutally. Then one produced a large club, and Morddon saw it for an instant silhouetted against the blue sky; it came down, crashed into his ribs painfully. He cried out, saw the club rise and swing down again. This time he found it impossible to cry out, though the pain sent him close to unconsciousness.

  “Stop!” Magwa barked. “Stop! I command it.”

  The kicking ended quickly, though one warrior hesitated for an instant and kicked Morddon in the ribs one last time. “Stop!” she barked again. “You can kill him after he tells me where he hid the second blade.”

  She looked scornfully at Morddon. “You will tell me where you’ve hidden the second blade, won’t you, whiteface?”

  Morddon shook his head, tried to shout at her but the effort brought too much pain to his chest. He guessed he had some broken ribs on one side, and all he could do was force the words out in a grimace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t pretend ignorance. We all know you forged two blades, not just the one. And the Dark God is impatient to possess both.”

  Morddon pulled at his bonds, found that to be a painful mistake. “I’ve forged not a single blade, bitch, let alone two.”

  Magwa dropped to all fours, squatted and urinated on Morddon’s head. “You’ll tell us the truth eventually,” she said confidently. Then she stood again and turned to her warriors. “Tonight we celebrate,” she yowled. “For tomorrow the blade maker goes back to his master.”

  She turned to the captain of the troupe that had captured Morddon. “And for you, I have a reward.” Again she dropped to all fours, and she parted her robes to expose her hind quarters, with her swollen belly and teats nearly dragging on the ground. The jackal captain knew immediately what to do. He mounted her then and there, with the entire camp looking on, yowling and cheering.

  The festivities continued well into the night. The celebration consisted of a lot of drinking and public fornicating, and the bitch queen’s appetite for her warriors appeared insatiable. She took them one after another in the middle of the camp, and Morddon wondered if she actually intended to screw every warrior present. They also continued the insult Magwa had begun. Whenever any of the warriors or camp followers needed relief, they stopped by Morddon and urinated on him, and by the time the celebration came to an end he lay in a large puddle of urine formed mud.

  As the festivities died down and the camp grew quiet Morddon experimented with his bonds. His hands and legs were tied to wooden stakes hammered deep into the earth. But the urine had softened the ground around them, though the loosest of the four stakes was on his right side, where his broken ribs shouted at him painfully whenever he worked at it. He tried pulling at the other stakes instead, but they were too well secured so he had no choice.

  He worked at it for hours. He pulled at the rope that bound his wrist until he could bear the pain no longer, then he rested while the agony receded, and then he tried again. He knew he was making progress when his efforts produced a slurping, sucking sound from the stake in the muddy ground, but still it refused to yield. Then he felt it give way, and in an agony of motion it slid from the ground.

  With one hand and both legs still tied down he was forced to roll onto his good side in a strangely awkward position, but soon he had the other hand free, and then quickly both legs. For a moment he considered going after Magwa, sneaking into her tent and strangling her in her sleep. But his ribs were too badly damaged and he knew he’d fail. So with Morgin’s shadows protecting him, he crawled into the forest and disappeared into the last hours of the night.

  Chapter 13: Gilguard’s Last Stand

  Morgin awoke to a heavy hand shaking him violently.

  “Come on, ya dirt lovin’ fool,” Bakart swore at him. “Wake up.”

  Morgin pushed at the seaman, threw his legs off the edge of his bunk and sat up groggily. Still well before dawn, only a dim splash of rays from a lantern in Bakart’s hand lit the cabin. “What’s wrong?” Morgin asked.

  “Penda armsmen. All over the dock. They’ve surrounded this ship, probably going to search her.”

  As Morgin climbed out of his bunk Bakart made sure his companions were awake. Morgin grabbed his breeches and boots, but Bakart hissed, “Don’t put on the boots. You’re going to have to swim for it.”

  As Morgin and his companions hurriedly dressed, Bakart said, “The dockside’s thick with ‘em. But port side’s wide open. You go over the side real quiet, swim down the port a couple of docks and climb ashore there. Hope they don’t spot you. You can swim, can’t you?”

  “Sure,” Morgin said. “I’m a good swimmer.” He looked at his companions. “Can the rest of you swim?”

  France, pulling one leg into his breeches, shook his head. “You go without us. You’re the one they’re looking for. If you’re not with us then we’re not guilty of anything. And it’ll confuse them some if they find us without you. Toblekan ain’t big. Make your way out the north side of town and we’ll meet you on the road to Drapolis.”

  Morgin wrapped his boots and a fresh blouse in a tight bundle, then rolled them in his cloak and tied his sword to that. Up on deck Morgin was thankful for the darkness of the wee hours of the morning. On the dock a Penda lieutenant, with a large group of armsmen behind him, stood facing Darma who stood on the gangplank, speaking and gesturing angrily. Bakart whispered, “The captain’ll put up a little bit of argument, but then he’ll give in. Anything else would look funny.”

  Bakart looked across the deck, bent into a low crouch and hissed, “Keep yer head down.” He crouched and half crawled, half ran to a group of sailors clustered at the seaward side of the ship, all watching the argument proceed on the dock.

  Morgin had lost his shadowmagic, but he still knew how to use natural shadows with almost unnatural proficiency. He followed Bakart with ease, and hidden within the group of sailors Bakart showed Morgin a rope ladder attached to the gunwale of the ship
. Morgin looked over the side, saw only the first few rungs of the ladder as it disappeared into the darkness below. He couldn’t see the water, though he heard it lapping softly against the side of the ship. “Try to slip easily into the water,” Bakart warned him. “Don’t splash around. Swim quietly down a few docks then try to find some way ashore there.”

  Morgin stuck his arm through the loop of rope holding his bundle together and tossed it over his shoulder, then he climbed quietly over the gunwale and stuck his foot in the first rung of the ladder. Bakart grabbed his arm and stopped him for a moment. “One more thing, wizard. Captain says don’t ever ask for passage on the Far Wind again. We don’t like having the Wind Daughter as a passenger.”

  “The Wind Daughter?” Morgin asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The witch of Simpa, wizard. We all know she controls the winds near Simpa.”

  Bakart released his arm and Morgin started down the ladder, recalling AnneRhianne’s parting words. At long last I am free. Without even trying he had freed the daughter of the wind, and he realized more than ever he had no control over the events of his life.

  In the dark he had to work his way down by searching about for each rung with his toes, and it seemed to take an eternity. He heard the sound of many pairs of heavy boots running across the deck above him. He saw slashes of light from several lanterns cutting into the darkness above him, and he wasn’t sure how much farther he had to go to reach the water. All it would take would be one Penda armsman with enough curiosity to hold his lantern out over the side of the ship and look down.

  Morgin kept moving, but feeling his way rung by rung he couldn’t move any faster. The side of the ship had a definite curve to it, and as he got farther down it slanted away from the ladder and left him hanging in open space, and then, as he was searching for the next rung, his toes touched the icy water.