The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  He lowered himself into it quickly without the satisfaction of a good gasp, though the chill forced his breath in and out in shallow gulps. He stayed close to the ship, sliding along its barnacle coated planks, taking advantage of the curve of its side to hide him from any eyes above. He reached the ship’s stern just as the beams from several lanterns shot downward to the water. He froze, held his breath, watched the beams scan back and forth for a few moments. They were thorough, but the curve of the ship’s hull saved him, and then the beams of light moved on and the darkness returned with an even blacker stillness.

  He waited for a while to be sure they’d finished searching, then he edged his way around the rudder to the dock side. On the dock above him two lantern-carrying Pendas paced back and forth. The one nearest him seemed bored and indifferent to the whole situation. Morgin watched him pace back and forth a few times, waited for the right moment then pushed away from the ship toward the pilings of the dock.

  Underneath the dock he made better time, but his muscles ached from the chill of the water. He found a ladder up the side of an empty dock and coaxed his tired, cold muscles to pull him upward. But when he reached the dock, and climbed up onto its surface, he was not stupid enough to stop and rest as he dearly wanted. He scurried down the length of the dock, found a shallow, blind alley between two warehouses and stepped into it to get dressed.

  The alley contained only refuse and litter, and in the darkness of the night its shadows were black and deep. He struggled to get into his soaking wet tunic. It clung to his skin, pulled and tugged and fought him all the way. His boots were in no better shape, and his cloak draped over his shoulders like a wet blanket. In daylight he would not be inconspicuous, even in the oddly assorted crowds of the docks, so he knew he must escape the city before dawn.

  He heard shouting in the street, so he stepped into one of the alley’s darker shadows, pulled the hood of his dark cloak tightly about his face and froze.

  Two Penda armsmen appeared in the mouth of the alley, swords drawn. “Think he’s in here?” one of them growled, squinting in an effort to see into the shadows. Luckily, neither of them carried a lantern.

  His companion stepped past him into the alley a few paces. “If he is he smells like horse shit.”

  “Ya. Ain’t nothing here but garbage and shit.”

  The two turned and walked out of the alley. Morgin hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, and he exhaled slowly. He buckled his sword comfortably across his back with the hilt protruding above his right shoulder.

  He edged his way to the mouth of the alley, stayed hidden in a shadow there and looked carefully up and down the dimly lit street. The Penda’s were sweeping the town and had moved past his hiding place, so he stepped out of the alley and walked casually in the opposite direction.

  Morgin made his way out the east end of Toblekan without incident, circled cautiously around the outskirts of the town toward the north. The road to Drapolis ran parallel to the coast, but he had to move cautiously, duck behind a tree or into a clump of bushes if he spotted anyone approaching. He circled carefully around any farm or holding that appeared occupied, and the sun was rising by the time he found the road. So he hiked a good distance off it, crawled into some bushes for concealment, curled his cloak tightly about him, and settled in to wait out the pursuit, maybe get a few miserable hours of sleep.

  ~~~

  As Morddon escaped into the forest surrounding Magwa’s camp he immediately sensed something else lurking in the forest, beings with the strong scent of the netherlife about them. They paced him on all sides as he stumbled through the darkness. And when he stepped into a small clearing he faced a wall of golden-yellow eyes, and he heard the steady rhythm of their breathing. The timbre of it told him these were not small animals. He turned back, only to find they’d closed in behind him, trapped him nicely.

  Then an animal the size of a horse sauntered forward on four powerful legs. It approached to within arm’s length, extended its muzzle and sniffed at him, and when it opened its mouth he saw teeth that glowed in the darkness, large, massive canines that could rip out a man’s throat with a single snap. “Mortal,” it growled at him, and he realized then he stood before a hellhound. “You must take a message to your king.”

  The hound spoke in a deep rumble. “Tell him the Dane cannot ignore their debt to the Fallen One, and so we cannot battle against him or his new master. But in honor we cannot side with them either, and so until we are released from that debt, we must remain neutral.”

  “I will tell him,” Morddon said. He still could see only the golden-yellow eyes and the rows of glowing teeth. “But I must also tell him who sends this message.”

  Several of the beasts about him growled low and angry, and Morddon realized too late he’d breached some etiquette of the hellhounds. “There is power in a name,” the beast growled, and in that instant Morgin knew he stood before WolfDane, the hellhound king, though how such knowledge came to him he could not guess.

  “I will carry the message, Your Majesty,” Morddon said, and he bowed as one should before a king.

  The hellhound king growled angrily, a deep rumble in its throat. His subjects eyed Morddon for a moment, then one by one each pair of eyes winked out and disappeared. The last to leave was WolfDane himself, and Morddon marveled that such monstrous beasts could move so silently through the forest.

  He dearly hoped he’d escaped without detection from Magwa’s camp. Only a few hours remained before dawn touched the sky, and with his broken ribs sending stabs of pain through his chest, his progress through the forest slowed to a stagger. He needed every minute of the remaining darkness to distance him from the pursuit that would follow.

  There could be no doubt they were tracking him, so he took evasive action, stopped following game trails and cut through the brush itself. But that slowed his progress even further, and too often obstacles that might have been merely difficult had become impossible with his damaged chest, while whoever tracked him was getting closer with each league. Finally, shortly before dawn, he could go no further without rest, so he chose to stop and face his enemy squarely. He searched out a small knoll where they could come at him from only one direction, then found a long branch to use as a fighting staff. It had a slight curve to it, and was a bit too light but would have to do.

  Morddon waited, wished he had his sword, wished he had good ribs so he could fight properly and take more of his enemy with him. And then just as dawn broke over the horizon he saw the first of his enemies, probably their best tracker out in front of the horde. The light was still too dim and the distance too great to see more than a vague shadow moving through the forest, but like all jackal warriors it was not large, and often it dropped to all fours as it skirted a short distance of difficult terrain.

  It moved furtively, carefully, hiding behind a tree for a few seconds, then scurrying through shadows to another tree. Foolishly, it appeared to be carrying a hot spark of a torch, and it flashed it about above its head in a way that defeated any attempt to conceal its presence. But the way it moved, scuttling through cover quickly, then freezing in place for a few seconds before moving on, it touched one of Morgin’s memories. He was on the verge of recognition when the smell hit Morddon’s nose, vile and disgusting and unfamiliar to Morddon, but all too familiar to Morgin, as familiar as the spark dancing about above the little being’s head. “Rat?” Morddon called. “Laelith?”

  Rat scuttled over a rocky outcrop, stopped to swat at the faerie as if she were an insect making a nuisance of herself, then, dragging something metallic behind it, it hopped and limped and stumbled toward Morddon. “I brought your sword, whiteface,” it growled.

  It couldn’t lift the heavy sword, but dragged it by the hilt, scraping the blade across the ground. Morddon bent without thought, took the hilt and lifted the sword easily. Again the stench hit Morddon’s nose. “You stink.”

  “So do you,” Rat snarled. Laelith dove toward it as if to reprima
nd it for speaking so to its master, but it disappeared behind a curtain of netherlife and she missed. She followed just as quickly, leaving Morddon alone again, with only Morgin’s thoughts as company.

  He stumbled through the forest for two days while Magwa and her warriors hunted him, but Morgin’s shadows made it easy to elude them. His right side hurt too much to hunt or gather any real food. He ate what few berries he happened to stumble across, but that was hardly sufficient and he grew weaker, and his side stiffened with each step. At least he managed to find a gentle stream where he washed the stench of Magwa’s warriors from his body. If only he could wash them from his soul.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day he stopped to rest for a short while. He guessed he was about three days by horse from Gilguard’s Ford; on foot at least twice that, and with his injuries at least twice that again. But then the sound of a jaymakaw startled him. He’d seen several jaymakaw’s about fluttering through the air, and no one but a Benesh’ere warrior would have noticed the subtle difference between the cry Morddon had just heard and that of a true jaymakaw. But the difference was there because the cry had been purposefully altered by the throat of a Benesh’ere warrior. And the difference was a question: Is there danger?

  Morddon tilted his head back wearily and returned the call. No immediate danger. I need help.

  Some minutes later a Benesh’ere warrior, whom Morddon recognized as one of Gilguard’s scouts, stepped into view some distance away, and approached Morddon warily. Morddon couldn’t remember the man’s name.

  “You’re the madman, aren’t you?” the man asked.

  Morddon scowled, shook his head. “I’m told often enough that I’m a madman. But any man who stands here in this forest today is a madman, so I welcome your company.”

  The scout laughed quietly. “I’m Sarker. We’ve been looking for you. How badly are you hurt? Can you ride?”

  “Some broken ribs. And if you’ll bind them properly I can probably ride, though not if we have to ride hard over rough terrain. But I don’t have a horse.”

  Sarker threw back his head, cupped his hands to his mouth, called out like the jaymakaw again, It’s safe. To Morddon he said, “We’ve got your horse for you. Found her wandering on your track just after we picked up your trail.”

  “Why you been looking for me?” Morddon asked.

  Sarker’s eyes darkened. “Cynaban told us of Metadan’s treachery.”

  “Then Cynaban’s alive?”

  Sarker shook his head. “Only for a short while. Only long enough to tell the tale, then he died of his wounds, and maybe a broken heart too. Gilguard has all the scouts out looking for survivors, but so far we’ve only found a few, and they’re not in very good shape.”

  A short time later two more Benesh’ere scouts joined them, leading their own horses and Mortiss. The other two were Takit and Bendaw. Takit was an old fellow with many years behind him in the wars, and Bendaw a young boy probably still learning the ways of a scout. Old Takit bound Morddon’s ribs carefully, decided to completely immobilize his right arm and bound it to his chest. Morddon managed to climb into Mortiss’ saddle without help, though with his sword arm useless he would be truly helpless if it came to a fight. He ate in the saddle, the first meal he’d had in days: journeycake and jerky and water.

  They were two days on horse to the ford, not three as he’d guessed. Several times they came across the site of the last stand of some remnant of the First Legion, and always they found only carnage. But early in the morning of the second day they discovered the spoor of a large jackal army in front of them. They quickened their pace, but the hard riding sent stabs of pain through Morddon’s chest so they decided to split up. Sarker stayed with Morddon while old Takit and young Bendaw rode ahead as fast as they could.

  That afternoon, as Sarker and Morddon warily approached the ford, they heard the cry of a Benesh’ere jaymakaw again, and they joined up with the other two in a small thicket of trees. “What is it?” Sarker asked them.

  Old Takit rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  Sarker tied his horse with those of Takit and Bendaw, and Morddon let Mortiss go free. The four of them left the thicket on foot, and crept silently to the top of a nearby hill that commanded a view of the ford. Magwa’s army lay spread out before them, her pavilions pitched in its center.

  “She’s come in force,” Takit whispered. “She’s got us outnumbered twelve to one. Cynaban told us it’s you they want, madman. She probably figures you’re down there with Gilguard.”

  Quite a number of bodies littered the ground between the two armies. There had already been several skirmishes, and Gilguard and his company of warriors had retreated to high ground just up the river from the ford. But now surrounded, there was no further retreat to be had.

  Bendaw grimaced. “We have to do something.”

  Takit shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do but go down there and die with them. And someone has to bring the tale of Metadan’s treachery back to Kathbeyanne.”

  “We could rush back,” Bendaw pleaded. “Get help.”

  Sarker shook his head. “We’re at least three days from the nearest garrison, and this is going to be over before nightfall.” He pointed. “Look there.”

  Magwa’s jackals were drawing up into ranks for a charge. They were seasoned, disciplined troops, even if their leader was a wanton bitch. It took them some minutes to assemble behind one of Magwa’s generals. They moved up the river carefully, split into three columns so they could hit the Benesh’ere from three sides.

  Gilguard had chosen well the place to make his last stand. Just up from the ford the river cut through a narrow defile that channeled the water into a churning roar of white water rapids. The river then spilled downhill for a good stretch where the water lost its power as it widened and leveled off into the shallow ford.

  Gilguard and his men had taken the high ground near the rapids and put their backs to the river, preventing the jackals from hitting them from all four sides. Morgin remembered the place well, for by his time the river had cut down through the earth, widening the defile and turning it into the deep gorge where Morgin had placed his magical dam and later released it to wash away a company of Kulls. But that was now in the distant future.

  The jackal battle trumpets startled Morddon out of his thoughts, the first wave of jackals charged up the hill, and the Benesh’ere cut them down with arrows. With high ground, and the range of the Benesh’ere longbow, the jackals couldn’t even return fire, and they quickly retreated. The second wave of jackals fared no better, but during the third the rain of arrows diminished to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Gilguard’s warriors had used their last arrows.

  The fourth wave actually reached the outer perimeter before the whitefaces repelled it with pike and sword and war ax. The fifth hesitated at the perimeter for what seemed an interminably long time, and then the perimeter began to shrink. Gilguard’s warriors were even more disciplined than the jackals. They held their perimeter, let it shrink rather than be broken, forced the jackals to take them one by one.

  Bendaw turned away from the battle. “I can’t watch,” he sobbed, and he buried his face in his hands.

  Takit turned away with him, threw an arm over the boy’s shoulders. “Neither can I, lad.”

  Morddon watched, and so did Sarker. They had to watch. They had to know the end, even if they didn’t want to, for someone must carry the tale of Gilguard’s last stand back to Kathbeyanne.

  The sixth wave pressed the perimeter back even farther, and then the seventh broke it, and washed over it like an angry storm. The Benesh’ere asked for no quarter, would have taken no quarter had it been offered. And when the battle was done the jackal army wandered about through the carnage as if disappointed, as if there had not been enough death to go around.

  Morgin now knew why the ford on the river Ulbb bore the name Gilguard’s Ford.

  ~~~

  A neigh,
a harrumph of a splutter, and a wet muzzle nuzzling his cheek, Morgin opened his eyes to find Mortiss standing over him. She spluttered again derisively, chiding him for laziness.

  “Ya, ya,” Morgin grumbled, climbing slowly to his feet. “You didn’t have to sleep on the ground in a wet cloak.” His clothing had dried for the most part, with white patches of salt crust that irritated his skin. The sun on his shoulders was a warm relief after the cold night he’d spent. He dug into his saddlebags and changed into fresh clothing. He’d have to find a stream to wash the salt out of the rest. The question remained: was he ahead or behind his friends on the road to Drapolis?

  At that thought Mortiss snorted.

  Morgin shook his head. “I guess I’m supposed to just let you have the reins and you’ll find them?”

  She snorted again.

  He didn’t completely release her reins, but he kept them loose and let her choose her own way. She started north up the road, moving at an easy walk. Morgin tried to remain vigilant, listening for the sound of pounding hooves on the road, anything that might give him warning of a Penda patrol. But after a few leagues of riding he learned he didn’t need to. Without warning Mortiss stopped, her head turned slightly and her ears perked up. Then she turned off the road and followed a game trail into the forest. She found a thicket of heavy brush and stopped behind it. Some instinct told Morgin to dismount and he did so. Once out of the saddle he and Mortiss were both well hidden behind the thicket.

  He waited in silence for a good thirty heartbeats before he too heard the faint rumble, a sound like distant thunder just barely audible above the sounds of the forest. But it grew steadily until there was no mistaking it for anything but the sound of hoof beats on the road. Because of the undergrowth of the forest he only caught a glimpse of the Penda armsmen as they shot past, and he estimated something like two twelves, riding hard.

  Mortiss proved to be invaluable, for twice more that day, with some instinct or sense beyond Morgin’s capabilities, she sensed approaching armsmen long before Morgin would have. She pulled off the road a fourth time as nightfall approached, and again followed a game trail, but this time she took them much deeper into the forest, and when Morgin heard muffled voices up ahead, he dismounted and moved forward carefully on foot.