The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  France looked about carefully, then looked at Morgin and spoke in a soft voice. “We have to break away from the Rastanna pup and his escort.”

  Morgin nodded. “I know. Even if he doesn’t suspect something, I think he’s looking for a fight.”

  “That’s obvious, ain’t it?”

  Just then Morgin noticed three Kulls coming their way. The halfmen traipsed past them, found a spot just upstream, unlaced their breeches and began urinating in the stream. Morgin and France quickly lifted their skins out of the water. “Bloody scum!” France growled.

  They moved farther upstream, found another spot where they could finish filling their skins. “Tonight,” France said, “just before dawn, we’re going to try to sneak away. Tulellcoe and Cort are working on a spell to keep the halfmen asleep while we put some distance between us. And we—”

  A commotion down in the camp interrupted the swordsman. They both heard Tulellcoe cry out, “Tarkiss, call off your dogs.”

  Morgin lifted the skin out of the water quickly, tapped the stopper in place and started back with France close on his heels. They arrived in time to find Cort helping Val up off the ground, a cut above his eye, and Tulellcoe facing Tarkiss angrily.

  Tulellcoe stood a few finger spans taller than most men, and when angry something in his eyes gave any man pause, even if backed by four twelves of Kulls. Tarkiss nodded arrogantly, trying to maintain his dignity, then turned toward the Kull lieutenant and barked, “Call off your men, Brakke.”

  The Kull barked half-intelligible orders at his halfmen and an uneasy peace settled on the camp.

  “What happened?” Morgin demanded of Val.

  The twoname shook his head. “One of those halfmen took affront at something.”

  Cort snarled, “For no reason at all, most likely.”

  Val shook his head carefully, looked about them at the Kulls now going about their own business. “No, they’ve got a reason. They’re testing us.”

  Morgin asked, “Tarkiss?”

  France answered him. “Aye. Tarkiss. They’re operating under his order, that’s for sure.”

  After that the five of them refused to be separated for the rest of the afternoon, though they rode in an uneasy silence. That night they also stayed close to one another, and as Morgin crawled into his blanket, France whispered, “Tulellcoe or Cort will wake us when their spell’s ready.”

  Morgin got very little sleep, though he managed to doze fitfully. He feared he’d wake up in his dreams in Morddon’s skin and spend months there before returning to this night. But his fears were unfounded, and though the night was long and restless, he still lay in his blanket in this world when Cort came for them. She wore breeches again with a sword strapped to her waist. “Get your gear together quickly,” she whispered. “And be quiet about it, for the spell we’ve cast won’t hold them in their sleep through any loud noises.”

  Morgin and France had unpacked only their blankets and slept under the open stars, so they were ready in moments. They found the other three rolling up the small tent they’d pitched to maintain the ruse that Cort was no twoname. “You two go on and saddle the horses,” Tulellcoe whispered. “And pack up the donkeys.”

  Morgin followed France to the string of horses where they quickly separated out the five from their party and saddled them. They then packed one of the donkeys, and while they were at that Tulellcoe and Cort and Val arrived and began packing the other. By the time they were ready the sky was beginning to lighten with the coming dawn, and there would soon be enough light to see their way easily.

  Morgin took one last moment to check Mortiss’ harness, and as he did so he glanced over his shoulder at the camp. In the distance the sleeping Kulls were dark lumps on the ground, with a thin morning mist swirling about them as if it would consume them. And in that silent moment, just before climbing into the saddle, he heard the scrape of a steel blade sliding slowly out of its sheath.

  He ducked just as something heavy hit him from behind in the back. He went down, saw a Kull boot arcing toward his ribs, rolled to one side to avoid it, caught it, rolled and twisted, heard the halfman grunt painfully as he too went down. Blades clashed nearby, the frightened horses shuffled and whinnied and someone cried out. Then they were all over him, pinning him helplessly to the ground, and the fight ended.

  They hustled him to his feet, twisted both his arms behind his back, held him that way as Tarkiss stepped out of the forest into the dawn light that now filled the camp, his lips curled into a nasty smile.

  Tulellcoe lay on the ground clutching his side, and Morgin saw blood oozing between his fingers. Three Kulls had a struggling Cort pinned to the ground, practically sitting on top of her. Two Kulls supported Val much like Morgin, and like Morgin he grimaced each time the Kulls reminded him of his situation by twisting his arms a little tighter behind his back. France was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well now,” Tarkiss said arrogantly. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye. Now that’s terribly impolite, don’t you think?”

  He looked about. “Where’s the swordsman. He must have slipped away. Well he’s of no matter. Without a horse we’ll find him easily.”

  Cort stopped struggling as Tarkiss turned upon Tulellcoe and leaned over the wounded man. “I’m a magician too, you know. And I’m not fool enough to let you cast such a simple spell upon me without a counter spell.” Tarkiss emphasized the point by lifting his boot and kicking Tulellcoe in the ribs.

  Cort began struggling again and Morgin shouted, “Leave him alone!”

  Tarkiss turned toward Morgin, took two steps to stand facing him. The Kulls tightened their grip on Morgin’s arms. “And why should a common, hired swordsman care so much about the fate of his employer?”

  Tarkiss looked Morgin up and down and his eyes settled on Morgin’s sword. “And you’re still armed, I see. Well we can’t have that.” He reached out, gripped the hilt of Morgin’s sword, pulled it from the sheath, and an instant before it happened some instinct told Morgin this time it would come to life.

  It flared in Tarkiss’ hand, tore at their ears with the sound of its hatred, and with his eyes wide the young Rastanna lord back-stepped fearfully. The Kulls holding Val and Morgin looked at the sword flaring to life, and in that moment France appeared among them and cut down the two holding Morgin, then turned on those holding Val. He bellowed, “Get to the sword, lad, or we’re all meat for butchering.”

  Morgin focused on the sword coming alive in Tarkiss’ hands, the sword that would cut them all to pieces if he couldn’t get to it and control it. He twisted past France, ignored the chaos about him and lunged at Tarkiss. The young Rastanna stood transfixed by the power in his grasp, power clearly growing well beyond his control. Morgin tore the sword from his grip, wrapped his fingers about it and immediately felt its power pounding at his soul. But it had caught the scent of Tarkiss’ blood and like a good hound it would not falter until it had tasted his life. It pulled Morgin toward him even as he fought it, though he cared nothing for Tarkiss, but if the sword tasted just one drop of blood when like this, there would be no stopping it.

  Tarkiss staggered backward as the sword pulled Morgin toward him, until he backed into the trunk of a large tree and could go no further. The sword knew its prey was at hand and it fought even more against Morgin’s efforts. But in that moment Morgin, for the first time in his life, felt just an instant of control, a small fraction of a second during which the sword was his to command. The instant ended quickly, and again the sword bucked and fought his grip. But with a cunning and malign intelligence it too had been aware of that moment, and remembering that instant it retreated, then departed completely. What Morgin held in his hands was a lifeless blade of steel with the point resting just beneath Tarkiss’ chin.

  Chaos reigned all about them, blades clashing, people crying out, the horses whinnying. One of the donkeys brayed and began bucking and kicking.

  “Call off your dogs,” Morgin shouted in Tarkiss’
face. “Call them off or I’ll drop your head at their feet.”

  “Brakke!” Tarkiss screamed. “Stand down. Let them go.”

  It took some moments for the fighting to stop, and when it did a stillness descended upon them all. One of the donkeys was down, the victim of a misplaced sword stroke. There were two Kulls down, and Val clutched his sword arm against his side.

  Morgin kept his sword at Tarkiss’ throat as he barked out orders. “France, get our horses and the unhurt donkey. Cort, help my uncle into his saddle. Val, scatter the rest of the animals, but save one for Lord Tarkiss here.”

  They moved quickly while Morgin and Tarkiss stood like statues amidst the silently unhappy Kulls. Val set a spell to frighten the Kull horses, and they scattered into the forest bucking and kicking. And when Morgin’s companions were mounted he walked Tarkiss out of the camp at sword point. They bound his hands behind his back, then helped him onto the bare back of the extra horse. And with Morgin leading his horse by the reins, they traveled for about a league before Morgin called them to a halt. “This is far enough,” he said. He turned to Tarkiss. “You can climb off that horse, or I’ll kick you off it.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Nothing. You can walk back to your friends and try to find your horses.”

  Tarkiss stared at him for a long moment, then dismounted. “You’re the Elhiyne, aren’t you? The renegade wizard? The one they call the ShadowLord? Aren’t you?”

  Morgin ignored him. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to his friends, and he spurred Mortiss into a fast trot.

  Chapter 16: Pursuit

  After releasing Tarkiss they redistributed the remaining donkey’s provisions among them, stuffing as much as they could in their own saddlebags, discarding what they couldn’t. Then they set the donkey loose and rode hard for several leagues. They needed to put some distance between them and the pursuit that would soon follow. But Tulellcoe’s injury bothered Morgin more than any danger from behind, for his uncle’s face lost more color with each stride of his horse, and Morgin saw an ever-widening red stain growing beneath the hand he kept constantly pressed against his side. When he leaned forward slightly, a prelude to doubling over in the saddle, Morgin realized he must be in great pain.

  Morgin eased Mortiss up beside Tulellcoe’s horse, leaned over and took the animal’s reins, pulled the two horses to a halt. Cort too had been watching Tulellcoe, was not surprised by Morgin’s actions, though France and Val trotted a short distance up the road before they realized what had happened and came to a stop themselves. France shouted back, “What’s wrong? We don’t have time to stop.”

  At that moment Tulellcoe’s eyes rolled back into his head and he started to fall. Morgin spurred Mortiss into a side step toward Tulellcoe’s horse, and on the other side of him Cort did the same, pinning Tulellcoe’s animal between them. Morgin threw out an arm and caught his uncle about the shoulders. “Keep his horse calm,” he barked at Cort.

  They eased Tulellcoe out of the saddle, laid him down in some soft grass beside the road. Cort produced a small dagger, cut open his blouse near the wound, examined it carefully, shook her head and declared, “It’s deep.”

  Tulellcoe opened his eyes, grimaced, forced words out between clenched teeth, “I know. A thrust, not a cut, though I think my ribs deflected it some.”

  “What can you do?” Morgin asked Cort.

  Cort shook her head, looked about desperately. “With the proper spells I can do quite a bit. But my healing kit was on that injured donkey we left behind, and I also need time and that’s just what we don’t have.”

  “No we don’t,” France said. “Those Kulls will have a dozen horses rounded up within an hour, and they’ll be hot on our trail.”

  Morgin pressed Cort. “You helped me once without preparation or spells, back at Gilguard’s Ford.”

  She grimaced. “But I pay a heavy price for such wanton use of power.” She looked at Tulellcoe who seemed unable to find a comfortable position. “Though I guess I have no choice. But then I’ll be as much an invalid as he, though neither of us will be as bad as he is now.”

  Morgin demanded, “Will you both be able to ride?”

  She nodded, her attention wholly on Tulellcoe. “Yes. We can ride.”

  Cort appeared to do nothing beyond sit down beside Tulellcoe, take him in her arms and close her eyes. She sat that way for some time with her lips moving almost imperceptibly as she chanted spells none of them could really hear. But then after some minutes she opened her eyes and stood unsteadily. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes shadowed and dark. Tulellcoe, however, was able to stand on his own, and while he did not look at all well, the bleeding had stopped and he looked much better than before.

  They rode without rest through the morning, and shortly after midday left the forest behind and entered an open, grassy land of gently rolling hills. “This is Rastanna land,” Val said. “Tarkiss will have no trouble getting fresh troops and mounts, so we’ll have to stay well ahead of him.”

  “Shouldn’t we turn south?” Morgin asked. “Try to make for Yestmark?”

  Val scanned the horizon. “Eventually. But there’s a large river between us and there that flows hard and fast coming down out of the mountains. It marks the northern border of Yestmark, and we’ll find no fords or crossings until we get farther east. At least another two days of hard riding.”

  They continued east across an open countryside dotted with small farms and hamlets, though they avoided any contact with the locals. Near midafternoon they came upon a wide valley squared off in neat little farms. They took to a small cart track that led down into it and spent the rest of the day crossing the valley floor. Near dusk, as they followed the same cart track up out of the valley, Morgin glanced back the way they’d come, and in the distance he saw Tarkiss with a dozen Kulls just entering the valley.

  Cort seemed better, but Tulellcoe looked worse. The bleeding had started again so they stopped for a short rest, and again Cort applied her magic to Tulellcoe’s wound, and again he improved while she withered.

  They rode on through that night, but to throw Tarkiss off their track they tried the unexpected and headed north for several leagues before again turning east. It worked, and shortly before dawn they stopped long enough to eat something, and to sleep for a few hours. When they rode on the next day they were somewhat revived, though Tulellcoe still needed Cort’s magic to stay in the saddle.

  Through that entire day they saw no sign of Tarkiss so they slowed their pace somewhat. But Tulellcoe grew steadily worse, and each time they stopped for Cort to apply her magic she withered even more, and Tulellcoe improved less.

  They decided to find a place to stop and hide and rest for a day or two, give Cort the opportunity to take proper care of Tulellcoe’s wound. But without her healing kit she needed certain herbs in some abundance. “I’ve been keeping my eyes open as we ride, and most of them don’t seem to grow wild in this countryside. We’ll have to find a village large enough to have an open market. I can probably get what I need there. We can also get something to eat other than jerky and journeycake.”

  “I don’t think you should ride into any village,” Morgin told her. “Female twonames are much too uncommon. In fact, twonames in general are uncommon so Val is out of the question as well.”

  Morgin looked at France. “Looks like it’s you and me, old friend.”

  Cort shook her head. “But you won’t know what to look for.”

  “But I will,” Morgin told her. “My mother taught me healing, though I certainly don’t know the art as well as you, but I know the plants and herbs you’ll need, and the other materials also.”

  “All right,” Cort agreed reluctantly. She scanned the horizon. “A village the size we’re looking for won’t be in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be where there’s a fair amount of traffic. We’ll have to stop cutting cross-country, find a well-traveled road.”

  It didn’t take them long to find a
road that was more than a cart track, but it forced them northeast for the rest of the day, cautiously cutting across open fields to avoid the smaller hamlets. Late in the day they found a village large enough to serve as the local market, but not so large as to warrant a garrison of troops. Small clumps of forest dotted the countryside around it. But the day was too far gone and the market long since closed, so they left the road, cut southeast across open country for a good distance, set up camp deep in one of the larger clumps of forest. And that night they all got a full night’s sleep, the first they’d had in several days.

  ~~~

  At dawn the next morning Morgin and France returned to the road at an easy trot. They knew they’d raise suspicion if they appeared to be in any kind of hurry, so when they were within sight of the village they reined their animals back to a walk.

  From a distance the place was no more than a cluster of low-lying buildings and thatched mud-and-wattle huts sprawled on either side of the road. The morning was still and calm, with no clouds in the sky and the sun just barely above the horizon, though already there were columns of smoke rising from two buildings, swirling slowly up into the thin mist that hung on the morning air. As they entered the outskirts of the village Morgin heard the ring of a smith’s hammer, and he sensed that the steel the smith worked was of poor quality.

  The street that cut through the center of the village was deserted. In the middle of the village they paused in front of one of the few wooden buildings there, one of the two buildings producing a column of smoke. As they both dismounted France said, “This’ll be the common room.” He pointed at the other column of smoke rising from a building near the far end of the village. “That’ll be the smith. The smith’ll have more authority here, but we can get better gossip from the innkeeper.”

  France stepped between their two horses, looked conspiratorially up and down the street. Satisfied they weren’t being observed, he lifted one of the rear hooves of his horse, and producing a small dagger he pried at the shoe for a moment, loosening it slightly. “You go in and see what you can learn from the innkeeper. I’ll wander on down to the smith, get this loose shoe fixed, see if he likes to talk while he works.”