The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Morgin stepped through the door of the inn into an empty common room, a damp and musty place, with a bar along the far wall, and a low, beamed ceiling that would have forced Morgin to crouch had he been any taller. But the smells wafting from the kitchen made his stomach growl, and he thought breakfast would be a good excuse to strike up a conversation with the innkeeper.

  Morgin crossed the room to the bar, rapped on it with his fist, called out, “Innkeeper. You’ve a hungry man out here.”

  The innkeeper appeared almost instantly, a short, round, little fellow, with puffy red cheeks wearing an apron that rode up high over his protruding belly, and wiping his hands in a towel. “What can I do fer ya, kind sir?”

  Morgin smiled through his beard, which had grown quite scruffy. “Would the food I smell be fer yer guests, or is it private fare?”

  The innkeeper smiled. “If you got the coin for it it’s yours. Fresh biscuits me wife is bakin’ this instant, with butter and honey, and bacon fried up crisp and lean.”

  Morgin tossed a few coins on the counter. “Well I ain’t a rich man, but it all smells too good fer me to pass up. And you wouldn’t happen to have some hot tea to wash it all down with, would you?”

  The innkeeper scooped up the coins. “We got a kettle startin’ to steam this instant.”

  The innkeeper disappeared into the kitchen. Morgin found a table, sat down on a stool with his back to the wall where he could keep an eye on the kitchen door, the entrance to the inn, and the low stairway that led to the rooms upstairs. He didn’t have long to wait; the innkeeper reappeared carrying a tray laden with food and steaming hot tea. As he transferred the contents to the table he asked, “Are you travelin’ alone, sir?”

  Morgin shook his head, smeared butter on one of the biscuits and thought guiltily of his friends waiting back in the small clump of forest. “No. I’m travelin’ with a friend. He’s down havin’ the smith check a loose shoe on his horse. In fact that reminds me. He’ll be here shortly, and I’m sure he’ll want some of this fine food.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “We’ll have it ready when he arrives. But there’s just the two of you, eh?”

  Morgin nodded. “Is that a problem?”

  “Well I should warn you, sir,” the innkeeper said with a serious frown on his face. “There’s some Elhiyne outlaws rampagin’ across the countryside. Five of them, I’m told. One of them’s this ShadowLord. You know, the rogue wizard. Travelin’ in small parties ain’t safe, I’ll wager.”

  Morgin frowned worriedly. “Is anyone doing anything about them?”

  “Oh yes they are, sir. Why old Lord Andrew sent his own son to this very inn just last night. In fact young Lord Stetha should be down shortly. And he has a company of soldiers camped just out of town, he does. As long as you’re here you should be good and safe.”

  Morgin tried to smile gratefully, though his heart wasn’t in it, and his appetite was disappearing by the second. “Well that makes me feel a lot better.”

  The innkeeper returned to the kitchen, and once out of sight Morgin rose to his feet, started stuffing his pockets with biscuits, crammed a handful of bacon into his mouth. But just then the door to the street slammed opened. So Morgin sat down quickly, tried to look like he was enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

  A young, adolescent boy stepped warily into the room. He was a large, oafish lad, and after scanning the room quickly he was unable to hide his distrust of Morgin. He sauntered past Morgin’s table, stepped around behind the bar, and keeping an eye on Morgin he leaned through the kitchen door and hollered, “Malachi. Come out here. It’s important.”

  The innkeeper appeared in the doorway instantly. He and the boy conversed in hushed tones for some seconds while frequently glancing Morgin’s way. Then they appeared to come to some agreement. The boy disappeared up the stairs to the rooms above while the innkeeper remained behind the bar busying himself with some sort of work. But where he’d been friendly and open before, he was now suspicious like the boy, and he refused to meet Morgin’s eyes with a direct look.

  Morgin was trying to think of a way to exit discretely when again the door to the street slammed opened and France stepped into the room. He looked about for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dark, spotted Morgin and joined him at his table. “The smith was not at all talkative, and seemed quite suspicious of me. And there were two Rastanna mounts stabled with him. Their owners are probably staying in this inn.”

  France reached across the table and grabbed a biscuit. “I know,” Morgin said. “And I learned there’s a company of Rastanna troops camped somewhere outside of town. And we’re the reason they’re here. Evidently Tarkiss got the word out rather quickly.”

  “Aye,” France said. “The smith also had two apprentices when I first showed up, but he sent them on some errand. I don’t like that.”

  Morgin looked at the innkeeper. “Was one of them a large, clumsy boy?”

  France nodded. “Aye.”

  “Well he showed up here a few moments ago, talked to the innkeeper for some seconds, then went upstairs. I think we’d better get out of here.”

  France stuffed some bacon into one of his pockets and stood. Morgin stood with him, but as they turned for the door the innkeeper called out, “Don’t yer friend want any breakfast?”

  Morgin replied over his shoulder, “A little later perhaps.”

  “But it’ll be cold by then.”

  France and Morgin reached the door, stepped out into the light of morning, but as Morgin closed the door behind him he heard the innkeeper cry out, “They’re getting away!”

  Up the street the smith was headed their way, carrying a large hammer like a club. But just then pounding of hooves on the road broke the stillness of the quiet village. The smith stopped, turned and looked back over his shoulder. The door to the inn swung open. A young Rastanna nobleman, sword in hand, his tunic half tucked into his breeches, stood in the doorway for an instant blinded by the morning light. Morgin kicked him in the groin then spun and dove into Mortiss’ saddle just as a troop of mounted Rastanna soldiers thundered into view at the northeast end of town. He and France spurred their horses into a charge away from the soldiers and out the opposite end of town. They gained a little time as the troop stopped at the inn to retrieve their master, but the Rastannas took up the chase quickly.

  A short distance out of the village Morgin and France turned northwest off the road. They both knew they were on their own now, that it would do no good to lead their pursuers back to Cort and Val and Tulellcoe, so they cut across open countryside away from their companions.

  For the next two days they played cat and mouse with any number of Rastanna posses, and more than once Morgin wished for his shadowmagic again. Even France expressed a desire to see a bit of it here and there. Late the second day they found another road and headed northeast on it. They traveled without rest through that night, walking their horses when the animals reached their limits. The next morning they cut off the road again, turned due east across open country, found a small forest about midday and set camp for some rest. They slept poorly through that afternoon.

  After sunset they moved on, but near midnight they noticed a sharp glow on the horizon. They investigated further, and in the middle of the night, from a small nearby hill, they found themselves looking down upon Castle Rastanna. Like Elhiyne it had a good-sized village outside its gates, but here the huts and buildings of the village hugged the castle wall and spread outward from it.

  Clearly, the countryside had been alerted to the presence of the outlaw wizard, for even in the middle of the night a hundred torches lit the castle while riders charged in and out of its gates. “They’ll be expectin’ us to go south,” France whispered. “Try to make for Yestmark. So our best bet is to head north, maybe northeast.”

  “But that’ll take us toward Durin,” Morgin said.

  France shrugged. “What difference does it make? You’re no less of an outlaw here or there, but they won’t expect
you there. And we got no choice.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Morgin said, and they headed northeast.

  The next morning they ran out of trail rations, but Morgin discovered he still had the forgotten biscuits in his pockets, though they were stale and somewhat crumbled. He shared them with France.

  For the next three days they rode north and east living off the land, though not living well. They snared a few hares, found an occasional bush plump with berries. Once they even came across an apple orchard and ate apples until almost sick. But finally they decided to take the chance of stopping in a village for supplies. They were now far enough north they had some hope they’d left the hunt behind.

  They chose a village not much different from the one with the suspicious smith and the fat innkeeper, though this one was a little bigger and located at a crossroads. It had more huts and buildings, and a more spacious inn. But like the other place the common room still smelled of soot and mildew. And the innkeeper was a large, heavyset man, though not roundly obese like the other fellow.

  Morgin and France road into the village just before dusk. About a dozen patrons occupied the common room talking in low tones and sipping on some of the local ale. A wandering bard sitting in one corner strummed on a stringed instrument singing for his meal. Clearly, these people were more accustomed to strangers, for they paid no heed to Morgin and France as they sat down at an empty table. They ordered up meat, bread, cheese and ale, and ate their fill. Then drowsy with fatigue and full stomachs they sat back to listen to the bard as he sang a soft love song, then followed that with a rollicking jig.

  When the innkeeper brought the bard his meal he stopped playing and concentrated on eating. But someone called out, “What news have you from the south?”

  The bard swallowed a large bite of cheese, washed it down with a gulp of ale. “They’re searching all over the place for those Elhiyne outlaws. They haven’t caught any of them though, but they’ve been seen a few times and chased about a bit.” He tore off a mouthful of meat, chewed for a few moments and swallowed. “They think they’ve split up, that a few of them are headed this way, though I can’t understand why Elhiynes would do that. Seems a bit crazy to me.”

  Someone remarked, “One of ‘em’s that ShadowLord, and we all know how crazy them wizards are.” The speaker was answered with silence, for it could be dangerous to agree with such a remark.

  Morgin and France adjourned to their room, slept well that night, arose early the next morning and bought some provisions. They stocked up on journeycake and jerky, but too they bought some perishables so they could do a little cooking if they found a good place for a fire. They were back on the road two hours after sunrise and riding at an easy pace.

  They spent that night far enough from the road to conceal a fire, got a full night’s sleep and woke up refreshed. The next morning, after a few hours of riding the road turned due east. They considered following it for a good distance then turning south and taking a circuitous route to Yestmark. But then they both heard the faint sound of a large group of men riding hard on the road behind them.

  France swore. “Somebody back in that village recognized us.”

  At that moment the posse rounded a bend far back in the road, saw the two fugitives and pulled to a sudden halt. The leader called out to them. “Stand and identify yourselves.” Several members of the posse pulled their swords.

  France looked at Morgin. “I think we’d best be gettin’ out of here, eh lad?”

  Morgin nodded, spurred his horse into a charge with France hot on his heels. They rode hard for a league until the road turned north. There they cut off the road and continued east across open country, and every time Morgin looked back the posse had gained on them. They rode for most of the day, pacing their horses to stay just ahead of the posse. But then they topped a small rise and found themselves on the banks of a river.

  The water looked cold and icy as it roared past them in a swirling froth, tumbling over rocks in places, fountaining into the air in others. “We can’t cross that,” France shouted above the roar. “Maybe downstream it’ll be a bit calmer.”

  They turned north, paralleling the river, and in the distance the Rastanna posse turned north also, intending to cut them off. Morgin gave Mortiss free rein, letting her pick her own way through the brush along the riverbank. The river turned west toward the posse, and then it made an even sharper jog, forming a long spit of land bordered on three sides by the bend in the river, and too late he and France realized their mistake. The posse had closed off their only exit from the spit of land. They were trapped.

  Morgin looked down at the river. The water was calmer here, smooth and glassy on the surface, with no rocks to break it up into a white-water froth, though it still flowed dangerously fast. “Well,” Morgin demanded of France. “Do we fight or swim?”

  France looked back at the posse. “I like me chances in the water better.”

  Morgin nodded, spurred Mortiss’ flanks and she plunged into the icy water. She snorted, catching her breath while he gasped a few times. But then she got into the swim and started doing well. A moment later he heard France’s horse plunge in behind him.

  There was a certain calm on the surface of the water. The banks that rose up on either side muffled all sounds, even that of the posse after they arrived and stood on the bank cursing at their Elhiyne prey. Mortiss’ exertions became a steady rhythm beneath Morgin as the opposite bank drew closer with each second.

  They made nice progress, but the river carried them much too rapidly downstream, and they were only half way across when he caught the faint sound of a muffled roar. And then he rounded a bend and the river straightened out, and in the distance he saw a hump in the water where it flowed over a large boulder just beneath the surface. He spurred Mortiss and cried, “Swim, girl, swim!”

  Mortiss doubled her efforts, but the river flowed too rapidly. They missed the rock itself, but the swirling, twisting water that flowed around it upended them. Morgin tumbled head over heels in a soup of white bubbles. He slammed up against something painfully, tried desperately to get his head above water, managed to see daylight for an instant and catch a single breath of air, then again he plunged beneath the surface and clutched desperately for something to hold on to.

  His tunic caught on a large branch and he came to a sudden stop, though he was still in the flow of the water and he tumbled around like a tether in a harsh wind. Only when his tunic finally twisted up too tightly for him to tumble more did he stabilize, but he was just beneath the surface with his lungs bursting. He struggled in the flow, managed to reach his dagger, gripped it tightly in his right hand, used his left to guide it toward the twisted knot of tunic that held him anchored there, then began sawing at the knot in his tunic.

  How he managed to saw through it he could never later remember, nor how he managed to keep his grip on the branch, nor how he managed to find the strength to pull himself out of the flow that sucked at him like the power of the netherworld itself. But he did manage these things, and an eternity later he crawled up on the bank of the river. He’d lost the dagger somewhere in the river.

  He didn’t have the strength to rise up off his hands and knees, but from that position he glanced down the bank, and a short distance away saw France’s horse lying lifeless, its neck twisted at an odd angle. He saw no sign of Mortiss or France.

  He heard voices, Kull voices. Instinctively he reached for his sword, but the sheath strapped to his side was empty. Like the dagger it lay somewhere at the bottom of the river, lost forever. He struggled to remain conscious, to rise up onto his feet. He managed to get one foot beneath him. But there were several pairs of Kull boots standing in front of him, and as one boot rose up off the ground and arced toward his face, he didn’t have the strength to escape it.

  Chapter 17: Decouix Power

  Morgin regained consciousness sitting with his back to a tree. Two Kulls stood over him, their swords drawn. They had removed his sword sh
eath and discarded it, and the side of his head hurt where the Kull had kicked him. “What of my friend?” he asked the Kulls. “The swordsman?”

  The Kulls stared at him and showed no inclination to answer his question. Then a familiar voice spoke, “The swordsman is dead.”

  Morgin turned to one side, found Tarkiss standing over him smiling happily. “He washed up on the bank of the river about a league from here. Evidently he tried to breathe water.”

  An emptiness formed deep within Morgin’s heart and he wanted to cry, but he would not give this Rastanna the pleasure of seeing him do so.

  “You’re on Decouix land now,” Tarkiss continued. “And there’ll be no further escape.”

  They treated Morgin rather well after that. They gave him a horse, tied his hands to the saddle horn rather than behind his back, gave his reins to one of the Kulls. There didn’t beat him, and they fed him regularly and properly.

  They headed due east. Morgin lost count of the days as each morning they arose, washed up, ate, then rode on. They’d stop around noon for a short rest and a meal, then continue on until dusk, at which time they’d set camp, eat, then go to sleep. Morgin no longer cared where they took him nor what they intended to do with him, until finally they came to a wide and well-traveled road running north and south. “Where are we?” he asked.

  Tarkiss grinned. “This is the God’s Road.”

  Morgin thought carefully of what he knew of the God’s Road, the main thoroughfare running from Inetka in the south, to Durin in the north, and as the implication of that hit him, Tarkiss’ grin broadened. “Lord Valso will reward me handsomely for delivering you in good condition.”

  They followed the road north through the rest of that day, camped near the road that night and arose early the following morning to continue their journey. Morgin noticed that the small farms and holdings they passed were now closer together, and the same was true of the hamlets and villages along the road. Then they came to a stretch of road that cut through a number of large and apparently luxurious estates, and after that they entered a city of huts and low-lying buildings.