by J. L. Doty
Valso’s lips curled upward into a mocking smile, and like Tarkiss, the pretense of civility vanished. “Oh I think it is, Elhiyne. You see I’m giving this Kull permission to kill you as soon as you’ve chosen a blade. No rules, just survival, each man fighting for his life. Fighting to the death. Isn’t that how you described it?”
Xenya gasped, put a hand to her mouth. The Kull smiled and chuckled with a low growl. Valso called out, “Stand back. All of you.” He swept his arms out, indicating everyone should give Morgin and the Kull room. There were quite a number of men and halfman in the yard, but only a few paying close attention to the events taking shape, and those few stepped away cautiously to form a ragged ring about the two contestants.
Morgin stood over the pile of old swords dumped at his feet as Valso called out to him, “Choose a sword, Elhiyne, and fight for your life. Or I’ll give the Kull permission to cut you down where you stand. It’s kill or be killed.”
Morgin looked at the few spectators standing about, and he saw no sympathy there. He shook himself, and being careful not to turn his back on the Kull he unlaced the finely tailored jacket Valso had provided him, shrugged out of it and tossed it aside. It had not been cut for freedom of movement.
Still watching the Kull he squatted down over the pile of derelict blades, started reaching for one to test its weight, but at the last instant a spasm in his arm deflected his hand to the hilt of another blade. And as his hand settled about the grip he experienced a single moment of surprise. But it ended almost as soon as it came, and he recognized his own sword, the old Benesh’ere blade he’d grown so used to.
How it had been retrieved from the bottom of that river he could not guess. There was no rust on it, though it had never shined, and it had aged, as if the few days it had been gone from his side had been centuries to the life of the steel. And the hilt had been rewrapped, though not recently, for the wrapping was old with time and use. But that would indicate the sword had been gone from his side for a long time, perhaps years. So he looked again at the steel, touched it lightly, sensed the voices within it, and any doubt he had disappeared.
The Kull’s boots pounding on the hard packed dirt of the yard were his only warning that the contest had begun. He dove to one side as the halfman’s sword hissed past his throat, turned his dive into a shoulder roll and sprang to his feet. The Kull was on top of him in an instant with a two-handed overhead stroke meant to split him down the middle. He didn’t meet it, but remembering France’s tutelage he deflected it only the amount needed, kicked the Kull in the ribs as the halfman’s blade slammed into the dirt, turned the momentum of his kick into a spin and brought his sword about in a flat arc.
The Kull barely managed to duck beneath it, and even though he came up in an awkward position he did throw his own sword up and parry it strongly. Their swords rang together once and they disengaged.
Morgin bent into a crouch, and he and the Kull circled slowly. Then, as if by mutual consent, they both swung their swords up, and for a few quick strokes they traded blows back and forth. Again, they disengaged and circled slowly.
Morgin thought the Kull had a tendency to over commit his strokes, and he wondered what the Kull thought of him. Again they traded blows, their swords ringing together in a slow, grinding cadence, Morgin watching for the moment when the Kull might over commit himself again. But the Kull changed tactics and lunged at Morgin with a point thrust aimed at his heart. Morgin committed to the thrust, parried it heavily, and realized too late he’d exposed his ribs.
The Kull’s boot caught him just under the armpit with a solid thud. He grunted, tried to ignore the pain, spun into a kick of his own that caught the Kull in the solar plexus. They both stumbled away from one another and fell to the ground.
Morgin scrambled to his feet with less speed than he would have liked. But the Kull moved no faster as he struggled off his knees clutching his abdomen and sucking for air. They dove at each other again, traded more blows and kicks. Morgin caught the Kull squarely in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, was amazed that an instant later the halfman managed to dodge a flat slice meant to take off his head. Then the Kull cut him badly across the hip with a glancing thrust that just barely missed gutting him. Morgin spun inside the Kull’s guard and locked hand to hand, the Kull’s free hand clutching the wrist of Morgin’s sword arm, Morgin’s free hand clutching the wrist of the Kull’s sword arm, chest-to-chest, face-to-face.
The Kull jerked his head back, butted Morgin in the nose with his forehead. The pain brought tears to Morgin’s eyes and he felt a hot stream of blood flood his lips and chin. The Kull butted him in the cheek just under his right eye, then the halfman’s teeth flashed, going for Morgin’s throat. Morgin ducked his head, drove upward and caught the halfman under the chin, driving his head back and over balancing him. The Kull tumbled backward; Morgin tumbled with him, tried to keep his head beneath the Kull’s chin as he landed on top of him. They hit the ground with their sword arms still immobilized in each other’s grip, Morgin’s nose and cheek pressed against the exposed skin of the Kull’s throat so the Kull couldn’t get his teeth on Morgin’s throat. Without thought he opened his mouth, and like a wild animal at the kill he buried his teeth in the halfman’s throat, felt the Kull’s larynx crushed in his jaws.
The Kull struggled frantically, and with a desperate effort broke his sword hand free. Morgin bit down on the halfman’s throat even harder, felt his teeth sinking in as he shifted his weight to immobilize the upper half of the Kull’s wildly swinging sword arm. The Kull’s sword bit into Morgin’s back, but chest-to-chest, and for the most part pinned to the ground, the halfman could put no strength behind it. And then inevitably, second by second by second, with Morgin’s teeth buried in the Kull’s throat the halfman’s struggles slowed, his partially immobilized sword arm began striking down with only a halfhearted effort, and he relaxed his grip on Morgin’s sword arm.
Morgin waited until the Kull grew still, then he opened his mouth and rolled off the halfman, careful to roll onto the Kull’s sword arm in case there was a last breath of life in him. He lay on his back for a moment catching his breath, conscious of each of his injuries though not of how serious they might be, listening to the silence of the castle yard about him and the thunder of his own heartbeat. And in that silence he heard a gurgling rasp of breath coming from the Kull. Morgin looked at the man, at the throat half torn away. The Kull was still alive, drowning slowly in his own blood. Morgin vomited up his breakfast.
Only a few minutes earlier Morgin would never have believed he could feel pity for a Kull. But now with a great deal of effort he struggled to his feet, stood over the slowly dying halfman, reversed the hilt of his sword so he held it in both hands point down, then buried it in the halfman’s chest. The Kull flinched once, and then his struggles ceased and he lay still.
Morgin looked up and found a sea of silent faces surrounding him. Everyone who had been in the castle yard had gathered to watch the spectacle, and now they all stood in a circle about him mutely staring at him. They were mostly soldiers, many of them Kulls, a few of the Kulls nodding carefully. They approved. The Kulls accepted him and respected him for killing with such brutal efficiency.
“Very good, Elhiyne,” Valso called, stepping forward into the circle of onlookers. He began applauding loudly. “Excellent. As you said, no rules, just survival.”
Morgin looked at Valso, turned and started toward him, and the look in his eyes must have said something to everyone for they flinched collectively and reached for their swords. Even Valso flinched for a moment, but when Morgin left his sword still standing in the dead Kull’s chest he relaxed. In that instant Morgin realized he had the greatest chance, and without thinking further he dove for the Decouix prince, wrapped his hands about his throat and crushed down with all his strength.
He dug his thumbs into Valso’s larynx and felt it snap and crumble, saw the prince’s eyes bulge even as he sensed that vast gulf of power rise up to prot
ect him. But Morgin didn’t care. There was no power that could frighten him now, nor pry open the white knuckled death grip squeezing the life from Valso. Morgin did not care even as that monstrous chasm of power struck at him, and he cared not even as it devoured him.
~~~
Morgin awoke in his bed in his suite of rooms high in Castle Decouix. He was alone, and surprisingly enough alive, and he felt much better than he should. He tested his nose where the Kull had butted him; a little sore, but not terribly so. And the cut on his hip seemed almost healed. He wondered if the memory of crushing Valso’s throat was nothing more than a hallucination.
He climbed out of bed, dressed, then decided to test Valso’s claim that few doors were barred to him. He stepped out into the hallway, passed the two Kulls standing guard there, and began strolling down the hall. They fell into step behind him and followed at a discrete distance.
It appeared he’d arisen a bit earlier than the rest of the castle’s inhabitants. He found the kitchen with the cook busy preparing breakfast. She told him they’d be awake shortly, were probably already awake but were bathing and dressing and doing the things nobility did to make themselves presentable. Morgin talked her into giving him breakfast then, and with the two Kulls standing guard over him he ate in silence.
He explored some of the castle itself, wandered through the stables and the smithy, checked out the kennel, though in the back of the kennel he found a barred door through which he could not pass. But as he tested the door he sensed something beyond it that had the taste of the netherlife to it. He paused at the door and wondered at that, and the silence of his thoughts filled with a faint and distant sound, as if he heard the cry of an animal, or perhaps that of many animals together, and it sounded something like “skree.”
The dungeons were also barred to him, though that didn’t surprise him. Mostly, he wanted to avoid Valso. He’d had enough of the Decouix prince, and he wanted some privacy. And oddly enough, he’d grown accustomed to the two Kulls that were his constant shadows, and their presence no longer intruded on that privacy.
Late that morning, after exploring most of the castle, he was on his way back to his suite when a nearby door opened, a servant stepped into the hallway, turned and faced back through the open door, bowed and said, “Yes, Lady Xenya.” The servant closed the door and walked away.
On impulse Morgin rapped politely on the door. An old matron answered it, the kind of woman mothers preferred as chaperones for their daughters. “Yes?” the woman asked.
Morgin said, “Tell the Lady Xenya the Elhiyne would like to see her.”
The old woman frowned, looked at him unhappily, then curtsied and said, “Yes, Your Lordship,” and closed the door. A few moments later she returned and admitted him to a large sitting room containing Xenya seated on a long couch and a young man standing near a hearth.
“What do you want?” Xenya demanded.
Morgin shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to talk to you. You don’t seem to like Valso.”
“Be that as it may,” she said harshly, “I like you even less. At least he doesn’t rip men’s throats out with his own teeth.”
“Xenya!” the young man said. “He had no choice.”
The young man stepped forward and extended a hand to Morgin. “I am Alta et Vodah. Xenya’s brother. And you must be AethonLaw et Elhiyne.”
Morgin shook his head. “I’m no longer of the House of Elhiyne.”
Alta shrugged. “The talisman, eh? But I’m told it’s lost.”
Morgin looked at the young man carefully. “I’m still an outlaw, without magic, and eventually Valso will kill me.”
“I wasn’t there yesterday,” Alta said, “but I heard about it, and the timbre of Valso’s voice is a bit different this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, you almost killed him.”
Morgin shook his head. “When I woke up this morning I thought it was all a hallucination.”
Alta shook his head emphatically. “Oh no. It was very real. Valso’s just playing his games with you. He used his own magic to heal himself, though as I say his voice has changed, and he also worked very hard to heal you. Then he gave everyone instructions that no one will speak of the matter in your presence. Be careful. He likes to play with your mind.”
“Did you get what you came for?” Xenya demanded angrily. “If so, please go.”
Alta threw an arm about Morgin’s shoulders and escorted him to the door. “Don’t pay attention to her. She has this romantic idea a fight should always be by the rules of a duel, all clean and neat, though you were a bit bloodthirsty yesterday.”
Out in the hall Morgin hesitated. Alta had said he’d had no choice, but he did have a choice. He was going to die anyway, so he could have just let Valso’s Kull cut him down. But he’d been too frightened to do anything but fight, and now he felt unclean.
Morgin managed to avoid Valso most of the day, but late that afternoon six Kulls came for him. They escorted him out to the practice yard, and seeing the circle of onlookers already formed, and the lone Kull standing at its center with Salya and Valso, and the pile of old, derelict blades on the ground to one side, a knot formed in the pit of Morgin’s stomach.
“I enjoyed that contest yesterday so much,” Valso announced, “I thought we might do it again.”
Morgin tried to talk his way out of it, but again Valso threatened to let the Kull cut him down where he stood if he didn’t fight. Again Morgin was too much of a coward to do anything but fight back, and again his sword waited for him in the pile of old blades, and again it would allow him to choose no other. He fought the Kull; they were evenly matched and the contest lasted much longer. They both sustained several minor wounds, and before it ended Morgin bled from a dozen cuts, though the Kull fared no better. But that day Morgin killed the halfman with a clean thrust to the heart. When he turned to face Valso the prince had prudently wrapped himself in his power to prevent a repetition of the previous day’s events.
The next day a slightly larger crowd had gathered for the gladiatorial contest. That day Morgin killed the Kull with a cut deep into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
On the fourth day the crowd of onlookers had grown large and varied. And the fifth saw the yard filled to capacity, people lining the battlements, standing in balconies high above and leaning from windows, wagering on the outcome of the combat. Valso and Salya always chose a well-matched opponent for Morgin, so the contests never ended quickly. And though Morgin was always victorious, he never emerged unscathed. And after he’d lost count of the contests, lost count of the days of murderous battle, one day, standing there soaked in the blood of the Kull he’d just killed, he understood then that this was his death sentence, for Valso had an unlimited number of Kulls, and eventually Morgin would make one fatal mistake.
Chapter 18: A Dark Sacrifice
To Morddon, who stood on the balcony of AnneRhianne’s boudoir high in the palace, Kathbeyanne had the air of a graveyard. The streets below were now almost completely empty, and in the distance beyond the edge of the city lines of refugees clogged the roads.
After the massacre of the First Legion and Gilguard’s last stand, Aethon’s forces had suffered one defeat after another. The Goath hordes, now sensing total victory close at hand, had begun making forays deep into the kingdom of the Shahotma. The inhabitants of Kathbeyanne, realizing the city itself was their ultimate goal, were fleeing with their lives.
AnneRhianne stepped out onto the balcony. A cool breeze blew down off the plains in the west, but she chose to wear nothing more than a thin, almost transparent negligee that covered her from neck to ankles. From behind she wrapped her arms around Morddon’s waist, pressed her cheek against the back of his shoulder. “Come inside, my love,” she said softly. “You’ll catch a chill out here.”
Morddon inhaled deeply, took in the scent of her, continued to watch the lines of refugees snaking out of the city. “You know,” he s
aid. “In the future they’re going to have it all wrong. They’ll think we Benesh’ere deserted Aethon, and the other tribes remained faithful to him. And yet now they’ve all gone over to the Goath, or gone in hiding.”
“We still have the angels,” she said. “Eleven full legions. And we have the Thane. And perhaps WolfDane will relent and allow the Dane to aid us.”
That last was wishful thinking, though Morddon let it stand without comment. “The Goath are gathering a great army on the other side of the Worshipers. They’re forcing our hand. We have to meet them at Sa’umbra, for we can’t let an army that size cross the mountains without resistance. So tomorrow Aethon is gathering what remains of his army, to take them into what may be the last battle of this war. And tomorrow I have to go with him, and you have to stay here.”
She kissed him softly on the back of his neck. “I know,” she said. “Just promise me you’ll come back for me.”
Deep within the soul of the tall Benesh’ere warrior Morgin thought of the Isle of Simpa, and of the witch AnneRhianne waiting there for centuries, waiting for him to return. And he had returned, though he now knew something would prevent him from returning in this time and place. He nodded slowly. “I’ll come back for you—someday. I swear it.”
He turned about in her arms, took her in his arms and held her tightly.
“You know,” she said wistfully, “I’ve dreamt strangely for the past months, dreamt of a young girl named Rhianne in another time.”
Morgin tensed as she continued. “I haunt her soul, just a passenger, and she loves a young man and they’re trying to find happiness. But then it’s just a dream.”
Morgin said, “For me, this is the dream.”
They had only this short time left to them, this day, and the night that would follow, and Morgin knew these few precious memories would have to last them for centuries.
~~~
“Come Elhiyne,” Valso said. The servants had awakened Morgin early at Valso’s instructions, and he’d barely had time to dress before the prince arrived. “I have to feed my pets, and I think you’ll find them quite interesting.”