The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Valso had come alone that morning, though he had his usual escort of Kulls, but Morgin had come to think of them as part of the furniture. Valso took Morgin by the arm as if they were close friends, smiled pleasantly and chatted as they walked down to the castle yard. “I’m told you did some exploring the other day, that you walked through almost every open door in the castle, that you even explored Xenya’s boudoir. She’s an interesting young woman, isn’t she?”

  Morgin didn’t answer, for at that moment they turned into the kennels and his ears filled with the sounds of barking and yapping dogs. But Valso ignored the hounds in the pens on either side and walked directly to the barred door through which Morgin had been unable to pass. The door was open now, and as they stepped through it Morgin again heard the strange, high-pitched cry of several netherbeasts, “skree, skree, skree.”

  Beyond the door Morgin saw two Kulls standing at the edge of some sort of pit with a man kneeling between them. They had bound the man’s hands with thick rope behind his back, and he’d been beaten cruelly, his face swollen and puffy. But as Morgin and Valso approached, the pit drew Morgin’s attention, for from it the cries of “skree” arose, and in it Morgin sensed the netherlife so strongly.

  He slowed as they approached the edge of the pit, but Valso tugged on his arm and dragged him onward. “Come, Elhiyne. You’ll want to see this.” He pulled Morgin forward, and at the bottom of the pit Morgin saw a confusing mass of writhing and swaying motion, all gray and formless. Then one of the little beasts climbed up on the shoulders of one of its fellows, and jumped toward them with teeth snapping mindlessly. It came nowhere near the top of the pit, managed only to rebound off the pit wall and drop among the seething mass of the rest of its ilk.

  There were hundreds of them, small, dog-like, netherbeasts, standing no taller than the top of a man’s ankle. Their hindquarters were small, with most of their bulk concentrated in the muscles of the neck and shoulders. They seemed all head and mouth, their jaws filled with several rows of needle-like teeth. “They’re called skree,” Valso shouted above the noise of their cries. “Their teeth are razor sharp, and when they get hold of you they don’t let go. I’m rather fond of them.”

  “But they’re netherbeasts,” Morgin said. “How did you get them into this life?”

  Valso smiled. “I have powers, Elhiyne, powers you can’t even imagine.”

  Morgin looked at the Decouix prince, and within his eyes he saw that chasm of power opening before him again, and he flinched away from it. Valso threw his head back and laughed. “But come. My pets are hungry.” He nodded to the two Kulls standing over the man at the far side of the pit.

  “No!” he cried out. “Please, no.”

  Morgin tried to turn away, but two Kulls grabbed him from behind, twisted his arms behind his back and forced him to watch. One of the Kulls on the far side of the pit lifted a boot and kicked the kneeling man forward. He had one instant to realize what they’d done, and as he fell into the pit his eyes widened and he screamed.

  He died slowly, not a quick death, and of course not clean. Valso laughed and giggled as the pack tore the man to pieces in hundreds of small bites. The contents of Morgin’s stomach boiled forth; he vomited on his own boots and Valso found that funniest of all.

  ~~~

  The big Kull’s sword sliced toward Morgin in a flat arc. Morgin ducked beneath it, but he underestimated the large halfman’s agility, and as he came up a boot caught him in the ribs. He went down hard, landed on his back with a thud, dust scattering in all directions. He saw the Kull’s blade arcing down toward his face, threw his sword up and managed to deflect it. But it bit deeply into the side of his shoulder and for an instant he hovered at the edge of consciousness.

  The crowd screamed and cheered as the Kull raised his sword for the kill. Morgin threw all his remaining strength into one last effort. He threw a hand full of dust up into the large Kull’s face, rolled, kicked upward and caught the halfman in the crotch. The halfman grunted and swung out blindly as Morgin rolled to one side. Then Morgin spotted the side of an exposed knee and he kicked out at it, hit it solidly and heard the joint collapse with a snap. And as the Kull tumbled to the ground Morgin threw his sword out desperately, felt it bite into something, then he rolled away from the halfman.

  Morgin staggered slowly to his feet, blood streaming freely down his arm from the deep cut in his left shoulder. He looked at the wound, saw the blood pulse with the beat of his racing heart. And at the sight of so much blood the crowd cheered.

  The Kull lay on his side, his sword dropped nearby, his face buried in his hands, his ruined knee twisted at an unnatural angle. Slowly he opened his hands, and only then did Morgin see that his last blind stroke had hacked through the halfman’s face, destroying both eyes and the bridge of his nose, probably even cutting into the brain, though not deeply enough to finish the man quickly. Again Morgin felt pity for a Kull.

  Morgin looked again at the wound on his arm, and wondered how he’d managed to survive the last two months. Every day Valso had forced him to fight for his life, each day choosing a combatant more capable than the previous one. Morgin had remained alive only because he’d always been victorious, though several times he’d sustained serious wounds. But Valso always saw to it he was treated with powerful healing spells, always fully healed and ready for the next day’s contest, until today Morgin had finally faced one of the best fighters among the Kull troops. He wondered what Valso had in mind for him next.

  The large Kull had rolled onto his back, was breathing raggedly. Morgin staggered up to him, barely had the strength to raise his sword and put the halfman out of his misery. The crowd screamed and roared as Morgin dropped his sword in the dust and staggered off the field of battle.

  That evening Morgin stood alone at a window in his suite of rooms looking out over the city of Durin. They’d bandaged his left arm and it hung in a sling, though the healers had done a good job and most of the pain had receded. But the damn thing was beginning to itch badly and Morgin fought to overcome the urge to scratch it. It would be nicely healed by morning, and again Morgin would be ready for whatever Valso planned next.

  A soft knock at the door pulled Morgin’s attention back to the moment. “Enter,” he called out.

  The door opened slowly, and whoever stood beyond in the dark hallway hesitated for a moment. Then, as if coming to a decision, a woman entered the room, though a dense veil hid her face. She looked at Morgin for a moment, then turned and closed the door behind her.

  Morgin bowed cautiously, though the gesture was a bit clumsy with his arm hanging in a sling.

  The woman spoke, “I watched you fight today.”

  Morgin had heard that voice before, though he couldn’t remember when or where. “Did you enjoy the spectacle?” he asked bitterly.

  “Of course not,” she said, in a sharp, scolding tone. “I watched because I’m curious about you. And until now I have specifically avoided watching this display of my son’s cruelty.”

  The reference to her “son” was the final clue Morgin needed. The Lady Merriketh stood before him, Valso’s mother.

  She continued. “And I watched because if I did not watch today then I would not again have the opportunity to see how you survive.”

  “And why is that?” Morgin asked.

  She turned her head sharply toward him, and even though the veil hid her face, he sensed her eyes piercing through his soul. “Your family will be here two days hence. They will bring my husband back with them, chained in disgrace, and my son will fully consolidate his power then. So I believe you have fought your last Kull, at least in such a gladiatorial way. But you know these things.”

  There was something odd in the way she spoke those particular words, and Morgin decided to confront her with it. “You sound pleased your husband is in disgrace, and displeased your son will see such success.”

  Merriketh shrugged out a soft, short, bitter laugh. “There is not now any love between us,
though long ago there was something.”

  “And why is that?”

  She reached up and slowly pushed the veil back from her face. She looked at Morgin proudly and said, “I am Merriketh Alaella.”

  “A twoname?”

  “Yes,” she said angrily. “Oh I loved Illalla once, but like any twoname I could love no man enough to spend the rest of my life in one place. And he coveted the power of the Decouix throne too much to wander about with me. So he decided to have the best of both worlds. He took me to wife by force, and he locked me in this castle thirty-five years ago and has held me as a prisoner ever since. I’m still amazed how easily I learned to hate him.”

  Morgin could almost feel the hate radiating from her. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m curious about you,” she said. “You’ve managed to survive. You managed to survive the onslaught of my son’s power when you wrapped your fingers about his throat and nearly killed him. You managed to survive it even though you have no power of your own. You managed to survive it with no more than your own will, and so I am curious about you, because Valso fears you. He’s always feared you, for some reason.”

  “Why should Valso fear me?”

  She smiled unpleasantly. “You are the most frightening thing of all. You are the unknown.”

  “And why do you hate your son?”

  She frowned wistfully. “He’s so like his father, in so many ways, even in that I loved him once before I learned to hate him. A mother can’t help loving her children, I learned. Valso was the oldest—I bore him thirty-four years ago. And then came Haleen, and after her Valso’s three younger brothers. But Illalla trained Valso in his own likeness, and taught him to be cruel and ruthless. And as each of his younger brothers grew into manhood, grew to a point where he might challenge Valso for the throne someday, each died a strange and mysterious death. Valso is always thorough, especially when it comes to power.”

  She referred to temporal power, but Morgin purposefully misunderstood and asked, “But where did he come by such power. It’s unnatural. It’s wrong.”

  The Alaella looked at him, and she understood what he was doing. Her lips curled upward in a hint of a knowing smile. “There is an old magic, an evil magic. Its price is one’s very identity, one’s very soul. But the spells to gain such power had been lost in the obscurity of time. Then some years ago Illalla came across a very old manuscript—how I do not know—and he memorized the spells and incantations, then destroyed it. You must also be capable of housing such power, and Illalla knew he was not. But he found in his first-born son a vessel for the achievement of the power he coveted.

  “Finally, as part of the incantation, they had to sacrifice the life of a true innocent.” She looked at Morgin and asked him pointedly. “If you assume we are all born pure of heart, and from that moment forward we begin losing our innocence by degrees, where do you find a true innocent?”

  “A new-born child, straight from the womb. But where did they find such a child?”

  Merriketh walked over to the window and looked out at the city. “Our two families are so tightly coupled by fate. As a young man my husband raped your grandmother’s sister Hellis, and she bore your uncle Tulellcoe. And as a young man your uncle Tulellcoe and my daughter Haleen fell in love. But neither clan would condone such a union, and so Olivia and Illalla took steps to insure they would not meet again. But unbeknown to us all they had lain together and conceived a child, though even to this day I doubt your uncle knows the child existed. But when born, Illalla took it from Haleen, and Valso sacrificed it to the Dark God. And now that spell is coming to fruition.”

  “And what will that be?”

  “I know not,” she said, then sighed wearily and turned toward the door. She hesitated there but did not look back as she spoke. “I have tried to love my son, but I can love him no more than he loves me, and I can hate him no less.”

  ~~~

  Sa’umbra the dream: two vast armies facing one another, Aethon arrayed in his finery. Morgin had dreamt it so many times he knew every detail with intimate familiarity. Though always before he’d dreamt it from within Aethon’s soul, the great Shahotma, and then it had possessed the sense of a dream, the ethereal character of unreality. But now he dreamed it from behind the eyes of Morddon, a lowly Benesh’ere mercenary, and the dream was all too real.

  Morddon looked out over the field of death, at the bodies strewn haphazardly across the Gap. A strange calm had descended, quiet and still. For the past three days the two armies had fought sorties; small and large skirmishes, like two combatants testing each other’s reflexes, seeking a weakness or blind spot. But now they sought the end, the finish, and as dawn broke slowly behind the forces of the Shahotma, a new tension filled the air.

  “Master.”

  Morddon turned to face the voice, found a young Benesh’ere warrior standing respectfully behind him with considerable awe upon his face. The young warrior bowed deeply and dropped to one knee, as they’d all taken to doing now that they thought he was the last of the SteelMasters. Morddon had tried to tell them he was no SteelMaster, that he was not righting any wrongs, but his pleas always fell on deaf ears.

  “Master, the Shahotma requests your presence.”

  Morddon nodded. “Lead on.”

  He followed the young warrior to Aethon’s tent, expecting to find another council of war, but instead he found the Shahotma waiting alone. Morddon dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty.”

  Aethon shook his head and impatiently pleaded, “Arise, Morddon. Please don’t stand on formality now. I feel too alone.”

  Morddon understood what the young king meant. He’d felt the same isolation all his life, especially now that he’d been elevated to the exalted status of SteelMaster.

  “I’m frightened, Morddon.”

  Morddon looked into Aethon’s eyes, saw a frightened boy hiding behind the demeanor of a young man, a young king. “There’s nothing wrong with being frightened. We’re all frightened. In fact a certain amount of fear is healthy before a battle.”

  “But we’ve lost so many battles lately, and there’s little hope we can win this one.”

  Morddon shook his head. “But this battle between two armies counts for naught in the scheme of things. The only battle that counts will be that between you and Beayaegoath, and the swords you carry.”

  Aethon shuddered, closed his eyes. “That’s what I’m frightened of.”

  Again Morddon shook his head. “But don’t you see. On that battlefield the slate is clean. Your army is outnumbered six to one, but you and the Dark One are evenly matched. They can slaughter all of the rest of us, but if you defeat Him then we are all victorious.”

  Aethon frowned and had difficulty choosing his words. “There is within me . . . There is within me another soul that haunts my soul. He’s been with me for some time now, though not until recently did I realize his identity.” Aethon smiled, as if remembering a pleasant thought. “I met him first in my dreams. I called him Lord Mortal. He is a handsome young wizard from a time I do not know, and he was searching for the Unnamed King so he could find his own name. But now he’s just frightened. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing in my soul, and I don’t know what to tell him.”

  Morddon chose not to speak of the fact that Lord Mortal now haunted his soul, for then he would have to admit he already knew the outcome of the battle to come.

  A guard entered the tent. “Your Majesty, Lord TarnThane sends his regards. Dawn is upon us, and the hordes are gathering for battle.”

  Aethon straightened and stood erect, and the image of the frightened young boy disappeared, replaced by that of a proud and mighty king. “Tell Lord TarnThane I’ll be out shortly.”

  Morddon helped Aethon put on his armor. They worked in silence, both of them trapped within their own thoughts.

  ~~~

  The morning began with a series of skirmishes as each side struggled for position. The lay of the pass had not changed from t
hat of Morgin’s time, or rather, it would not change by Morgin’s time. Both roads, that from the east and that from the west, opened out on opposite sides of Csairne Glen, the Glen clear and carpeted with grass. The center of the Glen was slightly lower than either end, both sides sloping gently down toward the middle, as if to pull the two armies together for the bloodletting. By midday both armies had drawn up at either end of the Glen, and in anticipation of the final battle all of the small skirmishes came to an end.

  While Aethon’s generals positioned the various units of his army, Aethon nudged his horse forward a few dozen paces and stopped to survey the landscape before him. Behind him, and a bit to one side, Morddon watched him closely, knowing what would come.

  Aethon sat upright in his saddle, his head snapped toward the middle of the Glen and his attention seemed riveted there. Morddon looked that way, and though he saw nothing he knew Aethon looked upon the apparition of his own death slowly limping toward him. Morddon followed the progress of the apparition by the tilt of Aethon’s head as he watched it approach, then stop just out of reach. Then slowly, Aethon drew his sword and raised it to point at the apparition, though to Morddon’s eyes he pointed at an empty patch of ground. And as Morgin had said in his own past, though in Morddon’s future, Aethon demanded, “Name yourself, demon.”

  The apparition was not meant for Morddon’s eyes, and its answer was not meant for his ears, but nevertheless he knew the words it spoke. “I am AethonDeath, my lord, and I have come for you.”

  Morgin had panicked at the sight of MorginDeath, had screamed, “Be gone. Leave me. You cannot have me.” But Aethon, with the bearing of a true king, merely nodded for a moment, then shrugged and said, “So be it.”

  Guessing that the apparition had now departed, Morddon nudged Mortiss forward. Aethon turned to look at him, his face as white as the specter that had stood before him moments earlier. But as the color returned to his face, he said, “I’ve seen my own death, Morddon.”