The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Morddon nodded. “I know.”

  “You know so much, my Benesh’ere friend. Do you know the outcome of this battle?”

  Morddon stared out over the battlefield and refused to answer the question.

  “I thought as much,” Aethon said.

  One of the generals rode up behind them. “We’re ready, sire.”

  Aethon looked out across the Glen. “And it looks like our friends across the way are ready also. Stay close to me, Morddon. Stay close to me.”

  “I will, my king.”

  For that day’s slaughter Morddon had chosen a good-sized broadsword, and as the two armies charged at each other and met with a roar, he laid death about himself with an efficiency born of years of practice. The battle raged on through that afternoon without letup and Morddon did stay close to Aethon. But near dusk the vagaries of battle separated them, and later Morddon understood fate had intervened, for as darkness enveloped them it brought with it the Dark God, and all ran screaming before the might of evil that came upon the land.

  ~~~

  Morgin squatted down on his heals over the pile of derelict blades, and as always his hand could choose only the one blade that seemed to be his destiny. He stood up, didn’t bother to test the weight or balance of the steel, looked at the crowd gathered about him. Like him they wondered who Valso would find to fight him now that he had defeated one of the best among the Kulls.

  As always Morgin sensed Valso shortly before he arrived. He sensed him by the vast chasm of power that opened before him whenever the Decouix prince came near. But this day the sense of that power struck him like a sword, for it had the same taste as the power that had come to Csairne Glen to devour the army of the Shahotma that day long ago, and he wondered at that.

  Morgin stood alone in the middle of a large cleared space where none of the onlookers dared venture, and as Valso joined him the crowd murmured. Valso looked at Morgin carefully, then at the crowd, and when he raised his hands they cheered riotously. He kept his hands raised through the cheers, until slowly the noise died and a hushed stillness settled over them all.

  When all was quiet Valso spoke, “I have no doubt you’re all wondering who will fight the Elhiyne this day. He has defeated the best among my Kulls, and so I must look beyond the ranks of the halfmen. So where do I look, and who will I find?”

  He turned slowly as he spoke, addressing the entire crowd and drawing their attention with practiced ease. “Should I look to the ranks of my noblemen?”

  “Yes,” the crowd screamed, desiring a true contest, not merely an exhibition of butchery.

  “No,” he told them, shaking his head. “My noblemen cannot fight without using their power, and for this poor Elhiyne, who is bereft of his power, that would be an unfair contest.”

  The crowd murmured its agreement, for none of them wanted to see an easy victory.

  “Well then, where should I look?”

  The crowd grumbled in confusion and disappointment, until Valso threw his hands up again and signaled for silence. “I know where to look,” he shouted. “I know the best swordsman in Durin, a man who can fight this Elhiyne without the use of power and still stand victorious. I know where to look, because I know to look to myself.” Valso finished by drawing his own sword and waving it above his head, and the crowd screamed out its approval.

  A knot formed in Morgin’s stomach. Valso was the better swordsman, and they both knew it.

  Valso threw off his coat, turned to face Morgin and crouched, ready to fight him. The crowd became still.

  “You know I’m no duelist,” Morgin said.

  Valso smiled. “And this is no duel. This is a fight—no rules, just survival—to the death.”

  Morgin had no choice so he nodded and extended his sword. They circled for a moment, then Valso sprang forward with a flurry of blows, forcing Morgin to back step desperately. But then he saw an opening: exposed ribs waiting for a well-placed boot, so Morgin kicked out, but Valso was no longer there, and fire danced up Morgin’s leg as Valso nicked him with his sword. They disengaged and began circling again.

  “Good try, Elhiyne,” Valso said with a smile. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

  Valso was playing with him. The Decouix prince could have taken off his leg at the knee, but that would have ended the match too quickly. In desperation Morgin decided to go on the offensive. He attacked Valso with a flurry of cuts, but the Decouix deflected them easily, turning one of Morgin’s strokes and cutting him on the cheek. Again they disengaged.

  They circled for a moment, then Valso spun in and struck down with his sword. Morgin deflected it, struck back, dodged a thrust and elbowed Valso in the solar plexus. The Decouix grunted, and as he staggered away Morgin pressed his advantage, bringing his sword around in a flat arc. But Valso regained his composure, stepped away from it easily, struck back with a combination of strokes, slipped beneath Morgin’s guard and nicked him in the ribs, though as they disengaged Morgin cut Valso on the shoulder.

  Valso was a born swordsman, whether dueling or just fighting for his life, though oddly Morgin and he seemed almost evenly matched in this kind of combat. But Morgin knew Valso was using a small hint of that vast power at his command, just enough to make the difference, though not enough to be detected by the crowd. And as the match progressed he made a fool of Morgin, cutting him time and again, dropping him in the dirt, kicking or punching him. Occasionally Morgin got in a blow, or a cut, but only because Valso didn’t want his use of power to be obvious. Clearly, he wanted to give the crowd a good, long show, slowly wearing Morgin down. And while at first they had appeared evenly matched, it slowly became obvious Valso was in control, for Morgin had gone down into the dirt six times to Valso’s one, and he was cut in a dozen places where Valso had been touched by Morgin’s sword only twice.

  Morgin could barely lift his sword, but he would not give up. If Valso was going to kill him then he was determined to die fighting. He attacked the Decouix, cut down then across, down then across, kicked out at an exposed knee. But Valso sidestepped the blow, kicked Morgin in the ribs, then caught him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword and Morgin went down.

  He almost lost consciousness, lying face down in the dirt, and he did lose his sword. But as he groped for it he felt cold steel touching the back of his neck and he froze. Valso stood over him with the tip of his sword resting on Morgin’s spine.

  The crowd went wild screaming for his blood, but Valso raised his free hand and silenced them. “You want the Elhiyne’s life?” he asked them.

  The mob screamed its reply. “Yes. Kill him.”

  Valso shook his head. “But I want it too. We all know who is the better swordsman, and I have uses for him alive.”

  Valso stepped back a few paces and sheathed his sword. Bayellgae streaked across the yard and settled on his shoulder. “Massster. I am pleasssed you were victoriousss.”

  Valso looked at the little demon snake curled on his shoulder and stroked the top of its head with a finger. “Perhaps I’ll give him to you, for who can survive your venom?”

  “Only you, massster. Only you, and of courssse . . .” The snake turned its head and looked at Morgin. “And of courssse Lord Mortal there.”

  Valso started and his eyes snapped toward Morgin. He looked back at the snake, then back at Morgin, then screamed, “Nooooo.”

  He rushed up to Morgin and started kicking him, screaming and cursing as he rained vicious blows on him. Morgin wasn’t sure if he should take some satisfaction in Bayellgae’s revelation, though he resolved to remember the look on Valso’s face as he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 19: The Dane King

  Morddon moved silently from one shadow to the next, paused to listen carefully to the sounds about him. Dawn had come almost reluctantly, as if the land wished to keep the devastation of the battlefield hidden in the shadows of the night. The still air was filled with the cries of those who were unfortunate enough to die slowly of their
wounds.

  He thought he knew where Aethon had gone down, but the landscape looked different littered by so many corpses. Nevertheless he searched, and he continued to search without rest, for somehow he knew Aethon still lived, and he didn’t care enough to wonder how he knew. He found him just as the sun rose fully above the mountain peaks. The young king lay unconscious, his tunic soaked with blood, so Morddon picked him up like a child, and with the help of Morgin’s shadows carried him off the Glen to where Mortiss hid in a small clump of forest. The two of them were not an excessive burden for the horse.

  Morddon rode with Aethon seated in front of him, his arms gripping Mortiss’ reins around the unconscious king to support him. But near mid-morning Aethon cried out and regained consciousness. Morddon cupped a hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear, “Be silent, my king.”

  “Morddon?” Aethon pleaded. “Is that you?”

  “Aye,” Morddon answered.

  “Ah, my white faced friend. The sword . . . my sword, it was not flawed. It didn’t fail, and yet, here I am, defeated.”

  “I think your victory must wait for another age, my king.”

  Aethon drifted off into an uneasy sleep, his breathing ragged and shallow. When he again awoke he pleaded, “Can we stop and rest? It hurts so terribly.”

  Morddon stopped near a small stream, gently put Aethon down in the shade of a tall elm tree. Aethon burned with fever, so Morddon soaked his blouse in the cold stream and swabbed the young king’s forehead. He was much too ill to travel further so Morddon let him rest, and through that day he drifted in and out of consciousness while Morddon sat next to him and tried to calm him. But late that afternoon Aethon awoke and grasped Morddon’s arm. “It wasn’t me he sought,” he said, struggling to get the words out. “Never me.”

  “Don’t speak,” Morddon told him. “Try to rest.”

  “I was nothing to the Dark God. He swept me aside like a feather in a strong wind, and he coveted only Lord Mortal. Always Lord Mortal.”

  Aethon shuddered and gasped. “I pity poor Lord Mortal, for Beayaegoath ripped him from my soul, and even now torments him beyond life itself. I wonder if he ever found the Unnamed King . . . ever found his name.”

  Aethon calmed, and the shaking stopped, and slowly his body relaxed and his eyes glazed over with death. And there beneath the elm tree all life seemed to stand still for that instant, as if the soul of the land felt the loss of its king.

  Morddon used his fingers to close the dead king’s eyes, then he covered him with the blanket from his pack and bivouacked for the night. In the morning, while gathering stones for a cairn, he happened to glance up and saw a small, black speck high in the sky. He knew that shape well, so he stepped out into the open and waved his arms.

  The speck circled and grew in proportion as it descended, until a few minutes later TarnThane landed nearby. “Well, SteelMaster,” the griffin lord said. “We are come to this.”

  “He’s dead,” Morddon said.

  The griffin nodded. “I know. We all felt his passing. We’re preparing a crypt now, a place appropriate for the last of the Shahotma. Will you bring him?”

  Morddon started to object, to say he must return to Kathbeyanne, but the griffin shook his head violently. “Your place is by his side, whiteface.”

  Morddon turned his head slowly from side to side, stretching the tension out of his neck muscles. “I guess Magwa can wait a few more days, halfbird.”

  Morddon wrapped Aethon’s body in his own blanket, and carefully sat him on Mortiss’ saddle. He then mounted behind him and wrapped his arms around him as if he were still alive and needed protecting. And it occurred to Morgin that, perhaps in death, he did need protection.

  TarnThane led the way, always circling high in the distance ahead, guiding Morddon north toward Attunhigh. The path TarnThane chose kept them high in the mountains, always skirting the edge of some deep crevasse or sheer rock face. Morddon could not have found the way on his own, even with his vast knowledge of forest and mountain lore. But with the griffin overhead surveying the ground from the advantage of soaring heights, always picking just the right trail, Morddon found his way easily. He camped that night near an icy mountain stream, and the next morning they rose above the tree line to a barren landscape of rocks and lichen and small patches of snow.

  On the third day of travel, as Mortiss carefully picked her way up a twisting trail of steep switchbacks, the path suddenly opened out onto a flat shelf of rock, a wide expanse where Ellowyn and the other legion commanders awaited them in a solemn, silent throng. With them stood the royalty of the House of the Thane and what remained of the Benesh’ere command. Morddon nudged Mortiss forward slowly and stopped just short of them.

  He dismounted carefully, and gently lowered Aethon out of the black mare’s saddle. The dead king weighed next to nothing, as if he’d already begun turning to ash. Morddon laid Aethon down at Ellowyn’s feet, then watched as the archangels stripped him and carefully washed him, then dressed him in the ceremonial armor of the Shahotma, the greatest of kings.

  When Ellowyn finished she looked to Morddon. “You should take him to his final rest. He would want that.” She nodded toward the mountain behind her and the granite that rose steeply from the shelf where they stood. Only then, with Morgin’s ability to see through shadows, only then did Morddon see that one particular black slash of granite was actually a shadow filling the small mouth of an open cave.

  Morddon picked up Aethon; he weighed more now that he’d been dressed in the heavy ceremonial armor, yet still he seemed diminished. Morddon had to duck, and shuffle sideways to fit through the low, narrow mouth of the cave. But it opened into an inner cavern dimly lit by flickering sconces, and Morgin immediately recognized the burial chamber of the Skeleton King, a room cluttered with swords and shields and armor polished to a brilliant sheen and studded with jewels. Thick and richly embroidered tapestries covered the walls, and in the center, surrounded by such unimaginable riches, sat the throne of the Shahotma King.

  Morddon carefully sat the dead king upon his throne, then arranged his arms and legs as if he were holding high court. But to Morgin’s eye the scene remained incomplete. Morddon straightened, and looking at Aethon’s lifeless form he said, “There’s something missing.”

  Behind him Ellowyn said, “His sword. The AethonSword.”

  Morddon turned to face her, found her standing with a sheathed broadsword resting in her outstretched hands. Morgin recognized the jeweled hilt from his dreams as Morddon reached out and took the sword, then carefully pulled the blade from the sheath. It shown with the brilliance of the finest steel, the blade intricately worked with runes decorating its entire length. “The godslayer,” Morddon said. “Why did Aethon not fight the Dark God with this blade? It must contain great power, and yet he left it behind.”

  Morddon, who was not a magician or wielder of sorcerous powers, could not sense what Morgin sensed: that the blade contained no power and was just a blade. He hid that knowledge from Morddon, the only thing he’d ever truly hidden from his Benesh’ere host.

  “Why?” Morddon asked again.

  He hadn’t meant it as a real question, not one to be answered, but Ellowyn did so anyway. “He said the blade you forged, the flawless blade, would have more power against the Goath’s evil.”

  Morgin shared Morddon’s thoughts; had he doomed Aethon by giving him the blade he’d forged? Had they turned fate aside by not using the proper blade? But it was too late for such thoughts.

  He turned back to the throne and his dead king, and he arranged Aethon so he sat with one arm resting casually on an armrest, the other on the hilt of the great sword, its tip resting in the dust of the floor, its upper weight balanced by no more than the casual grip of Aethon’s hand. He carefully set the scene so that every detail matched the tomb of Morgin’s dreams.

  He was the last to exit the tomb, and he stopped just outside the narrow slash of its entrance. The angels quickly filled it with
rocks the size of a man’s head, and then Morgin cast a shadow he hoped would misguide any stranger who chanced this way.

  Morddon climbed into Mortiss saddle, and when he looked back one last time, Morgin had the oddest thought. He could see through his own shadows as no other could. Anyone else standing at this spot would see nothing but rock and mountain, but Morgin would always recognize that cave mouth in an instant.

  ~~~

  The black darkness, the rank smells of piss and shit, his own unwashed body, matted and clumped hair; all of these things were familiar to Morgin, and as he slowly struggled to full consciousness, the aches and pains in his mistreated body reminded him he was in the bowels of Decouix. It took great effort just to pull himself up off the stone floor into a sitting position with his back to a wall, and in the process he discovered a hundred bruises and aches. The Kulls had prepared him for the arrival of his family by beating him continuously through the night. His left hand had swollen badly, though he didn’t think anything was broken there, but his ribs might be a different story. He explored his face carefully with his right hand. One eye had swollen completely shut, was unusable; the other had swollen badly, though he guessed he could see out of it to some limited extent. Bruises and small cuts covered his face. He thought about trying to stand, decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and drifted back into a kind of restless sleep . . .

  The cell door slammed open; light blinded him; rough hands lifted him off his feet, then chained him hand and foot. He thought at first they’d come for another beating, but instead they pulled him out of the cell and dragged him through the castle. They took him to a room high in Decouix, and as Morgin peered through the slit of his half-swollen eye, he found Valso waiting for him. The prince smiled and said, “I have something I want you to see.”

  He turned and stepped through tall doors onto a balcony. The Kulls dragged Morgin across the room and out onto the balcony with Valso, stood him up against the balcony rail. “Look,” Valso said, and he pointed down into the city.