The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  He looked toward the palace at the far side of the parade ground, felt drawn to it. “Come,” he said to the whitefaces. “I think someone’s waiting for me.”

  All that remained of the palace of the Shahotma was the front wall of the great throne room, with a gaping hole where enormous bronze doors had once stood. Inside, the remains of three walls and the roof formed an enormous pile of rubble.

  Morgin said, “Wait out here. I think this is what I came for.”

  Like the barracks, when he stepped across the threshold the throne room returned to it past glory. Tapestries draped much of the walls, depicting the glories of the great Shahotma Kings. Where the walls were bare, they were colored with frescoes and gilt. Morgin stood on one end of a long strip of red carpet that led arrow-straight down the center of the room, ending at the base of a high dais upon which rested three thrones. Someone sat on each of the thrones, but the distance was too great for Morgin to make out any details.

  On either side of the red carpet courtiers filled the hall dressed in finery beyond imagining. And yet they were nothing more than ghostly specters of past glory, translucent and frozen in time.

  In another time and place Morgin would have sought some means of escaping this dream, but he recalled Metadan’s prophesy: . . . in the city of glass, beneath the fires of the eternal sun, you will ask three questions, and you will gain three answers, and in them you will know yourself far more than any mortal should.

  Morgin stepped forward boldly and marched down the red carpet. As he approached the dais he saw that, like the courtiers, the beings that occupied the three thrones were ghostly specters. He realized they didn’t truly exist, were just memories buried in the rubble of the great city.

  In the throne on the right sat a woman of incredible beauty, but her splendor was cold and lifeless. The man on the throne in the middle shared her beauty, and its lifeless vacancy. But a monster sat on the throne on the left, a being with the head of a goat, and blood-red eyes. Morgin knew then that he looked upon three gods.

  It occurred to him it was no coincidence he must also ask three questions. So he looked to the woman and asked, “Who are you?”

  She smiled at him, though it was a look that made Olivia’s coldest stare seem warm.

  “I am Augis,” she said, and Morgin realized the river south of the Lake of Sorrows had been named after a forgotten god. “And within me is the first goddess of Kathbeyanne, mistress and guardian of all that once was.”

  Morgin looked to the man on the middle throne. “And who are you?”

  “I am Attun,” he said, his voice booming through the hall, the namesake of the mountain Attunhigh. “And within me is the first god of Kathbeyanne, lord and guardian of all that is now.”

  Morgin looked to the monster on the third throne. He knew what the third question was supposed to be. And he knew what the answer would be. The woman: guardian of all that once was. The man: all that is now. The monster: all that will be. Morgin couldn’t allow that. He knew that the gods had manipulated his life, a life that apparently had spanned centuries.

  The monster, the Dark God, leaned forward with a look of greedy anticipation. He wanted Morgin to ask that question, needed Morgin to ask it. In that moment Morgin wondered what would happen if he didn’t ask it, if he didn’t blindly follow the dictates of the gods. Could he break that cycle of manipulation? What could they do to punish him, torture him at the forges for centuries, wound him, kill him? They’d already done that.

  The Dark God snarled with rage. “Ask the question, mortal.”

  Morgin was confident that if he completed the cycle of the prophesy, the monster in front of him wouldn’t simply manifest then and there to rule the Mortal Plane. The three beings he faced now were just memories; they had no real power over any plane of existence. So why am I here, he wondered. What is the purpose of this prophesy?

  The monster said, “That’s not the right question. You cannot know yourself until you ask the right question.”

  Morgin hadn’t spoken his thoughts aloud, but somehow the monster knew them. He looked up at the dark god, leaning forward on its throne in anticipation of his words, and knew then the truth of this farce. The only thing or being these memories could influence was him, a simple, mortal man. They’d manipulated him throughout his life, led him down the paths they chose, and this charade was nothing more than an attempt to complete his training. If they taught him the taste of defeat again and again, he would come to accept it readily.

  “Ask the question, mortal.”

  Morgin feared any words he might utter, so he simply turned and began walking back down the red carpet.

  The Dark God’s voice shook the walls of the great throne room. “Ask the question, mortal. Ask the question.”

  Morgin had only made it a few paces down the red carpet when the ghostly specter of the monster coalesced in front of him, the fires of netherhell burning in its eyes. “Ask the question, mortal. Fulfill the prophesy if you wish to know yourself.”

  Morgin said, “You’re just a memory, and not a very good one at that.” He drew his sword.

  The monster looked at the blade and his eyes flashed with fear. He stepped back and grew less substantial with each heartbeat, until nothing of him remained.

  As Morgin continued down the red carpet the monster’s voice boomed louder and louder, “Ask the question, mortal.” But with every step Morgin took it sounded as if it came from a far greater distance. It wasn’t more than a hundred paces to the far end of the hall, and yet with each step it sounded as if he’d crossed leagues to leave the memories of the three gods behind. Just before he reached the entrance he sheathed his sword, and when he stepped out of the hall silence descended.

  His Benesh’ere companions were waiting for him there. He glanced back over his shoulder into the great throne room, and once again it was filled with nothing but rubble and decay. Oddly enough, in breaking the cycle of prophesy, he now knew himself more than ever before.

  He said, “There are no good memories left here. Let’s go home.”

  ••••

  With three twelves of mounted armsmen and four twelves of archers to support him, BlakeDown sat on an old tree stump and watched his workmen move cartload after cartload of stones. He’d allowed the armsmen to dismount and relax, but had ordered them to keep their horses saddled and ready, and he’d sent scouts out ranging quite far. With nothing to do his armsmen and archers grew bored and sat about gossiping and gambling.

  Here in the far western marches the border between Penda and Alcoa’s lands had been demarcated by an old line of tumbled-down stones that had once been a wall. About five hundred paces south of the border a good-sized creek fed a large pond that made for an excellent watering hole for cattle, even in the dryer months of summer. BlakeDown had coveted it most of his life, as had his father before him, for with control of creek and pond he could expand his herds. Chrisainne had thought of the solution: simply move the border south so the creek and pond were on his lands. She was actually quite smart—for a woman.

  One of his lieutenants stood and pointed. “There, my lord. One of the scouts.”

  BlakeDown stood, saw the scout riding hard toward them. “Tell the men to mount up and get ready.” He had anticipated this.

  One of the armsmen brought him his mount, he climbed into the saddle and had just settled there when the scout reined his horse to a halt in front of him.

  “Your Grace,” the man said, breathing heavily. “Three twelves of Elhiyne armsmen about two leagues west of here, approaching slowly. Probably Alcoa’s men, led by a lieutenant, not Alcoa himself.”

  “Did you recognize the lieutenant?”

  “No, my lord. We didn’t get close enough.”

  After two days of moving stones the workmen had almost finished the job. They’d started at the western end near a small woodland, so BlakeDown now had a new border behind which to confront the Elhiyne patrol. And the woodland was large enough to hide his
four twelves of archers.

  BlakeDown turned to the leader of the archers. “Do as we planned.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The day before, as the workmen were just beginning to move the stones, BlakeDown and his lieutenants had planned for every possible approach the Elhiyne border patrol might make. The western approach, near the woodland, was the best of all for his purposes. The archers quickly concealed themselves in the brush of the woodland.

  To the lieutenant of his armsmen, BlakeDown said, “Send two twelves of your men north. We won’t need them for this, and I want them out of sight.”

  As the two twelves rode away, he and his remaining twelve rode to the new border near the woodland and waited there.

  He first spotted the Elhiynes about a thousand paces distant, riding easily, probably anticipating a routine day patrolling the border. When they saw BlakeDown and his men, the Elhiyne lieutenant raised his hand and brought his men to a halt. BlakeDown couldn’t hear him, but he saw him barking orders. Then they rode forward and stopped about 20 paces short of the new border.

  “What is this?” the man demanded without introducing himself.

  BlakeDown kept his voice calm and even. “What is what?” He looked from side to side. “I believe this is nothing more than a routine meeting on our mutual border.”

  The Elhiyne had trouble containing his anger. He swept a hand out, indicating the line of stones. “This is not our border.”

  “Why, I do believe it is,” BlakeDown said, grinning. “Our border has been this line of stones for centuries.”

  The Elhiyne’s eyes fluttered with anger and disbelief. “But you’ve moved the stones.” He pointed to the workmen moving the last cartloads of stones. “You’ve changed the border.”

  BlakeDown pointedly looked up and down the line of stones. “I do believe I have. And so we have a new border. There’s no reason we can’t continue as before.”

  The man looked at the line of stones, the workmen, the pond and the creek. Last of all he looked at BlakeDown’s single twelve of men. BlakeDown could almost see the wheels turning as the man realized that, with his three twelves, he had the Penda’s outnumbered. He calmed and said, “I must insist that you withdraw your armsmen, and have your workmen return the stones to their original place.”

  BlakeDown hardened his voice, “You may insist all you want, but the stones are moved, and they will remain moved.”

  The Elhiyne drew his sword, and his armsmen followed suit. “If you do not withdraw willingly, then I will have no choice but to force you to do so.”

  BlakeDown drew his own sword, did so slowly and carefully, and his men followed suit. “Then force away,” he said.

  He and the Elhiyne locked eyes, a silent challenge during which BlakeDown made sure the man saw he would not flinch.

  The man shouted, “Charge,” and spurred his horse.

  BlakeDown raised his own sword, slashed it downward and cried, “Now.”

  The archer’s in the forest rose from their hiding places and four twelves of arrows hissed through the air, feathering man and horse alike. The battle was over in a dozen heartbeats, and BlakeDown and his armsmen had not even needed their swords.

  There remained a few wounded Elhiyne still alive, but BlakeDown’s men dispatched them quickly.

  27

  Treason Revealed

  When they reached The God’s Road east of the Lake of Sorrows, Morgin and his Benesh’ere friends paused to water their horses and share a meal of trail rations. They sat in a circle within the forest, and as they ate, Jack said, “There’s been a strangeness about you since we left Kathbeyanne. Something happened there, didn’t it?”

  Morgin hadn’t told them of Metadan’s prophesy, nor of his experience in the city of glass. He did so now, and when he finished Blesset demanded, “So you refused to ask the third question? Have you broken the chain of prophesy?”

  They all knew her concern was the seventh wrong. Clearly she feared he would fail to right it and free the Benesh’ere.

  Jack said, “Watch your tongue, girl.”

  She stood. “If he fails at one prophesy, will he fail at others?”

  “He didn’t fail,” Harriok said. “He chose not to follow their whims. He’s taken control of these prophesies, and that strengthens my confidence in him.”

  They argued throughout the brief meal, and neither Harriok nor Jack could convince Blesset that Morgin wouldn’t cheat them of their freedom. And Morgin couldn’t be certain she was wrong.

  They parted there, the three Benesh’ere returning to their camp, Morgin heading south to Kallun’s Gorge. Before he could right the seventh wrong, he had to figure out how to right the sixth, and he had no idea how he might do that.

  They’d already used up most of the day so he camped that night in the forest south of the lake, awoke the next morning feeling confident and renewed. There was no question in his mind that he’d done the right thing by not asking the third question.

  He looked about, didn’t see Mortiss, figured she’d probably found a bush full of berries to dine upon. He thought it might be good to exercise his sword arm, hoped that Metadan would show up that day. He was thinking about a light meal of trail rations when he heard the familiar sound of the pipes. He looked up to see Metadan striding toward him carrying his naked sword in one hand, not the obsidian blade but the sword that dripped the blood of the first legion. The archangel’s eyes were pinched and strained, and he trembled as if struggling under a great weight.

  “Is something troubling you?” Morgin asked as the angel approached.

  Morgin heard Mortiss’ hooves pounding on the forest floor an instant before she cried a nether scream of fear and anger. She burst into the small clearing at full charge and he dove to one side to avoid being ridden down. She continued past him, charging at Metadan, and as she slammed into the archangel she and he disappeared in a flash.

  Morgin jumped to his feet and drew his sword, trying to look in all directions at once and wondering what had just happened. Metadan appeared in front of him, his sword already swinging around in a flat arc aimed at taking off Morgin’s head. He ducked and threw his own sword up, clumsily deflecting the blow, which bought him the instant needed to regain his balance and drop into a defensive crouch.

  Metadan’s eyes glowed with hellfire as Morgin demanded, “What are you doing?”

  Metadan screamed and charged, swung his sword with both hands in a high arc. Morgin back-stepped, parried the blow, and struck back. Their swords rang as they traded blows back and forth. Then they disengaged and circled in a fighting crouch.

  Morgin demanded again, “What are you doing?”

  Metadan ignored him and charged in. The archangel fought without his usual finesse, simply slammed strike after strike at Morgin with feverish insanity. Morgin tried to control the steel in Metadan’s blade, but it was as dead as the first legion, and he found no life in it to answer his commands.

  Metadan came in with a series of blows that were easily predictable. Morgin deflected them, then thrust at the angel’s chest. It would have been a death stroke had Metadan not vanished in a puff of gray smoke.

  Morgin heard a twig snap behind him, dropped, spun and kicked out, caught Metadan in the knee where he’d reappeared at his back. The archangel grunted with pain and staggered backward. Morgin swung his sword out, and again Metadan vanished.

  Morgin knew what to expect, knew that Metadan would appear behind him in an instant, decided that two could play that game. He cast two shadows, one about himself, another behind where he knew Metadan would reappear, and with no more than a thought stepped from one to the next. The archangel reappeared as expected and slashed his sword through the first shadow. Now behind him, Morgin thrust with his sword’s point, but the archangel disappeared an instant before the steel passed through him, slicing through the smoke he’d left behind.

  Morgin stepped into another shadow just as Metadan reappeared behind him. Their contest turned int
o a strange dance of smoke and shadows, the angel disappearing an instant before Morgin’s sword struck the column of smoke he’d left behind, then reappearing behind Morgin to strike at him. Each time Morgin disappeared into a shadow a hair’s breadth ahead of the angel’s steel, then stepped out of another behind Metadan. They repeated the sequence a dozen times, and as Morgin tired he recalled how Metadan could fight on with no sign of fatigue. It was a game he could not win, so Morgin ended it by casting a shadow well outside the small clearing, stepping into it, and not stepping out. He held his silence and his breath.

  Metadan hesitated in the clearing, disappeared and reappeared several times in different places. He finally stopped, stood in the middle of the clearing and cried, “I must take your life Lord Mortal. It is not by my choice, but until death frees me I must bend to the will of my master. I will come for you again, and you will not again escape me.” He disappeared and did not return.

  Morgin waited in his shadow until well past noon. Even when Mortiss walked into the clearing calmly and without hurry, he retained his shadows as he saddled her, gathered up his gear, and rode towards the Gorge. He didn’t think he would again be practicing his sword skills with Metadan anytime soon, though he wondered what had brought on the angel’s sudden change of heart.

  ••••

  Rhianne’s handmaidens had just dressed her for bed in a floor-length nightgown when Geanna entered her boudoir and announced, “His Majesty wishes to see you.”

  Rhianne looked down at her nightgown and said, “But I’m not dressed.”

  “Don’t worry,” Geanna said. “We have an excellent robe for you that will be modest and appropriate.”

  Rhianne was skeptical until Geanna produced a floor-length robe quite like something Olivia might wear when receiving someone in her small audience chamber. It was heavy with brocade, hooded, with a double flap on the front tied off by laces. It concealed her completely toes to chin, covered her much more than the gowns she was forced to wear on a daily basis.

  Valso awaited her in her sitting room, seated comfortably on a couch. When she walked into the room he stood, took her hand and kissed it, bowing with a flourish. He could be quite elegant, as long as one didn’t know to look for the evil beneath the surface. And she could not deny that he was handsome; her handmaidens twittered constantly about his striking features.