The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Let’s go. I can take you away from here in my shadows.”

  She hesitated, and as she did so he frowned. “I can’t,” she said. “My duty lies here.”

  She leaned away from him and looked into his face, and now she did see the pain there. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “After you leave here you’re going to return, aren’t you? With an army. You’ll take Durin, so you can fight Valso and his master. But the little serpent is too dangerous to leave unchecked.”

  “No,” he said, sounding like a little boy again, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Stay away from Bayellgae. His venom would consume you. What can you do against him?”

  “I have an idea, but I must remain here to make it work.”

  “No, we’ve waited so long for this.”

  “And we’ll wait a bit longer.” She felt tears flooding her own eyes.

  He squeezed her tightly, kissed her gently on the neck, and she heard him inhale her scent with a long, deep intake of breath. “I can’t allow you to do this.”

  She felt his tears dripping on her bare shoulder. She ignored him and said, “Be wary of the Nether Plane.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now that Salula and Metadan are gone, Valso’s master is looking for you there. If you venture to any level beyond the Mortal Plane, he can probably harm you.”

  “I can’t avoid it completely, but I’ll be careful.”

  She said, “And there’s something else you must know, my darling.”

  She’d thought about this long and hard, knew that she was likely the only person who truly understood the blade, because she now truly understood her Morgin. She recalled that moment when she’d first seen him on the shelf of rock in the side of Attunhigh. She’d thought that when Salula spun her, Valso’s spell compelled her to track the blade, when in fact it compelled her to track Morgin. “There is no power in the blade. It is but a thing of steel.”

  He leaned back from her, looked into her eyes with a deep frown on his brow. She continued. “The power we all sensed . . . and feared . . . it was yours. It was the power in your soul, and you needed to learn to control it.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It was evil and malevolent.”

  She ran a finger down the line of his jaw. “No, it was tormented and in pain, and when you didn’t control it, it struck out. And now you’re the one in control. I’m so proud of you. When this is done we’ll make a life together.”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’ll go back to Elhiyne.”

  She shook her head. “No. I can’t live under that old woman’s thumb. Perhaps you can find a little cottage somewhere, with a brook or a stream nearby, and far from Elhiyne.” She knew she was fantasizing, understood it would likely never come to pass.

  “There’s one more thing,” she said.

  He leaned away from her to look in her face, held her gently by her shoulders. The dim light from the fire in the hearth glinted off the moisture on his cheeks. “What?”

  “I need a little of your blood. Just a few drops.”

  “Why?”

  She hadn’t known what she would do, still wasn’t exactly sure, but the seed of a plan had begun to form. She said, “A little surprise for a little snake.”

  ••••

  Sitting on the bed and sharpening her dagger, Cort watched Tulellcoe pace back and forth in their little room, growing increasingly impatient with every heartbeat. They’d waited well into the night for Morgin to return, and yet nothing. Tulellcoe was not good at waiting.

  “Where is he?” he demanded. “He should have been back by now.”

  “Calm down,” she said. “I’m sure he’s all right.”

  “Something must have happened. Something must have gone wrong. Where is he?”

  As if answering his question, Morgin stepped out of the shadow in the corner—alone. Tulellcoe crossed the room and gripped him by the shoulders. “Where’s Rhianne?”

  Morgin seemed stunned as he said, “She wouldn’t come, said she has to stay to fight the demon snake. She said a lot of things.”

  Cort was struck again by how much the two men looked alike.

  “No,” Tulellcoe said. “You shouldn’t have listened to her.”

  Morgin looked at Tulellcoe and the stunned look on his face disappeared, as if he’d just come to a decision. “No, uncle, she is strong, much stronger than you realize. Much stronger than I realized.”

  Morgin stepped back from Tulellcoe. “She and I have a battle to win. I’ll have an army here in a few days; six armies, in fact. I need you to prepare at this end. I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll need a horse. The three of us will ride south, so provision the horses with trail rations.” He nodded toward the lamp on the floor. “We’ll need that lamp, so make sure we’ve got a good supply of oil for it.”

  He turned, walked to the shadow in the corner but stopped and looked back at them. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back tomorrow, but try to maintain this shadow all day.”

  Cort nodded, saw Tulellcoe do the same.

  Morgin stepped into the shadow.

  ••••

  Morgin didn’t know any shadows on the border where the Penda and Elhiyne armies had gathered to destroy one another, so when he stepped into the shadow in Cort and Tulellcoe’s room, he sought out a shadow at Castle Elhiyne. It was late, well after sunset, so the shadows in the castle yard had long ago disappeared. But when not under siege, a guard shack just outside the main gates was always manned, with a torch burning outside it that cast a small shadow in the lee of the shack. He stepped into that now.

  As he stepped out of the shadow in front of the main gates Mortiss spluttered. You’re late.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We have to get to the border before dawn. Can you manage that?”

  She didn’t answer, basically implying that, of course she could.

  He climbed into the saddle and she put a nether wind in his face. He recalled Rhianne’s warning about the Nether Plane and Valso’s master. He sensed something probing at the edge of his soul, but Mortiss chose ways just below the Mortal Plane, not deep in the netherworld, so perhaps that protected him.

  Mortiss neighed, You are right to fear the Dark God in his realm.

  The netherworld was a part of him now, and he wondered how that had come to pass.

  You’ve always been nether.

  For the first time he found traveling the nether ways difficult. Something constantly pawed at the boundaries of his awareness, as if he was protected in a cage with some beast trying to break in. By the time Mortiss delivered him to a low hill overlooking the border, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. He arrived just before dawn and the sun had yet to rise. In the dark the campfires of the two armies dotted the landscape below him.

  Before leaving Rhianne, Morgin had told her he would briefly check Sabian’s castle yard at dawn each morning. If she needed to communicate with him, he would meet her there. He didn’t think she’d be there since he’d already spoken with her earlier that night, but he’d promised, so he detoured briefly into the Kingdom of Dreams. He waited alone in Sabian’s yard until Mortiss stomped a fore hoof into the ground. Dawn has come to the Mortal Plane.

  32

  The Lie in a Name

  Brandon would have liked to keep BlakeDown and Olivia apart, but the old woman insisted on meeting the Penda leader personally. They’d agreed to meet at dawn, with an escort of six twelves each; the escorts would hold back two hundred paces while the leaders met in the middle. Each leader was allowed to bring his or her heir, plus one member of the ruling family, plus a senior lieutenant or captain. BlakeDown was not a man normally given to rational discourse, so Brandon was curious why he’d chosen to talk first.

  Theandrin, ErrinCastle, PaulStaff and his son, and an older officer Brandon didn’t recognize, accompanied BlakeDown. Olivia brought with her Brandon, Wylow and his son SandoFall,
and AnnaRail and France, though AnnaRail had forcefully asserted her authority to be sure she and the swordsman were part of the group. They met in the middle between the two escorts, and all remained mounted.

  “Well, BlakeDown,” Olivia said, “why the change of heart?”

  “No change of heart,” he said. “I thought it only right to give you an opportunity to petition for peace.”

  Theandrin gave BlakeDown an angry, piercing look that would have made Brandon flinch had it been aimed his way.

  “We have no desire to petition for peace. You’re the one who sent the messenger and wanted to talk, so talk.”

  BlakeDown opened his mouth, but before he could speak Theandrin said, “We have learned that Valso wants this war, wants to see us weaken each other.”

  Olivia’s horse pranced sideways a step, but the old woman calmed it quickly, and Brandon recalled that as a young girl she’d been an accomplished horsewoman. “I could have told you that,” she said.

  Theandrin nodded. “Yes, we all know Valso’s proclivities, don’t we? But need we cater to him?”

  “Valso is always a concern,” Olivia said, punctuating her words with a level of arrogance Brandon would never attempt to imitate. “But we are here because of another issue: the unprovoked attack upon the heir to Elhiyne.”

  BlakeDown nudged his horse forward a step and said, “The attack was provoked.”

  “Provoked by an incident with a minor lord of Penda.” Olivia said, her voice dripping with scorn.

  “Nevertheless,” BlakeDown said. “Still a lord of Penda.”

  Olivia threw her head back and laughed. “Very well then, we shall attack ErrinCastle and you attack one of the lesser lords of Elhiyne. I might even provide you with one to attack. Then after we’ve bloodied your heir and nearly killed him, we’ll be even.”

  BlakeDown’s eyes narrowed and his face turned red.

  “Alternatively,” Olivia continued. “We are due reparation. Make payment, and we’ll all walk away from this.”

  BlakeDown reached to the sword strapped to his saddle. ErrinCastle reached across and tried to stay his hand, but he shook ErrinCastle off and drew the broadsword. “Never,” he shouted, as swords were drawn by the armsmen on both sides.

  Brandon turned about in his saddle and held up a hand to stay the Elhiyne armsmen, and ErrinCastle did the same to the Pendas. BlakeDown roared, spurred his warhorse sideways, bumping ErrinCastle’s mount and almost knocking him from the saddle. He turned back to his armsmen and shouted, “Advance.”

  ••••

  Morgin climbed into Mortiss’ saddle in Sabian’s yard, and she returned him to the low hill overlooking the two armies. It was a little after dawn when he nudged her into a canter and headed down toward the border. As he rode he spotted two large troops of mounted armsmen each holding position about two hundred paces from the border. The troop on the far side carried BlakeDown’s banner, while that on the near carried Olivia’s. He estimated about six twelves in each troop, and between them a dozen individuals on horseback were meeting on the border. Had someone finally been touched by sanity and decided to talk instead of spilling blood?

  He was about half way there when he sensed the pull of power and felt the anger accompanying it. With so many memories to guide him he recognized that anger: Olivia was about to kill someone.

  Morgin knew he had to get there immediately and stop this before blood was spilled. His first thought was to spur Mortiss hard and race down there to intervene, but then he realized there was a better way. He reined Mortiss to a stop and said, “I think we need to arrive on a nether wind, and quickly.”

  ••••

  “Hold,” Brandon shouted. “Hold.”

  With six twelves of Penda armsmen charging toward them, and six twelves of Elhiynes charging up from behind, all with swords drawn, they were about to find themselves in the midst of a bloodbath. France snarled, “I’ll protect AnnaRail, you take Olivia.”

  Brandon reined his horse to the side and spurred it toward the old woman. But a black cloud of shadow descended upon him and a monster from netherhell appeared in front of him, a demon horse twice the size of any mortal horse mounted by a demon rider wearing a twisted, fanged, distortion of Morgin’s face, and carrying a blood-red talon the length of a man’s arm. It was the demon he’d dreamed about in his nightmares. It opened its mouth and cried out a scream that sent waves of fear coursing through his soul. His horse bucked and kicked beneath him, and it was all he could do to stay in the saddle as it carried him away in a panicked charge. The animal galloped west for a hundred strides before he got it under control, but it still took every bit of horsemanship he had to calm it and bring it to a halt. He reined it about and took in the carnage where they’d met the Penda’s.

  Everyone had suffered the same nightmare, and the armsmen on both sides had been scattered over an area about a thousand paces wide, most of them unhorsed. France, AnnaRail and Theandrin remained in the saddle back at the meeting point, had apparently been unaffected by the apparition. BlakeDown was on his butt on the ground beneath Theandrin’s horse, a dazed look on his face. Brandon spotted Olivia and Wylow about a hundred paces away walking their mounts back and helping SandoFall, who was horseless and limping badly. In the other direction ErrinCastle helped PaulStaff up off the ground. There was no sign of PaulStaff’s son, or BlakeDown’s senior officer.

  In ones and twos they all reassembled at the meeting point, without their armsmen to back them. As BlakeDown climbed to his feet Brandon noticed the sheath buckled to his waist was empty, and a quick glance about produced no sign of the broadsword.

  They slowly reassembled at the border, some standing, some astride their horses, no one willing to break the silence. Then Olivia opened her mouth to say something, but before she spoke a shadow descended upon them all, blinding them. Brandon had a moment of fear, but the apparition didn’t reappear, and the horses didn’t panic. The shadow lifted, and there, seated upon his horse in their midst, was Morgin.

  France said, “A bit dramatic, don’t you think, lad?”

  Morgin shrugged. “But effective.”

  Morgin had changed considerably since Brandon had last seen him, as if in the year or more he’d been gone he’d aged ten. Again Olivia started to say something, but Morgin raised a hand, silencing her. “Hear me, and listen.”

  Olivia eyed him skeptically, then closed her mouth and nodded.

  He continued. “I am the Unnamed King, and my realm is the Kingdom of Dreams.” He looked at BlakeDown, then back at Olivia. “Stand down now, for if you don’t, the war you fight will always be in your dreams.”

  BlakeDown stepped toward Morgin, the muscles in his jaw bunched. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You gave us those dreams?”

  Morgin nodded. “Yes, Lord BlakeDown, I did.”

  Clutching his arm to his chest and in obvious pain, PaulStaff said to BlakeDown, “My men and I are withdrawing. I didn’t want this war in the first place.”

  “And I and my men,” Wylow said. “We’re withdrawing as well.”

  Morgin shook his head and said, “No, we’re going to Durin. I’m going to end this now, and all of the clan leaders need to be there.”

  “Impossible,” BlakeDown said. “That’s a six-day forced march. We’re not equipped for that. We don’t have the supply lines.”

  “Ride east,” Morgin said, “and I guarantee you’ll be in Durin in far less than six days.”

  Spittle flew from BlakeDown’s mouth as he snarled, “I’m taking my men west, back to my castle.”

  Morgin leaned forward in his saddle, leaned down toward BlakeDown and spoke calmly. “You’re going to learn that as you ride west your nightmares only get worse. On the other hand, the farther east you ride, the sweeter will be your dreams. Take these armies east—no supply wagons, just donkeys and pack horses—and meet me at dawn, tomorrow, in the shadow of Attunhigh.”

  Olivia cackled with laughter, and Morgin disappeared into a sha
dow.

  ••••

  Hidden within his shadows Morgin slipped into the Elhiyne army’s encampment, then into Olivia’s command pavilion. He extinguished his shadows, grabbed a chair and sat down at the map table to wait for them to return from the meeting point. He looked at the maps strewn across the table, and a small piece of charcoal caught his attention. He picked it up, then drew the sigil of the sunset king in one corner of the table top. Beneath that he added the two crossed lines that symbolized the balance of clan law. He did not add the additional lines that made them look like crossed swords.

  He contemplated that symbol, the name that had been his for so long but was not truly his: AethonLaw. He had always known that was not his name, and had feared what his true name might reveal. And he now knew that his fears were well founded.

  He heard the rustle of skirts and the soft patter of a woman’s step crossing the floor behind him. Olivia leaned over his shoulder and looked down at the symbol he’d scratched. “Hmmm! Contemplating your name, eh?”

  Morgin shrugged, not willing to waste time informing her it was not truly his name, and not willing to suffer the argument that would ensue.

  “Exactly!” she said, a strange response to his shrug.

  She stepped around him and into his field of view. Then she lifted her hand, palm up. “May I have the charcoal, grandson?”

  He wasn’t sure what she intended to do and suspicion clouded his thoughts. Nevertheless, he placed the charcoal on her open palm.

  “Let’s contemplate your real name,” she said, and with two rapid strokes she added the lines that looked like cross-guards on swords. She finished by calling him, “AethonSword.”

  Morgin flinched so hard he almost toppled over in his chair. He stood to face her. “You saw ElkenSkul draw the last two lines? You knew all along?”

  She gave him that irritating, condescending, all-knowing smile of hers. “Of course I saw. Of course I knew.”

  “Then why didn’t you speak up? Why did you allow me to be misnamed?”

  She shook her head and sighed sadly. “Child, such a name would only be given to one destined to be the Shahotma King. And had the other clans learned that you had been granted that name, you would not have lived past the next full moon. We would have had assassins trying to breach our defenses at every turn. You needed time to grow, to develop your powers and your mundane martial skills, so you could defend yourself.”