The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  The warmaster had simply smiled and nodded.

  Jerst had lined up the first squad of whitefaces in front of Morgin in two rows of 12, Jerst and Blesset each leading a twelve, all facing Morgin. The rest of the squads were lined up in similar fashion behind them. Earlier, Morgin had cast a few shadows a dozen paces apart then practiced this maneuver with Jerst and several of his warriors. They needed to move warriors through Morgin’s shadows at a pace much faster than a walk. Behind the whitefaces the battle above the wall continued without letup.

  Morgin nodded and Jerst drew his sword. The Benesh’ere behind him and the armies to the sides did the same, drawing swords, hefting war axes, readying pikes. The hellhound pack merely rose up off their haunches, but remained silent, still focused on the gates of the city.

  Morgin closed his eyes and concentrated his power. He thought of the shadows in the two archways at the top of the parapets, then he pictured a shadow behind him taller than any whiteface and six paces wide. He opened his eyes, glanced over his shoulder and saw the darkness hovering there. He stepped back so he stood half in and half out of that shadow, extended his arms and held his palms out to either side just within the shadow.

  Morgin nodded, and Jerst and Blesset broke into a run, an easy jog that the warriors behind them duplicated. Jerst passed into the shadow on his right, Blesset on his left, both of them lightly slapping his palms as they went past. Morgin sent each out through one of the archways at the top of Durin’s parapets. As the warriors behind them jogged past him they slapped his palms just as they entered the shadow behind him, and he sent them to follow Jerst and Blesset.

  ••••

  When the first arrow shot her way, Rhianne cringed, knowing she would now die, but at the last instant it jerked to one side. All about them griffins carrying angels swooped and dove, loosing arrows at jackals and armsmen. An arrow struck one of the black half-birds diving toward them, it folded its wings, and angel and griffin slammed into the battlements with such force they dislodged a crenel. Angel and griffin tumbled to the ground below and lay still.

  Valso had conjured some sort of dome-like shield about her, him and a dozen Kulls. Outside it Magwa shouted orders at her commanders, while Carsaris directed a cadre of wizards magicking arrows. Griffins and angels fell from the sky, crashed to the earth and were quickly swarmed by Decouix armsmen. Rhianne had no training in war and battle tactics, but even she could see the griffin-mounted angels would not be sufficient to take the wall.

  Valso grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. He shouted to be heard above the noise about them. “You know this battle means nothing.”

  She didn’t answer him, for she always learned something when she let him boast.

  “The only thing that counts is that your husband is coming to me, and he’s bringing that sword.”

  Still, she held her silence.

  “My master forced the whoreson to forge that blade, tormented him for centuries, so it is my master’s self-forged blade. It would not hold such malevolent power otherwise.”

  Valso’s reasoning was twisted, but perhaps true. Now was not the time to tell him there was no power in the steel Morgin carried, that the malevolent power had been housed in Morgin’s soul.

  Rhianne suddenly heard steel blades clashing just outside Valso’s protective ring of Kulls, a sound she should not have heard at the top of the wall. Standing on tip-toes, she saw the white face and black hair of a Benesh’ere warrior, swinging his sword at a Kull, more of them pouring out the archway she’d emerged from earlier.

  “Blast!” Valso said. “Damn his shadows.”

  She sensed that thing enter his soul. She recoiled from him, but still holding onto her arm he pulled her close, and she felt him draw an enormous flow of power. Reality slipped away, the sky shifted from blue to a wan, orange, and the air about her grew hot and humid. A monster stood over her wearing the head of a goat with blood-red eyes. He shoved her aside hard enough that she fell to her hands and knees on ground that was now dry dirt. Valso and his master had dragged her and his Kulls deep into the netherworld.

  The monster spoke in that voice she’d heard come from Valso’s lips recently. “He can have the wall. We’ll finish this in the heart of my power.”

  Reality slipped back into place and they returned to Valso’s workroom high in the castle, his Kulls in a ring about them. Valso no longer wore the head of a goat. He pointed at Rhianne. “Get her back to her apartments, and guard her closely.”

  As two of the Kulls grabbed Rhianne, lifted her to her feet and hustled her to the door, she heard him issuing orders. “Have everyone light torches, and carry them through the halls. If you see a shadow, get rid of it with the light of the torch, and cast a shadow elsewhere. I want every shadow in the castle constantly shifting and changing.”

  ••••

  After Morgin sent the last of Jerst and Blesset’s twelves to the top of the wall, he nodded at the next squad. As they jogged toward him he shifted his focus to the shadow in the alley, sent the second twelves through there. The next squads he sent out through the archways at the base of the wall. Then he repeated the sequence, two twelves to the top of the parapets, two through the alley, two more through the archways at the base of the wall.

  His hands grew sore at being slapped by so many Benesh’ere palms, while he kept his eyes focused on the gates of Durin. They began to open, though they moved slowly and ponderously, and he still had four squads left. Everyone must have been as focused as him on those gates, for several voices in the armies to both sides called for the charge, and the combined might of the hellhounds, the Benesh’ere and the four Lesser Clans surged forward.

  Several of the whitefaces in front of Morgin hesitated and looked over their shoulders, but Morgin shouted, “Keep going.” They turned back to him, and squad by squad he sent them through to the shadows behind the gates. The last of the Benesh’ere slapped his palms and disappeared into his shadows.

  Silence now surrounded Morgin as he stood there alone, three hundred paces from the wall, all the noise and violence now in the far distance.

  He didn’t like it that Nicki and AnnaRail would ride to battle, but they were powerful witches, and were needed to support the armsmen. They would kill foes, and heal friends.

  Mortiss neighed, Shall we join them?

  Morgin looked to his right where France stood, holding the reins of Mortiss and his own horse. “You and me, lad.”

  ••••

  Mounted on their horses, Morgin and France paused side-by-side just inside the shadow of the alley a hundred paces behind the gates. The ground between them and the gates was strewn with dead: Decouix armsmen, jackal warriors, Kulls, Benesh’ere, griffins, with the livery of an angel draped across each massive griffin carcass. Morgin spotted Jerst high up on the parapets as he cut down one of the wizards magicking arrows for the bowmen. Near him Blesset traded blows with a jackal warrior, her off hand clutching at her side where her tunic was soaked with blood.

  Morgin reinforced the shadows in the alley, scanned the wall and quickly identified several of Valso’s sorcerers. But most importantly he spotted Carsaris. He dismounted, strung his bow, nocked an arrow, aimed at the skeletal wizard and drew the string back. “Strike true,” he said, concentrating on the steel arrowhead. He released the arrow, watched it arc high above the square and descend slowly toward the wall. It punched into Carsaris’ back just as a bowman handed him an arrow to magic. The wizard staggered, clutching at the shaft protruding from his back, faltering backward step-by-step. Then he tumbled from the wall and smacked into the cobbles of the square. In quick succession Morgin killed four more wizards. Morgin hadn’t killed all of Valso’s sorcerers on the wall, but without Carsaris’ leadership, and with fewer magicked arrows holding them back, the angels and griffins took their toll of the defenders.

  Down at the gates a squad led by Harriok and Jack the Only were hard pressed by jackals and Decouix armsmen. A few of them pushed on th
e gates, opening them much too slowly, while the rest fought at their backs, defending them with sword and axe and pike. The gates were not completely open when Harriok screamed at the top of his lungs, “Now.” At his command all the whitefaces in his squad jumped to both sides of the gateway as if laying down in defeat. Still standing in the middle of the partially open gates, the Decouix defenders hesitated, and in that instant the hellhounds hit them.

  WolfDane came through first, lifted one of the defenders in his jaws, gave him a shake, snapped his spine and tossed him aside. In only a few heartbeats the hellhounds cleared the gates and loped into the open square behind it, followed by Harriok and his squad. The jackal warriors took one look at the Dane pack, turned and ran yowling with fear, leaving only Decouix armsmen and a few Kulls to fight on.

  France said, “It worked nicely, lad.”

  Morgin had given orders that the hellhound pack would be first through the gates. Long ago they had helped Morddon, the ancient Benesh’ere warrior, and through his eyes Morgin had seen the panic that flooded through the jackal horde when they faced the Dane. The hellhounds cleared the square, then spread out into the streets around it. Behind them came the Benesh’ere who swarmed up onto the wall, and quickly cleared it of defenders.

  Morgin climbed into the saddle, and he and France spurred their horses into the square. They met WolfDane first. The hellhound was so much larger than a horse that even mounted on Mortiss, Morgin’s eyes were on a level with the Dane King’s.

  Morgin said, “Your Majesty, we thank you for your aid.”

  “Your Majesty,” WolfDane said in the deep, growling voice of a hellhound. “We thank you for the opportunity to hunt the bitch-queen’s hordes.”

  Morgin said, “Then hunt well.”

  WolfDane loped off to join his pack hunting down jackals in the streets.

  ••••

  Where are you?

  DaNoel flinched. I’m at the rear of the mounted troops.

  He’d decided it would be safest to stay near the rear, less chance of a stray arrow shortening his life.

  Make your way to the front immediately.

  DaNoel didn’t like that. Why? You’re going—

  Blinding pain hit him, felt as if something had punched a hole through his soul. All right . . . all right . . . I’ll do it.

  The pain disappeared in an instant.

  The whoreson has proved unpredictable. I want your eyes and ears on him, and relaying everything to me continuously. We’ll stay in contact until this is done.

  36

  The Self-Forged Blade

  A wide avenue named The King’s Way wound in a meandering path from the city’s main gates to the Decouix castle. Valso, and before him Illalla, had used it to parade vanquished enemies through the city. Morgin had ridden it once, a captive of Tarkiss, one of Valso’s lords, though he’d not been openly paraded before the people of Durin. He’d simply been a package trussed up neatly and delivered to the king.

  Morgin was tempted to use one of the shadows he knew in the Decouix castle and go straight there, but that would be a foolish whim, leaving dangerous armies at his back. Stay the course, he reminded himself. They’d taken the wall, now take the city, and in the process neutralize the jackal hordes and Decouix armsmen.

  He sent the majority of the griffins and angels directly to the castle to continue the aerial assault, kept six twelves behind to help as they advanced. With the Benesh’ere and the hellhounds ranging through the streets ahead of them to hunt Kulls and jackals, Morgin’s army progressed slowly up the wide avenue. They moved cautiously, had to stop repeatedly to dispatch archers on a roof or a balcony, or in the dark shadows of open windows. The six twelves of griffin-mounted angels helped immensely in that.

  With squads out ahead of them clearing the way, Morgin rode with France and his family, though DaNoel was nowhere to be seen. It was a group among whom he felt safe, a group he trusted, even Olivia, the scheming old witch. The other clan leaders also chose to ride with family and trusted lieutenants, perhaps because now they all sensed the enormity of the power at Valso’s command, and it cowered them as much as it cowered Morgin. With the combined might of the most powerful wizards and witches of the Lesser Clans, Morgin knew they still could not defeat the power of a god.

  At that thought Morgin reined in Mortiss and brought her to a halt. They all halted with him, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. Without looking at anyone in particular, he said, “Valso will soon command the power of a god, and he knows that all of us together cannot defeat him.”

  He looked around, didn’t see false confidence in any of their faces, saw only defeat. Their doubts reminded him of his own, and he wondered why they should all die with him. “You should all go back. This is my fight. I’m the one he wants dead.”

  NickoLot dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, and in the press of riders in the street she forced other riders aside until her mount stood beside Morgin’s. With an angry grimace, she struck out and punched him in the shoulder with her fist. It hurt, and Morgin said, “Owe.”

  With tears in her eyes and shaking her hand, Nicki said, “Owe, owe, owe that hurt. You idiot, owe.”

  Rubbing his shoulder Morgin asked, “Then why did you do it?”

  “Because you’re an idiot.” She continued shaking her hand. “Hellhounds, archangels, griffins, we’re going to have a long talk and you’re going to tell me all about this when this is done.” She choked back tears. “You and Rhianne are going to fight this thing we all now sense, and we’re here to support you.” She swept a hand out, didn’t realize she almost knocked Olivia out of her saddle. “The clans, these nether beings, I saw it in a vision. We can’t fight the battle for you, but we must be here to support you, even if it’s only to bury you when we’re done.”

  She leaned toward Morgin, holding her injured hand pressed to her breast. “Now,” she said, placing great emphasis on the word. “Your responsibility is to figure out a way to win.”

  AnnaRail said, “Let me see that hand, Nicki.”

  Olivia said, “A prescient vision! You didn’t tell me about that one. What else have you been up to?”

  ••••

  “The king has sent for you,” Geanna said, tears in her eyes, her voice trembling so badly she barely got the words out. “Your guard will take you to him.”

  Rhianne reached out and took the girl’s hands in hers.

  “I’m sorry,” Geanna said. “I’m sorry I spied on you. I should never have done so. I didn’t realize what he was really like.”

  “That’s all right,” Rhianne said. She pulled the girl close and held her tightly.

  The Kull lieutenant harrumphed and said, “The king does not like waiting.”

  Rhianne released Geanna, turned and walked out into the hall where her six Kull guards surrounded her. They led her down to the throne room, and peeled away from her just before she stepped through the high double doors. Courtiers lined the walls to either side, though they were strangely silent, with none of the background murmur that would normally issue from such a large crowd. And to a man and woman they all lowered their eyes, focused them intently on the stone floor beneath their feet.

  At the far end of the room Valso sat on his throne atop the dais, the little snake coiled on his shoulder. Rhianne held her chin high as she stepped forward, and tried to keep any hint of fear from her features. As she slowly walked the length of the room Valso sat silently, motionlessly. She stopped at the base of the dais and refused to curtsy or bow, refused to show any courtesy whatsoever.

  Valso stood, wagged a finger at her and said, “Come up here, girl.”

  She had no choice but to obey, for her legs were not hers to command, and one by one she climbed the steps. His power made her walk right up to him and stop only a fraction of a pace from him. He leaned down and she felt the wind from the snake’s tiny, fluttering wings as Valso kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then he smiled and spoke in that voice
that was not his. “When this is done, you will come to me gladly, without the need for spells or artifice. And you will bear my children, the children of a god. And I will rule the Mortal Plane.”

  He leaned away from her and said, “Stand beside me. Your husband comes.”

  ••••

  Castle Decouix loomed above everything at the center of the city. It stood alone, with a wide parade ground separating it from any other structure, and surrounding it on all sides. There were two motes, one immediately beneath the wall, and another at the outer edge of the parade ground, separating the empty stretch of land from the city proper. A drawbridge had been lowered over each of the two motes, and the portcullis in the main castle gates had been raised.

  Morgin stopped just short of the first bridge and looked up. Griffins perched on every tower, peak and gable of the castle, hundreds of them, while hundreds more filled the air above it. Bodies lay strewn haphazardly about the parade ground: Kulls, armsmen, Benesh’ere, jackals and griffins. Quite a few of the defenders had been dismembered. He recalled how a half-bird’s talons, each the length of a man’s arm and razor sharp, could slice and rend those on the ground as a griffin swooped past. Morgin nudged Mortiss forward, and riding beside him France did likewise. As Mortiss’ hooves pounded on the planks of the bridge Morgin steeled himself for what was to come.

  Behind him he heard only the hooves of a few horses on the bridge, not the hundreds that should have been following. He stopped and looked back, saw that only Olivia, Roland, AnnaRail, JohnEngine, NickoLot and Brandon had spurred their horses out onto the bridge. Behind them, the rulers of the Lesser Clans sat astride their horses, DaNoel among them. They’d stopped just short of the bridge.

  That so many members of his family had come forth heartened and saddened him at the same time. It felt good to be not alone, and yet he didn’t want them to die with him and Rhianne.

  Olivia turned about in the saddle and looked back. “Blast all of you to netherhell,” she cried. “This is your fight as well.”