by J. L. Doty
They all lowered their eyes, except for a simple soldier named Abileen, a sergeant of men, a man without power. He held his chin high and spurred his horse forward, a simple act that shamed all those behind him. Morgin turned back to face the castle, ignoring them; they would come or they would not.
He had cleared the bridge, and was several of Mortiss’ strides out onto the parade ground when he heard more horses following. Apparently, shame was a powerful incentive.
Morgin crossed the second drawbridge and entered the high archway that passed through the outer curtain wall of Castle Decouix. In the outer bailey Jack the Only, Harriok, Jerst and Blesset waited with a few hundred Benesh’ere. Kull and whiteface bodies littered the ground everywhere.
Jack said, “SteelMaster, there’s good hunting here.”
With the whitefaces ranging in front of them, Morgin and France rode unmolested into the inner bailey. Morgin sensed Valso’s power hovering at the edge of his own, restlessly anticipating the confrontation to come. As he dismounted in front of the steps at the entrance to the castle proper, Abileen spurred his horse forward, and quickly dismounted near him. He held out a hand. “I’ll see to your horses, my lords.”
Several Benesh’ere sprinted up the steps as Morgin and France handed him the reins to their horses. From within the castle they heard the ring of steel, a grunt or two and a shout.
Morgin and France climbed the steps together. Inside they found the Benesh’ere standing over the bodies of four Kulls and two whitefaces.
Jerst said, “Good hunting, indeed.”
France turned to Morgin and asked, “Where to now, lad?”
Morgin considered the question. “Valso will be in the throne room. I know the way.”
••••
It bothered Rhianne to stand at the right hand of the Decouix throne. To anyone who didn’t understand the control Valso exercised over those about him, it might appear as if she willingly supported him, though undoubtedly that was exactly what he wanted. She sensed Morgin’s presence in the castle, sensed him coming, and didn’t want him to see her this way.
While Rhianne stood there unmoving—unable to move—Valso sat on his throne, one elbow on an armrest, his chin resting in the palm of the hand it supported, one leg extended casually outward, resting on its heel. He remained unmoving and silent, statue still, and his silence permeated the entire hall.
Rhianne started when she heard the dim ring of steel out in the corridor beyond the hall. Valso didn’t flinch at all, didn’t so much as blink. She thought about it and realized he hadn’t blinked in quite some time, had sat there in unnatural stillness. She sensed that thing within his soul, now always a part of him.
The sounds of the struggle outside the hall ended quickly, and a few heartbeats later two Benesh’ere stepped through the entrance at the far end of the hall. More followed, they fanned out and Valso’s courtiers edged away from them. Then Morgin stepped into the hall.
He wore the same simple garb he had that night he’d come to her here in the castle, a Benesh’ere robe belted at the waist that ended at mid-thigh, loose-fitting breeches tucked into calf-high boots, the sheathed sword hanging at his side. The blade had entered the room—anyone with power could sense it—though she thought she might be the only one present who knew it was not the steel at his side that they sensed.
Morgin walked toward the dais with the royalty of the Lesser Clans following him almost timidly. He didn’t march or stride like a king, he simply walked down the length of the hall. Even when he was too far away for her to see his eyes, she knew he looked at her the entire way. Olivia and the other clan leaders stopped midway down the hall, but Morgin continued and halted about ten paces from the base of the dais. He smiled at her, and in that look he told her he knew she did not stand willingly at Valso’s side. And that freed her of Valso’s hold.
She began drawing power, drawing as much as she could and held it within her soul.
••••
Morgin looked up at Valso, sitting on his throne with the little demon snake perched on his shoulder. If he had any hope of defeating the Dark God, it must be on the Mortal Plane. He needed Beayaegoath to manifest fully here and now.
Rhianne stood beside Valso as still and unmoving as a statue. But when he smiled at her, she broke out of the stillness and smiled back.
“How quaint,” Valso said, standing.
Morgin thought it interesting that Valso’s eyes didn’t meet his, but remained focused on the blade at his side. He said, “I brought you something.” For emphasis he lifted his left hand and rested it on the hilt of the sword. “Something I know you desperately want.”
Morgin reached across with his right hand and drew the blade, slid it out of the sheath slowly, allowing the scrape of steel to fill the silence in the hall. Valso hissed, tried to step back, but the back of his legs bumped against the throne. The little snake took to the air and shot toward Morgin. It stopped less than a pace away and hovered at eye level.
The knowledge that he could survive Bayellgae’s venom did nothing to still the fear in Morgin’s heart. While it might not kill him, he didn’t know what harm it could do, and was not foolish enough to assume he could ignore it. “I’ve tasted your venom, Bayellgae. You cannot harm me.”
The snake retreated a pace and hissed, “No one hasss ever sssurvived my venom, ssso you don’t know that, do you?” It darted back to the dais and hovered near Rhianne.
Morgin lifted the sword and looked at it, knew every nick and scratch on the plain, unadorned blade. He looked past it at Valso and said, “You fear this blade.”
Valso stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “I fear nothing.”
Morgin said, “I wonder if it’s flawed.”
He reached up with his left hand and snapped the nail of his middle finger against it. It rang softly with a faint, dull ping. Morgin took hold of that note, amplified it, brought it and the memories that came with it forth: his captivity in the Dark God’s hands, the forced labor over the steel, the quest for the perfect blade. He remembered the days at the forges, days that turned into years, then into centuries, the laughter and scorn of a god looking upon a mere mortal without pity. The memories came back to him as the intensity of the note grew to a glorious crescendo of pain. Waves of heat flooded outward from the blade; the crowd in the hall cringed away from it; Valso cringed away from it.
This blade contained no flaw. It sang with the single pure note of the SteelMaster’s forging. But Morgin continued to build onto that note, strengthening it, aligning it with a resonance that shook the core of his soul, feeding it all the power of the last of the SteelMasters. It tore at his ears as the hatred and torment he’d carried all his life flowed out of him and into the steel, and just when he thought he could take no more, the blade melted down its entire length, the note ended abruptly, and the steel dribbled to the floor where it puddled into a misshapen lump of slag. Morgin stood holding nothing but a bladeless hilt, and for the first time his soul was clean and free of pain.
Throughout the room people gasped and cried out. Even Valso started and his eyes narrowed, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Only Rhianne failed to react, didn’t move in the slightest. She simply smiled and nodded approval.
Behind Morgin, Olivia cried out, “What have you done?”
Morgin looked at the bladeless hilt, and felt as if shackles that had bound him throughout his life had been broken away. He tossed the hilt forward, where it clattered on the stone floor and came to rest at the base of the dais.
Valso threw his head back and crowed with laughter. He took the steps of the dais two at a time, with the little snake hovering just behind him. Rhianne followed more slowly, taking each step carefully. At the base of the dais Valso bent and picked up the hilt. He held it up and laughed. “I am free. No one can stop me now.”
He looked at Morgin with blood-red eyes. “You fool, now there is nothing to hinder me.”
Morgin drew
power as he watched Valso change. He pulled it from every level of existence, pulled it from the stone of the building, from the ground and the earth beneath it.
Valso roared with laughter, and with each heartbeat he grew in height. His head transformed slowly, his mouth extending into a muzzle, his teeth lengthening into vicious canines. His pupils elongated horizontally until he looked at Morgin with blood-red goat-slitted eyes. The monster with the head of a goat now towered above them all.
To one side DaNoel shrieked, dropped to his knees, put his hands over his ears and cried, “In my head, in my head, nooooo.” AnnaRail rushed to his aid
Morgin focused on Beayaegoath above all else. He turned back to the dais as the monster tossed the bladeless hilt carelessly to the floor. It clattered at Morgin’s feet, and the Dark God spoke in his true voice. “You are a fool, mortal. You’ve destroyed my self-forged blade, the one thing that could defeat me.”
Morgin tried to still his racing heart, tried to appear calm and unconcerned as he bent down and picked up the bladeless hilt. He looked at it and said, “No. This was my self-forged blade, and I needed to destroy it.”
The monster strode forward, stopped a pace in front of Morgin. He stood half again as tall as a man, and he towered over him. He reached out, gripped the front of Morgin’s tunic and lifted him until their noses almost touched.
With fear crawling up his gut, Morgin tried to appear calm as he held up the bladeless hilt and said, “Your self-forged blade is not some trivial thing of mere steel, but one of flesh and blood and bone, forged in the hell of your hatred.”
The Dark God frowned.
Morgin looked into the Dark God’s soulless eyes and said, “The blade you should fear is me.”
He released his power.
37
The Truth in a Name
The blast of power Morgin released stunned Rhianne, sent a shockwave through the hall that knocked many senseless. Rhianne would not have believed that a mere mortal could contain such power and live. She had managed to stay standing, saw that Olivia, AnnaRail, NickoLot and those who commanded the most power had done the same, and from the looks on their faces they too were stunned by the inhuman strength Morgin had shown. Others struggled back to their feet while many did not rise. She held onto the power she’d summoned, knew there were two things she must do, and that now was not her moment.
Morgin had wrapped his hands about the Dark God’s throat and they staggered back and forth as the monster tried to dislodge him. Bayellgae hovered above them, darting about as they fought, but leaving the battle to its master. Morgin and Beayaegoath threw arcane magics at each other, power that could easily incinerate the strongest wizards and witches in the clans. But it bounced off the two of them the way water sizzles and spits off a red-hot iron.
Beayaegoath roared with fury, “You cannot defeat me, mortal.” Then it writhed and twisted, and turned into a monstrous snake that coiled around Morgin, crushing him. Morgin screamed and cried out, beating against the enormous serpent with wave after wave of raw power, while the little demon snake hovered above them and cried, “Yesss, massster.”
Still, Rhianne’s moment had yet to come.
Olivia, AnnaRail and NickoLot combined their power and threw it at the monster. The three of them together did not match the waves of arcane force that Morgin poured forth, but they beat at it, adding their magics and arcane energies to his. And still it held against them all.
BlakeDown, Theandrin and the other leaders of the clans joined their might to the battle. Even Vodah and Rastanna wizards joined in, and Rhianne understood that while they could live with Valso’s proclivities, none of them wanted to be subject to the Nether God’s dark whims.
Beayaegoath weakened slightly. Rhianne sensed it and knew that the little snake did too, and would now act. Bayellgae’s venom was not a physical poison but a truly magical toxin. She rushed forward, and as the little demon darted toward Morgin, its jaws open, its fangs exposed, she released the blood-spell she’d prepared from Morgin’s blood and its venom, and stepped in its way. Only now would she know if the spell worked.
The snake slammed into her and its fangs punctured her throat. She gripped its body just behind its head and held it there so it couldn’t escape and attack Morgin. It writhed and coiled around her wrist, pumped its venom into her while it fed on her blood, sucking it down greedily. Her legs weakened and she trembled as the cold of the nether poison washed through her veins. She dropped to her knees, felt consciousness slipping away, focused all of her energy on holding the snake to her throat, and feeding power into the blood-spell. And then suddenly she felt an abiding warmth where cold had washed through her a moment before. The snake choked and coughed, stopped pumping venom and sucking blood. As the blood-spell took hold she felt cold pumping out of her and into the snake, while blessed warmth continued to flood her soul.
Where the snake had coiled about her wrist it felt as if she’d plunged her arm into an icy snow bank. She pulled the snake from her throat and looked at the coils. The tiny serpent had turned a whitish-blue, was clear like the coldest of ice, and had gone completely motionless, as if she wore a bracelet of ice in the form of a snake coiled about her wrist.
She dropped to the floor and slammed her wrist and the little snake against the stone. It shattered into a thousand pieces that rose up into the air and swirled into a maelstrom, then dissipated into a cloud of smoke. She heard a faint nether cry that dwindled slowly to silence.
The throne room was far from silent. Morgin and the Dark God were still locked in battle and the monster had weakened. Its power hadn’t diminished, but as Morgin and the clans threw more arcane forces against it, it appeared as if the monster couldn’t match it. It shifted out of the form of the serpent, and back into the form of the goat-headed giant. The edges of its shape grew faint and indistinct as it attempted to drag Morgin into the netherworld, where he could not defeat it.
Rhianne acted, for this was her other duty. She shifted into the lowest level of the Mortal Plane, and threw out the power she’d accumulated, a shield between it and its realm. The monstrous god slammed into her, and her physical body knew pain, while her soul held the shield in place.
“Nooooo!” the Dark God screamed.
The monster’s anger ripped through her soul, and she felt blood streaming out of her eyes, ears, nose and mouth. But from somewhere deep within she found more power, and while the Dark God beat at her, she held, blocked it from drawing fully on its sources of nether power.
She staggered, felt her body weakening while her power remained strong and whole. An odd, distant piece of her noticed that her arm was broken, a white splinter of bone jutting out of the middle of her forearm. It hurt immensely, and yet it did not weaken her. She and her Morgin could fight this monster, and defeat it.
“No,” it said. “You and your husband are such fools. You know nothing of the power of a god.”
He forced her to look into his eyes as they flared with blood-red fire. Once again he showed her the armies of tormented souls, broken and twisted by his hatred. Her heart skipped a beat as the monster smothered her magic and power. It skipped another, and another . . . then stopped altogether.
••••
Morgin struggled to breathe. With the Dark God’s hands clamped about his throat holding him well off the floor, his legs dangling beneath him, he only managed to force a tiny whisper of air into his lungs. What a fool he had been to think he and Rhianne could defeat a god.
“You dare to defy me?” the monster roared, holding Morgin’s face only a hand’s breadth from its goat-snouted head. It shook Morgin like a child’s plaything, and he thought the bones of his spine might snap any moment. “Speak your true name, mortal.”
Morgin couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. He felt consciousness slipping away as he tried to pull air through a throat constricted by the Dark God’s iron grip. All he managed was a sickly gurgle, and when the monster heard that it threw its head back and ro
ared with laughter.
“Finding it difficult to breathe, are we? But I so want to hear this wondrous name from your own lips.”
Beayaegoath relaxed his grip slightly, just enough for Morgin to pull a faint gasp of air into his lungs.
“Speak your glorious name, AethonSword. Speak it now, for it will be the last word you utter.”
Morgin had to try. If he could somehow claim that name, even though he believed it was not his true name, perhaps it would lend him strength and he could salvage something. Morgin struggled to speak. He opened his mouth and croaked, “I . . .”
“Speak it,” the Dark God shouted, shaking him like a child’s doll.
“. . . am . . .”
“Yes,” the monster cried. “I will take joy in hearing the defeat in your name.”
“. . . named . . .”
“Now, fool, speak the name.”
Morgin tried to say AethonSword, but it would not come. He hung in the monster’s grip, his mouth open, uttering no sound.
“No, mortal,” the Dark God said. “I won’t let you claim a false name in my presence. You can use only your true name against me, and you don’t have one.”
As little motes of unconsciousness danced in front of Morgin’s eyes, he understood now that he’d spent a fruitless lifetime searching for a name that didn’t exist. AethonSword, AethonLaw, Morgin, one-by-one he’d been given those names, and he could taste the falsehood in each of them. He’d come from the streets of Anistigh, a nameless, filthy, diseased child. He’d never had a true name, and now he never would . . .
Never had a true name . . .
As the monster roared, gloating in its victory, a bright flash of memory showed him the streets of Anistigh so long ago.
Never had a true name . . .
Cutting the purse.
Never had a true name . . .
Running through the streets, one step ahead of the mob.
Never had a true name . . .