by J. L. Doty
For a single instant Morgin saw the moon reflected in the man’s startled eyes as he looked upon his own death. Morgin had buried the blade to the hilt just under his rib cage, slanting upward toward the heart. Then the man toppled forward, carrying Morgin down and falling on top of him. Face to face, Morgin lay trapped under the man’s bulk. He could feel the man’s life pouring from the wound. He had taken his first life, and was sickened by it.
“Come, boy,” the stranger hissed. “We must be away. And quickly.”
The stranger’s words did not at first register in Morgin’s stunned mind. All he could do was lay there, staring into the glassy eyes of the dead man that lay on top of him.
The stranger kicked the body aside, pulled Morgin to his feet and slapped him hard in the face. “Snap out of it, boy,” the stranger growled. “We don’t want armsmen finding us here.” Then he turned and ran.
Morgin hesitated for only an instant, then followed.
As they approached the market square the streets were lit by an occasional torch or the open door of a saloon. The stranger peered into several inns before stopping at one and muttering, “Good. This’ll do.”
He examined Morgin carefully in the light of the inn’s open door, then pulled off his own cloak and threw it over Morgin’s shoulders. “Until we get that blood washed off, keep yer tunic covered with this.” The stranger held out his hand. “Now give me yer purse.”
For the first time Morgin looked at the man carefully. Tall, golden, blond hair hanging to his shoulders, a large mustache resting on the upper lip of a handsome face, a felt cap tilted rakishly on his head. He had no reason to trust this tall, blond stranger, but if the man chose to steal his money, it was a small price to pay in return for his life. Morgin gave him the purse reluctantly.
“Good. Now follow me, laddie-boy, and keep yer mouth shut.”
A few minutes later they were in a private room on the second floor of the inn. The stranger had returned the purse after paying for the room, and while Morgin cleaned the blood from the front of his jerkin, the stranger cleaned his sword, and his long moustache wagged as he filled the air with talk. “Well, laddie-me-boy. Looks like we’ll get away with this one. Those bodies’ll be stripped by morning. And if the clan armsmen come asking questions . . . Well, even if anyone saw the blood on ya, these people don’t talk much.”
“But I killed him in self-defense,” Morgin said.
“Ya, boy,” the stranger said. “I know. And I killed two meself for the same reason. But sometimes them clan witches don’t see it the same way as you an’ me. So it’s best to keep yer mouth shut and stay clean.”
But Morgin didn’t feel clean. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And why did you help me? And why are you helping me now?”
“Who am I?” the stranger asked. He grinned and sighted down the length of his sword. “Why! I’m France, the swordsman.” He hefted the blade as if to test its balance. “In fact, boy, I am the best swordsman I’ve ever met. Better than any clansman, I’ll wager.”
“But you’re a brawler,” Morgin said. “Swordsmen fight by rules.”
“Rules!” France mocked. He took a swipe with his sword and laughed loudly. “Ha! I court a fine lady by rules, boy. Otherwise she’d scorn me favors. I kill only men who need killin’, and steal that which ain’t mine hardly never. So I live much of me life by rules, boy. When I fight fer pleasure or practice, I usually fight by rules. But when I fight fer me life, boy . . .” His expression hardened. “Well . . . any man who fights fer his life by rules is a fool. And soon to be a dead fool at that.”
Morgin considered that for a moment. “I guess that’s fair. But why did you help me?”
“Well, laddie boy. I comes out of a particular drinking place near here and sees you stomping down the middle of the street like you owned the place. And behind you is gathering a pack of wolves to steal yer money. So I followed to see what would happen.”
“But how did they know I have money?”
“Boy, when you walk down these streets at night, you make sure yer money don’t chink in yer purse, especially loud enough fer others to hear.”
“Oh!” Morgin said, suddenly feeling quite foolish. “I guess that’s just common sense.”
“Yup. And you seem to be a little short of that. What’s yer name, boy?”
“Morgin,” he said. “But you haven’t told me why you helped me.”
“That’s simple enough, Morgin. I hate to see a young lad like yerself get hurt.”
Morgin shook his head. “I’m not that stupid.”
France shrugged. “And I expects to be rewarded properly fer me trouble by yer parents.”
Morgin became suddenly suspicious. “How do you know my parents?”
The swordsman smiled. “I don’t,” he said. With the tip of his sword he touched a newly acquired tear in Morgin’s sleeve. “But look at yer clothes. Till an hour ago there wasn’t a tear in them. And you, a young lad with money jingling in yer purse.”
Morgin became acutely aware of the worn and tattered condition of France’s own clothing.
“Tell me, boy. Why you walking these streets at night?”
“I had an argument with my grandmother,” Morgin said, and that was all he cared to tell this vagabond.
“So you stomped out of the house and went to the Thieves’ Quarter.” The swordsman shook his head sadly. “Didn’t you know you’d get in trouble?”
“But I’ve been here before.”
“Ya. Sure. During the day, no doubt. Damn it, boy. They don’t call this the good-fellows quarter. It’s thieves and murderers here, and don’t you forget it.”
Morgin didn’t tell him he’d come here because this was where his life had begun. He just sat silently, trying to understand why he’d done what he’d done. He also thought of the man he’d killed.
“Well, boy. You fought bravely, if not skillfully, and that’s good enough for anyone.”
“Not for my grandmother,” Morgin said.
France laughed. “She’s a mean old witch, eh?”
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That she’s a witch.”
France’s face, worn with experience, suddenly took on a dangerous look. He peered intently at Morgin. “Are you a clansman, boy?”
Morgin answered hesitantly. “Yes.”
“Which clan?” France demanded.
“Elhiyne.”
“Which house?”
“Elhiyne.”
“And the name of this grandmother of yers?”
“Olivia,” Morgin said.
Without warning the swordsman grabbed Morgin by his tunic, nearly lifted him off his feet. “The Lady Olivia has no grandson named Morgin. And I don’t like liars.”
“My given name is AethonLaw, but I go by Morgin.”
The swordsman whistled and dropped into a chair. “I got a prince on me hands.”
“I’m no prince,” Morgin snapped.
“Maybe not,” France said. “But yer close enough.” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned! Come on, lad. Sit down. Yer making me nervous standing there like that.”
There were only two pieces of furniture in the room, a simple chair and a musty, old bed. France sat in the chair, so Morgin sat on the edge of the bed. “What are you going to do with me?”
The swordsman leaned forward and became suddenly serious. “You listen to me, boy. I’ll not be doin’ nothin’ with you. You’re yer own man, boy. If I forced you to do anything, I’d have yer grandmother after me. And there ain’t a man alive who wants her on his trail.”
“Then what should I do?” Morgin asked.
“Well now,” France said. “If its advice yer asking for, I got plenty of that. The bad advice is free. The good advice’ll cost ya. But let me ask you. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” Morgin said. “I just don’t want to go back to the compound. At least not yet.”
“Well then why don’t you
stay here, lad? I’m sure it’s not as good as yer used to . . .” France drew a finger through the dust on a bed post, “. . . but the owner takes pride in the fact that none of his customers gets robbed or murdered in their sleep. And there ain’t no bedbugs, and the food ain’t bad neither.”
Morgin considered it. If he went back to the compound Olivia would just tie him down again with endless meetings and such.
“And,” the swordsman said slyly, “for some wine, a little food, and a wee small fee, I’d be happy to be yer guide and show you a bit of the city.”
~~~
It was a good bargain. They shared the room’s only bed, sleeping in their clothes on top of the covers, for the sheets were too musty to suit either of them.
Morgin fell quickly to sleep. But it was a restless sleep, filled with dreams of strange people walking some unknown street, and all of them had eyes that reflected death in the moonlight. At one point he dreamed he was making love to a beautiful, young girl, but while lying face to face on top of her she suddenly turned into the man he’d killed. He awoke shivering in a cold sweat.
As he lay there, trying to sleep again but afraid he would dream the same dream, France spoke very softly in the dark. “Morgin, me lad. Whenever you think back to the first man you killed, just remember that it was him or you, and that that was one man that deserved killin’.”
The following day they toured the Thieves’ Quarter. They visited people and places that Morgin could never have seen in the company of clansmen. They stopped frequently in dark, forbidding saloons where France spoke with men whose eyes seemed never to rest, and who looked at Morgin with open distrust. France had warned him earlier, “Keep yer mouth shut and tell no one yer a clansman, boy.”
There were other places more festive, where pinching a barmaid was clearly part of the fare, and the drink flowed freely, though never for free. Morgin paid for it all gladly, and had the time of his life doing so. He was also surprised to find how little it cost him, or rather how exceedingly much he had. Evidently, what was to Roland some spending money for one of his sons, was a small fortune to most of these people.
They also browsed through several weapons-makers shops. France explained that he was always on the lookout for a good blade, and never passed up an opportunity to seek one out. They were in one such shop when France turned suddenly to Morgin and said, “There’s some good steel here, lad. Pick one out fer yerself.”
“A sword?” Morgin asked. “For me?”
“Sure. Yer of a proper age, and sword trained, you say.”
“A sword of my very own? But I don’t have enough money for a sword.”
The swordsman winked and whispered, “You have to know how to talk prices down, boy. Just pick one out and leave the rest to me.”
Morgin looked about while France spoke to the shop’s owner. He’d been in weapon’s shops before, but the kind the clan frequented offered a better cut of merchandise than this place. He searched carefully, and finally found one of the few nice looking blades. He hefted it to try its balance.
“Not that one,” France said. “It’s too pretty. Killin’ steel shouldn’t be pretty. And it’s too expensive. And it ain’t that good a blade.”
Morgin began again, looking this time for steel, and weight, and balance. As he picked up each blade he closed his eyes and tried to judge each on its own merits, and not its looks, but the blade he chose, the one that felt most natural in his hand, was a crude, ugly thing that had seen many a battle in its day. He returned it to the rack and walked away.
He tried several more, again closing his eyes as he tested each, until he found another blade that felt right. He opened his eyes and discovered it was the same blade he’d earlier rejected.
“What you got there, lad?”
Morgin handed the blade to France. “It’s probably not a very good blade,” he said, “but it seems to feel right.”
France looked at the blade casually. Then his eyes lit up and he looked again. He handed the blade back to Morgin and whispered, “Buy it. Don’t argue. Just but it.”
France argued with the shop’s owner and managed to bring the price down by a few coins, but Morgin could see that his heart wasn’t in it, though he did get the owner to throw in a proper sheath. He was in a hurry to be away.
Once out of the shop he scouted several alleys until he found one that was roomy and well lit by the sun. He pulled Morgin into it then asked to see the sword again. Morgin handed it to him.
France eyed the blade closely, examining it in minute detail, and as he did so, his eyes gleamed with delight. “This is a rare find, lad. It’s a Benesh’ere blade, an old one, and them crazy desert men make the best blades in all the tribes. It’s got a few nicks, and the hilt needs to be remounted properly, but it’s damn good steel. Damn good. Ah, lad! I’ll bet there’s some stories in this blade.”
“If it’s such a good sword,” Morgin said, “then you should have it.”
France shook his head. “It was your hand that found it, lad. It’s your blade. It would be unlucky for me to take it now.”
France’s eye’s stayed on the blade for a long moment. Then he returned it with visible reluctance.
“I’m such a poor swordsman,” Morgin blurted out suddenly. “Sometimes they even make me practice with the younger boys. Could you teach me how to fight? Please.”
France shook his head and smiled. “You fought just fine in that alley last night.”
“I was scared.”
“That’s the best way to fight, lad. Good and scared. But it ain’t fighting you’re talking about. It’s dueling. The fancy stuff. And that ain’t fer you, boy. You’re a fighter, not a duelist.”
Morgin shook his head. “Grandmother says clansmen only duel. That it isn’t gentlemanly to fight.”
“The old witch ain’t never had to swing a sword fer her life, has she? Well you remember something, boy. When yer in the thick of it, and yer life’s on the line, use the point to stab, the flat of yer blade to slap, the edge to cut, the guard as a steel fist, the hilt as a club. Use yer elbows, yer knees, yer claws, yer teeth. You just remember that, boy, and you’ll live a lot longer. But I ain’t got time to teach you to duel. And besides, it ain’t in you.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon sightseeing. But as the day drew to a close France led them back to one of the dark, forbidding saloons they had visited earlier that morning, and an unfriendly man that Morgin remembered well. France and the man spoke for a time privately while Morgin waited nearby. Then France left with the man, saying he had urgent business and would meet Morgin back at the inn after dinner.
Morgin returned to the inn, had a quiet dinner of simple fare, and was happy to see France arrive shortly thereafter. The swordsman wasted no time but said quickly, “Morgin, me lad. I’ve got to be leaving you. I’ve got business elsewhere that’ll take some days so I’ll be saying me good-byes.”
“Won’t I ever see you again?” Morgin asked.
“Maybe,” the swordsman said. “Then again, maybe not.”
“But what about a reward for saving my life?”
“Ah, lad! There ain’t time. I’ve got to be moving on. And I learned long ago not to ask fer things from witches. It’s too dangerous. Just put in a good word for me.”
Moments later the swordsman was gone. Morgin envied him, leaving on a moment’s notice, travelling to far lands on some strange adventure. But Morgin was alone now, so he chose a place at an empty table in a corner of the common room of the inn. He sipped his wine, tried to imagine where France might have gone, and for the most part he was ignored by the rest of the inn’s patrons. The bar maid, as a matter of course, had propositioned him, though she’d seemed relieved when he’d turned her down. Perhaps it was the shadows that hovered about him. He felt safe in those shadows.
The evening progressed and the room began to fill with more patrons. Some were noisy and loud, laughing, drinking. Some sat quietly and spoke in soft tones. They were of all
shapes and sizes, both male and female. The only thing they had in common was the obvious condition of their financial status: poor. They were not the city’s poorest, for this inn was only on the fringe of the Thieves’ Quarter, but they could never be called well-to-do.
Morgin ignored them, lost in his own thoughts, until the room became suddenly, ominously silent. The laughing died, the clinking of glasses and the clank of mugs was gone, and all eyes turned to the entrance and the clansmen that stood there. But being on the fringe this inn was accustomed to the occasional highborn who wanted to do a little slumming. The crowd looked quickly away. The din of their pleasure returned.
But Morgin didn’t look away because these clansmen were his cousins and brothers. He watched closely as they removed their cloaks and scanned the room. His first thought was that somehow they’d discovered his whereabouts and come to fetch him, but that thought quickly vanished as they located an empty table and sat down to enjoy themselves.
He watched them closely, hidden within his shadows, curious as to why they’d come to this inn. They ordered ale and wine, laughing and joking among themselves. JohnEngine was there, with DaNoel, Brandon, and MichaelOff. Morgin recognized SandoFall, soon to be Annaline’s husband, and several more Inetkas whose names he could not remember. They made a few toasts, loud and raucous, some quite crude, and it slowly became obvious they were celebrating the end of SandoFall’s bachelor days. Morgin looked on with envy, wishing he and DaNoel had gotten along better so that he too could join in the fun.
Then suddenly, too soon to be coincidence, the room again fell silent. But this time the silence lasted, for standing within the doorway were two Kullish guardsmen.
Morgin had heard much of the Kulls. They were men who had no magic of their own, but desirous of power, had pledged their service, and their souls, to House Decouix. In return, the Decouixs located minor demons who wished for contact with this world. Then, with the consent of both parties, the demon and the man were melded into one. The result was irreversible: a man to all outward appearances, a cruel, demon, fighting machine within, forever obedient to Decouix command.