Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (6 page)

JohnEngine thought about that for a moment.
“I suppose so,” he said, “in a day or two, when we have time.” Then
without another word he spun about and left. The rest followed,
closing the small door with a loud chunk.

Morgin jumped up immediately and pressed his
ear against it. He heard their voices receding slowly into the
distance, laughing loudly at his expense. He waited until certain
they’d not hear him, then he lifted the latch on the old door and
leaned against it. It creaked slowly open, and he sighed with
relief that it had no lock. The fools had expected the darkness to
hold him.

He stepped through the door, closed it and
moved silently in the wake of his captors. There was never a
question in his mind about the direction he should choose, for he
was in darkness, and darkness was like shadow, and in shadow he
always knew his way, even more so than in the blinding light of
day.

He caught up with them quickly, then held
back, following just beyond the limit of the candle’s light,
dancing among the shadows that seemed so much a part of his
solitary existence.

“Are you really going to leave him there for
two days?” one of the boys asked.

“No,” JohnEngine said, laughing loudly. “If
he’s missing through the night mother’ll find out and have my hide.
We’ll just let him stew in the dark for a couple of hours. By that
time he should be a whimpering mess.”

The other boys laughed at JohnEngine’s
clever plan, and Morgin chose that instant to act. He picked a
shadow he knew would pass close to JohnEngine and melted into it,
and as JohnEngine’s candle came within reach he gave a light puff
of breath and blew it out. Darkness descended, utter and
complete.

“What happened?” someone gasped.

“Stay calm,” JohnEngine said. “The candle
went out. It’ll only take a second or two to light it.”

Morgin, just one more body jostling against
the rest in the darkness, stood calmly in the midst of them and
watched JohnEngine fumble in his tunic for a striker and flint. He
knew he wasn’t really watching him, for the image that filled his
mind remained unchanged even when he closed his eyes, but he
nevertheless thought of it that way.

He waited until JohnEngine had retrieved his
striker, then reached out quickly and snatched the candle from his
hand.

“Oh damn!” JohnEngine swore.

“What’s wrong?” someone asked.

“I dropped the candle. Does anyone have a
spare?”

“I do,” a boy named Dannasul said, reaching
into his own tunic. He fumbled for a moment, then held his candle
blindly out in JohnEngine’s direction. “Here,” he said.

Morgin reached out and took the candle, and
Dannasul relaxed, assuming JohnEngine had taken it.

JohnEngine groped forward in the darkness,
pushing Morgin unknowingly aside to grasp Dannasul by the
shoulders. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Dannasul asked.

“The damn candle.”

“I just gave it to you.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“You must have dropped it.”

“Well it can’t have rolled far. Both candles
must be here at our feet.”

“All right,” JohnEngine said angrily.
“Everyone down on their hands and knees. Let’s find those
candles.”

Morgin stepped back several paces to watch.
He was enjoying this thoroughly, watching them grope about blindly,
grabbing at one another, pouncing upon the slightest bit of debris
in the hope that it was one of the missing candles, both of which
he now held in his own hands. Slowly their groping became more
frantic; their voices rose in pitch as they realized the candles
were nowhere to be found. Their futile efforts raised a cloud of
dust from the long undisturbed floor, and several of them began to
cough, some to cry.

Morgin chuckled. He considered leaving them
there in the darkness. He would have no trouble finding his way
back, and they could, as JohnEngine had put it, rot here for the
rest of their days. But no, that was unfair. JohnEngine had
intended, no matter how cruelly, that Morgin’s capture should last
no more than a few hours, though they wanted him to think he was
going to rot forever in the dark.

Morgin decided to return same for same, and
as JohnEngine had said, he would “. . . let them
stew in the dark for a couple of hours.”

“Everyone calm down,” JohnEngine shouted.
“We have to stay together. We mustn’t get separated. Let’s grasp
hands, and no one let go.”

“But how do we find our way?”

“I think I can remember it,” JohnEngine
said. “I’ve been over it often enough. We take a left at the next
corridor, then skip three, and right after that it should be a
straight walk from there.”

Morgin stifled a laugh as they started out,
for JohnEngine’s first mistake was to start in the wrong direction.
Their course was taking them deeper into the old castle, not out of
it. Morgin followed.

It took them almost an hour to realize they
were lost, then another for it to sink into their very bones, and a
third for them to finally decide their predicament was all
JohnEngine’s fault. They collapsed in the middle of a corridor,
berating him, some crying, some swearing, all of them radiating a
fear that Morgin could readily sense. He understood fear, and it
was that which brought out his compassion.

He sat down next to JohnEngine, who sat
strangely quiet, his face buried between his knees, which he had
tucked up close to his chest.

“Here,” Morgin said, holding out a candle.
But then he realized that unlike him, JohnEngine could not see in
the blackness that surrounded them. Morgin pressed the candled into
JohnEngine’s hand.

JohnEngine started, groping at the familiar
feel of the wax, pressing the candle close to his face as if he
could see it in the dark. “I’ve found a candle,” he shouted,
leaping to his feet.

Suddenly they were all on their feet,
listening anxiously while JohnEngine brought out his striker and
flint and a small bit of tinder. He failed through several tries,
then the tinder caught, he lit the candle and light flared in the
hallway where light had not shown for a thousand years.

They shouted and cheered, hugging each other
and slapping JohnEngine on the back. And then slowly their joy
died, for they realized they were in a place they had never
explored before, with no chalk marks to guide them. They sat down
silently, once again lost.

Morgin, standing at the edge of the candle’s
light, stepped calmly in among them. They looked up at him
uncaringly.

“Where did you come from?” JohnEngine
asked.

Morgin drew no satisfaction from the fear in
JohnEngine’s eyes. “I followed you.”

“Then you’re lost too.”

“No,” Morgin said. “I know the way.”

JohnEngine was on his feet in an instant.
“Have you been marking or back-trail?”

Morgin shook his head. “No. I just know the
way.”

JohnEngine sat down. “You’re lying. Or else
you’re a fool.”

“Or maybe you’re a fool,” Morgin said
angrily. He held out the other candle.

“Where did you get that?” JohnEngine
asked.

“I took it from Dannasul, as I took yours
from you.”

JohnEngine accepted that without emotion.
“Then it was you?”

Morgin nodded.

“Do you really know the way?”

Morgin nodded again.

JohnEngine stood slowly, unexcitedly. “Lead
the way,” he said, but his voice held no conviction, no belief.

“I can’t,” Morgin said. “Not until you blow
out your candle. I don’t know the way in the light. I know it only
in the dark.”

They looked at him oddly, though strangely
enough, only in JohnEngine’s eyes could he see no revulsion, merely
indecision, and perhaps some understanding. He stared at Morgin for
a long, silent moment.

“He’s crazy,” someone said. “He’s always
been crazy.”

The indecision disappeared from JohnEngine’s
eyes. “Shut up,” he said. “And blow out that candle.”

~~~

“Who was Attun?” Morgin asked.

Roland looked thoughtful for a moment, then
shrugged. “No one knows for sure. But why do you believe Attun was
a ‘who’ and not a ‘what’? Perhaps Attun was a thing, not some
person.”

“He must have been a person,” Morgin said.
“Or a
god
. They named a mountain after him: Attunhigh. And
the lesser mountains that surround it are called the Worshipers of
Attun. Surely no one would worship a thing.”

“But the Worshipers are things,” Roland
said. “They’re nothing but mountains. And wouldn’t things worship
other things, and not people? And if Attun were a person, or a
god
, what makes you think he was a he, and not a she?”

Morgin felt badly confused.

Roland smiled out of the corner of his
mouth. “There now. Pay no attention to me. I’m just teasing a
little.” He turned serious again. “But I was trying to illustrate a
point. No one truly knows who or what Attun was. We have no legends
to tell us about him; or actually we have too many, all different
and none in agreement. He was probably a
god
, since as you
say no one would worship a thing, or even a mere person. But we
cannot be sure of that. The Greater Clans believe him to be a joke
perpetrated upon us foolish and stupid Lesser Clans. Their legends
say that he was an idiot, a moron who became King of the Lesser
Clans after the Great Clan Wars. On the other hand, the Benesh’ere
believe him to be a great
god
who will come in the future to
absolve them of their sins. So you see, no one truly knows who
Attun was.”

Morgin thought on that for a moment, then
asked, “Who are the Benesh’ere? MichaelOff says they live in the
Great Munjarro Waste. He says the Waste is nothing but sand for as
far as the eyes can see. That’s across the Worshipers, isn’t
it?”

“Yes,” Roland said patiently. “The Waste
lies across the mountains. And yes, the Benesh’ere live in the
Waste for much of the year. But as to who the Benesh’ere are,
you’re nine years old now, so you must’ve studied the
Antiquities.”

“Yes,” Morgin said unhappily. “But I don’t
understand them.”

Roland laughed. “They are rather cryptic,
aren’t they?” He leaned back in his chair to think. They were in
his study, a place of books and papers and odds and ends. Morgin
liked best the two shiny broadswords hung above the mantle of the
fireplace. He wanted to be a great swordsman someday, and the sight
of them filled him with thoughts of the glory of battle.

“You know, don’t you,” Roland said, “that
the Benesh’ere are the seventh tribe of the Shahot, and that they
committed a great crime long ago. What was that crime?”

“Didn’t they start the Great Clan Wars?”
Morgin asked eagerly.

Roland nodded. “Yes. But there’s more to it
than that. Remember that the Shahotma King rules all of the clans,
and stands above a mere clan king. Long ago the Benesh’ere were the
greatest of the twelve tribes. A long line of Shahotma Kings were
born to them and they grew proud. But then there came a time when
the Shahotma was born to another tribe, and the Benesh’ere grew
jealous. They reasoned that the children of the seventh tribe
showed the greatest power, so they should lead. And so they
declared their king a false Shahotma. They brought war to the
clans, a war so terrible that four tribes were exterminated in the
bloodletting. The false Shahotma was finally overcome in a great
battle in which thousands died. But with him fell the true
Shahotma, never to rise again. Now, Morgin, do you know the name of
that last true Shahotma?”

Morgin dug deep into his memory. “Aethon?”
he asked.

Roland nodded with a pleased smile, and
asked, “Aethon of what clan?”

Morgin shook his head. “I don’t know,
father.”

“He was Aethon et Elhiyne. He was of our
tribe, Morgin, the eighth tribe, the tribe of the red Ward. He was
an Elhiyne.”

Morgin sat entranced by Roland’s story.
“What happened next?”

“For their crimes the Benesh’ere were
punished. Do you know what that punishment was?”

“They were exiled to the Waste?”

“Yes. And more. The reign of their king was
ended. Their name was stricken from the rolls of clan right.
Septimus
, the seventh Ward, the guardian of their power, was
extinguished, and exists today only as it has since that time:
cold, black, and silent.”

Morgin thought of the few times he had been
involved in a full-scale ceremony of magic. The other Wards were
pillars of blinding light, each a color uniquely its own, and each
humming a separate and distinct tone that was painful to the ears.
But
Septimus
was the lone exception. Like the rest it was
there, but it was black, quiescent, unlit, un-whole.

“Morgin, pay attention.” Roland grinned and
ruffled Morgin’s hair. “There is one further punishment that the
Benesh’ere must endure, and it is by far the most terrible of all.
It is simply this: their magic was stricken from them, and to this
day they live powerless in their exile. Before their crimes they
were the most powerful of all, and now they are the least.”
Roland’s brows wrinkled for a moment, as if he pitied the evil
Benesh’ere. But then he brightened, looked at Morgin and said, “Now
you tell me what happened after that.”

Morgin toyed with a quill pen on the top of
Roland’s desk. “I’m sorry, father. I don’t know.”

“That’s all right, son. But since you don’t
know, pay close attention while I tell you.”

Morgin nodded eagerly.

“After the Great Clan Wars the seven tribes
that remained, not counting the Benesh’ere, were so badly maimed
that chaos ruled the land. There followed a time of evil in which
no man could trust his brother and no law was inviolate. People
actually starved to death, and disease and pestilence were rampant.
The land was ruled by bandits and cutthroats who took whatever they
wanted, whenever they chose . . .”