The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (10 page)

France smiled and shook his head. “You still ain’t learned how to lie.”

Morgin grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, lad. I’d rather you didn’t tell me anyway. I probably wouldn’t understand, and I have enough to worry about. We’re being followed, you know?”

Morgin asked, “A posse?”

France shook his head. “No. A single rider. Cort says he has power, plenty of yer damn power, and he’s tracking us. Don’t you remember anything?”

Morgin shook his head. “No. Nothing. I’ve been . . . elsewhere.”

France squinted at him. “I’ll bet you have. Well we can’t shake this fella, probably ‘cause of his power. Anistigh ain’t far from here, so we’re thinking maybe we can lose him in the crowds.”

“I can’t think of anything better,” Morgin said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, found several days of stubble there, an odd measure of the time that had passed since they’d left Elhiyne. “It’ll be nice to bathe and shave again.”

France shook his head. “No shaving for you. It’s best you grow a beard; make you that much harder to recognize.”

“Are we really in that much danger?”

“Listen to me, lad.” France’s face turned serious. “I know you got all sorts of magical things on yer mind, but you’re going to have to start paying more attention here. Yer slowing us down. We’ve already lost a lot of the lead we started with, and we can’t afford to lose more. You gotta remember, lad, if we get caught, the rest of us hang with you.”

Morgin nodded, stood up, stretched, yawned. “All right. Let’s get going. I’ll keep up, and if you see me start to doze, give me a good kick.”

Val winked and said, “With pleasure.”

“Get a move on,” Cort shouted from a good distance down the trail. “Don’t forget we’re being followed.”

For the next two days they traveled from dawn to dusk, pushing their horses hard, though pacing them carefully to get the most out of them. But no matter how hard they rode, the man on their trail kept up with them easily. In the middle of the third day the countryside leveled off into flat, sparsely forested land, which meant they were approaching Anistigh and in another few hours would start passing through outlying hamlets and villages. They stopped in a small copse of trees to rest the horses and consider their situation. Val closed his eyes for a moment; the rest held their silence while he concentrated. When he opened his eyes he announced, “He’s still there.”

“I don’t like it,” France grumbled. “I ain’t riding into Anistigh with that fella on our trail. Let’s wait here and see what he has to say for himself.”

“And what if he is tracking us?” Val asked. “What will you do then, kill him? I tell you I’ll be no party to murder, for then we’ll be the outlaws they’ve branded us.”

France shook his head. “Who said anything about killing? We don’t have to kill him. We can maybe take his horse from him, or any number of things to slow him down. As it is he’s not an hour behind us.”

Cort smiled deviously. “So it’s horse stealing, is it?”

“We won’t steal it,” France argued with a big grin on his face. “We’ll just borrow it fer a while, then swat it on its way back to him when we reach the edge of the city.”

Morgin stopped listening to their argument, walked to the edge of the trees and looked out on the untended land that stretched back to Elhiyne, an ocean of yellow-brown grasses and low rolling hills, with the Worshipers sitting majestically on the horizon. He wondered if he would ever see this land again, if he was going to be a hunted man for the rest of his life; for that matter he wondered if he would ever see his magic again. But while he stood there considering such forlorn thoughts, a small black speck appeared at the base of the foothills in the distance. The air was clear, the visibility good, and he watched the speck for a time as it approached, watched as it drew nearer and he could make out the bounce of a rider on a horse at a moderately fast trot, a nice steady pace that would cover a lot of ground without overtaxing the animal. He called back to his friends, “France. Val. Your argument is now moot.” He pointed into the distance. “Our friend approaches.”

The others gathered around him quickly. France’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he growled, “Well I ain’t facing him on foot.” He was in his saddle in an instant; the others followed suit, though Morgin hesitated for a moment. There was something about the approaching rider that tickled at Morgin’s soul, something familiar, something dangerous. “Come on, lad!”

Morgin climbed into Mortiss’ saddle, and with his friends he waited just within the shadows offered by the small grove of trees. As he watched the rider approach the tickle in the back of his soul grew unbearable, until finally he felt a stirring at his side as his sword attempted to slide out of its sheath on its own. He moved quickly, caught its hilt, gripped it hard with his will as well as his hand, but still it came free of the sheath.

Val looked at him unhappily, misunderstood his actions. “Is that really necessary?”

Morgin didn’t feel like trying to explain so he just shrugged, but at that moment France made the connection that was bothering him. “By damn, I think it’s Tulellcoe!”

Morgin saw it now too, the way Tulellcoe sat his horse, the way he rode, a hundred undefined nuances that hinted at the familiar. He relaxed, sheathed his sword, released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, touched his spurs to Mortiss’ flanks. She trotted out into the sunlight gladly, broke into a gallop and put the wind in his face.

Until that moment he hadn’t realized how much he missed Elhiyne. Of course, he was glad his friends had chosen to come with him, but Tulellcoe, as mad as he was rumored to be, was still family, and in his veins flowed the same blood as Roland and JohnEngine.

Tulellcoe brought his horse to a stop and let Morgin approach him, though the set of Tulellcoe’s shoulders gave Morgin the feeling they were two enemies meeting on a field of battle to discuss terms. Morgin brought Mortiss to a stop, halting just beyond the reach of Tulellcoe’s sword. “Nephew,” Tulellcoe said by way of greeting, and his lips parted in a smile, but there was no smile in his eyes, only fear and sorrow. Then Tulellcoe blinked, the moment passed, and nothing remained in his eyes but steel-hard determination.

Morgin tried to smile, said, “Uncle,” and just then his friends rode up in a cloud of dust.

“It’s good to have you with us,” France said. “But if you join us, you may not be able to go back.”

Val shook Tulellcoe’s hand joyfully, but Cort held back as if she sensed something amiss.

Tulellcoe shrugged. “I can’t go back anyway, not once I’ve done what must be done.” Morgin wanted to ask him what he meant, but before he could speak Tulellcoe’s shoulders straightened, and the fear and sorrow Morgin had seen a moment earlier disappeared. He smiled again, this time a genuine smile. “At least out here I won’t have the old witch reminding me daily of the madness that flows in my veins.”

Morgin couldn’t suppress a smile, “Well you’re quite mad if you choose to ride with us.”

Tulellcoe threw back his head and laughed. Morgin had never before seen him laugh so openly. “Well now I’d say I’m riding in good company.” But then the humor left him, and he was again the Tulellcoe Morgin knew. “And it’s riding we’d better be doing now. The four of you have been moving at a snail’s pace. By now BlakeDown is well aware of JohnEngine’s ruse, and he’s got a small army headed this way looking for you.”

“My fault,” Morgin said sheepishly, but when Tulellcoe looked at him for an explanation he said no more.

Tulellcoe’s eyes darted down to the sword at Morgin’s side, the skin around them tightened, and again for just an instant Morgin saw fear and sorrow hidden deep within them. Then Tulellcoe pulled his horse toward Anistigh, and as he spurred the animal viciously he shouted over his shoulder, “Let’s ride.”

~~~

By late midafternoon they were only a few leagues out of Anistigh so they knew they’d be well inside the city before nightfall. As they rode at a steady gallop they carefully planned out their identities. Val and Cort were definitely
twonames
, and Tulellcoe’s obvious power labeled him as either a
twoname
or a clansman, so they decided the identity of a
twoname
would be best. He took the names Vergis Caladan while Val changed his to Seurrak Aldwith and Cort became Thenda Sa. Morgin had no idea if there was any meaning in the names.

Since he and France had no power, they would take the identities of simple swordsmen. “Rindal, you can call me,” France declared as they rode past the first of the outlying hamlets.

“Take care, my friend,” Val said. “You’ve gone by many names before, so pick a new one, rather than an old one that might get us all hung.”

“It’s a new name, me friend, unused and untried. But I’ll likely get us all hung anyway, so what does it matter? And if asked, remember we’re wandering mercenaries.”

They entered the city without mishap just as the sun was touching the horizon. France led them straight to the Thieves Quarter and a sleazy little inn that promised unwholesome fare. Out in front of the inn Morgin climbed tiredly out of Mortiss’ saddle, and like the others took a moment to brush some of the dust from his clothing. Tulellcoe called them all into a quick huddle. “You haven’t chosen a name,” he demanded of Morgin.

“Aye, lad,” France said. “We have to have a name for you.”

Morgin had chosen his new name far back on the trail, but hesitated both then and now to speak it in this world. “Call me Morddon.”

“Right you are,” France said, and turned toward the inn, but Val and Cort and Tulellcoe hesitated. Tulellcoe’s eyes narrowed unhappily; he reached out and took Morgin’s arm in a painful grip. “Where did you get that name?” he demanded.

“In a dream. Why? What’s it to you? Have you heard it before?”

“No,” Tulellcoe snarled, “I’ve not heard the name before. But it stinks of ancient and dead magics, so stop playing your damn games, boy.”

Morgin was tired of hiding everything from everyone. He looked Tulellcoe in the eyes and did not flinch from the madness he saw there. “But I’m not the game player, dear uncle,” he said. “I’m merely one of the pawns on the board. I don’t even know the game, let alone the players. But I’d dearly love to learn, so if you ever find out please let me know.” He started to turn away, but his anger forced him to hesitate, to turn back. “One more thing,” he said. “The next time someone calls me boy, one of us will die.” And with that, he pulled his arm angrily out of Tulellcoe’s grip and turned toward the inn.

He ducked low to get through the heavy plank door into the inn’s common room. Just within the entrance he stepped to one side to avoid giving anyone a silhouette of a target, and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the hazy interior: a single shuttered window next to the door throwing a dim excuse for light across the room, a fireplace at the far end, tables and chairs strewn haphazardly about, some occupied by a most unsavory clientele, the smell of sooty candles, stale urine, old beer and greasy meat.

At the far end of the room France leaned against the bar with a mug of beer in one hand, talking to a man that looked to be the innkeeper. Morgin started toward him as he heard Val and Tulellcoe coming through the door behind him.

“Morddon, me old friend,” France greeted him. “The innkeeper here tells me we’ll have no trouble hiring on as guards on a caravan.”

Morgin looked at the innkeeper carefully, a large man with a big gut hanging over a rope belt holding up patched and tattered pants. “Anything going south?” Morgin asked, “To Aud?”

The innkeeper nodded, “Every few days or so. Why Aud?”

France shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any. How ‘bout a drink fer me friend, me good man?” France threw a few coppers on the bar as Cort and Val and Tulellcoe joined them. “And a couple more fer me other friends too.”

The innkeeper eyed Tulellcoe, Val, and Cort suspiciously, then stepped into a back room and started shouting at someone. While he was gone Tulellcoe quietly asked, “Did you get us a room?”

“Aye,” France answered him softly. “Paid extra fer a window too. I always like to have a quick out if I need one.”

A barmaid shot out of the back room, headed for the front entrance splashing the contents of a mug of beer in her wake. The innkeeper returned with a large clay pitcher, put four metal tankards on the bar and slopped a brown, foamy liquid into them. Morgin was just thirsty enough to drink the stuff, though he tasted it carefully, and while hard and bitter, it nevertheless washed the trail dust down the back of his throat, and tasted strongly of Elhiyne wheat.

The innkeeper kept glancing out of the corners of his eyes at the three
twonames
, until Tulellcoe finally asked, “Is something bothering you?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Don’t know. You three got the smell of magic about you, like maybe
twonames
, eh?”

“And if we are, is that a problem?”

Morgin tensed, tried to picture again the location of every man in the room and judge if they might be armed, but the innkeeper shook his head. “Not if you mind yer own business. In fact, what with this outlaw wizard coming out of Elhiyne, should make it easier to hire on with a merchant.”

“What’s this?” France asked. “An outlaw wizard?”

“Aye, man. Where you been?”

“Just got in from Penda,” France lied. “Ain’t heard nothing fer days.”

The innkeeper leaned forward on the bar, looked about conspiratorially, spoke in a half whisper. “It’s this ShadowLord we been hearing about. They say he did some magic scared the piss out of the rest of the clans—beggin’ yer pardon, me lady,” he nodded at Cort. “And now they want his head to protect their own butts. Even his own family’s after him . . . they say.”

France’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin, and when he spoke his voice was filled with obvious greed. “They offering a reward? I mean me an’ me friends here just might be interested if there’s enough money in it.”

“Big reward,” the innkeeper said. “Hundred gold coins.”

Even Morgin tried to get into the act, widened his eyes and tried to look greedy.