The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (12 page)

She flinched, but uttered no cry, and her eyes bored deeper into Morddon’s soul. “All you need do, my Benesh’ere friend, is unlock these chains that bind me, and then I will do what I have longed to do for twelve centuries, for with these talons I’ll gut the royal bitch of the jackal court from womb to chin, and dine upon her entrails myself.”

“But her warriors will kill you.”

SheelThane shrugged. “What matters that? I’ll at least die free, and the bitch queen will die before me.”

Morddon shook his head. “No. I can’t let you die.” Then he looked at the massive locks and chains binding her talons and neck. “And besides. Those locks. I don’t have the key.”

The griffin smiled, though because of her beak the smile gleamed only in her eyes. “You have always had the keys, my white faced friend.”

Morddon started to ask her what she meant, but at that moment a jackal howl rose from the queen’s tent.

“Quickly!” the griffin hissed. “The bitch is awakening. You must go, without delay.”

Morddon hesitated, feeling that he’d missed something in the conversation, driven by a sudden need to help the griffin in some way. But he had trained himself for many years to harden his heart against such suffering, and he wondered now if she weren’t enspelling him.

“You will help me when the time is right,” the griffin said. “Now go. Quickly.”

The camp was beginning to awaken around him so he turned his back on the griffin without a word, though that was one of the hardest things he had ever done, and he moved quickly toward the safety of the forest at the edge of the encampment. He found a comfortable shadow there out of the harsh, orange sun and sat within it to rest, understanding now that even in this perpetual daylight a camp of soldiers would have its own rhythm of activity and rest. His eyes grew heavy, though he fought the urge to sleep, but the demands of his body were stronger than those of his will, and he slipped easily into a restful slumber, wondering in whose soul he would awaken this time.

~~~

Morgin started awake at the touch of a hand on his arm, felt the sword across his lap come to life beneath the table. But he crushed it back into quiescence, though in doing so he touched the blade with his other hand and the steel filled his mind with the whispers of a thousand souls. He gasped, let go of the bare steel and the whispering ended as suddenly as it had begun.

The
twoname
Val stood over him. “You’ve slept most of the evening away Morgin. We knew you needed the rest so we let you be.”

Morgin shook his head, trying to clear it of his dreams.

Val pulled up a chair, sat down across the table. The common room of the inn was almost empty, filled only with dark shadows cast by a low smoldering fire in a large hearth. Under the table Morgin quietly slipped his sword back into its sheath.

“You know, Morgin,” Val said carefully, “you should try to appear less dangerous.”

Morgin wiped the sleep from his eyes. “I’m a man running for my life, and I’m afraid.”

Val frowned, shook his head. “I’m not speaking of fear. A little fear tells those you meet that you’re merely a cautious man, though too much fear, while you’re on the run like this, would brand you a hunted man and bring the jackals down upon you. No, it’s not fear that those about you sense. It’s danger, plain and simple. You’re a dangerous man who sits by himself in the shadows with an unsheathed sword in his lap beneath the table. You look like a dangerous man, and those about you, even those without power, sense that. And that is not good.”

Morgin shrugged, and for the first time he looked at Val carefully. The
twoname
was not an imposing man, and in fact seemed quite ordinary. “Why did you come with me?” Morgin asked. “Why become a hunted man for me?”

Val considered the question carefully. “I didn’t do it for you. I have a questioning nature, and I’m curious to see what is going to happen to you.”

“Oh I can tell you the answer to that,” Morgin said bitterly. “I’ll probably end up hanging by my neck from some gallows, and no doubt my friends will hang with me, but my dear family will remain quite safe.”

Val leaned forward and his eyes were sharp points flickering in the shadows of the fire. “Did you dream that in your dreams, Morgin?”

“How do you know about my dreams?”

“I don’t. But I can see they bother you.”

Val leaned back in his chair and considered Morgin for a long moment. “You know Cort and I lived with the Benesh’ere for a time, and they have some mighty strange legends. They revere steel in an odd way, and of course their worst efforts at forging the stuff are far better than our best. Did you know they believe that before the gods came the world was ruled by the men and women who shaped the best steel? They were called SteelMasters and SteelMistresses, though they didn’t really rule as much as they guided and educated. Have you heard of them?”

Morgin shook his head, trying to ignore the chill running down his spine at Val’s words. Val shrugged. “I’m not surprised. The Benesh’ere don’t speak of such things lightly. In fact I’d been among them for three years before I heard the first mention of a SteelMaster. According to legend these men and women shaped steel of a quality that surpasses even the greatest of today’s Benesh’ere steel. But don’t think of them as merely talented smiths, for though the legends are a bit obscure on this point, they apparently had some strange powers over steel that were far from natural. The legends say the steel spoke to them, and they spoke to it, commanded it in fact, for they were reputed to rule the steel.”

Val’s words struck chords in Morgin’s soul he did not want to hear. “If you’re trying to make a point,” Morgin said abruptly, “then make it.”

Again Val considered him for a long moment, then continued speaking as if Morgin had said nothing. “Such steel, of course, was used only for the finest of weapons, and because of that the SteelMasters had a saying, supposedly the most fundamental tenet of their craft. They maintained that the greatest weapon you will ever face, is the blade you yourself have forged.” Val stopped talking then as if he had made his point.

“I’ve never forged a blade,” Morgin said.

Val shook his head. “This very moment, and for many months now, you have been forging a blade of bitterness and hatred, and that kind of weapon will always turn against you. It can only turn against you.”

Val stood up. “Come on up to the room. If you sleep here alone you might not wake up in the morning.”

Morgin stood slowly, followed the Surriot to their room on the second floor of the inn, and that night as he lay on a pile of blankets on the floor, he tried again and again to fathom the meaning of the
twoname
’s words. But always it eluded him, until his eyes became heavy, and without the will to resist he returned to Morddon’s world of dreams.

~~~

“I will not!” Rhianne shouted. Her eyes glowed with anger as she planted her fists on her hips defiantly. Then she spun about and stormed out of Olivia’s audience chamber.

AnnaRail watched her leave, then turned to the old woman and said, “You shouldn’t goad her that way.”

“Goad her?” Olivia asked innocently. “But I like her. Why would I goad her?”

“For the same reason you like her. Because she is willful, and she has power, and the brains to use it.”

Olivia shook her head. “But not the brains to use it properly.”

AnnaRail disagreed. “Oh she has the brains, but not the training. I make the distinction because we can’t correct a lack of brains.”

“But we can correct a lack of training, eh?”

“Yes. And it would help if you’d stop baiting her.”

Again Olivia shook her head. “Steel must be forged with fire.”

“But she is not steel,” AnnaRail said. “Your grandson is steel, and his wife is the sheath to contain that steel. If you try to make of her what she is not, you’ll only destroy her.”

Olivia turned upon AnnaRail. “And what would you make of her?”

AnnaRail shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I must first determine the substance of her. Is she the ash from which we make a bow, or the oak from which we make an arrow. She is not steel, so I cannot make of her a blade. Patience is required here, and you have never been the one for patience.”

Olivia laughed. “No, I haven’t, have I? But look at you. I shaped you, and you turned out all right.”

AnnaRail nodded. “And now I’ll shape her, but you’ll have to give me room.”

“Very well,” Olivia said. “You shall have what you need.”

AnnaRail bowed. “Thank you, grandmother. I will shape her properly.” She did not add,
But I’ll not shape her with the same lack of love you thrust upon me and your sons.

Chapter 7: The House of the Thane

Morddon observed Magwa’s camp closely through two cycles of activity and rest, though he did not venture into the camp again. The first sign of activity always came from Magwa’s tent: a howl, or a shout, or a chorus of yipping. Apparently, Magwa liked to appear without warning from her tent and catch one of her guards dozing. When that happened Magwa would have the griffin chained to the post in the center of the arena—a chain just long enough to reach the edge, but not beyond—with her talons free for fighting. The unlucky warrior was then given a sword, told to kill the griffin or die trying, then thrown into the arena with the griffin. But no jackal warrior could match the ferocity of the halfbird’s talons, and to the cheers of the spectators each died with his guts strewn across the dust of the makeshift theater.

Magwa also liked to torment the poor griffin personally, often climbing up onto the cart with the halfbird, though only when she was chained neck and talons. Sometimes the bitch queen would then drop to all fours and, to the jeers of her followers, urinate on the griffin’s crown feathers. She also liked to call one of her consorts forth from the kennels, and copulate with him in the middle of the camp in front of everyone.

Morddon watched all of this from the edge of the forest, while the shadowwraiths that danced at the edge of his senses watched him. He tried all the while to formulate a plan to free the griffin as well as WindHollow, but every strategy centered on the chains and locks binding her, and the keys Magwa carried hanging from a chain about her own neck. He noticed she never released them to anyone for more than a few moments, so his only chance would be to sneak into her tent during one of the sleep periods. But she was so heavily guarded he abandoned that idea almost as soon as it occurred to him, admitting finally that he would have to be content with rescuing WindHollow, and leaving the griffin behind.

While he waited he also noticed large, ghost-like shapes moving stealthily through the forest about him. They were about the size of a small horse, and while he often heard the panting of a large beast, they stayed too well hidden for him to see them clearly. His nose caught the scent of hound, and he took no action because they seemed uninterested in him.

At the next rest period he strung his bow, and cloaked in one of Morgin’s shadows he moved quickly toward WindHollow. The boy had not yet suffered any great hardship, though he had been beaten a few times and fed poorly for the past days. But he was young and strong, and obviously more frightened than harmed.

They had tied him to a tall post that produced only the thinnest of shadows behind him. Morddon stepped uneasily out of the last shadow that gave him any real concealment, moved quickly to that all too small shadow behind the post, hoping no one would notice it had become somewhat overlarge. The prisoner tied at the post next to the boy—a barbaric, almost beast-like man—looked up for an instant with a dull-witted stare, then appeared to convince himself he’d seen nothing and let his head drop again. Morddon waited for several moments, allowing time for the barbarian’s suspicions to recede, and too, time to calm his own heart. Then slowly he leaned close to the boy’s ear and whispered, “WindHollow.”

The boy tensed.

“Don’t move so much as a hair,” Morddon hissed at him. “You’re a Benesh’ere warrior so act like one. Think, don’t react. Keep your head down, change nothing in the way you stand, and speak only in the softest whisper.”

WindHollow obeyed contritely. “But I’m no warrior,” he pleaded, close to tears. “I’m not of age.”

“Well you’ve just come of age, boy. You’re a warrior now, or you’re a dead man.”

“Who are you?” the boy whispered.

“I’m the madman,” Morddon told him, and the boy tensed again. “Now I’m going to cut your bonds. But keep your hands behind the post as if you’re still bound to it, and don’t move until I tell you.”

Under the circumstances stealth was far more important than speed, so Morddon cut methodically at the ropes binding the boy’s hands and feet, and during those few moments he glanced toward the griffin. The short chain that bound her neck to the floorboards of the cart forced her to lay flat on her breast, with her chin thrust forward and her wings splayed awkwardly to either side. Her eyes were open and staring straight at Morddon as if she saw through any shadow Morgin cast. Those large, silent eyes bore into him with a sadness that touched his soul, and he could not leave without speaking to her one last time.

Morddon directed WindHollow’s attention to the closest patch of open forest at the edge of the camp. “When we go we’ll make for that large boulder to your left, but first I have to speak to the griffin. You wait here, act like you’re still tied to the post, and if anything goes wrong just run for your life. You’ll find a coal-black mare waiting on the other side of that boulder—” Somehow Morddon knew Mortiss would be there. “Mount her, and don’t try to guide her. Let her carry you where she will. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” WindHollow said flatly.

Morddon pressed the hilt of the knife into WindHollow’s hand. “You might need this, warrior,” he said.

He left the shadow behind WindHollow’s post, picked his way through the shadows in the camp toward the cart bearing the captive griffin, finally stopping between the wheels beneath the cart. He swung carefully up onto the floorboards of the cart beside the griffin, then hunched into the shadow cast by her massive bulk. The chain prevented her from turning her head toward him, but he saw her eyes straining in his direction.

“Will you free me now?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Morddon said. “I can’t. I told you I don’t have the keys.”

Once again that remark appeared to amuse her. “And I say again you have always had the keys, though I doubt you can use them until you realize they are yours to use. But won’t you at least try?”

Morddon shook his head. “You don’t understand. I tell you I don’t have the keys.”

“But it is you who do not understand, my white faced friend. Come. Step closer. Touch the steel of the locks and then tell me you don’t have the keys. Humor me, if nothing more.”

Morddon edged closer to the lock binding one of her taloned feet, and though he knew nothing of lock mechanisms, a quick examination would cost him no time, and it seemed that in some way it would comfort the griffin. But as he reached out to touch it something in Morgin shouted a warning, and for the first time he and the Benesh’ere were truly at odds. In a panic Morgin threw his will into resisting the movement of the Benesh’ere’s hand as it edged toward the steel, and he tried to scream into his soul to stop, to run, to flee into the forest, but Morddon ignored him, even fought him, until his fingers brushed the icy hardness of the steel lock.

Morgin tried not to listen, but a hundred voices told of a thousand sorrows and a million joys: the point of a blade piercing a man’s heart, stealing the last breath of life from his soul; the blade of a plow slicing cleanly through rich soil, bringing life to a bountiful harvest. And without warning the lock fell away from the chain about the griffin’s foot.

Morgin staggered back from the steel, now fully in control of Morddon’s body, shaking with fear but driven nevertheless toward the lock on the other foot. He struggled to turn away but could not as something within his own heart fought against him. His fingers touched the lock and again the voices came to him as if plucked from time itself, and they spoke of the majesty of steel, and too they spoke of the heartache and sorrow it could bring . . .

There was shouting somewhere. Morddon shook his head, came out of a daze sitting stupidly on the floorboards of the cart next to the griffin. The locks on the chains binding her had fallen away, though she did not yet flee, but lay quietly beneath the chains as if still bound. “The boy is in trouble,” she said flatly.

The harsh growl of a Kull voice raised in laughter finally cut through Morddon’s stupor, and protected by one of Morgin’s shadows he staggered to his feet. WindHollow’s cut bonds had been discovered by a Kull officer, who had quickly aroused a mixed group of Kulls and jackal warriors. The group had formed a ring around the boy, cutting off any chance of escape, and making it rather clear they intended to have a little fun. The Kull officer joined WindHollow in the center of the ring, drew a knife from his belt and tested the sharpness of its edge, and though the Kull was twice his size, the boy stood his ground and faced him with the knife Morddon had given him.

Morddon hissed at the griffin, “You are free. I make no claim upon you,” then he jumped off the cart and sprinted toward the royal tents, praying Morgin’s shadows alone would be enough to conceal him. He found what he wanted: a smoldering cooking fire not far from one of the tents. He grabbed a cooking pot, scooped it full of hot embers, crossed the short distance to the tent, poured the coals in a pile at the base of the canvas. He repeated that three more times, while in the distance he heard the rising noise of the cheering crowd.

Breathing heavily he sprinted back to the cart, climbed up beside the griffin, drew an arrow from his quiver. He’d counted on the fact that the Kull would prolong the contest with WindHollow and not kill him out of hand, though by now the boy was bleeding from several shallow cuts. Morddon let the Kull continue to torment the boy until a well-defined column of smoke was rising from the vicinity of the royal tents. Then he shouted, “Fire! The queen’s tent is on fire!”

Every eye in the camp turned toward the rising smoke and for an instant utter stillness descended upon them all, then pandemonium erupted as the jackal warriors, thinking only of their queen’s rescue, forgot the contest and turned into a mindless pack of howling dogs. But the Kull facing WindHollow hesitated. He glanced once at the fire, then turned back to the boy with the obvious intention of finishing the fight quickly.

Morddon raised his bow and released the first arrow. It arced high over the heads of the panic-stricken jackals and caught the Kull just under the left eye; he toppled backward into the dust.

WindHollow took his queue, lowered his head and sprinted toward the boulder Morddon had pointed out earlier. The jackals were all too busy rushing to their queen’s aid to pay him any mind, but the few Kulls present cared not for the bitch and moved to intercept the Benesh’ere boy.

Morddon ignored all but the most immediate threats and picked his targets carefully—an arrow for the first Kull to get within sword’s reach of the boy; another for a halfman sighting his crossbow. Morddon placed his confidence in the safety of Morgin’s shadows and released his arrows one after another, but he learned all too quickly such confidence could cost him his life.

“Beware, whiteface!” the griffin hissed.

Morddon, already sighting down the length of one of his shafts, released the arrow before looking away. He caught a momentary glimpse of a Kull standing beside the cart, looking up at him with a snarl on his face perturbed by a frown of indecision. But in that instant the frown disappeared as the halfman realized the meaning of the strangely shaped shadow that stood over him.

The Kull’s sword was out in an instant, slicing through the air toward Morddon’s ankles. Morddon jumped frantically over the blade, but he came down off balance and toppled from the cart. In desperation he swung the heavy wood of his bow like a club, connected with the halfman’s unprotected skull and heard both his bow and the Kull’s head crack loudly.

Morddon hit the ground beside the cart in a roll as the Kull, his head crushed, crumpled behind him. He came up with his sword drawn, but almost stepped into a Kull saber as another halfman joined the fight. Morddon deflected the blade with his own sword, but only enough to save his life for his own momentum carried him into it. It cut a line of fiery pain across his ribs as he threw a forearm up, caught the Kull under the chin and slammed into the halfman with his full Benesh’ere weight. They went down with Morddon on top, and Morddon threw all his weight into his forearm, crushing the Kull’s throat.

Morddon jumped to his feet and sprinted toward WindHollow. The bitch queen’s warriors were like a river of bodies flowing in the opposite direction, all rushing to Magwa’s aid, and though they were unaware of him because of Morgin’s shadows, they were still a strong current against which he struggled, and through which he saw nothing. But then the mob thinned, and he saw WindHollow lying on the ground clutching his side, a Kull officer standing over him with a blooded saber. The Kull nodded his satisfaction, then raised his saber high over his head to finish the boy, and Morddon hit him like a warhorse at full charge.

They both tumbled into the dust. Morddon was up quickly, while the stunned Kull crawled to his feet slowly, so Morddon kicked him in the face to make sure he’d stay down. Another Kull slammed into Morddon growling something about shadows, and they both went down, but by now the wound in his side was taking its toll and this time Morddon only made it to his hands and knees before the Kull’s boot caught him in the ribs.

He went down again, saw a saber flashing toward him, rolled desperately away just as it cut a furrow in the dirt near his head. Another Kull boot swung out of the dust toward his face. He caught the boot in his left hand, twisted and continued his roll, pulling the Kull down with him. He tried to get to his feet, but the hilt of a Kull saber crashed into his temple, and he hit the ground in a sprawl with his head spinning wildly. Then massive wings darkened the sky above him, beating and pummeling at the Kull’s heads, with the hind claws of a lioness tearing at their eyes. But the razor-sharp, arm-length talons saved the moment, slicing about them like an army of airborne swordsmen. In those few seconds Morddon saw close at hand how the talons of an adult griffin could truly cut men and halfmen to pieces. And yet only an instant later those same talons descended upon WindHollow and delicately lifted the injured boy into the air.

Morddon crawled to his feet clutching his sword with one hand and his wounded side with the other. He crouched low as he ran after the griffin, tried to keep the halfbird in sight and follow her, but lost her as she turned to one side and dipped dangerously close to the ground. Staying within the clouds of dust raised by the battle, he heard the howl of jackals and the shouts of Kulls all about him so he had little hope of getting out of the camp without another fight, and in his present condition it would be his last. But then a horse cried out somewhere in front of him, though not the sound of a poor, frightened animal but rather the netherscream of an arcane warhorse sounding its anger and its battle lust. His soul caught the scent of dangerous magic as the ground shook with the thunder of pounding hooves. Then out of the clouds of dust Mortiss reared above him, and when she came down and disappeared into the dust again Morddon heard a jackal die horribly.