The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (24 page)

The aid rushed away, and moments later a silence descended on the camp as the jackal hordes parted for Her Revered Majesty, Magwa, the jackal queen. She stood over him as deformed and unnatural as any of her warriors.

Magwa had always coveted human mortality, and for her services the Dark Lord had rewarded her with the ability to stand erect on her hind legs, though like her warriors the stance seemed unnatural and uncomfortable. She was small, and had a tendency to waddle when she walked, and at first Morddon thought her overly fat. But the robes she wore were parted down the front to the waist, and as she came closer he saw two rows of teats swollen with milk, riding on top of a bulging, protruding belly.

Her lips curled back into a smile and she leaned down, brought her muzzle close enough for him to smell her dog breath. “Well now, whiteface sword maker!” she barked. “We’ve waited a long time for this meeting, you and me. Though you were quite a bit younger the last time we met.”

Lying on his back in a relatively comfortable position, Morddon felt the circulation returning to his arms and legs. Magwa leaned even closer to him, her muzzle only inches from his face. “Tell me, whiteface. How well do you remember Binth and Eisla after these many hundreds of years?”

Several of the warriors about her started yipping with laughter. “I remember them well, whiteface, and I would wager I remember them the way you last saw them, their faces twisted with pain, the skin flayed from their bodies—”

At that moment Morddon snapped his head forward and head-butted her in the soft tissues of her muzzle. She jumped back and yowled as tears came to her eyes. Several of her warriors jumped on Morddon instantly, started kicking him brutally. Then one produced a large club, and Morddon saw it for an instant silhouetted against the blue sky; it came down, crashed into his ribs painfully. He cried out, saw the club rise and swing down again. This time he found it impossible to cry out, though the pain sent him close to unconsciousness.

“Stop!” Magwa barked. “Stop! I command it.”

The kicking ended quickly, though one warrior hesitated for an instant and kicked Morddon in the ribs one last time. “Stop!” she barked again. “You can kill him after he tells me where he hid the second blade.”

She looked scornfully at Morddon. “You will tell me where you’ve hidden the second blade, won’t you, whiteface?”

Morddon shook his head, tried to shout at her but the effort brought too much pain to his chest. He guessed he had some broken ribs on one side, and all he could do was force the words out in a grimace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t pretend ignorance. We all know you forged two blades, not just the one. And the Dark God is impatient to possess both.”

Morddon pulled at his bonds, found that to be a painful mistake. “I’ve forged not a single blade, bitch, let alone two.”

Magwa dropped to all fours, squatted and urinated on Morddon’s head. “You’ll tell us the truth eventually,” she said confidently. Then she stood again and turned to her warriors. “Tonight we celebrate,” she yowled. “For tomorrow the blade maker goes back to his master.”

She turned to the captain of the troupe that had captured Morddon. “And for you, I have a reward.” Again she dropped to all fours, and she parted her robes to expose her hind quarters, with her swollen belly and teats nearly dragging on the ground. The jackal captain knew immediately what to do. He mounted her then and there, with the entire camp looking on, yowling and cheering.

The festivities continued well into the night. The celebration consisted of a lot of drinking and public fornicating, and the bitch queen’s appetite for her warriors appeared insatiable. She took them one after another in the middle of the camp, and Morddon wondered if she actually intended to screw every warrior present. They also continued the insult Magwa had begun. Whenever any of the warriors or camp followers needed relief, they stopped by Morddon and urinated on him, and by the time the celebration came to an end he lay in a large puddle of urine formed mud.

As the festivities died down and the camp grew quiet Morddon experimented with his bonds. His hands and legs were tied to wooden stakes hammered deep into the earth. But the urine had softened the ground around them, though the loosest of the four stakes was on his right side, where his broken ribs shouted at him painfully whenever he worked at it. He tried pulling at the other stakes instead, but they were too well secured so he had no choice.

He worked at it for hours. He pulled at the rope that bound his wrist until he could bear the pain no longer, then he rested while the agony receded, and then he tried again. He knew he was making progress when his efforts produced a slurping, sucking sound from the stake in the muddy ground, but still it refused to yield. Then he felt it give way, and in an agony of motion it slid from the ground.

With one hand and both legs still tied down he was forced to roll onto his good side in a strangely awkward position, but soon he had the other hand free, and then quickly both legs. For a moment he considered going after Magwa, sneaking into her tent and strangling her in her sleep. But his ribs were too badly damaged and he knew he’d fail. So with Morgin’s shadows protecting him, he crawled into the forest and disappeared into the last hours of the night.

Chapter 13: Gilguard’s Last Stand

Morgin awoke to a heavy hand shaking him violently.

“Come on, ya dirt lovin’ fool,” Bakart swore at him. “Wake up.”

Morgin pushed at the seaman, threw his legs off the edge of his bunk and sat up groggily. Still well before dawn, only a dim splash of rays from a lantern in Bakart’s hand lit the cabin. “What’s wrong?” Morgin asked.

“Penda armsmen. All over the dock. They’ve surrounded this ship, probably going to search her.”

As Morgin climbed out of his bunk Bakart made sure his companions were awake. Morgin grabbed his breeches and boots, but Bakart hissed, “Don’t put on the boots. You’re going to have to swim for it.”

As Morgin and his companions hurriedly dressed, Bakart said, “The dockside’s thick with ‘em. But port side’s wide open. You go over the side real quiet, swim down the port a couple of docks and climb ashore there. Hope they don’t spot you. You can swim, can’t you?”

“Sure,” Morgin said. “I’m a good swimmer.” He looked at his companions. “Can the rest of you swim?”

France, pulling one leg into his breeches, shook his head. “You go without us. You’re the one they’re looking for. If you’re not with us then we’re not guilty of anything. And it’ll confuse them some if they find us without you. Toblekan ain’t big. Make your way out the north side of town and we’ll meet you on the road to Drapolis.”

Morgin wrapped his boots and a fresh blouse in a tight bundle, then rolled them in his cloak and tied his sword to that. Up on deck Morgin was thankful for the darkness of the wee hours of the morning. On the dock a Penda lieutenant, with a large group of armsmen behind him, stood facing Darma who stood on the gangplank, speaking and gesturing angrily. Bakart whispered, “The captain’ll put up a little bit of argument, but then he’ll give in. Anything else would look funny.”

Bakart looked across the deck, bent into a low crouch and hissed, “Keep yer head down.” He crouched and half crawled, half ran to a group of sailors clustered at the seaward side of the ship, all watching the argument proceed on the dock.

Morgin had lost his shadowmagic, but he still knew how to use natural shadows with almost unnatural proficiency. He followed Bakart with ease, and hidden within the group of sailors Bakart showed Morgin a rope ladder attached to the gunwale of the ship. Morgin looked over the side, saw only the first few rungs of the ladder as it disappeared into the darkness below. He couldn’t see the water, though he heard it lapping softly against the side of the ship. “Try to slip easily into the water,” Bakart warned him. “Don’t splash around. Swim quietly down a few docks then try to find some way ashore there.”

Morgin stuck his arm through the loop of rope holding his bundle together and tossed it over his shoulder, then he climbed quietly over the gunwale and stuck his foot in the first rung of the ladder. Bakart grabbed his arm and stopped him for a moment. “One more thing, wizard. Captain says don’t ever ask for passage on the
Far Wind
again. We don’t like having the Wind Daughter as a passenger.”

“The Wind Daughter?” Morgin asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The witch of Simpa, wizard. We all know she controls the winds near Simpa.”

Bakart released his arm and Morgin started down the ladder, recalling AnneRhianne’s parting words.
At long last I am free.
Without even trying he had freed the daughter of the wind, and he realized more than ever he had no control over the events of his life.

In the dark he had to work his way down by searching about for each rung with his toes, and it seemed to take an eternity. He heard the sound of many pairs of heavy boots running across the deck above him. He saw slashes of light from several lanterns cutting into the darkness above him, and he wasn’t sure how much farther he had to go to reach the water. All it would take would be one Penda armsman with enough curiosity to hold his lantern out over the side of the ship and look down.

Morgin kept moving, but feeling his way rung by rung he couldn’t move any faster. The side of the ship had a definite curve to it, and as he got farther down it slanted away from the ladder and left him hanging in open space, and then, as he was searching for the next rung, his toes touched the icy water.

He lowered himself into it quickly without the satisfaction of a good gasp, though the chill forced his breath in and out in shallow gulps. He stayed close to the ship, sliding along its barnacle coated planks, taking advantage of the curve of its side to hide him from any eyes above. He reached the ship’s stern just as the beams from several lanterns shot downward to the water. He froze, held his breath, watched the beams scan back and forth for a few moments. They were thorough, but the curve of the ship’s hull saved him, and then the beams of light moved on and the darkness returned with an even blacker stillness.

He waited for a while to be sure they’d finished searching, then he edged his way around the rudder to the dock side. On the dock above him two lantern-carrying Pendas paced back and forth. The one nearest him seemed bored and indifferent to the whole situation. Morgin watched him pace back and forth a few times, waited for the right moment then pushed away from the ship toward the pilings of the dock.

Underneath the dock he made better time, but his muscles ached from the chill of the water. He found a ladder up the side of an empty dock and coaxed his tired, cold muscles to pull him upward. But when he reached the dock, and climbed up onto its surface, he was not stupid enough to stop and rest as he dearly wanted. He scurried down the length of the dock, found a shallow, blind alley between two warehouses and stepped into it to get dressed.

The alley contained only refuse and litter, and in the darkness of the night its shadows were black and deep. He struggled to get into his soaking wet tunic. It clung to his skin, pulled and tugged and fought him all the way. His boots were in no better shape, and his cloak draped over his shoulders like a wet blanket. In daylight he would not be inconspicuous, even in the oddly assorted crowds of the docks, so he knew he must escape the city before dawn.

He heard shouting in the street, so he stepped into one of the alley’s darker shadows, pulled the hood of his dark cloak tightly about his face and froze.

Two Penda armsmen appeared in the mouth of the alley, swords drawn. “Think he’s in here?” one of them growled, squinting in an effort to see into the shadows. Luckily, neither of them carried a lantern.

His companion stepped past him into the alley a few paces. “If he is he smells like horse shit.”

“Ya. Ain’t nothing here but garbage and shit.”

The two turned and walked out of the alley. Morgin hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, and he exhaled slowly. He buckled his sword comfortably across his back with the hilt protruding above his right shoulder.

He edged his way to the mouth of the alley, stayed hidden in a shadow there and looked carefully up and down the dimly lit street. The Penda’s were sweeping the town and had moved past his hiding place, so he stepped out of the alley and walked casually in the opposite direction.

Morgin made his way out the east end of Toblekan without incident, circled cautiously around the outskirts of the town toward the north. The road to Drapolis ran parallel to the coast, but he had to move cautiously, duck behind a tree or into a clump of bushes if he spotted anyone approaching. He circled carefully around any farm or holding that appeared occupied, and the sun was rising by the time he found the road. So he hiked a good distance off it, crawled into some bushes for concealment, curled his cloak tightly about him, and settled in to wait out the pursuit, maybe get a few miserable hours of sleep.

~~~

As Morddon escaped into the forest surrounding Magwa’s camp he immediately sensed something else lurking in the forest, beings with the strong scent of the netherlife about them. They paced him on all sides as he stumbled through the darkness. And when he stepped into a small clearing he faced a wall of golden-yellow eyes, and he heard the steady rhythm of their breathing. The timbre of it told him these were not small animals. He turned back, only to find they’d closed in behind him, trapped him nicely.

Then an animal the size of a horse sauntered forward on four powerful legs. It approached to within arm’s length, extended its muzzle and sniffed at him, and when it opened its mouth he saw teeth that glowed in the darkness, large, massive canines that could rip out a man’s throat with a single snap. “Mortal,” it growled at him, and he realized then he stood before a hellhound. “You must take a message to your king.”

The hound spoke in a deep rumble. “Tell him the Dane cannot ignore their debt to the Fallen One, and so we cannot battle against him or his new master. But in honor we cannot side with them either, and so until we are released from that debt, we must remain neutral.”

“I will tell him,” Morddon said. He still could see only the golden-yellow eyes and the rows of glowing teeth. “But I must also tell him who sends this message.”

Several of the beasts about him growled low and angry, and Morddon realized too late he’d breached some etiquette of the hellhounds. “There is power in a name,” the beast growled, and in that instant Morgin knew he stood before WolfDane, the hellhound king, though how such knowledge came to him he could not guess.

“I will carry the message, Your Majesty,” Morddon said, and he bowed as one should before a king.

The hellhound king growled angrily, a deep rumble in its throat. His subjects eyed Morddon for a moment, then one by one each pair of eyes winked out and disappeared. The last to leave was WolfDane himself, and Morddon marveled that such monstrous beasts could move so silently through the forest.

He dearly hoped he’d escaped without detection from Magwa’s camp. Only a few hours remained before dawn touched the sky, and with his broken ribs sending stabs of pain through his chest, his progress through the forest slowed to a stagger. He needed every minute of the remaining darkness to distance him from the pursuit that would follow.

There could be no doubt they were tracking him, so he took evasive action, stopped following game trails and cut through the brush itself. But that slowed his progress even further, and too often obstacles that might have been merely difficult had become impossible with his damaged chest, while whoever tracked him was getting closer with each league. Finally, shortly before dawn, he could go no further without rest, so he chose to stop and face his enemy squarely. He searched out a small knoll where they could come at him from only one direction, then found a long branch to use as a fighting staff. It had a slight curve to it, and was a bit too light but would have to do.

Morddon waited, wished he had his sword, wished he had good ribs so he could fight properly and take more of his enemy with him. And then just as dawn broke over the horizon he saw the first of his enemies, probably their best tracker out in front of the horde. The light was still too dim and the distance too great to see more than a vague shadow moving through the forest, but like all jackal warriors it was not large, and often it dropped to all fours as it skirted a short distance of difficult terrain.

It moved furtively, carefully, hiding behind a tree for a few seconds, then scurrying through shadows to another tree. Foolishly, it appeared to be carrying a hot spark of a torch, and it flashed it about above its head in a way that defeated any attempt to conceal its presence. But the way it moved, scuttling through cover quickly, then freezing in place for a few seconds before moving on, it touched one of Morgin’s memories. He was on the verge of recognition when the smell hit Morddon’s nose, vile and disgusting and unfamiliar to Morddon, but all too familiar to Morgin, as familiar as the spark dancing about above the little being’s head. “Rat?” Morddon called. “Laelith?”

Rat scuttled over a rocky outcrop, stopped to swat at the faerie as if she were an insect making a nuisance of herself, then, dragging something metallic behind it, it hopped and limped and stumbled toward Morddon. “I brought your sword, whiteface,” it growled.

It couldn’t lift the heavy sword, but dragged it by the hilt, scraping the blade across the ground. Morddon bent without thought, took the hilt and lifted the sword easily. Again the stench hit Morddon’s nose. “You stink.”

“So do you,” Rat snarled. Laelith dove toward it as if to reprimand it for speaking so to its master, but it disappeared behind a curtain of netherlife and she missed. She followed just as quickly, leaving Morddon alone again, with only Morgin’s thoughts as company.

He stumbled through the forest for two days while Magwa and her warriors hunted him, but Morgin’s shadows made it easy to elude them. His right side hurt too much to hunt or gather any real food. He ate what few berries he happened to stumble across, but that was hardly sufficient and he grew weaker, and his side stiffened with each step. At least he managed to find a gentle stream where he washed the stench of Magwa’s warriors from his body. If only he could wash them from his soul.

Late in the afternoon of the third day he stopped to rest for a short while. He guessed he was about three days by horse from Gilguard’s Ford; on foot at least twice that, and with his injuries at least twice that again. But then the sound of a jaymakaw startled him. He’d seen several jaymakaw’s about fluttering through the air, and no one but a Benesh’ere warrior would have noticed the subtle difference between the cry Morddon had just heard and that of a true jaymakaw. But the difference was there because the cry had been purposefully altered by the throat of a Benesh’ere warrior. And the difference was a question:
Is there danger?

Morddon tilted his head back wearily and returned the call.
No immediate danger. I need help.

Some minutes later a Benesh’ere warrior, whom Morddon recognized as one of Gilguard’s scouts, stepped into view some distance away, and approached Morddon warily. Morddon couldn’t remember the man’s name.

“You’re the madman, aren’t you?” the man asked.