The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (30 page)

Up the street the smith was headed their way, carrying a large hammer like a club. But just then pounding of hooves on the road broke the stillness of the quiet village. The smith stopped, turned and looked back over his shoulder. The door to the inn swung open. A young Rastanna nobleman, sword in hand, his tunic half tucked into his breeches, stood in the doorway for an instant blinded by the morning light. Morgin kicked him in the groin then spun and dove into Mortiss’ saddle just as a troop of mounted Rastanna soldiers thundered into view at the northeast end of town. He and France spurred their horses into a charge away from the soldiers and out the opposite end of town. They gained a little time as the troop stopped at the inn to retrieve their master, but the Rastannas took up the chase quickly.

A short distance out of the village Morgin and France turned northwest off the road. They both knew they were on their own now, that it would do no good to lead their pursuers back to Cort and Val and Tulellcoe, so they cut across open countryside away from their companions.

For the next two days they played cat and mouse with any number of Rastanna posses, and more than once Morgin wished for his shadowmagic again. Even France expressed a desire to see a bit of it here and there. Late the second day they found another road and headed northeast on it. They traveled without rest through that night, walking their horses when the animals reached their limits. The next morning they cut off the road again, turned due east across open country, found a small forest about midday and set camp for some rest. They slept poorly through that afternoon.

After sunset they moved on, but near midnight they noticed a sharp glow on the horizon. They investigated further, and in the middle of the night, from a small nearby hill, they found themselves looking down upon Castle Rastanna. Like Elhiyne it had a good-sized village outside its gates, but here the huts and buildings of the village hugged the castle wall and spread outward from it.

Clearly, the countryside had been alerted to the presence of the outlaw wizard, for even in the middle of the night a hundred torches lit the castle while riders charged in and out of its gates. “They’ll be expectin’ us to go south,” France whispered. “Try to make for Yestmark. So our best bet is to head north, maybe northeast.”

“But that’ll take us toward Durin,” Morgin said.

France shrugged. “What difference does it make? You’re no less of an outlaw here or there, but they won’t expect you there. And we got no choice.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Morgin said, and they headed northeast.

The next morning they ran out of trail rations, but Morgin discovered he still had the forgotten biscuits in his pockets, though they were stale and somewhat crumbled. He shared them with France.

For the next three days they rode north and east living off the land, though not living well. They snared a few hares, found an occasional bush plump with berries. Once they even came across an apple orchard and ate apples until almost sick. But finally they decided to take the chance of stopping in a village for supplies. They were now far enough north they had some hope they’d left the hunt behind.

They chose a village not much different from the one with the suspicious smith and the fat innkeeper, though this one was a little bigger and located at a crossroads. It had more huts and buildings, and a more spacious inn. But like the other place the common room still smelled of soot and mildew. And the innkeeper was a large, heavyset man, though not roundly obese like the other fellow.

Morgin and France road into the village just before dusk. About a dozen patrons occupied the common room talking in low tones and sipping on some of the local ale. A wandering bard sitting in one corner strummed on a stringed instrument singing for his meal. Clearly, these people were more accustomed to strangers, for they paid no heed to Morgin and France as they sat down at an empty table. They ordered up meat, bread, cheese and ale, and ate their fill. Then drowsy with fatigue and full stomachs they sat back to listen to the bard as he sang a soft love song, then followed that with a rollicking jig.

When the innkeeper brought the bard his meal he stopped playing and concentrated on eating. But someone called out, “What news have you from the south?”

The bard swallowed a large bite of cheese, washed it down with a gulp of ale. “They’re searching all over the place for those Elhiyne outlaws. They haven’t caught any of them though, but they’ve been seen a few times and chased about a bit.” He tore off a mouthful of meat, chewed for a few moments and swallowed. “They think they’ve split up, that a few of them are headed this way, though I can’t understand why Elhiynes would do that. Seems a bit crazy to me.”

Someone remarked, “One of ‘em’s that ShadowLord, and we all know how crazy them wizards are.” The speaker was answered with silence, for it could be dangerous to agree with such a remark.

Morgin and France adjourned to their room, slept well that night, arose early the next morning and bought some provisions. They stocked up on journeycake and jerky, but too they bought some perishables so they could do a little cooking if they found a good place for a fire. They were back on the road two hours after sunrise and riding at an easy pace.

They spent that night far enough from the road to conceal a fire, got a full night’s sleep and woke up refreshed. The next morning, after a few hours of riding the road turned due east. They considered following it for a good distance then turning south and taking a circuitous route to Yestmark. But then they both heard the faint sound of a large group of men riding hard on the road behind them.

France swore. “Somebody back in that village recognized us.”

At that moment the posse rounded a bend far back in the road, saw the two fugitives and pulled to a sudden halt. The leader called out to them. “Stand and identify yourselves.” Several members of the posse pulled their swords.

France looked at Morgin. “I think we’d best be gettin’ out of here, eh lad?”

Morgin nodded, spurred his horse into a charge with France hot on his heels. They rode hard for a league until the road turned north. There they cut off the road and continued east across open country, and every time Morgin looked back the posse had gained on them. They rode for most of the day, pacing their horses to stay just ahead of the posse. But then they topped a small rise and found themselves on the banks of a river.

The water looked cold and icy as it roared past them in a swirling froth, tumbling over rocks in places, fountaining into the air in others. “We can’t cross that,” France shouted above the roar. “Maybe downstream it’ll be a bit calmer.”

They turned north, paralleling the river, and in the distance the Rastanna posse turned north also, intending to cut them off. Morgin gave Mortiss free rein, letting her pick her own way through the brush along the riverbank. The river turned west toward the posse, and then it made an even sharper jog, forming a long spit of land bordered on three sides by the bend in the river, and too late he and France realized their mistake. The posse had closed off their only exit from the spit of land. They were trapped.

Morgin looked down at the river. The water was calmer here, smooth and glassy on the surface, with no rocks to break it up into a white-water froth, though it still flowed dangerously fast. “Well,” Morgin demanded of France. “Do we fight or swim?”

France looked back at the posse. “I like me chances in the water better.”

Morgin nodded, spurred Mortiss’ flanks and she plunged into the icy water. She snorted, catching her breath while he gasped a few times. But then she got into the swim and started doing well. A moment later he heard France’s horse plunge in behind him.

There was a certain calm on the surface of the water. The banks that rose up on either side muffled all sounds, even that of the posse after they arrived and stood on the bank cursing at their Elhiyne prey. Mortiss’ exertions became a steady rhythm beneath Morgin as the opposite bank drew closer with each second.

They made nice progress, but the river carried them much too rapidly downstream, and they were only half way across when he caught the faint sound of a muffled roar. And then he rounded a bend and the river straightened out, and in the distance he saw a hump in the water where it flowed over a large boulder just beneath the surface. He spurred Mortiss and cried, “Swim, girl, swim!”

Mortiss doubled her efforts, but the river flowed too rapidly. They missed the rock itself, but the swirling, twisting water that flowed around it upended them. Morgin tumbled head over heels in a soup of white bubbles. He slammed up against something painfully, tried desperately to get his head above water, managed to see daylight for an instant and catch a single breath of air, then again he plunged beneath the surface and clutched desperately for something to hold on to.

His tunic caught on a large branch and he came to a sudden stop, though he was still in the flow of the water and he tumbled around like a tether in a harsh wind. Only when his tunic finally twisted up too tightly for him to tumble more did he stabilize, but he was just beneath the surface with his lungs bursting. He struggled in the flow, managed to reach his dagger, gripped it tightly in his right hand, used his left to guide it toward the twisted knot of tunic that held him anchored there, then began sawing at the knot in his tunic.

How he managed to saw through it he could never later remember, nor how he managed to keep his grip on the branch, nor how he managed to find the strength to pull himself out of the flow that sucked at him like the power of the netherworld itself. But he did manage these things, and an eternity later he crawled up on the bank of the river. He’d lost the dagger somewhere in the river.

He didn’t have the strength to rise up off his hands and knees, but from that position he glanced down the bank, and a short distance away saw France’s horse lying lifeless, its neck twisted at an odd angle. He saw no sign of Mortiss or France.

He heard voices, Kull voices. Instinctively he reached for his sword, but the sheath strapped to his side was empty. Like the dagger it lay somewhere at the bottom of the river, lost forever. He struggled to remain conscious, to rise up onto his feet. He managed to get one foot beneath him. But there were several pairs of Kull boots standing in front of him, and as one boot rose up off the ground and arced toward his face, he didn’t have the strength to escape it.

Chapter 17: Decouix Power

Morgin regained consciousness sitting with his back to a tree. Two Kulls stood over him, their swords drawn. They had removed his sword sheath and discarded it, and the side of his head hurt where the Kull had kicked him. “What of my friend?” he asked the Kulls. “The swordsman?”

The Kulls stared at him and showed no inclination to answer his question. Then a familiar voice spoke, “The swordsman is dead.”

Morgin turned to one side, found Tarkiss standing over him smiling happily. “He washed up on the bank of the river about a league from here. Evidently he tried to breathe water.”

An emptiness formed deep within Morgin’s heart and he wanted to cry, but he would not give this Rastanna the pleasure of seeing him do so.

“You’re on Decouix land now,” Tarkiss continued. “And there’ll be no further escape.”

They treated Morgin rather well after that. They gave him a horse, tied his hands to the saddle horn rather than behind his back, gave his reins to one of the Kulls. There didn’t beat him, and they fed him regularly and properly.

They headed due east. Morgin lost count of the days as each morning they arose, washed up, ate, then rode on. They’d stop around noon for a short rest and a meal, then continue on until dusk, at which time they’d set camp, eat, then go to sleep. Morgin no longer cared where they took him nor what they intended to do with him, until finally they came to a wide and well-traveled road running north and south. “Where are we?” he asked.

Tarkiss grinned. “This is the God’s Road.”

Morgin thought carefully of what he knew of the God’s Road, the main thoroughfare running from Inetka in the south, to Durin in the north, and as the implication of that hit him, Tarkiss’ grin broadened. “Lord Valso will reward me handsomely for delivering you in good condition.”

They followed the road north through the rest of that day, camped near the road that night and arose early the following morning to continue their journey. Morgin noticed that the small farms and holdings they passed were now closer together, and the same was true of the hamlets and villages along the road. Then they came to a stretch of road that cut through a number of large and apparently luxurious estates, and after that they entered a city of huts and low-lying buildings.

Durin had more than one market, and a lot of people busily going about their business. They paid no heed to Tarkiss and the Kulls, and as for Morgin, it would require a close examination to notice that his hands were tied to the saddle horn, that he was more than just another trail-weary soldier without sword or shield.

When Morgin first spotted the wall he thought it might be Castle Decouix itself, but it was much too long to be the outer wall of a castle. Somewhere he’d heard Durin was a walled city, but he’d never truly understood what that meant until now.

Once they passed beneath the wall the character of the city changed. The buildings behind the wall were all multistoried, and separated by narrow, cobblestoned streets. Again no one took notice of the prisoner among the Kulls.

The length of the ride from the wall to the castle impressed Morgin with the size of the city, but Decouix impressed him even more. The castle loomed above everything at the center of the city. It stood alone, with a wide parade ground separating it from any other structure and surrounding it on all sides. There were two motes, one immediately beneath the wall, and another at the outer edge of the parade ground, separating the empty stretch of land from the city proper. Decouix would be difficult to take by force.

For the moment a drawbridge had been lowered over each of the two motes, and the portcullis in the main castle gates had been raised. Tarkiss halted at the outer drawbridge, took Morgin’s reins himself, then spurred his horse into a slow walk. And as the hooves of Morgin’s horse pounded on the planks of the first bridge, he noticed movement on the battlements above the castle gate. Looking up he saw Valso standing there, staring down at him without expression. Something hovered near Valso’s head, then settled on his shoulder: the demon flying snake, Bayellgae.

The journey across the parade ground took an eternity under Valso’s gaze. And just before they passed beneath the outer wall of Decouix Tarkiss raised Morgin’s reins triumphantly above his head and waved them at Valso. Valso nodded, but still he showed no expression, and then Morgin’s horse stepped into the shadow beneath the wall and he could no longer see the prince of Decouix.

~~~

Still, they did not treat him badly. They assigned him a suite of rooms high up in the castle, servants to cater to his needs, and several suits of fine and expensive clothing. They bathed him carefully, threw away the tattered and grimy rags he’d been wearing on the trail, shaved off his beard and cut his hair. And standing there in one of his rooms with his servants about him, no one would guess he was nothing less than a prince of the House of Elhiyne. But outside every window or door, and even on the balconies that opened off the bedroom and sitting room, there stood at least two heavily armed Kulls.

Late in his first afternoon in Decouix the servants dressed him for dinner, then with an escort of six Kulls they led him down several flights of stairs and through the corridors of Decouix. He was hopelessly lost, though that didn’t appear to be their intention. They halted just outside a large room with high vaulted ceilings and filled with elegantly dressed courtiers. Morgin heard them talking in low tones, carrying on a dozen conversations with an occasional laugh.

The servants indicated he should enter the room, and when he did all there looked his way, and a silence as thick as honey descended. Morgin looked back, noticed the Kulls had not followed him into the room, guessed one or two waited discretely behind every exit.

Tarkiss stepped out of the crowd, greeted Morgin pleasantly. “Lord AethonLaw,” he said. “You look much better.” He held a goblet of wine in one hand, and with the other he flagged down a servant with a tray full of similar goblets. He took one and handed it to Morgin. “Drink and enjoy yourself, AethonLaw. Lord Valso is celebrating tonight.”

Morgin took the goblet of wine. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

Tarkiss turned a patronizing smile on Morgin. “Need you ask?”

Morgin didn’t want to talk to Tarkiss, and he felt no obligation to be more than minimally polite, so he turned away from the young Rastanna, sipped on his wine and stepped through the crowd.

Slowly the buzz of idle conversation returned, as if out of politeness they were all trying to avoid staring at him. But he caught the surreptitious looks and silent glances, and he knew he was a curiosity. He had no destination in mind as he walked through the crowd, so he moved slowly and let the crowd part before him.

A pretty, young girl stepped in front of him and forced him to halt. She threw her skirts out and curtsied in a very formal way. “Lord AethonLaw.”

Morgin bowed. “You have the advantage of me.”

She rose and stood facing him. “I am Xenya et Vodah, of the House of Vodah.”

Morgin revised his opinion of her. She was young, but she was a strong and proud woman. She stood her ground before him without flinching. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

She smiled with a bit of mischief in her eyes. “I’m not sure. You’re a curiosity to me.”

“I do believe I’m a curiosity to everyone here.”

“Well of course you are. You singlehandedly defeated an army that outnumbered you twelve to one.”

Morgin shook his head. “The odds weren’t that extreme. And besides, I used both hands.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “And you have a sense of humor too.” She looked about unhappily at the people around them. “That’s a refreshing change from my kinsmen who cower under the Decouix yoke.”

“Xenya!” an older woman hissed nearby, and stepped forward to grab the young woman by the arm. “Watch your tongue.”

“Oh come now, mother,” Xenya said. “The only reason Valso likes me about is because of my sharp tongue. In fact, I do believe . . .”

Morgin stopped paying attention, for deep within his soul he sensed something within the castle that sent a shiver up his spine and raised the hackles on the back of his neck. And it drew closer with each heartbeat, something evil beyond imagining, something old beyond life itself. He sensed a chasm of power opening before him, a depth of magic so vast it threatened to overwhelm him. Thankfully, it did not sense him, not as anything more than a simple human being, not as something that could sense its true nature.

A set of large, double doors opened at one end of the room. Silence again descended upon them all as the crowd parted to reveal Valso standing in the doorway with a woman on each arm. Haleen, his mad sister, hung on his left arm almost desperately, while on his right stood an older version of Valso. Looking into the long, gracious lines of her face Morgin understood then where the Decouix prince had gotten his beauty.

The crowd parted, forming a long aisle from Valso to Morgin. Valso walked toward him accompanied by the two women, nodding politely to one side or another. When he reached Morgin the silence grew almost oppressive, and Morgin noted that even the brash, young Xenya had withdrawn.

“Well, Elhiyne,” Valso said. His voice held no triumph, none of the bluster or bragging Morgin expected. “We’ve finally come to this, eh?”

“Is it final?” Morgin asked.

“Of course it is. Surely you realize I have to kill you, even if only because these people expect it of me. Though I don’t have to kill you right away, do I?” He looked at the older woman on his right arm. “But I’m ignoring the amenities. May I present my mother, the Lady Merriketh esk et Decouix.”

Morgin bowed politely. “I’m honored.”

The woman said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge him, looked through him with a stare that could have put icicles on the gates of the ninth hell.

“And of course you know my sister Haleen,” Valso continued, looking at the younger woman. She in turn looked at Morgin, and her chin quivered for a moment as if she had something to say. But before she could do so Valso said, “Let us adjourn to dinner. Come, Elhiyne. You’ll sit beside me tonight.”

Valso and Morgin and the crowd moved to a long and narrow banquet hall containing an equally long and narrow table. Valso sat at its head, with Morgin on his left, Ladies Merriketh and Haleen on his right, and Tarkiss immediately beneath them in the order of seating, a place of honor for the young Rastanna.

Valso treated Morgin like an honored guest. There were no confrontations, no threats, no further mention of his fate. Young Xenya wisely kept her mouth shut while Tarkiss told of the hunt and the chase, and finally Morgin’s capture, though Tarkiss told it more as an interesting story, with little bravado and no innuendo.

Morgin noticed a hint of tension between the Lady Merriketh and her son, almost as if she too feared Valso. He also noted a certain bitterness in her, a marked lack of joy. But throughout the evening his thoughts kept returning to that vast chasm of power hidden within Valso’s soul.

Morgin gave up trying to understand these things. Given time, understanding would come, if he lived long enough.

~~~

Surrounded by an escort of six Kulls, Morgin wondered at their destination as they led him deep into the bowels of Decouix. They’d come for him in late afternoon, and told him only, “You are to come with us.”

Deeper and deeper into Decouix they led him, and he thought it quite possible Valso would now have him thrown into a dungeon. But the halls down which they led him had not the dank and musty smell of a dungeon, were in fact quite clean and well kept. And then he felt the pull of power at the edge of his senses, and he understood they were approaching something quite unique.

At the end of a long hall the Kulls halted before an open portal. Then they parted and waited silently for him to pass between them through the portal. He hesitated, for he sensed an enormous amount power beyond the portal, so like, but at the same time so unlike, that in the sanctum at Elhiyne.

“Come, Elhiyne,” Valso called from beyond the portal. “You have nothing to fear from Decouix power, at least as long as I choose that you need not fear it. Come forth, now, or I’ll have you dragged in here.”

Morgin stepped forward hesitantly, realizing the Kulls had brought him to the Decouix sanctum. The power within pulled at him, and like the power at Elhiyne it demanded he take it up, allow it to enter his soul. When he stepped through the portal his stomach knotted up and he staggered under the onslaught.

“Yes, Elhiyne, the Decouix power is a fearful thing, is it not?”

Morgin pressed his back to the wall inside the sanctum, struggled to breathe, took in deep gulping breaths. Valso laughed; the prince thought him cowed by the Decouix power, assaulted by it, fearful of it, when in fact it wanted him to wield it just as the Elhiyne power had. He didn’t understand why the Decouix power, accumulated in this room for centuries, called to him like a servant to its master. And without understanding more he dare not trust anything about it.

Valso gripped him by his arm and led him out through the portal as one might lead a child, and once in the hall beyond, the oppressive and stifling nature of the power waned. Morgin leaned against a wall and fought to control his breathing.

“Yes, Elhiyne, I knew you would find Decouix power a frightening thing. No doubt, even terrifying to one such as you.”

Morgin dare not tell him he wanted to take up that power as much as it longed for him to do so.

~~~

The next morning the servants woke Morgin early, bathed and dressed him for breakfast, which, like dinner, was a moderately formal affair in the sophisticated atmosphere of House Decouix. Then Valso, accompanied by Bayellgae and an entourage of about twenty, and escorted by two twelves of Kulls, took Morgin on a tour of the city of Durin.

Durin was by far the largest city he had ever seen, making Anistigh seem like a small, backwater place. But they saw so much in so little time Morgin’s memories of Durin were a blur of sights and sounds. And then there was Valso himself: suave, sophisticated, handsome, concealing the malicious and hateful side of his nature for some reason, allowing Morgin an extended glimpse of a charming and entertaining man. It put Morgin on edge, constantly wondering when the true Valso would emerge, for there was no doubt he would show himself, and probably to Morgin’s detriment.