The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (31 page)

The next morning the servants again woke Morgin early and bathed and dressed him for breakfast. That morning, however, Valso held court, and Morgin watched him arbitrate disputes among his vassals, though Valso’s style was to impose his own will by fiat upon each situation, often without listening to all sides of a dispute, sometimes without listening to any side. And he ordered two deaths that morning, though not for criminal acts, but rather for some arbitrary and unclear reasons of his own.

That afternoon they strolled about the edge of a large practice yard inside the castle walls. Soldiers and Kulls in small and large groups filled the yard, often in pairs practicing their sword skills. Occasionally Valso would stop to observe two contestants for a short time, and perhaps to comment, even to interrupt them with some short instruction.

“Tell me, Elhiyne,” Valso said, after they’d finished observing two Kulls cutting away at one another in a rather brutal and rough form of practice. Valso turned and began strolling along the periphery, looking for another pair of contestants. “What did you think of my court this morning?”

Tarkiss, walking beside Valso, looked at Morgin and smiled, and Morgin wondered of this was a trick question of some sort. He glanced down at the young Vodah woman Xenya, but her face showed no hint of how he should answer. He tried to play it safe. “It was efficient.”

“Yes,” Valso said proudly. “It was.”

Morgin had to ask one question. “However, I don’t understand why you ordered the deaths of those two men.”

“Oh that,” Valso said. He looked up in the air and cried, “Snake.”

Bayellgae alighted on his shoulder, its head weaving from side to side. “Massster. How may I ssserve?”

“The Elhiyne wants to know about the deaths I ordered today.”

The little demon turned its eyes on Morgin. “Death isss alwaysss a lesssson, Lord Mortal.”

“Right you are, snake,” Valso said, looking fondly upon the little monster.

Valso turned to Morgin. “I always order a few deaths. And if there’s nothing that comes before me to warrant a death, then I find something. It keeps them guessing, and it reminds them I rule at my pleasure.”

Valso had spoken in such an offhand manner, Morgin wondered if he was being humorous in some sophisticated way. But when Morgin glanced at Xenya and saw her eyes flash fearfully, he knew the truth of Valso’s words.

Valso stopped and turned to face Morgin squarely. “Tell me something else, Elhiyne. You are my guest here. Is there anything you lack?”

Morgin shrugged. “The obvious: my freedom.”

“Why you have freedom of a sort. Certainly more freedom than any peasant.”

Morgin shook his head. “A peasant doesn’t have Kulls at every turn in his path to stop him.”

Valso frowned. “But you’re mistaken. My halfmen won’t hinder you. You have the freedom of the castle, to go where you will, to open any door not bared, and my halfmen have orders to allow you to pass if that is the case. Is there anything else you lack, within reason, of course?”

“Of course,” Morgin said bitterly. He looked out over the practice yard at the soldiers sweating in the sun, at the few noblemen among them exercising their sword arms. “Exercise,” he said as the thought came to him. “I would enjoy the chance to swing a sword, to practice, to sweat a little in the sun. Surely, one lone Elhiyne with a sword would stand little chance of escaping in broad daylight with so many guards about.”

Valso looked at him for a moment suspiciously, but, standing next to him, Tarkiss said, “Perhaps Lord AethonLaw would like to give us a demonstration of his legendary swordsmanship. I’m told you are quite the duelist.”

Morgin shook his head. “All I want is to stretch my muscles a bit. I’m no duelist. In fact I’m quite poor at it.”

“Come now,” Tarkiss said, and the forced politeness of the past days gave way to mockery. “I’m told you’ve killed many of our Kulls.”

Morgin sensed a trap of some kind, and he wanted to avoid it at almost any cost. “Just a few, and that was in combat. No rules. Not even the kind you live by in practice; just survival. Each man fighting for his life. It’s not the kind of thing one can demonstrate.”

Valso looked at Morgin and nodded thoughtfully, then seemed to come to a decision. “I see no reason why you can’t, as you say, stretch your muscles a bit.” He looked out across the practice yard and called loudly, “Salya.”

A Kull lieutenant turned away from his charges and casually crossed the distance to the prince. “Your Highness.”

“Lord AethonLaw needs some exercise. Choose one of your men—a good fighter, but not the best, and about the same size as AethonLaw. And get Lord AethonLaw a sword.”

Surprised, Morgin said, “But it’s not necessary this instant.”

Valso looked at him and smiled. “Oh, but it is. You desire it, you shall have it.” He looked back at the Kull. “Do it. Now!”

The Kull barked out orders, sent one of his halfmen running across the yard to a rack of old arms. The halfman scooped up a dozen blades, ran back across the yard and dumped them at Morgin’s feet with a loud clatter. By that time Salya had chosen Morgin’s opponent: an average looking Kull, meaning he forever looked mean and angry and hateful. He was stripped to the waist, with a sheen of sweat already covering his skin, and a cascade of straight, shoulder length hair. He looked bored by the prospect of exercising with Morgin.

Valso looked at the Kull, then at Morgin. “I do so want to see you at your best.”

He turned to Bayellgae. “What do you think, snake. Can we arrange to see real combat demonstrated here?”

Morgin shook his head and frowned. “That’s not possible.”

Valso’s lips curled upward into a mocking smile, and like Tarkiss, the pretense of civility vanished. “Oh I think it is, Elhiyne. You see I’m giving this Kull permission to kill you as soon as you’ve chosen a blade. No rules, just survival, each man fighting for his life. Fighting to the death. Isn’t that how you described it?”

Xenya gasped, put a hand to her mouth. The Kull smiled and chuckled with a low growl. Valso called out, “Stand back. All of you.” He swept his arms out, indicating everyone should give Morgin and the Kull room. There were quite a number of men and halfman in the yard, but only a few paying close attention to the events taking shape, and those few stepped away cautiously to form a ragged ring about the two contestants.

Morgin stood over the pile of old swords dumped at his feet as Valso called out to him, “Choose a sword, Elhiyne, and fight for your life. Or I’ll give the Kull permission to cut you down where you stand. It’s kill or be killed.”

Morgin looked at the few spectators standing about, and he saw no sympathy there. He shook himself, and being careful not to turn his back on the Kull he unlaced the finely tailored jacket Valso had provided him, shrugged out of it and tossed it aside. It had not been cut for freedom of movement.

Still watching the Kull he squatted down over the pile of derelict blades, started reaching for one to test its weight, but at the last instant a spasm in his arm deflected his hand to the hilt of another blade. And as his hand settled about the grip he experienced a single moment of surprise. But it ended almost as soon as it came, and he recognized his own sword, the old Benesh’ere blade he’d grown so used to.

How it had been retrieved from the bottom of that river he could not guess. There was no rust on it, though it had never shined, and it had aged, as if the few days it had been gone from his side had been centuries to the life of the steel. And the hilt had been rewrapped, though not recently, for the wrapping was old with time and use. But that would indicate the sword had been gone from his side for a long time, perhaps years. So he looked again at the steel, touched it lightly, sensed the voices within it, and any doubt he had disappeared.

The Kull’s boots pounding on the hard packed dirt of the yard were his only warning that the contest had begun. He dove to one side as the halfman’s sword hissed past his throat, turned his dive into a shoulder roll and sprang to his feet. The Kull was on top of him in an instant with a two-handed overhead stroke meant to split him down the middle. He didn’t meet it, but remembering France’s tutelage he deflected it only the amount needed, kicked the Kull in the ribs as the halfman’s blade slammed into the dirt, turned the momentum of his kick into a spin and brought his sword about in a flat arc.

The Kull barely managed to duck beneath it, and even though he came up in an awkward position he did throw his own sword up and parry it strongly. Their swords rang together once and they disengaged.

Morgin bent into a crouch, and he and the Kull circled slowly. Then, as if by mutual consent, they both swung their swords up, and for a few quick strokes they traded blows back and forth. Again, they disengaged and circled slowly.

Morgin thought the Kull had a tendency to over commit his strokes, and he wondered what the Kull thought of him. Again they traded blows, their swords ringing together in a slow, grinding cadence, Morgin watching for the moment when the Kull might over commit himself again. But the Kull changed tactics and lunged at Morgin with a point thrust aimed at his heart. Morgin committed to the thrust, parried it heavily, and realized too late he’d exposed his ribs.

The Kull’s boot caught him just under the armpit with a solid thud. He grunted, tried to ignore the pain, spun into a kick of his own that caught the Kull in the solar plexus. They both stumbled away from one another and fell to the ground.

Morgin scrambled to his feet with less speed than he would have liked. But the Kull moved no faster as he struggled off his knees clutching his abdomen and sucking for air. They dove at each other again, traded more blows and kicks. Morgin caught the Kull squarely in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, was amazed that an instant later the halfman managed to dodge a flat slice meant to take off his head. Then the Kull cut him badly across the hip with a glancing thrust that just barely missed gutting him. Morgin spun inside the Kull’s guard and locked hand to hand, the Kull’s free hand clutching the wrist of Morgin’s sword arm, Morgin’s free hand clutching the wrist of the Kull’s sword arm, chest-to-chest, face-to-face.

The Kull jerked his head back, butted Morgin in the nose with his forehead. The pain brought tears to Morgin’s eyes and he felt a hot stream of blood flood his lips and chin. The Kull butted him in the cheek just under his right eye, then the halfman’s teeth flashed, going for Morgin’s throat. Morgin ducked his head, drove upward and caught the halfman under the chin, driving his head back and over balancing him. The Kull tumbled backward; Morgin tumbled with him, tried to keep his head beneath the Kull’s chin as he landed on top of him. They hit the ground with their sword arms still immobilized in each other’s grip, Morgin’s nose and cheek pressed against the exposed skin of the Kull’s throat so the Kull couldn’t get his teeth on Morgin’s throat. Without thought he opened his mouth, and like a wild animal at the kill he buried his teeth in the halfman’s throat, felt the Kull’s larynx crushed in his jaws.

The Kull struggled frantically, and with a desperate effort broke his sword hand free. Morgin bit down on the halfman’s throat even harder, felt his teeth sinking in as he shifted his weight to immobilize the upper half of the Kull’s wildly swinging sword arm. The Kull’s sword bit into Morgin’s back, but chest-to-chest, and for the most part pinned to the ground, the halfman could put no strength behind it. And then inevitably, second by second by second, with Morgin’s teeth buried in the Kull’s throat the halfman’s struggles slowed, his partially immobilized sword arm began striking down with only a halfhearted effort, and he relaxed his grip on Morgin’s sword arm.

Morgin waited until the Kull grew still, then he opened his mouth and rolled off the halfman, careful to roll onto the Kull’s sword arm in case there was a last breath of life in him. He lay on his back for a moment catching his breath, conscious of each of his injuries though not of how serious they might be, listening to the silence of the castle yard about him and the thunder of his own heartbeat. And in that silence he heard a gurgling rasp of breath coming from the Kull. Morgin looked at the man, at the throat half torn away. The Kull was still alive, drowning slowly in his own blood. Morgin vomited up his breakfast.

Only a few minutes earlier Morgin would never have believed he could feel pity for a Kull. But now with a great deal of effort he struggled to his feet, stood over the slowly dying halfman, reversed the hilt of his sword so he held it in both hands point down, then buried it in the halfman’s chest. The Kull flinched once, and then his struggles ceased and he lay still.

Morgin looked up and found a sea of silent faces surrounding him. Everyone who had been in the castle yard had gathered to watch the spectacle, and now they all stood in a circle about him mutely staring at him. They were mostly soldiers, many of them Kulls, a few of the Kulls nodding carefully. They approved. The Kulls accepted him and respected him for killing with such brutal efficiency.

“Very good, Elhiyne,” Valso called, stepping forward into the circle of onlookers. He began applauding loudly. “Excellent. As you said, no rules, just survival.”

Morgin looked at Valso, turned and started toward him, and the look in his eyes must have said something to everyone for they flinched collectively and reached for their swords. Even Valso flinched for a moment, but when Morgin left his sword still standing in the dead Kull’s chest he relaxed. In that instant Morgin realized he had the greatest chance, and without thinking further he dove for the Decouix prince, wrapped his hands about his throat and crushed down with all his strength.

He dug his thumbs into Valso’s larynx and felt it snap and crumble, saw the prince’s eyes bulge even as he sensed that vast gulf of power rise up to protect him. But Morgin didn’t care. There was no power that could frighten him now, nor pry open the white knuckled death grip squeezing the life from Valso. Morgin did not care even as that monstrous chasm of power struck at him, and he cared not even as it devoured him.

~~~