The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (33 page)

“A new-born child, straight from the womb. But where did they find such a child?”

Merriketh walked over to the window and looked out at the city. “Our two families are so tightly coupled by fate. As a young man my husband raped your grandmother’s sister Hellis, and she bore your uncle Tulellcoe. And as a young man your uncle Tulellcoe and my daughter Haleen fell in love. But neither clan would condone such a union, and so Olivia and Illalla took steps to insure they would not meet again. But unbeknown to us all they had lain together and conceived a child, though even to this day I doubt your uncle knows the child existed. But when born, Illalla took it from Haleen, and Valso sacrificed it to the Dark God. And now that spell is coming to fruition.”

“And what will that be?”

“I know not,” she said, then sighed wearily and turned toward the door. She hesitated there but did not look back as she spoke. “I have tried to love my son, but I can love him no more than he loves me, and I can hate him no less.”

~~~

Sa’umbra the dream: two vast armies facing one another, Aethon arrayed in his finery. Morgin had dreamt it so many times he knew every detail with intimate familiarity. Though always before he’d dreamt it from within Aethon’s soul, the great Shahotma, and then it had possessed the sense of a dream, the ethereal character of unreality. But now he dreamed it from behind the eyes of Morddon, a lowly Benesh’ere mercenary, and the dream was all too real.

Morddon looked out over the field of death, at the bodies strewn haphazardly across the Gap. A strange calm had descended, quiet and still. For the past three days the two armies had fought sorties; small and large skirmishes, like two combatants testing each other’s reflexes, seeking a weakness or blind spot. But now they sought the end, the finish, and as dawn broke slowly behind the forces of the Shahotma, a new tension filled the air.

“Master.”

Morddon turned to face the voice, found a young Benesh’ere warrior standing respectfully behind him with considerable awe upon his face. The young warrior bowed deeply and dropped to one knee, as they’d all taken to doing now that they thought he was the last of the SteelMasters. Morddon had tried to tell them he was no SteelMaster, that he was not righting any wrongs, but his pleas always fell on deaf ears.

“Master, the Shahotma requests your presence.”

Morddon nodded. “Lead on.”

He followed the young warrior to Aethon’s tent, expecting to find another council of war, but instead he found the Shahotma waiting alone. Morddon dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty.”

Aethon shook his head and impatiently pleaded, “Arise, Morddon. Please don’t stand on formality now. I feel too alone.”

Morddon understood what the young king meant. He’d felt the same isolation all his life, especially now that he’d been elevated to the exalted status of SteelMaster.

“I’m frightened, Morddon.”

Morddon looked into Aethon’s eyes, saw a frightened boy hiding behind the demeanor of a young man, a young king. “There’s nothing wrong with being frightened. We’re all frightened. In fact a certain amount of fear is healthy before a battle.”

“But we’ve lost so many battles lately, and there’s little hope we can win this one.”

Morddon shook his head. “But this battle between two armies counts for naught in the scheme of things. The only battle that counts will be that between you and Beayaegoath, and the swords you carry.”

Aethon shuddered, closed his eyes. “That’s what I’m frightened of.”

Again Morddon shook his head. “But don’t you see. On that battlefield the slate is clean. Your army is outnumbered six to one, but you and the Dark One are evenly matched. They can slaughter all of the rest of us, but if you defeat Him then we are all victorious.”

Aethon frowned and had difficulty choosing his words. “There is within me . . . There is within me another soul that haunts my soul. He’s been with me for some time now, though not until recently did I realize his identity.” Aethon smiled, as if remembering a pleasant thought. “I met him first in my dreams. I called him Lord Mortal. He is a handsome young wizard from a time I do not know, and he was searching for the Unnamed King so he could find his own name. But now he’s just frightened. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing in my soul, and I don’t know what to tell him.”

Morddon chose not to speak of the fact that Lord Mortal now haunted his soul, for then he would have to admit he already knew the outcome of the battle to come.

A guard entered the tent. “Your Majesty, Lord TarnThane sends his regards. Dawn is upon us, and the hordes are gathering for battle.”

Aethon straightened and stood erect, and the image of the frightened young boy disappeared, replaced by that of a proud and mighty king. “Tell Lord TarnThane I’ll be out shortly.”

Morddon helped Aethon put on his armor. They worked in silence, both of them trapped within their own thoughts.

~~~

The morning began with a series of skirmishes as each side struggled for position. The lay of the pass had not changed from that of Morgin’s time, or rather, it would not change by Morgin’s time. Both roads, that from the east and that from the west, opened out on opposite sides of Csairne Glen, the Glen clear and carpeted with grass. The center of the Glen was slightly lower than either end, both sides sloping gently down toward the middle, as if to pull the two armies together for the bloodletting. By midday both armies had drawn up at either end of the Glen, and in anticipation of the final battle all of the small skirmishes came to an end.

While Aethon’s generals positioned the various units of his army, Aethon nudged his horse forward a few dozen paces and stopped to survey the landscape before him. Behind him, and a bit to one side, Morddon watched him closely, knowing what would come.

Aethon sat upright in his saddle, his head snapped toward the middle of the Glen and his attention seemed riveted there. Morddon looked that way, and though he saw nothing he knew Aethon looked upon the apparition of his own death slowly limping toward him. Morddon followed the progress of the apparition by the tilt of Aethon’s head as he watched it approach, then stop just out of reach. Then slowly, Aethon drew his sword and raised it to point at the apparition, though to Morddon’s eyes he pointed at an empty patch of ground. And as Morgin had said in his own past, though in Morddon’s future, Aethon demanded, “Name yourself, demon.”

The apparition was not meant for Morddon’s eyes, and its answer was not meant for his ears, but nevertheless he knew the words it spoke. “I am AethonDeath, my lord, and I have come for you.”

Morgin had panicked at the sight of MorginDeath, had screamed, “Be gone. Leave me. You cannot have me.” But Aethon, with the bearing of a true king, merely nodded for a moment, then shrugged and said, “So be it.”

Guessing that the apparition had now departed, Morddon nudged Mortiss forward. Aethon turned to look at him, his face as white as the specter that had stood before him moments earlier. But as the color returned to his face, he said, “I’ve seen my own death, Morddon.”

Morddon nodded. “I know.”

“You know so much, my Benesh’ere friend. Do you know the outcome of this battle?”

Morddon stared out over the battlefield and refused to answer the question.

“I thought as much,” Aethon said.

One of the generals rode up behind them. “We’re ready, sire.”

Aethon looked out across the Glen. “And it looks like our friends across the way are ready also. Stay close to me, Morddon. Stay close to me.”

“I will, my king.”

For that day’s slaughter Morddon had chosen a good-sized broadsword, and as the two armies charged at each other and met with a roar, he laid death about himself with an efficiency born of years of practice. The battle raged on through that afternoon without letup and Morddon did stay close to Aethon. But near dusk the vagaries of battle separated them, and later Morddon understood fate had intervened, for as darkness enveloped them it brought with it the Dark God, and all ran screaming before the might of evil that came upon the land.

~~~

Morgin squatted down on his heals over the pile of derelict blades, and as always his hand could choose only the one blade that seemed to be his destiny. He stood up, didn’t bother to test the weight or balance of the steel, looked at the crowd gathered about him. Like him they wondered who Valso would find to fight him now that he had defeated one of the best among the Kulls.

As always Morgin sensed Valso shortly before he arrived. He sensed him by the vast chasm of power that opened before him whenever the Decouix prince came near. But this day the sense of that power struck him like a sword, for it had the same taste as the power that had come to Csairne Glen to devour the army of the Shahotma that day long ago, and he wondered at that.

Morgin stood alone in the middle of a large cleared space where none of the onlookers dared venture, and as Valso joined him the crowd murmured. Valso looked at Morgin carefully, then at the crowd, and when he raised his hands they cheered riotously. He kept his hands raised through the cheers, until slowly the noise died and a hushed stillness settled over them all.

When all was quiet Valso spoke, “I have no doubt you’re all wondering who will fight the Elhiyne this day. He has defeated the best among my Kulls, and so I must look beyond the ranks of the halfmen. So where do I look, and who will I find?”

He turned slowly as he spoke, addressing the entire crowd and drawing their attention with practiced ease. “Should I look to the ranks of my noblemen?”

“Yes,” the crowd screamed, desiring a true contest, not merely an exhibition of butchery.

“No,” he told them, shaking his head. “My noblemen cannot fight without using their power, and for this poor Elhiyne, who is bereft of his power, that would be an unfair contest.”

The crowd murmured its agreement, for none of them wanted to see an easy victory.

“Well then, where should I look?”

The crowd grumbled in confusion and disappointment, until Valso threw his hands up again and signaled for silence. “I know where to look,” he shouted. “I know the best swordsman in Durin, a man who can fight this Elhiyne without the use of power and still stand victorious. I know where to look, because I know to look to myself.” Valso finished by drawing his own sword and waving it above his head, and the crowd screamed out its approval.

A knot formed in Morgin’s stomach. Valso was the better swordsman, and they both knew it.

Valso threw off his coat, turned to face Morgin and crouched, ready to fight him. The crowd became still.

“You know I’m no duelist,” Morgin said.

Valso smiled. “And this is no duel. This is a fight—no rules, just survival—to the death.”

Morgin had no choice so he nodded and extended his sword. They circled for a moment, then Valso sprang forward with a flurry of blows, forcing Morgin to back step desperately. But then he saw an opening: exposed ribs waiting for a well-placed boot, so Morgin kicked out, but Valso was no longer there, and fire danced up Morgin’s leg as Valso nicked him with his sword. They disengaged and began circling again.

“Good try, Elhiyne,” Valso said with a smile. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

Valso was playing with him. The Decouix prince could have taken off his leg at the knee, but that would have ended the match too quickly. In desperation Morgin decided to go on the offensive. He attacked Valso with a flurry of cuts, but the Decouix deflected them easily, turning one of Morgin’s strokes and cutting him on the cheek. Again they disengaged.

They circled for a moment, then Valso spun in and struck down with his sword. Morgin deflected it, struck back, dodged a thrust and elbowed Valso in the solar plexus. The Decouix grunted, and as he staggered away Morgin pressed his advantage, bringing his sword around in a flat arc. But Valso regained his composure, stepped away from it easily, struck back with a combination of strokes, slipped beneath Morgin’s guard and nicked him in the ribs, though as they disengaged Morgin cut Valso on the shoulder.

Valso was a born swordsman, whether dueling or just fighting for his life, though oddly Morgin and he seemed almost evenly matched in this kind of combat. But Morgin knew Valso was using a small hint of that vast power at his command, just enough to make the difference, though not enough to be detected by the crowd. And as the match progressed he made a fool of Morgin, cutting him time and again, dropping him in the dirt, kicking or punching him. Occasionally Morgin got in a blow, or a cut, but only because Valso didn’t want his use of power to be obvious. Clearly, he wanted to give the crowd a good, long show, slowly wearing Morgin down. And while at first they had appeared evenly matched, it slowly became obvious Valso was in control, for Morgin had gone down into the dirt six times to Valso’s one, and he was cut in a dozen places where Valso had been touched by Morgin’s sword only twice.

Morgin could barely lift his sword, but he would not give up. If Valso was going to kill him then he was determined to die fighting. He attacked the Decouix, cut down then across, down then across, kicked out at an exposed knee. But Valso sidestepped the blow, kicked Morgin in the ribs, then caught him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword and Morgin went down.

He almost lost consciousness, lying face down in the dirt, and he did lose his sword. But as he groped for it he felt cold steel touching the back of his neck and he froze. Valso stood over him with the tip of his sword resting on Morgin’s spine.

The crowd went wild screaming for his blood, but Valso raised his free hand and silenced them. “You want the Elhiyne’s life?” he asked them.

The mob screamed its reply. “Yes. Kill him.”

Valso shook his head. “But I want it too. We all know who is the better swordsman, and I have uses for him alive.”

Valso stepped back a few paces and sheathed his sword. Bayellgae streaked across the yard and settled on his shoulder. “Massster. I am pleasssed you were victoriousss.”

Valso looked at the little demon snake curled on his shoulder and stroked the top of its head with a finger. “Perhaps I’ll give him to you, for who can survive your venom?”