The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (35 page)

DaNoel had thought he would feel great triumph to see Morgin humbled so, but this victory brought him no joy. He watched Rhianne defy Olivia, watched her shed tears that dripped onto the whoreson’s battered and swollen face, and he wondered if anyone would ever love him so.

“How touching,” Valso cried, standing arrogantly. “It warms my heart to see such devotion.”

Looking past Morgin and Rhianne he gestured grandly to DaNoel. “Come forth, Elhiyne. I long to see my dear father.”

DaNoel marched forward slowly, carefully keeping to the script prepared by Olivia, though he was forced to turn aside and walk around Rhianne and Morgin. When he reached the base of the dais beneath the throne he stopped and merely nodded, refusing to bend the knee or bow to the Decouix prince.

Valso laughed and strode happily down the steps of the dais. He stopped in front of DaNoel and held out his hand. “Yield my father. I certainly paid enough ransom for him.”

DaNoel placed the end of the chain in Valso’s hand.

Illalla said, “Finally, I am home. Let’s have these chains removed immediately.”

Valso looked at him carefully and smiled unpleasantly, then he turned to a Kull captain standing nearby. The Kull stepped forward and Valso handed him the end of the chain. “Deposit my fool of a father in a cell next to that of the Elhiyne wizard. They can shout encouragement to each other.”

The Kull jerked the chain hard, and as Illalla stumbled forward off balance, the Kull kicked him in the crotch. Illalla crumbled to the floor, gasping for air. The Kull waved two of his comrades forward, and they proceeded to kick and beat Illalla senseless, until he lay there groaning piteously. Then they picked him up by the armpits and dragged him away down the length of the hall. As they passed Morgin and Rhianne two more Kulls stepped out of the crowd and pulled Morgin out of her arms.

No, DaNoel felt no triumph in this charade; as they dragged the whoreson away he felt only pity, and regret.

~~~

Morgin awoke again in the darkness of his cell, wondered for a moment if Rhianne had just been another dream of delirium. But then he noticed a hint of the scent she’d worn still clung to him and he was thankful for that.

He slept for a while, awoke again and felt a little better. Hunger gnawed at him, so he managed to get up on his hands and knees and search the floor of his cell. He found a large bowl of gruel, which meant Valso didn’t want him dead yet. It was tasteless, but it filled his stomach. He slept again, awoke and ate again, repeated that cycle several times. But then one time when he awoke a light pierced the darkness of his cell. Not much, just a sheet of rays escaping past the partially open cell door. He saw the silhouette of a woman leaning down over him, touching his forehead gently, as if to determine if he was real. “My child,” she said.

Valso’s sister Haleen stood over him. “He is cruel, my brother. It is a terrible thing for him to be so cruel. But then that is his nature, isn’t it?”

Thinking only of the open cell door Morgin struggled to sit up, then to stand. “Yes,” she said. “You must be strong if you hope to escape.”

“Escape!”

“Yes, escape. You don’t think I would leave my only child to him and his devices?”

Now it all made sense. Haleen, the Mad Whore, had deluded herself into believing Morgin was her long lost, murdered child. Morgin couldn’t take advantage of the poor woman by playing along with her, but neither was he stupid enough to pass up such an opportunity.

She’d cast a spell upon the dungeon guards and they slept soundly standing up, and so too did several sentries in carefully chosen corridors. She had to help him most of the way, but eventually she got him into a small carriage atop which sat a driver with eyes glassed over in a trance. She had Morgin lay down on the floor of the carriage, then she called up to the driver to proceed.

Morgin drifted off to sleep as the carriage wound its way through the streets of Durin, and when he awoke he smelled the fresh air of the countryside. The carriage had come to a stop and again Haleen stroked his forehead gently.

He climbed out of the carriage, felt stronger than he’d felt since being thrown into the Decouix dungeons. Haleen must have cast a spell upon him to sustain him temporarily. “Travel south,” she said wistfully, “and beware of the skree.”

Then she kissed him on the cheek, called up to the driver, who still sat in a trance, and the carriage disappeared into the night.

Morgin looked about. He stood near a road in a lightly forested area, and her last words struck him like a blow to the stomach: “. . . the skree.”

He headed south, replaying again and again in his mind’s eye the image of the poor man torn apart by the small netherhounds. He kept to a steady, brisk walk, constantly forcing himself to ignore the temptation to break into a blind panic and run. He probably had a few hours before Valso discovered he was missing, a few more hours before he forced the truth from Haleen. He had a much better chance if he kept his head about him, could cover far more ground during that time if he kept to a steady pace rather than running until exhausted.

He followed a narrow cart track that ran south. By midday Haleen’s spell had begun to wear off and he felt the effects of his treatment in the Decouix dungeon. As time wore on his physical state deteriorated steadily until finally he could only manage a slow shamble punctuated by a bad limp.

The cart track cut through a small village. He was in no state to be seen, so he cut off the track and tried circling the village, and while doing so he spotted an old plow horse grazing at the edge of a field. It bothered his conscience to steal the animal, though he thought it ironic he had begun life as a thief in the streets of Anistigh. But he was desperate, and without something to carry him beyond his own feet he would soon collapse.

Morgin hadn’t ridden bareback in years, and doing so now reminded him of how uncomfortable it could be. Dozing in the saddle was one thing, but any attempt to sleep on the back of the shambling old mare would inevitably deposit him on his butt in the middle of the cart track.

Shortly before sunset the cart track joined up with a larger path that almost qualified as a road, though here and there a weed growing up out of the dirt told him it was only sporadically traveled. The old mare was showing the effects of its age and the long ride, and he himself needed rest and food, so he traveled down the road until he found a small farm. He set up a makeshift camp in a small clump of woods nearby.

That night he snuck onto the farm and managed to steal a tattered old piece of canvas he could use as a blanket. He also found a bin full of cattle feed, picked through it without much care to what he ate and fed until he could eat no more. He took some back for the old mare and fed her too.

He traveled that way for two days, not covering vast distances, but nevertheless making steady progress south. And in the evening of the second day he felt he’d gained enough distance to warrant a full night’s sleep. So he curled up in his canvas blanket and lay down near the old mare for some much needed rest.

~~~

A heavy black cloud hung over Kathbeyanne as the city burned, obscuring a full moon that would have ordinarily lit the streets with a still gray illumination. But now the dancing, orange-yellow glow of fire filled the night, and too the crackle of burning timbers, wafts of smoke drifting down the streets like early morning fog, the screams of the dying.

Morddon slipped from one shadow to the next. He moved carefully, for there were marauding Kulls, human Goath, and jackal warriors everywhere, all intent on burning whatever remained yet unburned. Somewhere in the distance a wall collapsed with a loud crash.

With the help of Morgin’s shadows Morddon had no difficulty making his way to the palace. An enormous bonfire burned in the middle of the parade ground outside its gates, with hundreds of Goath gathered around it. They seemed frantic to find something else to destroy, as if the city of the gods itself was not enough.

Morddon never considered crossing the parade ground, but instead worked his way along the back of the barracks until he reached the palace wall. There he found innumerable shadows waiting for him. He slipped into one, gave it life, danced along the base of the wall toward the gates, which were wide open to facilitate the plunder of the grandest court in the memory of all mankind.

He had no difficulty finding AnneRhianne’s quarters, but of course she herself had long since departed. He hadn’t expected to find her there, but he had to make sure, and since he was in the palace it cost him nothing to make the detour. She was resourceful, would manage to take care of herself.

Next he made his way to the throne room, the grandest of all halls in the grandest of all palaces. With the shadows of so many flames dancing about, and with Morgin’s shadowmagic, he had no difficulty getting there undiscovered.

The ceiling-high doors to the throne room were open, with two jackal guards standing watch over them, though they leaned drowsily on their lances. Morddon heard voices in the throne room itself so he waited patiently. After a few minutes the conversation came to an end and several jackal officers emerged. The two guards snapped to rigid attention, but as the officers disappeared down the corridor they returned to their drowsy boredom. Morgin called up a simple spell, and both guards sat down on the floor and slipped into a deep sleep. Morddon, wrapped in a shadow, stepped past them into the throne room. As he’d expected, Magwa sat arrogantly on the throne, reveling in her victory.

Morddon closed his eyes, let Morgin’s senses go out. He sensed no steel in the room other than his own and that Magwa carried, so there were no other weapons beside his and hers. Very quietly he closed the doors to the room and latched them in place. He wanted Magwa alone.

Morgin dropped his shadow magic, and Morddon stepped openly into the center of the hall with almost the entire length of the room between him and the jackal queen. Magwa looked up, seemed unsurprised. “Well now,” she barked. “The SteelMaster has come, as I knew he would. Is it revenge you seek?”

Morddon shrugged. “I seek your death, bitch queen, and if that is revenge, then so-be-it.”

“And how will you kill me, with my warriors to protect me?”

“Your warriors are locked beyond the walls of this room. And in any case, they would have some difficulty raising steel against me.”

“And after I am dead, how will you escape?”

“After you are dead, I care not if I escape.”

She nodded slowly. “You are a determined man, but you’re also a fool.” She turned her head, barked an order, “Now, captain!” and from behind the dais on which the throne rested, a jackal officer and a dozen jackal bowmen appeared in an instant to stand between their queen and Morddon. The bowmen were ready with arrows knocked, and they raised them now, drew the bowstrings taught.

Magwa smiled. “This officer and these bowmen are carrying no steel. Their arrows are tipped by sharpened stone, and so these arrows will not obey your commands, oh last of the SteelMasters. And my master is done with you. He has given me permission to dispose of you.”

Morddon understood then that he was going to die, and for an instant he searched within his soul to find some regret. But all his life he’d known his fate, and the fate of his people, and so there never had been any hope upon which to live.

He sprang forward like a lion, drawing his sword in the same instant Morgin pulled a shadow about him. He heard the twang of a bowstring, but the shadow must have confused the bowman for the first arrow hissed past his ear harmlessly. But the second caught him high in the left shoulder, the third smashed into his hip and he stumbled momentarily, though he kept his balance and his momentum carried him on. The next arrow caught him low in the chest, to one side of his solar plexus, the next caught him in the thigh, and finally one slammed into his chest and he went down.

He managed to pull himself to his feet, but as he did so they put an arrow in his stomach, then one in his throat, and he collapsed in a heap. Lying on the floor he felt an arrow bury itself in his back, then another, and another. Suddenly he no longer had the strength to hold onto life and for the first time he felt free. But Magwa’s barking laughter spoiled his new freedom, spoiled the last moments of his life.

~~~

Rhianne awoke to the sound of some strange netherbeast’s cries. She threw on a robe and stepped out onto the balcony of her room, and down in the Decouix castle yard she saw Valso gathering together a group of noblemen and an escort of Kulls. Valso looked up and saw her, waved, called up happily. “Your husband has escaped, made a run for it. It’s going to be good sport hunting him down.”

The cry of the netherbeasts drowned out all other sound, and the pack of skree poured out of the kennel like a wave of death, held in check only by some magic of Valso’s. Valso and the noblemen and the Kulls mounted their horses then herded the skree out through the castle gates.

Rhianne turned back to her room, and in a mad haste she threw on some clothes and rushed down to the stables. She forced one of the stable master’s apprentices to saddle a horse for her, climbed into the saddle and charged out of the castle, ignoring the challenge from the guards on the battlements above the gates. She didn’t look back to see if they tried to stop her. Somehow she must help Morgin.

~~~

Morgin awoke in the first moments of dawn to a strange sound far in the distance. He sat up in his canvas blanket, trying to shake the fog of dreams from his thoughts, and listened carefully. For some moments he heard only a continuous sort of braying at the limit of his hearing. But then out of that continuous background, one voice rose above the rest, and it sent a cold shiver through his heart: “. . . skree . . . skree . . .”

He jumped to his feet with his canvas blanket wrapped about him like a cloak. There was no camp to pack up, no possessions, no saddle to worry about. He climbed up on the old mare’s back, dug his heels into her flanks and demanded all the speed she could give him. But she was old and tired, and she barely managed to put wind in his face with a half-hearted trot. His own condition had improved vastly; cattle feed apparently agreed with his muscles and bones, if not with his taste.