The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (4 page)

To one side of the parade ground stood several large barracks, and in front of each, with one exception, stood two smartly-dressed and well-armed guards with their backs arrow straight and their eyes keen and piercing to any who might pass by. Also, with one exception, the stone of each barracks had recently been scrubbed clean, and above each barracks door fluttered the banner of the company of warriors occupying its interior. The exception, however, had no banner whatsoever, had not been scrubbed nor cleaned in any way in a long time, and had no guards neither smart nor slovenly standing at its entrance. Instead, close to the door they’d placed a plain wooden table behind which sat three rather hard and unsavory looking warriors of unknown rank. A long line of men of no better seeming character snaked out from the table far across the parade ground, and Morddon took a place at the end of that line.

Several men nearby in the line looked at him oddly, and Morgin noticed then that he was the only Benesh’ere there, for he stood head and shoulders above the tallest of the rest. But he also remembered his image in the shield, and he probably appeared the most unsavory of the bunch, so he settled down to a long wait, while whatever happened at the front of the line happened. And slowly, one step at a time, the hours passed while he moved closer to the plain wooden table with the three men seated behind it.

He lost track of the time, and in the warm afternoon sun, with the cadence of the swords ringing in the distance, he slipped slowly into the depths of his own thoughts, moved almost unconsciously with the advancing line. Morgin now understood that he and Morddon jointly inhabited this Benesh’ere body. But where there might have been strife in such a relationship, he and the Benesh’ere were so alike as to be almost indistinguishable, and yet when it came to reflexes, to moving with one’s instincts, the body always moved with the reactions of its Benesh’ere soul, and Morgin understood well which of them was dominant.

Morgin started as a sharp, unpleasant sound cut at his nerves, a sound like that of a badly tuned harp. The other men in the line stepped fearfully away from him.

The sound came again, an unpleasant, harsh ring cutting through the dry afternoon air. Morgin, or maybe it was Morddon, recognized the sound of flawed steel, though the distance muffled it enough to be bearable. But without question the wrongness of it commanded his attention and his eyes unerringly picked out the blade and its owner. And even though they were at the extreme limit of the parade ground, and to his eyes they were no more than shadowy blurs, he knew somehow, having once heard the flaw in the steel, he would recognize that blade instantly if he and it ever met again.

The line moved forward; Morddon moved with it.

He glanced upward and noticed a large black speck against the bright blue of the afternoon sky, some sort of bird gliding on a warm, dry thermal. He kept an eye on it as it circled the parade ground in a careful descent, drifting ever closer until finally Morgin heard the beat of giant wings and saw that the shape of this bird was wrong. But not until it settled to the ground in front of one of the distant barracks did he comprehend the enormity of this animal that flew but was not a bird. Part eagle and part lion, a strangely misshapen creature easily larger than any horse, coal black from head to foot, it turned its head and looked Morgin’s way with blood red eyes that pierced the distance and cut into his soul. Morddon identified it as a griffin.

A dozen Benesh’ere poured out of the barracks in front of which the griffin had landed, and Morgin noticed then that the two guards standing in front of it were Benesh’ere. But among them came a warrior who wore only black, and walked with a grace and surety of step beyond that of any mortal man. Even at that distance Morgin recognized Metadan.

All of the Benesh’ere but one bowed deeply in the presence of the griffin. That one, and Metadan, bowed courteously to the griffin, but only as equals. Then all, including the griffin, entered the Benesh’ere barracks.

The line moved forward; Morddon moved with it.

Sometime later a horse-drawn carriage left the palace through its main gates at the far end of the parade ground. It raised a cloud of dust as it crossed to the Benesh’ere barracks and came to a halt there. A tall Benesh’ere woman stepped out of the carriage. She wore robes that spoke of wealth and power, and like the griffin, Metadan and a dozen Benesh’ere warriors emerged from the barracks to greet her. Again, all but one of the Benesh’ere bowed deeply to her, while Metadan and that one bowed courteously to her as equals. Then they escorted her into the barracks and the carriage pulled down an alley to wait.

The line moved forward; Morddon moved with it, and eventually arrived at the table facing the three surely mercenaries. One of them eyed him carefully, and asked, “What can we do for you, whiteface?”

Morddon answered, “You’re hiring mercenaries. I’m here to be hired.”

The mercenary rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Hmmm! I never hired a whiteface before. What’s yer name?”

“Morddon,” he answered. “And you won’t do better.”

“Aye, I don’t doubt that,” the mercenary said. “Never met a whiteface wasn’t worth two ordinary men in a fight. What’s yer price?”

“What do you pay these other men?”

“One copper a day. A bonus of twelve at the end of each month if they’re still alive.”

Morddon nodded. “Then you’ll pay me twelve coppers a day and a bonus of one silver at the end of the month, if I’m still alive.”

The mercenary’s brow wrinkled. “Are you worth that much?”

“And then some,” Morddon said flatly.

The mercenary captain rubbed his chin and considered Morddon carefully. But while doing so one of the men seated next to him leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. The captain frowned and nodded unhappily. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he said, then looked up at Morddon. “Sorry whiteface. Deal’s off. Won’t be hiring none o’ yer kind here.”

This time Morgin saw it coming and managed to keep up with the speed of Morddon’s actions. While his right hand tore his sword from its sheath, his left reached across the table, closed in a vise-like grip about the mercenary captain’s throat, lifted him out of his chair and well off his feet. He slammed the choking mercenary on his back on the table and raised his sword high in the air in preparation for decapitating the man then and there, and not one of the mercenary lieutenants had yet managed to even get out of his seat. “What made you change your mind?” Morddon growled in the captain’s face, relaxing his grip on the man’s throat a bit so he could talk.

“Not by choice,” the mercenary coughed out. “Gilguard wouldn’t like it.”

“What does Gilguard have to say about who you hire?”

“Ordinarily nothing. But he’d spit me and roast me alive if I hired one of his precious whitefaces.”

Morddon nodded, knowing well the pride of the Benesh’ere. “Well then. Let’s go talk to Gilguard.”

Again he picked the mercenary up by his throat, and dragging him on his heels like a piece of baggage he marched toward the Benesh’ere barracks, trailing a crowd of curious mercenaries behind him. As he passed the other two barracks he noticed the guards in front of one were ordinary human men, and those in front of the other were angels.

At the Benesh’ere barracks the two guards eyed him curiously, and one grinned at the sight of the poor mercenary captain slowly turning blue in Morddon’s grip. But when Morddon tried to walk past them they crossed their lances in front of him, and one of them demanded, “I don’t recognize you. What do you want here?”

“I have business with Gilguard.”

The guard looked Morddon up and down, made no attempt to hide his contempt for the obviously low caste of the Benesh’ere who stood before him. “You need a bath,” he said.

Morgin sensed Morddon’s anger building, and he couldn’t understand why the Benesh’ere seemed bent on picking a fight with everyone he met. “I’m not here to see Gilguard about a bath,” Morddon growled.

The guard shook his head. “Well I don’t think you’ll be seeing the warmaster about anything.”

Morgin felt Morddon tense. “Are you going to tell him I’m here?”

“Gilguard’s too busy to be bothered with the likes of you. And if you’re smart, whiteface, you’ll get yourself—”

The term whiteface was a common enough reference to the skin color of a Benesh’ere, and the Benesh’ere tolerated its use by ordinary men. But no Benesh’ere would use it in reference to another except as the most derogatory of insults. Morddon kicked the talkative guard in the crotch and simultaneously slammed the hilt of his sword into his partner’s chin. The one doubled over groaning and clutched his groin while the other went down with a crash. Morddon then hit the one groaning in the back of the head and walked over the top of him through the ceiling high double doors of the barracks.

Just inside he met a wall of Benesh’ere warriors with swords and lances leveled at him. He halted, dropped the poor mercenary captain on the floor, gripped his sword in both hands, and at the possibility that he might now die, Morgin sensed in him a joyous anticipation.

“What’s going on here?” a voice called out. The warriors facing Morddon parted, and the Benesh’ere who had bowed to the griffin and the lady as equals filled the gap. A moment later Metadan joined him, and with an ungainly shuffling the black winged griffin, towering over them all, took a place behind them.

“You’re Gilguard,” Morddon growled. “Well I’ve come to see you about keeping me from gainful employment.”

The Benesh’ere warmaster frowned, so Morddon kicked the mercenary captain in the ribs. The poor fellow coughed and spluttered and rolled over. Morddon picked him up by his tunic and threw him at Gilguard’s feet. “He won’t hire me because he says you wouldn’t like it.”

Gilguard looked at the mercenary at his feet, then at Morddon, then at the mercenary again. He frowned and shook his head. “But of course he can’t hire you. And you wouldn’t want to work for him. He’s a mercenary.”

“I know,” Morddon snarled, “So am I.”

A female voice shouted, “No! That cannot be!”

To Morgin it sounded like Rhianne’s voice, but he was careful not to react in any way, for he saw in a dozen pairs of Benesh’ere eyes he’d be spitted on a dozen lances were he to move quickly.

“Let me through!” the woman demanded angrily. The warriors facing Morddon parted again, and the tall Benesh’ere woman from the carriage stepped confidently into the open gap. She was unlike any of the Benesh’ere women Morgin had seen in his own time, who had all worn breeches like a man. This woman wore a gown that would be proper in any king’s court, and in the bone white skin of her face he saw Rhianne’s features, but like his own that face was reshaped to conform to the long, narrow lines of a Benesh’ere.

“Pardon, my lady?” Morddon asked. “What cannot be?”

She looked at Morddon and her eyes narrowed with distaste. “No Benesh’ere would draw his sword for a few coins of gold.”

Morddon bowed. “You are quite right, my lady. I draw my sword only for
many
coins of gold.”

Her eyes flashed hot and angry. “Well you’ll find no employment here.”

Morddon frowned. “But I am a mercenary and Aethon is hiring mercenaries.”

“But not the likes of you,” she spat.

“And why not me?” Morddon asked. “I’ve never fought for the Goath.”

“Since when is a mercenary so particular about the choice of his employer?”

Morddon smiled. “And since when is an employer so particular about the choice of her mercenaries? Perhaps you yourself would like to employ me, my lady? I’m also good in the bedroom.”

At that insult the warriors Morddon faced tensed angrily, but Gilguard stopped them with a shout, “Hold!”

“Ah ha!” the griffin laughed. “A mercenary Benesh’ere is rare indeed. But a Benesh’ere with a sense of humor? Now that is an even rarer bird.”

Gilguard, however, was not impressed with Morddon’s wit. He carefully drew his sword, leaned forward and put the tip of it beneath Morddon’s chin. “Benesh’ere or not. No vagabond speaks to her ladyship that way.”

Gilguard was leaning forward in an awkward stance, his arm fully extended. There would be a single instant before he could thrust effectively with his sword, so the sword tip at Morddon’s chin was not an instant threat. And too, Morddon believed Morgin would help him in some way against the steel of the other soldiers. Then, for the first time, Morddon acknowledged Morgin’s presence.
Whatever you are that haunts my soul, do not act to hinder me, or we will both die.

Morddon looked into Gilguard’s eyes, and smiling viciously he said, “If you and your men choose to kill me, you may perhaps succeed. But many of you will die with me, and to die for nothing but a few unimportant words would be a shame.”

“Enough of this,” the griffin shouted. “Put your sword away, warmaster. I command it.”

Gilguard looked at the griffin angrily. “But he—”

“But nothing,” the griffin said. “He is certainly rude, and he has a loose tongue, and the gods know he stinks to the Ninth Hell, but he has done nothing that gives you the right to kill him.”

Gilguard bowed his head. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and withdrew the tip of his sword from Morddon’s chin, though he did not sheath it.

The griffin looked at Morddon, and if the beak of an eagle could be said to smile, it seemed this one did. “I myself may choose to hire you.”

“But how can you trust him?” the woman demanded.

Morgin sensed the shift in Morddon’s emotions, and the words that came from his lips were bitter and harsh. “I am a mercenary, my lady. I trust no one, and no one trusts me.”

“Ahhh!” the griffin said sorrowfully. “Such bitterness in one so young. But then I see you are young only in years, mercenary, and not in battles, eh?”

The woman persisted. “How do we know he doesn’t bring some nameless evil with him?”

The griffin shook his head. “No, AnneRhianne. There is no evil in this one’s heart, only sorrow. Tell me mercenary,” he said to Morddon. “What fills your heart with such sorrow?”

Morgin sensed the sorrow the griffin spoke of, but Morddon only laughed. “The only sorrow in my heart, half bird, is for the lack of coins jingling in my purse.”