The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (5 page)

The griffin nodded as if he knew the truth behind such a lie. “We shall see, mercenary.”

Metadan, silent and unmoving until that moment, stepped forward to stand almost chin to chin with Morddon, though his chin was quite a bit lower. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Morddon.”

“And how old are you?”

“I have seen two twelves of summers,” Morddon said. “And why do you ask all these questions?”

“Because I might hire you myself.”

“No!” the woman shouted, but Metadan ignored her.

“How much fighting experience do you have?”

Morddon shrugged, considered the question carefully, and a kaleidoscope of horror and death flashed through his thoughts. “I first fought the Goath hordes with Karre on the Sangee Plain, and I’ve been fighting them ever since.”

“That was twelve years ago. Do you mean to tell me you’ve been a soldier since you were a boy.”

Again Morddon shrugged. “Believe me. I was never a boy.”

“And where have you fought most recently?”

“I fought with Elish at Mount Tadour—” someone gasped “—but on the way here I heard you’ve all started calling it Grim Dying Hill.” Memories of the carnage there flooded through Morddon’s soul. He threw his head back and laughed maniacally. “A good name that. We did do a lot of dying there, didn’t we? But a bit confusing there at the end. Tell me, how many of us are left alive?”

Metadan’s eyes were steel hard. “Not twelve twelves.”

Morddon grimaced.

“But that was only twelve days ago,” Metadan said. “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“Impossible,” Gilguard shouted. “You’d have to walk day and night.”

Morddon looked at the warmaster angrily. “Not exactly. I slept for a few hours one night.”

“And why did you come here to Kathbeyanne?” Metadan asked.

“Because here is where you’re hiring mercenaries.”

Metadan nodded. “I’ve heard of you. Elish told me about you a few years ago. He said you were the most bloodthirsty man he’d ever met, and the most bitter, and the most sad. He told me when other men tire of fighting you go forth to fight the Goath alone, if necessary.”

“Elish is dead,” Morddon growled. “Are you going to hire me? If not I’ll find someone else.”

“I’ll hire you,” Metadan said calmly. “How much do you want?”

“One gold each month,” Morddon said, then added the customary phrase that ended every mercenary contract, “if I’m alive to collect it.”

“Agreed,” Metadan said, extending his hand. “And for a period of one year neither of us may break this contract without the consent of the other.”

Morddon sheathed his sword and shook the archangel’s hand. “Agreed. Now when do we go to battle?”

The archangel smiled. “We don’t. The First Legion is commanded to remain in the city as His Majesty’s guard.”

“Then the deal’s off,” Morddon shouted. “Our contract is for fighting.”

“The deal is not off,” Metadan stated flatly. “For I do not give my consent. You are my man for a period of one year. You will obey the orders I give you. And you will stop shouting at everyone.”

“You tricked me.”

“No. You tricked yourself. Now report to the legion barracks and tell the archangel Ellowyn you are now part of the First Legion. And take a bath.” Metadan turned away from Morddon, and the crowd of Benesh’ere parted as he walked through them.

The woman AnneRhianne joined his side. “I’ll be glad to be away from him,” she said angrily. “The stink of his body offends me not half as much as the stink of his soul.” She looked at the griffin. “Are you coming Lord TarnThane?”

“In a moment,” the half bird answered her. He looked at Morddon. “You are a curiosity to me. Perhaps some time we can speak of the battles you’ve fought.”

Morddon shrugged. “I’ll speak of anything you wish, if you have the price to buy my time.”

The griffin laughed, and turned to follow AnneRhianne and Metadan. “Come, Warmaster Gilguard. We still have much to discuss.”

Morddon turned unhappily and stormed out of the Benesh’ere barracks, but as he stepped outside the harsh ring of that flawed blade struck at Morgin’s soul again. No longer able to ignore it, he walked the length of the parade ground and approached the two men whom he’d seen earlier, and who were still practicing beneath the wall of the palace. “You there,” he shouted at the man with the flawed blade. “Your blade is flawed. It will fail on you some day.”

The two men, both obviously noblemen, halted their practice and looked at Morddon curiously. “What did you say?” the man asked.

Morddon pointed at the blade. “That blade’s flawed.”

The nobleman looked at his sword, then at Morddon, then he frowned angrily. “This steel was forged by the finest armorer in all of Kathbeyanne. Now go away before I call the palace guard and have you flogged.”

Morddon persisted. “But the blade—”

“I said go away.”

By now the scene had attracted the attention of a small crowd. “Ah, to the Ninth Hell with you!” Morddon shouted, and turned away. But as he did so he caught sight of a young man standing on a balcony in the palace high above them and observing the incident curiously. Morddon didn’t recognize the young man, but Morgin remembered Aethon from another dream.

Chapter 3: The Power of the Blade

Rhianne, alone in her boudoir, and sensing now the ebb of the power in Morgin’s sword, withdrew from the netherworld enough to concentrate again on the worldly matters of her mortal senses, though under the circumstances she dare not withdraw completely. She had dismissed her servants and handmaidens two days ago when Morgin’s ordeal had first begun, latched the door to her apartments from the inside, and set the most powerful Wards she could conjure. Then lying upon her bed she entered the netherworld to help Morgin with his lonely battle, and by virtue of the pandemonium in the Hall she had remained undisturbed. But during those two days she had only been able to glimpse Morgin’s soul from a nether distance, as if some power far greater than her own were determined to keep her from his side. Nevertheless she sensed she had a role to play in this game, and she understood now that her part had only just begun.

She recalled her servants, though they were unusually quiet for they sensed the strangeness that hung about her. She had them bath and perfume her, dress her, prepare and apply her makeup, curl and shape her hair high atop her head. To help Morgin she must confront the old woman first, and there her appearance would be all-important. If she showed the slightest weakness in any way, the old woman would surely oppose her, so she must appear fresh, ready, powerful; to the old woman, and to all those about her. But at the last moment, as she stood at the threshold of her suite with her hand upon the door’s latch, her own doubts threatened to overwhelm her.

She threw the latch, stepped out into the corridor, and racing to stay ahead of her fears, though taking great care to maintain her dignity and never to run, she stormed down the stairs to the main floor of the castle, leaving a retinue of nervous handmaidens swirling in her wake. She sensed her own power building within her, much as she sensed that of the sword weakening under Morgin’s constant onslaught, and that gave her the confidence to move through the castle as if she were Olivia herself, and no one would dare refuse her access to any portion thereof. She knew she succeeded when wide-eyed clansmen stood aside fearfully to let her pass

There were a dozen men guarding the main entrance to the Hall of Wills, though Rhianne was relieved to see they were all clansmen of lesser power. Now that the flow of power from the sword appeared to be waning, those of the highest caste had gone to rest, having exhausted themselves maintaining Wards to seal Morgin and the sword within. Not one of them, Rhianne thought bitterly, had thought to aid him, only to trap him inside with the sword so they might save their own souls.

One guard, braver than the rest, and perhaps for that reason their leader, stepped in front of Rhianne, blocking her path to the doors of the Hall. Rhianne did not allow the man time to speak. “Stand aside,” she barked at him angrily.

The man was smart enough to sense her power, and to fear it. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said. “But the Lady Olivia has left strict instructions no one may enter the Hall, and that I will answer to her if I—”

“Stand aside now!” Rhianne growled at him. “Or you’ll answer to me this moment.”

The man cringed, stepped back but not aside, appeared to waver for a moment of indecision, then seeing something or someone behind Rhianne, his confidence returned and he stood his ground.

Olivia’s voice crackled in Rhianne’s ear. “What is this?”

Rhianne did not turn to face the old woman, but instead remained facing the guard and the doors of the Hall behind him. “She wishes to enter the Hall,” the guard said.

“Face me, girl,” Olivia demanded.

Rhianne refused to turn away from her goal. There was a moment of silence, during which she sensed Olivia’s power probing at her own, and then the old woman walked carefully around her and stepped in front of her. Rhianne sensed others entering the room behind her, among them Roland and AnnaRail and JohnEngine, and the swordsman France, and BlakeDown and PaulStaff and Wylow. A crowd was the last thing she wanted.

Olivia looked into her eyes carefully, and smiled like a cat about to make a leisurely meal of a small, helpless mouse. “What are you about, girl?”

Rhianne tried to imitate the cold and disapproving look she’d seen the old woman use to cow clansmen. She said, “I think the term
girl
no longer applies, not since the night I had to endure the brutality of two twelves of Valso’s halfmen, endured because I tried to defend Elhiyne.”

There, she’d said it, out in the open. They’d all heard the rumors, but no one had openly acknowledged the brutal gang rape she’d suffered.

Olivia nodded acquiescence. “Very well, woman, what are you about?”

“I have to bring my husband back from the netherlife.”

“Why you?” Olivia asked carefully, her eyes narrowing. “Why not me?”

“Because you could not resist the temptation of that power in there, and to defend itself that blade would awaken again. You cannot defeat it, and in his present condition Morgin can’t defeat it a second time. It would devour him, and you, and the countryside about us, and only the gods know when it would finally be sated, if it would be sated at all.”

AnnaRail appeared at Rhianne’s side, though Rhianne did not turn from the doors of the Hall to look at her. “Then I will go,” AnnaRail said softly.

Rhianne, still looking directly into Olivia’s eyes, tried to reply as softly. “No. You mustn’t. Your kindness would be as honey to a bear, and that sword would come forth to devour you as readily for its own pleasure, as for its own defense. The result would be the same.”

The old witch looked at Rhianne for a moment, her eyes afire with godlight and boring into the depths of Rhianne’s soul. “You have told us why we should not enter. Now tell us why you should.”

Rhianne held her back straight and refused to flinch away from the old woman’s gaze. “I don’t know why. I only know it is what I am meant to do.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed even further, and Rhianne sensed the old woman’s power dancing about her like a wild animal pulling mindlessly at its leash. But then the old witch smiled, and with a predatory laugh she said, “You are much like your husband, Rhianne esk et Elhiyne. Much like him indeed.”

Olivia turned with lightning speed to the guard. “Let her pass. Either she will bring him out to us, or together they will both perish within.”

The guard bowed respectfully, then turned toward the two massive wooden doors that sealed Morgin and his sword within the Hall of Wills. Rhianne was expecting to see the doors thrown open quickly now that she had passed the test of Olivia’s scrutiny, but instead she had to wait while the guard and two of his subordinates began prying away a patchwork of timbers that had been hastily added to the planks of the doors, and only then did she take notice of their condition. Beneath the added timbers the doors themselves, once so massive Rhianne alone would have found it difficult to move them on their hinges, were now splintered and pitted with holes where Morgin’s sword had punched through them time and again.

The guards were careful to remove only the timbers needed to allow her access. They propped one of the doors open slightly and held it there, waiting for her, and she noticed they took great care to avoid looking through the gap into the Hall itself.

Rhianne had still not turned away from her destination, though somehow she knew France was standing in the crowd behind her. “Swordsman,” she said softly.

France stepped carefully into her field of view, though he remained to one side as if reluctant to stand between her and the Hall. “I’m here,” he said flatly.

“Do you know the measure of that blade in there?”

He shrugged. “When it’s just a blade, I do.”

“Then please find me a sheath within which it will find comfort.”

“Aye, my lady,” he said, then disappeared from sight. She heard movement in the crowd behind her, then the swordsman said to someone, “Give me your sheath.” She heard a sword being drawn, then more movement within the crowd, and France appeared again at her side. He held before her an empty sheath.

Rhianne’s confidence was beginning to falter, so without further ado she took the sheath in one hand, crossed the space to the gap in the doors, and entered the Hall with all of her defenses up, as if she were entering the Ninth Hell itself. The guards closed the gap quickly, and immediately began pounding the extra timbers back in place.

As Rhianne’s eyes took in the interior of the Hall her heart raced with fear. A haze of white dust drifted on the air, made the sunlight visible as rays splashing across the Hall from a high window near the ceiling, filled her lungs and eyes and mouth. It coated everything, covering the floor, the walls, the remnants of the table where the council had sat. But then, as if by instinct, her eyes pierced the haze and settled on the shape of a stone pillar, one of many that lined the edge of the Hall to support the high vaulted ceiling. As wide as two men standing back to back, the blade had nearly cut in two, and about its base lay a pile of stone chips as mute evidence of its fate. Deeper into the dusty haze she saw other pillars in even worse condition, and at her feet the stone steps that led down to the central floor of the Hall were chipped and broken; the floor itself was pitted and scarred to the point where it would be easy to turn an ankle when walking across it. She wanted to turn and run, but something pulled her toward the center of the Hall where, almost hidden by the dust in the air, she saw a dark and still form huddled close to the floor.

She walked down the three steps carefully, then started slowly across the floor toward the dark shape, her heart threatening to pound its way out of her chest, squinting desperately to make out the form of the thing on the floor. His face was hidden by hunched shoulders and a bowed head. He was resting on his knees, sitting back on his heels, arms extended forward and down, hands gripped together about something on the floor.

She stopped at a point that would be just out of the sword’s reach, and facing him she lowered herself slowly to her knees. She tried to relax, closed her eyes, let her magic expand outward carefully. Morgin’s hands gripped the hilt of the sword, and he had buried the blade itself deep within the stone of the floor. For the moment it lay quiescent and still, though oddly it filled the entire room with its power.

Too late, she realized her mistake. The power of the blade did fill the room, and now that she had entered its trap it would consume her with its hatred. It flared angrily, and with a shower of stone chips it lifted itself out of the floor, flooding her soul with wave after wave of torment, allowing her to glimpse for a moment the vastness of its power and the malevolence of its desire. But then another power arose behind it, equally as vast and equally as malevolent. It met the power of the blade, surrounded it, squashed it, compressed it with agonizing slowness ever smaller and smaller, both powers coalescing into white-hot sparks that receded into the depths of Morgin’s soul, farther and deeper, until Rhianne could no longer sense them.

The Hall became again quiet, though Rhianne’s thoughts shouted with the revelation of the vision she had seen. Morgin had not lost his power, not as he believed. He had instead used his power to control and imprison that of the blade, and equally matched, both had become compressed and tightened until they were locked away in some deep recess of his soul unknown even to him. And now that Rhianne knew what to look for, she saw the constant struggle within him, and knew now that she must help him at any cost.

~~~

Morgin awoke to a fierce headache and a churning stomach. His mouth tasted like last night’s ale and the air about him smelled of old urine and stale vomit, and even before he opened his eyes he understood he was dreaming from within Morddon’s soul again. “Damn!” he growled through Morddon’s lips.

When he did open his eyes he was lying on filthy straw in a dark, damp, musty dungeon, and the previous night’s memories flooded unwanted into his mind with merciless clarity: drinking alone in an inn near the center of Kathbeyanne, waiting day-in and day-out to go back to the wars and the battles and the bloodletting, practicing his sword skills with the strange and enigmatic angels by day, trying each night to drink himself into oblivion, and most often succeeding. The other Benesh’ere hated him openly—one of their own who sold his sword to the highest bidder—and last night, sitting alone, pouring one tankard of ale after another down his throat, trying not to think of the hatred that drove him, their taunts and insults became intolerable.

The bolt on the door to his cell slammed back loudly; the door crashed open, spilling a cascade of light onto the straw. A guard with a loaded crossbow stepped warily into the cell, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on Morddon. The dungeon master followed close on his heels and growled, “Up with you, scum. On your feet for your betters.”

Morddon pulled himself slowly to his feet, and only then did Gilguard and Metadan enter the cell. Metadan’s anger was almost palpable, but Gilguard looked at him with a calm, cold hatred, though when he spoke his voice came out almost a whisper. “Why?” he asked simply.

Morddon shrugged. “They started it. I finished it. Besides, it was seven to one.”

The Benesh’ere warmaster nodded slowly and for a long moment he considered Morddon’s answer. “I’ve spoken to the innkeeper, and he confirms that my warriors did start it, and they did outnumber you seven to one, otherwise I would kill you myself.”

Morddon smiled gleefully. “Would you like to try? I’d like to see you try, but you’d better have more than seven of your comrades to help you.”

The guard with the crossbow tensed. Metadan looked at him and shook his head.

Gilguard shook his head at Morddon. “No, I don’t want to try to kill you, and not just because I probably couldn’t win. I just want to know why you take your hatred out on your brothers.”

“I don’t have any brothers,” Morddon growled.

“Two of them are dead,” Gilguard continued as if Morddon had said nothing. “Another lost an arm last night, and another a leg this morning, and the other three: broken arms, legs, ribs, noses, jaws, skulls. Do you feel no remorse?”