The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (7 page)

BlakeDown paused and looked at Olivia, who alone stood with him in the center of the Hall. Under normal circumstances the old woman would have spoken out long ago, but the odds had been stacked against Morgin all afternoon, so she was moving carefully lest she incite public opinion even further against him. But AnnaRail sensed within the old witch that the battle was lost, that she could not sway the Council sufficiently to save Morgin, and believing his life was the only thing that held the power of the talisman within this world, the Lesser Council would soon place him under sentence of death, then move speedily to carry out the sentence while he lay unconscious and defenseless. As Olivia spoke AnnaRail slipped quietly out of the Hall.

She kept her pace to a calm, even walk, knowing any appearance of haste might alert Morgin’s enemies to her purpose. When she knocked softly on the door to Morgin’s suite the answer that came to her ears was a muffled, “Who’s there?”

She said nothing, but touched the door with the palm of her hand and knew all those of power within were satisfied. She heard muffled words behind the door, then the sound of heavy furniture being moved aside, then the door opened a crack.

France peered out, looked up and down the hall, then, holding a bare sword in one hand, he opened the door to admit her. Within, Morgin lay on his bed in a stupor, one hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of his sword, the other gripping the sheath. Rhianne sat beside him trying to comfort him with her power, and JohnEngine, Brandon, Roland, the Surriot and the Balenda stood nervously ready with swords of their own. AnnaRail was surprised to find DaNoel absent, and NickoLot present. Nicki seemed much older. “What are you doing here?” AnnaRail asked her.

Nicki’s eyes hardened. “No one is going to murder my brother, not without a fight from me.”

“It won’t be murder,” AnnaRail said flatly. “It will be a proper execution carried out under a legal sentence of death.”

“Call it what you like,” the young girl argued. “I’m going to fight.”

There came no rousing chorus of cheers from the others, but their eyes held the same determination as Nicki’s.

“Are they really going to kill him?” Nicki asked.

AnnaRail nodded. “Yes. We don’t have much time.”

“Then we fight,” JohnEngine said flatly.

“No we don’t,” AnnaRail snapped angrily, shaking her head. In that moment she saw in the eyes of the swordsman that he, at least, understood the futility of such a battle.

JohnEngine’s eyes widened. “But—”

“Be silent and listen,” AnnaRail barked at him. “If you make a stand here you’ll die, and then he’ll die too, and you’ll have gained nothing.”

“I won’t abandon my brother.”

AnnaRail found it difficult to hold her temper in check. “And you believe I will?”

JohnEngine shook his head, lowered his eyes contritely. “No. Of course not.”

“Then be silent and listen, for I intend to keep him alive, and all of us with him.”

“How?” JohnEngine demanded.

“Shortly the Council will declare him an outlaw, and then not even we can legally help him without starting a full scale war. So he must leave. Now.” She looked at France; he nodded his agreement. “But it’s obvious he cannot travel on his own so someone will have to go with him.” Still looking at France, she asked, “Will you go?”

France nodded, though he said nothing.

“I’ll go with you,” the Surriot said without emotion.

“And I,” the Balenda added flatly.

“I’ll go too,” JohnEngine shouted.

AnnaRail shook her head. “No. The House of Elhiyne must stay out of this. Besides, you’re going to be our diversion.”

~~~

All of Morgin’s instincts pulled him urgently toward consciousness, but his body remained locked within a sea of lethargy. In the background of his soul he sensed Rhianne and AnnaRail feeding him strength with their own power, but when he peeled open his eyes his lids hung heavy with exhaustion, and it required a constant effort to remain awake and conscious. The sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof of the castle dominated his thoughts, a constant, numbing roar that threatened to lull him back to sleep.

“You must stand,” AnnaRail told him, “And you must move on your own. If you lean on us someone will surely notice and alert the Council. And by the name of the Unnamed King keep a tight rein on that sword!”

Morgin wanted to ask a hundred questions, but the urgency in AnnaRail’s voice drove him to obey in silence. He shook his head to clear it, though that didn’t help, then sat up, stood unsteadily, and asked, “What’s going on?”

Rhianne answered. “This moment the Council is declaring you an outlaw, and within the hour they’ll come for your blood. There’s no time to explain further. We’ve prepared an escape, but you must move quickly. A second’s delay might mean your life.”

Fear helped sober Morgin. “What do I do?”

AnnaRail handed him a dark, hooded, sleeved cloak, said, “Put this on, and make sure the hood shields your face.”

Morgin noticed then that both women were wearing similar garments. He pushed his arms into the sleeves, pulled the hood over his head, fumbled at the cloak’s clasp for a moment before securing it.

AnnaRail adjusted her own hood, burying her face in shadows. “Now follow me. We’re going to the stables. If someone tries to stop us, Rhianne and I will take care of them, but you must not stop. Keep your face turned away from the light, and keep walking, but do not run, for that will certainly attract attention.”

Rhianne opened the door a crack, peered out into the hallway, then opened the door fully and stepped out. Morgin followed her, with AnnaRail close behind.

The castle was unusually dark and badly lit, and it occurred to Morgin that AnnaRail had probably seen to that. Out in the hallway the roar of the rain was even louder, and while it would be miserable outside, he couldn’t have hoped for better if he must become a hunted fugitive.

They moved cautiously down the large stairway at the center of the castle. Once on the main floor he heard raised voices coming from the Hall, punctuated occasionally by the growl of an angry crowd. AnnaRail quickened her pace, but they had barely reached the castle’s front entrance when the doors of the Hall burst open and the growl became a roar, and with only an instant to spare they slipped out into the night. A driving wind slanted the rain horizontally into their faces.

AnnaRail shouted above the wind, “We have only a few moments before they reach your room and find you’ve gone.” She turned, and with Rhianne following close behind, she started across the castle yard toward the stables. Morgin followed, splashing through mud up to his ankles, knowing he would make an easy target for an ambitious bowman. When they reached the stables AnnaRail raised a hand to pound on the stable doors, but before she could do so one of them creaked open.

Inside, the stable boy Erlin held a hooded lamp with one hand, and with the other slammed the door shut. Someone grabbed Morgin and pushed him toward Mortiss, who was saddled and ready. He climbed up into her saddle, marveling that he had the strength to do so. JohnEngine mounted a horse nearby, and by the dim light of Erlin’s lamp Morgin noticed four more horses behind JohnEngine’s, all saddled, and each with a sack of grain tied in its saddle and a hooded cloak tied about the sack. JohnEngine smiled at him. “The cloaks were my idea,” he said proudly. “Makes ‘em look just a little more like riders crouching low in the saddle, eh? The night and the rain’ll have to do the rest.”

Rhianne gripped Morgin’s left hand tightly. “Ride out of the stable alone,” she said, “And keep your horse at a walk. The guards opened the gates earlier for Val, and with a few small spells we’ve managed to keep them that way. Try to get out of the castle unnoticed, and as soon as you reach the woodland between here and the village, cut off the road to the right. Val and Cort and France are waiting there for you. Go southwest, to Aud. The clans can’t hunt you there.”

It occurred to Morgin that in many ways his life was coming to an end. He was no longer a wizard, nor a clansman, nor an Elhiyne. They had given it all to him when he didn’t want it, and now they were taking it away when he did. His soul and heart filled with bitterness, and he asked, “But they’ll hunt me tonight, eh?”

Rhianne shook her head. “No. When the mob comes looking for you JohnEngine and his sacks-of-grain are going to lead them in the opposite direction. They’ll hunt him, not you.”

She threw her hood back and her eyes filled with tears. Morgin had so many things to tell her, but all he said was, “I love you.”

She clutched at his hand, tears now streaming freely down her cheeks. “And I you.”

“You must go,” AnnaRail hissed sharply. “Now.”

Erlin shielded his lamp and pulled the stable door open, again only a crack. Morgin touched his spurs to Mortiss’ flanks and she trotted forward at an easy pace that should arouse no suspicion, though the very fact of a rider going out in this weather would not go unnoticed.

The rain was pouring down even harder now, cutting his visibility to almost nothing and pounding with a roar into the mud of the castle yard, and yet at the same time the yard was possessed of an eerie quiet, as if the castle and MichaelOff’s ghost were waiting for something.

As Morgin approached the open castle gates they loomed out of the blackness of the night like the jaws of some enormous beast. There were always crossbowmen and archers on the battlements above, and with the gates jammed open they would be uneasy and watchful, so he fought the growing urge to spur Mortiss into a charge. He watched the gates grow larger before him as she trotted forward, all going well, but then at the last instant, only a stone’s throw from freedom, a voice called out from above, “Halt! Identify yourself.”

Morgin tugged gently on Mortiss’ reins and brought her to a stop. He couldn’t answer them. He was too well known. His voice would be recognized.

“Identify yourself,” the voice called again. “Speak now, or we’ll drop you and your horse where you stand.”

In that instant an angry mob burst out of the castle and began spilling into the yard. The next instant JohnEngine and his sack-of-grain riders charged out of the stables heading straight for the gates and Morgin. At the same time a cloaked figure—whom Morgin later realized was Rhianne—pointed at JohnEngine and shouted above the rain, “It’s the outlaw wizard!”

Morgin heard the twang of a crossbow, waited through an eternity of an instant for the bolt to punch its way through his chest, but saw it bury itself instead in one of the sacks of grain as JohnEngine and his horses raced past him. On foot the mob charged chaotically across the yard to the gates, so Morgin pulled his sword, waved it above his head, pointed it through the gates at the fleeing figure of JohnEngine, shouted, “It’s the outlaw wizard. I’ll get him.” Then he spurred Mortiss into a charge, slapped her flank with the flat of his sword, and raced through the open castle gates.

He had to trust Mortiss to sense her own footing, for the rain and the gloom of the night blinded him completely, and at full charge the drops stung his face like grains of sand in a high wind. He kept low in the saddle, waiting for an arrow to pierce his back, or for Mortiss—like poor SarahGirl before her—to collapse beneath him. But no arrow came out of the night, and then he reached the edge of the forest, and there JohnEngine waited.

“Turn off here,” JohnEngine shouted at him. “Stay close to the edge of the forest and ride hard. Don’t try to find Val; let him find you, and by the gods don’t hide in your shadows or he never will.”

JohnEngine looked sharply toward the castle. “They’re coming,” he shouted. He nudged his horse next to Mortiss, reached out, gripped Morgin’s forearm tightly. “We’ll meet again, brother. I swear that now before you, and next time we’ll stand and fight, eh?” And with both of them seated atop horses, he leaned over and tried unsuccessfully to kiss Morgin, but gave up as their two horses jostled beneath them. JohnEngine spun his horse about, and with his horses and sacks of grain charged off into the night.

Morgin spurred Mortiss off the road, but on the uneven ground there he was forced to keep her pace to a slow trot, and after what seemed only seconds his ears caught the sound of the mob on the road behind him: the thunder of many hooves and the shouts of angry riders. Quickly he pulled Mortiss just within the edge of the forest and waited breathlessly. The cries and hoof beats approached, then dwindled slowly into the distance, but even after they were gone some instinct told him to wait longer.

While he waited the rain slackened, and after what seemed an eternity he heard the creak of saddle leather, a horse moving at a slow walk. Then out of the darkness a lone rider appeared and pulled his horse to a stop at the point where Morgin had entered the forest. Morgin moved his hand carefully to the hilt of his sword.

“Elhiyne,” the rider shouted. Morgin recognized ErrinCastle’s voice. “I know you’re there. But unlike my father I’m not here to hunt you. Not that I have any great liking or admiration for you, but I owe you a debt, and I am here to repay it. My conduct toward your wife was unforgivable. I know now that I was enspelled by the Decouix, but to use him as an excuse would be as dishonorable as my previous actions were unforgivable. I therefore grant you your freedom, and I give you my word I will do nothing to hinder your escape. But this makes us even, Elhiyne. The next time we meet, I will kill you for the outlaw you are.” And with that, ErrinCastle yanked his horse’s reins angrily toward the road, and disappeared into the night.

Morgin waited a few moments more, then continued on. As he rode through the driving rain the trees of the small forest beside him were almost invisible in the darkness of the night’s gloom, and just to keep them in sight he stayed uncomfortably close to them. He traveled for a good distance, following the curve of the forest as it turned slowly away from Elhiyne, and began to wonder if he’d missed his friends. But then three mounted riders loomed out of the darkness before him with swords drawn.

There came no greeting. France merely shouted, “Let’s ride, now, fast and hard, before that mob finds out who they’re really chasing.”