Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (13 page)

Two more blades slid clear of their sheaths,
the links of a chain rattled and the shadows advanced.

Morgin back-stepped. His mind raced as he
muttered a spell of confidence, then followed it quickly with one
to banish fear, but then an eleventh shadow stepped out
unexpectedly behind the others. The eleventh shadow drew a blade.
There came a hiss as steel sliced through the air, and a painful
cry as one of the ten shadows collapsed in the street. And then the
street erupted in pandemonium as the eleventh shadow danced death
among the ten. Four of the ten were down and sprawled on the street
when the newcomer broke from the pack and ran past Morgin. “Follow
me, boy,” the stranger shouted, “fer yer life.”

Morgin followed the man without hesitation
as they both ran haphazardly through the streets and alleys of the
city. Morgin knew the game well: cut through an alley and out into
the street beyond, down the street a ways, then through another
alley. It was Rat’s game the stranger played, and Morgin followed
obediently, but as they cut into the next alley Morgin realized
suddenly with Rat’s memories that it was a mistake. “No,” he cried
too late. “It’s a blind alley.”

They both dug in their heels desperately and
spun about. But they were too late, for their pursuers had already
blocked the entrance to the alley and were advancing toward them.
They were trapped.

“Damn!” the stranger swore. “We’ll have to
fight. You got a blade, boy?”

But when Morgin gave no answer the stranger
looked about suddenly and discovered that Morgin was gone. “Damn
coward,” he muttered, then turned to face the oncoming enemy
alone.

But he wasn’t alone. Morgin had reached for
his greatest weapon: the nearest shadow, melting into it with ease.
Suddenly he was at home, floating from shadow to shadow as it
seemed the
gods
had intended for him.

The stranger backed down the alley as the
six dark shapes advanced. Morgin waited while they moved past him,
then stepped out behind them, waving his arms silently so the
stranger would know he was there.

The stranger moved first, cutting high with
his sword at their faces. Morgin launched himself at the backs of
their knees in a full body block, sprawled in a tumble of angry
men. In the press of bodies he found the hilt of a blade that
someone had dropped, curled his fingers about it then rolled out of
the chaos just as a chain hissed past his face. He disappeared
again into shadow.

It was not a good blade, not for Morgin. Its
balance was wrong. It was too short to be a sword, too long to be a
knife, but it was a weapon, and any weapon was better than
none.

Two more shadows went down. Not dead,
because he could hear one groaning and see the other trying to
crawl away. There were four remaining and the stranger fought among
them with the grace of a dancer.

Another went down with a cry, clutching his
crotch where a moment earlier the stranger’s boot had found a
target. The three remaining tried to surround the fellow, but as
one moved past Morgin’s shadow he stepped out and his training took
over. He knocked the man’s weapon aside and drove home the blade
with all the force he could muster.

For a single instant Morgin saw the moon
reflected in the man’s startled eyes as he looked upon his own
death. Morgin had buried the blade to the hilt just under his rib
cage, slanting upward toward the heart. Then the man toppled
forward, carrying Morgin down and falling on top of him. Face to
face, Morgin lay trapped under the man’s bulk. He could feel the
man’s life pouring from the wound. He had taken his first life, and
was sickened by it.

“Come, boy,” the stranger hissed. “We must
be away. And quickly.”

The stranger’s words did not at first
register in Morgin’s stunned mind. All he could do was lay there,
staring into the glassy eyes of the dead man that lay on top of
him.

The stranger kicked the body aside, pulled
Morgin to his feet and slapped him hard in the face. “Snap out of
it, boy,” the stranger growled. “We don’t want armsmen finding us
here.” Then he turned and ran.

Morgin hesitated for only an instant, then
followed.

As they approached the market square the
streets were lit by an occasional torch or the open door of a
saloon. The stranger peered into several inns before stopping at
one and muttering, “Good. This’ll do.”

He examined Morgin carefully in the light of
the inn’s open door, then pulled off his own cloak and threw it
over Morgin’s shoulders. “Until we get that blood washed off, keep
yer tunic covered with this.” The stranger held out his hand. “Now
give me yer purse.”

For the first time Morgin looked at the man
carefully. Tall, golden, blond hair hanging to his shoulders, a
large mustache resting on the upper lip of a handsome face, a felt
cap tilted rakishly on his head. He had no reason to trust this
tall, blond stranger, but if the man chose to steal his money, it
was a small price to pay in return for his life. Morgin gave him
the purse reluctantly.

“Good. Now follow me, laddie-boy, and keep
yer mouth shut.”

A few minutes later they were in a private
room on the second floor of the inn. The stranger had returned the
purse after paying for the room, and while Morgin cleaned the blood
from the front of his jerkin, the stranger cleaned his sword, and
his long moustache wagged as he filled the air with talk. “Well,
laddie-me-boy. Looks like we’ll get away with this one. Those
bodies’ll be stripped by morning. And if the clan armsmen come
asking questions . . . Well, even if anyone saw the
blood on ya, these people don’t talk much.”

“But I killed him in self-defense,” Morgin
said.

“Ya, boy,” the stranger said. “I know. And I
killed two meself for the same reason. But sometimes them clan
witches don’t see it the same way as you an’ me. So it’s best to
keep yer mouth shut and stay clean.”

But Morgin didn’t feel clean. “Who are you?”
he demanded. “And why did you help me? And why are you helping me
now?”

“Who am I?” the stranger asked. He grinned
and sighted down the length of his sword. “Why! I’m France, the
swordsman.” He hefted the blade as if to test its balance. “In
fact, boy, I am the best swordsman I’ve ever met. Better than any
clansman, I’ll wager.”

“But you’re a brawler,” Morgin said.
“Swordsmen fight by rules.”

“Rules!” France mocked. He took a swipe with
his sword and laughed loudly. “Ha! I court a fine lady by rules,
boy. Otherwise she’d scorn me favors. I kill only men who need
killin’, and steal that which ain’t mine hardly never. So I live
much of me life by rules, boy. When I fight fer pleasure or
practice, I usually fight by rules. But when I fight fer me life,
boy . . .” His expression hardened.
“Well . . . any man who fights fer his life by rules
is a fool. And soon to be a dead fool at that.”

Morgin considered that for a moment. “I
guess that’s fair. But why did you help me?”

“Well, laddie boy. I comes out of a
particular drinking place near here and sees you stomping down the
middle of the street like you owned the place. And behind you is
gathering a pack of wolves to steal yer money. So I followed to see
what would happen.”

“But how did they know I have money?”

“Boy, when you walk down these streets at
night, you make sure yer money don’t chink in yer purse, especially
loud enough fer others to hear.”

“Oh!” Morgin said, suddenly feeling quite
foolish. “I guess that’s just common sense.”

“Yup. And you seem to be a little short of
that. What’s yer name, boy?”

“Morgin,” he said. “But you haven’t told me
why you helped me.”

“That’s simple enough, Morgin. I hate to see
a young lad like yerself get hurt.”

Morgin shook his head. “I’m not that
stupid.”

France shrugged. “And I expects to be
rewarded properly fer me trouble by yer parents.”

Morgin became suddenly suspicious. “How do
you know my parents?”

The swordsman smiled. “I don’t,” he said.
With the tip of his sword he touched a newly acquired tear in
Morgin’s sleeve. “But look at yer clothes. Till an hour ago there
wasn’t a tear in them. And you, a young lad with money jingling in
yer purse.”

Morgin became acutely aware of the worn and
tattered condition of France’s own clothing.

“Tell me, boy. Why you walking these streets
at night?”

“I had an argument with my grandmother,”
Morgin said, and that was all he cared to tell this vagabond.

“So you stomped out of the house and went to
the Thieves’ Quarter.” The swordsman shook his head sadly. “Didn’t
you know you’d get in trouble?”

“But I’ve been here before.”

“Ya. Sure. During the day, no doubt. Damn
it, boy. They don’t call this the good-fellows quarter. It’s
thieves and murderers here, and don’t you forget it.”

Morgin didn’t tell him he’d come here
because this was where his life had begun. He just sat silently,
trying to understand why he’d done what he’d done. He also thought
of the man he’d killed.

“Well, boy. You fought bravely, if not
skillfully, and that’s good enough for anyone.”

“Not for my grandmother,” Morgin said.

France laughed. “She’s a mean old witch,
eh?”

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That she’s a witch.”

France’s face, worn with experience,
suddenly took on a dangerous look. He peered intently at Morgin.
“Are you a clansman, boy?”

Morgin answered hesitantly. “Yes.”

“Which clan?” France demanded.

“Elhiyne.”

“Which house?”

“Elhiyne.”

“And the name of this grandmother of
yers?”

“Olivia,” Morgin said.

Without warning the swordsman grabbed Morgin
by his tunic, nearly lifted him off his feet. “The Lady Olivia has
no grandson named Morgin. And I don’t like liars.”

“My given name is AethonLaw, but I go by
Morgin.”

The swordsman whistled and dropped into a
chair. “I got a prince on me hands.”

“I’m no prince,” Morgin snapped.

“Maybe not,” France said. “But yer close
enough.” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned! Come on, lad. Sit
down. Yer making me nervous standing there like that.”

There were only two pieces of furniture in
the room, a simple chair and a musty, old bed. France sat in the
chair, so Morgin sat on the edge of the bed. “What are you going to
do with me?”

The swordsman leaned forward and became
suddenly serious. “You listen to me, boy. I’ll not be doin’ nothin’
with you. You’re yer own man, boy. If I forced you to do anything,
I’d have yer grandmother after me. And there ain’t a man alive who
wants her on his trail.”

“Then what should I do?” Morgin asked.

“Well now,” France said. “If its advice yer
asking for, I got plenty of that. The bad advice is free. The good
advice’ll cost ya. But let me ask you. What do
you
want to
do?”

“I don’t know,” Morgin said. “I just don’t
want to go back to the compound. At least not yet.”

“Well then why don’t you stay here, lad? I’m
sure it’s not as good as yer used to . . .” France
drew a finger through the dust on a bed post,
“. . . but the owner takes pride in the fact that
none of his customers gets robbed or murdered in their sleep. And
there ain’t no bedbugs, and the food ain’t bad neither.”

Morgin considered it. If he went back to the
compound Olivia would just tie him down again with endless meetings
and such.

“And,” the swordsman said slyly, “for some
wine, a little food, and a wee small fee, I’d be happy to be yer
guide and show you a bit of the city.”

~~~

It was a good bargain. They shared the room’s
only bed, sleeping in their clothes on top of the covers, for the
sheets were too musty to suit either of them.

Morgin fell quickly to sleep. But it was a
restless sleep, filled with dreams of strange people walking some
unknown street, and all of them had eyes that reflected death in
the moonlight. At one point he dreamed he was making love to a
beautiful, young girl, but while lying face to face on top of her
she suddenly turned into the man he’d killed. He awoke shivering in
a cold sweat.

As he lay there, trying to sleep again but
afraid he would dream the same dream, France spoke very softly in
the dark. “Morgin, me lad. Whenever you think back to the first man
you killed, just remember that it was him or you, and that that was
one man that deserved killin’.”

The following day they toured the Thieves’
Quarter. They visited people and places that Morgin could never
have seen in the company of clansmen. They stopped frequently in
dark, forbidding saloons where France spoke with men whose eyes
seemed never to rest, and who looked at Morgin with open distrust.
France had warned him earlier, “Keep yer mouth shut and tell no one
yer a clansman, boy.”

There were other places more festive, where
pinching a barmaid was clearly part of the fare, and the drink
flowed freely, though never for free. Morgin paid for it all
gladly, and had the time of his life doing so. He was also
surprised to find how little it cost him, or rather how exceedingly
much he had. Evidently, what was to Roland some spending money for
one of his sons, was a small fortune to most of these people.

They also browsed through several
weapons-makers shops. France explained that he was always on the
lookout for a good blade, and never passed up an opportunity to
seek one out. They were in one such shop when France turned
suddenly to Morgin and said, “There’s some good steel here, lad.
Pick one out fer yerself.”

“A sword?” Morgin asked. “For me?”

“Sure. Yer of a proper age, and sword
trained, you say.”

“A sword of my very own? But I don’t have
enough money for a sword.”