Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (18 page)

Morgin looked into the empty face next to
Valso’s, a face devoid of humanity. “Yer Lordship,” it greeted,
nodding its head slightly.

Valso smiled. “But I know you’ve heard of
the good captain, haven’t you?”

Morgin moved his focus back to Valso. The
effort caused his head to swim.

“Captain,” Valso said.

Morgin’s head rocked back with another slap.
He held onto consciousness only by an effort of will, but his ears
rang long afterward.

It spoke. “Answer His Lordship’s question,
fool.”

Morgin opened his eyes and nodded. He tried
to croak a “yes” past split and cracked lips.

“That’s better, Elhiyne,” Valso said. “The
captain is known for his cruelty, is he not?”

Morgin was careful to at least nod this
time.

“But remember this, Elhiyne. Salula is only
as cruel as I allow him to be. And tonight, I, through the good
captain, am going to teach you what happens when you touch a
Decouix. Prepare him, Salula.”

Morgin became acutely conscious of his
elbows. They were tied painfully behind his back, forcing him to
hold his chest out. The cruel hands grabbed him by his upper arms
and half dragged him to a nearby boulder, then slammed him face
down against its surface.

For a moment his arms were free, but numb
below the elbows it was impossible to use them. Just as they were
beginning to feel the prickly fire of returning circulation cruel
hands grabbed each of his four limbs, hoisted him atop the boulder,
held him face down on its surface. They attached a rope to each
limb, then tied it to a stake driven in the ground. His shirt had
already been torn away, and the cruel hands now did likewise to his
breeches.

His cheek rested on the boulder. Valso
stepped into his field of view, holding a long saddle strap about
the length of a grown man. It was a common piece of harness
equipment, only a little wider than it was thick.

Valso leaned close enough for Morgin to
smell stale wine on his breath. “I’m going to enjoy this, Elhiyne.
I’m going to enjoy this enormously.”

Morgin didn’t answer.

Valso stepped back and handed the strap to
Salula. “You may begin now, Captain. But remember. I don’t want him
to lose consciousness. Not for a long, long time.”

Salula took the strap casually and folded it
in two, holding both ends in one hand. He stepped to the side of
the boulder, and his face held the first hint of expression that
Morgin had seen: a smile, cruel and evil.

Morgin watched as Salula raised the strap
slowly above his head, and he resolved not to cry out, not to give
them the satisfaction. The strap paused high in the air for a long
teasing moment, then, with lightning speed it came down.

Fire laced Morgin’s buttocks. He screamed.
The world about him faded from sight momentarily, then the pain
receded and his vision returned.

Valso stood there smiling. Salula stood next
to him grinning. The prince said, “Learn your lesson well,
Elhiyne.” Then, to Salula, he said calmly, “Again, Captain.”

The lash struck again, across Morgin’s back,
and again he screamed. Again his vision failed in a fiery agony of
pain, then returned to the hell that had become his night. Salula
paused before the next strike, while Valso made some witty comment.
And then the lash fell again. And again the prince paused and
commented. Sometimes the pause was long, and sometimes short, but
always the lash returned to strike once more.

After a time Morgin could no longer scream,
no longer cry out at the pain that was now a constant burn from
shoulders to knees. He lost consciousness several times, only to be
reawakened by a flood of icy water across the back of his head.
When he begged for a drink, Valso spit in his face. When he begged
for mercy, Valso laughed.

Later he was able to remember only two
things: the pain, and Salula’s face. It was a hard face, weathered
with hate, a face that grinned after each stroke of the lash, and
smiled in anticipation of the next. When Morgin could no longer
scream he lay there, silent, watching that face. When the lash was
raised high Salula’s face twisted with the effort to strike with
all his might. The muscles of his jaw clenched, his lips curled
back to expose white teeth locked in a grin that only death could
break, his nostrils flared, his eyes closed to mere slits, and as
the lash came down he grimaced with pleasure. It was a grimace that
Morgin would remember always, a grimace etched on the back of his
mind by the white hot fire of the lash, a grimace that remained
with him as he drifted slowly toward a place where not even the icy
water could revive him.

~~~

Morgin awoke and cried out.

“Easy, brother,” JohnEngine said softly.
“Easy now. Don’t move. We have to untie you.”

Morgin laid his cheek back down on the
boulder. Soft, gentle hands worked at the knots at his wrists and
ankles. The sun stood high in the sky, a warm dry day. He wondered
if that added to the slow burn that ran from the back of his neck
to the back of his knees.

His face rested on his right cheek, and all
he could see was his left shoulder and arm where the lash had
deposited bloody welts and bruises all the way down to his wrist.
There was dried blood and scab there too, for the rope had bitten
deep during his struggles. Brandon worked at the knot there, his
fingers moving with great care. There were tears in his eyes.

“The Decouix left you for us to find,” he
said in a deadly voice. “He will pay for this.” And in Brandon’s
eyes Morgin saw hate mixed with the tears. It was almost
unbelievable that kind, quiet Brandon could hate so.

Morgin lifted his head slowly and laid it
down on the other cheek. JohnEngine worked at the knot at his right
wrist, and tried to hide the tears in his eyes.

Morgin resolved not to move again. The blood
on his back and neck had dried in the warm sun, then split and
cracked with fiery awareness as he’d moved his head. But moments
later his resolve meant nothing as his brothers and cousins gently
hoisted him off the boulder, carried him to one side, placed him
face down on some blankets. At least he did not shame himself by
crying out as the scab on his back split into hundreds of fiery
lines, each distinguishable from the next.

“Don’t move, cousin,” he heard MichaelOff
say from a place far away. “DaNoel is going to put salve on your
back. It should ease the pain.”

Sometime later, hours it seemed, Morgin felt
coherent again. The salve had cooled the fire some, and his mind
came slowly out of the fog where it had hidden. In his thoughts he
replayed the events of the previous evening: Salula using the lash
with a vigorous joy, Valso looking on with pleasure. And at the
memory of Valso’s smiling face a wave of murderous hate washed
through him.

Nearby he could hear his cousins and
brothers speaking softly, making plans to spend the night. They
were concerned that it might be some time before he could ride
again.

Morgin lifted himself up onto his elbows;
slowly, since the motion brought considerable pain to his burning
back and thighs. He scanned the clearing, seeing no one present but
his four kinsmen. When he spoke, the words came out in a croak:
“How did you find me?”

All four heads turned suddenly toward him.
It was MichaelOff who spoke first. “Ah! You’ve decided to rejoin
the living. We thought you might sleep the day through.”

They stood, crossed the clearing, gathered
around him. “How did you find me?” he asked again.

MichaelOff spoke. “When you failed to return
we searched the city for you, and finding no sign of you we knew
the Decouix must be involved.”

DaNoel said, “The four of us rode out with
an escort following the Decouix trail while mother and father began
searching the city.”

“With the help of a few spells we found you
here,” Brandon said, “And sent the escort back to tell them you’re
all right. They’ll be returning home soon, and we’ll follow in a
day or two, when you’re rested.”

Brandon hadn’t said it, but Morgin could see
it in their eyes. They’d sent the escort back to save him shame and
humiliation. “I can ride now,” he said angrily.

“That’s not necessary,” MichaelOff said.
“We’ll rest here a few days, give your back a chance to heal,
conjure a little to help it along.”

Morgin shook his head. “Did you bring my
sword?”

Brandon nodded. “Yes.”

“Then I will ride now, after the
Decouix.”

They started at that. MichaelOff said a flat
“No.” DaNoel shook his head from side to side. JohnEngine looked
worried, undecided. Brandon, without word or expression, stood and
walked toward the horses.

MichaelOff spoke carefully. “Valso has an
escort of twelve twelves of Kulls. That would be suicide.”

“I want Valso’s blood,” Morgin snarled. He
could feel tears forming in his eyes. “So I ride after him now,
while the trail is fresh.”

DaNoel shook his head angrily. “You’re in no
shape to ride, let alone fight.”

It was at that moment that Brandon returned
from the horses carrying a sheathed sword. He knelt down nearby,
unsheathed it, and Morgin recognized it as his own. Brandon
reversed the blade, placed the hilt in Morgin’s hand, and curled
his fingers about it. “If you ride after the Decouix, cousin, then
I ride with you, gladly.”

“And I ride too,” JohnEngine said with much
bravado.

DaNoel hesitated. But then, reluctantly,
angrily, he said, “And I.”

They all turned to MichaelOff, the oldest
and wisest. Morgin could see that the other’s wanted the older
man’s support, while all he wanted was blood. Valso’s blood.
Salula’s blood. As he thought of the Decouix and the halfman, a
wave of murderous hate washed over him again, leaving tears in his
eyes, and as he looked at his kinsmen he realized they were all
tied together in some odd way. Not by blood or family, but by love
and friendship. And he realized they could all feel his hate, his
shame.

When MichaelOff spoke, he too had tears in
his eyes. “It appears I cannot dissuade you from this suicidal
revenge. Don’t you know that you will all die, all of you?”

The tears started to pour openly down his
face as they answered him with silence. “Well then. If you choose
to ride foolishly to your death, then I must ride with you.”

He looked at Morgin, sadly defeated. “We
will all die together, Morgin, if that is what you choose.”

That was the key. It was Morgin’s choice.
But there was no choice. He wanted Valso’s blood and he wanted it
now. He would ride after the Decouix and he would fight, fight
until they killed him. What was death when he could die killing the
Decouix? But he wouldn’t kill the Decouix, he realized. He’d just
die.

He had a sudden vision of AnnaRail, weeping,
crying over the deaths of her sons and nephews. That was followed
by a vision of JohnEngine’s decaying body. And Brandon’s. And
DaNoel’s. And MichaelOff’s. His brothers and cousins all, dead and
rotting in the sun. Dead because they were loyal to him and
followed him in his foolish revenge. Uselessly, senselessly
dead.

He shook his head, said simply, “We’ll wait
here a day or two, then ride back to Elhiyne.”

“All right now, yer lordships,” the smith
said. “We’re ready fer a pour. But take care. I just want me this
line. No more.”

With sweat beading on his forehead the smith
bent down and used the edge of his hand to make a finger wide
impression in the dry sand. As he did so Morgin watched a drop of
sweat hang momentarily from the tip of his nose, then fall into the
sand and leave its own impression there. Even in winter the foundry
was a miserably hot place to be.

Morgin wiped a coarse rag across his face
then tossed it to JohnEngine, who wiped his own face as he leaned
forward conspiratorially. “Next time I’ll know better than to
volunteer for this hell-house.”

“We didn’t exactly volunteer,” Morgin
said.

“I suppose you’re right. But next time I’ll
not come so gladly. I thought this would be better than freezing in
the fields.”

Morgin smiled. “You’ll come next time,
gladly or not. Olivia wants us to learn about smithing.”

“All I’m learning is how to sweat.”

“Quit yer gabbin’, boys,” the smith
bellowed, “and pour.”

Morgin and JohnEngine pulled on heavy
leather gloves, then bent to the task of lifting the small crucible
out of its cradle. It was back breaking work, and as they edged
toward the sand in short, jerky steps, the heat of the furnace, now
fully exposed, washed the room in an eerie, orange glow.

“All right, boys. Remember. Ya don’t have to
pour fast, just smooth and steady.”

Morgin nodded to JohnEngine, his arms aching
under the weight of the load. They tilted the pot forward slowly,
until the molten steel within slipped easily over its lip, splashed
into the near end of the line the smith had cut in the sand, and
made its way smoothly to the end of its hellish journey.

“Not bad,” the smith said. “Not good. Ya
still got a lot to learn.”

Morgin and JohnEngine edged their way back
to the furnace where they replaced the crucible in its cradle,
happy to be rid of the load. The smith crouched over the line of
steel they’d poured in the sand. “We’ll quench ‘er perty soon, then
see what kind of edge she’ll hold, and how strong she be.”

They’d been through this procedure several
times already. The smith’s two brawny apprentices would fill the
crucible. Morgin and JohnEngine would then pour a line in the
sand—a sample only, so the smith could judge the quality of the
steel in the furnace. If it was not right, he would add something
to the melt to change it, the nature of which he revealed only to
his apprentices. Then they’d test the steel again, and if the smith
was satisfied, the apprentices would take the crucible for the
important pours, while the two boys stood by to assist when called
for.