Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (19 page)

After days of continually improving the
melt, the steel was now approaching sword quality. During the first
days of the melt they’d poured such things as belt buckles and
light harness hardware, items that required but little strength. As
the days passed and the melt improved they’d produced items for
heavy equipment and hard use, and finally, two days ago, they’d
finished by pouring two plowshares, and since then had done nothing
but improve what remained of the melt. “Fer blades,” the smith had
said, “we don’t need much steel, but it has to be the highest
quality. Only the best. And we don’t pour blades, lads. We let the
steel cool some, then we work it; two, maybe three days. Hard work
that. Harder’n this. You boys’ll be swingin’ hammers and poundin’
hot steel then, good steel.”

“A message fer Lord Morgin.”

They all looked toward the strange voice:
the apprentices from their furnace; Morgin and JohnEngine from
their crucible; the smith from his cooling sample of steel. The
one-eyed lame beggar from the village stood fearfully in the
entrance to the foundry.

“What ya be wantin’ here?” the smith
demanded.

“Begging yer fergiveness, master, but I gots
a message fer young Lord Morgin.”

“Well give it and be gone with ya.”

“I was told to give it to ‘im in
private.”

“Very well,” the smith growled unhappily,
turning to Morgin. “Talk to him outside, lad.”

Morgin walked quickly. This was the smith’s
domain and intruders were not welcome.

Morgin’s boots crunched in the snow outside.
Bare from the waist up, soaked with sweat, the harsh winter air bit
at him mercilessly. “Make it fast,” he said. “It’s cold out
here.”

“There’s a man wants to see you,
milord.”

“What man? Where?”

“He’s outside the village, milord. Didn’t
give no name. Told me to give ya this. Wants ya to come an’ see
‘im.”

The beggar handed Morgin a fine linen
handkerchief. It was dirty and crumpled, had seen better days, and
while it was obviously supposed to carry some hidden meaning,
Morgin at first drew a blank. But then memory struck him. It had
once been his, though the last time he’d seen it had been almost
two years ago in Anistigh. France had taken a liking to it, and the
scoundrel must have stolen it.

“Wait here,” Morgin said, spun on his heels
and reentered the foundry. He excused himself, claiming urgent
family business, though JohnEngine looked at him narrowly as he
threw a cloak over his shoulders to leave, but JohnEngine said
nothing.

The beggar led Morgin to the small woodland
that separated castle Elhiyne from the nearby village. He found
France waiting there and greeted him gladly.

“Keep yer voice down, lad,” France hissed.
He tried to conceal the fear written plainly on his face, and he
eyed the beggar with distrust. Morgin noticed that France’s horse
was badly lathered. “I promised the man a reward, and I got nothin’
of me own to pay ‘im with.”

Morgin dug into his pockets but came up
empty, and when he tried to tell the beggar he’d reward him later
the man’s one good eye narrowed sharply. There would be trouble if
some payment was not made immediately, and France’s manner told
Morgin they must keep the man happily silent.

Morgin had only one item of value on his
person: a small copper charm, a memento of his only visit to
Anistigh. It had cost only a few pennies, but it was worth far more
than the beggar deserved. Morgin handed it to him.

The beggar eyed it greedily and turned to
leave. Morgin gripped his shoulder, halting him momentarily. “There
is enough there to pay for you silence too. Be certain you give me
my due.”

“Aye, lord, I will.”

“You have earned my good favor,” Morgin
added. “Take care that you do not lose it.”

The man nodded uneasily. He well knew that
any clansman, even one of little importance like Morgin, could make
the life of a beggar miserable if he chose.

Morgin released his shoulder. “Away with you
now.”

The man scurried away quickly.

“What’s wrong, France” Morgin asked when
they were alone. “Are you in trouble?”

“Me, lad?” France said innocently. “In
trouble? Nay, not I.”

“Then why all this secrecy?”

“Ah, you know me, lad. Just me normal
precautions. Not one fer bein’ seen much in public.”

“Come on, France. There’s more to it than
that.”

France opened his mouth to protest, but just
then there came the sound of many riders thundering down the road.
The swordsman’s eyes lit up with fear. “I need a place to hide me
and me horse, lad, and fast. I’m askin’ you to return the favor of
a life saved, boy.”

Morgin looked quickly about. He and France
were not far off the road; the trees of the forest were winter bare
they’d be quite visible to any riders passing by, so instinctively
he reached for shadow. France gasped as he, his horse, and Morgin,
were suddenly dim gray figures in a white landscape of naked trees
and snow. Morgin hissed, “Keep yourself and your horse still.”

The riders rounded a bend in the road: a
posse of Penda border marshals riding angry and hard. They passed
going toward the castle, where they would undoubtedly request
shelter for the night. Morgin waited to be sure there were no
stragglers, then released the shadow spell.

France staggered. “A cute trick, that,” he
said. “I can’t stay here long, though. They know I’m in the
neighborhood and will be searchin’ the area soon enough.”

Morgin looked up the road. “Give me your
horse. And wait here. I won’t be long.”

He jumped on the animal’s back. It shied
beneath him, but he held it tightly in control as he pulled it out
onto the road and headed for the village, slapping its rump,
digging his heels into its flanks.

He found the beggar still hobbling along the
road. Morgin pulled up beside him. “I would ask another favor of
you, beggar, and in payment I will give you a warm set of clothes
for what’s left of the winter.”

The beggar’s good eye lit up with delight.
“Gladly, milord.”

“Follow me then.”

Morgin led the beggar back to France and
ordered them both to strip.

“What?” France demanded.

“I said strip. And exchange clothes.”

“Put on them filthy rags,” France said.
“Never.”

“Then I’m sorry, friend,” Morgin said. “I
cannot help you.”

“By the Unnamed King!” France cursed,
throwing off his cloak and working at his tunic.

Morgin had trouble concealing a smile.

“And don’t you be enjoyin’ this, boy.”

When the two had completed their exchange,
Morgin told the beggar, “And give him your eye patch, and your
walking stick.”

“I’ll give him me cane,” the beggar said,
“in exchange fer his sword.”

France unsheathed his sword, crouched,
growled, “Not the sword, beggar, not unless you want it point
first.”

The beggar cringed. Morgin stepped between
them. “Don’t be greedy, beggar. Yield up your cane and the eye
patch for good measure. Even then this day has been a highly
profitable one for you.”

The beggar gave up his cane and eye patch,
then departed, walking cockily down the center of the road. In his
new clothes he bore himself with a dignity that Morgin would not
have thought possible. But then France called after him, “I’d stay
out of sight if I was you. In them clothes the Pendas just might
mistake you for me. And I know you won’t like the way they show
their displeasure.”

The beggar suddenly lost his dignity and
thought better of the bargain he’d made. He slipped off the road,
disappeared with practiced ease.

“Come,” Morgin said. “I’ll ride your horse
and you walk in front of me. We’ll enter the castle together.”

“The castle! Yer crazy, lad.”

“What better place to hide?” Morgin asked.
“It’s big and spread out all over the place. They’ll never think to
look for you there. And that’s the only place I can think of to
stable your horse where there’ll be no questions asked. Now hide
your sword in those rags you’re wearing, and hobble on that cane
like the beggar you’re supposed to be.”

France cursed and spit all the way up the
road, though when they entered the castle yard, which was full of
angry Pendas, he became unhappily silent.

Morgin quickly found Erlin, the stable boy.
They were friends, of a sort, and Erlin readily agreed to hide
France in the stables.

“What about me horse, boy?”

“I’ll stable him with the Penda horses,”
Erlin said. “Gorguh—he’s the stable master—he won’t notice one more
among all the rest.”

“Morgin,” DaNoel screamed from out in the
yard. “Blast you. Where are you?”

“I’d better go,” Morgin whispered. “With
clansmen about claiming guestright, grandmother’ll want the whole
family to put on our manners and entertain.”

“Blast you, Morgin. Where are you? Answer
me.”

“Go on, lad,” France said. “Erlin an’ me can
handle it from here. And thanks.”

~~~

The leader of the Pendas was a large angry
man who wanted to find the vagabond swordsman and
“. . . hang his balls in my trophy room.” He claimed
that France had raped his wife, and was a most evil scoundrel.

Later that evening, when Morgin could slip
away, he questioned France on the matter. According to the
swordsman any raping done had been quite mutual, and he hadn’t
known the woman was married until after the fact. Knowing France,
Morgin was inclined to believe the former, but not the latter.

The Pendas left Elhiyne early the next
morning, their leader confident they would soon catch the fugitive
swordsman. When they were well and gone, Morgin started for the
stables to tell France the danger was past, but DaNoel intercepted
him in the castle yard.

“Grandmother wants to see you,” DaNoel said
smugly. “Now. In the Hall of Wills.”

That didn’t sound good, and as Morgin
stepped through the great double doors of the Hall of Wills his
worst fears were realized. He found all of House Elhiyne waiting
for him there. Gorguh and Erlin were there too; the stable master
had hold of one of the stable boy’s ears, and gave it a good twist
now and then. The beggar knelt before Olivia, dressed in his fine
new clothes and trembling with fear. To one side stood a cluster of
armed clansmen. France, still dressed in the beggar’s rags, knelt
before them, his hands tied behind his back.

“Well now,” Olivia said to Morgin. “Here we
have the leader of this little conspiracy. So good of you to join
us, grandson.”

DaNoel snickered behind Morgin’s back.
“It’ll be interesting to see you talk your way out of this one,
whoreson.”

Morgin scanned the faces in the Hall. Most
of the men there were trying to conceal an embarrassed frown, for
no clansman liked to be reprimanded in public, nor to see another
treated so even if it was deserved.

What would Olivia do if she were in my
shoes?
Morgin thought, and realized she would take the
offensive. He held his chin high, walked boldly forward, but he
walked not to the open space before Olivia, as expected of him;
instead he approached France. He put a hand on the kneeling
swordsman’s shoulder and said, “Forgive us, friend. You have been
ill-treated.” Then he turned upon the armsmen who were guarding
France. “Release this man,” he ordered. “Immediately.”

“What?” Olivia screeched.

Morgin turned carefully toward her. “This
man is under Elhiyne guestright.”

“By whose word?” she demanded.

“By my word.”

“He is a common criminal.”

“According to the word of a Penda,” Morgin
said. “And I do not know that the Penda speaks truly. But I do know
that I owe this swordsman my life.”

“You deceived us.”

“There was not time to consult you.”

“Perhaps not at first,” the old witch
snarled angrily. “But there was more than enough time after the
fact.”

Roland was close by Morgin’s side. He
whispered, “Don’t anger her further, son.”

Morgin nodded, caste his eyes downward,
conceding Olivia the point. “I make no excuses for my own actions.
But your displeasure should be with me, and not this innocent
swordsman. The fact remains that he is under the protection of
Elhiyne guestright, granted to him freely by me, and each moment he
is held in bondage so, dishonors not only me, but all of House
Elhiyne.”

Olivia sat on her throne staring at him, her
eyes narrow and pinched, the godlight sparkling in their depths as
it always did when her anger became strongly aroused. Morgin could
feel it, sense it, a thing to fear.

Then it was suddenly gone, and she smiled at
him warmly, an honest open smile, as if she approved of his
tactics. She turned to the armsmen guarding France. “My grandson’s
point is well taken. Release the swordsman.”

A clansman stepped forward instantly,
displaying a small knife. He cut France’s bonds and helped him to
his feet. The swordsman bowed deeply and somehow, even in a
beggar’s rags, faced the old woman with quiet dignity. “Thank you,
milady,” he said, with no trace of his usual accent.

“You must forgive us, swordsman,” Olivia
said. “Had my grandson bothered to inform us of his actions, you
would not have been detained so. As it was . . .”
She nodded, indicating the rags he wore. “Under the circumstances
I’m sure you’ll understand our misgivings.”

France bowed again. “Of course, madam.”

“As for the beggar and the stable boy.”
Olivia eyed them narrowly. “It appears they were only obeying my
grandson’s instructions. Is that so, Morgin?”

Morgin nodded, knowing that now was the time
for silence, fully aware that he’d gained all he would gain this
day.

“The fault, then, lies with my grandson.
Release the beggar and the stable boy unpunished. We will condemn
no man for merely obeying the House of Elhiyne. And give the beggar
a hot meal to send him on his way.”