Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (29 page)

She smiled pleasantly, nodded. “There is no
need to apologize, my lord. I myself have had to bear with them for
many years now.”

Valso seemed pleased at her response. He
looked at the Kull. “You may go, Verk.”

“Aye, my lord,” the halfman said. He bowed
deeply at the waist, turned and left.

Valso stood near a small table upon which
rested a crystal decanter and two crystal goblets. “Would you care
for some brandy?”

“Only if you will join me, my lord.”

He poured an amber liquid into the two
goblets. He handed one to Rhianne, then raised his to eye level.
“To the rightful ascendancy of the Decouix rule.”

Rhianne smiled, raised her glass and took a
small sip. The drink burned as it trickled down her throat.

Again Valso seemed pleased at her response.
He raised his glass a second time. “To the end of House
Elhiyne.”

Rhianne hesitated. Valso’s eyes narrowed
suspiciously. She forced herself not to blurt out a quick excuse.
Instead, she said slowly, “I cannot drink to that, my lord. I am of
Elhiyne, and as such would be toasting my own destruction.”

Valso’s expression changed. His eyes slitted
with curiosity. “And what if your destiny were not tied to that of
Elhiyne?”

Rhianne smiled again, raised her glass.
“Well then, my lord . . .” She finished by touching
the brandy to her lips.

Valso relaxed. His eyes settled hungrily on
her half exposed breasts. She could see little difference between
his desire and Verk’s, but sensing that her moment had come, she
asked coyly, “But in return for your protection, my lord, what
might I do for you?”

Valso looked away from her breasts
reluctantly. “I have . . . many appetites,” he said
carefully, “appetites that will be satisfied. I have an appetite
for power, and the ability for its proper use. I have an appetite
for these upstart Elhiynes too, and I will consume them.”

Valso’s eyes caressed the length of her. He
approached her, stood within inches of her. She could smell the
brandy on his breath, and the perfume that he wore too much of. “I
also have an appetite for things of beauty, and a beautiful woman
such as you could please me greatly.”

Rhianne drew upon her magic, trying to
enspell him with desire, but she knew in her heart that her success
was due to her womanhood, and not some otherworldly power. “To
please you, my lord, would please me.”

Valso’s breathing quickened. Holding his
drink with one hand, he placed the other about her waist. He pulled
her forward, kissed her strongly, passionately. She bit his tongue
to tease his passion, her arms at her sides only because she still
held the drink in one hand.

Valso released her, took the drink from her,
walked to the small table and placed both glasses gently upon it.
Returning, he made an obvious effort not to rush. He took her in
his arms and kissed her again. This time, with her hands free, she
wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him tightly against
her, pressing her body against his.

Valso became almost frantic. One hand
grasped at her breasts; his pelvis pressed against hers. She teased
him, did everything possible to excite him, to thrill him, and
while he responded her left hand crept slowly up her right sleeve
until she felt the head of the needle concealed within the folds
there. Even more slowly she withdrew it, taking great care lest the
point touch her own skin. The poison she had chosen was lethal in
the most minute quantity, and would take her own life as quickly as
his. And eventually that was how it must serve her, for once their
master was dead, she dare not live herself to face the Kulls.

Under the guise of passionately rubbing the
back of Valso’s neck, her right hand located a spot at the base of
his skull. In her left hand she backed the needle away, lining it
up to thrust it deep within his neck. Death would come so quickly
he would be unable even to cry out. She tensed for the thrust,
ready for Valso to stiffen then slump in her arms, to die the death
he so richly deserved, but at the moment of truth she found herself
unable to move, unable even to continue responding to Valso’s
passion, frozen into the immobility of a statue.

Valso withdrew his tongue from her mouth and
bit her painfully on the lip, drawing blood. He smiled evilly. She
tried desperately to move, to jab the needle into the back of his
head. She struggled to remove her arms from around his neck, but
could not move in the slightest. Her body stood locked within a
spell of his making, trapped within his control.

He drew his head slowly downward out of the
circle of her arms. Unable to move in the slightest, she stood
frozen as if she were caressing some phantom, her arms still held
high, the needle still poised to kill. She could not see his
actions, but she felt the pain as he bit her cruelly on one breast.
She could see only the room about her and her own empty arms, the
needle still waiting in her hand. In a last desperate attempt to do
something, she tried to stab the needle into her own face, but
Valso’s magic prevented even that.

He reappeared within the range of her vision
still grinning evilly, but no longer in her arms. “You are a fool
like your husband.”

He reached forward and pinched one of her
breasts viciously. “I told you I have many appetites.” He reached
down, groped at her crotch, snarled like an animal. “I’m glad you
chose this path, for I think I’ll find your resistance even more
pleasurable.”

He snapped his fingers. The needle vanished.
“I could do the same with your gown,” he said, “but I’ll enjoy it
much more if I tear it from your body. I’m going to enjoy you
greatly, Rhianne esk et Elhiyne, and when I’m done, we’ll see how
much pleasure you can bring to Verk and his halfmen.”

~~~

The ruckus that resulted when they found the
dead guard forced Morgin to remain in hiding through that night and
the next day. But as night fell he ventured forth into the occupied
wings again. He wanted to know who might be the Elhiyne lordling
that Valso and the Tulalane had spoken of, the one that the
Tulalane found so stubborn and would continue to work on. Perhaps
he was a brother, or cousin, left behind for some reason. Or he
might be the son of the lord of one of the outlying holdings,
captured before the castle was taken. In any case he would be kept
in the dungeon where there were several lockups, as well as
machines of a design that hinted at a far darker purpose, though,
as far as Morgin knew, the machines had not been used during his
lifetime, but the cells saw regular use for the housing of
troublemakers. He himself had spent several days there after one of
his drunken brawls, locked in a cell by Olivia’s command. She had
meant it to be a lesson, but he had learned only that the cells
were cold, dark and damp.

The dungeon was guarded by a single Kull
seated at a crude wooden table far below. He passed the time by
rolling bone dice and mumbling to himself, with the only access to
his level a series of stone steps directly in front of him. The
room was well lit, and Morgin had no choice but to depend solely
upon his shadowmagic. He wrapped himself deeply in shadow, then
stepped cautiously out onto the open stairs.

The Kull’s attention remained on his dice,
though Morgin knew it could shift to the shadows at the edge of the
room at any moment. He tried to blend with the shadows as they
danced about the walls, to become part of them. It demanded all of
his skill, then, for just an instant, he felt as if he was made of
shadow, and when the instant ended he stood safely at the bottom of
the stairway.

He hugged the wall tightly, worked his way
slowly about the edge of the room. When he reached a point just
behind the Kull he stopped, reinforced his shadowmagic, stepped
quietly away from the wall, and laid the flat of his sword softly
upon the Kull’s shoulder. The Kull started with surprise then
froze, his hand poised motionless above the dice.

“Do not turn,” Morgin said softly. “If you
value your life, remain seated and place your hands flat on the
center of the table.”

The Kull did so stiffly, without
speaking.

Morgin spoke carefully. “Where is the
Elhiyne lordling?”

“I do not value my life that much,” the Kull
said.

Morgin had no answer to that. The Kulls were
infamous for their lack of fear. What inducement could he offer the
Kull, what threat? Threats were reputedly the only thing a Kull
understood, but if you couldn’t threaten his life, what could you
threaten?

An idea came suddenly to Morgin; he
concentrated on his magic. This had to be done carefully or he
might alert Valso to his whereabouts. He devoted every thought to
control, and allowed just a hint of power to pass from his fingers
into his sword. The power glowed an eerie red as it traveled down
the blade; it passed the Kull’s shoulder, made the hairs on the
back of his neck stand on end, then sparkled itself to extinction
on the tip of the sword just within the Kull’s view.

Morgin whispered, “And how much do you value
your eternal soul, halfman?”

The guard sat silent for a long moment, then
spoke. “The Elhiyne is in the second cell from this end.”

“And the key?” Morgin asked.

“Hanging near the door, lord wizard.”

Somehow Morgin knew that the Kull spoke the
truth. In one quick motion he lifted his blade and smashed the hilt
of the sword into the back of the halfman’s head. The Kull slumped
forward on the table.

Morgin shot across the room, pulled the key
off the wall, unlocked the heavy wooden door and threw it open. He
stepped into the darkened cell, was assaulted by the stench of
human waste and decay. He wrinkled his nose, peered blindly into
the darkness, but before he could speak a charging body tackled him
from the side and threw him hard against a stone wall. Rough hands
closed about his throat in a viselike grip and tightened
mercilessly. “Filthy Decouix!” MichaelOff snarled.

Morgin fought to breathe, managed to squeak
out, “Cousin.”

The hands released him suddenly and he could
breathe again. In the black darkness of the cell they touched his
face, feeling for recognition. “Morgin. Is that you, cousin?”

“It’s me.”

“Ah Morgin!” MichaelOff said tearfully.
“Thank the
gods
you’ve come. I’d given up hope.”

“We have to get out of here,” Morgin said,
“and quickly.” He stepped out of MichaelOff’s grasp, charged out of
the cell to the unconscious Kull still slumped at the table. “Help
me with this Kull,” he hissed as he gripped the halfman under the
armpits. He intended to tie and gag the fellow and lock him in a
cell.

MichaelOff didn’t follow immediately and
Morgin turned back to him angrily. And there, stumbling out of the
open cell, feeling his way uncertainly along the wall, faltered a
blind man. Where there had once been eyes there were now horribly
scarred pits, the result of a hot poker that had burned away his
eyelids as well as his eyes.

“Morgin,” the blind man said in MichaelOff’s
voice. “You must guide me. I cannot see.”

“Cousin,” Morgin cried, turning back and
gripping MichaelOff by the shoulders. “What have they done to
you?”

MichaelOff spoke bitterly. “Valso had his
pleasure with me, and someday I hope to return the favor. But for
now, as you said, we must be away. You will be my guide, and I will
do as you say in all things. What is our destination?”

Morgin looked into the not-eyes of
MichaelOff-the-strong. “The old castle. Where we used to play as
boys.”

“A good choice, cousin. An excellent choice.
Let’s go.”

MichaelOff strangled the Kull guard, and
they stuffed his body into an empty cell. Then they closed and
locked the cells, and hung the keys back in their proper place.
Hopefully, they’d have a little time before the Kulls discovered
MichaelOff’s escape.

~~~

MichaelOff followed Morgin without question.
Usually the leader, he was now a complacent and obedient follower,
one hand clutching tightly to a corner of Morgin’s cloak, the other
groping forward or sliding along the wall.

Morgin could not accept the thought of
MichaelOff’s helplessness. The younger boys had called him
MichaelOff-the-strong, for he was ever there to defend them, and
more than once he had saved Morgin from a severe beating, making
sure that if there must be a fight, it was fair, and not
overdone.

They worked their way slowly through the
castle, Morgin leading, MichaelOff following. Morgin detoured once
to steal MichaelOff a cloak. Like his own it was some Kull’s:
gray-black, heavy, warm. At one point, as they were passing
Roland’s study, MichaelOff grabbed Morgin’s shoulders and said
frantically, “Cousin. Do you remember the two crossed broadswords
above the mantle in your father’s study?”

“Yes,” Morgin said.

“Get one for me. Please.”

“But you can’t—” Morgin said, then closed
his mouth in embarrassed silence.

MichaelOff smiled without eyes. “I can’t
fight, you were about to say. And blind as I am, you’re right. But
with all these Kulls about, a sword in my hands would give me
comfort.”

Morgin retrieved the sword. They continued
on, and throughout that slow journey MichaelOff held it tightly to
his breast, clutching it as if he was a small child with a toy that
might be taken from him at any moment. Morgin wanted to comfort
him, but no words or deeds would bring back his eyes, and short of
that miracle, anything else seemed hollow and meaningless.

The hideout that Morgin had chosen was
adequate, nothing more: a small room located deep within the old
castle. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, muffling their
footsteps. Morgin suspected that millennia had passed since these
halls had seen light of any kind. He had chosen the hideout not for
its size, nor for its comfort, but for its great distance from the
nearest lighted hall.