Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (31 page)

Without warning sparks flashed between them.
The Tulalane screamed and jumped back. “Elhiyne bitch!” he shouted
as his hand flashed down. The room echoed with a resounding slap
that sent her sprawling to the floor in a wild heap of lace and
petticoats. With one hand he grabbed her by the front of her dress
and lifted her up. Snarling, he raised the other hand high to
deliver another blow.

Until that moment Morgin had stood in
dumbfounded disbelief, but the fear on NickoLot’s face jogged him
out of his immobility. He stepped out of shadow, and in the same
motion swung his sword through a high flat arc. It chopped through
the wrist of the Tulalane’s raised hand with a loud meaty thunk.
The Tulalane’s severed hand jumped high in the air. He screamed in
furious agony as it dropped to the floor, and as Morgin’s momentum
carried him past the Tulalane he grabbed a hand full of petticoats
and swung NickoLot into a nearby shadow, then turned to face the
wizard swordmaster.

The Tulalane trembled as he crouched
purposefully, grasping the stump of his sword arm with his good
left hand. He shook with fury and pain, and glared at Morgin with
malevolence. But then slowly his quivering shoulders calmed, the
grimace left his face and was replaced by a half snarl, then an
evil grin. He stood up straight, concentrated on the severed stump
he held before him, and miraculously the spurting blood slowed,
then ceased altogether. The stump began to glow, at first faintly,
then with a ghostly intensity, and as the glow increased in
strength and size, it took on shape. Detail came slowly, an eerie
process of solidification that progressed until the glow
disappeared and a phantom hand remained, visible only by a vague,
shimmering outline.

The Tulalane’s grin broadened. He flexed the
phantom fingers carefully, then reached down with the unreal hand
and drew his sword slowly. It hissed with the scrape of steel as it
slid from the sheath. His grin turned into a snarl of delight. “So
the boy thinks he is a man,” he said through the grin, then flashed
his sword right and left to test his new hand. “Well this is going
to be your last lesson, boy. A test, your final test, you might
say. We’ll see how much of a man you are, and then we’ll see how
well you die.” The Tulalane growled, lowered into a crouch and
advanced purposefully.

Morgin crouched also, holding his sword in
front of him, facing the Tulalane and backing away. Not in his
wildest dreams would he have considered facing the Tulalane so, but
when he’d seen the pain in NickoLot’s face, and realized the rape
that was intended, his sword had leapt in his hands as if it had a
mind of its own.

The Tulalane struck his first blow, and
again with a mind of its own Morgin’s sword leapt to meet it.
Sparks shattered the darkness as the two blades rang together.
Morgin gripped his sword with both hands, and at the next stroke he
felt the crash reverberate up his arms, numbing them to the elbows.
Instinctively he deflected the next blow, then disengaged and
back-stepped several paces.

“You don’t like that, do you boy?” the
Tulalane said confidently. He closed the gap between them in a
single bound, swung his sword in a long sweeping arc.

Morgin ducked, barely able to elude the
blade as it hissed past his nose. He met the next blow, the steel
in his hands screamed and he felt the clash in his shoulders. He
retreated desperately, back-stepping again, hoping to escape the
wizard’s bloodlust.

Like Morgin the Tulalane gripped his sword
in both hands. And each blow that Morgin met cost him dearly as he
staggered under its impact. The Tulalane grinned evilly and toyed
with Morgin, played with him like a cat playing with a mouse. Then
he batted Morgin’s sword aside and raised his own well above his
head for the easy kill. Morgin, his guard open, his numbed hands
barely able to hold his own sword, watched the Tulalane’s blade
descend in an agonizingly slow arc. But in that instant lightning
suddenly flashed from the other side of the sanctum, crackled and
sizzled against the Tulalane’s back. The long forgotten NickoLot
had joined the battle.

The Tulalane stumbled. His blow faltered.
Morgin seized the opportunity, ducked beneath it, turned, and
melted into the shadows that lined the walls. He changed shadows
quickly, then froze into stillness. The air smelled of burnt flesh
and singed hair.

The Tulalane raged, stood in the light cast
by the single brazier and swung his sword blindly about. But then
he calmed suddenly, and his attention settled on the shadow where
NickoLot hid. He slapped the only table in the room aside as if it
were made of paper and not heavy wood, then advanced.

Morgin moved quickly, circling about the
edge of the room, sliding easily from one shadow to the next,
creating shadows of magic where those of the mortal world did not
exist of themselves.

The Tulalane stopped, stood over NickoLot’s
shadow while she uttered a childish whimper of fear, then raised
his sword. In that moment Morgin plowed into him at a full run, and
as they both went down he made sure that his own weight landed full
force on the magician. They hit the stone floor heavily. The
Tulalane grunted as Morgin bounced off him, and Morgin scrambled
quickly to his feet. He stepped into the security of the nearest
shadow, changed shadows several times, then froze. And but for the
Tulalane’s groan, and the scrape of his boot on the rough, stone
floor as he rose slowly to his feet, the room held a silence as
still as impending death.

“Bastard Elhiyne!” the Tulalane screamed,
staggering about the room. “Stand out here and fight like a man.
Whoreson. Coward.”

Morgin held his breath, pressed his spine
hard against the stone wall. But suddenly his back tingled with
power and he shivered at the thought that he might have discovered
some magic waiting in the stone. He tasted it, realized it was
everywhere, almost alive in its own right, comforting in its
heritage, menacing in its strength, permeating everything about the
sanctum, waiting, watching, hoping.

Morgin changed shadows, tried not to think
about power. But the stone itself was tainted with it, and it
called to him, a beckoning desire that he feared he could not
withstand. It was his heritage as an Elhiyne, his ancestry as
Shahot. It was more than a thousand years of the exercise of power,
waiting to be used by whoever had the strength to contain it.

He reached out tentatively, touched it with
his magic, picking at it gingerly as one might pluck a single grape
from the vine. But the entire vine came unbound, falling forth in a
cascade that overwhelmed him. He fought it, gasping for breath as
it tried to sweep him away, reeling, power flooding through every
thread of his soul, he barely had the presence of mind to duck as
the Tulalane’s sword screamed past his face. He staggered into the
center of the room.

“Your family’s power won’t save you now,
boy,” the magician growled, then lunged at him.

Morgin swung his sword desperately outward.
It met the magician’s blade with a screaming shower of sparks and
drove the twoname backwards. The Tulalane back-stepped, surprise
written across his face.

Morgin’s first inclination was to retreat
into shadow, but he’d gained some advantage and pressed it now by
attacking. He swung his sword with both hands, backing the Tulalane
across the room, their battle no longer a test of physical
strength, but now of magical power.

The Tulalane halted, stood his ground,
brought forth the last of his power in an effort to overwhelm
Morgin, who staggered under the force of the attack and fell back,
his own sword seemingly working against him. It pulled at his grip
like a wild animal striving to break free. He stepped into a
shadow, changed from one to the next, stepped out at the Tulalane’s
side. He gave his sword its own head, swung it with all the power
at his command.

The magician, taken by surprise, parried the
stroke clumsily. Morgin saw an opening and brought his sword
viciously upward. It bucked in his hands wildly, then bit into the
Tulalane’s side, cut relentlessly into the magician’s chest,
crunching ribs, stopping only when it came up against his
spine.

The Tulalane froze with his sword high above
his head, Morgin’s sword buried to the hilt in his chest. They both
stood surprised and stunned, eyes wide in amazement, as the
Tulalane’s half severed torso began to flow red with blood. The
phantom hand disappeared; his sword clattered to the floor and the
stump of his wrist once again spurted blood.

The Tulalane looked calmly down at his
chest. He concentrated, and the blood welling from the mortal wound
there suddenly slowed, then stopped altogether. His grin
returned.

Morgin screamed “Noooooooooo!” He raised his
boot, planted it squarely in the center of the wizard’s chest, and
gripping the hilt of his sword he pulled with all his might and
kicked out.

The Tulalane staggered backward as the sword
slid from his chest. His concentration broken, his magic slipped
away. The blood flowed once more from his wrist and his chest, and
slowly, with a look of complete surprise, the magician toppled
forward like a great tree axed down in the forest. He landed on his
face, bounced once, dust scattering in all directions. And with the
passing of Lord Hwatok Tulalane, silence reigned in the
twelve-sided room.

~~~

Morgin reeled with the Elhiyne power flooding
through him, and stared dumbly at the dead Tulalane. A noise
startled him. He spun to find Verk, the Kull commander, standing at
the open portal, eyes wide with amazement. Morgin’s sword leapt for
the Kull’s throat, but Verk moved quickly, ducked and backed out of
the room, pulling desperately on the door. Morgin slammed into the
portal, leaned heavily against it, heard Verk scream, “Get
reinforcements. It’s the Elhiyne wizard.” Then the door closed with
a heavy thud. Morgin pounded the latch in place with his fist, and
again silence filled the room.

“Oh Morgin!” NickoLot cried tearfully. She
jumped to her feet and ran to him, buried her face in his tunic,
wrapped her arms around him and sobbed uncontrollably. “I was so
afraid, Morgin. I was so afraid.”

Morgin shook with power, kept it barely
contained, could do no more than pat the back of her head
comfortingly. Suddenly she stopped crying. She pulled her face away
from his chest and looked up at him, staring at him as if it was he
she now feared.

He released her, crossed the room to the
overturned table. “There’s no time to explain,” he said. “You must
do as I say.”

“Yes, Morgin,” she said. She choked back her
tears and frowned at him.

He slid the table up against a wall then
stuffed her down behind it. “I want you to hide here. Curl up and
sleep. I’m going to draw the Kulls away. If I can divert their
attention they may forget about you.”

“Are you going to die?” she asked.

“No. I won’t die.”

She looked at him carefully and started
crying again. “You’re lying to me. I can hear it in your voice, and
you’ve got the godlight in your eyes like grandmother. Oh Morgin,
don’t die. Please don’t die.”

Morgin pulled her tightly against his chest
and let her cry. He muttered something reassuring, reaching back in
his memory to find the words AnnaRail had used when he needed such
comforting. And at the same time he cast a small spell upon her so
that she drifted into a peaceful sleep. When her chest no longer
heaved with sobs he pulled her away and held her at arm’s length.
Her head lolled to one side, her eyes closed. He laid her gently on
the floor and marveled at how small and defenseless she seemed. He
curled her arms and legs into a tight ball then cast a spell of
shadow over her. He reinforced it, hoping that doing so would
sustain it long after his own death.

He had to move quickly, before Verk had his
reinforcements. He stepped up to the massive stone door and eyed
its simple iron handle. He cast spells to banish fear, to give him
strength. He tried to reject the Elhiyne power that flooded through
his soul, but it would not allow that. He cast a strong spell of
shadow and tried not to think of death, though he knew well that it
awaited him in the room beyond. But he must try, he knew. He must
try, even if only to take a few of them with him to death’s
gate.

Shaking with fear, he reached up slowly and
quietly undid the latch that held the door. The Kulls beyond were
no longer pressed against it, but were waiting confidently for
help. He held his sword in his right hand and clutched the door’s
handle in his left. He tensed his muscles, leaned far back and
pulled with all his weight. The heavy stone door came toward him
slowly, and as it did so he used its mass to propel him through the
opening that appeared.

He gave no battle cry, screamed no curse. He
merely stepped among the Kulls silently, his sword gripped in both
hands as he swung it through a hissing arc, a shadow dancing death
among his enemies. The first Kull went down before the rest even
realized that death walked among them. The second fared no better,
but as he turned upon the third the surprise ended and pandemonium
exploded about him.

He chopped at an arm, kicked at a crotch,
bashed a head with the hilt of his sword. He saw an opening, thrust
into it with the point; saw another, cut down with the blade, and
while he fought, France’s words echoed through his head: “If you
ever stand alone against many, and cannot escape, then stay in the
thick of it, for they will have to care for their fellows, but you
can kill to your heart’s content.”

Morgin ducked beneath a stroke that hissed
past his ear, saw an open knee and kicked at it. The room filled
with screams of pain and anger. He stepped into a shadow, changed
directions, stepped out again. His life narrowed to a world of
slashing steel and hacking death, and slowly, inevitable, he
weakened. But as his muscles grew weary his sword seemed strangely
lighter, as if it swung with a will of its own.