Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (41 page)

JohnEngine could sense it too, an uneasiness
in his soul as if there were some terrible danger nearby. It had
come upon them only when their horses hooves had stepped into the
waters of the Ford, then disappeared as soon as they were out of
it.

Tulellcoe barked out orders. “John, Cort,
Val. Stay here with me.” He looked at France. “Take the men down
the road a piece, but keep us in sight. There’s something magical
here, and I want to know what.”

France nodded. “Don’t take long though.
Illalla’s not far behind us.” He led the men a safe distance down
the road.

Tulellcoe dismounted. John and the Surriot
and the Balenda followed suit. “Cort, Val. Take the other side of
the river. John and I’ll take this side. Start working your way up
river and keep your eyes open.”

“What are we looking for?” the Surriot
asked.

Tulellcoe started walking, called back over
his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

JohnEngine and Tulellcoe moved slowly up the
southern bank of the Ulbb, and the tension in his soul grew with
each step. They didn’t know what they were looking for, but when
they found it, it was obvious: a flat, shimmering wall of water,
stretching between the walls of a high rock canyon, with just
enough water spilling beneath the wall to keep the ford itself from
going dry.

“By the
gods
,” Tulellcoe swore. “This
thing has to have been building for days. And it’s Morgin’s work
too. He must still be alive, otherwise the spell would have
collapsed at his death. And what a spell it is.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that,”
JohnEngine said. “I’d know if he was dead.”

Tulellcoe nodded. “My apologies, John. The
next time I’ll listen to you.”

Suddenly they heard shouts down at the ford.
They both turned and raced downstream, arrived at the ford just in
time to see the cause of the commotion trotting down the road: a
shadow rider on a shadow horse, though the rider was weaving
unsteadily in the saddle.

France and Abileen, followed uneasily by
Packwill and the rest of the men, intercepted the horse, caught
Morgin as he collapsed out of the saddle. JohnEngine ran across the
road, helped them lay Morgin down near the trees by the edge of the
river. But when he looked into his brother’s face he was forced to
look away by the ever shifting pattern of shadows that danced
there. Up close they induced a kind of vertigo in anyone who looked
upon them.
He has become the ShadowLord
, JohnEngine thought.
As if Morgin could read his thoughts the shadows disappeared and
JohnEngine could see the pain and fatigue in his brother’s face,
and the red stain that covered most of his left side.

“Go away,” Morgin pleaded. “It’s not safe
here. The spell!”

“He’s right,” France said. “Illalla’s Kulls
will be along any moment.”

The Balenda shook her head. “The Decouix
isn’t scouring the road so thoroughly, now that he thinks the
ShadowLord is dead. And this young man has something to do here
with that spell of his, so he needs help here and now.”

While the Balenda examined Morgin, Tulellcoe
sent Packwill back up the road to keep an eye on Illalla and warn
them if he was approaching. The Balenda suddenly stood up straight,
and in a bloody hand she held an equally bloody piece of the shaft
of an arrow.

“How did you do that so quickly?” JohnEngine
demanded.

She shrugged. “My magic has always seemed
particularly effective at healing.”

“Get out of here,” Morgin shouted weakly at
them.

“He’s right,” Tulellcoe said. “Pick him up
and bring him with us.”

Morgin shook his head. “No. I’m staying
here.” JohnEngine watched him attempt to stand, but he failed
miserably, so JohnEngine helped him to his feet. “Get out of here,”
he shouted again. “Go away. I have to do this alone.”

Tulellcoe shook his head, but the Balenda
stepped up to Morgin and gently placed a hand on his wounded
shoulder. She held it there for a moment, and JohnEngine sensed
something arcane going on. Then she withdrew her hand and Morgin
stood just a little straighter, though he still looked terribly
weak. But the Balenda now swayed uneasily, and a red stain was
spreading near her left armpit. She looked at Morgin carefully and
said, “That’s the best I can do in so short a time.”

Morgin shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“No it won’t,” Tulellcoe snarled angrily. He
pointed a finger at Morgin. “We’re leaving, and you’re coming with
us.”

Packwill’s sudden shout, “They’re coming,”
and the sound of his horse’s hooves pounding on the road brought
their attention around. The scout was charging wildly down the
road. “Right,” France said. “Let’s get the netherhell out of
here.”

They all turned back to Morgin, but he and
his horse were gone, having disappeared into the shadows of the
forest.

“Damn!” Tulellcoe swore. “I pray he doesn’t
get himself killed. John. Help Cort—she looks like she’s ready to
pass out—and let’s try and find a place up the road where we can
watch the action.”

~~~

Morgin waited until Illalla was well in
sight, and then he trotted Mortiss out into the middle of the road,
trying not to show the slightest hint that he was hurt, for the
ShadowLord must appear invulnerable. The effect was immediate and
undeniable: Illalla started and reined in his horse suddenly. He’d
obviously thought Morgin dead.

This time Morgin had been more careful.
Illalla was far up the road on the north side of Gilguard’s Ford,
well out of bow shot, while Morgin had chosen to stand in the road
a short distance south of the ford. Illalla held a hurried
conference with his Kull commander. Orders were shouted, and in
response twelve twelves of Kulls formed up in front of the main
column.

The Kulls didn’t hesitate, but charged
immediately. Morgin held Mortiss as still as he could keep her, as
if he would meet their charge by just standing there. But in
reality he reached deep into the back of his soul where the river
spell had been festering for days. As the water had stacked up
behind his translucent dam the spell had demanded more of him with
each passing day. It had been like drawing a bow string back with
infinite slowness, an easy task at first, but after enough time at
holding the bow string taught even the strongest bowman’s arm
begins to tremble with fatigue. And under the pain of his wounded
shoulder as the Kulls charged down the road toward him he almost
released the spell prematurely. But he held it, waited until his
trembling magic told him he could wait no longer, and in that
moment he relaxed.

The bow string in his soul twanged so loudly
that even Illalla heard it on a nether wind. The Kulls, however,
were in the midst of their charge, just approaching the ford and
oblivious to anything but their target waiting in the road before
them. An instant before they hit the shallows in the ford the
ground trembled and the air filled with the sound of snapping
trees. The entire company of Kulls was well into the ford when a
wall of water, carrying dozens of splintered logs like battering
rams, burst into the open flat of the ford. It slammed into the
charging line of halfmen and horses, and with screams and cries the
Kulls and their mounts joined the logs in the turmoil of water that
swept down through the ford, and then they were gone.

The last vestiges of the wall of water
washed away and an abnormal silence descended over the ford, and
with the exception of a few dead horses washed up on the river
banks, there was no sign that twelve twelves of Kulls had ever
existed.

Morgin pitched his voice low and filled the
silence with a single, evil laugh. He growled it out, not the
laughter of joy or happiness, but a challenge to the High Lord of
the Greater Council. And then he turned Mortiss about, and with his
back to the High Lord he arrogantly trotted up the road, melting
slowly into a shadow that vanished on the wind.

~~~

Brandon strode angrily down the hallway. A
servant had come only moments earlier with instructions for him to
attend the Lady Olivia in her audience chamber. With Malka and
MichaelOff dead, DaNoel only slowly recovering from his wounds, and
Tulellcoe and Morgin and JohnEngine off fighting Decouixs, he and
Roland were the only two male family members present. As such he
was receiving increased attention from the old witch, and it was
quickly straining their relationship. He now understood why Morgin
found it so difficult to get along with her.

If the servant had merely had instructions
for Brandon to attend her, he would have dallied out of spite. But
she had dangled the bait of news from Yestmark, knowing that he
would then come immediately. It irked him that she could so easily
manipulate him.

He was still well down the hall from the
audience chamber when he heard Roland’s voice raised in anger,
carrying on the same argument he and Olivia had been having for
days now.

“Blast you, mother! Don’t you understand you
sent him to his death?”

“I sent him to fight our enemy. And don’t
you swear at me.”

“But you damned him publicly. You accused
him of a cowardice he did not commit, and now he’s trying to prove
himself. Don’t you see it’ll get him killed?”

Brandon passed cringing servants as he
entered the room.

“I see nothing of the kind,” Olivia shouted.
“I merely gave him a goal toward which he must strive, and it has
worked admirably, has it not?”

“You’re insane,” Roland hollered. “You gave
him an abyss from which he must flee.”

“Nevertheless,” Olivia said. “It has worked,
has it not?”

“Ahhh!” Roland threw up his hands and
stormed out of the room.

Brandon waited for Olivia’s anger to
dissipate, though he didn’t have to wait long. “There is news?” he
asked.

“Yes, there is news,” Olivia said happily.
“And good news it is. In fact your uncle and I were just discussing
it.”

“I heard,” Brandon said. “May I hear this
news?”

Olivia positively beamed with pleasure. “I
spoke with Tulellcoe this morning in the netherworld. Illalla’s men
are deserting in droves. He’s losing them by the twelves each
night, and now he’s got his clansmen patrolling his perimeter at
night to try and stop the desertions. And he’s losing even more
twelves because his men have started fighting among themselves, not
counting the two twelves of throats that Morgin slits each night.
This ShadowLord ruse that Morgin is playing, it’s brilliant. And at
Gilguard’s Ford he’d apparently prepared a powerful water spell
days ago, let it build into monstrous proportions, and yesterday
used it to sweep twelve twelves of Kulls to their deaths. Ah that
grandson of mine! I always knew he had it in him.”

Brandon was tempted to comment on that, but
he thought better of it. “Gilguard’s Ford, eh? Then we have at
least another five days before Illalla can reach Sa’umbra.”

“Even more,” she said happily, “if Morgin
continues to harry him.”

“Oh he will,” Brandon said unhappily.
“You’ve seen to that. But Illalla is no fool. He’ll not sit idly
and continue to take this. I only hope that Morgin is prepared when
he strikes back. For strike back he will. And soon.”

Morgin wanted desperately to sleep, so he
left the Elhiyne camp and found a quiet, grassy spot by a small
stream that called out to him to lie down and rest. The sky was
clear, the sun high, and the grass beneath him was a soft blanket
of life, but try as he might, even aided by the monotonous crackle
of the bubbling stream as it wound its way uncaringly past, sleep
would not come, for there was a tension in the air he could not
name.

On the day following the flood at Gilguard’s
Ford he had awakened under the care of the Balenda. He was
surprised at how strong he felt, and how weak she seemed, and then
he learned that the price she paid for such miraculous healing was
to bring the suffering upon herself. She said that the ShadowLord
was the most powerful weapon they had against the might of Illalla,
so it was her duty to return him to strength as quickly as
possible, and by the end of that first day he was well enough to
return to Illalla’s camp that night and slit his quota of throats.
Even Tulellcoe agreed that the pretense of the ShadowLord must be
maintained.

He had returned to the Elhiyne camp, rather
than melting into the shadows after the night of slitting throats,
for shadows alone were poor company. But the following day, when
the Balenda wanted to use her healing magic upon him, he could see
that she was terribly weak from taking his suffering upon herself,
and he refused her aid. He was strong enough to ride now, and to
slit throats, and to appear regularly before the main column of the
Decouix army as the mythical ShadowLord. And that was all that was
needed of him. He was their weapon, their tool, and he understood
that.

He tried again to shut out the world about
him and find sleep, but it would not come, perhaps because he now
feared sleep, and the dreams it brought; one dream actually, for it
was always the same dream now: of an old man and a long dead
skeleton king, of strange lands and even stranger beings. There was
a great hound that stood as high as any man, with enormous powerful
jaws that could swallow Morgin’s head whole. It was called a
hellhound, and upon its head it wore a crown. There was also an odd
beast half eagle, half lion. Its head, wings, and forelegs were
those of an eagle, while its hind legs and tail were those of a
lion, and it stood even larger and more fearful than the hellhound.
It was called a griffin, and upon its head it wore a crown.

At first he thought he was dreaming many
different dreams, but as he returned to them again and again he
realized they were merely different parts of the same dream, a
dream that always brought him to that same grassy plain, seated
atop that same magnificent war-horse, wearing that same finery with
that same great broadsword strapped to his side. And the dream
never changed, though now he at least understood some of it. He
knew that it was not he atop the horse, but another who had lived
in a time and place different from his own. Perhaps the man had
lived in the past, or perhaps he never had and never would live,
but in the dream Morgin was a captive in the man’s soul. He looked
through his eyes, listened through his ears, felt through his
hands. He was never himself in control, and in the end it was
always the same: seated atop the great war-horse, facing a vast
army, with one equally as vast behind him, Morgin would wake
screaming in the night, with wave after wave of terror washing over
him. And never could he remember the dream’s end.