Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (46 page)

In utter desperation Morgin decided to fight
death with death, and he growled in Tulellcoe’s face, “Bring me
redthorn.”

“Do you practice magic here?” a Benesh’ere
voice demanded.

Morgin looked up through a sea of pain to
find Jerst standing over him. Blesset and Jack stood as his sides,
and behind them stood several more Benesh’ere.

“Of course I practice magic,” Morgin
snarled. “I am a sorcerer.”

“Then we Benesh’ere will leave,” Jerst said.
“We do not abide magic.”

“Go then,” Morgin shouted. “By all means
leave us. Run. And quickly. Lest you find courage nipping at your
heels.”

Blesset’s eyes turned hot and angry. She
reached for her sword, but Jerst reached out and stayed her
hand.

“But father,” she shouted. “He said—”

“What he said does not matter. Here he is
under the protection of Benesh’ere guestright. You will draw no
weapon against him.”

Jerst looked at Morgin with cold hatred.
“But when next we meet, Elhiyne, you will not be so favored.” With
that he turned his back on Morgin and walked out of the small
Elhiyne encampment. And in the faces of those who followed him
Morgin saw that if ever they had the chance, they would seek his
life without quarter.

Morgin shouted again, “Where is that
redthorn?”

Tulellcoe spoke softly. “There is redthorn
here, in my pack. I don’t believe that you can do anything, but if
you intend to try, then I intend to help you.”

Morgin looked at the men surrounding them.
When he spoke his voice was weak and without timbre. “Gather all of
the firewood in camp. And be quick about it. Then light a ring of
fire about us and stand within it to form a ring of men facing
outward, swords drawn. Remain alert, and no matter what you hear
behind you, do not look back until dawn if you value your souls.
And remember. The snake Bayellgae is still out there. I can sense
it. So if anything comes out of the night and crosses the ring of
fire, be it wife, lover, or best friend, kill it without warning or
hesitation, without mercy.”

The men dispersed instantly. Morgin turned
back to Tulellcoe. “Set your wards within the ring of men. They
must be protected from us as well as us from them.”

Tulellcoe nodded and bent to his
preparations. Morgin collapsed beside JohnEngine. He knew what he
must do, and yet he feared the doing to the core of his soul, for
he knew that in some strange way he had now begun travelling down
the road to his fate at Sa’umbra, and even death would be better
than that. The turning point had come, he had passed it in
ignorance, and he understood now that he was no more than a puppet
moving to the strings of some unknown master.

Tulellcoe stood and summoned the first Ward
without fanfare. It was not in him to be theatrical like Olivia.
His summons was simple, direct, commanding.
Primus
flamed
into existence and the Ward’s power washed over Morgin. He needed
it, wanted it, feared it.

Tulellcoe moved quickly now, summoning each
of the twelve Wards in its turn, calling them forth one by one to
the world of mortal men. To Morgin each Ward formed a bridge to
even greater power, for as each came alight it struck him with a
wave of magic that fed on his own power, building upon it,
strengthening it beyond any reasonable expectations of mortal
capability. He began to fear that his magic would soon be stronger
than he, and that it would then consume him.

France, standing outside the circle of
Tulellcoe’s Wards, shouted, “We’re ready.”

Tulellcoe nodded at him. France and the men
lit the ring of firewood. It smoldered at first, but soon flared
high and strong.

Tulellcoe dug into his pack. He retrieved a
small pouch, opened it carefully, handed Morgin several wicked
looking, bright red spikes. They were a brilliant crimson, not just
pink, which indicated prime quality. They had been taken from the
parent plant at just the right time of year and stored with the
proper care and spells. Without preparation Morgin placed the
thorns, tips and all, in his mouth and began chewing.

Tulellcoe looked down at him sharply. “Are
you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Morgin shook his head. “I am sure of
nothing, but I have nothing to lose.”

He chewed; the redthorn turned slowly into
pulp. The taste was bitter. It filled his mouth with saliva, though
he was careful not to swallow. The saliva expanded the pulp until
his mouth was so full he could no longer chew. The coldness of
Bayellgae’s venom had reached his chest when he took one last look
at the men—their backs turned toward him, their faces turned
away—then swallowed the unprepared redthorn.

The reaction was immediate. His stomach
tried to reject the poison but he held it down. His mouth filled
with an unpleasant metallic taste; his nose burned and his eyes
watered. An ache formed in the back of his head and his vision
began to blur. The ache grew until it overwhelmed the pain in his
arm and chest. He closed his eyes, lay on his side and buried his
face in his hands, which shook and trembled as excruciating pain
tore at his soul. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripped from his
chin. And then he felt nothing beyond the pain.

Looking back he could never remember if the
time was long or short. Time seemed unimportant amidst the pain.
But at some point awareness returned, and he realized that the pain
had peaked, was slowly receding, that he could once again
function.

His hands were sticky with half-dried tears.
He waited until the pain was almost wholly gone before he looked
up. He opened his eyes carefully, fearful that the pain might
return, not truly believing that it was gone.

He still lay on the ground as he had lain
the night before. But daylight had come, and JohnEngine and
Tulellcoe and the men were gone. There was no sign of the ring of
fire, no sign that it was or had ever been. There was no indication
of a camp past or present, no indication that man had ever come
this way. And yet he knew this small piece of forest in a way he
could not explain, and he knew he had not moved since swallowing
the redthorn.

He looked again at the sky. It was an eerie
gray-blue day, though there were no clouds to obscure the sun. And
yet there was no sun visible, no brilliant, yellow orb hanging in
the heavens to light the day. The sky itself was merely gray, and
the forest lay in the deathly stillness of an unnatural calm.

“Why are you crying?” a young voice
asked.

Morgin started, pulled his eyes away from
the dingy gray sky, struggled up onto his knees. A small boy stood
directly in front of him next to a tall, beautiful woman. The boy
was no more than seven or eight years of age, and dressed as a
nobleman’s son. The woman wore an elegant gown of rich, blue
brocade, and while she didn’t wear a crown, she stood with the
regal bearing of a queen.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said politely. “I
didn’t mean to startle you. But you were crying. Why were you
crying?”

Morgin closed his eyes carefully, then
reopened them. The men were still gone; the woman and boy still
there. “I was crying for my brother.”

The woman nodded her head once. “Your
brother. He is walking the Plains of Death at this moment, I
believe.”

“Where are the Plains of Death?” Morgin
asked.

She shrugged. “The Plains of Death are
between here and there.”

Morgin shook his head, looked at the woman
and then the boy. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

The boy’s eyes opened with surprise. “Don’t
you know who I am?”

“No I don’t.”

The woman smiled, as if at some private
joke.

The boy pondered that for a moment, as if it
were strange indeed that someone would not know him. In many ways
he acted much older and wiser that his apparent years, and Morgin
wondered at that. The boy seemed to come to some decision, then
looked directly into Morgin’s eyes. “First you tell me your
name.”

Morgin shrugged. “Sure.
I’m . . .” His mouth hung open as if he were slow
witted; his voice was as still as the forest air. He struggled to
speak his name, but the words would not come. The words did not
exist. He tried then to just think of his name, but not even in
thought would it come to him.

“Ah ha!” the boy said triumphantly. “I knew
it. How can you know us if you don’t even know yourself?”

“But I do know myself,” Morgin said. “I
am . . .” Again the words did not exist to be
spoken.

“This can’t be,” Morgin pleaded. “I’m
dreaming.”

“No,” the woman said. “This isn’t your
dream. If this were your dream you know very well you would be
dreaming your one and only dream.”

They knew of his dream, but Morgin was
certain he had never told anyone of his dream. “Who are you that
you know of my dream?”

“I am Erithnae,” the woman said. She looked
down at the boy. “And this is Aethon, and this is our dream, not
yours.”

Aethon added excitedly. “And I am a king,
you know. And I rule a vast kingdom. My subjects all call me sire,
or Your Majesty.”

“Now Aethon,” Erithnae said, chiding him.
“You shouldn’t boast.”

He lowered his eyes sadly. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean to boast. But I have no one to play with. A king never
gets to play.”

Erithnae sighed. “Unfortunately, that is
part of being a great king.”

She looked at Morgin. “Perhaps Lord Mortal
here will play with you. Why don’t you ask him?”

Aethon’s eyes brightened. “Will you? Please
play with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Morgin said. “But I have to
find my brother.”

“We can help you find your brother. Then
will you play with me?”

“All right,” Morgin said. “It’s a bargain.
But we have to find my brother first.”

“Oh that’ll be easy,” Aethon said. He
reached out and excitedly took Morgin’s hand, pulled him to his
feet. “You’ll have to follow us, and do exactly as we say. There is
a lot of power between here and there to tempt one, and it’s so
easy to succumb to power. But I know the way. You can call me
Aethon. I wish we knew your name so I could call you something
besides
hey you
. We’ll have to ask the Unnamed King, if he
is about. He knows all names, you know, except, of course, his own.
Poor fellow!”

~~~

JohnEngine could think of nothing but water.
He would give his soul for just one drink, but water was not a part
of this gray nothingness of an existence, only confusion and pain.
And even if there were water he would not have time to drink.

He thought of water and slogged on through a
gray landscape with no feature or marking to distinguish one place
from the next. He wondered if he would ever find his way, for each
step was more difficult than the last, as if he walked in a bog
that sucked and slurped at his feet in a never-ending effort to
slow him. And it seemed now that he had been walking so
forever.

Up ahead he saw a strange feature to the
landscape, a vague outline on the horizon. He slogged on with
renewed effort, whimpering almost hysterically. But the feature did
not define itself better as he approached, and his hopes began to
ebb. Not until he was upon it, almost standing within it, did he
realize that it was nothing more than a shadow, a singular, dark
blotch with no reason or meaning for its own existence.

A strange creature emerged from the shadow
so suddenly that JohnEngine gasped and jumped back. The creature
stood no more than waist high, and it stank beyond belief. It wore
tattered brown rags for clothing, and only faintly resembled a
healthy human being. On its face several sores oozed puss and
slime, and its hair was a clumped and tangled mass of grease and
dirt.

“Follow me,” it croaked, then without
further ado it stepped back into the shadow. JohnEngine stood
still, unable to decide which was worse, to trust this creature, or
to remain in this barren nothingness. Indecision pulled him back
and forth until finally the strange creature reemerged from the
shadow and stared at him for a long, silent moment.

JohnEngine demanded, “What are you?”

The creature shrugged and croaked, “I am
Rat. Follow me, brother.” Then it disappeared again into the
shadow.

It had called him brother. It could have
called him a hundred things so why did it choose to call him
brother? And Rat? He had once known of a Rat, from some other life,
some other existence, though the memory of that knowledge eluded
him now.

The shadow that the disgusting little
creature had disappeared into suddenly began to dwindle. Soon it
would be gone, and JohnEngine realized that he must make his choice
now.

He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Brother!” he said into the nothingness. “He called me brother.”
And so remembering those words, JohnEngine closed his eyes and
stepped into the shadow.

~~~

Morgin was lost in a gray nothingness that
pulled constantly at his soul. It was a struggle just to put one
foot in front of another, for it seemed he’d been searching forever
for an end to this barren landscape, and yet no end was in sight,
no let up, no relief.

JohnEngine’s spirit fluttered nearby,
frightened and confused. Morgin wanted to reassure him, but there
was no real communication between them, and in any case his
reassurances would be a lie. He was as lost as his brother, and the
power of his spirit was weakening with each second he spent
wandering aimlessly through nothing. The grayness about him was
thick, like honey, and he was so tired, so very
tired . . .

“. . . Morgin. Wake up,
Morgin.”

Morgin opened the eyes of his soul.
Somewhere Rhianne was calling to him, and as he made the effort to
look he saw an image of her standing over him. There were bruises
all about her face and shoulders, and yet she had the strength to
ignore the obvious discomfort they caused her. She pulled at him,
tugged on his sleeve. “Wake up, Morgin. You mustn’t stay here.”