Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (51 page)

The message had gotten through. Roland had
done exactly that requested of him. He had put his faith in Morgin
and placed his army at the mercy of Illalla and his hordes, and now
it was up to Morgin. At all costs he could not betray that
faith.

“What of Illalla’s heavy cavalry?” he asked.
“The armored knights. How will he use them?”

Eglahan frowned, answered hesitantly. “His
heavy knights are preparing for a charge. It appears Illalla wants
to weaken your father’s men quickly, that he intends to use his
heavy troops right away, in the first skirmish. I’d guess he’ll
then withdraw them to rest while his lighter forces nibble away at
the Elhiyne battle line. That’ll leave time before nightfall for
one last charge with the heavier knights. The second charge will no
doubt break the back of your father’s army, and for all intents and
purposes the battle will be finished.”

“Might he try some devious trick?”

Eglahan shrugged. “He has no need of tricks,
not with the overwhelming forces at his command.”

“But enough of this,” Wylow demanded. “The
bargain. Without your warriors, I and my men will not join the
battle.”

“Nor I and mine,” Eglahan added calmly.

Morgin nodded his head slowly. He had to
stall for time. “Our bargain will be fulfilled when the time is
right, and not before.”

Wylow was getting angrier with each second.
“And when will that be?”

“Before we go into battle.”

“Blast you! When will that be?”

“Shortly,” Morgin said. “But for the moment
I want to see the main battle for myself, from some vantage.”

Wylow opened his mouth for more shouting,
but Eglahan quickly interjected, “That’s good enough for me, as
long as I don’t have to commit my troops before that time.”

Wylow hesitated, thought about that for a
moment, then snarled in Morgin’s face, “All right. Same goes for
me. I don’t commit until I see these wondrous warriors of yours,
ShadowLord.” He turned his back on Morgin and stormed away.

“Packwill,” Eglahan shouted. “The ShadowLord
wants to see Csairne Glen from a vantage.” He turned to Morgin. “My
head scout will show you the way.”

~~~

Morgin lay still and held his breath; he was
transfixed by the battle below, though it was not the sight so much
as the sound, for even at this distance his ears were pounded by a
din that raised hackles on the back of his neck. He tried to
identify the individual components of that noise. He could hear the
screams of both men and animals; the clash of sword against sword
and sword against shield; the clop of horse’s hooves and the pad of
running feet; the grunt of extreme exertion. He couldn’t hear the
twang of crossbows or the hiss of arrows in flight. Nor could he
smell the sweat and fear of battle—at least not that beyond his
own. But they were down there nevertheless. That he knew beyond
doubt.

“ShadowLord,” Packwill said, lying beside
him. “Look yonder. Illalla is withdrawing his heavy cavalry.”

From their vantage atop a small hill the
heavy knights were easy to distinguish in their plate armor and
ankle length mail. There were about two hundred of them, and they
trotted gaily off the field of battle in small groups, their backs
turned confidently to the bloodletting, laughing at the ease of the
day’s kill, displaying proudly to one another trophies of combat
such as the hand or finger of a vanquished foe.

Morgin and Packwill could see all of Csairne
Glen, and more. The Elhiyne camp lay on the far side, situated
where the road from the west opened out onto the glen. From there a
grassy plain sloped gently downward to where the battle raged, then
back up to the Decouix camp. Behind Illalla’s wagons and tents the
road to the east disappeared over a small rise. And if Illalla
cared to look, he’d find Wylow and Eglahan and their eight hundred
warriors waiting not far from there, hidden just off the road in
small groups.

“Packwill,” Morgin said. “Run quickly and
tell Lords Wylow and Eglahan to get ready.”

“Aye, my lord,” Packwill said. He jumped on
his horse and raced out of sight down the back of the hill.

Morgin waited, wondering if he might hope,
carefully watching the Decouix heavy cavalry as they sauntered
casually toward their camp. They arrived in ones and twos, were
assisted from their large and ungainly war-horses by servants and
retainers. They removed their helmets, then sat down in chairs and
lounges to rest while servants brought them chilled wine and
adjusted umbrellas over their heads to shield them from the hot
sun. Most wore heavy mail, though the richest wore plate, but few
chose to remove it now, preferring instead to rest for some moments
before going to the trouble. They sat in moderate comfort, sipping
their wine and watching the extravaganza of death taking place
before them, occasionally wagering on individual combats that
became separated from the whole.

A shadow lay down beside Morgin. It looked
at the battle carefully for some moments, then turned to Morgin and
whispered a question, “Has the time come, my king?”

Morgin tried to ignore the shadow, but again
it asked, “Has the time come, my king?”

Finally, resigned to the inevitable, Morgin
nodded. “Yes. I believe it has.”

The shadow disappeared as Morgin inched back
from the lip of the hill. He climbed into Mortiss’ saddle, spurred
her hard in Packwill’s wake, and on the way down the hill he began
gathering his power.

Wylow and Eglahan were waiting for him,
neither of them happy. Wylow shouted, “You don’t have any damn
warriors, do you?”

Eglahan spoke carefully. “You’ll have to
produce them now.”

“Right,” Wylow growled, “Or we
withdraw.”

Morgin looked up at the sun. It was well
past noon, and half way down toward the horizon, but it was still
bright and hot, and the lengthening shadows it cast were sharp and
well defined. And as he looked at the sun Morgin relaxed some of
his resistance to the pull of the netherworld, let part of his soul
sink into its depths, felt an answering surge of power flow into
him.

He spoke to Wylow and Eglahan. “Order your
men to mount and line up in single file down the length of the
road.”

Wylow started to protest, but Eglahan
gripped his arm viciously and growled in his ear, “By the
gods
, man, do as he says.”

Wylow frowned for a moment, then shut his
mouth, turned to his lieutenants and gave the necessary orders.

The men had been waiting anxiously so it
didn’t take long to get them in their saddles and lined up in the
road. And beside each one the sun cast a shadowed replica of both
rider and mount.

Morgin concentrated his power even further,
pulled it out of the netherworld, pulled it out of the trees and
the bushes of the forest about him, pulled it out of the life of
the soil itself, and then he started feeding it into the shadows
that mimicked the movements of the eight hundred warriors. He tried
to speak, but his voice came out in a whisper, sounding to him like
the voice of the shadowwraith, “Tell them to draw their
swords.”

Eglahan did so, and the warriors obeyed, and
the shadows that mimicked them followed suit. But as the swords
cleared their sheaths Morgin poured more power into the shadows
until one near the front broke free of its master and, while the
real horse and rider remained still, the shadow horse whinnied and
bucked for a moment, then calmed itself and became still. But now
the shadow warrior on the shadow horse moved independently of the
rider and horse from which they’d been born. And then, as if the
first were a signal for the rest, all up and down the line of
warriors the shadow riders broke free.

The shadow warrior closest to Morgin nudged
his shadow mount with his shadow spurs and trotted the apparition
forward. He stopped in front of Morgin, saluted with a shadow
sword, bowed, and when he spoke his voice came out in a whisper.
“We heard your summons, my king, and we have come.”

Morgin looked at Wylow and Eglahan, and in
their eyes he could see no more argument. In fact he saw naked
fear. He said, “The bargain is complete. Do either of you dispute
that?”

Both shook their heads carefully,
nervously.

Morgin turned Mortiss about, looked up the
road. Ahead it took a turn to the right before coming upon
Illalla’s rear guard. Beyond that there was a slight rise, then the
road opened out onto the glen, and there lay the Decouix camp.

Morgin stood up in his stirrups and twisted
about to look back. Immediately behind him waited France and
Tulellcoe and Cort and Abileen. Then there was Eglahan and Wylow,
and behind them their eight hundred warriors who looked nervously
upon their shadowwraith counterparts. Some of their faces showed
fear, most showed distaste and uncertainty.

Morgin touched his spurs to Mortiss’ flanks
and she broke into a trot. He fought to restrain her, but as he
approached the turn in the road he eased up on the reins a bit and
she broke into a canter. Slowly he let her have her speed and the
tempo of her hooves pounding on the road increased until she was
charging at full gallop and he was low in the saddle, the point of
his sword held out before him, behind him the thunder of sixteen
hundred charging horses filling his ears.

He made the turn in the road and up ahead
the Decouix rear guard came into sight. They turned in surprise,
drew their swords, then thought better of the odds, spun about and
scattered into the forest, and with the wind in his face Morgin
passed them by without a thought. His stomach lurched as he topped
the rise where the road opened out onto the glen, and he charged
down into the midst of the enemy camp where the Decouix servants
looked at him once, then fled in all directions. He picked out one
seated figure and watched as the man tried futilely to stand,
weighted down by the heavy chain mail he wore.

Morgin swung his sword out to the side,
leveled it like a scythe set for a harvest of blood, and as he
passed the enemy knight he swept the blade forward, his arm jerked
outward and back with a sickening thunk. He caught a fleeting
glimpse of the man’s head tumbling through the air, then lost sight
of it as he pulled hard on Mortiss’ reins to bring her to a halt.
He spun her about for another charge, but he needn’t have bothered,
for the knight still lounged in his chair, dressed in his fine
garments and chain mail, headless. And up and down the line of the
Decouix camp there were many more like him, still seated in their
finery, unable to move quickly enough because of the heavy armor
they wore. Some few had been faster and managed to get to their
feet, but heavily armored knights on foot were virtually helpless
against mounted troops. Morgin was not needed here.

A strange prickly sensation suddenly touched
deep into his soul. It called to him from the main battle, so he
turned from the pandemonium of the Decouix camp to face a field of
what seemed unending death.

He was closer now, and the din cut at his
nerves like a knife, but in the sight of the thing his mind refused
to distinguish individuals, preferring instead to lump it all
together into one shifting, swaying mass of arms and legs, men and
horses, swords and pikes, spears and shields. He was strangely
drawn to it and unable to look away. It was as if this were his
destiny, the culmination of his training, the ultimate purpose of
his magic and power. His magic was almost palpable now, swirling
about him, fed by his intimate and constant contact with the
netherworld, building to some unknown end. It frightened him,
filled him with the desire to flee, to throw his sword away, to
spur Mortiss and race from this festival of death.

As he watched, unable to look away, an
individual warrior separated himself from the melee. He walked
slowly and unevenly up the shallow slope that led to Morgin, and
from a distance Morgin could distinguish almost no detail about the
man. He wore Elhiyne livery, carried no weapons, walked with a bad
limp. In his clothing there was a garish amount of Elhiyne red,
more than was customary or necessary for identification. But as the
distance between them narrowed Morgin realized that the red the man
wore was not cloth, but a cloak of blood that covered him from head
to foot, much of it his own.

Morgin shivered as the stranger hobbled
slowly toward him, but could not have looked away for an instant.
One of the man’s legs was crooked, broken in many places, with
sharp splinters of bone protruding from the skin. His leather
jerkin was slashed everywhere with sword cuts, many of which must
have penetrated to the skin, and beyond. But of all the wounds he
bore, the most terrible was the enormous hole in his chest where a
steel tipped war lance had shattered his torso. The wound was
mortal, and yet this stranger still walked as if he were among the
living.

Morgin looked reluctantly at the man’s face.
It too was covered with blood, some of it dried and caked, some of
it fresh and glistening in the afternoon sun. But beneath it all
the man’s skin bore the unmistakable pall of death. There were
wounds on the man’s face, small slashes and cuts, but Morgin’s eyes
were drawn to three small scars long ago treated and healed,
ghostly reminders of a faraway past where filth and degradation
grew childhood diseases.

Morgin’s heart climbed up into his throat,
and even though he sat astride his horse, his legs felt weak and
yielding, for in the face of the apparition that stood before him,
mutilated and crooked, he saw the scars of his youth; he saw his
own face, twisted into an expressionless stare of death. And he
knew now that he was living his dream, that the nightmare he had
dreamed so many times in the past was no longer a dream, but life
itself. And soon he would know its terrifying end.