Morgawr (2 page)

Sen Dunsidan took the news in stride, no longer surprised, only pleased and excited. He put on his mourner's face, and he offered his politician's responses to all those who approached—and there were many now, because he was the one the Council members were already turning to. He spent the day arranging funerals and tributes, speaking to one and all of his own sorrow and disappointment, all the while consolidating his power. Two such important and effective leaders dead at a single stroke; a strong man must be found to fill the void left by their passing. He offered himself and promised to do the best job he could on behalf of those who supported him.

By nightfall, the talk was no longer of the dead men; the talk was all of him.

He sat waiting in his chambers for a long time after sunset, speculating on what would happen when the Morgawr returned. That he would, to claim his end of the bargain, was a given. What exactly he would ask was less certain. He would not threaten, but the threat was there nevertheless: if he could so easily dispose of a Prime Minister and a Minister of the Treasury, how much harder could it be to dispose of a recalcitrant Minister of Defense? Sen Dunsidan was in this business now all the way up to his neck. There could be no talk of backing away. The best he could hope for was to mitigate the payment the Morgawr would seek to exact.

It was almost midnight before the other appeared, slipping soundlessly through the doorway of the bedchamber, all black robes and menace. By then, Sen Dunsidan had consumed several glasses of ale and was regretting it.

“Impatient, Minister?” the Morgawr asked softly, moving at once into the shadows. “Did you think I wasn't coming?”

“I knew you would come. What do you want?”

“So abrupt? Not even time for a thank you? I've made you Prime Minister. All that is required is a vote by the Coalition Council, a matter of procedure only. When will that occur?”

“A day or two. All right, you've kept your end of the bargain. What is mine to be?”

“Ships of the line, Minister. Ships that can withstand a long journey and a battle at its end. Ships that can transport men and equipment to secure what is needed. Ships that can carry back the treasures I expect to find.”

Sen Dunsidan shook his head doubtfully. “Such ships are hard to come by. All we have are committed to the Prekkendorran. If I were to pull out, say, a dozen—”

“Two dozen would be closer to what I had in mind,” the other interrupted smoothly.

Two dozen?
The Minister of Defense exhaled slowly. “Two dozen, then. But that many ships missing from the line would be noticed and questioned. How will I explain it?”

“You are about to become Prime Minister. You don't have to explain.” There was a hint of impatience in the rough voice. “Take them from the Rovers, if your own are in short supply.”

Dunsidan took a quick sip of the ale he shouldn't be drinking. “The Rovers are neutral in this struggle. Mercenaries, but neutral. If I confiscate their ships, they will refuse to build more.”

“I said nothing of confiscation. Steal them, then lay the blame elsewhere.”

“And the men to crew them? What sort of men do you require? Must I steal them, as well?”

“Take them from the prisons. Men who have sailed and fought aboard airships. Elves, Bordermen, Rovers, whatever. Give me enough of these to make my crews. But do not expect me to give them back again. When I have used them up, I intend to throw them away. They will not be fit for anything else.”

The hair stood on the back of Sen Dunsidan's neck. Two hundred men, tossed away like old shoes. Damaged, ruined, unfit for wear. What did that mean? He had a sudden urge to flee the room, to run and keep running until he was so far away he couldn't remember where he had come from.

“I'll need time to arrange this, a week perhaps.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Two dozen ships missing from anywhere will be talked about. Men from the prisons will be missed. I have to think about how this can be done. Must you have so many of each to undertake your pursuit?”

The Morgawr went still. “You seem incapable of doing anything I ask of you without questioning it. Why is that? Did I ask you how to go about removing those men who would keep you from being Prime Minister?”

Sen Dunsidan realized suddenly that he had gone too far. “No, no, of course not. It was just that I—”

“Give me the men tonight,” the other interrupted.

“But I need time.”

“You have them in your prisons, here in the city. Arrange for their release now.”

“There are rules about releasing prisoners.”

“Break them.”

Sen Dunsidan felt as if he were standing in quicksand and sinking fast. But he couldn't seem to find a way to save himself.

“Give me my crews tonight, Minister,” the other hissed softly. “You, personally. A show of trust to persuade me that my efforts at removing the men who stood in your path were justified. Let's be certain your commitment to our new partnership is more than just words.”

“But I—”

The other man moved swiftly out of the shadows and snatched hold of the front of the Minister's shirt. “I think you require a demonstration. An example of what happens to those who question me.” The fingers tightened in the fabric, iron rods that lifted Sen Dunsidan to the tips of his boots. “You're shaking, Minister. Can it be that I have your full attention at last?”

Sen Dunsidan nodded wordlessly, so frightened he did not trust himself to speak.

“Good. Now come with me.”

Sen Dunsidan exhaled sharply as the other released his grip and stepped away. “Where?”

The Morgawr moved past him, opened the bedchamber door, and looked back out of the shadows of his hood. “To the prisons, Minister, to get my men.”

Two

Together, the Morgawr and Sen Dunsidan passed down the halls of the Minister's house, through the gates of the compound, and outside into the night. None of the guards or servants they passed spoke to them. No one seemed even to see them.
Magic,
Sen Dunsidan thought helplessly. He stifled the urge to cry out for help, knowing there was none.

Insanity.

But he had made his choice.

As they walked the dark, empty streets of the city, the Minister of Defense gathered the shards of his shattered composure, one jagged piece at a time. If he was to survive this night, he must do better than he was doing now. The Morgawr already thought him weak and foolish; if he thought him useless, as well, he would discard him in an instant. Walking steadily, taking strong strides, deep breaths, Sen Dunsidan mustered his courage and his resolve.
Remember who you are,
he told himself.
Remember what is at stake.

Beside him, the Morgawr walked on, never looking at him, never speaking to him, never evidencing even once that he had any interest in him at all.

The prisons were situated at the west edge of the Federation Army barracks, close by the swift flowing waters of the Rappahalladran. They formed a dark and formidable collection of pitted stone towers and walls. Narrow slits served as windows, and iron spikes ringed the parapets. Sen Dunsidan, as Minister of Defense, visited the prisons regularly, and he had heard the stories. No one ever escaped. Now and then those incarcerated would find their way into the river, thinking to swim to the far side and flee into the forests. No one ever made it. The currents were treacherous and strong. Sooner or later, the bodies washed ashore and were hung from the walls where others in the prisons could see them.

As they drew close, Sen Dunsidan mustered sufficient resolve to draw close again to the Morgawr.

“What do you intend to do when we get inside?” he asked, keeping his voice strong and steady. “I need to know what to say if you want to avoid having to hypnotize the entire garrison.”

The Morgawr laughed softly. “Feeling a bit more like your old self, Minister? Very well. I want a room in which to speak with prospective members of my crew. I want them brought to me one by one, starting with a Captain or someone in authority. I want you to be there to watch what happens.”

Dunsidan nodded, trying not to think what that meant.

“Next time, Minister, think twice before you make a promise you do not intend to keep,” the other hissed, his voice rough and hard-edged. “I have no patience with liars and fools. You do not strike me as either, but then you are good at becoming what you must in your dealings with others, aren't you?”

Sen Dunsidan said nothing. There was nothing to say. He kept his thoughts focused on what he would do once they were inside the prisons. There, he would be more in control of things, more on familiar ground. There, he could do more to demonstrate his worth to this dangerous creature.

Recognizing Sen Dunsidan at once, the gate watch admitted them without question. Snapping to attention in their worn leathers, they released the locks on the gates. Inside, the smells were of dampness and rot and human excrement, foul and rank. Sen Dunsidan asked the Duty Officer for a specific interrogation room, one with which he was familiar, one removed from everything else, buried deep in the bowels of the prisons. A turnkey led them down a long corridor to the room he had requested, a large chamber with walls that leaked moisture and a floor that had buckled. A table to which had been fastened iron chains and clamps sat at its center. To one side, a wooden rack lined with implements of torture was pushed against the wall. A single oil lamp lit the gloom.

“Wait here,” Sen Dunsidan told the Morgawr. “Let me persuade the right men to come to you.”

“Start with one,” the Morgawr ordered, moving off into the shadows.

Sen Dunsidan hesitated, then went out through the door with the turnkey. The turnkey was a hulking, gnarled man who had served seven terms on the front, a lifetime soldier in the Federation Army. He was scarred inside and out, having witnessed and survived atrocities that would have destroyed the minds of other men. He never spoke, but he knew well enough what was going on and seemed unconcerned with it. Sen Dunsidan had used him on occasion to question recalcitrant prisoners. The man was good at inflicting pain and ignoring pleas for mercy—perhaps even better at that than keeping his mouth shut.

Oddly enough, the Minister had never learned his name. Down here, they called him Turnkey, as if the title itself were name enough for a man who did what he did.

They passed down a dozen small corridors and through a handful of doors to where the main cells were located. The larger ones held prisoners who had been taken from the Prekkendorran. Some would be ransomed or traded for Free-born prisoners. Some would die here. Sen Dunsidan indicated to the turnkey the one that housed those who had been prisoners longest.

“Unlock it.”

The turnkey unlocked the door without a word.

Sen Dunsidan took a torch from its rack on the wall. “Close the door behind me. Don't open it until I tell you I am ready to come out,” he ordered.

Then he stepped boldly inside.

The room was large, damp, and rank with the smells of caged men. A dozen heads turned as one on his entry. An equal number lifted from the soiled pallets on the floor. Other men stirred, fitfully. Most were still asleep.

“Wake up!” he snapped.

He held up the torch to show them who he was, then stuck it in a stanchion next to the door. The men were beginning to stand now, whispers and grunts passing between them. He waited until they were all awake, a ragged bunch with dead eyes and ravaged faces. Some of them had been locked down here for almost three years. Most had given up hope of ever getting out. The small sounds of their shuffling echoed in the deep, pervasive silence, a constant reminder of how helpless they were.

“You know me,” he said to them. “Many of you I have spoken with. You have been here a long time. Too long. I am going to give all of you a chance to get out. You won't be doing any more fighting in the war. You won't be going home—not for a while. But you will be outside these walls and back on an airship. Are you interested?”

The man he had depended upon to speak for the others took a step forward. “What are you after?”

His name was Darish Venn. He was a Borderman who had captained one of the first Free-born airships brought into the war on the Prekkendorran. He had distinguished himself in battle many times before his ship went down and he was captured. The other men respected and trusted him. As senior officer, he had formed them into groups and given them positions, small and insignificant to those who were free men, but of crucial importance to those locked away down here.

“Captain.” Sen Dunsidan acknowledged him with a nod. “I need men to go on a voyage across the Blue Divide. A long voyage, from which some may not return. I won't deny there is danger. I don't have the sailors to spare for this, or the money to hire Rover mercenaries. But the Federation can spare you. Federation soldiers will accompany those who agree to accept the conditions I am offering, so there will be some protection offered and order imposed. Mostly, you will be out of here and you won't have to come back. The voyage will take a year, maybe two. You will be your own crew, your own company, as long as you go where you are told.”

“Why would you do this now, after so long?” Darish Venn asked.

“I can't tell you that.”

“Why should we trust you?” another asked boldly.

“Why not? What difference does it make, if it gets you out of here? If I wanted to do you harm, it would be easy enough, wouldn't it? What I want are sailors willing to make a voyage. What you want is your freedom. A trade seems a good compromise for both of us.”

“We could take you prisoner and trade you for our freedom and not have to agree to anything!” the man snapped ominously.

Sen Dunsidan nodded. “You could. But what would be the consequences of that? Besides, do you think I would come down here and expose myself to harm without any protection?”

There was a quick exchange of whispers. Sen Dunsidan held his ground and kept his strong face composed. He had exposed himself to greater risks than this one, and he was not afraid of these men. The results of failure to do what the Morgawr had asked frightened him a good deal more.

“You want all of us?” Darish Venn asked.

“All who choose to come. If you refuse, then you stay where you are. The choice is yours.” He paused a moment, as if considering. His leonine profile lifted into the light, and a reflective look settled over his craggy features. “I will make a bargain with you, Captain. If you like, I will show you a map of the place we are going. If you approve of what you see, then you sign on then and there. If not, you can return and tell the others.”

The Borderman nodded. Perhaps he was too worn down and too slowed by his imprisonment to think it through clearly. Perhaps he was just anxious for a way out. “All right, I'll come.”

Sen Dunsidan rapped on the door, and the turnkey opened it for him. He beckoned Captain Venn to go first, then left the room. The turnkey locked the door, and Dunsidan could hear the scuffling of feet as those still locked within pressed up against the doorway to listen.

“Just down the hallway, Captain,” he advised loudly for their benefit. “I'll arrange for a glass of ale, as well.”

They walked down the passageways to the room where the Morgawr waited, their footsteps echoing in the silence. No one spoke. Sen Dunsidan glanced at the Borderman. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, though stooped and thin from his imprisonment, his face skeletal and his skin pale and crusted with dirt and sores. The Free-born had tried to trade for him many times, but the Federation knew the value of airship Captains and preferred to keep him locked away and off the battlefield.

When they reached the room where the Morgawr waited, Sen Dunsidan opened the door for Venn, motioned for the turnkey to wait outside, and closed the door behind him as he followed the Borderman in. Venn glanced around at the implements of torture and chains, then looked at Dunsidan.

“What is this?”

The Minister of Defense shrugged and smiled disarmingly. “It was the best I could do.” He indicated one of the three-legged stools tucked under the table. “Sit down and let's talk.”

There was no sign of the Morgawr. Had he left? Had he decided all this was a waste of time and he would be better off handling matters himself? For a moment, Sen Dunsidan panicked. But then he felt something move in the shadows—
felt
, rather than saw.

He moved to the other side of the table from Darish Venn, drawing the Captain's attention away from the swirling darkness behind him. “The voyage will take us quite a distance from the Four Lands, Captain,” he said, his face taking on a serious cast. Behind Venn, the Morgawr began to materialize. “A good deal of preparation will be necessary. Someone with your experience will have no trouble provisioning the ships we intend to take. A dozen or more will be needed, I think.”

The Morgawr, huge and black, slid out of the shadows without a sound and came up behind Venn. The Borderman neither heard nor sensed him, just stared straight at Sen Dunsidan.

“Naturally, you will be in charge of your men, of choosing which ones will undertake which tasks . . .”

A hand slid out of the Morgawr's black robes, gnarled and covered with scales. It clamped on the back of Darish Venn's neck, and the airship Captain gave a sharp gasp. Twisting and thrashing, he tried to break free, but the Morgawr held him firmly in place. Sen Dunsidan stepped back a pace, his words dying in his throat as he watched the struggle. Darish Venn's eyes were fixed on him, maddened but helpless. The Morgawr's other hand emerged, shimmering with a wicked green light. Slowly the pulsating hand moved toward the back of the Borderman's head. Sen Dunsidan caught his breath. Clawed fingers stretched, touching the hair, then the skin.

Darish Venn screamed.

The fingers slid inside his head, pushing through hair and skin and bone as if the whole of it were made of soft clay. Sen Dunsidan's throat tightened and his stomach lurched. The Morgawr's hand was all the way inside the skull now, twisting slowly, as if searching. The Captain had stopped screaming and thrashing. The light had gone out of his eyes, and his face had gone slack. His look was dull and lifeless.

The Morgawr withdrew his hand from the Borderman's head, and it was steaming and wet as it slid back into the black robes and out of sight. The Morgawr was breathing so loudly that Sen Dunsidan could hear him, a kind of rapturous panting, rife with sounds of satisfaction and pleasure.

“You cannot know, Minister,” he whispered, “how good it feels to feed on another's life. Such ecstasy!”

He stepped back, releasing Venn. “There. It is done. He is ours now, to do with as we wish. He is a walking dead man with no will of his own. He will do whatever he is told to do. He keeps his skills and his experience, but he no longer cares to think for himself. A useful tool, Minister. Take a look at him.”

Reluctantly, Sen Dunsidan did so. It was not an invitation; it was a command. He studied the blank, lifeless eyes, revulsion turning to horror as they began to lose color and definition and turn milky white and vacant. He moved around the table cautiously, looking for the wound in the back of the Borderman's head where the Morgawr's hand had forced entry. To his astonishment, there wasn't one. The skull was undamaged. It was as if nothing had happened.

“Test him, Minister.” The Morgawr was laughing. “Tell him to do something.”

Sen Dunsidan fought to keep his composure. “Stand up,” he ordered Darish Venn in a voice he could barely recognize as his own.

The Borderman rose. He never looked at Sen Dunsidan or gave recognition that he knew what was happening. His eyes stayed dead and blank, and his face had lost all expression.