The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (17 page)

DaNoel watched Brandon attempting to placate the old
woman. Olivia didn’t want outright war with Penda any more than
Brandon, but her ambition had sparked a fire in her soul, and her mutual animosity
with BlakeDown had blinded her to her own provocations. DaNoel had to give
Brandon credit, for he had managed to blunt some of the sharp edges of her
acrimony.

These meetings of the clan leadership bored DaNoel. He had
nothing to contribute, didn’t really care what was decided. So he
listened, but didn’t listen, nodded at the right moments, frowned
at others, and when it ended, he chatted politely with his kin as they left
Olivia’s audience chamber.

He returned hurriedly to his room, a simple bachelor’s
bedchamber where he slept, or to which he occasionally brought some barmaid. He’d
fended off AnnaRail’s attempts to find him a bride, but perhaps he
should not resist her efforts. As a married man, and a direct member of the
ruling clan, he and his wife would be given a small suite of rooms, though he
bitterly realized they’d be nothing compared to what they’d
given Warmaster Whoreson.

Alone in his room, he allowed thoughts of Valso to enter
his mind. He pictured the face of the Decouix king, and heard his voice.

I take it you are now free to talk?

Yes.

Good. I have a simple task for you.
Brandon and ErrinCastle have been secretly conspiring, and JohnEngine has been
aiding them. They’re seeing to it the patrols on the border
between Penda and Elhiyne are commanded by their hand-picked lieutenants.

DaNoel saw some advantage to be gained from this
information. Brandon had managed to ingratiate himself to the old woman, and
everyone now thought of his cousin as a possible future leader of Elhiyne. It
rankled that no one looked at him that way.
I’ll
tell Olivia, expose Brandon’s treachery.

And when she asks how you know
this, how will you prevent her from learning of your treachery?

Valso was right. He couldn’t simply expose
Brandon without exposing himself.

I have a better idea,
Valso
said.
Be sympathetic to Brandon and JohnEngine’s
concerns. Express concern and worry at the rift between the two clans. Speak
quietly but directly of placating the two leaders. Tell them what they want to
hear, so they’ll include you in their counsel, and you could gain
considerable standing as a man who helped prevent a disastrous war.

DaNoel considered Valso’s idea carefully. Not
only would that be more effective than trying to expose them, but it would
finally bring DaNoel into the inner counsel of the clan’s future
leadership.
Yes,
he said,
an
excellent idea.

You see, DaNoel, subtlety can be a
very powerful tool.

~~~

“Felina wants to learn to swim too.”

Morgin looked up from sharpening the knife for the old
cook Satcha and turned around. LillianToc stood facing him; a young girl about
his age hid shyly behind him and peeked out past his shoulder. Morgin had been
teaching LillianToc to swim, and he’d progressed to the point
where he could keep his head above water with a decent dogpaddle.

“Who’s Felina?”
Morgin asked.

“I am,” the girl whispered,
looking at Morgin with wide, almond shaped eyes. He’d seen her
about the camp a few times, thought she might be the daughter of one of the
smiths, though the smiths’ children were raised in a communal way
by all their wives, so he didn’t yet know which. She would be a
real beauty when she grew up.

“Whose daughter are you?”

Blushing, she said, “Baldrak’s.”

“And you want to learn to swim like
LillianToc?”

She grew bold and stepped out from behind the young boy. “Yes.
Will you teach me?”

Morgin nodded. “Ok. When?”

“Now.”

“Yes,” LillianToc said. “Let’s
do it now.”

Morgin glanced toward Satcha. The old woman smiled and
nodded her permission.

Morgin pointed to the lakeshore. “All right,
down to the lake with you.”

LillianToc and Felina danced down to the lake stripping
off their clothes. Morgin was only slowly adjusting to the casual attitude the
Benesh’ere displayed regarding nudity. He stripped down, but didn’t
throw his breeches off until the last moment before he dove into the lake. He
surfaced about twenty paces from the shore, treading water. LillianToc and
Felina stood in the shallows watching him.

“See what I mean,” LillianToc
said. “It’s like he’s standing on the
bottom, but there is no bottom.”

Felina took to swimming like a fish, and by mid-morning
could dogpaddle alongside LillianToc. The two of them made for a noisy swimming
lesson.

“Elhiyne,” Baldrak called from
the shore. “Chagarin wants to see you in his workshop.”

Morgin hollered back, “Tell him I’ll
be right there.”

LillianToc and Felina protested mightily that the lesson
shouldn’t end yet. Morgin told them he had no choice, for one did
not ignore the Master Smith’s summons. He toweled off, returned to
his tent and changed into a fresh Benesh’ere robe, then marched
across the camp to the Forge Hall. But when he entered Chagarin’s
workshop, a separate room at the back of the Forge Hall, he immediately knew
this would not be a simple discussion with the Master Smith. Chagarin sat at a
workbench, but standing to one side were Harriok and Branaugh. Harriok looked
healthy and hale, with no sign of the illness that had come from the venom of
the sixth claw. He stood and clasped Morgin’s hand with a hearty
shake.

“You are well,” Morgin said. “I’m
glad.”

Branaugh said, “He still has some weight to
gain before I’ll let him do anything strenuous.”

Harriok grinned at Morgin and said, “Remember,
my friend, if you ever take a wife, you also take a new lord and master.”

If he ever took a wife
;
Morgin suspected something showed on his face since both Harriok and Branaugh
sobered.

“Elhiyne,” Chagarin said. “Come
here. I want you to look at something.”

Morgin walked over and stood beside Chagarin at his
workbench. On it lay something long and thin wrapped in an oiled cloth, two
short to be a sword, too long to be a knife. Next to that lay three cold
puddles of dull metal, each about the size of a man’s hand with
fingers spread. They appeared to have been poured without any specific shape in
mind, and allowed to cool as-is, but Morgin recognized them as the steel bloom
from a smelter. Chagarin picked up one and handed it to him. “What
do you think of this?” Clearly, it was meant to be some sort of
test.

Morgin looked at the metal closely, almost sensed a
terrible imbalance within it, knew immediately with his ancient memories what
it meant. He said, “This was fired or smelted with stink coal,
coal contaminated with the yellow earth. It’ll be hard to forge,
nearly impossible to quench properly, and then it’ll be brittle
and likely shatter easily at the first impact.”

Chagarin nodded without saying anything, took that piece
from him and handed him another.

Morgin didn’t need to look at it. “Pig
iron,” he said. “Very brittle, but not a bad start
for steel. Needs to be treated properly in a forge, possibly combined with
softer iron.”

Chagarin exchanged that piece for the third. The instant
it touched Morgin’s hand he knew the metal. “Mild
steel,” he said. “It’ll hold an edge,
but not the best. Again, treat it properly in a forge, and a good blade can be
had. Harden it up a bit and it could serve as the backbone for a blade. Maybe
wrap the pig iron around it to hold an edge. Though, I’d still
adjust the hardness of both a bit before doing so. It would make for a better
blade.”

Chagarin took the third piece back and said, “Right,
right, and right. Three out of three.”

Branaugh said, “You knew, without performing
any tests. Master Chagarin spent half the morning testing those pieces before
he knew what you knew by merely touching the steel.”

Morgin looked at Harriok and Branaugh and said, “You
told him, didn’t you?”

They ignored his accusation as Chagarin reached for the
oiled cloth and unwrapped its contents: a sword broken into two pieces about a
third of the blade’s length from its tip. Morgin immediately
recognized the blade.

“You said this was flawed,”
Chagarin said. “You knew that from nothing more than the sound of
its ring. I tested it as well, and you were right; it broke at the flaw.”

Morgin locked eyes with the smith and refused to
acknowledge any of this.

Chagarin nodded toward Branaugh and Harriok and said, “These
two tell me you killed the demon cat. And they told me what you told them about
the first four deeds.”

Morgin didn’t answer him and he continued. “Both
you and he were touched by the sixth claw. You were completely unaffected and
he eventually survived.”

Morgin closed his eyes and said nothing. He felt Harriok
put a hand on his shoulder in a light, easy grip. He just rested it there, not
attempting to hinder Morgin, more a gesture of friendship. “Be at
ease, friend.”

Morgin opened his eyes and looked into his friend’s
face, and he saw sorrow there. He was not surprised when Harriok pulled a small
knife from his belt, and raised it to Morgin’s throat. He said, “I’m
sorry, my friend. I cannot postpone this any longer.”

He cut the debt collar, slicing cleanly through it and
lifting it off Morgin’s neck. He said, “I think it
would be best if you waited in front of your tent.”

Morgin turned and walked from Chagarin’s
workshop, walked through the Forge Hall and out into the light of day. He
hesitated for a moment; felt that the lack of the debt collar must shine like a
beacon slicing through a dark night. Then he calmly walked through the Benesh’ere
camp, walked proudly to his tent, sat down in front of it, his legs crossed in
front of him. And he waited.

He didn’t have long to wait. In the distance,
he saw a commotion build in the center of the camp. Then he saw a crowd of
white faces walking his way, with Blesset in the lead. She, like the rest of
them, carried her longbow in her left hand, strung and ready for war. In her
right hand, she carried a single arrow with a steel-tipped warhead. She stopped
just a little more than one pace from Morgin, a look of triumph lighting her
face with joy. She said not a word, but calmly and carefully nocked the arrow,
lifted the bow, drawing the string back as she did so. She aimed the arrow
directly at Morgin’s heart and held it there for several
heartbeats. Then without warning she lowered her aim and released the
bowstring. It twanged loudly in the silence that surrounded them and the arrow
struck the ground not a finger’s width from Morgin’s
boot, buried half its length in the dirt. Blesset had exercised the traditional
form of challenge for mortal combat. She smiled and stepped aside.

The warrior immediately behind her stepped up, nocked an
arrow and fired it into the earth just behind Blesset’s arrow,
then he stepped aside. The man behind him stepped up and fired his arrow into
the earth immediately behind that. And one-by-one the warriors that followed
Blesset each took their turn, firing an arrow into the earth until a small
forest of shafts carpeted the ground in front of Morgin’s tent.

When they’d finished, the small crowd of them
parted, and Jerst and Jack the Lesser walked down the path created through
their midst, both carrying a longbow and a single arrow. Jerst stopped in front
of Morgin and looked at Jack questioningly. Jack shook his head and said, “No,
my honor is satisfied without killing him.” Jack looked carefully
at the forest of arrows. “And I find it interesting only about a
hundred of us still feel that way.”

Jerst looked pained, as if he’d been betrayed
by a good friend, and Morgin realized it was quite possible the warmaster didn’t
want to do this. But then he nocked his arrow, raised his bow and fired it into
the earth just in front of Blesset’s. The warmaster had taken
precedence in this challenge.

He looked into Morgin’s eyes and said, “Tomorrow.”
Then he turned and walked away.

Chapter 13: SteelMaster

The smiths’ wives cooked a feast for dinner,
goat prepared in a spicy marinade, then roasted on steel skewers over glowing
coals. There were also vegetables and tubers Morgin hadn’t tasted before,
some wrapped in leaves and placed at the edge of the coals, others also roasted
on skewers. It was all quite delicious, though it had the air of a condemned
man’s last meal.

Afterward, Jack the Lesser, Fantose and Delaga joined
them, and the smiths broke out a keg of strong ale. They all sat around a large
fire, drinking mugs of ale and trading stories about Morgin’s
fighting prowess, and counting up the number of Kulls he’d killed.
There was no talk of any possibility that he might defeat Jerst, for no one
cared to discuss the impossible. No, this little gathering was a wake to grieve
over Morgin’s impending death. “It’s a
shame,” Jack kept repeating. “A cryin’
shame.”

Morgin held back on the ale, only sipped a little, just
enough to get a bit light-headed, not enough to get truly drunk. He didn’t
want to die with a hangover. Baldrak and another smith drank enough that their
speech slurred noticeably, and Delaga out did them all, ended up staggering
about and barely able to stand. Jack and Fantose helped him stay to his feet as
the gloomy festivities ended and they returned to their tents.

Chagarin, oddly enough, sat quietly throughout the
evening, frequently looking at Morgin with an odd sideways glance. As Morgin
turned and headed for his tent, the Master Smith joined him and walked silently
beside him. They had to navigate around the forest of arrows buried in the
ground to reach his tent, and there, Chagarin turned to face him. He said, “Don’t
kill Jerst tomorrow. He deserves better.”

He said nothing more, but turned and walked away into the
night.

~~~

Morgin actually slept quite well that night. He did think
on Chagarin’s words for a short time, but sleep quickly found him,
and he slept deep and long, with only normal, ordinary dreams to remember in
the morning.

He awoke just after dawn feeling quite refreshed. He
dressed, washed up and ate a light breakfast, just a couple of bites. The
entire Benesh’ere camp had arisen early like Morgin and he saw
many whitefaces moving among the tents. But everyone’s movements
appeared slow and tentative, and an odd, oppressive silence muffled all sound,
even the clanking of pots and pans.

Morgin sat down in front of his tent to sharpen and oil
his sword, and await whatever would come. He didn’t have to wait long
before Baldrak approached him and sat down facing him. “We smiths
have to remain neutral in this, but that doesn’t mean I can’t
tell you what to expect.”

Morgin wanted to ease the obvious discomfort he saw in
Baldrak’s eyes. “I thank you for that. And I thank
you and the other smiths for the friendship you’ve shown me.”

Morgin’s words appeared to increase the smith’s
discomfort rather than ease it. “You’re allowed only
a sword; no knives or other weapons beyond your fists and knees and elbows and
teeth. When I stand and walk away, you should walk to the center of camp. There
you’ll find a large circle fifty paces wide and marked by small
stones. Wait outside the circle until Jerst joins you. Outside the circle,
neither of you can draw a weapon against the other. Jerst will approach you
directly and issue formal challenge. After that, the two of you will part and
walk to opposite sides of the circle. Wait until Jerst steps into the circle,
then you do likewise. Once inside the circle, it is you and your sword against
Jerst and his, and you cannot again leave the circle until one of you is dead. If
either of you attempts to do so, you’ll be shot by a dozen archers
stationed outside the circle. And if anyone enters the circle to aid either of
you, they’ll be shot by the same archers.”

Morgin said, “A well-defined formula.”

Baldrak considered his words for a moment, then said, “A
formula we have lived by for centuries.” With that, he stood and
walked toward the Forge Hall.

Morgin had dressed carefully that morning with an eye
toward the coming contest: loose breeches, his boots and his knee-length Benesh’ere
tunic. He stood, stripped off the tunic, stripped to the waist and belted on
his sword. Then he walked slowly and calmly to the center of the camp, accompanied
only by an oppressive circle of silence. No one greeted him and he greeted no
one. The circle of stones had been laid out just as Baldrak had described, so
he stopped one pace outside it and waited, and he felt no need to fidget
nervously or look about, but stood there staring at the other end of the
circle. And he waited.

Slowly a crowd gathered around the circle, though they
maintained a distance of about ten paces from the stones. They spoke among
themselves and chatted amiably, though that oppressive silence muffled their
words. The sun rose farther into the sky as the crowd built, and Morgin
realized every whiteface in the tribe had come to see his execution. He looked
for Val, but saw nothing of the
twoname
, hoped
the whitefaces hadn’t chosen to execute him outright.

He stood in the midst of seven thousand men, women and
children, and while they were not loud, as a crowd they emitted a low
background of voices and quiet murmurs. But then, in a single heartbeat, that
murmur disappeared and an utter and complete silence descended upon them all. He
heard gravel crunching beneath a pair of boots behind him, too close to be just
another onlooker, and without turning, he said, “Warmaster Jerst.”

Jerst stepped up beside him. At the far side of the circle
the crowd parted. Two warriors carried Angerah’s throne through
the opening created, and placed it at the front of the crowd outside the
circle. Angerah followed, the crutch under one arm, the walking stick held in
the other, Merella beside him. He sat down on the small throne, looked across
the circle at Morgin and Jerst, and nodded.

Neither Morgin nor Jerst looked at the other; standing
side-by-side they both faced the center of the circle, and Jerst said amiably, “Elhiyne,
I hope you slept well last night.”

They sounded like two merchants casually greeting one
another on the street. Morgin said, “Quite well.”

Jerst’s voice was oddly bereft of anger as he
said, “I challenge you, to the death.”

Morgin needed to right the wrong between them, even if
doing so was no more than a meaningless gesture. “And I accept. But
before we start this, I owe you an apology. The words I spoke more than two
years ago were wrong and uncalled-for.”

“Thank you,” Jerst said. “I
accept your apology . . . but I still must kill you.”

“If you can.”

For the first time Jerst looked at Morgin, so Morgin
turned and looked at him. They stood that way for a long moment, then by some
sort of mutual consent they both turned away from one another, and walked to
opposite sides of the circle.

Morgin stopped as he’d been instructed,
turned and faced the center of the circle, standing just outside the perimeter
of stones. Jerst, already standing on the other side of the circle, drew his
sword and handed the sheath to a whiteface standing beside him. Morgin
unbuckled his sword belt, drew the blade from the sheath, and laid the sheath
and belt on the ground beside him.

Jerst stared across the circle at Morgin and nodded almost
imperceptibly. It was a question, and in return Morgin answered with one, single
nod of his head. Jerst stepped into the circle, so Morgin did likewise. They
stood there fifty paces apart, and the crowd about them uttered not a sound. And
then, again, as if by some mutual understanding, as if they could communicate
on some level beyond that of sight and sound, they both simultaneously charged.

~~~

Norlakton seemed rather subdued this morning. With the
arrival of the Benesh’ere several days ago, the dirt street
running through the middle of town had seen a steady stream of activity. From
the earliest hours of the morning, and even well into the evening, any number
of whitefaces could be seen about the town, or, if the whitefaces themselves
were not visible, their presence was marked by their desert ponies tied up here
and there. But this morning, nothing, not a single one.

Out of curiosity Rhianne wandered down to the inn, stepped
through the crude, wooden door and into the dirt-floored common room. Fat John
stood behind the bar, wiping a tin mug with a bar rag. She asked him, “Do
you know why the Benesh’ere have suddenly disappeared?”

He shrugged and said, “There’s
something up with them whitefaces. My guess is they’re settling a
dispute between a couple of their warriors. Can get pretty bloodthirsty. Best
to stay clear of their camp until it’s over.”

Rhianne opened her mouth to ask for further details, but
in the distance an odd sort of rumbling, thunder interrupted her. The sound
continued without letup, though the walls of the inn muffled it considerably.

The innkeeper nodded, put his rag down and stepped around
the end of the bar. Rhianne followed him out into the street, and there, even
though distance still muffled the sound, there was no mistaking the roar of
several thousand voices raised in a vast and deafening shout.

She wondered if she should go there, took a step toward
the stables, but Fat John grabbed her arm. “You stay away from
them whitefaces, mistress, today, and for several days after. When they start
killing like this, it ain’t healthy for us plainfaces to be near
them.”

Rhianne was torn, and yet she knew nothing of these
strange desert people; it would be foolish to act on such an impulse. She had
no good reason for going to the Benesh’ere camp, so she nodded,
resolved to take Fat John’s advice.

Most of Norlakton had stepped into the open air to listen
just like Rhianne and the innkeeper. “Yup,” Fat John
said, “someone’s gonna die today. It’s
bad for business when them whitefaces get to killing each other.”

~~~

Morgin and Jerst met in the center of the circle charging
at full speed. Jerst’s blade swung toward his knees, but Morgin
sensed from the steel that it was a feint, that the blade would swing upward at
the last instant and go for his throat, so as it began to rise he dropped and
rolled beneath it. He came up behind Jerst, and as the warmaster spun to face
him Morgin swung his blade in a flat arc. Jerst deflected the blow clumsily and
they separated, the roar of the whitefaces’ shouts and screams a
deafening backdrop to the ring of steel.

He and Jerst faced each other, both in a crouch, breathing
heavily, circling warily. It happened again, that odd sensation that he knew
what Jerst’s steel would do before it did it, as if the steel
itself were alive and talking to him. Jerst came in with a two-handed overhead
strike. Morgin deflected it to one side, spun and elbowed Jerst in the ribs,
spun out of reach and turned to face him again. Again, crouched at the ready
they circled warily. So far Morgin had gotten the best of Jerst, probably
because the warmaster had started out overconfident. Morgin saw in his eyes
that would not happen again.

Don’t kill Jerst
tomorrow,
Chagarin had said, and for the first time Morgin thought that,
with the steel aiding him, he just might win. But he couldn’t win,
not by killing Jerst. He owed Chagarin that.

Morgin lunged with a two-handed strike, slicing in at an
angle. Again, Morgin knew what Jerst’s steel was about to do, so
he was ready for the warmaster’s parry. The blades struck and rang
loudly, but Morgin slid his cross-guard down the length of Jerst’s
blade, forced it high and stepped beneath it, only to meet Jerst’s
fist as it slammed into his temple. He hit the ground hard and rolled dizzily
away as the tip of Jerst’s blade bit into the earth next to his
head. Then he staggered to his feet and back stepped away from the warmaster,
blood dripping down his cheek from a gash Jerst’s fist had opened
there.

The Benesh’ere tribe went insane.

Morgin continued to back step and circle, Jerst stepping
forward and circling with him. The warmaster didn’t fight with
anger or rage, but with cold determination masked by a hint of sadness, as if
carrying out an unpleasant task that must be done.

Jerst stepped in and swung. Morgin met his blade squarely,
and responded with a strike of his own. They traded four blows that way then
separated, again circling warily.

Morgin felt his muscles tiring, slowing, his lungs
demanding more air. But the warmaster had slowed also, gulping in air with each
breath. The roar from the tribe had grown so deafening, Morgin could no longer
hear Jerst’s struggling breaths, could almost not hear his own.

Morgin attacked, feinting with a low slice that he turned
into a lunging jab. Jerst skipped out of the way on his tiptoes, but Morgin
felt his blade bite into the man’s side, a glancing cut that
wouldn’t kill him, but might slow him. But the warmaster was
better than that; he spun away from Morgin’s blade, and with
Morgin overextended he chopped toward Morgin’s neck. Morgin
deflected the strike with a clumsy, glancing parry, Jerst’s blade
slicing across his upper arm. They both danced away from each other, Morgin
thankful the cut had not been on his sword arm. But it would limit his
effectiveness in a two handed stroke, though with Jerst clutching at his side
they were even on that score.

Again and again they engaged, Morgin’s
uncanny awareness of Jerst’s steel keeping him alive, but Chagarin’s
demand he not kill Jerst preventing him from taking advantage of the strange
sentience of the steel. Each time they met, each time they engaged, they both
moved slower and slower. And heartbeat by heartbeat, as the sun climbed toward
noon, the cries of the whiteface onlookers grew muted and restrained.

Morgin could barely lift his blade, could barely stagger
into the next engagement, then stagger away from it. He had a dozen minor
wounds on his arms and legs, and the effort to swing his blade frequently threw
blood in Jerst’s face. Once, it even gave him some advantage as
the warmaster was momentarily blinded by a few drops of Morgin’s
blood. But Morgin’s footwork had turned clumsy, oafish and heavy,
and he missed the opportunity to take advantage of it. Though Jerst fared no
better, and each time they engaged Morgin suspected they both looked like two
inexperienced novices clumsily slapping their blades at each other.