by W. C. Conner
Ah, Morgan, he thought as they circled, you should have stayed away when I gave you the chance, but now I shall enjoy watching you die as you should have all those weeks ago.
With a shout, the Duke twirled, his hands still outstretched. His sword swung past Morgan’s head first, though it missed by so much it almost seemed he hadn’t intended it to be an effective stroke and Morgan didn’t flinch, but as his other hand swept past, he threw a handful of sand and pebbles that he had hidden in the fist. As Morgan’s head turned and snapped reflexively away, Berlayne leaped at him, his broadsword singing as it arced toward the center of his neck. Morgan dodged quickly backwards to avoid the blow but tripped and fell to the ground as the blade glanced off his own, missing its killing mark but leaving a bloody slash in his cheek.
Morgan rolled sideways and sprang to his feet as Berlayne twirled past him. Morgan swung back-handed as the Duke halted and turned, but though his sword hit the back of Berlayne’s shoulder solidly, it hit only with the flat of the blade because of the awkward angle of Morgan’s body at the moment he swung. As they resumed their battle stances and circled one another once more, an angry red welt with a trickle of blood showed along a narrow cut where the edge of Morgan’s blade had kissed the Duke’s back.
Berlayne’s eyes, however, spoke much more loudly to Morgan than did the razor thin cut. The Duke had always been a dispassionate warrior, removing himself emotionally from the battle and focusing solely on the job at hand. In all the exercises in the weapons yard and all the battles in which they had fought side-by-side, Morgan had always been struck by the methodical way in which the Duke approached killing. There had never been anything personal in the battle; there had only been the master craftsman applying his art, skillfully separating his opponents from their limbs and their lives. This time, however, Morgan saw something new; he saw anger and hatred and a need to kill in Berlayne’s eyes that he had never before seen.
There is both danger and opportunity in those eyes, Morgan realized as he moved, working to prevent his boyhood companion from gaining a favorable attack angle.
In the next moment, Berlayne feinted to the left, drawing Morgan’s blade along with him, then swung his broadsword in an arc which Morgan moved to parry. As their swords rang against one another, Berlayne’s dagger cleared its sheath at his belt and he spun, slashing at Morgan’s unprotected stomach. Morgan twisted and leaped backward too quickly for the deadly cut Berlayne had intended, yet not quickly enough to avoid the stroke altogether. Morgan’s left hand weakened momentarily on the hilt of his sword as the dagger opened a painful cut diagonally across the back of his forearm.
Sensing vulnerability, Berlayne threw down the dagger and gripped his enormous broadsword with both hands, swinging it down on Morgan’s upraised sword with the intent of hammering him to his knees where a twirling follow-on stroke would separate his head from his shoulders.
Morgan side-slipped the blow and looked into Berlayne’s eyes. He no longer fights with discipline, Morgan realized. It is hatred alone that drives him now. The moment is at hand.
Before Berlayne could complete his move, Morgan’s dagger was quickly out of its sheath and held almost invisibly against the hilt of the broadsword while he parried blow after blow from his taller and stronger foe. The Duke’s anger and frustration at Morgan’s dispassionate ability to turn his blows aside showed more and more clearly in his face and he pressed his attack recklessly, moving closer and closer to the warrior whose continued resistance taunted him with his failure to kill him.
Berlayne at last closed chest to chest against Morgan, their swords and eyes locked together as they strained against one another. Morgan looked coldly into the eyes which blazed with hatred and knew the time had come.
With the speed of a striking snake, Morgan lifted the dagger from where it rode against the hilt of his sword and placed its point close against Berlayne’s windpipe. All sound from the soldiers surrounding the two warriors stopped as if smothered by a blanket.
Berlayne’s eyes widened in shock as, for the second time in less than a day, he felt the tip of a blade held against his throat by Morgan. “You’re a dead man if I wish it, my lord,” he said quietly to the Duke.
“Never!” Berlayne shouted. With his nostrils flaring in rage, he pushed away from Morgan so violently that he lost his balance and ended up sitting heavily on his backside at Morgan’s feet. His own sword fell from his hand as he did and landed just out of his reach.
Morgan raised his sword slowly in both hands in preparation for the killing stroke that Veritas demanded while Berlayne struggled from his backside to his knees, his eyes locked on the sword held high over his foe’s head.
The entire army seemed to hold its collective breath as they waited for the stroke that would proclaim Morgan’s innocence. In the sudden deathly quiet, Morgan paused, then lowered his sword until it pointed between Berlayne’s eyes. “You spared my life many weeks ago when Greyleige would have had you take it,” he said. “In return, I give you your own.”
With that, he turned to walk away, but Berlayne was not done. Without removing his eyes from the back of Morgan’s head, he reached out and grabbed his sword before jumping to his feet and rushing at Morgan’s back.
The gasp that went up from the onlookers caused Morgan to instinctively jump to the side and drop to the ground just as Berlayne’s stroke whistled past the spot his head had been mere fractions of a second before.
As Berlayne staggered from the momentum of his swing, Morgan rolled and kicked outward into the back of the Duke’s knee which buckled, sending him crashing heavily face first to the ground. Morgan sprang to his feet and balanced himself with his sword once again at the ready, but the Duke’s form shuddered one time where he had fallen, then moved no more.
Morgan stepped back two paces and placed the point of his sword on the ground as one of the Duke’s captains ran over to where he lay. When he turned him over, Berlayne’s discarded dagger was revealed to have torn its way under and up inside his ribcage as he fell upon it, impaling his heart and killing him instantly.
Looking up, the man cried out, “He is dead by his own dagger.” He stood and looked with wonder at Morgan, then toward Roland who was walking toward them. Dropping to one knee, he drew his sword and held it out, hilt foremost as he bowed his head to Roland. “My sword and my life are yours, my lord.”
“Stand my friend,” Roland said softly. “The evil that consumed my brother has destroyed him but it need not destroy you.” Then, raising his voice to the watchers he proclaimed, “You see before you the truth revealed by the Ritual of Veritas. Let no one now doubt the treachery of the charge against Morgan to whom I restore his honor and his name should he wish to reclaim it.”
There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned toward Morgan who stood with his head downcast. Finally, he knelt down on both his knees and, holding his sword across his two outstretched hands, he offered it up to Roland, the new Duke of Confirth.
Taking the two steps separating them, Roland reached out and raised Morgan to his feet as the onlookers broke the silence with a deafening roar of support for the eighteenth Duke of Confirth.
Roland embraced Morgan and spoke into his ear over the cheering of the soldiers. “In the end, my friend, I am glad ’twas not your weapon that killed him, for I know that would have been as difficult for you as for me.” Releasing him from the embrace, he stepped back and turned toward the cheering soldiers, motioning for silence. “We already march to war,” he called, “but now we march to the aid of my liege lord, Prince Gleneagle.” And, once again, the soldiers cheered mightily before dispersing to return to their companies.
As the mass of soldiers departed, Morgan knelt down beside his former liege lord and swept the hair from his face. “Fare you well, Berlayne, companion of my youth. Watch for me upon the other side, for when I join you, we will be friends once again.”
He stood to find Roland watching him, a tear in his eye to mirror Morgan’
s. Without looking back, the two of them walked to the command tent as men came forward with a litter to retrieve and prepare Berlayne’s body for its return to Confirth.
29
The old plow horse carrying Scrubby and Peg plodded along behind the others as they rode across Confirth in the direction of Gleneagle’s castle. The two of them tried their best to hear what was being said by the other five on their more travel-worthy mounts but missed a great deal of it because they tended to follow quite far back.
Early on there had been some little discussion about whether or not it would be better to pursue Morgan and Kemp through Confirth rather than the more likely northern route it was assumed they would take to avoid any possible discovery. At the last, however, Tingle had prevailed, reasoning that the head start enjoyed by their prey would be offset by the quicker route through Confirth whether Morgan and Kemp had gone this way or not.
Caron and Mitchal kept to themselves their thoughts about her safety should they cross the Duke’s path. Wil saw the concern in her eyes and said as much to the Princess at one point when the two of them were removed from the others. “It might serve to divide our company and have some pursue the northern course as a precaution,” he had said to her, knowing from her eyes that she read his true intent.
“Even the duke would not hazard to detain me,” she had replied, presenting a stubborn profile as she looked to the horizon. “Surely he must retain that much honor at the very least.”
Riding at the point well ahead of the others, Mitchal raised his hand giving Scrubby and Peg the opportunity to catch up with the others as they halted. He turned his horse around and cantered back to them. “Highness,” he said, still refusing to accede to her request to call her by her given name, “unless I misread the signs, we are overtaking a large armed force ahead, undoubtedly that of the Duke. I suggest we halt until they are well clear, then find an alternate road.”
“Caron,” Scrubby offered as she stood in her stirrups and looked forward as if trying to see the road far ahead, “I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about what to do.” The mounted patrol he had spotted emerged from the woods to their left as he spoke and trotted briskly toward them.
“You are at risk, Highness,” Mitchal said gruffly. “These are soldiers of Confirth and no friends of the house of Gleneagle.” Caron’s grim expression told him his words had been unnecessary.
The army had been on the march for no more than an hour when the rider posted by the patrol’s leader arrived with the message that a small group of riders which had been closing on them from behind had been taken prisoner.
As the seven, surrounded by the patrol, approached the leaders at the head of the column, Morgan sat astride Tenable, slightly to the right and behind Roland, smiling with amusement that he had not been recognized. His recent foot soldier’s haircut and missing mustache rendered him far less recognizable in any case.
Roland looked Caron over closely as the companions rode toward him escorted by the patrol and smiled as he recognized that it was the Princess wearing a man’s breeches and riding astride a horse. He bowed his head as they drew near. “Princess Caron,” he said warmly, “We have not seen one another since we were barely more than children. I’m pleased that you are well.”
She bowed her head. “Roland,” she replied coldly.
At that point, his horse danced slightly to the side and she could clearly see Morgan. His amused expression was distorted by the new wound on his cheek which had required a dozen stitches to close. It wasn’t until he spoke that it registered in her mind that it was Morgan who sat his horse before her. “Your Highness,” Morgan announced, sweeping his arm grandly, “I have the honor of presenting to you the eighteenth Duke of Confirth.”
As they moved forward, they found themselves joined by Kemp aboard a far finer horse than the poor, overworked palfrey upon which he had departed Wisdom.
Roland sat with his hands resting upon the high horn of his saddle, enjoying the astonished looks of the entire party. Pointing toward Scrubby and Peg he said to Morgan, “I’m sure we can find them better mounts than that poor beast. They will certainly need them to keep up with us before we set camp for the night.”
Late in the afternoon the army had arrived at a likely spot and was rapidly establishing a bivouac for the night. The command tent had been hastily erected and the companions found themselves seated in a circle within the tent, the sounds of the rest of the camp being set up surrounding them on all sides. In deference to his liege lord’s daughter, Caron sat in the Duke’s usual campaign chair while he sat to her right, studying her face closely in the lamplight.
There being too few chairs and stools for so many, Scrubby and Peg were obliged to sit on the ground against the tent wall, but neither seemed to mind. Peg especially seemed pleased, for her position gave her a direct line of sight to Kemp who appeared oblivious that she looked at no-one but him.
At Roland’s direction, Morgan spoke first. “Your Highness, there is first something you must know. You are the person I was ordered to assassinate by Berlayne at the direction of Greyleige. That he had ordered me to kill the daughter of his liege lord was both unlawful and dishonorable, and something I would not have done even had I felt you deserving of death, for I kill only for justice, in defense, or in war.” Caron’s eyes showed surprise, but she inclined her head toward Morgan in acknowledgement of his honor and his loyalty.
Roland took the moment of silence to pick up the narrative. “You find me upon the ducal seat for Morgan having invoked the Ritual of Veritas on Berlayne in defense of his honor. In that same challenge he acted as my champion, for he knew as well as I did that I was not the warrior who could defeat him. Even Morgan knew when he forced the point that his chances were no better than even, but we both sensed the time was at hand to try, for the army was at the point of mutiny.
“Beyond that, we knew that we could not of good conscience allow our forces to be used against our own sworn liege lord. At the end, however, the Ritual of Veritas delivered the truth for which it was named, and it delivered it twice. After Morgan had bested my brother, he gave him back his life as Berlayne had given Morgan his after his refusal to murder you, Highness. As Morgan turned away, Berlayne dishonored himself even further with a foul attack from behind. He overreached his stroke, however, and died when he fell on his own dagger that he had cast away during the battle.”
Looking toward Morgan he continued, “I am pleased all of you are present to hear my pronouncement that before we break camp in the morning, I will be declaring to the army surrounding us that Morgan will be leading them into battle as the general he should have been many years ago.”
Morgan stood and, as he had done just the previous day, he knelt before Roland and offered his sword, laying it flat across his two upheld hands. Roland stood and lifted Morgan to his feet, then embraced him as one would a brother. As the embrace was broken, the others stood and bowed in honor of Morgan whose eyes blazed brightly with pride and happiness.
Thisbe stepped forward and kissed her father on both cheeks. “You old scoundrel,” was all she could say, but the tears in her eyes as he embraced her spoke more eloquently than her words.
Peg also walked over and kissed the man who had rescued her from worse than death a short three years before. She honored him with but one word. “Father,” she said. Her pride in him was evident in her face, and his eyes followed her fondly as she returned to her place next to the tent wall.
As they resumed their seats, Wil remained standing and everyone turned toward him. He acknowledged Caron first. “Highness,” he said, then turned toward Roland. “My lord, I believe you may have heard somewhat of my story from Morgan, but he knows the tale only up to the point at which I disappeared and it was then that I was born. Before then I was no more than a hermit crab in search of a shell in which to hide.”
Looking to Morgan he said, “I have learned much about myself, a great deal of which is not of comfort to me. But the
most important thing I have been told is that I do, in fact, have within me that which can stand against the power of Greyleige and the evil he has brought forth.”
He turned to Kemp. “Our time is at hand, Kemp. I need your hammer and the special knowledge locked up in your head.”
The following morning, the companions mingled together and exchanged wishes of luck and strength, for they each felt of a certainty that they were embarking upon the final leg of a desperate race.
Wil felt a presence at his shoulder as he tested the girth of his saddle and turned to find Caron regarding him somberly. His heart skipped a beat as his gaze was captured by her unnaturally dark eyes. “Highness,” he said, then quickly amended upon her slight smile and raised brow, “I’m sorry, Highness. I meant ‘Caron’, of course.”
Her smile faded. “I’m afraid for you, Wil,” she said. She spoke so softly that he had difficulty hearing her over the sounds of the army preparing to move that surrounded them. “Greyleige has become more and more formidable and your talent is untested.”
“I would be lying if I told you that I have no fears, Caron” he responded, taking her hand in both of his, “but I learned much from your elven ancestor and from the scrolls which were shown to me.” She made a weak effort to remove her hand, but he held it firmly. “The gemstone with which you gifted me has its own power to protect me in its way. And those of you who have helped me and believed in me have given me the will, and the reason and the courage, to persevere.”
