by J. L. Doty
If he could escape, could he go to Olivia with the question about his name? She certainly knew more about names than anyone else he could think of. But then, she’d find some way to use him, so he couldn’t go to her. AnnaRail! Or Roland! Perhaps if he went to them in secret.
Moving about the camp collecting dung, he discovered the corral on the far side of the camp. It was enclosed by a permanent, stone wall that must have taken generations to build. It included a grove of trees where horses, cattle and other livestock grazed in the shadows. Morgin took a break from gathering dung, stopped to look over the Benesh’ere herds, and while he stood there a strange, though not unfamiliar, feeling came over him, as if he were being watched, but not by anything mortal. Then a tall, black mare stepped out of the herd and trotted his way. It reminded him of the almost identical scene in his dreams when Mortiss had found Morddon in Kathbeyanne.
She stopped in front of him just on the other side of the stone wall, snorted at him scornfully as if to say, Of course I’m here, you fool.
He reached out and scratched her behind the ear, and she let him do so almost impatiently. He tried to recall when he’d last seen her: at the river, shortly before France had drowned, and Tarkiss and his Kulls had captured Morgin and taken him to Durin.
Mortiss spluttered her frustration at him. No, it was at Aethon’s tomb when you laid him to rest.
Morgin found it oddly comforting to once again suffer Mortiss’ derision. “But that wasn’t me,” he said. “That was Morddon.”
She neighed angrily, How can you be so ignorant?
Most often, he thought of her merely as Mortiss, but he recalled now that her full name was Mortiss, the DeathWalker. When he’d first met her he’d had no idea what that meant, but now the meaning seemed quite clear: death followed her everywhere.
He shrugged and said, “I guess if you’re here, the sword can’t be far away.”
Off to Morgin’s left one of the Benesh’ere tending the herds took notice; he put down whatever he’d been about and walked Morgin’s way. There was something familiar about the man, and as he approached Morgin thought they might have met before, and he struggled with his memory to recall the meeting. The name Jack the Lesser came to mind, and Morgin remembered the tall bowman who had accompanied Jerst and Blesset when they’d first met before Csairne Glen. But while this man looked in every way to be Jack, there was something about him that put a lie to such a thought, an air of anger and bitterness and disappointment.
The Benesh’ere stopped a few paces away—a good safe distance—looked Morgin over carefully, then looked at Mortiss. “She lets no one touch her that way; won’t let anyone saddle her. One of these days I’ll just butcher her for her meat.”
Morgin suspected that if the fellow ever decided to follow through on such a threat, Mortiss would simply be absent. Or more likely, when not in her immediate presence, the fellow would probably completely forget her existence. But he said nothing of his suspicions and merely shrugged. “She’s always had a mind of her own.”
It was unsettling to recognize this man so readily, and yet to know with absolute certainty he was not the man Morgin had met. “Do I know you?” Morgin asked.
The Benesh’ere’s eye’s narrowed. “You think you’ve seen me before, eh?”
Morgin shook his head carefully. “No. I’ve met someone who looks like you, but not you.”
The fellow frowned, then he smiled. It was the second kind look Morgin had seen on a Benesh’ere face. The man shook his head slowly with a certain wonder in his eyes. “You’re the only man I’ve ever met who hasn’t made that mistake, at least on first meeting. How did you know I’m not my brother?”
Twin brothers! Morgin merely said, “I don’t know. You’re just different. And I have a certain instinct about names, and your name is not Jack the Lesser.”
“No,” the man said. His face again hardened and a deep bitterness entered his voice. “I am Jack the Greater.”
Morgin failed to hide a frown. “How did the two of you come by such names?”
Jack smiled bitterly. “The same way you came by your name, Lord AethonLaw.”
Morgin stepped back, felt as if he’d been struck. “The demon?”
“Aye. The demon.” He looked at Morgin carefully, waiting for some sort of reaction, then he added, “Beware of that great name of yours, Lord AethonLaw. And don’t waste your time trying to live up to it.”
Jack waited for another moment, perhaps to see if Morgin had some comment to add. But then, in silence, he turned away and walked back to his work.
~~~
When Morgin returned to Harriok’s tent a crowd of whitefaces had gathered waiting near its entrance, all seated quietly in the sand like statues. As he approached he noticed the bully Tallik sat among them and a knot formed in his stomach. Morgin guessed he’d now pay for humiliating the bully, and he wondered if he might get by with a simple apology.
Waiting with Tallik were LillianToc, Yim, the two boys who’d accompanied Tallik that morning, and an older Benesh’ere man who stood as Morgin approached. The rest stood with him, but the man stood above them all, tall and angry and impatient. The man’s eyes narrowed, and looking at Morgin he grew even angrier. “You’re the Elhiyne?” he demanded.
Morgin stopped out of reach of any impulsive attack. “Yes,” he said tentatively. “About this morning. I—”
“Silence!” the man shouted, and Morgin obeyed.
The man turned to Tallik. “This is the man struck you down?”
Tallik averted his gaze respectfully. “Yes, father.”
The man nodded and looked from Tallik to Morgin. Then to Tallik he said, “And he bested you rather nicely, I hear.”
Tallik lowered his eyes. “Yes, father.”
The man walked over to Tallik carrying a long, thin strap of brown leather Morgin hadn’t noticed before. He stood behind the boy, and wrapped a length of leather around his throat, then began weaving it with intricate knots. When he finished Tallik now wore a debt collar not unlike Morgin’s.
Tallik’s father stood and looked down on his son angrily. “You’ll take his duties now, and he yours. And you’ll do so until I’m satisfied you’ve learned to be a man, and not a bully.”
Morgin suddenly realized he was looking at these whitefaces through Morddon’s heart. Back in Kathbeyanne all those centuries ago, he’d rather liked the whitefaces with whom he’d ridden and fought. And while Morddon had been an angry grouch, he’d actually loved his Benesh’ere brethren. Looking at Tallik through Morddon’s heart, Morgin felt oddly sorry for the boy, especially since it appeared his father would take pains to be sure he learned the right lesson from the fight. The kid would probably grow up to be a nice fellow, though Morgin still wasn’t sure if Tallik’s punishment was for picking the fight, or for losing it.
~~~
Tallik’s father tasked Yim with leading Morgin to his new duties. She led him through the tents of the main camp, and as they approached its edge he picked up the faint ring of hammers pounding on steel, a sound that grew louder with each step. She led him to a cluster of tents separate from the main camp, tents different from a typical Benesh’ere tent. The tents were complete in and of themselves, but each had a large flap that extended out from the tent proper, with two corners supported by long poles. It created a shaded workspace next to the tent, with a table and a rack of tools, and, most obvious of all, a smith’s anvil. There were about a half-dozen such tents in all, with about half of the shaded workspaces occupied with smiths working metal.
Yim stopped outside one of the tents and spoke loudly, “Master Chagarin, I have the Elhiyne.”
She turned to Morgin and whispered quickly, “Be respectful, for he is very close to the steel.”
Close to the steel! Morgin had heard that phrase before. He knew he didn’t fully understand what it meant, and hopefully he’d now have a chance to learn.
Chagarin threw the tent flap aside and stepped out into the sun. He w
as short for a Benesh’ere, which meant he stood only a few finger-widths taller than Morgin, who was taller than most clansmen. But like any smith, Chagarin was broad-chested, with thick ropey muscles rippling over his entire upper body.
He looked Morgin up and down and demanded, “And where’s Tallik?”
Yim lowered her eyes. “His father feels he should wear a debt collar for a time.”
Chagarin threw his head back and laughed. “Picked another fight, did he? Who did he pick on this time?” He looked at Morgin and his eyes narrowed. “Not the Elhiyne, here? Don’t seem too hurt to me.”
Yim described the fight of that morning and Chagarin laughed even louder. Then to Morgin he said, “Was it luck, or do you know how to fight?”
Morgin shrugged. “I’ve had to fight a time or two in my life.”
Again, Chagarin looked him up and down carefully. “Had to fight, you said. Didn’t choose to fight.”
“I choose to fight only when I must.”
Chagarin eyed Morgin, clearly evaluating him. “That’s the kind of attitude comes from an experienced fighter. Bet you’ve had to fight for your life a time or two, huh?”
Again, Morgin shrugged. “I suspect that gave me a little advantage over Tallik.”
Chagarin turned to Yim. “He’ll do. Now be gone with you, girl.”
Then to Morgin, “Come with me.”
Chagarin led him into the shaded workspace, indicated a table on which tools were strewn haphazardly, with the anvil mounted at one end near a firebox and bellows. “Know anything about steel?” he asked.
Morgin flashed back to Morddon and his memories of centuries spent at the forges—or were they Morgin’s memories? Of that, he couldn’t be certain, and that frightened him. “A little,” he said, not willing to visit that place in his memories. “I helped our smith now and then, but not as an apprentice, just a simple helper.”
They’d attracted a small crowd. The other smiths had put down their work and gathered around Chagarin and Morgin to look over the Elhiyne. Morgin would love to learn why Benesh’ere steel was considered so superior to any other. He asked, “Are you making blades?”
Chagarin shook his head. “Not out here on the sands. Working the good steel requires a lot of fuel for a hot, controlled flame, and for that, we need good coke, and lots of it. Out here we just fix things, buckles and harness and horseshoes and such. No, the coke and the raw steel await us at the Lake of Sorrows.”
The implications of that statement were clear enough. He now understood that Tallik’s punishment was a harsh one, to go from working the steel to collecting dung for the fires. “Is Tallik your apprentice?”
Some of the other smiths chuckled at that question, but Chagarin merely looked thoughtful and shook his head. “No. He hopes to be, but I don’t think he’s close enough to the steel. In any case, the steel will decide that.”
Morgin wondered if he had finally met a true SteelMaster. “Yim called you Master Chagarin. Are you a SteelMaster?”
Everyone got a good laugh at that. “No, young man, there are no SteelMasters. The last died centuries ago. I’m just the Master Smith. But that’s master enough, and questions enough, too.”
He clapped Morgin on the back of the shoulders, the first comradely gesture any Benesh’ere had ever made toward him. “Let’s get you to work, man. We’re leaving for the Lake of Sorrows tonight and we’ve got to clean this mess up.”
~~~
The smiths put Morgin to work helping them pack up their equipment: tongs, peen hammers, flat hammers, farrier’s hoof nippers and end nippers. Morgin was surprised he knew the names of all the tools so clearly. He even knew their proper use, had quite a string of old and long forgotten memories of using similar tools at one time or another. That was odd, because, as he recalled, when he and JohnEngine had spent several days helping the Elhiyne smith, the fellow had taught them next to nothing of the smith’s crafts. To the smith they’d been no more than a pair of strong backs, and the smith guarded the secrets of his craft quite carefully. No, this knowledge came from the memories he shared with Morddon.
Late in the afternoon, the smiths took up swords and began practicing in pairs. With seven smiths that left one of them, a fellow named Baldrak, without a partner. He told Morgin, “Swinging a hammer all day might make you strong, but if that’s all we do we lose our sword skills.”
The other smiths were sparring, practicing, no animosity in the various contests. And Baldrak looked like he’d dearly love to join them. But he had no partner, so Morgin said, “I wouldn’t mind a bit of practice.”
Baldrak frowned and considered Morgin for a moment. “Why not? You won’t be much of a match for me, but I’ll take it easy on you. Come with me.”
He turned and led Morgin to his tent, retrieved three long, thin bundles wrapped in oiled cloth. “Got some old blades here. See if one of them feels right.”
Morgin hesitated for a moment because he knew perfectly well what was coming, though his hesitation made Baldrak look at him oddly. He reached out and took one of the bundles at random, knew exactly what he’d find within it. He removed the oiled cloth and hefted the sword, his sword, his one sword, the sword, the blade that always found him. He held the steel up close to his face and whispered, “Old friend, old enemy, which are you?”
To Baldrak he said, “This one will do.”
“Don’t you want to try the other two before choosing that one?”
Morgin shook his head. “It wouldn’t make any difference. And I didn’t choose this blade, it chose me. How long have you had it?”
Baldrak frowned. “I don’t know. It’s just an old blade. We all have a few lying around. Might have had it for years. Couldn’t really say. You know this blade?”
Morgin nodded, looking at the nicked and scratched steel. It hovered at the edge of his senses like an assassin waiting in the shadows. “Yes, we’re old . . . acquaintances.” He’d almost said something about knowing this blade for centuries, but Baldrak wouldn’t understand.
“Well then,” Baldrak said heartily, “let’s work up a little sweat.”
In pairs, the smiths had traced out sparring circles in the sand, and the ring of steel echoed throughout the camp. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered near the far edge to observe, and when they saw Baldrak and the Elhiyne tracing out a circle, a few called out cat-calls and derogatory comments about Morgin’s heritage.
“We’ll start easy,” Baldrak said, “and warm up a little.”
Baldrak and Morgin squared off and traded a few blows, nothing serious yet, more like two dancers at half speed. As Morgin’s shoulders and arms loosened up, he and Baldrak, by unspoken mutual consent, picked up the pace a bit, though the sand made footwork difficult.
Baldrak disengaged and stepped back a pace. “Not used to the sand, eh?”
“No,” Morgin said, “I’m not used to a lot of things.”
They squared off again, and Baldrak flicked the tip of his blade toward Morgin’s face, not a real strike but a test to gauge his reaction. Morgin merely sidestepped the half-hearted stroke and they squared off again, though again, by unspoken mutual consent, they both knew they’d get serious now.
Baldrak lunged with a cut to Morgin’s face. Morgin parried it easily and they parted. Baldrak cut low, but somehow Morgin sensed it was merely a feint, that the real strike would be a chest high thrust. Knowing what to expect, he blocked the thrust easily and returned with a thrust of his own, stopping the tip of his blade a finger’s width short of the man’s chest.
They both froze for a moment, both quite surprised. Had they not been sparring, had this been a real fight to the death, Baldrak would have been a dead man with a sword thrust through his heart.
Someone shouted, “Stop playing with the fool Elhiyne, Baldrak. Show him what it means to be Benesh’ere.”
Morgin, fearing Baldrak might react with hurt pride, lowered his sword and pleaded, “It was luck. Pure luck.”
Baldrak shouted ba
ck at the heckler, “I promised him I’d be easy on him. And I’m a man of me word.”
He looked at Morgin and spoke without animosity, “Let’s try her again, man. And this time I’ll come in a little faster, see how much you can take.”
Baldrak cut and thrust at Morgin repeatedly, but as the pace of the fight increased, Morgin held back. He feared what the sword might do if he did go on the offensive. Would it take that as a signal to sate itself on the blood of the entire Benesh’ere tribe?
As Baldrak thrust at him, Morgin seemed to know what Baldrak’s blade would do before it did it, and that gave him just the instant of foreknowledge he needed to deflected each strike. Baldrak picked up the pace, and Morgin stayed with him, even as the whiteface approached the legendary speed of a Benesh’ere swordsman. It was as if Morgin’s magic had decided to return, but it didn’t feel like magic, more like something unique to the sands, or the Benesh’ere, or the steel. But, even if his magic had decided to return, he didn’t think he could control the blade if he went on the attack. So he stayed on the defensive, and he lost more matches than he won.
“Well done,” Baldrak said as they returned to his tent, both dripping with sweat.
By the time they finished washing up in the lagoon, dusk was not far off; Yim had a fire going and a meal waiting for them. Morgin had learned she wore her debt collar because she’d been impudent to her mother and father regarding a young warrior she admired a little too brazenly, just as Tallik wore his for acting the bully. They both owed their parents a debt of honor.
Baldrak told Morgin to join them, and at that Yim gave Morgin a dubious look. The smiths all sat around an open fire in the midst of their tents, and Yim served them a meal of roasted goat, and some sort of cooked root vegetable. Yim gave Morgin his usual bowl of tasteless, boiled something-or-other, sometimes boiled wheat, today boiled oats.
One of the seven smiths, a fellow named Surnarra, called to Morgin across the fire. “You fought well, Elhiyne.”
