by J. L. Doty
“There,” he said, pointing to a spot about a third of the blade’s length from the tip. “It’s flawed there. It will eventually fail.”
He looked to Baldrak for a reaction, but the smith merely looked at him oddly. Then the smith’s eyes looked past him at something behind him, and Morgin turned to find Chagarin and the rest of the smiths gathered just outside the Forge Hall, all staring at him with that same odd look.
~~~
As dusk approached on their first full day at the Lake of Sorrows, the entire tribe of Benesh’ere gathered at the whiteface equivalent of a town square. A massive pile of timbers and kindling had been erected in the middle of a large open area surrounded by tents, and Morgin stood with the smiths as twenty or more bodies were laid atop the timbers. Each Kull attack during the March had resulted in a death or two, and Morgin hadn’t realized the Benesh’ere had carried their dead to the lake. The last to be placed atop the pile were the four who’d finished with their guts up in a tree.
Several warriors carrying torches touched fire to the kindling, and the tribe looked on silently as the flames climbed slowly up the timbers. Olivia would have made a grand speech, would have peppered the crowd with women paid to openly shed tears, and lackeys paid to cheer at just the right moments. But the whitefaces merely stood and looked on silently as the flames consumed their loved ones, and a column of gray smoke climbed toward the sky. Morgin surreptitiously glanced about, was careful not to be obvious, but found not a single tear shed by his newfound comrades. It was odd the way they all watched the flames with the same look upon their faces. They didn’t look on with sorrow or fear or anger, and through most of the silent vigil Morgin was hard-pressed to identify what he saw in their faces.
The flames reached their zenith just about the time the sun disappeared behind the Worshipers, and still the Benesh’ere stood silently. Sometime later, full-darkness had settled upon them when the timbers collapsed upon themselves, reducing the pyre to a massive pile of glowing embers still too hot to approach any closer than about thirty paces. And only as the tribe dispersed did Morgin identify the look upon every face about him: determination.
As the other smiths turned and wandered back toward their tents, Chagarin didn’t move, but stood silently, staring at the pile of embers, a pair of blacksmith’s tongs gripped casually in his right hand and hanging limply at his side. Quite a number of the whitefaces didn’t turn to leave, perhaps one in twelve, and, like Chagarin, each waited silently. Morgin decided to stay with Chagarin, though when he didn’t move to go with the other smiths, the Master Smith glanced his way, looked at him for a long moment, then nodded silently, as if, by remaining, Morgin had done something significant, something appropriate.
As the embers cooled enough for them to approach the pyre without being driven back by blistering heat, Chagarin stepped forward and extended the tongs. He carefully selected a single ember about the size of Morgin’s fist and lifted it out of the pyre. He raised it up and examined it carefully, then said, “This will do.”
He glanced Morgin’s way, and at the questioning look on Morgin’s face he said, “From this point on, all fires will be lit from this fire. The warmth we take on a cold night will be from fire from the blood of our kin. We’ll cook our food with fire from the blood of our kin. And some day, though probably not in my lifetime, when the Seventh Wrong is righted, when we stand north of the Ulbb and are freed of the bonds that imprison us, on that day we will ride on Durin and exact revenge with blades forged in fire from the blood of our kin.”
Chagarin turned, and holding the orange-red ember in the tongs, he marched toward the Forge Hall. That was apparently a signal for all of the other whitefaces who’d remained behind. Each stepped forward and thrust a wooden stave into the pile of embers, held it there long enough to ignite it, then turned and marched away, carrying a brand fired by fire from the blood of their kin.
Morgin followed Chagarin, watched him carefully light the forges from the ember he’d carried, watched the smiths and their wives light their cooking fires with embers from the forges. Because of the ceremony at the pyre they didn’t sit down to dinner until quite late. The food didn’t actually taste different just because it was cooked with fire from the blood of our kin, but the taste of it now carried meaning and purpose.
~~~
“Let’s get out of this castle, have a tankard of ale or two, and pinch the bottom of a barmaid or three.”
At the sound of JohnEngine’s voice, Brandon looked up from the papers on the table in front of him. His cousin stood just within the threshold of his room in Penda, and Brandon had trouble shifting mental gears. “Ale? Barmaid’s bottoms?”
JohnEngine stepped further into the room. “Exactly. The atmosphere in this castle is stifling. It’s a nice, warm night, and Wylow and one of his sons and one of the Pendas and I are going for a pint in that little inn in the village. Join us.”
Brandon hesitated. “Are you sure that’s wise? We’re not terribly popular here right now.”
“There won’t be any trouble,” JohnEngine said. “In any case, Perrinsall et Penda is coming with us. He’s ErrinCastle’s cousin, a decent fellow. He’ll make sure we don’t have any problems.”
“You know,” Brandon said, nodding. “I do need a break from this.”
He stood, grabbed a cloak and said, “Lead on.”
Wylow and SandoFall, Wylow’s oldest son and Annaline’s husband, and the Penda fellow waited for them at the main gate. After they introduced Perrinsall, they headed for the village, which lay just beyond the no-man’s-land that surrounded the castle, a distance of about five hundred paces, well beyond the reach of the most powerful longbow.
The Happy Plowman was quite large and appeared to do a fair amount of business. The common room had a wood-plank floor, a bar along one side, a large hearth, a scattering of tables and chairs, with appetizing smells wafting from the kitchen. Quite a number of the tables were already occupied, but the five men had no trouble finding an empty one.
“How is Annaline?” JohnEngine asked SandoFall as they sat down.
SandoFall grinned happily. “Fourth child is due in about three moons. And she’s not having any difficulties.”
Wylow slapped his son on the back. “He’s already got himself an heir and a spare, so the third and fourth must be for just plain fun, eh?”
A pretty barmaid approached them, they ordered the house ale and were served rather quickly. Perrinsall paid the tab while JohnEngine filled five clay mugs from a large clay pitcher. They toasted Annaline and SandoFall, managed to forget for a time the hostility and the schism in the Lesser Clans. Perrinsall joined in, though he seemed a rather quiet fellow. Brandon, not one to frequent taverns, and not a big drinker, managed to enjoy himself—for a while.
SandoFall was relating the names he and Annaline were considering for the new child, when someone at a nearby table spoke the word Elhiyne in a noticeably harsh and angry tone. The room went silent, JohnEngine tensed and began to stand, but Brandon put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to remain seated. He said, “We don’t need to finish the annual meeting of the Lesser Council with a tavern brawl.”
Wylow nodded and said, “Listen to your cousin, John.”
A couple of men at a nearby table stood, Penda armsmen, by the look of them. They staggered drunkenly across the common room to stand behind Wylow and SandoFall. Brandon watched Perrinsall nod to the innkeeper, saw the innkeeper nod back.
“Bloody Elhiynes,” one of them said. “Think yer better’n us Pendas.”
The innkeeper and a young man—probably his son—stepped into position behind the two drunks, both carrying heavy wooden cudgels about the length of a man’s forearm. The innkeeper said, “Go back to your table and sit down. You’ll not be starting trouble here.”
One of the drunks turned on him. The fellow had trouble standing as he said, “But they’re Elhiynes.” He slurred his words badly.
The innkeeper was a large man, and h
e had the advantage of sobriety and the club. As the drunk staggered toward him, he buried the end of the club in the man’s gut. The fellow grunted and let out a great whoosh of air, dropped to his knees and groaned. The innkeeper turned to his companion and snarled, “Get him back to his table.”
As the two drunks staggered back to their table, one supporting the other, Perrinsall said, “I think we should leave.”
The innkeeper agreed with him, “That’s probably best.”
The five of them tried to exit quietly, though they heard a few jeers from the table of drunken armsmen. But they were only about twenty paces from the inn when the two drunks, with about a dozen comrades, spilled out into the street behind them. The five of them turned to face the armsmen, all instinctively not wanting danger at their backs. The armsmen carried swords, and not all of them were as drunk as the two who’d approached their table. And Brandon noted that he and his companions merely carried utilitarian knives. They would defend themselves with power and magic, and probably come out of it reasonably unscathed. But it would be an ugly incident that would only widen the schism in the Lesser Clans.
Wylow said, “This ain’t good.”
The armsmen surrounded them quickly, though, as yet, no weapons had been drawn.
Perrinsall stepped forward and said to the armsmen, “You should think carefully before taking this any further.”
Perrinsall was a rather minor Penda lord, so his warning didn’t carry the weight it would have if it had come from someone like ErrinCastle. Brandon held his hands up, palms out, empty. “We apologize for disturbing your pleasure, and merely want to return to our beds.”
One of the drunks staggered forward. “You can go to your beds, but only after we teach you a lesson or two.”
They all stood there for a long, tense moment of silence, and Brandon knew that when the moment ended there would be violence. Then the night filled with the sound of hooves thundering on the road. The armsmen backed away momentarily as Brandon glanced over his shoulder.
ErrinCastle, leading a twelve of mounted Penda armsmen, charged down the road toward them. Brandon’s first thought was that they’d stumbled into treachery, and would be murdered on the road. But ErrinCastle and his armsmen quickly surrounded them all and leveled their pikes at the drunken Penda armsmen.
ErrinCastle nudged his horse toward their leader, stopped the animal only inches from the fellow, who stood there swaying unsteadily. He leaned over the man and growled, “What in the netherhell do you think you’re doing?”
The drunk lowered his eyes and said meekly, “Was just going to teach the Elhiynes some manners.”
ErrinCastle lifted his boot out of a stirrup and kicked the man in the face. The drunk stumbled and fell to his knees as ErrinCastle said, “You idiot. These men are under Penda guestright.”
He looked at the captain of his mounted armsmen. “Put all of these men in the dungeon for the night. Maybe they’ll learn some manners.”
The mounted armsmen hustled the drunken armsmen away. ErrinCastle remained and said, “Think I’ll accompany you back to the castle.” He nudged his horse toward the castle at a slow walk, and they walked beside him.
JohnEngine asked, “How did you know we were in trouble?”
Brandon answered him. “That’s why he had Perrinsall accompany us.”
“Why do you care?” JohnEngine asked ErrinCastle. “We’re almost enemies at this point.”
ErrinCastle stopped his horse and looked at JohnEngine pointedly. “This hostility between our clans; I agree with my father, about as much as you agree with your grandmother.”
~~~
The morning after the pyre Baldrak awakened Morgin early. “We’re going to see to the horses and chakarras,” he said. “Should take most of the day.”
They ate a breakfast of journeycake, jerky and hot tea, then crossed the camp to the corrals, Morgin hoping he’d get a chance to see Mortiss again. The smiths maintained a small forge near the corrals, along with tongs, nippers, files and the other tools of a farrier. Jack the Greater and his men had already cut a couple dozen animals from the herds—those that needed attention from the smiths—but they hadn’t touched the smith’s tools. To do so when not under direct supervision of one of the smiths would be a serious breach of propriety and custom. But when Morgin and Baldrak began unpacking the tools and setting up the forge, Jack’s men stopped working and stared at Morgin, and Jack raised a questioning eyebrow to Baldrak.
Baldrak paused and looked at them carefully for a long moment. Then he said, “He’s close to the steel, closer than most.”
That seemed to ease their concern only a little. They returned to their work, but kept throwing surreptitious glances Morgin’s way as he and Baldrak mounted the anvil.
When the forge was ready Baldrak walked back to the Forge Hall, then returned with a hot ember gripped in a pair of tongs. He lit the small forge and he and Morgin went to work on the animals.
At noon a couple of young girls showed up carrying baskets of food. Baldrak, Morgin and Jack and his men all broke from their work and sat down at various places around the forge and the corral. The girls served them steaming bowls of stew and Morgin ate in silence while he listened to the banter of Jack’s men. They spoke of their work and their women and families, and Morgin realized these strange whitefaces shared the same joys and sorrows as any clansman or commoner or peasant. But then he recalled the March, and its few joys and many sorrows, experiences no one shared with the Benesh’ere, though it occurred to Morgin he might be the only exception to that rule.
He wondered about Val, wasn’t surprised he hadn’t seen him. The twoname, like Morgin, was a prisoner, and probably closely watched, and Jerst had made it clear he didn’t want the two of them interacting.
When he finished his meal he stood to stretch his legs. He walked over and leaned on the corral to look at the herds while Baldrak and Jack discussed horseflesh. The corral enclosed a rather large meadow in the foothills of the Worshipers. In the distance Morgin saw Mortiss, unmistakable because of her coal-black coat. She broke away from the other horses, trotted his way and stopped just within reach. Morgin reached over the corral and scratched her behind one ear.
“Look at that!” Jack said. He and his men and Baldrak had turned Morgin’s way. “That demon of an animal lets him coddle her like a pet dog.”
Mortiss snorted angrily, as if to say, Don’t compare me to some mutt.
Morgin looked over his shoulder and said, “Be careful. She doesn’t like being compared to dog flesh.”
That brought a roar from Jack and his men, though Baldrak remained silent. Jack said, “So she understands what I say?”
“More than you know,” Morgin said. He had a thought, and he said it before he really considered it. “Can I ride her?”
Jack gave him a sour look. “No you can’t, because no one can ride her. She won’t let anyone ride her. What makes you think you can?”
“I’ve ridden her before.”
Jack shook his head. “Not possible. No one’s ridden her.”
One of Jack’s men shouted, “Let him try, Jack.” As he said it he nudged one of his fellows in the ribs, clearly expecting to have some entertainment at Morgin’s expense.
“All right,” Jack said. “If you want to try . . .” He glanced at his men and they shared a grin. “. . . but don’t blame me when she dumps you on your ass with a broken leg.”
Mortiss neighed and reared, affronted that these men thought she would allow a rider to be harmed. Morgin could almost hear her thinking: if she allowed a rider on her back, that rider would come to no harm. Of course, today she might choose not to allow Morgin on her back, and in that case Jack and his men would get their show.
Morgin asked, “Do you have a bridle and saddle I can use?”
That brought open laughter from Jack’s men, who gathered around to watch what they clearly thought would be an entertaining spectacle. Jack just shook his head, ducked into the sta
ble, returned with a saddle and bridle and handed them to Morgin. “She won’t let you saddle her, but you can try.”
Morgin had learned long ago that Mortiss allowed what Mortiss chose to allow, and today he’d learn quickly if she’d allow him to saddle and ride her. As Morgin approached her with the bridle, she turned her head and looked his way. Jack’s men saw something in her look and roared with laughter.
Morgin cautiously slipped the bridle over her head, and she didn’t react in the slightest. Jack’s men responded with murmurs and whispers.
Morgin set the bit, then hoisted the saddle. The Benesh’ere preferred a light cavalry saddle, to which they might add saddlebags and other means of carrying weapons and supplies. But Morgin wasn’t going anywhere soon.
Again, Mortiss turned her head and gave him an unfathomable look, and again Jack’s men laughed. Morgin tensed as he threw the saddle over her back, but she didn’t react and Jack’s men responded with a wary silence.
Morgin quickly cinched the saddle in place, checked the tightness of the straps and asked Mortiss, “Are they comfortable? Are you ok?”
She turned and gave him that look again; she was clearly planning something.
No sense in delaying the inevitable, so he gripped the reins and the saddle horn, stuck his foot in the stirrup, and climbed quickly into the saddle. He sat there for a moment, waiting for her to surprise him in some way, but she just stood there complacently, while Jack’s men’s murmurs grew to exclamations of surprise and wonder. Mortiss spluttered, They need to know who’s in charge.
Morgin had no spurs, so he lightly nudged her flanks with his heels, delicately pulled the reins to one side and she trotted out toward the center of the corral. As he’d long ago learned, Morgin didn’t command Mortiss, he nudged with his heels, or tugged lightly with the reins, more suggestions what to do, never commands. She broke into a canter and he rode her in a wide circle, almost as if she had chosen to show him off, to show Jack’s men a thing or two. Morgin was just beginning to feel a bit triumphant that he had successfully mounted the demon horse, that she hadn’t chosen to humiliate him by throwing him on his ass. They were well out into the middle of the corral, a good hundred paces from the corral fence and moving at an easy canter back toward Jack and his men, and it was then, without warning, that she broke into a full gallop, charging directly at the high fence and the cluster of men. Morgin could do little more than hold on for the ride as she closed the distance between them quickly, the whitefaces all gaping with eyes wide and mouths open.
