by J. L. Doty
The grin disappeared and Toke’s face softened with sympathy. And too, Morgin thought he saw pity. “I don’t know your name. Like you, I only know what it is not.”
Toke stood; Morgin remained seated and the old man looked down on him. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t. The only one who might help you is the Unnamed King, though he’s just a myth, so you’re rather stuck there, aren’t you?”
“But I may have an inkling of how to find him. I think I can only find him in a dream.”
Toke turned and strode off, asking the demon, “You think he’s right?”
Toke listened to the demon’s response, but when he again spoke, he was too far away for Morgin to make out the words, though the conversation between the whiteface and demon continued rather animatedly.
~~~
Morgin slept poorly that night, drifting in and out of a light slumber, never truly finding any sort of deep sleep, though he did dream of Aethon’s tomb, and again the simple warrior no longer lay at the skeleton king’s feet. Toke’s words haunted him, and when he awoke well before dawn, he knew he would not again find sleep, so he arose, dressed, wandered down to the lake and washed up. Then he returned and sat down in front of his tent and pondered Toke’s words, and he pondered his name.
Toke didn’t know his true name, and apparently neither did ElkenSkul, not in the sense that the demon could interpret the symbol and voice his name. Morgin had to find his true name to defeat his enemy, but who was his enemy? Certainly, Valso, but Valso alone couldn’t enslave all of the entire Mortal Plane, though as King of the Greater Clans his rule did feel a bit like slavery, but that was clearly not the kind of slavery Toke had meant. Morgin’s thoughts returned to that vast chasm of unnatural power he’d sensed in Valso, and how, in Durin, after he’d witnessed the Dark God’s power at Csairne Glen through Morddon’s eyes, Valso’s power now had the same taste as that ancient power. Was the source of that power his enemy? If so, he would need an enormously powerful weapon to defeat it. Perhaps his cursed blade was meant to defeat that power. Perhaps he was meant to unleash it, remove all restraint from it, but how could he focus its hatred and bloodlust on Valso and the source of his power. It had proven time and again uncontrollable; unleashed, it wanted blood, any blood, the blood of the innocent as well as that of the truly evil. No, his cursed sword was not the answer.
Perhaps, the AethonSword. He recalled the skeleton king sitting on his throne in the crypt, his bony arm resting casually on the hilt of that great sword. He himself, as Morddon, had put the lifeless body of Aethon on that throne, had arranged him carefully to match the image of Morgin’s dreams. But Morddon—or was it Morgin—knew without doubt the great jeweled sword was not the blade to defeat the Dark God, that it had to be one of the blades Morgin had forged during the centuries he’d spent at the forges in netherhell.
There! Without truly thinking about it he’d subconsciously thought of himself as the forger of those blades, not Morddon. But how could he have spent centuries forging those blades when he’d yet lived only a little more than twenty-four years. Were the gods so casual with time that they had created such a dichotomy? Or was it all just one big hallucination he’d imagined in a dream?
Morgin, through Morddon, had given Aethon one of the two swords he’d forged in the hell of his dreams, hoping it might defeat the Dark God. But with his last dying breath Aethon had told Morgin—Morddon—that the sword he’d forged, the sword he’d given Aethon, had meant nothing to the ruler of netherhell, and the Dark God had destroyed it.
Morgin looked at the sword he now possessed. Was this the one remaining sword he’d forged so long ago; and was it meant to defeat the monster that now haunted Valso’s soul? But still, perhaps it was not the sword alone that must defeat the Dark God. Perhaps such a weapon must be wielded by the proper hand.
Morgin lifted his hands and stared at them. False dawn had lightened the sky, and he could count the many scars on his hands. Was he meant to wield that sword? Was that what his name meant, that perhaps the sword’s power could not be properly unleashed unless he did the unleashing. Should Morgin, as Morddon, have wielded the great sword all those many centuries ago?
~~~
I have a task for you.
This time DaNoel managed to neither grimace nor flinch at Valso’s intrusion into his mind. I am with Olivia. I cannot speak now.
Very well. But when you are free, just think of me and I will know.
“DaNoel,” Olivia snapped. “Pay attention.”
“Yes, grandmother.”
DaNoel decided he hated the old woman too, hated her almost as much as he hated the whoreson. But at the thought of Morgin his guts twisted. What if he was still alive? What if Valso’s hints that Morgin may have survived were not merely an attempt to make him ill-at-ease? What if he somehow came back and exposed DaNoel’s treachery. NickoLot had her suspicions, but no proof. Did Morgin have proof? Because if he did, and he came back, Olivia would do more than simply exile DaNoel. The humiliation would be intolerable. But, if Morgin yet lived, he would still be a hunted man, and if DaNoel cooperated with Valso, he would only be doing so to help capture and execute such a wanted outlaw. Now that would not be treachery.
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 Bl
esset 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.
