Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  “At your service,” Dualas replied, dipping his head in respect.

  They continued through the structure and eventually stopped before a plain wooden door. The knight standing before it smiled warmly at Dualas.

  “Welcome aboard, Dualas,” the knight greeted, opening the door for them.

  “Thank you, Richard.”

  The small room’s sparse furnishings were littered with books and papers. Once inside, Geradon gestured for Dualas to sit down as he cleared a space for Rylan.

  “Please, excuse the mess,” Rylan apologized. “We are still unpacking. As soon as we heard that war had been declared, we returned here. I trust that Captain Coryden and his men returned safely this evening?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dualas replied. “After last night’s riot they decided not to search past midnight. They came in this evening just as the news that war had been declared reached us.”

  “Thank the Levani,” Geradon whispered.

  “Sir Dualas,” Rylan said slowly, “does Captain Coryden resent the fact that I have continued my work and not helped with the search?”

  “No, I do not believe so,” Dualas said. “Coryden has always understood that it was Morticai’s own choice to face danger. Pardon me, Inquisitor, but … do you ask me this because Morticai has died?”

  Rylan looked at Geradon.

  “No,” Geradon said. “He was not dead when I last sequestered myself. However, the force of his life is fading. I fear that he has been grievously injured—I should not be surprised to find, when next I seek his spirit, that it has fled this world.”

  “I see,” Dualas said heavily. “Would you have me speak with Captain Coryden?”

  “No,” Rylan replied. “I shall do that myself, but I wished to speak with you first.”

  Dualas nodded slowly.

  “Do you know where the Captain is now?”

  “I believe so—or if need be, I can locate him.”

  “Then I must ask you to lead me to him,” Rylan said. “I think it would be best if he is prepared before Geradon discovers that Morticai’s spirit has left this world.”

  * * *

  Coryden stood alone, gazing from the battlements across the city’s predawn landscape. Rylan had left him over an hour before, and for the entire time, he had not moved. Dualas approached slowly, wondering what he could say to his friend to ease his grief. His captain glanced his direction and then surprised him by starting the conversation.

  “Dualas,” Coryden asked thoughtfully, “how many men have you seen die?”

  Dualas tilted his head in thought. “About two score, if I only count those I’ve seen die in the service of the Northmarch.”

  Coryden nodded. “We have all seen death come. So why do we continue to believe that we cannot die?”

  “We do not continually dwell on the fact of our own mortality, but we do know, you and I, that the day will come.”

  “But what about Morticai?”

  Dualas frowned.

  “Do you think that Morticai has ever truly considered his mortality?” Coryden said.

  “Do you think that he has not?”

  Coryden sighed. “I don’t know.”

  An uncomfortable pause followed as Coryden turned back to his view of the city. Dualas knew that his friend had more he wished to say. He waited patiently for his captain to continue.

  “What is truly odd,” Coryden finally did continue, “is that I think you’re correct—I know that both you and I have considered our own deaths. But despite that, I’m only now realizing that I have never accepted that Morticai would someday die.”

  “How can you say that?” Dualas asked. “How many times have I heard you caution Morticai to be more careful? How many times have I watched you pace in his room, concerned that he may not return to it?”

  “That’s true, Dualas,” Coryden agreed, “but I’ve never actually accepted the possibility. He might return wounded, or I might need to go into the city to find him, or to bail him out of trouble with the Watch—but the idea that he might actually die?” Coryden shook his head. “And I, of all people, should know better. Why can’t I learn to let go of my people, Dualas? Why is it that I grieve like an old woman every time I lose a man? The other captains don’t.”

  The barest hint of a rueful smile crossed Dualas’ face. Here was a subject he had thought much about in recent days—indeed, it was a subject he had been wanting to breech with the captain. He regretted that the opportunity to do so had not come before this moment.

  “My friend,” he said gently, “I believe that there is a misunderstanding in your perception—and, perhaps, some misplaced guilt.”

  Coryden turned toward him. Dualas could see that the Captain been crying.

  “That you feel more for your men than most captains is not a fault,” Dualas continued. “For all that it may cost you, your men respond to it and serve you more faithfully because of it. It is true, however, that you have grieved for Morticai more than you would for any other. But there is nothing wrong or unnatural about your grieving more for Morticai. Have you not realized that Morticai is different?”

  “He’s different, all right.”

  Dualas smiled at the touch of exasperation in Coryden’s tone. “That is not what I meant,” he replied. “I have heard many stories through the years, but paid little attention to them until recently. You had just joined the Northmarch when the two of you met, had you not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And although you were old enough to have had a life of your own before you took service with the Northmarch, Morticai was still a child as corryn reckon such things.”

  Coryden nodded.

  “I have heard stories about his childhood,” Dualas said. “Of how, when he became ill, it was you who sat by his bed; that it was you who would go into the city to look for him when he was overdue for his work in the kitchen. That it was you who helped defend him when you learned that several groups of youths sought to kill him. Indeed, that was when you taught him to use a sword. Are not these things true?”

  “Well, yes,” Coryden admitted, “but what I did was nothing more than anyone would have done if they had been given charge of Morticai.”

  “I have even heard that it was you who introduced him to the ladies of a certain entertainment establishment—that it was your present to him when he came of age to join the Northmarch.”

  A faint smile crept onto Coryden’s face. “Well, I don’t know how much credit I can take for that. He never would admit it to me, but I was told by some of the ladies at that … establishment … that he’d already dallied with a few of them in their own kitchen.”

  Dualas blinked in surprise, but forged ahead to make his point. “Yes,” he continued, “but nonetheless, you were the one who guided him in his career, who watched him become a man. I know that you never thought of yourself as Morticai’s adopted father, Coryden, but for all purposes you were the closest thing to a father that he had.”

  It was Coryden’s turn to blink in surprise.

  Dualas continued, ere the captain could deny his claim. “As Morticai grew older, the two of you began to go drinking together. You know that I have heard many of those stories, and you have told me that many of them were true. It seems to me that as Morticai matured, your role in his life changed—no longer were you a father, but more of a brother to him.”

  Dualas added his final blow. “Then you became his captain, and this I believe, is where you lost the clear vision of your friendship. You somehow decided that you should feel no more for Morticai than you would for any of your other men. I suppose you were afraid that your relationship with him would be seen as favoritism. But that is why you grieve so, Coryden. You should grieve for Morticai … though I wish with all the power of the Levani that you had no reason to grieve.”

  Coryden closed his eyes
, and for a long while stood silently. At last, he sighed deeply and turned again to lean against the battlements and stare at the city. Dualas remained where he was, once more waiting patiently for his friend to speak.

  “You’re right,” Coryden whispered. He shook his head. “I guess I’ve just never wanted to admit it. I can remember being teased about Morticai, when he first came to the Northmarch. Maybe that’s why I fought it.”

  “Teased?” Dualas asked.

  Coryden nodded. “They used to say that Morticai was my ‘pet street rat.’ For a while some of the men called me ‘Uncle Coryden.’” He shook his head. “That was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten it. But it made an impression. It’s strange, but that’s part of the reason I’ve always thought that I would die before Morticai—it’s why I never believed I’d have to go through this.”

  “Pardon?”

  Coryden shrugged. “Because I’m a half-breed, and I’ve always felt older than Morticai. I mean, look at me Dualas—I’m approaching my middle years already. You can tell just by looking at me that what they say about half-breeds dying young is true. I shall surely live longer than a human—but live as long as a corryn, as long as Morticai? Even though Morticai has grown as quickly as a human to manhood, he’s practically stopped aging these last ten years.” Coryden sighed and rasped the toe of his boot against the battlement. “It doesn’t matter now. Brother Kinsey says that he doesn’t think he’ll live another day.”

  “I know that what Brother Kinsey has told you does not bode well, my friend, but Morticai would say that there are still game pieces to be played. I have noted that some of Morticai’s best wins have come when the odds were against him. You must hold onto your hope, Coryden, for as long as Brother Kinsey says that he still breathes.”

  Coryden drew a ragged breath and shut his eyes tightly. “I know you’re right. I’ve got to play it out all the way to the end.” Reopening his eyes, he gestured toward the city. “Somewhere out there, Morticai’s playing it out, too.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a beautiful day—crisp air, warm sun. Moranekor snuggled into the warm, fragrant hay and listened as the birds sang their praises to the new Light Season. It felt so much better to ride in the supply wagon than in the rattling old caravan wagon that had served as his family’s shelter in Lorredre during the recent Dark Season.

  He’d pleaded with his parents to let him ride in the supply wagon. His mother had thought him too little, but his father had taken up for him, making Moranekor proud when he’d argued that his boy was old enough to know how to handle himself in an open wagon. With a soft laugh, his mother had relented, admonishing him not to play too near the edge.

  Tilting his head back, he could see the back of his father’s hat bobble as he drove the wagon. Behind them, his mother drove the beat-up caravan. Before long, the soft rhythmic thump of the horses’ hooves lulled him into an unplanned but peaceful nap.

  He awoke with a gasp as he slid against the front of the wagon. The horses were neighing wildly; they had obviously been pulled up hard. His father let out a fearful yell, and the team turned and broke into a run. Moranekor’s heart thumped at the fear in his father’s voice as he urged the horses ever faster. They were running over rough ground—they must’ve left the road.

  All Moranekor could see was hay—he’d slid under the pile. Frantically, he fought his way upright to try to see over the top edge of it. They were no longer on the road; they raced across an open field. Behind them, he could see his mother, her eyes full of fear as she whipped the caravan’s team to match the pace of the supply team.

  Panic grabbed him. What was wrong? He knew his father had purposely left the road. He called to his father, but couldn’t make himself heard over the thunder of hooves. The hay continued to fall over him. He fought to shove it from his face so he could see what was going on. Finally, he managed to clear a space. He caught a glimpse of horsemen racing behind them, pursuing them. They wore strange black robes.

  Bandits! He’d never seen bandits before, but had heard terrible stories about them. A jolt knocked him from his feet, and he slid back beneath the hay once more.

  But, they can’t be bandits, he thought as he struggled to regain his feet. In all of the terrifying stories he’d heard, only the leader of the bandits had a horse. And why would bandits be wearing those funny black robes?

  Suddenly, the world seemed to disintegrate around him. He found himself flying up into the air, along with the entire contents of the wagon. The horses were screaming, but he couldn’t tell if they were above or below him. He hit the ground hard, the impact forcing his breath from him. Then, he was rolling down some kind of hill—a steep one. He couldn’t stop. The brush scratched at him, and he tried to grab at it. His last memory of trying to stop was an abrupt, bone-wrenching thump at the back of his head—and then, pain and darkness.

  The next sounds he heard were screams. He recognized them as belonging to his parents, but he lay frozen in fear, with his fist shoved into his mouth. His parents …

  Wiping away the tears that ran down his face, he finally pulled himself up onto his knees by the tree that had stopped his downhill roll. “I’m coming!” he cried, but his cry was lost in their screams.

  Above him, all he could see was brush, scrub, and the steep incline he’d rolled down. He was about to call out again, to tell his mother and father that he was coming, when he heard the laughter.

  He froze as the thought came to him—they were screaming because someone was hurting them.

  Stifled sobs wracked his body. His mind filled with an overwhelming fear that threatened to make him sick. He had to go see, had to help, somehow. He started to climb back up the hill. Every few feet he had to stop as uncontrollable shaking took his body.

  He whispered a prayer, “Oh, Aluntas, please, please do something!”

  An eternity seemed to pass as he tried to reach the top of the hill. The screams began to fade into whimpers.

  He was close to exhaustion—from the climb, the shaking, fear. At last he reached the top, only to lie sobbing and shaking as he tried to find the courage to look over the edge. Stifling his sobs, he pulled himself up and slipped underneath a broad bush. He lay flat on his stomach as his tears flowed freely.

  He couldn’t see his parents—there were too many people in the way. All of them wore the strange black, hooded robes. They laughed and taunted their screaming victims. Moranekor felt sick as wave after wave of the laughter and the screams washed over him. He couldn’t make himself move; it was all he could do to keep his cries from drawing attention to where he lay hidden.

  Again, he whispered a prayer. “Oh please, please, blessed Levani! Come save them. Make them stop. Please …”

  The Levani never came, and at last, the screams died away.

  The black-robed people talked among themselves. Their words were nothing more than a buzz to the still shaking child. He watched them as they mounted their horses. The sun was setting. As they rode away, he finally saw his parents. They’d been nailed to the trees. They’d been so completely mutilated that he could not, at first, recognize them. With a scream, Morticai broke out of his shock. He followed the first scream with another, and then another. And then, like a wounded beast, he sank to the ground and cried.

  He awoke to a darkness deeper than nightmares, chained in the obscene pit of the Droken temple.

  The dream had shown him a truth he’d never been able to face, a memory he’d blessedly blanked from his mind. The pain and darkness that now surrounded him was as nothing compared to the memories that had broken out of the dark tomb he’d hidden them in. For untold hours, he’d suffered through the memories, over and over again.

  Then, the horrid agony that lived where his eyes had been, took hold of him, and flashes of color and brightness replaced the darkness. He writhed in his bonds, heedless of whether anyone could hear his agonized cries
. When at last his body had wrung itself to numbness, his unthinking awareness yielded and his thoughts returned. Insanity, though he’d hoped for it, had proved unattainable.

  His thoughts remained distant, detached. He mused over all that he had been driven to do—Watchaven, the Arluthians, the Northmarch … and now, he’d followed that path to his certain death. He chided himself for being sloppy in his work. As an Arluthian, he deserved such an end for being so stupid. And what of the Northmarch? Had all of Coryden’s efforts to train him as a Northmarcher been lost on him? Couldn’t he remember something as simple as the importance of telling his commanders what he was doing? Or was his distrust of the Faith still so great that he feared what Inquisitor Glaedwin would have done, had he informed the man of Faith of his plans? He now knew that, however the Inquisitor might have reacted, it would not have led him to this result.

  He was certain that Coryden and Nelerek would be ashamed that they had wasted their time on such a worthless waif. Perhaps he should have gone with Heather, his first friend in the streets, to hide behind her fancy skirts. Or he could have stayed in the Pit, with the gangs, as Calsen had done. In those days he had had the sense not to interfere with things Droken.

  He wished for tears that could not come.

  The memories from long ago returned again to haunt him. To think that he had run, all this distance and all these years, to die by Droken hands, as his parents had died. He laughed at the irony of it.

  And then came the anger.

  “Glawres!” he shouted into the deserted temple. “Is there no justice? What was the purpose of my living? Was it your will, all along, for me to stay with my parents and die?”

  Silence was the only reply.

  “You didn’t help me survive Luthekar’s sword! They were wrong! Why should you help me? It was nothing more than a cruel joke by Droka!” Morticai’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Why didn’t I give it up, long ago. ‘Foolish street rat,’ Heather would say. ‘Goin’ t’ go out an’ defeat th’ Droken.’ Ha!”