by J. L. Doty
Morgin jumped to his feet. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
They rushed out of the dormitory, down a long flight of stairs and onto the main floor of the castle. They cut through the kitchen, out a side entrance, then through a narrow gap between two buildings. Bursting into the main castle yard, they crossed it at a sprint and joined a small cluster of boys seated on the ground there.
Breathless, and seated among their fellows, JohnEngine leaned toward one and asked, “Are we late, Dannasul?”
“No,” Dannasul said. “What kept you?”
Morgin answered. “Mother kept me at my lessons.”
Dannasul gave a knowing nod. Everyone knew that the Lady AnnaRail gave Morgin special tutoring. It was no secret that Morgin could barely read and write, so they all assumed he was slow. They didn’t know that the tutoring was in the arts of magic, nor would they have guessed, since such training was not normally begun until manhood was attained at the age of twelve. And Morgin, who considered his magic a sickness to be kept quiet, was not going to be the one to enlighten them.
“Hush,” someone said. “Here they come.”
Old Beckett, the weapons master, approached from across the practice yard. He was followed by Brandon, DaNoel, a tall stranger, and many of the older boys. The old man stopped several paces away and said, “Stand. And form a straight line in front of me here.”
The younger boys rushed to comply. Beckett grumbled some then continued, “Now. You boys are here because you have reached, or will soon reach, your manhood. As men . . .” he looked aside with a sly grin, letting it be known that he considered them men only by clan law, “. . . you’ll no longer practice with wooden swords. This year you’ll use steel, dull and pointless steel, but steel nevertheless. Take care when you strike a blow, because a dull steel edge can still cut.
“Now. This man here . . .” Beckett turned, indicating the tall stranger, who stepped forward, “. . . is Lord Hwatok Tulalane, a twoname. He is a clansman, and a guest of Elhiyne. Furthermore, he is an accomplished swordsman and has entered into service with House Elhiyne. If you disobey him, you disobey me.”
Morgin sized up the stranger: a big man, with a hawk face and deep set eyes. Not as old as old Beckett, but older than twenty-two year old MichaelOff, his face was weathered and lined with experience. A scar bisected his left cheek, not a scar like the three pocks on Morgin’s face, the result of the filth that had been his home in the city, but a clean sharp line of a scar, put there by some weapon. It was the stranger’s eyes, though, that were his most distinct feature, and Morgin wondered what lay behind them. But then he realized those eyes were looking at him, probing him as if they could see to the layers beneath the outer skin, and he looked away.
“Pay attention, master Morgin,” Beckett bellowed. The other boys chuckled quietly, for Morgin was always the one to be caught daydreaming. “Watch closely, all of you. Lord Hwatok and Lord MichaelOff will give a demonstration of what you will be striving to achieve. Now clear out of the way and give them room.”
The boys moved to the edge of the practice yard. MichaelOff and the stranger removed their sword belts and other items that might hinder them, then unsheathed their swords and began warming up.
While the two men were preparing for their mock combat, Morgin asked JohnEngine, “What’s a twoname?”
“A clansman who claims allegiance to no one clan,” JohnEngine said. “They usually wander about, often selling their services to a clan where they have some ties.”
“They’re mercenary wizards then?” Morgin asked.
“Some,” JohnEngine whispered. “But not all. Most are more particular than mercenaries about who they sell their services to. And the services they sell aren’t necessarily the sword and battle. They’re supposed to be good advisers.”
“If he bears no allegiance to the clan,” Morgin asked, “can he be trusted?”
JohnEngine shrugged. “Grandmother must think so. He’s . . .”
“JohnEngine,” Beckett hollered. “Pay attention. And Morgin. Stop bothering your brother.”
There were no chuckles from the other boys this time, for their attention was wholly taken by the two contestants. MichaelOff and the Tulalane bowed, then squared off in the center of the yard, neither of them at all serious about the match. Each used a lightweight rapier with a simple cross-hilt, the preferred weapon among the clans, and without ceremony they began trading blows sword against sword, testing each other’s defenses.
The ring of steel came slowly at first, in an almost dance-like cadence. Morgin could not look away, for both men were quickly well into the fight, beads of sweat forming on their faces as they struck at each other again and again. They were blurs of motion in the swirling dust of the yard, the rhythm of the battle unchanging, each ring of steel deliberate, controlled. But then suddenly the blows came faster—slash, parry, strike, repeat. Magic hung in the air; the shimmer of power was palpable. The two swordsmen moved with inhuman swiftness, almost vanishing from one spot to appear instantly in another. Then, abruptly, the contest ended.
MichaelOff made a slash, which the stranger did not oppose. Instead, he back-stepped, avoiding the blow, sliding his own sword behind MichaelOff’s blade, adding to the momentum of the slash. MichaelOff over swung his stroke, and to maintain balance was forced to expose his side to the stranger. The stranger completed the move by slamming his forearm into the back of MichaelOff’s shoulders, sending him sprawling face down in the dust of the yard.
There was a moment during which both men appeared disoriented as they came out of their magics. But it was over quickly, and the stranger helped MichaelOff to his feet, both of them laughing and brushing dust from the younger man.
“You’ll have to teach me that one, Hwatok,” MichaelOff laughed.
“Gladly, Lord MichaelOff,” the stranger said as they walked off the field.
“All right, boys,” Beckett hollered, “Line up again.”
They rushed to obey.
“Now what you’ve just seen is a combination of skilled swordsmanship and magic. It will be many years before you’ll be skilled in either, and until you are, you’ll never use the two together. Is that clear?”
They all nodded quietly.
“Good. Others will teach you magic, but it is I who will teach you the sword. You must learn to be a good swordsman without magic before you can combine the two to good effect, and that will take some years.”
Old Beckett turned away from them and walked slowly to the edge of the yard, retrieved a large bundle, returned to the line of boys. He unwrapped the bundle, spilling several steel rapiers on the ground, each with a rounded tip and dulled edge.
“Each of you pick a sword, and a partner, and we’ll review the lessons you’ve supposedly learned in the past two years. But remember, you’re using steel now, not wood.”
Morgin and JohnEngine were practice partners, as they were partners in almost everything, including, but not limited to, mischief. Most of the afternoon was spent getting used to the feel of the heavier steel blades, with Beckett moving among them offering advice and correcting errors. Later in the day he had them trade partners quite regularly, even using some of the more advanced students as combined opponents and instructors. The day was almost over when Morgin paired off with DaNoel, JohnEngine’s older brother. And without prelude the older boy began immediately with a rain of blows that Morgin was hard pressed to deflect. But it was not until DaNoel’s steel hissed menacingly past Morgin’s ear that he realized this was no lesson, but a venting of some anger that might leave him maimed or crippled, or perhaps even dead. In desperation he fought back with what little strength and skill he could command, but his arm tired quickly, and DaNoel used that to advantage, stepping suddenly beneath his guard and batting him to the ground with the hilt of his sword. “Defend yourself, peasant,” he snarled viciously.
Morgin climbed reluctantly to his feet, then, as DaNoel’s sword drove for his face, ducked quickly beneath a st
roke that could have taken off his head, dull edge or not. “What are you doing?” he pleaded.
DaNoel’s face reddened with uncontrolled anger. He gave no answer, gripped his sword with both hands, and brought it down with all his might.
Morgin threw his own blade clumsily in the way. It met DaNoel’s with a clatter that rang painfully through his arm and shoulder. He knew that he couldn’t defend himself this way for long, not with a heavy steel blade, nor with such intensity. Then DaNoel again slipped beneath his guard, and while Morgin concentrated on DaNoel’s steel, he completely missed DaNoel’s knee until it crashed into his groin.
He fell to the ground, tried to roll over quickly to avoid DaNoel’s sword as it bit into the dirt near his face, but the painful knot in his crotch slowed him and he lay in a sprawl with DaNoel standing over him, his sword clutched in both hands and raised high over his head, his face a mask of hatred. Morgin ignored the pain in his crotch, rolled over quickly as DaNoel’s sword cut a furrow in the earth where only moments ago his head had been. Morgin rolled again, then stumbled to his feet.
DaNoel’s rapier hissed past his nose. He back-stepped blindly until DaNoel’s boot hit him in the ribs and he went down again. DaNoel stepped quickly over him and raised his sword high over his head, but was suddenly swept off his feet as JohnEngine plowed into him with a full body block. The two of them sprawled into the dirt of the yard, raising a cloud of dust that filled Morgin’s nostrils. They separated and jumped to their feet, facing one another.
“What are you trying to do?” JohnEngine screamed.
Beckett interrupted, bellowing, “What’s going on here?” He elbowed his way through the crowd of boys that had gathered about them. “Here, here! What’s this? Are you fighting again, Morgin?”
“No,” JohnEngine screamed. “It wasn’t him. It was DaNoel.”
DaNoel ignored JohnEngine and Beckett, looked hatefully at Morgin and growled, “Don’t you ever call her mother again. She’s not your mother. She’s mine. You have no right, whoreson.” Then he spun about and stormed off the practice field.
“All right, boys,” Beckett yelled. “Break it up. Practice is over today. Go clean up for dinner.”
~~~
“Morgin,” Annaline called. “Morgin.”
Morgin, caught unprepared, held his breath, hoping to stay hidden. If he were lucky she’d not climb the stairs to the top of the battlements where he lay idling in the sun. Today was a holiday, and he would do as he pleased.
“Morgin. Are you up there?”
He held his silence. Maybe she would think he had gone down to the festival in the village market. There was always something going on down there on the monthly holiday.
“You come down here, Morgin. I know you’re up there somewhere.”
He sighed and scanned the horizon. It was a beautifully clear day with Attunhigh dominating the skyline, a monolith of rock and snow standing guard over the valley of Elhiyne, and the world of man.
“If you don’t come down I’ll send the ShadowLord after you.”
Didn’t she realize he was too old to believe in demon netherlords? He swung his legs off the battlement and dropped to the parapet. If he’d been smart he would have made himself absent from the castle long ago. “I’m coming,” he hollered as he started down the stairs.
He met Annaline on her way up. She looked him over quickly and said, “Good. You’re not dirty. We won’t have to waste time cleaning you up.”
“What for?” he asked.
“For grandmother. She wants to see you.”
Morgin froze in his tracks. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Annaline grabbed a fold of his sleeve and pulled him along. “Well I’m telling you now. And you’d better hurry or you’ll make grandmother angry.”
Morgin shut his mouth and followed her sullenly. The old woman wanted to see him! He shivered.
In the years he’d been at the castle he’d never personally faced the old witch. Of course he’d seen her many times, but always from a distance, and he could count the number of times she’d actually spoken to him on the six fingers of one hand. There was something powerful and frightening about her that he didn’t like, a dark presence that hovered at the edge of his senses whenever she was near, a presence that was not fully gone from his mind until she was completely out of the valley.
Annaline took Morgin to a part of the castle he’d always avoided, and outside of the old woman’s haunt they met AnnaRail waiting for them. “The Lady Olivia wants to examine you to determine the extent of your power,” she said. “So be on your best behavior.” She fussed at his tunic for a moment, then swept his hair back out of his eyes. “There. You look like a fine young man,” she said, then turned and stepped through the door that led to the old witch.
Annaline seemed to sense Morgin’s unease as he hesitated. She quickly whispered, “Don’t worry, Morgin. Grandmother just likes to make you think she’s mean and nasty. Inside she’s really just a sweet old lady.”
Annaline’s words did little to reassure him as he stepped into the audience chamber. He halted just inside, surveying the room with care. Beside the old woman, Roland and AnnaRail were the only others present. But it was Olivia, seated in cushioned elegance near a large hearth, who commanded the room entirely.
“Come, child,” she said. “Stand before me.”
Morgin found he could not have disobeyed even had he wanted to. He walked slowly across the small room with both his mouth and his eyes wide open. It was impossible not to stare at the old witch’s face: a miasma of wrinkles, though not as wrinkled as he’d always imagined. Her hair was black, with flashing streaks of gray that radiated outward from her face. It was pulled back to the top of her head where it lay knotted and fastened with combs and braids, and studded with tiny jewels.
“Am I that fascinating, child?”
Morgin suddenly remembered his manners and diverted his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, boy. If you wish to look at me, then do so.”
Morgin chose to look at the floor.
“Come, child. Raise your head. Look at me when I speak.”
He looked again at that wrinkled face and those cold black eyes. “Yes, milady.”
“That’s better. Now you sound like a proper clansman. I am Olivia, but of course you know that. I am a witch, but of course you know that too. Did you know that you are also a witch?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Mother . . . Anna . . . the Lady AnnaRail told me.”
“Good. Do you know why you’re here today?”
“No, milady.”
“You’re here because I wish to test your power. I want to know how much of a witch you are. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Good. Now listen to me carefully. I am going to caste certain spells, and while I am doing so you must relax and remain absolutely still. You may experience certain sensations, some of them not altogether pleasant. If so, do not resist, for if you do you will be the one that is harmed, not I. Is that clear?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Excellent. Now, I must have absolute silence.”
The room itself seemed to obey the old woman’s command, returning a silence that was eerie. The walls in that part of the castle were thick, and not even the noises of the busy yard could penetrate to disturb them. Morgin had a sudden desire to be away from there, for he could sense something building within the close confines of that small room. It was akin to what AnnaRail did when she performed a seeking, but where that something was kind and soft, this was cold, hard, and powerful.
Olivia’s lips began to move almost imperceptibly, and Morgin caught the hiss of a faint whisper at the edge of his hearing. The words she spoke sent a shiver up his spine, words of power, and he concentrated on them carefully as AnnaRail had taught him to do. He could hear each syllable clearly, and yet when he tried to put them together into a word, the final product eluded him as if he was meant neve
r to understand such words, or the power they called forth. But nevertheless he concentrated on each as the old woman uttered it, and in so doing he felt fearful power rising within his soul.
Morgin watched the old witch build something indefinable within her, and then she built something similar within him. He felt violated, but he remembered her words and fought the desire to resist her, until he felt he was being strangled from without by her power, and from within by his own.
Without warning Olivia’s power merged painfully with his. He staggered under the suffocating weight of it, struggled for air, and did something, though he didn’t really understand what he did, or how he’d done it. But Olivia gasped, stood, slapped him, and screamed, “Monster!”
Morgin had been oblivious to the world around him, but the slap snatched him back to the moment, staggering, his face stinging with the force of the blow. He watched helplessly as the old woman raised her arm to strike again, but now her hand was glowing, with streaks of power dancing up and down her wrist. The room was electrified with a sense of unreality, and all Morgin could see was the old woman’s eyes: black and angry.
“Mother, no,” Roland screamed. “You’ll kill him.”
The old witch hesitated, though her magic swirled about her and demanded to be used.
AnnaRail quickly filled the silence. “He didn’t know what he was doing. It wasn’t his fault. I warned you to move carefully. His power is extensive, and he has too little training for its control.”
Olivia lowered her hand and the room became still, though she looked upon Morgin like a bug she might squash, and her eyes glowed with malevolence. But strangely enough there was a hint of gladness there too, and a faint smile of greedy smugness. She looked at AnnaRail and spoke through clenched teeth. “You are right, daughter. You did warn me, and I should have heeded you.”
