by J. L. Doty
The two Kulls looked the room over. Satisfied, they signaled to others outside. Moments later Valso and three of his kinsmen entered, surrounded by a dozen Kulls. They walked to a table that was occupied, one not far from Morgin’s kinsmen, and stood there waiting. The table’s occupants did not at first realize what was required of them, but when they did, they stood quickly and left. The room remained silent.
Once seated Valso nodded, and the captain of the Kulls announced loudly, “Innkeeper. Drinks for all. The prince of House Decouix wishes all to enjoy his generosity.”
The barmaid began hurriedly filling mugs, though the room held to its silence, yielding only to the clatter of the maid’s activities.
One of Valso’s kinsmen, a fop by all standards, turned to the prince and spoke just loud enough for all to hear. “Your Highness, I smell a stench in here.”
JohnEngine’s tankard of ale spilled. A stifled curse could be heard. Again the room was still.
Another of Valso’s kinsmen spoke, again just loud enough for all to hear. “You’re right, Degla. There is a stench here, and I’ve smelled it before.” He sniffed the air experimentally. “I believe it’s the stench of swine.” Again the room was still.
None of Morgin’s kinsmen spoke, though all could see the anger building. The third of Valso’s kinsmen spoke. “No, GeorgeAll. That’s not the stench of swine. What you’re smelling is the stench of a swineherd, I believe, though the two are quite the same.”
JohnEngine swore and started to rise. MichaelOff quickly put a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down. “No, cousin,” he said. The silence of the room was heavy now with fear.
Valso leaned backward so that the two forelegs of his chair rose from the floor. Preparing to speak, he took a slow, deep breath, then exhaled loudly. “I do believe you’re right, Andra. Definitely the smell of a swineherd.”
He paused, nodding his head. Then peering about the room as if seeking someone, he asked, “I wonder. Are there any Elhiynes about?”
JohnEngine jumped to his feet and screamed, “Decouix scum!”
Everyone moved, and Morgin moved with them. The room filled with the deadly sound of steel escaping sheaths. Lines were drawn, positions taken. Then all movement ceased, though Morgin continued to work his way along the shadows that lined the edge of the room.
JohnEngine stood in the center of the room, his hand on the dagger at his side. His kinsmen were behind him, ready to back him. In front of him Valso stood at sword’s length, also backed by his kinsmen. About them all stood the Kulls.
Morgin’s kinsmen were lightly armed and outnumbered by the more heavily armed Kulls. If a fight began it would be a slaughter, for Kulls gave no quarter.
Morgin moved among his shadows, stepping lightly from one to the next. He had no idea what he could do. There was no time to make a plan, only to react. Then one of the Kulls looked his way and he froze into stillness, pressed his back tightly against the wall, held his breath. The Kull looked away.
MichaelOff spoke, and as always he was calm. “Valso. We’ve already walked away from your taunts once this evening. If you continue you’ll leave us no choice. Please stop this deadly game, cousin, before there is no return.”
While MichaelOff spoke, Morgin moved again, using the noise of MichaelOff’s words to mask any noise he might make. He took a position to the side of JohnEngine and Valso. He was still against the wall, about three long paces from them, but with a direct line of sight between two Kulls, their backs toward him. There were no chairs or tables to block his path, and so he froze and held his breath, for the room was again silent.
Valso spoke. “You call me cousin?” he asked, and laughed in the asking of it.
Morgin prepared to move. “Well now,” Valso said. “I claim no kinship with one whose mother sleeps with pigs.”
Everyone moved at once; Morgin charged, and as he did so his magic came upon him without bidding. He surprised the two Kulls, knocked them aside as he burst between them, felt as if he were dragging his body at lightning speed through a sea of honey. In one motion he crossed the distance to JohnEngine and Valso, drawing his sword and swinging it up in an arc toward Valso’s throat. His intention was to stop the tip just short of the skin there, but with his limited skill as a swordsman he overshot. The tip of his sword barely touched Valso’s neck, and everyone froze into statues as all motion ceased.
JohnEngine had drawn his short dagger and was held at bay by Valso’s sword. The tip of Morgin’s sword hovered just under Valso’s chin, and while Valso’s arm was fully extended, Morgin’s was cocked and ready to thrust, to drive the blade up through the neck and into the prince’s brain. If blood were spilled, none there questioned that Valso would be the first to die.
Slowly the prince’s face turned red, then blue. His lower lip began to quiver and his breath came in a stuttered gasp. Then the fit of rage passed, receding slowly like the ocean’s tide. Valso glared malevolently at Morgin. His eyes held a hate that was frightening. And again the room was still.
Morgin waited for someone to move, to say or do something. But then he realized they were waiting on him. The next move was his, but there hadn’t been time to think his moves through, only to act. He forced himself to pause, to think.
No one had yet been killed, or even seriously wounded. There was a small drop of blood where his sword had touched Valso’s throat, but that was all, more like the nick of a razor than that of a sword. Morgin held that in mind as he spoke, though he was unable to hide the tremble in his voice. “Your Highness,” he said carefully. “My kinsmen and I wish to go . . . May we have your leave?”
Valso’s eyes were black, hard stones of hatred. “You’ll pay for this, Elhiyne. You’ll pay.”
Morgin tried to think of some witty remark, but none came to mind. “I asked for you leave, Your Highness,” he said, and for emphasis he touched the flat of his blade to Valso’s throat, smearing the drop of blood there.
Valso’s face twisted into a mask of rage. “Go,” he snarled.
Morgin nodded to MichaelOff. The Inetkas and Elhiynes backed slowly out of the room, ever conscious of the Kulls with their drawn blades. But JohnEngine stopped beside Morgin and whispered, “We don’t leave without you, brother.”
Again the action had caught up with Morgin’s plans. Again he didn’t know what to do, and during his moment of indecision Valso smiled sweetly. “Well, Elhiyne. What will you do now? The instant you take you blade from my throat, you’ll die.” The Kulls muttered expectantly, like a pack of dogs given the scent of their prey.
“Then I won’t take my blade from you throat,” Morgin said. “As a common courtesy, you’ll accompany us to the door, won’t you, Your Highness?”
The rage and the hatred returned to Valso’s face.
Morgin used the tip of his blade to force Valso’s chin toward the ceiling, until his back arched uncomfortably. “Let us walk carefully,” Morgin said.
They moved slowly, JohnEngine leading the way, Morgin back-stepping behind him, the prince following with his chin forced high in the air. The Kulls closed in behind Valso, ready to take advantage of any chance misstep.
When they reached the door Morgin paused, his back to the street. He had to think of some way to exit quickly, and so without warning he raised his boot and kicked Valso in the chest, using the momentum of the kick to push himself out into the street. JohnEngine slammed the door in front of him, and the last thing Morgin saw was Valso sprawling into the waiting arms of his Kulls.
They ran, he and JohnEngine and the others. They ran following MichaelOff, dodging through alleys and back streets. At first they could hear Valso screaming at his Kulls to catch them, but soon Valso’s cries were lost in the distance and the night.
Morgin rounded a corner at full speed and plowed headlong into someone. He went sprawling into the street, rolled quickly to one side and came up sword drawn. At his feet lay SandoFall. About them both stood their kinsmen, breathing heavily and listening sil
ently. And but for the sounds of a nearby inn, the night was still. No Valso. No Kulls.
“We’ve lost them,” MichaelOff said.
SandoFall stood, brushing dust from his clothes. “I’m not sure which is more dangerous, Valso and his Kulls, or this charging bull of a cousin of yours.” He nodded to Morgin.
MichaelOff laughed. “But you owe him your skin. The least you can do is let him knock you down a few times.”
JohnEngine laughed uncontrollably. “We all owe him our skins.”
“Right you are,” someone bellowed and slapped Morgin on the back. Suddenly they were all laughing, shaking his hand and congratulating him for so deftly humiliating the Decouix. Even DaNoel was for once friendly.
“Hah!” JohnEngine shouted. “The evening is still young. Morgin can join us.”
“Aye,” SandoFall yelled. “And he’ll not buy his own drinks.”
They swept Morgin along as they moved to another inn. He had suddenly become one of them, he realized, a witchman. Perhaps he would always be something of an outsider, but he understood now that he was a clansman. He could not have abandoned them in that inn any more than they could have abandoned him. They were his kin, even if not by blood; his family, even if not by birth. He would have to trust them, whether Olivia trusted him or not.
Olivia! Morgin had a horrible thought. He grabbed MichaelOff’s sleeve and pulled him close. “What’s grandmother going to say?”
MichaelOff looked as if his drink had just gone sour in his mouth. “Oh Morgin! Let’s not think of unpleasant things tonight. We’ll face grandmother when the time comes.”
~~~
“You put steel to the Decouix?” Olivia demanded angrily, her voice rising to a shout.
Morgin, kneeling with his brothers and cousins at her feet, decided to assume that she meant the collective you. She hadn’t specifically addressed him, and MichaelOff had done all of the talking so far, so why not let him answer?
“Morgin. I’m speaking to you. Answer me.”
“Yes, grandmother.”
“Do you mean, ‘Yes you put steel to the Decouix’?”
“Yes, grandmother. But I—”
“You drew his blood, and then you asked his permission to leave?”
Morgin cringed. “Yes, grandmother.” He knew the symptoms well. The old witch was building to a monumental explosion.
“Ah ha!” Olivia cawed, throwing her head back and laughing like a young girl at a dance. “How exquisite! How utterly exquisite! Such irony I had never hoped to see. The Decouix, publicly humbled, and by his own foolishness.”
Morgin glanced up to sneak a quick look at the old woman. She literally shook with mirth, but it died as quickly as it was born, and her gaze returned to him. Her eyes narrowed. Morgin snapped his head back down.
“How came you to be in that inn?”
“I was staying there, grandmother.”
“So! You find their accommodations better than ours?”
“No, grandmother. I just needed a place to be alone and think.”
“And what made you choose that particular inn?”
“I didn’t choose it. France did.”
“And who is this France?”
“A swordsman, grandmother. He saved my life.”
“He saved your life, eh?”
“Yes, grandmother.”
She pondered that for a moment. “It seems you have a story to tell. But first I think you owe me an apology.”
“I’m sorry, grandmother.”
“That’s better,” she said, softening a little. “You are forgiven this time. Especially since you redeemed yourself by humbling the Decouix. But don’t ever walk out on me like that again.”
“Yes, grandmother.”
“Good.” Suddenly she was all smiles. She sat down on her couch. “Come, grandson. Sit beside me and tell me of this adventure of yours. Leave nothing out. I must hear it all.”
She was positively merry as Morgin told his story, laughing at times like a young girl. He told her of France and the fight in the street. When he told her of the man he had killed she bragged that he was now a blooded warrior. JohnEngine and DaNoel both looked envious, and AnnaRail looked sad. He left out France’s comments about witches, and there was no need to mention things like the barmaid who propositioned him. When he told of buying the sword she asked to see it. She looked it over mechanically, commenting only that it appeared rather crude. But when Malka examined it he pronounced it “. . . functional, well balanced; a good weapon. This France fellow knows his steel.” Morgin didn’t tell them it was a Benesh’ere blade.
The story ended almost festively, with all of the young men contributing bits and pieces to the final scene in the inn with Valso. Olivia hung on every word, asking for embellishments on this and that, especially concerning Valso’s red and angry face. When she dismissed them it was with smiles and compliments for all concerned.
Morgin wasted no time cornering MichaelOff who was relaxing in his room. When Morgin asked him why Olivia was so happy about the confrontation with Valso, MichaelOff ran his fingers through his hair and showed little enthusiasm for the telling of a long tale. But Morgin pestered him until he agreed to its telling.
“Long ago,” MichaelOff said, “Olivia’s father, Bertak, led Elhiyne with his wife Hillell. Since they had no sons Olivia, as the oldest daughter, was heir to Elhiyne. When she married Karlane he became consort and Elhiyne, instead of following the usual custom whereby the bride is adopted into the groom’s clan. Olivia bore three sons and a daughter, the youngest of which was Malka.”
Morgin was wide-eyed with disbelief. “Three sons? And a daughter? But why have I never heard this before?”
“Because your grandmother does not like it spoken of. And you will be wise not repeat it lightly.”
Morgin nodded. “Whatever you say.”
“Good,” MichaelOff said. “Now back to my story. At that time Elhiyne was located across the mountains and far to the north in Yestmark. With Bertak’s leadership Clan Elhiyne grew strong, and the other Lesser Clans looked more and more to us for leadership. But House Decouix became fearful of our growing strength, and decided to crush us before we might challenge them. They attacked Elhiyne without warning. They butchered our retainers and servants and killed many clansmen. They murdered Bertak, Hillell, Karlane, and Malka’s older brothers and sister. Illalla, Valso’s father, was then a young prince of House Decouix. He raped Hellis, Olivia’s younger sister, and Tulellcoe was conceived. Malka was no more than a babe, and Roland was as yet growing in Olivia’s belly, so your grandmother used her considerable magic to escape with Malka and Hellis, and together the two women, both with child, went into hiding. They hid for months with the other Lesser Clans and never returned to Yestmark. Eglahan rules there now, but he is sworn to Olivia and Clan Elhiyne. He is our first defense against Decouix attack.”
“But what about Olivia and Hellis?” Morgin asked.
“Be patient,” MichaelOff said. “They hid. And while they hid Roland and Tulellcoe were born. But by that time Hellis had gone mad. She took her own life, and only Olivia managed to prevent her from killing Tulellcoe as well. After that it was many years before Olivia came out of hiding, but when she did she rebuilt Elhiyne where it now stands: in the southern shadow of Attunhigh, on top of the ancient ruins of Elhiyne, ruins that date back to before the Great Clan Wars. You know them well, I’m sure, since you play in them regularly.”
Morgin started to protest, to feign ignorance of the walled-off old castle.
“Don’t bother to deny it,” MichaelOff said. “I know where you and JohnEngine play. I played in those same ruins myself. And before me I’m quite sure that Malka, Roland, and Tulellcoe explored them well.”
MichaelOff continued. “So our grandmother survived the Decouix attack. And since then she has lived for two things: to rebuild House Elhiyne, and to hate Decouix. She dare not defy them openly, but every move she makes is calculated to strengthen us against them
.”
“Will there someday be war?” Morgin asked.
Now MichaelOff shrugged. “Probably. But all there is now is hate. And you, cousin, have stepped unknowingly into the middle of that hate. You’ve made a mortal enemy this night. Valso is known for his vindictiveness, and I fear that someday he will strike back at you.”
Morgin was skeptical. “It can’t be all that bad. He’ll forget all about it, with enough time.”
MichaelOff frowned. “Beware of him, Morgin. It is said he murdered his own brothers to be sure he’d have no rivals in his quest for the Decouix throne. He his ruthless. He will not forget that you made him look foolish in a public inn.”
Chapter 8: Hero’s Walk
“Hurry up, Morgin,” JohnEngine shouted. “The wedding’s about to begin.”
“Go on without me,” Morgin growled, struggling into his breeches.
“If you’re late,” JohnEngine shouted over his shoulder as he ran out of the room, “Grandmother’ll be mad as netherhell.”
Morgin scrambled into his tunic, pulled on his boots, and skipping every other loop laced them frantically. Then he jumped to his feet and shot out of his room into the upstairs hall, tucking his tunic into his breeches as he ran. But Annaline called out as he ran past her suite and he screeched to a halt.
“I have to hurry, Annaline,” he said, turning toward her. “If I’m late, grandmother’ll . . .” But as he saw her, for the first time words suddenly escaped him.
She was standing in the doorway to her room, dressed in Elhiyne red, smiling happily and radiating gladness like a bright lamp in the night, her eyes filled with joy. “They won’t start the wedding without me, little brother.”
For the first time Morgin saw more than just a bothersome older sister. “Annaline,” he said. “You’re beautiful. And you look so happy.”
