by J. L. Doty
Morgin lifted himself up onto his elbows; slowly, since the motion brought considerable pain to his burning back and thighs. He scanned the clearing, seeing no one present but his four kinsmen. When he spoke, the words came out in a croak: “How did you find me?”
All four heads turned suddenly toward him. It was MichaelOff who spoke first. “Ah! You’ve decided to rejoin the living. We thought you might sleep the day through.”
They stood, crossed the clearing, gathered around him. “How did you find me?” he asked again.
MichaelOff spoke. “When you failed to return we searched the city for you, and finding no sign of you we knew the Decouix must be involved.”
DaNoel said, “The four of us rode out with an escort following the Decouix trail while mother and father began searching the city.”
“With the help of a few spells we found you here,” Brandon said, “And sent the escort back to tell them you’re all right. They’ll be returning home soon, and we’ll follow in a day or two, when you’re rested.”
Brandon hadn’t said it, but Morgin could see it in their eyes. They’d sent the escort back to save him shame and humiliation. “I can ride now,” he said angrily.
“That’s not necessary,” MichaelOff said. “We’ll rest here a few days, give your back a chance to heal, conjure a little to help it along.”
Morgin shook his head. “Did you bring my sword?”
Brandon nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I will ride now, after the Decouix.”
They started at that. MichaelOff said a flat “No.” DaNoel shook his head from side to side. JohnEngine looked worried, undecided. Brandon, without word or expression, stood and walked toward the horses.
MichaelOff spoke carefully. “Valso has an escort of twelve twelves of Kulls. That would be suicide.”
“I want Valso’s blood,” Morgin snarled. He could feel tears forming in his eyes. “So I ride after him now, while the trail is fresh.”
DaNoel shook his head angrily. “You’re in no shape to ride, let alone fight.”
It was at that moment that Brandon returned from the horses carrying a sheathed sword. He knelt down nearby, unsheathed it, and Morgin recognized it as his own. Brandon reversed the blade, placed the hilt in Morgin’s hand, and curled his fingers about it. “If you ride after the Decouix, cousin, then I ride with you, gladly.”
“And I ride too,” JohnEngine said with much bravado.
DaNoel hesitated. But then, reluctantly, angrily, he said, “And I.”
They all turned to MichaelOff, the oldest and wisest. Morgin could see that the other’s wanted the older man’s support, while all he wanted was blood. Valso’s blood. Salula’s blood. As he thought of the Decouix and the halfman, a wave of murderous hate washed over him again, leaving tears in his eyes, and as he looked at his kinsmen he realized they were all tied together in some odd way. Not by blood or family, but by love and friendship. And he realized they could all feel his hate, his shame.
When MichaelOff spoke, he too had tears in his eyes. “It appears I cannot dissuade you from this suicidal revenge. Don’t you know that you will all die, all of you?”
The tears started to pour openly down his face as they answered him with silence. “Well then. If you choose to ride foolishly to your death, then I must ride with you.”
He looked at Morgin, sadly defeated. “We will all die together, Morgin, if that is what you choose.”
That was the key. It was Morgin’s choice. But there was no choice. He wanted Valso’s blood and he wanted it now. He would ride after the Decouix and he would fight, fight until they killed him. What was death when he could die killing the Decouix? But he wouldn’t kill the Decouix, he realized. He’d just die.
He had a sudden vision of AnnaRail, weeping, crying over the deaths of her sons and nephews. That was followed by a vision of JohnEngine’s decaying body. And Brandon’s. And DaNoel’s. And MichaelOff’s. His brothers and cousins all, dead and rotting in the sun. Dead because they were loyal to him and followed him in his foolish revenge. Uselessly, senselessly dead.
He shook his head, said simply, “We’ll wait here a day or two, then ride back to Elhiyne.”
Chapter 9: The Swordmaster
“All right now, yer lordships,” the smith said. “We’re ready fer a pour. But take care. I just want me this line. No more.”
With sweat beading on his forehead the smith bent down and used the edge of his hand to make a finger wide impression in the dry sand. As he did so Morgin watched a drop of sweat hang momentarily from the tip of his nose, then fall into the sand and leave its own impression there. Even in winter the foundry was a miserably hot place to be.
Morgin wiped a coarse rag across his face then tossed it to JohnEngine, who wiped his own face as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Next time I’ll know better than to volunteer for this hell-house.”
“We didn’t exactly volunteer,” Morgin said.
“I suppose you’re right. But next time I’ll not come so gladly. I thought this would be better than freezing in the fields.”
Morgin smiled. “You’ll come next time, gladly or not. Olivia wants us to learn about smithing.”
“All I’m learning is how to sweat.”
“Quit yer gabbin’, boys,” the smith bellowed, “and pour.”
Morgin and JohnEngine pulled on heavy leather gloves, then bent to the task of lifting the small crucible out of its cradle. It was back breaking work, and as they edged toward the sand in short, jerky steps, the heat of the furnace, now fully exposed, washed the room in an eerie, orange glow.
“All right, boys. Remember. Ya don’t have to pour fast, just smooth and steady.”
Morgin nodded to JohnEngine, his arms aching under the weight of the load. They tilted the pot forward slowly, until the molten steel within slipped easily over its lip, splashed into the near end of the line the smith had cut in the sand, and made its way smoothly to the end of its hellish journey.
“Not bad,” the smith said. “Not good. Ya still got a lot to learn.”
Morgin and JohnEngine edged their way back to the furnace where they replaced the crucible in its cradle, happy to be rid of the load. The smith crouched over the line of steel they’d poured in the sand. “We’ll quench ‘er perty soon, then see what kind of edge she’ll hold, and how strong she be.”
They’d been through this procedure several times already. The smith’s two brawny apprentices would fill the crucible. Morgin and JohnEngine would then pour a line in the sand—a sample only, so the smith could judge the quality of the steel in the furnace. If it was not right, he would add something to the melt to change it, the nature of which he revealed only to his apprentices. Then they’d test the steel again, and if the smith was satisfied, the apprentices would take the crucible for the important pours, while the two boys stood by to assist when called for.
After days of continually improving the melt, the steel was now approaching sword quality. During the first days of the melt they’d poured such things as belt buckles and light harness hardware, items that required but little strength. As the days passed and the melt improved they’d produced items for heavy equipment and hard use, and finally, two days ago, they’d finished by pouring two plowshares, and since then had done nothing but improve what remained of the melt. “Fer blades,” the smith had said, “we don’t need much steel, but it has to be the highest quality. Only the best. And we don’t pour blades, lads. We let the steel cool some, then we work it; two, maybe three days. Hard work that. Harder’n this. You boys’ll be swingin’ hammers and poundin’ hot steel then, good steel.”
“A message fer Lord Morgin.”
They all looked toward the strange voice: the apprentices from their furnace; Morgin and JohnEngine from their crucible; the smith from his cooling sample of steel. The one-eyed lame beggar from the village stood fearfully in the entrance to the foundry.
“What ya be wantin’ here?” the smith demanded.
“Begging ye
r fergiveness, master, but I gots a message fer young Lord Morgin.”
“Well give it and be gone with ya.”
“I was told to give it to ‘im in private.”
“Very well,” the smith growled unhappily, turning to Morgin. “Talk to him outside, lad.”
Morgin walked quickly. This was the smith’s domain and intruders were not welcome.
Morgin’s boots crunched in the snow outside. Bare from the waist up, soaked with sweat, the harsh winter air bit at him mercilessly. “Make it fast,” he said. “It’s cold out here.”
“There’s a man wants to see you, milord.”
“What man? Where?”
“He’s outside the village, milord. Didn’t give no name. Told me to give ya this. Wants ya to come an’ see ‘im.”
The beggar handed Morgin a fine linen handkerchief. It was dirty and crumpled, had seen better days, and while it was obviously supposed to carry some hidden meaning, Morgin at first drew a blank. But then memory struck him. It had once been his, though the last time he’d seen it had been almost two years ago in Anistigh. France had taken a liking to it, and the scoundrel must have stolen it.
“Wait here,” Morgin said, spun on his heels and reentered the foundry. He excused himself, claiming urgent family business, though JohnEngine looked at him narrowly as he threw a cloak over his shoulders to leave, but JohnEngine said nothing.
The beggar led Morgin to the small woodland that separated castle Elhiyne from the nearby village. He found France waiting there and greeted him gladly.
“Keep yer voice down, lad,” France hissed. He tried to conceal the fear written plainly on his face, and he eyed the beggar with distrust. Morgin noticed that France’s horse was badly lathered. “I promised the man a reward, and I got nothin’ of me own to pay ‘im with.”
Morgin dug into his pockets but came up empty, and when he tried to tell the beggar he’d reward him later the man’s one good eye narrowed sharply. There would be trouble if some payment was not made immediately, and France’s manner told Morgin they must keep the man happily silent.
Morgin had only one item of value on his person: a small copper charm, a memento of his only visit to Anistigh. It had cost only a few pennies, but it was worth far more than the beggar deserved. Morgin handed it to him.
The beggar eyed it greedily and turned to leave. Morgin gripped his shoulder, halting him momentarily. “There is enough there to pay for you silence too. Be certain you give me my due.”
“Aye, lord, I will.”
“You have earned my good favor,” Morgin added. “Take care that you do not lose it.”
The man nodded uneasily. He well knew that any clansman, even one of little importance like Morgin, could make the life of a beggar miserable if he chose.
Morgin released his shoulder. “Away with you now.”
The man scurried away quickly.
“What’s wrong, France” Morgin asked when they were alone. “Are you in trouble?”
“Me, lad?” France said innocently. “In trouble? Nay, not I.”
“Then why all this secrecy?”
“Ah, you know me, lad. Just me normal precautions. Not one fer bein’ seen much in public.”
“Come on, France. There’s more to it than that.”
France opened his mouth to protest, but just then there came the sound of many riders thundering down the road. The swordsman’s eyes lit up with fear. “I need a place to hide me and me horse, lad, and fast. I’m askin’ you to return the favor of a life saved, boy.”
Morgin looked quickly about. He and France were not far off the road; the trees of the forest were winter bare they’d be quite visible to any riders passing by, so instinctively he reached for shadow. France gasped as he, his horse, and Morgin, were suddenly dim gray figures in a white landscape of naked trees and snow. Morgin hissed, “Keep yourself and your horse still.”
The riders rounded a bend in the road: a posse of Penda border marshals riding angry and hard. They passed going toward the castle, where they would undoubtedly request shelter for the night. Morgin waited to be sure there were no stragglers, then released the shadow spell.
France staggered. “A cute trick, that,” he said. “I can’t stay here long, though. They know I’m in the neighborhood and will be searchin’ the area soon enough.”
Morgin looked up the road. “Give me your horse. And wait here. I won’t be long.”
He jumped on the animal’s back. It shied beneath him, but he held it tightly in control as he pulled it out onto the road and headed for the village, slapping its rump, digging his heels into its flanks.
He found the beggar still hobbling along the road. Morgin pulled up beside him. “I would ask another favor of you, beggar, and in payment I will give you a warm set of clothes for what’s left of the winter.”
The beggar’s good eye lit up with delight. “Gladly, milord.”
“Follow me then.”
Morgin led the beggar back to France and ordered them both to strip.
“What?” France demanded.
“I said strip. And exchange clothes.”
“Put on them filthy rags,” France said. “Never.”
“Then I’m sorry, friend,” Morgin said. “I cannot help you.”
“By the Unnamed King!” France cursed, throwing off his cloak and working at his tunic.
Morgin had trouble concealing a smile.
“And don’t you be enjoyin’ this, boy.”
When the two had completed their exchange, Morgin told the beggar, “And give him your eye patch, and your walking stick.”
“I’ll give him me cane,” the beggar said, “in exchange fer his sword.”
France unsheathed his sword, crouched, growled, “Not the sword, beggar, not unless you want it point first.”
The beggar cringed. Morgin stepped between them. “Don’t be greedy, beggar. Yield up your cane and the eye patch for good measure. Even then this day has been a highly profitable one for you.”
The beggar gave up his cane and eye patch, then departed, walking cockily down the center of the road. In his new clothes he bore himself with a dignity that Morgin would not have thought possible. But then France called after him, “I’d stay out of sight if I was you. In them clothes the Pendas just might mistake you for me. And I know you won’t like the way they show their displeasure.”
The beggar suddenly lost his dignity and thought better of the bargain he’d made. He slipped off the road, disappeared with practiced ease.
“Come,” Morgin said. “I’ll ride your horse and you walk in front of me. We’ll enter the castle together.”
“The castle! Yer crazy, lad.”
“What better place to hide?” Morgin asked. “It’s big and spread out all over the place. They’ll never think to look for you there. And that’s the only place I can think of to stable your horse where there’ll be no questions asked. Now hide your sword in those rags you’re wearing, and hobble on that cane like the beggar you’re supposed to be.”
France cursed and spit all the way up the road, though when they entered the castle yard, which was full of angry Pendas, he became unhappily silent.
Morgin quickly found Erlin, the stable boy. They were friends, of a sort, and Erlin readily agreed to hide France in the stables.
“What about me horse, boy?”
“I’ll stable him with the Penda horses,” Erlin said. “Gorguh—he’s the stable master—he won’t notice one more among all the rest.”
“Morgin,” DaNoel screamed from out in the yard. “Blast you. Where are you?”
“I’d better go,” Morgin whispered. “With clansmen about claiming guestright, grandmother’ll want the whole family to put on our manners and entertain.”
“Blast you, Morgin. Where are you? Answer me.”
“Go on, lad,” France said. “Erlin an’ me can handle it from here. And thanks.”
~~~
The leader of the Pendas was a large angry man who want
ed to find the vagabond swordsman and “. . . hang his balls in my trophy room.” He claimed that France had raped his wife, and was a most evil scoundrel.
Later that evening, when Morgin could slip away, he questioned France on the matter. According to the swordsman any raping done had been quite mutual, and he hadn’t known the woman was married until after the fact. Knowing France, Morgin was inclined to believe the former, but not the latter.
The Pendas left Elhiyne early the next morning, their leader confident they would soon catch the fugitive swordsman. When they were well and gone, Morgin started for the stables to tell France the danger was past, but DaNoel intercepted him in the castle yard.
“Grandmother wants to see you,” DaNoel said smugly. “Now. In the Hall of Wills.”
That didn’t sound good, and as Morgin stepped through the great double doors of the Hall of Wills his worst fears were realized. He found all of House Elhiyne waiting for him there. Gorguh and Erlin were there too; the stable master had hold of one of the stable boy’s ears, and gave it a good twist now and then. The beggar knelt before Olivia, dressed in his fine new clothes and trembling with fear. To one side stood a cluster of armed clansmen. France, still dressed in the beggar’s rags, knelt before them, his hands tied behind his back.
“Well now,” Olivia said to Morgin. “Here we have the leader of this little conspiracy. So good of you to join us, grandson.”
DaNoel snickered behind Morgin’s back. “It’ll be interesting to see you talk your way out of this one, whoreson.”
Morgin scanned the faces in the Hall. Most of the men there were trying to conceal an embarrassed frown, for no clansman liked to be reprimanded in public, nor to see another treated so even if it was deserved.
What would Olivia do if she were in my shoes? Morgin thought, and realized she would take the offensive. He held his chin high, walked boldly forward, but he walked not to the open space before Olivia, as expected of him; instead he approached France. He put a hand on the kneeling swordsman’s shoulder and said, “Forgive us, friend. You have been ill-treated.” Then he turned upon the armsmen who were guarding France. “Release this man,” he ordered. “Immediately.”
