by J. L. Doty
France pointed with the tip of his sword. “I see you’ve already been in the dust a few times.”
“I always end up in the dust,” Morgin snarled.
France’s eyebrows lifted. “Yer sure in a sweet mood today, lad. Come on. No more of yer growlin’. Up with yer sword and let’s get on with this.”
They crossed swords, then without hesitation France attacked. Morgin was already exhausted and he defended himself clumsily. It seemed he was always on the defensive; against the Tulalane and now against France. He backed up slowly, barely able to stay ahead of the swordsman’s strokes. He was tired and hungry and sore, and with each step more dirt ground into the Tulalane’s cuts. And France allowed no slacking, no yield, no rest.
Morgin, preoccupied with his own thoughts and trying at the same time to avoid one of France’s strokes, missed a step and faltered. A fist caught him between the shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of him, driving him face down in the dirt again. He lay there and gasped for air.
“By the gods, Morgin! This is the clumsiest I’ve seen you in the four years I’ve been teachin’ ya.”
Morgin shot to his feet. “Taunts I don’t need,” he screamed. “I’ve had more than my share this day.” He slashed out angrily with his sword.
The swordsman danced away from the slash easily and his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, lad?”
Suddenly something pulled at Morgin painfully. It told him even beyond his own reasoning that this fool was his enemy. It drove him, fed his anger, made him strike out at the swordsman. Like a madman he slashed and struck, again and again, and like a mocking demon the swordsman parried the blows easily, dancing among Morgin’s strokes with insulting indifference.
Morgin screamed uncontrollably, lashed out again with his sword. He twisted within the mad grip of the magical hatred, for this impudent commoner of a swordsman had no right to mock him so. Not he, not an Elhiyne: a clansman, a wielder of magic and power, magic that flowed through him now as it was meant to, power in its infinite glory. He felt it guide his arm, his hand, his sword. It ruled his mind and his soul. It fed him. It devoured him. And from a far distant place he looked on as it swept France’s sword aside with ease. He sensed the fear in France’s heart, and was horrified that a piece of him reveled in it.
He fought his magic as it sought to consume him in an orgy of blood. But it would not yield. It gripped his sword in both hands, crashed the hilt into the side of France’s head. Morgin looked on powerlessly as his boot lifted of its own accord and slammed into France’s crotch. The swordsman grunted, doubled over, then fell to the ground at Morgin’s feet. Morgin’s sword lifted in a nightmare that would not end, his control completely gone, his hands little more than passengers on its hilt.
Something hit him hard, slammed into his side, knocked him sprawling into the dust of the yard, rolling in a tangled heap with a new opponent. He broke free, rolled to one side, came up swinging.
Tulellcoe dropped below his first stroke, jumped over the next. He danced just out of range of the tip of Morgin’s sword. He back-stepped hard, drew his own blade, and as he met Morgin’s next stroke, steel rang loud and demanding in the castle yard.
Tulellcoe disengaged, back stepped, growled, “If it’s a fight you want, fight me.” He gripped his sword with both hands, called forth his power in an instant, and attacked.
Morgin retreated on the defensive again, for Tulellcoe’s power was no small thing. Morgin could feel it, smell it, hear it, see it. One part of him rejoiced, tried to falter, to stumble, to give Tulellcoe an opening so that this mad orgy of power could end as it was meant to. But his own power, now fully in control of him, would not allow it. It was that part of him that finally understood why it was called power. It was that part of him that felt its strength and its majesty, and sensed that Tulellcoe’s power was as nothing beside his own.
It suddenly became easy to back Tulellcoe across the yard, to swat him about playfully, to toy with him for the sheer pleasure that came with such a nightmare of power. But the nightmare did not end as nightmares should, for when the time came for Morgin to awake screaming in the night, there was no awakening.
He caught Tulellcoe hard beneath the chin with the hilt of his sword, then brought the blade around in a long flat arc. It bit into Tulellcoe’s neck, passed through him without stopping, took off a piece of the opposite shoulder as it exited. Tulellcoe’s head actually jumped upward before falling. Then it tumbled to the ground, bounced once with a sickening thud, and came to rest in the dirt of the yard.
Morgin staggered backward. His sword and hands were soaked with Tulellcoe’s blood. He staggered again as his magic left him. The world about him slowed, came to a grinding stop. The eyes in Tulellcoe’s head, glassed over in death, stared at him without forgiveness, and Tulellcoe’s headless body, still standing for a horrifying moment, finally toppled forward into Morgin’s arms, twitching uncontrollably.
Tulellcoe? Morgin thought. Dead? Murdered by my own hands? Morgin dropped his sword. “No,” he pleaded. “No.” He lowered Tulellcoe gently to the ground, trying to understand what had happened, to comprehend the magnitude of what he’d done. He’d murdered his uncle.
“Tulellcoe,” he whispered. Tulellcoe’s headless neck poured forth a deep red stream that soaked Morgin’s trousers then spilled to the ground beneath him, and in the fine, dry dust it formed little round beads and puddles, each separate and individual, but soon devoured by the large red stain that grew about the two of them.
“Uncle,” Morgin whispered. “What have I done?”
“You lost control,” Tulellcoe said calmly.
Morgin’s head snapped up to look in the direction of the voice. Tulellcoe stood over him, his sword still in his hand. He stood in the shade of the porch leaning casually against a support column, and in a cold, angry voice he said, “You have much to learn about power, Morgin.”
Morgin looked down into his lap. No blood soaked his trousers. No body lay at his feet, no head. The dust blew dry and brown in the hot summer breeze. He looked back at Tulellcoe.
“Most of us are not deserving of your hatred, nephew,” Tulellcoe said. He stepped away from the column, sheathed his sword, turned his back and walked away in disgust.
Morgin looked back at his hands, his trousers, his sword, the dirt about him. It remained dry and unblooded.
A shadow crossed the ground before him. Olivia stood over him, with the Tulalane at her side.
“Well,” the Tulalane said with a smirk. “He’s no coward.”
“Perhaps,” Olivia half agreed. “But he’s a magician with no control. And that may be even worse.”
She looked at Morgin angrily. “Well, young man. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Morgin looked again at his bloodless lap, then back at Olivia. He could think of nothing to say, and into the silence the Tulalane said, “As usual he has little or nothing to say. I think he’s just daft.”
Bile rose in Morgin’s throat. He stood. His fists clenched. His knuckles whitened. He trembled as he stepped up to the twoname and stood facing him.
The Tulalane grinned casually. “Touch me, boy, and I’ll squash you.”
“Go inside, Morgin,” Olivia commanded. “I’ve had enough of your surly conduct.”
Morgin’s fists remained clenched as he turned toward the castle gate and began walking.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Olivia demanded.
He clenched his teeth as tightly as his fists, refused to speak, did not look back and walked silently out of the castle.
“You can’t walk out on me,” Olivia screamed.
He ignored her, continued walking. She screamed even louder, and as he walked down the road that led from Elhiyne he heard her screaming out her anger at all those near her. She ordered them to stop him, to run after him and hold him, but none did. She threatened them. She commanded them, but nothing happened as her screams slowly dwindled into the distance, and long after he could n
o longer hear her anger, he could feel it, touch it, taste it on the air. It was an anger to fear, an anger to hate, an anger to match his own.
~~~
The Tulalane took great care to appear normal as he stepped out of the hot sun and into the darkened interior of the village inn’s common room. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as if he were a lurking thief. He was Hwatok Tulalane, a man above suspicion.
The common room possessed an odd quiet in the middle of the day, with only a few patrons present. But in the far corner sat the messenger from Yestmark.
The Tulalane stopped at the bar to order a mug of ale. “Hot day,” he said by way of conversation.
“Aye, lord,” the innkeeper said. He handed the Tulalane a filled mug. “Likely be even hotter tomorrow.”
The Tulalane nodded, crossed the room casually and sat down at the table with the Yestmarkian messenger. He spoke softly. “You wanted to see me?”
The messenger eyed him uneasily. “Yes, my lord. I have a message for you.”
“Eglahan sends me messages?”
“No, my lord. The message I have for you is not from March Lord Eglahan. It is from His Highness, Prince Valso et Decouix.”
“Silence,” the Tulalane hissed. He leaned forward. “Keep your voice low when you speak that name here. Better yet, don’t speak it at all.”
The messenger cast his eyes down fearfully. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Now what is this message you have for me?”
The messenger looked carefully about the room. “I am to inform you that the time to act is now.”
The Tulalane grinned. His eyes lit up with joy. “At last! Now we can crush these upstart Elhiynes. I assume there is more?”
“Yes, my lord. Tomorrow you are to ride east out of Elhiyne with six twelves of armed men to Sa’umbra Gap, your purpose being to patrol for bandits in the mountains. And since I am leaving for Yestmark tomorrow, I will ride with you. When we get to Sa’umbra you and I will poison the Elhiyne armsmen so they will die in their sleep. His Highness will meet us there with a like number of Kulls. They will strip the Elhiyne dead, put on their livery and ride their horses. Then, with you in the lead, we will all return to Elhiyne.
“While we are gone, a messenger will come from Penda Court to tell the Elhiynes that Valso’s father, Illalla, crossed the Worshipers far to the north at Methula. The messenger will tell them he’s riding at the head of an army and marching down the western side of the Worshipers, sacking and plundering Penda and Tosk lands on his way to Elhiyne. Malka will rally the local armsmen and ride to the west to defend Elhiyne lands. When we return from Sa’umbra in the east, Elhiyne should be all but deserted, protected by no more than women and old men. And since we ourselves will appear to be Elhiyne, we should gain easy access.”
The Tulalane shook his head. “And what then do I do with seventy odd Kulls and a castle full of women?”
“His Highness instructed me to emphasize that timing is critical. At this moment Illalla is marshaling his army north of Yestmark. In truth, he will march down the eastern side of the Worshipers, cross at Sa’umbra, then assault Elhiyne directly. The messenger from Penda will arrive here in two days, just as Illalla begins his assault on SavinCourt. You must be gone by then so that you will not be obligated to ride west with Malka. And you must return within six days to take the castle. We must stay ahead of any word from Yestmark.”
The Tulalane thought carefully. “So I take the castle in six days, and Illalla cannot have his army here in under twelve. What of Malka? Surely he will discover the ruse and return before then to retake Elhiyne?”
“You will have six twelves of Kulls to guard all entrances to the castle. You will have the Elhiyne women as hostages, and Prince Valso’s considerable magic to help you discover any plots they or their men attempt to hatch. The Elhiyne men will move slowly, with care. They will consider any move carefully before making it, and Illalla’s army will catch them in the open, without their castle walls to protect them. It will save him the trouble of an extended siege, and of course it will be good sport.”
The Tulalane smiled greedily. “Brilliant,” he said. “I have waited years for this, and I am pleased that His Majesty will not disappoint me.”
He held up his mug of ale. “To Elhiyne,” he whispered softly, “and its downfall.”
~~~
Morgin watched the sun rise peacefully over his small mountain campsite, while far below JohnEngine worked his way carefully up the mountainside, allowing his horse to choose its own path. Morgin sensed JohnEngine’s unease about their coming meeting. JohnEngine feared that Morgin might blame him in some way for Olivia’s conniving schemes. And too he feared that Morgin’s violence might not have passed, that Morgin would reject the brotherhood between them. And all this Morgin sensed from his vantage high atop the not-so-high mountain. He sensed JohnEngine without the need to see him, as he sensed JohnEngine’s fears, as he sensed the horse JohnEngine rode, and as he sensed his own horse, SarahGirl, tied to a tether behind them.
It felt odd to have such awareness flow through him without effort, to be constantly a vessel for the fires of magic without the desire to be so. His magic lay upon him now as it had since he’d walked out of the castle four days ago. It tickled him, like the feather touch of a light breeze on the back of his neck. It warmed him through the cold mountain nights, and it nurtured him through the long foodless days. Sometimes it flowed strong and demanding, as when he’d walked out of the castle, though then he’d been too passionately inflamed with hatred to understand what drove him. Sometimes it merely trickled out of him, like the water in the babbling brook that crackled nearby. And sometimes, as now, it lay dormant within him, a sleeping beast waiting to awaken upon the next tide of power.
Twice now, feeling the need to attempt some form of control, he had tried to stem the flow when at its weakest. And he had succeeded, after a fashion, as a small dam of sand can stem the flow of the merest trickle of water. But the sand only dams the water, and the flow continues, forming an ever-growing pool that must be constantly tended. And even with the merest of flows the pressure behind the dam builds. More sand must be added; the dam must be widened, thickened, strengthened, and as the puddle behind it grows to a pool, then a pond, then a lake, the dam’s builder must frantically scurry to pile more sand upon his threatened creation. But the flow of water is unrelenting, and eventually a small trickle breaks over the dam’s lip, carrying sand with it, widening, growing, until the entire lake rushes forth in a mighty torrent that sweeps all before it.
So had ended Morgin’s efforts to stem the flow of his power. He had learned to yield to its whims, a reluctant prisoner of his own magic, and it lay dormant now within him only by its own choosing, and not by any purposeful control of his.
JohnEngine topped the last rise and spurred his horse into the campsite. SarahGirl followed close behind him. Morgin, seated by the fire, stood casually, and JohnEngine, still atop his horse, looked down at him with his eyes mirroring the apprehension in his soul.
Morgin made an effort to smile. “Brother,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
Some of JohnEngine’s apprehension disappeared. He smiled back, then dismounted. “How have you been?” he asked.
Morgin shrugged. “Hungry. Cold. Tired.” He decided not to mention that he had gone without sleep since leaving the castle.
JohnEngine turned about and reached eagerly into his saddlebags. He retrieved a lump of journeycake and tossed it to Morgin. “Chew on that.”
Morgin dug his teeth into the hard, sweet cake. So many times before he’d thought it crude and tasteless, but now he delighted in it. “Thank you,” he said. “Here, let me help you with the horses.”
He took SarahGirl’s reins, led her to the edge of the campsite, careful to stay well clear of the teeth that had nipped him so many times before. He expected her to begin quivering now that he was near, to see her nostrils flare, her eyes widen with fear, but this
time that did not come. Instead, she raised her muzzle to his face. He ducked to avoid a nasty bite on his cheek. Her head followed him down, and she licked him sloppily, gently, on the back of his neck. He lifted his head, looked her in the eyes: big, round, brown eyes. Her tongue lashed out, slurping a big kiss across his cheek.
He shook his head. “You’ve changed,” he said.
“No,” JohnEngine said. “It’s you who have changed.”
Morgin looked at JohnEngine carefully. He nodded. “Yes. I believe I have.”
Morgin tied SarahGirl’s reins to the branches of a nearby bush, then joined JohnEngine at the campfire. They both sat in the dirt.
“How is France?” Morgin asked.
JohnEngine shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “He’s all right. He’s a tough bird. Bruised a little. Nothing more.”
“I’m sorry,” Morgin said.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. You were merely the dupe in one of grandmother’s conniving schemes.”
“I know,” Morgin said.
“Grandmother and the Tulalane baited you. Hwatok used his magic to bring out your anger during your lessons, and again so that it would fester and explode while you fought France. He and grandmother planned it all to test your magic.”
“I know,” Morgin said again.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“But how?”
Morgin shrugged. “Once I calmed down, once I got out of the valley and away from their influence, I could feel the difference immediately. And it wasn’t hard to guess what they’d done, though it’s good to have it confirmed. I know what she did. I just don’t know why she did it.”
“Because she’s an evil old woman.”
Morgin grinned. “None of us have ever doubted that, have we?”
JohnEngine laughed, shook his head in disgust. “She’ll never learn, will she? You know even Marjinell was on your side for once. And mother was positively livid when she found out. I’ve never heard anyone speak that way to grandmother before. It was quite an ear full.”
