by J. L. Doty
“I’m sorry if I hurt mother,” Morgin said.
JohnEngine nodded. “That you did.”
JohnEngine hesitated, and Morgin sensed that JohnEngine had something difficult to say, and that he could in no way lighten his brother’s unease in the saying of it.
“Mother sends you her love,” JohnEngine said. “And father too. Mother also had me bring your sword, and your sheath, and your cloak, and two sets of clothing, and your horse, and your saddle, and your saddlebags packed with twelve days of trail rations, and a hunting bow, and a belt knife, and a game knife, and a lot of other stuff, and a purse of gold coins.”
A lump formed in the pit of Morgin’s stomach. “Grandmother exiled me?”
“Oh no!” JohnEngine said suddenly. “Not that. She doesn’t even know I’m here. She keeps demanding that we send out search parties to hunt you down and bring you back. But mother and father said you’re a grown man and can take care of yourself, that you’ll come back if and when you choose. And mother sends you a message. She says . . .” JohnEngine had difficulty speaking. “She says that you have every right to hate the witches of Elhiyne. That we have treated you poorly. That you would be fully justified if you chose to ride away and never see us again. She has given you what she can so that, at the very least, you may leave us with more than you came. And I am to tell you that it is your choice, that no one binds you to Elhiyne against your will, and that if you choose to go, you go with her love always, and father’s love . . . and my love too.”
JohnEngine’s eyes burrowed into the embers of the fire and refused to meet Morgin’s. Morgin was glad of that. “How can I hate the witches of Elhiyne,” he asked, “when I am one myself.”
JohnEngine’s eyes came up to meet his. Morgin said, “I can deny that no more than I can deny the power that has always been a part of me. I know that now.”
JohnEngine’s eyes gladdened. “Then you’ll come back?”
“Certainly I’ll come back. I am bound to Elhiyne by those I love far more than I could ever be by those I hate.”
JohnEngine’s eyes returned to the fire. “I’m glad. Will you come back with me now? Mother asked me not to dally; she’s anxious to know your decision.”
“Then go and tell her I’ll return, but not immediately. I need more time alone. I have a lot of thinking to do.”
“When will you come back then?”
“Tell her I’ll take no more than the twelve days allowed by the trail rations, and probably a lot less.”
~~~
JohnEngine shielded his eyes against the late afternoon sun as his horse took its first steps into the valley of his home. He had an odd sensation of something amiss, a tension that hung in the air like a thick fog. His nose brought him a disquieting odor, and only slowly did he identify it as the smell of fear.
The fields in the distance were empty. There were no field hands taking advantage of the last rays of sun. The wheat sat motionless in the calm of sunset. The entire valley lay blanketed by an unnatural quiet that set his heart to pounding.
He spurred his horse on, his mind racing through a hundred catastrophes that could have befallen those he loved. Fear drove him to push the animal to its limit, to set all patience aside and charge across the valley to Elhiyne.
The village near the castle proved all but deserted, a soundless cluster of small buildings and huts that sped past his vision as he raced through it. Only when past it and well into the small woodland that separated the village and the castle, only then did he hear the first real sounds of life: the ring of steel hammers, men shouting hurried orders, horses neighing and spluttering.
The castle loomed before him, a dark shadow against the now sunless horizon. He charged through its open gates, found in the yard a confusing mass of armed men and horses. Some of the men were already mounted, some just mounting up. They ignored him.
Someone shouted an order. Someone else shouted another. And then, like bees abandoning a dying hive, they spilled out through the open gates and rode off into the night. In seconds they were no more than a muffled rumble of charging horses far in the distance.
JohnEngine hit the ground at a run, gave no thought to tethering his horse. In the settling darkness he stumbled up the steps of the main building, sprinting blindly toward the light cast by the open doors there. Somewhere within he knew he would find sanity, reason, calm. But instead he ran head-long into DaNoel, and they both tumbled to the floor in a crash of arms and legs.
JohnEngine picked himself up quickly. “What’s happening, brother?”
DaNoel, weighted down by sword and mail, rose slowly. “Where in netherhell have you been?”
“I’ve been out of the valley running errands for mother. What’s wrong here?”
DaNoel looked at him suspiciously. “Errands, eh? How is the coward?”
“He’s no coward, Da. He’s your brother.”
“He’s no brother of mine. He’s a fatherless peasant, a whoreson.”
JohnEngine’s anger rose uncontrollably. He threw his forearm up, caught DaNoel beneath the chin and pressed him hard against the cold stone wall. He spoke angrily, slowly. “Tell me what is happening here.”
DaNoel gripped JohnEngine’s forearm, struggled silently against it. They were evenly matched, and could have struggled so all night, but both realized the futility of such a battle, so they came slowly to an unspoken compromise. They separated. DaNoel straightened his tunic carefully.
JohnEngine fought to contain his anger. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Why do we have armsmen in the courtyard instead of hands in the fields?”
“We have war,” DaNoel said as if he found some pleasure in that fact. “Illalla has assembled an army, and crossed the Worshipers far to the north at Methula. A messenger came this morning from Penda. Illalla has already taken Tosk, and burned Drapolis without quarter. He is marching now on Penda, and they ask our aid, for we will be next. Malka is assembling our armsmen and expects to have six hundred when we ride out tomorrow. I assume you’ll ride with us.”
“Of course.”
“Then come with me now. I am to report to Malka.”
JohnEngine shook his head. “I have to see mother first. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
“What of the whoreson?”
“Morgin cannot be reached. He’ll have to learn of this when he returns.”
Chapter 12: The Magic of Kings
Morgin’s saddle shifted dangerously as SarahGirl cantered beneath him. He would have fallen had they been riding hard, but instead he tugged lightly on the reins and brought her to a stop. “Let’s see what’s wrong here, girl,” he said, dismounting and patting her flank. He flipped the stirrup up over her saddle, found a loose cinch and tightened it, then flipped the stirrup back down. He walked forward and scratched her between the ears, and in reply she licked his ear, then gave him a big sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“You’re a strange one,” he said, wiping a sleeve across his face. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small square of hard, sweet journeycake that he’d been saving for her. She gobbled at it greedily and it was gone in an instant.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the bright, midday sun. He should have no difficulty making it home before dark, though he was tempted to take his time just to put off the imminent confrontation with Olivia. He scratched SarahGirl between the ears. “I’m not looking forward to that meeting.”
SarahGirl nuzzled his ear, begging for more journeycake. He scratched her between the ears again, climbed back into the saddle and spurred her forward into a trot. He was anxious to be home, to find France and apologize for trying to kill him. Then he must do the same with Tulellcoe, and after Tulellcoe, Rhianne. Thinking of her his heart filled with sadness and shame.
It was time to make peace with Rhianne, to mend what little remained of their marriage, and perhaps to start anew. But now she would have just cause to spit in his face and curse him before all. For during the two years th
ey had been married, and yet not husband and wife, she had tried to make amends. She had tried in little ways, subtle ways, to tell him that she was no longer a stupid young girl. But he’d found an unhappy pleasure in revenge, and rejected her again and again with relish.
He’d lived with the single men in the bachelor’s barracks. At play he became their leader: he drank and whored and fought more than all of them. His life consisted of one long blur of work and play, punctuated by the daily practice at arms. Of course Olivia disapproved of it all. Their disagreements had almost become a daily ritual, though he’d learned his lesson that night in the Hall of Wills and never again touched her with his magic.
Thinking now of the old witch, he chuckled quietly. He had one secret that not even she knew, a secret that he might someday reveal to her, just to irritate her. It was a matter of pride with him that she disapproved so strongly of his rowdy conduct. And it was a matter of pride that she continue to disapprove, even though sometimes his drinking and whoring was a false charade meant only for Olivia’s spies.
At first, in his anger at everyone, and his shame at the public humiliation they called a wedding, he whored and drank and fought in earnest. But he’d soon tired of that. The whores lost their appeal and the ale no longer washed away the bad memories. And it hurt like netherhell when the innkeeper bashed his head in the midst of a brawl he’d begun.
He still lived in the bachelor’s barracks, and he still spent most of his free time in the village inn, but two out of every three cups of ale were carefully transferred to the mugs of others, a trick of magic that he found almost trivial. And he splashed most of that third cup down the front of his own tunic in a show of drunken sloppiness. He’d finally learned the art of deceit, and most evenings he’d stagger back to the castle, perhaps fake the noises of vomiting in the privy, then carefully pass out on his bunk. But of course when Olivia’s spies were about he drank in earnest, and took care to pick a fight, often with one of them. Occasionally he’d managed to start a real brawl. Preferably, Olivia’s lackeys would get embroiled in the midst of it. But certainly the news always got back to the old witch, and hopefully to Rhianne too.
Rhianne! In the two years of their marriage he could count the number of times he’d encountered her on the six fingers of one hand. Once, they’d met in passing in one of the castle halls. Just the two of them. At his malevolent anger she’d frozen into stillness, and seeing the fear in her eyes he was torn between sorrow that she should look upon his so, and joy in the knowledge of his bitter revenge.
“Morgin,” she’d said tentatively, and he could see that she wanted him to forgive her.
He’d wanted to. He’d wanted so many things, but a strange evil part of him growled, “Get out of my sight, bitch.”
They’d never met like that again, not alone. He rarely saw her, usually only when Olivia forced them both to attend some ceremony or ritual. They’d sit or stand next to each other, absolutely silent, saying not a word, husband and wife. The last time he’d seen her had been on her birthday, with her parents Edtoall and Matill visiting. The ladies had planned a small party, and Olivia had ordered Morgin to attend.
He showed up late, and honestly drunk. He stumbled in, staggered about the room, sat down next to Rhianne and glared malevolently at everyone there, especially her. He poured more wine; drank some, splashed some on his tunic, the rest on those about him. He was obnoxious without trying, but attempted to be more so anyway, and Rhianne, who’d been happily opening presents when he arrived, ended up in quiet tears. It took all of the fun out of it for him.
JohnEngine had angrily told him to leave, but Morgin was so drunk they’d had to help him from the room. And as DaNoel and Brandon supported him on either side, he caught a glimpse of AnnaRail just before he passed through the door. There were tears in her eyes, but behind the tears he saw something in her face that he’d never seen before: shame. She’d loved him and she’d spanked him. She’d held him close when he’d needed her, and she’d been angry with him when he was bad, but never before had she been ashamed of him. Never before had she given even the slightest hint that he was anything less than she could hope for in a son. That day Morgin knew shame as he had never known shame before.
At that moment the road he and SarahGirl followed crested a small hill, and the valley he knew as home stretched before him, twilight approaching, a thin crescent moon prematurely visible in the darkening sky. He halted SarahGirl, gauged the sun on the horizon, estimated he could be home by nightfall, though he’d have to push it a bit.
The impression that something was amiss grew upon him slowly as he rode SarahGirl down into the valley. It was not a magical sensation, not a realization of any disturbance upon the arcane, for his power had been almost wholly dormant now for many days. Rather, he saw no hands working the fields and he sensed an abnormal stillness to the entire valley. The village near Elhiyne seemed oddly deserted, and the small woodland that separated it from the castle was possessed of a haunting quiet. He and SarahGirl crossed the no-mans-land outside the castle walls, stood at the castle gates themselves before he realized they were actually closed.
The castle gates? Closed?
Suddenly he understood. Roland and Malka were on some errand out of the valley with most of the men.
“Hello,” he cried out. “Let me in. It’s me. Morgin.”
He waited. Nothing happened at first, then a shadowy head leaned out over the battlements and muttered something like, “Aye, lord.” Then it disappeared.
Morgin waited longer. Then, with a protesting creak the gates began to open. He waited until they had swung a good distance on their hinges before riding through. He spurred SarahGirl forward, and immediately his magic told him to beware. He looked about carefully as he rode into the yard, noting that all appeared as it should. But just as he approached the main building a figure stepped from the doorway, and even standing in the shadow of the overhanging balcony, his face hidden from view, Morgin recognized the Tulalane, grinning in that unholy way of his.
“Well, boy,” the wizard said. “You’re back.”
Morgin gave no answer. He waited, stomach churning, heart pounding, unsure of why he sensed such danger.
There came a scream, little NickoLot’s voice from somewhere high in the castle, “Run, Morgin. It’s a trap. They’re going to kill you.”
The gates began to creak shut. At the same moment Valso stepped into view and said calmly, “She’s right, Elhiyne. We are going to kill you. But slowly.”
Morgin pulled viciously on SarahGirl’s reins, dug his spurs in and brought her about. He bent low in the saddle, charged for the closing gate, heard an arrow hiss past his ear. Another sliced through the air in front of him, a third thudded into his saddlebag, then he shot through the narrowly closing gates and into the clear. He charged down the road, zigzagging from side to side as arrows rained down about him. In the distance he could hear Valso screaming, “Kill him. Kill him. Don’t let him get away. Kill him. Kill him.”
Morgin’s only chance lay in the cover of the small woodland, but he must first cross the cleared no-mans-land that formed part of the castle’s defenses, and there he was an open target for Valso’s archers.
The first trees seemed just within reach, approaching with nightmare slowness, when SarahGirl screamed and collapsed beneath him at full charge. They both hit the road rolling and bouncing, and Morgin barely missed being crushed by the pounding weight of SarahGirl’s body.
Morgin came up running, dove into the brush filled ditch at the side of the road. Arrows hissed and thudded into the dirt all about him. He crawled, heedless of any stealth, counting upon the approaching darkness to give him some protection. He stumbled up the ditch on his hands and knees, stopping in the brush to one side of where SarahGirl lay whimpering in the middle of the road.
An arrow protruded from her back, two from her side, another from her hip. While he watched another buried itself in her shoulder. Blood poured from her nostrils. She
lay there coughing and whimpering, wheezing on the blood filling her lungs, looking at Morgin with big, round, brown eyes. She could not understand why he didn’t help her, why he did nothing about the pain. There were tears in her eyes, and tears in his, as he thought of the one thing he could do, the only thing left to him.
His sword was still sheathed and strapped to her saddle. He could see it now, the hilt protruding from beneath her. He stood, ran into the middle of the road and grasped it with both hands. He tugged on it, but pinned beneath her weight it didn’t move.
The rain of arrows began anew. He pulled harder, lunged against it, and it came free with a jerk. Then, in one continuous motion, he raised it high over his head, pulled power, fed it into the blade and brought it down with all his might on the back of SarahGirl’s neck. It bit into her spine, partially severed her head, and she died painlessly then and there. And Morgin, sobbing like a child, sprinted into the woods carrying nothing more than his blooded sword.
~~~
BlakeDown et Penda, leader of Penda Clan, stood at the battlements of castle Penda and looked fearfully upon Malka and the Elhiyne armsmen. He would never acknowledge such fear to those about him, for a leader of men must always appear strong, but he was honest with himself about such things. Clan Elhiyne was a force to be reckoned with, and if they sought war with Penda, a force to be feared.
War? No. Certainly BlakeDown and Olivia were opponents in almost all facets of the Lesser Council, and he made no secret of the fact that he sought to usurp her position. But war, open and unchecked? No. BlakeDown could not believe that Olivia would be stupid enough to choose open war.
In the distance the Elhiyne force came slowly into full view. As BlakeDown’s scouts had reported they were not the largest force that Elhiyne could muster, and they brought with them no siege engines. But they were nevertheless there, a force of armed men violating Penda land.
