by J. L. Doty
Valso’s expression changed. His eyes slitted with curiosity. “And what if your destiny were not tied to that of Elhiyne?”
Rhianne smiled again, raised her glass. “Well then, my lord . . .” She finished by touching the brandy to her lips.
Valso relaxed. His eyes settled hungrily on her half exposed breasts. She could see little difference between his desire and Verk’s, but sensing that her moment had come, she asked coyly, “But in return for your protection, my lord, what might I do for you?”
Valso looked away from her breasts reluctantly. “I have . . . many appetites,” he said carefully, “appetites that will be satisfied. I have an appetite for power, and the ability for its proper use. I have an appetite for these upstart Elhiynes too, and I will consume them.”
Valso’s eyes caressed the length of her. He approached her, stood within inches of her. She could smell the brandy on his breath, and the perfume that he wore too much of. “I also have an appetite for things of beauty, and a beautiful woman such as you could please me greatly.”
Rhianne drew upon her magic, trying to enspell him with desire, but she knew in her heart that her success was due to her womanhood, and not some otherworldly power. “To please you, my lord, would please me.”
Valso’s breathing quickened. Holding his drink with one hand, he placed the other about her waist. He pulled her forward, kissed her strongly, passionately. She bit his tongue to tease his passion, her arms at her sides only because she still held the drink in one hand.
Valso released her, took the drink from her, walked to the small table and placed both glasses gently upon it. Returning, he made an obvious effort not to rush. He took her in his arms and kissed her again. This time, with her hands free, she wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him tightly against her, pressing her body against his.
Valso became almost frantic. One hand grasped at her breasts; his pelvis pressed against hers. She teased him, did everything possible to excite him, to thrill him, and while he responded her left hand crept slowly up her right sleeve until she felt the head of the needle concealed within the folds there. Even more slowly she withdrew it, taking great care lest the point touch her own skin. The poison she had chosen was lethal in the most minute quantity, and would take her own life as quickly as his. And eventually that was how it must serve her, for once their master was dead, she dare not live herself to face the Kulls.
Under the guise of passionately rubbing the back of Valso’s neck, her right hand located a spot at the base of his skull. In her left hand she backed the needle away, lining it up to thrust it deep within his neck. Death would come so quickly he would be unable even to cry out. She tensed for the thrust, ready for Valso to stiffen then slump in her arms, to die the death he so richly deserved, but at the moment of truth she found herself unable to move, unable even to continue responding to Valso’s passion, frozen into the immobility of a statue.
Valso withdrew his tongue from her mouth and bit her painfully on the lip, drawing blood. He smiled evilly. She tried desperately to move, to jab the needle into the back of his head. She struggled to remove her arms from around his neck, but could not move in the slightest. Her body stood locked within a spell of his making, trapped within his control.
He drew his head slowly downward out of the circle of her arms. Unable to move in the slightest, she stood frozen as if she were caressing some phantom, her arms still held high, the needle still poised to kill. She could not see his actions, but she felt the pain as he bit her cruelly on one breast. She could see only the room about her and her own empty arms, the needle still waiting in her hand. In a last desperate attempt to do something, she tried to stab the needle into her own face, but Valso’s magic prevented even that.
He reappeared within the range of her vision still grinning evilly, but no longer in her arms. “You are a fool like your husband.”
He reached forward and pinched one of her breasts viciously. “I told you I have many appetites.” He reached down, groped at her crotch, snarled like an animal. “I’m glad you chose this path, for I think I’ll find your resistance even more pleasurable.”
He snapped his fingers. The needle vanished. “I could do the same with your gown,” he said, “but I’ll enjoy it much more if I tear it from your body. I’m going to enjoy you greatly, Rhianne esk et Elhiyne, and when I’m done, we’ll see how much pleasure you can bring to Verk and his halfmen.”
~~~
The ruckus that resulted when they found the dead guard forced Morgin to remain in hiding through that night and the next day. But as night fell he ventured forth into the occupied wings again. He wanted to know who might be the Elhiyne lordling that Valso and the Tulalane had spoken of, the one that the Tulalane found so stubborn and would continue to work on. Perhaps he was a brother, or cousin, left behind for some reason. Or he might be the son of the lord of one of the outlying holdings, captured before the castle was taken. In any case he would be kept in the dungeon where there were several lockups, as well as machines of a design that hinted at a far darker purpose, though, as far as Morgin knew, the machines had not been used during his lifetime, but the cells saw regular use for the housing of troublemakers. He himself had spent several days there after one of his drunken brawls, locked in a cell by Olivia’s command. She had meant it to be a lesson, but he had learned only that the cells were cold, dark and damp.
The dungeon was guarded by a single Kull seated at a crude wooden table far below. He passed the time by rolling bone dice and mumbling to himself, with the only access to his level a series of stone steps directly in front of him. The room was well lit, and Morgin had no choice but to depend solely upon his shadowmagic. He wrapped himself deeply in shadow, then stepped cautiously out onto the open stairs.
The Kull’s attention remained on his dice, though Morgin knew it could shift to the shadows at the edge of the room at any moment. He tried to blend with the shadows as they danced about the walls, to become part of them. It demanded all of his skill, then, for just an instant, he felt as if he was made of shadow, and when the instant ended he stood safely at the bottom of the stairway.
He hugged the wall tightly, worked his way slowly about the edge of the room. When he reached a point just behind the Kull he stopped, reinforced his shadowmagic, stepped quietly away from the wall, and laid the flat of his sword softly upon the Kull’s shoulder. The Kull started with surprise then froze, his hand poised motionless above the dice.
“Do not turn,” Morgin said softly. “If you value your life, remain seated and place your hands flat on the center of the table.”
The Kull did so stiffly, without speaking.
Morgin spoke carefully. “Where is the Elhiyne lordling?”
“I do not value my life that much,” the Kull said.
Morgin had no answer to that. The Kulls were infamous for their lack of fear. What inducement could he offer the Kull, what threat? Threats were reputedly the only thing a Kull understood, but if you couldn’t threaten his life, what could you threaten?
An idea came suddenly to Morgin; he concentrated on his magic. This had to be done carefully or he might alert Valso to his whereabouts. He devoted every thought to control, and allowed just a hint of power to pass from his fingers into his sword. The power glowed an eerie red as it traveled down the blade; it passed the Kull’s shoulder, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, then sparkled itself to extinction on the tip of the sword just within the Kull’s view.
Morgin whispered, “And how much do you value your eternal soul, halfman?”
The guard sat silent for a long moment, then spoke. “The Elhiyne is in the second cell from this end.”
“And the key?” Morgin asked.
“Hanging near the door, lord wizard.”
Somehow Morgin knew that the Kull spoke the truth. In one quick motion he lifted his blade and smashed the hilt of the sword into the back of the halfman’s head. The Kull slumped forward on the table.
Morgin shot across the room, pulled the key off the wall, unlocked the heavy wooden door and threw it open. He stepped into the darkened cell, was assaulted by the stench of human waste and decay. He wrinkled his nose, peered blindly into the darkness, but before he could speak a charging body tackled him from the side and threw him hard against a stone wall. Rough hands closed about his throat in a viselike grip and tightened mercilessly. “Filthy Decouix!” MichaelOff snarled.
Morgin fought to breathe, managed to squeak out, “Cousin.”
The hands released him suddenly and he could breathe again. In the black darkness of the cell they touched his face, feeling for recognition. “Morgin. Is that you, cousin?”
“It’s me.”
“Ah Morgin!” MichaelOff said tearfully. “Thank the gods you’ve come. I’d given up hope.”
“We have to get out of here,” Morgin said, “and quickly.” He stepped out of MichaelOff’s grasp, charged out of the cell to the unconscious Kull still slumped at the table. “Help me with this Kull,” he hissed as he gripped the halfman under the armpits. He intended to tie and gag the fellow and lock him in a cell.
MichaelOff didn’t follow immediately and Morgin turned back to him angrily. And there, stumbling out of the open cell, feeling his way uncertainly along the wall, faltered a blind man. Where there had once been eyes there were now horribly scarred pits, the result of a hot poker that had burned away his eyelids as well as his eyes.
“Morgin,” the blind man said in MichaelOff’s voice. “You must guide me. I cannot see.”
“Cousin,” Morgin cried, turning back and gripping MichaelOff by the shoulders. “What have they done to you?”
MichaelOff spoke bitterly. “Valso had his pleasure with me, and someday I hope to return the favor. But for now, as you said, we must be away. You will be my guide, and I will do as you say in all things. What is our destination?”
Morgin looked into the not-eyes of MichaelOff-the-strong. “The old castle. Where we used to play as boys.”
“A good choice, cousin. An excellent choice. Let’s go.”
MichaelOff strangled the Kull guard, and they stuffed his body into an empty cell. Then they closed and locked the cells, and hung the keys back in their proper place. Hopefully, they’d have a little time before the Kulls discovered MichaelOff’s escape.
~~~
MichaelOff followed Morgin without question. Usually the leader, he was now a complacent and obedient follower, one hand clutching tightly to a corner of Morgin’s cloak, the other groping forward or sliding along the wall.
Morgin could not accept the thought of MichaelOff’s helplessness. The younger boys had called him MichaelOff-the-strong, for he was ever there to defend them, and more than once he had saved Morgin from a severe beating, making sure that if there must be a fight, it was fair, and not overdone.
They worked their way slowly through the castle, Morgin leading, MichaelOff following. Morgin detoured once to steal MichaelOff a cloak. Like his own it was some Kull’s: gray-black, heavy, warm. At one point, as they were passing Roland’s study, MichaelOff grabbed Morgin’s shoulders and said frantically, “Cousin. Do you remember the two crossed broadswords above the mantle in your father’s study?”
“Yes,” Morgin said.
“Get one for me. Please.”
“But you can’t—” Morgin said, then closed his mouth in embarrassed silence.
MichaelOff smiled without eyes. “I can’t fight, you were about to say. And blind as I am, you’re right. But with all these Kulls about, a sword in my hands would give me comfort.”
Morgin retrieved the sword. They continued on, and throughout that slow journey MichaelOff held it tightly to his breast, clutching it as if he was a small child with a toy that might be taken from him at any moment. Morgin wanted to comfort him, but no words or deeds would bring back his eyes, and short of that miracle, anything else seemed hollow and meaningless.
The hideout that Morgin had chosen was adequate, nothing more: a small room located deep within the old castle. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, muffling their footsteps. Morgin suspected that millennia had passed since these halls had seen light of any kind. He had chosen the hideout not for its size, nor for its comfort, but for its great distance from the nearest lighted hall.
He and MichaelOff sat cross-legged in the dust to rest. MichaelOff held the broadsword in both hands with its tip on the floor before him. He sat in the dark unmoving, unspeaking, lost in his own thoughts, and for lack of anything worth saying, Morgin chose not to speak at all.
MichaelOff startled him when he finally broke the silence. “Are we in the dark, cousin? Do we sit without light?”
“I can make light if you want,” Morgin said.
MichaelOff shook his head sadly. “No. Don’t. It would do me no good. And you. You like the dark, while the rest of us fear it. Why is that, Morgin?”
“I don’t know,” Morgin said. He tried to hide the quiver in his voice. “When I was Rat the dark was my home. It protected me from the people in the streets. I was only in danger when they could catch me, and they needed light for that.”
MichaelOff laughed. “You love the dark. And like all others I fear it. And here I sit, condemned to my fear for eternity.”
“Why did they do this to you?” Morgin asked.
MichaelOff sneered. “The Decouix tortured me. He asked no questions, wanted no answers. He just tortured me for his own pleasure.”
MichaelOff sat suddenly straight. “Promise me something, cousin.”
“Anything.”
“If you ever hold Valso’s life in your hands . . . take it. Do not do so for me, but for those who await his harm, those who have yet to feel the pain of his evil. Promise me this one thing, Morgin. Promise me.”
“You have my word,” Morgin said. “But how came you into Valso’s hands?”
“Stupidity. Sheer stupidity and pride. Oh cousin! I wish I had eyes to cry.” MichaelOff buried his face in one hand, still clutching the sword with the other, sobbing in tearless pain. Morgin quietly shed the tears his cousin could not.
MichaelOff’s sobs ended slowly. He took a long, deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, then told Morgin of the false messenger, of Illalla’s plans, of the Tulalane’s treachery. “What fools we were! We were prepared for war, but we failed to anticipate treason, even by the twoname. And with the hostages Valso now holds we dare not storm the castle.”
MichaelOff lowered his head, buried his face in the palm of his left hand. His right hand never left the hilt of the broadsword, as if it gave him comfort to clutch it so. He drifted off into his private thoughts and the room again fell silent.
Morgin prompted him by asking, “So you entered the castle to open the gates from within?”
“Aye,” MichaelOff nodded. “We chose such a simple plan. Father and Roland and Tulellcoe helped me form a veil of illusion so that I could go undetected. But Valso knew of it all along. He toyed with me, and when he was ready he and his Kulls sprang their trap. So here I sit, a blind fool, and in the woodland outside father and six hundred men wait for gates that will never open.”
Morgin’s mind churned with possibilities. Malka and the Elhiyne armsmen must have returned while he lay unconscious in the alcove. Morgin asked, “What of Illalla and his army?”
MichaelOff shook his head. “I don’t know. He should already have driven Eglahan out of Yestmark, and be moving down the eastern side of the Worshipers now. He’ll probably try to cross at Sa’umbra Gap, and that is where he must be stopped. And since I have failed, father is faced with a terrible dilemma: abandon the women to Valso’s evil, or allow Illalla into our heartlands.”
“What of the other Lesser Clans?” Morgin asked. “Will they help us?”
MichaelOff shrugged. “Inetka perhaps, though it is the least of the clans and can do little. And of course Penda thinks it can remain forever neutral, that it is our fight, and ours alone. And as always the Tosks allow Penda to do
their thinking for them. They both hope Decouix will be satisfied with no more than Elhiyne blood. No, cousin. We are alone in this.”
Morgin thought carefully before speaking. “Cousin,” he said tentatively. “Perhaps you and I together might succeed where you alone failed.”
MichaelOff’s head snapped up. “What are you saying? Do you mean to open the gates? Valso’s Kulls are everywhere.”
“I can move us about without detection,” Morgin said, hoping he spoke the truth. “And in any case, if we fail, we lose nothing but our own lives.” He hesitated. “But if we succeed, how will Malka know to be ready?”
“He’ll know,” MichaelOff said, “from your father. Roland and I are tied by a spell of strong magic. He cannot discern details, only emotion. He won’t know you are with me, but he will know of the gates.”
“Good,” Morgin said. “We’ll open the gates, you and I. But we must act soon, before Valso discovers you’re missing and triples the guard.”
“Then our best chance will be at dawn.”
“Very well,” Morgin said. “Dawn it will be.”
Chapter 14: Sword Magic
“Where is he?” the Tulalane demanded angrily. “He should be here by now.”
Valso casually examined his fingernails. “I am not my father’s keeper, twoname. When he does finally arrive you must ask him yourself why he is late.”
The Tulalane grunted, then eyed Valso narrowly. “Is he late, I wonder, or were you early?”
Valso shrugged. “Perhaps I did move a bit hastily.”
“Perhaps you moved a bit hastily,” the Tulalane shouted. “Did you never consider our plans?”
Valso shrugged again. “I move according to my own plans, not those of some power hungry fool.”
“That power hungry fool is your father, and your king.”
