Child of the Sword

by J. L. Doty

  He released her, crossed the room to the overturned table. “There’s no time to explain,” he said. “You must do as I say.”

  “Yes, Morgin,” she said. She choked back her tears and frowned at him.

  He slid the table up against a wall then stuffed her down behind it. “I want you to hide here. Curl up and sleep. I’m going to draw the Kulls away. If I can divert their attention they may forget about you.”

  “Are you going to die?” she asked.

  “No. I won’t die.”

  She looked at him carefully and started crying again. “You’re lying to me. I can hear it in your voice, and you’ve got the godlight in your eyes like grandmother. Oh Morgin, don’t die. Please don’t die.”

  Morgin pulled her tightly against his chest and let her cry. He muttered something reassuring, reaching back in his memory to find the words AnnaRail had used when he needed such comforting. And at the same time he cast a small spell upon her so that she drifted into a peaceful sleep. When her chest no longer heaved with sobs he pulled her away and held her at arm’s length. Her head lolled to one side, her eyes closed. He laid her gently on the floor and marveled at how small and defenseless she seemed. He curled her arms and legs into a tight ball then cast a spell of shadow over her. He reinforced it, hoping that doing so would sustain it long after his own death.

  He had to move quickly, before Verk had his reinforcements. He stepped up to the massive stone door and eyed its simple iron handle. He cast spells to banish fear, to give him strength. He tried to reject the Elhiyne power that flooded through his soul, but it would not allow that. He cast a strong spell of shadow and tried not to think of death, though he knew well that it awaited him in the room beyond. But he must try, he knew. He must try, even if only to take a few of them with him to death’s gate.

  Shaking with fear, he reached up slowly and quietly undid the latch that held the door. The Kulls beyond were no longer pressed against it, but were waiting confidently for help. He held his sword in his right hand and clutched the door’s handle in his left. He tensed his muscles, leaned far back and pulled with all his weight. The heavy stone door came toward him slowly, and as it did so he used its mass to propel him through the opening that appeared.

  He gave no battle cry, screamed no curse. He merely stepped among the Kulls silently, his sword gripped in both hands as he swung it through a hissing arc, a shadow dancing death among his enemies. The first Kull went down before the rest even realized that death walked among them. The second fared no better, but as he turned upon the third the surprise ended and pandemonium exploded about him.

  He chopped at an arm, kicked at a crotch, bashed a head with the hilt of his sword. He saw an opening, thrust into it with the point; saw another, cut down with the blade, and while he fought, France’s words echoed through his head: “If you ever stand alone against many, and cannot escape, then stay in the thick of it, for they will have to care for their fellows, but you can kill to your heart’s content.”

  Morgin ducked beneath a stroke that hissed past his ear, saw an open knee and kicked at it. The room filled with screams of pain and anger. He stepped into a shadow, changed directions, stepped out again. His life narrowed to a world of slashing steel and hacking death, and slowly, inevitable, he weakened. But as his muscles grew weary his sword seemed strangely lighter, as if it swung with a will of its own.

  Morgin saw a face, kicked it. He saw an arm, chopped it. He parried a stroke from a Kull saber, ducked beneath another as a heavy boot crashed into his ribs. He gasped, stumbled beneath a sword stroke, parried the next one clumsily. He stepped away from it off balance, falling, knowing that once down he would not again rise. He watched helplessly as a Kull saber descended toward his face, knowing he was about to die. But then his own sword leapt suddenly to meet the Kull’s with a crash of sparks, and Morgin, holding desperately to its hilt with both hands, was lifted miraculously to his feet.

  He stood there for a moment in stunned disbelief, staring at the blade as it vibrated in his hands. It glowed and hummed with power, and moved with a strength of its own. It pulled him after it and deflected a Kull’s saber with such force that the halfman’s guard fell open, then it cut him in two. Morgin tried to control it, but the sword fought on, heedless of his efforts, dragging him along helplessly behind it. He fought with all of his strength just to hold on, for it cut with a might far beyond any he could command. The battle became a rout. The few Kulls that remained retreated in confusion, but their only escape led back into the sanctum, and there they were cornered.

  The sword pulled Morgin in after them, and he felt as if he were holding onto the tail of a wild animal mad with bloodlust. His arms ached, and he feared that if he lost hold of the sword, it would turn upon him to continue its butchery. The Kulls fought back desperately, but the sword cut them to pieces, hacking, chopping, dismembering, throwing Morgin from side to side as if he were no more than a decorative tassel tied to its hilt. Then his grip failed, and for an instant he spun crazily through the air before he slammed up hard against a stone wall and lost consciousness.

  ~~~

  Gradually his head stopped spinning. He lay on something that felt like a dead Kull. He opened his eyes and saw red, red everywhere. Everything about him seemed drenched in red blood.

  A deep, base hum filled his ears, flooding the room with a vibration that could be felt as well as heard. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from an intense red light in the center of the sanctum. But then, as if responding to his movements the light softened. He peered carefully through slitted fingers and was not surprised to see his sword floating unsupported well above the floor, its point aimed toward the heavens. It hummed, vibrated, pulsed with power, and it hovered, waiting for him to move.

  He was careful to move slowly as he climbed to his feet. The floor was slippery with blood, and littered with parts of Kulls. He tried to work his way around the edge of the room toward the entrance, staying well clear of the sword and close to the wall. But as he approached the portal the sword moved, blocking his path. He tried moving around to the other side, and it did the same. It seemed not to threaten him; it merely floated in front of his face, waiting.

  He could think of nothing better to do so he reached out and gingerly wrapped his fingers about the hilt. He stood for a moment, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. He pulled on it, and it resisted. He pulled harder, and it resisted harder. He pulled with all his might, almost lifting his feet off the floor, and then it suddenly let go, sending him sprawling among the carnage.

  He lay there for a moment in complete darkness. The sword had gone silent and its light had vanished. In his hand it seemed now to be a steel sword and nothing more.

  ~~~

  “MichaelOff,” Morgin hissed. “It’s me. Morgin.”

  MichaelOff relaxed. He lowered the broadsword. “I heard the commotion and feared you’d been discovered.”

  “No,” Morgin said. “I’m safe. But I had to kill the Tulalane and some Kulls. The gates can no longer wait for dawn. We must move now, while there’s still confusion. Can you make my father aware?”

  MichaelOff spoke hesitantly, “I think so. I’ve been concentrating on Roland’s image in my thoughts since I first heard cries from the castle proper. I’ve been trying to convey a sense of urgency.”

  “Does he know, then?” Morgin asked. “Will they be ready with so little warning?”

  “I can answer neither question. The magical bond that connects us is tenuous at best.”

  Morgin hesitated, tempted to abandon their quest and seek refuge in the old castle, perhaps open the gates at another time, but he realized that would be foolish. “We’ll have to assume he understands.” He took MichaelOff’s hand and started for the gatehouse.

  They moved hastily through the castle night, aware that once the general confusion dissipated there would be little chance of succeeding. MichaelOff stayed close, using his magic to anticipate Morgin’s moves while Morgin t
ried to keep them both enveloped in shadow. Earlier they had decided upon two simple signals. If Morgin squeezed MichaelOff’s hand forcefully, it was a sign to freeze in place and be still, to wait until the next squeeze before continuing. The other signal was even less complicated. If they were discovered, surrounded by Kulls with no escape, Morgin would give the word, they would stand back to back, and die fighting together as kinsmen, though MichaelOff made Morgin promise he would be certain neither of them was taken alive. Luckily that was never called for, although Morgin found it necessary to use the first signal several times before they reached the gatehouse.

  There were three guards in the small room that housed the wheel that pulled the chains that controlled the opening and closing of the main gates and the portcullis. Two stood peering out a window while the third sat watching the entrance through which Morgin must pass. Shouts and cries and the sounds of pandemonium echoed up from the castle proper. One of the Kulls standing at the window said, “Wonder what all the ruckus is about?”

  The other answered, “Bet one of them Elhiyne whores tried to kill Valso again.”

  The one seated said, “More likely the Tulalane tried to kill him. There’s bad magic between those two.”

  The seated Kull looked toward the two at the window. Morgin took that opportunity to slip through the doorway and into a shadow within. “Aye,” one of the two at the window said. “One of those two will kill the other before this is done.”

  Morgin worked his way along the wall to a point behind the seated Kull. It was a small room, and from there he could easily reach all three with a step and swing of his sword. But he knew he couldn’t kill them all quickly enough to prevent an outcry. Standing there undecided, his sword made the decision for him. Without warning it leapt in his hand, left him no choice but to follow, and before he realized what had happened, all three lay dead at his feet.

  He wasted no time pondering dead Kulls. He retrieved MichaelOff from the hallway, closed the door to the room, upturned a small table and wedged it tightly beneath the door handle. It would not hold against a determined effort, but it might buy them a few precious moments when most needed. MichaelOff, long familiar with the room, had found the gate wheel by touch and stood now with his hands upon it. Luckily, the portcullis was already up, so the gates were their only obstacle.

  Morgin stepped up to the small window and peered out at the yard below. They were on the second floor just above the porch roof. The yard was empty. The only sounds to be heard were muffled cries coming from within the castle proper, probably a response to the carnage he’d left in the sanctum. At least that appeared to have provided a diversion of sorts.

  He climbed gingerly out onto the roof tiles, careful to make no sound lest there be a guard on the porch below. He held tightly to the windowsill and whispered to MichaelOff, “Wait one hundred beats of your heart, then open the gates as fast as you can.”

  MichaelOff left the wheel, groped his way to the window. He took Morgin’s hand and placed it against his breast. “If your heart beats like mine this night, then the count of one hundred will come all too soon.”

  MichaelOff’s heart pounded a staccato beat of adrenaline and fear against Morgin’s hand. “Three hundred beats then,” Morgin said.

  MichaelOff held onto Morgin’s hand tightly and for a moment would not release it. “Cousin,” he said. He wrinkled his brow, turned his head as if to sense a distant sound beyond Morgin’s hearing. “I think we’ll not meet again, Morgin, not in this life, not in peace.”

  “Don’t speak that way,” Morgin hissed. “We’ll protect each other.”

  “Yes,” MichaelOff agreed. “We will defeat the Decouixs. And if I am lucky, I will die now, fighting like a man. I could not bear to spend the rest of my life led around like a blind pet on a leash, only half a man.”

  “Promise me you’ll do nothing foolish.”

  MichaelOff smiled. “Don’t worry, little cousin.” He leaned forward and kissed Morgin gently on the cheek. “Fare you well, Morgin. And guard your back.”

  “Fare you well,” Morgin said. He turned, tiptoed along the roof tiles, counting his own heart beats and wiping tears from his eyes. He reached the count of one hundred as he came to the end of the porch roof. He dropped to the ground below, stepped into a shadow and froze. There came no cry, no alarm, no call to arms.

  He moved within the shadows at the edge of the yard, working his way slowly toward the main gates. All remained still and quiet. He reached the count of two hundred just as he stepped up to the gates. He scanned the castle yard cautiously, saw no one there. He stuck the tip of his sword in the dirt, grasped the pegs protruding from the heavy wooden beam that locked the gates, and pulled. To move the massive beam alone took all his strength, and he grunted with the effort, but the beam slid heavily to one side.

  “You’re so predictable,” Valso said.

  In one motion Morgin grabbed his sword and spun about. He and Valso stood facing one another surrounded by Kulls. Valso grinned happily. “So you would open the gates, would you?”

  Morgin’s heart climbed up into his throat. He’d lost count of its beats. There were at least twenty Kulls, far more than he’d fought in the sanctum. He waited to feel the vibration in the sword’s hilt, to hear the hum of its power, but in his hands it remained no more than a piece of steel.

  “Well,” Valso said. “Now that you’ve unlocked the gates, you must gain the gatehouse. Or do you expect the gates to open themselves?”

  At that moment the gates creaked loudly as they began to swing open. Surprised, Valso turned suddenly to look toward the gatehouse, and his Kulls turned to follow his gaze. Morgin seized the moment, raised his sword high, screamed at the top of his lungs, and with nowhere else to go, charged at Valso.

  A Kull saber got in his way. He sidestepped, missed Valso completely, crashed into a Kull, ricocheted off the halfman and into another. He and several of them sprawled into the dust of the yard. He rolled out of the confusion, concentrated all of his power into a shadow spell, sprang to his feet and slipped into the shadows of the porch.

  “Where is he?” a Kull shouted.

  “Forget him,” Valso screamed. “To the gatehouse. And quickly.”

  The Kulls obeyed instantly, ran for the stairs that led to the parapets. But Morgin stepped from a nearby shadow and cut down the first to arrive without warning, then stepped back into another shadow. The next, only an instant behind, took Morgin’s second thrust in the throat. Morgin changed shadows, but now warned, the third Kull stopped several paces short of any shadows near the stairs. He crouched low, looked eagerly from side to side, but by that time Morgin had melted back into the shadows and was nowhere to be seen.

  Valso stood cockily in the center of the yard. He sniffed the air like a dog, then chose a shadow and pointed a finger. Lightning arced outward from his hand, struck Morgin squarely in the face. He staggered, almost lost consciousness, alive only by virtue of his own power. But Valso’s lightning struck again, and his world narrowed to a hazy vision of blurred shapes as he stumbled into the center of the yard swinging his sword blindly.

  “Kill him quickly,” Valso shouted, “and be done with him. Then to the gatehouse.”

  The Kulls closed in. Morgin back-stepped desperately, bracing himself for the sword cut that would take his life. But MichaelOff’s bloodcurdling shout stopped them all. “Decouix,” he screamed from high above on the porch roof, having crawled out through the gatehouse window. He gripped the great broadsword with both hands and stood alight with power, his deathmagic glowing like a beacon in the night. “Now you die,” he screamed, and jumped from the roof. He landed in the midst of the Kulls, his eyes glowing pits of power, the sword in his hands singing a song of death.

  Morgin tried to fight his way toward him to help, but there were too many Kull sabers blocking his way. He side stepped a thrust, back-stepped, swung his sword through a flat arc, and watched the Kulls cut MichaelOff down. MichaelOff fought without quart
er, but little by little they cut him to pieces, and he died in the castle yard as he had chosen to die, while the battle forced Morgin slowly back through the open gates of Elhiyne and out onto the road.

  He heard hoof beats on the road behind him. He ducked beneath a Kull saber, turned, ducked beneath an Elhiyne saber wielded by a rider on a charging mount. He tried to scream that he was not some Kull, but the screams of battle were louder. He ducked beneath another Elhiyne saber, then straightened up in the path of a charging steed. He had one long instant in which to realize it was not humanly possible to evade the animal, then the world disappeared in a blinding collision, and unconsciousness took him.

  The impact batted him into the ditch at the side of the road. The fighting continued without him as more Elhiyne armsmen arrived with every second. The predawn night filled with the screams of dying men and the clash of arms. Elhiyne warriors on mounted steeds came from every direction, and they cut the fleeing Kulls down without mercy.

  ~~~

  As a faint glow on the horizon hinted at the coming dawn, a lone figure moved cautiously through the darkness of the castle yard, lurking in the shadows beneath the parapets, advancing steadily toward the castle’s main gates. In the distance the triumphant cries of Elhiyne warriors pierced the night as they hunted down the last of the Kulls, while in the yard the only sounds were the occasional moan of a wounded clansman, or a grunt as a disabled Kull received the death stroke.

  Valso moved hastily, conscious that he must be well away before the Elhiynes managed to restore order. He must get past the guard at the gates and into the open fields beyond. At least the gates and the portcullis were open, and would not close soon. MichaelOff, damn his soul, had done considerable damage to the mechanism that ruled their closing. They were open, and only a single guard stood in Valso’s way.