by J. L. Doty
Valso edged closer. He clutched his dagger in one hand and shielded it form view with the other, for it glowed in the dark with a magic more deadly than any earthly venom. His heart beat rapidly in anticipation of the kill, though the erection in his pants distracted him badly. He concentrated on the mechanics of killing the guard, tried not to think of the death itself, sweet, glorious death. But as he thought of the kill his excitement grew, until he literally shook with murderous desire. He struggled against it, knowing that he must be swift, denying himself the pleasure of tearing the guard limb from limb in an orgy of death.
When the opportunity came, he moved. The knife flashed through the night and the guard died instantly. The magical poison Valso had conjured worked so swiftly the guard uttered not the slightest sound. Valso paused over the body, savoring the thrill of death, disappointed only by its swiftness. He looked away, though he had to struggle to do so. He scanned the castle yard quickly to confirm that he remained undiscovered, then turned and vanished into the night.
Chapter 15: The Question of Honor
The skeleton king ambled up the road toward Castle Elhiyne like a frail, old man, using the magnificent, rune inlaid sword as a cane. About him scampered a small child, dressed in an array of filthy and torn rags. False dawn had arrived, the sun still hidden behind the mountains to the east, barely throwing enough light across the landscape to dispel the night. The ditch by the side of the road was filled with a thick mist that easily hid anything within it.
The skeleton king stopped at a certain spot and looked down at the mist-filled ditch. To no one in particular he said, “He’s here.”
He turned to the rag-draped child. “Rat. Go find his sword.”
The small child turned unerringly to one side, as if there was no question in his mind where to find the battered old blade. He disappeared into the mist, then reappeared a moment later, dragging the blade behind him across the road, for it was clearly too heavy for him to lift.
As he approached, the skeleton king reached down, lifted the sword by its hilt, then eased himself gingerly down into the mist of the ditch. He knelt and reached down into the mist, said, “Yes, he’s here,” then laid the sword down carefully.
He stood, turned to the small child. “Here, Rat, help an old man out of this ditch.”
With the child helping, he climbed awkwardly out of the ditch, then paused over SarahGirl’s carcass, still lying in the middle of the road and beginning to bloat. The skeleton king shook his head. “He needs a new mount.”
He turned to the child. “Come, Rat. We’ll have to get him a new mount.”
He turned to the castle, ambled toward its damaged gates with the painful gait of an old man. With the child scampering in his wake he said over his shoulder, “Yes, a new mount. A special mount. One equal to the ordeal that awaits him.”
~~~
Morgin became conscious first of a demanding throb in the back of his head, then of his arm, twisted painfully at an odd angle beneath him. He rolled off the arm carefully, grimaced as a sharp pain shot through his elbow and shoulder. He gasped, lay on his back until the pain dissipated, and when it was bearable a quick examination by touch told him his arm wasn’t broken.
He opened his eyes, could see nothing but a strange, white mist that enveloped him. He wondered for a moment if he had died and gone to some afterlife, but then he sat up and his head rose above the mist that filled the ditch. He saw the sun rising over the mountains to the east and realized it was just after dawn, and the mist that surrounded him lay still and calm in the quiet of the cold spring morning. He scanned his surroundings carefully; dead Kulls were strewn about like broken dolls discarded by a petulant child. He looked for his kinsmen among the dead, but the Elhiynes had had the advantage of charging cavalry against foot soldiers, and only Kulls littered the landscape.
He found something lying hidden within the mist at his side, and even before he had it lifted above the swirling gray haze his hand told him it was his sword. He shivered in the cold, clutched the hilt of his sword, climbed slowly to his feet, stood knee deep in mist, and swayed for a moment unsteadily. He didn’t think he’d been unconscious for more than a few hours, but during that time the damp cold had worked its way deep into his bones. He looked down at himself, covered from head to foot in a brown layer of dried and caked blood, dusted with the dirt of the castle yard, splattered with mud from the ditch, all mingling with the mixed sweats of exertion and fear.
He climbed stiffly out of the ditch, up onto the dirt road. He backtracked up the road a short distance to poor SarahGirl’s carcass, now stiff and lifeless. It was an effort to pull his sheath from beneath her weight, but he managed it. He wiped his sword on his sleeve, sheathed it, turned toward the castle and limped unevenly toward its open gates.
“Halt and identify yourself,” someone shouted from the battlements above, “or die where you stand.”
Morgin was careful not to move. “I am Morgin ye AethonLaw et Elhiyne, son of Roland and AnnaRail.”
There was a muffled conference above. “Wait there,” the voice on the parapets shouted. “And move not a muscle.”
Morgin stood shivering in the cold dawn air. After a time the voice shouted, “All right. Come forward. But move slowly, and if you love life keep your hand away from the hilt of that sword.”
Morgin did as he was told, careful not to make any quick movements as he walked through the gates. He was greeted by a dozen men armed with crossbows. More than a few of them quivered with taut nerves and tired muscles.
Among them stood Avis. “It’s Lord Morgin, all right,” he said. He stepped forward, bowed slightly. The bowmen hesitated until he turned back to them. “There is no doubt. I’ve known him since he was a child.”
With that the crowd of bowmen dissipated, leaving Morgin and Avis suddenly alone. Morgin saw more dead Kulls strewn about the castle yard, with an occasional corpse respectfully covered by a blanket and marked with a bit of Elhiyne red.
“Who were the strange bowmen?” Morgin asked.
“They’re armsmen from the west,” Avis said, “sent by March Lord Alcoa to aid us.”
“What of MichaelOff?”
The old servant bowed his head sadly. “I’m sorry, my lord. Lord MichaelOff is dead.”
The words did not sting as deeply as Morgin had expected, for he had known MichaelOff’s fate, but merely hoped that the answer might be different.
“My lord,” Avis said. “The Lady Olivia commanded me to wait here for your arrival. She sends instructions that you are to join her immediately in the Hall of Wills.”
The Hall of Wills was crowded beyond capacity. Many hovered anxiously in the corridors that surrounded it, mostly strangers among whom Morgin saw only a few familiar faces. He elbowed his way delicately past the crowd at the entrance, received several unhappy glances. He took a position against the wall just within the Hall, where he watched Olivia, seated on her throne, speaking to AnnaRail, who stood before her in the only clear spot in the room.
“You have been in contact with Eglahan?” the old witch asked.
“Yes, mother.”
“And?”
“And,” AnnaRail continued, “he reports that he can no longer delay Illalla and his army. He’s done his best to harass and harry him, to slow him, but Illalla moves ever on, ever south. Eglahan estimates they will battle for Yestmark as the sun rises tomorrow.”
“And what are Eglahan’s prospects for victory?”
AnnaRail shook her head. “Poor at best. He has six hundred men of his own, and he will soon have the six hundred we’ve sent him, and yet he is still outnumbered ten to one. It is not a matter of winning or losing, merely of how long they can fight before they must yield.”
“And how long can he hold?”
“One day of battle. Two if luck is with him.”
Something drew Morgin’s eyes to Malka, who sat woodenly beside Olivia, his left arm nothing but a bandaged stump, missing above the elbow. Then he
looked more closely and realized that Malka’s eyes were not focused, that his skin reflected a chalky white pallor.
“Grandson.” Olivia’s voice cut across the room like a knife. Morgin turned to her, found her now looking directly at him.
“So you have chosen to join us,” she said. “Come. Step forward where I can see you better.”
An aisle parted in the crowd before Morgin. He stepped forward warily, for he well knew that tone of voice, and it always bode ill.
She spoke sharply, almost spitting her words. “How was your stay in the forest?”
“It was restful,” Morgin said, thinking of his sojourn in the foothills of the Worshipers, and the small camp he had occupied for many days.
“Restful? With Kulls sniffing about at all hours? But then you always were good at hiding.” For a moment he thought that was all she would say, but then as an afterthought she snarled, “. . . and running.”
As always her meaning eluded him. Morgin said, “There seems to be a misunderstanding—”
“Do you deny running from Valso?”
“No. I—”
“Do you deny hiding in the forest to save your precious hide?”
“No. But I—”
“Silence, coward,” she screamed. “You’re not fit to call yourself of Elhiyne. If the Tulalane were alive I would not insult him by hanging the both of you from the same gallows.”
Morgin tried to say something. “But MichaelOff and I—”
“MichaelOff died at the gates while you hid in the woodland to save your own life. Don’t even speak his name, coward.”
Roland stepped out of the crowd. “Mother, please!”
“Silence,” she screamed. “This time I will stand for no interference. I command it.” Her power sparked fearfully, and into the silence she said, “For your cowardice I banish you from Elhiyne. You have the burning of one small candle to be gone from these walls and this valley. If you are not, I will order your death myself. And after that, any man who brings me your head will be handsomely rewarded. Now get out of my sight.”
There was no arguing with her. He considered defending himself but knew it would be useless, so he turned about silently and walked from the room. He held his head high, tried not to hurry, tried not to appear the cowardly mongrel running with his tail between his legs. But he failed, he knew, failed miserably.
Avis met him in the hall. “My lord. I was instructed to hold a horse ready for your departure. It’s saddled and fully provisioned.”
“Well you can hold it a little longer,” Morgin growled, elbowed Avis aside and continued on.
“My lord?”
“Yes,” Morgin snarled. He stopped, turned and demanded, “What do you want?”
“I ah . . .” The old servant faltered. “I just wanted to tell you, my lord, that I don’t believe you’re a coward.”
Morgin froze with an angry retort on his lips, and he remembered then that throughout his life the old servant had never borne him any malice. “Thank you, Avis. Thank you. It’s good to know that.”
But Avis’ reassurances helped little as Morgin made his lonely way through the crowded castle. He had been branded a coward, publicly, by his own grandmother, and sentenced to death. Such news would travel throughout the clan almost instantly, and it would take only a little longer to pass every ear in the tribe. He was fair game for any man with the inclination to take him on.
Morgin was not surprised to find his quarters ransacked, that what few belongings he had were strewn haphazardly about the room. Most of his clothing had been ripped and torn, but by carefully searching he managed to find a clean blouse, and breeches that weren’t too badly damaged.
The bathhouse was empty. He found one of the tubs half filled with water, tested it with a finger. It was near freezing. He stripped off his clothing and climbed in with a gasp. The water quickly turned brown from the filth that covered his face and arms. He did what he could to remove the grime and the dried blood.
He had nothing better at hand so he used his dirty blouse to dry off. He threw on the clean breeches and blouse, pulled on his boots, tucked the breeches in just below the knees. He threw the leather jerkin he’d been wearing into what remained of the dirty bath water, made a quick job of cleaning it. He put it on, was in the process of lacing it up, when Marjinell entered the bathhouse, marched angrily across the stone floor and took a position directly in front of him.
She said nothing. She stood with her fists on her hips and glared at him. He tried to pretend that she wasn’t there, but after a long wait she finally spat, “Don’t ignore me.”
Morgin looked into her eyes. They were red from many tears, and sharp with anger. “That would be impossible,” he said.
“You think you’re witty, don’t you?”
“No,” Morgin said. “I’m just tired, and in a hurry.”
“Hurrying to leave, no doubt.”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Hurrying to slip away before you’re discovered, before you pay the price for your cowardice.”
“No,” Morgin said again. “It seems I must always pay that price. Now what do you want?”
“You know what I want,” she hissed.
“I’m sorry. But no, I don’t.”
At that moment Brandon entered the room. His face was pinched with concern for his mother, and his eyes had shed a few tears of their own.
“MichaelOff is dead,” she spat.
“I know,” Morgin said. “I grieve for him too.”
Without warning she slapped him across the face. “Liar,” she screamed.
“Mother, please,” Brandon begged.
Morgin tasted blood in his mouth. “What do you want?” he asked. “I can’t bring him back.”
Her lips curled into a snarl. Her eyes again filled with tears. “Why didn’t you die instead?”
AnnaRail and Roland entered the room as Morgin whispered, “I only wish I had.”
“Liar,” she screamed again, and again she struck at him; the sound of her hand against his face made a clap that echoed from the stone walls. Morgin staggered backward, blood now running down his chin. Roland and AnnaRail both converged upon Marjinell, uttering soothing words, trying to calm her. She screamed something about Malka and MichaelOff, begging the gods to take Morgin’s life instead.
For the moment her attention was devoted to fending off Roland and AnnaRail, so Morgin took that opportunity to exit. He walked quickly past them toward the door. Marjinell screamed, “Let go of me.” There came a flurry of activity behind him and the others screamed out a warning.
Morgin turned, found Marjinell upon him with her arm raised high, steel glinting in her hand. He raised an arm as a shield and fire danced down his forearm as she struck. She tried to strike again, but before she could Roland and Brandon were upon her, each holding an arm while AnnaRail took the small dagger from her hand. She cursed and screamed and spit, lace and petticoats swirling in all directions.
“Marjinell,” Morgin said sharply. He was surprised to find his voice strong and hard. The room fell silent and they all looked at him. When he continued his voice was normal again. “If it will give you peace, then know that grandmother has already given me a sentence of death.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Brandon unhappily told her of the scene in the Hall of Wills. She smiled, threw back her head and laughed. “So we will yet have our justice, MichaelOff and Malka and I. I hope you die slowly and painfully, coward.”
Morgin turned his back on her and left the bathhouse, but out in the hall he heard her scream, “I hope you burn in the ninth hell for eternity, coward. I hope nether demons heap pain and suffering upon you for all time. I curse you, bastard whoreson. For eternity I curse you.”
As Avis had said a provisioned horse awaited him in the stables. It was a coal black mare, lean and hard, a far cry from the likes of poor, dead SarahGirl. She stood motionless as he checked her carefully, a stillness
unusual for such an animal in the presence of an unknown rider. When he tried to examine her teeth she nipped at him; she could have bitten him badly, but merely clicked her teeth near his ear as if to tell him he was irritating her.
He checked her hooves, then the saddle, then spent some time going through the saddle bags, noting each item included in his provisions. Satisfied that nothing important had been missed, he closed the saddle bags, tossed them over the horse’s back, and was about to mount up when AnnaRail’s voice stopped him, “Wait. Please.”
He turned and she embraced him tightly. They stood that way for a long moment.
“Do not blame Marjinell,” she said. “She is blinded by grief for MichaelOff and Malka.”
Morgin nodded. “I understand. How is Malka?”
AnnaRail shook her head. “Bad.”
“But he was sitting up.”
“I know,” she said. “He should rest, but he refuses to lie down. I think because he believes he will never again rise. And I fear he may be right.”
She fell silent, her words a death sentence for Malka far more final than that which Morgin faced.
“Do not blame your grandmother either,” AnnaRail said. “In her own way she is just as hysterical as Marjinell.”
“I know,” Morgin said. “But Marjinell’s hysteria will not be the death of me.”
AnnaRail could say nothing to that. She merely held him tightly in what they both knew might be their final embrace. Roland silently joined them, wrapped his arms about them both. Morgin thought that he might like to remain there forever, held by the two people he most loved, the two people who gave him most freely of their own love.
He pulled away from them reluctantly, and AnnaRail busied herself attending to the cut on his arm. There was some blood, but Marjinell’s dagger had really done no serious damage. AnnaRail cast a small spell and the bleeding stopped. She cast another to clean the wound, then bandaged it carefully. Throughout the process she and Roland and Morgin held to an uncomfortable silence, and it was only when she was done that Morgin noticed the deep sadness in her eyes.
