by J. L. Doty
~~~
Morgin awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding in his throat. He jumped to his feet, sword drawn, waves of terror washing over him. Directly in front of him the fire had dwindled to dull glowing embers. Gone were the men who had been seated next to him, and too, those who had been asleep. Alone, he peered into the darkness and prepared to defend himself against some unknown danger. But as his heart slowed and his breathing calmed, he realized it had all been only a dream, a very bad dream, but still only a dream.
He sighed heavily, slid his sword into its sheath, then sat back down on the stone bench. He tried to recall the dream, but it came back to him only in small bits and pieces. He remembered riding a great horse, a charger bred for strength in battle. It was the kind of war-horse rarely seen in his day, an animal out of the past, like those depicted on the walls of the old castle. The horse had been arrayed in livery of the most expensive kind, and Morgin, astride the great steed in his dream, had looked down at his own hands and arms to find them clothed in silks and fine linens. The material had been bordered by gold and silver thread, with here and there a jewel sewn in for sparkle. His dream had been so vivid he could remember the weight of heavy chain mail on his legs, arms, and back. He had worn a full suit of it beneath the silk and linen, something he could never have afforded in anything but a dream. On his head rested a helmet studded with more jewels, and at his side hung a great broadsword, a sword that jogged his memory as if he’d seen it before in another dream, another time and another place.
But this had been a good dream, not the kind of dream to make him awake trembling with fear. In his finery he had ridden among a vast army and they’d cheered him. They’d bowed at his feet and called him sire, asking his blessing and swearing their allegiance to him. It hadn’t been a bad dream, at least not what he could remember of it. But he realized there were parts of it that were lost to him. Perhaps the dream had changed in some way that now he could not recall.
The old man spoke from out of the darkness. “Would yer lordship like some porridge?”
“No, thank you,” Morgin said, trying to locate the voice in the gloom beyond the light of the fire, wondering if he should be angry at Abileen for telling the old man his identity.
“Are you sure, milord?” The old man stepped into the light and tossed another log onto the dying embers. Sparks erupted upward. “It’s hot, milord, and thick. And what you don’t eat I’m throwin’ into the gorge. No sense savin’ it fer Decouix scum.”
Morgin’s stomach growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and the porridge suddenly sounded awfully good. “I think I will have some,” he said. “But what’s this you say about the Decouixs? They’re coming here?”
“Aye, milord. About sunup. But we’ve got plenty of time before then. You just sit back. I’ll get yer porridge, and maybe we can find some sugar to go with it.”
“Thank you,” Morgin said, feeling better. “Thank you. Oh! One more thing. Has there been any word from Elhiyne?”
“No, milord. None.”
“How long ago did the sun set?”
“More than two hours, milord.”
Morgin nodded and the old man left.
Later he learned that the old man’s name was Durado. He and his only son Samull lived near the gorge where they maintained a way-station for travelers. Morgin remembered the depth of snow that still lay by the side of the trail, and thought that the old man and his son must lead a solitary and hard life.
Durado told him he’d received orders from Olivia to close the pass. They’d destroy any provisions on the east side, then remove the railings from the stone bridge and retreat westward. There, they’d station archers to stop anyone who might be foolish enough to attempt a crossing.
It was reported that Salula was riding ahead of Illalla’s army with twelve twelves of Kulls on short rations. He’d detach fifty or so to Kallun’s gorge, then take the remainder south to Sa’umbra Gap. His intentions were obvious: to close both passes completely so that any Elhiyne resistance could not be supplied from the west. Salula and his halfmen would eat poorly for a few days, but Illalla and his army would not be far behind, and control of the passes would greatly speed his conquest.
Morgin listened to all of this, and wondered why he had chosen to ride into the face of that army. He thought on that for some time but came up with no answer, and when he looked he noticed that the same question was written on the faces of the old man and his son, though they were too polite, or fearful, to speak it aloud.
Durado sent his son with Morgin as a guide. The trail down the eastern side of the pass was treacherous at best, and with its twisting and turning ways would have been impossible for Morgin alone, though even with Samull’s leadership it was difficult and tiring, and more than once Morgin was thankful for the boy’s company.
They passed through a number of small villages on the trail, strange little clusters of huts that clung precariously to the side of the mountain, always placed on what seemed the most inhospitable terrain. Morgin’s imagination pictured them in daylight bustling with activity, peopled by a hearty race of mountain folk immune to the harsh realities of winter in the Worshipers. But now, in anticipation of the evil that would soon settle upon them, they were silent, dark and deserted.
It was not until well past midnight, after several hours of exhaustive riding, that the trail leveled off some. Samull told Morgin that the going would be easier then, though he would not turn back at Morgin’s request. And Morgin, no longer required to concentrate so on guiding Mortiss, relaxed his soul for the first time in days. His magic, now beyond any control of his doing, detected the scent of Kulls on a nether wind. They were not far below, and riding steadily up the trail.
He turned quickly to Samull. “Go back. Now.”
“But sir!” Samull pleaded. “The trail is still dangerous.”
“I have my magic to guide me,” Morgin said. “But the Kulls are approaching, and I’ll not have you with me when they pass.”
Samull’s eyes opened fearfully. “The halfmen?”
“Aye. The halfmen.”
“But what of you, milord?”
“My magic will hide me. But you must go back. Now. I command it.” Ironically, Morgin realized he sounded quite like Olivia.
“Aye, milord,” Samull said. “May the gods protect you.” The boy turned his horse and disappeared quietly up the trail.
Morgin wasted no time. He backtracked up the trail, found a spot where he and Mortiss could step off into the trees. They could not go far, but he managed to get them fully off the main path. He dismounted, stood near the horse’s head, then cast a spell to calm the beast and keep her still. But as the magic washed over her, she shook it off as if she had power of her own and needed not the aid of some mortal fool.
Only seconds later the first Kull rounded a turn in the trail, a dark apparition seated atop a black horse visible only as a shadow in the moonlight. To Morgin’s senses the halfman and his horse emitted no humanness, no life.
More Kulls appeared behind the first. Their horses trudged slowly and methodically up the trail, as if they were stone given life only by magic, and not a single Kull spoke. There was none of the chatter that would come from a troop of men, only the creak of saddle leather and the soft clop of many hooves. It was an eerie sound that filled the moonlit night, an evil sound that raised the hairs on the back of Morgin’s neck. He held his breath as they passed, and was thankful for the moonlight and the contrast it gave to the shadows in which he and Mortiss hid.
When the last Kull disappeared far up the trail and well out of sight, Morgin released his breath in a long, slow sigh. He stretched his tired muscles, and resisted the temptation to lay down then and there to rest.
Sleep! With the exception of that short nap at the top of the pass he hadn’t slept in days. He’d lain unconscious in a ditch for some hours, but that was far from restful sleep. It took great willpower to lead Mortiss back out onto the trail and mou
nt up. Oddly, she seemed to know the trail even in the dark so he let her pick her own path, and he resolved that he would have to move with caution, for now his enemies were both behind and in front of him.
Mortiss, without his urging, maintained a grueling pace. Even when he tried to slow her, to pace her carefully, she refused and pressed on, as if she had no need of rest or other mortal comforts, and by noon of the following day they had covered a good distance. The trail leveled out some, and the hillsides across which it cut were far less treacherous, though still quite dangerous if one was careless. The land about him was rocky and harsh, but green with a life of shrubs and ferns so thick he could never have cut a new trail through it. And above it all towered the forest, evergreens so high they were un-climbable, so dense that the sun seemed lost from the sky.
Morgin met no one on the trail that day. He passed by several small farms with no signs of life, and through three villages that likewise appeared deserted. The last was the largest of the three. In the middle of the village a catch-pool collected water from a nearby stream, and there he stopped to refill his water skin.
He desperately needed rest. He sat down at the edge of the pool and dropped Mortiss’ reins, knowing somehow that she would not wander off. She walked casually to a nearby animal trough and bent her head to drink. A peaceful silence descended on the village and the surrounding forest, a silence broken only by the lap-lap sound of Mortiss’ tongue in the water, the rustle of leaves in a soft breeze, the slow and unbroken hiss of a thousand drops of accumulated mist dripping from the leaves of the forest. But there was another sound too, almost masked by the others, and Morgin was slow to recognize it: the pad of feet moving stealthily between two of the huts.
He jumped to his feet and drew his sword. Mortiss, sensitive to the tension in the air, stopped drinking. The silence descended again.
Morgin stood with his back to Mortiss and eyed the huts about him, then reached out with his magic to sense who might be lying in wait. It took but a moment for him to locate thirty or forty living beings scattered throughout the huts and the forest beyond, all more fearful of him than he of them.
“I am Elhiyne,” he shouted. There came no reply. “You have nothing to fear from me. I am here to kill Decouixs, not peasants.”
He waited several seconds and there came no answer, so he sheathed his sword, mounted Mortiss, and rode out of the village.
Beyond the village the path widened enough for a small cart and the going eased somewhat. Mortiss kept up her pace as if she were in collusion with Olivia and wanted to be sure that no time would be wasted in delivering Morgin to his fate, and near nightfall they reached the Road of the Seventh Deed, often called the God’s Road. Morgin remembered asking as a child what the strange names meant, but no one seemed to know, though quite a few were willing to make up stories.
The road led north to Yestmark, then into the Decouix lands. It also led south to Sa’umbra Gap, and beyond that to castle Inetka. But south was of no concern to Morgin. Illalla would use this road to bring his army down from the north to Sa’umbra Gap. And it was on this road that Morgin would meet him. Morgin wondered what he would do when that time came, but he put those thoughts quickly from his mind for he had reached the point of complete exhaustion. It was time to rest.
He led Mortiss off the trail to a spot some distance into the forest, finding that the dense undergrowth was ribboned with small game trails and moderately passable. He tied the animal’s reins to a nearby branch, then cleared a space to sleep. He summoned a minor demon and placed it under geas to watch over him and awaken him at the moon’s rising, but Mortiss shooed it away with her own magic. She would watch over him, and she would wake him when the time was right.
I’m so tired I’m beginning to imagine things, he thought. He’d lost the demon through carelessness, and he was too weak to summon another. He shrugged, wrapped himself in his blanket, and without lighting a fire lay down to a restless and fitful sleep.
Chapter 17: The Path of Power
Tall trees lined both sides of the God’s Road, turning the night sky above into a thin slit of dark night and sparkling stars. The rays of a gibbous moon lit half of the road brightly, while the other half remained a thin streak of black moon-shadow, cast by the angle of the moon and the height of the trees on that side of the road. Morgin found it comforting to ride in the shadow, feeling less exposed than in the full light of the moon.
Mortiss had awakened him with the rising moon, and they’d begun their journey north. He was in no hurry to meet the oncoming army, so he kept her at a slow but steady pace. But shortly after they’d begun travelling he spotted a dark shadow ahead in the road. It appeared to be a crumpled heap of some sort, but not until he reached it did he realize it was the remains of some poor soul caught on the road by the Kulls and cut down without mercy. Farther on he discovered other bodies, and parts of bodies. The Kulls had butchered anyone they’d encountered on the God’s Road.
Near sunrise of the first night on the road he came to the river Augis. Just across the river the road passed through the center of a large village, and as he approached it he could smell death hanging on the air. The village had been burned and its population slaughtered. Bodies were strewn about everywhere; the lucky ones had been cut down quickly, while the unlucky had been hacked slowly to pieces. He rode through it slowly, wishing he could look away from the carnage.
At the far edge of town his eye caught a brightly colored heap of cloth lying by the road. He dismounted to investigate, and found a small girl of no more than ten or twelve years. Her gaily-colored skirt had been pulled upward, then tied about her throat with a piece of rope to trap her arms within its folds. The Kulls had stopped for some pleasure, then finished by strangling her in the cloth of her own gown. He cursed them, then sobbing openly, he buried her in a shallow grave.
He rode out of that village at full gallop, spurring Mortiss unmercifully, demanding all the speed she could deliver. He rode through that day and into the next night, stopping only during those few hours between sunset and moonrise. He pushed himself and Mortiss constantly, tapping the power that seemed now to hover always about him. The death he saw in the road goaded him into haste. It was never long between one crumpled heap in the moonlight and the next, and as each appeared in the distance he felt drawn to it, rushing to confirm that it was more death, then rushing on to be away from it.
He now knew what he must do. By some strange twist of fate it had been left to him to end the killing, and without an army at his back there was only one way to do that: Illalla must die, even if Morgin must die with him.
Mortiss, seemingly inexhaustible, perhaps sensing the murderous rage that drove him, never slackened her pace. Again he sensed a strange intelligence within the animal, as if she felt even more compelled than he to seek Illalla’s death. Again he dismissed his thoughts as pure fantasy.
It was shortly before sunrise of his second night on the road that Morgin came to the river Ulbb. There was no bridge here at the crossing, but instead a wide shallows that made for an easy ford. The riverbed was solid, primarily pebbles and sand and small rocks the size of a man’s finger. Morgin dismounted to drink, to rest, and to watch the sun rise. He allowed Mortiss free rein to graze, found a spot well off the road and sat down by the water’s edge.
The water at the crossing was no more than ankle deep, rippling over the rocky bottom like a babbling brook, but the babble here was a soft roar, for the ford was easily two hundred paces wide. He closed his eyes, but resisted the temptation to lie back, for he knew if he passed into sleep, he would not wake for hours. As he sat there, the backs of his eyelids brightened to a deep red and his face warmed as the sun splashed its first rays over the horizon.
He heard a voice in the distance and opened his eyes. Up the road, on the other side of the ford, he saw three peasants walking his way: a very large and broad-shouldered man, a woman and a young boy. All three wore simple homespun, and carried bundles strapped to
their backs.
The spot Morgin had chosen to rest was far enough off the road that they clearly hadn’t seen him yet. He waited until they’d splashed through the shallow water in the ford and had crossed the river, then he stepped out onto the road and into view. The three froze in their tracks and eyed him fearfully. The large fellow crouched slightly into a defensive posture. The woman’s eyes darted about desperately as she looked for a means of escape. The boy clutched her sleeve, his mouth open in a big round O.
Morgin extended his hands, palms up. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
The big fellow said, “Yer wearing a halfman’s cloak.”
Morgin glanced down at his clothing, then back at the peasants. “So I am. When I’m shivering in the cold of the night I’m not too particular about the cloak I wear. I’m Morgin et Elhiyne, and I’m no Kull. In fact I’ve killed a few halfmen recently, and intend to kill a few more.” Brave words, Morgin thought, and hoped he could live up to them.
The man and woman both dropped to their knees, muttering, “Yer Wizardness.” The boy stood unmoving, his mouth still wide open. The woman grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down to his knees. She said, “Fergive us, Yer Wizardness. We be thinking ye was a black rider. They be all abouts, ye know.”
Morgin said, “Stand up. And rest easy.”
The woman’s name was Gulk, the boy was Ikth, and the man Ott. The woman did most of the talking for the three. “We be fleeing the hordes from the north, hiding from the black riders whenever we sees ‘em coming.”
“You’re from up north then?”
“Aye, yer wizardship. We be from Yestmark.”
“Yestmark? Then you have news of the battle?”
“Aye. It went ill. Twas a slaughter, it was.”
“And Eglahan?” Morgin asked. “What of him?”
