by J. L. Doty
“Don’t listen to him,” Tulellcoe hissed.
“Listen to me, ShadowLord,” Salula called. “You can at least save your men. Come forth and fight me now, in single combat, and your men will go free. I give you my word.”
“He lies,” Cort snarled hatefully. “Don’t believe him. There’s no honor in that one.”
“Answer me, ShadowLord.”
Tulellcoe turned to Packwill. “Is he within bow shot?”
The scout shook his head. “No, my lord.”
Tulellcoe nodded. “Then this ambush has no hope of success. Pass the word to slip away quietly. We’ll try again, but at another time and place.”
~~~
Morgin crept up to the edge of the cliff and peered cautiously over its lip. Far below the stillness of the valley floor was unbroken by any movement.
“Well?” JohnEngine asked. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” Morgin said.
“Do you think we’ve lost them?”
Morgin stared into the distance. “I hope so,” he said. “We certainly hit them hard enough this morning.”
Cort dropped down beside him. She too stared off into the distance. “Aye,” she said. “Salula walked right into that one. We hurt him badly.” There was a smile on her lips. She enjoyed killing Kulls.
Standing behind them, Tulellcoe said unhappily, “We lost nine men this morning. How many do you think Salula lost?”
“Thirty,” France said flatly. “Maybe forty.”
“And yet he’s winning,” Tulellcoe said. “Because he can afford to lose thirty or forty men, and we can’t afford to lose one.”
Val shrugged. “No doubt that’s his strategy. He’ll hound us until he catches us. You’ve cost Illalla dearly, Morgin, in men and wagons and time. But mostly you’ve cost him his pride. A few hundred Kulls is a small price to pay for your head.”
“I think we’ve lost them,” the Balenda said.
“Perhaps for the moment,” Tulellcoe said. “But Val’s right. Salula won’t give up until we’re all dead.”
Morgin rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, rubbed them gently with his fingertips, noticed the shadows fluttering about his hands. It took a real effort of will to banish them. Sleep! None of them had slept for two days, and Morgin hadn’t truly slept for weeks. He considered that perhaps they should stand now and fight, while they still had the strength to die with honor. But then, as Cort had said—and they all wanted to believe her—perhaps they had lost the Kulls. Perhaps it was over now.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Val said, “Look there. There they are.”
Morgin opened his eyes and rolled back onto his stomach. He had to search for several seconds, but he finally located them: tiny black riders moving slowly across the valley floor.
The rider in the lead stopped, and those following halted behind him. At that distance it was impossible to be certain, but Morgin felt sure it was Salula, and the halfman seemed to look directly at them, as if he knew they were crouched high above, watching him. Again Morgin imagined a smile forming on that rock hard face, then the lead rider threw his head back, and a strange sound echoed off the walls of the valley. Only slowly did they recognize it as growling, inhuman laughter.
Morgin rolled again onto his back and looked at his comrades. “I should probably take him at his word and fight him in single combat.”
“No,” Cort shouted.
“Absolutely not,” JohnEngine said.
Val shook his head.
Tulellcoe spoke calmly and evenly. “Nephew. If you fight Salula then I fight by your side, with or without your permission.”
France said only, “And I.”
Morgin rolled onto his stomach again. “Those Kulls will have to follow the same trail as we. It’s the only way up out of that valley, and it’s steep. It would be nice if we could arrange some sort of surprise. A landslide perhaps. With a few arrows thrown in for good measure.”
~~~
Up ahead Tulellcoe reined his horse to a stop. Morgin pulled Mortiss up beside him and wiped a dirty sleeve across his brow. Tulellcoe looked at him with an unasked question on his face.
Morgin didn’t have to concentrate, for Salula’s hatred pulled at him constantly now. “They’re almost on top of us,” he said. “If we stop now, we must fight.”
Tulellcoe nodded. “The men and horses are exhausted. Better to fight now than when our strength is completely gone.”
Morgin looked at the troop. They were all gaunt and haggard; three days now without rest or sleep, three days with Salula and his halfmen dogging them relentlessly, and always closer. The landslide had worked well, killing many Kulls, but when the dust had cleared Salula was still there. He and his Kulls regrouped and they continued their pursuit, leaving their dead behind unburied.
Morgin took a quick head count. There were thirty of them remaining, and Salula had eighty or so. It is time to die, he thought.
They were in a small, rocky ravine with steep slopes arising on both sides. “This looks like a good place for it,” Tulellcoe said. “We’ll ride ahead then split up into two groups. I’ll lead one, and you, Morgin, will lead the other. We’ll circle back on both sides and hit them here.”
Tulellcoe spun his horse about in the ravine and led them up the trail a good distance before reining in. “Split up here,” he shouted, then spurred his horse off the trail. Morgin spurred Mortiss off the other side.
In the trees the going was slow. It took time to double back and get into position, time that Morgin feared they could not afford. But they made it with only seconds to spare before two Kull trackers appeared in the ravine below. Morgin held his breath and prayed that no one would give them away.
The trackers stopped in the middle of the ravine where Tulellcoe had stopped earlier, and they paid close attention to the tracks there. Moments later Salula arrived. He stopped to confer with them, and behind him, stretched out in a long line that led down the trail and out of the ravine, came the rest of the halfmen.
This was the closest Morgin had ever come to Salula in broad daylight. His face could have been chiseled from stone for all the expression it held, a face that had long ago forgotten how to look human. But Morgin would always remember Salula best by firelight, his face splitting into a pleased grimace as he brought the lash down one more time.
Tulellcoe’s shout from across the ravine was their signal. Morgin spurred Mortiss viciously, shouted at the top of his lungs and charged down the side of the ravine headed straight for Salula. The halfman looked up, surprised, drew his sword in an instant and met Morgin’s charge squarely. Their swords crashed together once, and as Morgin charged past the Kull captain he glimpsed again Salula’s leering smile. The ravine filled quickly with men and halfman hacking away at one another.
Morgin turned Mortiss in the midst of the melee and cut at anything in gray-black. Salula came at him; their swords met again; both horses slammed against one another and Mortiss went down.
Morgin hit the ground hard, took the fall rolling and jumped to his feet. He ducked beneath a Kull saber, grabbed Mortiss’ saddle horn and climbed back into the saddle. He thrust out instinctively, buried his sword in a halfman’s chest. Salula came out of nowhere. His sword whistled past Morgin’s ear and again they separated.
Val went down nearby. Morgin saw Cort, on her feet without a horse, running to his aid. He spurred Mortiss forward to intercept a Kull trying to ride her down. He swung and his sword bit into the Kull’s side, then he locked swords with another Kull, hilt to hilt. They twisted against one another until he raised a boot and kicked the Kull in the side. The halfman slashed downward and Morgin screamed as the sword cut deeply into his thigh.
Suddenly the air filled with the unmistakable hiss of arrows in flight. The Kull Morgin faced slumped forward in his saddle, a startled look on his face, a long shaft protruding from his back. More arrows filled the ravine. More Kulls went down. Someone screamed, “Morgin, behind you.”
&nbs
p; He turned in his saddle just in time to see the glint of steel as it cut toward his face. He ducked and threw his own sword out awkwardly. The two blades rang loudly in his ear, and Salula laughed as he charged past.
Salula spun about and charged at him again. The Kull cut a straight line toward him, intending to ram Morgin’s horse with his own. Mortiss was smaller than Salula’s mount. They both knew that she would go down again, and that Morgin, with a fiery wound in his thigh, would find it impossible to remount. With no other choice, like the rest of his Elhiyne comrades, he spurred Mortiss about and fled into the forest. Salula laughed loudly and followed.
Morgin dodged around several trees, spun Mortiss in her tracks, then charged back toward Salula. The Kull continued his own charge and as they passed at full gallop their swords crashed together once.
Morgin pulled back almost viciously on Mortiss’ reins. He spun her about, dodged around a tree and charged again at Salula. Again their swords rang together. Over and over they charged at one another in a test of speed and strength and agility, twisting and turning among the trees in the forest. Morgin tried always to keep at least one tree between them. It forced them both to dodge at the last moment before their swords met, and that gave Mortiss some advantage, for she was far lighter and more agile than the heavier Kull mount. But with each charge Morgin’s arm grew more weary, and the sounds of battle in the ravine grew fainter. There seemed to be a great weight upon his shoulders, and he could not banish the fatigue that pulled at his will. Each time they met Morgin’s arm weakened further, and Salula’s sword struck closer. And each time they met Salula’s grin broadened.
Morgin could finally take no more. He charged one last time, and as before they met and their swords rang once in passing. But this time Morgin spurred Mortiss on and did not turn back to charge again. He could no longer hear even the faintest sound of the battle in the ravine, so he chose a direction at random and spurred Mortiss to the point of cruelty. He swung his sword arm wildly about in a desperate attempt to limber it up, and always behind him he heard Salula’s mocking laughter.
Salula caught up with him after a short sprint, so he cut hard to the right, then to the left. Right, left, right, left; he played a game much like the game Rat had played in the streets of Anistigh, a game of desperation and adrenaline and fear. Salula gained on him in the straight, but lost distance each time he cut sharply to one side. Again he used the trees and Mortiss’ agility, trying always to make a sudden turn within inches of one, then charging straight for some distance before the next turn. Behind him he heard Salula’s mount struggling for air, Salula beating it with the flat of his sword, Salula laughing, sounds that came closer with each beat of Morgin’s heart. He picked out a tree, and at the right moment ripped Mortiss reins to the left. He cut too close; his shoulder brushed the tree’s bark painfully, and it was that that saved his life, for Salula had anticipated his move and gone to the other side of the tree to cut him off.
Salula’s sword screamed past his nose and chopped into the tree’s bark. Chips of wood stung Morgin’s face. He almost fell from his saddle, but he held on and threw his sword out desperately as he shot past Salula and it cut into the halfman’s shoulder. Then Mortiss’ momentum carried them on.
“Ahhh!” Salula screamed almost happily. “Tis good sport you give, ShadowLord, good sport indeed.”
Morgin’s stomach lurched as Mortiss charged down an embankment and splashed into a small streambed. It was a flat and shallow stream, with a rocky bottom and good footing. Morgin turned Mortiss up it and spurred her madly, swatting her rump with the flat of his sword. He heard Salula close behind him doing the same. “Tis a merry chase you lead, ShadowLord,” he called, and laughed evilly.
The streambed was a mistake. The water was knee deep. Mortiss nostrils flared, she gasped and coughed as she fought her way through it, water spraying outward in all directions. But Salula’s larger horse found the going easier and gained on them steadily.
Morgin changed his mind. He pulled Mortiss out of the streambed and up an embankment. Salula halted momentarily below them. “A merry chase indeed, ShadowLord! But our moment is at hand.”
Morgin ignored him, charged through the trees, heard the Kull and his horse crashing through the forest behind him, laughing insanely. Morgin, crouched low in the saddle, let Mortiss pick her own way through the trees while he looked back to gauge Salula’s distance. But the Kull was nowhere to be seen. Fearing some trick, Morgin tried to look in all directions at once, and suddenly there were no more trees. The forest had ended, and Morgin now charged out onto a gray and featureless plain cast in the dim shadows of the dying sun of late afternoon.
Morgin could not believe his eyes. He let Mortiss’ reins go slack, and the animal, exhausted and no longer spurred frantically by her master, slowed to a trot, then a walk, then stopped altogether. Before him stretched a flat and barren plain without shape or contour, an arid land of sagebrush and brown grasses, a land without end. There were no mountains in the distance, merely a flat sea of land that ended in a thin straight line of a horizon. Salula and his halfmen had pushed them so far east that Morgin had finally come to the Plains of Quam.
Salula’s mocking laughter shattered the stillness. Morgin thought first of running, of giving Mortiss her head and riding like the wind. But out on the open plain Salula would just ride him down. “You must learn to face your fears,” AnnaRail had always told him, so he turned Mortiss slowly about.
Salula waited calmly astride his horse near the edge of the trees, his cheeks stretched into that evil smile of his. “Well, ShadowLord,” Salula growled. His voice was a snarling whisper that raised hackles on the back of Morgin’s neck. “Our time has come, Elhiyne. The chase is done, but it was a merry chase, and you fought well, so it will be an honor to personally lay your soul at my master’s feet, to tell him that it was I who took your life. For that is what he wants, Elhiyne: the life and the soul of the Lord of Shadow. And I always give my master what he wants.”
Morgin thought of all the times he had faced death in the past days, and of how luck had always come to his aid. But there was no luck here, only his skill with horse and sword pitted against that of Salula. Salula understood that too, and by the grin on his face it was obvious that he knew as well as Morgin whose skill was the greater. If only Morgin had some magic to aid him. But exhausted and almost fully spent, he had no strength to summon the arcane. So with nothing to lose, Morgin wished for a quick and painless death, slapped Mortiss’ flank with the flat of his sword and charged at the halfman.
Salula laughed, then charged at Morgin. They raced toward one another, bent low in their saddles, sword points held out and forward. Mortiss’ hooves thundered on the hard, dry ground with a beat that matched the pace of Morgin’s heart. He sensed in her courage far beyond his own, and that shamed him.
He and Salula met. Their swords crashed together. The force of the blow ripped the sword from Morgin’s hand. It wrenched his arm painfully out and back, and almost pulled him from his saddle. Agony shot up his sword arm and into his shoulder, and the arm was suddenly useless. With his good hand he dropped the reins and grabbed for the saddle horn just to stay mounted. He struggled to sit upright, while streaks of pain shot through his arm from the wrist to the shoulder. Blood welled from a slash on his forearm where Salula’s sword had touched him.
He retrieved Mortiss’ reins, brought her to a stop, then spun her about to face Salula for the last time, unarmed and without hope.
Salula still rode away from him, and was taking his time to confidently and easily bring his mount to a stop. He sat upright in his saddle, so sure of himself that he didn’t even bother to turn and look back at Morgin. He brought his horse slowly from a gallop to a trot, then stopped altogether, and sat there astride it with his back to Morgin as a clearly intended insult.
Salula’s horse took a few meandering steps, as if it was wandering aimlessly without the guidance of its master. It bent its head to nibble o
n some prairie grass, then turned casually to one side.
Suddenly, now in profile, Morgin saw his own sword buried to the guard just below Salula’s chin. The hilt protruded upward from Salula’s shoulder and forced him to hold his head cocked slightly back. Like Morgin the Kull had been bent low in the saddle, and Morgin’s sword had traveled down the length of his torso and impaled him from neck to waist.
Morgin’s eyes shot down to his bloody right hand. On it, mixed with his own blood, was a thick grayish-red stain.
He looked back at Salula. The Kull’s sword hand opened almost casually and his sword fell to the ground. Then the Kull reached up with both hands and grasped the hilt of Morgin’s sword where it protruded upward from his neck. He held them there for a moment, as if praying to the gods for mercy, then he dropped them to his sides, and Salula, supreme Kull, captain and commander of all Kulls, toppled from his saddle to lay dead upon the Plains of Quam.
Morgin sat atop Mortiss in the dying light of dusk unable to believe what he’d just done. His eyes welled with tears, but he choked them back. He wiped the grayish-red stain from his hand, smeared it on his breaches.
Shakily he dismounted. He tore some cloth from his blouse to bandage his arm and thigh. His eyes welled with tears again. They blinded him and this time would not be stopped. Finally, he crossed his legs and sat down on the plain. He buried his face in his hands, and with Mortiss standing silently over him, sobbed openly, wishing he were a child again so that he might do so without dishonor.
Chapter 21: Twice the Fool
Morgin spent the night seated on the plain wrapped in his blanket with Mortiss’ reins tied to his wrist. Not that she would wander off, but he needed the comfort of her nearness as he drifted constantly between the world of the dark plain at night and that of his dream. His dream was not the kind of dream borne of sleep, for sleep never came. Instead he sat conscious and awake for a while, shivering with more than the cold of the night air, then he’d skip suddenly into dream. And he always entered it at some random point in the sequence of events all part of the same whole. At least the dream was taking on a certain terrifying consistency; the bits and pieces of it were slowly falling into place, and understanding now seemed only just beyond his grasp.
