by J. L. Doty
Late that evening Jerst invited Tulellcoe to attend a council. They had all been warned by Val to expect something of that nature, for it was customary among the Benesh’ere for two leaders to meet and exchange words over a fire. The custom called for each leader to bring two of his lieutenants; Tulellcoe chose Val for his knowledge of the Benesh’ere, and Morgin for his notoriety as the ShadowLord and a killer of many Kulls. It was Tulellcoe’s hope to enlist the aid of four thousand Benesh’ere, for then there might be a chance against Illalla. But he would have to broach the subject carefully, and at just the right moment.
They were directed to a small fire around which Jerst, Jack and Blesset sat calmly waiting. Tulellcoe sat down opposite Jerst, with Val and Morgin on either side of him, and, as Val had instructed earlier, he waited for Jerst to begin. But Jerst sat quite still for a long while and looked into Tulellcoe’s eyes with a hard expressionless stare, and his white face flickered in the light of the fire with shadows that Morgin could not fathom.
“Welcome, Tulellcoe of Elhiyne, to a Benesh’ere fire. You and your people may claim guestright if you so choose.”
Val had coached them carefully in the ritual of Benesh’ere guestright. The words were simple and to the point, and would be the same between close friends and allies, or enemies meeting under truce. The difference lay in the tone of voice, the cast of eyes, a hundred subtle nuances of hand and body. And Tulellcoe, as an untrained outsider, would be given only the slightest benefit of the doubt. He and Val had practiced through the afternoon, for his role as distant ally was cast in the hardest of stone, and Morgin could see that he spoke now with great care. “We do so claim, and are honored.”
The Benesh’ere remained expressionless. “Then as long as this camp is here, and as long as you are within its bounds, and as long as you remain with peaceful intent, you may rest in the protection of the Benesh’ere.”
With the stylized welcome complete Jack and Blesset appeared to relax, though Jerst remained stiffly formal. Tulellcoe spoke further. “We are honored by your hospitality,” he said, “and we thank you for your aid yesterday against the Kulls.”
For just an instant Jerst glanced angrily at Blesset: some disagreement between father and daughter of which the Elhiynes would not be informed. But the moment passed quickly and Jerst’s face relaxed. He said, “Killing Kulls is always an honorable venture. We are told that you and your men have killed many lately, and in particular this one here,” he indicated Morgin with a nod of his head, “has tasted their blood often. You bring us honor.”
Tulellcoe shrugged. “When vermin are about, we kill them.”
“Aye?” Jerst said. His lips curled upward into a snarl of a smile. “And you kill them well, Elhiyne. Well indeed. It’s a shame you cannot kill more.”
Again Tulellcoe shrugged. “As long as there are Kulls to kill, we will kill Kulls. Believe me when I tell you we will kill many more.”
“But this time there are too many Kulls for you, Tulellcoe of Elhiyne.”
Tulellcoe looked straight into Jerst’s eyes. “One live Kull is too many, Jerst of the Benesh’ere.”
Jerst nodded. “I stand corrected. But there are still too many Kulls for you, Elhiyne. You cannot kill them all. Not before they kill you.”
Tulellcoe shrugged. “Then so be it. But that means there will be Kulls left for others to kill. Perhaps you would be interested in killing some yourself. Illalla rides now with two thousand at his side. There is much honor to be had there.”
Jack and Blesset both looked at Jerst hopefully, but he ignored them. “Killing Kulls may be always honorable, Elhiyne, but it is not always wise.” Again he looked at Blesset angrily. “My daughter has much to learn about the wisdom of killing Kulls.”
Jerst raised a hand and swept it expansively to indicate the forest about them. “This land you are on is our exile. From the river Ulbb in the north, to the Augis in the south; from the Great Munjarro Waste in the east, to Attunhigh herself in the west; these are the boundaries we must abide, Elhiyne, through life, to death, and on to eternity. During the summer we live in the mountains, for the Waste is too hot. But through fall, winter, and spring we travel the Waste, for there lies the heart and soul of the Benesh’ere. Illalla and his ilk are our neighbors to the north, and while we hate them, we must abide them, and we dare not attack without provocation. We kill Kulls only in defense, when they come to hunt us for sport as they so often do.”
Tulellcoe frowned. “But you killed many Kulls yesterday, and it was in our defense, not your own.”
The anger appeared on Jerst’s face again. “Aye. We had divided our numbers into two groups. I was in command of one, and Blesset, since she wished to test her abilities as a leader, was in command of that which came to your aid. Had it been I, I would have regrettably let you die. Blesset chose to fight, which was her prerogative as leader, but it showed poor judgment. She broke the discipline of the Benesh’ere. It will be some time before she is allowed to lead again.”
“But she saved our lives,” Tulellcoe said, “so what harm did it do?”
“One Kull escaped,” Jerst said. “When Illalla hears of this, there will be retribution.”
“How could one have escaped,” Tulellcoe asked, “with so many Benesh’ere arrows hissing about. I am told that a Benesh’ere arrow always finds its mark.”
Blesset screwed her face up into a snarl. “Salula escaped,” she spit, “chasing this one.” She indicated Morgin with a nod of her head, looked at him and asked, “Did he ever catch you? Or do you run from battle so well, Elhiyne?”
“Blesset be still,” Jerst snapped angrily. “If none had escaped it would still not excuse your poor judgment.”
“None did,” Morgin said.
Jerst looked at him closely. “None did what?”
“None escaped. Salula will carry no tales to Illalla. He did catch me, and I left his body to rot on the Plains of Quam.”
“Where is his cloak?” Blesset demanded.
Morgin shrugged. “To my knowledge he is still wearing it.”
“Then you speak lies,” she growled.
“Silence,” Jerst barked. “I will not have you insulting my guests, child. And remember, it is not their custom to take blooded cloaks.”
Tulellcoe added, “I personally have seen this one . . .” He nodded toward Morgin, “. . . kill at least three or four twelves of Kulls. Can you claim such bounty, girl?”
Blesset averted her eyes.
Jerst turned to Morgin. “You bring us honor, Elhiyne.”
“Then you will help us?” Morgin asked.
“No. We cannot. We will return to Angerah and tell him that there is war here, a war that does not concern us. We will wait on the plains until there is an end to this matter. We will not war with the Decouix. Perhaps Eglahan may aid you.”
“Eglahan is dead,” Tulellcoe said.
Jerst shook his head patiently. “There you are wrong, Elhiyne. Eglahan is camped at the Lake of Sorrows with what remains of his army.”
“How many men does he have that can still fight?”
“That you will have to ask him yourself. We saw only wounded and dying.”
Tulellcoe shook his head sadly. “We need many more warriors than Eglahan can provide. Is there nothing I can say or do that will change your mind?”
Jerst’s answer was flat and unyielding. “No.”
“Very well,” Tulellcoe said. He stood, and Val and Morgin stood beside him. “We nevertheless thank you for saving our lives, and we thank you for your hospitality.”
Jerst stood and faced him across the fire. “No thanks are needed, Elhiyne. We Benesh’ere will leave on the morrow. You and your men may use this camp as long as you wish.”
No one spoke as Morgin and Tulellcoe and Val returned to the area where the small Elhiyne troop had camped. Cort and the men waited anxiously to hear if the Benesh’ere would aid them, but when they saw the look on Tulellcoe’s face, they didn’t even bother to ask.
>
Morgin sat down on a flat rock near their small fire, too tired to hold back his shadowmagic any longer. It had been a constant struggle throughout the day to hold it at bay, for doing so was like holding a weight at arm’s length indefinitely. At first it was easy, but soon the arm tired and began to tremble, and even the smallest weight became too heavy to hold longer. He gave up, relaxed and let the shadows envelop him. It was so easy now.
He stared into the fire in silence, and slowly the men drifted away to their bedrolls. He wondered if they were tired, or just uncomfortable in the presence of the ShadowLord. JohnEngine stepped into the light of the fire, sat down on the ground and leaned against his saddle. For a long time neither of them spoke, then JohnEngine finally broke the silence. “Illalla’s going to destroy us, isn’t he? He’s going to destroy everything we know, everything we love.”
Morgin had no answer for him. He stared into the fire and wished for sleep, to lie down and rest without the haunt of a dream from some unknown reality. And while he stared at the fire his magic left him, disappeared from his soul as abruptly as it had come. By that time the entire camp was completely silent, and most of the fires had dwindled to glowing embers. Even JohnEngine had drifted into sleep, leaning against his saddle and gear. Morgin couldn’t get to JohnEngine’s blanket without waking him, so he went quietly to his own saddle, unwrapped his own blanket and laid it carefully over his brother, then slipped into the shadows of the forest, hoping to find peace somewhere in the calm of the night.
Chapter 22: The Assassin’s Bite
The forest at night was far from empty. The voices of an infinity of small creatures filled the air with a roar, and in the distance the dying fires of the Benesh’ere camp marked the landscape with faint pinpoints of light. The thick blanket of trees overhead blocked any moonlight that might have shown, and turned the forest floor into one infinitely warm and comfortable shadow.
Morgin clung desperately to his shadowmagic, savoring it as other men savored the life that pulsed in their veins. It was the only magic left to him now, and he feared that like his other magics it too would abandon him, leaving him as naked and defenseless as some peasant. His magic was now totally unpredictable, sometimes flickering like a candle in a harsh breeze, at other times flooding through him mercilessly, always turning his stomach with its ever-changing intensity. Even now he sensed that it was building to something.
He tried not to think of that, thought instead of the Decouix army, and of Tulellcoe’s plan to seek aid from Eglahan. Victory was out of the question; Illalla would slaughter the small Elhiyne army at Sa’umbra Gap and Elhiyne would fall. But with what remained of Eglahan’s men they might force Illalla to be satisfied with Elhiyne alone. If they could do that, Penda, Tosk, and Inetka would remain intact and somewhat independent. And then the Lesser Clans could begin again.
But would Eglahan agree to such a plan? Morgin almost wished that he wouldn’t, for he sensed that something awaited him at Sa’umbra. He sensed his own mortality, and his own fear, and his own cowardice, and he felt shame.
Suddenly, walking alone in the forest, the world about him shifted sickeningly and he froze in mid stride. His magic came fully upon him without warning, without control. It tore painfully at his soul and brought tears to his eyes. His dinner threatened to come spewing up, and only by force of will did he hold it back.
In that instant the sounds of the forest night died, left behind a noiseless vacuum that made the previous silence seem a thundering roar in comparison. Morgin, drowning in his own magic, sensed the cause of it all: a presence of nameless evil lurking somewhere within the Elhiyne camp.
A scream shattered the silence, a man’s scream, an agonizing wail that rose slowly until it reached a crescendo of pain that hung on the night air like a mist of death. It was JohnEngine’s scream.
Morgin tore through the forest growth, heedless of branches that whipped and lashed at his face. He reached the Elhiyne fire while the others were still scrambling for their swords, and by the dim glow of the dying embers he caught one momentary glimpse of Bayellgae coiled like a length of rope on JohnEngine’s chest. But in that same instant the serpent saw him, and as he ripped his sword from its sheath it shot in the air straight for his face spitting venom at his eyes.
Morgin threw up his left arm to protect his face, felt the impact as the winged demon slammed into his arm and buried its fangs in his wrist. A fiery bolt of pain shot up his arm, an excruciating agony that pulled him for a moment deep into the netherlife. He screamed, felt a strange, hideous coldness creeping up his arm to his heart. The snake dropped off his arm, disappeared into the forest, and Morgin fell to his knees near the fire.
He struggled to hold onto consciousness, to ignore the pain creeping toward his heart. JohnEngine lay on the ground in front of him still and lifeless, his eyes open and unseeing, his face a colorless mask twisted in an agony of pain. Morgin let go of his sword, reached out and touched his brother’s cheek; he was already cold.
Abileen knelt over JohnEngine, touched his throat seeking a pulse, shook his head sadly. Tulellcoe knelt beside Morgin. “Were you bitten?”
Morgin could only nod. The coldness had reached his shoulder.
Tulellcoe shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, Morgin. There’s nothing I can do against Bayellgae’s venom.”
In utter desperation Morgin decided to fight death with death, and he growled in Tulellcoe’s face, “Bring me redthorn.”
“Do you practice magic here?” a Benesh’ere voice demanded.
Morgin looked up through a sea of pain to find Jerst standing over him. Blesset and Jack stood as his sides, and behind them stood several more Benesh’ere.
“Of course I practice magic,” Morgin snarled. “I am a sorcerer.”
“Then we Benesh’ere will leave,” Jerst said. “We do not abide magic.”
“Go then,” Morgin shouted. “By all means leave us. Run. And quickly. Lest you find courage nipping at your heels.”
Blesset’s eyes turned hot and angry. She reached for her sword, but Jerst reached out and stayed her hand.
“But father,” she shouted. “He said—”
“What he said does not matter. Here he is under the protection of Benesh’ere guestright. You will draw no weapon against him.”
Jerst looked at Morgin with cold hatred. “But when next we meet, Elhiyne, you will not be so favored.” With that he turned his back on Morgin and walked out of the small Elhiyne encampment. And in the faces of those who followed him Morgin saw that if ever they had the chance, they would seek his life without quarter.
Morgin shouted again, “Where is that redthorn?”
Tulellcoe spoke softly. “There is redthorn here, in my pack. I don’t believe that you can do anything, but if you intend to try, then I intend to help you.”
Morgin looked at the men surrounding them. When he spoke his voice was weak and without timbre. “Gather all of the firewood in camp. And be quick about it. Then light a ring of fire about us and stand within it to form a ring of men facing outward, swords drawn. Remain alert, and no matter what you hear behind you, do not look back until dawn if you value your souls. And remember. The snake Bayellgae is still out there. I can sense it. So if anything comes out of the night and crosses the ring of fire, be it wife, lover, or best friend, kill it without warning or hesitation, without mercy.”
The men dispersed instantly. Morgin turned back to Tulellcoe. “Set your wards within the ring of men. They must be protected from us as well as us from them.”
Tulellcoe nodded and bent to his preparations. Morgin collapsed beside JohnEngine. He knew what he must do, and yet he feared the doing to the core of his soul, for he knew that in some strange way he had now begun travelling down the road to his fate at Sa’umbra, and even death would be better than that. The turning point had come, he had passed it in ignorance, and he understood now that he was no more than a puppet moving to the strings of some unknown master.
Tule
llcoe stood and summoned the first Ward without fanfare. It was not in him to be theatrical like Olivia. His summons was simple, direct, commanding. Primus flamed into existence and the Ward’s power washed over Morgin. He needed it, wanted it, feared it.
Tulellcoe moved quickly now, summoning each of the twelve Wards in its turn, calling them forth one by one to the world of mortal men. To Morgin each Ward formed a bridge to even greater power, for as each came alight it struck him with a wave of magic that fed on his own power, building upon it, strengthening it beyond any reasonable expectations of mortal capability. He began to fear that his magic would soon be stronger than he, and that it would then consume him.
France, standing outside the circle of Tulellcoe’s Wards, shouted, “We’re ready.”
Tulellcoe nodded at him. France and the men lit the ring of firewood. It smoldered at first, but soon flared high and strong.
Tulellcoe dug into his pack. He retrieved a small pouch, opened it carefully, handed Morgin several wicked looking, bright red spikes. They were a brilliant crimson, not just pink, which indicated prime quality. They had been taken from the parent plant at just the right time of year and stored with the proper care and spells. Without preparation Morgin placed the thorns, tips and all, in his mouth and began chewing.
Tulellcoe looked down at him sharply. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Morgin shook his head. “I am sure of nothing, but I have nothing to lose.”
He chewed; the redthorn turned slowly into pulp. The taste was bitter. It filled his mouth with saliva, though he was careful not to swallow. The saliva expanded the pulp until his mouth was so full he could no longer chew. The coldness of Bayellgae’s venom had reached his chest when he took one last look at the men—their backs turned toward him, their faces turned away—then swallowed the unprepared redthorn.
