by J. L. Doty
“Are you sure you want to try that?” Tulellcoe asked.
Morgin shook his head. “I don’t think I have a choice. Will you help me?”
Tulellcoe shrugged. “Do I have any more choice than you?”
“No,” Morgin said. “No you don’t.”
~~~
“There is an intruder,” that other said to Valso. Valso started with surprise. That other had actually spoken to him. It had formed true words within his thoughts. Always before their communication had consisted of mind images that, while not vague, sprang from an undefined otherwhere. But now it spoke to him with words. True words! Such a phenomenal change in their relationship could have only one meaning: that other’s power had begun to grow. It was preparing to come forth, make itself known again on the Mortal Plane, and soon it would reveal its mastery.
“There is an intruder,” that other said again.
For the first time Valso paid attention to the meaning within the words, and his excitement ended quickly. “An intruder? Where?”
“In the netherlife.”
Valso suddenly knew fear. “That can’t be.”
“Nevertheless it is,” that other said. “It walks upon the soul of the netherworld, and such an affront must not be tolerated.”
“Then crush it,” Valso said. “Destroy it. You have the power.”
“No,” that other said. “It is much too early to make myself known.”
“But if you destroy it, it will know nothing.”
“But if I intervene directly, there are others who will sense that. And that is why you must destroy it.”
“Me? But I don’t have the power.”
That other smiled deep within Valso’s soul. “I will give you the power, and you will become the most powerful mortal alive.”
Valso caught his breath. “To be so honored!” he said. “I have not the words to thank you.”
“Your service is the only thanks I require.”
~~~
Roland sat in his tent staring unhappily at the four canvas walls. Dawn was all too quickly approaching, and with it would come another day like the last: more fighting and more dead. Illalla would use his men without mercy, and so the Decouixs would die in greater numbers, but they would still gain ground. The Elhiyne army would retreat: reluctantly, slowly, but inevitably. Roland had considered the situation carefully time and again. There were some things he could try: tricks that might delay, traps that might hinder. But he had come to the bitter realization that delay and hinder were the only tactics left to him. Nothing would change the final outcome.
Hope! They needed hope. Some kind of hope. They needed a plan, something with some possibility of success, not this doom under which they fought: delaying, knowing that it was useless, hoping for a miracle that they knew would not come.
Morgin! Why did his mind keep returning to Morgin? For all they knew he was dead by now. Poor Morgin! And damn Olivia!
Roland sensed AnnaRail’s coming before she arrived. He stood to greet her, and she, knowing that he would be aware of her coming, entered without the need for preface. They spoke no words, but wrapped their arms about one another and held each other close for a long moment. He loved the softness of her, and her strength.
When they separated she spoke softly. “You sent for me, my lord?”
“Yes,” he said. “I need your help. I had a dream last night, and I can’t remember it.”
“This dream was important?” she asked, almost more of a statement than a question.
“I don’t know. But it’s been nagging at me since I awoke. I can’t put it out of my mind.”
Another woman would have reminded him that now was not the time for interpreting dreams, that dawn would come momentarily, that there were more weighty matters to consider. “Can you tell me something about this dream?” she asked.
“No,” he said, shaking his head with frustration. “I remember nothing.”
“Very well,” she said. “Let us sit down then. Here, on your cot.”
He did so, and she sat down beside him. She took his hands in hers and spoke softly. “Now darling. I want you to close your eyes and relax. Let your mind wander and tell me of the first thing that enters your thoughts.”
“I’ve already done that,” he said more harshly than he intended. “Morgin comes to mind. Morgin and nothing else. Just Morgin. Over and again Morgin.”
She looked thoughtful. “Hmmm! That is curious. Very curious.” She reached into a fold of her dress to some hidden pocket there. She withdrew a small linen pouch that opened at the touch of her fingers, and from it she took several small pieces of tattered cloth. She chose one particular scrap, saying only, “This one was his, I believe,” then she replaced the rest. From another pocket she produced a small piece of charcoal wrapped carefully in dried leaves. With it she wrote Morgin’s name upon the scrap of cloth, then returned the charcoal to the leaves, and thence to her pocket. Next she crumpled the cloth between her hands, rolling it into a tight ball. That done, she turned to Roland and said, “Think now of Morgin. Think of him and nothing and no one else.”
Roland thought of the last time he’d seen Morgin, riding away on the black mare. He concentrated on that image as AnnaRail extended her left arm with the crumpled piece of cloth resting in her upraised palm, and with her right hand she began making passes above it. As she did so, she muttered some incantation that Roland could not understand.
After several minutes of conjuring she drew her right hand back suddenly, snapped her fingers, and the piece of cloth in her hand burst into flames. The flames sparkled for a moment then died, leaving a small cloud of gray smoke that swirled upward, rising slowly toward the roof of the tent.
The cloud moved with a life of its own, bunching here, thinning there. Then it coalesced slowly into an image of Morgin. Roland realized then that he was looking at his dream.
The image swayed and shifted sickeningly. It was poorly defined, though it was definitely Morgin, but it was a changed Morgin that Roland looked upon. The face was the same—young, boyish, open—but the eyes had lost the innocence of youth and now seemed haunted and distant, and just a bit insane.
“Father,” the smoky image pleaded desperately. “Please listen to me. I haven’t much time. I can’t hold this existence for long, and there are those about me that would end it prematurely. When the battle begins anew, retreat to Csairne Glen. Do so slowly, as if your strength is finally depleted and you must reluctantly withdraw. Illalla must be made to think that you have weakened early, that he is about to win—”
Morgin’s image suddenly flickered out of existence, then returned slowly. But now it was smaller, hazier, blurred. The weakened image spoke on as if it was unaware of the interruption, though Roland knew that some of the message had been lost. “. . . some of your forces until the right moment. Trust me, father, please. We—”
Morgin’s image staggered, not a thing of AnnaRail’s magic, but part of the dream. His face twisted with pain, he put a hand to his head and groaned, then disappeared altogether. Roland waited for more, but none came. And now that he had seen it, he knew that it was done. The dream was gone.
“What did you see, husband?” AnnaRail asked.
“Didn’t you see it too?”
“No, my love. It was your dream, not mine. Would you like to tell me about it?”
He smiled. “I saw hope, I think. Maybe hope for us all. Come. We must find the others, and quickly. We have some changes to make before the fighting begins anew.”
Chapter 24: Death Magic
Morgin shot awake suddenly, sat up with his heart pounding in his throat, but with the memory of many such awakenings he realized instantly that he’d been dreaming his dream. His mouth was filled with an odd metallic taste, his ears rang, and the forest about him glowed with an eerie light. His only memory of the netherworld was a choice he’d made somewhere deep within a dream, a choice between retreat before reaching Roland, or the temptation of vast power.
<
br /> France sat nearby watching over him, staring at him oddly. The swordsman seemed different, far away, detached. “Are you Morgin?” he asked, an odd tone in his voice. In fact the entire situation seemed oddly odd.
“Of course I’m Morgin,” Morgin answered, but even he recognized that something was different. “I think,” he added as an afterthought.
“Yer Morgin all right,” France said, nodding his head. “The others want you to join them when you’re ready.”
Morgin looked at France carefully, and sensing the distance between them he asked, “Stay close, France, will you? I need you.”
France smiled, but the distance remained, though the swordsman tried to hide it. “Sure, lad. You an’ me eh? But we’d best be joinin’ the others.”
Morgin found it impossible to hold his shadows at bay; his time in the netherworld had strengthened their hold on him, and as he followed France toward the center of the camp he didn’t like what he saw in the eyes of the waiting troops that parted to make way for him. He could see that they’d actually begun to believe the legends, that to them he was now some sort of supernatural freak, a strange being out of myth that might at any moment explode in their faces.
Wylow and Eglahan and their respective lieutenants waited for him angrily. Wylow turned on him instantly, though he hesitated for a moment at the prospect of addressing a specter of shadow. But he recovered quickly. “Where are the warriors you promised? We have a bargain, and I’m waiting for you to live up to your end of it.”
Morgin ignored him, turned to Eglahan instead. “What’s the situation up in the gap?”
Eglahan answered warily. “The battle has been progressing all morning. My scouts report that the Elhiyne forces have weakened earlier than anticipated and are just now retreating onto Csairne Glen. They’ve formed the final battle line across the width of the glen. The Decouixs act as though they’re at festival, laughing and joking. They should begin the final battle shortly, and it will be a slaughter.”
The message had gotten through. Roland had done exactly that requested of him. He had put his faith in Morgin and placed his army at the mercy of Illalla and his hordes, and now it was up to Morgin. At all costs he could not betray that faith.
“What of Illalla’s heavy cavalry?” he asked. “The armored knights. How will he use them?”
Eglahan frowned, answered hesitantly. “His heavy knights are preparing for a charge. It appears Illalla wants to weaken your father’s men quickly, that he intends to use his heavy troops right away, in the first skirmish. I’d guess he’ll then withdraw them to rest while his lighter forces nibble away at the Elhiyne battle line. That’ll leave time before nightfall for one last charge with the heavier knights. The second charge will no doubt break the back of your father’s army, and for all intents and purposes the battle will be finished.”
“Might he try some devious trick?”
Eglahan shrugged. “He has no need of tricks, not with the overwhelming forces at his command.”
“But enough of this,” Wylow demanded. “The bargain. Without your warriors, I and my men will not join the battle.”
“Nor I and mine,” Eglahan added calmly.
Morgin nodded his head slowly. He had to stall for time. “Our bargain will be fulfilled when the time is right, and not before.”
Wylow was getting angrier with each second. “And when will that be?”
“Before we go into battle.”
“Blast you! When will that be?”
“Shortly,” Morgin said. “But for the moment I want to see the main battle for myself, from some vantage.”
Wylow opened his mouth for more shouting, but Eglahan quickly interjected, “That’s good enough for me, as long as I don’t have to commit my troops before that time.”
Wylow hesitated, thought about that for a moment, then snarled in Morgin’s face, “All right. Same goes for me. I don’t commit until I see these wondrous warriors of yours, ShadowLord.” He turned his back on Morgin and stormed away.
“Packwill,” Eglahan shouted. “The ShadowLord wants to see Csairne Glen from a vantage.” He turned to Morgin. “My head scout will show you the way.”
~~~
Morgin lay still and held his breath; he was transfixed by the battle below, though it was not the sight so much as the sound, for even at this distance his ears were pounded by a din that raised hackles on the back of his neck. He tried to identify the individual components of that noise. He could hear the screams of both men and animals; the clash of sword against sword and sword against shield; the clop of horse’s hooves and the pad of running feet; the grunt of extreme exertion. He couldn’t hear the twang of crossbows or the hiss of arrows in flight. Nor could he smell the sweat and fear of battle—at least not that beyond his own. But they were down there nevertheless. That he knew beyond doubt.
“ShadowLord,” Packwill said, lying beside him. “Look yonder. Illalla is withdrawing his heavy cavalry.”
From their vantage atop a small hill the heavy knights were easy to distinguish in their plate armor and ankle length mail. There were about two hundred of them, and they trotted gaily off the field of battle in small groups, their backs turned confidently to the bloodletting, laughing at the ease of the day’s kill, displaying proudly to one another trophies of combat such as the hand or finger of a vanquished foe.
Morgin and Packwill could see all of Csairne Glen, and more. The Elhiyne camp lay on the far side, situated where the road from the west opened out onto the glen. From there a grassy plain sloped gently downward to where the battle raged, then back up to the Decouix camp. Behind Illalla’s wagons and tents the road to the east disappeared over a small rise. And if Illalla cared to look, he’d find Wylow and Eglahan and their eight hundred warriors waiting not far from there, hidden just off the road in small groups.
“Packwill,” Morgin said. “Run quickly and tell Lords Wylow and Eglahan to get ready.”
“Aye, my lord,” Packwill said. He jumped on his horse and raced out of sight down the back of the hill.
Morgin waited, wondering if he might hope, carefully watching the Decouix heavy cavalry as they sauntered casually toward their camp. They arrived in ones and twos, were assisted from their large and ungainly war-horses by servants and retainers. They removed their helmets, then sat down in chairs and lounges to rest while servants brought them chilled wine and adjusted umbrellas over their heads to shield them from the hot sun. Most wore heavy mail, though the richest wore plate, but few chose to remove it now, preferring instead to rest for some moments before going to the trouble. They sat in moderate comfort, sipping their wine and watching the extravaganza of death taking place before them, occasionally wagering on individual combats that became separated from the whole.
A shadow lay down beside Morgin. It looked at the battle carefully for some moments, then turned to Morgin and whispered a question, “Has the time come, my king?”
Morgin tried to ignore the shadow, but again it asked, “Has the time come, my king?”
Finally, resigned to the inevitable, Morgin nodded. “Yes. I believe it has.”
The shadow disappeared as Morgin inched back from the lip of the hill. He climbed into Mortiss’ saddle, spurred her hard in Packwill’s wake, and on the way down the hill he began gathering his power.
Wylow and Eglahan were waiting for him, neither of them happy. Wylow shouted, “You don’t have any damn warriors, do you?”
Eglahan spoke carefully. “You’ll have to produce them now.”
“Right,” Wylow growled, “Or we withdraw.”
Morgin looked up at the sun. It was well past noon, and half way down toward the horizon, but it was still bright and hot, and the lengthening shadows it cast were sharp and well defined. And as he looked at the sun Morgin relaxed some of his resistance to the pull of the netherworld, let part of his soul sink into its depths, felt an answering surge of power flow into him.
He spoke to Wylow and Eglahan. “Order your men to m
ount and line up in single file down the length of the road.”
Wylow started to protest, but Eglahan gripped his arm viciously and growled in his ear, “By the gods, man, do as he says.”
Wylow frowned for a moment, then shut his mouth, turned to his lieutenants and gave the necessary orders.
The men had been waiting anxiously so it didn’t take long to get them in their saddles and lined up in the road. And beside each one the sun cast a shadowed replica of both rider and mount.
Morgin concentrated his power even further, pulled it out of the netherworld, pulled it out of the trees and the bushes of the forest about him, pulled it out of the life of the soil itself, and then he started feeding it into the shadows that mimicked the movements of the eight hundred warriors. He tried to speak, but his voice came out in a whisper, sounding to him like the voice of the shadowwraith, “Tell them to draw their swords.”
Eglahan did so, and the warriors obeyed, and the shadows that mimicked them followed suit. But as the swords cleared their sheaths Morgin poured more power into the shadows until one near the front broke free of its master and, while the real horse and rider remained still, the shadow horse whinnied and bucked for a moment, then calmed itself and became still. But now the shadow warrior on the shadow horse moved independently of the rider and horse from which they’d been born. And then, as if the first were a signal for the rest, all up and down the line of warriors the shadow riders broke free.
The shadow warrior closest to Morgin nudged his shadow mount with his shadow spurs and trotted the apparition forward. He stopped in front of Morgin, saluted with a shadow sword, bowed, and when he spoke his voice came out in a whisper. “We heard your summons, my king, and we have come.”
Morgin looked at Wylow and Eglahan, and in their eyes he could see no more argument. In fact he saw naked fear. He said, “The bargain is complete. Do either of you dispute that?”
