by J. L. Doty
The boy spoke sadly. “A king. I’m looking for a king. He’s out here somewhere. I know it.”
He’s crazy, thought Brandon, but he kept his thoughts to himself, for the young boy, like all of them, was probably just a bit unhinged by the magnitude of the carnage that lay about them. Brandon stood. “Well I’d better be moving on. I still have to find my cousin. He’s the only member of the family we haven’t accounted for yet.”
“Dead, eh?”
It took some effort to admit the truth. “Probably. But we have to be sure one way or another.”
Brandon looked slowly about before continuing his search. He was certain it was somewhere near here that he’d seen Morgin go down. He’d only caught a glimpse of him, fleetingly captured in the midst of battle. One moment Morgin had stood out among them all, he and his horse a massive shadow of awesome power reeking death and havoc among his enemy. The next moment he had disappeared in a sea of bodies, and though the tide had turned, the bloodletting had continued without him.
“Who was it you said you were looking for?”
“My cousin. His name was AethonLaw, but he liked to be called Morgin.”
“Ah!” the young boy said knowingly. “The ShadowLord, was he not?”
“Yes,” Brandon said. “They call him that. Do you know of him?”
“Aye. Everyone knows of the ShadowLord. I thought he was my king, but then he died. Dead kings don’t rule much, do they?” The young boy laughed bitterly at some private joke. “Dead kings can’t even rule their own souls, eh?”
“He is dead then?” Brandon asked. “You’ve seen his body?”
The young boy rolled his eyes as if dealing with an ignorant and foolish child. “He’s not dead, at least not anymore.”
This young boy had a strange way of speaking. “I . . . I don’t follow you. Not dead . . . anymore?”
“Aye. Now you’re catching on.”
Brandon grabbed the collar of the boy’s tunic, though he did so more violently than he intended. “Where is he?”
“Right here,” the boy said, patting the rump of the dead horse.
Brandon looked carefully at the carcass. Only its rump and hind legs were visible, the rest of it buried beneath a pile of dead warriors.
“That’s just a dead horse, not my cousin.”
“Ah! But it’s his horse. And he’s still seated in his saddle.”
Brandon let go of the boy’s robe and climbed frantically onto the pile of bodies. Both Decouix and Elhiyne had died here. He pulled at a set of shoulders, but the dead had stiffened during the night so it was difficult work. He’d just managed to pull the first dead warrior loose when he realized that the young boy couldn’t have seen Morgin, not buried under this pile of dead. He spun toward the horse’s rump to accuse the boy of lying, but now he stood alone in a field of dead.
Brandon quickly scanned the horizon in all directions. The glen was quite flat so he could see far, much farther than the boy could have moved in the few seconds his back had been turned, and yet there was no sign of him. Only then did Brandon stop to listen to his soul. There was a taint on the air, as if something old beyond imagining had recently passed nearby, and he realized that the missing boy had been steeped in the arcane of ancient lore. He nodded, turned unerringly back to his task of digging among the dead.
~~~
JohnEngine looked out into the blackness of the night beyond the walls of Castle Inetka, tried not to hear the cries of the wounded that littered the landscape there. There were so many wounded, of such abundance that not even the castle itself could hold them all, and more arrived with each passing moment. The moon had yet to rise, so those caring for them carried candles or lanterns, and in the inky darkness that remained they appeared as lonely sparks of life bobbing about on a field of pain and death.
Morgin had loved the night, JohnEngine knew. To him it had been an ally. But not this night, not a night filled with the cries of dying men. Morgin had loved nights of peace and solitude. The cloak of darkness had been his friend, the moonlight his companion. Through Morgin’s eyes JohnEngine had learned to view darkness in a new way.
JohnEngine began to cry again. He was seated on the ground outside the castle with his back to the castle wall. He sat in a dark shadow far to one side of the main gate, for he wanted to be alone with his sorrow, and he understood now why Morgin had always been drawn to the solitude of shadow.
He could remember waking in Castle Inetka, confused and in great pain, his leg a swollen, throbbing reminder of Bayellgae’s venom. With time and the healing powers of magic both the confusion and pain had lessened, and like all the rest he began to hunger for news from Sa’umbra. The castle had been filled then mostly with women, caring for he and about twenty others of Tulellcoe’s original troop. Wounded and unable to fight, they learned that waiting was almost as difficult a task as fighting.
Then one morning news had come down from the pass that the battle had begun with preliminary skirmishes. With information always a half day late because of the distance, each day’s news was worse than the last. The Elhiynes were losing. Everyone in the castle had known that would be the case, but they had hoped nevertheless.
The day of the final battle had arrived sooner than expected. News came that the Elhiyne forces were withdrawing prematurely onto Csairne Glen, and in Inetka they all held their breaths as a cold fear tightened in their guts. But late afternoon the reports became confused. They spoke of Eglahan and Wylow, and they spoke of the now legendary ShadowLord. They said he had brought his vast power down upon them all and somehow managed to snatch victory from inevitable defeat. By late evening confirmation arrived. The Decouix army had been beaten by the ShadowLord at Csairne Glen.
The celebration that followed was ecstatic and boisterous, and short lived, for soon the wounded began to arrive. AnnaRail had come with the first of them, and there was much joy in her eyes when she found that JohnEngine was alive. “But where is Morgin?” she had asked, and the joy was replaced by a frown.
When JohnEngine could give her no answer they began searching among the wounded, but to no avail. By morning they understood the full extent of the slaughter at Csairne Glen, and at noon that day Abileen came riding down hastily from the pass. He refused to speak to anyone but AnnaRail herself, saying only that he bore a message from Lord Brandon.
AnnaRail was summoned and came hurriedly to the castle yard. “Speak, man,” she demanded sharply.
Abileen’s voice trembled. “Milady . . .” A tear touched his eye. “I bear ill news. Your son . . .” He faltered momentarily, hesitated long enough to compose himself, then straightened. “Lord Morgin is sorely wounded and very close to death. Lord Brandon says he will not survive the journey here. You must come to Csairne Glen.”
AnnaRail staggered as if that simple, flat statement had been an arrow striking into her chest. “I don’t believe it. If he was dying I would know, and he is not dying.”
She spun about, barking commands as she hurried back into the castle proper. “Prepare a horse for me while I gather my things.”
JohnEngine was still limping badly and could not mount a horse, so he was forced to wait at Inetka. He watched AnnaRail and Abileen depart with a small escort, had to sit nervously through that day and into the next, waiting, questioning anyone who came down from the mountain for word of his brother.
It was just before nightfall, as dusk settled upon a gray and still day, that they brought his twisted and mutilated body down from Sa’umbra. A hush fell over the throng that waited at Inetka, and near death Morgin came, born on a litter between two horses, accompanied by a long and winding procession that stretched down the road.
AnnaRail hovered over Morgin, walked beside his litter, hissed instructions at everyone. As they carried Morgin into the castle JohnEngine stopped her and asked, “Will he live?”
Her complexion had turned gray with fatigue and worry. “I know not. Death is very close at hand.”
There was nothin
g JohnEngine could do but get in the way, so he’d found this place outside the castle wall where he could sit and worry and fret in private.
France’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “JohnEngine, lad. Are you out here?”
France stood within the light that splashed outward from the open main gates of Inetka. He peered blindly into the darkness and called softly, “JohnEngine?”
“I’m here, France. In the shadows at the foot of the wall.”
France stepped out of the light and felt his way along the wall slowly. When he found JohnEngine he sat down beside him, and for a long time neither of them spoke. Then France said, “Your grandmother is commissioning a bard to write a song about the great battle of Csairne Glen, and about the mighty warrior AethonLaw.”
“He didn’t want to be a hero,” JohnEngine said. “Especially not the kind the old witch is going to make him into.”
France made no answer, and again they sat without speaking. The night was lonely and cold.
“John,” France said. “Your mother needs you. She’s exhausted her magic on him and now sits there, refuses to rest herself, refuses to admit he’s dying. She’s not thinkin’ clearly, not right in the head, John. She needs you.”
“All right. I’ll come in shortly, after . . .” JohnEngine hesitated, for he could suddenly sense magic in the air.
“Look,” France said, pointing up the road.
There appeared in the distance a soft, white glow set against the blackness of the moonless night. It was a rider, mounted on a black horse walking slowly toward the castle. Both rider and horse appeared to be encased in an aura of some kind, and about them hovered a hot, brilliant spark that darted in every direction at once.
As they approached JohnEngine saw that the rider was a woman. She wore some filmy, gauzy thing more like a nightgown than a dress, and yet the coldness of the night air seemed not to touch her. Her feet bore neither sandals nor slippers. Her long and golden hair hung past her shoulders, and she was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, though it was a cold, inhuman beauty. About her hung an aura visible to the eye, a soft, warm illumination that called happily to one’s soul. But more powerful than the aura, a sense of goodness and kindness beckoned to JohnEngine’s heart. Somehow she had enchanted him, bewitched him. He stood, and limping on his still swollen leg he walked toward her.
France gripped his arm painfully, spun him about, slapped him hard across the face. “Keep yer wits, lad. Look at her horse.”
The spell was broken. JohnEngine shook his head to clear it, then turned to look back at the woman’s mount. There could be no mistaking the coal-black mare, the horse Morgin had ridden into the battle at Csairne Glen, a horse that was now dead, by all reports. Suspicious now, JohnEngine tried to look at the hot spark darting everywhere about the woman, but it moved too quickly for him to discern any detail.
The horse stopped in the middle of the road just in front of the castle’s main gate. JohnEngine and France approached cautiously.
For what seemed an eternity the woman failed to notice them. Then slowly she turned her face upon them, and it was a face of beauty beyond imagining, marred only by the vacancy of her expression and the inhuman look she cast upon them.
JohnEngine bowed deeply from the waist. “My lady. May I ask to whom I have the honor of speaking?”
At his words her face softened and became a little less alien. For the first time her eyes came to focus and she said, “I am . . .” But she hesitated, confusion and distress visible on her face. She put her fingertips to her forehead as if to think carefully, then her eyes brightened and she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. But it has been so long since I have existed on this plane. It is so hard to remember.”
“Milady?” JohnEngine asked politely. “I don’t understand?”
Her attention turned back to him. “Ah mortal! Yes. Your question. I am the Archangel Ellowyn.” She nodded again, as if she needed to confirm that statement by agreeing with herself. “Yes. I am Ellowyn.”
“Lies,” France screamed. He stepped back warily. “Nothing but lies. You’ve come to seek vengeance on Morgin’s soul.”
JohnEngine tried to intervene. “No, France. I think she’s telling the truth.”
France ignored him. “Well you’ll not have him,” he screamed. “Not as long as I live to protect him.” He stepped back another pace to stand blocking the castle gateway, and drew his sword in a single fluid motion.
Suddenly the hot spark of light shot toward his face, darted about him and dove at him again and again. He raised an arm to protect his eyes and slashed his sword blindly about.
“Laelith stop,” Ellowyn cried. Her voice cracked through the night like a whip, and the spark obediently retreated from France to hover over the archangel. “Swordsman,” she said. “Put away your sword. You cannot harm us.”
France obeyed reluctantly, and when his sword was sheathed Ellowyn slipped off the horse’s back. She turned to the animal and smiled. Then she curtsied and said, “Thank you, my lady.”
One moment the coal-black horse was there, the next it was not.
Ellowyn turned to France and approached him. He stood ready for battle, but JohnEngine could see that there was only peace in her heart. She held up a finger and called to the spark, “Come, little one. Alight.”
The spark descended, landed on the outstretched finger, and for the first time it was still, a tiny little girl no larger than the finger on which she stood, with shimmering, translucent wings extending from her back. She seemed unable to remain still for longer than a second or two, fluttering her wings nervously and moving about.
“There, there, little one,” Ellowyn said. She stroked the back of its neck. “The swordsman means no harm. He feels great sorrow, and fears the loss of his friend, and he only wishes to protect him.”
The archangel looked at France. “Forgive her, swordsman. Her intelligence is not great, and she understands even less than you.” Ellowyn looked again at the spark on her finger, then back at France. “France, the swordsman, meet the faerie Laelith.”
JohnEngine asked, “Why are you here?”
“And you, wizard,” Ellowyn said, turning to JohnEngine. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
“I belong here. You do not. And I have only asked two questions. Again, why have you come?”
The confused distress that she showed earlier returned. “I am Ellowyn,” she said, as if that alone was answer enough. “I was summoned to this moment.”
“Summoned?” JohnEngine asked. “Summoned by whom?”
Again there was indecision in her face. “I’m not quite sure, mortal.”
“Then from where did you come?”
“From far away,” she said, though her brow wrinkled in a confused frown. But then her demeanor changed suddenly. Her back straightened; her chin lifted. “Where is the one called Morgin? I have an unpleasant task to perform.”
JohnEngine spoke cautiously. “He is here. What task? And why do you ask?”
“He is the one I seek.”
“You’re too late,” France spit angrily. “He’s dying. And no one can heal those wounds.”
Ellowyn shook her head sadly. “No he’s not, unfortunately. He has his own task to perform, and until he does so, he cannot be granted such peace.”
“What do you intend to do?” France growled.
JohnEngine suddenly thought that he understood Ellowyn, and her purpose. He touched France’s arm gently. “France. Who would summon an archangel?”
France turned his anger upon JohnEngine. “What in netherhell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about an archangel, France. Who would have the power to command an archangel? Who would dare?”
France’s eyes softened as comprehension came to him. JohnEngine continued, “I think, my friend, that death means very little to whoever summoned this angel.”
France pleaded, “Can’t we just leave him in peace?”
JohnEngine
shook his head. “I don’t think it’s up to . . .”
~~~
JohnEngine awoke to the bright morning sun slicing through the open window of his room. For a time his mind refused to believe that the angel had been only a dream. She had seemed so real, and he so wanted something to come and make everything all right: to save Morgin and bring MichaelOff and Malka back to life. But dreams and wishful thinking were not going to change the reality he faced each morning, even if it was the same dream night after night.
JohnEngine sat up, swung his legs off the edge of the bed, rubbed circulation back into the leg where the remnants of Bayellgae’s bite were a constant and painful reminder of the little viper. He pulled on his breaches and a blouse and a pair of rabbit fur slippers Wylow had lent him, searched out his way to the kitchen for a bite to eat. There he found France and Abileen seated grimly at a small table with a setting of cold meat and hard bread and cheese. Both men chewed silently, and neither spoke as JohnEngine pulled up a chair and sat down with them. A serving maid brought him a mug of flat ale. He cut off some cheese and meat, tore off a hunk of bread.
JohnEngine asked, “Any change in Morgin’s condition?”
Abileen answered with a silent shake of his head.
France asked, “You going to talk to your mother today, lad?”
JohnEngine looked at France, was reminded of the swordsman’s words of the day before: “. . . refuses to rest herself, refuses to admit he’s dying.”
JohnEngine rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Ya. I’ll talk to her. Maybe if I agree to take her place by his side she’ll get some rest.”
“You look tired, lad.”
JohnEngine nodded. “I slept poorly last night.”
“I didn’t sleep much either.”
“Oh I slept,” JohnEngine said. “I just didn’t sleep well. Kept having the same dream over and over again.”
