Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  “He’s crazy,” someone said. “He’s always been crazy.”

  The indecision disappeared from JohnEngine’s eyes. “Shut up,” he said. “And blow out that candle.”

  ~~~

  “Who was Attun?” Morgin asked.

  Roland looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “No one knows for sure. But why do you believe Attun was a ‘who’ and not a ‘what’? Perhaps Attun was a thing, not some person.”

  “He must have been a person,” Morgin said. “Or a god. They named a mountain after him: Attunhigh. And the lesser mountains that surround it are called the Worshipers of Attun. Surely no one would worship a thing.”

  “But the Worshipers are things,” Roland said. “They’re nothing but mountains. And wouldn’t things worship other things, and not people? And if Attun were a person, or a god, what makes you think he was a he, and not a she?”

  Morgin felt badly confused.

  Roland smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “There now. Pay no attention to me. I’m just teasing a little.” He turned serious again. “But I was trying to illustrate a point. No one truly knows who or what Attun was. We have no legends to tell us about him; or actually we have too many, all different and none in agreement. He was probably a god, since as you say no one would worship a thing, or even a mere person. But we cannot be sure of that. The Greater Clans believe him to be a joke perpetrated upon us foolish and stupid Lesser Clans. Their legends say that he was an idiot, a moron who became King of the Lesser Clans after the Great Clan Wars. On the other hand, the Benesh’ere believe him to be a great god who will come in the future to absolve them of their sins. So you see, no one truly knows who Attun was.”

  Morgin thought on that for a moment, then asked, “Who are the Benesh’ere? MichaelOff says they live in the Great Munjarro Waste. He says the Waste is nothing but sand for as far as the eyes can see. That’s across the Worshipers, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Roland said patiently. “The Waste lies across the mountains. And yes, the Benesh’ere live in the Waste for much of the year. But as to who the Benesh’ere are, you’re nine years old now, so you must’ve studied the Antiquities.”

  “Yes,” Morgin said unhappily. “But I don’t understand them.”

  Roland laughed. “They are rather cryptic, aren’t they?” He leaned back in his chair to think. They were in his study, a place of books and papers and odds and ends. Morgin liked best the two shiny broadswords hung above the mantle of the fireplace. He wanted to be a great swordsman someday, and the sight of them filled him with thoughts of the glory of battle.

  “You know, don’t you,” Roland said, “that the Benesh’ere are the seventh tribe of the Shahot, and that they committed a great crime long ago. What was that crime?”

  “Didn’t they start the Great Clan Wars?” Morgin asked eagerly.

  Roland nodded. “Yes. But there’s more to it than that. Remember that the Shahotma King rules all of the clans, and stands above a mere clan king. Long ago the Benesh’ere were the greatest of the twelve tribes. A long line of Shahotma Kings were born to them and they grew proud. But then there came a time when the Shahotma was born to another tribe, and the Benesh’ere grew jealous. They reasoned that the children of the seventh tribe showed the greatest power, so they should lead. And so they declared their king a false Shahotma. They brought war to the clans, a war so terrible that four tribes were exterminated in the bloodletting. The false Shahotma was finally overcome in a great battle in which thousands died. But with him fell the true Shahotma, never to rise again. Now, Morgin, do you know the name of that last true Shahotma?”

  Morgin dug deep into his memory. “Aethon?” he asked.

  Roland nodded with a pleased smile, and asked, “Aethon of what clan?”

  Morgin shook his head. “I don’t know, father.”

  “He was Aethon et Elhiyne. He was of our tribe, Morgin, the eighth tribe, the tribe of the red Ward. He was an Elhiyne.”

  Morgin sat entranced by Roland’s story. “What happened next?”

  “For their crimes the Benesh’ere were punished. Do you know what that punishment was?”

  “They were exiled to the Waste?”

  “Yes. And more. The reign of their king was ended. Their name was stricken from the rolls of clan right. Septimus, the seventh Ward, the guardian of their power, was extinguished, and exists today only as it has since that time: cold, black, and silent.”

  Morgin thought of the few times he had been involved in a full-scale ceremony of magic. The other Wards were pillars of blinding light, each a color uniquely its own, and each humming a separate and distinct tone that was painful to the ears. But Septimus was the lone exception. Like the rest it was there, but it was black, quiescent, unlit, un-whole.

  “Morgin, pay attention.” Roland grinned and ruffled Morgin’s hair. “There is one further punishment that the Benesh’ere must endure, and it is by far the most terrible of all. It is simply this: their magic was stricken from them, and to this day they live powerless in their exile. Before their crimes they were the most powerful of all, and now they are the least.” Roland’s brows wrinkled for a moment, as if he pitied the evil Benesh’ere. But then he brightened, looked at Morgin and said, “Now you tell me what happened after that.”

  Morgin toyed with a quill pen on the top of Roland’s desk. “I’m sorry, father. I don’t know.”

  “That’s all right, son. But since you don’t know, pay close attention while I tell you.”

  Morgin nodded eagerly.

  “After the Great Clan Wars the seven tribes that remained, not counting the Benesh’ere, were so badly maimed that chaos ruled the land. There followed a time of evil in which no man could trust his brother and no law was inviolate. People actually starved to death, and disease and pestilence were rampant. The land was ruled by bandits and cutthroats who took whatever they wanted, whenever they chose . . .”

  “Like the Queen of Thieves?” Morgin asked.

  Roland shook his head and smiled. “Not at all. In fact—and don’t you tell my mother I said this—but Aiergain and her people are not really thieves, and they’re certainly not cutthroats. Aiergain is a true queen in her own right. She rules the port city of Aud, and fully accepts the responsibilities that come with such a station in life. She is, however, descended from those bandits of old, and I think she rather enjoys being called the Queen of Thieves, if for no other reason than that it irks my mother.”

  Morgin frowned. “But the Lady Olivia calls her a murderous thief all the time.”

  Roland chuckled. “Well now, my mother has never gotten along with Aiergain, and she likes to think the worst of her. But that’s beside the point. Let’s get back to my story.

  “Now after the Great Clan Wars the three tribes that still had living kings were the least devastated. They formed the Greater Council, and from them order grew out of chaos. But their order was harsh, and the four lesser tribes, whose kings were all dead, were not allowed to crown new kings. And so for more than a thousand years the three kings of the Greater Council have ruled the lesser tribes. Their law has been that of the sword, and their justice that of the mailed fist. They’ve crushed us time and again back into barbarism, but we nevertheless prevail. Slowly, in spite of their kings, we’ve pulled ourselves up out of the muck and cleansed the land. People no longer starve, and while bandits are always a problem, they are much less so with each passing year, and their activities are confined to the hinterlands. We have done well—at least as well as we can—but we Lesser Clans pay tithe to the Greater Council, and should one of us show any promise, we usually end up paying a tithe of blood. But someday . . . oh someday . . . that will end.”

  Roland had actually become angry while speaking. It frightened Morgin, for except in Olivia’s presence Roland never became angry. But then the anger vanished suddenly. “Well I’ve answered your questions,” he said. “But no more—not today. I have work to do so you run along.”

  Morgin jum
ped down from Roland’s desk, threw a quick “Thank you,” over his shoulder, and ran out the door.

  ~~~

  The moon was full and bright, and it cast a silvery glow upon the steadily ripening wheat that surrounded the castle. Morgin loved to walk in the fields on such a night, for here he could find a solitude that was not available within the castle walls where the clan was everywhere. There seemed to be an endless number of brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles—somehow all related. And that didn’t count servants and retainers and field hands, and all those others not of the clan.

  Morgin was ten years old now, and after four years of living with witches he had finally come to understand the hierarchy of the clan. There was the Lady Olivia at its head—she ruled absolutely and her word was law—and the only people who dare argue with her were her two sons Malka and Roland, and their wives Marjinell and AnnaRail. But the old witch seemed always to have the last word, even, it appeared, when she was conceding a point.

  Malka and Marjinell had two sons: MichaelOff, who, at twenty, was the oldest of the boys; and Brandon, who was fourteen. Roland and AnnaRail also had two sons—DaNoel, fourteen; and JohnEngine, ten—and in addition they had two daughters—Annaline, twelve; and NickoLot, four. And that was House Elhiyne.

  Except, he had forgotten Tulellcoe, the only son of Olivia’s dead sister Hellis, strange and dangerous Tulellcoe. He didn’t like Tulellcoe, feared him even, though not in the way he feared Olivia, for the old woman was hot fury, while Tulellcoe was a cold madness stalking silently at the edge of one’s senses.

  That was House Elhiyne, the family that ruled the clan that ruled the eighth tribe of the Shahot. Morgin wasn’t sure if he understood all of that, but that was the way the old men that taught him put it. They also taught him that he was a clansman by virtue of his magic, an incomprehensible power he pretended to understand only to avoid a thrashing during his lessons. They said that anyone who had the power of magic was a clansman by right, though the distinction was often hard to see. AnnaRail said it was not unusual for common parents to bear a child possessed of power, in which case the child was readily accepted into the clan. There were also men and women of the clan who married outside of the clan, though it was usually a poor or ugly clanswoman who had found herself a rich merchant, a man who desired clan connections, or hoped for clan children, or both. But the merchant, or the child’s parents, were not themselves clan unless they displayed some facility at magic, no matter how slight.

  Morgin was also beginning to understand his place within the clan, where rank was determined by relationship to House Elhiyne: the closer the relationship, the higher the rank, and since the majority of the clan could claim some kinship to Elhiyne, they all held some elevated rank or station. Then there were the few like Morgin who were related to no one, and could claim no rank whatsoever. Morgin had a thought that made him chuckle: the clan had Olivia at its head, and Morgin at its tail.

  His attention returned to the night that surrounded him so comfortably, and the moonlight, and the wheat fields. He was perched on an outcrop of rock on a small hill overlooking the castle in the distance. The moonlight gave the wheat a soft shimmer, as if it were swaying in a light breeze, but the night was still and calm, with the lights of the castle casting a glow high above the trees that surrounded it. And in the village a single lonely spark of a lamp told of someone working late.

  His eye caught a flicker of motion down on the road: someone coming from the castle. He knew in some way that it was AnnaRail, and he watched her walk casually up the road, then stop and look his way. “It’s late, Morgin. Time to come in.”

  He climbed off his perch and gained the road. She held out her hand and he took it. “It’s a lovely night,” she said. “You like to walk in the moonlight, don’t you? Aren’t you afraid of the dark?”

  Morgin could not understand why anyone should be afraid of the dark, with all its shadows so deep and warm. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would I be afraid of the dark?”

  ~~~

  “I don’t understand,” Morgin pleaded. “I’m trying, but I just don’t understand.”

  AnnaRail smiled, reached out and touched him on the shoulder. It tore at her heart to see him this way. He cared nothing for magic, but he so wanted to please her, and if that was what she wanted to teach him then he was determined to learn, no matter how frustrated and confused he became.

  “Relax,” she said softly. “I know you’re trying, and I’m not surprised that you’re confused, for this is complicated. Now take a deep breath . . .”

  He did so.

  “. . . and let it out slowly. There. Doesn’t that feel better?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Let’s try again, and we’ll start from the beginning. Can you tell me the three Planes of Existence?”

  She had purposefully chosen something he could answer. He did so eagerly. “The Celestial Plane, the Mortal Plane, and the Nether Plane.”

  “Good,” she said. “And how many levels of existence are there within the three Planes?”

  That too he knew. “Twelve.”

  “How many levels are there in the Celestial Plane?”

  His confidence faltered. “Seven?”

  She nodded approvingly. “And what are they?”

  “The Seven Heavens of the Celestial Plane. And the Seventh Heaven is the highest level of all existences.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Very good. Now what about the Nether Plane?”

  His confidence disappeared completely, and his answer came out more as a question. “Nine?”

  She nodded again. “Go on.”

  His brow wrinkled with confusion. “The Nine Hells of the netherworld. And the Ninth Hell is the lowest level of existence.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Excellent. Now, the Mortal Plane.”

  He grimaced.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “There aren’t any levels left,” he pleaded. “Nine and seven are more than twelve, so we can’t even fit both the Celestial Plane and the Nether Plane in the twelve levels. Where is there room for the Mortal Plane?”

  “Ah! Now I see the problem. It’s so simple, and yet I’ve made it difficult for you by not explaining properly. What you’re missing is that the Celestial Plane and the Nether Plane overlap. As you said, the Seventh Heaven is the highest of the twelve levels, and the Ninth Hell is the lowest. But in between they overlap. The level that is the Fourth Heaven is also the First Hell. The Third Heaven is also the Second Hell. The Second Heaven is also the Third Hell. And finally, the First Heaven is also the Fourth Hell. There are only twelve levels of existence, but four of them are part of both the Celestial Plane and the Nether Plane.”

  Morgin’s eyes opened with wonder. “Now,” she said before he had a chance to think, “The Mortal Plane. How many levels?”

  He frowned again. “Four?”

  “Exactly. And which four levels do you think they are?” She winked. “I’ll give you one guess.”

  Comprehension dawned so visibly on his face she almost laughed, but she was careful not to. “The four that overlap,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. She reached out and hugged him. “Now you see, don’t you? The four levels of the Mortal Plane overlap three ways. Each is at once part of the Celestial Plane, the Mortal Plane, and the Nether Plane. And that is why gods and demons can walk the Mortal Plane, for all levels of the Mortal Plane are also levels of the other two.”

  She could see he understood, so she kept at him. “Now think carefully,” she said. “Do you see any special significance to the Mortal Plane?”

  He thought for a long moment, and when no answer came she said, “Consider this. The highest three levels of existence, the Fifth through Seventh Heavens, overlap on no other Plane. And since demons can walk only upon the Nether Plane, those three levels are closed to them. Likewise, the lowest five levels, the Fifth through Ninth Hells, overlap on no other plane. And since gods can
walk only upon the Celestial Plane, those five levels are forever closed to them. Now do you see the significance of the Mortal Plane?”

  She could see in his eyes that he had the answer, but he was unsure of himself. “It’s the only place where gods and demons meet?”

  “Yes. But it’s more. It’s the only place where gods, demons, and mortals meet. And too, there is also a special significance to mortal existence, for we mortals are the only beings that have within us the power to walk beyond our own plane of existence. It is possible for us to walk the highest levels of the Celestial Plane, and the lowest levels of the Nether Plane. It takes great power to do so, enormous power, and the further one ventures the more power that is required, so much so that there are few alive today who can venture even one level out of the Mortal Plane. And yet, the ability to walk all levels is inherent within all of us, as it is forever forbidden to gods and demons.”

  She looked closely at Morgin, a little boy who wanted desperately to understand, and within her something old and arcane made her speak. “Someday you will walk the netherworld,” she said to him. “I can sense that within you. I do not know how far you will venture, nor for how long, but beware, for the netherworld is a trap for those who are ignorant. And if you are caught, you will suffer its Hells for all eternity.”

  Chapter 4: To Glimpse the Man

  “Hurry, Morgin,” JohnEngine shouted. “We mustn’t be late.”

  “I’m hurrying,” Morgin shouted back, frantically tying the laces of his jerkin. “Go on without me.”

  “I’ll wait,” JohnEngine said. “But hurry.” He returned to his cot, sat down to wait, and but for the two of them the boy’s dormitory was empty.