Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  “Oh you wouldn’t understand these things,” she said, then proceeded to spend the rest of the dance talking about ErrinCastle, and how he was so handsome and brave and strong. By the end of the dance Morgin had developed a healthy dislike for the young Penda lord.

  Morgin surrendered her to ErrinCastle for the next dance, rejoined his brothers and cousins and tried not to spend the rest of the evening watching her from afar. But he did nevertheless, though he was careful to avoid being obvious about it. He would have forgotten Valso completely where it not for one short incident. He was talking to JohnEngine about girls when suddenly he heard the prince’s voice speak from close behind his back. “Elhiyne.”

  Morgin jumped, spun quickly about, faced Valso squarely. A ripple passed through the crowd and the music stopped. Silence descended heavily.

  But Valso stood casually, not menacingly, and holding onto his arm, almost clutching it desperately, was a beautiful woman about AnnaRail’s age. But her face bore the sharp lines and characteristics of House Decouix; her beauty was something dark and cold, and her eyes were touched by a hint of sad madness.

  “Jumpy,” Valso said, “aren’t we?”

  Morgin shook his head. Something was muddling his senses. It was as if the woman at Valso’s side had enthralled him with a spell, as if reality were slipping away from him. When he spoke he could not hide the tension in his voice. “Good evening, Lord Valso.”

  “Is it?” Valso asked. He smiled, but the corners of his mouth held the hint of a sneer, as if he would snarl were they not in public. “May I introduce my older sister?” he said. He looked at the woman at his side. “Haleen et Decouix. This is the Elhiyne pup I told you about.”

  Haleen looked at Morgin strangely, not with malice, but with the look of one stricken by some great sorrow. She reached out wonderingly and touched his cheek with a soft gentle caress, as if she were drawn to him by some invisible thread. Her reaction surprised them all.

  Again Morgin felt himself sliding into a thrall. It scared him. He flinched away from her touch, and that, more than anything, seemed to hurt her.

  Valso tugged viciously on her arm and cursed. “What are you doing, whore?”

  She ignored him, continued to reach out to Morgin. “Don’t fear me, child,” she pleaded. “Please don’t fear me.”

  Valso slapped her face brutally. “Silence, whore.”

  He raised the hand to strike again, but Tulellcoe appeared out of nowhere, knocked the hand aside, then struck Valso in the face and sent him sprawling onto the floor.

  Valso jumped to his feet, blood trickling from his lip, anger and hate flashing across his face.

  Tulellcoe was enraged, though Morgin had never before seen him show anger. He snarled at Valso through clenched teeth, “We Elhiynes treat our women with respect, Decouix.”

  Valso flicked his wrist, and an evil little dagger appeared in his hand.

  Several women nearby gasped and stepped back. But Morgin stepped forward to stand supportively beside Tulellcoe. And then suddenly Elhiyne clansmen made themselves visible everywhere.

  Malka stepped in front of Valso. “If I were you, Decouix, I’d think again before using that knife on an Elhiyne.”

  Valso scanned the crowd of Elhiyne clansmen that surrounded him. He flicked his wrist and the knife disappeared.

  “And if I see you strike that woman again,” Malka continued, “I’ll wring your disgusting little neck.”

  Valso gave Morgin one, last hateful look, then turned and walked out of the room. Haleen followed not far behind, but ever looking over her shoulder at Morgin.

  Much later Morgin forgot the incident, though he found it difficult to forget the look on Haleen’s face. Rhianne had called Haleen the mad whore, and when Morgin asked her why, she shrugged and said, “Everyone calls her that.”

  He asked her to dance again, but she declined, pleading tired feet. A few minutes later ErrinCastle joined them, asked her to dance again, and she accepted readily.

  ~~~

  During the week that followed there were no formal events that required Morgin’s attendance. The entire city slowed down as life returned to normal, and while that was the time during which the great houses conducted most of the serious interclan business, it was done in small informal groups that Morgin had little trouble avoiding. In fact, the only event he was required to attend was a small banquet at the Inetka compound.

  Upon arriving he found to his pleasure that Rhianne was there with her parents Edtoall and Matill, and her three older sisters whose names he could never keep straight. He was further pleased to find that the seating arrangements put him next to Rhianne. But his pleasure ended quickly, for all she cared to talk about was riding in the country that afternoon with ErrinCastle.

  After dinner he was approached separately by Edtoall and Roland, who were both interested in what he thought of Rhianne. He shrugged their questions off, managed to get excused from the rest of the evening and left early. Olivia intended to leave the city at dawn the next morning, so he thought he’d get a head start on packing.

  This was the Clan’s Quarter, and the streets were well lit and frequently patrolled, but his walk back to the Elhiyne compound was a solitary one, for the place seemed deserted as almost everyone else prepared to leave in the morning. He walked carelessly down the middle of a street, thinking of Rhianne and trying to devise a plan to get her to pay more attention to him.

  “Kinsman,” a voice said sweetly.

  Morgin froze, instantly recognizing Valso’s voice. It had come from the shadow of a nearby alley.

  He scanned the street quickly, checking his backside before turning to face the alley. It was dark and unlit, filled only with black shadow. It could hide any number of Kulls, and Morgin was unarmed, but then he thought of France’s advice about feet and knees and elbows and fists and claws and teeth.

  “Kinsman,” the voice said again.

  Suddenly Morgin was not sure it was Valso. He approached the alley slowly, stopping well out of reach of any swordsman that might be hiding there. He stood in a crouch with the full width of a well-lit street behind him. He would not be surprised from the rear.

  “Kinsman,” the voice said again. “Why do you fear me?”

  Morgin answered carefully. “Step into the light of the street so I can see who is speaking.”

  It was Haleen, not Valso, who stepped out of the alley. Morgin relaxed, realizing he had mistaken her voice for her brother’s. She stood just within the light thrown by the street lamps, the darkened shadow of the alley immediately behind her. “Do you distrust me?” she asked.

  “Should I?” Morgin asked. He scanned the street again, checking either side, listening for any noise that might signal an attack from his rear.

  Haleen sighed unhappily. “You certainly have no reason to trust me, do you? But then I am not my brother, kinsman.”

  Valso had supposedly left the city that morning. “I thought you’d already left?” Morgin asked flatly.

  “My brother has,” she said. “But I stayed behind with a small escort.”

  “Why?”

  Her demeanor broke. “I wanted to see you again.”

  She raised her hand plaintively toward his face and stepped further into the street, and again Morgin felt drawn to her, enspelled. He back-stepped, shook his head to clear it. “Stay away from me,” he shouted.

  She stopped. Her hands dropped to her sides. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Very well. I’ll not bother you again.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She turned toward the alley. “Come Salula,” she said. “Let us go.”

  That name struck fear in Morgin’s heart, and he back-stepped into the street. Salula, senior captain of all Kulls, a man of whom Morgin had heard but never met. The infamous Captain Salula. The stories of the halfman’s brutality, and the pleasure he derived from it, were known to all.

  There was no movement in the alley. Morgin squinted, hoping to catch a hint of from where Salula might str
ike, for there was no doubt that Salula would strike. Morgin back-stepped further, trying to put distance between him and his enemy, wishing he could see something within the shadow of the alley, but it remained black and still and silent and deadly.

  He stepped back again, then heard something behind him, and in that instant realized he’d played right into their hands. He ducked instinctively and turned, saw the blow coming, a blunt object appearing out of the night. He was surprised to find that he’d moved fast enough to sidestep it, but then the spell took him, the mad whore’s spell, a wave of terror and fear and sorrow that pulled at him, slowing him, defeating him.

  ~~~

  Cold fire splashed across his face and shoulders, dripping to the ground where he lay. He gasped, sucking in air as the icy water cascaded off his bare chest.

  “Ah! Good,” a nearby voice growled, a voice filled only with hatred. “He’s conscious. Call the prince.” The voice was harsh, a voice Morgin had never before heard. All about him other voices responded to the first voice, and even through the pain Morgin could sense a touch of fear in their replies.

  “Bring him to his knees,” Valso commanded.

  “Aye, lord,” the voice said.

  Cruel hands lifted Morgin by the arms his body had forgotten, arms tied behind his back for some unknown length of time, and now gone completely numb. His shoulders ached unmercifully, sending flashes of agony down to his elbows. Beneath that, his forearms and wrists were lifeless.

  The cruel hands set him down on his knees, then a fist knocked his head back and a rush of flashing lights burst through his mind. But the hands prevented him from falling, pushing him forward, driving his face cruelly into the dirt. The toe of a boot crashed into his ribs; a heel into his back.

  “Don’t hurt him. Please.” Morgin recognized Haleen’s voice.

  “Get the whore out of here.” That was Valso. “And restrain her. I don’t want her interrupting.”

  A hand tore at his hair, pulling his head back, his chin up. The voice that brought such fear to the others hissed in his face, “Listen to His Highness when he speaks, fool.”

  “Now Salula,” Valso said casually. “Not yet. I want him conscious for a while. A slap will do.”

  The slap brought the flashing lights again as it echoed through the night and took Morgin to the brink of consciousness. Then the fist knocked him forward into the dirt again.

  “That’s better, Captain,” Valso encouraged. “Now. A bit more water.”

  This time Morgin braced for the icy cascade that engulfed him, though he still gasped and coughed. He opened his eyes, conscious only of a throb at the back of his skull.

  He was on his knees in a small clearing, obviously far from Anistigh, his hands tied behind his back, his cheek pressed into the dirt. To one side an open fire crackled loudly, close enough for him to feel its heat. All about him stood Kulls, gray black shadows in the night, and in front of him stood a pair of shiny black boots, covered by a layer of soft, brown dust.

  Morgin raised his head slowly. Above the boots were a pair of knees, then hips, then chest, and finally the face of Valso et Decouix.

  “Well,” Valso said sweetly. “Lord AethonLaw. You’ve decided to join us, I see. How kind of you. But I don’t believe you’ve met Captain Salula yet.”

  Morgin looked into the empty face next to Valso’s, a face devoid of humanity. “Yer Lordship,” it greeted, nodding its head slightly.

  Valso smiled. “But I know you’ve heard of the good captain, haven’t you?”

  Morgin moved his focus back to Valso. The effort caused his head to swim.

  “Captain,” Valso said.

  Morgin’s head rocked back with another slap. He held onto consciousness only by an effort of will, but his ears rang long afterward.

  It spoke. “Answer His Lordship’s question, fool.”

  Morgin opened his eyes and nodded. He tried to croak a “yes” past split and cracked lips.

  “That’s better, Elhiyne,” Valso said. “The captain is known for his cruelty, is he not?”

  Morgin was careful to at least nod this time.

  “But remember this, Elhiyne. Salula is only as cruel as I allow him to be. And tonight, I, through the good captain, am going to teach you what happens when you touch a Decouix. Prepare him, Salula.”

  Morgin became acutely conscious of his elbows. They were tied painfully behind his back, forcing him to hold his chest out. The cruel hands grabbed him by his upper arms and half dragged him to a nearby boulder, then slammed him face down against its surface.

  For a moment his arms were free, but numb below the elbows it was impossible to use them. Just as they were beginning to feel the prickly fire of returning circulation cruel hands grabbed each of his four limbs, hoisted him atop the boulder, held him face down on its surface. They attached a rope to each limb, then tied it to a stake driven in the ground. His shirt had already been torn away, and the cruel hands now did likewise to his breeches.

  His cheek rested on the boulder. Valso stepped into his field of view, holding a long saddle strap about the length of a grown man. It was a common piece of harness equipment, only a little wider than it was thick.

  Valso leaned close enough for Morgin to smell stale wine on his breath. “I’m going to enjoy this, Elhiyne. I’m going to enjoy this enormously.”

  Morgin didn’t answer.

  Valso stepped back and handed the strap to Salula. “You may begin now, Captain. But remember. I don’t want him to lose consciousness. Not for a long, long time.”

  Salula took the strap casually and folded it in two, holding both ends in one hand. He stepped to the side of the boulder, and his face held the first hint of expression that Morgin had seen: a smile, cruel and evil.

  Morgin watched as Salula raised the strap slowly above his head, and he resolved not to cry out, not to give them the satisfaction. The strap paused high in the air for a long teasing moment, then, with lightning speed it came down.

  Fire laced Morgin’s buttocks. He screamed. The world about him faded from sight momentarily, then the pain receded and his vision returned.

  Valso stood there smiling. Salula stood next to him grinning. The prince said, “Learn your lesson well, Elhiyne.” Then, to Salula, he said calmly, “Again, Captain.”

  The lash struck again, across Morgin’s back, and again he screamed. Again his vision failed in a fiery agony of pain, then returned to the hell that had become his night. Salula paused before the next strike, while Valso made some witty comment. And then the lash fell again. And again the prince paused and commented. Sometimes the pause was long, and sometimes short, but always the lash returned to strike once more.

  After a time Morgin could no longer scream, no longer cry out at the pain that was now a constant burn from shoulders to knees. He lost consciousness several times, only to be reawakened by a flood of icy water across the back of his head. When he begged for a drink, Valso spit in his face. When he begged for mercy, Valso laughed.

  Later he was able to remember only two things: the pain, and Salula’s face. It was a hard face, weathered with hate, a face that grinned after each stroke of the lash, and smiled in anticipation of the next. When Morgin could no longer scream he lay there, silent, watching that face. When the lash was raised high Salula’s face twisted with the effort to strike with all his might. The muscles of his jaw clenched, his lips curled back to expose white teeth locked in a grin that only death could break, his nostrils flared, his eyes closed to mere slits, and as the lash came down he grimaced with pleasure. It was a grimace that Morgin would remember always, a grimace etched on the back of his mind by the white hot fire of the lash, a grimace that remained with him as he drifted slowly toward a place where not even the icy water could revive him.

  ~~~

  Morgin awoke and cried out.

  “Easy, brother,” JohnEngine said softly. “Easy now. Don’t move. We have to untie you.”

  Morgin laid his cheek back down on the boulder
. Soft, gentle hands worked at the knots at his wrists and ankles. The sun stood high in the sky, a warm dry day. He wondered if that added to the slow burn that ran from the back of his neck to the back of his knees.

  His face rested on his right cheek, and all he could see was his left shoulder and arm where the lash had deposited bloody welts and bruises all the way down to his wrist. There was dried blood and scab there too, for the rope had bitten deep during his struggles. Brandon worked at the knot there, his fingers moving with great care. There were tears in his eyes.

  “The Decouix left you for us to find,” he said in a deadly voice. “He will pay for this.” And in Brandon’s eyes Morgin saw hate mixed with the tears. It was almost unbelievable that kind, quiet Brandon could hate so.

  Morgin lifted his head slowly and laid it down on the other cheek. JohnEngine worked at the knot at his right wrist, and tried to hide the tears in his eyes.

  Morgin resolved not to move again. The blood on his back and neck had dried in the warm sun, then split and cracked with fiery awareness as he’d moved his head. But moments later his resolve meant nothing as his brothers and cousins gently hoisted him off the boulder, carried him to one side, placed him face down on some blankets. At least he did not shame himself by crying out as the scab on his back split into hundreds of fiery lines, each distinguishable from the next.

  “Don’t move, cousin,” he heard MichaelOff say from a place far away. “DaNoel is going to put salve on your back. It should ease the pain.”

  Sometime later, hours it seemed, Morgin felt coherent again. The salve had cooled the fire some, and his mind came slowly out of the fog where it had hidden. In his thoughts he replayed the events of the previous evening: Salula using the lash with a vigorous joy, Valso looking on with pleasure. And at the memory of Valso’s smiling face a wave of murderous hate washed through him.

  Nearby he could hear his cousins and brothers speaking softly, making plans to spend the night. They were concerned that it might be some time before he could ride again.