Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  “Aye. It went ill. Twas a slaughter, it was.”

  “And Eglahan?” Morgin asked. “What of him?”

  “Only the gods know, yer wizardship. Likely he be dead like all the rest.”

  Morgin could not hide his disappointment.

  “Do ya be goin’ south, yer wizardship?”

  Morgin shook his head. “No. I ride north.”

  “What fer? There be nothin’ but death up there.”

  Morgin learned from her that the crossing on the Ulbb was called Gilguard’s Ford. She had no idea why. He also obtained directions to Yestmark. “North of here the road forks, yer wizardshipness. Now I never rid no horse before, but it forks ‘bout a day’s walk from here. Take the left road, ‘nother day’s walkin’, and yer there. Don’t know how long it’ll take yee ridin’.”

  Ott walked with a limp, and grimaced occasionally as if favoring some injury. When Morgin asked about it, Ott showed him a nasty gash in his calf that was beginning to fester. Gulk had treated it with a poultice of mud and leaves that added to the problem more than helping. AnnaRail had made sure his saddlebags carried a small amount of healing herbs. Morgin retrieved some redthorn, deadly poisonous if not properly prepared. He chewed the redthorn into a pulpy mass, careful not to swallow any. He shaped the mass into a poultice, then cast the appropriate spell to convert the poison into a healing potion. “Don’t try to handle redthorn yourself,” he warned them as he pressed the poultice into the wound. “You don’t have the magic to prevent it from killing you.”

  Morgin showed Gulk how to make a proper poultice by boiling jagroot and thisk leaves, straining out the pulp, and using it to cover the wound. “Leave the redthorn poultice in for two days, then change to the jagroot and thisk leave poultice.”

  He showed Ikth how to find ginberries and prepare them, then instructed them to clean Ott’s wound with the ginberry syrup and change the poultice twice a day. He set some snares so Gulk could catch rabbits for her pot, and in scouting around for good cover for the snares, he chanced upon a place up river from the ford where the Ulbb passed through a deep canyon. But within the canyon the river was still too shallow to have cut into the rock so deeply, so Morgin guessed the nature of the river was far different at the height of the spring thaw.

  He suddenly had an idea. He tore a long, thin, green branch from a nearby willow, sat down on the bank of the river and carefully fashioned the branch into two, twelve pointed stars. Then he cut a lock of his own hair, and between the two stars he tied eight strands of hair, with eight knots in each strand. He then climbed carefully up the north side of the canyon, and at the top of the canyon he sat down to call forth his magic.

  It was hard, for this was not a spell composed by another and then taught to him. This was his own spell, of his own composition; he had to sense the natural spirit of it to bring it into the mortal world, and that came slowly. But eventually the strands of hair connecting the two stars began to lengthen and thicken. He worked the spell carefully, lest it evaporate before it was complete, and when the strands were long enough, he sealed the spell and finished it.

  The strands had grown to the thickness of heavy twine. He tied a rock in them close to one star, then wedged the other star into a crevice in the top of the canyon wall high over the river. Then holding onto the strands he began spinning the rock-weighted star over his head. He spun it faster and faster, until it was almost beyond his strength to hold onto it, and then he released it toward the other canyon wall. It arced out over the canyon and just barely made it to the other side.

  He followed the river back down to Gilguard’s Ford, crossed the river, then climbed back up stream to the top of the south canyon wall. There, he untied the rock from the strands and wedged the other star into a crevice there. And again he called upon his magic.

  It seemed to take forever, but slowly the eight strands that now crossed the canyon began to glow and thin out, as if flattened and spread like dough beneath a baker’s rolling pin. They flattened until they filled the canyon from wall to wall and top to bottom, and grew so thin they became fully transparent. He extended them down until they touched the water and began to dam the river. But he did not extend them fully down to the river bed itself, so some water still spilled beneath the veil he had created, though slowly the water was backing up behind it. This was a spell that needed time to develop, to come to fruition.

  He returned to Gilguard’s Ford, found Mortiss waiting for him. Under the watchful eyes of the three peasants he repacked his saddle bags. As he walked Mortiss across Gilguard’s Ford, he heard Ikth call, “Ride with the gods, Lard Morgin.”

  North of the Ulbb Morgin encountered more refugees fleeing the battle of Yestmark, mostly peasants and farmers. Many were on foot, but often an entire family had trundled its belongings into a two-wheeled cart pulled by a donkey or an ox, or sometimes a man or boy. Shortly before sunset he began to encounter soldiers, many of them wounded, jamming the road in places and making it difficult to move against the flow of refugees.

  The first soldiers he came upon were a pair, one with his arm in a sling and the other hobbling on a makeshift crutch. “How went the battle?” Morgin asked.

  He with his arm in a sling looked up, and Morgin was struck by the desolation in his eyes. “It was a slaughter. We had twelve hundred men. I doubts there be two hundred left alive.”

  “What of Eglahan?”

  The old soldier shrugged. “Probably dead like all the rest.”

  Morgin rode on. Before the sun set he questioned more soldiers. All told the same story. One who was older, a sergeant-of-men and probably quite reliable, gave the bad news that he had seen Eglahan go down.

  Once the sun set the refugees on the road thinned out. Morgin was able to travel much faster and reached the fork in the road near midnight, and as Gulk had instructed he took the left road. Throughout the night he noticed small fires in the forest on both sides of the road: refugees unwilling or unable to travel in the dark. But by sunrise he’d reached a point where the road and the surrounding forest were deserted.

  He moved with extreme caution, riding in the shadows at the edge of the road and making constant use of his shadowmagic. And then shortly after midday he heard a soft rumble that grew quickly into the thunder of hooves on the road. He froze, held Mortiss still and reinforced his shadowmagic. Moments later a mixed patrol of Kulls and Decouix regulars rode past at full gallop.

  He waited until they were out of sight, then dismounted. He walked now in front of Mortiss and stayed close to the edge of the forest. The sky was clear, the sun bright, and the shadows dark and deep. He walked for another two hours that way, creeping slowly and carefully, freezing into stillness and concentrating on his shadowmagic whenever a Decouix patrol passed by.

  He heard it long before his conscious mind recognized it as sound. At first it was a faint, soft rumble, like the roar of a distant water fall, but as he walked farther it grew into a din that could no longer be ignored. He led Mortiss a good distance into the forest and tethered her there.

  Alone now, he stayed in the wood as he traveled parallel to the road. The going was slower there, but safer. He kept low, followed the smaller game trails rather than the larger, and never relaxed his shadowmagic for so much as an instant.

  The wood ended abruptly, and the nearby road opened out onto a wide, flat plain. And there, well separated from the edge of the forest, lay the source of the noise that pounded now at Morgin’s ears: the camp of the Decouix army.

  It was a sprawl that stretched for as far as the eye could see, twelve thousand strong with perhaps three thousand horses. Morgin didn’t try to count them but he estimated there were a thousand wagons, plus smiths, cooks, wives, children, and the general gamut of camp followers. He stayed within the edge of the forest, moving about and scouting the lay of the camp. He paid close attention to the perimeter, the spacing of the guards, and how they moved. He took careful note of the location of an elaborate cluster of pavilion-like ten
ts near the center of the camp, and especially that which bore the banner of Illalla, Lord of the Greater Clans, King of the third tribe of the Shahot, ruler of the White Clan, foremost of the Greater Council.

  When Morgin was satisfied he knew the lay of the camp, he slipped back into the forest to await darkness and the time of shadow.

  Chapter 18: Shadow’s Walk

  “It wasss a grand victory, my lord,” the winged snake hissed from its pedestal in the corner of the tent.

  “It was not,” the High Lord snarled. His campaign was far behind schedule and his temper was short this night. “It was a rout, nothing more, nothing less. We exterminated some vermin. It was not grand and it was hardly a victory. The real victory will come when I crush that bitch Olivia and her cursed offspring. And cease your condescending flattery, Bayellgae. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Ssssss!” the snake demon said angrily. It flapped its tiny wings and extended its body.

  Illalla turned upon the demon and pointed a finger toward his familiar. “Don’t hiss at me, snake. You seem to forget yourself now and then. Must we teach you again who here is master?”

  “No, massster. Pleassse.” Chastened, the snake averted its eyes.

  “Then when you’re in the company of your betters, snake, act like it.”

  “Yesss, massster. Bayellgae begsss forgivenessss.”

  “If Bayellgae wishes forgiveness, it should beg for it at my feet.”

  The snake knew better than to speak. It slithered down its pedestal and across the floor. It curled up and laid its head submissively at the tip of the High Lord’s slipper. “Forgive me, massster.”

  “Back to your perch,” the wizard snarled.

  The snake sprang into the air, its tiny wings buzzing like a bumblebee.

  “Now,” Illalla said. “Tell me of the camp.”

  As the snake spoke, its head and body wove habitually from side to side. “Asss you commanded, my lord, I flew about the camp. The men have finissshed celebrating. Sssince you reduced their ration of ale thisss day, they are sssober.”

  “Will they be ready to travel?”

  “Yesss, your grace. If you command it.”

  “I do. I’ll issue orders to my captains to ready to march at dawn.”

  “Yesss, my lord.”

  “What of Eglahan, snake? Have you found his body?”

  “No, my lord. There are ssso many bodiesss to sssearch. It wasss ssso dissstracting.”

  “And you dallied, no doubt.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. I cannot help myssself when there isss ssso much delightful death about.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Illalla dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. “Eglahan is of no import. Dead or alive he can no longer hurt me. But what about that bunch of Elhiyne rabble? What have you found out about them, my prescient little beast?”

  “They are going to attack usss tomorrow, massster, though they don’t know it yet. They believe we don’t know they’re here, ssso they think they will sssurprissse usss, then disssappear quickly into the foressst.”

  Illalla threw his head back and laughed. “So they think they’ll surprise us. Well we’ll have to prepare a little trap for them, eh? And we’ll see who surprises who. By the way. Has there been any word of that fool son of mine?”

  “Only that the Elhiynesss have retaken their cassstle and Valssso wasss neither captured nor killed.”

  “Then he still lives?”

  “Perhapsss, my lord. He isss resssourceful and may yet—” The snake suddenly stopped its weaving undulations. Agitated by something, it spit and hissed and fluttered angrily.

  Illalla knew the serpent’s senses were sharper than his own. “What is it, Bayellgae?” he demanded.

  “We are being obssserved, my lord.”

  Morgin tensed. He stood hidden within the shadows immediately outside Illalla’s tent. The night and its shadows were his only protection.

  “A spy?”

  “Yesss, my lord, a ssspy.”

  “Then find it, snake, and kill it.”

  Morgin ran, another shadow among many in the moonlight, but behind him he heard the buzzing of tiny wings and the hiss of the deadly little snake. In desperation he stepped into a shadow and froze, holding his breath, quenching his own magic ruthlessly so that the little monster could not sense it.

  The center of the camp exploded in an uproar. Someone screamed for guards and there were suddenly Kulls all about. A Decouix lieutenant ran by hollering orders to triple the guard at the perimeter. Bayellgae and Illalla stopped not ten paces from Morgin’s hiding place, the wizard standing, the snake hovering in the air about him.

  “What was it?” Illalla demanded.

  “Sssomething not ordinary, my lord. Sssomething magical.”

  “A demon?”

  “No, my lord. Thisss magic had not the tassste of the netherlife.”

  “Then it was a wizard?”

  “Perhapsss, my lord. Then perhapsss not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There wasss an odd difference to thisss magic, a difference I have not tasssted in a very long time.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I know not, my lord. It went thisss way, but I can no longer tassste it.”

  “Then come with me,” Illalla barked. He moved off into the night and the snake demon followed.

  Wearing his Kull cloak Morgin stepped out of his shadow walking hastily, trying to look like one of many Kulls hurrying toward the perimeter. When he got there he took up a position in the perimeter line with the rest and waited. He was still several hundred paces from the edge of the forest, and to run now, under the eyes of the perimeter guards, would be foolish.

  A Kull lieutenant came walking down the perimeter line, inspecting the guard one by one. Soon he would step up to Morgin. He would look him in the face and recognize that he was no Kull. Morgin would die then and there, or worse, be captured alive.

  He could wait no longer, so he left his position and walked calmly to the next man in line. Without warning he drew his sword and cut the man down in a single motion.

  “Spy!” he screamed as loud as he could. “It’s the spy. I’ve killed him. I claim the reward.”

  The perimeter broke up as a crowd of men and halfmen gathered quickly. “What reward,” one of them asked.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Morgin lied. “Illalla is offering a thousand gold pieces to the man that kills him. And it’s mine.”

  That sparked their interest. They gathered closely around the dead man as the Kull lieutenant arrived. “Make way,” he bellowed in a growling Kull voice. “Let me through.”

  Morgin obeyed. He stepped aside and moved to the edge of the small crowd, and when the time was right, he slipped into a convenient shadow provided by the moon. The deceit was quickly discovered and the cry rose again, but by that time Morgin had gained the safety of the forest and was making his way back to Mortiss.

  ~~~

  Morgin learned that, like his sword arm, the more he exercised his magic, the easier it became to wield. He’d also learned that by relaxing, he gained an awareness of any being nearby, human or not. It was a struggle, though, to relax and yet still concentrate on his horsemanship, for so much of him was devoted to guiding Mortiss stealthily through the night that little remained for relaxation. But then a moment came when Mortiss’ soul washed over him, as if to tell him that she needed not the guidance of some stupid mortal, that she was there by her own will, that she had chosen him, and not he her. So he let her choose her own path and he relaxed, and his consciousness extended outward into the forest around him. That was when he detected the single rider up ahead, a man travelling alone through the forest.

  Morgin decided to follow the man, using his magic to allow him to remain at a good distance, yet still know the man’s trail in the dark. The man moved through the forest growth with practiced ease. Like Morgin he was almost a shadow in the night, and Morgin came to realize that were it not for his m
agic, he would have quickly lost the man’s trail.

  Morgin followed the man to a small camp of armed warriors. The perimeter guards, neither Kull nor Decouix, admitted the man readily, and with his curiosity aroused Morgin tethered Mortiss and went scouting. He pulled a shadow about him and slipped past the perimeter easily, hoping he’d discovered a remnant of Eglahan’s army. There appeared to be about fifty men in the camp, most clustered around four fires that were small enough to be safe.

  The man he’d followed walked quickly toward the center of the camp, and as Morgin moved through the shadows in his wake he spotted Abileen, the sergeant-of-men from Kallun’s Gorge, huddled near one of the fires, and he quickly realized that he knew about half of the men present.

  When the man stepped into the light of the fire at the camp’s center, to Morgin’s surprise a woman jumped up and greeted him. “Packwill. Were there any difficulties?”

  Morgin looked at the woman carefully. She wore pants like a man, with a sword strapped to her hip; not a lady’s dagger, but a full sized battle sword. She stood slightly larger than most women, though still smaller than a man, and even though her appearance was harsh and blunt, she was attractive as a woman, and her speech was that of a high born lady.

  “No, milady,” Packwill said to her as he stepped closer to the fire to warm his hands. “I stayed far enough away to keep out of trouble, though some sort of ruckus started just as I was leaving.”

  JohnEngine stepped suddenly into the light of the small fire. “Come, man. We’re all anxious to hear what you learned.”

  Seated behind the woman was a man whom Morgin didn’t recognize. Opposite him, and also seated, were two men with their backs to Morgin. One of them stood to warm his hands over the fire, and when he spoke Morgin recognized Tulellcoe. “How strong is he?”

  “Twelve thousand men, your lordship,” Packwill said flatly. “Three thousand horse, perhaps a thousand wagons.”

  The man still seated with his back to Morgin spoke, and Morgin recognized France. “How many Kulls?”