Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Both shook their heads carefully, nervously.

  Morgin turned Mortiss about, looked up the road. Ahead it took a turn to the right before coming upon Illalla’s rear guard. Beyond that there was a slight rise, then the road opened out onto the glen, and there lay the Decouix camp.

  Morgin stood up in his stirrups and twisted about to look back. Immediately behind him waited France and Tulellcoe and Cort and Abileen. Then there was Eglahan and Wylow, and behind them their eight hundred warriors who looked nervously upon their shadowwraith counterparts. Some of their faces showed fear, most showed distaste and uncertainty.

  Morgin touched his spurs to Mortiss’ flanks and she broke into a trot. He fought to restrain her, but as he approached the turn in the road he eased up on the reins a bit and she broke into a canter. Slowly he let her have her speed and the tempo of her hooves pounding on the road increased until she was charging at full gallop and he was low in the saddle, the point of his sword held out before him, behind him the thunder of sixteen hundred charging horses filling his ears.

  He made the turn in the road and up ahead the Decouix rear guard came into sight. They turned in surprise, drew their swords, then thought better of the odds, spun about and scattered into the forest, and with the wind in his face Morgin passed them by without a thought. His stomach lurched as he topped the rise where the road opened out onto the glen, and he charged down into the midst of the enemy camp where the Decouix servants looked at him once, then fled in all directions. He picked out one seated figure and watched as the man tried futilely to stand, weighted down by the heavy chain mail he wore.

  Morgin swung his sword out to the side, leveled it like a scythe set for a harvest of blood, and as he passed the enemy knight he swept the blade forward, his arm jerked outward and back with a sickening thunk. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the man’s head tumbling through the air, then lost sight of it as he pulled hard on Mortiss’ reins to bring her to a halt. He spun her about for another charge, but he needn’t have bothered, for the knight still lounged in his chair, dressed in his fine garments and chain mail, headless. And up and down the line of the Decouix camp there were many more like him, still seated in their finery, unable to move quickly enough because of the heavy armor they wore. Some few had been faster and managed to get to their feet, but heavily armored knights on foot were virtually helpless against mounted troops. Morgin was not needed here.

  A strange prickly sensation suddenly touched deep into his soul. It called to him from the main battle, so he turned from the pandemonium of the Decouix camp to face a field of what seemed unending death.

  He was closer now, and the din cut at his nerves like a knife, but in the sight of the thing his mind refused to distinguish individuals, preferring instead to lump it all together into one shifting, swaying mass of arms and legs, men and horses, swords and pikes, spears and shields. He was strangely drawn to it and unable to look away. It was as if this were his destiny, the culmination of his training, the ultimate purpose of his magic and power. His magic was almost palpable now, swirling about him, fed by his intimate and constant contact with the netherworld, building to some unknown end. It frightened him, filled him with the desire to flee, to throw his sword away, to spur Mortiss and race from this festival of death.

  As he watched, unable to look away, an individual warrior separated himself from the melee. He walked slowly and unevenly up the shallow slope that led to Morgin, and from a distance Morgin could distinguish almost no detail about the man. He wore Elhiyne livery, carried no weapons, walked with a bad limp. In his clothing there was a garish amount of Elhiyne red, more than was customary or necessary for identification. But as the distance between them narrowed Morgin realized that the red the man wore was not cloth, but a cloak of blood that covered him from head to foot, much of it his own.

  Morgin shivered as the stranger hobbled slowly toward him, but could not have looked away for an instant. One of the man’s legs was crooked, broken in many places, with sharp splinters of bone protruding from the skin. His leather jerkin was slashed everywhere with sword cuts, many of which must have penetrated to the skin, and beyond. But of all the wounds he bore, the most terrible was the enormous hole in his chest where a steel tipped war lance had shattered his torso. The wound was mortal, and yet this stranger still walked as if he were among the living.

  Morgin looked reluctantly at the man’s face. It too was covered with blood, some of it dried and caked, some of it fresh and glistening in the afternoon sun. But beneath it all the man’s skin bore the unmistakable pall of death. There were wounds on the man’s face, small slashes and cuts, but Morgin’s eyes were drawn to three small scars long ago treated and healed, ghostly reminders of a faraway past where filth and degradation grew childhood diseases.

  Morgin’s heart climbed up into his throat, and even though he sat astride his horse, his legs felt weak and yielding, for in the face of the apparition that stood before him, mutilated and crooked, he saw the scars of his youth; he saw his own face, twisted into an expressionless stare of death. And he knew now that he was living his dream, that the nightmare he had dreamed so many times in the past was no longer a dream, but life itself. And soon he would know its terrifying end.

  Morgin’s sword lifted itself slowly, carried his hand with it. The blade shimmered and glowed with power; he could feel it swirling through the air about him. He saw little motes of it dancing down the length of the blade, trickling between his fingers, scurrying up his arm. It tickled the hairs in his nose and made his eyelashes feel alive.

  The apparition that wore his face stopped suddenly just beyond reach. It bowed formally to Mortiss, then looked at Morgin.

  With what little control Morgin had over his power, he pointed the tip of his sword at the ghostly specter. He could not hide the tremble in his voice as he followed the path of his dream and whispered, “Name yourself, demon.”

  The apparition stared at Morgin through cold, dead eyes buried in a stone, dead face. It shrugged, opened its mouth and said, “I am MorginDeath, my lord, and I have come for you.”

  Morgin now knew the end of his dream. He finally understood that it was not he in the dream, but a great king who had allowed Morgin to see the dream through his own eyes. The king too had watched a terrible battle being waged below, and like Morgin he had watched the apparition of his own death approach. The apparition had worn the king’s face, and when the king had demanded its name it had called itself “AethonDeath,” and the king had shrugged uncaringly and said, “So be it.” But Morgin could not be so cavalier. “Be gone,” he screamed. “Leave me. You cannot have me.”

  The ghostly specter shrugged again. “As you wish, my lord. But I am your destiny.” It glanced over its shoulder at the carnage in Csairne Glen, then looked back at Morgin. “I will await you on the battlefield below,” it said, then disappeared without trace, gone as if it had never been.

  Morgin tried desperately to imitate that long dead king, and whispered, “So be it.”

  “What?” Tulellcoe demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you see it?” Morgin asked.

  “See what? I saw nothing. What did you see?”

  “A dream,” Morgin said. “Just a dream. Tell me, uncle. What is Csairne Glen known for? Why have I heard the name before?”

  Tulellcoe looked at him suspiciously, as he did so often now. “Legend has it that Csairne Glen was the scene of the last great battle of the Great Clan Wars. It is said that Aethon died here, and was then entombed in Attunhigh.”

  “Of course,” Morgin said. “It had to be.”

  “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  “My lord,” Wylow called before Morgin could answer. “We’re ready.”

  Morgin turned in his saddle and looked at the warriors behind him. The shadow warriors waited astride their shadow horses without nervousness or fear, while the mortal warriors held themselves apart from the shadowwraiths, and their nervousness and fear were aggravat
ed by the presence of their shadow counterparts. It would not do to have them ride together.

  “Lord Eglahan,” Morgin said above the din of battle. “You and your men take the right flank. Lord Wylow. You take the left.”

  Both men nodded and said nothing. Each turned without bravado, raised his sword as a signal, spurred his horse, and, followed by his warriors, rode out to his assigned side of the glen. Morgin was left with his shadows, and he felt so alone.

  Morgin looked again at the battle in the center of the glen. There was as yet no response to indicate any awareness of their presence. The battle raged on without them, seemingly oblivious to any threat they might offer. Morgin picked out Illalla’s banner, a target he would aim for. If he and his shadows could split the Decouix line, then Eglahan and Wylow, each with their warriors, would charge from both sides and try to split the halves again. Only the gods knew if it would do any good.

  Morgin cast a spell for courage, and one to banish fear. Then he began to purposefully draw on the power of the sword. He put a cloak of shadow about Mortiss to protect her, though since he was starting to glow with an eerie, blood-red light, he didn’t bother for himself. France! At the last moment he thought of France.

  As if reading his thoughts, the swordsman said, “I’m right here, lad. Right behind ya. You an’ me eh?”

  Morgin turned about in his saddle and found Tulellcoe, France, Cort, and Abileen waiting with his shadows. And as if in answer to the question on his face, Cort said, “We ride with you, my lord.”

  Morgin nodded, turned back to the battle, cast shadows about all four of them and their horses, though they wouldn’t be aware of it. He held his eyes targeted on Illalla’s banner and nudged Mortiss forward into a walk, and behind him the creak and groan of the saddle leather of eight hundred shadow warriors answered his lead. He held his sword casually, letting it dangle at the end of his arm.

  He touched his spurs to Mortiss’ flanks; she changed her pace to a trot. There came a second’s delay, then the tempo of the hooves behind him changed likewise. Behind him the shadows closed their ranks to form a wedge, the head of a spear with Morgin at its point.

  Another touch of his spurs and Mortiss moved up to a canter. She tried to break into a run but he held her back. She was jumpy, skittish. She sensed her master’s mood, and she smelled blood and death on the air. She wanted to surge forward, to release her energy in a blinding flash of speed, but it was imperative that Morgin keep his warriors bunched tightly, not strung out by an overlong charge. Timing was of the essence.

  Mortiss still struggled against him, so he gave her a little rein and let her break into a gallop. The battle line in front of him seemed no closer, as if it were more reluctant than he to meet this fate. But when the time was right, when the distance was right, he swung his sword out in front of him and dug his spurs mercilessly into Mortiss’ sides. She exploded, almost tore Morgin from his saddle, and behind him the war cry of the shadow warriors was a whisper of death as they fought to keep up with him. And still he held back the power of the sword that pushed always at his will like Mortiss pulled at her reins.

  Morgin’s sight narrowed to the seething mass of pain and death and anger that was the rear of the Decouix battle line, and his hearing lost all sounds but the thunder of Mortiss’ hooves. He braced himself. Then, in that eternity of an instant of impact, he released the power of the sword fully and they struck with a deafening roar, eight hundred riders colliding at full charge with the rear of the Decouix line.

  In the first seconds after impact Morgin’s sword was useless. He could do nothing but charge forward, using his power to shield himself and Mortiss from injury. Then a Decouix sword sliced past his face. He deflected it, struck out blindly, cut off the man’s arm. The air about him was filled with screams of pain and cries of fear.

  He deflected a pike, slammed his sword against a shield and hacked down at someone’s shoulder. His sword lengthened magically, taking on the attributes of a full-length broadsword. He gripped the hilt in both hands and hacked downward at anything that came within range. He spurred Mortiss on, knowing that if he stopped, he would die, though the density of the battle was slowly pulling her to a grinding halt.

  Something stung at his arm. He slashed outward, downward, tried to fight in all directions at once. A Kull officer on horseback reared in front of him. For a short time his battle narrowed to that one Kull. Then he saw an opening, smashed the edge of his blade into the Kull’s rib cage, and the Kull died then and there. He kicked at the Kull’s riderless horse. It snorted fearfully and bucked away from him.

  Behind the horse a foot soldier leveled his pike at Morgin. Morgin raised his own sword to strike the man down, but they both froze suddenly in wonder, for the man was Elhiyne. “ShadowLord!” he cried excitedly and raised his pike over his head.

  “To me,” Morgin screamed. “To me.” Then he spun Mortiss about and charged back into the seething mass of men and horses, and for the first time he felt hope.

  He met a Decouix wizard face to face. The man threw the fires of magic at him, but his own magic was fully upon him, and the Decouix’s power was as nothing against that of the sword. He cut the wizard down almost casually and turned to look for another.

  He was surrounded by them, isolated from his comrades. He fought, for there was nothing left but battle. He killed, for there was nothing left but death. He used his power and his sword as if they were one. He was bleeding from small cuts and wounds in a dozen places, and he was weakening. The past weeks of fighting, days without food and rest, it was all taking its toll and he was weakening.

  His right leg lit up with fire and Mortiss screamed and stumbled. The shaft of a long arrow protruded from his thigh, though little of it was visible for it had gone through his leg and well into Mortiss’ side. She stumbled again, tried to rear up but only staggered, stayed valiantly on her feet. A Decouix pikeman stepped out of the melee and rammed his pike deep into her chest. She shuddered, then toppled to the left.

  Morgin, with his right leg pinned to her side by the arrow, could not jump clear. She landed on his left leg and he felt and heard it snap. He screamed. She kicked and jerked, and her death throws ground his leg between her weight and the rocky ground.

  Morgin felt his leg snap and splinter again and again, and as the bones grated against one another he almost lost consciousness. His world narrowed to a universe of pain and oblivion. The battle became a world of pandemonium in which he could no longer distinguish friend from foe. But then the confusion of bodies about him suddenly parted to make way for a Decouix warrior mounted upon a charging steed. In his arms he clutched a steel tipped war lance aimed at Morgin’s heart. And in that instant the apparition MorginDeath coalesced into being. He stood nearby, watching without expression.

  The steel tipped lance approached, and Morgin was powerless to stop it, though the sword in his hand jerked spasmodically, as if to make one last try at defending its master. But it too was spent, able to yield only one, final, halfhearted effort.

  The lance struck, splintered into his chest, washed his soul in a sea of pain, and in that instant the mists and confusion of battle cleared, as if in his last moments of life Morgin finally understood the trial of his power. But then it all slipped away from him, receding to a distance far beyond measure, and he heard MorginDeath speak, and his words rang sharp and clear: “Now we are one, my lord . . . my king. Now we are one.”

  Chapter 25: God Magic

  The sun’s rays crept slowly over the mountain peaks that surrounded Csairne Glen, and morning came possessed of an eerie calm. Where only the day before the battlefield had been filled with the screams of hate and death, it was now immersed in a murky stillness that hung over the carnage like the new morning mist.

  Brandon no longer needed the light of his torch so he smothered it in the cloak of a dead warrior. In the light of day he could now see the full extent of the battlefield and its harvest of death. He marveled at their numbers. In pla
ces they were piled waist high; they looked like toy dolls dropped by some careless giant of a child, their arms and legs twisted at odd angles. But their faces shattered that illusion quickly, for if one looked closely the faces, even in death, revealed the true horror of the previous day’s violence. And he had looked closely, throughout the night, searching, forever hoping that the next face would not be the one he sought.

  He came upon a young boy seated irreverently on the rump of a dead horse. There were many such people: women and children and old ones seeking sons and fathers and husbands among the dead, fearing, and yet desiring to know for certain the fate of a loved one. Most of the wounded had by now been removed, or, if they were Decouix, dispatched to their final rest, though AnnaRail had put a stop to that when she heard it was being done.

  The young boy asked Brandon, “Who are you looking for?”

  Brandon frowned, and looked at him closely. He wore the clothing of a nobleman’s son, and yet Brandon recognized him not at all.

  “You look tired,” the young boy said sympathetically. He patted the horse’s rump next to him. “Sit here with me and rest.”

  Not long ago Brandon would have been appalled at the thought of using the carcass of a dead animal for a seat. But the long night of searching among the dead had numbed him. He dropped down beside the boy and was grateful for a place to rest.

  “I asked who you’re looking for.”

  “Oh!” Brandon said, still shaken and confused. “I’m sorry. It’s all so . . . overwhelming.”

  “It’s just the dead,” the boy said with wisdom beyond his apparent age. “Nothing more, nothing less. What do you expect when you put ten thousand men to chopping at each other? So who are you looking for?”

  “My cousin. Morgin was his name.”

  “Did you lose lots of kin?”