Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Only a thin sliver of sun had yet appeared over the mountain tops that surrounded Csairne Glen. The grass beneath his feet was green and wet with dew, the air about him cold and crisp, with a gray mist that hung close to the ground and made the sunbeams visible, but so faint that only the most distant objects were blurred by the haze. One would never know that this peaceful, grassy glen had recently been the scene of so much death. But the pipist knew; it was in his song.

  The sentries at the edge of the camp seemed oddly inattentive—again he reminded himself that this was a dream. Morgin walked right past them without being noticed, and always he followed the sound of the pipes. It led him into the forest at the edge of the glen, where he found it easy to travel, even limping, for this high in Sa’umbra the undergrowth was thin. He soon put the glen behind him, and the notes of the pipes became louder with each step he took. Then suddenly he came upon a small clearing and stopped near its edge, having learned long since the dangers of incautiously exposing himself.

  In the center of the clearing he saw a large boulder, and upon it sat the pipist, dressed all in black, playing his sad tune. Morgin immediately recognized the dark angel of his dreams, though this had not the feeling of a dream. He hung back, hiding just within the wall of trees that marked the edge of the clearing, and he listened to the pipist’s song. The dark angel’s tune was beautiful, and so sad. Morgin felt a tear sting his cheek.

  The angel’s tune ended slowly, as if it drifted away with the morning mist. He lowered the pipes from his lips and looked at them wistfully. “Ahhh!” he said. “If only I could spend eternity piping such notes.” Then he blinked his eyes and the pipes vanished. He stood, jumped down from the boulder, and turned to look directly at Morgin’s hiding place. “But you don’t have eternity, do you, mortal? Tell me. Did you enjoy my tune?”

  Morgin thought first of running, but the angel could catch him easily so he stood openly and stepped into the clearing, conscious that the dark angel was unarmed.

  “I am not here to harm you,” the angel said.

  Morgin wasn’t ready to believe that. “Twice you have come to kill me, once in my dreams and then two days ago in Inetka. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “Once,” the angel said. “Only once did I come to kill you. At our second meeting I came unarmed, and made no attempt on your life.”

  “True enough,” Morgin admitted. “But we’re arguing about details. The question remains unchanged, and you have not answered it.”

  “And you have not answered my question, ShadowLord. Did you enjoy my playing?”

  Somehow Morgin sensed that the angel placed great store in the answer to that question. “It was beautiful, and very sad. Did you use it to enspell me?”

  The angel shook his head. “No. You were drawn to it naturally, as I knew you would be. But I did use it to enspell those about you so they could not interfere.”

  Morgin nodded. “Very well. I enjoyed your music. Now you must answer my question. Why should I believe you?”

  The angel shrugged. “I can give no reason why you should. True enough, I once tried to take your life. And true enough, I was sent to Inetka to kill you, as I was sent here to kill you. But I did not, and I will not.”

  “Who sent you?” Morgin asked. “And why do you disobey?”

  The angel shrugged again. “That I cannot say.”

  “Cannot?” Morgin asked. “Or will not?”

  The angel smiled pleasantly. “Does it matter? Does one truly care about such details when one is dreaming?”

  Morgin shook his head. “This is no dream. This is reality.”

  The angel smiled again. “My reality. Your dream.”

  “You’re playing games with me,” Morgin said.

  “No, my lord,” the angel said. “I seek to play no games, merely to deliver a message.”

  “And you will not tell me who your master is?”

  The angel shrugged. “As I said, does it really matter?”

  Before either of them could speak further there came a sudden thrashing in the trees as if a large animal charged headlong through the undergrowth. But it was Ellowyn that came bursting into the clearing, with her broadsword gripped in both hands. She halted abruptly and pointed her sword at the dark angel. “My lord,” she said to Morgin. “Do not trust this deceitful traitor.”

  The dark angel held out his empty hands. “Ellowyn,” he said calmly. “I am unarmed. I have come in peace.”

  “You lie,” she screamed, then she stepped protectively between Morgin and the dark angel. Her sword hissed once through the air only inches from his nose.

  He back-stepped and halted, and stood straight and proud. “I have come only to deliver a message. Let me speak it and I will go in peace.”

  “Speak nothing here,” Ellowyn snarled. “Your tongue curls about false words like a snake about its prey. And it is long past time it was silenced once and for all.”

  Her words stung the dark angel visibly, as if her hatred inflicted a far more painful wound than that of any sword. “I do not want to fight you, Ellowyn,” he said. “But if you will not let me speak, then I must.”

  He raised one hand and held it stiffly outward, and in an instant a broadsword appeared there. It was the sword Morgin had seen in his dream, with the blade that forever dripped fresh blood.

  Ellowyn and the dark angel began their battle by circling one another slowly, both holding their swords high in a two handed grip. At first it seemed they would do no more than circle, then, without warning, Ellowyn attacked with a swiftness Morgin could not follow. Their swords rang together again and again, then they separated and began circling once more.

  Ellowyn fought hot and angry, the dark angel cold and confident. She attacked again, and again the dark angel repelled her, but this time Morgin saw how easily he did so, and he realized that it was the dark angel who was in command of this battle, not poor Ellowyn. The dark angel smiled a pained and unhappy smile. “I was always able to best you with a sword, my Ellowyn.”

  Now the dark angel attacked, though not with Ellowyn’s swiftness, but with a deliberate determination that bode ill for her chances of victory. He brought the bloody sword around and down, raining blow after blow upon Ellowyn’s faltering defenses. She retreated slowly across the clearing, wholly on the defensive now, her eyes desperately seeking an opening or mistake that the dark angel might yield.

  The mistake came, but it was hers. While backing away from him she stumbled on something, faltered, and as she tried to regain her footing the dark angel stepped within her guard and brushed her sword aside. But instead of cutting her down, he slammed a mailed fist into the side of her head, and she slumped to the ground in a stupor.

  The dark angel stood over her for a moment, breathing heavily and watching her closely, his expression hard and angry. But when she did not move he frowned. He reached down and touched her cheek, then he sighed and his shoulders relaxed; his expression changed to relief, then slowly to sorrow. He dropped to one knee beside her. The lines of sorrow on his face deepened. He caressed her cheek softly, with a tenderness Morgin would not have believed had he not seen it himself. “Oh my Ellowyn!” the dark angel said to her as she lay unconscious at his feet, and a tear ran down his cheek. “My dear Ellowyn. I have loved you since before time began, and I will love you long after it ends. I was such a proud and stupid fool. Can you never forgive me? Must I endure your hatred through eternity?” Then the dark angel closed his eyes and wept openly.

  Morgin was touched by pity, but fear warned him to move cautiously. He edged his way carefully toward the sobbing angel, conscious of the fact that he was unarmed. He stopped well out of reach of the dark angel’s bloody sword, and asked softly, “Is she dead?”

  The dark angel started, looked up. The anger returned to his face. “You!” he snarled at Morgin. He stood suddenly upright and swept the bloody sword toward him. Morgin back-stepped, stumbled on something and landed on his butt. The dark angel lowered
his sword and held the tip the width of a small finger from Morgin’s nose. Blood dripped from the blade onto Morgin’s chest, and the angel shook with anger.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Morgin asked.

  The dark angel seemed barely able to control his wrath. “I said I would not.”

  “Who are you?” Morgin asked.

  The angel looked at him narrowly. “I am Metadan. I am the Fallen Angel. I serve the dark god who sits upon the throne of power in the ninth hell of the netherworld, and I have a message for you, mortal.”

  “For me?” Morgin asked. “Why would the dark god have a message for me?”

  “Do not presume to know the source of the message, fool.” Metadan touched the tip of the bloody sword to Morgin’s chest. “It is the Unnamed King whom you should seek, and his consort the god-queen Erithnae. But in your stupidity you will seek the god-sword, and you will fail. And finally, in the city of glass, beneath the fires of the eternal sun, you will ask three questions, and you will gain three answers, and in them you will know yourself far more than any mortal should.”

  Morgin frowned. “What does all that mean?”

  Metadan looked at him as if he were a foolish child. “That is a question you should ask of the Unnamed King.” And then, without another word, he stepped back, touched the bloody sword to his lips, and bowed deeply. And in the instant that he stood upright again he became a column of still smoke in the shape of a man. The smoke held its shape for a moment, then dissipated slowly into the forest air, and once more Morgin smelled the scent that Ellowyn had called brimstone.

  He climbed to his feet, looked down at his chest and examined it carefully. There was no sign of the blood that had dripped there from Metadan’s sword. For an instant he questioned his own sanity, but Ellowyn’s temple still bore the bruise from his mailed fist.

  He sat down by Ellowyn; she remained still and unconscious. Her breathing and pulse were normal, so he lifted her head and shoulders and laid them in his lap so she might rest comfortably. And as he waited in silence for her to regain consciousness, he heard far off in the forest, so faint that it was almost not there, the sound of beautifully sad pipes.

  Ellowyn’s eyes blinked open. She looked at Morgin, confused and disoriented for a moment, but then her eyes filled with recognition and she smiled.

  “Who is Metadan?” Morgin asked.

  Her smile vanished. “Please do not speak that name to me, my lord.”

  “He loves you very much,” Morgin said. “It hurt him to hurt you.”

  Ellowyn began to weep, soft, silent tears. Morgin put his arms about her and tried to comfort her. “Tell me about him,” he said. “I must know.”

  Ellowyn forced back her tears and drew a ragged breath. “Long ago,” she said, “in a time so distant its measure has no meaning, he was the greatest and mightiest of the twelve archangels. He commanded the first legion, and by his might and glory they were the greatest of the twelve legions of angels. All of us looked to him for wisdom and guidance, and we honored him, and the gods favored him by making him lord and commander of us all, and we followed him gladly, joyfully. He was so proud, and grand, and his glory inspired us all.

  “But he wanted more. He wanted power, the power of the gods, and to gain it he allowed himself to be seduced by the Lord of the Seven Sins. He betrayed us to the nether god, and we were devastated by his armies. The first legion, his legion, was massacred, and fell even to the last angel—it is their blood that forever drips from his sword. And now the eleven legions that remain are but remnants of what they once were.”

  “And yet you still love him,” Morgin said.

  “No,” she said sharply. “I hate him.”

  Morgin nodded. “That too. But it was not too long ago that you wondered how I could hate someone I so dearly love. Well, my Ellowyn, now you know.”

  She began to weep again. “I am an angel,” she said. “I am not meant for such mortal emotions. It’s not right that I should know hate.”

  Morgin felt suddenly very wise, and also very sad. “But if you would know love, Ellowyn, then you must know hate. For one without the other is meaningless.”

  The sound of the pipes suddenly ceased. It had been hardly noticeable, but was now conspicuous by its absence, and in the silence that followed Morgin heard cries far off in the distance. He listened carefully, recognized JohnEngine’s voice calling his name.

  “They’re looking for me,” Morgin said. “We’d better go and help them find me.”

  They stood, he and Ellowyn, and walked together out of the clearing, Ellowyn leading, Morgin following. At its edge, on impulse, he looked back, and was not surprised to find only uninterrupted forest. The small clearing had vanished, leaving no mark upon the land, and no trace of its passing. And, of course, when he turned back to continue up the trail, Ellowyn too had vanished.

  Chapter 30: Dream Magic

  It was a simple spell that DaNoel cast, the kind of spell a child could master, and of course the kind of spell the whoreson always found so difficult. It was not a spell meant to twist the forces of nature, nor to manipulate great powers, but only to make one simple-minded clansman of a guard drowse at his post. It had to be a simple spell, for if it weren’t, and Olivia ever examined the guard carefully, she would know that he had been tampered with, and eventually she would trace that tampering to DaNoel.

  Olivia had fortified the guard’s own magic against Decouix tampering to protect him from Valso. It had never occurred to her to fortify him against Elhiyne tampering, so DaNoel’s spell worked well. The guard’s eyes drifted slowly shut, and eventually, in an effort to get comfortable, the man wedged himself awkwardly between his lance and the stone wall of the castle corridor. If he were discovered that way he would be in some trouble, but it would not be the first time a guard had been caught sleeping at his post, so the trouble would be no more than one of Olivia’s tongue-lashings.

  DaNoel tiptoed carefully past the guard, then through the lone door at the end of the corridor. Beyond the door he encountered a circular stone stairway, but he paused before climbing it. Now he had to be exceedingly careful, for this spell would be neither simple nor easy.

  He closed his eyes, expanding his sense of magic slowly lest it collide with Olivia’s veil of containment and alert her immediately. He sensed the veil in its netherlife as a shimmering curtain of power on the stairway before him, of such intensity that not even Valso dare touch it. But DaNoel knew he could pass, for he was of Olivia’s blood.

  To avoid the need for extensive preparations on the spot, he had prepared his spell well in advance. But it could easily fail if he were to move incautiously, so he took a deep breath, then touched his spell to the veil in the most delicate way.

  For an instant he feared he had failed, or worse, that he had been indelicate and Olivia would know of his tampering and come storming up the stairway to demand an explanation. But then he saw a wrinkle form in the veil, and as he looked on his spell took hold and the wrinkle grew into a well-defined and distinct flaw. A little more power and the flaw opened quickly into a rift large enough for a man to pass. He stepped through the flaw without hesitating, then released his power and quenched the spell mercilessly, for once begun such spells had a tendency to run away from their makers. As the veil closed behind him he began to breathe easier.

  He climbed slowly to the open door at the top of the stairs, but hesitated before stepping into the room beyond.

  “Come in, Elhiyne,” Valso called out casually. “Don’t hide in the shadows like your infamous brother.”

  DaNoel stepped angrily into the room, found Valso seated casually by a warm fire. “The whoreson is not my brother.”

  Valso shrugged. “I meant no insult, Elhiyne. To me he is the whoreson, nothing more, and in deference to you I will not again call him your brother.” Valso shivered, rubbed his hands together and moved closer to the fire. “Ahhh! Your Elhiyne nights are cold even in summer.”

  “Fall is almo
st upon us,” DaNoel said. “It will get colder yet.”

  Valso shivered again. “I’ll be glad to get back to Durin.”

  “And what makes you think you’ll ever see Durin again? My bro—the whoreson returns tomorrow. He’ll probably kill you.”

  Valso shook his head confidently. “No. Your grandmother won’t let that happen. I and my father are far too valuable to her alive.”

  DaNoel shook his head. “My grandmother has always had difficulty controlling the whoreson.”

  “But she will control him in this, Elhiyne. Believe me. She will.”

  “You’re awfully confident for one who might die tomorrow.”

  Valso shook his head patiently. “No one will kill me tomorrow, least of all the whoreson.”

  “You’ll at least be horribly humiliated.”

  Valso smiled. “Humiliated? Here? With only Elhiynes looking on. No. There is no humiliation in that.”

  “But grandmother intends to have the whoreson take you back to Durin where you’ll be drug through the streets and ransomed publicly to your family.”

  Valso nodded. “Aye. That will be humiliating. And of course the whoreson will gain even more stature among the clans.”

  DaNoel burst into a sudden rage. “Damn him! ShadowLord bah! He has everyone but me fooled. I know him well. He’s a guttersnipe who pretends at nobility. And he thinks he’s better than me.”

  Valso nodded and agreed. “Yes. He does. He thinks he’s better than us all.”

  DaNoel slammed his fist down hard on the single table in the room. “Damn him!”

  Valso smiled. “If only I could escape,” he said as if speaking to no one in particular. “The whoreson would gain little stature if he entered Durin with only my father as captive.”

  DaNoel frowned. “What do you mean? Your father is king of the Greater Council?”

  “But he was defeated by the whoreson and lives now in unredeemable disgrace. No. My father’s days as a ruler are ended.”