The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (13 page)

She mustn’t forget that blade. It had been only a momentary glimpse, there on that shelf of rock in the side of Attunhigh, the blade lifeless, while radiating from Morgin she sensed the power she had always thought came from the blade. Had it always been him? Was the blade nothing more than a piece of lifeless steel? Somehow she had to communicate to Morgin her doubts about its power.

She suffered Valso through dinner, with his boasting and the occasional taunt, but she dare not steal any food. After dinner the evening proved tedious at best, and when she finally retired for the night, she found it impossible to sleep. Somewhere near midnight she lay in bed listening to the soft snoring of the youngest of her handmaidens sleeping in the other room with Geanna. She could have had the girl dismissed for that, but she needed such sounds this night. The girl wasn’t terribly loud, but she made enough noise to help mask any sounds Rhianne might make.

She slid back the covers and pulled on a pair of slippers, then retrieved a pretty shawl from a chest at the foot of her bed. It would provide more than one use: she could bundle what few possessions she needed into it, and when it had served its purpose, it was nice enough that she might sell it for a bit of coin. And beneath it she retrieved one of the rolls she’d hidden away. She couldn’t confirm it in the dark, but she suspected that by now it had grown a bit of mold. She’d eaten worse.

She’d hidden the next roll high in one of her closets behind some shoes, but it was no longer there; one of the maids must have found it. She’d stolen a few pieces of dried meat from the kitchen by sending a kitchen maid on an errand during the slow time just after lunch, and that too had gone missing. Well, she’d go a bit hungry, but perhaps she could bring a few extra scarves to sell.

She pulled on two sets of small clothes. They were much too fine for her disguise but the parlor maid’s skirt she’d stolen would hide them nicely, and she might need them for warmth. But the maid’s skirt was no longer behind the chest where she’d hidden it, and the moth-eaten, homespun cloak she’d acquired had also gone missing.

As she sat down on the edge of the bed Geanna emerged from the maid’s quarters carrying a small lamp that cast a faint, dim light across the floor. “Does my lady want for something? I see you’re partially dressed.”

They’d anticipated her, and Valso had probably not needed any magic to do so. While Valso kept Rhianne busy almost every moment of every day, Geanna and the girls had had hours to scour the suite, and had likely discovered everything she’d squirreled away, one piece at a time—well, all but the single roll hidden beneath the shawl.

“No, Geanna. I’m just restless. Go back to bed.”

“Yes, milady.”

The girl turned, but as she did so the lamp briefly illuminated her face, and Rhianne thought she saw a rather unpleasant smirk there.

As Geanna closed the door to her chamber, Rhianne sat there and nibbled on the roll.

13
The Bite of the Obsidian

Morgin charged back into the clearing on Mortiss. The chaos and pandemonium she’d created earlier had just begun to clear, with the jackals trying to calm their panicked horses. He charged into their midst, and with a giant nether shadow bucking and kicking horse and jackal alike, the horses panicked again. But an arrow nicked Morgin’s shoulder, reminding him he could die as easily as any jackal. And outnumbered better than twenty to one, that would be his fate if he didn’t move quickly, so he spurred Mortiss out of the clearing. He’d not had time to take an accurate count, but he thought he recalled another four or five jackals down, two Morgin had cut down with his blade, the rest victims of Mortiss’ hooves.

“Damn you,” the jackal captain shouted. He quickly arrayed six pike-men at the edge of the clearing, facing outward with their pikes set.

The long handle and blade of a pike would be deadly to a charging horse, so Morgin tried to circle around and come at them from a different angle. But they easily followed the progress of a warhorse charging through the forest and repositioned themselves against him. He had no choice but to withdraw, so he decided to wait for them in the forest, where the deep shadows beneath the canopy would be to his advantage.

While the jackals regrouped, he rode Mortiss a few hundred paces along the track Rafaellen had taken. He found a large thicket of brush and trees with deep shadows, entered it, reinforced his own shadows, and waited for the jackals. To follow Rafaellen they’d have to ride right past him.

He heard the jackal captain shouting orders at his dogs, demanding they move faster and get organized. He heard the neigh of skittish horses still not fully calmed after their ordeal with Mortiss. He heard grumbled curses and angry yowls, and one-by-one the jackal warriors led their mounts out of the clearing on foot, then mounted up and regrouped. “Let’s ride hard,” their captain ordered, and they spurred their horses into a gallop.

Morgin drew his sword and waited in his shadows. The thunder of the jackal horse’s hooves grew to roar as they approached him, and they passed within ten paces of his position. As the last jackal rode by, he spurred Mortiss out of the thicket and into their wake. Riding hard, the jackals constantly glanced right and left and forward, clearly expecting Morgin to attempt some sort of ambush and not looking for a large, black shadow to join them from the rear. With several strides separating him from the last jackal in the troop he spurred Mortiss harder, trying to close the distance between them. Little by little the gap narrowed, Mortiss struggling to fill her lungs with air in time with the staccato beat of her hooves. They were almost side-by-side with the last rider before the jackal finally glanced his way, and in the moment it took him to realize he should have been looking back all along, Morgin swung his sword out and chopped into the dog’s face. He tumbled off the back of his horse, and with no rider his horse slowed and dropped back.

Morgin took his place and spurred Mortiss harder to catch up with the next jackal. He took that one out in similar fashion, but as his sword bit into the dog’s muzzle one of the jackals ahead looked back and howled out a warning. Their captain reined in his horse, bunching them up, and Mortiss slammed into the horse in front of her. The jackal mount went down while Mortiss staggered and sidestepped, Morgin desperately trying to remain in the saddle. A jackal sabre sliced along his left forearm and he cried out at the pain, though a piece of him thanked the gods it had not been his sword arm. Mortiss donkey-kicked a horse behind her, crushing its skull, then broke free from the melee, and with Morgin clutching at the saddle horn she charged ahead of them up the trail.

“After him,” the jackal captain shouted.

••••

“We have to help him,” Rhiannead pleaded. Rafaellen had her by the wrist, was all but dragging her to the horses. They’d only covered a few paces when the screams of that nether horse erupted from the clearing again, accompanied by howls from the jackals and the sound of swords clashing. “We can’t just abandon him.”

Rafaellen stopped and rounded on her. “Your presence will only hinder him, and he’s buying you time to escape. Don’t waste such a precious gift.”

Realizing he was right she swallowed her pride and tried to keep up with him as they ran.

A mounted horseman loomed in front of them, and for an instant Rhiannead thought they’d been outflanked by the jackals. But then she recognized the rider as one of Rafaellen’s soldiers, a string of horses trailing behind him.

Rafaellen lifted her into a saddle. “We lost one of my men in an ambush, so we have an extra horse for you.”

The screams and cries from the clearing went silent, then the jackal captain called out a curse, though the distance muffled his words.

“Stay with me,” Rafaellen said, then spurred his horse. Rhiannead dug her heels in and followed him as he led them back along their track at a gallop, the soldiers following behind her. They rode hard for about a thousand paces, then Rafaellen slowed his horse to a canter and the rest of them did likewise.

“We have to pace the horses,” he said. “And we’ll count on Lord Mortal to slow the jackals.”

Behind them they heard a jackal howl, then cries and shouts and the ring of steel blades. Rhiannead saw pain on Rafaellen’s face and realized it troubled him to abandon Lord Mortal. He said, “The wraiths will help him.” His confidant air of command had disappeared.

“Wraiths?” she asked.

“Yes. Shadow beings of some kind, shaped like men but with no features. He calls them shadowwraiths, says they are the protectors of this forest, and he commands them.”

“He commands them?”

“Yes, he is their lord.”

Rafaellen opened his mouth as if to say more, but he hesitated for a heartbeat of indecision, saying only, “Keep it at a canter. As long as he harries them they won’t catch us.”

••••

NickoLot stood by the window in her room looking out at the castle yard below. She watched DaNoel gather with several other young men. They each took up a practice sword, stretched and warmed up for a bit, then three pairs of contestants squared off and began trading blows. DaNoel stood among the other young men watching from the sidelines.

As word had spread through the family that they believed Rhianne was Valso’s captive in Durin, there had been quite a range of reactions. Roland had expressed sorrow and sadness, and wondered if they could ransom her. The moment Tulellcoe heard, as expected he immediately began making preparations with Cort to go there, and did not need to be asked. JohnEngine wanted to gather an army and start a war, while Brandon wanted more details—Brandon, always the careful planner. But DaNoel hadn’t reacted at all, had just said, “Oh yes,” and gone about his daily routine, almost as if he’d already known. All of NickoLot’s suspicions had boiled back to the surface, reminding her that she had yet to get to the bottom of his deceits.

Several times now she’d watched DaNoel join the young men for practice. Those watching from the sidelines, and not participating, might slip away for a few moments to do something, but they always returned. However, the contestants exercising their skills were committed, and would fight on until the matches ended. Old Beckett, the weapons master, timed each match with a small hourglass, so she had a good idea how much time she’d have.

DaNoel did not participate in the next round of matches, and Nicki’s impatience fueled her nervousness. Not until the third round did DaNoel square off with an opponent. Nicki allowed the contest to proceed for a bit, waited until he was well into it before turning and walking out of her room, trying to keep her pace even and calm.

DaNoel had locked the door to his room with a simple spell. She’d gone through this same exercise two days ago simply for the purpose of carefully analyzing the lock spell. She would have no difficulty merely circumventing it, but when she finished she needed to restore it. He mustn’t know someone had searched his room; he’d probably guess who.

She’d prepared a charm in advance, and used it now to open the lock without deactivating it. She stepped into the room and closed the door, then began carefully searching. To her delight she found a horse-hair brush with several strands of hair. She carefully plucked them free and wrapped them in a small silk handkerchief she’d recently had laundered; it wouldn’t do to contaminate them. Working with nothing but hair limited the type and strength of the spell she might craft. With nail clippings, saliva, or even bits of dandruff, she could tie it to him much more intimately. But she dare not take the time to thoroughly search his room, and a cursory search of his clothing turned up nothing more that might aid her.

She opened the door a crack, checked to make sure the hall was empty, then stepped out. She closed the door and used the charm to reset DaNoel’s lock. Again, she forced herself not to hurry.

Back in her room she closed the door and set her own arcane lock, one much more powerful than DaNoel could summon. She sat down at her writing table, unwrapped the handkerchief and looked at her small bonanza. She counted more than 20 hairs.

After plucking some of her own hair, she braided two of DaNoel’s hairs with one of hers. Working slowly, she produced five braids, then applied a bit of saliva to each. While the saliva was still wet she fed power into the braids and chanted, “Let the deceiver be deceived, and the deceived enlightened.” Repeating that seven times for each braid, she closed off her power and set the spell.

The next time DaNoel joined the other young men for sword practice, she’d place these charms in and around his room. She wasn’t sure what she might accomplish, didn’t know what these spells would reveal, but she had to try.

••••

Morgin reined Mortiss off the game trail they’d been following, let her pick her own way a dozen paces through dense brush, then pulled her to a halt and dismounted. He dropped a deep shadow about them both, then sheathed his sword, pulled his belt knife and cut a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic. Using it as a makeshift bandage, he bound the cut on his forearm.

Twice now he’d waited in ambush for the jackals with his bow strung and a nocked arrow. Each time, as they charged up the trail, he shot one arrow when they came into view, killing a single jackal. But his purpose had not been to kill jackals; he needed to make them wary, and the occasional arrow encouraged them to move slowly, buying Rafaellen time. Now it was time to change tactics, for he’d be a fool to attempt the same type of ambush three times.

The forest gave him an uncanny sense of Rhiannead’s location. She and Rafaellen had turned due north, while the jackals had to ride east for some distance to regain the trail before they could do likewise. If he could cut diagonally toward Rhiannead, he could get ahead of the jackals and have enough time to prepare a real ambush.

He turned north, hoping to find a game trail leading that way, and the forest opened up before him. Branches moved aside and underbrush withered as he looked on, leaving a trail that matched his need perfectly. He mounted up and spurred Mortiss forward, and as they travelled up the trail it closed behind him.

The Living Forest! He’d forgotten it had a will of its own.

••••

Morgin pushed Mortiss hard for about two leagues, and the game trail the forest had opened up for him led him unerringly to the trail Rafaellen and Rhiannead followed, the trail up which the jackals would have to come. From the forest he sensed Rhiannead two or three leagues north, but he didn’t have a similar sense of the jackals to guide him, didn’t know if they’d come charging up the trail in the next instant, or if he could plan his ambush at his leisure. At best he hoped he’d hear their hoof beats a few hundred paces before they arrived.

On impulse he whispered, “Soann’Daeth’Daeye, are you near?”

The wraiths coalesced out of the shadows of the forest, and all knelt on one knee before him, their shapeless heads bowed. Their leader spoke, its words no more than a whisper of thought brushing across Morgin’s mind,
We are always near, my king.

“Send someone north to Captain Rafaellen,” he said. “Warn him that I’m only a few leagues behind him, and that I’m going to ambush the jackals.”

Yes, Your Majesty.

“And I know you can’t sense the intruders, but if I draw my sword, you know I am among them. Shield me if you can.”

The shadowwraiths dissipated into the forest.

Morgin retrieved a length of rope from his saddlebags, then chose a spot in the trail where it narrowed a bit. He tied the rope to two tree trunks so it spanned the trail about knee high. The shadows of the forest canopy hid it only a little. An intelligent rider would see it easily, pull up and not blunder into it. But Morgin added his own shadows to the rope, hopefully turning it into a deadly trap. Either they’d see it anyway and pull up, which would give him good targets, or they wouldn’t, and he’d have even better targets.

The faint rumble of hoof beats in the distance broke the silence of the forest as he unstrapped his quiver and bow from Mortiss saddle. He only had six arrows, but that would have to do. He swatted Mortiss on the rump and said, “Hide. And do what you can to help.”

As the sound of the hoof beats grew from a faint rumble to an approaching roar, he sprinted up the trail about 30 paces, found a safe spot behind the trunk of a large tree, strung his bow, and waited.

He had an unobstructed view for about a hundred paces down the trail, easily saw the jackals as they came into view, the jackal captain in their lead. But about half way to the rope the jackal raised the bandaged stump of his right arm, and reining in his horse he shouted, “Halt—halt.”

The jackal troop bunched up, but they were disciplined soldiers, and to Morgin’s disappointment they stopped just short of the rope. Morgin nocked an arrow as the jackal captain nudged his horse forward the few remaining paces to the trap, leaned out of his saddle and looked down at it. He threw his head back and laughed. Moving as slowly and silently as possible, Morgin drew back the bow string.