The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (14 page)

The jackal captain barked, “It almost worked, man of shadows. But we know to watch for shadows that exist where none should.”

Since the rope trap hadn’t worked, Morgin might take down one or two jackals at most, but he’d need to escape, and where had Mortiss gone?

At that moment a dark shadow stepped out onto the trail behind the jackals. Mortiss no longer needed to charge into the jackal troop to create chaos, she merely brayed angrily to let their horses know she was there. The jackal mounts realized the demon horse was near and panicked, even though she did nothing but stand calmly in the trail and watch them, stomping her hooves a bit to encourage them. The horses in the rear neighed and whinnied and bucked against those in front of them, forcing the entire troop forward. The captain’s mount was the first to hit the rope and trip, bringing the horse down and sending him sprawling. Three more horses followed him.

Morgin heard snapping limbs and braying jackals as he stepped out into the trail, raised his bow and shot an arrow. He loosed all of his arrows in rapid succession, recalled doing the same as Morddon against a bunch of Kulls in a distant past.

One of the jackals carrying a lance spurred his horse into a leap over the rope, dodged around the twisted pile of horses and dogs, lowered the lance and charged up the trail. Morgin tossed his bow aside, drew his sword, and a cloud of shadowwraiths enveloped him completely, obscuring the entire trail, and likely saving his life. He dodged to the side as the jackal rode past, struck out with his sword in a desperate attempt to deflect the lance, landing on his side in the trail.

He scrambled to his feet, but heard another set of hooves charging toward him, turned and found Mortiss bearing down on him. She slowed enough for him to grab her saddle horn as she raced past; he yanked himself into her saddle, but went a bit too far and almost fell off the other side, though he at least managed to keep hold of his sword. A blade hissed past his face as he tried to right himself. He struck out blindly as Mortiss kicked and screamed. She reared high and crushed a jackal’s skull with her hooves, charged and slammed into another’s horse, knocking animal and rider into the brush. Then she broke free and charged up the trail.

Morgin finally righted himself in Mortiss’ saddle. He sensed several steel-tipped arrows arcing his way, and with his steel magic swatted them aside like annoying flies on a hot summer afternoon. He thanked the gods he’d escaped relatively unscathed. He was thanking them wholeheartedly with the wind in his face when the arrow slammed into his back. It felt as if he’d been stabbed with a red-hot poker, and pain washed through him with such intensity he couldn’t even cry out. He looked down, saw a hand’s breadth of arrow shaft protruding from his chest, its obsidian warhead glistening with his blood. It was off-center to the left, so he hoped it hadn’t damaged any vital organs. But it had punched clean through him, through ribs and muscle, a grave wound, perhaps a mortal wound.

He swooned forward in the saddle, barely managed to hold onto consciousness as behind him he heard the jackal captain shout, “Damn you, shadow fighter. Damn you to the ninth hell.”

14
Sabian

Chrisainne rolled off Lewendis, her bare breasts heaving as she lay on her back catching her breath. “That was quite . . . enjoyable, darling.”

He sat up next to her, leaned over and kissed her cheek, then her neck. After she got rid of Theandrin, ErrinCastle, BlakeDown and her husband, she’d keep Lewendis around. As he kissed her breasts she became aroused again. But she had work to do, so she pushed him away, doing so gently so he’d not feel rejected. “Let me catch my breath, darling.”

Leaning over her he said, “When I’m near you I can think of nothing else.”

She ran a finger along the line of his jaw. “My husband is far from here—hunting, I think—so we have all night. I just have to return to my own room before the servants awake. We mustn’t fuel their gossip.”

She slipped out of bed and stood, purposefully didn’t cover herself because it kept him in a constant state of distraction. She crossed the room to a small table, poured two goblets of chilled, summer wine. As she returned he couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts, and even after she held one of the goblets out to him, it took him a heartbeat to pull his eyes off them and focus on the goblet. He took it from her and gulped at the wine.

She needed to get him talking about the border situation. “Before you . . . distracted me, you were angry at one of the Elhiynes.” Always best to play dumb and let him lead her into it.

“Not just one of the Elhiynes,” he said. “All of them. They’re arrogant, and they look down their noses at me.”

Valso wanted her to escalate the situation. She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek and said, “I haven’t met too many Elhiynes, but the few times I have, I’ve seen that myself. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

She knew he particularly disliked an Elhiyne named DaNoel. She’d never met the fellow, so she lied. “I met Lord DaNoel once, and I found him quite egotistical.”

Lewendis’ face reddened with anger. He gulped the last of his wine, stood, crossed the room and poured more. He returned to her, saying, “He’s an arrogant bastard. When we meet on the border he doesn’t even acknowledge my nobility.”

Lewendis could barely make claim to nobility; if Valso hadn’t enriched her dowry, she’d have had to marry someone like him. She put on a show of anger as she said, “You shouldn’t put up with that. The next time he slights you, you should show him that you’re a man to be reckoned with, bloody his nose a bit, give him something to think on.”

“Yes,” he said, almost growling the word like a beast. “Yes, I will.”

She reached out and caressed his manhood. “I think I’ve caught my breath.”

He grinned, took her goblet and returned both to the table. Talking about DaNoel had gotten his blood up, and he proved to be quite energetic.

When they finished, Lewendis fell into an exhausted sleep. Chrisainne lay awake beside him, and when certain she could get away with it, she cast a small spell to deepen his sleep. She slipped out of bed, felt her way to her clothing, retrieved Valso’s coin from a pocket in her cloak. She kissed it, returned the coin to the cloak, then slipped under the sheets to wait.

Chrisainne, my dear. You’ve done as I asked?

Yes, Your Majesty. I don’t think he’ll kill DaNoel, but he’ll certainly start something.

Excellent! We’ll have—

Chrisainne felt a spell activate, felt Valso’s connection to her snap like a twig breaking, and her heart went cold. She took one heartbeat to understand what she could of the spell, sensed only that it tasted of Theandrin.

She climbed out of bed, bundled up her gown, underclothes and slippers, merely threw on the cloak and didn’t bother to dress. She opened the door to Lewendis’ room just a crack, saw no one out in the hall, stepped out, closed the door behind her and rushed toward her own room. At each intersection she stopped, peered around the corner first, then continued on. Not until she closed the door to her own room, stuffed her clothing underneath her bed, then climbed beneath the sheets, not until then did her heart stop racing.

••••

Theandrin marched down the hallway carrying the new charm she’d made. Her inquiries had yielded no Vodah spies lurking about, at least none who’d been inside the castle walls at the right moment. And yet her wards had been triggered repeatedly. So she’d modified her special ward, increased its sensitivity and added this charm to it, which she hoped would give her some sense of location.

She paused at the intersection of two halls, thought for a moment she saw someone disappear around the far corner to the right, but realized she was jumping at shadows. She closed her eyes, let the charm guide her to the left.

She turned and walked more carefully since she was getting close. Half way down the hall the charm pulled her unerringly to a single door. She stopped outside it, and glanced about to orient herself.

Rooms in this part of the castle were neither spacious nor elaborate. She assigned them to minor clansmen, those of lesser nobility, and she racked her brains to recall to whom she’d assigned this particular room. Could it be Lewendis? She’d have to confirm it with her staff in the morning, but she was almost certain of that.

That certainly added up. If Valso wanted to see war between Penda and Elhiyne, what better way than to have a hot-head spy put in charge of a border patrol. From now on she would keep a close eye on young Lord Lewendis. She really should know a lot more about the man, especially with Chrisainne spreading her legs for the fellow.

It occurred to her she hadn’t really gotten that much information from Chrisainne, just bits and pieces, and frequently something she already knew. Time to have a talk with that girl, lite a fire under her. But that would have to wait for morning.

••••

Morgin managed to hold onto his sword and sit up in the saddle long enough to sheath it. He turned slightly so the arrow’s obsidian warhead wouldn’t stab Mortiss in the neck, then leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Try to catch up with Rafaellen,” he said, though saying even that much cost him dearly.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, trusted that he could stay in the saddle, trusted that she would continue up the trail and stay ahead of the jackals. Hopefully, she and he had done enough damage to them that they’d have to lick their wounds a bit before following.

When he slammed into the ground the pain came on so intently he rolled onto his side and vomited. He lay there for several heartbeats, didn’t have the strength to sit up.

Mortiss nudged his ear with her muzzle and snorted loudly.
Get up, fool.

“Ya, I know,” he said. “I know.” He rolled onto his stomach, rolled onto the arrow shaft protruding from his chest and heard it snap. The pain that came with that sent him back into unconsciousness.

Another loud snort in his ear.
I said get up, fool.

But he couldn’t get up so he ignored her, drifted off to a place with no pain . . .

Mortiss bit his ear.

“Ahhh! Blast you.” He struggled to a sitting position. “What did you do that for?”

She neighed angrily.

He struggled to his hands and knees, and stopped there for a moment to think the situation through. As long as he remained on the ground, she wouldn’t let him sleep, and he longed for sleep. But she’d let him doze if he managed to get into the saddle.

He got one foot beneath him, then another, but he still had both hands on the ground, didn’t feel steady enough to stand up straight, knew if he did so he’d probably just fall down again. Mortiss stood only a step away, so he straightened up and staggered toward her, caught hold of her saddle horn and held on to that to keep upright as waves of pain washed through him. He stood there for a few heartbeats catching his breath. The arrow shaft protruding from his chest was now a splintered stub. He carefully reached around to the shaft in his back, learned that he’d snapped that end off too, probably when he’d first fallen out of the saddle.

As the pain receded he realized that climbing all the way up onto Mortiss’ back might be beyond his strength. He leaned his head against her saddle as he felt consciousness slipping away . . .

“Lord Mortal.”

“Wah,” Morgin said and opened his eyes. Miraculously, he’d remained standing beside Mortiss.

“Lord Mortal.”

He turned toward the voice and saw Rafaellen standing beside him. “You’re injured.”

“Very . . . observant of you! Fell out of . . . the saddle, can’t get back up into it.”

Rafaellen! Without the princess! “What are you doing here? Where’s Rhiannead?”

“We were close enough to the castle that I knew she could get their easily. I sent her on with my two men. I came back for you. I don’t leave a man behind.”

“The jackals will be along soon.”

“I know. Let’s get you in the saddle.”

Morgin could raise his foot and put it in the stirrup, but he didn’t have the strength to climb into the saddle. So Rafaellen got behind him, put a shoulder beneath his butt and hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes.

Rafaellen pushed them hard, or at least as hard as they could go with Morgin slumped in the saddle, Rafaellen riding beside him and trying to keep him from again falling out of it. But each bump in the trail, each turn, each twist, sent a jolt of pain through Morgin’s back and chest, which, oddly enough, was of some benefit. The constant pain kept him from slipping away into the blissful mindlessness of unconsciousness, allowing Rafaellen to push them even harder.

“It’s still not enough,” Rafaellen said, looking back over his shoulder. “They’re not far behind us, and they’re slowly catching us. It’s a three-way race.”

“Three-way?” Morgin asked, trying to sit up straighter so Mortiss could ride faster.

Rafaellen reached out and touched Morgin’s back, not on the wound but somewhere below it. He held his hand up for Morgin to see; it was drenched in blood. “Yes. Will we make it to Sabian? Or will those dogs catch us before we get there? Or will you bleed to death before that?”

“Pull off the trail,” Morgin said. “Let’s not make it easy for them.”

“The undergrowth here is too dense.”

Morgin reined Mortiss to a stop, and Rafaellen pulled up a dozen paces ahead. “What are you doing?”

With the hooves of the jackal’s mounts pounding out a thunderous roar not far behind them, Morgin looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead. “Dammit, forest, open another trail for us.” Nothing happened, so he added, “Please.”

The brush at side of the trail squirmed and moved, some of it shifting to the side, some simply ungrowing, receding into the ground as if it had never been.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Rafaellen said. He spurred his horse up the new trail.

Morgin looked up at the canopy again and said, “And close it behind us. Please.”

Morgin followed Rafaellen, looked back and saw the forest dutifully obeying him. But about a hundred paces on they encountered the shadowwraith Soann’Daeth’Daeye standing in the trail, and they pulled up.

Sabian is sending armsmen to deal with the intruders, mortals who can fight them.
It raised an arm, pointing north and said,
This way.

Morgin turned to Rafaellen. “You said Sabian. It said Sabian. Who is Sabian?”

“The castle of the Unnamed King. It’s the seat of his power, and the heart of the Living Forest.”

With the jackals off their trail they rode cautiously, side-by-side, so that every time Morgin drifted toward unconsciousness Rafaellen could reach out and give him a gentle shake. At one point they heard the ring of steel in the distance, and shouts and cries of men and jackals and horses, clearly a pitched battle.

“Sounds like help has arrived,” Rafaellen said.

Morgin struggled to even say, “Huh?”

“That would be the Unnamed King’s armsmen, met up with the jackals, I would guess.”

Rafaellen stood up in his stirrups for a moment and scanned the forest. “We’re close, very close.”

Morgin drifted off again into a sea of pain. But then Rafaellen shook him hard, pointed up the trail and said, “Look. We’re there. Sabian!”

Morgin opened his eyes, squinted and concentrated carefully on the forest in front of him. But no matter how hard he tried, he saw no grand castle, no walls, no stone, no mortar. He should be the one hallucinating, not Rafaellen. He was about to give up and turn away when he recognized a vague shape that hinted at the lines of a battlement. But it was no more than the way in which the branches of two trees intertwined. He looked closer, and saw that among the branches there were vines and leaves and flowers woven together so intricately they formed recognizable shapes. And even though the density of their weave was such as to create a solid wall of vegetation, the trees were not choked by the vines, but lived among them healthy and hale.

It dawned upon him that he was looking at a wall, and now that he saw it, he recognized windows and arches, turrets and battlements. But this wall was not made of stone and mortar, it was formed of the inter-grown life of the forest, hundreds of trees tied together by millions of vines and leaves and flowers: a castle both grand and enormous. Morgin could barely whisper as he said, “I see it now.”

Rafaellen dismounted, stepped lightly off the trail and stood expectantly before the wall of vegetation, though since there was no gate or door his actions perplexed Morgin. But then the vines and branches squirmed with life again, separating, parting, exposing layer after layer of forest growth. Finally there appeared a small hole in the midst of the activity. It widened and grew and took on shape, and where only moments earlier the wall had been impenetrable, they now stood before an entry capped by a high arch.

Rhianne—or was it Rhiannead—rushed out from the castle followed by retainers and servants. She stopped beside Morgin, looked up at him and said, “You’re hurt!”

Morgin looked into her eyes—bright green eyes—and that was his last conscious thought.

••••

Rhianne knew she couldn’t support Morgin as he slumped out of the saddle, but she wouldn’t allow him to simply tumble to the ground. Still, it surprised her how quickly she crumbled beneath his weight.