The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (20 page)

Morgin knew their respite would be brief so he climbed down from the battlements to get a quick bite. As some of the defenders scrounged arrows the jackals had shot at them, Morgin sat on the ground with his back to a wall. Erithnae, Rafaellen and Kinardin found him there chewing on some jerky.

As they approached, Morgin said, “I’m not much of a king, eh?”

“It’s not you, sire,” Kinardin said. “It’s Sabian, and the forest, and the shadowwraiths. Never before have they been so defenseless. Whatever magic is blinding them must be truly powerful indeed.”

“Aye,” Morgin said, recalling Valso and the power he flaunted. “It is.”

Erithnae sat down in the dirt beside him and took his hand. He liked the way she instinctively knew when to discard propriety. “But it is not as powerful as your name, my lord.”

Her words infuriated him. “I’ve already tried to acknowledge it. I know what that sigil means, but this Kingdom of Dreams will not allow me to claim the name AethonSword. Give me a name I can claim and I’ll gladly do so.”

She frowned. “It won’t allow you to claim that name, eh?” She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek. “Then if that is not your name, you must find within yourself your essence, your purpose, and acknowledge that.”

She looked up at Rafaellen and Kinardin standing over them. “I wish to be alone with my king. Please leave us.”

The two men bowed, backed up three paces, then turned and walked away.

Morgin’s frustration crawled up into his gut. “I don’t want to be a king. I never wanted this. And if I do find something to acknowledge, whether it’s a name or a purpose, what more will be asked of me . . . and of Rhianne?”

“I know not, my king. But your Rhianne is a part of me, so I know that she will gladly bear the burden with you. And in any case, you and she cannot be free and whole until you find yourselves.”

20
Come the Sword

With the family assembled in Olivia’s audience chamber, AnnaRail watched the old woman’s expression as Roland reported the incident on the border. Olivia didn’t take her eyes off DaNoel as she turned angry, then furious, then livid, and then calm. Open anger was always better than the calm.

DaNoel’s eyes darted about like a cornered animal. Olivia spoke to him in a cold, hard voice. “This means war, you idiot.”

DaNoel cringed. JohnEngine and NickoLot remained silent, smart enough to know not to draw the old woman’s attention.

It had taken all of AnnaRail’s skills to keep Brandon alive with a punctured lung. He would survive and recover, though he’d be in bed for days.

AnnaRail looked at DaNoel and couldn’t hide her own bitter disappointment in her son. But as head of the clan, Olivia’s fury could mean the loss of many lives. AnnaRail said to the old woman, “Let’s try to remain calm.”

Olivia’s gaze remained locked on DaNoel. “Calm,” she said. “This fool has just started a war.”

Roland had carefully interrogated DaNoel’s armsmen while JohnEngine and AnnaRail retrieved Brandon. “Technically,” Roland said. “Lewendis started it.”

Olivia’s calm evaporated. “Lewendis killed a horse. We could’ve settled that with payment. The war started when this moron killed armsmen.”

DaNoel said, “We don’t know they’re dead, and it was an accide—”

Olivia rose and crossed the room in a heartbeat. DaNoel stood a head taller than her, but somehow she loomed over him. “Yes, we could have claimed an accident, had you reported the incident to us. But now they’ve attacked, wounded and almost killed the heir to Elhiyne.”

AnnaRail wasn’t terribly happy with her oldest son at the moment, but she had to control Olivia’s anger. “The greater wrong has been done to us; as you say, the heir to Elhiyne versus a few common armsmen. I recommend we send a diplomatic mission to Penda, sue for peace. If the Penda armsmen are dead or disabled, we can offer reparation.”

Olivia’s calm returned. She turned away from DaNoel and paced back and forth, considering AnnaRail’s proposal. “We’ll appear weak.”

“Better that than open war.”

Olivia stopped pacing and turned toward her. AnnaRail knew that look well. Olivia said, “Perhaps war wouldn’t be such a bad thing, after all.”

Roland said, “No.”

Olivia smiled at him. “We can send messengers to the other Lesser Clans, make sure they hear our version first. The heir to Elhiyne versus a few armsmen; we were clearly wronged.”

AnnaRail said, “War with Penda would be bloody and costly.”

“Probably,” Olivia said. “But if it weakened the ties between Tosk and Penda, it might be worth it.”

They argued heatedly throughout the afternoon. Perhaps the only thing that stopped Olivia from going to war was that
everyone
in the family opposed her, though DaNoel didn’t say a word one way or the other. He wisely kept his mouth shut, but AnnaRail was certain he too would prefer a peaceful resolution to this crisis. At least she hoped so.

They decided to send a messenger to Penda to pave the way for a diplomatic mission. It would have to be led by one of the most powerful wizards or witches in the clan, so that meant it must be either AnnaRail or Olivia, and AnnaRail was determined that it would
not
be the old woman.

••••

In midafternoon the Penda armsmen’s barracks was nearly empty, and as ErrinCastle strode into it, the few men present stood in deference. He approached the sergeant who’d recently returned with Lewendis from the border, and had to think carefully to recall his name: Erlander. The fellow had risen through the ranks by dint of good and loyal service, and deserved to be treated with respect.

“Erlander,” ErrinCastle said, trying to keep his voice calm and neutral. “A word with you alone, please.”

The man bowed his head and said, “Certainly, my lord.”

ErrinCastle led him out of the barracks to a corner of the castle yard where they could not be overheard. He turned to the man and faced him squarely. “I heard a rumor there was some sort of incident on the border.” When the man’s eyes lowered with guilt, ErrinCastle’s gut clenched.

Erlander opened his mouth to say something, hesitated for a moment, then said, “I begged him not to do it, Your Lordship. But he wouldn’t listen.”

With those words, ErrinCastle’s anxiety ratcheted up a notch. “Do what?”

Erlander wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “Kill the Elhiyne’s horse.”

ErrinCastle prayed that the story would end there. “Just a horse? That’s all?”

The armsman’s gaze remained locked on his feet.

“By the gods, man,” ErrinCastle demanded. “What happened? Tell me, everything.”

As Erlander spoke and the story unfolded, ErrinCastle’s anxiety turned into dread. When the man finished he asked, “Lord Brandon et Elhiyne? The Elhiyne heir?”

The man said, “I told him he shouldn’t do it, but he—”

ErrinCastle cut him off. “Come with me, now.” He spun about and marched across the castle yard with the sergeant in his wake.

When they entered the main building he intercepted a servant, who cringed when he saw the look on ErrinCastle’s face. “Where’s my mother?”

“I believe she’s in the kitchen, Your Lordship.”

“Get Lewendis,” ErrinCastle said. “Find him no matter where he is. I don’t care if he’s sitting on the privy; tell him to report to my father’s study immediately.”

••••

Theandrin and the cook were discussing the evening meal when ErrinCastle marched into the kitchen with an armsman on his heels. Even before he spoke, Theandrin knew something terrible had happened.

“Please come with me now, mother,” he said. “This is important.”

She nodded. He turned and strode out of the kitchen, the armsman following, both walking so fast she had to rush to keep up.

Lewendis awaited them at the closed door to BlakeDown’s study. He started to say something, but ErrinCastle cut him off. “Shut up and come with me.”

Without knocking, ErrinCastle lifted the latch on the door and threw it open. Inside, a kitchen maid was in the midst of arranging a tray of food, with BlakeDown standing close behind her, his back to the door. At their entrance, BlakeDown started and stepped away from her, a guilty look on his face.

ErrinCastle looked at the maid, hooked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Get out.”

The maid scurried out, and ErrinCastle slammed the door behind her.

BlakeDown demanded, “What’s going on? And you should knock first.”

ErrinCastle turned on Lewendis and growled like an animal. For a moment Theandrin thought he might strike the man. Without taking his eyes from Lewendis, he said, “Erlander, repeat what you just told me. Every word.”

As the armsman began his story fear clutched at Theandrin’s gut. The poor man spoke only small bits and pieces of a horrifying story, but ErrinCastle interrogated him relentlessly, and as the tale unfolded, Theandrin’s heart went cold.

Theandrin hadn’t realized she’d crossed the room, but as the man finished his story she found herself standing so close to Lewendis she smelled ale on his breath. She struggled to keep her voice down, but failed miserably. “You attacked and nearly murdered the heir to Elhiyne?”

Lewendis cringed and lowered his eyes. Behind him she noticed BlakeDown cringe as well, as if he felt some guilt over the incident.

ErrinCastle demanded, “What were you thinking, man?”

Lewendis pleaded, “But he started it.”

Theandrin demanded, “Brandon attacked you first?”

Lewendis shook his head. “No. it was DaNoel.”

“DaNoel attacked you, so you killed his horse?”

“No, he didn’t attack until after I killed his horse. First he just threatened me with archers.”

ErrinCastle exploded. “You bloody idiot.”

BlakeDown intervened. “Calm down, son. And you too, wife. This situation may not be as bad as it looks. It won’t hurt to stand up to the Elhiynes, show them we’re their equals, probably their betters.”

BlakeDown’s words stunned Theandrin. Was he stupid enough to want war with Elhiyne? What might he hope to gain by something so foolish?

And Lewendis! Surely he knew that splitting the Lesser Council this way was not just ill-advised, but an absolute disaster. He
must
be in the employ of Valso or one of his henchmen. He couldn’t be that stupid; he must have acted with motive and purpose. And yet, he’d returned from the border two days ago, was undoubtedly wearing one or more of her charms. And he’d done nothing to trigger them. Was she wrong about him?

ErrinCastle interrogated Lewendis and the armsman, picked apart their stories and slowly reassembled the truth in minute detail. Theandrin listened to every word, watching BlakeDown closely through it all. Her husband brushed off each incident casually when he should have been furious with Lewendis. “It’s a border,” he said, “between two powerful families. Of course there’s strife and tension there. There’ve been incidents before, and there’ll be incidents again.”

Theandrin had lived with BlakeDown for 30 years, and knew the man wasn’t that stupid. He was stupid about wenching, but not about war. She concluded there must be some overt motive behind his desire for such a costly enterprise.

He continued speaking, “I don’t like it that we appear to be the aggressor here. Aye, they killed a couple of our armsmen, but we attacked the heir to Elhiyne. The other Lesser Clans might consider that a disproportionate response, so we can’t go to war with them just yet. Let’s see if we can get them to respond more aggressively. We must appear to be defending our lands against a hostile neighbor.”

ErrinCastle exploded. He and BlakeDown argued heatedly, sometimes shouting uncontrollably.

No,
Theandrin thought.
BlakeDown isn’t that stupid, and Lewendis is.

So what was going on in her husband’s mind? What was he up to? Why did he so badly want war with Elhiyne?

Then there was the question of Lewendis. The power in the charms she’d planted in his clothing dissipated with time and they’d soon be useless. But they no longer mattered because she’d come to realize he was truly an idiot, not smart enough to be a spy for the Decouix. Valso might be a snake, but he was too smart to suffer a fool like Lewendis. So if not the yokel, then who was the spy in their midst?

That night Theandrin slept poorly.

••••

Morgin sat with his back to the wall holding Erithnae—or was it Rhianne—in his arms, saying nothing. A roar in the distance drew their attention to the wall, and someone on the battlements shouted, “Here they come again.”

Morgin kissed Erithnae one last time, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted up the steps to the top of the wall. The jackal horde had already crossed half the distance from their camp, barking and howling in anticipation of the victory to come. A flock of arrows arced out from the castle and dropped a few of them, but that was the last of their supply, so the wave of attackers quickly reached the base of the wall and started climbing.

As Morgin waited for the first of them to reach the parapets he thought of Erithnae’s words:
. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .
If the sigil he’d acquired at his Naming wasn’t his name, then what did it mean? He knew the words it symbolized, but they weren’t an
essence
, a
purpose
.

The first jackal reached the parapet and Morgin stabbed him in the eye. But more came right behind him, and though he killed them one after another, each forced him back a fraction of a step.

He ducked a sword thrust aimed at his face, swung out and chopped into a jackal’s arm, severing it just below the shoulder. He kicked the dog aside and engaged another, trying not to think of Erithnae’s words:
. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .

His blade bucked and jerked in his grip, hungering to be released, slavering for more blood. The sword had been quiescent for so long he’d almost forgotten the effort it took contain the evil within it. He’d long ago sworn that he would never again yield to it, never allow it even the slightest freedom to act on its own, and it was like a painfully knotted muscle in his power. He crushed it now, mercilessly and without hesitation.

Behind and to one side a jackal stabbed at him with a short spear. He slashed out and chopped the shaft in two, deflected a sword thrust and grabbed the jackal by the throat. The dog twisted in his grip and bit his arm.

. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .

He heard Erithnae cry out, not a sound for his ears but a plea from her soul to his. He scanned the castle yard, saw her with Rafaellen and two armsmen surrounded by jackal warriors and backed against a wall. Rafaellen and the armsmen fought to defend her, and she fought beside them, slashing out at the jackals with a small short-sword. If she died here, and Rhianne were within her soul, he would lose both of them.

A halfman standing on the parapet above Morgin sliced down toward his head with a two-handed stroke. In that moment his anger and frustration boiled up in his soul. He released the hatred in his sword and allowed its bloodlust to take control of him. The blade deflected the Kull’s stroke, then chopped into his side, cutting him in two. It sliced, cut and slashed, and he held onto it with all his strength, just as he’d done years ago in the sanctum when it had butchered a dozen Kulls: stab here, chop there, slice everywhere. And then he faced no enemy; the blade had cleared a section of the wall and bought him a moment’s respite. But as he looked about and saw the jackal hordes swarming over the entire length of the wall, he knew it was hopeless.

He tried to spot Erithnae again, but the castle yard was filled with jackal warriors in such numbers he could see nothing of her.

. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .
What was his purpose? What was his essence?

“ShadowLord,” Salula cried out, roaring with laughter.

It took him a moment to find the halfman in the chaos. Salula stood on a crenellation about 50 paces down the wall, smiling hatefully at him with his old friend’s face.