The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (23 page)

When she judged the time right, she turned from the window, crossed the room to her workbench and retrieved a carefully folded linen handkerchief and the two charms she’d prepared. She recalled the last time she’d walked out into the castle yard late at night, and the guard on the parapets who’d called down to her to ask if she needed anything. It wouldn’t do to have him wake half the castle with a loud shout, so she activated one of the charms with a bit of saliva. Anyone who looked her way would find their attention deflected elsewhere, not as difficult as a detailed veil of illusion, but in the shadows of night, just as effective.

She activated the second charm, and a small flame blossomed in her hands, illuminating the room with light that only she could see. She’d also not be advertising her whereabouts with a candle or lantern.

She stepped out into the hall, walked down the stairs to the main floor and out into the castle yard. She’d given herself plenty of time, and didn’t want to tempt fate, so she stayed in the shadows and worked her way around the edge of the yard to the main gates. It was a time of peace, so they were open. She slipped through them and paused just outside the castle’s walls. She waited a bit for true midnight, but when it came, she knew with her witch’s senses the time was right.

She opened the folded linen handkerchief and looked upon the six blue threads she’d wrapped within it: six threads for Penda, the sixth tribe, and blue, for the blue of Vodah. The stone of the walls had been laid hundreds of years ago, and while still strong and quite formidable, it wasn’t difficult to find small gaps here and there in the mortar. She carefully wedged three threads in three separate places on the left side of the gates, then the three remaining on the right.

She stepped back to examine her handiwork. She’d spent days preparing those six charm-wards. They’d alert her the moment anyone of Vodah loyalty passed between them and through the castle gates.

23
The Fallen Revealed

Low-lying clouds drifted in as dusk settled over the western shore of the Lake of Sorrows. Morgin guessed he was in for a bit of rain that night, so he set up camp early. He had two oiled, canvas tarps, the same material the Benesh’ere used for their tents. He draped one over the branches of a tree to give Mortiss some shelter, though he wondered if the nether horse felt discomfort as mortals did.

Don’t be stupid,
she neighed.

He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and really didn’t want her to enlighten him, so he ignored the comment. He managed to erect a small lean-to, collect some dry wood and start a fire before the clouds released a slow drizzle. When he crawled into his blanket he was warm, out of the rain, and reasonably comfortable, but his thoughts went to the many tasks before him and sleep eluded him for a time.

When he awoke in the morning the rain had stopped and a clear, blue sky greeted him as he crawled out of his blanket. He picked up his water skin, walked down to the lake and splashed a little water on his face. While he refilled the skin, the familiar, sad sounds of a pipist’s tune drifted through the forest, and when he returned to his camp he was not surprised to find Metadan standing in front of the fire waiting for him. The archangel had a broadsword buckled at his side. He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword and said, “Time for a lesson.” He drew the sword and the blade dripped blood onto the ground, the blood of first legion, the angels he’d betrayed.

Metadan raised the sword and looked at it. “No, this is not the blade you must face.” He flicked his wrist, and now he held the obsidian blade.

Morgin walked over to his gear and retrieved his sword. He and the archangel sparred for a good portion of the morning. When they finished Morgin walked down to the lake to wash away the sweat, and returned to find Metadan seated on a log in front of the fire, the pipes pressed to his lips, again playing that sad tune. The archangel had added fresh wood to the fire and stoked it nicely. Morgin was pleased to see that it burned with almost no smoke; it wouldn’t do to advertise his presence.

He sat down on a rock on the opposite side of the fire and said, “Nice tune. But always so sad.”

“You taught it to me,” the archangel said. “Several centuries ago. Teach me a happy tune, and I’ll play it.”

Morgin recalled that as Morddon, the ancient Benesh’ere warrior, he’d known the pipes, and now he had a vague memory of teaching Metadan how to play them. “I don’t know any happy tunes.”

“Well then you should compose one.”

“First, I have to find happiness.”

Metadan nodded. “And how will you do that?”

Morgin knew what he had to do. “I have to kill Salula without killing my friend. I have rescue Rhianne, and beg her forgiveness for the way I treated her. I have to stop Valso.”

Metadan looked at the pipes in his hand and they vanished in a heartbeat. “And let’s not forget you have a prophesy to fulfill, and then you must right the last two wrongs.”

Morgin recalled the sixth wrong, and that he must
free the soul of the Fallen One
. Metadan, the betrayer. After Metadan and Ellowyn had fought in the clearing near Csairne Glen, he’d told Morgin,
I am the Fallen Angel. I serve the Dark God who sits upon the throne of power in the ninth hell of the netherworld . . .
Morgin had no idea how he could free the archangel’s soul?

••••

Rhianne’s Kullish guards escorted her to the room on the third floor, which she now understood was Valso’s workshop. When a Kull opened the door she saw Valso, Salula and Carsaris standing with their backs to her, their attention focused on something on the heavy work table. The little snake sat coiled on its perch.

As she stepped into the room, the skeletal Carsaris said, “I don’t know if it’ll work.”

Salula glanced over his shoulder at her, and she cringed inwardly at seeing the demon look through France’s eyes.

Valso said, “We have alternatives if it doesn’t.”

As the Kulls closed the door behind her, the three of them turned to face her. Valso strode toward her, saying, “My Rhianne, always so lovely.” He took her hand and kissed it.

Without turning to the wizard he said, “Carsaris, bring it here.”

Valso turned away from her as the wizard crossed the room. Carsaris handed him something, he turned back to Rhianne and raised his hand. Between thumb and forefinger he held a medallion like that Salula had used to control her. It would take her will, turn her into nothing more than an obedient dog.

“Please, no,” she said, stepping back, bumping into the door behind her.

Valso smiled and stepped forward. “But it must be, my dear.”

He reached forward, bringing the medallion toward her face. She closed her eyes, and when the cold metal touched her forehead she wondered why she felt such fear. She had nothing to fear here. She opened her eyes, looked into Valso’s kindly face.

He said, “Now isn’t that much better?”

She lowered her eyes and said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Valso turned, saying, “Come, my dear.”

She followed him to the center of the room, where he turned to face her. He reached out and took her by the shoulders. “Now let’s see how well it works . . .”

. . . Spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning . . .

She sensed nothing but the need to find her Morgin. Her entire being narrowed to that one desire. She desperately wanted to find him, thought her heart might burst if she failed.

. . . Spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning . . .

Her Morgin was nowhere to be found, gone as if he’d never been. She slumped to the floor, sobbing openly, tears streaming down her face and dripping to the floor.

“No, it didn’t work.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Not your fault, Carsaris. Come, child.”

She opened her eyes as a pair of strong hands lifted her gently to her feet, looked into Valso’s face and said, “You are so kind, Your Majesty.”

Valso reached out, touched her forehead, and when he withdrew his hand it held a shiny, metal object.

Rhianne staggered and backed several steps.

Valso turned away from her and crossed the room to the little snake’s perch. “Hmmm, snake. You’ve tasted his blood, and he your venom. Can you sense him?”

The snake’s head wove from side to side. “The connection isss there, Your Majesssty, but not ssstrong enough.”

Valso considered the snake for a long moment. “I may be able to do something to enhance the connection, even if only a little. I certainly have enough bits and pieces of him from his stay in my dungeons to concoct something.”

“What of his ssshadows, massster?”

Valso shook his head. “If you can’t see through his shadows now, I doubt I’ll be able to do anything about that. But strengthening a connection that already exists, yes, I should be able to do something there.”

Rhianne’s chest tightened with fear. If Valso turned the snake into a hound, what else might he do? When Morgin finally faced Valso, even though Morgin could no longer be killed by the little serpent’s venom, might it tip the balance in some way? Rhianne couldn’t take that chance, and realized now that she would have to do something about the snake, but what?

Valso turned and looked at Rhianne, but he spoke to the serpent. “I’ll do something to help you sniff him out. And when you go, take Salula with you. It’s time to be rid of the Elhiyne once and for all.”

••••

To approach the Benesh’ere camp Morgin rode around the south side of the Lake of Sorrows. Rounding the north side would have been shorter, but he’d have to pass close to the mining camp and Norlakton. Too much danger of being seen.

As night approached he stopped in the forest just south of the Benesh’ere camp, unsaddled Mortiss, ate a cold meal of jerky and hardtack, and slept wrapped in his blanket with no fire. He arose well before dawn, bundled his saddle and gear in the canvas tarps, then cut an armful of leafy branches and concealed the bundle beneath them. He continued on foot, wrapped in shadow.

He slipped past the Benesh’ere sentries as the first rays of sunlight brightened the horizon. He’d chosen his timing carefully, had arrived just before the camp roused, early enough that the shadows were still long and deep, but late enough that Harriok and Branaugh would be awake and breakfasting.

He stopped in a shadow near the entrance to their tent. “Harriok, Branaugh,” he said, speaking softly so his voice didn’t carry. “It’s me, Morgin. May I enter?”

A couple of heartbeats later Branaugh threw the tent flap aside. She looked at him for a moment, then said, “They said you were dead. Apparently, they were wrong.”

Morgin grimaced. “I’m not sure that they were.”

She shook her head sadly. “Why am I not surprised that you’d say something like that?”

She stepped aside, holding the flap open. He crouched and walked past her into the dark interior of the tent, smelled roasted meat and warm bread. Harriok sat by a small brazier, something on top of it steaming, their half-finished breakfast in front of him. “Would you like some tea, my brother of the sand?”

Morgin unbuckled his sword, put it to one side and sat down opposite him. Branaugh sat down next to Harriok as he poured tea for the three of them. She retrieved an empty plate and asked, “Hungry?”

“I’ve had nothing but trail rations for several days,” he said. “It smells wonderful.”

She prepared a small plate, handed it to him, and as they ate they spoke of little things. LillianToc had finally gotten over Felina’s murder at the hands of the Kulls, and he swam quite regularly in the lake, was teaching some of the other children to swim. Yim’s father had allowed her to discard the debt collar, and she’d soon marry her warrior. The smiths were now making better steel than ever, thanks to the lore from the past that Morgin had recalled. It gladdened Morgin’s heart to listen to the simple gossip of the tribe.

They told Morgin about JohnEngine and NickoLot’s visit. Harriok said, “You need to let them know you’re alive.”

“I think they already know,” Morgin said.

“So what do you need from us?” Branaugh asked.

Harriok gave her a disapproving look. “Need you be so blunt? Why do you think he wants something?”

She rolled her eyes, looked at her husband, then at Morgin. “If he’d come to visit, or to live with us again, he would have come openly. Instead, he’s come like a thief in the night, so when he leaves no one will know he’s been here.”

Morgin said, “She’s right. I do need your help.”

Harriok shrugged and swallowed a piece of meat. “You have but to ask.”

Morgin considered his words carefully. “I need to go out on the sands, and I don’t have the skills to survive there on my own.”

“Out on the sands?” Branaugh asked. “Why?”

“I have to go to Kathbeyanne, the city of glass.”

Harriok froze in mid chew. “That’s a fool’s errand. What makes you think we won’t end up like all the rest?”

“When you and I were out on the sands and saw the city on the horizon, I sensed its true position, and it was not where I saw it. I think I can get us there.”

“It’ll be hot this time of year. Why do you want to go?”

“I have to fulfill a prophesy.”

Harriok looked to Branaugh. She rested a hand on his arm and said, “I think you must do this thing, husband.”

Harriok nodded his agreement. “I’ll put together the provisions, and meet you in your camp at dawn two mornings hence.”

Morgin gave them careful directions to his small campsite, then wrapped himself in shadow and slipped out of the Benesh’ere camp before it came fully awake.

••••

Morgin danced sideways as the point of the obsidian blade thrust through the space where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier. He struck down with his sword, meeting the obsidian in a shower of sparks, driving its point into the dirt. Metadan recovered with inhuman speed, they disengaged and backed away from one another, Morgin breathing heavily, Metadan showing no outward signs of exertion. Apparently the archangel was not subject to the same physical limitations as those of a mere mortal.

“You’re doing well,” Metadan said. “You might even be able to face me someday.”

“Will I need to?”

As they circled warily the archangel shrugged. “Who knows what fate awaits us!”

Morgin attacked, swung his sword down in a high arc that Metadan deflected easily. Morgin followed through with a thrust, catching Metadan by surprise and the angel back-stepped clumsily. Again they disengaged, and the angel nodded his approval.

They circled in a crouch, each evaluating the other, looking for an opening. Morgin was about to try another attack when Metadan frowned, stepped back, stood up straight and raised a hand to signal a halt to the match. He looked up to the sky and scanned it, turning slowly full circle. He stopped facing north, raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and looked that way for several heartbeats. He tensed, turned to Morgin and said, “I must be gone.”

Saying nothing further, he vanished, leaving behind a column of smoke in the shape of a man that dissipated slowly. Morgin took his cue from Metadan, stepped into the shadow of a tree, drew his shadowmagic about him like a cloak and waited. Mortiss must have sensed something, for she was nowhere to be seen.

He waited there unmoving for quite some time, sensed something nether approaching, then heard the buzz that reminded him of the wings of a hummingbird. A heartbeat later Bayellgae zipped into the clearing, darted about as if searching for something, then settled on the branch of a nearby tree.

Morgin waited as the snake sat quietly, its head constantly weaving from side to side. He forced his breathing to slow, dare not move, wondering what the little snake was up to. He heard a horse splutter and neigh somewhere nearby in the forest, found he was holding his breath without realizing it. He let the air out of his lungs slowly, careful to make no sound, heard the creak of saddle leather, and the clop of a horse’s hooves at a slow walk. Moving at an easy pace Salula rode into the clearing. It tugged at Morgin’s heart to see the face of the swordsman turned into a hard mask of expressionless stone.