The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (27 page)

One of his lieutenants stood and pointed. “There, my lord. One of the scouts.”

BlakeDown stood, saw the scout riding hard toward them. “Tell the men to mount up and get ready.” He had anticipated this.

One of the armsmen brought him his mount, he climbed into the saddle and had just settled there when the scout reined his horse to a halt in front of him.

“Your Grace,” the man said, breathing heavily. “Three twelves of Elhiyne armsmen about two leagues west of here, approaching slowly. Probably Alcoa’s men, led by a lieutenant, not Alcoa himself.”

“Did you recognize the lieutenant?”

“No, my lord. We didn’t get close enough.”

After two days of moving stones the workmen had almost finished the job. They’d started at the western end near a small woodland, so BlakeDown now had a new border behind which to confront the Elhiyne patrol. And the woodland was large enough to hide his four twelves of archers.

BlakeDown turned to the leader of the archers. “Do as we planned.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The day before, as the workmen were just beginning to move the stones, BlakeDown and his lieutenants had planned for every possible approach the Elhiyne border patrol might make. The western approach, near the woodland, was the best of all for his purposes. The archers quickly concealed themselves in the brush of the woodland.

To the lieutenant of his armsmen, BlakeDown said, “Send two twelves of your men north. We won’t need them for this, and I want them out of sight.”

As the two twelves rode away, he and his remaining twelve rode to the new border near the woodland and waited there.

He first spotted the Elhiynes about a thousand paces distant, riding easily, probably anticipating a routine day patrolling the border. When they saw BlakeDown and his men, the Elhiyne lieutenant raised his hand and brought his men to a halt. BlakeDown couldn’t hear him, but he saw him barking orders. Then they rode forward and stopped about 20 paces short of the new border.

“What is this?” the man demanded without introducing himself.

BlakeDown kept his voice calm and even. “What is what?” He looked from side to side. “I believe this is nothing more than a routine meeting on our mutual border.”

The Elhiyne had trouble containing his anger. He swept a hand out, indicating the line of stones. “This is not our border.”

“Why, I do believe it is,” BlakeDown said, grinning. “Our border has been this line of stones for centuries.”

The Elhiyne’s eyes fluttered with anger and disbelief. “But you’ve moved the stones.” He pointed to the workmen moving the last cartloads of stones. “You’ve changed the border.”

BlakeDown pointedly looked up and down the line of stones. “I do believe I have. And so we have a new border. There’s no reason we can’t continue as before.”

The man looked at the line of stones, the workmen, the pond and the creek. Last of all he looked at BlakeDown’s single twelve of men. BlakeDown could almost see the wheels turning as the man realized that, with his three twelves, he had the Penda’s outnumbered. He calmed and said, “I must insist that you withdraw your armsmen, and have your workmen return the stones to their original place.”

BlakeDown hardened his voice, “You may insist all you want, but the stones are moved, and they will remain moved.”

The Elhiyne drew his sword, and his armsmen followed suit. “If you do not withdraw willingly, then I will have no choice but to force you to do so.”

BlakeDown drew his own sword, did so slowly and carefully, and his men followed suit. “Then force away,” he said.

He and the Elhiyne locked eyes, a silent challenge during which BlakeDown made sure the man saw he would not flinch.

The man shouted, “Charge,” and spurred his horse.

BlakeDown raised his own sword, slashed it downward and cried, “Now.”

The archer’s in the forest rose from their hiding places and four twelves of arrows hissed through the air, feathering man and horse alike. The battle was over in a dozen heartbeats, and BlakeDown and his armsmen had not even needed their swords.

There remained a few wounded Elhiyne still alive, but BlakeDown’s men dispatched them quickly.

27
Treason Revealed

When they reached The God’s Road east of the Lake of Sorrows, Morgin and his Benesh’ere friends paused to water their horses and share a meal of trail rations. They sat in a circle within the forest, and as they ate, Jack said, “There’s been a strangeness about you since we left Kathbeyanne. Something happened there, didn’t it?”

Morgin hadn’t told them of Metadan’s prophesy, nor of his experience in the city of glass. He did so now, and when he finished Blesset demanded, “So you refused to ask the third question? Have you broken the chain of prophesy?”

They all knew her concern was the seventh wrong. Clearly she feared he would fail to right it and free the Benesh’ere.

Jack said, “Watch your tongue, girl.”

She stood. “If he fails at one prophesy, will he fail at others?”

“He didn’t
fail
,” Harriok said. “He chose not to follow their whims. He’s taken control of these prophesies, and that strengthens my confidence in him.”

They argued throughout the brief meal, and neither Harriok nor Jack could convince Blesset that Morgin wouldn’t cheat them of their freedom. And Morgin couldn’t be certain she was wrong.

They parted there, the three Benesh’ere returning to their camp, Morgin heading south to Kallun’s Gorge. Before he could right the seventh wrong, he had to figure out how to right the sixth, and he had no idea how he might do that.

They’d already used up most of the day so he camped that night in the forest south of the lake, awoke the next morning feeling confident and renewed. There was no question in his mind that he’d done the right thing by not asking the third question.

He looked about, didn’t see Mortiss, figured she’d probably found a bush full of berries to dine upon. He thought it might be good to exercise his sword arm, hoped that Metadan would show up that day. He was thinking about a light meal of trail rations when he heard the familiar sound of the pipes. He looked up to see Metadan striding toward him carrying his naked sword in one hand, not the obsidian blade but the sword that dripped the blood of the first legion. The archangel’s eyes were pinched and strained, and he trembled as if struggling under a great weight.

“Is something troubling you?” Morgin asked as the angel approached.

Morgin heard Mortiss’ hooves pounding on the forest floor an instant before she cried a nether scream of fear and anger. She burst into the small clearing at full charge and he dove to one side to avoid being ridden down. She continued past him, charging at Metadan, and as she slammed into the archangel she and he disappeared in a flash.

Morgin jumped to his feet and drew his sword, trying to look in all directions at once and wondering what had just happened. Metadan appeared in front of him, his sword already swinging around in a flat arc aimed at taking off Morgin’s head. He ducked and threw his own sword up, clumsily deflecting the blow, which bought him the instant needed to regain his balance and drop into a defensive crouch.

Metadan’s eyes glowed with hellfire as Morgin demanded, “What are you doing?”

Metadan screamed and charged, swung his sword with both hands in a high arc. Morgin back-stepped, parried the blow, and struck back. Their swords rang as they traded blows back and forth. Then they disengaged and circled in a fighting crouch.

Morgin demanded again, “What are you doing?”

Metadan ignored him and charged in. The archangel fought without his usual finesse, simply slammed strike after strike at Morgin with feverish insanity. Morgin tried to control the steel in Metadan’s blade, but it was as dead as the first legion, and he found no life in it to answer his commands.

Metadan came in with a series of blows that were easily predictable. Morgin deflected them, then thrust at the angel’s chest. It would have been a death stroke had Metadan not vanished in a puff of gray smoke.

Morgin heard a twig snap behind him, dropped, spun and kicked out, caught Metadan in the knee where he’d reappeared at his back. The archangel grunted with pain and staggered backward. Morgin swung his sword out, and again Metadan vanished.

Morgin knew what to expect, knew that Metadan would appear behind him in an instant, decided that two could play that game. He cast two shadows, one about himself, another behind where he knew Metadan would reappear, and with no more than a thought stepped from one to the next. The archangel reappeared as expected and slashed his sword through the first shadow. Now behind him, Morgin thrust with his sword’s point, but the archangel disappeared an instant before the steel passed through him, slicing through the smoke he’d left behind.

Morgin stepped into another shadow just as Metadan reappeared behind him. Their contest turned into a strange dance of smoke and shadows, the angel disappearing an instant before Morgin’s sword struck the column of smoke he’d left behind, then reappearing behind Morgin to strike at him. Each time Morgin disappeared into a shadow a hair’s breadth ahead of the angel’s steel, then stepped out of another behind Metadan. They repeated the sequence a dozen times, and as Morgin tired he recalled how Metadan could fight on with no sign of fatigue. It was a game he could not win, so Morgin ended it by casting a shadow well outside the small clearing, stepping into it, and not stepping out. He held his silence and his breath.

Metadan hesitated in the clearing, disappeared and reappeared several times in different places. He finally stopped, stood in the middle of the clearing and cried, “I must take your life Lord Mortal. It is not by my choice, but until death frees me I must bend to the will of my master. I will come for you again, and you will not again escape me.” He disappeared and did not return.

Morgin waited in his shadow until well past noon. Even when Mortiss walked into the clearing calmly and without hurry, he retained his shadows as he saddled her, gathered up his gear, and rode towards the Gorge. He didn’t think he would again be practicing his sword skills with Metadan anytime soon, though he wondered what had brought on the angel’s sudden change of heart.

••••

Rhianne’s handmaidens had just dressed her for bed in a floor-length nightgown when Geanna entered her boudoir and announced, “His Majesty wishes to see you.”

Rhianne looked down at her nightgown and said, “But I’m not dressed.”

“Don’t worry,” Geanna said. “We have an excellent robe for you that will be modest and appropriate.”

Rhianne was skeptical until Geanna produced a floor-length robe quite like something Olivia might wear when receiving someone in her small audience chamber. It was heavy with brocade, hooded, with a double flap on the front tied off by laces. It concealed her completely toes to chin, covered her much more than the gowns she was forced to wear on a daily basis.

Valso awaited her in her sitting room, seated comfortably on a couch. When she walked into the room he stood, took her hand and kissed it, bowing with a flourish. He could be quite elegant, as long as one didn’t know to look for the evil beneath the surface. And she could not deny that he was handsome; her handmaidens twittered constantly about his striking features.

“Rhianne, my dear,” he said, stepping back and admiring her. “Even prepared for bed, without the paints and makeup you ladies place such store in, even then you are lovely.”

He reached out and ran a finger lightly across her lips. His touch sent a thrill through her, and she steeled herself to be ready. But then she realized she was being foolish, overreacting to her own natural response to the touch of a handsome man. There was nothing to fear this night, especially since she was bundled up nicely with almost no skin showing. And yet she hungered to feel that thrill again.

She forced herself to turn away from him, took two steps and tried to still her racing heart as she said, “What may I do for Your Majesty?”

He put his hand on her shoulder, though she hadn’t heard him cross the distance between them. She noticed then that Geanna and the girls were conspicuously absent. She turned around and felt a desire to be closer to him so she stepped forward. He had a kingly profile; she reached up and touched his jaw and that thrill ran through her again.

Nooooooooooo!

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips, and her vomit spell didn’t activate. With his lips only a hair’s breadth from her face, he said, “I see you’re disappointed that your little spell didn’t work this time.”

He shook his head sadly. “I found the vomiting spell easily, and deactivated it. You should have thought of something new and original, something I wouldn’t anticipate.”

She tried to keep the look on her face neutral, but he must have seen something there. He leaned back, cocked his head and said, “There’s something else, isn’t there? I saw it in your eyes just now.”

He stepped back, putting a little distance between them. “What is it? Tell me?”

She felt an overwhelming desire to keep nothing from him. “Boils,” she said. “When you touch my breasts I’ll break out in boils, disgusting pustules oozing yellowish ichor. The vomiting spell was just a feint.”

“Oh you little vixen,” he said. “I would have found that quite disgusting, and it certainly would have dampened my ardor.”

She felt the tendrils of his magic fluttering at the edges of her soul. “There it is. I’ve found it. And quite nicely done too, difficult to spot.”

His magic washed through her and the spell she’d spent so much time preparing dissipated. In a heartbeat it was gone.

Nooooooooooo!

He took her in his arms, kissed her, and she responded passionately. “Now we’re going to truly enjoy ourselves. Or, at least, I will.”

Nooooooooooo!

He led her into the bed chamber, unlaced the robe Geanna had provided to cover her up. She stepped out of it willingly and he tossed it aside. She tugged at his pants, desperately driven by desire beyond anything she’d ever felt. He turned her about, undid the laces of her nightgown and dropped it to the floor. She felt not the least bit modest standing there naked in front of him.

Nooooooooooo!

He tugged at his own pants, finished the job she’d started, pulled off his tunic and threw it aside. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. She felt his penis against her belly growing erect, and for some reason she found a tiny bit of humor in that. A chuckle escaped her lips.

He pressed her on her back on the bed, climbed on top of her, groped at her crotch and tried to stick his finger in her. That was even funnier, and she couldn’t contain a short laugh. He hesitated and looked at her oddly, then resumed his groping.

They were both breathing heavily now, panting and groaning, and that was the funniest thing of all. A full-throated laugh burst out of her, then another, and another.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” she said, gasping for air, gulping and giggling like a young girl. She tried desperately to find nothing funny in the look on his face, but she hiccoughed, and that sent her into another round of wild laughter.

He pushed up off her, and she noticed his penis was growing limp, and that brought on even more laughter. She could hardly breathe she was laughing so hard, her stomach muscles straining with the effort.

He slid off her, stepped off the bed, a look of horror on his face. He swung out and slapped her, and that too was funny, though it didn’t mask the pain of the fiery burn on her cheek.

He slapped her again, and the pain brought her memories back in a rush. The vomiting spell had been a feint, and the boil-spell a double-feint. The laughter spell had been easy. The hard part had been the memory spell to make her forget. She had to forget both the memory and laughter spells so completely he couldn’t make her tell her own secrets.

He hit her in the jaw with his closed fist. His face had blossomed a bright red and tears streamed down his cheeks as he screamed and hit her. It was all so funny, even when she ended up on the floor, and lay there laughing as he kicked her and beat her into unconsciousness.

••••

NickoLot stood on the battlements and watched the armsmen marching toward the Penda border. Two days ago a messenger from Alcoa had arrived with news that BlakeDown had moved the border to take possession of a strategic water supply, then massacred one of Alcoa’s patrols. Both clans were now fortifying the border, though no one had yet declared open war.

She stood there for quite some time, waiting as the marching armsmen disappeared over the horizon. She waited further, then heard a shout down in the yard, the rumble of horse’s hooves, and below her a large company of mounted Elhiynes rode out through the castle gates, DaNoel among them.

In the wee hours of the morning her charms had alerted her to the mention of Valso’s name in DaNoel’s room. But the castle had been a beehive of activity, and she’d waited through most of the day for the men to leave. With DaNoel now out of the castle, there was no need to hurry, or even to lurk about as she walked down to his room. She retrieved the lead charm that she’d sensitized with Decouix white, and returned to her own room.

She repeated the process of unbuttoning the stiff, high collar of her gown, placing the charm against her skin and feeding it with her power.

. . . act now to stop him . . .

. . . keep my name out of it . . .

. . . fear not my friend . . .

NickoLot’s heart almost stopped beating, and she felt a tear roll down her cheek; a two sided conversation of thoughts, one DaNoel, and the other Valso. Her brother, a traitor, not just conniving or sneaking about, but out-and-out treason. This would break AnnaRail’s heart as nothing else could.

She sat there for quite a long time, even as her room darkened with the setting sun. She debated back and forth, a schizophrenic argument between her and herself; should she tell her mother, could she tell her mother? Finally, with a heavy heart, she buttoned her high collar, stood, and carrying the charm as proof, walked out of her room.

At the door to AnnaRail’s apartments she hesitated, was about to knock when Olivia’s voice stopped her, “Hold, child.”