The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (33 page)

A common armsmen stepped into the pavilion, approached Olivia and dropped to one knee. The man was literally trembling with fear. “Your Ladyship, I— I—”

“What is it?” she demanded. “Spit it out.”

“Dogs, Your Ladyship. Giant dogs, three of ’em, bigger’n horses, with eyes and teeth that glow. And they talk. They asked for the Unnamed King.”

They all turned to Morgin with a questioning look.

Outside the tent a horse neighed.
I invited them
, Mortiss said.

“Not dogs,” he said. “That would be WolfDane, the hellhound king, and a couple of his subjects.”

To Olivia he said, “Tonight you’re going to learn to ride the nether ways with me.”

She started, and he realized it was the only time in his life he’d ever surprised her.

••••

DaNoel wanted nothing to do with the monsters Morgin called hellhounds, and from the fearful looks on people’s faces, he wasn’t the only one. He stepped back, putting as much distance as he could between him and the beasts. Since there’d be no war, maybe he could find one of the camp-followers, have a little fun.

Where have you been?

He cringed at the sound of the Decouix’s voice in his head.
Watching the whoreson. He averted your little war.

What do you mean?

DaNoel heard the frustration in Valso’s words.
There are rumors everywhere. According to one, you had some Penda whore working for you, convincing BlakeDown to start a war. But BlakeDown killed her yesterday.

She was a tool, and sometimes a tool fails and is discarded.

I assume you plan to discard me too.

Oh no, not at all. You’re much too valuable to me.

Especially since Morgin killed Salula, and now I’m all you’ve got left. Incidentally, France is back among us, and apparently quite healthy.

DaNoel sensed Valso’s anger flare, felt him struggle to suppress it. Never before had Valso’s emotions come through their link so clearly, and he wondered if the Decouix king had lost some of his control.
None of that matters.

All of your plans are failing, and none of it matters. I think not.

Blinding pain shot through DaNoel’s head and he staggered, barely managed to keep his feet.
Please, stop. I’ll be discovered.
The pain snapped off. DaNoel sat down at one of the campfires to catch his breath.

I could kill you with merely a thought, or even better, let you live with intense pain for years. So don’t push me. What is your brother planning?

It irritated him that Valso insisted on calling the whoreson his brother. But as the vestiges of the pain slowly receded, DaNoel new he’d have to give the Decouix something.
He’s combined the Penda and Elhiyne armies, and he’s going to bring them to Durin.

How many men?

Four to five thousand.

That’s nothing,
Valso said.
It will take ten times that to breach the walls of this city. And it’ll take six or seven days to get here.

He says he can get this army to Durin in far less time than that, and everyone’s wondering how he plans to do it.

He does, does he?

DaNoel could almost hear Valso’s thoughts churning. The Decouix continued.
He’s going to use the nether ways. To transport an army that size he’ll have to, and he’ll have to go deep, and my master will be waiting for him.

••••

Rhianne’s Kull escort opened the door to Valso’s workshop and held it for her. She stepped into the room with no idea what to expect, and tried to be ready for anything. Valso was expounding on something, while Carsaris and Magwa listened raptly. Or perhaps they only pretended to listen, for if the king felt slighted in any way, someone always died. Rhianne took note of the little snake coiled on its perch in the corner, Valso’s favorite executioner.

“Rhianne, my lovely Rhianne.” Valso crossed the room, took her hand and kissed it with a flourish. She never trusted his exuberance, for he could turn dark and angry in a heartbeat.

“I was just telling Magwa and Carsaris that your husband is coming, and he’s bringing an army.”

He turned, took her arm and marched her across the room. “But it’s a paltry army. Between Magwa’s forces and mine, we have him outnumbered five to one. And we have Durin’s walls.”

Magwa said, “My generals tell me it will take fifty thousand men to breach the walls of this city.”

Valso released Rhianne’s arm, leaned toward her and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I don’t have to seek out your husband, because the fool is coming to me. He’s giving me exactly what I want.”

Rhianne said, “But every—”

Magwa barked, “Silence.”

“No, no, no,” Valso said. “Let her speak.”

She hesitated, knew she would pay a price for her words, but it was up to her to carry the battle to Valso. “It seems to me that every time you think you have him defeated, he surprises you.”

Valso blinked, and his eyes narrowed in thought, then his smile slowly disappeared. He frowned, then he lashed out and hit her. She fell to the floor, managed to keep from striking her head on the stone.

As Magwa and Carsaris cringed and stepped back, he stood over her and screamed, “You are insane, woman.”

At the sound of his fury the little serpent shot off its perch and dashed across the room. “I’ll kill her for you, massster.”

Now was the critical moment. If Rhianne was going to bring her plan to fruition, this would be her only chance. Valso stepped back and she rose slowly to her feet, cringing beneath the snake as it hovered above her. She tilted her head slightly to one side, exposing the side of her throat. “Then do so, little snake,” she said, “for I care not if I live.”

It was a lie, a gamble, a calculated risk that Valso would want her continued presence for his gloating. The snake darted toward her, its fangs extended dripping venom. In the same heartbeat that thing that haunted Valso entered his soul and he shouted, “No.”

He swung out. The snake darted around his arm and halted just above Rhianne’s throat, hovering, drops of venom dripping from its fangs onto her skin.

“Do not defy me, little snake,” Valso’s master said as fiery pain erupted on Rhianne’s throat, accompanied by a hissing crackle where the venom had touched her.

“Back away,” Valso said, and the little snake retreated.

Rhianne grimaced with pain. When Valso saw that he produced a delicate handkerchief and tossed it to her, saying, “Get that healed.”

Carsaris stepped forward. Valso held up a hand. “I need you too much here, now.”

To Rhianne he said, “Go find another healer, or heal it yourself.”

Rhianne took the handkerchief and rushed out of his workshop, but she went to her own suite, not to a healer. Geanna and the girls tried to hover over her, but she kicked them angrily out of her room. She retrieved a small mirror, and carefully wiped the remaining venom onto the cloth. Ignoring the burning pain on the side of her throat, she retrieved another handkerchief from the bottom of a chest. On it were the dark stains of Morgin’s blood, seven drops now dried and brown. Since taking them from him, she’d carefully prepared them with all the magic she could summon without being detected by Valso.

She rubbed the two pieces of cloth together, mixing the dried blood and venom, blood from a man in whose veins the venom had flowed. Then she stuffed the two handkerchiefs into a goblet from her nightstand, and poured water over them. She carefully lifted the two pieces of cloth out of the goblet and wrung them dry over it, leaving it half-filled with water that had taken on a faint, brownish tint. She fed power into the water and said, “Let the fire of the venom flow with the chill of ice.” Then she put the goblet to her mouth and drank the contents, praying that the essence in Morgin’s blood that now protected him from Bayellgae’s venom would keep her alive.

Her stomach cramped up, spasming in an effort to reject the concoction, but she held it down as she slumped to the floor. Geanna found her there and called in Carsaris.

33
Exile Absolved

Riding on the back of a hellhound through, as Morgin called it, the nether ways, Nicki decided she would have a little talk with that brother of hers. Earlier that morning, outside Olivia’s command pavilion, Morgin had politely introduced them to WolfDane, the hellhound king. Then WolfDane had introduced Nicki to Lord KarlDane, one of his subjects, all nice and polite and formal. Hellhounds! Nether ways! How many more surprises was Morgin going to spring on her without warning?

The armsman hadn’t exaggerated—just the opposite—the hellhounds dwarfed a normal horse. As she’d stepped out of the tent Nicki hadn’t known what to expect, but when she saw the enormous beasts with golden-yellow eyes and teeth that glowed, massive canines that could snap her spine with a shrug, fear washed through her. How was she going to ride an unsaddled monster?

With a nether wind in her face, she leaned forward on its back, kept her eyes closed, her fingers buried in its fur gripping fiercely, her legs straddling its spine. Oddly enough, her saddle sores from yesterday’s ride didn’t bother her in the least. The nether beast must emit some aura that helped her stay mounted without discomfort, or maybe its fur simply cushioned her. And while the night had a chill to it, the warmth that radiated off the massive animal comforted her, and she drifted off into a pleasant doze . . .

Standing in the midst of a vast forest, a dark canopy of leaves overhead, Morgin said, “You’ve nothing to fear. Come, let me show you the Kingdom of Dreams. It’s near dawn and I have to check for Rhianne.”

Nicki looked around at the forest, couldn’t mask the awe in her voice as she said, “The Kingdom of Dreams!”

“Yes,” Morgin said, though he sounded tired. “I’m the Unnamed King. Didn’t you hear me tell everyone that?”

“Yes, but I—” Nicki couldn’t find any words to express how she felt. She spun toward him and said, “When this is done, you’re going to sit down with me and tell me everything.”

He smiled and nodded. “Okay, but it’s a long story.”

She noticed he had dark bags under his eyes. In the shadows of the forest canopy she hadn’t noticed them until she looked closely. And he walked like an old man. “What’s wrong?”

He grimaced. “The nether ways have become . . . difficult.”

He threw his shoulders back and once again stood straight and tall. “Come, let me show you Sabian.”

He took her hand and led her to the strangest castle she’d ever seen, walls, turrets and parapets all made from the life of the Living Forest. It was a wonderful dream, marred only by the way Morgin seemed so weary.

“Nicki, wake up.”

She opened her eyes, had trouble leaving her dreams. She sat up, still straddling the monstrous beast, Morgin standing beside her. She looked about, saw that they’d entered the Benesh’ere camp, whitefaces walking about everywhere. The sun had just risen and hung low on the eastern horizon.

“Let me help you down,” Morgin said. He reached up, took her by the waist, lifted her off the monster’s back and set her down beside it. Nicki thought he looked tired, exhausted, or was that just part of a dream?

Olivia laughed like a school girl. “That was exhilarating. Grandson, you’ll have to let me do that again, some time.”

They gathered in Angerah’s tent with several senior members of the black tribe, where they were served a breakfast of warm tea, fruit and roasted meat—she wasn’t sure what kind. Nicki ate in silence.

Speaking to the Benesh’ere, Morgin said, “I need you to gather the entire tribe, every man woman and child. Don’t overlook a single soul, have them ready to travel, and meet me at Gilguard’s Ford.”

The Benesh’ere sat silent and unmoving. Angerah said, “Where are we going, SteelMaster?”

Morgin said, “It’s time to ride to Durin.”

Several of them nodded solemnly, as if those words held some great significance for them. Nicki paused, for the Benesh’ere couldn’t ride to Durin, and then she realized the import of Morgin’s words. Oh, she was definitely going to have a talk with that brother of hers.

••••

Mounted again on the back of a hellhound, Nicki followed Morgin through the netherworld up the steep slope, AnnaRail and Olivia behind her on their mounts. They gained altitude quickly, then the terrain leveled off into a flat expanse of rock, and they stepped back onto the Mortal Plane. She watched Morgin shrug off his weariness, and she worried about him, thankful they’d spent only a short time in the nether ways.

Around them stretched a wide plateau with little soil to support vegetation. The occasional stunted tree and small clump of brush grew here and there among the boulders and loose rocks of black basalt.

Morgin led them to the edge of the plateau. He dismounted, helped her off KarlDane’s back again, and as he put her down she noticed a trickle of blood on his upper lip.

She said, “You have a nose bleed.”

He touched a finger to his lip, examined the blood for a moment then wiped his lip with his sleeve. He started to turn away but she grabbed his arm and said, “What’s wrong?”

He grimaced and said, “The nether ways . . .”

“Then stay out of them.”

“I can’t, not completely, not if we want any chance of victory.”

They approached edge of the cliff carefully, eased their way toward it slowly, all of them but Olivia in a crouch. Nicki wanted to get down on her hands and knees, but the old witch would never approve. Below them, in the distance, the Plains of Quam stretched to the horizon.

Morgin pointed east. “You see the Ulbb there.”

The river formed a jagged line zig-zagging its way east.

Still pointing, Morgin said, “Now see that ridge south of it, and south of the ridge the jagged line of overgrown brush that looks like another river.”

“What is it?” Nicki asked.

“Centuries ago,” Morgin said. “That’s where the Ulbb flowed.”

When Morgin explained what he wanted them to do, even Olivia was taken aback. “That will take quite a bit of preparation, grandson, and enormous power.”

“I know,” Morgin said, and there was nothing cavalier about the way he said it. “That’s why I need you three.”

••••

At the base of the cliff Morgin selected a large boulder with a good shadow on its north side; it would be there most of the day. He pulled Mortiss to a halt, dismounted and said, “Wait here. I’ll be back about mid-afternoon.”

She neighed,
Don’t be late.

He stepped into the shadow, stepped out of the shadow in the corner of Cort and Tulellcoe’s room. The older man stood at the room’s window, and there was no sign of Cort.

Tulellcoe turned away from the window and said, “Cort’s with the horses now, holding them ready. We figured you’d be in a hurry. I’ve already paid for our room, and the lamp, so we’re set to go.”

They extinguished the lamp, retrieved Tulellcoe’s cloak from the back of the chair, met Cort down in the street, and rode south. Morgin led them to the forest south of the city, and as they rode he outlined his plan to them. They were politely supportive, but clearly didn’t believe he could do it.

When Haleen had helped him escape from the Decouix dungeons, she’d brought him to this forest in a carriage, and left him here. Tall pines grew sparsely, with little undergrowth between them, and a carpet of pine needles blanketing the dirt. It was a perfect place to conceal an army—six armies—and with the tall pines casting shadows everywhere, perfect for what he needed.

They hurriedly set up a small camp. He couldn’t use the natural shadows of the trees, for they’d change with the movement of the sun and disappear when it set. In the shadows of a cluster of pines they lit the lamp and placed it on the ground. They hung Tulellcoe’s cloak from a tree branch, and positioned it so it cast a tall, wide shadow.

Morgin said, “Keep this shadow here tonight and through tomorrow morning.”

He stepped into the shadow, then stepped out of the shadow on the north side of the boulder.

Mortiss neighed,
We don’t have much time.

Morgin expected there to be delays in gathering up the Benesh’ere and not missing a single soul, but when he rode into their camp near the Lake of Sorrows he found it deserted. There were no tents, and the only thing that moved were swirls of steam and smoke rising from hundreds of quenched campfires. He turned Mortiss east and headed for the God’s Road.

Seven thousand people walking or riding, with an untold number of heavily packed chakarras, left plenty of signs of their passage. The dirt of the road had been churned up by boots and hooves, and the wild grasses on either side had been trampled out of existence.

Just south of Gilguard’s Ford the tribe had bivouacked along the sides of the road, sitting or lying wherever they found a comfortable spot, leaving a narrow passage up the middle of the ancient highway. As Morgin rode through them no one greeted him, called out or cheered. No one tried to question him; they simply rose up as he passed by and stood in mute anticipation. Angerah, Jerst, Harriok, Branaugh, Jack and all the other Benesh’ere he’d grown close to were waiting just south of the ford.

He reined Mortiss to a stop and said, “We ride east.”

Blesset scowled openly and several of them frowned, but no one questioned him. Those with horses mounted up, while the rest followed on foot. They traveled through lightly wooded forest, which after about a league opened up into open grassland. He spotted the ridge he’d pointed out to the three witches from the top of the cliff, the ridge he’d seen when retrieving Jack the Greater’s body after the poor fellow had tried to cross the ford. Morgin led the Benesh’ere up to its crest. He continued east for another league, with the banks of the Ulbb on his left, and on his right the ancient riverbed through which it had flowed centuries ago.

As Morgin rode, his gut tightened with fear. Olivia, AnnaRail and NickoLot might fail, in which case his whiteface friends would be sorely disappointed, and Morgin would not have the army he needed to breach the walls of Durin. But the greatest danger was that the three witches would succeed, and Morgin would learn that he’d misinterpreted the riddle of the seventh wrong. In that case he’d have to watch seven thousand men, women and children bleed out through their eyes, ears, noses and mouths. If that happened, he swore he’d stay until the last of them died; he owed them that much.

He had them stop and cluster on the crest of the ridge. He rode around the tribe slowly, making sure that everyone stood on raised ground between the riverbed of old, and that of the present. Then he rode to the top of the crest and stopped in their midst. In the distance the black, basalt cliff loomed above them.

AnnaRail had prepared a little charm for him, a small silver trinket connected by her arcane magics to one she carried. He retrieved it from a pocket, looked at it for a moment, then touched it to his tongue, activating it with a bit of saliva. She would know they were ready.

He started counting heartbeats, was going to count to a hundred, but only made it to ten when he saw a massive piece of the cliff slump away from it. A few heartbeats later he heard a rumble like distant thunder. The sound grew, and as it became a roar many of the whitefaces covered their ears with their hands. Then the ground shook, the horses panicked, and for many it had been a mistake to remain in the saddle. Some were unhorsed as the ground beneath them became unstable, but the shaking reached a peak, then subsided, and silence returned.

Morgin closed his eyes and waited. The Benesh’ere waited silently with him. He counted a hundred heartbeats, then another hundred, and another. Someone nearby coughed, Blesset harrumphed, someone else cleared his throat. A word was spoken here, a question there, and slowly the crest of the hill filled with the sound of fear, disappointment, and regret. But beneath the sounds of seven thousand people Morgin listened to the sound of the river. Facing west, his right ear picked up the sounds of its flow, the soft crackle of water breaking over a rock, or splitting around a large root. And little-by-little those sounds died, until his right ear heard nothing. Then his left ear picked up the sound of a wave of water flowing over dry land, a strange sort of popping sound.

He opened his eyes and looked south at the ancient dry riverbed, and the wave of water washing down through it. He looked down at his whiteface friends, waiting to see if he’d been wrong, to see the pain and blood and death, but none came. Morgin recalled the ancient riddle:
the Benesh’ere will not be free until they stand north of the Ulbb, but the Benesh’ere cannot cross the Ulbb until they are free.

Jerst said it. “I did not cross the Ulbb, but I stand north of the Ulbb, a free man.”

••••

Blesset had tears in her eyes as she drew her sword, raised it high and shouted, “We ride on Durin, now.”

“No,” Morgin said, and even Jerst and Angerah showed their impatience by looking askance at him.

Morgin said, “That’s at least a four-day forced march, with children. Separate out the warriors and I’ll have them there much quicker than that.”

Angerah frowned and said, “Did you learn nothing during your time with us, Elhiyne?”

Jerst said, “On the March, did you not see even the smallest child carrying a weapon against the Kulls?”

Morgin lowered his head and said, “Forgive me. I forgot.” He looked up, locked eyes with Blesset, smiled and said, “But I can still get you there tonight.”

She actually smiled, something Morgin had never seen.

To Jerst he said, “Line up your people into a single-file line. All riders should lead their mounts on foot.”

As Jerst issued orders and got the tribe organized, Morgin looked at Blesset and said, “Would you like to go first?”

She smiled again. He thought it would be nice if she did so more often.

Morgin cleared a space about four paces wide, then cast a shadow there large enough for a horse to walk through. He raised his voice and shouted, “Spread the word. We’re going to a forest about five leagues south of Durin. When each of you gets there, spread out and make camp among the trees.”

Holding her horse’s reins, Blesset faced the shadow and said, “I’m ready.”