Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (14 page)

The swordsman winked and whispered, “You
have to know how to talk prices down, boy. Just pick one out and
leave the rest to me.”

Morgin looked about while France spoke to
the shop’s owner. He’d been in weapon’s shops before, but the kind
the clan frequented offered a better cut of merchandise than this
place. He searched carefully, and finally found one of the few nice
looking blades. He hefted it to try its balance.

“Not that one,” France said. “It’s too
pretty. Killin’ steel shouldn’t be pretty. And it’s too expensive.
And it ain’t that good a blade.”

Morgin began again, looking this time for
steel, and weight, and balance. As he picked up each blade he
closed his eyes and tried to judge each on its own merits, and not
its looks, but the blade he chose, the one that felt most natural
in his hand, was a crude, ugly thing that had seen many a battle in
its day. He returned it to the rack and walked away.

He tried several more, again closing his
eyes as he tested each, until he found another blade that felt
right. He opened his eyes and discovered it was the same blade he’d
earlier rejected.

“What you got there, lad?”

Morgin handed the blade to France. “It’s
probably not a very good blade,” he said, “but it seems to feel
right.”

France looked at the blade casually. Then
his eyes lit up and he looked again. He handed the blade back to
Morgin and whispered, “Buy it. Don’t argue. Just but it.”

France argued with the shop’s owner and
managed to bring the price down by a few coins, but Morgin could
see that his heart wasn’t in it, though he did get the owner to
throw in a proper sheath. He was in a hurry to be away.

Once out of the shop he scouted several
alleys until he found one that was roomy and well lit by the sun.
He pulled Morgin into it then asked to see the sword again. Morgin
handed it to him.

France eyed the blade closely, examining it
in minute detail, and as he did so, his eyes gleamed with delight.
“This is a rare find, lad. It’s a Benesh’ere blade, an old one, and
them crazy desert men make the best blades in all the tribes. It’s
got a few nicks, and the hilt needs to be remounted properly, but
it’s damn good steel. Damn good. Ah, lad! I’ll bet there’s some
stories in this blade.”

“If it’s such a good sword,” Morgin said,
“then you should have it.”

France shook his head. “It was your hand
that found it, lad. It’s your blade. It would be unlucky for me to
take it now.”

France’s eye’s stayed on the blade for a
long moment. Then he returned it with visible reluctance.

“I’m such a poor swordsman,” Morgin blurted
out suddenly. “Sometimes they even make me practice with the
younger boys. Could you teach me how to fight? Please.”

France shook his head and smiled. “You
fought just fine in that alley last night.”

“I was scared.”

“That’s the best way to fight, lad. Good and
scared. But it ain’t fighting you’re talking about. It’s dueling.
The fancy stuff. And that ain’t fer you, boy. You’re a fighter, not
a duelist.”

Morgin shook his head. “Grandmother says
clansmen only duel. That it isn’t gentlemanly to fight.”

“The old witch ain’t never had to swing a
sword fer her life, has she? Well you remember something, boy. When
yer in the thick of it, and yer life’s on the line, use the point
to stab, the flat of yer blade to slap, the edge to cut, the guard
as a steel fist, the hilt as a club. Use yer elbows, yer knees, yer
claws, yer teeth. You just remember that, boy, and you’ll live a
lot longer. But I ain’t got time to teach you to duel. And besides,
it ain’t in you.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon
sightseeing. But as the day drew to a close France led them back to
one of the dark, forbidding saloons they had visited earlier that
morning, and an unfriendly man that Morgin remembered well. France
and the man spoke for a time privately while Morgin waited nearby.
Then France left with the man, saying he had urgent business and
would meet Morgin back at the inn after dinner.

Morgin returned to the inn, had a quiet
dinner of simple fare, and was happy to see France arrive shortly
thereafter. The swordsman wasted no time but said quickly, “Morgin,
me lad. I’ve got to be leaving you. I’ve got business elsewhere
that’ll take some days so I’ll be saying me good-byes.”

“Won’t I ever see you again?” Morgin
asked.

“Maybe,” the swordsman said. “Then again,
maybe not.”

“But what about a reward for saving my
life?”

“Ah, lad! There ain’t time. I’ve got to be
moving on. And I learned long ago not to ask fer things from
witches. It’s too dangerous. Just put in a good word for me.”

Moments later the swordsman was gone. Morgin
envied him, leaving on a moment’s notice, travelling to far lands
on some strange adventure. But Morgin was alone now, so he chose a
place at an empty table in a corner of the common room of the inn.
He sipped his wine, tried to imagine where France might have gone,
and for the most part he was ignored by the rest of the inn’s
patrons. The bar maid, as a matter of course, had propositioned
him, though she’d seemed relieved when he’d turned her down.
Perhaps it was the shadows that hovered about him. He felt safe in
those shadows.

The evening progressed and the room began to
fill with more patrons. Some were noisy and loud, laughing,
drinking. Some sat quietly and spoke in soft tones. They were of
all shapes and sizes, both male and female. The only thing they had
in common was the obvious condition of their financial status:
poor. They were not the city’s poorest, for this inn was only on
the fringe of the Thieves’ Quarter, but they could never be called
well-to-do.

Morgin ignored them, lost in his own
thoughts, until the room became suddenly, ominously silent. The
laughing died, the clinking of glasses and the clank of mugs was
gone, and all eyes turned to the entrance and the clansmen that
stood there. But being on the fringe this inn was accustomed to the
occasional highborn who wanted to do a little slumming. The crowd
looked quickly away. The din of their pleasure returned.

But Morgin didn’t look away because these
clansmen were his cousins and brothers. He watched closely as they
removed their cloaks and scanned the room. His first thought was
that somehow they’d discovered his whereabouts and come to fetch
him, but that thought quickly vanished as they located an empty
table and sat down to enjoy themselves.

He watched them closely, hidden within his
shadows, curious as to why they’d come to this inn. They ordered
ale and wine, laughing and joking among themselves. JohnEngine was
there, with DaNoel, Brandon, and MichaelOff. Morgin recognized
SandoFall, soon to be Annaline’s husband, and several more Inetkas
whose names he could not remember. They made a few toasts, loud and
raucous, some quite crude, and it slowly became obvious they were
celebrating the end of SandoFall’s bachelor days. Morgin looked on
with envy, wishing he and DaNoel had gotten along better so that he
too could join in the fun.

Then suddenly, too soon to be coincidence,
the room again fell silent. But this time the silence lasted, for
standing within the doorway were two Kullish guardsmen.

Morgin had heard much of the Kulls. They
were men who had no magic of their own, but desirous of power, had
pledged their service, and their souls, to House Decouix. In
return, the Decouixs located minor demons who wished for contact
with this world. Then, with the consent of both parties, the demon
and the man were melded into one. The result was irreversible: a
man to all outward appearances, a cruel, demon, fighting machine
within, forever obedient to Decouix command.

The two Kulls looked the room over.
Satisfied, they signaled to others outside. Moments later Valso and
three of his kinsmen entered, surrounded by a dozen Kulls. They
walked to a table that was occupied, one not far from Morgin’s
kinsmen, and stood there waiting. The table’s occupants did not at
first realize what was required of them, but when they did, they
stood quickly and left. The room remained silent.

Once seated Valso nodded, and the captain of
the Kulls announced loudly, “Innkeeper. Drinks for all. The prince
of House Decouix wishes all to enjoy his generosity.”

The barmaid began hurriedly filling mugs,
though the room held to its silence, yielding only to the clatter
of the maid’s activities.

One of Valso’s kinsmen, a fop by all
standards, turned to the prince and spoke just loud enough for all
to hear. “Your Highness, I smell a stench in here.”

JohnEngine’s tankard of ale spilled. A
stifled curse could be heard. Again the room was still.

Another of Valso’s kinsmen spoke, again just
loud enough for all to hear. “You’re right, Degla. There is a
stench here, and I’ve smelled it before.” He sniffed the air
experimentally. “I believe it’s the stench of swine.” Again the
room was still.

None of Morgin’s kinsmen spoke, though all
could see the anger building. The third of Valso’s kinsmen spoke.
“No, GeorgeAll. That’s not the stench of swine. What you’re
smelling is the stench of a swineherd, I believe, though the two
are quite the same.”

JohnEngine swore and started to rise.
MichaelOff quickly put a hand on his shoulder and forced him back
down. “No, cousin,” he said. The silence of the room was heavy now
with fear.

Valso leaned backward so that the two
forelegs of his chair rose from the floor. Preparing to speak, he
took a slow, deep breath, then exhaled loudly. “I do believe you’re
right, Andra. Definitely the smell of a swineherd.”

He paused, nodding his head. Then peering
about the room as if seeking someone, he asked, “I wonder. Are
there any Elhiynes about?”

JohnEngine jumped to his feet and screamed,
“Decouix scum!”

Everyone moved, and Morgin moved with them.
The room filled with the deadly sound of steel escaping sheaths.
Lines were drawn, positions taken. Then all movement ceased, though
Morgin continued to work his way along the shadows that lined the
edge of the room.

JohnEngine stood in the center of the room,
his hand on the dagger at his side. His kinsmen were behind him,
ready to back him. In front of him Valso stood at sword’s length,
also backed by his kinsmen. About them all stood the Kulls.

Morgin’s kinsmen were lightly armed and
outnumbered by the more heavily armed Kulls. If a fight began it
would be a slaughter, for Kulls gave no quarter.

Morgin moved among his shadows, stepping
lightly from one to the next. He had no idea what he could do.
There was no time to make a plan, only to react. Then one of the
Kulls looked his way and he froze into stillness, pressed his back
tightly against the wall, held his breath. The Kull looked
away.

MichaelOff spoke, and as always he was calm.
“Valso. We’ve already walked away from your taunts once this
evening. If you continue you’ll leave us no choice. Please stop
this deadly game, cousin, before there is no return.”

While MichaelOff spoke, Morgin moved again,
using the noise of MichaelOff’s words to mask any noise he might
make. He took a position to the side of JohnEngine and Valso. He
was still against the wall, about three long paces from them, but
with a direct line of sight between two Kulls, their backs toward
him. There were no chairs or tables to block his path, and so he
froze and held his breath, for the room was again silent.

Valso spoke. “You call me cousin?” he asked,
and laughed in the asking of it.

Morgin prepared to move. “Well now,” Valso
said. “I claim no kinship with one whose mother sleeps with
pigs.”

Everyone moved at once; Morgin charged, and
as he did so his magic came upon him without bidding. He surprised
the two Kulls, knocked them aside as he burst between them, felt as
if he were dragging his body at lightning speed through a sea of
honey. In one motion he crossed the distance to JohnEngine and
Valso, drawing his sword and swinging it up in an arc toward
Valso’s throat. His intention was to stop the tip just short of the
skin there, but with his limited skill as a swordsman he overshot.
The tip of his sword barely touched Valso’s neck, and everyone
froze into statues as all motion ceased.

JohnEngine had drawn his short dagger and
was held at bay by Valso’s sword. The tip of Morgin’s sword hovered
just under Valso’s chin, and while Valso’s arm was fully extended,
Morgin’s was cocked and ready to thrust, to drive the blade up
through the neck and into the prince’s brain. If blood were
spilled, none there questioned that Valso would be the first to
die.

Slowly the prince’s face turned red, then
blue. His lower lip began to quiver and his breath came in a
stuttered gasp. Then the fit of rage passed, receding slowly like
the ocean’s tide. Valso glared malevolently at Morgin. His eyes
held a hate that was frightening. And again the room was still.

Morgin waited for someone to move, to say or
do something. But then he realized they were waiting on him. The
next move was his, but there hadn’t been time to think his moves
through, only to act. He forced himself to pause, to think.

No one had yet been killed, or even
seriously wounded. There was a small drop of blood where his sword
had touched Valso’s throat, but that was all, more like the nick of
a razor than that of a sword. Morgin held that in mind as he spoke,
though he was unable to hide the tremble in his voice. “Your
Highness,” he said carefully. “My kinsmen and I wish to
go . . . May we have your leave?”

Valso’s eyes were black, hard stones of
hatred. “You’ll pay for this, Elhiyne. You’ll pay.”

Morgin tried to think of some witty remark,
but none came to mind. “I asked for you leave, Your Highness,” he
said, and for emphasis he touched the flat of his blade to Valso’s
throat, smearing the drop of blood there.