Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (52 page)

Morgin’s sword lifted itself slowly, carried
his hand with it. The blade shimmered and glowed with power; he
could feel it swirling through the air about him. He saw little
motes of it dancing down the length of the blade, trickling between
his fingers, scurrying up his arm. It tickled the hairs in his nose
and made his eyelashes feel alive.

The apparition that wore his face stopped
suddenly just beyond reach. It bowed formally to Mortiss, then
looked at Morgin.

With what little control Morgin had over his
power, he pointed the tip of his sword at the ghostly specter. He
could not hide the tremble in his voice as he followed the path of
his dream and whispered, “Name yourself, demon.”

The apparition stared at Morgin through
cold, dead eyes buried in a stone, dead face. It shrugged, opened
its mouth and said, “I am MorginDeath, my lord, and I have come for
you.”

Morgin now knew the end of his dream. He
finally understood that it was not he in the dream, but a great
king who had allowed Morgin to see the dream through his own eyes.
The king too had watched a terrible battle being waged below, and
like Morgin he had watched the apparition of his own death
approach. The apparition had worn the king’s face, and when the
king had demanded its name it had called itself “AethonDeath,” and
the king had shrugged uncaringly and said, “So be it.” But Morgin
could not be so cavalier. “Be gone,” he screamed. “Leave me. You
cannot have me.”

The ghostly specter shrugged again. “As you
wish, my lord. But I am your destiny.” It glanced over its shoulder
at the carnage in Csairne Glen, then looked back at Morgin. “I will
await you on the battlefield below,” it said, then disappeared
without trace, gone as if it had never been.

Morgin tried desperately to imitate that
long dead king, and whispered, “So be it.”

“What?” Tulellcoe demanded. “What’s
wrong?”

“Did you see it?” Morgin asked.

“See what? I saw nothing. What did you
see?”

“A dream,” Morgin said. “Just a dream. Tell
me, uncle. What is Csairne Glen known for? Why have I heard the
name before?”

Tulellcoe looked at him suspiciously, as he
did so often now. “Legend has it that Csairne Glen was the scene of
the last great battle of the Great Clan Wars. It is said that
Aethon died here, and was then entombed in Attunhigh.”

“Of course,” Morgin said. “It had to
be.”

“Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“My lord,” Wylow called before Morgin could
answer. “We’re ready.”

Morgin turned in his saddle and looked at
the warriors behind him. The shadow warriors waited astride their
shadow horses without nervousness or fear, while the mortal
warriors held themselves apart from the shadowwraiths, and their
nervousness and fear were aggravated by the presence of their
shadow counterparts. It would not do to have them ride
together.

“Lord Eglahan,” Morgin said above the din of
battle. “You and your men take the right flank. Lord Wylow. You
take the left.”

Both men nodded and said nothing. Each
turned without bravado, raised his sword as a signal, spurred his
horse, and, followed by his warriors, rode out to his assigned side
of the glen. Morgin was left with his shadows, and he felt so
alone.

Morgin looked again at the battle in the
center of the glen. There was as yet no response to indicate any
awareness of their presence. The battle raged on without them,
seemingly oblivious to any threat they might offer. Morgin picked
out Illalla’s banner, a target he would aim for. If he and his
shadows could split the Decouix line, then Eglahan and Wylow, each
with their warriors, would charge from both sides and try to split
the halves again. Only the
gods
knew if it would do any
good.

Morgin cast a spell for courage, and one to
banish fear. Then he began to purposefully draw on the power of the
sword. He put a cloak of shadow about Mortiss to protect her,
though since he was starting to glow with an eerie, blood-red
light, he didn’t bother for himself. France! At the last moment he
thought of France.

As if reading his thoughts, the swordsman
said, “I’m right here, lad. Right behind ya. You an’ me eh?”

Morgin turned about in his saddle and found
Tulellcoe, France, Cort, and Abileen waiting with his shadows. And
as if in answer to the question on his face, Cort said, “We ride
with you, my lord.”

Morgin nodded, turned back to the battle,
cast shadows about all four of them and their horses, though they
wouldn’t be aware of it. He held his eyes targeted on Illalla’s
banner and nudged Mortiss forward into a walk, and behind him the
creak and groan of the saddle leather of eight hundred shadow
warriors answered his lead. He held his sword casually, letting it
dangle at the end of his arm.

He touched his spurs to Mortiss’ flanks; she
changed her pace to a trot. There came a second’s delay, then the
tempo of the hooves behind him changed likewise. Behind him the
shadows closed their ranks to form a wedge, the head of a spear
with Morgin at its point.

Another touch of his spurs and Mortiss moved
up to a canter. She tried to break into a run but he held her back.
She was jumpy, skittish. She sensed her master’s mood, and she
smelled blood and death on the air. She wanted to surge forward, to
release her energy in a blinding flash of speed, but it was
imperative that Morgin keep his warriors bunched tightly, not
strung out by an overlong charge. Timing was of the essence.

Mortiss still struggled against him, so he
gave her a little rein and let her break into a gallop. The battle
line in front of him seemed no closer, as if it were more reluctant
than he to meet this fate. But when the time was right, when the
distance was right, he swung his sword out in front of him and dug
his spurs mercilessly into Mortiss’ sides. She exploded, almost
tore Morgin from his saddle, and behind him the war cry of the
shadow warriors was a whisper of death as they fought to keep up
with him. And still he held back the power of the sword that pushed
always at his will like Mortiss pulled at her reins.

Morgin’s sight narrowed to the seething mass
of pain and death and anger that was the rear of the Decouix battle
line, and his hearing lost all sounds but the thunder of Mortiss’
hooves. He braced himself. Then, in that eternity of an instant of
impact, he released the power of the sword fully and they struck
with a deafening roar, eight hundred riders colliding at full
charge with the rear of the Decouix line.

In the first seconds after impact Morgin’s
sword was useless. He could do nothing but charge forward, using
his power to shield himself and Mortiss from injury. Then a Decouix
sword sliced past his face. He deflected it, struck out blindly,
cut off the man’s arm. The air about him was filled with screams of
pain and cries of fear.

He deflected a pike, slammed his sword
against a shield and hacked down at someone’s shoulder. His sword
lengthened magically, taking on the attributes of a full-length
broadsword. He gripped the hilt in both hands and hacked downward
at anything that came within range. He spurred Mortiss on, knowing
that if he stopped, he would die, though the density of the battle
was slowly pulling her to a grinding halt.

Something stung at his arm. He slashed
outward, downward, tried to fight in all directions at once. A Kull
officer on horseback reared in front of him. For a short time his
battle narrowed to that one Kull. Then he saw an opening, smashed
the edge of his blade into the Kull’s rib cage, and the Kull died
then and there. He kicked at the Kull’s riderless horse. It snorted
fearfully and bucked away from him.

Behind the horse a foot soldier leveled his
pike at Morgin. Morgin raised his own sword to strike the man down,
but they both froze suddenly in wonder, for the man was Elhiyne.
“ShadowLord!” he cried excitedly and raised his pike over his
head.

“To me,” Morgin screamed. “To me.” Then he
spun Mortiss about and charged back into the seething mass of men
and horses, and for the first time he felt hope.

He met a Decouix wizard face to face. The
man threw the fires of magic at him, but his own magic was fully
upon him, and the Decouix’s power was as nothing against that of
the sword. He cut the wizard down almost casually and turned to
look for another.

He was surrounded by them, isolated from his
comrades. He fought, for there was nothing left but battle. He
killed, for there was nothing left but death. He used his power and
his sword as if they were one. He was bleeding from small cuts and
wounds in a dozen places, and he was weakening. The past weeks of
fighting, days without food and rest, it was all taking its toll
and he was weakening.

His right leg lit up with fire and Mortiss
screamed and stumbled. The shaft of a long arrow protruded from his
thigh, though little of it was visible for it had gone through his
leg and well into Mortiss’ side. She stumbled again, tried to rear
up but only staggered, stayed valiantly on her feet. A Decouix
pikeman stepped out of the melee and rammed his pike deep into her
chest. She shuddered, then toppled to the left.

Morgin, with his right leg pinned to her
side by the arrow, could not jump clear. She landed on his left leg
and he felt and heard it snap. He screamed. She kicked and jerked,
and her death throws ground his leg between her weight and the
rocky ground.

Morgin felt his leg snap and splinter again
and again, and as the bones grated against one another he almost
lost consciousness. His world narrowed to a universe of pain and
oblivion. The battle became a world of pandemonium in which he
could no longer distinguish friend from foe. But then the confusion
of bodies about him suddenly parted to make way for a Decouix
warrior mounted upon a charging steed. In his arms he clutched a
steel tipped war lance aimed at Morgin’s heart. And in that instant
the apparition MorginDeath coalesced into being. He stood nearby,
watching without expression.

The steel tipped lance approached, and
Morgin was powerless to stop it, though the sword in his hand
jerked spasmodically, as if to make one last try at defending its
master. But it too was spent, able to yield only one, final,
halfhearted effort.

The lance struck, splintered into his chest,
washed his soul in a sea of pain, and in that instant the mists and
confusion of battle cleared, as if in his last moments of life
Morgin finally understood the trial of his power. But then it all
slipped away from him, receding to a distance far beyond measure,
and he heard MorginDeath speak, and his words rang sharp and clear:
“Now we are one, my lord . . . my king. Now we are
one.”

The sun’s rays crept slowly over the mountain
peaks that surrounded Csairne Glen, and morning came possessed of
an eerie calm. Where only the day before the battlefield had been
filled with the screams of hate and death, it was now immersed in a
murky stillness that hung over the carnage like the new morning
mist.

Brandon no longer needed the light of his
torch so he smothered it in the cloak of a dead warrior. In the
light of day he could now see the full extent of the battlefield
and its harvest of death. He marveled at their numbers. In places
they were piled waist high; they looked like toy dolls dropped by
some careless giant of a child, their arms and legs twisted at odd
angles. But their faces shattered that illusion quickly, for if one
looked closely the faces, even in death, revealed the true horror
of the previous day’s violence. And he had looked closely,
throughout the night, searching, forever hoping that the next face
would not be the one he sought.

He came upon a young boy seated irreverently
on the rump of a dead horse. There were many such people: women and
children and old ones seeking sons and fathers and husbands among
the dead, fearing, and yet desiring to know for certain the fate of
a loved one. Most of the wounded had by now been removed, or, if
they were Decouix, dispatched to their final rest, though AnnaRail
had put a stop to that when she heard it was being done.

The young boy asked Brandon, “Who are you
looking for?”

Brandon frowned, and looked at him closely.
He wore the clothing of a nobleman’s son, and yet Brandon
recognized him not at all.

“You look tired,” the young boy said
sympathetically. He patted the horse’s rump next to him. “Sit here
with me and rest.”

Not long ago Brandon would have been
appalled at the thought of using the carcass of a dead animal for a
seat. But the long night of searching among the dead had numbed
him. He dropped down beside the boy and was grateful for a place to
rest.

“I asked who you’re looking for.”

“Oh!” Brandon said, still shaken and
confused. “I’m sorry. It’s all so . . .
overwhelming.”

“It’s just the dead,” the boy said with
wisdom beyond his apparent age. “Nothing more, nothing less. What
do you expect when you put ten thousand men to chopping at each
other? So who are you looking for?”

“My cousin. Morgin was his name.”

“Did you lose lots of kin?”

“Not in this battle,” Brandon said. “No.
Only him. But before that, back in the castle, they killed my
brother and wounded my father, though he died later.” Tears began
to well in Brandon’s eyes so he quickly changed the subject.
“Who’re you looking for?”

The boy spoke sadly. “A king. I’m looking
for a king. He’s out here somewhere. I know it.”

He’s crazy,
thought Brandon, but he
kept his thoughts to himself, for the young boy, like all of them,
was probably just a bit unhinged by the magnitude of the carnage
that lay about them. Brandon stood. “Well I’d better be moving on.
I still have to find my cousin. He’s the only member of the family
we haven’t accounted for yet.”