Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (58 page)

He looked at Abileen carefully, tried to
keep the tremble out of his voice as he spoke. “The horse I was
riding at Csairne Glen; where is she?”

Abileen frowned. “Why she’s dead, my lord.
In fact she died beneath you.”

“Did you bury her?”

“We must have, my lord, though we buried
many horses that day, in a common grave. Did you favor the animal?
Had we known we would have buried her separately.”

Morgin shook his head and looked at Mortiss.
She snorted and looked back at him as if to tell him he was a
complete fool for not realizing she would be here, even if that
meant returning from the grave.

“Is this mount not to your liking, my lord.
We can find another.”

Morgin shook his head. “No. That won’t be
necessary.” He took the reins from Abileen, grasped Mortiss’ saddle
horn. He still limped a bit, and had to bat a few retainers away
when they tried to help him mount. But he carefully and painfully
climbed into the saddle. Roland, JohnEngine, Val, Cort, Tulellcoe,
and Eglahan mounted up and clustered about him, for they would ride
beside him. Abileen’s soldiers mounted up in a single motion, and
with a shout and a cry they rode from the castle along a road lined
with cheering people.

France was nowhere to be seen, and Morgin
wondered where he’d gone. He asked those about him, but none there
had seen the swordsman that day. But as they trotted down the road,
well past the last of the cheering crowds, they came upon him
waiting patiently by the side of the road. As they approached, he
mounted his horse and brought it up to a pace that matched theirs,
merging with them without a single missed step. He rode beside
Morgin without comment, without expression.

~~~

Morgin awoke to the sound of pipes. It was an
eerie, faint sound, far in the distance, originating deep within
the forest that surrounded the Elhiyne camp. The pipist was good,
for the notes he blew told of years of practice. They spoke of the
kind of familiarity with his instrument that came only after a
lifetime of play. But the tune he chose was a sad one, almost a
dirge, and it spoke of sorrow, of unhappiness and regret.

Morgin looked up at the inside of his
pavilion. He rolled groggily out of bed, pulled on a pair of plain,
brown, loose fitting breeches, the kind he preferred. He threw on a
white blouse and a leather doublet, then fought his way into his
boots. The morning air in the mountains was always cold so he threw
a cloak about his shoulders, then peered carefully out through the
flap that separated his sleeping chamber from the rest of the tent.
No one else was about, which was typical for one of his dreams.

He tiptoed quietly through the antechamber.
The guards outside leaned drowsily on their lances. Morgin tiptoed
past them and was quickly gone.

Only a thin sliver of sun had yet appeared
over the mountain tops that surrounded Csairne Glen. The grass
beneath his feet was green and wet with dew, the air about him cold
and crisp, with a gray mist that hung close to the ground and made
the sunbeams visible, but so faint that only the most distant
objects were blurred by the haze. One would never know that this
peaceful, grassy glen had recently been the scene of so much death.
But the pipist knew; it was in his song.

The sentries at the edge of the camp seemed
oddly inattentive—again he reminded himself that this was a dream.
Morgin walked right past them without being noticed, and always he
followed the sound of the pipes. It led him into the forest at the
edge of the glen, where he found it easy to travel, even limping,
for this high in Sa’umbra the undergrowth was thin. He soon put the
glen behind him, and the notes of the pipes became louder with each
step he took. Then suddenly he came upon a small clearing and
stopped near its edge, having learned long since the dangers of
incautiously exposing himself.

In the center of the clearing he saw a large
boulder, and upon it sat the pipist, dressed all in black, playing
his sad tune. Morgin immediately recognized the dark angel of his
dreams, though this had not the feeling of a dream. He hung back,
hiding just within the wall of trees that marked the edge of the
clearing, and he listened to the pipist’s song. The dark angel’s
tune was beautiful, and so sad. Morgin felt a tear sting his
cheek.

The angel’s tune ended slowly, as if it
drifted away with the morning mist. He lowered the pipes from his
lips and looked at them wistfully. “Ahhh!” he said. “If only I
could spend eternity piping such notes.” Then he blinked his eyes
and the pipes vanished. He stood, jumped down from the boulder, and
turned to look directly at Morgin’s hiding place. “But you don’t
have eternity, do you, mortal? Tell me. Did you enjoy my tune?”

Morgin thought first of running, but the
angel could catch him easily so he stood openly and stepped into
the clearing, conscious that the dark angel was unarmed.

“I am not here to harm you,” the angel
said.

Morgin wasn’t ready to believe that. “Twice
you have come to kill me, once in my dreams and then two days ago
in Inetka. Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Once,” the angel said. “Only once did I
come to kill you. At our second meeting I came unarmed, and made no
attempt on your life.”

“True enough,” Morgin admitted. “But we’re
arguing about details. The question remains unchanged, and you have
not answered it.”

“And you have not answered my question,
ShadowLord. Did you enjoy my playing?”

Somehow Morgin sensed that the angel placed
great store in the answer to that question. “It was beautiful, and
very sad. Did you use it to enspell me?”

The angel shook his head. “No. You were
drawn to it naturally, as I knew you would be. But I did use it to
enspell those about you so they could not interfere.”

Morgin nodded. “Very well. I enjoyed your
music. Now you must answer my question. Why should I believe
you?”

The angel shrugged. “I can give no reason
why you should. True enough, I once tried to take your life. And
true enough, I was sent to Inetka to kill you, as I was sent here
to kill you. But I did not, and I will not.”

“Who sent you?” Morgin asked. “And why do
you disobey?”

The angel shrugged again. “That I cannot
say.”

“Cannot?” Morgin asked. “Or will not?”

The angel smiled pleasantly. “Does it
matter? Does one truly care about such details when one is
dreaming?”

Morgin shook his head. “This is no dream.
This is reality.”

The angel smiled again. “My reality. Your
dream.”

“You’re playing games with me,” Morgin
said.

“No, my lord,” the angel said. “I seek to
play no games, merely to deliver a message.”

“And you will not tell me who your master
is?”

The angel shrugged. “As I said, does it
really matter?”

Before either of them could speak further
there came a sudden thrashing in the trees as if a large animal
charged headlong through the undergrowth. But it was Ellowyn that
came bursting into the clearing, with her broadsword gripped in
both hands. She halted abruptly and pointed her sword at the dark
angel. “My lord,” she said to Morgin. “Do not trust this deceitful
traitor.”

The dark angel held out his empty hands.
“Ellowyn,” he said calmly. “I am unarmed. I have come in
peace.”

“You lie,” she screamed, then she stepped
protectively between Morgin and the dark angel. Her sword hissed
once through the air only inches from his nose.

He back-stepped and halted, and stood
straight and proud. “I have come only to deliver a message. Let me
speak it and I will go in peace.”

“Speak nothing here,” Ellowyn snarled. “Your
tongue curls about false words like a snake about its prey. And it
is long past time it was silenced once and for all.”

Her words stung the dark angel visibly, as
if her hatred inflicted a far more painful wound than that of any
sword. “I do not want to fight you, Ellowyn,” he said. “But if you
will not let me speak, then I must.”

He raised one hand and held it stiffly
outward, and in an instant a broadsword appeared there. It was the
sword Morgin had seen in his dream, with the blade that forever
dripped fresh blood.

Ellowyn and the dark angel began their
battle by circling one another slowly, both holding their swords
high in a two handed grip. At first it seemed they would do no more
than circle, then, without warning, Ellowyn attacked with a
swiftness Morgin could not follow. Their swords rang together again
and again, then they separated and began circling once more.

Ellowyn fought hot and angry, the dark angel
cold and confident. She attacked again, and again the dark angel
repelled her, but this time Morgin saw how easily he did so, and he
realized that it was the dark angel who was in command of this
battle, not poor Ellowyn. The dark angel smiled a pained and
unhappy smile. “I was always able to best you with a sword, my
Ellowyn.”

Now the dark angel attacked, though not with
Ellowyn’s swiftness, but with a deliberate determination that bode
ill for her chances of victory. He brought the bloody sword around
and down, raining blow after blow upon Ellowyn’s faltering
defenses. She retreated slowly across the clearing, wholly on the
defensive now, her eyes desperately seeking an opening or mistake
that the dark angel might yield.

The mistake came, but it was hers. While
backing away from him she stumbled on something, faltered, and as
she tried to regain her footing the dark angel stepped within her
guard and brushed her sword aside. But instead of cutting her down,
he slammed a mailed fist into the side of her head, and she slumped
to the ground in a stupor.

The dark angel stood over her for a moment,
breathing heavily and watching her closely, his expression hard and
angry. But when she did not move he frowned. He reached down and
touched her cheek, then he sighed and his shoulders relaxed; his
expression changed to relief, then slowly to sorrow. He dropped to
one knee beside her. The lines of sorrow on his face deepened. He
caressed her cheek softly, with a tenderness Morgin would not have
believed had he not seen it himself. “Oh my Ellowyn!” the dark
angel said to her as she lay unconscious at his feet, and a tear
ran down his cheek. “My dear Ellowyn. I have loved you since before
time began, and I will love you long after it ends. I was such a
proud and stupid fool. Can you never forgive me? Must I endure your
hatred through eternity?” Then the dark angel closed his eyes and
wept openly.

Morgin was touched by pity, but fear warned
him to move cautiously. He edged his way carefully toward the
sobbing angel, conscious of the fact that he was unarmed. He
stopped well out of reach of the dark angel’s bloody sword, and
asked softly, “Is she dead?”

The dark angel started, looked up. The anger
returned to his face. “You!” he snarled at Morgin. He stood
suddenly upright and swept the bloody sword toward him. Morgin
back-stepped, stumbled on something and landed on his butt. The
dark angel lowered his sword and held the tip the width of a small
finger from Morgin’s nose. Blood dripped from the blade onto
Morgin’s chest, and the angel shook with anger.

“Are you going to kill me?” Morgin
asked.

The dark angel seemed barely able to control
his wrath. “I said I would not.”

“Who are you?” Morgin asked.

The angel looked at him narrowly. “I am
Metadan. I am the Fallen Angel. I serve the dark
god
who
sits upon the throne of power in the ninth hell of the netherworld,
and I have a message for you, mortal.”

“For me?” Morgin asked. “Why would the dark
god
have a message for me?”

“Do not presume to know the source of the
message, fool.” Metadan touched the tip of the bloody sword to
Morgin’s chest. “It is the Unnamed King whom you should seek, and
his consort the
god
-queen Erithnae. But in your stupidity
you will seek the
god
-sword, and you will fail. And finally,
in the city of glass, beneath the fires of the eternal sun, you
will ask three questions, and you will gain three answers, and in
them you will know yourself far more than any mortal should.”

Morgin frowned. “What does all that
mean?”

Metadan looked at him as if he were a
foolish child. “That is a question you should ask of the Unnamed
King.” And then, without another word, he stepped back, touched the
bloody sword to his lips, and bowed deeply. And in the instant that
he stood upright again he became a column of still smoke in the
shape of a man. The smoke held its shape for a moment, then
dissipated slowly into the forest air, and once more Morgin smelled
the scent that Ellowyn had called brimstone.

He climbed to his feet, looked down at his
chest and examined it carefully. There was no sign of the blood
that had dripped there from Metadan’s sword. For an instant he
questioned his own sanity, but Ellowyn’s temple still bore the
bruise from his mailed fist.

He sat down by Ellowyn; she remained still
and unconscious. Her breathing and pulse were normal, so he lifted
her head and shoulders and laid them in his lap so she might rest
comfortably. And as he waited in silence for her to regain
consciousness, he heard far off in the forest, so faint that it was
almost not there, the sound of beautifully sad pipes.

Ellowyn’s eyes blinked open. She looked at
Morgin, confused and disoriented for a moment, but then her eyes
filled with recognition and she smiled.

“Who is Metadan?” Morgin asked.

Her smile vanished. “Please do not speak
that name to me, my lord.”

“He loves you very much,” Morgin said. “It
hurt him to hurt you.”

Ellowyn began to weep, soft, silent tears.
Morgin put his arms about her and tried to comfort her. “Tell me
about him,” he said. “I must know.”