Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (61 page)

“Yer concentrating too much on me point,
man,” France bellowed between strokes, “and not enough on yer form.
Know where it is, but don’t let it rule yer fight.”

Morgin threw his sword up, caught the back
of France’s blade, then hit the ground in a low charging roll. He
came up beneath the swordsman’s guard and slammed into his stomach
like an enraged bull.

France spit out a sharp “hummph” as he lost
his wind and collapsed on top of Morgin. Morgin tried to press his
advantage by lifting France off his feet, but France’s sword hilt
came out of nowhere and crashed into the side of his head. Morgin’s
world suddenly lost its stability and they both collapsed into the
dirt.

He staggered quickly to his feet knowing
France would recover almost instantly. He coiled to spring at the
swordsman again and continue the attack, but he faced only empty
ground. He spun about to look behind for the quick and wily
swordsman, but France was not there either. He spun full circle,
ready for the attack to come from any direction, but France was
nowhere to be found. He had quite plain and simply vanished, and
for that matter so had everyone else.

Morgin stopped, scratched his head, came to
the slow realization that he now stood alone in an empty practice
yard. The yard, the castle, the smithy, the stables, all were
deserted. The place felt empty and dead.

The first faint notes of a pipist’s tune
settled upon the air and sent a shiver crawling down Morgin’s
spine. He turned slowly toward the sound to face the pipist, and of
course he found Metadan, dark, handsome, intent upon his playing,
leaning casually against a wooden pillar in the shade of the long
shadowed porch.

Morgin demanded angrily, “What are you doing
here?”

Metadan started and stopped playing. He
looked about for a moment with a worried frown, then nodded
knowingly, looked at Morgin and bowed.

“I asked you what you’re doing here.”

Metadan smiled pleasantly. “It is I who
should ask you what you are doing here.”

“Don’t speak riddles to me.”

“There is no riddle in this, oh King of
Dreams,” Metadan said, then frowned, clearly no longer so
self-assured. “You have come, have you not, to take your
throne?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are
you going to try to kill me again?”

Metadan shook his head. “I guess not,” he
said unhappily, then began to melt into the stone and wood of the
porch.

To Morgin the castle itself seemed unreal,
as if it was part of some strange, indistinct, and poorly defined
dream.

“Wake up, lad. Wake up.”

Someone slapped his face, not hard, but
enough to sting a little. Then they slapped him again, and again,
and again . . .

“Leave me alone,” he growled.

Someone rolled him onto his back and started
shaking him. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, lad. How’s yer
head?”

Morgin opened his eyes. France and several
of his kinsmen leaned over him, all looking mildly concerned.
“You’ve been out fer some time, lad.”

Morgin sat up, but went no further as his
head began to swim. “Take it easy there, lad.”

“Help me up,” he demanded.

France and one of the others helped him to
his feet. He staggered to the porch and sat down in the shade
there. The crowd of onlookers dispersed and France sat down beside
him.

“Where’s Metadan?” Morgin asked angrily.

“Who?”

“Metadan.”

“Don’t know no Metadan.”

“The archangel,” Morgin spit angrily.

France shook his head. “Ain’t no archangels
here, lad.”

“But he was here. I saw him.”

“Like you seen them
gods
in the Hall
of Wills that day, eh? No one saw them neither.”

France threw an arm over the back of
Morgin’s shoulders. “Listen, me boy. I hit ya perty hard. I didn’t
mean to, but you know how it is when the blood’s up. You went down
and out, like a candle in the wind. I ain’t surprised you saw all
sorts of things.”

“Is that all it was?” Morgin asked. “Another
dream. Seems like my whole life is one giant hallucination. I
sometimes wonder if any of it was real.”

“Aye, lad. It was real. Too real
sometimes.”

“But nothing’s changed.”

“Well, you’re a great Warmaster now.” France
made no effort to hide the fact that such titles did not impress
him.

Morgin sneered. “Warmaster bah! That’s only
when grandmother wants to impress someone. I so tire of her
games.”

“Tell her that.”

“I’ve tried. But when I do she ignores
me.”

“How are things going with the little
lady?”

Morgin thought of Rhianne, and suddenly none
of Olivia’s scheming mattered. He shook his head sadly. “I made a
mistake, friend. A horrible mistake, and I can only hope that, with
time, she’ll forgive me.”

France said nothing and was oddly silent, so
Morgin turned to look at him and found that he had again vanished.
Morgin looked about the castle yard, and again it was deserted.
“Damn!” he swore. “These dreams are getting ridiculous.”

He waited for Metadan to appear again, but
that didn’t happen and he remained alone. Eventually he grew bored.
“Well,” he said. “At least I have power in my dreams.” He held out
his hand, and the red fire of Elhiyne magic danced among his
fingertips, something he could do only in his dreams.

Yes. That confirmed it. He was dreaming. But
he was in no mood for dream walking now, though, since there was
nothing he could do about it, he resolved to sit patiently and wait
for this dream to end.

The End

Here ends
Child of the Sword
, the
first book of
The Gods Within
, in which Morgin has learned
the limits of his power. In the second book,
The Steel Master of
Indwallin
, Morgin learns the limits he must face in the
past.

Don’t miss the second book in
The Gods
Within
.

For a taste of what’s coming next, read
on:

Book 2 of
The Gods
Within

by

Copyright © 2012 by J. L. Doty

www.jldoty.com

[email protected]

@JL_Doty

Can one ever rule both the steel within, and
the shadows without?

Beware the power of the self-forged
blade,

for the heart of the steel is ice,

the soul of the steel is fire,

and the child of the steel is blood.

Only the master knows the steel as the steel
was meant to be known.

Only the master shapes the steel as the
steel was meant to be shaped.

Only the master rules the steel as the steel
was meant to be ruled.

But always the steel rules the master, for
the steel was ever meant to rule.

The strength of the steel is the master,

the power of the steel is the master,

the glory of the steel is the master,

but always the death of the master is the
steel.

Beware the power of the self-forged
blade.

Morgin looked at his reflection in the mirror
and nodded with satisfaction. It had taken some doing, and of
course careful planning, but he’d managed to alter the outfit
Olivia had chosen for him into something more to his liking. He’d
cut away the white lace at the cuffs, replaced the bright, red vest
with a soft brown leather one, then discarded the skin tight red
pants in favor of a pair of well-cut and well-made loose fitting
tan breeches. He’d kept the knee high black boots—they were
comfortable and extremely well made—and as a concession to Olivia
he’d decided not to discard the bright red coat she’d chosen. He
completely ignored the pretty little blade that she wanted him to
wear, and instead buckled on his own sword. As another concession
he’d polished and cleaned both it and its sheath, though try as he
might the old steel refused to shine.

He looked at himself again in the mirror,
and decided that while he was not up on the latest fashions, he was
at least dressed well, and in good taste. Avis would be a little
upset at his modifications, and Olivia would be downright furious,
but she wouldn’t know about it until they stood face-to-face in
public, and then it would be too late for her to demand a
change.

At a discrete knock on the door Morgin
called out, “Enter.”

The door swung open and Avis stepped into
the room. He looked at the changes Morgin had made to his clothing
and raised an eyebrow, but he said only, “I am to inform you that
the banquet will begin shortly, and that the Lady Olivia would like
you to be there early so you may greet the other clan lords as they
arrive.”

Morgin nodded. He understood that the title
of warmaster carried with it certain responsibilities, and he had
learned to accept them, if only Olivia would accept him. “Would you
tell the Lady Rhianne that I’ll stop by her apartments shortly to
escort her downstairs?”

Avis’ eyebrows shot up happily. “Yes, my
lord. Will that be all?”

“Yes,” Morgin said, “And thank you.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Avis bowed and left
the room.

Morgin hesitated for a few minutes to give
Avis a good head start, then followed. He wasn’t sure how he’d
handle the situation with Rhianne. She still spurned him, was still
angry that he’d believed she’d betrayed him, and the foul names
he’d called her certainly didn’t help matters. They were both
trying to start over, but the best they could do was a strictly
civil and polite peace, and always there was a wall of formality
between them that they couldn’t overcome.

He tapped lightly on the door to her
apartments. A wide-eyed young girl answered and quickly admitted
him to a waiting room, then she nervously offered him some wine. He
declined politely and added, “Tell my wife I’m here.”

“Yes, my lord,” the girl said breathlessly,
curtsied, then disappeared into another room.

Morgin could see he had thrown Rhianne’s
staff into an uproar. He heard muffled voices in her boudoir, then
suddenly Rhianne entered the room alone, though Morgin was left
with the faint impression that her servants had hovered nervously
over her up to the last instant before she came into his sight,
making last moment adjustments in her gown and makeup, and then had
peeled away from her to avoid creating just that impression. She
paused, composed herself, and when she spoke her tone was cold and
indifferent. “My lord, it is gracious of you to come.”

Morgin almost melted. As he looked at her a
small lock of hair broke loose from the elaborate tangle atop her
head and floated down over one eye. He’d seen the same lock of hair
floating over the same eye a hundred times, and he wondered
sometimes if it weren’t a subconscious manifestation of her magic.
He smiled. “I thought it would be . . . proper.”

He winced. That was a poor choice of words,
though it didn’t seem to bother her.

She nodded. “Yes. A husband and wife should
be seen together, especially at times such as this.”

Morgin winced again. He turned toward the
door, opened it, held it there. She took his arm and they walked
out into the hall, then down the long procession of stone steps.
They walked in silence, and Morgin could sense that, like he, she
wanted to say something, but could think of nothing that wouldn’t
sound forced, or trite, so instead he took those few moments to
prepare himself for Olivia.

The old woman had spent a busy winter
trading messengers with all of the Lesser Clans, carefully
negotiating the conditions of the yearly meeting of the Council.
Using Morgin’s newfound notoriety and his victory at Csairne Glen,
she’d arranged to have the Council meet at Elhiyne this year. And
so, with the arrival of spring some weeks earlier, the walls of
Elhiyne had quickly filled with the high born of the four Lesser
Clans.

On the surface nothing had happened during
the first two weeks, mostly a lot of entertainment, and of course
they all went hunting quite frequently, most often in small groups,
though sometimes in large expeditions. But it was on these hunting
trips, or in small rooms in the back of the village inn, or perhaps
on a pleasant stroll through the forest, that clan leaders
conducted most of the serious business, though hunting did seem to
be the preferred method of getting someone alone for a quiet
chat.

But three days ago that stage of the
negotiations had ended when the more formal and public meetings in
the Hall of Wills had begun, though Morgin came away from the
preliminary negotiations with the impression that Olivia was not
pleased with the results. She wanted the other clans to back
Elhiyne in a bid to crush the Greater Council, but Penda and Tosk
and Inetka were all skeptical of her chances at victory. Tomorrow
they would meet for the last time in the Hall, and there seemed
little doubt that Olivia had failed to achieve her desires, though
it was apparent to all she blamed Morgin for that failure.

The old woman had had the Hall arrayed in
splendor for this night’s banquet. The servants had spent days
cleaning everything they could find to clean, and at Olivia’s
orders had positioned a grouping of long tables in the shape of a
horseshoe at the center of the Hall. When Morgin and Rhianne
entered the Hall, Olivia, in the midst of giving some poor servant
a tongue lashing, interrupted her tirade to bark at Morgin, “In
another moment you would have been late.”