The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (18 page)

They separated, staggered away from one another, the sun
now well past its zenith. They’d fought through the morning and
into the afternoon, and Morgin realized Jerst bled from as many wounds as he. They’d
knocked each other to the ground several times, and rolled about chest to chest
a couple of times. The warmaster’s face and arms were covered with
sweat and blood and dirt, and when Morgin looked at his own arms he realized he
was in no better shape.

They both stood there for a long moment about ten paces
apart, swaying unsteadily from side-to-side, too weary to lift their swords,
the tips resting in the dirt in front of them. “I won’t
kill you,” Morgin said.

Jerst lifted his arm and used his sleeve to wipe blood
encrusted dirt from his eyes. “Won’t . . .
or can’t?”

Morgin shrugged. “A bit . . . of
both.”

“Why?” Jerst asked, clearly
perplexed.

Morgin sensed the weariness in Jerst’s steel,
sensed the weariness in his own steel. An eerie pall hung over the tribe as
they looked on in mute silence, no longer cheering, no longer shouting for
blood. “The steel doesn’t want me to. And your steel
won’t let you kill me.”

Jerst nodded as if he understood. “But we’ve
fought this way for centuries. We can’t leave the circle of stones
until one of us is dead.”

At that moment Morgin understood more than fatigue held
Jerst back. It was not just the exhaustion of his body and his steel, but the
weariness of his heart. He wanted Morgin’s death no more than
Morgin wanted his, so Morgin said, “Perhaps it’s time
to change.”

Jerst shook his head. “I don’t
know how,” he said, then staggered forward, raising his blade in a
clumsy, overcommitted strike. Morgin had had enough, and to the warmaster’s
steel he said, “No.”

Jerst staggered, struggled to hold his blade up, trembling
with bunched muscles as if its weight had grown unbearable. Slowly, the weight
of the blade grew, forcing him to lower it to the ground; fighting against it
Jerst stumbled over his own feet, and fell to the dirt in front of Morgin. On
his hands and knees, Jerst looked up, and instinctively Morgin raised his sword
for a death stroke.

Don’t kill Jerst
tomorrow,
Chagarin had said.

Morgin hesitated, and in that instant Jerst saw his
opportunity, he rolled forward and threw his weight against Morgin’s
ankles. Morgin went down on top of Jerst, and in a tangle of arms and legs they
rolled over several times. Jerst came out on top, reared up and slammed a fist
into Morgin’s eye. The world spun, and before Morgin could act,
Jerst had regained his feet and stood over him with his sword raised. But just
as Morgin was about to command the steel again, the warmaster hesitated, a
frown of indecision on his face.

The moment drew out, the crowd deathly still, and then a
single male voice crowed with laughter. Toke stood on the edge of the circle
next to Angerah, laughing hysterically, tears streaming down his cheeks, the
demon
namegiver
hovering at his shoulder. Jerst
lowered his blade and looked about uncertainly, frowning, glancing from right to
left as if Toke and ElkenSkul were hidden in one of Morgin’s
shadows.

“Have you . . . found your . . .
name yet?” Toke shouted, having trouble spitting the words out in
the midst of his own laughter. “Or do you . . . still
claim . . . a false name?”

Toke’s riddles only served to inflame Morgin’s
anger. Ignoring Jerst, he lurched to his feet, crossed the short distance
between them staggering like a drunk. He stopped at the edge of the circle only
a hands-breadth from Toke, and shouted in his face, “Enough!”
He leaned forward, careful not to cross the line of stones that marked the
limit of the circle, and in Toke’s eyes he saw only laughter and
derision. “Why do you torment me with your riddles, old man?”

Toke’s laughter died, and in the stillness that
ensued Morgin noticed several whitefaces glancing back and forth between him
and Toke, as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. While Angerah
and Merella both smiled and nodded knowingly, as if privy to some dark secret. “You
see all . . .” Toke said, “. . . and
yet you see nothing.”

Morgin heard Jerst’s footsteps behind him, so
he spun to face the warmaster. But Jerst paused just outside the reach of his
blade. He lifted the sword and looked at it for a moment, then tossed it to the
ground. He walked up to the edge of the circle and, like the other whitefaces,
his gaze shifted back and forth between Morgin and Toke. Then his eyes settled
on Morgin and he asked, “You see Toke?”

Morgin shouted, “Of course I see him.”
He pointed at the old man. “He’s standing right
there. I see him as easily as you.”

Jerst shook his head, a look of wonder and awe on his
face. “But I don’t see him. No one has ever seen him
. . . not until you. He is invisible to us all, was born that way,
and has lived his life that way.”

Harriok stepped out of the crowd, reached out like a blind
man searching with his hands in a dark room. One hand touched Toke’s
shoulder, the other his cheek, and Harriok said, “He is here.”
He looked at Morgin. “It was said that you would see all, and yet
see nothing.”

A single voice cried out, “Nooooo!”

Blesset, on the far side of the circle, ran around it
staying just outside the perimeter of stones. She stopped at the closest point
to them, leaned forward and said, “No. It’s time to
kill him. So let’s be done with it”

Jerst shook his head and said, “No, it is
time for us to change.”

“Kill him,” Blesset demanded. “Kill
him, damn you. Where is your honor?”

Jerst looked at her carefully as if seeing something other
than his daughter. “I don’t know where my honor lies,
but it’s certainly not here with his death.”

Blesset staggered backward as if slapped; her eyes
narrowed into hard, angry slits, staring at Jerst as if accusing him of
betraying her. She turned her head slowly, looking for someone to support her,
someone to agree that Jerst should execute Morgin. And in response the entire
tribe seemed to sigh and lean back, as if distancing themselves from her. She
saw it and her eyes hardened even further. Then she reached for the sword at
her side and spoke in a cold, hard whisper, “Well if you’ll
not do it then I will.”

In a single motion she drew the blade, stepped into the
circle of stones and raised her sword. Shebasha materialized in front of her,
sprang into the air and hit her in the chest. Blesset and the demon sand-cat
tumbled in a sprawl of arms and legs and paws. Then both jumped to their feet,
facing each other, and Shebasha let out a scream that resonated in Morgin’s
soul.

Harriok shouted, “Blesset, he killed the
demon cat. Don’t you understand? He killed it and that is why I
live. And before that he righted the first four wrongs.”

Shebasha licked one paw and calmly said to Blesset, “We
have invaded the circle, for which the penalty is death. But I am already dead,
so that leaves only you.”

Morgin had forgotten about the archers, but the steel
warheads on their arrows warned him, dozens of them knowing they were now
destined to pierce Blesset’s heart. Standing only two paces from
Morgin, she looked down at her feet, and only then realized what she’d
done.

As the archer’s raised their bows Morgin
heard the whisper of the steel, telling him that this must not end in mortal
bloodshed, and only he could save Blesset. And now, as if the steel controlled
him, he screamed, “No,” and lunged for her. He heard
the twang of a dozen bowstrings as he stepped in and wrapped his arms around
her, closed his eyes and waited to feel the steel pierce his own heart. And he
waited. And nothing happened.

He opened his eyes, looked into Blesset’s
face. Her eyes were focused over his shoulder, awe and wonder on her face. Still
holding her, he turned his head slowly and found a dozen arrows hovering in the
air only a hand’s breadth from the two of them, steel warheads
aimed at their hearts.

Morgin said to the steel, “Please, no.”

The warheads glowed a little, a faint orange shimmer that
grew slowly to a bright, cherry red. The wooden arrow shafts emitted trails of
smoke, then flared into white-hot flame, and moments later ash and molten steel
dropped to the ground.

Blesset tore herself out of Morgin’s arms. She
stepped away from him and pleaded, “It can’t be. It’s
not possible. He’s a plainface. How can he free us of our debt to
the Shahotma?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “How
can a plainface free us of our sin of betrayal?”

Morgin shook his head. “You have no debt to
the Shahotma. History has it wrong. It was not the Benesh’ere who
betrayed him. It was an archangel, and the Benesh’ere were the
last to remain loyal to the Shahotma. Even unto the end.”

She whispered, “No. Impossible. How can you
know this?”

Morgin looked slowly from Blesset to Jerst, and then to
Harriok and Chagarin standing just outside the circle. “Because I
was there. Because Aethon died in my arms, and I laid him to rest in Attunhigh.”

Chagarin nodded, as if Morgin had just answered a question
he’d long wondered at.

Angerah called out to Chagarin, “Help me, old
friend.”

Chagarin crossed the distance between them, and helped the
old man stand. Then, with Angerah leaning on him heavily, they stepped across
the line of rocks and into the circle. Angerah said, “I do believe
you bring great change upon us.” Then carefully, with Chagarin
helping him, he dropped to one knee in front of Morgin, bowed his head and
said, “SteelMaster, command me.”

Chapter 14: The Obsidian Blade

JohnEngine wondered if the small stream had a name. Perhaps
the local peasantry called it by some term or designation other than “the
stream.” It certainly wasn’t big enough to be called
a river, but its small size masked it true importance. It was one of the many
features that defined the traditional border between Elhiyne and Penda lands.

JohnEngine and Brandon had decided all border patrols
should be headed by someone they could trust to keep a clear and calm head. They
only had a few lieutenants who fit that requirement, so that meant JohnEngine
must share their duties and spend a lot more time in the saddle these days. He
and Brandon had been relieved to learn DaNoel shared their disdain for Olivia
and BlakeDown’s provocations. It gave them one more soul they
might trust to share these duties. And Brandon had a new wife to worry about, a
rather pretty blond. JohnEngine hoped that when it came his turn, Olivia and
AnnaRail would find him someone as attractive.

“Lord JohnEngine,” one of the
scouts said, standing up in his stirrups and pointing across the stream.

JohnEngine didn’t need to stand up in his
stirrups. Across the stream and several hundred paces distant, a cloud of dust
rose from a Penda border patrol riding their way. They rode at an easy canter,
not at a full gallop or charge, so their approach did not alarm JohnEngine. He
and his men had been riding about a hundred paces from the stream and parallel
to it, so they halted, and he had them wait there. The Pendas likewise stopped
about a hundred paces from the stream, and with no apparent hostility in the
air, JohnEngine said, “Wait here.” Then he nudged his
horse forward. The Penda lieutenant did the same.

As they approached JohnEngine was pleased to see that he
was dealing with Perrinsall. They both stopped a few paces from the stream and
on opposite sides, an old formula that worked to keep the borders safe, and
peaceful. JohnEngine said, “Good day to you, Lord Perrinsall.”

The Penda nodded and said, “And good day to
you, Lord JohnEngine.”

ErrinCastle had been good to his word, had made sure a
calm head was in charge of the Penda patrol.

They compared notes on border activity, confirmed that
neither clan had experienced any real cross-border banditry. Perrinsall was
hunting one highwayman who’d proven to be a nuisance to a few of
the local merchants, but the fellow hadn’t attempted to perpetrate
his crimes on the lands of one clan, then escape across the border onto those
of another. If he had, JohnEngine would work closely with Perrinsall to ferret
the fellow out, and see him hung from a gibbet.

JohnEngine finished by saying, “Perhaps some
time you’ll allow me to buy you a pint.”

Perrinsall said, “Gladly. I look forward to
it.”

They parted and returned to their men.

~~~

Carsaris walked carefully down the corridor, his every
sense focused on the Kull captain behind him. He heard the creak of the halfman’s
leather armor, the thump of his boots on the stone floor, the occasional clink
of a piece of metal harness, but nothing more. The halfman moved with an eerie
silence that sent a shiver up Carsaris’ spine. No man felt at ease
with Salula at his back, and Carsaris had now worked closely with the captain
long enough to know the halfman cultivated such fear, actually enjoyed it.

When the two Kulls standing guard at the entrance to Valso’s
apartments saw them approaching they perked up. And when they realized Salula
accompanied Carsaris, one of them actually smiled, a strange sort of sharp
grin, with no joy or happiness in it, merely hunger and anticipation. Carsaris
always found it unnerving to see a Kull smile, and he hoped never to see it
again.

Carsaris was expected, so they opened one of the double
doors without preamble. He paused, stepped aside, and with a wave of his hand
indicated Salula should precede him, saying, “After you, Captain.”

Doing so was merely an excuse to no longer have Salula at
his back, but the Kull captain recognized it for what it was, and he smiled
knowingly. And where the common Kull soldier’s smile had truly seemed
evil incarnate, Salula’s grin hinted at depravity far beyond
anything imaginable.

“No, Lord Carsaris,” Salula
said, his voice a low growl with none of the light and pleasant tones that had
once come from the swordsman France’s throat. “After
you.”

Carsaris capitulated and stepped through the door. He
heard Salula fall into step behind him, knew he heard Salula only because the
halfman wanted him to.

Valso awaited them in a comfortable sitting room, seated
casually on a chair and dining on his morning repast, with the little demon
snake curled about a nearby perch and preening itself like a cat. Carsaris
approached him, bowed deeply and stepped aside. Salula stepped up to Valso,
dropped to one knee and lowered his head. “My king.”

Valso carefully finished chewing on something, then
delicately dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin. He turned his head slowly
and looked at the kneeling halfman for a long moment, then he looked up and met
Carsaris’ eyes. “Is he ready?”

“Almost, Your Majesty.”

Valso’s eyes narrowed angrily, the snake
hissed and a lump formed in the pit of Carsaris’ stomach. “Outwardly
the swordsman is fully subdued, but apparently there is yet some inward
turmoil. I think Captain Salula might explain better than I.”

Both the head of the snake and that of Valso turned slowly
to look upon the Kull, and they stared at him for several heartbeats, their
stillness eerie in its similarity. Valso finally said, “Rise,
Captain.”

Salula rose and stood silently looking upon the king. Impatiently,
Valso said, “Speak.”

The rumble of Salula’s voice sounded like
rolling thunder in the distance. “This France fellow is stronger
than any of us would have thought, and inwardly, like a poorly trained dog, he
still pulls at his leash, which could prove to be a lethal distraction at an
inopportune moment. But such incidents grow less frequent with each day, and
like any dog, he will be properly trained.”

Valso demanded, “How long?”

“Not long, Your Majesty. A few more days,
four or five at the most. After that, nothing will remain of him but a memory.”

Valso stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “I
had hoped for sooner, but . . . that will have to do.”

He walked slowly around Salula, examining him from every
angle, then stopped in front of him, facing him. He looked into the halfman’s
eyes, and Carsaris saw none of the unease a normal man would feel looking into
such a face. Then he looked down at Salula’s leather armor and
said, “This will not do.”

He turned back to the dining table, retrieved a sharp
knife, turned back to the halfman, reached out and took hold of a steel buckle.
He sliced through the leather holding the buckle, had to saw at it a bit to
make it come loose, then tossed the buckle onto the table next to his meal. “No
steel,” he said. “None whatsoever. Not on you, on
your leathers, on your horse, on its harness, in your packs. We’ll
have wooden harness fashioned for you where it will do, soft iron where it will
not. Absolutely no steel whatsoever.”

Salula’s head nodded, an almost imperceptible
tilt of his chin. “As you wish, Your Majesty. But what of my knife
and sword? Soft iron will not hold an edge.”

Valso grinned, and it reminded Carsaris of the halfman’s
grin. “I’ve thought of everything, my good captain. Unbuckle
your sword.”

While Salula did so, Valso turned and walked across the
room to a large chest against one wall. He opened the chest and retrieved a
large bundle wrapped in an oiled cloth, then returned and placed the cloth on
the table. He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a sheathed sword and sheathed
knife. He lifted the sword carefully, almost reverently, and turned toward the
halfman. By that time Salula had unbuckled his sword belt, and held his own
sheathed blade in his left hand. Valso extended the hilt of the sheathed sword
he held toward the halfman and said, “Draw the blade.”

Salula reached out cautiously and gripped the extended
hilt, and as he pulled on it a black, obsidian blade slid from the sheath,
wicked, serrated edges glinting unnaturally in the room’s dim
light. “Glass?” Salula asked. “It’ll
shatter at first contact with steel.”

Salula still held his own steel blade by the sheath in his
left hand. Valso, as fast as the little snake on the perch behind him, reached
out and pulled Salula’s steel blade from its sheath. He held it
up, looked at it carefully, then walked to the center of the room, which
Carsaris noticed was oddly bereft of any furniture. Valso had planned this.

He stopped, turned toward Salula, swung the blade a few
times through the air, then said, “I need a little sword practice,
Captain. Will you oblige me?”

Wary and ill-at-ease, Salula walked to the center of the
room and stopped facing Valso. He hesitated, looked at the king uncertainly,
then carefully swung the obsidian blade in an overhead strike. Valso parried
the strike easily with the steel blade; the steel on obsidian rang in a higher
pitch than steel on steel, and like steel on flint it released a shower of
bright sparks.

Salula raised the obsidian blade and looked at it dumbly. It
remained whole and undamaged.

“It’s magicked,”
Valso said. “With the aid of my master, I’ve spent a
good part of winter and most of spring preparing that blade and its companion
with the most powerful spells I could fashion.”

Salula’s teeth flashed in an evil grin, and
he struck out with the obsidian blade more confidently, one, two, three
strikes. And as Valso met each one, a cascade of sparks brightened the dim
light of the room. Salula stopped, looked again at the blade, and laughed, an
ungodly roar that struck fear in Carsaris’ heart.

Valso tossed Salula the steel sword and he caught it
easily in his left hand. Then Valso strode across the room and sat down at the
table. “As I said, absolutely no steel.” Valso lifted
the sheathed knife off the table and held it out to Salula. “Here
is its companion.”

Salula crossed the room and took the knife, pulled the
obsidian blade part way out of the sheath, looked at it carefully and smiled. Then
he shoved it back into the sheath with a snap.

He looked at Valso and asked, “I assume you
have a reason for this.”

Valso smiled. “The Elhiyne still lives, the
one that dances in shadows, the one that killed you the first time. And he now
has unusual powers over steel.”

Salula dropped to one knee again. “I thank
you my king for the boon of devouring his soul. This time I will not fail.”

“Yes, kill the Elhiyne,” Valso
said. “But he’s living among the Benesh’ere,
and not even you can fight seven thousand of those maniacs, so you’ll
probably have to bide your time, watch and wait. You won’t be able
to get to him until he leaves them, which he will eventually do. Perhaps you
could spend the time making sure his wife is dead as well. It makes me uneasy
that I do not have positive confirmation of her death. So sniff about as you
travel, see if you can find any hint of her. She hasn’t surfaced
at any of the Lesser Clan strongholds, but that doesn’t
necessarily mean she’s dead. She could be in hiding, so if you do
find her, kill her as well.”

Salula’s voice grumbled like thunder in the
distance. “I have a thought, Your Majesty. A bit of knowledge
gleaned from the swordsman’s soul. This France knew the two of
them well, and they were connected in some way. When the Elhiyne leaves the
Benesh’ere, I might have trouble tracking him. But if I found her,
might there be a way to use her to do so?”

Valso threw back his head and laughed. “Wonderful,
my dear captain! I so missed having you around.”

Valso stood and paced back and forth in front of the
kneeling Kull. “She stayed here only recently, and when she left I
had her rooms carefully swept. We have strands of hair, a few clippings from
her finger nails. And I have everything of the Elhiyne, his blood, his feces,
name it and I have it. Yes, I can craft a powerful spell, one to control her,
and one to take advantage of that connection you say is there.”

Valso stopped pacing and turned to face Salula pointedly. “Yes,
if she still lives find her and kill them both. But there is something far more
important than their deaths. There were once three swords, one a magnificent,
jeweled work of art, the other two plain and unadorned. Like the jeweled sword,
one of the plain blades was flawless. But the other plain blade contained a
minute and undetectable flaw. My master faced the flawed blade and destroyed it
centuries ago. The Elhiyne possesses the other, and I want you to bring it to
me, for it is a blade of limitless power.”

Salula asked, “But the great, jeweled sword,
isn’t that the AethonSword? Isn’t that the talisman?”

Valso shook his head. “Do not be fooled by the
beauty of the jeweled blade; it is without power. The real blade of power, the
AethonSword, is the remaining simple blade. My master cannot manifest on the
Mortal Plane while we do not control that blade, for it is the only thing that
can defeat him here. Bring me that blade. Yes, kill the Elhiyne. And if his
wife still lives, after using her against him, kill her too. But bring me that
blade.”

Valso turned back to his meal, a clear sign of dismissal.

Salula grinned, and as he spoke Carsaris shivered. “With
pleasure, Your Majesty.”

~~~

BlakeDown grunted like a pig and jerked spasmodically as
he spilled his seed in Chrisainne’s mouth, grasping the back of
her head and jamming his manhood into her throat so hard she almost gagged. He
lay on his back in his bed, and when he relaxed and finally let go of her head,
she rolled off him and pretended to be tangled in the sheets for a moment as
she quietly spit his foul slime into a fold in the bed-linens. She rose up on
her knees, and when he opened his eyes, she pretended to swallow.