The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (21 page)

~~~

Morgin moved carefully through the undergrowth of the
forest, strung bow in hand, an arrow nocked, ready to pull the bow string back
and fire it. He moved with Morddon’s Benesh’ere
stealth and reflexes. Deer droppings not two paces in front of him told him he
was close to his prey, a large buck he’d spotted from a nearby
hill. He’d circled carefully to approach the animal from downwind.
Like Morgin, Harriok and Jack the Lesser were tired of goat, and they’d
decided venison steaks would make for a nice change. With summer approaching,
the deer and elk had sought higher pastures to graze on spring’s
bounty, so the three of them had ridden south of the lake, and then quite a
ways up the side of Attunhigh.

About two hundred paces distant a raspberry bush shaking
violently caught his attention, and he glimpsed the buck’s rack
visible above it. He looked to the left where Jack stood crouched on another
game trail. He raised a hand, caught Jack’s eye, pointed two
fingers forward to let Jack know he’d spotted the buck. Jack
nodded, so Morgin slowly turned his head to the right. There, Harriok nodded to
indicate he too had seen Morgin’s signal.

The three of them moved forward carefully. Even Jack had
finally admitted Morgin moved with the stealth of a whiteface, and that
appeared to be proof enough that Morgin had told the truth when he’d
spoken of living through the Great Clan Wars in the soul of a Benesh’ere
warrior.

Morgin was about a hundred paces from the buck when it
wandered out from behind the raspberry bush, still nibbling on ripe berries. He
had a good line of sight to the buck, so he rose from his crouch, moving very
slowly so he didn’t startle the buck. Since he had been the first
to spot the buck, the first shot was his, so Harriok and Jack remained in a
crouch.

With the same, slow careful motions, Morgin drew back the
bow string and raised the bow. He sighted down the length of the arrow, sighted
on a spot just behind the buck’s shoulder. His arrow would pierce
its heart, giving it a quick, clean end. But something in the far distance
caught his eye, and he hesitated. It hadn’t been a movement, or a
flash of light, but something that had triggered a memory deep in his
subconscious.

He lowered the bow and took in the sight of two spires of
rock, two sharp peaks side-by-side in the far distance. He’d seen
them before in a distant memory, though he couldn’t recall when. And
too, he had never been this high up the side of Attunhigh before, at least not
in this life.

That was the key that brought his memories back. He had
seen those peaks through Morddon’s eyes, seen them as he’d
ridden down the mountain after laying Aethon to rest in his crypt. And the
memory was not a recollection stolen from the Benesh’ere whose
soul he’d haunted. No, this was a memory of Morgin’s,
his and his alone, a memory acquired by looking through the ancient warrior’s
eyes.

An arrow hissed through the air and thumped into the buck’s
side. It jumped, trumpeted a painful cry, staggered and fell to its side. Harriok
cried out, “Good shot, Jack,” and the two of them ran
forward to make sure the buck was finished.

Morgin remained still, transfixed by the two spires in the
distance. If he moved south a few leagues, the two peaks might appear separated
exactly as they had appeared twelve centuries ago. Morddon had ridden down from
Aethon’s interment in sadness, while Morgin had concentrated on
memorizing every feature of the land, every peak, every spire, though he’d
carefully memorized only features of rock and granite that would not—had
not changed in all that time. A league or two south of the Lake of Sorrows, he
guessed, and then higher up the side of Attunhigh, and he’d be
standing on the trail Morddon had followed down from the mountain that sad day.
And with a dozen other such reference points rolling around inside his head,
Morgin realized he might, after all this time, be able to backtrack up that
trail, even in this day and age.

~~~

As they rounded a
sharp bend in the trail, BlakeDown reined in his horse. Tharsk stood above
them, a cold, black monolith carved from the solid granite of the mountain
face. He always marveled at the fortress that commanded Methula.

The trail too had been
chipped out of the solid stone of the mountain. Travelers tended to hug the
uphill side away from the precipitous edge, and centuries of traffic—the
constant wear of boots and hooves and cartwheels—had worn the rock
there into a smooth and almost glassy surface, while the edge nearest the drop
remained rough and uneven. The trail skirted the base of the fortress wall for
a good distance, then entered the black shadow at the mouth of a tunnel, part
of the fortress itself. Any traveler wishing to cross the Worshipers through
the Pass at Methula must either pass into that tunnel, or climb the sheer rock
of the fortress wall above it, and those in the fortress would have an easy
time dislodging such a fool.

It had taken quite a
bit of effort to arrange this meeting. The Vodah messenger had ridden back and
forth between Durin and Penda several times, all in secret, carrying messages
sealed by powerful magics.

Valso frequently went
unseen by any but his closest advisors for days at a time. So it had been easy
for the King of the Greater Clans to sneak away, to arrange a few ruses to
leave the impression he remained closeted in the palace in Durin, while in fact
he had ridden to Tharsk. But BlakeDown had ruled Penda for more than thirty
years in a very public fashion, so doing something like that would have been
impossible for him. Instead, he’d arranged a hunting trip to
Methula.

He and PaulStaff had an agreement that he could hunt the
bighorn sheep near Tharsk, and PaulStaff could hunt the wild boar that roamed
the forests on the river Ella. Of course, they each required the other to give
notice well in advance of such an encroachment on their lands, and to keep
their numbers small enough that there would be no question of an armed
incursion. In any case, PaulStaff was a boot-licker, and wouldn’t
dare deny him. But such a hunting trip got him relatively high into the pass at
Methula, within an easy ride of Tharsk.

He’d selected the members of his hunting
party from those he knew to be loyal and discreet, and they’d set
up a base camp a few hours’ ride from Tharsk. But hunting the big
sheep couldn’t be done in large groups, so each morning he
selected three of his liege men to accompany him, then set out for a day of
hunting. They’d actually hunted the sheep for two days now, and
bagged one kill. But on this, the third day, BlakeDown had selected three
companions whom he could trust implicitly, and they rode directly to Tharsk. They
could spend a good three hours at the fortress, and still return before dark
with tales of an unsuccessful day of hunting.

BlakeDown looked up to
the battlements at the top of the fortress wall. He saw a few dim shadows
standing there, so he called out, using the false name they’d
agreed upon. “I am a simple hunter named Doagla. I and my friends
seek shelter for a few hours.”

A voice from above said politely, “You may
enter the tunnel.”

A portcullis just within the shadows of the tunnel rose with a clanking rattle of chains dragging
across stone. Behind it another portcullis rose slowly, and behind that
another, and another, and another. When the way was clear, BlakeDown
spurred his horse forward and his companions followed. Behind them the portcullises descended with the same noisy scrape of
steel chains on stone, and BlakeDown realized they were at the Decouix’s
mercy. Perhaps he’d just have them murdered. They wouldn’t
be the first men to disappear in the vastness of Methula.

The tunnel followed
the curve of the mountain, and at its center they found a massive stone portal
slowly opening with the grind of old hinges echoing in the close air. The
portal let them into a circular courtyard open to the sky, surrounded on all
sides by high walls cut from the same black rock as the tunnel, with another
portcullis on the opposite side of the courtyard. Valso awaited him there,
standing confidently and smiling. “Lord BlakeDown. Thank you for
coming. It is a pleasure to see you again after so long.”

“The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty,”
BlakeDown said, lying as easily as Valso.

He dismounted, and he and Valso shook hands, though
BlakeDown did not bend the knee, for Valso was not his king. Valso showed no
displeasure at the omission.

He led BlakeDown into the fortress proper to a small,
comfortable room with a large hearth containing a blazing fire. Even with
summer approaching, the mountain air held a decided chill. The room also
contained a table onto which a hearty meal of meat, cheese, bread and ale had
been placed, though the table contained only two chairs.

Valso smiled charmingly and said, “My men
will entertain your men while you and I share this repast.”

“Excellent,” BlakeDown said,
sitting down at the table, not waiting for Valso.

Valso’s men ushered BlakeDown’s
companions out of the room and closed the heavy plank door. Valso threw the
latch on the door, then returned to the table and sat down opposite BlakeDown.

They ate, and spoke of hunting, and the bighorn sheep, and
other subjects about which neither of them really cared. A goodly amount of
time passed before Valso casually said, “I’ve heard
the annual meeting of the Lesser Council didn’t go so well.”

BlakeDown grunted angrily and wiped grease from his chin
with his sleeve. “That old witch Olivia, she’s a
thorn in all our sides.”

“Aye,” Valso said, “We
do have that in common.”

“Isn’t that about all we have in
common?”

Valso considered that for a moment, then delicately wiped
his chin with a linen napkin and stood. He turned his back on BlakeDown, walked
to the hearth and held out his hands, warming them. “Perhaps we
have more in common than you think.”

“Like what?”

Valso turned to face him. “I would think you’d
like to see that thorn removed as much as I do.”

BlakeDown prompted him, “And?”

Valso grinned. “And we’d both
benefit from a more stable and less disruptive rule in the Lesser Clans. I
would greatly like to see an ally on the throne of the Lesser Clans.”

BlakeDown’s heart raced as he said, “The
Lesser Clans have no throne.”

Valso shrugged. “That can easily be changed. The
Lesser Clans can have a throne and a king. But it would have to be the right
king.”

“You would support the right king?”

Valso smiled and nodded. “As long as that
king swore fealty to me, yes I would. But that king must also help rid me of
that thorn we spoke of.”

BlakeDown changed the subject and they talked of other
things for a time, more matters about which neither of them really cared. When
the time came to leave, they both stood and clasped hands.

“You have given me much to think on,”
BlakeDown said. “We should communicate further on these matters.”
And then, for the first time in centuries, a leader of one of the Lesser Clans
bent the knee and kissed the hand of the King of the Greater Clans.

~~~

Chagarin had called Morgin to the Forge Hall where all
the smiths had gathered, and as he walked into the room, the smiths all stepped
back and waited expectantly. They’d laid an array of swords on one
of the workbenches, naked blades, unsheathed and shining in the glow from the
forges. The smiths looked at Morgin, then the blades on the workbench, then
back at Morgin again, and he realized they wanted him to do whatever it was a
SteelMaster did.

Morgin said to Chagarin, “I don’t
know what it means to be a SteelMaster.”

The shoulders of all the smiths slumped with
disappointment. Morgin knew he should at least try, so he walked up to the
workbench and picked up the nearest sword. It had a good heft and a fine
balance, so he held it upright and tapped his fingernail against the blade. The
tone it emitted was pure and sweet, and a single note resonated in his soul
clean and crisp.

He laid that blade down and picked up the next. He pinged
it with his fingernail, and it too rang clear and pure. He took up that sound
with his soul, fed it power and life, and it spoke to him of many battles and
the chaos of war. He let the note die as he turned to the smiths. “This
blade has taken many lives.”

The smiths nodded in unison.

He tested each blade that way, and each blade spoke to
him, some with the voice of a kind woman, others with the command of a
warmaster on the battlefield. One blade, though, rang with a harsh and guttural
tone. He crossed the room and handed that blade to Chagarin with the words, “This
blade is flawed.”

Chagarin accepted the blade and nodded.

Baldrak said, “Try commanding the steel as
you did in the circle.”

Morgin turned and looked back at the workbench covered
with blades. It was about five paces distant, so he concentrated on the first
blade he’d touched there. He held out his open hand and said, “Come.”

The blade trembled, visible only as a faint shimmer in the
reflected glow of the forges, as if it wanted to obey him, but found it
difficult. The blade next to it trembled also, so Morgin concentrated on the
one blade to the exclusion of the others. Off to one side he heard the creak of
wood straining under pressure, but he ignored that and focused his will on the
blade. Several of the blades on the bench near it trembled, so he redoubled his
effort to focus only on the one.

The smiths stood silently watching him, almost as if they
feared any sound they might make would dampen the SteelMaster’s
power. And in that silence the room was actually alive with sounds: the crackle
of the fires in the forges, wood creaking and straining as if under enormous
pressure. The smiths were all focused on Morgin, mute and silently watching
him, not working at any of the heavy wooden benches, so no wood should be
straining so. The silence ended with the sound of wood tearing and splintering
somewhere behind him.