The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (18 page)

“That won’t do,” Morgin said. “The jackal troop that kidnapped Rhiannead was invisible to the forest and the wraiths. It may be that only the armsmen can oppose this enemy.”

“But Your Majesty,” Kinardin said. “If the enemy comes in real force, that will not be enough.”

“Until you acknowledge your name,” Metadan said, “the Living Forest and Sabian will be that much weaker.”

“You’ve found a name?” Erithnae asked.

Morgin couldn’t hide his frustration as he spoke. “I know a symbol, not a name.”

“You must show it to me.”

Metadan crossed the room and stopped in front of her. He lifted the obsidian blade and held it close to her face. “See for yourself. He’s adorned the damn obsidian with it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the runes on the blade. “The sunset king! With crossed swords.”

She looked at Morgin and said, “AethonSword.”

Metadan nodded. “Yes. But it is not you or I who must acknowledge it.” He turned away from her, walked to Morgin and extended the hilts of the blade and dagger toward him. Morgin sheathed his sword and took the two blades, and in that instant the archangel winked out of existence, leaving behind a column of gray smoke formed in the shape of a man that slowly dissipated into the air of the room.

Kinardin asked Morgin, “Do you know your name, my king?”

“No,” Morgin snapped.

Erithnae said, “This Rhianne of yours believes that you do, but your fear of it is so great you cannot acknowledge it.”

“I don’t know my damn name,” Morgin said. “I know that symbol, and I know what it represents, and that’s not my name.”

Erithnae crossed the room to Morgin. She reached out and touched his cheek, ran her finger along the line of his jaw. “I believe you cannot return to your Rhianne until you find your name and acknowledge it.”

18
To Assault a Dream

Late in the morning Rhianne sat on the couch in her sitting room and tried to sneak a few moments of sleep, a few moments in the Kingdom of Dreams. But as she drifted off she sensed a powerful force of nether magic. She opened her eyes and tried to flush the cobwebs of confusion from her mind. She felt it even now, a potent draw of power from the netherworld.

She stood, crossed the room to the balcony and stepped out onto it. The castle yard below, the city in the distance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

This power had the taste of a malign and vast intelligence, with hints of Valso’s magic fluttering through it. No sorcerer could contain such power, and to do so did not demonstrate ability or strength, but rather a warp in the fabric of reality that should never be. She was reminded again of Morgin’s semi-delirious ranting about a
vast chasm of power
, and for the first time she truly understood what he’d meant.

She turned away from the view of the city, determined to follow the scent of that power to its source. As usual, the Kullish guards waiting outside her suite stepped into place behind her, following her every move.

The power permeated the castle, but following a straight line toward it only led her to one dead-end after another, and she had to retrace her steps several times. At one point she turned down a corridor and came face-to-face with Haleen. They both paused and Haleen gave her a vacant smile. “My child is coming back,” she said. “He’ll be back soon, and then you can find happiness.”

Mad
, Rhianne thought.
Truly mad.

Hoping the Mad Whore would not divert her from her search, she curtsied and said, “Lady Haleen.”

Haleen looked down at her for a moment as she held the curtsy, then without another word stepped around her and continued down the corridor.

Relieved, Rhianne put the women out of her mind and continued her search. The scent of the power led her to a long corridor on the third floor of the castle, at the end of which two Kulls stood guard at a set of double doors. As she approached the halfmen one of them stepped in her way and said, “His Majesty is not available.”

That confirmed that Valso was in the room beyond. She’d never been in this part of the castle before, but the scent of that power had led her unerringly to these doors, so they must open into a workshop of some kind. In that moment the vast outpouring of power dissipated, and in a few heartbeats all that remained was a sense of corruption and malevolence.

“Tell His Majesty I wish to see him.”

The Kull didn’t respond, just stared at her.

“You know full well that if you don’t at least give him the opportunity to send me on my way, he’ll be angry.”

The Kull continued to stare for a moment, then turned and knocked on the door. Several heartbeats passed before the door creaked open and a wan and haggard Carsaris peered out. His eyes seemed recessed deeper in his skull as if he’d been stricken by some illness, and his skin appeared even more sallow than usual. He glanced over his shoulder in a guilt-ridden, surreptitious way, and it struck Rhianne that he had the look of a man who lived constantly with fear.

Rhianne didn’t give the Kull or Carsaris a chance to speak. “I wish to see His Majesty.”

Carsaris hesitated, then nodded and said, “I’ll ask him if he’s available.” He closed the door.

Only an instant passed before the door flew open to reveal Valso standing there. Where Carsaris had appeared sickly, Valso seemed invigorated. “Rhianne!” he said, elbowing his way between the two Kulls. “This is a lovely surprise. It’s a real pleasure to look upon you after such hard work.”

He took her arm and began walking down the corridor away from the door and the two Kulls. “You were drawn by the power, weren’t you, like a moth to the flame?”

“What were you doing?” she asked.

He looked at her and smiled. “Just sending Magwa’s army on its way.”

Magwa’s army! That could only mean he’d just sent them to the Kingdom of Dreams to assault Sabian. But to require so much power must mean that her army was vast indeed.

Valso said, “I’ve worked up an appetite. Let’s have some lunch.”

Rhianne wanted to rush back to her suite, to sit down on her couch, close her eyes and try to reach Morgin in her dreams. She needed to warn him that the army he faced must be enormous. But
she
had approached Valso, and now she was stuck with him. She’d have to suffer through lunch, then try afterwards.

••••

Kinardin organized the castle’s defenses, so Morgin had little to do other than sparring with Metadan and the obsidian blades. The Lord Chamberlain refused to believe that any power could obscure the forest’s perception of those within its bounds. But recalling how some magic had hidden the halfmen and jackal hordes from the forest and shadowwraiths, Morgin convinced him to send mortal armsmen out as scouts. Two days later several of them returned with reports of a large army approaching from the north, and Kinardin was beside himself when he heard that the forest was unaware of their presence and could do nothing to hinder them.

“I had hoped you were wrong, Your Majesty,” he said.

Rafaellen said, “We saw the same with the jackal troop that abducted Her Highness. This is a mortal fight we face.”

Morgin decided to take the fight to their enemy, so they organized 12 companies, each consisting of six twelves of mounted armsmen with a mix of swords, war axes, lances and bows. They planned on a simple strategy: strike swiftly at several points on the periphery of Magwa’s army, then retreat and strike again later. They were badly weakened by the fact that the shadowwraiths could not fight their enemy directly, though they could carry messages swiftly from company to company. But when Rafaellen commented in an offhand way, “It’s a shame we don’t have more men who can hide in shadows like you,” it gave Morgin an idea.

He recalled how the wraiths had helped shield him when he fought the jackal raiding party. “Maybe we do,” he said.

He had Kinardin summon all of his lieutenants. He’d only come to the castle some days ago, so most of them were nameless men with faces much like any clansman. He recalled his conversation with Erithnae, recalled that they were dreamers all.

When they were assembled, Morgin summoned Soann’Daeth’Daeye with a whisper.

My king
, the wraith said, dropping to one knee before him. He noticed several of the men looked away as if they feared the wraith.

“Rise,” Morgin said, and the wraith did so.

Of the men who’d turned their heads, Morgin selected one who was older and asked him, “Why did you look away?”

The fellow hesitated, then said, “I . . . ah . . . don’t rightly know. I—”

“We fear them,” a younger man said, stepping forward. He was an average looking fellow of middle height. “We know of them, but before you came just a few days ago, I’d never seen one.”

Several men grumbled their general agreement with the fellow. He continued, “They avoid us, hide from us, and it makes us wary of them.”

The unknown was always a fearsome thing, but Morgin needed them working together. “What’s your name?” he asked the young man.

“Tasmian, Your Majesty. Forgive me if I have offended you.” He lowered his eyes.

“Nothing to forgive. Come forward. I want to try something, and you’re probably not going to like it. At least not at first.”

As Tasmian approached, Morgin turned to the wraith. “Soann’Daeth’Daeye, please envelope me in shadow as you did in the forest when we fought the jackals.”

The shadowwraith moved like smoke in a light breeze, and in a few heartbeats had covered Morgin completely. There were several gasps, and some of the armsmen stood with their hands on the hilts of their swords as if they needed to come to the aid of their king.

“I am unharmed,” Morgin said, “So there is no need to fear, and no need for swords. But I can see you quite clearly. Can you see me?”

Tasmian said, “Almost not at all, Your Majesty.”

“So imagine what it would be like to move like this among the natural shadows of the forest.”

Perhaps because he was younger, Tasmian saw the implications immediately. “I could dance death among my enemies with impunity.”

Tasmian volunteered to let Soann’Daeth’Daeye envelop him, then he helped talk other men into giving it a try. When no one dropped dead or emerged from the shadows covered with boils from some strange malady, they soon had at least a dozen men from each company teamed up with a shadowwraith.

Morgin did not want to be a king sitting on a throne while men died for him, but when he told them he’d decided to lead one of the companies, Kinardin and several of his lieutenants threw a fit. Erithnae shut them up when she stepped forward and said, “He is the Unnamed King. We cannot fight a battle in the Kingdom of Dreams without him in the forefront.”

“Aye,” Rafaellen added. “And he knows these jackal warriors, knows their tricks, knows how to kill ’em.”

With Erithnae and Rafaellen’s support, his lieutenants reluctantly agreed.

As Morgin was checking Mortiss’ harness and the provisions in her saddle bags, he saw Erithnae crossing the castle yard toward him, carefully avoiding the horse manure that dotted the grounds. She wrapped her arms around him and he pulled her tight, wishing she were Rhianne.

“Which one was it in there?” he asked. “When these men didn’t want their king to personally lead them and ride into danger? Which one believed in me enough to see me ride to my own war, Erithnae, Rhiannead, or Rhianne?”

She kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t know, but I think we’re all one and the same, and have been for a long time. Though the one who truly knows you the best, that would be your Rhianne. And when this is done, you must return to her, for only then can you each be whole.”

“And what of you when I return to her?”

She smiled, and was truly Erithnae at that moment. “I am new to the Kingdom of Dreams, and yet I have lived here and died here a thousand times, and will do so again. I will always be here when you return, and I think your Rhianne will be here inside me.”

“And how do I return to her?”

“You must acknowledge your true name.”

“I need to find it first.”

She smiled, and looked at him like a young maiden intent on some mischief. Then she pulled him tightly against her and kissed him, one of those kisses that made him forget everything.

When they separated, she said, “I think you already have, AethonSword.”

He shook his head. “You and Metadan think the label for that symbol is my name, but I know you’re wrong.”

“Then if you cannot acknowledge your name, you must acknowledge what you are. For that is something you have always denied.”

••••

Morgin slipped carefully from one shadow to the next, following the jackal sergeant as he checked with each sentry. Concealed by a shadowwraith, one or more of his men had moved into position behind each of the nearby sentries, and they were all waiting for Rafaellen to give the signal. With his greater experience and affinity for shadows, Morgin had taken on the more difficult task of staying with the moving jackal sergeant as he made his rounds. Magwa’s generals were clearly aware of his abilities with shadows, but he hoped they hadn’t anticipated what he might do with the aid of the shadowwraiths.

Morgin and his shadowmen—as they had taken to calling themselves—had carefully scouted the encampment of the jackal army. Magwa’s hordes had set up a temporary camp in the forest, a staging area from which to launch an assault on Sabian. When they marched south, which would be soon, Morgin had no doubt they’d devastate the forest.

It had taken an enormous amount of power to physically move twelve thousand jackal warriors and a thousand horses and their equipment off the Mortal Plane and into the Kingdom of Dreams. Morgin recalled the seemingly unlimited power he’d sensed in Valso, and he assumed the Decouix king had tapped it to accomplish the task. That frightened him, for he could not summon such power, and yet soon he must find a way to defeat Valso and his master.

Morgin spotted the next sentry about 15 paces ahead. But as the sergeant approached him, the cry of a jaymakaw echoed through the forest. No jaymakaw had ever flown through the branches of the Living Forest.

In response to the jaymakaw a shadow arose behind the sentry, an arm reached out from the shadow and slit the dog’s throat. As the sentry gurgled out its last moments of life, the sergeant Morgin followed tensed and took a deep breath to raise the alarm. But Morgin stepped out of his shadow and buried his sword in the jackal’s back. Quite a number of the jackal sentries suffered a similar fate.

Even at their quietest, on foot leading their horses by their reins, six twelves of armsmen produced a soft roar: the creak of saddle leather, the clop of hooves, a grunt here, a groan there. Rafaellen, leading his own mount and Mortiss, emerged with Morgin’s company from the forest, moving hastily, for they all knew they had little time.

Morgin had just climbed into the saddle when somewhere nearby a jackal howled out a warning. Something had alerted them, so Morgin spurred Mortiss into a charge and shouted, “With me, charge.”

The jackals did not have time to mount a proper defense, and Morgin and his men hit them unprepared. As they charged into the camp, Morgin slashed downward right and left with his sword. He cut down one jackal, wounded another, then reined in Mortiss. It would be suicide for his small company to charge deep into the middle of an enemy twelve thousand strong, so he kept his men near the perimeter of the jackal army. In the distance he heard chaos and pandemonium erupting at several places along the perimeter, and knew his other companies had likewise engaged the enemy.

A mounted Kull loomed out of the chaos and charged at him with a steel blade. The Kull lunged, driving the point of his sword toward Morgin’s heart. Morgin ordered the steel to deflect upward and to one side, and to continue the lunge past him. The blade jerked in the Kull’s grip and sliced just past Morgin’s ear, pulling the halfman toward him. Morgin lunged and buried his sword in the Kull’s chest. The Kull fell from his horse, and riderless, the horse trotted away.