Free The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within by J. L. Doty Page B

boring, he was left to himself for the most part, which suited him nicely.
    On the eighth day out of Kathbeyanne he awoke at sunrise, used a small portion of his water ration to shave and wash—as they approached the wars he was beginning to pay attention to his personal appearance again—rolled up his kit, and to kill time before his breakfast ration he left the camp, found a small, clear hillock some distance from the outer perimeter, and began a series of stretching exercises he used when a real workout was not possible. With his sword drawn, and his eyes closed, he concentrated on each muscle carefully, extending it, then contracting it, until he felt the knots and tension relax. He must now prepare his body for the battles and the warring that would soon come, and he drifted slowly into a mild state of self-hypnosis at the pleasure that came with Morddon’s knowledge and control of his body.
    “Harrumph! Um . . . excuse me.”
    At the sound of the voice Morddon froze, then after many seconds opened his eyes. A young Benesh’ere lad stood cautiously in front of him. Morddon spoke softly, “What do you want, boy?”
    The boy frowned, obviously thinking of the stories he’d heard of the maniac that towered over him. “You’re Lord Morddon, are you not?”
    “I am Morddon, but I’m no lord. And who are you?”
    “I am WindHollow,” the boy said.
    Morddon nodded. “A powerful name that. What do you want with me, WindHollow?”
    “I was told by the warmasters Metadan and Gilguard to bring you to them.” The boy stood uncertainly, as if Morddon might burst into a murderous rage at any moment.
    Morddon tried not to smile, but he failed. He sheathed his sword. “Then lead the way.”
    Near the tents at the center of camp several men and angels and one woman were leaning over a table full of maps, while not far to one side two of the black griffins sat quietly on their haunches. Even from a distance Morddon recognized one as TarnThane himself, the Griffin Lord, for the strange winged beasts were massive towers of taloned might. Closer yet, he saw gathered about the table Gilguard and two of his lieutenants, the Benesh’ere princess AnneRhianne, Metadan and two archangels whom Morddon did not recognize, plus Ellowyn, though weeks earlier Morgin had learned she didn’t recognize him.
    Morddon and WindHollow stopped near the group at the map table and waited silently for the ongoing conversation to cease. TarnThane was giving a scouting report: “. . . Most of the countryside is unoccupied. We saw no sign of the Goath, but we caught an occasional glimpse of the hounds.”
    Several of them started at that. “In large numbers?” Metadan asked.
    TarnThane shook his head. “No. Just a few. Probably scouts.”
    Metadan considered that carefully. “I wonder if WolfDane himself is considering some action against the Goath.”
    Morddon had heard of the hellhounds, and their king WolfDane, but he himself had never seen one. They were reputed to be giant hounds as large as a horse, with jaws that could snap a man in two. Legend had it they had escaped from the netherhells when Beayaegoath was first exiled there, and had never stopped fighting against the hordes he commanded. But they shunned man and all things of mankind, and they fought their own battles against the Goath, refusing to work in any way with the mortal forces fighting their common enemy. Morddon had heard a story that Metadan had once saved WolfDane’s life, but no one knew if there was any truth to it.
    “If the hounds intend an attack upon the Goath,” Gilguard said thoughtfully, “I would dearly like to know where and when.” He looked at Metadan. “Is there any chance you could get them to work with us. If they would trust any of us, it would be you.”
    Metadan shook his head. “It’s not a matter of trust. Their ways are just too different from ours. We’ll have to depend on our griffin friends here.”
    TarnThane threw his head back.