Lady Of The Helm (Book 1) (26 page)

Xander looked up into the flame red pits in
Maelgrum’s skull.  The traitor Prince’s mouth dropped open in fear and he backed rapidly away from his Master’s displeasure, stumbling over a heap of elven bodies as he did so.

His M
aster strode towards him as Xander scrabbled kicking backwards over the fallen, fleeing away from the undying wizard’s wrath.

“Master,” Haselrig cried,
seeing a sudden gleam of silvery gold amidst the pile of corpses.  “Look. He lies here.”

Maelgrum too had seen and stopped at the glint of ornate armour.  A barked command brought the orcs forward to shift the dead elves and uncover what lay beneath. It was the work of a few moments to reveal the tall
full visored figure of an elf Lord stretched out in his battered finery.

Haselrig, painful
ly learned in interpreting his Master’s moods, detected something new in the undead wizard’s manner.  Maelgrum’s skeletal skull was tilted to one side, his red glowing eyes throbbed gently and there was a crackling of static around the swirling tendrils of mist.  “Isss he….. dead?” There was a thrill of trepidation in the wizard’s enquiry.

The orcs kicked the body and, despite the powerful dent in the back of the helm, there was a cough and splutter through the carved bearded face on the visor.
“He lives, Master. The lord Feyril lives.”

“Ask him where the Ankh is, the royal A
nkh,” Xander demanded.  “It was not on Gregor’s remains. The bastard would not have trusted it to anyone but Feyril.”

Maelgrum flung out a finger and a crackle of lightning snapp
ed out and engulfed the unwise Prince in a twisting stinging spiral of electric blue.  Xander howled and collapsed on the ground in a senseless heap.  “Sssilence,” Maelgrum commanded.  “I would ssspeak with my old friend the lord Feyril without the interruptionsss of mere humansss, who would do well to remember their own mortality.”

At the slightest inclination of the wizard’s fleshless chin two orcs hauled t
he stunned elf upright.  “Come, let me look into hisss eyesss.  It hasss been ssso long and there is ssso much I mussst dissscusss with him while he diesss.”

The throbbing of Maelgrum’s flame pit eyes quickened and
deepened and there was a hiss, as of an intake of breath when the wizard’s lipless mouth opened in concession to the conventions of speech.  It was a state Haselrig had not witnessed in seventeen years of his Master’s company and, at last, the ex-antiquary identified the emotion as excitement.  The undead wizard was close to trembling like an expectant child before festival day.

The left hand orc ripped off the ancient elven helmet and cast it aside.  Instantly Maelgrum’s eyes flared into the brightest red and an icy stream of fog flooded from his shoulders.  “Thisss isss not Feyril,” he cried in a voice that made all tremble with fear for ha
ving played some part in their Master’s disappointment.

The unmasked imposter, straightened his daze
d body. “No, my name is Findil. I have been honoured to wear the Lord Feyril’s colours these last few days.”

“You lie,” Maelgrum cried. “The sssmell of Feyril on your sssuit isss not ssso faint asss tha
t.  Tell me where he hasss gone, for I have waited centuriesss to ssspeak with him again.  Tell me and I will let you die in mere daysss, but try to withhold the truth and I will take pleasssure in extracting it from you and sssending you to your afterlife in monthsss of painfull ssstages.”

The C
aptain faced down his fearsome opponent.  “Do what you will you rotten mocking husk of life, your presence is an insult to the living, your death’s work an abomination that affronts even your own foul god.  The smallest flower of Hershwood in its blooming is a greater wonder than you ever have or ever will achieve in a thousand years of haunting this world.” 

Icicles formed and fell around the furious wizard, the ground froze beneath his feet and his eye sockets blazed like torches.  The orc
s holding Findil loosed their grip anxious to avoid being caught as collateral damage in the explosive anger that was about to be unleashed on the foolish elf. In a trice Findil had flung them aside, snatching a dagger from the belt of one as it fell.  With this modest weapon the elf Captain faced the undead wizard.

Maelgrum stretched his mouth wide in a mocking laugh.  “You think you can
hurt me with that unwissse elf? It would amussse me to sssee you make the attempt.”

“Oh I will hurt you, foul one,
in the only way I can.  You will get no secrets from me.”  So saying Findil grabbed the knife two handed, turned it inwards and drove it up under his breast plate deep into his own chest.  He slumped forward with a groan, holding the incredulous gaze of the undead wizard in his own dimming grey eyes and then fell dead on the ground.

A howling cloud of mist descended on his body,
shredding his remains in a meaningless fury for Captain Findil had found his sanctuary well beyond Maelgrum’s reach.

Twenty leagues South East of the battle a lone rider paused in his gallop to pull the strange jewelled Ankh free from his jerkin.  Feyril looked once more into the throbbing heart of its gem.  He had known and wept at the moment Gregor fell, his loss announced with a flash of sound and light from the ancient jewel in the palm of his hand.  Now the steady red glow had become a pulsating light that switched between white and red.  Feyril held the ankh by its neck and slowly turned round, pointing it to the different corners of the compass.  As he did so the beat of the throbbing gem quickened and then slowed. 

He frowned at th
e results of his experiment and checked a second time to be sure, the beat was fastest when it pointed due East. 

The elf patted his horse’s neck and hauled the reigns round to head in the direction the A
nkh had selected. “No, Sharkle, we are not going home, not yet.”  With that the elf clicked his tongue and the faithful horse resumed its frantic pace across the quiet plains of Morsalve.

It was a grey afternoon on the outskirts of Dwarfport.  On the porch of her one roomed shack the thief counted again her stack of gold crowns and silver pennies.  Satisfied with the result she leant back in the wicker chair and gazed into the hinterland whence in a few days time a dwarven caravan was expected.  The wooden boards beneath her creaked and bowed at the shifting of even her slight weight.  It was not a house fit for a princess or a priestess but it served the thief’s purpose well enough.  She knew not what fate had befallen its original owner, but it had been vacant when she arrived and the few locals who had challenged her for possession had quickly regretted making a claim.

A movement on the Western horizon drew her
eye, a solitary horse and rider. It was an unusual sight for the marshland which lay between the Hadrans and the lush plains of Medyrsalve was unpopulated and rarely travelled.  Her attention was held by this diversion from the dangerous monotony that was everyday life in Dwarfport.

The horse trotted briskly,
but not too brisk, for the rider sat slumped in the saddle, arms down, hands resting, no leaning on the horse’s neck.  The white steed coated in the dust and grime of a hard ride, picked its way with intricate steps along the twisting path through the saturated marshland. The fatigued pair were working their way unerringly towards her shack, but she felt no apprehension and only an incidental curiosity.

As they drew closer she recognised the elven make of the rider’s armour, picked out the grey beard streaked with dirt.  A murmur of recognition crossed her mind.  Ten yards short of her doorstep the elf stopped and dismounted.  Shielding his eyes to see
into the shade he drew closer, returning her visual scrutiny in kind.

Incredulity was mirr
ored in their faces as he perceived the loose leather garb, the sword in a shoulder scabbard, the trappings of a common foot pad.  In turn she took in the battered armour and a familiar face suddenly wearing its years with uncomfortable honesty.

“The Lord Feyril
?” she doubted.

“The Lady Niarmit
?” he echoed.

The trees that sheltered them from wind and rain could not ease the raging hunger in their bellies.  Kimbolt shivered involuntarily.  The never ending ride and the privations of the last few days had eroded his stamina.  He could feel his teeth chattering, but was aware of little else but cold and hunger.  Something was thrust into his hands but he could not take it. Instead the item, a gourd, was lifted to his mouth, forced between his lips and fiery alcohol trickled down his throat.  He coughed and spluttered.

“Captain, what day is it
?”

He nodded and then stammered as far as the ague would let him “M-M-M-Morwensday, M-m-m-aybe Th-Th-Thrensday ?”

“How many days since we defeated Hetwith at the gorge?”

“H-H-Hetwith? was Thren,
s-s-sure it w-w-was Th-Thren!” Kimbolt pulled feebly at the sodden rag across his back with his still bound hands.

A palm was pre
ssed against his forehead, cool soft skin against his burning flesh.  A voice cursed softly and then suddenly a huge thick cloak descended around his shoulders.  “Wait here,” the voice commanded unnecessarily, and then its owner was gone and Kimbolt was alone with the rain once more.

“Well,” the old elf said after a moment’s silence. “Have you no words of welcome for an old comrade in arms.”

“It has been five years since Bledrag field,” she snapped, before finding a
softer tone.  “Forgive me, my Lord.  But our past acquaintance is a lifetime away and I had no expectation of meeting anyone who knew me of old, least of all you.”

“You are forgiven.” Feyril managed a painful smile.
  “In exchange for a seat and a little of your time.”

Niar
mit relinquished her own chair, the only one the shack possessed, with an easy shrug.  “Please, make yourself comfortable.  As for time, an hour is all you have.  A few minutes past and a ship sails from the harbour. I will be on it.”

Feyril, in the act of lowering himself into the uncertain comfort she had offer
ed, shot upright again. “A ship? Where headed?” A sudden urgency prevailed over curiosity in his voice.

“The Eastern lands,
after a brief stop in Oostsalve.”

“You can’t, you mustn’t.”

Niarmit bridled at the unwelcome command. “Feyril you have no call on me.  I do and go as I please.”

“You are a princ
ess of the empire and a priestess of the Goddess,” he rebuked her.

“Was Feyril, I wa
s once.  Now I am just Niarmit, in my own service and no-one else’s.”

“You cannot leave,
not now.”

“Feyril, if all you mean to do is
harangue me about duty, then you have wasted much energy in a long and fruitless journey.  Years of my life, my friends my family, all have I given in the service of Undersalve.  No more.  If you have other news to tell me, then say it swiftly or I will bid you good day, indeed good bye.”

The elf grimaced, part with worry part with pain.  He met her gaze steadily, recognised the stubborn set to her expression, and began again in a more mollifying
tone.  “An hour of your time, please give me that much. It is a long story I have to tell, but I will try to tell it in an hour.  For the trust I once had with Prince Matteus, just hear me out.”

Niarmit looked briefly around the sunbleached shanty town and then sat comfortably crosslegged before the old elf.  “
Dwarfport has few entertainments and I have no goods to pack save those I wear.  My boat leaves in an hour. You have until then, my Lord Feyril.”

It was an uncomfortable experience.  Kimbolt had submitted to priestly healing before.  The Bishop Udecht had once invoked the Goddess’s power to repair an injured knee sustained in an awkward fall. It had been almost pleasant to feel the waves of holy power wash through the frozen painful joint until its normal movement had been restored.  However, even though his fever was easing and his mind clearing, the Captain felt a sense of nausea as his body raged against this new intruding magic. 

The shivering ceased, his wits restored Kimbolt was
at last aware of the frowning Medusa and the disgruntled orcish shaman before him.  “Are you better?” Dema demanded.

As Kimbolt nodded she turned to dismiss the orc.  The lurching unholy priest seemed ready to voice
some concern or complaint, but the urge quickly left him at the slight twitch of an eyebrow beneath the Medusa’s mask.

“
He cured me?” Kimbolt gasped as the humanoid loped away.

“I told him to.”  She pulled a knife from her belt and, before he could wince, cut through the cords that bound his wrists.
  “Things should be easier now, the need for secrecy is almost over.  I have raiders out scavenging for supplies.  We will eat well tonight and tomorrow we fight.”

“Another ambush
?”

She frowned.  “All in good time Captain, now stir some sense back into your frozen hands and try to get some comfortable rest.”

Feyril sat silent for a moment, brow furrowed as he searched for a suitable starting point.  Niarmit watched with unhurried patience.  At length the elf began.

“The recent news is perhaps the most grievous.  Sturmcairn has fallen.”

Niarmit nodded grimly.  “There has been gossip in the taverns
that the beacon chain was lit, though none here seem to attach much importance to it.  Word from Medyrsalve is that it was an accident or an over-reaction.”

“Well it was neither.  Prince Thren perished in the fall of Sturmcairn.  Prince Eadran died from some mischance or mischief on the road to Listcairn and
orcs have been raiding the villages of Morsalve South and West of Morwencairn.”

Niarmit whistled softly but made no other reacti
on.  Feyril paused in his tale, disconcerted by how little the news moved her. “You do believe this all my Lady? I do not jest.”

She nodded, “Aye Feyril, your story is not just credible but also familiar.  A similar disaster
overtook Undersalve but five years ago.  I am gracing you with a better hearing than either King Bulveld or Prince Gregor gave me when I entreated them for support for my father.”

“Bulveld was a sick man. H
e died but a month after your embassy and Gregor was still distraught by his wife’s untimely death.”

Niarmit snorted.  “My father always said that the duty of a Prince was to his people before his family.  My father
died for his people and for five long years I have held back my own grief in the thankless task of serving those people he died to defend.  Had Gregor paid more heed to my embassy, his wife’s memory would not have been hurt by the effort, but many lives, not least my father’s, might have been saved.”

“King Gregor is dead.”

“Oh.” Surprise at last found Niarmit.

“Along with the household guard, the Marshal Bruntveld and the better part of the elves of Hershwood.”

Niarmit managed a murmur of sympathy.  “I grieve for your loss, my Lord.  I well remember that it was the elves of Hershwood alone who came to our aid at Beldrag.”

Feyril gave a weak smile. “Aye, yet still I would I had served you and your father better on that dreadful day.  I had thought you
lost with poor Matteus, your position overrun.  ‘twas only then that I sounded the retreat.”

“It is not just old elves who can do magic.  My father
had a ring my mother gave him, a forbidden ring of wizard craft with a special dweomer.  He made me wear it when the last charge came, made me speak the word of command.” She looked away from the Elf’s steady gaze.  “It took me. Took me from his side to a place of safety. I never saw him fall.  I never said goodbye.”

Feyril let the silence rest a moment between them.
“If I had known you lived, my Lady, by the Goddess I would have o-er turned every stone in Undersalve to find you,” he said softly.

“That is much to swear for a poor landless orphaned
once-upon-a-time princess,” she muttered as she smeared the heels of her hands across her eyes.  “Tell me Feyril, what is it you want of me?”

The elf took a breath before launching at speed into h
is message.  “My lady Niarmit, the Empire of the Salved faces its greatest threat in a millennium.  The chief enemy of your people has risen anew and will sweep into the sea all those whom he cannot enslave or destroy, unless you stop him.  You must ride to Morwencairn, take up the reigns and trappings of power for only you can stand against him.”

Niarmit was lost, floundering in the wake of Feyril
’s rapid discourse.  “My Lord? Me to Morwencairn, to lead the empire? You are mad.”

“You must. I
t is your duty.”

“No
!” she slammed her palm against the fragile wooden floor.  “Undersalve was my duty and I discharged that in full.  I challenge any to say I could have done more in the service of that province.  I am leaving now and, if the Empire of The Salved is in such trouble as you describe, then the appeal of the Eastern lands just calls all the stronger.  I have no place on the throne at Morwencairn.  The line of Matteus is but the most junior of the royal lines as was well rehearsed when first my father was made Prince.  Why do you not call on Udecht or Rugan? I am sure they can brandish better claims to lead the Empire than I!”

Feyril realised he had overreached himself.  He paused and took a careful breath before speaking. “My Lady, you are not of the line of Matteus; King Gregor himself was your father.”

Niarmit rose unsteadily, incredulously to her feet.  “No,” she mumbled. “No, you lie! It is a lie!”

Kimbolt woke first.  The camp around him was stirring and he shuffled off the thick cloak that Dema had flung around him.  The Medusa herself was serenely asleep against a tree trunk opposite him. She was masked and hooded as always, but with her eyes hidden and her snakes soothed into sleep, it was uncanny how human she looked.  It gave credit to her claim, “I was human once too.”  Though to do so was to raise another host of questions.  How could anybody, any human, choose the form she now inhabited? How was it possible?

“What made you do it
?”  It was only when she stirred into languid wakefulness that Kimbolt realised he had spoken the last question aloud.

“Do what Captain?” She stretched her arms above her head and arched the stiffness out of her body.

He saught some less intrusive query than the one that had been in his mind and his hesitation drew a sharp edge from Dema’s tongue. “Come Captain, you asked a question and I am minded to answer it, but do not try my patience with delay.  There is nothing I have done of which I am ashamed.”

“You said you were
human once. Why did you change?” Kimbolt abandoned the search for a more diplomatic question.

The mask lifted slightly a
s she raised her eyebrows. “Why? I think ‘how?’ would be the better question to which I would give the answer by accident, and by magic.”