Lady Of The Helm (Book 1) (5 page)

She smiled again.  “Little wizard, what makes you
think you have any other choice?”

Odestus was dragged from the familiar dream of past horror into the mundane present of his command tent.  Vesten was shaking him awake with an insistent, “Governor, governor, bad news.”

Odestus struggled into discombobulated wakefulness.  “What is it? have the Blackskulls and the Redfangs started up again.”  The squabbling of the raw recruits was a constant distraction as they struggled to meet the looming deadline, however a pause in his secretary’s agitated shaking showed this was not the cause of his current distress. In that moment’s quiet Odestus’ ear caught no sound of uproar in the camp outside, no guttural oaths or clash of blade on shield.  All was as it should be.

Vesten quickly confirmed this with a shake of his head.  “It’s not the orcs sire.  It is Nordag.”

“What’s the big oaf done now?”  Odestus pushed himself upright, being careful not to upset the campbed and tip himself onto the floor.  There was a limit to the number of cack handed indignities  allowed while still maintaining the status of horde commander.

“He’s died, Governor.”

Odestus blinked owlishly at Vesten’s narrowed expression.  Nordag dead? The ogre was practically indestructible.  He’d killed hundreds in the battle at Bledrag field with barely a scratch to show for it. “How?”

“Assassinated, in his own bedchamber, Governor.
”

Odestus sighed and ran his hand unthinkingly across his head.  A few years ago the gesture would have involved combing his fingers through silver grey locks, but while orcs grew more hirsute with age, it appeared wizards grew bald. As he pondered the Nordag question, O
destus reflected that he had come a long way in the last twenty years.  Certainly, he had survived and even prospered, after a fashion, where none had expected it.  However, the deeply personal and immediate fear he had experienced in that nightmare room in Sturmcairn had been replaced by a far more complex mosaic.  The demands of rulership entailed delivering results through others and, as Odestus had once tried to explain to Vesten, it felt like sitting atop a bubbling cauldron constantly adding the ingredients that one hoped would keep the mixture just this side of a catastrophic explosion.

“W
hat is to be done, Governor?”

“
This is ill-timed.  The usual reprisals must suffice, and Galen will have to take the Mayordom for the time being at least.”  Odestus scowled as Vesten glanced away, hands slipping one over the other in fearful anxiety.  “What is it? Has Galen also fallen victim to this accursed resistance?  I would think he had the wit not to be surprised at slumber, at least he does not share Nordag’s tastes in the bedroom.”

“No, Governor,” Vesten conceded.  “But he has been experimenting with the latest spell and I gather …. I understand that…. Er… one of the creatures escaped him.”

Odestus’s eyes widened in anger.  “The bloody fool.  The last thing we want now is a general alarm at our backs because the people have seen one of those roaming at large.  Has it been recaptured, or destroyed?”

“No sightings or reports Governor.” Vesten added the hopeful rider, “perhaps it died?”

“Those things are already dead, Vesten.  They can hardly die again.  Still mayhap it has fallen somewhere quiet where it can rot into inactivity.” He thumped the bed with his fist, nearly upsetting the delicate framework. “Damn fool necromancer.  Send Galen a message.  The extension of his temporary tenure as Mayor depends entirely on him keeping his pets under strict control, and crushing those impudent scoundrels who killed his predecessor.”

“Yes Governor, it shall be done.” Grateful to have instructions to convey, Vesten bowed low and withdrew.  Odestus contemplated se
eking sleep once more, but thought again of the dreams that awaited him and decided he may as well make an early start to the day.

Niarmit swam in easy strokes across the rock pool delighting in its refreshing cleanliness as she threw off the stench and stains of the mission to Woldtag. She rolled onto her front and dived, kicking powerfully to reach the bottom and then, turning, floated upwards ever faster until she broke the surface and drew deep breaths of forest air. The distant, but unfamiliar, cracking of a twig brought no perceptible reaction from her save only a slightly longer pause between breaths.  A few more easy breast strokes and then she dived again, deep as before, but this time she tugged herself sideways using the rocks and the weeds at the pool bottom as handholds.

She finally surfaced in the shadow of an overhanging r
ock, hidden from the area where the unexpected noise had come.  Her lungs cried out for air, but she rationed them to deep infrequent breaths and gradually the pounding in her temple subsided.  Kaylan was a hundred yards down the track in the opposite direction, at their pitiful little camp. He knew where she had gone and he would not approach her at her ablutions without first announcing himself.  They had a system of agreed bird calls for this and other eventualities.  So the noise had to be a stranger, perhaps a random walker in the forest, but Niarmit thought it unlikely.   This was a difficult spot to stumble on, but once found a hard one to forget.

There
was another sound, a scrape of nailed boot on rock.  The stranger must have broken the forest cover to draw near the edge of the pool.  He was close, standing on the rock beneath which Niarmit now sheltered.  The low morning sun flung his shadow across the still water and Niarmit eyed it carefully.  The proportions of head and body suggested human sized at least and as he turned this way and that scanning the surface for a sign of her, she saw no evidence of the squashed and distorted features of an orc.  However, there was the long thin shadow of a scabbard stretching down from his waist.  An armed human who chose not to announce himself?  To some eyes Niarmit, weaponless, naked and stuck in the pool might appear to be at a disadvantage.  However, as her father had often told her, in battle knowledge was power.  Niarmit knew where the newcomer was, while he had no idea where she was.

She upended herself and pushed powerfully silently against t
he rock ceiling with her legs plunging deep into the pool. Then turning she drove off equally powerfully from the pool bottom, accelerating herself upwards with strong strokes whose ripples would only reach the surface after she herself had emerged. She shot from the water right by the stranger’s feet.  One hand grasped the rock, the other his ankle and with a jerk on one hand and a yank on the other she had tossed him splashing and spluttering into the water, while herself emerging smoothly onto the rock ledge he had just involuntarily vacated.

She crossed quickly to the small pile of clothing and weaponry which she had stas
hed beneath a bush.  Seizing her sword she checked the forest cover for any evidence that he was accompanied.  

“Niarmit,” came a cry from the thrashing swimmer behind her.

She turned quickly to face the pool, the point of her weapon aimed at her erstwhile stalker as he struggled to tread water, sodden blond hair plastered to his skull. Even though his face was angled back to keep his nose and lips just above water, sudden recognition drew a startled exclamation from her lips.  “It’s you!”

Udecht drew on all his strength as he intoned, once again, the familiar invocation. “Sanaret servum tuum carus dea.”  Beads of perspiration broke on his brow.  This was the fourth time in as many hours that he had returned to heal his long lost brother and each effort had left him gasping for breath drained beyond all previous experience.  Yet he was gratified to see the folorn figure show signs of improvement.  His breathing had eased, his sleep grew more restful and his features had even seemed to fill out a little, his cheeks losing their cadaverous hollows.  There was nothing to be done for the missing finger, but the incipient ravages of frost bite had been stalled and Udecht was at last satisfied with his work.  He brushed his hand across his sleeping brother’s forehead.  “Rest easy,” he urged.

Udecht jumped as Xander’s eyes flicked open.  They scanned to left and right
and then, with lucid clarity, he spoke. “Udecht? Little brother, is it really you?”

The Bishop’s smile was choked with happy tears. “Yes, dear Xander, it is I.”

“You’ve changed,” Xander noted.  “I don’t remember you having quite such a belly before.”

“You
’ve changed too, brother, though in something of the opposite direction.”

“Where am I
?”

“The sacristy at Sturmcairn.
I’m afraid our Nephew is something of a stickler, he insisted you be kept securely until he had an acceptable account of your movements. “

Xander sniffed and eased himself upright.  “He was always a precocious little turd, even as a child. 
Ever quick to give us orders eh?” Xander grinned conspiratorily.

Udecht’s finger flew to his mouth.  “Thren has had guards posted, brother.  They should not be able to overhear us, but it might be wise to speak softly of our nephew’s limitations.”

Xander nodded in understanding and licked his lips.  “I’m powerful thirsty, if this is the sacristy I don’t suppose you’d have any goddess day mead to hand?”

“Of course.”
Udecht hastened to unlock an ornate cabinet and take out a ceremonial cup and a gilt edged decanter.  “I think the goddess will forgive a little break with ritual on an occasion such as this.”

Xander took a deep draught from the proferred cup and gave a satisfied belch.  “Aye, I’ve not tasted something so good in…..” He hesitated and turned his face away from Udecht’s curious stare.

The Bishop trod carefully into the silence that followed.  “Thren has it in mind to let you rest overnight, recover your strength and then question you tomorrow.”

“Considerate little shit isn’t he,” Xander observed, draining the rest of the amber liquid.

“Perhaps,” Udecht ventured.  “Perhaps you could share a little of the story ahead of times. Nothing that distresses you of course but I am….” 

“Curious
?” Xander filled in.  “You hurried to heal me.  Four times I felt you tried and just so as to get the drop on the tin pot castellan eh?”  As Udecht squirmed, Xander grinned.  “I’ll trade, little brother.  You tell me how things have passed with our house and I will tell you where I have been and what has happened, in so far as I can remember any of it.”

Udecht greedily accepted the offer and then composed his features for the delivery of bad news.  “I have to say, our father is dead.”

Xander nodded.  “I had guessed as much, else Gregor would still be castellan of Sturmcairn, rather than his son.  But tell me, has it been long?”

“
He passed five years last spring.”  Udecht grimaced and went on. “It was not pretty brother, a long slide into illness and decrepitude, despite the best efforts of the priests, myself included.  We could win him some respite during the day, but then overnight he would grow sicker still.”

Xander bowed his head, accepting
the ill news with a clucking of his tongue.  “To be sure he and I had our disagreements, but I would never have wished him such ill. The loss of dignity must have pained him greatly?”  He let a moment pass in memory of his father before striking out with a more hopeful enquiry.  “But what of Lord Matteus, how has he fared in his new fiefdom?”

Udecht’s eyes were hooded with despair as his brother struck unerringly on another sourc
e of bad tidings. “Oh brother, would I could say it were not so, but events have proven your judgement right.  The man was unequal to the task of rulership.  The entire province of Undersalve has fallen.”

“Fallen
? How and to whom?”  Xander’s shock was almost tangible.

“The desert nomads
grew stronger, gathered allies, some say orcs though I credit it not, this work was too well organised for their kind.  Matteus tried and failed to hold them back.  He was slain in battle at a place called Bledrag.  His daughter perished also and with her ended his short lived princely line. Undersalve was overrun.  Now we count but four human provinces of the Kingdom of the Salved while it is left to the Elves of Hershwood and the Dwarves of the Hadran mountains to guard our kingdom’s new Southern flank.”

“Together with the host of Medyrsalve of course,” Xander challenged his brother’s analysis.

The corners of Udecht’s mouth twitched in discomfort. “Prince Rugan has lived and ruled a very long time, Brother as you know, and he has not survived so long by taking risks with his wealth or his armies.”

Xander scowled
. “Half breed bastard. There’s another one should never have been allowed to set his arse on a provincial throne.”

“You know brother, I was always on your part in that argument,” Udecht whispered.  “Had U
ndersalve only been led by you, a direct descendant of the bloodline of Eadran the Vanquisher, then I am sure much evil would have been avoided.”

“I said as much and often enough from the moment that throne fell vacant,”
Xander growled.

“I was not part of the final counsels that our father took. It was not even
the full council of the nine, or as it was eight princes, that he spoke with.  Only Feyril of Hershwood and Gregor our brother were there to persuade him. I cannot imagine what false arguments they must have presented.”