Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) (19 page)

Another pillar of slow walking flame erupted in the night.  “That doesn’t stop them, Captain,” Abroath grunted sweating with exertion.

“But it makes them easier to see
,” the elf called back his eyes shining bright with the fire of half a dozen staggering torches.  “And once they have burned all to ash, there is no harm in them.”

Between the burning zombies a broken line of undead staggered up the hill neither hurried nor alarmed by their fellows
’ fate.  One of the staggering flares stumbled and fell over, scorched sinews no longer answering to its undead hunger. Tordil leapt lightly over a boulder his sword glinting in the red light. 

“How close do I have to be?
” Abroath asked clutching at the crescent symbol around his neck.

“The Lady Niarmit just got in the middle of them,” Tordil called as he stepped towards the nearest zombie and sliced its head off.  Arrows punctured another of the creatures illuminated by flickering flames.  “Don’t waste your efforts,” the elf shouted at the archers behind him.  “You have to cut them to pieces, arrows don’t stop them.  Get a blade and get in there.”

A few yards behind the elf, Abroath held his symbol aloft and took a hesitant step towards the nearest zombie.  The creature cowered before the holy emblem as Abroath stammered out a blessing, “b..b.. benedictonium de D..D..Dea.”

The zombie bent as if blown by a great wind, its lips twisted in a snarl of discomfort, but then the pre
ssure faded and it straightened, its mouth opening, broken teeth red with blood.  The creature lunged towards Abroath, as the Prior stumbled backwards and fell over a stone. A flash of blade and the zombie’s hands tumbled from stumps of arms but still the creature fell towards him, its maw gaping to tear chunks from his throat. A foot intercepted the creature in its fall as Tordil kicked it to one side.

“It isn’t working, Captain,”
Abroath cried.  “The blessing. It is not stopping them!”

“Have more faith, Prior,”
Tordil snapped, his sword slicing off the fallen zombie’s head though the disparate parts still snarled, scuttled and crawled in pursuit of prey.  “You must have more faith!”

Then he was away,
calling for more of the troops of Oostsalve to come down the hill and lay into the flock of shambling undead as they stumbled out of the darkness. 

Abroath shuffled to his feet.  Another creature had caught his scent and was lurching with ill intent his way.  He kicked aside a severed hand which
had caught at his sandaled foot, and held out his symbol trying to believe it as potent a weapon as Tordil’s sword. The zombie lumbered closer, ducking slightly as though to avoid sight of the symbol in the Prior’s hand.

Abroath closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.  He summoned up every shred of faith, the moment of his ordination when he had known the favour of the
Goddess flowing into him, the first time he had healed an old man and felt her power at his fingertips.  He let that belief drive out the knee trembling fear at the awful miasma of the creature he could smell but dare not see.  He believed, believed in a greater good than the evil that confronted him and he declaimed “benedictonium de Dea.”

There was a shrill inhuman shriek as a gust of power blew from
his outstretched hands.  “That’s the way Prior,” he heard Tordil’s voice calling.  Abroath opened his eyes, one at a time.  A swathe had been cut through the uneven line of zombies approaching him, a wedge filled with scattered piles of dust.  But even as he watched more creatures filtered out of the darkness, moving into the space.

“Again, Prior,” Tordil shouted from away to his left, and again Abroath lifted his symbol, though it seemed heavier than before.

“How was our brother when last you saw him, Seneschal?”  Quintala looked up from her glass
into the lopsided smiles of the Lords of Oostsalve. 

Prince Rugan’s sprawling elegant palace was more a town than a building.  The ruler of Medyrsalve had long held to the dictum of keeping his frien
ds close and his enemies closer and in the remote grandeur of his country palace that meant the needs of a sizeable population of constant guests must be met, including the opportunity to eat, drink and socialise.  So it was Quintala had found her way to one of the public galleries where plush furnishings would afford some comfortable repose and liveried flunkies could be prevailed upon to provide refreshment.

The half-elf
’s winged chair had been carefully chosen for its location in a discreet corner by one of the smaller fireplaces.  The seat angled away from the main thoroughfare, but still the Lords of Oostsalve had found her.    Despite her glare and her silence the two pulled up seats for themselves in semblance of a cosy conclave.

Quintala glanced ar
ound.  One of her brother’s purposes, in supplying so convenient an environment for casual conversations, was to ensure it was his servants who caught any  drops of indiscretion that such talk might let slip.  But whatever Leniot and Tybert wished to discuss, it seemed they were to be unobserved.

The dark haired Lord Leniot pulled his chair still closer, his knees a couple of inches away from Quintala’s
.  Lord Tybert sat back and stroked his chin, thinking perhaps that the beard leant a distinction which the anonymity of his mouse brown hair denied him.  In letting his brother take the lead he presumably hoped that his silence would be mistaken for the wisdom of deep thought.

“Our brother, Seneschal, short, blond hair, white robes, not like us at all,” Leniot prompted, even sketching a tonsure upon his head.

“No, not like you at all
,” Quintala agreed, her nose wrinkling at the reek of liquor that wafted with Leniot’s every word.

“My brother here and I, we find you are of great interest to us.”

“I’m sorry I cannot say the same.”  Quintala eyed the two brothers warily.  Tybert, looked at her over steepled fingers an unpleasant smile playing across his lips.  Leniot’s grin was broadening into a leer.  The half-elf frowned.  Whatever intelligence they sought to prise from her, whatever they may have heard or guessed at of the meeting with Lady Giseanne, this was surely the clumsiest attempt at espionage.

“You are a wo
man known to have many talents, talents and desires.  My brother and I, we know about meeting such desires and enjoying such talents.”

Leniot’s hand reached toward her knee, but never arrived.  A muttered enchantment and a flick of the half-elf’s fingers and the Eastern Lord’s hand stopped frozen short of his target, his foolish grin fixed in place
a tendril of drool slithering from the corner of his mouth.  Behind him the Lord Tybert framed a tableau only slightly less absurd.  The spell had caught him frozen on the brink of a chortling laugh which, in the instant of capture might have been anything from a sneeze to a vomit.

Quintala edged carefully out of her chair and around their frozen forms.  “You are either the two most cleverly disguised spies, my Lords,” she told them.  “Or you are indeed the arrogant imbeciles you appear.  Insult me one more time and I will cast a spell that sees
you never rise for any woman ever again.”

“Do you even know what effect your undead are having?” Dema stormed at Galen.

“My necromancers set them on their way and we see the fires and hear the alarms they cause.  There is und
oubted consternation in the enemy’s camp.” Galen scowled, jewellery jangling as he folded his arms.  “At least my force is doing something, unlike the Redfangs, the Blackskulls and the Bonegrinders all sitting sharpening their teeth while their general fornicates her advantage away.”

“Please,” Odestus raised his arms for calm even as Dema flung ba
ck her hood.  “We all know the Master’s wishes in this.  We are to act in unity so that no thought or force from Medyrsalve should interfere in the absorption of Morsalve beneath his hand.”

“Unity means one,” Dema hissed.  “Yet it seems we have two generals in this pampered pavilion.  I have it in mind to halve that number.”

“Odestus,” Galen squealed.  “You assured me this witch would honour the safe conduct I gave her.”

“Dema,” t
he little wizard cried and the Medusa turned on him, two azure lights scintillating so brightly through the gauze across her eyes they threatened to pierce the film which warded against her gaze.  “Dema, remember!” Odestus summoned a rare authority to his tone and, with a snarl the Medusa turned away and slumped into a canvas chair, her snakes hissing their distaste at being denied prey.

Odestus took in a breath of calmer air.  “We know that Galen has sent his zombies into the hills.  Some may have evaded the pickets and made their way into Medyrsalve.”

“We don’t know that,” Dema snapped.  “We know nothing beyond this peacock’s boasts.”

“Well, Dema, when I learn the trick of flight I will oe’er fly the lands of Medyrsalve and bring back a full report,” Odestus felt his threadbare patience stretch to breaking point.  “But given that such a fea
t is unlikely this side of the Prophet’s return, and we have no intelligence from the enemy camp, we will have to make do as best we can with a few spells of far seeing and some sensible deductions.”

The M
edusa nodded.  “So what use is this prick going to be then?” she dipped her chin towards Galen.  The necromancer’s face flushed as crimson as his garish cloak.

“As I said, I have been carrying the fight to the enemy with my legions, while you have sat licking,” the necromancer’s eye had been fixed on the ragged scar on Dema’s cheek as he spoke, but he suddenly braved the sparkle of her veiled eyes. “licking whoever and whatever you chose.”

“You’ve been throwing your precious zombies away without thought or strategy, you fool.”

“What should I have been doing pray tell?”

“Launching a diversion a few zombies with your orcs and nomads to draw their pickets down and enable the bulk of the undead to be driven round the southern edge of their abandoned picket lines.”

Odestus looked at Dema wide m
outhed, the Medusa looked back with a shrug palms spread outwards.  “It is not complicated, little wizard.  If the little shit actually wants to get his wandering dead to stalk Medyrsalve it needs something slightly more subtle than just throwing the beggars at their defences.”

Odestus smiled.  “Well at last we begin to see how we might work together.”

“
We heard last week from the Lady Niarmit and her associates,” Rugan announced once the formalities of reconvening the council had been concluded.  “And we have argued long and hard over what intelligence can be gleaned from those reports. Before we take any decisions of import, we should hear the latest news from the other delegates.  Bishop Sorenson what passes in Nordsalve?”

Niarmit tapped her fingers in impatience as the Bishop rose ponderously to his feet.  The season was advancing and there was little time to
waste in diplomatic procrastination.

“
Thank you, Prince Rugan, you are most gracious,” Sorenson began.  “The conflict has gone ill with us.  Prince Hetwith and the best part of his guard fell to orcish treachery at the bridge over the Derrach Gorge.  The force we have left is thinly spread along the banks of the Derrach fully employed in preventing any incursion from the conquered province of Morsalve.”

“What of Hetwith’s son,
the boy Prince?” Kychelle broke in on Sorenson’s mournful deposition.

“Prince
Yannuck is just past his ninth birthday.  His mother has assumed the Regency for his minority.”

“Yet neither of them would attend my Grandson’s council in person?”

Sorenson hesitated, before embarking on a circumspect response.  “Lady Kychelle, the roads here took us through the Northern reaches of Morsalve and were not without peril.  The Lady Isobel would not trust herself or the young Prince to such a journey.”  The Bishop bowed a little lower, in anticipation of the offence he was about to cause.  “Of course, if passage were admitted through the Silverwood, then all danger could have been evaded…”

“
My husband deemed the secrets of the Silverwood are not for human eyes,” Kychelle retorted with a stamp of her stick upon the ground.  “It would be a dark day indeed that had myself or his Steward revoke that decree.”

“I can think of no darker day than this
.” Niarmit’s muttered comment had been louder than was discreet, but she met the Elf’s black glare with a gaze of steady defiance.

“Those who
have lived barely two short decades in this Isle should bow to the greater experience of those who have spent more than two millennia here,” Kychelled declared.   “My husband and I lived through the death throes of the Monar Empire, through the rise of Maelgrum, the triumph and disaster of the Vanquisher and his line including the Kinslaying which nearly destroyed this realm.  In all that time no human, orc or other creature was admitted into the Silverwood.  When you have lived two thousand years, Lady Niarmit, then you can tell me if this is a dark enough day to open the borders of my husband’s realm to all or any non-elven kin.”

“Perhaps, Grandmama,” Rugan interrupted
, dragging Kychelle from her contemptuous scrutiny of Niarmit. “You could remind us then how things stand in the Silverwood.”

“Our borders are intact, the wards my husband laid and the vigilance of our guard ensure that no force of the enemy has crossed into it in two millennia.  The Steward has sent word that we have welcomed refugees from Feyril’s lost realm of Hershwood.”  Kychelle drew in a deep breath, savouring the moment.  “They are a sorry people, much reduced in power and number and a most timely reminder of what befalls when true Elven blood indulges in the folly of interference in human affairs.  That was ever my husband’s argument with the Lord Feyril
and I am only sorry to have seen Andril proved so roundly right,” she finished with a gleam of sorrowless triumph in her eye.

“Feyril was a brave and true elf who gave everything in the fight ag
ainst Maelgrum,” Niarmit cried, rising from her seat.  She could not stop herself crossing the council chamber to confront the haughty elf.  “He didn’t pick and choose when and where to meddle in the affairs of the Salved for his own twisted amusement.  He gave his all.”

“
And he lost! He lost it all.” Kychelle stood straight and tall unbowed by Niarmit’s anger.  “I will give my advice to my Grandson and the people of the Salved.  My husband always held it was our duty to lend our wisdom to you short-lived mayflies, but I will not gamble with my husband’s inheritance and his people as Feyril gambled with his.  My words you shall have for free and you should pay them heed, all of you, but my lands and my spearmen and archers you shall not have.”

“If we fail, Lady Kychelle, if Maelgrum and his legions flow around your precious forest like the plague they are and you sit and wait and hope that
Maelgrum does not come for you, then you will think on this day and rue your choices.”

“The Silverwood has survived Maelgrum before.”

“Bought him off with your own daughter as a hostage to Andril’s good behaviour.  Who would you send in Liessa’s place this time?”

The slap resounded
and reverberated from the domed ceiling to Rugan’s council chamber.  Niarmit’s head jerked sideways with the force of it. She turned back slowly, to meet the elf’s eyes with an unrepentant rage.  Kychelle’s hand swung again, lightning fast, harder than before, but Niarmit caught and held it half an inch from her cheek. “You are an insult to your kind,” the priestess said with slow deliberation.

“I’ll take no lessons in being an elf from a human bastard,” Kychelle spat back.

“Your Majesty, my Lady Niarmit, let us not fall to quarrelling amongst ourselves about what is past,” Quintala at Niarmit’s shoulder stumbled through the unaccustomed role of peacemaker. The Queen let herself be pulled away, but she took two steps back before she turned her eyes from Kychelle’s brooding malevolence.

In the silence that lingered, the Lord Leniot made a tentative suggestion.  “Perhaps it is time to hear from Oostsalve?”

“We know your mind Lord Leniot, and your father’s also,” Kychelle observed without looking round.

“In the interests of completeness
, though,” Rugan admitted.  “Let us hear and record what message you have brought.”

“Well, my father has already parted wi
th the best part of his force.  We had hoped to see them here.”

“Your brother and the hobilers are doing fine service helping hold the gap of
Tandar.”  Quintala spoke up. Niarmit was grateful for the Seneschal’s intervention.  Her cheek was still stinging from Kychelle’s blow and she did not trust herself to speak well or wisely.

“Quite so, well the rest of our father’s force is needed in Oostsalve and cannot be parted with.”

“Fool boy,” Rugan gestured at the map of the Kingdom of the Salved picked out in mosaic on the floor, a map which placed Medyrsalve at the Kingdom’s centre.  “How will the enemy reach Oostsalve saving through my province.  Your father’s greatest advantage lies in helping secure Medyrsalve.  He should lend his force to mine.  If Medyrsalve should fall what hope can Oostslave have of enduring alone. What value another six thousand then?”

“Perhaps they might be
thought sufficient to guard the Prince’s retreat to his ships and vouchsafe him a secure passage to the Eastern Lands?” The faces of the Lords of Oostsalve reddened at Quintala’s blunt suggestion.    

Niarmit caught a glance from Giseanne and decided the Princess had judged the time right.  “It seems to me,” the Queen began, “
that what this council lacks is one person with authority to instruct all the Princes, that our forces may act in concert against the threat we face.”

“And you think you are the one with that autho
rity, Lady Niarmit?” Rugan’s lip curled in contempt as he delivered his challenge.

“I know there are those here who doubt my claim.” Niarmit gave a moue of self-deprecation.

“Where there is no monarch, authority rests with the Prince of the senior province.” Kychelle could barely contain her satisfaction.  “That is the Prince of Medyrsalve.”

Niarmit shook her head. “W
e are all sure that there is a monarch.  Those who think it is not I, would place the crown on the head of the Bishop Udecht.”

“But he is in captivity,”
Leniot said.

“
And where the monarch has been incapacitated, by captivity, madness or minority,” Quintala intoned, “rulership has passed to the monarch’s nearest blood relative who acts as Regent with all royal power and prerogative.  Thus it was for Gregor the Third in his insanity, Thren the Sixth in captivity, Eadran the Sixth in minority. I could go on.”

“So who is the nearest blood relative?”  Tybert asked his brother in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

Bishop Sorenson gave the lords of Oostsalve a glare that would wake a slumbering parishioner in a Prophet’s day service, before turning with all the ecclesiastical and physical weight that he could muster to Prince Rugan’s wife.  “My Lady Giseanne, do you accept this charge as Regent of the Salved.”

Kychelle’s grip on her stick loosened so it dropped with a dull thud to the marble floor. “What madness is this?
  You would make my grandson’s wife the ruler of us all?”

“It is within
the protocols, Lady Kychelle,” Bishop Sorenson assured her.

The el
f rounded on Niarmit, “but you, you cannot accept this Regency, to do so would be to deny your claim.”

Niarmit smiled.  “If my authority is compromised by the dispute to my claim, then the Lady Giseanne is as much my Regent as she is my Uncle’s. 
She is my closest blood relative, free from captivity or minority.  You will find no dispute from me of her right to the Regency and I see no others in the room would challenge the lady’s legitimate right to rule until I or her brother can prove our claim to the throne.”

Kychelle spun to face Giseanne.  “Are you ready then
, my Lady to take up this double Regency, all its pains and woes?”

The lady’
s calm assurance as she nodded inflamed the elf even more. “This was known?” she cried.  “This was planned in advance!  It is a trick!”  She strode across the chamber, her staff clacking on the mosaic floor as she approached Niarmit.

“There is no plan, grandmama,” Quintala assured he
r.  “This is simply how it is.  How it had to be.”

“Silence!” Kychelle gave a quick chop of her hand to cut her grand-daughter short.  She leaned in towards Niarmit, the Queen’s cheek still red from her earlier blow.  “I sense your meddling at work here, it will avail you nothing.  I am sure my grandson can keep his wife in check.”

“I will take close counsel with all my nobles,” Giseanne interjected.  “Not just my dear Rugan.”

Kychelle spared her a glare.  “I had heard tell that childbirth softened the mind of human mothers, but I had not thought to see it before now.  Do not think by this stratagem that any bastard of that cuckold Matteus will command the obedience of the Elves of Silverwood.”

“I’ll thank you, Lady Kychelle, to speak with more courtesy of him whom I called father,” Niarmit kept her fury cold.

“You’ll thank me not to put a matching mark on your other cheek,” Kychelle spat back. “Impudent witch.”  With that the elf stalked from the room without a backward glance.

“Lady that is twice in two days you have surprised me,” Rugan told his wife, though not without some grudging admiration.