Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) (48 page)

“Your reverence? Are you well,” Haselrig asked the unusua
lly prostrate form of the Bishop kneeling by his simple cot in the antiquary’s workroom.

The B
ishop sat up abruptly.  Haselrig thought he saw a glint of gold in the suddenness of the movement.  Udecht wiped at his eyes with both hands, sleeves flapping as he pressed fingers into his eye sockets smearing wetness across his cheeks.

“Are you well?” The antiquary repeated.

The Bishop turned on him, drawing in a deep breath to begin some familiar rant of rebuke at the antiquary’s betrayal or the misery of the Bishop’s lot.  But between inhaling and speaking Udecht’s shoulders fell, his head sagged and the fight went out in his tired eyes.  “There are worse than me, Haselrig,” was all he said.

Haselrig fumbled on the table for a scrap of cl
ean cloth and handed it to the Bishop.  “Your eyes are red, your reverence.”

Udecht wiped the corners of his eyes with a precise fingertip of fabric. 

“There will be a way out of this, your reverence. There is a future.”

Udecht looked at the antiquary glumly.  “What way? A
future  which has Maelgrum triumphant.”

“I am promised Salicia.
”  Haselrig hesitated and then launched into the hope he had been privately nurturing ever since Xander’s death.  “The Master has many cares, he cannot watch too close on all his affairs.  I will carve out some kind of life, some kind of domain that moderates the impact of his demands.”

Udecht snorted.  “You think you could do that.  You think you could curtail his thi
rst for slaves and for wealth.”

“Maelgrum is interested in outcomes not methods.  A good man cannot serve an evil
master, but a grey man might, might find some shadow path between good and evil.” 

“Is that what you think, how you lull yourself to sleep at night, Haselrig?”

“I crave only enough success and favour to assure me a comfortable distance between myself and the Master.”  Haselrig thought again of Odestus the fortunate, given the independence and freedom from the Master’s daily presence.  If he could make Salicia another arm’s length domain such as Undersalve had been then life might become if not good, at least bearable.  He stretched out a hand to pat the Bishop on the shoulder.  “I would take you with me, your reverence.”

Udecht looked up in sharp astonishment, but his question surprised the antiquary.  “What of my daughter?”

“What of her?”

“Could you keep her safe too?”

Haselrig shrugged.

“Is she safe now?”
Odestus demanded.

The antiquary gave another moue.  “I don’t know
, your reverence.”

“Let me speak to my niece, let me ask her.”

Haselrig shook his head.  “That is not possible, your reverence.”

“Is she dead,
have those bastards killed her?”

“No,” Haselrig stretched the vowel in an unconvincing denial and then hastened to provide clari
fication.  “She lives, but the Master would not have you speak with her, he would not have anyone speak with her before his business is concluded.  Afterwards?” Haselrig’s mouth stretched in a grimace. “Well, let us just say there is nothing I can do for the Lady Niarmit. There never was.”

“What of her companion, could I speak with him? I must have news of my daughter.”

The Bishop had reached out to grip Haselrig’s arms and the antiquary was surprised by the strength in the stress shrunken Bishop’s hands.  He prised himself free.  “The thief, Kaylan, is confined separately, your reverence.  I may be able to find you a few minutes with him.”

The hope which illuminated the B
ishop’s face was distressingly bright, so much so that Haselrig hastened to play down his promise.  “I make no guarantees, your reverence.  I can but try.”

“Oh Haselrig, please try.  I would be so grateful, thank you.”

Quintala had stretched the day’s ride to its limit.  There was only the blue glow of sky, lingering after the sunset, to light their way into the stables o
f Laviserve.  The lancers’ grumblings at the horse ruining pace, had diminished as the prospect of a decent bed and a meal more substantial than hard tack drew closer.   

“Well, Lady Quintala,
” Jolander said.  “That is a night in the open we have certainly saved, and you will be able to get some rest rather than stand watch and watch about all night.”

“I like to do it, Sergeant,” Quintala replied.  “I could never fathom how you humans can sleep so much.”  She stopped sho
rt of saying that sleep seemed an awful waste of the little lives the Goddess had granted them. “Besides,” she added.  “One can never have too many watch keepers in my brother’s realm.  Even the wind whispers at his command.”

Jolander pursed his lips, drawing in the frosty
tips of his  moustache.  “The Queen should be at Lady Isobel’s court by now.”

Quintala frowned.  “Maybe not that far, Se
rgeant.  I hope she has drawn an escort from Lady Isobel’s garrison, even at the risk of travelling slower.  This Torsden rogue might elect to try and press his suit upon another woman if the charms of Hetwith’s widow are insufficient for his ambition.”

The sergeant’s whiskers quivered at the awful thought.  “
He would not dare, he could not!”

“There is no telling what a Nordsalve noble might do, Sergeant, some of them are still barbarians at heart
.  They’d be more at home drinking a desert nomad under the table than eating dainty dishes at court.”

Jolander was all concern for his absent Monarch.  “I said I should have gone, Seneschal, you heard me.  Her Majesty should have let us escort her.”

Quintala shrugged.  “Her Majesty knows her own mind, Sergeant, and neither of us could gainsay her.  I am sure the same indomitable spirit will keep any rampant Nordman at bay.  Either that or Kaylan’s sword between their shoulder blades.”

The reassurance only partially mollified the big warrant officer. He snapped at his lancers for their untidy dismounts and their failure to have already rubbed their sweating horses down. 

Quintala slipped lithely from her own saddle and handed the reins to one of Rugan’s stable lads.  Then with a pat on the horse’s neck, she turned along the path through the gardens to the palace.  

She saw him coming long before he saw her.  Her elven eyes were
sensitive to the warmth of his body, his face glowing like a torch with its own heat. For a moment she considered stepping aside into the concealment of a shadow filled tree.  She could avoid him altogether, or seize the slight amusement of surprising him, it was always good to have options.  But in the end she stayed where she was and even alerted him to her presence with a hail of greeting.  “Captain Kimbolt, what brings you to the stables at this time?”

Kimbolt honed in on her voice
, eyes stretched wide to try to see in the shadow filled gloom of Rugan’s garden.  “It is you, thank the Goddess!” His voice was cracked with emotion.  “When I heard there had been riders seen I hoped it would be you ahead of time.”

“There was no need to stumble through Rugan’s gardens just to
congratulate me on my horsemanship.”

“Oh Quintala!” Kimbolt was close enough to see her shadow outline and to reach out for
her hand and pump it vigorously. “I am so glad to see you.”

The half-elf frowned.  The warmth of the Captain’s prese
nt greeting ill-matched the blank indifference he had shown at their departure. “What has changed, Kimbolt? What is it?” Quintala demanded.  “Is it the Princess? What has Mistress Elise done?”

“Oh Quintala,” Kimbolt sighed.  “It has all gone wrong, so
very wrong.  Your brother is mad with rage and folly and Hepdida is in danger and I can do nothing.  By the Goddess I am so glad to see a friendly face.”  He seized her in his arms and hugged her then, crushing her in an embrace of claustrophobic closeness.

She wriggled free.  “If you at least can tell me what
has happened Kimbolt, then we can begin to see what might be done about it.”

Udecht ran a finger along the outer edge of the golden talisman.  There was a small nick, a tiny unevenness in its outer curve which jarred his finger as he stroked the crescent from tip to tip.  It was a beautiful piece.  The elegant elven filigree embedded in a traditional design.  He turned it over in his hands soaking in the comfortable tranquillity of the grace of the Goddess.

All priests would carry the crescent, not just the tokens that the people sometimes wore, but the genuine article.  A symbol of the finest workmanship blessed over night on the high altar of the Archbishop’s temple and dedicated to the service of the Goddess.

Udecht’s own crescent had been a heavier piece, worthy of the third son of a king.  It had been his constant companion, the one thing he was never separated from until his brother Xander had taken it from him that night in Sturmcairn.  A priest without a crescent, was a priest without a prayer.

The
piece in his hand, like its true owner, was slim elegant and extremely powerful.   Udecht held it close against his chest letting it soothe him, bringing a peace that he had not shared in months.

But in that moment of blessed relief, in that certainty that the Goddess was not after all gone from his life or this world, there was also a moment of doubt.  What was he to do wi
th this heaven sent opportunity?

Hase
lrig had managed to find him five minutes with the bruised and battered thief.  The man’s speech had been muffled by the swelling of his jaw and he had had to turn his head to view the Bishop through the eye that wasn’t entirely closed by ugly green grey contusions. 

Udecht had tried to be patient but the thief had his pain and his own agenda to distract him.
While the Bishop had been anxious for news of Hepdida, the thief had wanted news of Niarmit and what Maelgrum’s plans might be for them both.  It had taken a few precious minutes to establish that Udecht knew nothing and had seen nothing since the morning encounter atop the watch tower.  A little while longer for the thief to sulk as he absorbed this disappointment.  Knowing that the guard would return in a matter of seconds, Udecht had been somewhat peremptory in making his own demands for information.

What he had gleaned through a mixture of broken toothed mumbles and gesture was that Hepdida was well.  She had been ill but she had recovered.  She was safe in Prince Rugan’s palace.

He caressed the holy symbol as he played with the concept of escape.  It could be done.  As a young cleric he had been a dutiful student anxious to find some way to shine and please his father against the martial prowess of his elder brothers, or the easy grace and beauty of his sister.

He had
diligently studied every obscurity in the ecumenical manuals.  He had learned of the planes and he had learned of gates that could be opened between and within them.  He had never imagined the ease with which Maelgrum could stride from place to place or from world to world.  But he had learned it was not just sorcerers who could create such passageways.  Those holy men and women most beloved of the Goddess and in true extremis could, through long prayer, earn the power to create an opening as Maelgrum did with such facility.

Udecht closed his eyes, escaping in his imagination.  A gate between this work room and the palace of Laviserve.  He could step in one stride from torment to his daughter’s side.  Well, not exactly.  One had to know very well the place that one was stepping into and he was not familiar with all the apartments in the half-elf’s magnificent home.  He had seen the audience chamber on a couple of occasions, that would be close enough. 
He had never seen a servant of the Goddess open such a gate.  The last occasion, according to that schoolboy research, had been in the time of Queen Nena over two centuries ago.  However, it was possible.  Escape was possible.

But.

He sighed.  There must be a but. Maelgrum was Master of many things, but above all else he was Master of the Planes.  To escape through the planes? It would be as subtle and as likely to be discovered as walking out of the main gates in broad daylight. The possibility of escape brought more fear even than imprisonment.  To be without hope was desolate.  But to have a choice, to be given just one opportunity to make a decision, was terrifying. 

Maybe that was the test the Goddess had set him, to see if his courage was equal to the task. 

He touched the symbol to his lips and shut his eyes.  “What do you want of me, my Goddess?”

There was a sound at the door, just enough warning for Udecht to let the crescent slip into his voluminous sleeves and then Haselrig came in.

“It is time, your reverence,” he said.  “You are wanted.”

Niarmit hesitated at another turn of the twisting rough hewn passage, but all she got was an orcish fist in the middle of her back shoving her forward.  A ridge of rock on the uneven floor sent her crashing shoulder first against the wall.  The thin shirt and the skin beneath it both tore against the jagged rock, but she had not dared raise her bound and broken hands to cushion the blow.  The blackened fingers were all at odd ungainly angles such that even the pressure of a gust of wind could evoke fresh waves of agony.  The jarring shock of hitting the wall invoked a far greater agony in her shattered hands than the serated rock slicing through shirt and flesh beneath.

“Walk!” the big orc commanded.

“Why?”  It was one small word of defiance from a trapped and wretched prisoner, but she flung it as hard as she could.

“Because Camrak tell you to!”  For the orc it was an entirely complete response, barring only the raised fist for emphasis.

“Camrak can go bugger himself.”

The fist came crashing towards her face, but the other orc barged into his leader sending the blow wide and into the wall. Camrak swung his bruised and bleeding
knuckles at his subordinate, while the smaller orc dodged and pleaded.  “Remember, Camrak, Master say we not kill this one.”

“Well you’re going to have to,” Niarmit spat.  “Because I’ve followed my last order from an orc.”

Camrak’s broad nostrils flared and his tusk like teeth chomped against his upper jaw.  “You do as you told!” He jabbed a finger at her chest. 

“Or what?”

Camrak’s craggy forehead creased in cumbersome thought and then his face split in a cheerful grin. “Or we kill your friend, we kill him real good, real slow.”

“Kaylan?” The
name slipped from Niarmit’s mouth.

The orc nodd
ed eagerly.  “Yes, he not dead, not yet.  Now you walk!”

Niarmit shrugged herself off the abrasive rock and resumed her trudge down the twisting pathway.  It turned abruptly and opened into a huge cavern, big e
nough to fit the temple of the Goddess with space to spare.  In its centre was a great oval window, through which Niarmit could see a garish panorama of an alien landscape.   The shadows of jagged peaks stretched and scampered across the cavern floor as the fast moving sunlight of the other place shone through the shimmering membrane between the planes.

“Ah, Lady Niarmit, jussst on time,” Maelgrum hissed his greeting from infront of the great
planar gate.

“Where’s Kaylan?” She demanded.  “This oaf said he wasn’t dead.”

“Of courssse he isss not dead.” At the flick of icy fingers two orcs shuffled forward from the edge of the cavern.  Kaylan slumped bruised and battered between them.  But still alive.

The thief raised a half closed eye towards her and mumbled “’y lady.”

“He livesss under sssuferancsse. Your complete obedience isss the only thing that keepsss me from letting the orcsss entertain themssselvesss with hisss innardsss.”

She glowered at the
Dark Lord’s bright red eyepits, shivering slightly in the heat sapping frost which radiated from his blackened form.

“Here!” He pointed to a
low stone cube half a dozen yards infront of a tall pedestal.  There was a steel ring embedded in the side of the cube facing her. A shove from the orc added some extra emphasis to Maelgrum’s command. “Down.”  Camrak pushed her to her knees. She gasped at the pain which shot through her shaken fingers. 

Camrak took a knife and sawed through the cords binding her
wrists.  She gritted her teeth.  His unsubtle bladework gouged her wrists, while the flood of returning blood and sensation in her crippled hands only served to intensify the agony the crushed bones caused her.  She breathed through it, short quick breaths.

Camrak brought out a pair of cast iron manacles.  He quickly clamped
one around her left wrist.  He then threaded the manacle chain through the ring in the block and pulled on her right arm to fix the other end of the clamp.  The action brought her hand crashing into the unyielding stone of the block.  Fragments of broken bone slid and grated over each other and there was no stopping the shrill inhuman scream it dragged from her lips. 

Kaylan flung himself away from his guards, guttural cries of outrage fil
tering through his bruised jaw.  The orcs watched more amused than alarmed as the thief blundered towards the Queen, tumbling to his knees beside her.

“Kaylan, no, don’t,” Niarmit called out through her tearful agony. 

He said nothing but pressed his face, his mouth, against hers.  The orcs were laughing now as the battered thief kissed the crippled Queen.  Niarmit was stunned, as paralysed by surprise as the first time she had been kissed.  It had been one of Matteus’s wards who said he had just done it for a dare, but then as now something unexpected was forced into her mouth.  Then the orcs descended dragging Kaylan away with rough hands and several flying fists and Niarmit ran her tongue over the curious metallic object he had left behind her lip.  A thin strip of metal with a crooked end, Kaylan’s lock pick.  She didn’t like to think where he might have been hiding it or what he hoped she might achieve with it and her broken hands.

Niarmit
bent her head forwards, experimentally, trying to see if she could bring her mouth close to the lock on either manacle.  The chain was short and the space between her knees and the ring in the block too cramped.  As she leant she felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck.  With a twisting of her head she saw Camrak looming over her, he made a quick chopping motion with his hand and gave her an ugly grin.

She sat up abruptly, leaning back on her heels trying to put as much distance between herself and the stone as possible, but the manacles had her anchored to the spot.  She looked in pale fear at the cube, suddenly aware of its resemblance to a headsman’s block like the ones she’d heard tell of in the Eastern lands where executions were the cure for all crime.

She glanced around, scanning the inscrutable mask of Maelgrum and the faces of the grinning orcs for some clue as to her fate. She saw Kaylan slumped insensible between the orcs.

“You said you wouldn’t kill him.”

“I sssaid no sssuch thing.”

“I’ve done what you asked. Y
ou said that was what kept him alive.”

Maelgrum stalked towards her.  “
How foolisssh it isss to let your own actionsss be held hossstage by the life of another.   I have never ssshared thisss human weaknesss.”

She glared at him. 
“Your parents would be very proud, I am sure.”

He paused for a moment, contemplating her rebuke, head tilted as he tasted the sarcasm
.  Then he flung back his head in a mirthless laugh.  “I have exsssisssted ssso long that my human childhood isss asss much a myssstery to me asss your own time in your mother’sss womb.”

“
To exist is not an achievement. What purpose or value has your undead life served?”

“I sssserve no-one
and nothing. It isss the world, the matchless panoply of the planesss which ssservesss me, which fuel my power and incite my curiosssity.” He knelt beside her, breathing in the fear she was trying so hard to supress.  “I have learnt ssso much and ssstill the worldsss can sssurprise me.”

“You have learnt nothing of what truly matters,” she shot back at him, c
alling on every sinew to defy the mask of death before her. “Nothing of the Grace of the Goddess or the love one human can feel for another.”

“Oh I have learnt all I need of that. 
Humansss and elvesss are crippled by love.  It isss the thread that conssstrainsss them, the ssstring by which I lead them.  The magesss of the Monar empire reckoned that if you called any creature by itsss true hidden name you would have absssolute power over it.  I have found a sssimpler way to sssuch control.  No one that you love isss beyond my grasssp, nor held sssafe by your preciousss Godesss.”

“
You lie!” she cried in fear.  “Your whole existence is a lie.”

His eyepits flared
with a sparkle more of amusement than anger.  “The Bissshop’sss daughter livesss or diesss at my whim. Did you think that wizzened herbalissst could ssstand againssst my will?  I know her passst, of what she wasss, the tiny life she led in the ssstreetsss above our headsss.  I knew her father too, oh ssso briefly, another fool dessstroyed through thisss weaknessss of love.  He ssshould have let the sssicknesss take hisss daughterss, but inssstead he let himssself be duped by the promissse of a cure.”  Maelgrum’s head rocked back and his lipless mouth opened in a silent laugh.   “One doesss not cure a curssse!”

“You cursed Hepdida?
You cursed them all!”

His shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug.  “
I am the Massster, amongst my ssservantsss are some with consssiderable talentsss.  They turn my thoughtsss into actionsss, sssometimess before I have even thought them. Can you not ssseee now how thessse emotional attachmentsss have undone you?”   

He glanced across at the crumpled form of Kaylan.
“Even your affection for thisss thief isss enough to keep bent to my will. Tamely walking to your destruction. Ssso absssurd to allow any creature to become ssso preciousss to you.”  He stood up, a smooth pillar of darkness and gestured to Camrak.  “Ssstand there!”

“Yes M
aster.”  The big orc hurried to the indicated spot keen to demonstrate the swiftness of his obedience.

“Now Camrak isss a loyal ssservant,” Maelgrum told Niarmit.  “He isss the kind of assssociate you might expect me to value.”  The
Dark Lord flicked his blackened fingers and the waiting orc erupted in an instant pillar of flame.  Surprise stunned Camrak at first, he stood in disbelief as the fire seared his flesh and scorched his hide.  Then, as the smell of his own burning skin and the agony of pain from charred nerve endings penetrated his consciousness he howled a low animal scream and tried to fall, or to run, but the flame held him upright in its embrace, roasting him alive.

A couple of the orcs laughed, the wiser ones stepped back away from their leader’s fate.
  “There isss no-one whossse life or death could sssuck obedience or remorssse from my bonesss.”

“You are inhuman
!” Niarmit’s nostrils were filled with the stench of burnt orc.

“I have ssspent millennia ssstripping away every vess
stige of that sssicknesss you call humanity,” Maelgrum replied.  “I am glad that you think I have sssuccsseeded.” He looked towards the entrance tunnel.  “Ah here comesss the ressst of our little party.”

As Niarmit turned she saw a thin but familiar figure bearing a formidable but familiar object.

“Uncle,” she greeted him.

“Your Majesty,” Udecht replied nervously, holding the Helm infront of him as if scared it would explode.  The royal ankh on its chain dangled from his wrist.

“It isss cussstomary
,” Maelgrum told Niarmit.  “To greet the massster before the ssslave. Have you no word of welcome for our diligent resssearcher to whom thisss day owesss ssso much.”

“Oh I know of Haselrig
.  As great a traitor to his people as my other uncle, Prince Xander. Worse even as he has the temerity to still be alive.  I do not treat with a traitor who, in freeing you, betrayed a nation.”

Her response seemed to amuse Maelgrum
.  “I sssee you have your sssourcesss too.  You are mossst perssspicassiouss.  Xander’sss royal blood and Hassselrig’s unholy prayersss were indeed two keysss to sssetting me free from your forefather’sss prissson.  Sssince then, Hassselrig hasss alssso been inssstrumental in unlocking thisss artefact’sss ssseecretsss.”

“Its secrets?”

“We know what it isss. A gateway to a demi-plane where Eadran and hisss descendantsss ssskulk in cowardice and think they are beyond my reach.”

She
gave an involuntary start of surprise at the extent of his knowledge.

“
Their ssspan in Eadran’sss bolt hole isss coming to an end.  Sssoon their ssspiritsss will ressside in altogether lessss conducssive  circumssstancesss.”  With a broad sweep of his hand, Maelgrum waved along a line of great gems lining the floor of the cavern.  He pointed to one particular jewel impossibly balanced on a finely bevelled edge. “That isss for Eadran himssself.   The traitor Feyril may have eluded the trapsss and pursssuitsss which I ssset for him, but hisss accomplicsse hasss foolissshly lingered well within my reach. Now I will pluck him and all hisss kin from their illusssion of sssafety.”

“You’ll not get any help
from me.”

“It iss
s not your assssisssstancsse which I need.  It isss your death, a carefully and precisssely controlled death that I require.  I believe it may involve sssome pain too.”  He pointed Udecht towards the high pedestal.  “Bissshop, place the item carefully.  Posssitioning isss important.”

Niarmit craned her neck round to watch as Udecht carried
the Helm to the stone pillar and placed it carefully atop the plinth.  He adjusted the Helm’s orientation and position in response to the slight hand movements of direction which Maelgrum gave. 

She would not beg, there was no point.  She had faced death so many times before in so many ways, this was just one more.  But before she had
always known that the peace of the Goddess awaited her.  Ever since wearing that accursed helm, the path to her deity had been barred to her.  At the moment of her death Eadran’s blasphemous creation was set to claim and imprison her in a tormented paradise.  The fate of her soul, more than her body, prompted her to ask, “What’s going to happen?  What’s going to happen to me?”