Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) (8 page)

K
imbolt swayed easily in the saddle his cob trotting alongside the destrier of Willem the outlander.  A few yards in front of them Barnuck’s wolf and Dema’s palfrey rode close enough for the Medusa to maintain a guttural discussion in orcish with the chieftain of the Bonegrinders. 

“Tomorrow will be a great battle,” Kimbolt
called across to Willem.  It was, as ever, a fruitless effort to stir the taciturn exile into conversation.  Kimbolt shrugged his indifference and turned his attention to the path ahead. The Palacinta hills loomed close and high to the East.  Deep valleys were cut in their flanks where trickles of streams awaited only the rains to turn them into raging torrents draining into the placid River Saeth.  The great Eastway climbed steadily upwards into the Gap of Tandar.  The saddle shaped pass named after the first Prince of Medyrsalve, right hand to the Vanquisher and his lady and the founding father of the dynasty which had culminated in Prince Rugan.

Athwart the Eastway, within two bowshots of the lower reaches o
f the hills, was the camp of Nagbadesh and the Redfangs.  As they approached Kimbolt noticed with professional approval, the close spacing of individual guards around the camp’s perimeter.  One sentry made a disciplined challenge to the unmistakeable figure of the Medusa. Dema let Barnuck respond with the day’s password.

As they made their way into camp, t
he squat figure of Nagbadesh shouldered his way through a cluster of curious orcs to greet his commander in chief.  “Good, lady,” he growled.  “See, Redfangs ready for blood and battle.  Tomorrow we slaughter many pink squealing humans. Tomorrow I cut down their half-breed general myself.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” De
ma told him as she dismounted, closely followed by Barnuck.  “You’ll follow the plan exactly as I’ve told you.”

“Redfangs not cowards,” Nagbadesh protested.

“Of course not, but you want to kill humans and plenty of them?”

“Yes, yes, lady.”

“Then you’ll follow the bloody plan and I promise you, Chief Nagbadesh, you’ll spill enough human blood to swim in.”

“How plan work again?”

Dema sighed and shook her hooded head.  She turned to Willem and Kimbolt. “Give us a minute, maybe ten.”

The outlander and the bed
slave nodded their acquiescence and left Dema and her orcish lieutenant re-explaining the finer tactical details to Nagbadesh. Willem dismounted to exchange a few words with the handful of outlander humans assigned to serve embedded roles in the Redfangs tribe; their task was to ensure no ambiguity or misunderstandings at company level should impede the execution of Dema’s strategy. 

Alone Kimbolt urged his horse onwards towards the Redfangs forward lines. 
The orcs eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and hunger, but the discipline of Dema was armour enough to protect him against their vile instincts.  The grey green humanoids serving under the Medusa’s command had quickly learned to work with their human allies, rather than to eat them.    Kimbolt felt as safe riding through this tribe of three thousand orcs as he had been walking the corridors of Sturmcairn in times so distant as to be almost forgotten.

The setting S
un behind him lit up the slopes of the Palacintas.  Kimbolt urged his steed onwards, beyond the vigilant cordon of orcish archers, and walked his horse slowly up the Eastway.  The horse’s hooves clopped loudly on the smooth cobbles of the greatest straightest road in the Petred Isle.  A normal evening would have seen a bustle of traffic, carts thronging the road in both directions, particularly in the years since the fall of Undersalve had cut off the river route from Morsalve to the sea.  But now the busiest road in the Salved Kingdom, the road that never slept, bore but one solitary horseman. 

Kimbolt hauled lightly on the reins to bring his cob to a halt, a little pressure from his knees and the horse turned full circle on the spot.  To the East lay Rugan’s lines, skirmishers and archers hiding behind boulders a
nd trees barely a bowshot away lining the pathway into the hills with a honeyed trap.  To the West lay the Redfangs’ camp, their fires glowing, their own archers poised.

For a long minute Kimbolt stood there, midway between the two front lines in the great battle that would be joined when morning rose.  He understood something of Dema’s exhilaration.  What soldier
did not dream of such a moment, of a single day when the fate of a nation would depend on their generalship.  He shook his head ruefully, clicked his tongue and urged his horse back towards the Redfangs’ lines. 

Willem
was waiting for him, “where did you go, bed slave?”

“To have a look at the enemy,” Kimbolt replied.

 
Abroath was late, the last to join the council, but the other captains parted to allow the robed prior a place at Rugan’s campaign table.   The Prince had conjured a three dimensional image of the battleground more vivid and compelling than any map.  At his shoulder the Lady Kychelle nodded her approval as he recapped his dispositions.

“Here
is the great Eastway,” the half-elf was saying.  “The Redfangs have crept closer and closer to our outliers, without realising what steel jaws they have placed themselves between.  This salient they have created is a weak point in the centre of their line.  The main body of the enemy is too far behind away to the West just this side of the Saeth.  Tomorrow at dawn we launch our assault.  The Redfangs will break or be destroyed.  We will pursue their remnants.”

“But sire, what of the nomads her
e on the enemy’s southern flank?” an officer queried. “If we charge into their centre, the nomads can wheel round to take us in the flank, yet if we spread out along the enemy line, we will dissipate the force of our charge.”

“Quite so,
Major Darbon” Rugan agreed.  “That is where the force of Oostsalve, so recently arrived, will prove invaluable.”  He nodded towards Abroath.  “The prior’s mounted infantry will shadow our path along the Eastway as they come down the valley of Torrockburn just south of the Gap of Tandar.  They will then deploy to guard our flank and prevent any envelopment by the nomads.”

“We will be honoured to do so, your Highness,” Abroath assured him with alacrity.   

Rugan paused in his discourse and gave the prior a curious stare.  “Tell me Prior Abroath, you did find a man suitable to lead your force on the morrow as we discussed earlier?”

“I did,” Abroath replied f
latly.  It was an equivocation. He had not lied, but both he and the Prince would draw a different meaning from his answer.   After all Rugan had not asked whose definition of suitable was to be used.  Abroath had considered the matter most carefully and decided there was none more suitable than himself.  He hoped the Prince would not probe him further, into the sin of plain falsehood.

Rugan hesitated, his suspicions raised by s
omething in the Prior’s manner, or perhaps the reddening blush appearing at the tips of Abroath’s ears and upon his bald tonsured pate.  Abroath crossed his fingers and thought a silent prayer to the Goddess as Rugan opened his mouth to speak.

No words came out
.  There was a crashing salute from a sentry who practically ran into the assembly, followed by three women. 

“Your highness…” the sentry began.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Lady Kychelle found her voice first but her question was not directed at the guard.  “Explain yourself Seneschal Quintala!”

Abroath, by virtue of his late arrival, was nearest the opening and most able to examine the newcomers.  He had hear
d of the Prince’s half sibling, but never met her.  His father had talked only of the
other
half-elf. His brothers had spun stories that made him blush of the particular favours she was alleged to bestow on men of sufficient stamina and prowess, a group they earnestly asserted themselves qualified to join.   And now, she stood before him, skin darker toned than her half-brother’s, hair a scintillating silver, swept back over sharply pointed ears.  She was smiling so broadly it was almost a grin.

“Grandmama, brother dear, may I present your new Q
ueen, her Majesty Niarmit, Monarch of the Salved.” 

The S
eneschal stood aside with a sweeping bow to make way for the second in the party, clad in leathers, with red hair dulled with the dust of a hard journey.  There was a burst of low chatter from the gathering of soldiers as they gasped their shock at each other.  Only Abroath, his eyes on this strange new queen, saw the look of deep irritation as her green eyes flashed towards the bowing, smiling laughing Seneschal.

There was a thump of a staff on a table as Kychelle commanded silence for her words.  “This is no time for foolish pranks, Quintala.  Your brother stands on the threshold of a great victory.  I know not what road you have travelled but take your imposter away before you are both arrested.  It is only the greater business in hand which prevents me from dealing with you as you deserve this instant.”

The threat only intensified the Seneschal’s amusement and she seemed ready to launch some riposte, but the newly pronounced queen waved her into silence.

“Please
forgive the intemperate manner of our announcement, we have ridden hard and it took more time than we anticipated to find you. We bring news of great peril.  A fresh force is arriving from the south, from Undersalve.”

“I know you,” Rugan was saying.  “You are Niarmit of Undersalve.”

Kychelle’s brow furrowed in thought.  “The daughter of that old fool Matteus?”

“I will than
k you madam, to speak more graciously of him that raised me,” Niarmit snapped.  “But, much as it pains me to confess, I am no daughter of Matteus.”

“What of this peril to the south?” Rugan demanded.  “How many?”

“About twelve thousand, brother.” Quintala interjected. “I might say twelve thousand souls, but some of the foe are less complete than that.”

“You lie!” Rugan declared, the colour draining from his face.

“It is a tidy force I grant you, enough to make you retreat perhaps. But then you are under my Queen’s command now, so your usual favoured option will not be yours to choose.”

“Insolent witch!”  Rugan spat, his eyes blazing with a fury far hotter than his joy at the birth of his heir.

“Enough!” Kychelle slammed her staff on the table.  “Sentry, summon the guards and bring strong chains.”

“No, grandmother,” Rugan cried.  “There is some thread of truth in this tangled tale, and I would know more clearly what peril we face before I have these interlopers restrained.”

“More truth than you can bear, dear brother,” Quintala assured him with a mocking twist to her mouth.

“Silence Seneschal,” the Q
ueen Niarmit commanded with a vigour to rival the Lady Kychelle’s.  “You have said quite enough, now let me tell our tale in good order and at swift pace.  The Goddess has granted us little enough time to waste it in argument.”

Quintala’s eyebrows rose at the unexpected rebuke and then she gave
the Queen a low bow of excessive servility.

Rugan gave a quick nod. “On th
e matter of time at least, you are right, Lady Niarmit.”   

Quintala bounced up ready to correct Rugan’s choice of
title, but Niarmit with a curt flick of her hand stayed the half-elf’s interruption.

The P
rince went on, “perhaps we could start with precisely who you are.  We believed you dead, but if my sister has spoken any sense you are not only resurrected but transformed.”

“I am not of the line of Matteus.  I ne
ver was. I am Gregor’s bastard, conceived while my half-brother Eadran was still in his mother’s womb.  With Eadran and Thren both dead, I am Gregor’s heir.” She paused, letting the company absorb the implication of her words.  Then she turned her gaze on Rugan whose face was lined  with the confusion of denial. She spoke softly, with eyes hooded almost in apology.  “King Gregor is dead.  Prince Rugan, I am your Queen, you are my vassal.”

“No!” Kychelle screamed.  “A tawdry story badly told.  I have no dou
bt you are no child of Matteus.   His vigour was spent long years before he wed your mother.  No doubt she amused herself with every passing servant and one of them perchance has sired you.  This pretty tale of royal infidelity was doubtless dreamed up to give some gilding of honour to a most dishonourable progeny.  My grandson and my great grandson will never bend the knee to you, bastard born bitch.”

Rugan waved Kychelle’s invective into silence.  “
What proof have you of what you say Lady Niarmit?”

Niarmit nodded, “proof enough, Prince Rugan. 
I have three proofs to share with you.”

She reached around her neck and pulled out a heavy jewelled ankh, its oval head filled with a great pink hued gem, and laid it on the table.  “You know this, it is the Royal Ankh.”

“It looks like it,” Rugan conceded.

“It chose me as Gregor’s heir.  It was brought to me glowing red and white and when I took hold of it, its colour settled as you see. It acknowledged me as his
heir and now it tracks my heir, the Bishop Udecht.”

“Udecht lives?” Rugan asked.

“Who brought this trinket to you?” Kychelle demanded.

“The Lord Feyril found me in Dwarfport.”

“Another old fool enters this tale,” Kychelle spat.  “I might have guessed at that, ever pulling the strings of his human puppets was Feyril, master of marionettes.  Bah, Dwarfport, what kind of place is that to find a queen, and what business had a woman like you there? Employed in your mother’s occupation no doubt?”

“I will thank you Lady Kychelle, to speak of my mother with due courtesy or not at all,” Niarmit spoke low and hard but she met the elf lady’s gaze and held it with a fierce intensity until Kychelle looked away.

“Forgive my Grandmother,” Rugan urged lightly.  “You bring us a tale that is as fantastic as it is ill timed.  Emotions naturally run high.  However, a piece of jewellery such as this is no proof.  I could conjure a dozen items of like appearance, as could my sister here.  Indeed her presence makes that enchantment seem a most likely option.”

Quintala shrugged.  “Think what you will
, brother, the ankh is genuine. I had no part in its manufacture.”

Niarmit nodded slowly.  “I have been to Morwencairn and I have worn
the Helm of Eadran the Vanquisher.”

Rugan’s mouth dropped “Where is
the Helm now?”   

“We left it behind, but not before I had placed it on
my head and it had marked me, see!” She swept the hair back from her temple to reveal a horseshoe shaped mark etched in her skin.

Kychelle gave another snort of derision.  “A story too convenient to be anything other than a lie.  Wore
the Helm? Left the Helm? Marked by the Helm? Lady when I see it set upon your head, then I may believe you’ve worn the Helm of Eadran.” She strode along the length of the table leaning on her staff.  “Show me child.”

Niarmit turned her head to allow the elf’s inspection, suffered her even to brush over the mark with her thumb as though seeking to wipe it away. “Hmm, no proof at all,” was her verdict.  “
Old King Bulveld and half the monarchs of the Salved never wore the Helm at all.  They had a mark tattooed upon their skin in imitation of the Helm’s brand.  Doubtless this is the same trickery, used to support an imposter.”

“Why are you such a horrible old lady?”

The third of the new arrivals emerged from Niarmit’s shadow to challenge the elf.  Abroath saw that she was younger than Niarmit, dark haired and not much more than a child. She was dusty from the same hurried ride.  Yet the dust did not hide scars on both cheeks that must once have been deep and painful.

“How dare you speak to me!” Kychelle cried.

“How dare you be so rude? We have ridden hundreds of miles to warn you, to help you. Niarmit has saved many lives including mine and may well be about to save yours, but all you can do is insult her and her family and… just being old doesn’t give you the right to be such a nasty witch.”

Kychelle’s staff swung in a vicious arc aimed at the girl’s ribs, but it never struck home. Niarmit’s hand caught it and held it.  The shock in Kychelle’s eyes deepened as she struggled to pull the staff back, but Niarmit would not let go. Instead she wrenched it from the elf’s grasp.  Kychelle staggered and would have fallen, not from loss of balance but from the shock of being
disarmed and assailed.

“How dare you!” the elf cried.

“Silence,” Niarmit commanded.  “As my companion has said, I have borne your ill manners with good grace in order that my message will be more swiftly understood and acted upon.  Speak ill or out of turn again and I will break this staff upon your back.”

Kychelle whirled round on Rugan.  “Will you let me be spoken to like that
? in your own court!”

“Forgive me grandmama, but in the midst of this heated debate there is a cold truth to be extracted before we can see who owes what amends to whom.”

“Indeed, Prince Rugan,” Niarmit acknowledged.

“And, while the Lady Kychelle may have expressed herself less decorously than would be considered politic,” Rugan went on. “She is right in that neither of your first two proofs are incontrovertible.  A facsimile and a tattoo are equally plausible explanations for the proof you offer.”

Again the scarred girl was roused in indignation.  “I’ve seen her wear
the Helm, I saw her take it off.  Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m not calling you anything,” Rugan replied.  “In fact, who are you?”

Before Niarmit could stop her, Quintala had launched another grinning introduction.  “Brother dear, may I present the Princess Hepdida, only child of the Bishop Udecht and another one who stands in line for the throne before any progeny of yours.”