Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) (9 page)

This time Kychelle did need to sit down.  She staggered backwards and was helped into a chair by two of Rugan’s captains.  “You mock me Quintala,” she muttered.  “All your life your very e
xistence has mocked me and now, at this time, in this place, you choose…. Quintala you are evil.”

“I must concede,” Rugan agreed.  “That a second bastard, breaks all the bounds of credibility in this tale.”  There was a murmuring of support around the table, which Abroath found himself echoing.
“I know not what you may have suffered, Lady Niarmit, or what trickery my sister has put you to, but this is no time or place for such distraction.  Sentry, summon the guard.  You will be restrained until the battle is fought and we will speak more of your outrageous claims then. Please, go with them peaceably.”

There was ring of steel as Niarmit drew her sword from the scabbard over her shoulder, far faster than those near her could react.
  The officers and Abroath fell back a yard or more.  Kychelle murmured, “guard, fetch the archers. The bitch is mad.”

Rugan was still,
his tone measured.  “Lady Niarmit, I would not shed any blood of the Salved on the eve of battle.  Please, put up your sword. You are not well.”

“I sa
id, three proofs, Prince Rugan. Here is the third.”  Niarmit, equally at ease replied.  “This is the sword of the father, one of a pair forged by Eadran to be borne by the King and his Heir.  This weapon was recovered from the enemy and given to me by Bishop Udecht, my uncle Bishop Udecht.  You know of it, you know it.  Only one of Eadran’s line can touch this weapon.  The blood line magic of the Vanquisher will not let any other handle it.  I offer you my third proof, that I alone of all the warriors in this gathering can hold and wield this sword.”

She glared around at the wide eyed throng, and then flung the weapon onto the table where it lay pointing at Rugan.  “Now let anyone of you lay hands upon it and prove me a liar.”

They gazed around at each other.  “A clever bluff,” Rugan conceded without making any move towards the blade.  “There is cunning in your madness, Lady Niarmit.”

“By the
Goddess, let’s make an end of this farce,” Abroath declared, striding forward to seize the hilt of the sword.

There was a flash of light, a numbing shock and then everything went black for the white robed prior.

“They are taking too long,”
Thom muttered as he prowled between the horses.  The dismounted lancers eyed him with disinterest.  After the exhausting ride through the hills in search of Rugan’s camp they were simply grateful of the chance to rest themselves and tend their sweating mounts.

The illusionist swung round to confront the row of silver liveried Medyrsalve guards lining the path between the dirt spattered
troop and the main camp.  “Hey,” he cried.  “What’s going on? We’ve ridden into the ground to bring you warning and you’re treating us no better than orcs.”

The guards looked back impassively, though
Thom saw a few of them tighten their grip on the shafts of their spears.

“Easy, young Thom,” Kaylan’s voice low in his ear urged calm.  “
The Seneschal and the Sergeant may have misremembered the path, but Tordil’s star gazing set us right and we have got here in time. My Lady knows what she is doing. Have a little faith, trust her.”

“It’s been too long though.  I
may trust the Lady Niarmit, but I do not trust these fellows or their master.”

“T
hose of us who remember Bledrag field have plenty to reproach Prince Rugan with.  But by your accent, Master Wizard, you are an Oostener.  Your Prince and Rugan were ever as thick as thieves, your provinces entwined in mutual support.  The silver soldiers are more your friends than mine.”

“Princes and thieves, aye,
that’s true enough,” Thom agreed. ”Tolls at every stage along the Eastway and taxes in the harbour at Oostport.   There’s many were ruined when Undersalve fell and the route down the River Nevers to trade with the Eastern lands was severed.  There are many like me who found it strange that in times of such austerity, the grandeur and wealth of the two princes seemed only to grow.”

“All wealth is stolen,” Kaylan noted dourly.  “The small people call it theft, the great people call it rulership.
”  When Thom gave him a sharp glance, he added, “I speak both as thief and as one of the small people.”

“Yet you serve the Lady Niarmit and would help make her ruler over all the Salved.”

“The Lady Niarmit is the most honourable person I have ever met. I would serve her with my last breath,” Kaylan replied with the bland certainty one might use to pass comment on cloudy weather. 

“How
is it then that a thief came to serve a princess?” Thom asked.

Kaylan shrugged.  “These past five years have been the strangest of times.
Mine is a short tale, a little strange perhaps, but I suspect no stranger than that of how a condemned and exiled user of wizardry became a close confidante in my Lady’s entourage?” He gave the illusionist a level stare.

Thom
blinked beneath the inquisitive glare.  “I owe the Lady Niarmit everything. I am pleased to repay her with whatever small service I can offer.”

Kaylan nodded.  “There are many with debts
as great or greater than yours, who nonetheless betrayed my Lady.” He let his finger rest on Thom’s chest just at the base of his rib-cage.  “It was about there that my sword came through the last person who betrayed her.”

Thom
drew a shallow breath. “Rest easy, Kaylan.  I’ll not be the next.”

The thief bent
his head close and whispered, “Be sure you aren’t, not ever.”

“Hepdida, tend to the monk.  He may have hit his head on the way down,” Niarmit commanded as Rugan and the assembled company stood open mouthed.

“A trick,” Kychelle declared.  “Some trick just like the others.”

Niarmit retrieved the sword from where the Prior had dropped it and swung the weapon with weary fury through the oaken table top.  The timber cleaved apart with no more resistance than a sheet of parchment.  She swung twice more until two legs were severed and the table tipped its quills and papers at her feet. “We have not the time for this,” she cried.  “This is the sword, no fake, no artifice and in my veins the blood of the Vanquisher runs.  Will you not heed the warning I have ridden so hard to bring.”

Rugan nodded curtly.  “It seems y
ou are indeed of Eadran’s line, though where exactly you lie within that illustrious lineage is yet to be proven.  You have yourself raised the spectre of illegitimacy not once but twice. Who is to know for sure at what point your line branched out from Eadran’s legitimate heirs.  Mayhap your heritage is as remote as was Gregor the First’s when he succeeded Queen Nena.”

“By the
Goddess….”

“Still, for the blood that runs in you, we will admit you to our counsels and hear your advice.”

“She comes to command, not advise, brother,” Quintala spat.

“The regiments of Medyrsalve march to my orders sister, they are not the Lady’s to command.”

“But the force of Oostsalve is.” The Prior struggled to his feet assisted by Hepdida.  “I am Abroath, third son of the Prince of Oostsalve, all the spears that I have brought are in your service.  Forgive my doubting, your Majesty.”

“The
mounted infantry?” Rugan queried scornfully, his mask of control slipping at the Prior’s volte-face.

“Mounted infantry
?” Niarmit was puzzled.

“
Five thousand hobelars, your Majesty including sundry archers.  They ride ponies to the point of battle, but fight afoot.”

Niarmit nodded slowly, “that will serve our purpose.”

“I have need of them, of all the force of Oostsalve,” Rugan cried.  “They are to guard my left flank when my force overwhelms the invaders.”

“Your
force?”  Niarmit said.  “I am Queen, they are mine to command.”

Rugan shook his head slowly, looking around the broken table at the silver clad captains of his army.  “Just because one stunned boy
priest accepts your rule does not mean a single soldier of Medyrsalve will raise his shield at your command.  These are my soldiers, not yours.”

Niarmit scanned the faces of the assembled officers.  Most would not meet her gaze; a few stared back in unsmiling endorsement of the half-elf’s claim.

“Tomorrow,” Rugan declared.  “We fight the battle for Morsalve and I have need of Oostsalve spears.”

“More need than you know,
” Niarmit replied.  “As Quintala has said, twelve thousand foes approach from the South.”

“Well brother, without those
Oostsalve spears, will you run back to your palace? Is your force or your stomach not up to the challenge ahead?” Quintala taunted.  “Mayhap you can relinquish the reins of command to one who knows how to lead?”

Rugan gave his half-sister a glare of cold loathing.  “You’ll not find my courage wanting, Seneschal. 
But as I understand it, the Lady Niarmit’s battle experience is limited to the disaster of Bledrag field.  Hardly a pedigree of generalship.”

“I have learned much in the five years you thought me dead, Prince Rugan, of the ways of battle and of the enemy you face.”

“What was the biggest force you had sole charge of, Lady?”

Niarmit hesitated for an instant and then conceded, “a little over a hundred, but we hindered the invaders out of all proportion to our numbers.”

Rugan laughed.  “I have sixteen thousand of Medyrsalve.  The ill-witted Prior has brought another five, we face perhaps thirteen thousand at Sturmcairn and, if you are right, another twelve from Undersalve.  Lady this is war, not petty forest ambushes.  You think I will entrust my troops to your untried outlaw’s hand? Then you are truly mad.”

“I was well taught in the years I lived as Prince Matteus’ child. I am equal to this task.”

“No army can serve two generals, and mine will not serve you, Lady Niarmit.” Rugan swung his head to glare in challenge at Abroath but the Prior was unrepentant.

“My force is at her Majesty’s service,” he declared.

“Then it seems, Prince Rugan, though neither of us wished it so, that we have two armies and two generals.    Let us make our plans as such and, the Goddess willing, success may still attend us on the morrow.”

Haselrig led the way into Maelgrum’s halls.  The Bishop limped haltingly behind at the other end of the silver chain.   It was after sunset so, in addition to his freshly bandaged thigh, Udecht was feeling the tingling after effects of the latest electrical bolt of Maelgrum’s disappointment. 

The ant
iquary had little time for the Bishop’s discomfort.  He was walking once more in the hall he had first entered seventeen years earlier at the start of a journey of conspiracy and betrayal.  There had been three of them then, four if you counted the duped guard as party to that plot. Now Haselrig alone returned.  Then they had crept into the chamber through an uneven side passage.  A route carved centuries earlier by Chirard the Mad.  Through it he and they had gained access to the vault, sealed at both ends with tons of rock, where Eadran the Vanquisher had hidden the jewelled entrance to Maelgrum’s planar prison.

Now the
hall was restored by weeks of human and zombie slave labour.  The entry way was a long sloping passage from the victory plaza in the centre of Morwencairn.  It opened into a great arched hall, far larger than any temple, even those seen in the ruins of the Monar Empire in the Eastern lands.  There was something of that civilisation’s architecture and skill in the columns carved out of living rock and the mosaics that adorned floor and walls.

However, the scenes picked o
ut in tiny fragments of stone were anything but civilised.  They depicted images of torture and despair more in keeping with a fire-breathing prelate’s warnings of hell, but Haselrig knew these were no threats for the life here after.  These were solemn promises by Maelgrum of what had been and what would be again.  The antiquary spotted a sequence of pictures on the floor, of ugly winged creatures, half-women half-birds, lifting men high into the sky and dropping them onto rocks.  He had, with his own eyes, seen a dozen such creatures taking hunks of meat and bags of gold from his master’s hand before setting off on just such a mission as the mosaic showed.

Udecht stumbled and Haselrig yanked at the
chain.  They must not keep the Master waiting.  Maelgrum sat on his carven stone throne on the raised dais at the far end of the hall.  He was utterly still.  Only the red glow in his empty eye sockets and the trails of condensing vapour from his ragged robes and blackened paper thin skin gave any clue as to his mood or thoughts.

Haselrig groaned to see those in attendance on the undead wizard.  To his right stood Rondol the ruddy bearded sorcerer
in chief.  To his left stood Marwella the toothless crone who led the necromancers in their marshalling of the legion of undead.  There was a time when the antiquary would have been the one stood at Maelgrum’s right hand, as guardian and repository of all the intelligence and information the undead wizard needed in preparing for his return to enslave the Salved.   Haselrig gave the chain another tug and the limping Bishop staggered again.

They were not the firs
t brought to audience with the Master.  A man lay prostrate on the floor before Maelgrum, richly dressed yet trembling.  Haselrig halted and held back Udecht when the Bishop drew level.    It was not wise to intrude on the Master’s business until invited to do so.

“Do you promissse then to sssserve me and no othersss?” Maelgrum was asking of the supplicant.

“Yes, your Highness,” the man stammered.

“Insolent bastard
,” Rondol interrupted.   A crack of lightning arced across the man’s back as the sorcerer added a conjured whip to his words of rebuke.  “To speak to the Master in the style of the servants of the traitor Eadran. You address the Lord Maelgrum as Master or your Eminence!”

Haselrig noted the puddle of liquid spreading out from between the prone man’s legs.

“A thousand pardon’s Master Eminence er… Your Eminence, I meant no offence,” the words spilled out incontinently.

“Very well then, you ssshall ssserve.  I grant you the freehold of Proginnot.  Marwella will ensssure you know what your fiefdom isss required to sssupply to usss in men, women, children and materialsss.  Provided you meet our requisssitionsss, the ressst of the people and property of Proginnot are yoursss to do with
entirely asss you will.   Ssserve me well and great richesss may yet accrue to you.”

“What if the people cannot provide…”

He never finished the question.  Rondol was ready to strike again but Maelgrum raised a blackened bony finger and the sorcerer stalled his spell.  The Lich’s red eyes were flaring, and the cold mist around his body thickened.  “If?  Cannot?”  Maelgrum played with the words.  “Thessse are not termsss a loyal ssservant of Maelgrum would ussse.  Your tasssk isss to
make
them provide.  You will find that knowing you act in my name isss a great motivator and alssso a defencsse.  The people will sssoon learn that to raissse a hand to Maelgrum’sss ssservants isss to raise a hand to Maelgrum himssself.  They will not enjoy the dissspleasure that sssuch an unwissse choice would invoke.”

“Thank you
, Your Eminence,” the man gasped still motionless until Rondol announced.

“You may rise.”

The new made freeholder of Proginnot thrust himself damply upright and followed the crone Marwella into a side chamber.

“Approach the throne of Maelgrum, Antiquary Haselrig and Udecht,” the sorcerer commanded.

Haselrig needed no encouragement, he hurried forward, throwing himself flat in the still warm puddle left by the previous petitioner and dragging Udecht down beside him.

“We came at your command, Your E
minence,” he told the stone floor loudly.  “We exist to serve.”  A quick sharp elbow stifled whatever additional comment Udecht might have been intending to make.

“Ssstand,” Maelgrum commanded.  “And tell me how goesss the resssearch into thisss trifling toy of Eadran’sss?”

“It is yet to unlock its secrets, Master, though we have made much progress,” Haselrig lied.

“It is for you, Hassselrig to unlock the sssecretsss
.  You have the asssissstance of the Bissshop. Are your skillsss unequal to thisss tasssk?”

“Udecht has been less co-operative than he should,” Haselrig hastily flung blame about him.  “I have had to have him punished.”

“Sssoo I ssseee.   If you continue thusss, Hassselrig you may have the Bishop praying he could be his brother’sss prisssoner again.  The unlamented Xander had a talent for cruelty which you ssseeem like to rival.”

“I am not Xander, your eminence,” Haselrig
stammered.  “I have not betrayed or disobeyed you. I would never do that.”

“But you have ssso far failed me.  At thisss rate of progresss you will be a blackened s
sskeleton long before ssso much asss a rune of Eadran’sss spell casssting isss revealed to you.”

“I will try harder, your eminence.  We will both try harder.”

Maelgrum nodded slowly, his lipless mouth parting in a toothy rictus. “And I have sssome advice to sssteer your resssearch into more productive pathsss.”

“Yours is always the gr
eater intellect, your eminence.  We bow in gratitude for the fragments of your genius that you choose to share.”  Haselrig bent low in a bow, pulling Udecht down with him.

“Think back Hassselrig, to when the wearer of
the Helm confronted and asssailed our perssson.”

Haselrig’s thoughts floundered.  The short battle in the citadel plaza had been the closest thing to Maelgrum’s humiliation that the antiquary had seen in seventeen years.  To revisit the occasion was to risk triggering an explosi
on of wizardly fury.  An ill judged comment could easily trespass on Maelgrum’s monumental ego.  The antiquary chose his words with extreme care.  “The wizard challenged your eminence, but his powers were unequal to yours.”

“By what name did he announce him
ssself?”

“Name?” Haselrig scavenged his memory.  There had been the moment of panic when the Helm wearer had turned his aim upon them, then Maelgrum’s arrival had drawn all the wizard’s attention in a display of earth shattering pyrotechnics.  “I don’t remember, your eminence.”

“Chirard,” Udecht murmured. “He called himself Chirard.”

“It ssseemsss that the bissshop may yet offer you sssome asssissstance,” Maelgrum joked.  “Hisss memory is fassstter than yoursss.”

“Chirard? An unusual name.”

“There are three of that name have sssat on the betrayer’sss throne, but only one wasss a dabbler in the magic artsss.”

“Chirard the Third,
the mad.”

“
Exsssactly.  There isss some link between thisss long wizard and Eadran’sss pretty toy.  If the Helm will not give up itsss sssecretsss, then perhapsss you ssshould look in the archivesss of Chirard.”

Haselrig frowned despite himself.  He had probed Chirard’s papers long ago, deciphered much of the code in which the mad wizard had tried to conceal his plans.  That is what had led him by diverse passages to the means to free Maelgrum.  But the process had been fraught with danger.  Chirard the mad, the plain paranoid, had littered his papers with traps for the unwary.  Glyphs of lightning, fire, and poison. And in all the papers, Haselrig could recall not one single word in reference to the Helm.  The oddity only now struck him, that a lunatic obsessed with recording in double encrypted code every detail of his life, including his daily bowel movements, should have made no reference to the Great Helm, symbol of a throne he had sacrificed so many and so much for.

“You ssseeem puzzled, Hassselrig?”

“If the man is unequal to this problem, your eminence, I am sure I could solve it within the week,” Rondol volunteered.

Maelgrum shook his head.  “No Rondol, there are other more important tasssksss you mussst do for me.  Thisss trivial
puzzle is Hassselrig’sss alone, well hisss and the Bissshop’sss.  They will ssssolve it, or it will be the death of them.”