by T. O. Munro
“’An it please your Majesty, but I’d rather not speak of it in front of the girl,” he nodded in Hepdida’s direction. “It is not an account for young ears.”
Thom saw the blush of red inflame the girl’s face from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She opened her mouth to rebut the sergeant’s condescension but Niarmit waved her into silence. “The mistress Hepdida has every right to hear of whatever it is you have seen, Sergeant. I can assure you that she has already seen and experienced much more and much worse than whatever you might have witnessed in the valley below.”
Jolander gulped uncertainly at Niarmit’s displeasure. “There was death in the camp, your Majesty. Signs of many struggles, the blood dripping and pooling in ways that told of hundreds dead.”
“Bodies?” Quintala interrupted.
“None,” Thom answered. “Neither friend nor foe left fallen on the battle field.”
“How tidy.”
“I reckon it was orcs, your Majesty.” The lancer who had spoken before again ventured his unwise opinion, drawing a glower of rebuke from the sergeant.
“Orcs aren’t tidy.” Tordil, his fire lighting work concluded, had approached the discussion in time to hear the last few speakers. “Perhaps the dead got up and walked away?” The elven captain levelled his gaze at Thom as he made his suggestion. The illusionist felt the hostile glare of sergeant and lancers turned upon him as the soldiers swiftly crescented themselves to invoke the Goddess’s blessing.
“The dead don’t walk, Captain,” Quintala rebuked him. “No need to frighten the troopers and the horses so.”
The elf-captain laughed. “Indeed, Seneschal, though you have lived long, you have not seen the evils that I have this last month. The dead can walk. They can feed. I have fought against them and walked amongst them. A skilled wizardly mind can bend their actions to his purpose. Is that not so, Master Illusionist?”
The captain’s censorious tone drew a sharp rebuke from Niarmit. “Tordil, you forget yourself. Thom has done us much good service since fortune or the Goddess cast us in each other’s path.”
“Yes, your Majesty, much has happened since we first met Thom shepherding two undead souls across the burnt fields of Morsalve…”
“Enough, Tordil!” Niarmit snapped, but not before the many eyes already focussed on Thom first widened in surprise then narrowed in suspicion. “What is clear from the fate of those refugees is that danger lurks ahead of us as well as behind. We are a day’s hard riding still from the River Saeth and the security of Medyrsalve’s border. We will need a vigilant guard tonight and the Goddess’s blessing, if we are to make Prince Rugan’s court unscathed.”
“As you command….Your Majesty,” Quintala gave a short bow. “I admire your faith in the safety my Brother’s realm will afford us.”
Niarmit frowned at the smiling Seneschal. “Whatever your doubts about your brother, Quintala, we have nowhere else to go but to Prince Rugan and he is my vassal now.”
“Yes,” Quintala stretched out the single syllable of agreement. “I wish you joy in impressing that circumstance upon him, and I in turn intend enjoying the spectacle.”
***
Deaconess Rhodra was used to anxious would-be fathers but a would-be great grand-mother was an experience as new as it was proving unwelcome. It certainly wasn’t helping the restless woman on the great bed.
“Deep breaths, your Highness,” Rhodra soothed her. “Breathe through the pain.”
“It’s too soon,” the Princess Giseanne ground out through gritted teeth as she shook her head against the pillows.
A servant dabbed at the woman’s sweating forehead with a scented cloth. At the foot of the bed the upright figure of the expectant great-grandmother surveyed the scene with deep dissatisfaction. Her hands resting on her walking stick, her silver hair dressed elegantly high atop her head exposing the pointed ears of her race. The elf lady was unmoved to lift an eyebrow still less a hand in support of Rhodra, Giseanne and their various attendants, but she nonetheless viewed the confinement with a haughty disdain.
“The Princess is right is she not Deaconess, this child is not yet full term?”
“The Goddess has given us grace and time, my Lady Kychelle,” Rhodra assured her. “Since my lady’s episode in the gardens we have made every effort to delay the onset of labour and to strengthen the unborn child for that ordeal. The Goddess has granted us two weeks and if she so wills that the child be born now, then it must be because she judges it ready.”
Kychelle sniffed. “Or perhaps, she views your efforts and devotions unworthy of her further support.” This blunt alternative interpretation of events brought a wail from the panting Princess on the bed, a wail which was cut off abruptly as a fresh spasm of pain gripped her.
“Where is Rugan?” Giseanne cried. “Where is my husband?”
Kychelle clucked a note of reproach. “He cannot come. He guards the road from Listcairn, poised to strike a blow to seize back this child’s inheritance from the usurpers.”
“You could send word,” Rhodra urged before adding with heavy emphasis. “Her Highness would welcome some family support.”
The elf lady tutted impatiently. “What would be the point, Deaconess? Rugan is many days ride away. By the time he returned this business would be done for good or ill.”
Giseanne moaned, bringing a disbelieving shake of the head from Kychelle. “I had not realised what a creation humans make of the business of child birth. By the Goddess, if this child is not full term then it should almost deliver itself, as easy as shelling peas.”
“Excuse me, please my lady.” Rhodra’s deputy hesitantly interrupted Kychelle’s reverie. “I must examine the Princess.”
The elf glared back, incredulous that the woman would have had the temerity to address her. Then, with a flick of her head, Kychelle stepped aside surrendering her position at the foot of the bed to the midwife.
“My Lady Kychelle, may I have a word? Outside?” Rhodra made a stiffly formal request.
The elf consented with alacrity. “I was about to make the same suggestion, Deaconess.”
Once beyond the double doors of the royal bedchamber it was Kychelle who spoke first. “Deaconess, understand me well. If at any time in these proceedings there should be a danger to life, it is the child that is paramount, you understand me? The child must live!”
“It is my intention, Lady Kychelle, to see both mother and child safely through this night.” Rhodra ground out a flat mono-tonal reply which those who knew her well would have recognised as the Deaconess’s highest level of fury short of physical assault.
The elf however was either deaf or unmoved in response to Rhodra’s anger. “A commendable aspiration, Deaconess, but remember if a choice must be made….”
“By the Goddess, it will not come to that.”
This time, something in Rhodra’s expression, the bright eyes shining in the middle of a round face or the mouth pursed in a tight-lipped line, penetrated Kychelle’s awareness. The elf looked oddly at the deaconess, opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. Rhodra swept over the elf’s momentary doubt. “Now, my Lady Kychelle, perhaps there is some business about the palace that needs your attention. My ladies and I can attend the Princess well enough without you.”
“You are sending me away?” The question surprised Kychelle so much she had to repeat it. “You are sending me away?”
“My Lady Kychelle, you are the ruler of Silverwood, the Regent of Medyrsalve and the Grandmother of my Prince,” Rhodra acknowledged. “But in that room,” she pointed behind them. “At this time, there is no greater authority than mine save the Goddess herself, so yes I am. I am sending you away.”
Kychelle raised her eyebrows, looked to one side, tapped her staff a couple of times on the floor. “Well, well,” she said at last. “I see you would rely on your own resources, Deaconess. I trust you do so wisely.”
Rhodra did not afford the stunned elf a reply, spinning on he
r heel and plunging back into the royal bedchamber just as Giseanne let out another great bellow of pain.
***
Thom slipped down with his back to a tree and shrouded himself in a spell of concealment. A horse looked momentarily in his direction, its dull mind less susceptible to the simple illusion than the higher order wills of the elves and humans in the company. Ever since he had first pursued his illegal past-time, Thom had been amazed at how easily his mother could be fooled while the family cat could not. But then, the cat saw what was there, while his mother saw what she thought was there, and in that crevice of interpretation, the illusionist’s art had always found its leverage. But it mattered not that the horse could see him plain as day. The horse wasn’t telling anyone. An outcast seeking solitude was of no concern to equine thinking.
A few dozen yards from the tethered horses, the rest of the company were gathered around Tordil’s lilac flamed fire. One of the elves was keeping lookout aloft in the trees, while a half dozen lancers stood watch at the edges of the copse. Within their guarded camp, the mood of the remainder was more relaxed than it had been in days. They ate their meagre repast and talked in low voices. There was even an occasional laugh as Jolander told some barrack room joke and no-one seemed to notice that Thom was not there. Or maybe they had noticed and were just too glad of the circumstance to risk drawing attention to it.
Thom wrapped himself more tightly in his magical shroud. She had promised he would be safe and he did not doubt the Lady Niarmit’s word. But Tordil had been unconscious when Thom had made his instrumental contribution to their escape. The elf Captain was always ready to set the illusionist’s great crimes of collaboration as being a far from discharged counterbalance to any succour he had given their mission. Jolander, Quintala and the lancers knew nothing of him save that he was a slow riding burden to their escape with a criminal magic using past.
So Thom sat and watched, feeling scarcely less an outsider than when he had been the dogsbody to Marwella and her regiment of necromancers all bending dead sinews to the service of the Dark Lord.
Niarmit sat close by the fire, its rainbow flames playing across her face suffusing her red hair with a dozen extra colours. She watched the scintillating blades of light in silent contemplation, impervious to the merriment around her.
On her left sat Hepdida, the servant girl with the scarred face. Never far from Niarmit’s side she glanced constantly across at the priestess and then occasionally let her mouth bend in a half smile at a joke she could not have understood.
Beyond the two women was the ragged figure of Kaylan. Just an ill-matched supernumerary to the troop of lancers, yet one who had some long history with Niarmit. Thom could not fathom what their relationship was or had been, save that the footpad was never either too close or too far from the red headed leader. As now he sat just beyond the light of the fire, so his face was in shadow, and only his hands expertly whittling a stick into the shape of dog, were visible.
On Niarmit’s right sat Jolander and Tordil, human sergeant and elf Captain making an unlikely alliance. The common ground of soldiery over-rode the prejudices of race as they traded stories of their own martial prowess and their enemies’ ineptitude.
The Seneschal, Quintala, sat opposite Niarmit. Her sliver hair refracted the multi-coloured light of the flames but, with her back to Thom, the illusionist could not see her expression save that she sat very still her attention directed on the priestess opposite.
Hepdida stood up abruptly, her forehead creased in a frown as a fresh burst of laughter echoed around the fire. She touched Niarmit on the shoulder and the priestess looked up at her, distracted for a moment from the fire’s hypnotic dance. The girl said something and the priestess nodded. Thom shrivelled behind his magical veil as the servant girl left the company by the fire and approached the horses.
Hepdida stroked the bay mare’s muzzle and offered it a handful of fresh grass, murmuring some half-heard apology for obliging it to carry herself as well as Niarmit on the long day’s ride.
Thom was uncomfortable, watching her while knowing she could not see him. He felt he was intruding on a private moment of happiness, as the girl smiled broadly and wrapped her arms around the patient horse’s neck. The illusionist found his lips bending in a smile of empathy, appreciating too the plain honesty of the simple beast when set against the posturing, dissembling and deception of humans, elves and orcs.
There was a movement to his right, but Thom’s moment of alarm quickly faded. It was only the lancer on guard duty stepping in to mind the horses. He recognised him as the fellow with the orc obsession. Hepdida had not seen him approach for the man moved softly through the undergrowth. She gave a stifled yelp when at last she perceived him a distance of a bare two yards from her.
He calmed her with some pleasantry which failed to restore her smile. Thom, who had seen that moment of uninhibited happiness, could tell her guard was up against the lancer’s murmured conversation. She stroked the grey mare’s neck, more absently than before, her gaze darting ever towards the lancer whose intrusion was clearly less welcome than he supposed.
Thom considered throwing off his illusion and coming to her rescue. But then he thought, if the lancer was unwelcome, how much less appreciated would be the revelation that she had been spied upon however unintentionally.
While he wrestled with this dilemma, there was a sudden move, a scuffle. The lancer had seized Hepdida’s face in his two hands and was pressing his mouth against hers. She struggled unheard as the soldier’s lips sealed hers closed. Thom stood up sharply, shaking of his illusory cloak. “Hey!” he called out. The lancer half turned at the distraction and in that moment Hepdida brought her knee up sharply between his legs.
The soldier crumpled to all fours with an airless gasp. Hepdida and Thom exchanged a glance over her assailant’s crippled form. The servant girl wide eyed, still shocked as Thom took a reassuring step towards her, stretching out a hand of support. She took a step away.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”
She turned and ran, away from him, away from the horses, away from the copse.
“Oh crap!” Thom exclaimed and ran after her.
The thick clouds obscured the Moon and stars and the light of Tordil’s conjured fire was limited by intent to the illumination of their small camp. Beyond the tree line all was black and Thom could see nothing and hear little of Hepdida. He swept his hands in a swift spell flicking his index fingers across each eye. Now as he stared out into the gloom he could make a blob dull red in colour, still moving in haste across the dark plain, brighter red sticks of legs pumped beneath a body made visible by its own warmth. He glanced around, no other sources of heat. The area was devoid of the night time prowlers, scavenging wolves or hunting orcs which might have posed some threat to the fleeing servant girl.
Re-assured he set off in pursuit, hoping to catch Hepdida before some mischance, an ankle twisting rabbit hole, or a stumble over a rock, should cause her an injury.
Behind him all was calm. No alarm was raised in camp. Thom in his haste to pursue had expected the elven lookout at least to mark their flight and marshal some assistance. But the keen eyed tree-top sentry must be asleep or looking elsewhere. Tordil would have words to say at such a failure. In the meantime, it was Thom alone who ran after the startled fugitive, intent on keeping her safe from harm.
He saw that she had stopped, crouched down looking back towards him. He slowed to a walk as he approached her. “Hepdida,” he called gently. “It’s me Thom.”
She didn’t move, didn’t reply. She wouldn’t have realised he could see her glowing with her own body’s heat, her face towards him as bright a torch. Her hand clenched something. It glinted softly, in reflecting the glow of her body. A long thin reflecting edge. Crap it was a knife.
“Hepdida,” his voice cracked with a little alarm. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She shifted position. Squatting on her haunches, poised
to pounce, oblivious to how clearly he could see her.
“Hepdida, why did you run?”
“Why did you chase me?” the question was fired back at him with venom. “What did you and that soldier plan for me?”
“Nothing – nothing, not us… me, I wasn’t part of it. I was just there.”
“Spying on me? Hidden by magic, just waiting for your chance?”
“No, please, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I saw what he did what he tried to do. It’s not safe out here. Come back to camp. Please put the knife away.”
From fifteen yards away he saw her tense at his words. She was silent, motionless for a few seconds before asking, “can you see me?” She stood up slowly still wary, the knife held in front of her. He saw her head turn slightly side to side as she began to discern his outline from the darker background of the night
He hesitated for a moment before plunging into honest disclosure. “Yes, I can see you. I cast a spell to help me see things by their body heat. I needed to follow you, to make sure you didn’t get hurt or attacked by animals out here.”
She looked around, quickly before turning her attention back to him. “And are there? Are there any animals out here?”
“No,” Thom assured her. “None at all.”
After another quick scan of the impenetrable blackness her bright face turned once more on him. “Why not?”
“What?” he was puzzled both by her question and also the indistinct doubt that had formed in his own mind as he reassured her of the absence of any creatures.
“Why not? Why aren’t there any animals? Where are they?”
“er… I don’t know.”
“Can you cast a light spell, a spell so anyone can see?” She was moving forwards, turning as she went so that for the last few yards she was backing towards him. “A light spell, now!”