Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2)

by T. O. Munro

  Haselrig looked sharply across at Udecht, surprise conquering miserable fear at their present circumstance. The revelation of Maelgrum’s knowledge had shocked the Bishop just as much, struck motionless, the power to even tremble gone at this blow.

  “Come now, Bissshop, did you think sssuch a sssecret could be kept from me. Perhapsss you have ssssome tiny hope to ssseee her again. I am told that fathersss like to watch their children grow.”

  “You lie,” Udecht spoke at last his voice a strain of pain and anguish. “You know nothing.”

  “A sssmall girl, ssscarsss on her face here and here,” as he spoke Maelgrum anointed the bishop’s cheeks with the trace of his fingers, drawing matching scars which burned upon the father’s face. “Dark hair, and one time toy to Grundurg the mossst creative orc I have met in centuriesss. Her mother wasss a ssservant Sssahira, until Grundurg’sss ssshield ssspike made a ruin of her face. Tell me did you love the mother more or lessss than the daughter?”

  “Where is she?” Udecht hissed, the sinews of his neck grown taut with uncertainty. “What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing!”

  Maelgrum turned away from Udecht and stalked back to his throne, warmth returning to the air and their limbs as the undead lord savoured the Bishop’s distress. “I have done nothing to your preciousss daughter, nothing yet. Ssshe thinks ssshe isss sssafe now, they all do. They forget how far my sssight ssstretchesss and that my reach isss equal to it. The Lady, the wizard and the necromancer will settle their little sssquabble and all who oppose me will find their isss no haven thisss side of the Eassstern landsss and even there, any illusssion of sssafety will be short lived.”

  “The Master is all seeing,” Rondol intoned.

  “The Master is all knowing,” Marwella added.

  “The Master is all powerful,” Haselrig automatically completed the mantra of Maelgrum’s servants.

  “At thisss time,” the undead lord continued to address the hapless Bishop. “The child isss of no importance and little interessst to me. But those factsss may change if, on my return I find your progresss in thisss tasssk disssapoints me. Grundurg in his torturesss may have been a mossst creative orc, but ssshould your daughter fall within my grasssp she will find my imagination and my ability to realissse it reachesss an entirely different plane.” Maelgrum’s lipless mouth opened in a hollow laugh which found halting echoes once he had turned to look at Rondol and Marwella.

  “Your return, Master?” Haselrig queried. “You spoke of your return. Are you leaving?”

  “I ssseee your witsss, have not entirely dessserted you, Hassselrig.”

  “Unlike your piss,” Rondol snarled a retort, but Maelgrum waved him silent.

  “It ssseemsss there are sssome countiesss of thisss conquered domain that have not yet realisssed how the order of life, and of death hasss changed. I sssent them orcs, a cssertain Mayor Hiral sssent me back headsss. It will be sssalutary to show all of Morsssalve what the anger of Maelgrum bringsss. The Dragon’sss day of ssservice isss almossst upon usss. I think hisss presssence will ssstrengthen the lesssson to be given.”

  “Scum that dare to rise will soon fall into the muck in which they belong,” Rondol cried a hallelujah to his master.

  “The foolssss think that the boy prince of Nordsssalve will come to their aid if they only prove their courage in ssstanding againssst me.”

  “But what if Nordsalve does fight with them?” Haselrig was drawn for a moment into the strategic considerations which had once been part of his daily discourse with Maelgrum.

  “Then, Hassselrig, I will dessstroy them all. My power hasss grown great while you have frittered your hoursss in ssstudying forgotten diariess. Marwella will lead the Legionsss and I will lead the orcsss and outlandersss. Together we will sssweep all before usss.” He gave an airy flick of his hand towards the sorcerer on his right. “Rondol will have order of my affairsss here. In three weeksss I will return. You had better have newsss for me by then Hassselrig, or your hide and the Bissshop’sss daughter will sssuffer greatly for it.”

  ***

  It was him, but he was dead. Hepdida’s heart pounded at the misshapen reflection in the silver shield and chief Grundurg grinned back at her. Then when she thought her chest would burst, the guard shifted his stance, adjusted the shield and the reflection slipped from view and it was a woman’s voice calling from behind them. “Lady Niarmit,” the voice called, familiar and homely if a little anxious. Still, Hepdida turned slowly to face the new arrival, and only after she had seen Thom and Kaylan do the same with no trace of alarm.

  It was not the squat orc of her nightmares, but the round faced Deaconess, red with hurrying. But she slowed when she realised that the small mounted group had stopped to wait for her.

  “What is it mistress Rhodra?” Niarmit asked from the grey mare her half-brother had unknowingly bequeathed her.

  The breathless Deaconess threw her own question as she drew level with Niarmit’s knee. “Where are you going at this hour, Lady Niarmit, not leaving us?”

  “Given the week long stalemate in the council’s proceedings we thought to take a ride in the woods around the palace,” Niarmit replied.

  “In my brother’s home it is said the wall have ears,” Quintala added. “We had hopes that the trees might prove deaf.”

  “The Lady Giseanne would speak with you,” Rhodra parted with her message in a rush.

  “All of us?” Thom asked.

  Rhodra shook her head and swallowed back the lingering exertion of her dash to the stables. “No, she said just the Lady Niarmit and the Seneschal if they would come.”

  The half-elf dipped her chin in acknowledgement of the distinction. “I have always had time for the Lady Giseanne.”

  “Who else is invited to this meeting?” Niarmit asked, not shifting from her saddle. “Are other messengers entreating the Lords of Oostsalve or Bishop Sorenson to attend?”

  “Will my brother be there?” the half-elf added.

  Rhodra spoke softly. “Only I was sent and only to speak with you, my Lady.”

  Niarmit was already dismounting. “This ride can wait,” she said as Quintala also slid gracefully from the saddle. “Kaylan, have the horses stabled.”

  “Why?” Hepdida’s shrill question brought a glare from Niarmit.

  “I thought you didn’t enjoy riding,” her cousin said, watching the Princess through narrowed eyes.

  “I’m hardly going to get any better at it, if every time I am going to practice I get called back to sit and wait for the next moment when I and my story are to be paraded before a crowd of sourpusses who clearly think I made the whole thing up.” Frustrated indignation bubbled over as she jabbed at the lines on her cheeks. “Those bastard brothers of Abroath’s grinned at these like they thought I did this myself.”

  “Or like they wished they’d made the marks themselves,” Quintala murmured so quietly that Hepdida thought she had mis-heard.

  “You are tired,” Niarmit said with quick kindness. “I’m sorry. I had not thought what a trial this questioning must have been. You must rest.”

  Hepdida stood up in her stirrups to shout her cousin down, but the cob moved a step or two, stealing her balance and her words. She felt Kaylan’s hand on her arm, squeezing slightly to steady and to silence her. “A ride would do the Princess as much good as a rest, my Lady,” the thief observed, one eyebrow raised. “Rugan’s Palace is no place for the young. Thom and I will make sure your cousin comes to no harm in the Prince’s forests.”

  They were silent for a moment, Niarmit contemplating the thief’s offer and her cousin’s scowl. Hepdida glared back, hiding pain with anger and feeling only more pain at the sad puzzlement in Niarmit’s eyes.

  It was Rhodra who broke the spell. “The Lady Giseanne was most anxious to speak with you my Lady and it has already taken me longer than I thought to track you down.”

  “Go then, Kaylan,” Niarmit said but it was Hepdida she was looking at with her plain s
poken dismissal. Hepdida swung away hauling on reins, thighs and heels convulsing in a frenzy to get the obdurate cob moving. Tears of an un-thought sorrow stung her eyes and she would not look back even as Quintala wished her well.

  “Enjoy a quiet afternoon in the forests, my Princess. You have earned it,” the half-elf said softly. There were no words from Niarmit.

  Kaylan took the cob’s reins to lead her out of the courtyard onto the forest path. Thom followed behind and the silence lasted until the walls of Rugan’s palace were hidden by the massed trunks of the towering trees, planted in tribute to the Prince’s kin on his mother’s side.

  “How do you do it, Kaylan?” Hepdida said at last as the anger faded leaving only a pit of self-disgust.

  “Do what, my Princess?”

  “Live with such perfection. Knowing she is always right. She has all the answers, never doubting. I am just a child to her. Nothing I do is right.”

  Kaylan stopped his mare and turned to look at the surly Princess. He frowned as he gave her words some serious thought and she was grateful that when he spoke it was not to tell her that she was indeed just a child. “The Lady Niarmit has known her share of doubt my Princess. I expect waves of it still assail her now, but she dare not show it. She only rarely lets her torments break free.”

  “She is so cold at times that I am scared even to touch her.”

  “My father was such a one,” Thom said on her other side. “not cold, but driven always aware that he had never won the battle of life, just not lost it yet. I think our Queen follows a similar trail on this uncertain path to victory. She climbs every hill in the hope that each new summit will give her a clear view of the route by which Maelgrum may be overthrown and instead each new summit reveals just another higher hill.”

  Hepdida twisted her fingers in the slow moving cob’s mane. “I always feel small and weak beside her.”

  “There is a strength in you too Princess, you have survived your own trials and Lady Niarmit knows it,” Kaylan patted her arm, a familiarity he would never have contemplated with the Queen.

  “I should sleep in my own room, Kaylan. My nightmares keep her awake.”

  “What do you dream of, my Princess?” the thief asked gently.

  She shrugged and lied. “I can never remember, I just wake sweating.”

  Her companions were silent, if they had guessed at her dissembling they chose not to point it out.

  “Tell me, Kaylan,” Thom said as the horses walked slowly between the trees. “What do you make of our two Lords of Oostsalve?”

  “I can scarce credit they shared a mother, still less a father with our noble Prior.”

  Hepdida was glad of the talk and glad not to be its focus.

  ***

  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 pressure 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 friends 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 around. 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, Senes
chal, 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 woman 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 undoubted 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.”