Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2)

by T. O. Munro

  And then the elf was gone and Niarmit was turning and bowing in gratitude to Giseanne. “Truly my Lady you are an inspiring and inspired Regent.”

  “How did you do it?” Quintala asked.

  Giseanne shrugged. “I simply pointed out that I could not admit to our councils someone who provided no material support.”

  “You made her buy her place at the council table with three thousand soldiers and unfettered passage through the Silverwood,” the Seneschal exclaimed.

  “I also suggested that such a person could not be a guest in our palace, nor attend on our child.”

  “Oh joy! My Lady Regent. You struck right where it hurts the old witch.”

  “Quintala, take no pleasure in Kychelle’s discomfort.” Niarmit was quick to admonish. “She has been brought to our way of thinking. Whatever the means of that conversion, let us make sure she does not regret it. Give her the dignity of making her own announcements on the matter.”

  The Seneschal drew a finger across her mouth. “My lips are sealed, ma’am, though I think I may have to ride in the woods this evening to save this joyful news leaking from my very pores.”

  As Quintala made for the door, Giseanne called the Queen back. “Lady Niarmit, I would have a word on another matter, just with you.”

  “I am in your debt Lady, however I may serve.”

  Quintala turned in the entrance a hand on each of the double doors and gave them both a low bow and a twinkling smile. “I will leave you ladies to your affairs and hope for a similarly enchanting encounter when next we three should gather.”

  The doors were barely drawn closed behind her before Giseanne began. “How is the Lady Hepdida?”

  Niarmit frowned. “She is well, my Lady.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What has she said? I hope she has not been a nuisance to you.”

  “How could she be? Come, sit with me a moment.”

  Niarmit took a seat opposite Giseanne, less sure of her ground than she had been in the discussion with Kychelle. “Why should my cousin not be well?”

  “I heard her testimony at the council, Lady Niarmit. I have seen her scars and seen how much it hurt her to speak of them, though I gather that was far from half the full story.”

  “I see she is looked after as best I can,” Niarmit bridled.

  “I’m sure you do.” Giseanne reached out a hand, it felt heavy on Niarmit’s arm.

  “She sleeps often in my room, I am there when the nightmares wake her.”

  “Do you know all that the orc did?”

  “She’s never said. I’ve never asked.”

  “Do you think you should have?”

  Niarmit frowned. “Lady Giseanne, I am new to many things these last few weeks. I find myself a Queen. I find I was not the only child I always thought, but the brothers I barely knew are both dead. I find I have a cousin to whom I must be mother and father, a task I have no training or experience for and this child has in her a streak of rebellion I am sure I never had when I was her age. You say in the midst of her petulant fury I should ask just what it was that Grundurg did inbetween half-flaying her?”

  Giseanne squeezed Niarmit’s arm gently.

  “Do you care about Hepdida?”

  Niarmit made to answer but found she could not speak past the lump in her throat. Instead she gave a short nod.

  “You are not the only one to discover new relatives about whom you care, as well as old ones that you fear for,” Giseanne said.

  Niarmit looked up at that, seeing in Giseanne the high cheeks and dark eyes of that other father, Gregor, whom she had met and lost in the Domain of the Helm.

  “You have much of your mother about you,” Giseanne said. “But I see in you my brother Gregor too, and I see Udecht in Hepdida’s smile. Udecht was such a happy child, unbound by ambition or martial duty. You both have my father’s brow too, he could be fierce when crossed as well.”

  Giseanne looked out of the room’s western window. Hundreds of leagues away lay the fallen city of Morwencairn where Giseanne and her brothers had spent their childhoods in the court of King Bulveld. “I tended my father when he was ill,” she said. “He was a proud man and the sickness was a vile affliction. Piece by piece it stole his mind as well as his body, yet left him enough moments of awareness to comprehend what it was doing to him. There were times he even prayed for death, or railed against everyone even those who loved him most. I learnt more than I wished then of caring for those we love when they are in distress.” She drew a breath and gripped Niarmit’s arm again. “When your cousin is angry do not expect her to know why. If she rages against you, do not think yourself the object of her fury, merely the most convenient conductor for it.”

  ***

  Hiral stifled the scream within his chest. The winged serpent had stolen the courage of many men, but Hiral had stood firm even as half his hasty levy had been turned to cinders and almost all the rest had fled. They had come then, the groaning swaying ranks of living dead tumbling over the puny barricade. Still Hiral had stood firm, a small guard about him as he had dismembered cloying corpse after cloying corpse. The others had fallen at his side shredded by the tide of undead, but the fearsome creatures had hung back from Hiral.

  Then the orcs had come with swirling loops of rope that caught at his arms and hands despite the desperate slicing of his axe. He could not cut them all so at the end they had him held, brutish orcs tugging at the ropes’ ends to hold him helpless. A careless creature had a let a little slack creep into his binding and in an instant Hiral had jerked him off his feet, but the others had held him still until the fool could regain his feet. They had put two orcs on each rope’s end after that.

  So there he was held fast in a web of orcish restraint and now the greatest terror was come and his lungs ached to scream but he thrust the fear deep down inside, clamped his trembling jaw shut and forced himself to meet the gaze of the apparition walking towards him.

  Manshaped but tall, ragged rotting clothes covering cracked and blackened skin stretched taut over a skeletal frame. A mist surrounded the creature, trailing from sleeves and shoulders when it walked. Hiral shivered as a wave of cold air enveloped him. The thing stopped six feet infront of him, the hollow sockets of its eyes lit with a scintillating red glow.

  “Ssso thisss isss the famousss Mayor Hiral” a voice hissed from somewhere within the creature. “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’d be the bastard that sent orcs to demand tribute from my town.” Hiral had never expected to live for ever and he most surely was not going to go to the Goddess’s embrace with a whimper.

  “It wasss not tribute, Mayor Hiral. I sssent them to govern you in my name, the name of Maelgrum.”

  “The Salved are a free people,” Hiral strained against his bonds, not with much hope of freedom, but at least to make his keepers wary. “Filth like you will never rule us.”

  “The sssalved have been ssslavesss before and will be again.”

  “You may kill me, but others will rise against you, you will see. Tyranny always fails.”

  “Given the experience of Undersssalve, Mayor Hiral, I would beg to disssagree. I have ssstripped that province of two armiesss of orcsss and sssstill the people have not risssen against their masssters. Perhapsss you would like to know why?”

  The creature came close to Hiral, filling the Mayor’s nostrils with a foul stench of decay.

  “They are held in ssservitude by their own kind. I admit that men sssuch asss you will never sssserve me, but there are alwaysss enough that will. Human corruption and orcish brutality have ever been complementary sssins. I find that five ssscore orcs and twelve bad men can keep ten thousssand humansss in gainful thrall.”

  “You will not find such collaborators here.”

  Maelgrum stroked a soothing finger over Hiral’s head, the freezing touch brought an involuntary scream from the Mayor. “Do not worry yourssself, Mayor Hiral. I will find thossse men, I alwaysss do. Often they find me. Even
you Mayor Hiral will sssserve a purpossse for my endsss.”

  “I’ll not do your bidding.”

  “I meant asss an exssample to othersss.”

  The finality of the sentence brought a leaden gulp to the Mayor’s throat. He had always known death a possible outcome, likely even and becoming a certainty when, on the eve of battle, there were no riders from Nordsalve come to their aid. However, the reality of his imminent mortality clawed at his gut like a wild thing. He sought strength in prayer, beginning a faltering rendition of the Prophet’s prayer which gathered strength as the words of salvation and redemption gave him new heart. At the end however, his voice faltered as orcs brought out four prisoners and turned them to face him.

  “What – what is…. What is this?” He stammered as his prayers trailed off incomplete.

  “Thissss?” Maelgrum spread his arms in surprise. “Why thessse are your children are they not.” He walked along the line pointing to each in turn. “Mardig, your eldessst, a ssstrong young man. Galia ssso like her mother. Jorgen, a fine boy and of courssse little Mila. Their mother would be here too but ssshe isss dead. The orcsss that killed her made your children watch. It took sssome time ssso that may be why the children’sss eyesss are ssso red.”

  “And now you mean to make them watch you kill their father,” Hiral spat. He turned his head to the tearful children and tried despite the awful circumstance to find his bedtime voice. “Be brave my dears, the Goddess will care for me and mama and we will be together safe from this beast.”

  “Oh, Mayor Hiral, you missstake me. The children are not here to watch, they are here for you to choossse.”

  “What?”

  “One of your children will die, Hiral. The choice is yoursss. Which one has the leassst of your love?”

  Hiral’s mouth gaped open, his eyes wide. “That’s insane, you can’t mean.”

  “Come now Mayor Hiral, there isss not much time. I am generousss, choossse quickly. Which one will die?”

  They looked at him, all of them. Mila crying again streams of tears rolling down her face. Jorgen white with terror. Galia sobbing silently and Mardig trying so hard to stand tall and be brave like the father he loved and who loved him.

  “You cannot make me choose, I will not choose.”

  He never saw the signal, but there must have been one. An orc stepped forward and dragged a ragged knife across Mardig’s throat. A curtain of red spilled down his boy’s shirt as he collapsed coughing, spluttering and twitching into oblivion. Galia screamed, Mila buried her face in her hands and Jorgen stood in wet shame, but over all this there was a louder scream. It was Hiral’s own voice shrieking a denial of the evidence of his own eyes. But it was still not over.

  “There, Mayor, I have made the choicsse easssier for you. Now you mussst ssselect just one from three to follow your eldessst into death. Believe me, the afterlife isss not what you exssspect. I know. I have been there.”

  Hiral was crying now, fat tears of sorrow and distress at this his ultimate failure. How could he choose any of them, how could he not.

  “Choossse, Mayor and choossse quickly.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Hiral cried in anquish. “Take Jorgen, spare the girls.” He looked at his youngest son’s eyes, he owed him that much. The boy looked back, paler than ever with fear and disbelief but behind the fear his brown eyes were hollow with hatred.

  “A good choicsse,” Maelgrum said. He nodded and the orcs minding the two girls picked them up and carried them sobbing and screaming away behind the makeshift barricade which had so utterly failed to stop the onslaught of undead. The dark wizard knelt beside the trembling form of Jorgen. “Sssee boy, how your father chossse you, ssselected you for death.”

  “It wasn’t that Jorgy,” Hiral cried. “We are men, we have to be strong that was it.”

  Maelgrum shook his head. “He wanted you to die, little Jorgy. Did you alwaysss know you were hisss leassst favourite? Did you alwaysss know he loved you lessss?”

  “That’s not it,” screamed Hiral, but then a shrill scream erupted from behind the barricade piercing the senses like a knife down the spine. “What?” A second scream, a smaller voice in pure terror. “What are you doing, what is happening to the girls?”

  “Mayor Hiral, I lied. You were not ssselecting the child to die, you were choosssing the one child who would live. Young Jorgy here will live, who knowsss how long, but he will live knowing that hisss father chose him for death. Perhapsss in time he may come to me, one of my twelve men ruling hisss father’sss town in my name. Your daughtersss will die.”

  Another scream shattered the late afternoon. Maelgrum glanced towards the sun, still some way above the western horizon. “They will be dead by sssunssset, maybe a little after. Orcsss can be ssso creative where a pretty girl isss concerned. Come you mussst watch.”

  Jorgen’s minder led the boy away, he did not look back. The orcs on the ends of Hiral’s ropes began dragging the Mayor towards the barricade. He fought for purchase against the bloodied soil. “You cannot make me.”

  “I can and I will, Hiral. I will have your eyelids cut off to ensure you watch it all and then, when they are done with your daughtersss the orcsss will turn to you. If you are lucky you will be dead before the Sssun risssesss, but you would be unwissse to rely on enjoying sssuch good fortune.”

  The broken Mayor sobbed great lungfuls of sorrow as he was dragged past the impassive Dark Lord. “I would ssstay to watch myssslef,” Maelgrum told him. “But it ssseemsss one of my ssservantsss would ssspeak with me. A matter of great urgencssy I can only sssupose. Do not be too dessspondent, Mayor Hiral. You had hoped to ssstart a rebellion that would echo through the agesss. Be assured your exssample will prove inssstructive to many.”

  From behind the barricade a voice shrieked in pain, “daddy, my daddy!”

  ***

  “Did you really think I could have kept it from him your reverence? At the very least it has brought us a measure of freedom and I for one am grateful.”

  Udecht rubbed his wrist where the silver chain had been. The skin was scuffed and scorched from the daily abrasion and the nightly shocks. He still found himself unconsciously marking where the antiquary was and trying to keep the distance between them shorter than the recently dissolved umbilicus.

  “You saw it too Haselrig,” the Bishop said. “You saw the town burning, heard the screams, I swear your Master brought the stench of death with him through that doorway in the air.”

  “It is called a gate, your reverence,” Haselrig said wearily. The ebullience that had accompanied his night time discovery was slowly deflating with Udecht’s misery. “A passageway through the planes. Anything can pass through them in either direction.”

  Udecht plucked in distraction at his worn vestments. “What will he do now? How many more will burn because he has new knowledge to fuel his fire.”

  Haselrig shrugged and continued setting Chirard’s disordered papers back in place. “The Master is patient. He will think much and probe carefully before he acts. But at this moment he is pleased with us and for now Rondol is not the most favoured one.”

  The Bishop sighed. “In truth I know not now who was madder, Chirard or the Vanquisher himself. The utter blasphemy, to seek to build your own heaven and so evade death. I am only glad my father never wore the Helm. His soul at least will have found its way to the Goddess.”

  “Indeed, your reverence, much of the Helm makes sense now that Chirard has prised that precious knowledge past whatever wards the Vanquisher put in place.” Haselrig leant on the table staring at the opposite wall in contemplation. “To think, twenty two monarchs of the Salved residing in their own private demi-plane, caught at the moment of their death by the Vanquisher’s enchantment. Yet all still able, as Chirard did, to step once more into the world through the Helm and its wearer, bringing challenge to the living and the undead.” He shook his head. “I think the Master was surprised at his former pupil’s skill.”

&nbs
p; “Was that what it was, in his manner?” Udecht thought again of the electric crackle about Maelgrum’s blackened form as Haselrig had unfolded his fantastic story. “He seemed different to me this time.”

  “You are becoming a student of the Master’s moods I see,” Haselrig paused again in his work and smiled at some internal reflection. Udecht rubbed his wrist, unnerved by the momentary freedom from terror and pain. His enemy’s satisfaction filled him only with a sense of foreboding. “I saw him like that just once before,” the antiquary went on. “When he thought he had Feyril within his grasp. He knows that Eadran has not passed entirely beyond the veil of this world and in that knowledge he has hope that he may meet with him again. The prospect excites him.”

  “But the Vanquisher is hidden in this pocket plane, as surely beyond the reach of your Master as if he rested with the Goddess.”

  Haselrig fixed him with a look of indulgent pity. “Your reverence, the Lord Maelgrum is Master of the Planes, the Master of the Planes. Whatever Eadran created and however he hid and locked the boundaries of his personal heaven, the Master will find a way in and then the Vanquisher and his kin will find just how swiftly heaven can become hell.”

  ***

  It was cold on the tower. A wind sweeping from the East off the Palacintas swirled through the embrasures and whipped at Odestus’s robe as he stepped through the trapdoor. Dema stood at the far edge of the platform her back to him, staring towards the distant hills her cloak flapping about her. The rays of the setting sun glinted off the sharp eyes of the serpents hissing and writhing atop the Medusa’s head.

  “Dema, are you masked?” Odestus called, looking at the stone floor. His right hand felt within his robes checking for the precious bottle.

  There was a pause before Dema replied. “All is well, little wizard. You may approach in safety.”

  He crossed the high platform towards her, buffeted by gusts at which Dema only stretched her arms wide. Her snakes extended to their full lengths framing her head like a sunburst. As Odestus drew level with the Medusa the nearest serpent hissed and struck towards him, its tongue flicking to taste his fear in the air.