Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2)

by T. O. Munro

  A breeze gathered pace across the clearing making Hepdida pull the riding cloak more tightly about her shoulders. She whistled for warmth and looked down at her feet. The ground was scuffed, a few broken twigs had been trodden underfoot, but not by her feet. That was when she saw it.

  She wasn’t sure at first, didn’t dare to believe it. She even turned her head to see if the object was simply fooling her and if a different angle might reveal it all as a harmless leaf, or misplaced piece of forest furniture. She was trembling as she reached down towards it. Her fingers touched the leather lanyard, a worn cord. A fear seized her gut even at that small contact.

  She swallowed hard and dragged on the cord, pulling the object free from the tangle of roots until it dangled like a pendant on a necklace. But this was not a pendant. It was a thick black disc, a medallion of ill intent. She could not supress the shaking, could not forget the last time she had seen such an object. Her wounds weeping in Grundurg’s tent when the foul orc had pulled out just such a black disc as this and destroyed her hope with the assurance, “Snake lady not coming. Master talk to Grundurg, talk to Grundurg through this, this big magic.”

  It couldn’t be him. Niarmit said he was dead, Tordil said he was dead. They had both seen the orc’s headless corpse while Hepdida had rolled in delirium.

  There was a crack in the woods behind her. Hepdida froze. ‘Oh Crap!’ she thought, trying to reach for her knife. But fear had literally frozen her. She could not move a muscle. Oh shit, this wasn’t fear. This was something else. She tried to blink, she tried to turn. Another noise, closer now, coming up behind her. The medallion swung in the breeze from her paralysed outstretched hand. She couldn’t move. She’d been so stupid. ‘Oh, Niarmit – I’m sorry.’

  ***

  Thom was dirty, sweating and happy. The scrabble back along the north side of the pass had brought its moments of intense fear. Several times it had been necessary to jump gaps of varying distances where the ledge they were following had disappeared into the steep rock face. But now the encampment at the crest of the pass was in sight and the path had broadened into a gentle slope down to the floor of the saddle shaped Gap of Tandar. Now he could savour not just success, or even his part in their success. As he walked by the head of the short column of elven and human archers, he could reflect on a still greater achievement.

  As though in echo of his inner thoughts, a hand clapped him heavily once more on the shoulder. “I meant it Thom,” Tordil said. “You did well there.”

  Thom stumbled for words, ‘thank you’ seemed unnecessary, ‘I know’ would be arrogant. Instead he dipped his head in quick dumb nods, with the excessive eagerness of a small child offered a treat.

  “I did say so, Captain.” Elyas bore up on the illusionist’s other side. “I told you young Thom had done us good service and would do so again.”

  “Aye, well hiding those ropes from sight so the enemy would think they’d hurried into a trap for us rather than themselves.” Tordil set his mouth in measured appreciation of the feat. “It was good.”

  “And multiplying our archers and our arrows when we wanted to climb free,” Elyas reminded him. “It sent them scurrying for cover.”

  “But it was your flames that destroyed the enemy, Captain” Thom hurried to dispense credit as freely as he appeared to be receiving it. “My powers are only to deceive and confuse. I didn’t kill anyone, or make them burn.”

  Tordil slowed his pace, chewing his lip in thought. “Yes, Thom, you didn’t. And that’s no bad thing. You didn’t kill anyone and you haven’t killed anyone either of theirs or ours. May be the Goddess will spare you that …. that experience.” He sighed, “I have been less gracious or grateful than I should have. I should not have held against you the service you were previously drafted into. I’m sorry.”

  Thom felt his skin blush crimson at the elf Captain’s frank apology. Elyas ruffled the illusionist’s hair with a laugh. “See Captain, you embarrass our poor Thom. He is too used to being kicked and abused.”

  “Er… yes,” Thom agreed glancing from one smiling elven face to another. “Let me know when things will get back to normal.”

  “All things change, Thom. Even after five centuries an elf can learn a little humility.”

  “I hope that fortune has smiled as kindly on her Majesty.” Elyas’s eyes scanned the milling soldiers in the camp for some sign of how Niarmit’s party had fared.

  “She tempts the Goddess that one,” Tordil said. “To resolve on destroying the engines of war and freeing the prisoners, it was bold!”

  “And burning the dead! She did set the wagons ablaze,” Thom added. “I saw it from the cliff top.”

  Tordil shook his head and muttered, “bold or mad, I know not which Thom.”

  “I see her!” Elyas shouted. “There by the priests’ tents.” He laughed. “Ah, Sir Ambrose’s chaplains are put to work again, delivering succour to the sick. It will not be long before they ask the big knight for a sword and demand to stand in the battle line as simple soldiers, rather than always be dispensing the Grace of the Goddess.”

  The trio had unconsciously picked up the pace when Elyas spotted Niarmit. As they scampered down the slope it was not far short of a race to be the first to report how good fortune had attended their endeavours.

  The Queen was ministering to the freed prisoners with absolute concentration, symbol in one hand, the other on the bodies of the sick, easing their fevers. Though the elves had got there first, Thom had caught up with them before Niarmit rose and turned to face them.

  “It went well with you then, Captain.”

  “Exceptionally so, your Majesty. Not just the siege engines, but half the troops that escorted them are destroyed, turned all to ash.” He nodded towards the weak but smiling refugees. “I see the prisoners were all freed as well.”

  She gave a slow pensive nod and Thom thought her weariness quite understandable, after the night’s exertions. But then she shivered, shaking off an unhappy thought. “It was a little bit close to call at one point, Captain,” she admitted. “You may be right, that I demand too much of the Goddess’s favour with fate.”

  There was a murmuring amongst the prisoners, a low hum that grew angry like bees. An audible spit that stunned Thom and then he saw a newcomer. A man with a ragged beard, dressed in outlander garb, yet no prisoner for he still carried his sword as he walked past the resting refugees. It was he that had drawn their disgust, a wave of surly looks, catcalls, mistimed kicks and phlegmy spit. Energy that the sick could surely not spare.

  “Who is this, your Majesty?” Tordil’s hand had flown to his sword hilt in an instinctive first response to the newcomer’s appearance. Leaving his hand still resting on the slender weapon was a more deliberate choice.

  “He is a friend,” Niarmit answered, despite the foul names and curses that the sick hurled at him.

  The man had the good grace to bow his head at the abuse, offering no defence or rebuke to those who but a few hours earlier had themselves been entirely defenceless.

  Tordil frowned. “I should trust your judgement, your Majesty. You have proved me wrong before, but it seems this fellow may have some accusations to answer. Who is he?”

  Niarmit looked at the disconsolate outlander, a picture of misery in his freedom. “Captain Tordil, this is Captain Kimbolt.” Neither soldier extended a hand to the other, content instead with the slightest nod of courtesy.

  “Kimbolt?” Thom asked. “Hepdida’s Kimbolt?”

  At the mention of the girl’s name, the Captain swung his gaze on the illusionist with an expression of haunted hope.

  ***

  Giseanne had struggled to balance the demands of Regency which made Rugan her vassal and the demands of matrimony where, in Rugan’s view at least, the positions were reversed. They had moved forward, sometimes in a series of jagged steps to reach the outcome she desired by a path Rugan had not anticipated. Word had been sent to Nordsalve, Oostsalve and Salicia. The garrison in the Eas
tern lands would be withdrawn as soon as passage could be arranged, the Prince of Oostsalve had been told to part with the rest of his troops and the Lady Isobel would stop cowering behind the fast flowing River Derrach and prepare to take an offensive against the invader. It was progress, but it was also good to have a moment just the two of them. Baby Andros had gurgled happily in his father’s arms until the wet-nurse arrived for his feed and now the half-elf Prince and his human lady were free to talk, unencumbered by any audience.

  “You really think they are your brothers’ children?” Rugan asked as he settled beside her in a chair overlooking the gardens.

  When she nodded, he exclaimed, “both of them?”

  “Yes, I believe it, Rugan. They are my close kin I am sure of it.”

  Rugan sunk deeper in his chair, resting steepled fingers against his mouth. “I still say she must prove it.”

  “She will Rugan. You did not see her as a child, there were few could stand against her. Matteus did well in bringing her up unaided. In bringing morality and discipline to that tenacity of purpose.”

  “She’s a stubborn mule who has much to learn about rulership. I’ll not trust my people to her whims.”

  “She’s a quick study, Rugan. May be you should tutor her in rulership.”

  He laughed at that, though she was only half joking. “I do not think I and the Lady Niarmit are yet ready to exchange lessons.”

  There was a crash as the doors opened and both Prince and Regent spun to see what had occasioned the disturbance. Rugan was on his feet. His fingers twitched towards the sword he had taken to wearing about the palace since Kychelle’s murder.

  “Sister!” he exclaimed. “These are my private quarters. How dare…”

  “What is amiss, Seneschal?” Giseanne waved her husband into silence, taking in more quickly than he the dis-shelved distress which shrouded Quintala.

  “Hepdida,” the Seneschal gulped. “It is the Princess Hepdida?”

  “What of her? Does she need another frock?” Rugan’s anger at the intrusion had not yet dissipated.

  “Quiet, husband. Seneschal speak.”

  “She had taken to riding alone, she left the stables this morning. She has not returned.”

  “It is barely afternoon,” Rugan harrumphed. “I sometimes ride for days.”

  Giseanne understood Quintala’s concern, the Princess was no horsewoman fit or keen for a long ride.

  “Her horse is back. Riderless.”

  Rugan’s disdain softened into genuine reassurance. “We all fall from horses, Seneschal. Like as not she is following the animal home bruised and on foot. Probably not far from the palace and well on the way to being a better rider.”

  Quintala shook her head unhappily and Giseanne seized her husband’s arm. “I know,” the Prince said, patting his wife’s hand. “We will send out riders to help her home.”

  “Kaylan is already out there,” Quintala said. “I will go straight after him from here.”

  Giseanne dug her fingers into the Prince’s wrist. “You go too, Rugan,” she said, eyes wide with fear. “You go. Go and find my niece.”

  ***

  “Where is she?” In his haste Odestus made an ungainly dismount. It took him several sideways steps to recover his balance but for once he did not give a fig who saw the high and mighty Governor stumble, nor begrudge the bruising ride his feckless steed had given him. “Where is she, Willem?”

  The big outlander gestured towards a narrow defile cut by nature into the southern cliff face.

  “You left her there?” Odestus screamed. “You left her.”

  The outlander shrugged. “No one would go near.”

  “Maybe she’s not dead.”

  “Oh she’s dead all right, but even dead they’re still scared of her. This is the snake lady remember.”

  “What of Kimbolt? He wouldn’t have left her.”

  “The bed slave?” Willem raised an eyebrow and pointed north to a gully its side blackened with smoke. “Must have been burnt to buggery with the rest, by those bastard elves. Haven’t seen hide nor hair since before the trebuchets went up. Reckon he’s ash and she’ll soon be dust.”

  “Come,” Odestus commanded, striding south. When Willem didn’t follow, he called again. “Come, Willem, we cannot leave her there.”

  “I’ve got things to do here.” Willem grunted.

  “What? What things?”

  “I’m pulling them back, abandoning these positions.”

  “Dema would never…”

  “Dema is dead, mister wizard. The red headed witch has got all the boys spooked. They’re saying she can’t be defeated, they’re saying she can’t be killed.”

  “They used to say that about Dema.”

  “And look what’s happened, mister wizard.” Willem waved up the slope towards the unseen crest of the pass. “If that witch came out and farted at the front line she’d have them running all the way back to Listcairn and I’m not sure they’d even stop there. I’m pulling them back while I can still pretend it’s my choice not hers.”

  “But Dema?”

  “She’s gone.”

  Odestus glared at the outlander, hands on his hips. “I’m going to get her, myself.”

  “Careful, little wizard, it could be dangerous, sure as shit was for the snake lady.”

  “Well then you can explain to the Master how you let me walk up that defile all by myself.” Odestus turned and stomped away, not too fast but fast enough.

  “Hold up, mister wizard,” Willem hailed from behind him. “I’m coming.” There was a barked order and a couple of nomads abandoned their packing of bedrolls at the outlander’s command.

  It was a narrow twisting crevice in the rock where one could not see far more than a few yards ahead. All the way Odestus prayed to a Goddess he had forsaken that it would not be true, but it was. They rounded a corner and there she was, lying on her back, staring sightlessly up at the sliver of cold blue sky bounded by two walls of rock.

  If her stillness had not convinced him, the blood that pooled beneath her and ran down the gentle slope could not be disbelieved. Willem and the nomads turned sideways, creeping towards her by touch more than sight, but Odestus had seen the blond hair stretched across the ground and he approached unblinking, trying to remember every detail so it could torture his days and haunt his nights for months to come.

  There was blood at her mouth, an ugly broken wound beneath her collar bone where the blade had broken through flesh and bone and chain mail. He gasped, hand flying to his lips to stop the very thought. She had been struck from behind. Of course, who would dare to have faced Dema? How else could she have been beaten?

  He knelt at her side, picking up the black gauze from where it had fallen and pushing it into his pocket. She lay there, blond hair strewn across the stone and those deep brown eyes. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, her face a blur as hot wet tears dripped from Odestus’ eyes.

  “She is not how she used to be,” Willem murmured, finally grown brave enough to look.

  Odestus shook his head, scattering salty tears. “No Willem, no, she is exactly how she used to be.”

  “We should cover her face,” the outlander said after a moment’s pause.

  “No, Willem, not yet.” Odestus mumbled. “A moment longer please. I’ve waited twenty years to look into her eyes.”

  ***

  “He’s found her!” The call went up and Giseanne turned towards the clamour to see her husband emerging from the woods. He was on foot, his horse following obediently behind. He carried the girl in his arms, dark hair and hands trailing, her head lolling against the half-elf’s chest.

  “He’s found her.” the cry was duller. Sharp relief blunted by the Prince’s sombre gait.

  There was a movement further south along the treeline a man so far away. Kaylan, running faster than Giseanne had thought a man could run. Charging past the jogging servants and soldiers who had been party to this search. On Rugan’s other side Qu
intala hurried towards her brother in graceful haste but she stopped when still some yards short of her quarry, not daring to approach closer.

  The crowd of searchers gathered and then parted to create an avenue of silence by which Rugan could approach his wife. He walked slowly, each gentle step rocking the Princess in his arms. Giseanne looked for a smile, for a twist to his lips, for some flicker of joy in her husband’s expression. She found none and flung both hands to her mouth while her heart pounded in her chest.

  There was a commotion as Kaylan crashed into the back of the crowd of onlookers, fighting his way through them with feet and fists, though they were quite ready to step aside. The thief was screaming. “She’s not dead.” He shouted. “She’s not dead!”

  ***

  It had been a dark alley, a merchant taking a short cut home. There was no danger in that. The Salved Kingdom was the safest in the whole world. A child could walk unharmed from Sturmcairn to Oostport so what fear had a merchant in one little alleyway. And there she had found him.

  “Hello, little wizard,” she had said.

  “What, who,” he had stammered, his wits a little slowed by three short glasses of green liqueur.

  “Hello, little wizard.” She had walked towards him all tall and graceful, closing the distance between them in a couple of strides.

  “I don’t know who, er that is, I think you have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “No mistake, little wizard,” she had been close enough for him to inhale her scent. Blond hair flowing over her shoulders, brown eyes staring into his.

  “Who are you?” His addled brain had grasped a concrete question.

  “My name is Dema, little wizard, but I like to think that I am your opportunity, and you are mine.”

  Odestus breathed in deeply, trying to capture the memory of that scent two decades and a hundred leagues away in the cold tower of Listcairn. It eluded him. He tipped up the bottle. It was empty. A whole bottle of the sickly liqueur which she despised all gone. What would Dema say to that? Nothing, Dema would say nothing not now, not evermore.