Lady Of The Helm (Book 1)

by T. O. Munro

  “Robbing my customers, it’s bad for my business,” Glafeld whimpered.

  “Very well, Mr Innkeep, let’s have an arrangement. I’ll spot my marks in your tavern, but I’ll do all my robbing outside. I’ve no need of trouble and I guess, for reasons I can’t fathom, you’re happy with your face the shape it is now.”

  “Hmmf,” Glafeld gasped as her arm tightened across his throat.

  “Sorry, I don’t speak Dwarfport. Was that a yes or a no? Do we have an arrangement?”

  “Hmmf, yeees!” Glafeld squeezed out the affirmative through a bruised larynx, and then abruptly she released him. He dropped coughing and spluttering to his knees. Still in an instant Glafeld twisted round to see his attacker, but he was all alone in the damp alleyway.

  ***

  “I must apologise for my Captain,” Feyril began when he and Gregor were alone.

  “And I for my Seneschal and Archbishop,” the King replied. “These are grievous times where tempers are short and courtesy thin.”

  “Grievous indeed.” The elf fixed the king with a steady gaze.

  “You are serious aren’t you. You really think…. You think it is…”

  “Maelgrum, aye. I do.”

  “He is dead, Eadran destroyed him.”

  “He was not alive then and that which does not live cannot be killed. As to destroyed, I was there, in the heart of this mountain. Eadran, Morwena and I. Of the three of us, I alone remain to tell the tale of what happened that day the Vanquisher earned his title. We imprisoned the Dark One, we did not destroy him. There was always a risk that a master of the planes such as Maelgrum might escape the trap we had made for him.”

  Gregor stroked his beard. “What proof have you that he has made his escape. A treacherous brother and, perhaps, an exiled wizard returned, is this the signature of the Dark One.”

  Feyril frowned searching for the words. “His actions can be seen in the effect they have on others. Nomads on the borders of Undersalve stirred to hostile intent, orcs and ogres co-ordinating their efforts with a ferocious cohesion. Findil and I were at Bledrag field, we held our own, but we could not stop Matteus and his force being overrun.”

  “A strong leader is needed yes, but why should that be Maelgrum rather than this Governor?”

  “There is magic afoot in Undersalve, a foul dweomercraft that is the very signature of Maelgrum. The dead, given no rest but bent to the evil one’s will. As Findil says, Elves have died discovering the Governor’s secrets and now this Governor, Odestus if you will, has an army of twenty thousand on the edge of Hershwood poised to strike.”

  “By the Goddess, Feyril, if this is true then why did you bring the better part of your force here? You have left Illana with nothing!”

  “She has twelve hundred elves and her own considerable talents. I brought the greater division here because yours is the greater peril.”

  “Greater than the victor of Bledrag and his swollen army? What could be… you mean Maelgrum again!”

  “Yes, I do. Dear Gregor, only if you can understand the nature of the peril you face, will you do what is needed, do what is the only chance we have for success.”

  The elf Lord lifted his gaze upwards from the King’s face to the polished iron helm atop its plinth behind the throne.

  “I will not do it, Feyril,” Gregor snapped an instant haunted denial.

  “Gregor, you have no choice.”

  Both King and Elf Lord looked again at the Great Helm of Eadran, symbol of the king’s authority since the days of the vanquisher himself. It was a solid steel helm, polished but lacking any regal adornment or inscription. Its most remarkable feature was the absence of eye slits to break its even surface, such that, when worn, only the wearer’s mouth would be visible. A casual observer would think the item quite unfit for purpose as its wearer would effectively be blind.

  “You cannot make me wear that thing, not with all your fear-babe talk of Maelgrum and the past.”

  “Your forefathers wore it, wore it and wielded it. It is a great weapon.”

  “It may once have been, Feyril yes, but now it is an instrument of madness, corrupted beyond your comprehension. My father chose not to wear it ever. I, at your insistence, followed ancient customs. I wore it once at my coronation.” Gregor swept back the hair at his right temple to show a small horsehoe shaped mark the size of a silver penny. “See how I bear the mark of Eadran. The helm’s own brand not some coronation tattoo in facsmilie of the real thing. And I count myself lucky to have no deeper scar, to have had the fortune to remove that thing. I will not run that risk again.”

  “Gregor, Maelgrum is a greater threat than you could ever know. Eadran defeated him by a trickery that he will not succumb to again. This weapon of Eadran’s is the most powerful artefact the Vanquisher created. It is an object of which Maelgrum knows nothing. I have seen its wearers, your forefathers, make the Eastern lands tremble and pay homage. It is the only hope we have.”

  Gregor shook his head slowly. “Truly old friend, you have no idea what you ask. I have lived and will die in regret at putting that thing upon my head. Whatever it may once have been it is no more. You must trust me for only one who has worn it can know what it is, what it really is.”

  Feyril was silent, unable to gainsay the King.

  “Besides, this is not Maelgrum we face, ‘tis my brother and some rabble from beyond the barrier. He wants my kingdom, but he shall win no more land than will suffice to bury him in. You are come today, Hetwith of Nordsalve will be here before the week is out. If I can but stir my brother in law and the Prince of Oostsalve, we shall soon have force enough to shatter every traitor’s dreams.”

  ***

  Odestus gazed down at the churning water where the broad River Nevers was joined by the fast flowing Saeth, freshly charged by the snowmelt from atop the Hadrans. Beyond the angle of the river the tall densely packed trees of Hershwood concealed the realm of Feyril beneath their broad canopies.

  Behind the Governor, his force of orcs and ogres were drawn up in three divisions, with the wolf riding cavalry to the left. They were on the North side of the Nevers so only the Saeth stood between them and their objective.

  “All is ready sire,” Vesten reported. “The scouts report the ford is unguarded we can be in Feyril’s domain by night fall.”

  Odestus nodded, “he has taken his best to Morwencairn. The forest should be near empty.”

  “Still, a shame we had not the human cavalry for our left flank.”

  Odestus shook his head. “Orcs and humans serving together, ‘tis beyond my power to command. Besides, the force we have should be ample for our Master’s purpose. Sound the advance.”

  ***

  Kimbolt’s hands were numb, not with cold but from the tightly bound ropes biting into his wrists. His initial gratitude at having human rather than orcish guards had faded rapidly. On the first break neck ride through a fog too thick to see his own horse’s mane, there had been no concession made to his difficulties. Hands lashed together he could only grip the pommel of the saddle. His mount’s reins disappeared into the mist where one of his guards dragged his steed along. With so little command of his steed or his course, Kimbolt had nearly lost his seat a hundred times.

  Emerging from the fog had brought little relief as the pace of the ride accelerated and the night closed in. To their left Kimbolt was dimly aware of the orcish contingent on wolf-back easily matching the outlander humans for speed. Military instincts had led him to try to make some count of the numbers in Dema’s diverse party. He had guessed at around five hundred orcs and perhaps half that number of humans, but the demands of self-preservation prevented any detailed analysis of the invading force. Indeed the captured Captain had barely any attention to spare for his wider surroundings. Occasionally, on their right, Kimbolt caught sight of the lights of a village or an isolated farmhouse, but Dema drove them onwards never stopping to check their course or her bearings. Yet the Medusa led her human band and its orcish sh
adow with great surety down narrow tracks, and along forest paths without ever encountering a human inhabitant.

  Kimbolt was used to hard riding, to fatigue beyond endurance, but the night’s relentless drive had tested him to the limit. He hovered between wakefulness and the blissful oblivion of a tumbling terminal sleep. It was only the reflex twitching of his knees against his mount’s flanks which kept him astride the horse as it twisted and leapt for hours on end.

  Just as the Captain was convinced he would collapse, the pale fingers of dawn stretched across the landscape, illuminating an ancient ruin which had to be the Medusa’s intended destination. Kimbolt steeled himself for a last couple of miles, at the end of which the frantic gallop slowed to a walk. Both horses and wolves made their way between two great moss covered walls into a grass covered courtyard that must have once been a roofed and vaulted great hall. As his horse bent its neck to tear up the lush grass, Kimbolt did not wait for his captors to come and help him down. He just slipped from the saddle and fell untidily onto the grass.

  ***

  “This is a fool’s errand!” Quintala muttered none too softly into her horse’s side.

  “Does that make us fools then?” Eadran quipped as he steered his mount alongside the glowering half-elf. Then, bending his head close to the furious Seneschal, he murmured. “Now mount up Quin and, whatever your feelings on our mission it were best you did not share them so loudly. We ride in company and our troopers have enough to trouble them without learning of dissent in the King’s counsels.”

  Quintala’s jaw dropped at the unprecedented rebuke from Gregor’s floppy haired second son. She looked him up and down anew, “It seems the seed of kingship may sprout in you yet, Ead.”

  “I will take that as a compliment. Now it is a long ride to Medyrsalve, but all the better for you to tell me whatever you can of my uncle and his court.”

  “If two score troopers and the heir to the Helm of The Vanquisher cannot move Prince Rugan, I doubt any words of mine will tip the argument,” Quintala struck stubbornly to her point.

  “In this matter, Quin, my father’s command is that we should leave nothing untried. It is not just the forces of Rugan that will hail from Medyrsalve, but those of Oostsalve beyond, and even the garrison at Salicia should it be recalled. All must march through Rugan’s land. It is essential he bows to the King’s will.” Eadran re-iterated the arguments of the council with the zeal of the freshly converted. “Now dear Quin, two and a half centuries have made you wise in the ways of this world. I would credit you have plenty of value to share on our journey and time enough to share it. So come, mount up and, as we ride, tell me what it is to be half-elven that I may better understand our quarry.”

  Quintala gave a brisk nod before leaping lightly into the saddle. Eadran was away waving their escort of royal lancers into motion. “What it is to be half-elven, my Prince?” she murmured to herself alone. “Why it is to be despised and suspected by both your mother’s and your father’s kin. Rugan and I both hold our positions by law of inheritance, not by love or respect. Mayhap I need look only into my own mind to better understand my half-brother.”

  ***

  A boot in the ribs stirred Kimbolt to wakefulness and a harsh outlander voice urged him, “eat!”

  As the captive Captain worked himself into a sitting position, the guard dropped a piece of hard bread and a bowl of thick cold gruel into his lap. Kimbolt struggled to eat the paltry repast two handed. The gruel served only to slightly soften the bread such that it could be chewed without risk of breaking a tooth, but still with little hope of a smooth and early swallow. He was coughing his way through another mouthful when the Medusa announced herself.

  “I trust you are rested, Captain. We ride again in twenty minutes.”

  “It is still day. How long have we rested here?”

  “It is the fore noon, Captain. We have a few hours yet to sunset in which we can make good ground.”

  “Your green skinned scum will not go un-noticed. You will be hunted down and destroyed.”

  “And what would become of your servant girl then? eh?” As her prisoner brooded on her remark, Dema went on. “But fear not, my orcish allies travel faster but only by night, they will follow our trail at a safe distance and rejoin when we camp. That will also mean the more respectable of my guards can trade for supplies within any places we pass at dusk. Gruel is nutritious but orcs, more so even than humans, have a hankering after meat. If I cannot get them pigs or even the odd cow, then methinks you might start to look like a tasty morsel to them and that would never do.”

  Kimbolt shivered and Dema offered him a mocking reassurance. “Fear not, Captain, it will not come to that. All the orcs in Sturmcairn could not have so much as your little toe unless I chose to let them. However, I need them well fed. Hungry orcs lack discipline and, as I am sure you know discipline is everything.”

  “The people of the Salved will have no truck with you or your traitorous rabble.”

  She sniffed. “Bold words, but you are so wrong. They will gladly trade their goods with my rabble.” The Medusa flung a hand towards the human troop who, even now were emptying their billets and preparing to mount up. “Those imperial uniforms taken at Sturmcairn give my ‘soldiers’ a certain familiar authority and there are plenty enough safe camp sites like this for our purpose.”

  “What is this place?” Kimbolt demanded as he gazed once more on their make-shift campsite. It was an ancient ruin of a once great building. The thick stone walls were pierced with holes that would once have secured massive timbers to support the roof, and countless openings hinted at other chambers in a sprawling complex. Centuries old it was, yet weathered only by wind and rain. Its doorways and windows retained their original shape, un-enlarged by the scavenging Kimbolt would have expected. An abandoned building was too ready a source of dressed stone to be neglected by any nearby builders and the openings would be the easiest point of attack for those bent on recycling. Many was the time in the eastern lands, Kimbolt had ridden past ruined fortresses and temples, with ragged gaping holes where once stained glass had stood. Yet here no human hand had contributed to its decay.

  “What is this place?” he repeated the question at the smiling Medusa, though with a prickling sense at the back of his neck.

  “Why Captain, you sit in the great hall of San Nystrel, high seat of the order of Thaumategry and foremost college of magic in the North West. Or at least it was five hundred years ago.” She laughed as Kimbolt hastily crescented himself. “I see you share your people’s superstition. The same superstition that has kept all away from this place for centuries. Why even lovers in search of a place for a tryst have avoided this site for fear of the ghosts of long dead mages. There is no safer place in the Empire of the Salved for a company of orcs to camp.”

  “By the Goddess, you will fail madam,” Kimbolt retorted with a conviction that owed more to hope than belief. “Your abominations will kindle in human hearts a fire you will not readily still.”

  Dema scowled. “You are wrong Captain. Human hearts? What weak fickle things, ruled by greed and fear in equal measure.”

  Kimbolt looked up, daring for once to look at the black gauze covered eyes. There was a sparkle of blue light through the material which still managed to chill the blood. The cowl of her cloak, which usually stilled the wriggling serpents into sleep, heaved now as the Medusa’s snakes stirred with the darkening of her mood. “What do you know of human hearts, Madam?”

  She swooped, seized his chin in her fingers and glared into his eyes with a ferocity that made his senses numb. Beneath the hood, there was a cacophony of hissing as the material bucked and heaved with the writhing of reptiles. Her hand on his skin was icily cold, but there was a heat in her words as she told him, “I was human once too!”

  For a moment she held his gaze, her other hand twitched towards the mask, but then with a snort of contempt, she flung him aside and strode away calling for her horse.

  *** />
  The beacon fire had long since burned out and Sturmcairntor was once again the safest and coldest vantage point from which the garrison lookouts could spy to East or West. As the wind whipped up the finely powdered ash, Haselrig pulled his cloak about his face and gazed eastwards. The snaking pass skirted alongside the youthful Nevers River on its way to the broad plains of Morsalve and beyond its capital Morwencairn. The three orc sentries gave the pale ex-priest, ex-antiquary, ex-librarian a wide berth as he stood and stared towards the land of his birth. The only sign visible of the land of the Salved from this, its furthest border, was the slender tower of Garradtor. First in the chain of beacon towers that led from this spot to the gates of Morwencairn itself. Garradtor had been the first lit in response to Kimbolt’s firing of the beacon. Its small platoon had fallen prey to Dema and Grundurg as had the next two towers, but for now the rule of Maelgrum stopped with the conjured fog bank at the wide opening to the mountain pass. With Dema and Grundurg gone, the rest of Maelgrum’s army waited. While he knew something of his Master’s intent, Haselrig knew better than to ask for the detail in the undead wizard’s plans. And so, for another day he found a moment of solitude atop the windswept tower, a glimmer of freedom from the shadow of his Master’s will. It was a moment to reflect once more on long ago decisions that, while far from hasty, had been made with a certain ignorance of the full consequences.

  The ex-antiquary’s ruminations were disturbed by two new arrivals, Xander and Udecht. The two brothers were growing more alike in appearance. Xander had thickened out and made some show of addressing his unkempt appearance with the luxuries of the fortress’s stores. By contrast, the Bishop looked gaunt. His voluminous clothes hung slack on a body that had lost all appetite, while lacking razor or other toiletries his face looked more hardened outlander than dutiful servant of the Goddess.

  Haselrig turned away, in no hurry for princely small talk, but the spartan platform gave him no hiding place.

  “Ah, Haselrig,” Xander greeted cheerfully. “Have you come here to look upon my future kingdom too?”