Lady Of The Helm (Book 1)

by T. O. Munro

  “Well, trading in magic, that could get even a rich merchant into a lot of trouble. I wouldn’t want to see a fine fellow like you sent beyond the barrier. Now, me keeping my mouth shut, that’s got to be worth more than a story eh?”

  Kaylan couldn’t see the merchant’s expression, only the tension in his frame, shoulders drawn higher torso inclined forward as he took in this new demand. He nodded briefly, this time to the innermost nomad and gave the clipped command, “pay the man his due.” Then he sidled out of the booth and strode angrily towards the bead curtained exit.

  Kaylan caught just a glimpse of the merchant’s features, a pale round face, squashed nose and fleshy chin. He’d seen it once before, three years ago when Niarmit and the resistance had been riding high in ambition and fortune. They’d had just the one chance to hit this target and Kaylan had been close enough to aim an arrow at that face, but could not loose it before the orcs had struck throwing all their plans awry. He looked away in haste, lest his open mouthed surprise should draw unwelcome attention. Never mind the nomads, what was the self-styled Governor of Undersalve doing questioning an innkeeper in Dwarfport?

  The last nomad clattered through the curtain and Kaylan looked across at Glafeld still seated in the booth. The thief had some questions of his own to put to the barkeep, though without quite the bottomless purse of the governor. However, he had made but half a step towards the end booth, before he stopped. There was an awful stillness to Glafeld’s posture, a fixed gaze with which he examined the opposite wall and a broadening red stain in the centre of his grubby apron. Long experience as a thief in dark alleyways of towns across Undersalve told Kaylan both that Glafeld was in no state to answer any questions ever again and that being found near a dead body was an unwise choice for a career pickpocket.

  He turned and followed the path taken by Glafeld’s killers almost crashing into the bouncer as he returned trailing a slim but curvy blond girl who was patting down mussed hair, pulling tight the laces to her bodice and cleaning her lips with a fast flicking tongue.

  “Sorry it took so long,” the bouncer began. “She had to finish off with another client.”

  Kaylan gave the girl a cursory glance up and down as she bobbed a polite little curtsey. Then he shook his head. “No I don’t like that one, too pretty,” he said before hurrying away from the nonplussed couple and out of the bar after the Governor and his nomad escort.

  ***

  “My Lady Giseanne,” Quintala bowed low.

  Rugan’s wife looked up from her sewing. “How kind of you to spare us a visit, Seneschal. I am sure you must have great affairs of state to keep you occupied.”

  “Nothing that should keep me from bringing my lord’s best wishes to his beloved sister.”

  A frown creased the Princess’s head and she turned quickly back to the detailed embroidery she was working on. “I find Seneschal that my condition has its uses,” she babbled. “My swelling belly now makes a passable table to rest my work on.”

  “I am pleased to see your Highness so gainfully employed.”

  She dropped her hands and gave Quintala a sharply inquisitive look. “Are you mocking me, Seneschal?”

  “How could I mock anyone who has the forebearance to live with my half-brother,” Quintala soothed.

  “And what of my brother, Seneschal. What greetings did he send with you?”

  “He bid you good health and hoped for your intercession in your nephew’s mission, a mission I seem singularly to have failed in carrying forward.”

  Giseanne shook her head sadly as she dragged the needle through another hole. “Poor Eadran, what kind of time is this when princes can be seized and flung to their doom.”

  “It is a time of peril for us all, Lady Giseanne. That is why I sought you out, that you might bend your Lord’s ear a little further in my favour. I am conscious every day that I have failed to move the men of Medyrsalve one fraction of a mile towards the conflict. I am ashamed to have served your brother so ill.”

  “My brother is dead,” Giseanne announced flatly.

  “Dead? How could? What? You know… You know this?” Quintala’s tongue tripped over itself with surprise at the Princess’s revelation.

  Giseanne shrugged. “How I know matters not. It is the truth.”

  “But can you be sure? Does Rugan know this? We have had no word from Morwencairn since Eadran and I rode out a fortnight ago. How can you know?”

  Giseanne held out her hand on which gleamed a great sapphire ring. “You know this well, Seneschal, it is one of a set of four my mother had made. Diamond for Gregor, Ruby for Xander, Emerald for Udecht and Saphire for me.”

  “They are princely gifts indeed, lady,” Quintala conceded.

  “I was close to my mother she told me and me alone how they could be used.”

  “Used?”

  “Held thus,” Giseanne covered the ring with the other hand and then brought her crossed hands to her lips. “I can sense what my brothers are feeling, I have but to close my eyes.” She did so for just a moment and then with a light gasp opened them again. “I have not sensed my brother Gregor’s presence in over a week. He is gone from this world.”

  “There is magic in those rings?” Quintala gasped. “I never sensed it.”

  “It is a subtle dweomer crafted in the Eastern lands. Even my husband is unaware of the ring’s enchantment for I am careful not to use it in his presence.”

  She shut her eyes again and Quintala felt the faint tremble of magic like the touch of a draught from a distant open window. “A wise decision my lady. The Lord Prince is not to be entrusted with every secret.”

  Her eyes shot open, hot with rebuke. “My Lord Rugan has many cares, Seneschal. He has no need to be burdened with the uncertain signals of my brothers’ emotions.”

  “What can you sense now?”

  “I sense Xander. I have always known he lived, though at times it seemed he suffered greatly. However such knowledge would have been a torment to my father since the ring gives no clue as to where they are or why they feel. So I have kept the ring close and its intelligence still closer.”

  “Yet now you tell me.”

  “That you may know and believe that your master my brother is gone and my husband is right to be cautious. I’ll not advise Rugan march into danger if that is what you wished me to do.”

  Quintala, eyed the bump of her fecundity. The accusation that she thought of her unborn child’s inheritance hung unsaid in the air between them. Quintala stopped short of voicing it, demanding instead, “and Xander and Udecht what does your ring tell you of them?”

  “It is much as it has been since the beacons were lit. Xander is happy, gleeful and triumphant. Udecht is in a misery of despair.”

  “So Xander is now our king?!”

  “Another fact I will not trouble my husband with, Seneschal. Gregor, dear Gregor was an impetuous hothead and it has served him ill. Rugan is his polar opposite and in consequence may yet live his full allotted span.”

  “Indeed his span is many times longer than a human’s, even a human princess’s.”

  Giseanne eyed Quintala shrewdly. “I know I am not my lord’s first wife and I do not expect to be his last. But he has been loyal to all his wives throughout their lives. I have heard tell, that you are less patient with the aging of your own lovers, Seneschal. My husband tells me that you have abandoned many a fine young man before time could make the merest mark on them.”

  Quintala scowled. “I see my brother’s agents have been everywhere. Though I had thought my private chambers safe from prying spies.”

  Giseanne reached for the half-elf’s hand. “Still your raging heart, Quintala. It is great, like my brother’s was but passion can lead you into peril. Seek out Kychelle, play your part here and play it well. Rugan knows he has need of you.”

  “He hides that knowledge well,” Quintala snapped back.

  ***

  Haselrig couldn’t identify the precise emotion that gripped his
vitals at the sight of the city of his birth. It was a place of many memories, some happy but the more recent ones of disgrace and disappointment. That might account for the nausea swelling in the pit of his stomach. However, another more compelling cause of digestive tension sat brooding on his horse alongside. The traitor Prince, restless and unrestrained. Haselrig had failed in his task, the simple one, of ensuring Xander followed to the letter their Master’s plans. Now, as Xander awaited the outcome of his alternative project, Haselrig felt the familiar dread of Maelgrum’s incipient displeasure.

  From their vantage point on a low rise to the South of the city, they could see the whitewashed walls and towers of Morsalve’s ancient capital, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. It was a city of two parts, separated by the broad river Nevers. To the north was the walled enclosure atop the twin-peaked crag of Morwencairn, its boundaries laid down by the Vanquisher himself. The river’s leisurely meandering had cut into the outcrop of rock creating a formidable natural fortification. The hill had an almost sheer drop on its south side to the river’s edge, while the natural obstacle of the steep slopes to North, East and West had been augmented by stout city walls and a defensive ditch. There was space enough within its confines for gardens, palaces, temples and merchant houses as well as hundreds of lesser buildings. Within the walls, the hill rose to two distinct peaks a few hundred yards apart. The higher western summit was surmounted by the Royal Citadel, castle, palace and seat of government. The lower eastern summit was crowned by the great temple to the Goddess, the seat of every Archbishop of Morsalve since Morwena herself.

  By ancient statute no buildings were allowed within eight hundred yards of the outside of the city walls and even the broad but solitary bridge over the Nevers made its crossing a good half mile downstream of the wall’s Eastern gate. It was around the southern end of this bridge that the second part of the city, the settlement known as Droost, had enjoyed its sprawling growth, unfettered by laws or walls. A mix of taverns, theatres, artisan’s shops and warehouses had grown up as people migrated towards the wealth and opportunity that a great capital offered. To the East of the bridge the river was navigable by boat and there had been a thriving river trade where vessels had travelled the length of the river through Hershwood to the mouth of the Nevers in Undersalve. Now there were but two solitary masts of river boats to be seen in the wharfs of Droost. The drop in traffic pre-dated the present crisis, for the loss of Undersalve had dealt irreparable harm to the river trade.

  A trio of horsemen emerged from the southern edge of Droost, bearing a limp royal standard and then began to drive their horses at a sedate pace up the escarpment to the waiting Prince.

  “Why such little haste!” Xander demanded.

  Haselrig bit back the obvious rejoinder, that the emissaries had no good news to bring and were in no hurry to share these tidings with their impetuous commander.

  “Well?” Xander demanded of the lead rider, garbed in the ill fitting livery of the royal herald which they had raided from Gregor’s baggage train.

  The outlander shrugged, uncomfortable in the borrowed clothes. “He said he’d not open the gates to anyone but King Gregor. That the king alone could discharge him from his duty.”

  “Who said?”

  “Tall old man, white hair, beard, a priest of some kind.”

  “That’d be Forven,” Haselrig interjected. “Hell’s teeth I’m amazed the old fool is still alive, let alone entrusted with the defence of Morwencairn.”

  “You did tell him Gregor’s dead, that I’m King now!” Xander’s horse sensed the traitor Prince’s impatience, stamping and pawing at the ground.

  “Yes,” the outlander replied wearily, scratching at his neck where the stiff rich cloth was chaffing. “The priest said, show me the body and show me the heir bearing the royal ankh, then I may believe him. That’s what he said to tell you… Sire.” The last courtesy was added as an afterthought, inspired by the Prince’s darkening countenance and twitching fingers.

  “This was always a fool’s errand,” Haselrig spat. “We have squandered the element of surprise in this attempt to try and trick them into opening the gates. Your brief parley with the Archbishop was no part of our Master’s plans in sending us ahead.”

  “If it had worked, we would have saved much time and effort.” There was a shrill edge to Xander’s bold assertion, “and there is time yet before night falls to carry out the Master’s instructions and begin the investment of this town.” The herald and the antiquary looked across at the distant spires of Morwencairn.

  “It’s a big place to surround,” the herald dourly noted.

  “Our task is to get through Droost and across the bridge,” Haselrig reminded them.

  Xander’s horse whinnied and the Prince tacked it back and forth. “You did tell the Archbishop to send out the Helm of Eadran that I could prove my kingship?” he demanded of the herald.

  “Aye… sire. I did and he laughed at that. Said as how he had no-one of the royal line as could handle the helm to carry it to you. Said, maybe you might wish to come and fetch it yourself, alone and unarmed.”

  “Impudent dog, he will suffer for his insolence.”

  “You may yet have to wait until our Master comes before you can make good that promise, my Prince.”

  “I am so close to my rightful inheritance and all the wrongs of my life will be set right.” Xander fumed. “I would have no need of siegecraft, if I could but secure the helm.” He seized in excitement on a solution, “I could send my brother. Udecht could go in and handle the helm in safety, he could bring it forth to me.”

  “He could go in, for sure, but what guarantee have you that he would come out?” Haselrig observed drily. “Methinks my Prince you have no hold over the good Bishop to bring him back should he ever part from you. I notice too that since your last conversation with him, how he seems more troubled in his walking.”

  “He forgot himself. He failed to pay me my due respect as his King, as do you too Haselrig.”

  The antiquary dipped his chin in a brief nod of apology. “Forgive me, I had thought to wait until your coronation, my… my King.”

  The correction pleased Xander. “I would that the legion could travel faster, that this business could be done sooner.”

  “It is no small task to drive sense and purpose in the mindless ones,” Haselrig reminded him. “It is the work of many wizards and our Master to bend the legions to his will in good order.”

  “Aye, and I will look on Forven and laugh when the dead hands of the legion rip him apart.”

  “Indeed, but first we have our own orders to follow. Droost and the bridge.”

  Xander nodded. “Bring up the cavalry and the wolf-riders. Let us feed the people of Droost a small taste of my venegeance.”

  ***

  Kaylan kicked over another piece of driftwood and then cried in alarm at a shape bobbing slightly in a rocky crevice at the sea’s edge a dozen yards away. Unlike the others he had inspected this one was the right shape, slim of build and tall a tangle of long hair swirling in the foaming eddies.

  The thief had been some hours about his miserable task. The trail from Glafeld had led him to the docks where a red headed woman boarding a schooner had lodged in the memories of a few watermen. However, they had been quick to add tales from the big merchant cogs that had arrived to meet the dwarven caravan. The merchant men had told of a great storm and how one had seen a schooner cast on the rocks as they had fought their own struggle to survive. There had been much shaking of heads when Kaylan had asked after survivors. The nature of the storm, the treachery of the coast, the evidence of the merchant sailors and above all the lack of news direct from any member of the schooner’s crew all augured ill for the small ship’s company and passengers.

  But nonetheless Kaylan had ventured north. A horse bought with the last of Mag-ap-Bruin’s generosity had been ridden into slavering exhaustion as the thief hurried to his lady’s aid. Visions of Niarmit injured or in peril
both sustained and tortured him on his mad rush along the coast road. Now, confronted with the shredded evidence of the catastrophe which had overcome the schooner, it all seemed hopeless. The timbers that had reached the shore were little more than matchwood. True, the bodies he had found, flung out by the sea, had all been male. The corpses had suffered the inevitable bloating ravages of a few days immersion in the water, but their bodies bore other marks of the storm’s violence. The crushed or missing limbs, shattered bones, ruined faces were all testament to a disaster that had done much more than drown these poor souls and every broken body was another blow to his hopes that Niarmit could have survived the wreckage.

  So he approached this latest corpse with a grim trepidation. Pale white hands floated on the surf, sodden hair well past shoulder length. It couldn’t be her, his lady was never fated to die in some inconsequential ship-wreck. Hers was a much higher destiny. And yet he struggled to see how she could have been spared.

  He seized a hand to pull the body onto the rocks and then nearly vomited as hand and arm came free of the sleeve, leaving the rest of the body bobbing in the water. Gulping back his rising gorge he lay down to get a better grasp of the body and hauled it two hands on the torso up on to the rock. He took a moment’s breath to brace himself before rolling the body onto its back. It was a horrid sight, the face pulped by sharp rocks, the clothes all but shredded. Kaylan, hardened by battle and the horrors of occupied Undersalve still found himself voiding his stomach in a rockpool, to the consternation of its crustacean inhabitants. As he wiped tendrils of vomit from his mouth Kaylan tried a dispassionate inspection of the corpse. The build was right, but the hair freed from the water’s grasp was now more clearly black than red and the open shirt revealed a scratched and battered torso that was entirely male.

  “Thank the Goddess,” Kaylan muttered, but then, above the surf, he caught a different sound a horse neighing, and another. The shelving strata of weathered rock to landward hid him from view of the coastroad. He scurried close up against a rock face and thanked his paranoid caution in stabling his own horse a mile away inside an abandoned croft. Listening carefully he could make out the jangle of harnesses, voices speaking the human tongue but with a thick southern accent. When his ears told him the riders were moving away he quickly peered over the edge of the rock to see.