Lady Of The Helm (Book 1)

by T. O. Munro

  “I had a horse then and it was foggy and they just gave up, mayhap they got bored mayhap they went chasing tastier prey.”

  Quintala caught a slight sideways glance as the erstwhile fugitive spoke, a glimmer of dissembling that she sought to probe. “And what do you think that tastier prey might have been, Mr ap Stonehelm?”

  He gave her a fixed stare. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Where are you going then?” Jolander broke in. “This heading leads away from Medyrsalve not towards it. For a refugee you have a poor sense of direction.”

  “Maybe I have no love for the half-breed Prince of that province,” Kaylan replied while keeping his gaze fixed on Quintala.

  “Ha, at last,” Quintala cried. “We find some common ground. My brother’s enemy must be my friend. Here you may ride with us.”

  “A word ma’am,” Jolander asked with stiff urgency. “In private.”

  The Seneschal gave the senior lancer an appraising glance, bristling to the tips of his moustache with supressed tension. “As you wish, Sergeant. Mr ap-Stonehelm will you excuse us.”

  Kaylan bowed low. “Sure, your ladyship. I’ll take care not to hurry off anywhere.”

  Quintala and Jolander steered their mounts beyond the encircling ring of lancers, before resuming their discourse in insistent whispers.

  “You have a problem with an extra swordsman, Sergeant?”

  “Begging you pardon ma’am, but I’ve seen his type before. You may not come across the common fellons as much as I have, but there is the stink of the jail about him. There stands a man would sell his grandmother to his grandfather.”

  Quintala, in the face of Jolander’s paternal solicitude, declined to mention how many rogues and gaolbirds she had encountered in her long life to date. “Oh I grant you, Sergeant, he is not telling us all he knows. But if indeed there are two hundred nomad cavalry roaming the Medyrsalve marches I would rather not leave anyone behind who could tell them of our passing.”

  Jolander gave a grunt and a nod of approval. “We could kill him then, ma’am.”

  “And forgo the chance to find out what part of this tale he is trying to hide from us? No, we will let him ride with us, safer from mischief in our midst than left behind either alive or dead. By a happy chance we even have a spare mount for him.”

  Jolander looked back in horror at the riderless grey mare held on a loose rein by the rearmost lancer. “Prince Eadran’s horse, ma’am, you cannot think to set this footpad on the Prince’s steed!”

  Quintala gave a sigh. “Sergeant, poor Eadran has no further use for it and, in truth, the animal has had light passage far too long. Let’s set this fellow on the finest horse we have and see if some honourable treatment might loosen his tongue more than your insults and disdain. It is a long ride back to Morwencairn.”

  “Ma’am.” Jolander gave a stiff and discontented salute, but the Seneschal was already wheeling her horse back to the ring of lancers and the dwarf friend in their midst.

  ***

  “The girl is well?” Illana asked when Niarmit met her on the narrow forest path. The thief now wore her crescent symbol on a new forged chain around her neck while priestly robes had replaced the travel stained leggings and tunic in which she had been washed ashore a lifetime away.

  “She is much better, my Lady. I will call on the Goddess again to sooth the scars on her body. However, I am not so sure about the wounds to her spirit.”

  “She is young and must have drawn on great resilience to endure what she has already. Has she spoken yet of her story.”

  “She says little Lady, but her accent has the lilt of Morwencairn city more so than the southern counties of Morsalve. How she came to be prisoner in an orc camp on the borders of Hershwood is but one conundrum in a tapestry of enigmas. How is the Lord Feyril?”

  Illana gave a slight dip of her head, “he prospers after a fashion and he and I would speak with you.”

  Niarmit nodded. “Tordil bid me find you, he minds the girl Hepdida though, in truth, she is ill at ease beyond my company.”

  “She will be safe enough with Tordil for an hour or so, there is much we must discuss with you.”

  Illana led and Niarmit followed until the path opened into a wide circular clearing at the centre of which a great solitary oak reached high into the sky. The tree’s gnarled roots had broken through the ground and, in their twisted embrace, formed a hollow trysting seat at the base of the trunk. It was there that the Lord of Hershwood reclined, surveying the dappled branches of his domain.

  “Well met, Illana, my Lady Niarmit,” he greeted them in a soft voice that Niarmit strained to hear.

  “I am glad to see you recovered, my Lord,” Niarmit replied biting back the thought that Feyril’s recovery was far less complete than Hepdida’s. The elf lord’s beard and hair were white and his face was lined with the signs of age that Elven bodies never showed. The hand he proferred in greeting was twisted with arthritic knuckles and the grip though firm was fleeting.

  He smiled at her and his eyes at least lit up with youthful vigour. “I have clung to life this past week with a desparation that none should ever feel. I am healed, but spent and my time and part in the troubles that assail this realm is done.”

  “What?”

  “Mine too,” Illana echoed.

  “You mean to leave?”

  “Not straight away, but all the forces of Hershwood have been flung at the enemy and scattered to the wind. We have repulsed the little wizard but the price was half the numbers I left with Illana, while of the greater part of our force which rode to Gregor’s aid only myself and Tordil and a handful of others have by various routes returned.”

  “Where would you go? How would you leave?”

  “We will take ship to the blessed realm as all Elves who weary of this world are wont to do. Those of our company who wish may come with us. Those who would stay may journey to their fellows in the Silverwood where the lineage of my cousin Andril will still preserve the elven dignity within the Petred Isle.”

  “Though they may find the isolationism of the silver elves a little constricting,” Illana interjected with an edge to her voice.

  “Indeed my love. But let us not forget how my determination to play a part in the lives of men has brought us little but sorrow.”

  “It was our determination, my Lord. You have done nothing less than I would have wished, advised and urged you to do. We both know the nature of the peril the world faces.”

  Feyril nodded and coughed. “And that is why we must speak with you, my Lady Niarmit. I am glad to see you clothed again in priestly garb. It suits you better than the trappings of a footpad and would please your father, Prince Matteus.”

  Niarmit looked up sharply. “So, you lay that slander to rest, my Lord?”

  The old elf shook his head sadly and reached inside his tunic. “I acknowledge only that Matteus was your father in every way that counted save one, and I am sorry that my hasty words in Dwarfport caused you distress.” He pulled from his inner pocket the jewelled ankh with its coral coloured gemstone. “Will you not wear this now?”

  Niarmit gazed into the depths of the jewel while the ankh swung and twisted gently on its chain. She reached for it, feeling the artefact’s eerie warmth beneath her touch. Feyril breathed a little easier as she took it from him. “You said many things back then, words tumbling out in some disorder as I recall. Perhaps you would tell your tale again and I will see if the passage of time has made it any more credible to my ears.”

  “Where to begin?” Feyril asked.

  “The beginning is always best.”

  “You know of Eadran the Vanquisher.”

  Niarmit laughed, “I had not meant the beginning of the Empire. Why my Lord, you may as well go back to the beginning of time itself.”

  Feyril allowed himself a weak smile. “What is ancient history to you, my lady, is but my own life story. At the time of the Vanquisher the Petred Isle had already laboured in servitude f
or five hundred years to Magister, or Maelgrum as we called him, the living embodiment of ill will. Slaves and orc servants alike trembled at his whims, the Eastern lands paid tribute in precious metal and human lives. Those he could not enslave, like elf and dwarf, he held in thrall to him by the taking of hostages.”

  For a moment Feyril’s voice faltered and Illana reached over to cover and grip his gnarled hand with her own. Feyril squeezed her fingers with his and then resumed his narrative. “He took our daughter and also the princess of Silverwood, daughter to Andril and Kychelle. For their lives’ sake we endured and tolerated what we should have risen against and challenged. Had we but known what manner of captivity they suffered we would not have delayed one day in defying him.” The old elf’s voice rose in fury at the memory of the injuries done to his child and kin.

  “Aye, my Lord,” Illana reassured him. “But our daughter has been safe in the blessed realm these centuries past with lately Andril and her cousin Liessa to keep her company. We will see her soon ourselves. It would have served little purpose to have risen against Maelgrum too soon for his was and is a power greater than our own. We could only strike when the time was right.”

  “And that time was when the Vanquisher came to the Petred Isle?” Niarmit prompted.

  “It did not seem so at first. Eadran was no rescuer. He was at first a mercenary and then in time the greatest of Maelgrum’s lieutenants. Maelgrum entrusted him with great power and knowledge. Raised him up as the Dark One’s apprentice. Ah, I see this is another part of my story you find hard to credit.”

  Niarmit hastily closed her mouth which had opened in growing astonishment. “This was not in the history books that my father bid me study,” she admitted.

  Feyril’s lips twitched in a wan smile. “History can be edited my Lady so that inconvenient truths are hidden. Eadran grew rich in power and favour. Maelgrum taught him much about the magic of the planes in which art there has been no greater master than the undead Lord. Malegrum even thought to make Eadran deathless like himself. You see the evil one was once a living wizard who, fearing that death would end his exploration of the fantastic universe, sought out this undead form. Through it his spirit could endure and resist the call of the gods to leave the world of the living. It is true that Eadran also grew to fear death as his Master had, for life held too much pleasure to be readily forgone. But he was still young, a Marshal not yet past his fortieth birthday and the years did not yet weigh so heavily on him.”

  “If the Vanquisher himself was once a mercenary pirate, perhaps my father being a cuckold is not the most incredible part of your tale.”

  “Everything changed when Eadran was sent on one particular slaving mission to the Eastern lands,” Illana took up the story. “Maelgrum’s tribute demands were a heavy burden on the fragments of the fallen Monar Empire. The Church of the Goddess was young then, and there were those in the Eastern lands who held them responsible for the dark age of chaos that had descended. It was after all Jocasta, the first prophet of the Goddess, who had foretold the Monar Empire’s ruin if its rulers did not embrace her faith. There were many saw that as a threat rather than a prophecy and one that had been carried through. So, when an enclave of the Goddess was overrun by one of the seven Caliphs, the entire population was turned over to Eadran as a ready payment of slaves.”

  “And in that miserable company of slaves was Morwena. Eadran carried Morwena and the faith of the Goddess all the way to Maelgrum’s realm,” Feyril spoke up.

  “She converted him?” Niarmit guessed.

  “Not at first.” Illana admitted. “She was a striking lady of extraordinary beauty and Eadran lusted after her. He was used, as Maelgrum’s chief lieutenant, to doing and having exactly as he pleased, but in Morwena’s case he was disappointed. Try as he might, her faith would unman him and her words would shame him and in the end she admitted him to her love only after he had first accepted the grace of the Goddess and then joined with her in marriage.”

  “What did Maelgrum say to that?”

  “He never found out. Morwena lived to all outward signs as a bed slave in Eadran’s household. But, in secret ways they both spread the faith of the Goddess far and wide until the time was right to overthrow Maelgrum.”

  “To vanquish him?”

  “Surprise was their greatest weapon, their only weapon, for Maelgrum was the greatest sorcerer, the greatest necromancer and one of the greatest warriors the world has ever seen. The rebellion had to begin with his overthrow as its first act for only by striking off its evil head could they have any hope of unravelling the rest of his vile realm. Eadran created a pocket of time and space within the planes which could be entered through the gateway of a great gem. He and I offered it to Maelgrum as a gift. Eadran said he had heard tell of a demi-plane of wonder and amazement reached through a secret maze. I said I had paid Eadran for his skill to research and craft a gateway to that realm. I had wanted him to make a worthy gift that I could exchange for more time with my hostage daughter than the single day a year which Maelgrum allowed.

  “Curiosity was ever Maelgrum’s weakness, his spirit left his blackened body and entered the pocket of space Eadran had created. Immediately we began the spell of imprisonment Edaran, I and Morwena, for she was always in attendance on the Vanquisher. It took the three of us casting our magic and sealing the prison with Eadran’s own blood spilt on the gem. We had to work fast before Maelgrum could realise the circumscribed nature of the tiny planar prison that Eadran had been able to form. True there was a maze, but that was all. The maze led round in circles, never touching on the fabulous realm Eadran described, which never even existed. It would take Maelgrum moments to uncover the subterfuge. That was all we had. It was only just done in time. The gate closing and the Lich’s body crumbling to dust even as his black spirit crashed against the barrier vibrating the stone so much I thought it would shatter.” At a thousand years distance, Feyril still shivered momentarily at the memory of that desparate night.

  “With Maelgrum vanquished, or at least imprisoned, the story converges more closely with the history books you have read. Eadran and Morwena freed the slaves and drove out the orcs and ogres. If truth be told the liberation of the Petred Isle consumed a decade and a half of strife and struggle before the last orc was cast beyond the barrier and the Vanquisher and his lady could rest easy on their thrones.”

  “What of the gem, of Maelgrum’s prison?”

  “We buried that deep within Morwencairn. We placed it in his foul subterranean throne room and sealed up all the entrances and then Eadran built his fortress atop the Lich’s hold as an everlasting guard against anyone stumbling on the means to release his evil back into the world. There was always a risk he could be freed or that the prison might fail, for we had not killed him. That which is dead cannot be killed.”

  “And you think someone has freed him now.”

  “It took three to imprison him, one of royal blood, one in tune with the Goddess and one who could master the sorcerer’s arts. The same combination might unlock his planar cell. Prince Xander has the richness of blood and the shortness of sense to have been a party to this folly, the renegade antiquary Haselrig may have served a priestly part and treacherous mages have been the Empire’s curse since Thren the Eighth outlawed the study of magic for all humans. There can be no doubt that Maelgrum is at large once more, the dark hand that drives our distress.”

  “You would have me confront such long dead evil with this?” Niarmit dangled the ankh before Feyril’s gaze.

  “That is but a trinket, crafted by the Vanquisher. It proves you are his rightful heir. The weapon you must wield is the Helm of Eadran.”

  “You would not tell me before what make of weapon it is.”

  “It was crafted by Eadran after Maelgrum was defeated. He told me it was his greatest magic, that Maelgrum himself could not have made a finer artefact. He would tell me no more, and his successors who have worn the helm have all been guarded in their descriptio
n of it. However, I have seen it used in battle. On the wearer of the helm, no blow falls, no arrow strikes, no enchantment touches. I have seen kings wearing the helm stride untouched through fire and ice, while those who try to lay hands on them are flung far away for the helm can only be touched in safety by one of Eadran’s line.”

  “It is an impenetrable armour?”

  “And more besides. Kings who wore it whatever their own skills could for hours unleash great blasts of sorcery at a rate that would have exhausted any other wizard in minutes. The Vanquisher was right, it is the greatest weapon I have ever seen.”

  “Yet the Vanquisher still died beyond the barrier and there is many a king has shunned the wearing of the helm,” Niarmit reminded him.

  “The Vanquisher took a force too small too late in the year for a chevauchee through the lands beyond the Gramorc mountains. The helm could not protect his men from orcish arrows, nor keep him fed and warm in the depth of winter. He died alone at the hill known as Edaran’s folly three leagues shy of Sturmcairn. The blood line magic kept the green hued looters at bay and his remains and armour and equipment were still there when Eadran the second ventured forth in search of him at the coming of Spring. The Helm will protect a man from every blow save that of his own stupidity

  “As to why so many have shunned it since, ‘tis entwined with the folly of Thren the Eighth. He outlawed magic use and the Helm is indisputably an implement of sorcery.”

  Illana coughed at Feyril’s side. “My Lord offers one explanation, but it is also said that those who have worn the helm since Thren’s time have succumbed to insanity.” When Feyril gave her a troubled glance she rebuked him. “There is much that has been kept from the Lady Niarmit. I would she had all the facts to make up her own mind on the great issues that face her.”

  “Be that as it may, we face Maelgrum and it took all our strength and luck and the element of surprise to imprison him when last we faced him. Niarmit will have no chance to pursue the same artifice. With the Helm she will at least be protected from him and able to find her own path to challenge and defeat him.”