Lady Of The Helm (Book 1)

by T. O. Munro

  “You have not got a plan then, beyond that I should wear the Helm?”

  Feyril shrugged. “I have seen some of what the Helm can do, but I do not know its true nature. Only the wearer of the Helm can know that. I simply say again, this is the greatest weapon at your disposal and you will found out more only by wearing it. It maybe that with the Helm you can do what we could not, that is face down Maelgrum and his forces on an open battlefield. Bulveld the third and Thren the fifth conquered virtually the entire Eastern lands with the aid of the helm. Had Gregor worn it I cannot see how he would have fallen or even lost the battle at Proginnot.”

  Niarmit was silent at the mention of Gregor, the man Feyril claimed was her father. Feyril’s lips parted to launch some fresh entreaty, but Illana’s hand on his arm bid him bide his time. “We have told you much, and it is perhaps a tale to think upon a little. There are some days left while we make arrangements for our departure. We will speak again when that time comes and you can hear from others who have witnessed more closely the resurgence in Malegrum’s evil power. In the meantime, mayhap you should return to Hepdida. Tordil has his virtues but I gather the girl is more comfortable with your company.”

  “As you say, my Lady.” Niarmit gave the elf Lord and Lady a short bow before departing, but she took the ankh with her.

  ***

  It was the screams that would haunt Udecht’s dreams. The assembled orcs and outlander rebels were wildly cheering each pass as the great wyrm swooped over the walls of Morwencairn. But drifing on the wind, in every pause, there came the thin shrill screams from within the city.

  The dragon had appeared at dawn for the beginning of its day of servitude and the assault had begun within the hour. The down draft from powerful beats of its leathery wings had bowled over the stoutest of Maelgrum’s orcish honour guard as the Lich took to the sky astride his scaled serpent. Now at the Lich’s behest the dragon swung low over the town walls scorching them with its incandescent breath. A few arrows launched at the great beast had bounced off its hide as it turned and dived with horrific grace. Whatever troops Forven had to hand, they were unequal to the challenge of Maelgrum’s latest ally. Smoke rose from a dozen fires within the city confines and the screams were fainter now. Those that had not been turned to cinders by the dragon’s ire must be seeking refuge in whatever stone built, slate rooved buildings they could find.

  The dragon banked in a graceful circuit round to land by the great East gate. The battlements were empty of any defenders save a few sorry piles of ash. The dragon breathed again a long jet of white hot flame bathed the ancient timbers of the iron bound gate. The diamond headed nails glowed red and the iron straps binding the oak beams together softened even as the wood beneath them smouldered into flame. At another searing breath the gate flared into blazing light.

  Even at a half mile’s distance Udecht shielded his eyes from the blinding white light. When he dared to look again the dragon was leaping into the air beating its way away from the yawning opening. The timber had been reduced to ash on the wind and the still glowing ironwork of gate and portcullis drizzled to the ground like treacle. From his seat on the wyrm’s neck, the undead Lord waved his arm in a long awaited signal. To Udecht’s right the necromancer Marwella took up the cry.

  “Let the legion advance,” she called to her fellow wizards, arraigned in a line behind the stumbling shuffling legion that they shepherded. “Let them feed!”

  Before the will of the harmonised necromancers the legion of rank and decayed beings began their jerky march upon the city.

  To Udecht’s left, Xander shuffled nervously at the head of his troop of outlander cavalry. “It is not meet that the honour of taking the city should fall to the likes of them,” he declaimed to no-one in particular and to everyone in general.

  “Hush, my Prince,” Haselrig hissed. “This is our Master’s plan. The legion grow restless and untamed. They need to feed that the wizards can be sure to hold them in thrall.”

  “Aye,” Xander called. “And after they have fed what pickings will be left for the rest of us.” His voice was raised even though the antiquary and his brother were but a few yards away. “The sacking of a great city like that should yield the spoils of war to all, not just to the greedy flesh eaters. Why there’s men here behind me have served the Master well, and not had a woman in weeks. You think the leavings of the legion will be fit for any warrior’s pleasure?”

  Udecht could hear the murmurs of agreement from the coarse humoured soldiers of Xander’s elite guard. He had hand picked them for their ferocious battle-skills and their absolute absence of any form of morality. The crimes that had sent these whoresons beyond the barrier went beyond mere murder. Children, women, the helpless, the infirm, all had suffered and died at the hands of Xander battalion of bastards. They were without compunction and, as Xander clearly understood, eager for the opportunity to vent their vile tastes on the defenceless citizens of Morwencairn.

  “The way I see it Mul, I didn’t cross the barrier to throw myself on the shredded half eaten remnants of some woman after the legion were done with them,” a grizzled veteran named Tarbin commented to his hulking companion.

  “Nor me neither,” Mul replied.

  “Then let us race these scrabbling misshapen beauties to the pleasures of the city!” Xander called to his restless troop.

  “Xander,” Haselrig hissed. “This is not part of our Master’s plan. Will you really throw yourself on his fury for the chance to assault some serving wench?”

  “These men can plough where and who they will,” Xander retorted. “My eye, Haselrig, is on the greater prize and I have waited for it long enough.” So saying he spurred his horse towards the open gate, followed by his roaring company of diehards as they charged past the bemused and distracted legion.

  Udecht saw the ripple of confusion as the creatures of the legion swayed from their purpose, deflected momentarily by the scent of fresh flesh galloping past their left flank. One or two broke away amidst curses from the straining necromancers as they stiffened every mental sinew to shepherd the ambling assault force towards its goal.

  ***

  Hepdida was nervous in this exalted company but relieved to be seated close to the Lady Niarmit. They were assembled in a clearing around a great oak. Hepdida was facing the old elf named Feyril who sat at the foot of tree with his wife the elegant Illana. Niramit was to Hepdida’s left, sitting crosslegged on the ground. Across from her was Tordil, the stern faced young elf who had ministered to Hepdida whenever Niarmit had been called away.

  “I am glad to see you so much recovered, my dear.”

  The surprise at being so directly addressed by the elf Lady, stymied Hepdida’s attempt at a gracious reply. “I… er… that is… thank you,” she mumbled, hand raised to her cheek where the scars of Grundurg’s assault had faded to two thin white lines.

  “Your healer must stand high in the Goddess’s favour, that such greivous wounds should leave so little mark.”

  Even the suppurating edges of the wound on her back had knitted together cleanly, leaving only a slight stiffness when she stretched. Hepdida stammered an expression of gratitude, without knowing whether it was the Goddess or the healer she was expected to thank. She glanced at Niarmit for guidance but the new clothed priestess was religiously examining her fingernails.

  “However, I hear your dreams are still troubled, my girl. I have a sleeping draft that may help you to an easier rest.”

  Hepdida blushed red. The nightmares were troubling enough, but still more if her nocturnal distress should have been audible to those around her. Time and again Niarmit’s gentle voice and calming presence had forced its way into fearful visions of Grundurg, Dema and her poor dead parents’ brutal ends. She had often awoken to see the flame haired priestess dozing alongside her, hopefully not through exhaustion at minding Hepdida’s fitful slumber. “That would be most kind, my Lady,” Hepdida acknowledged Illana’s offer. “Is that why you wanted to speak wi
th me?”

  Illana gave a tinkling laugh. “No, my dear Hepdida. You are here because we need your help in determining a course of action.”

  “My help?!”

  “Yes. The Lady Niarmit faces many challenges and you may have information to help her come to a decision.”

  Hepdida anxiety quickly heightened. What could she possibly have to say to offer any guidance to her saviour? The woman who had emerged from the fog like the Goddess personified to strike down Grundurg and rescue Hepdida from sickness and misery. “I…. I am sure I know nothing of value.”

  “We may be the judges of that, Hepdida. Perhaps, if you are able, you can tell us a little of your story and by what route you came to an orc encampment on the fringes of Hershwood.”

  Haltingly Hepdida told her tale. Of her parents Vlad and Sahira and the family’s early life in Morwencairn, before they were transferred to Sturmcairn. Of her role as a kitchen servant until the terrible night that Sturmcairn fell. They probed her on that, how had it happened, what had she seen and she’d had to admit to a near complete ignorance.

  “I only really saw orcs like Grundurg, some outlanders and the snake lady.”

  “Snake lady?” Feyril had been a passive member of the gathering, eyes half closed and almost asleep, until this detail caught his attention. With sudden vigour he demanded, “What do you mean by ‘snake lady’?”

  “Kimbolt told me she is a medusa, said she could turn people to stone with her gaze and had snakes for hair, though I never saw either of it. She wore a hood and a mask whenever I met her.”

  Feyril and Illana shared a look of understanding. “The pieces start to fit,” he said and she nodded.

  “Not for me they don’t,” Niarmit interjected. “I thought medusas were the stuff of legends, all dead and gone before the Monar Empire even rose.”

  “Some twenty years ago a merchant was exiled for practicing magic and in particular a piece of profane wizadry. The merchant’s name was Odestus. The execrable criminal spell he had cast was to turn some woman into a medusa. Both the magician and his creation were of course exiled, both it seems have now returned. Illana and I call Odestus the little wizard but you, Niarmit, would know him as the Governor your father’s nemesis at Bledrag field. The medusa must be the snake lady that Hepdida met.”

  “The Governor broke out of Undersalve heading North, though it cost him much time and many men and orcs trying to force a way through,” Illana added her intelligence even as Niarmit reeled at the new information. “Where is the snake lady now, Hepdida?”

  “Her name is Dema, she left Sturmcairn on some mission at the same time Grundurg took me away.” Hepdida was seized by a sudden shiver at the recollection of that parting and all that she had subsequently witnessed and endured at the orc’s pleasure. “She promised Kimbolt that Grundurg would keep me safe. She promised on her honour as a soldier.”

  Hepdida brought her hands to her face as her expression dissolved into shameful weakness. She felt Niarmit’s arms snake around her shoulders holding her close and tight.

  “Who is Kimbolt?” Tordil demanded.

  Hepdida shook her head in confusion, struggling to find the words to describe the subject of an irrelevant adolescent crush. “He is… was… no is a captain of the Guard at Sturmcairn. Dema took him as her slave and threatened that if he disobeyed her, she would let Grundurg hurt me.”

  “So he disobeyed her?” Tordil drew a logical conclusion.

  “No.. never… I mean I don’t know. We travelled thousands of leagues apart, but she promised. She said she would be in contact.”

  Tordil snorted. “How could that ever have been possible? Your poor Captain was duped.”

  Hepdida shook her head, trying to free some piece of the puzzle that lay hidden in a recess of her memory. “No, it was possible. The orc had a Master. They both had a Master. The orc waved this black medallion in my face once, said he would know when the snake lady was coming, that his Master would tell him. There was some way he got his orders without the Master being there.”

  “You think this Master is Maelgrum?” Niarmit observed, seeing the expressions of grim satisfaction on the elf lord and lady’s faces.

  “Not think, know,” Feyril assured her with bitter certainty. “The black medallions were a trademark of his of old. Eadran the Vanquisher always wore one, while he was in Maelgrum’s service, that is. With it the Dark One could communicate with him over great distances, even when Eadran was raiding in the Eastern lands and Maelgrum was secure in his throne in the Petred Isle. No one else had the skill or the knowledge to make them. Even the vanquisher tried and failed. This is one key imprint of Maelgrum’s hand behind the disaster that is facing us.”

  “Tordil has another, equally compelling,” Illana added.

  “I do?” the young elf started in some surprise.

  “Tell the company what you told me when first you found your way back here. How was the battle of Proginnot lost?”

  “They had many sorcerers that launched fire and lightning at our position,” Tordil began before Illana impatiently interrupted him.

  “Yes, but what of the final attack?”

  “Ah,” the elf gulped at a painful memory. “They came at dusk, staggering up the hill. Though they wore no armour, arrows and spears did not stop them. Only hacking them or burning them to pieces would serve. You see they were already dead. Some wore the uniform of Sturmcairn guards, others the Marshal’s livery. His force was destroyed before we could combine with it. But these living dead crawled over us. I did what I could, but Captain Findil gave the order to flee and we all ran, each man and elf for themselves, for the undead could not travel fast. However, our broken ranks were easy prey for the horsemen and the wolf riders. Darkness brought us some relief but I brought only a score or so back from the most complete defeat there has ever been.”

  In the silence that followed Tordil’s account, Illana ventured an analysis. “The power to animate the dead is a trick of necromancy. It is a spell used rarely and never by any who hold the Goddess dear. However, it was one much favoured and refined by Maelgrum. The enlivened corpses are called by some zombies, but Maelgrum called them his legion and he was never without a thousand or more rotting corpses for his army.

  “It was the Dark One’s particular skill to be able to drive some will and purpose into these mindless ones. They have an urge to feed, but most such creatures would like as not eat the Master that raised them as any other. That is why the spell is seen so rarely, it is only Maelgrum and those he has trained who could turn such evil emptiness into a military force.”

  “I have met one of these, I think. In a sewer in Woldtag. It attacked a companion of mine,” Niarmit’s voice dropped as she recounted the incident.

  “You were lucky to escape,” Feyril remarked. “Though it is no surprise to hear that the little wizard, having been the Dark One’s student and protégé these past two decades, is meddling in the same foul magic. I only wish I had had this evidence to put before Gregor, that I might have persuaded him to follow a different course.”

  “So alongside the orcs and the outlanders, I must now number the undead in my foe’s army,” Niarmit noted.

  “Aye, but while Morwencairn still stands there is hope. The forces of Nordsalve led by Hetwith may not have made the battle at Proginnot but they should even now be bolstering the defences of Morwencairn. The Vanquisher fashioned that fortress well, even with all his legions Maelgrum will not conquer it in haste, and within that city lies the Helm of Eadran. That is where you must go while you still can.”

  “That’s as maybe, but whatever strength of our allies may lie within Morwencairn we can be sure that the lands between there and here are crawling with orcs and Goddess knows what else. I see no divine cloak of mist descending to shield my journey this time.”

  “It would have to be a small party,” Tordil said. “Travelling light by boat, up the Nevers River. It will be safer than the roads. I will take you myself, and the
re’s a dozen more besides who came home from Proginnot and have unfinished business with the Dark One”

  Illana nodded her agreement. “I would offer more if I could, my Lady Niarmit, but of our diminished realm there are a third who will take ship with my Lord and I for the blessed realm, while the rest will cross the Saeth levels and head North across Medyrsalve to the Silverwood.”

  “And what of me?” Hepidida was surprised to hear her own voice.

  Illana gave her a gentle smile. “Those of our people who head for Silverwood can take you as far as Medyrsalve. There you will be safe with your own human kind, for the time being at least. Though the future of the Salved Kingdom will depend on the Lady Niarmit’s success.”

  “That’s very kind, my Lady. But I would rather stay with the Lady Niarmit.”

  The priestess shot her a troubled glance and Tordil’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Our way is perilous, not fit for a servant girl,” the elf captain exclaimed.

  “I have already trod a more dangerous path than I could ever have imagined,” Hepdida replied evenly. “It seems to me that the shadow will reach me where ever I hide. I would rather be doing something than running away.”

  Niarmit shook her head emphatically. “I did not invoke the Goddess’s favour in dragging you back from the jaws of death to lead you straight back into jeopardy. Yours is the civilian’s part in this conflict.”

  Hepdida’s chin jutted forward stubbornly. “Taking the civilian’s part did not protect my mother or my father. Nor did it save me from Grundurg’s foul imagination. I don’t think there are any should seek or hope to be civilians in this struggle.”

  “Well said, girl,” Feyril gave a slow wink of approval.

  “But what value would you bring on such a mission, beyond an encumbrance to be protected?” Tordil retorted.

  Hepdida swung on him. “I lived in Morwencairn for ten years, I know the roads within and without the city. I have fished both banks of the river and know which bays and islets can grant a sheltered harbour to a small boat. Can you say the same, Captain Tordil?”