by T. O. Munro
“You saw how the Master had wounded him, this wizard isn’t going to be much trouble,” Udecht oiled. “But think how the Master will reward us for this service.”
The prospect of their Master’s rewards was stimulus enough to the orcs to hurry down the stairway. Udecht followed a little less gracefully, struggling to silently manage the burden he had concealed within his robes.
“How you know these magic tunnels, prayer man?” Gurag demanded, his suspicions aroused by the flaring of magical illumination along the passages.
“I used to walk them long ago,” Udecht replied in a conversational tone. “My family has always valued the ability to move unseen between the great places of the capital.”
“Quiet,” Nakesh hissed. “We is hunting wizards.”
“Sorry,” Udecht replied a little louder than was necessary. The darker skinned orc glared doubtfully at him. For a moment the Bishop thought he might have over played his hand with the rapacious greed of the slow witted orcs, but then, with a grunt, Nakesh turned to lope along the passage.
Udecht was pleased that his memory served him so well; they reached the junction where the library passage met the main one at exactly the distance he had expected. Nakesh in the lead stopped at the opening and glanced back at the Bishop for direction. Udecht pointed left. If the helm wearer knew these tunnels as Udecht himself did, then it would be the other off shoot from the main passageway that they would be taking, the one that led out below the castle walls. They would have to hurry to catch up.
Nakesh peered round the corner and then ducked back. He beckoned Gurag forward with a wicked grin. Nakesh’s free hand fired rapid gestures of combat command in a sign language far more articulate than either orc’s spoken word.
Udecht gulped. It had not been his intention to launch a real ambush, but from Nakesh’s leer of triumph, they had caught up with the quarry far earlier than the Bishop had expected. Abruptly Udecht dropped his hidden burden from within the folds of his robes. The stolen sword clattered noisily on the stone floor to the instant consternation of the two orcs. Nakesh’s glare could have curdled milk and left Udecht in no doubt as to what fate awaited him when the orc had the time to spare, but the dark green humanoid had other matters to attend to first. He sprang round the corner with a guttural shout, seizing what milliseconds of surprise might be left unspoilt by the clatter of the falling sword.
Gurag was a little slower to process events, his expression more puzzled than angry. As a clash of steel sounded around the corner, Udecht bent and lifted the sword he had dropped offering it hilt first to the confused creature. Instinctively the orc reached out for the proffered weapon with his free hand, encouraged by a smiling nod from the Bishop. As his gnarled fingers closed on the hilt of the ancient blade, the bloodline magic fired in anger. The hapless orc was blasted clean across the corridor by an electric shock before falling stunned and mumbling to the floor.
There were shuffling steps in the main corridor, Nakesh walking unsteadily backwards his sword held out infront of him. He turned to look up the side passage where Udecht waited, the ancestral sword wavering in his hand. Nakesh’s mouth split in a grimace of ferocious hatred. He raised his own weapon and took a heavy step towards Udecht his lips forming the words ‘prayer man’ though no sound emerged from them. Udecht saw, in the steady light of the gemstones, the flood of green black blood streaming down the orc’s chest from a yawning second mouth which had been cut across his neck. Even as Nakesh swung his sword high and wide, his body toppled forward, stretching his length on the floor. The tip of his blade clattered against the stone, some four inches short of Udecht’s toes.
His heart racing, Udecht looked past the slain Nakesh to where Gurag was beginning to stir, levering himself upright. However, the lime skinned orc had barely lifted his backside from the floor when a figure darted in from the left and expertly skewered the hapless creature with a sword thrust to the armpit. With a gurgling exhale, Gurag slipped back down, never to rise again.
The orc’s slayer darted up the corridor towards the alarmed bishop. Udecht had time to note the cusped ears and dark skin. An elf! He had not expected that, but he also noted the blade slick with orcish blood that was heading for his chest.
“Don’t strike,” he cried. “I’m no orc.”
“Outlander, traitor then, you’ll die just the same,” the elf announced.
“I’m Udecht,” the Bishop cried. “Brother to King Gregor, prisoner of Maelgrum.”
“Udecht?” the elf quizzed, his blade stopped an inch shy of the Bishop’s throat so that the acrid scent of orcish blood filled Udecht’s nostrils. “You are Udecht?”
“He is the Bishop,” a girl’s voice interjected. “Though I remember him being a lot fatter.”
Udecht readily forgave the slight on his former physique for the welcome validation of his identity. The elf moved to one side so he could see more clearly his sponsor, a dark haired girl, pale of skin with thin white scars on her cheeks. He trembled a little at a face so alike to another he had known a lifetime ago. “Hepdida isn’t it,” he stammered. “I remember your mother.”
“My mother’s dead,” the girl said. “An orc killed her.” She kicked Nakesh’s body.
“I know,” Udecht replied gently. “I’m sorry, sorry for your loss.”
“What brings you and two orcs down here?” the elf demanded. “Are there more?”
“There are no others and the door behind is shut and hidden from view, Master elf, but you have the advantage of me,” Udecht bowed. “You know who I am, but who am I to thank for rescue from my captors.” He nodded in the direction of the fallen orcs in emphasis of his status as liberated prisoner, rather than captive collaborator.
“His name is Tordil,” a third voice announced as a tall woman came round the corner from the main passageway. “Captain Tordil, and he’s seen a lot these past weeks that has blunted the usual elven charm and courtesy. And before you ask, my name is Niarmit, latterly princess and priestess of the province of Undersalve.”
It was Udecht’s turn to be stunned by an unexpected apparition. “You’re dead. Everyone knows you died at Bledrag field,” he stammered.
The lady seized his hand in hers. “It is a long story which we have not the time for now. We believed you dead too. But come feel the warmth in our hands and believe, however it may have happened, that we both still live despite the odds.”
Dumbly Udecht nodded his agreement at the undeniable presence of the Lady of Undersalve. Her red hair was cut shorter than when he had seen her in embassy to his brother and her limbs were hardened with muscle that an eighteen year old princess had not needed. However, the Lady Niarmit’s face once seen was not readily forgotten. “I am glad to see the line of Matteus survived, but surely there is another of your party. Where is the wizard, the wearer of the Helm who made Maelgrum kneel?”
“What!” Tordil exclaimed. He stared wide mouthed at Niarmit. “Is that what you accomplished, my lady, truly the Helm is the weapon we were promised.”
“I don’t understand,” Udecht said. “The wearer of the Helm who I saw was a man. A great wizard.”
“A fine disguise to choose, my Lady,” Tordil gushed before turning to the puzzled Bishop. “Believe me, your reverence, the Lady Niarmit is the only one to wear the Helm. I saw her put it on, and I have but five minutes ago seen her take it off.”
“You wore the Helm?” Udecht repeated. “You are…”
“Not of the line of Matteus it seems,” Niarmit interrupted, even as Udecht seized her chin and turned her head sideways to look upon her right temple.
“Aiee, indeed. The Helm has marked you,” he said, seeing the delicate tattoo it had imprinted on her skin. Abruptly the Bishop dropped to his knees, “your Majesty, I am your servant.”
“The regal niceties can wait, your reverence, or should I say uncle. I suppose it is your life that this bauble now tracks,” she pulled a jewelled ankh from within her shirt, its central gem a clear pink hue.
Udecht nodded glumly. “My brother Xander is dead. Destroyed by the Helm when he tried to usurp your right to wear it. The Ankh will have told of his end.” He offered her the hilt of the sword he carried. “I brought this for the wearer of the Helm. It is the father. The sword forged by the Vanquisher and born by every king since. Take it Majesty. Only one of Eadran’s line can wield it.”
Niarmit took the weapon. Udecht held his breath as her fingers closed about the pommel but no burst of magic flung her back. Further proof, if proof were needed, of her royal lineage. “It is a pretty thing, to be sure, but I would rather some advice as to how we escape.”
“You found your way into these passageways but not the way out?” Udecht was stunned.
“I followed my mother once,” Hepdida told him. “When she worked in the Archbishop’s palace. I knew the entrance there and she told me the other end led to the citadel, but I was too scared to explore the side passages.”
“You were a child,” Udecht reassured her. “No shame in that. But the other side passage will take us down outside the city walls. Eadran and Morwena were the first to use it, so the stories go, when they wished to walk about their realm as the ordinary people do. Not many remember these old passages now, but my sister and I would play down here as children, while our brothers played at soldiers.”
“Good, then let us go. There is a boat waiting on the Nevers half a league downstream.” Niarmit led the way back down the main passageway towards the other branch that Udecht had described.
“My Lady,” Tordil called her back. “You have forgot what we came here for.” He was pointing at the great helm of Eadran, discarded at the side of the corridor like an unwanted coal scuttle.
“Let it stay there,” Niarmit growled. “It is not the weapon we thought it was.”
“But with it you made the foul lord kneel,” Tordil cried, incredulous at her scorn for the artefact.
“You hurt him,” Udecht exclaimed. “He was shaken, weakened. The Helm is truly more powerful than even I imagined.”
Once more Niarmit tried to frame the words to tell them the truth of the Helm, of the Vanquisher’s sacreligious pursuit of immortality still further defiled by the insanity of Chirard. Again, the thoughts would not line up in sufficient order for speech. Her mouth worked soundlessly for some seconds, and at the last she said simply, “we will find another way. I’ll not touch that thing again, let alone wear it.”
“My Lady,” Tordil was horrified. “These words are the counsel of King Gregor. Gregor who fell at Proginnot with all the elves of Hershwood about him. How many of those lives might have been saved had Gregor worn the helm then and achieved what you achieved here today. Does my Lord Feyril’s advice count for nothing?”
“Feyril knew nothing of the Helm,” Niarmit spat. “And neither do you Tordil. If the Goddess means for her people to survive then she will help us find another way. But it will not be the Helm.”
The elf was almost weeping. “My Lady we cannot return empty handed. The artefact is there. Please take it. Then we can at least prove what we achieved that others may take heart from our bold success. At least if we have it then, should you come to … should you change your mind…”
“I’ll not touch it.”
“But my Lady you alone can carry it. I am not of the bloodline.”
“I’ll take it,” Udecht said, bending quickly to collect the Helm from the floor. Niarmit scowled unhappily at him, but the Bishop hurried on. “We have wasted time in discussion. Let us just move. The alarms have all been sounded and as it is I do not fancy our chances crossing half a league of open ground. Delay will not help matters.”
On that point at least, Niarmit could agree and, with a curt nod, they set off down the steep winding passageway which led through the rock of Morwencairn to the fresh air beyond.
***
“If I feel an outlander arrow between my shoulder blades, necromancer, then I will still find strength and breath to slit your gizzard,” the elf lieutenant hissed.
“Be calm,” Thomelator advised him. “Tension such as the kind you are radiating is like ripples in the surface of my illusion. Take care else your nerves will tear the deception I have woven. We are past the bridge now. The guards saw only a simple cargo skiff. I gave them the password of the day and all is well. If you can think it so, then it will be so.”
“I like this not. The Sun is setting. We are a mile or more from where we said we’d be. How are we to find our friends, or they to find us.”
“I would start over there,” Thomelator suggested pointing to a spot in the shadow of Morwencairn. “See where the orcs and the zombies seem to be converging in greater agitation than elsewhere. Ho! A flash of magical fire. Methinks that trouble has found your friends. Maybe it is time you found them too.”
The elf needed no encouragement. At a hissed command the quartet of elven rowers strained their backs to scull the boat shorewards even as another burst of flame erupted near the riverbank.
***
They were strung out in a line. Hepdida leading, followed by Udecht, while Tordil and Niarmit brought up the rear. They had emerged from the tunnel in a cave, its mouth concealed by a thick gorse bush. The shrubbery had enabled them to pick their best moment to break cover just as a patrol of outlanders had passed heading West. However, they had almost immediately run into a score of zombies steered along the same path by a pair of necromancers. Heading East was impossible. Niarmit had brandished her crescent symbol of the goddess and the zombies had quailed at the sight, but they had been forced further South, trying to skirt round the undead and head along the very edge of the river bank. But by then the alarm had been raised. Howls of wolf-riding orcs chilled the blood while the outlander patrol had wheeled round to join the pursuit from the West. Hemmed in by pursuers, Niarmit kept her eye on the narrowing strip of riverbank along which they might evade the clutches of immediate pursuit. However, the sway of torches from the bridge showed where more of the enemy were joining the hunt, and they would be blundering into another encirclement.
Behind her Tordil launched another ball of fire at the outlander patrol. Faster and more manageable than the zombies they were the greater threat.
“Save your strength, Tordil,” Niarmit shouted.
“A little of that Maelgrum kneeling magic would not go amiss now, my Lady,” the elf called back.
“And your breath,” Niarmit retorted.
Ahead of them Udecht stumbled and fell with a cry, rolling in the grassy dirt. The helm slipped from his fingers and tumbled towards the river bank. Hepdida, turning at the sound of the Bishop’s voice saw it and caught the basinet before it could topple into the water. Tordil was flinging another spell at the outlanders his back to the tableau, but Niarmit saw it frozen in time.
The dark haired servant girl handing the helm back to the Bishop. Her mouth was bent into a faint smile, Udecht took the artefact from her without a word. He looked across at Niarmit, saw that she had seen. He made to shake his head in denial of something, his eyes hooded in shame. “Her mother was a beautiful woman,” he said as Niarmit drew level.
“Not now uncle,” Niarmit said. “Though it seems you are indeed my father’s brother.”
“We’re trapped,” Tordil said as he joined them. A semi-circle of pursuers was closing in on them, outlanders’ to the West, zombies to the North and orcs to the East. At their back, to the south, was the river, a solitary skiff sculling towards them from the bridge.
A flight of white arrows shot from skiff into the group of orcs and a voice shouted, “ahoy, my Lady.”
“By the Goddess,” Tordil roared. “That is well done, there is our boat.”
“Aye, and between us and it stand four dozen orcs,” Udecht pointed out.
“Give me the Helm,” Niarmit commanded.
“At last,” Tordil sighed as Udecht handed over the precious item.
“Now follow me,” Niarmit commanded as she ran towards the orcish lines.
There was an explosive blast that ripped through the gathered orcs as the helm connected with the enemy triggering a shockwave of repulsion. The creature who took the brunt of the assault was stretched dead on the floor while all around him his compatriots were unconscious or reeling from the force of the blast. Niarmit charged through the opening in the line she had created, followed by her three companions. Ahead the skiff was in sight, a couple of feet from the bank. Elven archers bending their backs to send arrow after arrow of covering fire.
“Quick,” Niarmit picked Hepdida up by the armpits and flung her into the boat.
“The Helm,” Tordil cried as the orcish ranks closed behind them. “We can’t leave the Helm.”
He turned to charge back into the fray but Niarmit grabbed him by the shoulder. “No, Tordil leave it.” As she pulled him back, off balance, a spear caught the elf Captain in the shoulder knocking him bleeding into Niarmit’s arms. “The Helm,” he cried as he fell.
“I’ll get it,” Udecht said, picking up the elf’s fallen sword.
“No!” Niarmit screamed as she struggled to drag the wounded Tordil into the boat.
A flurry of arrows punched a hole in the orcish lines ahead of the Bishop’s charge, but the line still closed behind him as he flung himself flat stretching for the precious helm.
Strong hands pulled Niarmit and Tordil into the boat. “We must leave now,” a voice was saying. “They are putting archers on the bridge.”
Looking around Niarmit saw that the humble skiff had once again assumed the form of the elegant elven boat in which they had journeyed from Hershwood. Two of the elves were still firing arrows while the others sculled the boat out into midstream. She scanned the river bank, but there were only leering orcs, now joined by outlanders and zombies. Some crowd persisted around the point where Udecht had disappeared, but of the Bishop she could see no sign.