by T. O. Munro
The soldiers looked less than convinced. Kimbolt frowned at their lack of faith. “Have you seen the Lord Torsden?” he asked them, on a sudden impulse.
“Aye, big feller, sets the trees a shaking when he walks past,” Trajet conceded.
“Would you like to take him on?”
The soldier sucked at his lips. “Maybe,” he said. “From about thirty yards away and with a bloody big crossbow.”
“Aye, and only if you was twenty foot up a castle wall and he wasn’t,” another man chimed in.
Trajet nodded. “Yes, that’d about do it. Then I’d take him on, maybe.”
“I fought him,” Kimbolt said. “Single combat, man to man. Him and me.”
They looked at him wide eyed for a moment. “You don’t look very dead,” one said.
“Sure ain’t these zombies real lifelike,” another added.
“Your point, sir?” Trajet asked gently.
“My point, soldier, is that I won, against the odds. He was more than twice my size and strength and he’s not slow, not slow at all. But I took him on and I was shit scared but I trusted the Goddess and I wanted to serve the queen by doing it. It wasn’t easy, but I took him down and made him yield.”
“You took Torsden down?”
“The very man.”
Trajet whistled. “The Goddess must be keeping you safe for some special purpose, sir.”
Trajet’s taunter gave a guttural snort. “Or for some special person!”
Kimbolt felt his ears burn red. He hoped the fire light what mask the colouring on his face as he tried for a nonchalant shrug. “We all serve the Goddess here, she won’t abandon us tomorrow. Don’t be scared by your own fear. A man entirely without fear is nothing but a fool, a man who overcomes his fear is a warrior. The enemy hasn’t got the blessings we’ve got and that’s why they’re going to lose, so you should all sleep easy, as easy as Stennal here.”
He kicked the sleeping soldier’s foot and the man grunted in his sleep. “I’d be careful about waking him, sir,” Trajet warned. “Seeing as how I think you just called him a fool, in a roundabout way.” But the wiry soldier was smiling again, and his companions laughed at his observation.
Kimbolt turned to go, when the boy Jay came charging up all out of breath, his face redder than the glow of the campfire warranted. “Lord Seneschal,” he exclaimed. “There’s dark magic afoot.”
Kimbolt seized his arm and dragged him into the darkness hissing, “careful with your words boy. There’s nervous men about, talk of dark magic is ill timed.”
He was helped by the boy’s shortness of breath and he had put a few yards of silence between them and the little gathering of soldiers before Jay found his voice again. “It’s the hospital tent, sir,” he gasped. “There’s people taking over the bodies of the wounded.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Lord Johanssen, he’s gone and there’s something else, some other shape inhabiting his body.”
Kimbolt had directed his feet up the shallow incline to the spine of the ridge where the place of the wounded lay. “Make sense, boy,” he commanded.
“The queen was there too, I thought she was healing him.”
Kimbolt picked up his pace at the mention of Niarmit.
“But she didn’t sound like herself, she didn’t talk like herself. And then when this man came out in Johanssen’s body, this man calling himself Chirard the Dragonsoul.” Jay gulped down more air as he struggled to keep up with Kimbolt’s long strides.
“What then, Jay,” Kimbolt turned his fast walk into a jog. “What did the queen do then?”
“She didn’t do anything. She just sat there still as stone, while this man laughed.” The last words were directed at Kimbolt’s back for the seneschal was running and Jay was past keeping up.
***
Gregor looked at his own hands, real hands. He turned them admiring how his body had been restored to him, or rather how the body of the sleeping dying soldier had been reshaped in his image. Not as wrinkled as he remembered. He flexed his fingers. The stiffness of that old injury when he had been catapulted from his horse was quite gone. Or rather it hadn’t happened yet. This was not the body he had died in, it was the body he had enjoyed in his prime, when Niarmit’s mother had loved him.
He turned to his daughter, still wearing the Helm in the midst of a crowd of her so very physically present ancestors. “You look younger than I remember,” she said.
“We all do, my dear,” Thren the Kinslayer’s bane told her, scarcely less excited by his transformation than the Dragonsoul had been.
“I fancy I’ll crush quite a few heads before sunset comes,” Bulveld the Third said and even his father was able to spare a faint smile.
“How many are left in there?” Gregor nodded his head at the Helm on his daughter’s head.
“Just Eadran,” she replied. “Santos was the last.”
Alone of the released prisoners from the Helm, the steward sat still and stunned on the bed of a wounded soldier. He blinked owlishly more in shock even than the stupefied father Novus.
The poor priest’s discomfort was heighted by the earnest attention he was getting from Gregor the Third. “You may have heard of me,” the rotund monarch was saying. “They thought I was mad, but I really wasn’t. It wasn’t me you see.” He stopped perhaps perceiving the blank incomprehension on the priest’s face. “You do understand, don’t you?” He seized Novus’s forearm. The priest looked down at the firm grasp of the apparation’s hand. He nodded his head very slowly for a few beats and then shook it very quickly.
“Too bad we have run out of volunteers,” Thren said looking around at the empty beds. “Otherwise we could have freed Eadran from his self-made prison.”
“He doesn’t want that,” Niarmit said quickly. “He’s not leaving the Domain.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged, “he won’t say.”
“Niarmit,” the seneschal’s shout thundered across the crowded gathering, bidding even the voices of kings and queens be silent.
She turned to face him and though her eyes were hidden behind the Helm, Gregor saw the smile that broke open upon her lips. “Kimbolt.” Her greeting was as warm as his had been alarmed.
The seneschal shouldered his way through the press of monarchs. They parted before his urgency and a few short strides brought him to Niarmit’s side. She pulled the Helm from her head and handed it to Gregor. He saw the sparkle in her eyes as bright as the smile upon her lips. He had seen the like of it before, upon her mother’s face one hot but long distant summer and now his daughter turned that gaze upon this upstart captain come first minister. He felt a shameful stirring of anger within him, no man deserved his daughter’s heart.
“What is this?” Kimbolt asked of Niarmit and then he caught sight of Gregor bearing the Helm and stood paralysed by perplexity. “Your Majesty?” he asked uncertainly. “King Gregor?”
“The very same, Captain Kimbolt,” Gregor replied, stiffly formal. He turned and dropped the artefact on the bed behind him.
Kimbolt shook his head and turned to Niarmit. “Jay said there was dark magic at work, that the dying were being possessed by devious spirits.”
Niarmit smiled. Gregor ached at the unclouded happiness the seneschal’s appearance had wrought upon her face and wondered why it hurt him so. “Well maybe greyish magic, not totally dark.” She looked around at the gathered monarchs. “And they’re not all devious.” She pointed out Gregor’s most faithful friend and ancestor. “See Thren the Seventh is a most honourable man.”
Thren clicked his heels and gave a small bow of greeting to the seneschal. Kimbolt returned it automatically. “You let them out,” he said. “You let the monarchs out of the Helm.”
She nodded, it was all the admission that the Helm’s magic would permit. He looked around. “Why? Why now? Why let them out now?”
“We wanted to come.” Thren clapped him on the shoulder. “Now then, Seneschal, don’t tell me
you can’t use twenty skilled warriors, a fair few of them with a smattering of the sorcerer’s art as well.”
“Certainly, your Majesty?” Kimbolt frowned and looked at the blank faced father Novus still spellbound by the sound if not the meaning of Gregor the Third’s words. “It may take a little explaining, but I am sure I can persuade our soldiers to admit you to their ranks. They should see it as a sign of the Goddess’s favour that the great kings of old have risen again to fight beside them.” He paused for thought as the portly monarch by the tent entrance wailed that the priest seemed not to credit his story.
“You do that, my boy,” Gregor urged him. “Hurry along now, quick as you can. Take that trio of Bulvelds with you.” He pointed towards the set of grandsire, father and son, forcing Kimbolt to turn his gaze away from Niarmit towards the three monarchs gathered closest to the tent entrance.
Kimbolt took an obedient step forward, but Niarmit seized his arm and pulled him round again. “I know she lied,” she spoke so quickly that the words fell over themselves on the way out of her mouth.
Kimbolt blinked. “Who?”
“I know that Maia lied, Vahnce told me. I should never have believed it of you.”
Kimbolt’s mouth worked wordlessly for a few seconds. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “You shouldn’t have. I never would, I never could.” He took her hands in his and held them tight. Gregor felt Thren trying to nudge him away, reaching to turn his shoulders as Gregor’s daughter looked up at the seneschal. “You must know how I feel, Niarmit, what I feel,” Kimbolt said. “You must know that.”
She reached up and crossed her wrists behind his neck and pulled him down into a long kiss. Thren intensified his effort to move Gregor away. “Leave them be, my friend,” he said, seeing a paternal darkness in Gregor’s face.
“That pays for everything,” Kimbolt breathed.
“I only ever wanted you safe.” She said it in a breathless rush. “That’s why I sent you away. The half-elven witch and her master, their reach was so long, father Simeon butchered. I was scared for you, it was the only reason I would ever have sent you away.”
“I’d rather be dead than far from your side,” Kimbolt told her.
Gregor shrugged off Thren’s well intentioned pressure. “That’s all very well,” he said to the seneschal. “But we have a battle to fight, a score of kings to equip with arms and armour and a few thousand soldiers to let know that they will be accompanied into battle by heroes from their history books.”
Kimbolt nodded and then raised his hands to Niarmit’s cheeks to hold her face in a gentle caress as he kissed her again.
“Most young lovebirds would hesitate to show their affection infront of parents or even grandparents,” Mitalda observed. “But you two seem willing to flaunt your love infront of nigh on thirty generations of ancestors.”
With great reluctance they broke apart. “Your father is right,” Kimbolt said sadly. “There is much still to do before the dawn.”
“Then let’s be about it,” Gregor growled an emphasis.
Kimbolt chuckled to himself and let his hand fall from Niarmit’s cheek. “Very well then, your Majesty. I know just the men you need to meet.”
They were half way out of the tent flap when Niarmit called him back. “Wait.” Twenty people turned at her command. She blinked. Gregor waited, Kimbolt too. “There is something else,” she said.
Gregor saw her eyes scanning the company, the deep breaths as he tried to frame her thoughts into words and then biting back the utterance as she looked again at the crowd of witnesses.
“Tell me later,” Kimbolt sang out. “I have enough happiness for now.”
“Be careful,” Niarmit said as Gregor urged Kimbolt to lead his illustrious troop from the tent.
***
The tent flap fell back and, drained of energy as much as company, Niarmit sat heavily on the nearest abandoned bed. She picked up the Helm and held it in her lap, looking at the smooth blank steel.
“He’s still in there isn’t he?” A soft voice said at her shoulder. Unnoticed as ever, Santos had risen from his torpor and stood behind her.
Niarmit nodded. “Yes, he’s the only one. The others have all left.”
“I should have stayed,” Santos sniffed. “It was my job, my honour. He should not be alone.”
“He has a statue for company.” Niarmit sighed and looked at the steward’s frowning countenance. “Besides, Eadran is not your responsibility, Santos. He never was. If anything it should have been the other way around.”
“But what can I do here? I can’t kill an orc or throw a spell.”
Niarmit nodded towards the door where Father Novus was watching her in wary bafflement. “Go with father Novus, help him tend the injured, Santos. And try to stay out of harm’s way.”
Santos gave a small hollow laugh. “I’m going to die anyway aren’t I?”
Niarmit nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, your Majesty. It’s not so bad. I’ve done it before.”
He bowed low and walked towards the frowning priest. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Santos.”
Novus shook his head.
“You look confused, father,” Santos said brightly. “Don’t worry, the experience of the Helm has that affect on people. I’ve been sorting it out for centuries.” He threaded his arm through the priest’s. “Now come father, show me where you keep the bandages. The more you prepare the fewer you will need, that was always my experience.”
Niarmit watched them go and then she was alone, quite alone, with the Helm in her lap. She sighed. There was still one more question to ask Eadran, one more question the Vanquisher had claimed to have an answer to. Unless they could find a way to destroy Maelgrum, the world would not have enough bandages for the carnage that the morrow would bring.
She raised the Helm and slipped it on her head.
“You came back.” Eadran’s whole demeanour was of indifference, slouched in his preferred seat spinning a small disc of dust above his pointed finger not even looking at Niarmit upon the gilded throne.
Niarmit looked around. The chamber seemed darker and duller without the other monarchs. “Will you really not leave?” she said.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Eadran drawled. “We have run out of the willing dying. And in any case I do not think I am ready to face the Goddess yet, not while this place needs a living soul to function.”
Niarmit swallowed hard, another question surfacing in her thoughts. “What about me? I am not dead yet, but when death and the Helm claim me how will I find my escape.”
Eadran gave a sniff of contempt and scattered the spinning cirle of dust with a wave of his hand. “Make sure your heir wears the Helm, girl,” he said. “And then between your living successor and your dead ancestor I am sure we will find a way to get you to your precious Goddess.”
She blenched a little, reaching for her belly. Who would that successor be, to whom she would entrust the salvation of her soul, Giseanne, Hepdida or the unborn child within her?
Eadran saw, but misread her anxiety, and said in a softer tone. “Don’t worry, girl, I’ll see you right.”
She nodded dumbly. He rose with a languid stretch and paced the chamber. His fingers ran along the back of the circle of thrones. The great white chairs melted into the air as he passed until only two remained. He crossed to the simple wooden chair that Santos had occupied and stood looking down on it. And as Niarmit watched the timber frame faded into translucence and then just disappeared.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Me?” He shrugged. “Nothing. The Helm has relinquished its mark upon them and now their mark upon it is fading.”
“I don’t understand.”
He held a hand up to point at his own temple where the speckled tattoo of the Helm lay clear upon his skin. “Did you not note how all your illustrious forbears have now lost their mark, their link to the Helm. Next time those fools die, they’ll not be comi
ng back here.”
“That’s what they wanted.”
“And everything that showed they had been here, that linked them to this place is gone.”
Niarmit realised why the chamber had gone so dark. The bright paintings on the walls, the murals of ancient salved victories, had all gone and in their place were just bare walls. Eadran followed her gaze and nodded slowly. “Aye, I think those were the Dragonsoul’s record of his own accomplishments.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s a duller place without them.”
He sniffed. “Simpler maybe. I didn’t like what they did with my palace, turned it into a horrible mess.” He looked again at the spot where Santos’s chair had stood. “Mind you, I don’t think the garden will be quite so pretty now. The boy did have a gift with flowers.” He turned slowly, gazing at the two remaining white thrones and the grim statue of Chirard. “Just you and me, Kinslayer,” he said disconsolately. “Still, I don’t suppose you’ll be interrupting me much.”
“You didn’t think they’d all go did you?” Niarmit said.
He folded his arms and settled once more into the throne opposite hers. He looked around the room and then took up a close inspection of the veins in the back of his hand. “I can’t see what that Danlak had to gain from leaving, or the other Chirard. It’s not as if they made much use of a whole lifetime they had before, I doubt they’ll achieve anything much of note in one more day on the earth.” He snapped his head up to look at the wall behind Niarmit. “Still, it’s not as if they would have been much good as company.”
“I’m sorry you’re alone.”
Eadran jerked a thumb at the Kinslayer’s form. “I’ve still got him, part pillar part pillock of this shrunken community.” He looked at the statue. “I fancy he would suit a hat, something stupidly shaped.”
“It,” Niarmit frowned. “It was good of you to help them leave, even though you didn’t want to.”
“Company’s overrated, girl,” he said. “I rested happy for a thousand years behind my wall of thorns, until your father burned me out. A creative mind can find enough pleasures in this place. It is not a prison, well not that kind of prison.”