Lady Of The Helm (Book 1) (22 page)

“Apologies, good sirs, I am in your debt.”

Bar-ap-Bruin’s whiskers twitched up with the smile
that creased his lips.  “An ah’m in your debt longshanks.  Haven’t seen so good a jest in decades as a scrawny human in leather mail charging a platoon of wolf riding orcs.  Still, you held ‘em up long enough for us to launch our own ambush.”

“You killed them?”  Half-memories of the frantic flight came back to the dazed theif.

“All of them,” Mag-ap-Bruin assured him.

Kaylan shook his head with careless vigour and regretted it immediately as
the room swam around him. “There was another,” he mumbled.  “I was with, a woman, tall, red hair. Did you see any sign of her?”

The dwarves exchanged a glance and then shook their
heads.  “There was only you. You and the orcs and the wolves.  No other longshanks.”

“
Five days?  I need to follow her, the lady. She is alone on her way to the sea.  She may be gone.”  Kaylan tried to sit up, but Mag’s hand heavy on his shoulder easily restrained him.

“You can
not stand, let alone travel,” the dark haired dwarf told him.

“And that is but the first of four reasons why you cannot and need not leave yet,” Bar-ap-Bruin weighed in.

“The others being?”  Kaylan prompted weakly.

“Let the first be your need to r
ecover your strength.” The Dwarf chieftain counted the rest off on stubby fingers.  “Secondly, these are dangerous times, orcs stalk the Hadrans and no creature of the light be they dwarf, longshanks or even those elven tree huggers should wander alone.  Thirdly, yon lady will like as not have made for Dwarfport if she wants to travel to the Eastern lands and no boat will sail from there for another ten-night.  Fourthly, said boat will itself be waiting for the dwarven caravan bringing produce from all the clans.”

“So?”

“Mag here, and our brother Glim-ap-Bruin will be taking the Bruin goods in the caravan.  If you wish to catch up with your lady friend…”

“She’s not my lady-friend,” Kaylan hastily corrected.

Bar-ap-Bruin frowned.  “Forgive my ignorance of the ways and words of the longshanks.  Whatever your reasons, your surest way is to wait here, then join my brothers in the gathering of the clans.  They’ll get you to Dwarfport in good time and there’s not many safer means of travel than in the midst of a dwarven trading caravan.”

“Ten day
s?”

“My brother s
peaks true, young Kaylan-ap-Stonehelm.  Follow his wisdom,” Mag advised.

Kaylan gave a shrug, suddenly flooded by sensations of hun
ger, thirst and weariness.  “Very well then, my kind hosts ap-Bruin.  Kaylan-ap-Stonehelm will follow your advice.”

Haselrig instantl
y regretted bursting in on his Master’s chambers.  Fear and anxiety had been the ex-priest’s constant companions these last seventeen years, but each new day seemed to plumb new depths of disquiet.  The dragon, terrifying as it might be, remained at least an infrequent visitor.  The terms of its servitude to Maelgrum were strict and precise and neither undead lord nor fire-breathing reptile seemed inclined to renegotiate the monthly day of service and the hefty gold payment that accompanied it.  It was the only creature Haselrig knew which had limits on its subservience to the Dark Lord. 

However, these squa
wking cackling creatures, flapping their wings and chewing on raw meat as they circled the serenely calm Maelgrum were a new experience for the perennially nervous ex-antiquary.

“What isss it, that bringsss you ssso precipitousssly
into our presssence, little one?” 

Maelgrum’s tone was low,
amused rather than irritated by his servant’s arrival.  However, Haselrig knew how swiftly his Master’s mood could change and he took the precaution of an opening apology.  “Forgive me Master, I had not realised you were in conference with….with…” he waved a hand at the dozen creatures that swooped and spun around the Castellan’s hall where once Prince Thren had held court.

Their appearance was bizarre, short furred legs
led to bare torsos with sagging naked breasts that denoted them as female of whatever species it might be.  Great feathered wings emerged from their shoulderblades, effortlessly keeping then aloft with but an occasional beat.  Their faces were sharp mean featured but hungry and, with each pass, they swept by the plate of meat set on the castellan’s desk.   Thin hands with curving dirty fingernails seized hunks of flesh, whose provenance Haselrig dared not guess at, and thrust them into yellow toothed mouths.

“My guestsss were jussst leaving, little one, our businessss is concluded.”  True to the undead Wizard’s word, the foul creatures swooped in turn, hopped to the Eastern window ledge and flung themselves into the air.

“Where in the Petred Isle did they come from?” Haselrig succumbed to curiosity as the last of the twelve woman-bird creatures beat its way skywards.

“Not from thisss isle, little one, not even thisss plane.  They have ssserved me well in the passst and will do ssso again.  B
ut tell me what brought you into my quarters in sssuch unssseemly hassste?”  This time, there was an edge to Maelgrum’s enquiry and the red light in his empty sockets was lightly pulsating.

“A thousand apologies, M
aster.” Haselrig flung himself full length on the floor. “But I fear Xander has ill intent towards his brother the Bishop.  His temper is quick and I had to stop him throwing Udecht from the tower.”

“A quick temper isss not necesssssarily a sssign of weaknesss, provided it isss informed by sssound judgme
nt, sssomething of which friend Xander is sssomewhat lacking.”

“Xander cannot be trusted.”

“Of courssse not, little one.  You forget. No-one isss to be trusssted,  but the workingsss of Xander’sss petty greivancesss and predictable greed are asss transssparent as glassss.  He may prosssper for now, but I can forssseee an end to hisss usefulnesss far sssooner than friend Xander would think.”

“Indeed M
aster,” Haselrig trembled, hoping that his own usefulness to Maelgrum was less clearly circumscribed.

“Now, all my plansss are complete.  Passs the word, we march in two hoursss.”

“March? to Morsalve?”

“Yesss lit
tle one, the long wait is over. I am going to reclaim what isss mine.”

“What news, your Majesty?” Feyril enquired of the grim visaged king brooding on his throne.

Behind the elf L
ord, Findil and Forven burst into the throne room, also summoned from their slumber to an extra-ordinary audience with the king.

Gregor met Feyril’s gaze with a
n expression of such cold wrath that it struck even at the conscience of the dutiful Elf Lord.  “Have I in some way offended you, your majesty?”

The king’s expression softened a fraction a
nd he dismissed his old friend’s concern. “Not you my Lord, but my treacherous brother has unleashed a tide of filth whose atrocities will condemn them to all the sulphurous pits in hell.”

“Sire?
” The venerable Archbishop struggling not so much to keep up as to wake up, mumbled his own enquiry. ”What has befallen?”

“The villages South and West of here have been raided, burnt to the ground by a band of orcs.”

Forven’s hand flew to his mouth as though, in stopping his own words, he might unsay the dire tidings which Gregor had pronounced.  The elves merely nodded. 

“That accursed fog must have enabled them to
work their way down the pass and skirt around the pickets of Marshal Bruntveld.  Having got past the good Marshal they have fallen to the ways of their kind, raiding and pillaging the defenceless.”

“
What is to be done sire?” The Archbishop flapped.

“
We march at first light. There’s a dozen wagons I intend to fill with orcish heads for missiles when we take back Sturmcairn from my brother.”

“’Tis not the way of the Goddess to meet brutali
ty with brutality,” Feyril said.

“Brutality!” Gregor screamed. “I will give these beasts a quick death and serve their kin notice of my intention
s. That’s a greater mercy than they have shown my people.  D’you know my Lord Feyril how I received this news? D’you know with what message and by what messenger I was summoned but an hour hence?”

“No, sire,” Feyril murmured.

“A boy! A boy too scared to say his own name, too scared to sleep for the nightmares that might come. He was tied to a horse and sent on his way here to bring a message to me, to me in particular.”

“What messa
ge, sire?” Forven asked.

“Two human skins, the boy’s parents’,
detached whole from their living breathing bodies.  He brought me two skins and a name.  He told the boy to tell me Grundurg did this, Grundurg the orc.”

“By the G
oddess.” The shaken prelate crescented himself.

“For Grundurg the orc
I make no promise of mercy, my Lord Feyril.  If… no when I get hold of him the vile creature will learn the meaning of suffering and the Goddess may avert her eyes.”

“
We should wait for Prince Hetwith’s force, eight thousand horsemen from Nordsalve will double what you have here.”

“They are two days
hard riding away. Grundurg is murdering my people now.  I will not sit idly by.”

“And what if this is a trap, sire?”
Feyril interjected.

“Then we will spring it in force. 
I have sent orders to Marshal Bruntveld to break camp and head East. I will leave Forven and the Militia here.  As soon as Prince Hetwith arrives, the good Bishop can provide him with supplies and send him on after us.  If the plague spawn orc is but the arrogant raiding fool he appears, then my force will drive him West back towards the mountains and catch him laden with booty between ourselves and Marshal Bruntveld’s guard.”

“And
what if this orc is more than first appears, if some greater intelligence drives his actions.”

“
’tis doubtful if my brother Xander’s intelligence outweighs an orc’s and certainly his skill at strategy was ever weak.  But if it should transpire that Grundurg’s numbers are more than we can handle then we will fall back Westwards towards Bruntveld, drawing the denizens of filth after us.  Combined with the Marshal we shall be strong enough to hold most any force, and just as Grundurg and his allies may come to blows with us, Prince Hetwith and his cavalry should be in time to ride into their rear.  Either way we will drive or draw this raider to his doom between a hammer and an anvil of the soldiers of the Salved.”

“
Sire, you seem to have all eventualities planned for.  I will happily play my humble part,” Forven gushed.

“We risk much
, my lords, in moving on the attack before all our forces are combined,” Findil countered the prelate’s enthusiasm.

“
Maybe, but I would rather give this Grundurg something to think on other than torturing and looting my people.  Now my lord Feyril, can I count on your three thousand.”

“We did not march
in such haste to sit idle in Morwencairn, sire.  We will be at your side in this venture.  Much as I would we had Hetwith’s horsemen in this business, there is another way to augment our strength.”  The elf Lord’s gaze strayed upwards to the vanquisher’s helm atop its plinth.

“No.”
Gregor’s stifled Feyril’s half-voiced suggestion. “Cold morsalve steel will suffice for Grundurg and my brother too if he has been foolish enough to stray within my reach.  The Northern Prince and his cavalry will simply be the guarantor of the traitor’s destruction.”

Kimbolt tripped over a horse’s leg and was pulled roughly to his feet by his outlander escort.   All around men and animals groaned.  Some waved a limb or struggled to rise, others just moaned or drew horrible rattling breaths through arrow punctured lungs.  All those who drew such attention to themselves quickly regretted it as an orc or outlander swiftly closed in.  Their blades or clubs added another corpse to the hundreds littering the field and from whom already a stench was beginning to rise.

Concentrati
ng on his footing, across earth slippery with blood and gore and his hands still tightly bound, it was by her mail clad foot that Kimbolt first recognised Dema.  His gaze travelled cautiously up her body. In places her cloak was rent to reveal the glint of chainmail beneath.  The sword on which she rested was red from point to hilt.  The Captain was careful to look no higher than her mouth, unsure whether the Medusa had remained masked throughout the heat of battle.

“Well Captain, what say you? I
s this not the finest victory ever won in the land of the Salved?”

“Fine
?”  Kimbolt dully echoed the word.  “A victory is made great by the chivalry shown to the dead dying, and injured,” he said, wincing at the short lived scream of another wounded man hastened into the afterlife. 

“A victory is made great by the
completeness of the triumph and the odds that have been overcome,” Dema snapped.  A sibilant hiss from her serpents attested her displeasure at Kimbolt’s answer.  “By those yardsticks alone I judge my success.  My force has travelled a hundred leagues across hostile territory to attack an army ten times its size and rout them. I say again, is this not the finest victory you ever beheld?”