Master Of The Planes (Book 3) (61 page)

The fool had brought foot soldiers and he hadn’t abandoned them.  Quintala stared down at the small division of troops that Rugan had led down from the safety of the Palacintas for this incautious raid.  He had been running and now he had been caught, on the far side of a shallow valley through which another minor stream fed the bloated river Saeth.   She had spurred horse and wolf to greater effort as soon as her outriders spotted his skirmishing cavalry screen, straining every hock and fetlock in a desire to close with her brother before nightfall.

Surveying his rough battle formation she guessed he had three thousand, maybe three and a half and barely half of them were mounted. Enough force to scatter a couple of widely spread orc tribes, but far too few and far too slow for a proper chevauchee through enemy territory. 

“We have him, Barnuck,” she told the wolf mounted orc beside her.  

The orc settled comfortably bareback on his lupine mount.  “They digging in, trying to make defences, hoping to last until tomorrow.  It not be easy.”

“Not scared are you, a great big orc like you?”

“Barnuck never scared. Barnuck rode with snake lady. Barnuck with her when Hetwith struck down.  Barnuck stormed Listcairn with snake lady.  Barnuck not scared then. Barnuck not scared now.”

“I’m not Dema.”

“No,” the orc replied laconically.

Quintala frowned at the feverish activity atop the low rise where her brother had elected to make his stand. “We have five thousand, all mounted.  Why would we wait until tomorrow?”

Barnuck shrugged.  “Sunset in an hour.”

“Time enough,” Quintala said.   “Sound the charge.”  She gasped suddenly alert to a warmth against her chest.  “Not now!” she groaned.

Barnuck looked across at her. “What wrong?”

Quintala pulled at the lanyard around her neck to pluck the black medallion from within her jerkin.  Its warmth, growing steadily more fierce heralded a desire from Maelgrum for a communion of minds.  “Fuck no,” she muttered.  “Not now.”

Barnuck eyed the device in her hand.  “Master want speak with you.”

Quintala glared at the western sky. The low sun was still a full hour from setting.  In Maelgrum’s position further west it would be higher still.  His demand for an audience was earlier than normal, much earlier.

The orc, though he lacked the words to articulate his understanding, plainly knew the ways of the master well enough to identify the abherration.  “He must want speak with you bad.  Maybe we wait. Wait to attack until you hear master’s voice.”

The bastard outlander, Willem.  Rage flared in Quintala’s mind.  She jerked at the warming medallion, snapping the lanyard.  “You know Barnuck,” she said.  “I am thought by some to be disorganised, forgetful even.”   She held the medallion up high, though the heat of it was fast growing uncomfortable. “Well sometimes I have a right to be disorganised.” She bent her elbow and with a fast flat throw slung the medallion skimming across the dust and dirt.  “I do declare I’ve lost the bloody thing.”

Barnuck looked at her, open mouthed.  He had clearly never seen anyone throw away one of the master’s medallions mid-summoning before.  Not surprising really, because no-one ever had.  Quintala merely scowled at his incredulity.  “Well, what are you waiting for, shit-for-brains? Sound the charge, I have a brother to kill.”

The three outlander scouts spurred their steeds up the broad reach of Bulveld Street, urging their prisoner to the same hectic pace.   The prisoner, despite wearing the colours of a lancer of Medyrsalve, swayed a little unsteadily in the saddle of his galloping steed.  A sympathetic observer might have considered him hampered by the cord binding his wrists tightly together.  But then there were few in Listcairn with either the capacity for sympathy or the time to observe.  Cowed townsfolk buried their heads in their work, certain that such a hasty ride could bring nothing good for them.  Orc and outlander infantry grumbled at the shorthandness of the denuded garrison and the good fortune of those that got to sit while on duty, albeit on the back of a swaying mount.

Their indifference was fortunate, for a little closer scrutiny would have revealed that the prisoner’s escort also lacked the easy horsemanship to be expected from hardened outlander scouts.   But the speed of their swaying lurching passage and the press of other concerns on the disparate populace of Listcairn town, ensured that the quartet raised barely an eyebrow of curiosity before arriving at the town gate of Listcairn castle.

There they slid from their horses. The tallest scout hastily tied up the horses while the two more slightly built scouts flanked the prisoner on either side holding him firm.  The taller one of the pair seemed rather to be leaning on the man than restraining him, certainly the prisoner’s shoulder buckled a little beneath the pressure.

The tallest scout then approached the nearest of the pair of orc sentries.  “We have captured a prisoner,” he said.

The orc blinked, stumped by a statement that contained neither question nor order.

The prisoner hissed something at the lead scout who coughed and added.  “The castellan must hear what he has to say, let us pass.”

“Half-elf lady not here.”

“Then we will wait for her.”

The orc shrugged indifferently.

“Inside,” the scout said after a brief hesitation. “We’ll wait inside.”

“Password.”

“Ah, yes, er.”   The scout scanned his memory while the orc tilted his head, eyes narrowing in slow dawning suspicion.  The prisoner, wedged between the other scouts, fidgeted in nervous agitation.  “Rondol’s little dick.”  The scout plucked out the phrase with an air of triumph.  

The other three stood stiff and still, prisoner and guards equally gripped by tension.  The orc looked aross at his companion.  The two green skinned creatures exchanged a shrug and a nod and then the first sentry jerked a twisted thumb to gesture them inside.

The trio and their prisoner hurried through the gate all four in some haste to get away from any further scrutiny by the two sentries. The western walls and towers cast long evening shadows across the outer bailey.   The leading scout scanned the open area with a puzzled frown. Another sublimated hiss from the prisoner and a twitch of his head had them setting off towards the far end of the bailey.  There the narrow angled stairway led up to the small guarded opening in the wall between inner and outer baileys.

“It would be a lot easier if I were not bound,” the prisoner grumbled.

“We needed someone to be the prisoner,” the taller of his two guards replied, still leaning heavily on him as they half walked, half stumbled towards their target.  

“It didn’t have to be me.”

“But you are the prisoner, our prisoner. No acting required.”

“I’m the one who knows the passwords, or at least the passwords when I left.  I should be the one playing the lead.”

“You think I’m going to let you wonder around here with your hands unbound, or let you stray beyond the reach of my knife? Think again Haselrig.”

“Hush your voice woman. That’s not a name we want overheard.”

“Too much talking,” the shortest one snapped.

The pantomime of password giving was repeated at the gate to the inner ward, a different code this time.  “Lillith’s spotty arse” delivered and accepted and then they were through into the castle’s inner ward.

The little square of courtyard was entirely in shadow.  A few hissed words of guidance from the prisoner who was not to be known as Haselrig and they ducked through doorways and up stairways, all the way trying to walk with the swagger of entitlement, despite the halting gait of the woman in a man’s form who leant  on the prisoner more heavily at every step. 

They came at last to a stone landing by a thick oak door and infront of it stood two guards, outlanders, both of them alert and far quicker witted than the orcs they had so far deceived.

The bearded sentry demanded, “what are you doing here?”

“Lillith’s spotty arse,” the tallest scout said hopefully.

The sentry’s mouth flattened into grim dissatisfaction. His blond companion unshipped a wicked looking fauchard from his shoulder. “This tower’s forbidden to anyone,” the first sentry growled. 

“We have a prisoner to be questioned by the castellan,” the tall scout blustered.

“Castellan ain’t here, not in this room, every fool knows that.  Now you’ve got two seconds to piss the hell off before I let Willand here practice his filleting skills on you.”

The limping scout had moved a little apart from the prisoner, flexing the fatigue out of twisted fingers.  Willand spotted the movement, eyes widening with doubt. “What kind of porridge brained idiots are you?”  He nudged his companion, “come on, Gwin, even an orc knows prisoners go to the dungeon first, not to the castellan, and certainly not here.  Who the hell are these clowns?”

“Er… it’s a very important prisoner, vital news,” the tall scout muttered.

“Yes,” Gwin echoed.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Vos sile,” the limping scout declared with outstretched hands, fingers splayed to encompass both the guards.

“What the fuck,” the bearded guard reached for his sword but found his body strangely unresponsive.  His forearm swung like a loose appendage, nervous fingers battering against the hilt of the sword.  “Willand, get the bastards.”  He turned but found that the paralysis which had only partially affected him had consumed his companion entirely.  Willand stood frozen in place, the act of lowering his fauchard only half complete.

Realising the extent of the peril he was in, Gwin drew a great breath to call an alarm.  But in that split instant the scout’s prisoner stepped lightly forwards.  He seized a knife from the spellcaster’s belt in his bound hands and  then with a half turn and a twist he drove the blade upwards through Gwin’s chin with such force that the hilt of the knife slammed into the guard’s jaw closing his mouth and shutting off forever whatever cry he had been about to make.

As the scouts looked on in shock, the prisoner pulled the blade free allowing Gwin to slump silently to the floor the front of his breastblate flooded with scarlet.  Willand’s eyes darted left and right in panic as the prisoner stepped across and jabbed the knife with similar murderous intent into his neck.  While he lived the magic held, and Wiilland pissed out his life blood for a full five seconds before death released the spell and his body tumbled into an untidy pile on the floor.

The smallest scout gave a small whimper.  The tall scout demanded, “did you have to do that? did you have to kill them both?”

“They would have done the same to us, Master Thom, if they could have.  And with the lady’s misdirected spell one of them nearly had the chance.”

“Give me the knife,” the spell caster insisted.  “Or I’ll be trying out the rest of my repertoire on you, Haselrig.”

The prisoner offered her the bloody knife and then bared his bound wrists infront of her.  “I need my hands free to trace the glyph of opening.”

The mage looked at him with deep suspicion. “I don’t trust you.”

“Just do it Elise,” the smallest scout snapped.  “Let’s get this over and done with.”

With a frown, the mage flicked the knife upwards through the cord that bound the prisoner’s hands.  He flexed his fingers experimentally and then turned to the door and drew a sign in the air with deft strokes of his index finger.  “It’s done,” he announced.

The tallest scout, whom he had named Thom, pushed at the door.  It swung easily open and a draft of freezing air drifted out of the room beyond.  Misty clouds of vapour formed where the cold and warm air met, wafting over the bloodstained stonework and trickling down the spiral stairway.

The trio of faux scouts and their equally inversilimitudinous prisoner stepped into the cold chamber.  The little one shivered, with something more than the cold and nodded towards the shrouded corpse in the centre of the room.  “Is that her?”

There was a shimmering about all four of them, features blurring and reforming as they assumed once more the forms of Thom, Elise, Haselrig and Hepdida.  “I thought your spell was supposed to last until we got out of here,” the sorceress aimed a sharp remark at Thom.

The illusionist shrugged and gave his associates a pointed stare of his own.  “It’s a delicate spell, easily disturbed by little things, like casting attack spells or killing people.”

“Let’s just get this done,” Hepdida murmured.  “We have to destroy the body right?”

“We burn it,” Haselrig glared at Elise.  “You can still cast a fire spell I trust.”

“My fingers may be a little stiff for fine spell casting, Haselrig,” she scowled.  “Malachy always said as much, but then you have only yourself to blame for that, you and the half-elf’s curse.”  

“Just get on with it,” Thom said.

She smiled and flexed her hands infront of her, directing her fingertips at the body beneath the shroud, “I think I can still summon a blaze that’s hot enough for this work.”

“Wait,” Hepdida cried.  “Where is the blue gate?”

Haselrig nodded at the door to the bedchamber.  “Through there,” he said.  “It’ll vanish once the corpse is destroyed.  Go on mistress, Elise.”

As Elise braced herself to begin casting, Hepdida called out again.  “No, wait.  I have to see the gate.”

The sorceress frowned and the princess hurried to explain.  “We know I see the gate before it vanishes, I have to see it first.”

“She’s right,” Thom said.  “The future and the past are tied together here.  She has to do what she has already done.” 

“Be quick then,” Haselrig muttered.  “We have done well to get this far, let us not tarry a second longer than necessary.”

Hepdida pushed her way into the bedchamber.   She had expected to see it, but still it was a surprise, the electric blue oval hanging in space.  The room was simple an arrow slit alcove and a bed, and the oval gate appeared at first to be just a blue filter on the room itself, for looking through it she saw the same walls the same furnishings that she saw when glancing past the gate’s edge.  But the scene through the gate was darker, the dead of night rather than the shadowy light of dusk that filtered through the arrowslit of the present.  The sconce in the past wall held a torch with an eerie unflickering flame, the sconce in the present was bare. 

Hepdida stepped further into the room, moving round to see more clearly into the past.  And there he was, Kimbolt, thin and ragged with a rough growth of beard, clad in only a sheet caught frozen in mid step towards the other side of the gate.  His lips were parted mid-utterance and as she watched the word “Dema?” vibrated through the gate. 

Hepdida shook her head even though she knew he could not see her.  “Kimbolt!” she called. She had known she would say it, she had even rehearsed how she would say it, practiced it so she should play her part as accurately as possible.   But in the end the surprised cry was wrenched from her quite involuntarily. 

“He can’t hear you, girl,” a voice behind her called.  She spun round.  A man stood there, heavily jewelled with gold rings and bracelets, a nomad by his dress. 

Crap, oh crap. She turned despite herself to shriek at the only friend she could see.  His features jarring and reforming as the window on the past trembled in its temporal location.  He took half a step back, half a step forward, his mouth again forming a question.  “Kimbolt!” she cried.

Then the nomad seized her wrist and dragged her from the room.