Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2)

by T. O. Munro

  Hepdida worried at the frayed edge of her shawl and stole a look around the room. Sorenson’s eyes were shut in silent prayer for whom though, victims? murderer? or himself? The curate and the manservant followed the Bishop’s lead, hands folded in their laps, eyes down.

  The Lords of Oostsalve were fidgeting. Leniot tugged at his collar, Tybert drummed his fingers on his knee. The spiritual adviser in another striking gown, fanned herself more vigorously than ever glancing round the room to make eye contact with each man present. Only Sir Vahnce seemed at ease with his surroundings a smile playing across his thin lips.

  “Well Deaconess?” Rugan demanded as soon as all were present and the doors had been pulled shut. “What have you discovered?”

  Rhodra bowed to Giseanne and Rugan in turn and then strode to the centre of the chamber to make her declaration. “As you all know, I have spoken to all of you in turn and have, by the Goddess’s grace, received honest answers to my questions.”

  “And?”

  “No one in this room had knowledge or involvement in these murders.”

  A moment’s stunned silence greeted the Deaconess’s pronouncement. Then Rugan snorted his displeasure. Before the Prince could add words to express his unhappiness, Rhodra went on. “The only conclusion that remains, however improbable it may seem, is that an assassin from outside entered the palace when the wards failed. This is where I would suggest we next investigate.”

  “An outside assassin!” Rugan exclaimed.

  “The Goddess has spoken through Deaconess Rhodra’s work, my Prince” the Bishop declared sonorously. “We must accept, indeed be relieved, that all present have been exonerated by her grace.”

  Rugan shot to his feet at that and waved an indignant finger towards the Bishop. “In that case the Goddess is an ass!” He glared round at them all. “My Grandmother murdered in my own palace and you think it must be some outside assassin. A plague on all of you!” And he was gone, storming through the double doors with such furious strides that his troop of expectant soldiers could barely step aside in time.

  As the heavy doors slowly swung shut in the wake of his departure Giseanne gave an apologetic cough. “My husband is much vexed, my Lords and Ladies. Please do not be unduly alarmed by his outburst.”

  “Anger and grief are natural bedfellows in such times as this, my Lady Regent,” Sorenson oozed unctuous reassurance.

  “There are matters we should discuss,” Niarmit said. “Painful as these last hours have been, they have also been lost hours for the business of government. There are orders to be given regarding the garrison in Salicia and the underemployed troops in Oostslave as well as arrangements to co-ordinate our efforts with those of Regent Isobel in Nordsalve.”

  “My Lady Niarmit,” Sorenson’s curate interrupted. “Is that quite seemly? The Lady Kychelle’s poor body is scarce cold. Is there to be no period of mourning for her?”

  Niarmit fixed the curate with a gaze of icy contempt before turning to Giseanne. “My Lady Regent, if Deaconess Rhodra has concluded her business with us, may I suggest the other advisers and attendants should now withdraw and leave matters of state to the delegates in chief.”

  Hepdida saw the flush of angry red show above the pale curate’s collar at Niarmit’s rebuke.

  “Indeed,” Giseanne concurred. “We should resume our business. Father Merlow you may leave.”

  “I take it the Lady Niarmit’s hangers on will also be on their way?” The curate’s voice was heavy with affronted dignity.

  “Gladly,” Hepdida retorted.

  “Father Merlow!” Sorenson bid his aide silent. Although the curate was clearly brooding on his exclusion from the inner circle, the rest of the supernumeraries left with lighter hearts. Tybert’s whore barely bothered to stifle a yawn, while Sir Vahnce began to whistle softly.

  As they followed the corridors back to their quarters Kaylan and Hepdida drew far enough ahead of Thom for a brief whispered exchange.

  “I hate to find myself in the same camp as Rugan,” Kaylan muttered. “But in this matter? An outside assassin?” He shook his head emphatically. “Rugan is right, the Goddess is an ass!”

  ***

  The cold grey fingers of dawn brought hope to those who had survived the night. The silver line across the widening pass had held, but it was thinner now, in places barely two ranks deep. Men swayed with exhaustion behind a barricade of fallen bodies, struggling to raise shields heavy with orcish arrows and axeheads.

  Abroath could barely stand for the fatigue which overwhelmed him. While spared the ordeal of standing in the shield wall, spear raised against the leaping baying orcs, the Prior had nonetheless been kept busy tending to the wounded and channelling the grace of the Goddess to deliver as many as possible back into action before the line could break.

  As he looked across the brightening battlefield he saw those for whom his skill would never have been enough, statues of men in combat poses clustered in toppled piles at half a dozen points along the line. Six times the abomination had come at them in person, and beside the petrified warriors, there had been three or four times as many who had fallen victim to the fangs of her serpents or the swiftness of her blade.

  Each time Tordil, and Elyas had flung themselves at the incipient breach, along with Sir Ambrose’s meagre reserve. The soldiers had charged, eyes down, sheltering behind their shields watching only the Medusa’s dancing feet and thrusting their spears forward as and when the elves directed them. A porcupine of points, seeking to corral and constrain the enemy’s fearsome commander, while the elves flung sword and spell at the whirling Medusa.

  Nonetheless, the line had only just held against this monstrous pressure and had the snake lady enjoyed a fraction more support from her own side then Abroath was sure they would have been overwhelmed. However, the orcs seemed scarcely more comfortable around the spitting hissing abomination than the soldiers of Medyrsalve and for that Abroath muttered a prayer of thanks to the Goddess.

  In the dim morning light he could see now how the orcs had suffered too. Their line hung back, the creatures’ mouths wide and slavering, their shoulders hunched. Charging uphill over slippery ground to attack a disciplined foe had drained their energy and their resolve. The wailing horns which had summoned them to each assault had sounded less frequently and, to Abroath’s ear, more quietly as the long night wore on. With dawn breaking over the hills behind them, it had now been over an hour since the last wave crashed against the ramparts of the silver shields. The green hued bodies between the lines and the battered armour and dripping wounds of the survivors bore testament to the ferocity of the night time battle which had brought both sides to an unsteady standstill.

  A heavy hand fell on Abroath’s shoulder almost knocking him down. “By the Goddess, Prior, your prayers are answered. We have light to make our escape.”

  Abroath turned to look up at the towering knight, scarcely less tall off his mighty horse than he was on it. “They will still chase us, Sir Ambrose and they are still faster than us.”

  “Aye, but in retreat we are covering our own ground, not our enemy’s,” he gave an airy wave up the hill. “See, our next line is all prepared.” A row of cruelly angled stakes were the dominant feature in a defensive position some hundred yards back, which had taken a good fraction of their men all night to fashion. “We fall back to that position in good order.”

  “And then?”

  “We hold them there while another bulwark is fashioned further up the hill.”

  “So we leapfrog our way back up the hill?”

  Ambrose gave a beaming smile that his lesson had been so well understood. “Precisely, Prior. With the narrowing of the pass each new position makes our line shorter, our ranks thicker, our position stronger. By Nightfall we will have regained our rightful position at the crest of the pass.”

  “Back where we started from?” Abroath stared across at the bodies littering the ground between the two armies. “There’s many a man will never make i
t back, it is a pity that we left it in the first place.”

  “The orcish devils have suffered losses too, Prior,” the Knight nodded towards the weary enemy lines.

  Abroath’s rejoinder, to the effect that the orcs could afford the expense better, was stifled by movement in the ranks of the foe. A gap opened up in the centre of their line and through it stepped a tall woman, a shining broadsword in her hand, a shield on her arm. There was a twang as an arrow was loosed towards her, but it was intercepted by her lazily raised shield. Unperturbed by risk of any further missiles, she strode towards the silver line, stopping when halfway between the two exhausted armies. Her blue cloak was ripped in many places, but the rents only revealed the glint of burnished chainmail beneath as the rising Sun made its appearance.

  No man dared look at her. They heard the hiss as the snakes on her head stretched exultant in the warming kiss of daybreak, but too many comrades lay toppled in stone for them to risk discovering if her eyes were covered or not.

  “Well,” she cried. “This is a pretty pass, when the boys of Medyrsalve dare not look at a woman.”

  “You’re not a woman,” a voice called back from Abroath’s left. It was Elyas on horseback behind the silver line. “You’re an abomination!”

  “Ah,” she shouted back. “I see one of the pretty boys, where’s your friend, the one I saw you lurking with behind good Medyrsalve shields?”

  “The Goddess rot you, snake lady.” Elyas shouted back. “I know you and all your history.”

  “Then you know my name is Dema and I will be the death of you.”

  “I’m not scared of your gaze.”

  “Of course not, silly elf. I can’t stone you. Mind I can still gut you.” She gave an experimental swish of her blade scattering sunlight in the averted eyes of the silver soldiers. “Won’t you come out here and play. The boys have fought so long and must be tired, won’t you give them the entertainment of a little sword play, with an evisceration for an encore. I know my orcs would like to see us dance.” She shuffled her feet nimbly, swinging sword and shield in a mime of battle, and barely breaking her rhythm to catch another arrow on her shield when an archer must have thought her distracted. If the orcs were amused, they did not show it.

  “Come now,” she called. “Are you going to shelter behind these boys for ever, brave elf? I’m ready.”

  Elyas spurred his horse a stride forwards but another figure stepped back from the line and caught the animal’s bridle, holding it firm even as Elyas tried to charge forward.

  “Oh!” the Medusa exclaimed. “There’s your friend. I’ll take you both on, if you think you’re elf-enough for me. Come on.”

  Abroath could not hear what Tordil was saying, though the words did little to calm his lieutenant’s mood; Elyas still wrestled to free the horse from his Captain’s command.

  “Don’t fight over me boys,” Dema shouted. “Fight with me. Here, now.” She pointed with her sword at a spot infront of her.

  “Now!” Tordil shouted.

  Ambrose raised and lowered his mailed arm and a wind of arrows arched through the air towards the Medusa and her orcs. She got her shield above her and most of the orcs got some cover, a few caught arrows in the shoulders or face, but then the tide of men swept past Abroath as the silver line scurried uphill.

  There was a roar from the orcs and an even greater scream from the Medusa as they saw their enemy fleeing. Fast though the orcs could move, the men had the head start and another volley of arrows from the archers kept the orcish pursuit honest, honest and slow. A horse buffeted Abroath’s side and then he was swept up and athwart the saddle as Elyas trotted back to the prepared second position.

  The men were puffing with effort as they slipped and slid between the gaps in the stakes, but they still had time to catch their breath and steady their spears ready for the orcish pursuit.

  Dema was in the lead, her shield a pincushion of arrows. The orcish charge lost its venom when they saw how well set and ready the foe were in their shorter stronger line. As each creature slowed in a bid to avoid being the first flung on the spears of Medyrsalve, the attack ground to a halt well short of the tired but grinning silver soldiers.

  Dema, some yards infront of her troops spun and shrieked at them in a foul language that Abroath could not understand. She turned and with languid ease deflected another two arrows, one with her sword as she thundered back to the orcs, the nearest ones bowing and cringing at her approach. The Prior slipped off Elyas’s horse with a murmur of thanks for his assistance, before asking, “what is she saying, Lieutenant?”

  “She is swearing at them in orcish,” he said with a smile. “Calling them cowards, calling them worse than men.” He was laughing but then a particular stream of invective brought forth grunts of dismay and dissatisfaction from the orcs and a dark blush to the elf’s cheeks.

  “What was that?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Prior, not to a man of the cloth.”

  “The trouble with warfare is that your best and your bravest are the ones on the front line, the ones that fall first.” Tordil joined them. “We withstood the best they had to throw at us last night, they are spent for now.”

  “Indeed,” Elyas added. “I fancy they will quickly tire of chasing us up hill, we’ll be able to walk back the last half mile.”

  Tordil sighed and shook his head. “We’ll make it back, Elyas yes, but what a fool I was to charge after them. I could have lost everything in a single night.”

  “But you didn’t Captain, you didn’t,” Abroath told him.

  ***

  Kaylan tossed the knife left to right, right to left, his eyes fixed on the Princess. Hepdida, mesmerised by his quick hands and flying blade could barely follow the weapon’s path as she made hesitant thrusts of her dagger towards him.

  “Harder, my Princess,” the thief said. “Like you mean it.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you Kaylan,” she said nervous of the weight and sharpness of the weapon in her hand.

  “You won’t, my Princess. Try your hardest. You won’t.”

  Anger bubbled up in her, at the smiling taunt of the man who had inducted her into a nightmare of deceit. Made bold by rage she stabbed forward with an intent which alarmed her spectating conscience. She meant to draw blood and any wound would be his fault not hers.

  He caught her wrist with ease, bending her arm back with one hand, even as his own knife hand slipped past her other arm to complete a manoeuvre that had both his blade and her own poised so close to her throat she dare not breathe for fear of pricking her skin. He held the position a moment, smiling with pleasure at his skill before releasing her and stepping back.

  “You improve my Princess, but you should watch my knife and where it is going. You should know your own blade’s position without needing to follow it with your eyes.”

  “How many people have you killed, Kaylan?” she asked.

  “My Princess, you do not need to know that. You do not want to ask that.”

  “I do, Kaylan. How many?”

  He shrugged, “I forget.”

  “That many?” Her tongue flicked across her lips, before she asked. “Any women?”

  He quailed at the question. “No!”

  “Children?”

  “Never, what kind of monster do you take me for, my Princess?” He wore a mask of shock that she should even ask the question. “My Princess?” his eyes were hooded with reproach, like the puppy which her mother had let her keep for just a day.

  She sat down on the garden bench seat, picking at a knot hole with her blade. He sat beside her. “You do know it wasn’t me that killed the elf?” What began as a confident assertion shrunk to a hesitant question.

  Hepdida only shrugged. “You say the Deaconess was duped, that Rugan’s right, no outside assassin could have crept in. So who did do it and why didn’t Rhodra find them?”

  He glanced up at the window of his own room. “I had been thinking on that, my Princess. Whoever did i
t took my sword, they meant to cast the blame on me, and through me on my Lady Niarmit.”

  “They left your sword in Kychelle, a clumsy attempt to link you to the murder?” Hepdida watched for the thief’s answer, his eyes were fixed on the balcony.

  “It wasn’t subtle no, my Princess. As you say a clumsy subterfuge. Yet still, they dulled my senses enough to steal my sword. My senses and the baby’s and the nurse’s, they woke not either.”

  The thief’s words were so plausible, just like the times he’d lied to cover the reason for their meeting.

  “The target was not the baby Andros, I’m sure of that. If it was he would have been dead. They had ample opportunity. It was Kychelle they meant to kill.” Kaylan mused aloud.

  “Who would want Kychelle dead?” Kaylan’s sharp look of surprise forced Hepdida to elaborate. “I mean I know she was a horrible mean spirited woman, but who would gain by her death?”

  “Remember my Princess, there were two crimes here. There were the murders themselves and there was the attempt to implicate me and, by association, the Lady Niarmit in the crime. Two crimes, two motives.”

  “And, like Rugan, you think it is someone from within?”

  “The party from Nordsalve had much to lose by Kychelle’s refusal to admit passage of the Silverwood or provide soldiers. Her stubbornness left them isolated.”

  “But Kychelle had changed her mind about that.”

  “Aye,” Kaylan accepted. “But Bishop Sorenson never got to hear that change of heart. As far as he knew, her death would remove the obstacle between Nordsalve and the re-enforcements they might need.”

  “A Bishop would never be a murderer.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but what about a curate, my Princess, or a manservant? Who knows what orders his reverence might have given.”