by T. O. Munro
“All right,” Kimbolt signalled his own surrender. “All right you win. Put your creature back in his cage. You’ll have my obedience.”
Hepdida gasped with relief, thankful that it would stop now, but it didn’t. The knife continued to weave its path crisscrossing her back her arms with cuts such that the blood swelled and merged. She was screaming now, so was Kimbolt.
“Stop,” the captain cried. “Stop your monster.” He wrestled with his bonds, shook Dema’s foot off his chest, scrabbling across the floor to the flailing bleeding servant girl.
Still the orc continued to sweep his knife back and forth, still the Medusa continued her icy commentary. “The thing is, I don’t just want obedience, I want understanding. You see I find the human imagination is quite unequal to orcish reality. You need to see in order to believe, to understand just how terrible the consequences of disobedience can be.”
“All right, all right,” Kimbolt howled. “You’ll have my obedience, my unfailing obedience, on my honour, my honour as a soldier.”
There was barked order from the Medusa and the nightmare stopped. Hepdida hung limp, sobbing and bleeding in the orc’s muscular arms until he dropped her, still weeping, into a puddle of her own misery on the floor.
Kimbolt’s face was a mask of despair, all outward resistance crushed by the fear of what consequences it might bring.
“Your honour as a soldier?” Dema repeated.
Kimbolt gulped and nodded an acknowledgment.
“As one soldier to another, I accept your offer. Unfailing obedience it will be.”
“And in return? The girl’s safety?”
She nodded. “Grundurg will guard her, but not harm her, leastways so long as you give me no cause to set his vile imagination free.”
“How can I be sure?”
“Captain, on my honour as soldier, she will be safe.”
***
All was still in the throne room. Gregor, Eadran, Quintala and Forven were seated in a semicircle staring at the shimmering oval window in the middle of the chamber. Like a screen without a stand, frame or visible means of support, it hung a few inches clear of the floor as tall and as wide as a man. Through it they gazed at a distant but familiar scene, the Chapel in Sturmcairn, or to be more precise, the priest’s alcove behind the altar in the chapel. The view was somewhat limited. In the light of a few spluttering torches the altar cloth and silver ornaments could be seen untouched. Apart from the lack of activity all was as it should be. They had chosen this spot with some deliberation. Forven knew the location well enough to focus his spell on it and, if disaster had overtaken the garrison, it seemed a suitably central but discreet place for a spy to make his magical entrance.
However, the choice seemed regrettable now, with no visual insights offered and as for the spy using it as a portal. Gregor’s patience was threadbare as he rounded on his senior cleric. “Is it working, Forven?”
The Archbishop had his excuses ready. “This is a spell that the Goddess grants but rarely and never to me before. We should not be surprised at the workings of such unfamiliar magic.”
“Workings? by the Goddess he has not even arrived yet. He stepped into this gateway almost an hour ago and has not yet set foot in Sturmcairn.”
The quick blinking of Forven’s eyes revealed the discomfort that his smooth measured tone was trying to conceal. “Time does assume a more flexible aspect with this dweomer, my liege. If it be an hour or even two, ‘tis still faster than a three day horseride.”
“How can that be, how do the planes make it possible?” Eadran exclaimed, drawing a withering stare from his father and raised eyebrows from the cleric.
Quintala took pity on him, and also the opportunity for some relief from the tedium of their vigil. “It’s like this my Prince. Ours is but one of many planes of existence…”
“Ours is the pre-eminent plane,” Forven interjected.
“Quite so, but there are other planes which are separate but intertwined with ours, all unseen and unsensed by us like different strands in the same rope. Gateways like this one can be created from our plane into the ether, the space that binds, surrounds and joins all the planes. By moving through the ether we can take a short cut to another part of our own plane.”
“Could the sergeant travel to another of these planes?”
Forven crescented himself, as he interrupted the eager prince. “This gateway leads back only to our own plane, my Prince. The Goddess would not allow the pre-eminent plane to be contaminated by contact with any other half-formed creation, should they even exist. And the Seneschal should know philosophers and theologians differ on that point.”
“Aye,” Quintala conceded. “The wise men say such places exist and the fools deny them.”
Forven paused for a moment, but made no reply to the Seneschal before pointedly addressing his explanation to Eadran. “The passage I have opened, with the Goddess’s blessing, is but a pathway through the fast flowing ether. It is as though the Sergeant has leapt into a river to be swept swiftly and surely to a destination downstream where he can step back into our pre-eminent plane in a new location a hundred leagues away.”
“And Sergeant Shalto is still swimming along the river at the moment?”
“So we hope,” Gregor interjected.
***
Haselrig paused a moment at the sight of his Master. The undead wizard occupied the castellan’s chair in Sturmcairn’s great hall. He leaned comfortably back in the seat, although comfort surely meant nothing to a creature whose nervous system was little more than a shadow of a once living body. His lidless eyes could never shut, indeed Haselrig was sure Malegrum never needed sleep. However, there were moments such as this, when the normal fierce red flame within his dark eye sockets faded to a duller glow like the embers of a dying fire. The impression was not so much of a body at rest but of a mind elsewhere.
The antiquary took a step forwards; the embers flared into bright red light. “Hassselrig?”
“Forgive me, Master. I did not mean to disturb you.”
Maelgrum waved away the apology. “My busssinesss was finissshed. Thisss latest ssscion of Eadran hasss already over-reached himself and I have ssssent him sssome inssstruction. The planesss are an amusssing playground for the wissse, a long nightmare for the foolisssh.”
The antiquary nodded dumbly. To ask for elucidation of the cryptic comment would only show impertinence or ignorance, neither of which were traits to curry favour with. Instead Haselrig turned to the safer course of delivering his own message. “The bodies are being gathered in the Eastern barracks, the necromancers are ready to begin their work, Master.”
Maelgrum nodded slowly. “That issss good. Thisss work will strengthen our forcesss, but I had planned for more time before Eadran’s ssspawn was alerted. Herssshwood and Nordsssalve have sssent messages of mobilisssation. Only Medyrssalve hassss yet to ressspond.”
“Prince Rugan ever did hold his counsel close and his armies closer.”
“Sssstill, I have not the advantage I had bargained on. Plansss mussst be amended. Sssend Dema to me, the Lady hasss a chance yet to prove her worth. Then I would speak with Grundurg. He too hasss a part to play which will pleassse him.”
“Will you see Xander too, Master?” Haselrig regretted the question instantly. A fast forming halo of frozen vapour showed how the inquiry had affronted the deathless wizard. The antiquary prostrated himself on the floor in fearful subservience.
“Little one I make my disssposssitions according to how far I can trussst my ssservants talentsss and their loyalty. Prince Xander, in whossse veinsss Eadran’sss blood flows, isss one sservant I ssshall keep clossse. Bypasssing thesssse blood line trapsss that hisss traitor forefather created sssseeemsss to be the ssssource of what little value he isss to me.”
“The prisoner Udecht is of the same bloodline, Master.” Haselrig volunteered, hungry to buy Maelgrum’s approval. “He would be as able to disarm the traps and handle the artefacts.”
“I am aware of thissss, little one. I wait to sssseee how quickly friend Xander perceivesss it. Now, go about my busssinesss, Hassselrig.”
“Of course Master,” Haselrig replied crawling backwards out of the hall.
***
Quintala sprang to her feet as the impatient king rose from the throne. Eadran and Forven followed suit in automatic obedience of the protocol that none should sit while the King stood. “Enough of this folly,” Gregor storemd. “Quintala, get me a scribe, I may at least pen a further message for good Prince Rugan to remind him of those obligations he seems so untimely to have forgotten.”
“Sire,” the Archbishop offered stiffly. “If you would call it folly, may I remind you my own advice was against it.”
“If you think that excuses you from blame, Forven, think again. Mayhap you were not holy enough for this task.”
Two pink spots of indignation flared in the cleric’s pale cheeks.
“Father,” Eadran’s exclamation dragged all their attention back to the portal. A foot had appeared poking through the screen, but on their side not in Sturmcairn. They recognised the guard sergeant’s scarlet boot, though the leather had cracked and faded in his hour long journey. The booted foot waved uncertainly in the air, seeking out the firm floor beneath it. After a hesitant couple of taps of toe on marble, it set itself fully on the ground and the rest of the intended spy fell through the portal into a heap on the floor.
Nobody moved to help him at first, all shocked by what they had glimpsed as he fell.
“His hands, look at his hands, father.” There was a fragile edge to the young Prince’s voice.
Gregor knelt by the prone spy, lifted one of his hands thoughtfully and then very gently rolled the man onto his back. That first fleeting glance as he fell, the wrinkled and arthritically gnarled fingers, should have prepared them but it hadn’t. Quintala stifled a gasp at the sight while beside her Eadran retched and Forven clutched at his holy crescent. The spy’s face was ravaged, scored with a hundred deep lines, blackened eyelids buried in the deep sockets of an age shrunken skull, lips and cheeks hanging slack about a toothless mouth, the whole framed with a cloud of pure white hair.
“He is twenty six years old,” Gregor muttered.
At that the eye lids flickered, startling even the King. Rheumy eyes stared up at Gregor and the cracked mouth whispered a hoarse question, “am I home?”
“Yes son,” Gregor assured the age withered spy. “What happened to you?”
“I walked, endlessly walked. Years I have been walking through emptiness, searching for a way out. Am I really home?”
“Yes, rest easy, my boy.”
“Goddess be praised,” the man mumbled and then fell limp in his monarch’s arms.
For a long moment Gregor knelt holding the spy’s motionless body and then with quiet dignity he laid the man out on the floor, sweeping his palm over the wrinkled visage to close the man’s eyes.
“You do him great honour, sire,” Forven sonorously commended the gesture but was stilled into silence by a sharp wave of Gregor’s hand.
The King stood up stiffly, straightened his jerkin and announced, “we send no more spies by magic. Quintala, get me that damn scribe. I have will have words for your half-brother.”
The Seneschal was on the point of reminding Gregor that Prince Rugan was as much his brother-in-law as he was her half-brother, but the words died in her throat at the King’s forbidding expression. She knew it was a rage at himself that built inside him, but had no desire to be the lightning rod that conducted such fury into the open.
***
It seemed to amuse Xander to have Udecht accompany him as the traitor Prince and two outlander guards sauntered around the inner bailey. “See little brother, how I have triumphed. Sturmcairn this morning, Morwencairn before the week is out.”
“The credit for this treachery is not entirely yours, brother.” Udecht’s words drew a blank gaze from Xander, so the Bishop spelt it out. “It is your vile Master and his associates’ triumph as much if not more so than yours.”
Xander seized him by the throat squeezing hard. Udecht raised his bound hands to try to wrestle his wiry brother’s grip free, all speech impossible with the bruising grip of Xander’s fingers on his neck. “Do not trifle with me, little brother, you live by my grace alone. You could die the same way.”
Udecht was indifferent to his fate, but had not the breath to tell his brother so and, after a dozen choking seconds Xander let him fall gasping to the floor. “You do not believe me eh, little brother? then come see what fate awaits those who cross my power.”
At Xander’s command the two guards picked Udecht up by his armpits and dragged him down the steps to the outer bailey. The Bishop stifled a sob at the row upon row of corpses laid along the ground. Soldier, servant, curate, child. It seemed that no quarter of the garrison had been safe from an indiscriminate slaughter. Stumbling a little, Udecht shook himself free of the guards’ support and walked horrified amongst the dead, seeking and finding face after face that he recognised.
He recognised the corpse of a hoary old man, his shirt stained red but this time it was not the wine that Vlad Psah had so often spilled as readily as he drank, it was the drunkards’ life blood that coloured his tunic. Udecht scanned the neighbouring bodies and gave a sob at the sight of a woman’s body, flung face down, dress dishevelled long dark hair splayed across the ground in a disorder that would have shocked the proud Sahira in life. Udecht knelt beside her, pulling her over onto her back and then choking back vomit at the ruined hole where her face had been.
Xander laughed at his shoulder. “Orcish shield spike!” he announced. “Seen that plenty of times. You need to toughen up little brother.”
Udecht shut his eyes at the nightmarish scene. “Let me say a few words for the dead, brother, for pity’s sake.”
“Why?” Xander demanded as two lumbering orcs picked up Vlad’s body and began carrying it into the eastern Barracks building. “The dead can’t hear your words. That’s what being dead means.”
“You’re a vile bastard, Xander.”
“On the contrary, little brother,” Xander cried as the silvered edge of ‘the son’ swung towards the priest’s neck, stopping just fractions of an inch short. “The fact that I can wield this sword is proof beyond doubt that I am of our father’s blood.”
Another pair of orcs gave Sahira’s body a brief glance and then moved on to gather the next corpse and carry it after Vlad’s broken form. “Wait,” Udecht cried. “This woman, she was that man’s wife. They should be interred together.”
“Interred?” Xander echoed with a giggle. “I fear the good lady is in no state to share her husband’s ceremony.” He laughed again at some joke beyond Udecht’s understanding.
Udecht shook his head, as if this might knock Xander’s words into some sense. “What is to become of her then?”
“I expect a simpler and more permanent end will be her lot, little brother,” Xander reassured him as an outlander seized the unfortunate woman by the legs and began dragging her away. Udecht followed the direction of Sahira’s last journey to a pile in the centre of the bailey which he had in a peripheral glance first thought just to be firewood. But now, with a renewed horror, his closer inspection revealed it was mostly the broken and shattered bodies, limbless or headless piled high in a fleshy pyre.
“You can’t mean to, Xander! Cremation it is… it is not the Goddess’s way.”
Xander sneered at the horrified Bishop. “Well, as you seem still not to have realised, the Goddess’s writ no longer runs in Sturmcairn, little brother.”
***
Odestus felt uneasy in the saddle, hungered once more for the upholstered comfort of his litter, but knew it would not meet their need for speed. The sword hanging heavy at his side was another necessary evil. He knew that were he ever to draw it, it would place him in more danger than any foe. Despite the many hours of Dema’s coaching, he had never come to terms w
ith the warrior’s arts.
His mouth creased in a wry smile at the memory of that first battle together, two decades earlier when they had been friendless and abandoned exiles beyond the barrier. The escort from Sturmcairn had led them as far as Eadran’s folly, the low hillock a few miles beyond the barrier where the Vanquisher had finally met his end. The guards had first dropped a small cache of weapons at the summit. Then they had assembled the prisoners at the foot of the mound and undone their bonds before beginning a quick march back to the security of Sturmcairn; Waiting to see what use the exiles made of the freedom and the weaponry was neither their duty nor their desire.
Alone of the exiles, Dema remained bound as Marek had forecast. Indeed the self proclaimed firetongue and killer had been in the lead bounding up the gentle slopes to lay claim to whatever blade or bludgeon had been left. As the others hastened after him, Odestus and Dema had been left alone. Odestus had waited a few seconds, anxious to ensure that, by the time anyone realised what he was doing, they would be too far away to have time to stop him.
With Marek drawing near the small pile of weapons, Odestus scurried to the Medusa’s side. The knots binding her wrists behind her back were unfamiliar, a tangle of rope pulled tight by men with an enthusiasm born of fear. He let out a cry of shock at the blood on her wrists where the rope had bitten deep. “Odestus?” She was aware of him. “Hurry, untie me.”
“Right away.” He began fumbling with the twisted cord. The short podgy fingers that had so deftly twisted the fabric of time and space were a lot less accomplished when it came to a tangle of purely physical substance.
“Faster, what are the others doing?”
Odestus glanced up over her shoulder. “Marek has his sword, he is laughing, waving it at the fat one, the one called Jonson.”
“My hands are numb, are the knots loose yet?”
“No, no, I can’t get this end free. Uh oh?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Marek has seen us. He’s not happy.”
“What’s he doing?”
