by T. O. Munro
She lowered him gently to the ground and his eyes scanned slowly across her face. “You safe?” he murmured.
She nodded and the gesture seemed to please him. “Was harder, harder than I thought. Not as young as I used to be.”
“Don’t talk,” she wept. “Save your strength. Hold on. I’ll get you to a priest. Make you well.”
He shook his head, eyes half closing. “No priest. Home. Illana.”
***
Usually the collapse of a fortress’s curtain wall is an anticipated event for which a disciplined withdrawal to the next line of defence can be planned. However, the surprise wrought by Dema’s subterfuge was absolute and now there was a pell mell dash of a handful of survivors towards the square keep.
It was itself a formidable building, its gate house halfway up the wall and approachable only by a dog leg staircase upon which the defenders inside could rain missile after missile on any close attackers.
Less than half a dozen guardsmen had remained inside the keep as Dema’s attack had been launched, and now these few stood at the top of the stair case urging their comrades to join them, in safety.
Leading the pursuit went Dema. She charged through the fleeing garrison not even pausing for the easy kills offered by their unprotected backs. The orcs and outlanders following behind were less hasty and stopped to engage and despatch their hapless prey. So it was that Dema reached the stairway first, leaping over fleeing defenders in her haste to get to the upper gatehouse. She still wore the mask, but the hood had long since fallen back to reveal the squirling mass of serpents atop her head yet even the snakes had no time to strike as she charged past crouching tremulous defenders.
Kimbolt some twenty yards away had to admire as well as understand her single minded purpose. If even a dozen men could get inside the keep and shut its gates they could hold that part of the fortress for an eternity. The taking of the outer bailey, while still a victory of consequence, would be greatly compromised if they did not also capture the keep.
And now she was there, on the narrow drawbridge across the ten foot gap between the top of the staircase and the opening to the keep’s gatehouse. She faced six men, last defenders of the keep. Kimbolt saw her hand fly up, knew the mask was off before he even saw the first victim turn to stone.
Behind her the rest of the outlander humans and orcs had reached the foot of the staircase but they met more resistance as the guardsmen turned to fight them at every step rather than tackle the snake topped she devil who had hopped so lightly past them. Dema was alone and would win, or lose, her battle alone.
Kimbolt saw the danger. The fat man in fine armour crawling up the steps. The orcs had not noticed him, all their attention focussed on the bitter step by step struggle below, and so the knight reached the top unmarked and unnoticed. Even Dema, her opponents whittled or petrified down to three, gave all her attention to the foes before her. The snakes hissed and spat in the same direction and so the knight may as well have been invisible as he raised his sword to strike two handed and cleave the Medusa from head to toe.
“Dema, behind you!” Kimbolt heard himself shout, just once. That was all she needed. She ducked and spun and swung, all in the blinking of an eye. The fat knight’s sword fell from unfeeling fingers. His head fell back as blood spurted from a wound that had opened his neck quite literally from ear to ear. Then the body toppled from the steps and before it even reached the ground another of Dema’s opponents had been petrified.
***
“We are ready to march on Morwencairn, Master,” Haselrig made the evening report with some hope of plaudits from his hard task master. “The wizards have worked their magic and the legion will leave this battlefield much stronger than it arrived.”
“Wizardsss will do what wizardsss do, little one, there isss nothing wondrousss in that,” Maelgrum rebuked him. “But what newsss of the pursssuit of my old friend Feyril?”
Haselrig squirmed uncomfortably. “The trail went cold after the river, we assumed he had headed back to Hershwood. That is where Grundurg is sent to stand guard.”
“Ah yesss, chief Grundurg doesss ssso like to play with elvesss. My own plansss for Feyril are more sssubtle than the orcsss though Grundurg might yet provide sssome entertainment with hisss ssspecial talentsss. Ssstill, firssst we mussst find the elf.”
“Of course Master.”
“It might be of interssst to you, little one, to hear that one of Odestus’sss patrolsss has been destroyed by a sssingle great elf.”
“A single elf? but Odestus is in the Saeth levels, not Hershwood.”
“Yesss,” the atmosphere cooled around the undead wizard as he exuded a long exhale. “Ssstill, if Dema’sss associate can but track down Feyril he may yet have redeemed hisss earlier failuresss. I have given him new ordersss thisss evening.”
“But what of Listcairn? Who will besiege that?”
Malegrum’s eyes flared bright at the antiquary’s unwise query. “Lissstcairn hasss already fallen to the lady.”
Stupefaction overwhelmed Haselrig. “to the Lady? Listcairn? fallen? already?”
“Little one if you think that all I require from you isss to repeat back my own wordsss in a different order, then our assssociation may be nearing itsss end,” Malegrum admonished. “Asss we have dissscusssed before, your value to me isss in the information that you can provide about happenningsss and eventsss sssince lassst I walked thisss island. Certainly you are no wizzzard or warrior.”
“Of course Master,” Haselrig bowed low. “I exist only to serve. Please forgive my surprise, but Dema has done well. Hetwith and Listcairn secured with barely a company of soldiers.”
“Isss it the plansss, or Dema’sss abilitiesss that you doubted?”
Painful years had armoured Haselrig against the trick questions and their follow up which passed for Maelgrum’s sense of humour. “Neither Master, for both originated with you and neither your plans nor your selection of the instruments to execute them could ever be doubted.”
Maelgrum nodded, content to accept the flattery in place of the opportunity to inflict some painful sanction for perceived impudence. “You are wissse, Hassselrig. Now let usss prepare to bring the legionsss to thisss boil which Eadran built upon my palace.”
“Morwencairn will tremble at your coming, Master.”
***
Kimbolt looked down from the arrow-slit of the constable’s quarters within the keep. The corral in the courtyard was crowded with trembling children, the first born child of every family in Listcairn was crammed into the tiny pen watched over by foul mannered orcs. The sniffs and sobs of supressed weeping drifted even as high as the Captain’s vantage point within the tower.
There was a slight rustle of clothing behind him. He knew it was Dema, knew she had meant him to hear her for she could move incredibly softly when needed. She moved again and coughed. At last he turned to face her.
“So, you made your choice then?” There was an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.
“What choice?”
“You called to me. You warned me of the danger at my back.”
He shrugged and then turned away to survey the whimpering children and their watchful guards. “Those children, must you keep them there.”
“I need their parents’ obedience. They are my hostages.”
“But to keep them so, cramped, cold and in the open, watched over by orcs not even humans. Can you not know how it must terrify them?”
“It troubles you?”
“Do you not remember being a human child, or did you assume this monstrous form in the cradle?”
“I don’t think I was ever a child,” she jested in a voice that cracked a little at the end. When he made no response she left silently, but for the closing of the door.
***
“Me Governor?” Vesten looked up from his chair, as the little wizard stood in the entrance of his secretary’s tent.
“Yes, Vesten you. You are to march to Listcairn with the or
cs and the nomad foot soldiers, while I take the human cavalry on some fool’s errand,” Odestus repeated.
“But I cannot take Listcairn, Governor, I am no general.”
“Nor I, Vesten, but there is no need for either of us to exercise our rudimentary knowledge of seigecraft. The task has already been accomplished. The Lady is there to greet you,” Odestus talked over his secretary’s surprise. “Give her my best wishes and my apologies that our five year separation will extend a little longer. It seems there is someone our Master wishes me to find and it is a task I dare not fail at.”
“And what if I should be confronted by an army in the field, Governor.”
“There is no army in the field. Rugan will not move against you or anyone, Vesten. All the perils of your journey are behind you now, though my path it seems is less secure.”
***
As Kimbolt watched, the corral was broken open and the orcish guards dismissed while human guards, including the few outlander women in Dema’s force, shepherded the children to the stable block adjacent to the kitchens. It was fully an hour before the Medusa returned to the comfortable room she had set aside for the use of her human slave.
“Do you want my gratitude?” He didn’t wait for her to speak and the surly tone clearly surprised her.
“Well, something on the grateful side of complaining,” she admitted.
“What of Hepdida? Is she so considerately cared for?”
“Of course, you have my word you can be certain of it.”
He sighed, inured to never knowing certainty again.
“Come Captain, why so glum?” She sat beside him, close beside him, and raised a hand to turn his face towards hers. “Your eyes are damp, Captain, what ails you?”
“I did call out to you. I saved your life but damned a fellow soldier, a knight of the empire.”
“He lost his right to life when he let us ride unchallenged through his gate. It was a simple piece of dissembling which any student of military history should have seen through. He would have died anyway. Your call affected only the timing, a few minutes, that is all you cost him. But you saved me much more and I am grateful for that. Very grateful.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Minutes you say. Well they were not mine to give or take.” He turned his head away from her and asked the floor, “What have I become?”
“You have become what you had to be Captain, that is all. You have become a survivor. Welcome to the realities of life now. There is no honour, no nation no country. There is only you and the people you can rely on. We all do what we have to do to survive and work with those who can help us. Life is a cruel game and only cruel people can win it.”
She turned his head towards hers, grasped his face in hands that were icy cold. “I am grateful. Very grateful.”
He looked up at her face. Above the masked eyes the snakes slept beneath a loose black hood the cloak about her shoulders hung somehow differently. She took his hand and pulled it inside her cloak, held it against her. At first he took the cool touch for chainmail, but then realised it was her own soft skin. By some quirk of her part reptilian blood her flesh was a disquietingly low temperature which sucked heat and resolve from him.
“I am grateful, KImbolt. Very grateful and I am going to show you just how much.”
He gazed back, dumbly, eyes wet with mourning for the man he had once been. Then he crumpled into her welcoming arms.
***
All was ready. The pale horse stood patiently, the make shift litter of branches and vines fixed to its saddle and stretching out in an A-shape behind it. Niarmit had worked most of the day to fashion it, the labour soon drying out her clothes, while Feyril lay by the small fire she had managed to build.
Now she lifted him gently onto the litter, hoping for a stronger sign of life than the weak pulse and the occasional flicker of his eyelids. He had not spoken since uttering his wife’s name, but Niarmit hoped he could hear.
“We’re going friend, home to Illana. Sharkle here will get us there,” she whispered in his ear. Then she took the horse’s reins and led the patient animal away from the beach. As they went she kicked away any stones that might jar the passing of the makeshift litter and so threaten its occupant’s health or comfort. It was going to be a long walk to Hershwood.
Part Four
Kimbolt rolled over in the bed pursued by dreams of twisted passion. A sparkle of light penetrated his eyes and in his sleep Dema appeared towering above him a terrible beauty her blue eyes unmasked staring into his. He awoke with a start and then clenched his eyes shut against the glimmer of blue that shimmered across the walls of the room.
He levered himself into a seated position at the edge of the bed and carefully opened one squinting eye to stare at the floor beneath him. The thick rug of the castellan’s quarters welcomed his bare toes but the polished flagstones shone with an eerie twinkling light as though illuminated by some deep blue flame. It was this which had penetrated his dream and triggered visions of Dema’s petrifying gaze.
Carefully, glancing askew through split fingers, Kimbolt raised his gaze towards the source of the uncanny light. “Dema?” he called uncertainly. “Are you there?” The only reply was a co-incidental crackle like tiny lightning.
He looked for a while through guarded hands, turning his head back and forth as he tried to fathom the vision that hung before him, but in the end he just let his hands drop to his lap. It was an oval window suspended in space in the middle of the room. The opening, stretched from floor to ceiling yet nothing could be seen through it, for its surface was a swirling mix of azure light, eddies of light and darker blue blooming and dissipating continuously across its surface.
Kimbolt stood, gathering the bedsheet around him against the chill which emanated from the scintillating apparition. Cautiously he approached it, walked round it, puzzled over it. The surface was smooth as glass and thinner than paper. It hung like a frameless mirror in the middle of the room, invisible from the edge, impenetrable from infront or behind where the shades of blue flowed and mingled like a monochrome rainbow of oil on water.
“Dema?” he called again and there was some muffled answer from the other side, though the other side of what? A voice, blurred like sound heard underwater, yet some how familiar.
It called again a bubbling rendition of his name ‘Kimbolt!’ there was alarm in the voice. Then another spoke, snarling, clearer, harsher, a voice he’d not heard before. ‘He can’t hear you girl!’
‘Kimbolt!’ she called again from a scene he could not see.
“Hepdida!” he cried stepping towards the tormenting window.
But in a moment there was a clash of steel from beyond the veil, a third voice, a shout and then a flash which flung Kimbolt back against the bed.
Bruised he struggled to rise, looking back at the source of the sound, but the hanging portal and its ghostly light and sounds were gone. In the gloom he saw a darker shape crouching on the carpet as stunned as he. “Hepdida?” he called softly. “Is that you?”
The shape rose abruptly to its full height. Starlight through the window glinted off the chainmail and the sword, though the latter’s bright edge was dulled by a layer of blood. There was a chorus of reptilian hisses as Dema whirled round to face him and, for a fraction of a second, Kimbolt looked into the Medusa’s unmasked eyes.
***
The two dwarves bowed low and Kaylan returned the courtesy though, lacking the length of beard or shortness of legs, he could not brush the floor with his whiskers as the dwarves had done. “’Til next we meet then Kaylan-ap-Stonehelm,” the dark haired dwarf intoned.
“’til next we meet, Mag-ap-Bruin, Glim-ap-Bruin.”
“Would ye’ not come back wid us?” the younger blond dwarf implored. “This town is no place for lawful folk to linger and, if the lassie you seek has any sense at all she’ll not have been stopping long here.”
Kaylan looked around past the convoy of dwarf carts and ponies at the shacks and dives of Dwa
rfport. It did not seem a place to Niarmit’s taste but then Kaylan was no longer sure what his Lady’s taste might be. The furious flight from Undersalve had revealed a depth of despair and anger he had not known the princess possessed.
“She’s not taken ship today,” the thief conceded. He had searched the ships and questioned the masters as they impatiently loaded up with dwarven merchandise and off loaded the goods the Dwarves craved, but his brief enquiries had brought no success.
All the while, the caravan of the clans of the Hadrans had shown no inclination to stay in a place so offensive to Dwarven preferences for order and civility. Dwarfport was a necessity to them, no more. Having arrived at the break of dawn, the various clan traders had concluded their business by mid-afternoon. All was now ready for them to leave before the denizens of Dwarfport began to celebrate in their unruly way with the infusion of gold that inevitably got creamed off the dwarven trades. It was not a celebration the dwarves had any desire to witness.
“Mayhap she never came here at all?” Mag-ap-Bruin suggested.
Kaylan shook his head. “I’ve not had time to search everywhere or ask everyone, but she had it in her head that she was going to come here. She’s a determined lady. What she sets her mind to is generally what she does.”
“Aye, I see you’ve a lot in common with her. Methinks ‘tis not just your helm is made of stone, ‘tis your entire brain as well you stubborn longshanks,” Glim laughed.
“Well, if you’re mind is made up then you may as well have this,” Mag stepped forward and seizing Kaylan’s hand in human greeting, pressed a leather purse and small carved hammer charm into his palm. “There’s money for your search and a token, it shows you as a dwarf friend, Kaylan-ap-Stonehelm.”
Kaylan spread his hands in embarrassment. “Mag-ap-Bruin, you dishonour me to present me with gifts when I have nothing to give you back.”
The dark haired dwarf waved him down. “Your gift to me was the sight of a longshanks charging into a crowd of slime covered orcs on wolf-back wielding your little tooth pick and wearing nothing but boiled leather for protection. Now away with you, find this wee lassie of yours, ‘n I hope she’s worth it.”
