Lady Of The Helm (Book 1)

by T. O. Munro

  “Tell her slug,” he thundered. “It is not fit that the greatest mage the world has ever seen should have to be his own herald.”

  “Of course, Majesty.” Santos bobbed towards the throne’s occupant before turning back to Niarmit. “Majesty, you are in the presence of His Majesty Chirard the third, King of the Salved, Emperor of the Petred Isle.”

  “Slayer of Dragons, Curse of the Nomads, Heir to the Monar Empire, Overlord of the Eastern Lands, Patriarch of the Elves, Comissioner of the Dwarven race.” Dissatisfied with the Steward’s introduction, the throne’s occupant rattled off a further series of titles, his voice rising in pitch with each self-determined honour.

  “Chirard,” Niarmit murmured. “Chirard the Kinslayer, Chirard the mad.”

  “Chirad the Great, Chirard the Magnificent.” The screeched rejoinder bordered on the hysteric.

  Niarmit struck. The Helm was the gateway between this world and hers. He had stolen it from her. She must steal it back. Seize it, wear it and remove it to return to her own world. Once there she would never return to this hellish place until the moment of her death, when Feyril’s unwitting curse would claim her at the last. All this ran through her mind in the instant it took her to leap to Chirard’s side. Her hands slapped onto the steel helm fingers curling round its rim for the purchase to lift it free from the Kinslayer’s head. But her grip never closed. A burst of energy flung her back across the throne room at the instant her hands touched the metal. Bruised and groaning she rose from the floor and looked at her own scalded palms while Chirad’s pale mouth widened in a roar of laughter.

  “Only he who wears the Helm can freely remove it. Now be still bitch. There are questions you must answer.”

  Niarmit glanced down at her reddened palms, scorched by the briefest contact with the Helm. “I thought the Helm protected me from harm.”

  “It protects you from the blows of our own material world and in this domain you cannot die,” Santos assured her.

  “But you can still hurt and be hurt here, can’t you slug?” Chirard interrupted, prompting a fresh quake of shivering in the Steward at Niarmit’s side.

  “Where are my friends?” Niarmit demanded. “Where am I? that is…. where is my living body.”

  Chirard’s mouth twisted in a grin beneath the mask of the helm. “You wish to see where I have stationed your feeble mortal frame, bitch. Well, take a seat, enjoy the ride.”

  “The thrones majesty,” Santos urged her. “Take your place on this throne.”

  Puzzled Niarmit sat down on a stone throne in the front rank, facing the gilded chair occupied by her insane helm wearing ancestor. “I don’t understand.”

  “Place your hands on the armrests and close your eyes, Majesty,” Santos gently prompted. “Any of the Majesties seated thus can see and feel through the eyes and body of the wearer of the Helm. They can share the bridge between the planes.”

  Niarmit rested her still stinging palms on the cool stone and shut her eyes. Instantly she was back in her own body in the fortress of Morwencairn. At the dizzying sight that greeted her she clenched her eyes still more tightly before she realised that the harder she closed them in the domain of the helm, the clearer she saw in the world her body inhabited.

  Forcing her eyes open took her away from the vertiginous prospect, back to the throne room and the grinning figure of Chirard. “Where is that?”

  “A king’s private perch, atop the temple steeple. I always enjoyed the perspective. From there the people appear as they should, mere ants beneath my greatness. Come now, bitch, spawn of that line which murdered and disinherited me. Close your eyes, let me show you what it means to be Emperor of the Petred Isle and wearer of the helm of Eadran.”

  Reluctantly Niarmit obeyed and once again found herself in her own body perched atop the slender spire of the temple. It was her body, but it did not answer to her command. Some other will than hers held her limbs in an easy balance against the wind that whipped up from the West. Seated on a stone throne in the hall of the Vanquisher her knee trembled involuntarily at the perilous altitude, while her body at Chirard’s disposal was unfazed by the prospect.

  Niarmit yelped involuntarily as Chirard leant her forward seemingly beyond any point of equilibrium, but still she did not fall to the cobbled stones of the plaza a dizzying distance below. His strident voice echoed in her ears. “Now traitor spawn, I have questions for you. I have spent near half an hour surveying this scene, and waiting for you to wake up from the trifling shock of being un-helmed. I should warn you that, despite the many sobriquets I have claimed or been given by my enemies and my servants, Chirard the Patient was never numbered amongst them. So, bitch, tell me quick and tell me true, why are there Orcs crawling all over my capital?”

  ***

  “Turn,” Haselrig instructed without looking up.

  Obediently Udecht leant over the work bench and turned the ancient sword so that the antiquary could inspect the other side of the pommel. There was a squawk from the corner of the room where the Bishop’s orcish escort were amusing themselves with a game of bones. Udecht had never tried to understand the rules, nor look too closely at the bones, which he suspected might once have belonged to a human child. However, the latest throw seemed to have resulted in a win for the lime green guard over his duller hued companion. “Gurag strike one,” the lime one announced. “Gurag make Nakesh kneel.”

  “Gurag feeble, Gurag could not make baby kneel,” the darker orc snarled as he leaned forward and tapped his knobbly forehead. “Go on try.”

  Udecht spared them a brief glance. The constant stress of life as Xander’s prisoner had been replaced by the monotony of assisting Haselrig. The ex-priest had been assigned the entire library as his workspace and tasked by Maelgrum with researching the bloodline magic of Eadran. Udecht’s lineage gave him a certain value as the only one who could handle the artefacts without being blasted against a bookcase by the enduring protection of the Vanquisher’s magic. Warm and relatively secure, it was still a tedious existance and the guards’ occasional confrontations provided a moment of distraction, if not quite entertainment.

  The lime skinned Gurag braced himself for the strike at the grinning Nakesh, then with a sharp crack he snapped his head back and forward to crash his own uneven cranium into his colleague’s proffered head. The crack of bone on bone was tangible and by any human standard both creatures should have been laid flat out insensible on the floor. As it was, Gurag gave a howl of discomfort his hands flying to rub the point of contact. Nakesh rose with a grin. “See, even when Gurag win, Gurag loses. Nakesh head is thicker,” he tapped his skull again.

  “Much thicker,” Udecht murmured beneath his breath, but a moment of unfortunate silence from the others meant his private comment caught the ears of the orcs.

  “What you say?” Nakesh demanded.

  “He insult you,” Gurag taunted. “He say Nakesh not able to crack egg.”

  “Nakesh crack more than egg,” the dark skinned orc stormed. “Nakesh crack prayer man’s head.”

  Udecht paled as the orc stepped towards him, his fellow guard grinning widely at the mischief he had sown.

  “To your post, Nakesh,” Haselrig commanded. “The priest is my servant, and we work on the Master’s business. You would do well not to forget that.”

  “Prayer man should watch mouth,” the orc growled but he backed away nonetheless and picked up the bones for another throw.

  As the orcs returned to their unfathomable game, Haselrig spared Udecht a glance. “You should be careful, your reverence. Those two do not enjoy this duty. Either of them would happily tempt the other one into killing you if it meant that at least the one of them could get out of this posting and back with their comrades.”

  “My murder would not please your vile overlord. Those who acted outside his orders would suffer,” Udecht replied sourly.

  “Aye, whoever did it would suffer greatly and that would merely amuse the one who didn’t get executed. In t
he gutshredder’s camp they are even betting on which of Nakesh or Gurag cracks first.”

  The Bishop gave an indifferent shrug. Haselrig rested his elbows on the bench and cradling his chin in his hands, gave the prisoner a curious stare. “Your reverence, your life is all you have left. Your last and most precious possession. If I were you, I would be more careful of it.”

  “I am not you, Haselrig and, thank the Goddess, never will be.”

  The antiquary gave a wry grin. “In the end by diverse paths we all become the things and people we least expected, your reverence. I am sure you will be no different.”

  Udecht’s intended angry rebuttal of his warder’s assertion never found voice for an orc burst into the library in high agitation. “Mashter Haselrig,” he cried. “The Bishop has stolen the helm. He is killing orcs and outlanders in the citadel.”

  “Has he!” Gurag cried.

  “Is he?” Nakesh echoed.

  “We kill him now,” they declared drawing their jagged edged blades in a swift simultaneous movement.

  For all his declared indifference to his fate, Udecht backed against a shelf in fear of the vengeful orcs and was grateful for Haselrig’s swift interjection. “Don’t be absurd. You’ve seen yourself the Bishop has been with us here all day. How could he possibly have been or still be roaming the citadel wearing the Helm and killing people?”

  The orcs gave brief grunts of disappointment but the newcomer persisted with its argument despite the incontrovertible evidence of the Bishop’s presence infront of him. “Prayer man is only one can hold the Helm, who else could it be.”

  Haselrig sighed. “What exactly has happened?”

  The orc scratched his head. “We heard shouts from throne room. Went there, plenty dead orcs and outlanders. Helm was gone. Outlander saw human wearing Helm duck out of sight, saw him run, but he disappeared. Don’t know where he went.” Following his own logic the orc waved his axe at the baffled Udecht. “Could be he went here. Could be is prayer man.”

  “Bishop Udecht has not left my side all day, besides he could not wear the Helm and live. Prince Xander thought he was the next in line and the Helm destroyed him for his folly. It is hardly likely that Xander’s younger brother would escape the same fate.”

  The orc’s craggy brow creased in puzzlement. The pursuit of such logic was beyond him and of far less note than the presence of a potential culprit, even if the pieces of the story did not entirely add up. Haselrig barrelled over the creature’s dissatisfaction. “Where is the Master now?”

  “He went to caves. The diggers is nearly through. He went to see them.”

  “This is of more importance than uncovering his ancient halls,” Haslerig declared. “You, go and tell him to come here.”

  The orc paled visibly. “Me? me tell Master to come here? Me not tell Master anything.”

  Haslerig nodded at the orc’s understandable reluctance to dare giving Maelgrum instructions.

  “Tell him just that Gregor’s heir is here. I am sure he will choose to come.”

  The orc scurried away while Nakesh and Gurag looked to Haselrig for direction in this strange turn of events. Still pressed against the bookcase Udecht saw the bafflement of concern in the faces of Maelgrum’s minions and, for the first time in weeks, felt a brief flicker of hope.

  ***

  Niarmit cried out as a stab of lightning inflamed her nerves. Instinctively reluctant to share anything with the insane occupier of the gilded throne, she had to admit that his methods were persuasive.

  “Majesty, you would do well to answer His Majesty’s questions. He has not yet begun to test your mettle.”

  “Santos the slug speaks true,” Chirard echoed. “He knows from vast experience. No one dies here, but they can suffer, suffer greatly. So bitch, how is it that orcs have conquered my capital city and are shitting in my throne room?”

  Breathing heavily Niarmit glared back at the interrogator. In the moments when the pain had driven her eyes shut she had seen her physical form atop the temple steeple quite untouched by Chirard’s torture. The marks and burns that his magic drew were felt only by her soul in the Domain of the Helm but, even though the wounds healed and faded fast, they felt no less real for that. Seeing in her predicament the ruin of all Feyril’s hopes, she sought only to guard Tordil and Hepdida from her ancestor’s wrath. “It is Maelgrum,” she muttered.

  “Maelgrum?” Chirard exhaled the name in wonderment. “You lie bitch!” His fingers flexed to cast another lightning bolt, the deep scalded wounds that had scored his palm were already closing over in healthy pinkness.

  Niarmit shook her head. “He was freed from his prison.”

  Chirard’s mouth hardened into a scowl. “The traitor spawn bitch lies. I tried myself to unlock his tomb. Seven times I made the attempt, seven times I… seven times without success.”

  “You!” Niarmit was stunned by this new intelligence. “You tried to free Maelgrum? In the name of the Goddess why?”

  “If I, the greatest wizard of any age could not release the nameless one, how could lesser skills than mine complete the task?”

  Niarmit shook her head, “what could you hope to gain? Were you that desparate to be his servant?”

  Chirard stood up, incandescent with rage as lightning crackled about him. “Insolent whore. Chirard the Great serves no one, living or undead. Chirard the Great knows no master. I sought to free him so that he would bow the knee to me, that he would acknowledge my overlordship and then no-one, not man, not elf not dwarf, should doubt that my skills and my power reigned supreme.”

  “You think yourself a greater wizard than Maelgrum?”

  The question brought a whip of lightning which pinned Niarmit painfully to her chair. “Thren reared slut, curb your tongue. You have many lifetimes to live here in this Domain at my displeasure. Unless you have a love of pain you should learn to use a more respectful manner, and give a better account of current events than that some weak blooded relation of yours has secured the success which eluded Chirard the Incomparable.”

  Niarmit fought for breath and ground out an answer through gritted teeth. “It took three to unlock his gem prison. Just as it took three to imprison him. Priest, Mage and one of Eadran’s blood. In truth Maelgrum walks the Petred Isle again.”

  For a moment Chirard was silent, reflecting on this new information. A pale pink tongue flicked over his bloodless lips and then he dipped his chin in a nod of resolve. “Well bitch, if the dark one does indeed walk my halls, let us play the host and go and welcome him. Though first, it is fitting he should see in truth who challenges him.”

  Niarmit flinched and shut her eyes as Chirad’s fingers worked another rapid spell. However, it was her corporeal body that was the mad wizard’s target. She saw her form atop the tower shimmer and then the rags of zombie cloth faded and were replaced with the resplendent red robes with the serpent crest in facsimile of Chirard’s appearance atop the gilded throne. As she looked down at the ornately shod toes, her body leapt at Chirard’s volition, free from the perch on the temple spire. Her stomach leapt in sympathy as she felt her body tumbling earthwards and heard the mad wizard’s triumphant howl emerging from her own mouth.

  Just when she thought he meant to destroy her there and then, a swiftly muttered incantation slowed their rate of descent to that of a feather and her feet touched the cobbles of the plaza as lightly as stepping out of bed.

  There was a shout of alarm from an outlander at the new arrival in their midst and orcish grunts of rage. An uncomfortable passenger in her own body, Niarmit found herself looking left and right at various targets. Her stolen fingers flexed in swift but intricate predigistation, far faster than she had ever cast a priestly spell. Electric blue fire seared in both directions outlining the unfortunate victims in glowing light for a fraction of a second before releasing them in crumpled smouldering heaps. There was a roar behind her as an unwise attacker flung itself at her unguarded back, only to engage the formidable defence mechanis
m of the helm. A half dozen orcs charged her in a full frontal assault, fanning out to spoil the wizard’s aim. Still bewildered by the bizarre sense of paralysis within her own active and animate body, Niarmit watched as her hands swung together, fingers splayed and gouts of green flame burst from her finger tips. The attackers recoiled screaming, covered in a liquid fire which ran up and down their bodies.

  In seconds it was over. Chirard whirled Niarmit’s body round through a full circle to see a square filled only with the dead and the dying. Between temple steps and citadel gates no-one was left to raise a challenge to the vengeful wizard.

  “Where are you?” Chirard roared. “Come to me Maelgrum. Chirard the Magnificent summons you to his presence, Maelgrum!”

  A noise from the citadel drew Chirard’s attention and he swung round hands raised, a spell already working up, as four newcomers blundered onto the scene. They were headed by a short grey haired man leading two orcs, one quite virulent green, the other a duller shade and behind them, hesitant but curious was a taller man in priestly robes that were several sizes too large for him.

  “Fresh meat!” Chirard cried before the startled quartet could react, a flicker of flame licking at his fingertips.

  The spell was never launched. A shimmering aura to the right distracted Chirard and he whirled back as an oval window opened in the air where the royal avenue joined the plaza. The window grew until it was eight feet high by four feet wide and then through it stepped a tall black figure, skeletal form clad in tattered finery, but in the sockets of its skull burned two bright red fires that seared into Niarmit’s mind even through the intermediary of the Helm and Chirard’s usurpation of her body.

  “Who daresss to sssumon me?!” The unmistakeable form of Maelgrum demanded.

  Without a pause Chirard unleashed a fresh gout of green flame which bathed the undead lord in an eerie glow. Unpeturbed Maelgrum strode forward the liquid fire sliding from his body to leave a flaming trail as his own hands spun in spellcasting.