by T. O. Munro
“You are Gregor’s bastard?”
“She is Niarmit, Princess and Priestess of Undersalve,” Kaylan volunteered in some confusion.
“I am both.” Niarmit admitted.
The Sergeant and the Seneschal exchanged looks of stupefaction. “This is an incredible tale,” the lancer exclaimed. “We are bound for Morwencairn. Perhaps someone there will cast some light upon your story.”
“Morwencairn has fallen and King Gregor is dead.”
“What proof have you!”
“I have walked the zombie and outlander infested cobbles of Morwencairn. Believe me Seneschal and Sergeant you will find no comfort there. Archbishop Forven’s body hangs bleeding over his own altar and orcs shit in the throne room.”
The soldier crescented himself at Niarmit’s weary ennunciation of the facts. She went on. “And the proof of Gregor’s death is here.” She tapped her temple on the mark made by the helm. “I have worn the Helm and it has accepted me as his heir. Gregor is dead.”
The Sergeant tumbled off his horse in embarrassed supplication. “Forgive me, my Queen.” Kaylan, open mouthed also dropped to his knees at this fresh reason to feel unworthy in his Lady’s presence.
Quintala retained a breath of scepticism. “How could you get in and out of a fallen fortress and where is the Vanquisher’s helm.”
“We left it behind in our escape. It is of little value.”
The Seneschal scowled. “I agree with Sergeant Jolander. It is an incredible tale. There is some trickery here.”
The Sergeant however, was past the point of convincing. “What are your orders, Majesty?” he enquired to Quintala’s instant consternation.
“There is no place of safety for us in Morsalve,” Niarmit announced. “We must ride to the court of Prince Rugan and gather the forces of the Salved against the enemy.”
The Seneschal gave a sniff of disdain and Niamit turned to her with a softer tone. “Seneschal Quintala, I already owe you my life and that of my companions for your most timely arrival. I know there is much just said that takes time to absorb. I have not found it easy to come to terms with and I am sure it is as hard for you. However, please ride with us to Rugan. There is nothing for you in Morsalve and I would have good friends by my side in the days ahead.”
That seemed to amuse Quintala for she gave a hollow laugh. “Very well then, your Majesty. We ride to Prince Rugan and let us see what good it does us.”
Afterword
Niarmit’s story began life a long time ago. Plotting it out in my head helped to fill dull moments of exam invigilation and provided a welcome relief from other exam hall diversions, such as counting up left-handers and right-handers or playing chicken with other invigilators as we walked down the narrow aisles between the desks.
Changing work pressures and patterns, together with some seemingly unresolvable plot problems led to me set the story aside for a ten year hiatus. I restarted with the support of my youngest daughter for whom each instalment became a rather atypical bedtime story. Tess remains my first and best beta-reader.
However, it became clear some 100,000 words into the story and about a quarter of the way through the plot that the book was heading for a trilogy.
“Wrath of the Medusa” book two in the Bloodline Trilogy was released in December 2013 on Amazon.
The final book, “Master of the Planes” should, all being well, follow before the end of 2014.
In the meantime, the interest and support of readers is a great motivator to pick up the pace of writing. All feedback is gratefully received. Find me on
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Table of Contents
A Map of the Civilised Part of the Petred Isle
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
