by T. O. Munro
“I did,” she retorted. “I just had to hide it better then. Think how long I have spent deceiving and duping the great and the wise and think how quickly the dissembler must inevitably conceive an utter contempt for those she gulls.”
Haselrig bit his lip, eyes darting left and right. “So, Quintala, was I one of your gulls, one of the blank pieces on your board? Were you just playing me for a fool?”
She smiled sadly at him, and shook her head. “Was I?” she echoed. “What makes you think I’ve stopped?”
Before Haselrig could make some answer, the half-elf’s gaze shifted over his shoulder, a broad false smile playing across her lips as she welcomed a newcomer to the walkway around the tower. “Ah, Rondol, we were just talking about you. Haselrig was telling me how much he is enjoying Lilith’s company and she his. Apparently size does matter after all.”
Haselrig spun round. The sorcerer stood on the narrow ledge, eyes narrowed, face red, but with his temper firmly held in check. The half-elf’s taunts were swallowed entire, like arrows shot into the night, his features studiously unmarked by whatever damage her words may have wrought within his closely shielded mind.
“We have had news, Lady Quintala.” His voice was level, his expression stony.
“Well spit it out, Rondol,” Quintala urged. “Or are your thoughts as constipated as the rest of you?”
“There is an army being massed by Nordsalve.”
“The beggars have found their courage then.”
“They have crossed the Derrach, just to the west of the Silverwood.”
Quintala pursed her lips in thought, her toying with Rondol quite forgotten in the excitement of fresh news. She nodded quickly, sharing aloud her analysis of the news. “They are hoping, no doubt, that the silver elves might be drawn into coming to their aid. Fools. Marvenna is Andril’s creature, we will see no sign of her people until Maelgrum leads his orcs and zombies into the very heart of their sacred groves.”
“It is a force of considerable size,” Rondol said. “They have no need of silver elves to be a threat. Already the orcbands and the freeholders in that part have fallen back, while their villages have sent words of welcome to Torsden.”
“Torsden?”
“The Northern Lord commands their force.”
Quintala frowned and paced the stone ledge back and forth. Both Haselrig and Rondol had to step aside to let her carve a thoughtful path around the tower. “Torsden?” she mused. “Why now?”
“We are in the last throws of winter, soon the ice and frost will melt and Marwella’s zombies will be free to join our force.” Rondol offered his assessment. “They, who have no hope of fresh strength, should strike before we can grow stronger.”
“And where is the bitch in this? I have not seen her in my scrying of my brother’s palace. Did she somehow make it to Nordsalve?”
Rondol shrugged. “We have no spies beyond the Derrach. No way of knowing.”
Quintala scowled. “A failing on your part Rondol. Your sorcerers should have cast spells of concealment, outlanders disguised as refugees could have swum the Derrach and brought back news.”
“No one could swim those icy waters at this time of year.” Haselrig made an instinctive defence of Rondol’s position, but then quailed at the furious glare it drew from the half-elf.
“Besides, my sorcerers have been too busy making wizard stone to have time or energy to spare enchanting spies. It is neither their fault, nor mine that we are blind beyond the Derrach.”
“Could Niarmit be the one stirring up trouble in Undersalve?” Haselrig said.
Quintala nodded slowly. “Aye, reclaiming her father’s province would be just the thing to draw her sentimental arse out of my brother’s domain.” She gripped the rail and glared at the north-eastern horizon. “I was never welcome in Nordsalve. Hetwith, like all his house, they didn’t trust me.” She laughed. “Not that that wisdom saved him in the end.”
She scowled. “Torsden was determined to bend the boy prince and the Lady Isobel to his will. I remember Sorenson being much vexed by the prospect. Well, if the Northern Lord now wishes to extend his claim to power south as well as north of the Derrach, then I think it meet that we meet him, and in force.”
Rondol nodded. “I will speak to Mazdurg and the outlander captains.”
“Tell them to find a horse for you, Rondol. You’re coming too.”
“Me!”
“You know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It’s one maxim of my brother’s that I am inclined to share.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry. Haselrig will stay here. I am sure he will continue to look after Lilith while you are gone.”
***
Hepdida was good at sulking, but sulking only worked when you had an audience and Niarmit had been obstinately absent while Kimbolt had been a most taciturn companion. She tried again to draw him out. “How long do you think they’ll be?”
The seneschal shrugged and looked around the little camp. Another wood, another clearing and soldiers resting after a hard forced march along secret paths and valleys. Moving by night, camping by day. It was the enthusiasm of their friends as much as the interference of their enemies that they had been trying to evade. Kimbolt had been more morose than usual. Occasionally at the rest stops Hepdida had seen a distant look in his eyes. He would survey the makeshift encampments, give a sad shake of his head and then fall into a stony faced silence. Niarmit hadn’t noticed his changed demeanour. Or maybe she had, but she was just too pre-occupied with their objective or too furious still with the princess to come near the pair of them.
Despite the cold, her mouth was dry. She scooped up a handful of snow from the ground behind her and raised it to her mouth, but Kimbolt suddenly knocked her hand aside, scattering the white flakes.
“I’m thirsty,” she protested.
“Where’s your water bottle then, the one the queen loaned you?”
She lifted the leather vessel on its strap and turned it upside down to demonstrate its dryness. Kimbolt handed her his own. “If it was empty, why didn’t you get the queen to refill it this morning?”
“She’s not speaking to me at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“She’d have conjured water for you though, rather that than have you eat snow or drink from puddles.”
Hepdida shrugged. “I don’t mind where I get a drink from.”
He looked at her balefully. “You should. I was on a march once, two men drank from a dirty puddle they were that thirsty. They fell sick and we didn’t have a priest.”
“And?”
“They died,” he said flatly. ”So the next time you are out of clean fresh water, swallow your pride before you swallow the first handful of dirty snow you can grab.”
She sniffed. “Well, the marching’s just about done now isn’t it? How far away is this barn, anyway?”
“A quarter mile due south.”
She shivered. “Well, it would have been good for us to be inside. This may be the last gasp of winter but it’s got bloody cold breath.”
“We don’t want to scare this Father Simeon and his associates off. All he is expecting is Jay. It’ll be enough of a shock that the boy’s brought Johanssen and the queen.”
His tone was still cool, but this was by far the longest conversation she had had with him in three days. “Are you still cross with me Kimbolt?” she asked. “Am I still a little fool?”
He shook his head slowly. “Listen Hepdida. Niarmit… that is to say the queen and I, we have tried so hard to keep you safe and still you throw yourself in harm’s way.”
She scowled. “You’re not my parents, and I’m not a child.”
He leant back against a tree trunk, and looked up at the stars through the web of snow covered branches. “It’s not that simple, Hepdida. Our plans are built on the most precise calculation of risk and opportunity. A delicate act of timing that requires a co-ordination of Torsden’s diversion, our attack and
Rugan’s reinforcement. Unknown quantities like your foolish stunt, they could upset all our endeavours.”
“So I’m an unknown quantity am I, as well as a little fool,” she snapped. “Or perhaps you think I’m just a foolish stunt?”
He gave her a sharp look and pushed himself upright. “I need a little air,” he said, his breath misting in the darkness as he walked away.
“I just wanted to help,” she called after him. “I wanted to do something, rather than nothing.”
He spun round. “Keep your voice down. Use what little sense you seem to have, to stay silent, silent and still.”
***
There must have been two hundred or more of them crowded in the barn. Goddess only knew how far they had travelled for the wary looks they traded showed a company as unfamiliar with each other as they were with Niarmit and Johanssen standing before them.
“So you’re our queen then? Gregor’s heir?” The voice from the back seemed barely to believe the question it was asking, let alone the answer.
“Gregor’s bastard more like,” another growled.
“Hold a civil tongue in your head!” Father Simeon’s command pre-empted Johanssen’s outraged response. Niarmit was glad. Better the rebel’s leader should be the one to impose his authority on the gathering.
“There’s not much civil about orcs murdering our children, outlanders stealing our food and filthy wizards plying their disgusting trade. Reckon civil died about the same time as Gregor did.” The growler was not so easily silenced.
“You’re the one that fought at the battle of the Saeth, rescued Rugan’s arse they say.” Praise of sorts from a slim man with a whispy beard.
“Heard you’d been captured, but escaped by the trick of flight.”
“Flung the winged she-devils to the ground outside Listcairn.”
The chorus of stories was building, whispers in the crowd, as Simeon’s motley army tried to assimilate the mythical reality before them.
“Had a sword could cut through plate mail,” another muttering in the front row.
Niarmit held up her hands for silence. “What’s done matters far less than what we are about to do, together. I know Father Simeon had a plan, a good plan, and Jay came to tell us of it. But there is a bigger prize within our grasp. Constable Johanssen and I have got two hundred soldiers camped in the woods just north of here to help you seize that opportunity.”
“I liked my plan, your Majesty,” Simeon spoke with a polite but firm deference. “It was just, get in, get slaughtering, get out.”
“This one’s simpler, father,” Jay said with a grin. “More of the middle bit and none of the last.”
***
Outlander women weren’t as a rule attractive. Beauty had been more a hindrance to survival than an asset in the anarchic world of the predominantly male exiles. Throw in a few tribes of orcs, who could be relied upon to seize any vaguely pretty female who strayed too far from the dubious protection of the outlander menfolk, and you had a barely survivable environment. A situation where woman had been known to scar their own faces and smear themselves with goat droppings as the least worst of the available alternatives.
Lilith was something of an exception to that rule. A mere novice of exile having spent just five years beyond the barrier, but fortunate enough to have caught the eye of Rondol. The sorcerer had been Maelgrum’s herald sent to greet the group of exiles that contained Lilith. The big oaf had been immediately taken with the willowy sorceress, forming a pairing that had remained unbroken until Quintala had ordered them apart.
It was a separation that clearly pained Lilith as much as Rondol. She had immediately shorn off her long black hair, to leave a scalp of irregular and unattractive baldness. It was one of the many minor disfigurements used as a defence by the unpartnered women beyond the barrier. Haselrig had not at first known whether to be flattered or ashamed that she should feel it necessary to scare off his advances. In truth though, he quickly recognised it was a signal to Rondol, a public advertisement that she would not surrender herself to Haselrig whether or not he made the attempt.
She stood scowling at him now, unkempt and unwashed, as he gazed at the silver blade gleaming on the work bench. “What’s the point?” She said. “You can’t even touch it.”
“I can look even if I can’t touch,” he said, bending over the blade.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she replied, pulling her cloak tight around her skinny form. “And not just the sword.”
His mouth twitched in irritation. “Don’t flatter yourself that I am in any hurry to do either on your account, my dear Lilith.”
“You know Rondol would break you in half if you did try anything.”
He sighed. “Just bring the lantern over and that blue smoked glass, let us see if we can decipher the markings on the blade.”
Lilith grudgingly complied, directing the light as Haselrig required, lantern in one hand, glass filter in the other. “How do you even get the thing out of the chest?” she asked as Haselrig caught the hint of a curl of a letter etched along the fuller.
The glimmer of writing was gone, glimpsed and then lost. Haselrig harrumphed his dissatisfaction and then bent once more to try to catch the hidden script unawares. “You have your secrets, Lilith, let me have mine,” he said. Whatever he told her was sure to find its way back to the red-bearded wizard and the less Rondol knew, the less capacity he had to hurt.
“You know I’m not really a sorceress,” she said conversationally. There was a shout from the courtyard outside
Haselrig mumbled some noise of indifference, but it didn’t stop Lilith.
“I’m a necromancer. I should have been with Marwella, more death and shadow than fire and lightning, that’s me.”
“Indeed.” A minimal verbal reflex as the light teased out another hint of writing, runes of an ancient design flickered into clarity. Haselrig kept his eye on the blade as he reached for a pencil to scrawl down the design. Another cry from beyond the hutch walls, guttural orcish shouts. The guards were restless tonight.
“But Rondol spotted me, took me under his wing. Said I was too good for corpse driving.”
“Fascinating,” the lines were resolving into sharp relief. If the silly bitch would only shut up he might learn something here.
There was a shudder as something crashed into the hutch walls. The tiny timber building shook, the workbench rattled and the runes twisted out of sight as the blade rocked on its hilt.
“Orc’s blood and ogre piss!” Haselrig straightened up in fury. “This is too much.” He slipped round the table and yanked open the door.
A dead orc fell into the room, arms curled over its escaping intestines.
***
The picket lines had been thin, the surprise total. In the absence of Quintala and the bulk of the army, the paltry garrison of the half-elf’s fortress had hunkered down behind their high walls trapping themselves in a killing zone. The patrols beyond Colnhill had been too few and far between to give warning of the approaching force. Father Simeon’s decoy party, bringing evening food and drink to the garrison, had held the gate just long enough for the rest of them to arrive and with the outer gatehouse taken the fortress’s fate was sealed.
Niarmit paused a moment to take in the unfolding battle, lit by flickering torches placed around the broad open ground of the bailey. Along the inside edge of the curtain wall, orcs and outlanders ducked for shelter behind timber supports. They fenced around the scaffolding poles, trading blows with Johanssen’s soldiers and losing.
A dozen of Simeon’s resistance fighters crashed their way into a low long bunkhouse on the left, screaming threats and waving a variety of agricultural weapons. The far door to the bunkhouse flung open and two robed figures erupted into the carnage of the bailey. The pair were no fighters, looking around in wide eyed panic before turning to run. A small figure darted from the shadows, and leaped on the shoulders of one of them bearing him to the ground with a cry of triumph. As the wizard
struggled beneath him, his assailant jabbed in his face, once, twice, a glint of short steel in his hands. The victim howled in pain, and carried on screaming; the attacker rose scanning the courtyard for more prey. His eyes met Niarmit’s and the queen recognised Jay, grinning widely, then the boy was scampering off after another robed quarry. Behind him his last victim rose from the ground, moaning, arms outstretched as he stumbled across the courtyard, his cheeks red with the blood that flowed from his ruined eyes.
Niarmit gulped back her revulsion and ran for the inner gatehouse athwart the section of wall that separated the outer bailey from the more defensible walled mound at the hill top’s western end. To either side Johanssen and Kimbolt had led their divisions onto the battlements streaming along the southern and northern stretches of the curtain wall. Their target was also the western gatehouse, the only barrier between them the bizarre tall tower which passed for the fortress’s keep. Seize that and their triumph would be complete.
***
Haselrig stared out at disaster. The fortress was overrun, not just peasant farmers waving scythes and spears made from knives on sticks, but hardened soldiers, their swords slicing open the few orc and outlander guards that Quintala had left behind. It took less than an eyeblink to realise that this was a catastrophe beyond recovery and in a second glance Haselrig saw a sight that almost froze his racing heart. In the middle of the conquered bailey stood a tall wiry figure, long red hair streaming behind her as she scanned her unfolding triumph.
He kicked the disembowelled orc back over the threshold and pushed the door closed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
The ragged sorceress edged round the workbench reaching for the door. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t open it!” Haselrig commanded. “Well no more than a crack. Keep watch.” He dragged the chest over from the corner of the work hutch, and flung open the lid. Inside lay The Father, the paired blade with The Son on the workbench.
“What are you doing?” Lilith glanced from her watch post, wide eyed with fear but also puzzlement.
