by T. O. Munro
“I am Steward of the Silverwood, guardian of the strictures of Lord Andril and of the memory of Lady Kychelle. You forget that it was in that moment of weakness when she abandoned Lord Andril’s rules, that Kychelle came by her fate. Talorin may move in mysterious ways, but even you cannot deny the clarity of that message.”
“It is cowardice, Marvenna, simple cowardice and a betrayal of all who would fight evil.”
She rose slowly from her seat and stepped towards the iron grill. “The path of Talorin’s people may run beside the path of men, but they do not and should not cross. You forget, Tordil, Maelgrum was human once, he is a problem for men, not elves. He was never any concern of ours.”
“What about Liessa? Andril’s daughter how did her path come to cross with Maelgrum’s then? Andril broke his own axiom then, whatever followed from that was his doing as much as Maelgrum’s.”
She raised a finger at that, pointing steadily at Tordil’s face, uncertain herself whether she meant to cast a spell or not. “Do not mention their names, Tordil. You knew nothing of Liessa or Andril and you are not fit to speak of them.”
***
“Are you still cross with me?”
It was cold on the battlements. The thin streaks of impending dawn threaded their way across the eastern sky. The light held promise of a wintry warmth just sufficient to melt the frost lying crisp on the stone parapet. Niarmit peered into the north-eastern blackness. That was where the threat would come from. Quintala, doubtless appraised by Haselrig of what had happened, would realise how Torsden’s posturing on the Derrach had duped her. The half-elf would hurry back at her best speed; that is what Niarmit would have done in her place.
“I take it the stony silence means that you are … still cross that is,” Hepdida huffed behind her.
Niarmit turned slowly round, sifting through the range of necessary conversations with her cousin that she had spent some time so far avoiding. The crown princess stood at the top of the steps, boyishly dressed with her knapsack over her shoulder.
“Going somewhere?” Niarmit asked sourly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Hepdida’s hopeful smile dissolved at her cousin’s grim tone.
Niarmit let a smile flicker across her lips. “Me neither.”
“You shouldn’t worry.” Hepdida stepped closer, reaching out a hand towards her cousin’s shoulder. She hesitated a moment before giving a light pat of reassurance. Niarmit tried hard to relax, to accept the gesture with uncorded muscles. The princess drew her close with a companionable arm. “Everything you planned has worked. The Goddess is on your side, you should trust her.”
Niarmit sighed. “I hope so, Hepdida, but the Goddess does not offer salvation for fools. She will not protect us from our own mistakes.”
Hepdida hugged her one armed. “But you don’t make mistakes, Niarmit, and you are not a fool. That might describe me, but not you, not ever. You are always right.”
There was no hubris in the princess’s voice and Niarmit wound her own arm over Hepdida’s to return the hug. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the breaking dawn. Niarmit gave a nervous swallow. “Hepdida?”
“Yes,” the princess rested her head against the queen’s shoulder.
“About the boy, Jay.”
Niarmit felt her cousin stiffen immediately, a steel wariness in the arm which still hugged her. “Yes?” there was an edge to the affirmative this time.
“I saw you together,” She hesitated struggling for an undeniable precision to her words. “Well not exactly together. But you were both in the stables, just you two. You came out separately.”
“Spying on me? How regal.” The petulance was back.
“I wasn’t spying, I just happened to see.” Niarmit kept her voice calm and level, though her heart was racing. “What is there between the two of you?”
The princess shrugged, shuffling off the hug as she did so. She took a couple of steps towards the battlements, staring with elaborate interest at the grey horizon. “He did me a favour. I was just repaying the debt.”
Niarmit seized the girl’s arm, pulling her round. “What kind of favour? What kind of debt?” She made a shrill demand. “You’re the crown princess, not some tart from a Dwarfport brothel.”
Hepdida tried to wriggle free, wincing at the strength of Niarmit’s grip. “It was just a kiss,” she said. “That’s all. Just a kiss.” She finally shook the queen’s hand free and took a step back. “Do you really think so low of me?”
Niarmit took a deep calming breath. “And what if he wants more?”
“What if he did?” Hepdida’s eyes were hooded with hurt. “I like him Niarmit. He treats me like an equal, he doesn’t make me feel like a naughty child all the time.”
Niarmit swung her head round, searching the lightening sky for inspiration. “But you are a child, you both are.”
“And how old are you, Niarmit? twenty-three going on ninety-three. Jay and I, we’ve seen things children shouldn’t, experienced things children shouldn’t. We’re not children anymore. Don’t you see, people have to grow up fast these days. You did. It’s grow up or die.”
Niarmit fought back her rising temper, struggling to find some maternal instinct, some model of behaviour that would resolve the argument to both their satisfactions. Matteus had been the best of fathers but of necessity distant. The various tutors and governesses of her youth had been efficient but not warm, and her own route to her father’s affection had always been through loving obedience. How could she instil that same mantra in her cussed cousin? She scoured her mind for a form of words and saw only Jay’s gleeful face and the blinded and disfigured victims of his enthusiastic knife work.
“The boy’s damaged, Hepdida.” She said it bluntly but with feeling.
Hepdida glared back at her wide eyed. “Well so am I, we all are, you, me, Kimbolt. Maelgrum’s evil has fucked with our heads just as much as our bodies. Maybe Quintala is the only sane one.”
“You don’t mean that!”
“No, no maybe not.” She admitted. “But don’t lecture me Niarmit. You may have saved my life, but you don’t own it.”
They stood, breathing heavily, drained by an argument neither had been seeking. A sudden cry of alarm from the sentry on the gatehouse was a welcome distraction. “There’s something out there!” the soldier shouted.
“Where away and what kind of thing?” Niarmit called, turning from her cousin’s grim face.
“To the east, your Majesty. I saw a glint, it’s sunlight on spear tips.”
“Ah shit,” Niarmit exclaimed. “Let’s hope the Goddess does not think me a fool to be forsaken today.”
***
It had been an uncomfortable two nights in the frozen dirt, sheltering behind hedgerows. They had sought clean snow to swallow for drinking water, for they daren’t go near the wells in the town. Two days they had spent skirting around the fortress which had been their refuge, but was now full of their enemies and always dragging the precious box. Foraging for food had been too much of a risk and Haselrig’s empty belly was growling in protest. The privations had done Lilith’s humour no good at all.
But here at last in the midst of her returning army rode salvation. The ex-priest had rarely been so glad to see the half-elf. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the midday sun as he looked up at the master’s designated deputy atop her black horse. Their escort of outlander skirmishers fell respectfully back, duty done, now that they had brought the pair of refugees before Quintala and her red bearded companion.
“Can I stop carrying this thing now?” Lilith demanded from the other end of the wooden chest, dropping it noisily without waiting for an answer.
“Where did they find you, Haselrig?” Quintala asked leaning from atop her horse sniffing the air around him. “Have you been hiding in a latrine pit?”
Haselrig made no answer, squinting at the half-elf’s silhouette as she positioned herself obstinately between him and the watery brightness of the sun at its h
ighest. It was not in Quintala’s nature to make others comfortable in her presence, by word or deed.
“Has he harmed you?” Rondol’s question was directed at Lilith, flat toned and business like, as though he were asking after yesterday’s weather. Haselrig still heard the threat shrouded by such disinterested curiosity.
The shaven headed sorceress rubbed her numb fingers while glaring at Haselrig. A range of emotions played across her features, some hinting at cruel mischief, but in the end she gave a dismissive sniff. “No, he’s not harmed me, apart from making me lug that thing around.”
“Still hanging on to your toy box I see,” Quintala said with an amused lilt to her voice.
“You should be glad that I have. The last thing you want is the bitch queen to have what’s in here to aid her defence. Bad enough she’s got Rugan with her now”
“Rugan?” The name leapt from Quintala’s lips in a jolt of disbelief.
“Aye,” Haselrig replied warily. “Rugan is there, with about four thousand troops, marched in just after daybreak.”
Quintala shook her head. “He can’t have. He never moves that fast. You are mistaken, you lie.” Her voice rose in tune with the increasing desperation of her denials.
“I didn’t get close enough to introduce myself, Quintala, I’ll grant you that.” Two nights of intense discomfort had shortened Haselrig’s temper and for the moment irritation held sway over his perennial fear. “But I did see someone in Rugan’s armour, leading Rugan’s men and carrying Rugan’s standards, marching into that fortress just after first light this morning. So if it isn’t Rugan then it is as near to being Rugan as makes no damn difference.” He flung an arm towards the mound of Colnhill poking its way out of the plain at a distance of nearly a league. “Go and check the standards for yourself.”
“Shit!” Quintala spat. “Shit! Fuck! Piss!”
“Looks like all your meals have come at once, Lady Quintala,” Rondol observed. “Breakfast and dinner together, do you have the appetite for that?”
“Shut up, Rondol and send for Mazdurg. His orcs will have some warm work to do before nightfall. I know just where and how they can make quite an entrance.”
***
They were an odd group, the three and the extra one. Kimbolt watched them strolling across the bailey. The thin little illusionist with the sparse beard, scurried to keep up with the trio of tall elves. Their long limbed elegance effortlessly outpaced his shorter legs, as they scanned the fortified shell that was Quintala’s fortress.
It was, in its breadth, essentially a vast campsite enclosed by a stone wall. No doubt the half-elf had intended to construct more numerous permanent dwellings within the oval of stone. The simple grandeur of the bailey’s only stone building hinted at what she might have built, if given time. As it was the broad hill top had just a few crude wooden bunkhouses and several fire pits about which clusters of tents could huddle.
All was now bustle and business. One half of the bailey was filled with the camp of the townspeople, the other half a disciplined ordering of soldier tents, under the direction of Johanssen. The constable had selected himself to oversee the dispersal of Rugan’s newly arrived force within the available space. The prince himself had been sequestered away with Niarmit almost immediately upon his arrival.
The three elves and the illusionist appeared to have manufactured some free time for they gazed around with the idle curiosity of tourists. However, as Kimbolt watched, he saw how their attention was always drawn back to the tall thin tower on the mound at the fortress’s western end. Always that is, until the illusionist espied him standing by a section of scaffolding against the southern wall.
Thom’s expression went through several stages. A scanning glance, a second look, a frown of puzzlement, and then the dawning of recognition, his smile growing broader as his identification grew more certain. “Kimbolt!” he cried loud enough to draw the elves’ attention away from the mesmerising vision of Quintala’s tower.
The illusionist hurried towards him followed, with slightly less enthusiasm, by the three elves. “My, oh my, I almost didn’t recognise you, Captain Kimbolt, or should I say, Seneschal. It’s been too long, and it is so good to see a familiar face.”
Kimbolt smiled weakly and let Thom pump his hand with a greeting of undeserved vigour. The companionship which Thom so warmly remembered had been nothing more than a few short and ill-tempered hours spent in the camp of Sir Ambrose in the Gap of Tandar. Their acquaintance had lasted barely three days between Kimbolt’s arrival, after his betrayal of the medusa, to his departure with Niarmit, on a frantic ride to Hepdida’s sick bed at Laviserve.
They had been dark days and Kimbolt’s memories included seizing the illusionist by the throat in a bid to stifle his incessant cheerfulness. However, Thom had either forgiven or forgotten that unkind reception to his well-intentioned support. He clapped Kimbolt on the shoulder and waved the elves forward. “You remember Elyas, don’t you, Tordil’s lieutenant, and of course Caranthas and Michil.”
The elves’ greetings were more cursory, though Elyas did admit, “I hear you have done good work in the service of the queen, Seneschal.”
Kimbolt gave a flat smile. “I work hard to make up for past sins, Elyas.”
“As do we all,” Thom hastily interjected. “We must not hold our futures as prisoners of our past crimes eh?” More back slapping followed, though he had to reach high, to avoid patting Elyas in the small of the back.
The illusionist’s offence had been to serve as the least effectual necromancer conscripted into Marwella’s division. A relatively minor crime which he had more than discharged through life saving services rendered to the elves and the queen herself. Kimbolt grimaced, taking comfort in the thought of the divine absolution he had sought and found through his battle with Torsden. The elves’ stern faces, however, suggested they still harboured the same suspicions of him that Tordil had held.
“You made good time,” he told Elyas. “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“The prince drove a hard pace,” the elf lieutenant admitted.
“I haven’t seen men march so fast ever,” the dark-haired Michil added in wonder. “They were scarce much slower than when I marched with Feyril before winter fell. It took us just two days to travel from Hershwood to Morwencairn. Findil and Tordil both said they had never seen even an elven host move so fast.” The smiling pleasure of remembered achievement faded into a sombre sadness.
Caranthas gave his dark-haired colleague a companionable punch on the arm.
“Your colleagues brought much honour to the realm of Hershwood. They will not be forgotten.” Kimbolt offered a clumsy condolence which still brought a grateful smile from Michil. “No word from the captain then?” he asked Elyas.
The lieutenant shook his head. “We have followed the path he would have taken to the Silverwood but found no trace of him or of anyone else. We were debating whether to venture into Marvenna’s realm or retrace our steps when word came that the queen needed us here. That the half-breed was working her brand of evil within reach of our vengeance.”
“The queen calls and we all come,” Thom said. “Sergeant Jolander could not be held back either, he has an account of his own to settle with Quintala and a hunger to serve the queen. Rugan let him have four score of raw recruits with which to begin building a company of royal lancers. They are camped by the gate.” The illusionist shook his head. “We will have to promote him soon, before he becomes a sergeant in command of an army.”
“Have you seen the queen?” Elyas asked. “Rugan and she disappeared as soon as we arrived. I would make my report to her. I know Tordil’s whereabouts vex her as much as me.”
“They’re on the wall, there.” Sharp eyed Caranthas pointed to the northern wall where the distinctive figure of the queen and the half-elf prince were walking. As they looked across the width of the broad bailey Kimbolt saw the prince stagger and almost fall, though the queen quickly caught him by the arm.
***
“Enough, Rugan. Stop now.” Niarmit dragged the half-elf upright.
“It is not done yet,” Rugan whispered through pale lips, his usually swarthy skin as white as a Nordsalve warrior’s. “I must finish it.”
“If you make the attempt, Rugan, it may finish you.”
The half-elf glanced down at his hands. Dried blood was encrusted around the gash sliced across his left palm. He shook out the numbness in his fingers, then curled them into a weak fist which he held over the stone embrasure. He waited fierce concentration on his face squeezing his wounded hand as hard as he could. After a moment’s fruitless effort, he muttered. “Empty it seems. Still, I have another arm.”
He fumbled for the knife on his belt.
“No Rugan.” She reached out an arm to stop him; her gesture and his weakness almost had him drop the blade. “Stop this.”
He shrugged her off. “The circle must be complete, your Majesty.” He scored a shaky line in his uninjured palm, the natural weakness of his left hand exacerbated by the blood he had shed. Crimson beads welled up in the cut he had carved. “If you are worried for my health, you should have refrained from capturing quite such a large fortress.”
He sheaved the blade and squeezed a few drops of blood from the fresh wound on to the gap between the merlons. As he did so he muttered a few words, fingers twisting in time with the enchantment.
“There must be another way,” Niarmit said as the pale prince walked unsteadily to the next embrasure, leaning against the stone parapet for support.
“There is not, your Majesty. Only blood is proof against blood, mine against hers.” He slurred the reference to Quintala, weakness blurring the snarl he had intended. “This is the only way to keep my witch of a sister safely beyond the walls, to keep your counsel and your people safe.”
“I am sorry, Rugan. I had not realised … not when I asked you to ward this Fortress as you had Laviserve.”
“You weren’t to know, your Majesty,” he whispered. He stumbled unsteadily shoulder first against the wall. “Bloody wizardstone,” he cursed. “So treacherous underfoot.”
