Master Of The Planes (Book 3)

by T. O. Munro

  Maelgrum swept out a hand to introduce the other war leaders at his table. “You may not remember Mazdurg, he ssstandsss here for the orcsss.”

  Dema nodded at the battlescarred orc, one deep gouge across his forehead giving the creature the appearance of a permanent frown. “I remember a young orc warrior of that name,” she said. “He stood fast against the ogres of the grey peaks when they had so foolishly rejected your overlordship, master. He cut one off at the kneecaps, a tale worthy of telling in the feasting halls of his fathers.”

  In so far as an orc could simper Mazdurg did just that. His broad ugly face creaked into a smile at the medusa’s acknowledgement of his great triumph.

  “And Tarkanusss hasss but recssently come into our fold. He hasss proven himssself mossst effective asss governor of our new conquered province, able to harnessss the greed of men to all our advantagesss. Now he hasss the opportunity to ssshow in battle how men sssserve their own interessstsss bessst when they firssst sssserve my interessstsss.”

  Tarkanus was a familiar figure too. Dema had never seen him before, but she had seen dozens like him. Men whose criminal greed had swept them beyond the barrier into exile. The man had a pale face and a thin moustache that twitched as he spoke, his tone a rarely achieved blend of obsequious arrogance. “I am not without combat experience, Lady Dema,” he began. “I served in the Oostport guard.”

  “Until you were cashiered for embezzlement,” Dema let a smile play across her lips at the impact of the barbed rejoinder. Tarkanus’s puce expression revealed the accuracy of her lucky guess.

  “I spent some time after that serving with and leading mercenary companies in the Eastern Lands,” the man blustered. “You will not find me wanting on the battle field, Lady Dema.”

  Dema gave him the full benefit of the sparkle of her gauze clad eyes. He held her hidden gaze for a second or two longer than she had expected. Perhaps there was more to this weasel than she had expected. She aborted the still born observation that, in the Eastern Lands, three muggers would consider themselves a mercenary company. Instead she told him soberly, “I want to find you killing on the battle field.”

  Maelgrum raised a solitary finger to demand an end to the chatter of greeting. “It isss of courssse underssstood that in thisss placsse we talk only of the future. There can be no referencsse to what isss passst and done.”

  They nodded their agreement and Dema turned to Maelgrum. “So, master, how many do we have and how many do we face?”

  “There are one-hundred-and-twelve sssorcerersss held back from our unfortunate reverssse, the one that prompted usss to sssummon Dema here. Tarkanusss has added to the outlander contingent to give usss four and half thousssand men, mossstly cavalry. Marwella’sss necromancersss have created a legion of the undead full twenty-eight thousssand ssstrong. Mazdurg hasss been accssepted asss uberchieftain by four more tribesss new joined from beyond the Gramorcsss. Orcsss driven to join our caussse by newsss of our sssuccesss and the opportunitiesss that await thossse bold enough to ssseize them. Added to what we always had that gives full thirty-five thousssand of the orc nation have marched through Sssturmcairn’sss sssundered gatesss.”

  Dema whistled softly. A force of over sixty thousand, such an army had not been seen since the days of the Monar Empire. “Impressive,”she found she had said.

  Maelgrum’s eye pits beat a slow glow of pleasure. “And that isss before we count the fifteen hundred very ssspecial troopsss that you command.”

  “And against us.”

  “The fortressss of Colnhill isss held by at leassst ten thousssand and no more than twenty thousssand. Either extreme should be well within our measssure. Particularly with the ssspecial talentsss of our troll commandoesss.” Maelgrum glanced around at his generals. “Oncsse Colnhill isss again in our handsss, the ssseven countiesss will ssswiftly fall to usss driving a wedge oncssse more between Medrysssalve and Nordsssalve. From there we will drive on around the northern tip of the Palacintasss and take the north-eassstern passssage into Medyrsssalve.”

  While the rest murmured their delight in the plan, Dema frowned. Maelgrum was quick to notice the merest hint of dissent. “You are uneasssy with thisss plan, Lady Dema?”

  “Ten thousand?” she said. “Twenty thousand? It is a broad range. Do we have no more precise intelligence than that? Can we even be sure of these numbers?”

  It grew cooler despite the summer heat radiating from the dark cloth. “The meansss by which I may gather information have been reducssed somewhat sssince your demissse,” Maelgrum hissed.

  “They unmasked your spy?”

  “We do not disssscussss what hasss happened, Dema. The lessss you know the better it isss for you.”

  “You mean the less chance I have of avoiding the fate that awaits me?”

  Tarkanus was shivering with the sudden cold. New to Maelgrum’s service he had not the thick underclothes that most of the Dark Lord’s servants learned to wear even in the heat of summer.

  “We have dissscusssed thisss, Dema. You cannot evade the fate that has already happened to you. There are advantagesss you can exssploit in that, but any information you take back asss to what will happen, the when and the how, will ultimately work to the dessstruction of usss all.”

  Dema sniffed, a curt statement of indifference died unspoken on her lips. There were faces she would have expected to see at this gathering, people, orcs whose names had not even been mentioned. She had no idea how far into the future Maelgrum’s blue gate had dragged her. Odestus had looked a lot older, Rondol and Marwella less aged since their parting before the assault on Sturmcairn. The riddle of her death haunted her, the how? the where? the when? And most of all the who by? Maelgrum had not even let her examine her own body. Had she perhaps died of a sickness? Why had she died human? She shook her head unhappy with the confusion that beset her. All that mattered was that there was a battle to be waged and won and they needed better intelligence of the enemy.

  “Can you not open a portal, Master, to spy on the enemy.” She dared make the suggestion. “Information is a priceless asset in warfare.”

  “Colnhill isss closssed to me,” Maelgrum said.

  “But you have walked the top of that hill, Master,” Rondol exclaimed. “When Mayor Hiral was destroyed, you were there. You could open a gate, a small one.”

  Maelgrum flicked out with a twisted digit and Rondol found he was mumbling in panic through lips that were sealed shut. “There are thingsss we will not ssspeak of,” Maelgrum told the bearded wizard. “We mussst be sssilent on thossse partsss of the passst that ssstill lie in Dema’sss future.”

  He turned his scarlet gaze on Dema. “Be they ten thousssand or twenty, our forcssse is more than sssufficssient for the tasssk. We will gain cssertainty asss we draw clossser. A general of your giftsss should not have to, or even want to rely on the opportunity for magical ssscrying. Nothing ssshould sssteal the credit for your victory.”

  Dema glared back at him. “A good general uses every advantage they can get, only a fool puts pride before victory.”

  “Nonethelessss,”he told her. “Thisss isss how it will be.”

  She tried to hold his gaze, but the fierce intensity of his red eyepits drove even the sparkle of her blue eyes to drop in submission.

  ***

  “The queen gave the ordering of these counties to me, Lord Torsden.”

  “And, Johannssen, she gave me the task of protecting its people.”

  Jay glanced from one stern face to the other, trying to guess which way the Nordsalve warriors’ argument would fall. As the son of the famous Mayor Hiral, he had found himself a position at the heart of local government. A useful go-between for the Constable of Nordsalve as Johanssen picked up some of the mantle that Maelgrum had so bloodily stripped from Jay’s father’s shoulders. Jay knew the men of power and influence, well at least those such men who had survived the purges of Maelgrum and Quintala. He knew who Johanssen could trust and who he should doubt, and so far he ha
d been right.

  But, for all the favour his position brought him and for all the kindness that the gruff Johanssen had shown him, Jay hankered after service with Lord Torsden. The giant lord rode out on a weekly sweep along the ragged boundary between those counties where the queen’s writ ruled and the region still occupied and enslaved by the enemy. Each week he came back with the heads of a half dozen orcs or outlanders dangling from the neck of his great steed. The grisly trophies hung in testament to another enemy patrol rudely disabused of its right to stray within reach of the Nordsalve cavalry.

  Jay had a hunger to make servants of the Dark Lord scream, to wrench a cry from the lipless mouth of Maelgrum himself. His father demanded no less of him, not in any words that Mayor Hiral might have spoken, but in the deep hooded eyes of grief that had been Jay’s last sight of his father. A sight endlessly revisited in dreams that brought the boy – once known as little jorgy – no comfort at all.

  So, Jay stood on both sides of the argument. The consideration and privilege that Johanssen had granted deserved his support and obedience, the martial prowess of Torsden inspired his respect and admiration.

  “Let me strike at them Johanssen, disrupt their plans, set back their preparations, send them home to think again.” Torsden paced the receiving room filling it with his impatience.

  “How can you know where to strike, Lord Torsden?”

  “Johanssen,” the towering warrior flung a hand westwards. “Anywhere I go, I will find enough enemy to kill, enough to make a pyre that will burn for days.”

  Johanssen shook his head. “I cannot let you go, you risk destruction and that would diminish our protection here.”

  “No,” Torsden thundered. “Let us scatter the storm of enemies while they are still gathering. Why linger here while they assemble to break upon us in full flood?”

  “Without your men I have not the force to hold this place. There are armies gathering to the queen’s cause, let us not strike prematurely.”

  “There are armies gathering to the enemy’s flag and they are gathering faster. Let me strike a blow as will delay them enough that our own forces can converge here.” Torsden was pleading now, his great head hung low in supplication.

  Jay held his breath, willing Johanssen to say yes. The constable glared up at Torsden for a long suspended second. Then with a curt dip of his iron grey beard he lit up both Jay and Torsden’s faces in broad smiles.

  “You will not regret this, Johanssen,” Torsden told him.

  “I hope not, Lord Torsden.”

  “I will take only cavalry, that way I can be sure to outrun whatever I cannot outfight.”

  “Very well, you had best bid your men saddle up.”

  Torsden grinned and bounded towards the door. Johansssen shook his head wearily at the Northern Lord’s departure. Jay watched and waited, trying to gauge the moment when it would be best to ask leave to ride out with Torsden.

  ***

  The deer bent its head plucking berries from the bush with a dextrous combination of lip and tongue, oblivious to the hand that Marvenna reached out to stroke its flank. The steward smiled, amused by her own skill in drawing so close to the animal. It was in woodcraft that she still found herself most at ease. All tribulations of rulership, the petty and the great, disappeared as she lost herself in communion with the forest.

  “Marvenna, Steward Marvenna, you must come, come now!”

  The deer started and fled, just a flash of white rump as it thrust itself two footed over the bracken. Marvenna sighed as Captain Voronyis emerged in haste from behind a clump of black hawthorn.

  Marvenna turned wearily to face the newcomer, sensing that she was to be dragged back from her solitary delight and doubting that anything much would justify the urgency with which Voronyis had burst upon her.

  “You must come. Come now.” Voronyis was so beside himself as to seize the steward’s forearm and make to drag her away. Marvenna was stunned at the impertinence, she had but rarely touched Lady Kychelle, and never Lord Andril except with his express permission or command. She blenched at another indication of how slight her own authority was compared to what theirs had been.

  Despite her arch glare at his offending hand, Voronyis did not attempt to move it, instead he gripped more tightly and pulled her forwards. “Now, Steward. Now.”

  “What is the meaning…”

  “It is Captain Tordil.”

  Voronyis had her attention now.

  “He stands at the foot of Malchion. Elyas and the other Hershwood elves are there too.”

  She was running past him, too fast for the captain to follow. Soon she was running past others, most walking but some running. There were silver elves and the elves of Hershwood all converging on the sacred clearing at the foot of Malchion. They thronged more with curiosity than alarm, stepping lightly aside as Marvennna rushed past.

  The clearing at the foot of the great sequoia was still far from full, but it was filling up. Marvenna looked over the heads of the embryonic crowd, towards the spiralling stairway around Malchion’s trunk. She could see four figures, one taller than the others.

  “See, Steward.” Voronyis caught up with her. “It is Tordil and the other three.”

  “How?” The single syllable was strained through Marvenna’s gritted teeth.

  “He came here singing, Elyas that is. I told him he should amuse himself elsewhere, that this was not a place for ordinary elves of the Silverwood to come, save on special occasions. He apologised, asked to sing one more stanza in celebration of Malchion’s majesty. I bid him take his song elsewhere and he strode away singing.”

  Voronyis paused in his telling, his breath heavy.

  “And?” Marvenna demanded.

  “Another voice struck up, in harmony with his. It was Tordil.”

  The steward seized the miserable captain by the shoulders. “And you let him climb up? You let him ascend into the canopy of Malchion?”

  “I had no reason not to,” Voronyis confessed. “The guards were not of your inner circle, Steward. I could not command them, not with Elyas so insistent and Tordil’s song echoing from the branches above.”

  Marvenna pushed him away. “Begone, fool. You have failed me, you have failed Lord Andril’s commands and Lady Kychelle’s memory.”

  “Steward,” Voronyis wailed after her as Marvenna pushed her way through the crowd gathered around the trunk of the towering sequoia. The elves parted easily before her. She could hear Tordil’s voice calling out, some talk of imprisonment and of treachery. There were gasps of suppressed horror at the first word, but a frisson of something darker at the second word a collective frown from the proud elves of the Silverwood. Marvenna quickened her pace, all was not yet lost.

  Elyas espied her, thrusting through the gathering and tugged at Tordil’s arm to point her out. “Ah, here she comes,” the tall elf cried. “Mother of infamy, let us hear what answer she can make to these charges.”

  There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd and the last few ranks parted to open a passage for Marvenna. She leapt lightly up the first few steps of the spiral stairway to stand just below the new liberated Captain of Hershwood.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  Her air of indignation wrong footed the tall elf. His jaw dropped, mouth working in silence for a second as he sought his own best path to the moral high ground.

  “The meaning of this?” he echoed. “Why the meaning is simple, thanks to the efforts of Elyas I have been freed from the unjust imprisonment you subjected me to for nigh on four months.”

  A gasp rippled out amongst the crowd as Tordil’s words were heard or relayed to the furthest reaches of the gathering.

  “Do you deny it, witch?” Tordil glared his fury focussed on the steward, while Marvenna in turn watched and gauged the crowd’s reaction. “Do you deny leaving me to languish in a prison cell within the heart of your most sacred tree?”

  Marvenna drew a deep breath. What woul
d Andril have done? “I deny nothing,” she called out boldly. “I admit only that I have always acted in the best interests of the Silverwood and in pursuit of the policies and axioms set out by Lord Andril.”

  “By locking me up?” Tordil’s eyes bulged with disbelief.

  Marvenna found herself strangely calm. The months of anguished secrecy were gone, the decisions she had made were now laid bare for more public scrutiny. And that was good, for she had been right in what she chose to do. If not she would not have done it, could not have done it.

  “You have been a danger to the Silverwood and yourself, Captain Tordil.” Her eyes looked into his but her mouth was turned and her voice projected so that her words would carry to the still growing gathering. “You may still be a danger.”

  “I came to hold you to a promise, witch” Tordil glared into her eyes. “A promise you made over the Lady Kychelle’s body, a promise to honour her last command to you.”

  “I have broken no promises, Captain Tordil, and I think it ill that you abuse me so when I have greeted you with formal courtesy.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Steward.” Tordil’s voice dripped with sarcasm, his low bow reeked of insincerity. “My courtly manners have had little exercise these past seasons, confined in a narrow cell. But well I remember the promise you made over Kychelle’s corpse, do not deny that now.”

  “I made no promise save to hear what your queen had to say when and if Kychelle’s murderer were uncovered.” Marvenna found a boldness seized her, here on the steps of Malchion in the presence of her people and beneath the shadow of the Lord Andril. This land was hers, held in trust, who was this captain to torture her with doubt? “And I have heard her message and you have my answer.”

  “And you imprisoned me because I would not accept it?”

  “I imprisoned you, aye.” Marvenna had to wait while an excited hubbub thrilled the crowd. “Aye I imprisoned you, Captain Tordil, because in your fury and disappointment you were set to shatter the peace and security of this realm.”