Lady Of The Helm (Book 1) (50 page)

“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 the gutshredder’s camp they are even betting on which of Nakesh or Gurag cracks first.”

The B
ishop 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 gru
nts 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 sighe
d.  “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 p
resence 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 cave
s.  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 a
nswer 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 Ma
elgrum? 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 th
ree 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.”

F
or 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 mechanism 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 th
e 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.

Chirard made no defence
.  He flung his arms wide to welcome the assault screaming, “Come on then. Try and hurt me.”

Maelgrum
needed no further invitation. Chains of crackling lightning shot from his hands and enveloped Chirard in a mesh of blue violence.  Niarmit felt a faint tremor rock the throne on which she sat, but no harm befell her or the leering form of Chirard exultant on the gilded throne.

The lightning net faded and Chirard lowered his arms and grinned at the stunned form of the undead
lord.  “Who are you?” Malegrum demanded, even as he began another invocation.

“I am Chirard the Great, Emperor of the Salved, Master of Maelgrum,” the mad wizard replied unleashing his own magical assault. A shock wave
shot across the plaza, a wall of force that plucked cobble stones from the floor, and flung them along its path. A square stone plinth, already denuded of its commemorative statue by the invaders, exploded into shards of brick as the shock wave passed.   The wall of force and debris washed over Maelgrum and the undead lord stumbled and took a step back.  Most of the stones swept around him, repelled by his form but a couple penetrated his magic shield and struck stunning blows against his chest and shoulder.

“Bow before me,” Chirard commanded.  “Know I am the greater power.”

“Insssolensssce mussst sssuffer,” was the only reply before Malegrum’s counter strike erupted. A pillar of flame enveloped Chirard, blinding with its heat and light.  Niarmit safe upon her throne felt the warmth grow to scalding heat before the spell dissipated.

“I felt that,” she muttered, drawing a worried glance from Santos.

“Do you think to hide from the massster of the planesss,” Malegrum hissed.  “Fool, the power of Maelgrum ssspillsss into every realm of exissstance.”

“The power of Chirard knows no limit,” the mad wizard replied.  “Enough words, now kneel or die.”

Flaming balls of fire shot from Chirard’s hands. Maelgrum invoked a swift counterspell which doused several of them, but near half a dozen punctured his magic shield with a soft pfft and crashed into his blackened torso.  Maelgrum staggered and fell to one knee.

Inside the domain of the helm, Chirard was panting with exertion, sweat dripping down his chin, but still he screec
hed.  “See, see how the undead Lord kneels to Chirard the magnificent.”

And then it hit, bolt after bolt of lightning, thin and insubstantial in the plaza yet somehow more penetrating in their
hidden plane.  Niarmit screamed in pain at a shock more violent than Chirard’s torture.  The mad wizard howled on his gilded throne.  Santos whimpered at the evidence of injury appearing in welts on Niarmit’s legs and arms- wounds which had their parallel on her corporeal form.