Master Of The Planes (Book 3) (17 page)

Quintala stood atop the gatehouse and smiled.  She leant back against the battlements to take in how the vision from her mind had been transformed by the work of slaves, orcs and wizards into such menacing reality.

It was a fine fortress. 

It would certainly please her master when he eventually returned from whichever demon infested plane he was scouring for new allies.  

The hill just south of the village of Colnham had been never been attractive as a place to build a settlement.  Its sides were too steep, its top too windswept and its defensive virtues too unnecessary.  In all the centuries of sheltering behind the distant protection of the Gramorc mountains and the fortress of Sturmcairn, there had been no need for the people of Colnham to seek refuge from marauders. The massive cost of dragging stone up the winding paths along Colnhill’s steep flanks had been an easily dismissed extravagance when there was so many better things to spend the town’s taxes on.  The civic splendour of theatres, the spiritual sustenance of churches, the educational excellence of schools, these had all been far worthier investments for the good merchants and farmers of Colnham.  

So the broad hilltop had never been anything more than a trysting place for hardy lovers and grazing for agile goats, while the town of Colnham sprawled complacently in its shadow. 

But now with a quarter of a province to cow and subdue, the neglected mound of Colnhill was come into its own.  The hilltop had a broad flattened eastern plain before rising to an uneven peak to the west.  The remnants of ancient earthworks formed a crude raised rampart around the hilltop’s whole circumference, a defensive ridge older than the Salved Kingdom, perhaps older even than the Monar Empire.  The area it enclosed was bigger than the town of Colnham itself, but time and the weather had reduced a once proud earthwork to little more than a raised lip on an old hilltop.

However, the line of prehistoric fortification had usefully defined the limits of the new oval bailey and provided a foundation for the extensive curtain wall which the wizards’ labours had thrown up.  From the gatehouse Quintala looked down at an enclosed flat space that was the entire eastern portion of the hilltop.  It was an area large enough for her whole army to now encamp.  Indeed, after the regrettable loss of a few wizards and orcs, all of her force huddled down at night time within the capacious arms of walls of thirty foot wizard stone.

The inner sides of the walls would in time be lined with the mess halls, stables and smithies of a working castle. For the moment the walls were a shell of stone braced from within by a lattice of wooden scaffolding and buttresses.  While, with the exception of her own humble hall, the rest of the bailey’s structures were wood or canvas.

Facing her on the western edge of the square outer ward was the inner gatehouse barring passage to the peaked inner ward.  The curtain wall continued around the western crest, giving the fortress the appearance of a figure of eight seen from above, albeit with one loop decidedly larger than the other.  It was atop the western raised mound where Quintala had given greatest vent to her creativity, eschewing the obvious choice of a squat square keep.

Her brother had built a palace of breadth and elegance; Quintala had built a fortress of height and menace.

“We could have finished and set the curtain wall if you hadn’t been so determined to build that first.”  An unwelcome rumbling voice intruded on Quintala’s reverie.

“Rondol you have no vision, no imagination.  I would have expected more of a sorcerer.”  She answered without looking round.

“A child has imagination, it doesn’t make their ideas sensible.”

“Maelgrum told me to build a fortress that would cast a long shadow over the land.”

“A long shadow?” Rondol said.  “That was perhaps a metaphor, Lady Quintala.  I don’t think he can have meant for you to build a giant sundial.”

The half-elf spun round.  “Do not try my patience, Rondol.  You must know there are so many ways in which I could hurt you without killing you.”

Rondol complexion paled, but he met Quintala’s stare without wavering and it was the half-elf who turned away first.  She was keen to shake off the sorcerer’s scepticism and bask in the splendid contemplation of her architectural achievement.

Where a traditionally minded soldier might have planted a squat square keep like the citadel at Morwencairn, Quintala had constructed a single spear like tower whose two sectioned design forsook width in exchange for height as it raced skywards.  The lower section was a cylinder was just shy of forty foot in diameter.  There was a sharp change in width for the second section as the tower narrowed to under thirty feet across.  The ledge at the break between the sections afforded an open walkway with a view that Quintala longed to savour.

“I look forward to seeing how the master views your creation,” Rondol’s observation interrupted her thoughts.

Quintala frowned at the sorcerer.  “Haven’t you got wizards to drive along in their work, Rondol?”

“Of course, Lady Quintala.” 

As the sorcerer made to leave, she called out, “and Rondol I do hope you are not sparing yourself any exertion in the forming and firming of stone. You seem remarkably well rested, too well rested.”

He turned back and began with some hesitancy.  “I think it meet that some of us at least should keep our wits alive and our energies undrained.”

“What matters, Rondol is that all the enchanted stonework is in place before the rise of the full moon.  That is the sum total of your worth to me and your company’s.”

Rondol’s skin was pale but there was still bluster in his voice.  “We are sorcerers, weavers in the forbidden arts. Destroyers of men, not builders of stone.  I warrant there is more value to be had in the master’s service in one of my sorcerer’s little fingers than in the entire body of that idle scrap of flesh you keep as a pet.”

Quintala beamed, her mouth split in a grin from ear to ear.  “You under-rate Haselrig.  He has many talents and uses. I am sure he is enjoying working with his new assistant, who knows what they may discover together.” She searched Rondol’s features for a reaction to her taunt, but the sorcerer kept his expression as still as set wizardstone. “Besides his greatest use to me, is the annoyance that I know his continued existence causes for you.”

A fury of emotions worked their way across the sorcerer’s features, none of which he dared give voice to.  Then at last, in mute rage, he turned and strode from the gatehouse roof.  Quintala watched him go, before turning once again to survey the slender splendour of the spear tower she had built on the crest of Colnhill.

For a prisoner in chains the Lord Torsden, formerly Master of Horse and first noble of Nordsalve but now convicted traitor and murderer, showed little unease as he faced the judgement of his queen, his regent and his prince.

He gave them all a smile of welcome, as though they were in this hall at his invitation.  He bent low in a graceful bow, the heavy chains proving no more encumbrance than a silken bracelet.  “Your Majesties.” His voice was low, a throaty roar of power held in check.

“Lord Torsden,” Niarmit kept her voice level, her body still, trying to face down Torsden’s physical presence with a calm authority. “You stand before us convicted of grievous crimes.”

The Northern Lord inclined his head in a nod of acceptance, his glance darted to one side where Kimbolt stood at Niarmit’s shoulder.  The queen saw Torsden’s eyes flicker and his lips curl in a brief but smiling acknowledgement of the seneschal and his victory.  “I staked all in a trial by combat, your Majesty, and I lost.  I accept the judgement.”

“You accept you were wrong!” Isobel shrilly demanded.  “You accept you were wrong to hold me hostage, to kidnap my son, to murder Vaddi Ziorzi.”

“None of that was done with any ill will, my lady.” Torsden caught himself and after a moment’s reflection made a minor correction.  “Well mostly not with any ill will.  I acted as I always have, in what I thought were the best interests of Nordsalve.”

“The best interests of Lord Torsden, more like.” 

The mumbled aside from Pietrsen to Johanssen did not escape the prisoner’s notice. Torsden swung his head round to stare down his successor as Master of Horse.  “I will confess, Captain Pietrsen, that in general I have found my own and the province’s interests to be so closely aligned as to be indistinguishable. However, I accept that in these recent affairs my judgement was at fault.”

“At fault? So murder and kidnap was just a mistake you made?” Isobel’s voice was almost a snarl; clearly some of the Lady of the North’s anger which had been soothed by the restoration of her son, was now being re-awakened in the presence of his smiling kidnapper.  Niarmit tensed.  She had to move the discussion on from past grievances, no matter how severe, to the more pressing matter at hand.

Torsden gave Isobel a low bow.  “My lady, I know I have sinned.  I make no plea for mercy.  Honourable intentions cannot excuse acts that are shown by the judgement of the Goddess to have been evil.  I am only sorry to have offended your husband’s memory.”

Isobel gave a snort of derision, looking away rather than give her former tormentor the blessing of eye contact.  Torsden addressed himself to Niarmit. “Your Majesty, my life was forfeit when your seneschal bested me.  I am willing to submit to your justice, but would ask you deliver it before long.  The cells of Karlbad are not built for one of my frame.  I cannot stand up straight within their confines.  A swift execution of the sentence you promised when first we met would ease the comfort of both mind and body.”

“You can rot in hunched agony for all I care,” Isobel spat.

“That is not why we brought you here, Lord Torsden,” Niarmit began.  “We have a proposition for you, another means by which you might assuage your guilt.”

Hepdida found him in the stables, the small dark haired boy with the fierce brown eyes.  He stood at one of the stalls, stroking the neck of a sable mare.  The horse’s head swayed left and right, buffeting the boy’s chest in search of something more satisfying than affection.  Hepdida dragged a handful of oats from a feeding bag hung on a post. The mare caught the scent, looking over the boy’s shoulder as Hepdida approached hand outstretched.

“Hello, boy,” she said.

“She’s a mare,” the boy said without turning round.

“I was talking to you.” She drew level with him, letting the horse nuzzle the handful of oats from the palm of her flattened hand.

“My name isn’t boy and I’m not a boy, I stopped being a boy when Maelgrum killed my father.”

“Is that your excuse for being so rude when talking to a princess?”

He looked her in the eye then.  He was an inch or two shorter than she was, but a few months of adolescent growth would soon close that gap. She drew herself up to her full height and planted her hands on her hips, determined to assert her authority.

“You don’t look like a princess,” he said sourly.

“Well you do look like a boy.”

“I’ve killed an orc, stabbed it to death with a knife”

“So have I, and it was the orc’s own knife I was using.”

That gave him pause for thought.

“Was it the orc that gave you those?” he raised a finger to point at the scars on her cheeks.

“Different orc,” she said briskly.  “Also dead.”

“Strewth,” he said, shaking his head.  “With the two of us around it’s a wonder Maelgrum’s got any of the bastards left.”

She smiled despite herself and settled on a bail of hay.  “Do you think Torsden will do what Niarmit’s asking?”

The boy shrugged. “Dunno, never spoken to the man.  Heard of him yes, most people in these parts have.  Long time ago my dad hosted a tournament, said it would be good for the town.  Would-be knights came from all over, Hetwith and Torsden turned up.  They won everything.  All the gold prize money disappeared into their saddlebags and got carried across the Derrach.  I don’t think the part your queen has in mind for him will really appeal, leastways not from what I’ve heard of Lord Torsden.”

“It’ll be that or rotting in a prison cell,” Hepdida said.

“It’s not Torsden’s part that bothers me.”

“Are you scared?”

He glared at her.  “Only a fool knows no fear, that’s what my dad used to say.  But you know the thing I’m most scared of?”

“Death? Pain? Disgrace?”

He shook his head emphatically at each suggestion.  “The thing I fear most is not getting the chance to stick a knife in that bastard’s belly, to watch that red light fade from his eyes.”

“You want to kill Maelgrum?”

He waved a finger at her, warming to his theme and oblivious to her question.  “And while I am pretty sure I could make my own way back to father Simeon in safety, I’m not too sure about leading a great horde of galumphing Nordsalve soldiers along the same path.  It’s not subtle and there’s a mighty risk of drawing a whole lot of unwelcome attention.  And what have we got as cover, trusting to an ex-prisoner to manage a distraction that draws the half-breed bitch far away from us.  What I fear, little princess, is that this whole adventure blows up in our faces and I never get my day of destiny with the undead bastard that killed my family.”