Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) (44 page)

The Helm
stood there on the table reflecting the flickering torch light in its burnished metal surface.  Udecht stole a glance towards the door.  Haselrig had pulled it shut as he left and the guard was on the other side.  The antiquary had been irritated enough by the wheezing outlander’s noisy intrusion to insist he stand guard outside their door.  It was a demand which Haslerig, for the moment riding high in the undead lord’s fragile favour, had been able to make with some conviction.

In consequence, with his chief gaoler suddenly summoned to Maelgrum’s presence, Udecht was now alone with
the Helm.  For the first time since his abortive escape attempt he had the Helm within his unfettered grasp. There were no archers poised to strike him down, no sentries ready to raise the alarm, no Dark Lord at hand to make him drive it down on his own head,  should he chose to  swing the ancient artefact as a crude but explosive weapon.

He took a hesitant step towards the object, reached out to it.  There was a hint of warmth to the metal, and a strangely insubstantial solidity.  Its steel surface was hard to the touch yet it filled his fingers with t
he slightest tingling numbness of unfaded pins and needles.

He had not noticed it before, but now he knew
the Helm’s great secret every impression it had made on him was re-examined and placed in the context of an incredible and evil artefact. This was not simply a fearsome piece of enchanted armour. It was the gateway to another plane, a place where the spirits of his forefathers still lived.  Like passengers on a boat that had left harbour, but dropped anchor beyond the breakwater, they were halted in their journey from this world to the hereafter.  They existed still but stalled within reach and touch of the world that Death should have permanently taken them from.

Udecht’s fingers slipped down the curved side of
the Helm in a smooth stroking gesture.  He placed his fingertips against the surface and imagined his forebears pressing their hands against his from the other side of some glass window.  His father King Bulveld would not be there.  The old King had never worn the Helm, never embraced its promise or been the victim of its curse. For that Udecht was grateful, that his father should be safe with the Goddess, cured at last of his stubbornly insidious illness. 

“Gregor?”

Udecht surprised himself by speaking his brother’s name aloud, calling to his sibling through the polished basinet.  Did they know that Maelgrum hunted them still, that he had plans to confine them each in a cell to his own taste.  Udecht picked the Helm up two handed and held it up above his head peering into its velvet lined interior.  He scanned the dark material for some clue that had eluded the weeks of fruitless study, some means by which he could warn them.

But there was none.  Only the rightful wearer of
the Helm could open the gateway between the planes, and Udecht was no more the rightful wearer than his brother Xander had been.  Udecht hastily put the Helm back on the bench, his mind filled with the image of the twisted congealing mess that had been his last sight of his traitor sibling.   That was what the Helm did to any would be usurper and there were far easier ways to commit suicide.  Walking outside and threatening to poke at a guard with the lethal artefact would earn him a far quicker end on the point of a sword or pierced by many arrows.

He sighed and asked himself why he had not taken that easy course on any
one of the many chances it had presented itself.  Part of him rationalised it as an adherence to faith.  His life was a gift from the Goddess, it was not his to take.  Whatever happened to him was part of her plan.  But he had had chances to defy his captors more boldly than he had, to refuse to help them and in so doing earn a death that would not have been his direct action and might have been more worthy of a servant of the Goddess.  Had she offered him the opportunity for martyrdom? Had he refused it from simple cowardice?

He rubbed at his tired eyes.  It had been so long since he had felt the reassuring touch of his symbol of office, his holy crescent.  Not just a badge of ordination, but a bridge between him and his deity, an amplifier of prayers, a gateway to her favour. How could he know what s
he intended for him without it? Or was that just part of the test she had set?

He picked up
the Helm once more and took a few steps towards the door.  Perhaps this was his opportunity, this happy chance when he could take a few of the Dark Lord’s servants with him. 

The door was flung open with some force and the red bearded sorcerer, Rondol ducked through the doorway.  He stopped abruptly when he saw Udecht and
the Helm in his hands.  “What are you doing, preacher man?”  There was a touch of hesitancy colouring the customary arrogance of Maelgrum’s towering lieutenant.  A touch which became more pronounced when Udecht made no answer.  “Where are you going with that?”  Rondol’s eyes flicked down to the Helm.

Udecht gripped the artefact more tightly.  Rondol was a worthy target, an evil scion of his master’s will.  Achieving his destruction would be a more than even trade for the meagre worth of Udecht’s own life.  The sorcerer was within arms’ reach, stretch out your arms, touch the surface to his flesh and the ancient wards of Eadran would flare blasting the sorcerer to whatever hell his deeds had earned.  Udecht lowered his hands and turned away. “Nothing,” he said.  “I’m doing nothing, going nowhere.”  He put
the Helm back carefully on the table.

Rondol behind him gave a long exhale of relief before spitting with his customary robust assurance, “Just as well, priest, know your place and be grateful for each day you are spared.” 

“Haselrig isn’t here,” Udecht said, anxious to be rid of the sorcerer so he could be alone with his guilty cowardice.

“I know. It’s you I came to see.”

That was a surprise.  “Truly I know no more than Haselrig, indeed far less than him.  If it is answers you seek, you would be better to approach him than me.”

“Haselrig is with the Master,” Rondol growled.  “He was summoned and… and I was sent away.”

Oh! The dismissal clearly rankled the red wizard; Udecht let slip a sly smile.

“What is the matter they discuss?” Rondol’s temperament was not equipped f
or subtle entreaty.  However casual and off the cuff he may have intended to be, his question came out as a demanding weedle which Udecht had neither the knowledge nor inclination to answer.

“Is it about the blue gate?” Rondol prompted.

Udecht shrugged. “I know nothing of gates, blue or any other hue,” he exaggerated his ignorance for convenience sake, but it mattered not.  The sorcerer nonetheless heard some echo of his own thoughts in Udecht’s words. 

Rondol nodded,
“yes, it would be the blue gate.  That is the secret they share.  I did ask him, I did ask the Master…..”

He stopped then, massaging his neck beneath his beard and as he turned his head Udecht saw four black prints upon the sorcerer’s throat, frozen scars of an undead hand.  “I asked, but he…. He would not say.”

Udecht grimaced.  Maelgrum’s approval was a finite quantity with only so much to be shared between his frightened servants. Haselrig’s gain was Rondol’s loss.  However, the sorcerer’s palpable fear wrought a grim satisfaction in the Bishop’s mind.  He thought back on Haselrig’s moments of torment before Maelgrum and wondered how Haselrig, so much more the architect of this calamity, had still engendered in him some scrap of sympathy.

The door opened again to admit Haselrig himself.  The priest turned antiquary turned traitor was unusually unkempt. A foul odour accompanied him and as he brushed past Rondol with barely a second glance Udecht saw a long streak of stinking white goo down the length of his cloak, from shoulder to hip.

“What happened to you?” Rondol demanded, covering his nose as Haselrig hastily disrobed.  

Haselrig shrugged, and folded the soiled item into a tight bundle
to mask its scent. “One of the Master’s guests took exception to my presence.”  He spoke briskly trying to make light of the event, but Udecht could see the tremor in his hands.  “When I was a child such an anointment might have been considered a sign of good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” Udecht said.  “You mean it’s…”

“Bird shit?” Rondol completed the sentence.  “What size of eagle shat on you then, little priest?  Orcs’ blood, you should have enough luck to last the rest of your miserable life now. Who were the Master’s guests?”

Haselrig was uneasy at the sorcerer’s probing. “I c
annot say, that is part of the Master’s plan.”

“But these guests, they came through the blue gate you spoke of?”

“No!” Haselrig snapped. “There was no blue gate, there is no blue gate. I know nothing of blue gates.”

“But,” Rondol began.  “You told me, you said.. and I asked
him and he became most vexed. They must exist! How else could it raise his ire?”

“Rondol, that is all I know of them, that any mention of them is sure to r
ouse our Master’s temper. Beyond that, I know nothing and now you know as much as me and may have learned the wisdom to never mention it again.”

The wizard’s beard waggled as his lips worked in soundless fury until at last the words came tumbling out.  “Yo
u, you played me for a fool! You made me rouse his temper!”  His fingers flicked at the beginning of an incantation, but Haselrig stopped him with an upraised hand.  The sorcerer swung his aim wide targeting his spell instead at Udecht’s chest.  The Bishop froze for an instant.  Death beckoned from Rondol’s fingertips and then he ducked below the table and Haselrig sprung at Rondol.  The wizard crashed to the ground, his misdirected bolt of lightning scorching a path across the ceiling. 

“You go too far, little priest,” the wizard said struggling out from beneath the antiquary.

“The Bishop is my slave and both he and I are at the heart of our Master’s plans.” Haselrig retorted. “Interfere with those and he will pump you full of mind numbing juice and feed you to Marwella’s zombies, if you are lucky.”

Rondol stu
mbled back.  “The wheel of the Master’s favour is ever turning, little priest.  Today you may be in his high regard but there will be a tomorrow where I have risen again and you have fallen.  When that day comes, make no mistake, I will crush you beneath my heel. Crush you so deep and hard the Master would have to assemble you from a million fragments before he could set you again at his right hand.”

“Good advice from the one at the bottom to give to the one currently at the top,” Haselrig snapped.  “You’d best be gone b
efore I find my crushing boots, or find some story that will make the Master do it for me.”

Rondol’s jaw worked in
futile rage as he looked from Bishop to antiquary and back again.  He wagged a finger at both of them, twice drew in a breath to speak, but then with no further word turned and stormed from the room, dragging the door shut behind him.

Haselrig waited a moment,
until the slamming of a more distant door indicated the sorcerer was entirely departed.  “When I served under Archbishop Forven he always said a leader should surround himself with those of complimentary talents, people whose skills and strengths matched the voids and gaps in his own repertoire.  I fear my Lord Maelgrum is too fond of advancing like-minded arrogant and intemperate wizards, spirits like himself but writ smaller and meaner.”

“I should thank you,” Udecht said.

“Should you?” Haselrig asked, a glimmer of mischief in his eye.  “Does that mean you will?”

“You acted to save my life,
again.”

“As I said, your
reverence, you are part of my Master’s plans.  It is entirely self-interest which would have me safeguard you.  Few of us would escape his ire if this latest venture where to come adrift.”

“And what is it the M
aster has planned?”

“I could not say, your reverence.  Each of us must be told no more than we need know and no earlier than we must act.”  He hurried on, dissuading further enquiry.  “I saw you start to duck, your reverence.  It seems the death you speak so often of craving, was not so welcome after all.  You find still a purpose and a promise to your life perhaps?”

“If there is, Haselrig, I will tell you no sooner than you need to know, and no earlier than you must act.”  Udecht shot back at the antiquary.

Haselrig nodded, with a wry grin.  “As you please your reverence.”

“Any news?”

Kimbolt ducked Hepdida’s question.  “The blond streak suits you,” he said. They had decided, once Elise had checked Maia’s pots and unguents with great care, that there was no harm to be done in letting Tybert’s concubine amuse Hepdida with her skills.  Indulging in some vain idleness offered a distraction from the lurking fear of an assassin within the palace walls.

Hepdida touched at the coloured hair with a grin of pleasure.  Kimbolt had seen her smile before, in the passages of Sturmcairn whenever he had passed the slightest comment on the existence, let alone the appearance, of the dark haired servant girl.  A time when his greatest problem had been safeguarding his career and her heart against the
mutual perils of a young girl’s infatuation.  So much had changed since then, not least of which was Hepdida’s susceptibility to distraction by flattery.  “What news, Kimbolt?” She repeated.

“No news, P
rincess.”

“They’ve been gone five days now.  They must be in Nordsalve.”

“The escort should return soon, they can tell us when the Queen started out across the Pale of Silverwood.  That will give us a better idea of when we may hear from them.”

Hepdida was sitting in a chair by the window, a shawl pulled around her thin shoulders.  Since the fever had broken, there had been no need to have the cooling winter gale blast through her chamber.  Instead the shutters were drawn and a fire crackled in the hearth where Elise knelt warming her rheumatic fingers.

“I wonder what it is like in Nordsalve.  Do you think Niarmit will be safe?”  Hepdida asked.

“She has her sword, she has Kaylan and she will have Lady Isobel’s loyal garrison. I am sure she will be safe.”

“I would still rather have news.”  Hepdida pulled the shawl tighter.

“Be careful of the chill.” Kimbolt said.  “Mistress Elise and I have not laboured this long to protect you for you to succumb to a winter cold.”

“I am much better, really.” She assured him, but she still rose and walked towards the bed.  Legs weakened by weeks of idleness, were not the steadiest of supports.  The girl swayed a little as she passed the fire, glancing into its mesmerising depths at the flames lapping around thick forest logs.

Kimbolt st
epped closer offering his arm when Hepdida stopped, hypnotised by the flickering light in the grate. 

“Are you all right?” Elise asked.

Kimbolt edged round to see Hepdida’s puzzled expression eyes darting back and forth, lips moving as a troubling train of thought surfaced on her face.  “Are you remembering something? Something else? Something else important?”

“It was black!”

“What was black?”

“The last thing I remember, when I went riding.  He had one just like it.”

“What was black, who had one?” Kimbolt demanded.

“Hush, Captain, don’t try to overcook this broth,” Elise quietened him.

Hepdida held up her hand finger and thumb pinched together as though hanging an invisible object before her eyes.  “I found it by a tree.  A black medallion.”

“A black medallion?” An awful anxiety seized Kimbolt’s heart so tightly he could barely breath
e.

“Grundurg had
one. He showed me, told me the Master spoke to him through it.”

“Dema had one too, she wore it
often.”

“When I met Feyril he said that the black medallions were how Maelgrum spoke to his servants, to all his servants over great distances.”

“And you found one? Where?”

“It was in the forest. That morning. 
I was waiting for someone.  They’d left me a note, under my pillow.  It must have been one of the servants.  The note said they’d seen something when Kychelle died, they were scared, they’d only talk to me alone. I was waiting where the note said, by the tree.”

Kimbolt shook his head.  “Kaylan and the Queen said nothing about servants or there being any note when you were found.”

Hepdida narrowed her eyes, scanning her unco-operative memory.  “Nobody came and then I saw the medallion, I picked it up.  I remember knowing what it was, but after that I can’t remember.” Hepdida struck at her head with the palm of her hand, tears of frustration trickling down her cheeks.  “I can’t remember what happened next.  Why can’t I remember?”

Elise rose and wrapped her arms around the shaking girl.

“By the Goddess,” Kimbolt cried.  “We have all been fools.”

“How so?”

“This is no squabble amongst men.  No petty rivalry risen to murder, no foiled noble seeking to hurt Hepdida or Niarmit or Kychelle.  This is the work of Maelgrum. This has all been his will always.”  Kimbolt gasped into Elise’s stunned face.  “He has a servant here, a traitor in our midst.  He will have been told our every move.  Orcs’ blood, can you not see?”

The sorceress blenched at his crude curse but still shook her head in incomprehension. “Please Captain, lay it out for me in plain and simple language.”

“Think Elise, what benefit did Hepdida’s illness bring to Maelgrum?”

She shrugged as she eased the troubled girl
into a seat by the fire.  “None. What interest would he have in her?”

“Not in her, in Niarmit.  Hepdida’s illness tied the Queen to this place, it drained her of energy, far from the Gap of
Tandar where she alone had bested Dema’s troops.  Far from Nordsalve where the Lady Isobel cried out for assistance.  He controlled Niarmit, he paralysed our cause and all through keeping Hepdida sick.”

The girl was crying now as Kimbolt delivered his analysis with a passionate flourish.  “I knew I should have died,” she said.

“Hush child.” Elise stroked her hair. “None of this was your doing.”

Kimbolt paced the room. “I am a f
ool, a fool not to have seen it. I who have lived in his shadow, seen how he works.”

“You are a fool who is upsetting a child.”

“I’m all right,” Hepdida sobbed into Elise’s shoulder.

“And Kychelle’s murder, what of that?” the sorceress demanded.

“It all must link, but was there even a servant, or was it just a ruse.  A trick to get at you.” Kimbolt paused in his pacing by the tearful girl.  “Who was it Hepdida?  Who was in the forest?”

“I can’t remembe
r,” she cried covering her ears with her hands and burying her head within Elise’s comforting embrace.

“Kimbolt, enough.”

“I must tell Giseanne. She alone would Niarmit trust.  We must uncover this traitor.” He strode towards the door and yanked it open.  “Wait here both of you!” he gave an unnecessary command and then was gone.