Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: T.O. Munro
laugh as Jolander told some barrack room joke and no-one seemed to notice that Thom was not there. Or maybe they had noticed and were just too glad of the circumstance to risk drawing attention to it.
Thom wrapped himself more tightly in his magical shroud. She had promised he would be safe and he did not doubt the Lady Niarmit’s word. But Tordil had been unconscious when Thom had made his instrumental contribution to their escape. The elf Captain was always ready to set the illusionist’s great crimes of collaboration as being a far from discharged counterbalance to any succour he had given their mission. Jolander, Quintala and the lancers knew nothing of him save that he was a slow riding burden to their escape with a criminal magic using past.
So Thom sat and watched, feeling scarcely less an outsider than when he had been the dogsbody to Marwella and her regiment of necromancers all bending dead sinews to the service of the Dark Lord.
Niarmit sat close by the fire, its rainbow fla mes playing across her face suffusing her red hair with a dozen extra colours. She watched the scintillating blades of light in silent contemplation, impervious to the merriment around her.
On her left sat Hepdida, the servant girl with the scarred face. Never far from Niarmit’s side she glanced constantly across at the priestess and then occasionally let her mouth bend in a half smile at a joke she could not have understood.
Beyond the two women was the ragged figure of Kaylan. Just an ill-matched supernumerary to the troop of lancers, yet one who had some long history with Niarmit. Thom could not fathom what their relationship was or had been, save that the footpad was never either too close or too far from the red headed leader. As now he sat just beyond the light of the fire, so his face was in shadow, and only his hands expertly whittling a stick into the shape of dog, were visible.
On Niarmit’ s right sat Jolander and Tordil, human sergeant and elf Captain making an unlikely alliance. The common ground of soldiery over-rode the prejudices of race as they traded stories of their own martial prowess and their enemies’ ineptitude.
The S eneschal, Quintala, sat opposite Niarmit. Her sliver hair refracted the multi-coloured light of the flames but, with her back to Thom, the illusionist could not see her expression save that she sat very still her attention directed on the priestess opposite.
Hepdida stood up abruptly, her forehead creased in a frown as a fresh burst of laughter echoed around the fire. She touched Niarmit on the shoulder and the priestess looked up at her, distracted for a moment from the fire’s hypnotic dance. The girl said something and the priestess nodded. Thom shrivelled behind his magical veil as the servant girl left the company by the fire and approached the horses.
Hepdida stroked the bay mare’s muzzle and offered it a handful of fresh grass, murmuring some half-heard apology for obliging it to carry herself as well as Niarmit on the long day’s ride.
Thom was uncomfortable, watching her while knowing she could not see him. He felt he was intruding on a private moment of happiness, as the girl smiled broadly and wrapped her arms around the patient horse’s neck. The illusionist found his lips bending in a smile of empathy, appreciating too the plain honesty of the simple beast when set against the posturing, dissembling and deception of humans, elves and orcs.
There was a movement to his right, but Thom’s moment of alarm quickly faded. It was only the lancer on guard duty stepping in to mind the horses. He recognised him as the fellow with the orc obsession. Hepdida had not seen him approach for the man moved softly through the undergrowth. She gave a stifled yelp when at last she perceived him a distance of a bare two yards from her.
He calmed her with some pleasantry which failed to restore her smile. Thom, who had seen that moment of
Thom wrapped himself more tightly in his magical shroud. She had promised he would be safe and he did not doubt the Lady Niarmit’s word. But Tordil had been unconscious when Thom had made his instrumental contribution to their escape. The elf Captain was always ready to set the illusionist’s great crimes of collaboration as being a far from discharged counterbalance to any succour he had given their mission. Jolander, Quintala and the lancers knew nothing of him save that he was a slow riding burden to their escape with a criminal magic using past.
So Thom sat and watched, feeling scarcely less an outsider than when he had been the dogsbody to Marwella and her regiment of necromancers all bending dead sinews to the service of the Dark Lord.
Niarmit sat close by the fire, its rainbow fla mes playing across her face suffusing her red hair with a dozen extra colours. She watched the scintillating blades of light in silent contemplation, impervious to the merriment around her.
On her left sat Hepdida, the servant girl with the scarred face. Never far from Niarmit’s side she glanced constantly across at the priestess and then occasionally let her mouth bend in a half smile at a joke she could not have understood.
Beyond the two women was the ragged figure of Kaylan. Just an ill-matched supernumerary to the troop of lancers, yet one who had some long history with Niarmit. Thom could not fathom what their relationship was or had been, save that the footpad was never either too close or too far from the red headed leader. As now he sat just beyond the light of the fire, so his face was in shadow, and only his hands expertly whittling a stick into the shape of dog, were visible.
On Niarmit’ s right sat Jolander and Tordil, human sergeant and elf Captain making an unlikely alliance. The common ground of soldiery over-rode the prejudices of race as they traded stories of their own martial prowess and their enemies’ ineptitude.
The S eneschal, Quintala, sat opposite Niarmit. Her sliver hair refracted the multi-coloured light of the flames but, with her back to Thom, the illusionist could not see her expression save that she sat very still her attention directed on the priestess opposite.
Hepdida stood up abruptly, her forehead creased in a frown as a fresh burst of laughter echoed around the fire. She touched Niarmit on the shoulder and the priestess looked up at her, distracted for a moment from the fire’s hypnotic dance. The girl said something and the priestess nodded. Thom shrivelled behind his magical veil as the servant girl left the company by the fire and approached the horses.
Hepdida stroked the bay mare’s muzzle and offered it a handful of fresh grass, murmuring some half-heard apology for obliging it to carry herself as well as Niarmit on the long day’s ride.
Thom was uncomfortable, watching her while knowing she could not see him. He felt he was intruding on a private moment of happiness, as the girl smiled broadly and wrapped her arms around the patient horse’s neck. The illusionist found his lips bending in a smile of empathy, appreciating too the plain honesty of the simple beast when set against the posturing, dissembling and deception of humans, elves and orcs.
There was a movement to his right, but Thom’s moment of alarm quickly faded. It was only the lancer on guard duty stepping in to mind the horses. He recognised him as the fellow with the orc obsession. Hepdida had not seen him approach for the man moved softly through the undergrowth. She gave a stifled yelp when at last she perceived him a distance of a bare two yards from her.
He calmed her with some pleasantry which failed to restore her smile. Thom, who had seen that moment of
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