Free Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) by T.O. Munro Page A

your healing powers before tomorrow nightfall and that will be service enough.”
    Abroath struggled to marshal a counter argument in the face of bitter disappointment.  A third son, his was always to be the way of the cloth.  He had embraced both the separation and rigour of priestly training with a resolute commitment that his brothers had never given to their martial duties.  In his monastic order he had found something of the companionship he had lost when his mother died.  The same event which had plunged his father and his brothers into a prolonged and communal exploration of all the vices to the injury of both mind and body.     
    Now, at last he had found the ch ance to serve a worthy master, the impeccable Prince of Medyrsalve, his four hundred year reign a model of how a Prince of the Salved should conduct himself.  And now, on the threshold of such fulfilment, he was to be consigned to serve as hospitaler, rather than lead the small division he had coaxed out of his reluctant and recalcitrant father.
    “Your Highness…” he began, a cogent entreaty fully formed in his mind.  But it evaporated as the tent flap was flung back and a tall silver haired woman strode in, unannounced.
    Her presence stunned the imperturbable Prince of Medyrsalve.  He stood, jaw dropped facing her.  She smiled at the impact of her arrival.
    “Grandmama Kychelle,” the Prince muttered.  “What has happened, what brings you here at such an hour?  The Lady Giseanne she is….?”
    “She is well,” Kychelle assured him.
    “And….” He did not dare complete the question.
    “You have a son, my boy, a healthy son, to be called Andros in tribute to his great grandfather.”
    Rugan heard not her pronouncement on the name of his heir.  His lips split in a broad grin and his eyes widened in joy.  He spun round and seized Abroath in a bear hug of surprising strength. Then breaking apart he seized the monk’s two hands in his own and pumped them ferociously.  “I have a son!” he declared.  “I have a son.”  Then just for the avoidance of doubt he added, “a son!”
    “I wish you joy of it, your Highness,” Abroath found the Prince’s smile infectious.
    “Joy indeed,” Rugan agreed.  “Now we truly have something to fight for, when tomorrow comes.”   

***
    K imbolt swayed easily in the saddle his cob trotting alongside the destrier of Willem the outlander.  A few yards in front of them Barnuck’s wolf and Dema’s palfrey rode close enough for the Medusa to maintain a guttural discussion in orcish with the chieftain of the Bonegrinders. 
    “Tomorrow will be a great battle,” Kimbolt called across to Willem.  It was, as ever, a fruitless effort to stir the taciturn exile into conversation.  Kimbolt shrugged his indifference and turned his attention to the path ahead. The Palacinta hills loomed close and high to the East.  Deep valleys were cut in their flanks where trickles of streams awaited only the rains to turn them into raging torrents draining into the placid River Saeth.  The great Eastway climbed steadily upwards into the Gap of Tandar.  The saddle shaped pass named after the first Prince of Medyrsalve, right hand to the Vanquisher and his lady and the founding father of the dynasty which had culminated in Prince Rugan.
    Athwart the Eastway, within two bowshots of the lower reaches o f the hills, was the camp of Nagbadesh and the Redfangs.  As they approached Kimbolt noticed with professional approval, the close spacing of individual guards around the camp’s perimeter.  One sentry made a disciplined challenge to the unmistakeable figure of the Medusa. Dema let Barnuck respond with the day’s password.
    As they made their way into camp, t he squat figure of Nagbadesh shouldered his way through a cluster of curious orcs to greet his commander in chief.  “Good, lady,” he growled.  “See, Redfangs ready for blood and battle.  Tomorrow we slaughter many pink squealing humans.