Master of the Planes

The traitor has been unmasked and Niarmit at last has hope of; - untangling the web of evil which has enmeshed her, - taking the attack to the salved people's oldest enemy, - seizing at a chance of private happiness. But Maelgrum has many allies, new and old. And secrets buried deep can surface still to shake the young queen's spirit and shatter her plans. And Niarmit must ask again who she was and is and what she must become in pursuit of victory and the answer to the question "How do you kill that which is already dead?" *** Torsden, like Kimbolt, wore full armour. The shield was painted blue with a gold stallion rampant upon it, a slightly larger copy of the one Pietrsen carried. "It doesn't look like he's accepted his dismissal from your post, Master of the Horse," Kimbolt said. "He's an arrogant bastard," Pietrsen muttered, The arrogant bastard drew a bastard sword from his belt. It was a blade that most men would have wielded two handed, but Torsden swung it in one giant paw, his wrist flexing effortlessly to snap the weapon to left or right. "Remember, Pietrsen, whatever happens, everything is carried out as we agreed." Suddenly Kimbolt needed the reassurance, the promise. "His strength is as mighty as his ego," the Master of Horse mumbled on. "Pietrsen, your promise, your word of honour whatever happens." "You have it, Seneschal." Kimbolt's second blew out a soft whistling breath. "You're a braver man than I, Kimbolt. I just want you to know..." "Save it," Kimbolt spat. He wasn't interested in good-byes, at least not from him. "You know what they say about big musclebound men, Pietrsen? Big means slow." There was a flutter of movement. A thrush darted from the wall of the steading, either disturbed by the creak of the gate closing or drawn to the noise and smells of cooking in the cavalry camp. It flew low, swooping across the ground. Torsden's sword flashed, a tiny spray of red and two halves of the bird fell to the snowy ground. "Damn, That was fast," Pietrsen said.