by Damien Black
Holgaar loped into the middle of the circle, coming between his liege and the unwelcome sorcerer. He still looked somewhat unsteady on his feet, but even on the wrong side of a few horns Breakshield was a formidable opponent.
Guldebrand banged his horn on the table again for silence. Getting to his feet he said: ‘At my command, begin. The gods shall determine who has the right of this.’
Slowly and deliberately, Ragnar stalked into the middle and squared off against Holgaar, who had already dropped into a battle stance. Turning his peculiar trident to point at his enemy’s chest, he said in a low deep voice: ‘Thegn Guldebrand, is this what you want? I have no wish to cause quarrel with you.’
Guldebrand took another whiff of the pungent herbs about his neck. He could sense a subtle power pushing behind the words. He guessed from what Radko had told him about magic that the mage would be visualising the abstract symbols of the sorcerer’s script, trying to placate him using the power of Enchantment, one of the Seven Schools of Magick.
‘Think not to charm your way out of this, White Eye,’ he said evenly. ‘And don’t waste your time trying to pacify Holgaar – I’ll just send another warrior against you, and not even you could hope to enthral all my men.’
Ragnar scowled, his cool demeanour broken for the first time. ‘So be it,’ he snarled, dropping into a fighting stance of his own.
‘Fight!’
Holgaar lunged at the priest with a roar. Sidestepping the attack Ragnar called out more of the strange words of magic, the air suddenly cooling as he pronounced the unnatural syllables. A subtle change came over him: he moved more quickly, while his robes seemed to undulate about his spidery form with an elemental life of their own.
Time and again Holgaar rushed him, but each time the priest dodged aside with a nimbleness that defied his age. The assembled warriors called out encouragement to Holgaar, cursing each time the warlock averted another attack. Gradually Holgaar began to tire. Lashing out with another fierce swipe, he cried out in frustration as yet again the axe blade bit naught but shimmering robes.
That was the moment Ragnar chose to counter-attack.
With astonishing speed he darted forwards, bringing his trident up over his shoulder and down towards Holgaar’s sweat-streaked face. Instinct borne of years of hard combat saved his life, and he brought his shield up to protect his head. The three prongs buried themselves in the shield and Ragnar pronounced another syllable. Holgaar and several of the nearest watching warriors gasped as a blue light coruscated the length of the trident, suffusing the shield and turning it into a slab of ice. Pulling the weapon free Ragnar twisted agilely on his heel, bringing its weighted butt round in a dazzling arc and shattering the shield into tiny fragments.
Lurching backwards Holgaar brought his axe around in a defensive swipe, but drink and fatigue had the best of him, and Ragnar parried the blow easily before attacking again. Holgaar managed to counter the first three strikes with parries of his own, but the fourth found a way past his guard and pierced his mail shirt, goring his chest and finding his heart. With a gasp of agony Holgaar sank to his knees. Ragnar pronounced another few syllables and the hall erupted with gasps of dismay as blue light suffused Holgaar.
When the warlock wrenched his trident free, it was from an ice statue that kneeled on the floor, its face frozen in a grimace of death.
Ragnar turned to face Guldebrand. His robes returned to normal, if clothing that constantly changed hues could be called normal.
‘I stand cleared of all charges of demonolatry,’ he said. ‘By the customs of our people you must now show me due hospitality.’
‘Don’t listen to him!’ cried Walmond, reaching for his own axe. ‘Yon mage would have your soul in his icy grip with his honeyed words and magick-making! He may have the Lord of Oceans at his back, but he speaks with the tongue of Logi the Trickster God!’
‘Stay your hand, Walmond,’ replied Guldebrand. ‘I’ve just lost one good seacarl, I’ll not lose another. Let’s hear what the White Eye has to say.’
‘I thank you for your courtesy, Thegn Guldebrand,’ said Ragnar. ‘What I have to say is this: how many strong men have you left behind in Kvenlund?’
Guldebrand sneered again. ‘Think you that I would make the same mistake as Hardrada? I left one good fighting man for every one I took with me. Asmund Steady-hand won’t find my lands undefended!’
‘Asmund’s hands are steady about the plough not the axe,’ retorted Ragnar, getting a grudging laugh from some of the warriors. Guldebrand’s other neighbour was hardly the most formidable of the Ice Thegns, and had averted conquest only through clever diplomacy and timely tribute-paying.
‘He is ageing and heirless, and commands but seven hundred warriors – even less than your tally,’ Ragnar went on. ‘Hardrada was the greatest of the southern thegns, until our… venture went awry. I shall not lie to you, Thegn Guldebrand – I serve a darker master than you could hope to fathom, and he is displeased with me. The King of the Northlendings proved far more resilient after years of peace than any would have thought. My loss has proved to be your gain… and the initiative you have shown is promising.’
‘Promising of what, White Eye?’ laughed Guldebrand. ‘Do you really expect me to follow you on a madcap adventure as Hardrada did? A man with twice as many swords met with slaughter at the hands of our mainland cousins. I now sit upon half the southern Principalities, and no man shall take it from me.’
‘That is where you are mistaken,’ replied Ragnar. ‘Oldrik Stormrider was the most powerful of the Ice Thegns along with Hardrada. Now you sit upon his erstwhile rival’s lands. Think you that he will let you enjoy such good fortune uncontested? The Stormrider consolidated his Principality before you were born, Guldebrand the Beardless – he is no stranger to battle and has tasted the fruits of victory many times ere now. When word reaches him he will come marching south and sailing down the coast to relieve you of your new possessions – and your head.’
That last remark provoked uproar amongst Guldebrand’s drunken seacarls. The wily mage had got his attention though. Banging down his horn, the thegn said: ‘Get to your point, Ragnar, for doubtless you have one.’
Ragnar stroked his iron-grey beard and smiled a frosty smile. Was it the wine or were there hints of blue and green in the priest’s hair too? The warlock continued: ‘Until today, five Thegns ruled the Frozen Principalities. Now, thanks to your efforts and those of the Northlending King, but four remain. These lands have not been shared between so few leaders since the Treaty of Ryøskil. The time is ripe, Thegn Guldebrand.’
‘Ripe for what?’
‘Are you so easily sated by a quick victory? Or perhaps strong drink has addled your youthful mind, cunning as it is. I see potential in you, Guldebrand, more than that ageing fool Hardrada.’
‘I told you not to bother with flattery, Ragnar,’ said Guldebrand. ‘Potential for what, I wonder? To be another of your pawns?’
‘I would not presume to insult your intelligence,’ replied Ragnar. ‘I propose an alliance of equals. Hardrada is not the only Ice Thegn to have broken with the Treaty of Ryøskil. The Stormrider’s seacarls prey on ships from the mainland now, and rumour has it Magnhilda is planning something similar.’
‘What of it?’ barked Guldebrand. ‘Let Magnhilda and Oldrik take to the seas if they wish. I have more than enough lands now – and I will defend what I have rightfully taken!’
‘You disappoint me, Guldebrand. I had not realised your ambitions were so small.’
‘Small!? I’ve just doubled my lands!’
‘Aye, and what if I told you there was a way to double them again, and again after that?’
‘With more raids against the mainlanders I suppose? Forgive me, White Eye, but the last time you persuaded an Ice Thegn to attack the Northlendings it didn’t work out too well.’
‘Which is why I won’t counsel the same thing again,’ said Ragnar, ignoring the laughter from Walmond and the other seacarls. ‘No, l
et the mainlanders be for now. I had something closer to home in mind.’
‘Oh yes of course,’ smirked Guldebrand, ‘defending myself against the Stormrider as you said – but what do I need your help for?’
‘Still you think too small,’ replied Ragnar with an impatient shake of the head. ‘I wouldn’t have you sit here and wait to defend. I would have you take the initiative again and attack.’
‘You’d have me do battle with the Stormrider? A man who commands close on five thousand warriors? To what purpose?’
‘To accomplish what has not been achieved in the Principalities for hundreds of years and unite the Northlanders under one Magnate.’ The warlock’s sightless eye seemed to glow with a light of its own as he pointed at the thegn with his trident. ‘The gods have spoken, and they mouth your name from the stormy halls of Gods-home. Guldebrand the Beardless, I would make you King of the Frozen Wastes.’
CHAPTER II
A Foreshadowing Of Things To Come
From the parapet of the inner sanctum both monks watched the novices spar in the dusty courtyard below.
‘His quarterstaff technique is barely passable,’ observed the older monk.
‘He has other talents,’ replied Horskram. He watched keenly as Adelko backed away from his older opponent, parrying his deft strokes with increasing difficulty. The adept’s mind flashed back to the clearing by Lake Sördegil, when Adelko had nearly lost his life to a Northland brigand. Only the intervention of the squire Vaskrian followed by his own had saved his life on that occasion. Horskram supposed he had that much to thank the foolish hotblood for.
‘So you say…’ the Abbot’s words sounded weighty with scepticism. Horskram felt his impatience rise but checked himself. After all he was on Prior Aedric’s holding: Ørthang Monastery, the Argolian Order’s southern outpost in Northalde. Built on the edge of a sweeping plateau, it overlooked the plains of Saltcaste as they stretched languidly towards the Wyvern Sea.
It was all conquered land, its dead lord’s heirs disinherited. Even now the Knights of the White Valravyn would be harrying outlaws, the remnants of Thule’s disbanded levy, from its fields and meadows.
‘What more assurances can I give you?’ asked the adept, turning to look at the Abbot in the fading sunlight. ‘On numerous occasions he has showed unusual proficiency in the Scriptures – when we exorcised Belaach from the girl Gizel at Rykken, against the horror sent to pursue us at Landebert’s homestead, during its attack on the Valravyn’s headquarters at Staerkvit. And then at Thule Castle he saw through the Sea Wizard’s deceptions. He has barely seen fifteen summers, yet already he shows psychic prowess that a journeyman would envy.’
He was repeating himself now, and he hated repeating himself. Was this his fate, to constantly strive against timid sceptics within his own Order? He suppressed the thought: it was prideful and unbefitting an Argolian. And yet his temper was scarcely improving with old age…
‘Yes, I do not doubt your testimony,’ said Aedric, tugging at his long white beard. At four score winters, he was one of the Order’s oldest members. ‘And the youth’s powers are indeed prodigious for his age, all the more so given that he joined the Order later than many. However, I do not think that constitutes enough evidence to name him a hierophant – many novices show early promise and become skilled adepts and journeymen without earning such high praise.’
‘Yes, I seem to recall you saying much the same about me, when my powers were growing. But nowadays no one doubts my status, not even Hannequin himself.’
Aedric scrutinised him in the greying light. ‘Be careful of pride and vanity, Horskram – for such are the workings of Azathol.’
Horskram sighed wearily. Even as he had spoken, he’d known the older monk would invoke the Second Prince of Perfidy to admonish him.
‘I am but an instrument of Reus’ will, and hold no hubris in my heart for the part He has allotted me,’ he replied firmly. ‘I am merely pointing to the fact that you are a sceptic – and sceptics are rarely convinced in the first instance.’
‘With good reason! Jonus of Sceptus was a sceptic… why his teachings gave rise to the very word. And he was accounted among the wisest of his days.’
Horskram resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Aedric was fond of quoting the Thalamian philosophers, and enjoyed showing off his loremastery of the Golden Age. His sixth sense told him there was more than a hint of pride about the older monk himself. But then it was all too easy to cast stones at others, as the Prophet said.
‘Yes well, I shall leave quoting the great philosophers of the Era of City States to you, Prior Aedric – I am far more interested in what the Farseers of Norn had to say.’
‘Prophecy? You would have me put aside the philosophers of the Golden Age for false prophets who lived in Second Age of Darkness?’
‘They called themselves farseers and not prophets for a reason – they never claimed heritage from the Unseen.’
‘They lived in pagan times, and worshipped the archangels as gods,’ Aedric reminded him.
‘As did the folk of Sceptus’ time,’ countered Horskram. ‘And the Farseers of Norn predicted the coming of the Creed to these shores.’
‘Depending on how one reads their sayings,’ said Aedric, showing no signs of giving up his scepticism.
‘Prophecies are always open to interpretation,’ replied Horskram. ‘But their last farsight sounds familiar enough, don’t you think? “A youth shall come from the cold mountains of the land of the Reaver Kings, middling of stature and timid of manner, the son of smiths, but touched by the Unseen. He shall be led by one wiser in years and bearing similar gifts, yet the novice shall surpass the master.”’
As if on cue a shout went up from the courtyard. Adelko lay sprawled in the dust, his opponent pressing his iron-shod quarterstaff to his throat.
‘All right, that’s enough combat practice for today!’ cried Brother Cedric, ceasing the four dozen novices in his class with a wave of the hand. ‘Return your staves to the barracks and prepare for the evening meal! Adelko – tarry a while, I need to talk to you about your footwork!’
‘I notice the Farseers say nothing about his skills as a warrior,’ commented Aedric dryly.
‘He has other far more important gifts,’ replied Horskram stubbornly.
‘Time will tell how many,’ the Abbot contented himself with saying.
Horskram suppressed another sigh. His lore of the philosophers of Ancient Thalamy fell short of Aedric’s, but he remembered the words of Tachymus well enough: when two scholars disagree, no amount of arguing shall bring one over to the other, for ‘tis faith not reason that separates them. And perhaps the Abbot had a point – if he was right about the youth, time would indeed bear out his theory.
‘There are other matters I would seek your counsel on,’ said Horskram, changing the subject.
‘Oh really?’ queried the Abbot, raising a bushy white eyebrow. ‘You seem fairly resistant to all my counsels today – my views on the jumbled words of false prophets who may or may not have lived eight hundred years ago aside, you don’t seem set on following even my most practical advice. I’ve already told you that this plan to seek a witch in the Argael so you can forge an alliance with her against Andragorix is folly beyond – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ interjected Horskram, his impatience rising again. ‘I have half a dozen good swordsmen with me, one of them accounted the best in the realm. Together Adelko and I have proved our spiritual fortitude. After all we’ve survived, I think you can safely say our security has not gone unthought upon.’
‘Your preoccupation with security does not escape me, Brother Horskram – it was so acute I practically had to divine your mission for myself. You might have trusted me with your story from the outset – given I’m sheltering you and your hungry swordsmen.’
‘Forgive me, Prior Aedric, but hard events taught me what happens when the Order does not guard its reputation. I still hold that the fewer who know of what transpired at Ulfan
g the better for all of us.’
He felt a spasm of phantom pain as events of twenty years ago came surging back. His old scars throbbed, as they always did at such moments. He felt all of his sixty winters and more – though the years had been kind to his body, they had been less so to his spirit. He could only hope and pray his years of devotion would grant him eternal rest in the Heavenly Halls.
‘The Purge was a black time for all who love the Order,’ Aedric was saying. ‘Even one such as I who escaped the worst of its excesses. Yet you are wrong to fear for the Argolians’ standing in the eyes of others – why, was it not established that the very Temple itself was guilty of the demonolatry it so wrongly accused you of?’
‘And so you think that if anything, it should be the perfects who fear what others believe about them,’ replied Horskram. ‘And yet bitter experience tells me it is not so – the True Temple stands absolved, its mortal sins cleansed on Regus Square in Rima a generation ago. Not so the Argolian Order! There are still many who believe ‘twas naught but deviltry that allowed us to “turn the tables” on our accusers, as the Arch Perfect of Strongholm put it so eloquently.’
‘And so you would have us keep the fragment theft a secret… that and the fact that we guarded such a dread heirloom in the first place.’
‘Aye, that I would, Brother Aedric – even if it means practising secrecy within our own ranks. Our enemies are not limited to the clerics of the Temple. The King of Pangonia might be wily enough not to repeat the mistakes of his father and call for another Purge, but he is not exactly friendly to us either.’
‘That does not make him an enemy.’
‘No, not in itself,’ Horskram allowed. ‘But I’ve heard it said he desires a new crusade, and that means he must ally himself with the Supreme Perfect. Who knows what His Supreme Holiness might ask in return? And while we’re on the subject of so-called holy wars, don’t forget about the Bethlers – they have ever been displeased with our Order for refusing to endorse the Pilgrim Wars.’