by Damien Black
Perhaps it was for the best. You didn’t want to get a reputation for using magic after all. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to fixing it and now it was back to normal it felt clumsy in his hand.
They were all sat around the fire. Braxus was next to him, drinking from a wineskin. They had left the bulk of their supplies back at the settlement with their horses, but the Thraxian had thought to bring some cheer.
‘You did well against yon apparition,’ he said, passing the skin to his squire. ‘And the Wadwos. A fine reputation you’re garnering yourself.’
Vaskrian nodded. His mentor was trying to cheer him up with kind words – and he had earned the praise – but he didn’t feel much joy of it. The funeral had put him in melancholy spirits and he was tired.
‘Think I need a new sword,’ was all he said.
‘No need to worry about that,’ said Aronn, overhearing and getting up. He disappeared into the darkness before returning with a scabbarded blade.
‘Knights of the Order don’t take their swords to the grave with them,’ explained Aronn. ‘Strictly speaking they’re property of the Order – but seeing as you’ve no fit weapon…’
He proffered the sword.
Vaskrian hesitated. Taking a dead man’s sword, it didn’t feel quite right.
‘Take it, lad,’ said Aronn gruffly. ‘You’ve more than earned it.’
The scabbard was plainly decorated but made of sturdy, dark leather bound in iron. Taking the sword he unsheathed the blade. It was of the finest quality – forged by the bladesmiths of Staerkvit, who rivalled those of Strongholm. Its balance was perfect, the edge razor sharp. The hilt was just long enough to facilitate two-handed use if needed. At the centre of the crosspiece was a motif bearing the emblem of the Order. Most knights would have been proud to call it their own.
Magic or no magic, it wasn’t a poor successor to his last sword.
‘I… thank you,’ breathed the squire.
Aronn clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t thank me – just give me a swig of that wine!’
Vaskrian handed him the skin and resheathed the sword. He’d try it out tomorrow, when the time was right.
‘So whose bright idea was it to play the thing music?’ asked Aronn, resuming his seat and taking a swig.
‘Adelko had one of his… revelations,’ said Horskram. ‘I must confess I had thought yon drums imbued with some spell to drive off the Golem.’
Aronn raised an eyebrow. Horskram motioned for Adelko to speak up.
‘I just remembered the night Master Horskram and I met,’ said the novice, looking bashful, ‘back in my home in the Highlands. Horskram had cast out an evil spirit for us, and we were celebrating, the whole village. Ludo was playing – he was our local troubadour if you like, him and his two brothers. I could hear them playing as if it were yesterday, on the fiddle, pipe and… drum.’
Horskram picked up the thread, shaking his head as Aronn proffered the wineskin: ‘When he told me that, I realised the Unseen had sent him a revelation, to aid us in our time of need! The Golem is a rare demon indeed, and few have heard of it – many years have passed since I read of it at the Grand High Monastery in Rima. I had quite forgotten its weakness.’
‘Music?’ queried Aronn, still looking disbelieving.
‘Just so,’ said Horskram, nodding. ‘For some reason the evil spirit that animates the Golem’s body cannot abide the sound of music – strains that are so pleasing to mortal ears cause it unendurable torments. I recalled yon Thraxian and his lyre, and knew then we could defeat it.’
‘So the Woses were usin’ drums as protection from that thing?’ asked Kyra as Aronn tossed her the wineskin.
‘Aye,’ confirmed Horskram, ‘otherwise the Earth Witch’s servant would doubtless have caused them a lot more trouble.’
‘Is that who summoned it then?’ asked the huntress.
‘I can’t see who else it would be,’ replied the adept. ‘Only a warlock of some craft could fashion a Golem and conjure up its animating spirit. And it’s unlikely to be Andragorix if he’s armed his Wadwos with drums to defend them against its attacks.’
Sir Torgun looked up at that, anger suddenly streaking his face. He had been staring despondently at the ground, but he was paying attention now.
Vaskrian tensed as his hero slowly stood up.
‘You mean to say that thing that just killed two of ours was controlled by the sorceress we seek?’
The tall knight was staring at Horskram, his eyes frosted over with icy rage. Vaskrian exchanged glances with his guvnor, who was frowning now. Nobody else spoke.
‘Aye, it seems that way, Sir Torgun,’ replied the adept. ‘Seeking an alliance with a witch sickens me as much as – ’
‘We will not seek an alliance with her!’ exclaimed the knight, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. ‘We will seek her death instead, and be revenged on her!’
Horskram also rose, his eyes hardening. ‘We will do no such thing,’ he said. ‘Our mission is to find and eliminate Andragorix, by any means necessary.’
‘Then I say a pox on our mission!’ snarled Aronn, also rising. ‘Knights of the White Valravyn do not let their brothers go unavenged!’
‘Need I remind you that you are under orders from your King, whose command your Order serves?’ the adept shot back.
That was enough to give Sir Torgun pause, but Sir Aronn’s blood was up. ‘And who set him up to give that command, eh, Brother Horskram?’ he snarled. ‘You and your secretive missions – you’ve done nothing but bring ruin on us with your mad quest to kill this warlock!’
‘This warlock will kill us all if we don’t stop him!’ yelled Horskram. ‘Do you think I like doing this? Trying to get past some blasted magic girdle to cosy up to a witch whose kind I’ve spent half my life fighting?’
Horskram held the burly knight’s gaze. Adelko could sense a battle of wills between them, while Sir Torgun seemed to be fighting one all of his own.
‘If we don’t find this woods witch and make peace with her, then their deaths will have been for nothing!’ cried the adept. ‘Like it or not we need her help, so there’ll be no bloodfeud with her while our mission stands, do you hear me? Now sit down and drink your wine, I’ve finished arguing.’
Sir Aronn’s eyes blazed. He bunched a fist and stepped towards Horskram, but Sir Torgun laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Sir Braxus got up, his face set grim, hand on his own sword hilt as he eyed the Northlending darkly.
‘Peace, Sir Aronn,’ said Torgun, his voice softening. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, the Argolian is right. We’ll seek an alliance with her – for now.’ The broad-shouldered knight shot Horskram a meaningful look. ‘But know this, Brother Horskram – when that alliance is done, we will seek her out again and have her answer for her crimes.’
‘That we shall,’ replied Horskram. ‘Rest assured, she will answer for her crimes: conjuring a Golem is Left-Handed magic and her truce with our Order is forfeit on that account. You want revenge? You’ll get it, and I’ll help you to get it – after we’ve dealt with Andragorix.’
‘Ye shouldna say that,’ warned Kyra, her face growing anxious. ‘They say the Earth Witch can see an’ hear everythin’ that ‘appens in these woods.’
‘Have no fear on that count,’ said Horskram, sitting down again. ‘Scrying allows a sorcerer to see across space and time, but you can only hear someone if they are also using a tool to talk to you.’
He returned the huntress’s blank look with a sombre stare. ‘Never mind,’ he said irritably. ‘On second thoughts, pass me that wineskin – a man needs a blasted drink once in a while.’
Vaskrian felt tension melt into relief as the knights sat down. In fact he almost smirked as the adept snatched the skin off the woodlander and took a swig. It was nice to know the crusty old monk was human after all.
It was nicer still to know they weren’t about to start carving each other up, or not tonight anyway. He glanced at his new sword, dearly
bought with a brave man’s life. It deserved a better first fight than that.
CHAPTER XIV
The Witch Queen’s Bower
Adelko woke to find Horskram shaking him. Blinking away sleep he sat up. It was still dark: the sun had not yet risen.
‘We need to get moving,’ said the adept. ‘The Wadwos have been attacking the Girdle, they might send a scout to reconnoitre with the company we slew.’
The novice stretched and got up. They had moved back to their original spot on the fringe of the trees overlooking the river. Next to him Kyra and Vaskrian were preparing a hasty breakfast. Ignoring the rumbling in his stomach he wandered over to the edge of the trees. Columns of smoke rose above the forest canopy across the river, dark smears against the deep grey skies; he could make out flickers of orange here and there, presumably fires caused by Andragorix’s Saraphi.
His gaze shifted to the camp. The ruined log huts and Wadwo corpses were sprawled across the pebbly ground; the Golem lay face down in the river unmoving. Another demon vanquished, sent back to Gehenna and the city of burning brass. Adelko wondered what chance mortalkind ever had against a foe that could not be killed, only banished.
Horskram called him over to eat, and he gratefully abandoned the thought. He was starving – they had not eaten since yesterday afternoon.
The skies were lightening when they crossed the ford and re-entered the forest. The catapult they left burning, having covered it with pitch and set it alight. As they pressed on through the trees Adelko felt his sixth sense jangling painfully; the strong presence of powerful sorceries, growing ever closer.
After an hour they broke cover of the trees and reached the Girdle. The ground dropped away vertically, a deep smooth-sided chasm cut by a wide fast-flowing river that curved away to either side. He could well believe it was not natural: the feel of it was all wrong, the flow too steady, the curvature too perfect. Glancing down into the waters he tried to see if could spot the humanoid shapes that Lymphi sometimes took, recalling the water spirit he’d glimpsed in the Brekawood. That had been three months ago, though it felt like a lifetime now.
But he saw no such thing. The waters just continued to flow, mechanically and methodically. They had a lucent silvery tinge to them, as if they were made of light not liquid; it reminded him of the strange colours of Tintagael, and that made him shiver. Next to him Vaskrian clutched the hilt of his new sword, his face suddenly pale and taut.
Before them a ford stretched across the river. It looked every bit as unnatural as the Girdle itself: it was far too high, a sliver of earth and rock that stood in defiance of the natural law of things. Only sorcery could have kept it from tumbling in upon itself.
‘How did the Wadwos get down to cross?’ he asked Kyra.
‘They use ropes and grapples for the most part – then they tries to swim across.’
‘Swim?’ asked Braxus, incredulous. ‘Since when do beastmen know how to swim?’
‘Thus were they designed, in ages long ago,’ supplied Horskram. ‘A race of super-soldiers should be able to meet everything nature throws in one’s path.’
Adelko gulped, remembering how he had almost drowned in the Warryn. Tearing his eyes from the eerie river he looked across the chasm.
On the other side the forest continued, but not as they had known it. Where before had been only oaks now there was a riot of different species: yews, birches, ashes, beeches, elms and many others he had never seen before clustered riotously at its lip, some of them threatening to tumble over into the river below. They were all suffused in a silken web of gossamer, its silvery colour matching the waters of the Girdle.
Pagan sorcery though it was, he had to admit it was beautiful. Nothing like Tintagael, it smacked of a paradise on earth… though of course that was a blasphemous concept.
Something had marred that beauty though: dotted about the canopy he saw charred husks, some of them still smouldering. Above the trees tendrils of smoke continued to mar the blue skies.
‘All right, Sir Braxus,’ said Horskram. ‘It was your idea, so you may as well do the honours.’
The Thraxian nodded and motioned to Vaskrian for a sack he had taken from the Wadwos. The squire handed it to him and the knight emptied its contents before the edge of the river. Some twenty lumpen heads caked with crusted ichor tumbled onto the ground.
‘Earth Witch!’ cried Horskram in his sonorous voice. ‘We come with an offer of alliance – look upon these heads as proof of where our loyalties lie. Grant us an audience!’
‘I thowt ye said she canna hear us?’ said Kyra.
‘She probably can’t,’ admitted Horskram. ‘But this close to her borders she may have spies that can. The Earth Witch is said to have command over creatures of the animal kingdom.’
Adelko peered across the Girdle again. He could see the odd bird flitting to and fro, but the magic river was wide and it was hard to tell even what species they were.
They waited. Nothing happened.
‘This witch is no friend to anyone but herself,’ growled Aronn. ‘We’ve come on a fool’s errand, Horskram.’
‘It’s too far across to throw a rope,’ said Braxus. ‘We’ll not get any further unless this Earth Witch is prepared to trust us.’
‘Small wonder she dunna, seein’ as ‘alf of you wants to kill ‘er now,’ muttered Kyra.
They soon fell to arguing after that. Eventually Horskram shouted them all down.
‘Peace!’ he cried. ‘Let me think.’
The adept sat down and began muttering, stroking his circifix. He was speaking in Decorlangue, but Adelko couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Abruptly the old monk stood up. Placing his quarterstaff and pack on the ground he said: ‘Everybody stay put. No one follow me.’
Horskram stretched out his arms to either side of him and stepped forward onto the rocky bridge.
‘No, Master Horskram!’ gasped Adelko. ‘The Terri, you’ll fall in!’
But the adept ignored him, and continued to walk slowly across the bridge. It was wide enough for two to pass, so he wasn’t in danger of losing his footing, but Kyra’s stories had Adelko expecting the bridge to slough apart beneath his mentor at any second.
As he walked across Horskram began reciting scripture, though Adelko was unfamiliar with the passages: ‘Reus Almighty, thy humble servant bends to thy will; thy immutable laws he embraces. Though the servants of Abaddon assail me I shall not be frighted; the bright wings of the archangels shall be my shield; they shall carry me across fields of fire, through winds of want, above waters of despair. The moaning earth shall not consume me, though Ma’alfecnu’ur send a thousand pestilences to torment it!’
‘Now he sounds like my father on Rest-day,’ quipped Braxus. Torgun nudged him sharply. ‘Peace!’ he whispered. ‘I like this quest no more than you, but an Argolian’s prayers should not be mocked!’
The Thraxian shook his head and shot a wry glance at Vaskrian.
The adept continued to step forwards, raising his voice: ‘Let Ta’assaswazelim visit us in his wrath! Let Zolthoth afflict us with cruel torments! Let Nurë’s reckless fire be unbridled! Let Aqualcus and Celestian conspire to bring gust and wave tearing across the fair face of Kaia’s green earth! I shall not yield nor quail, for thou art with me!’
The adept continued to tread slowly forwards. Adelko fancied he could see the slender knife of rock begin to shudder. He didn’t like to mingle his poor prayers with Horskram’s, so he clutched his own circifix tightly. The others exchanged worried glances; the smile had vanished from Braxus’s lips, and Torgun and Aronn made the sign.
Oblivious, Horskram continued to advance, thundering the sacred words: ‘Reus Almighty, I beseech thee in the Redeemer’s name, send the Seven Seraphim to guard thy humble servant from the meddling iniquities of the Unseen! Let their foul sorceries die on their lips, let them choke on their blasphemous words and see their dark arts unframed! Though all the hosts of Gehenna stretch shadows across the m
ortal vale, thy light SHALL DISPELL THEM ALL!’
No sooner had he said the final words than the bridge began to fall away. A hundred rumbling voices were suddenly heard, their chthonian mutterings like an incipient avalanche as the narrow sliver began to shatter and crumble.
‘He’s done for now,’ breathed Kyra. ‘Got the Earth Witch right angry with ‘is prayers he ‘as!’
‘No, look!’ shouted Adelko. ‘He isn’t falling!’
The bridge continued to cascade in great fragments, tumbling into the waters of the Girdle. But Horskram remained exactly where he was, seemingly suspended in mid-air. He had stopped walking and stood stock still, his arms still spread out. Adelko noticed he was clutching an item in each hand: his silver circifix in one, and the phial containing the Redeemer’s blood in the other.
‘Ye Almighty!’ breathed Sir Torgun, kneeling and making the sign again. ‘It’s a miracle!’
They all followed suit except Sir Braxus who remained standing, glaring suspiciously at the adept who was now apparently standing on thin air.
Horskram turned and looked at them. A merry twinkle was in his eyes, a broad grin on his face. He suddenly looked younger than Adelko had ever remembered seeing him.
‘Oh come, come,’ he said lightly. ‘No need for all that. Just a devoted follower of the Almighty being rewarded for his faith!’ He stamped his foot on where the bridge had been but a moment ago. It sounded as though he was stamping on the ground. ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Naught but good green earth here – just as the Almighty intended it to be! You’re all quite safe.’
The others exchanged fearful glances. Adelko was the first to step up to the lip. He squinted down at the river. Was that grass he could see at his feet? It appeared ever so faintly, a shimmering vision as if glimpsed in a dream. His head spun. Horskram was still standing there, beckoning to him and smiling.
‘Wait,’ said Braxus. ‘What if it’s another trap? An illusion to convince us all to cross and share his fate?’