Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Without waiting for a reply he mouthed another incantation, visualising a closing gate. The mirror shimmered and returned to quicksilver and the mage’s face disappeared.

  Andragorix repeated the first spell, tapping his silver fingers against the statue’s maw. He shouldn’t disrespect such a sacred object, but he wasn’t in the most patient of moods. As before the mirror shimmered, another face growing from its centre.

  ‘Abrexta, how speed we in Thraxia?’ he asked. He felt his loins harden as he looked on the witch’s fair features. He would have her – in every way possible – when the time was right.

  ‘My liege,’ replied the sorceress in silky tones. ‘We are speeding well, though my elan is sorely stretched – I cannot ensorcell many more.’

  ‘Have I not taught you the art to bolster your powers?’ snapped Andragorix. ‘I give you the tools to get the job done, and all you have for me are complaints!’

  The enchantress scowled. ‘I like not your tone, Andragorix, and have no wish to bleed small children and mingle their vital juices with mine own.’

  Andragorix didn’t care for her sarcastic tone. One to watch, this Abrexta – perhaps offering her Thraxia wasn’t such a good idea. He could always have her despatched to the Island Realms to rule there instead once the war was over, where she would be well out of the way.

  ‘The Master’s teachings are not for the faint-hearted,’ he leered. ‘Perhaps I have misplaced my faith in you… We shall see! In the meantime, give me your report.’

  ‘King Cadwy has commissioned a fleet to attack the Island Realms,’ she said. ‘The northern wards are hard pressed – Daxtir is defeated and Gaellen has nigh fallen. After that only Varrogh remains. I’m already suing with the Highlanders for peace in return for the lands they have conquered. But news of the uprising we put down in Umbria has reached the southern wards… we’ve heard rumours they plan to unite and wage a war of resistance against the King’s Fold. I need your help – is it ready yet?’

  ‘Patience, my sweet sorceress,’ crowed Andragorix. ‘This is no mere mortal I am trying to enthral – such powers have not been harnessed since the Elder Wizards! Rest assured I shall be sending you the help you need soon. The southern Thraxians won’t cause you much trouble once they find themselves harried from the rear. That should leave you free to consolidate your grip on power in the King’s Fold and focus on the war with the Islanders. When will the fleet be ready?’

  ‘If all things go according to plan, the new fleet should be ready to sail on the autumn tides.’

  ‘That’s cutting it a bit fine,’ said Andragorix. ‘You know well enough how soon the ice comes that far north.’

  ‘Have you an incantation that allows for the swifter crewing and building of ships?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘Very well, but no later!’ he spat, wishing he could violate her then and there. He caught the expression on her face.

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘We’ve had a complication,’ said Abrexta. ‘A group of knights was arrested in Ongist, several days ago. They are part of the original party sent out with Lord Braun’s son.’

  ‘The one who went to Strongholm and ended up getting involved in the Northlending war?’

  Abrexta nodded. Her Scrying had allowed her to spot the knights and track their movements, but without being able to hear them, their purpose had remained uncertain. An audience with the Northlending King probably meant they were seeking military aid against the Highlanders though. What a pity the hedge witch was unversed in Demonology. Andragorix’s elan had been too stretched to take care of it himself.

  ‘Yes, what of it?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve charged him with treason, but he’s denied all charges.’

  ‘So have him tried and executed and be done with it. I hardly care if he was guilty or not.’

  Abrexta licked her lips. ‘We can’t actually prove the charges against him, and if I have him executed…’

  Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Well?’ barked Andragorix.

  ‘The knight who leads the party is one Sir Vertrix, a distinguished veteran and highly thought of at court. If I have him killed out of hand, it could provoke an uprising in Ongist and the rest of the King’s Fold. I’ve already told you I’m stretched to breaking point, and politically we’re on a knife-edge up here. Making a truce with the Highlanders is going to be very unpopular, especially after we’ve let them run amok up north.’

  ‘I thought we’d arranged the antidote to that – a campaign to take back the Thraxians’ ancestral homeland on the Islands, to set to rights the banishment of their ancestors?’

  ‘It will be a popular move if we proclaim it in the right way,’ Abrexta allowed, ‘but you don’t appreciate the situation here. I’ve had all the King’s most trusted advisers killed, enthralled, banished or imprisoned. I’ve made sure he sits by idly while the north falls to the Highlanders. I’ve had to quash several rebellions already, executing more respected lords and knights along with senior members of the Temple and the Argolian Order. Even if that’s all technically happening on the King’s orders, there’s only so much the people can take. If I send Vertrix and his men to the block without just cause, it could be the final straw… I need more time, to build the fleet and distract the populace with promises of a fresh war. I can’t kill him now.’

  Andragorix stifled his rage and frustration, forcing himself to think. He felt his temples pounding as the potion’s effects reached their peak.

  ‘Very well,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Keep him and his men under arrest for now. Try to enthral at least one of them if you can – locked up in Ongist and far away from their doomed liege, they shouldn’t be able to cause much trouble if you keep a close eye on them.’

  ‘It will be as you say, my liege.’

  The witch looked relieved. It galled him to have use such weaklings as thralls, lesser mages who scarcely deserved to be part of his glorious new world order. But he needed them – for now.

  ‘Good, get thee gone. Report back to me at the next quarter.’

  He mouthed the closing spell and Abrexta disappeared.

  Descending from the dais he was about to head over to his study but changed his mind. Looking at the sorceress had inflamed his loins again: he would fain have something more fleshy than a half-starved boy to sate his appetites. The archdemon Satyrus possessed him, filling him with dark desires.

  Making his way through meandering corridors he entered his bedchamber. It was sparsely decorated, save for the intricate Varyan friezes. Those were glorious enough to look at, but Andragorix hankered after more traditional finery – silks and gold and jewels as befitted the future prince of the world. But his master had compelled him to secrecy, until the time was right. It pained him to think that his Wadwos were being wasted butchering woodlanders and hillfolk – he longed to see his army bring back real spoils from burning keeps and smashed castles. Then he would live like the king he was.

  Thoughts of wealth faded as he looked upon the chamber’s sole occupant, lust for earthly riches giving way to lust for unearthly flesh.

  Reclining on a rude bed was a naked woman, her translucent skin glowing over slender curves in the still light of the glowing orbs. She was impossibly beautiful, in a way that no mortal woman ever could be.

  ‘What is your pleasure today, my lord?’ asked the Succubus, gazing at him with hooded, exotic-looking eyes. She addressed him directly in the language of magic, using its darker modes that were favoured by demonkind.

  ‘Darker skin,’ said Andragorix, walking over to the bed. ‘Larger breasts, fuller figure.’

  The demon complied, her slim body filling out to accommodate his wishes, the skin deepening until she had the tawny complexion of a Sassanian beauty.

  ‘Very good,’ hissed the mage, pulling up his black mantle and mounting the bed. He felt his loins stiffen as she opened her legs and he descended on her. ‘Very good…’

  When it was over he rolled off
the Succubus and walked over to a rough table. It had been pillaged from a mountain village by his Wadwos and was more a block of wood. He tried to ignore it as he helped himself from a jug of wine, throwing in a few pinches of ground Silverweed for good measure. He knocked the drink back, gasping as lights danced at the corners of his eyes and a pleasant buzzing filled his head. He shouldn’t mix ordinary intoxicants with magic potions, but it gave him pleasure to do so.

  ‘Chreosoaneuryon, my favourite of the Seven Princes,’ he laughed, invoking the archdemon of intemperance. ‘I’ll see those loyal to me disport themselves unto their very deaths when thy kingdom cometh. At least they’ll die with smiles on their faces!’

  ‘My lord was lusty today,’ said the Succubus. ‘A fine performance, I look forward to your next visit.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your pleasure,’ snarled Andragorix. ‘Be silent and trouble me no more – I didn’t summon and bind you for your conversation.’

  Slamming the cup down he stalked from the chamber.

  Several hours later Andragorix stretched and rose from the pile of scrolls before him. He had copied them diligently from the original, taking pains to make sure the hieratic symbols of the Sorcerer’s Script were perfectly represented. Comparatively speaking, that had been the easy part: were it not for the potion he would have passed out as he strived to master the complex symbols, perfecting their pronunciation and visualisation.

  Exiting his study he made his way over to the part of the ruin he was using for his latest experiment. Two Wadwos guarded the entrance. Like the rest of the place it didn’t follow any particular shape. Whatever door had stood there was long destroyed, but that didn’t concern him: the Wadwos were enthralled to him thanks to the powerful gramarye he had copied down and learned.

  And to think Abrexta complained of enthralling mortal men. He had never had much use for Enchantment, thinking it more for women, though his mother had taught him the basics. But learning to ensorcell the Wadwos had taxed him, taking long months of diligent study. And now he was trying to enthral something far older and more powerful.

  But that was a task for another day. Striding into the chamber he motioned for the Wadwos to enter another next to it.

  The chamber was empty save for a rack along the far wall, which contained vials of liquid, a pot of brushes and stirrers and several mixing bowls. The stench of decay permeated the chamber, coming from next door. It had made him gag at first, but as his studies of Necromancy progressed he had become used to it, and then grown to love it.

  ‘Bring me a dozen,’ he said, addressing the Woses in their guttural tongue. Learning it had been part of his studies, but fortunately the language was simple and easily mastered.

  Andragorix prepared another concoction as the beastmen complied with his command, dragging corpses of hillfolk in differing stages of decomposition from the next chamber and arranging them around the mage in a circular pattern.

  When it was done he bent to each one, pouring a drop of black liquid into their mouths as he muttered the necessary incantation. Finally, taking up another mixture he had prepared and a small brush, he painted a hieroglyph on each one’s head in blood red. Necromancy was one of the hardest Schools to master, and if one wished to bind the spirits of the dead to their bodies a considerable knowledge of Alchemy was also required, to prepare the constituent body.

  Taking up his position in the middle of the corpses he began to recite the incantation he had been studying. He visualised the symbols as he spoke them: a tomb opening; a humanoid figure trapped within a ribcage; Azrael, the Angel of Death, his wings clipped. Raising his hands he began turning slowly, anticlockwise, stopping briefly each time he faced a corpse. It was the Wytching Hour, the best time to cast the spell: powered flowed into him, siphoned from the Other Side. From deep in his psyche, Andragorix felt rather than heard tormented souls shrieking as he tried to drag them back into their rotting bodies.

  Over and over he repeated the ritual, turning and reciting the words as he visualised the symbols again and again, trying to picture them perfectly in his mind as the scrolls had instructed. He felt Azrael fighting him from Azhoanarn, the Place of the Dead, where the souls of the unshriven were doomed to roam until the Hour of All’s Ending. Shutting his eyes tightly and ignoring the sweat pouring down his slender frame, he pushed harder…

  Something gave. Opening his eyes the warlock saw the corpses around him twitching. Repeating the incantation he pushed harder, trying not to get distracted, to keep focused on the visualisations…

  One of the corpses slowly sat up. Then another. Andragorix felt himself strained to breaking point. His nose began to bleed and his head started to tremble, feeling as though it might explode at any second.

  Harder and harder he pushed…

  More corpses sat up. One or two were trying to drag themselves to their feet. His whole body trembled. The pain was unbearable.

  With a gasp he collapsed, his mind letting go of the symbols. His link with the Other Side was severed. The corpses slumped back to the ground, lifeless.

  From where he lay Andragorix tried to give vent to a scream of frustration, but all that came out was a gasp. Motioning to the Wadwos he ordered one to help him up while the other dragged the bodies back into the other room.

  ‘Too… many,’ he stuttered, speaking to himself more than the Wose that pulled him up like a rag doll. ‘Can’t manage more than six. What a fell army.’

  The Wadwo took him back to his room. Ignoring the Succubus, he collapsed on the bed and fell into a coma-like sleep.

  Hours later Andragorix left his chambers and made his way over to the main exit. Passing through the asymmetrical doorway he ignored the Wadwos guarding it as he emerged into a vast crater. It was open to the skies; overhead the stars were beginning to fade, sucked up by the encroaching dawn. The floor was strewn with huge fragments from the original building whose fractured basement he now occupied; he paid little heed to the broken chunks of alien architecture as he made his way over to a vast grate on the other side of the crater.

  The grate was the size of a great hall of men. Two more Wadwos guarded it, though they would be able to do little if the magic binds that held the thing below should fail.

  ‘How is our guest – sleeping?’

  The Wadwo grunted in the affirmative.

  Squatting down beside the grill the warlock gazed between the gigantic bars at the juddering form beneath, its snores sending a great rumbling up through the thick stone floor. Satisfying himself that all was well, he nodded and returned to his chambers, anxious to avoid the first touch of dawn.

  Enough of Necromancy for a while: tomorrow he would turn his energies to Enchantment, much as he despised it. He could not yet raise the dead in numbers, but if he could master the necessary incantation he would send one foe with the power of an army to trouble the realms of men.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Of Beasts and Men

  The morning clouds rubbed their giant backs together, deepening to dark grey as they threatened a summer squall. Sir Braxus shifted uncomfortably in the humidity, readjusting his hauberk and tabard. He’d taken advantage of their brief pause the previous day to take them off, for the first time since leaving Salmor. The thought of bathing his face and hands in one of the Girdle’s many fountains seemed already a distant one as its mistress bade the seven of them farewell.

  ‘Goodbye and good luck,’ she said, staring at them impassively with her strange red eyes as she stood before the cave where they had first met her. ‘You’re going to need it, but if the prophecies prove true then the gods should favour you.’ She looked at Adelko and Vaskrian as she said this, though Braxus couldn’t fathom what she meant by that.

  Witches. They were all alike, when it came down to it. He didn’t think this one was altogether much different from Abrexta, judging by everything he’d heard about her.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ replied Horskram, keeping things diplomatic. ‘We’ll do everything i
n our power to use it to destroy our mutual foe – and may the Prophet be with us!’

  Was it his imagination or had the old monk emphasised the word ‘prophet’ in response to her invocation of the pagan gods? This was a strange alliance and no mistake – the sooner it was done, the better.

  Sir Torgun stepped forward. Braxus had a sinking feeling the diplomacy was about to come to an abrupt end.

  ‘I shall not deny that you have helped us, and given us food and shelter and tended our wounds,’ said the towering knight. ‘But know this – the White Valrayvn still holds you responsible for the deaths of two of its knights. We shall not let that deed go unaccounted for.’

  The Earth Witch’s lip curled in a half-sneer. ‘Return if you can and seek justice as you see fit, by all means,’ she said. ‘But something tells me you shall not tread a path of vengeance back here, though both your roads shall be dark and bloody.’

  Sir Aronn glowered and moved a gauntleted hand to his sword hilt.

  ‘What mean you by that?’ he snarled, but Torgun put a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Only time will tell,’ she contented herself with saying, before looking away. ‘You must leave now. Burrow will show you out.’

  The squirrel appeared from beneath the skirts of her leafy robe and scurried past them, turning and cocking its head. The creature was looking at them expectantly.

  ‘Let us be gone,’ muttered Horskram, turning to go.

  Braxus was last to leave. He was just following the others out of the clearing when the Earth Witch called him back.

  ‘A quick word, sir knight, before you leave.’

  He turned and approached her, rather more quickly than he felt was right.

  She stared at him inscrutably, a smile playing on her lips. ‘There is much of my kin in you, Braxus of Gaellen,’ she said. ‘Your blood traces back to the Exiled Clans… true island folk.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ he replied affably. Was she flirting with him? She looked old, yet young at the same time. He felt his loins stir in spite of himself. He hadn’t been with a woman since leaving Salmor – a long time for someone like him. Why, he had even been staring at Kyra yesterday, and she was no beauty.