Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  ‘A good idea, Sir Wolmar,’ he said. ‘Get out of your warrior’s weeds and I shall see you for dinner presently. After that I’ll point out a few more important people. Don’t despair – we Pangonians are a difficult lot, but we’re not so bad once you get to know us!’

  ‘As if I cared,’ sneered Wolmar, but the words sounded unconvincing in his own ears. Lord Ivon said nothing, remaining inscrutable as ever. With a frustrated sigh the princeling ordered the nearest servant to show him to his quarters.

  By early evening Wolmar was dressed in court clothes and sitting back from dinner, which had consisted of far too many courses, each far too small. Why all the fuss, he’d wondered, but he knew the answer. Pangonians showing off their wealth as usual.

  At least he felt slightly more relaxed. He had rested at his chamber, a spacious enough affair in the western wing of the palace, before donning his best outfit: a white doublet and breeches made of satin and chased with black filigree picked out in silk. A few more goblets of Pangonian red from Armandy province had taken care of the rest. He could even sit next to Lord Ivon without flushing, though his desires had scarcely left him.

  He made a mental note: when the time was right, he’d seek out one of the comely wenches that waited at table and a well-made lad from the stables. He’d have them both at once. That should satisfy his appetites and serve as some reward for the ordeal his mission now forced him to endure. He hoped they’d accept Northlending coin – for their service and their silence.

  ‘So, to business,’ said Lord Ivon, leaning over and whispering in his ear. ‘I promised to point out a few other courtiers you’ll want to know of.’

  ‘What do I care?’ said Wolmar. ‘Reus willing I won’t be here for long – in fact the sooner I’m on a ship back home the better!’

  Several nearby nobles caught this remark and glanced at him. He was speaking Decorlangue, so everyone of note could understand him. Wolmar met the youngest noble’s eyes with a cold stare. The noble averted his eyes after a few seconds.

  Good, they hadn’t failed to register that he was bigger and stronger than most of them.

  ‘Perhaps you should lower your voice,’ said Ivon quietly. ‘Not everyone at court is quite the pushover in the lists you seem to think they are.’

  ‘Did I say they were?’ snapped Wolmar, the wine going to his head. ‘On the contrary, I’d be only too glad to find out what the nobility of Pangonia is made of – if they fight as well as they talk they must be paladins indeed!’

  This time the nobles sat nearby ignored him, although one or two ladies looked at him disapprovingly.

  They were sitting at trestle tables arranged in a horseshoe shape in the feasting hall – unlike the King of Northalde, the Pangonian monarch had to dine in a different room, yet another indulgence. Wolmar and Ivon were seated at the section nearest to where the King sat with his family and highest officers of state: at least he’d been shown the proper respect as an honoured guest.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ he sighed, doing his best to relax into his stiff high-backed chair. Back home everyone barring the King and his family would have made do with a bench – but this lot had to have seats for everyone. He envied the luxury as much as he despised it.

  ‘So, you’ve already met Sir Odo de Gorly,’ continued Ivon, indicating the burly knight who had given him the dark look in the throneroom. ‘He is Steward to the King. But don’t be fooled by the homeliness of the title – he is responsible for all internal affairs of the realm and has eyes and ears everywhere.’

  ‘I’m well acquainted with what it really means to be a seneschal, Lord Ivon,’ said Wolmar. ‘What about that fellow next to him with a face like an ox?’

  ‘That is Sir Hugon, the Captain of the Knights of the Purple Garter. Not a man to cross – he serves as High Marshal and is castellan to the palace. That makes him head of the army in times of war.’

  ‘My father held such office… before he died.’ Wolmar stopped abruptly. ‘Go on,’ he pressed, keen to divert his painful thoughts. ‘Who else should I challenge to a duel of chivalry?’

  Lord Ivon looked at him peevishly.

  ‘A jest, my lord,’ sighed Wolmar. ‘If I’m to be the butt of everyone else’s jokes I should be allowed a few of my own, don’t you think?’

  Frowning, Lord Ivon continued: ‘The knight next to him is Sir Aremis – he’s tipped to succeed Hugon eventually. He’s the best sword in the land.’

  ‘I’ve already added him to my list,’ said Wolmar, recognising the strong-looking knight he had been sizing up earlier. ‘He looks to be a worthy opponent at least.’

  ‘You might get more than you bargain for, knight of the White Valravyn,’ cautioned Ivon, looking unusually serious.

  Wolmar waved his goblet. ‘Enough jokes then, seeing as they sit so ill with you. Who is the other Crescent Knight yonder, at the far end of the King’s table?’

  ‘That is Sir Alaric de Leon, bastard brother to the Margrave of Gorleon. The Margrave hates his brother for rising higher than him in the body politick… but the King knows a good Sea Marshal when he sees one. Gorleon is our westernmost province and long celebrated for its maritime tradition.’

  Wolmar knocked back the rest of his wine. He cared not a fig for Gorleon’s maritime tradition. ‘So what about the rest of them? Your King’s family table is rather small… pray don’t tell me they’ve all had the misfortune to die.’

  Ivon favoured him with another inscrutable look. ‘The King has two living children. The eldest, Carolus the Younger, is but four and of a… sickly constitution. The youngest is princess Adeline and but a babe, so far too young in years to sit at table. Not even we are so formal.’

  ‘What about that lass next to the Queen?’ asked Wolmar, ignoring Ivon’s attempts at deadpan humour. ‘The plain-looking girl,’ he added, unnecessarily.

  ‘That is Lady Iveline, daughter of Prince Lothaire, the King’s younger brother. He died the same year as His Majesty ascended the throne.’

  Wolmar turned to look at Ivon, catching his tone. ‘Both father and younger brother died in the same year, eh?’ he offered. ‘What a strange coincidence in time of peace.’

  ‘How strange indeed,’ returned Lord Ivon, his eyes sparkling in the brazier light.

  ‘But in Pangonia, the eldest son inherits, just as in Northalde,’ said Wolmar, measuring his words carefully.

  ‘Indeed… Perhaps all the more reason to be pleased to have ambitious younger brothers out of the way.’

  ‘How did they die? In separate incidents?’

  ‘Oh no – they both perished seven years ago, when the royal pleasure barge caught fire on the Athos. It was quite the tragedy I assure you – His Majesty Carolus II was a dearly beloved liege.’

  By some but no means by all, thought Wolmar, silently finishing the Margrave’s sentence for him.

  An awkward silence hung between them. Lord Ivon snuffed it out, motioning to the other side of the horseshoe. ‘I already pointed out Lord Morvaine,’ he said. ‘The serious-looking fellow sat next to him is Lord Uthor the Younger, heir to the margravate of Aquitania.’

  ‘What are they here for?’ asked Wolmar.

  ‘Same thing as usual,’ replied Ivon, motioning for a serving wench to refill both their goblets. ‘They want a repeal of the taxes the King has levied on all his domains.’

  ‘Will they get what they want?’

  ‘Unlikely, though Aquitania is the most powerful of the southern margravates, so technically that should give Lord Uthor some leverage… It’s not really for me to speculate.’

  Wolmar looked back at the Margrave. He had a feeling Ivon did a lot more than merely speculate.

  ‘You are well informed, it seems,’ he ventured. ‘So what brings you to court? You seem over long in years to be enjoying its distractions.’

  Ivon laughed at that, seemingly unruffled. ‘I am five and thirty summers, that much is true,’ he said. ‘I have a wife and two children of my own, who get along perfectly
well without me back in Vichy. And, to answer your implied question, no, I have not wearied in the least of Rima’s distractions.’

  The Margrave fixed Wolmar with a look that the princeling could have sworn mirrored his own desires, before taking a healthy swig of wine.

  ‘He is by far the most accomplished debaucher among us,’ said Lord Rodger, leaning in to interrupt their conversation. ‘As no doubt you will come to know, Sir Wolmar. In fact, no man can rival His Lordship Ivon when it comes to drinking, carousing and… other appetites!’

  Sir Wolmar looked from one lord to the other, not knowing what to say next, but Ivon merely smirked and raised his goblet in a mock toast. Lord Rodger continued: ‘And speaking of carousing, the feasting is done, but now we shall disport ourselves with yet more drink while a dancing troupe from the Free City of Athina entertains us. Pray join us in our merrymaking, Sir Wolmar, if it please you.’

  Lord Ivon favoured Wolmar with a wink. ‘I said I’d put in a good word for you,’ he whispered, grinning over his wine.

  A few more goblets later and Wolmar found himself embroiled in a debauch. The dancers had come and gone but the troubadours had remained; the polite applause of the Riman court had given way to a riotous hubbub as the high-born proceeded to get royally drunk.

  Not all had stayed: the King and Queen had disappeared from the feasting hall, along with most of the ladies. That left knights and lords free to grope the common serving wenches to their hearts’ content – a desire many were giving free rein to. Several of the younger nobles were being sick in sputum bowls apparently set aside for that express purpose. Pangonian hauteur had given way to decadence, once again on a scale that put the royal court of his homeland in the shade.

  Wolmar was on the point of approaching a dark-eyed wench who had been giving him the eye when Lord Ivon sidled up to him.

  ‘Your goblet is empty, Sir Wolmar!’ he exclaimed, throwing an arm around the knight. ‘At the most opulent court in the Free Kingdoms, I can tell you, that simply will not do.’ Barking an order he summoned another wench over to refill their cups, running an appreciative hand over her firm buttocks as she obeyed.

  ‘Do you wish to lie with her?’ he asked bluntly, though of course she would not understand Decorlangue.

  ‘Not her – there’s another over there I want,’ slurred Wolmar, gesturing at the raven-haired beauty he’d been eyeing. ‘And another over there…’ He hiccoughed and shook his head. He usually held his drink well, but Pangonian wine was strong stuff.

  Lord Ivon barked something else at the wench serving them and sent her off with a slap on the behind. Keeping his arm around the princeling, he led him over to a pillar in the corner of the rectangular hall.

  ‘Yes, I believe you want her, and half the wenches here,’ said the Margrave, leaning in close so Wolmar could smell the wine on his breath. ‘And you can have her, or any of them, if you wish – as the King’s honoured guest you shall not be refused anything.’

  The Margrave leaned in closer. The music, its dulcet strains disrupted by ebrious shouting, sounded like a cacophony in Wolmar’s ears. The air had cooled to a pleasing balminess, brought in through the large bay windows lining the hall.

  ‘But I believe there is something else you want, more than all the wenches in this room,’ added the Margrave. His dark eyes burned with a black fire that seemed to snuff out the yellow flames of the braziers.

  ‘What… what are you saying?’ asked the princeling hesitantly.

  ‘Do you know who my family are?’ asked Ivon.

  ‘No… you said you belong to the House of Laurelin…’

  ‘An old and distinguished house,’ nodded the Margrave, ‘going back to Lotharion the Founder, First King of Pangonia. But that isn’t who we are.’ He paused to take a slurp of his wine.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Two hundred years ago, my ancestors fought on the side of King Vasirius and married into his family,’ continued the Margrave. ‘The Two Solons, we call them – Solon the Elder and Solon the Younger. Both had seats at the Crescent Table. The Elder was a founder member of the Purple Garter, and married a niece of the King. That makes Solon the Younger, and every one of his descendants, of royal blood going back to the Ruling House of Rius.’

  Wolmar took another slug of wine. By the archangels, but these Pangonians loved to spout their heritage! Next to them he almost felt modest.

  ‘And what does that signify?’ he asked, trying to ignore the sudden redirection of his desire from the serving wenches.

  ‘What that signifies,’ said Lord Ivon. ‘Is that like you, I am of royal blood.’

  Still Wolmar didn’t see the significance. ‘And?’

  ‘And…’ the Margrave tossed his goblet aside, gently drawing Wolmar around to face him before putting his other arm around his waist. ‘That means… we can do whatever we like.’

  The Margrave stayed like that for a few moments, his arms encircling the princeling. Then a vulpine grin crossed his face as he pressed closer. The music swirled up to the pillared ceiling, its flurried notes reverberating and mingling with hoots and yells as high-born men and low-born women prepared to couple the night away. As the last of his inhibitions fled and he dropped his own goblet, Wolmar felt something inside him break, like a dammed-up river bursting into torrid life after years of being held in check.

  Blissfully ignorant of the passions it had helped to stir up, the music continued to swirl madly about the high hall.

  CHAPTER II

  The Shield Queen’s Hall

  ‘Walmond has secured Varborg and invested it,’ said the messenger. ‘In addition to the three hundred men you left under his command, he has engaged five hundred freeswords that were at the port. That’s eight hundred fighting men ready to repulse the Stormrider should he send a fleet to attack Jótlund.’

  Guldebrand nodded, fidgeting with the new robes of state he’d had tailored to commemorate his remarkable victory three weeks ago. He was nervous: it was a victory that could be swiftly reversed, if he played his hand badly.

  ‘And how are the berserkers?’ asked the Thegn. ‘Are they under control?’ Of the warriors he had left behind in Jótlund, a third were fanatical devotees of the war god Tyrnor, who fought without armour or thought for life. They were fiercer than the levied shieldmen and even more skilled in battle than the noble seacarls, but they could be unpredictable.

  ‘Eager for more slaughter as ever,’ replied the messenger. ‘But Walmond has them in check – you left behind one seacarl for every berserker, they’ll keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, taking a sip of wine. ‘And what news from Utgard?’ he asked, turning to his envoy Varra, a burly seacarl of forty winters covered in battle scars.

  ‘Good news!’ said Varra, grinning. ‘Asmund has been cowed as predicted. He says he will make no intervention as long as you pledge not to raid his lands.’

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Guldebrand. ‘Let him cower behind his walls at Hjalring for now. We shall soon demand tribute from him, when the next plan is hatched.’ Turning to look at Ragnar, he said: ‘White Eye, now is the time to tell us how your suit with Magnhilda has sped.’

  He still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of having a sorcerer as his right-hand man. But since he had left Walmond behind with most of his victorious warband to hold Jótlund, the position had been empty. And Ragnar had promised him great things.

  His hand strayed habitually to the pomander he still wore as the wizard gave his report. Technically, he didn’t need it any more – not since Ragnar had pronounced the incantation of Counter-Ensorcellment with his old understudy Radko witnessing – but all the same he had felt it best not to part with it. Just in case the wily mage tried anything underhand.

  ‘I returned this morning,’ said Ragnar in his cold voice. ‘The Thegn of Scandia is at least willing to consider our offer of an alliance, backed by marriage.’

  A hubbub of approving voices went up around the hall. Valholl, t
he seat Guldebrand had inherited from his father Gunnar less than two years ago, was filled with seacarls who had come to hear the news and take counsel for their next course of action. Guldebrand raised a hand for silence and the warlock continued.

  ‘She wants to meet with us in person, at her seat in Utvalla, one moon hence,’ he said. ‘You are to bring a retinue with you numbering no more than a hundred men. She guarantees safe passage through her lands.’

  Guldebrand nodded again. ‘Very good, White Eye, send word to her again. I shall be there, with said retinue, at the next full moon.’

  ‘I shall inform her in person,’ said Ragnar.

  A few discontented murmurings went up at that. Ragnar’s ability to transform himself into a raven and deliver messages swiftly and safely was undeniably useful, but all the same his sorcerous ways made the men nervous. Guldebrand could not help but steal a sideways glance at Radko, who skulked nervously in the corner. The hedge wizard had best be right about Ragnar’s counter charm being binding.

  Still, he had his pomander to protect him, and Ragnar’s former apprentice could renew the enchanted simples inside it whenever needed.

  ‘Good,’ said Guldebrand, not showing any of his misgivings. ‘See it done.’

  He half expected the warlock to transform himself on the spot and fly away, but the White Eye had enough sense at least to make a normal exit from the hall.

  ‘Brega, come forwards,’ said Guldebrand, beckoning to his next warrior. ‘Let us have a tally of our battle strength.’

  ‘Including the men you brought back with you from Jótlund, we have seven hundred warriors ready to sail west to bolster Walmond if need be,’ said the broad-shouldered seacarl. ‘In addition to that we’ve managed to commission another two hundred freesailors at Odense – we should hopefully be able to add a few more hired swords when the next merchantman pulls in from the Empire.’