Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  The recent conquest of Jótlund had enriched him enough to be able to take on more freeswords than usual – that would be crucial to resisting Oldrik’s numerically superior forces. That, and the proposed alliance with Magnhilda.

  ‘And what of the Jarls Bjorg and Vilm?’ pressed Guldebrand. ‘I trust they are still loyal?’

  It was a pointed question. The two lords who held lands from the Thegn of Kvenlund had served his father without question, but both had voiced doubts about his young and untested heir. He hoped his recent success had allayed those doubts.

  Brega smiled. ‘Both jarls have pledged their allegiance,’ said the seacarl. ‘They are mustering their leidangs even as we speak.’

  Guldebrand took a long, satisfied pull on his wine. It was the same Pangonian vintage he’d brought back from Tjórhorn before they burned it to the ground. He watered it down so it wouldn’t cloud his judgement, but even diluted it tasted a lot better than mead.

  ‘Excellent,’ he smirked. ‘That’s another five hundred warriors for our tally. Fourteen hundred total, with more to come when the next bunch of freeswords pulls in to Odense. And what of the Stormrider’s forces?’

  This question was directed at Asger, the oldest surviving member of his father’s counsel. He had seen nigh on four score winters, and long forsaken court clothes and armour for a simple robe of dun brown, but he was hale enough for his advanced years. More importantly to Guldebrand, his mind was as keen as ever.

  ‘At this stage, it’s hard to tell,’ said Asger. ‘We know the Stormrider’s leidang totals near three thousand, and besides that he has four loyal jarls commanding another two thousand fighting men between them. But…’ – the old man raised his voice above the mutterings of consternation that suddenly rippled to the rafters – ‘… we don’t know how many of those are at hand. The Stormrider has recommenced raiding the mainland, he didn’t expect us to march in and take Jótlund. According to some of the traders I spoke to at Odense he has as many as a thousand reavers abroad.’

  ‘That still leaves nearly four thousand men at his beck and call!’ shouted one seacarl. ‘Even counting Walmond’s forces at Varborg that means he outnumbers us nearly two to one!’

  ‘Which is why,’ put in Guldebrand, raising a hand for silence again, ‘this alliance with Magnhilda is so important. The Thegn of Scandia commands a thousand-strong leidang, and her jarls will have warriors of their own to contribute. And once we’ve secured an alliance, I’m sure that milksop Asmund can be threatened into sending us a few warriors of his own.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do!’ yelled another warrior, earning a few jeers.

  ‘Every bit counts in a war,’ persisted Guldebrand. ‘All told, we have the potential to even up the odds. And Magnhilda is a fierce general, one to rival the Stormrider himself they say.’

  ‘Magnhilda is but a maiden!’ shouted another seacarl.

  ‘No, Magnhilda is a shield-maiden,’ Guldebrand corrected him. ‘A shieldmaiden who defeated two rival jarls in her lifetime to consolidate her realm. She is the first undisputed Thegn of Scandia in a generation. Woman or no, that is not an achievement to be ignored.’

  ‘His Highness has the right of it,’ said Asger. ‘Magnhilda has proved herself a formidable foe, and that makes her a powerful ally.’

  ‘If she consents to the marriage alliance we are proposing,’ said Brega. ‘I must confess, I cannot see why a proud woman like that would suborn herself to another Thegn.’

  ‘Yes well, you leave me to worry about that,’ said Guldebrand with a smile. Turning to the messenger he added: ‘Get back to Varborg with all speed – tell Walmond I’ll be sending a fleet five hundred strong to bolster his forces, there may be more depending on how we fare on other fronts.’

  The messenger nodded and turned to leave.

  ‘The rest of you get back to the war preparations. Asger, I’ll leave you in charge of getting our ships ready at Odense. Brega and Varra, you’re both coming with me – gather a hundred of our best seacarls, we’re leaving tomorrow for Utvalla!’

  Guldebrand finished his wine as he watched them leave, then stood to address the rest of his nobles. ‘Well you know the situation, so be about your business!’ he said. ‘The future Magnate of the Frozen Principalities commands it!’

  The journey was a long one, for rather than choose to head directly north across the Vander Ranges and through the haunted Groenvelt, Guldebrand took his retinue north-east, skirting the crags and woods before striking back across the arable lands that marked the easternmost regions of the Principality he sought to ally to his own. Formed from three jarldoms, Scandia had been the largest of the principalities – until Guldebrand had taken over his neighbour’s lands.

  That, he hoped, should put the Thegn of Scandia in a more receptive mood to his suit.

  That and the fact that to the west Oldrik was menacing her holdings. One thing Scandia lacked was secure access to the sea: its one port town, Ystad on the Vakka River, was being continually menaced by the Stormrider’s forces. If Oldrik succeeded in annexing the town, he would have complete control of the western coast from the Vakka to the Var – the river that now formed a new border with his own lands.

  Yes, the time was ripe for a new alliance. With Hardrada slain and his lands appropriated, Asmund cowed and out of the way in the far east, united he and Magnhilda had an opportunity to smash the Stormrider and assume complete mastery of the Frozen Wastes. That meant sharing power in a manner of speaking of course – but custom dictated that in marriage a man took precedence over his wife.

  Naturally, that would make his suit harder to press.

  For two days they had been skirting the Vkyr Wold, a high rough belt of hills that cradled the lake of the same name. Overhead the sky was cloudless and blue; winters were lethally harsh in the Wastes, but summers could be rewarding to those who survived the long cold season.

  ‘There, I think I see it!’ said Varra, pointing as they rode across scrubland.

  Looking southwards, Guldebrand could make it out: a river emerging from the Vkyrs before bending sharply to the west, the Lidr that joined Lake Vkyr to the larger Lake Tor.

  ‘We can’t be too far now,’ said Guldebrand. ‘We should reach Halmstad by nightfall.’

  A cheer went up from the column of men behind them. Magnhilda had kept her word, and they had been welcomed and feasted by seacarls loyal to the Thegn of Scandia during their journey – but the last time that had happened had been two nights ago. The men were saddlesore and eager for rest and food.

  An hour later they drew level with the bend in the Lidr and began to follow it. The land ascended as they followed the river upstream; the waters of Lake Vkyr were fed by Lake Tor, which was set in a higher stretch of hills.

  It was mid-afternoon when the river gave way to the Tor. Roughly shaped like a four-pointed star, sorcerers using the power of flight had long mapped it out. Guldebrand and his retinue drew level with its south-eastern tip, and now continued to skirt the lake, following a trail that hugged its lip. The glossy waters stretched for leagues to the south and west; they wouldn’t be able to make out Utvalla until they reached the eastern side. That was where Halmstad was located, and where Ragnar would be waiting for them.

  The thought of that made Guldebrand uneasy. Had he made a mistake accepting the priest’s offer of alliance? The White Eye had been banished from Scandia – but that was before Magnhilda had taken over. As Guldebrand’s emissary he had been tolerated, the banishment suspended if not entirely reversed.

  But more to the point, he had been banished with good reason.

  Rumours had been swirling among his seacarls. Ragnar was a warlock of the Left Hand Path, who had been expelled for practising blood magic – using a victim’s lock of hair to inflict harm on them from a distance. Ragnar was in service to Logi, the Trickster God, whom the mainlanders called king of all devils, and had led Hardrada to a disastrous war in Northalde for reasons of his own. Ragnar worshipped demons, an
d would summon them up to possess strong men so they would do his bidding without question.

  Guldebrand had heard all these stories and more. Yet the counter-charm seemed to be genuine, assuming Radko could be trusted, and he still had his pomander just in case… He felt his will was very much his own, and Ragnar’s plans did seem solid. But whom did he really serve? He himself had made mention of a dark master…

  Such uncomfortable thoughts were playing on Guldebrand’s mind when Varra spoke and pointed again.

  ‘Yes, yes, I can see it!’ snapped the Thegn irritably. His thoughts had him feeling nervous and on edge.

  The hills they were following turned north and dipped towards the lake. At its edge he could now make out Halmstad, its rectangular fenced homesteads an odd contrast with the erring design of nature that surrounded them. Smoke was already billowing from holes in the reed-thatched roofs of the logwood houses; the sun was low in the sky and even in summertime evenings by the lake would be chilly.

  Following the glistening waters he could just make it out against the setting sun: Utvalla, the island hall that the woman he sought to marry called home. Despite himself a shiver went down his spine, and it had nothing to do with the chilling air. At this distance Utvalla was little more than a dark etching on the horizon; an unnatural break in the glassy panorama of deepening blue.

  Unnatural, that was the word all right. Ragnar had given him an inkling as to the hall’s eldritch foundations. Frankly, he didn’t want to know any more.

  He banished such thoughts as they picked their way down towards the town. A company of warriors was gathered by its outlying homesteads to greet them, loyal shieldmen led by a smaller group of seacarls.

  Curt pleasantries were exchanged, and little more: Northlanders didn’t bother to stand on ceremony like the effete mainlanders. Effete? No, that was a lie. There was nothing effete about the Northlendings, for all their priggish customs. Their distant cousins had thrashed them time and again, forcing them to the Treaty of Ryøskil like a whipped dog to the leash. Guldebrand clutched the bridle reins in angry fists as they rode towards the harbour. That was a trend he intended to reverse. Yes, he had to confess, Ragnar’s plans fitted perfectly with his own ambitions, and that meant he had to trust him – for now.

  His uncertain ally was waiting for them by the harbour jetty. Dressed in the same flowing sea-green robes, the scales that covered one half of his face caught the gloaming eerily. It was said the disfigurement had been a punishment inflicted on him by Sjórkunan himself, when the White Eye had dared to summon him. The Lord of Oceans had punished him for his temerity… but also granted him the power he craved, mastery of the oceans. Ragnar had paid for that gift with an eye, a high toll for such potent knowledge.

  ‘Good e’en, Thegn Guldebrand,’ said Ragnar in his flat voice. ‘I trust your journey here was a safe one.’

  ‘Safe… and dull,’ replied the Thegn. ‘We took the long way around – last time my father ventured through the Groenvelt he lost a good man to the Fays.’

  ‘He was a foolish man to fall for faerie blandishments,’ replied the Sea Wizard unsmiling. ‘The Fays have ever delighted in setting traps for the unwary. Roska Hardfingers was reckless indeed to pursue the silver-skinned elk – it was hardly a natural quarry.’

  Guldebrand gaped, his astonished expression matching the disconcerted mutterings of his nearby seacarls who had heard Ragnar’s remarks.

  ‘How could you know such a thing?’ he gasped. ‘That was six years ago – you weren’t even there!’

  ‘I see many things,’ replied Ragnar, allowing an icy smile to creep across his asymmetrical face. ‘Some near, some far. But come – this is no time for idle tittle-tattle. Our ship awaits.’

  The wizard motioned towards a flat-bottomed ferry boat docked at the jetty. It was a fair size, equipped with thirty oars, but even so that would scarcely leave room for Guldebrand’s hundred-strong retinue.

  ‘You will not need all of your men,’ said Ragnar when he voiced this complaint. ‘The Thegn Magnhilda has given her oath that you will come to no harm on her lands. Take a dozen of your best men with you, and no more. Lodgings and food have been prepared for the rest here at Halmstad.’

  Seeing the look of disquiet on Guldebrand’s face, the warlock leaned in. ‘You would do well to show trust at this juncture, Thegn of Kvenlund-Jótlund.’

  The mage held him in his one blue eye. Guldebrand searched inwardly for some signs of enthrallment, but could detect none. His words seemed reasonable. They were here on a peaceful mission of emissary after all.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, turning to address his men. ‘Varra and Brega, you will come with Ragnar and me. Pick ten others, everyone else stays here. Let us show the Thegn of Scandia that our intentions are genuine!’

  He raised his voice as he uttered the last sentence, hoping to inspire confidence in his men. Even after his victory, he still felt a stubborn feeling of inadequacy that refused to go away; most of the seacarls in his company were twice his age. To his relief the men complied, though more than one shot a dark glance at Ragnar as they turned to follow their hosts into town.

  Together with the rump of his retinue, Guldebrand stepped into the boat. At a command from the captain the ferry pulled away from the jetty. There was not enough wind for sailing and the men would have to row.

  To the north the rugged hills were swathed with forests: the Torwood that provided Halmstad with its livelihood along with fishing from the lake. But Guldebrand fixed his gaze west as they scudded out across its calm waters, now turning a deep purple as the sun slipped below the Torwold. Larger it grew, Utvalla’s silhouetted form rising up against the darkening skies to greet them. It appeared to be unremarkable enough: a squat two-storeyed fortress of ugly design. Northlanders were renowned for their shipwrighting, but the great castles and keeps of the mainland were unknown to them: save perhaps at Landarök, the walled city from where Oldrik Stormrider ruled his principality.

  ‘You said it was built on the ruins of an older building?’ he queried of Ragnar, succumbing to his curiosity.

  ‘Much older,’ replied the warlock, without turning to look at him. ‘Utvalla was a seat of power for an ancient race that dwelt here thousands of years ago, long before the coming of our ancestors. The loremasters of Ancient Thalamy called them the Watchtowers of the Magi, outposts built by sorcerer-kings who ruled the world from Varya millennia ago. The Watchtower of Utvalla was their outpost here, in the Frozen Wastes.’

  Guldebrand pulled his fur cloak more tightly around him. He was used to the cold, but this feeling was different somehow. ‘Why come here?’ he asked. ‘You told me before that this Varya lies many leagues to the south. Our lands are cold, much of them barren and strewn with rock. Northlanders raid fairer coasts with kinder climes, nobody raids us!’

  ‘Why seek to rule another principality, when one provides you with all the comforts you need?’ countered Ragnar. ‘Power is its own motive.’

  The young Thegn pursed his lips. He hadn’t thought of it like that before, but he supposed the priest had a point.

  ‘So what happened… to this watchtower you speak of?’

  ‘It was destroyed, long centuries ago. Only its foundations remained. For hundreds of years none would dare approach it. This very lake was cursed, its waters polluted by the magic its former owners had unleashed upon the world.’

  Guldebrand shifted his feet uncomfortably on the deck, not liking the revelation.

  ‘So… how did it become habitable again?’ he asked.

  ‘That is a mystery,’ said Ragnar. ‘Some say a mighty warlock, who lived during what the Thalamians refer to as the Golden Age, took up residence in Utvalla, banishing the demons and ghosts and lifting the curse that had lain about this place for so many aeons. Others say it was a holy man from Thalamy, by the name of Alysius, who did the cleansing.’

  ‘Alysius?’

  ‘A saint in the benighted faith of the Palomedians. Legend has it he came
here to live out the rest of his days in exile, after being banished from the mainland. But nobody knows for sure.’

  ‘And the foundations?’ pressed Guldebrand, feeling suddenly enslaved by his curiosity. ‘How far down do they go beneath the fortress?’

  ‘Several levels,’ replied Ragnar. ‘Though that part of the building has long been sealed off, and many priests have put warding charms on the entrances, so none might venture down there.’

  Ragnar turned to favour him with a one-eyed stare. His iris seemed to sparkle malevolently in the light of the lanterns hanging off the ship’s masthead. ‘Tis undoubtedly a good thing, Thegn Guldebrand – for who knows what fell secrets the ruins of the Elder Wizards keep?’

  Guldebrand flinched away from his scrutiny. He had a feeling the warlock knew rather more about those secrets than he was telling.

  The island was shrouded in dusky darkness by the time they pulled onto the lone wharf connecting it to the outside world. A few other boats were berthed, mostly longships; the shields attached to their gunwales glinted in light from torches stuck into sconces in the walled enclosure separating the dock from the rest of the island. Craggy hills stretched up behind its rude crenellations, tapering into a summit crowned by Utvalla.

  Perhaps it was Ragnar’s tale telling that had him spooked, but Guldebrand could have sworn there was an aura of insidious evil coming from that place. The faces of the shieldmen who lined the walls, training crossbows on him and his men as they embarked, looked grim and unyielding in the torchlight, but there was a drawn and nervous air to them too that set his hackles rising.

  Suppressing his fear he called out: ‘Is this the best welcome the Thegn of Kvenlund-Jótlund will receive, after a journey of many leagues to pay visit to the Shield Queen of Scandia?’

  His words sounded clumsy in his ears. He was just wishing he hadn’t said them when Ragnar spoke.

  ‘Our welcome is more royal than you think, Guldebrand Gunnarson – yonder comes Canute Mountainside to bid us well met.’