Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Then she began to press him back again.

  The myrmidons of Utvalla were on their feet by now, screaming for first blood. Again and again she struck and again he parried, dodged or blocked, stubbornly refusing to give up the fight as lost. His feet felt numb as he tottered back on them, his breath tearing from his chest in ragged gasps.

  Just my luck, he thought as she pushed him back towards the wall, bested by a female berserker in sight of dozens more.

  And then he realised how he could win.

  Increasing his backwards strides so he moved well out of range of her attacks, he yelled: ‘Is that the best you can do?! Magnhilda, Shield Queen! Berserker maiden of Scandia! You can’t even beat a green youth of sixteen summers!’

  Ignoring the jeers from the crowd he went on as she came at him: ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t see fit to marry you!’

  It took all his strength and speed to fend off her next salvo of blows.

  Disengaging himself again, he gasped: ‘Why I think the Thegn of Scandia can’t hold her mead! Look how she struggles!’

  A few laughs mingled with the next chorus of jeers. Presumably many of the warriors thought he was going out with a burst of ironic humour.

  But there was nothing funny about Guldebrand’s intentions. He hadn’t journeyed all this way to be made a laughing stock of. By all the storms of Thoros, but he would be king – by any means necessary.

  He played his part for the next couple of passes, each time getting closer to being struck.

  But it was starting to work. He could see rage rising in Magnhilda as he lashed her with one coarse jibe after another, maddeningly scrambling out of range before she could punish him for his temerity. He couldn’t keep that up forever of course – eventually he would tire and she would close him out, finishing him off.

  But Guldebrand had no intention of keeping this up forever.

  Wrenching himself back from her latest flurry of sword-strokes he cried at the top of his lungs so everybody could hear him: ‘Why look – she doesn’t even bear any real battle scars! The only slit she’s got is the one between her legs!’

  That was the final straw.

  Magnhilda’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, froth collecting at the corners of her mouth as the berserker rage took her. It normally required a battle for the Wrath of Tyrnor to possess one of his disciples, but relentlessly insulting her seemed to have done the trick.

  The Thegn of Scandia gave vent to the kind of shriek that silences crowds in a split second. Charging across a hall stunned into silence she descended on him in a silver flurry, her blade seemingly in several places at once. First blood was out: in her enraged state she was now trying to kill him. He was about to take another gamble, to risk everything in the pursuit of power.

  Guldebrand’s shield splintered as she hacked at it furiously. He had a few seconds left to live: he would have to time his next move perfectly.

  As she raised her sword to strike again, he let go of his own blade and launched himself at her, smashing his forehead into her nose as he sent them both tumbling to the ground. She writhed frenziedly, trying to shrug him off. This close she couldn’t use her sword, but her berserker strength meant he wouldn’t be able to hold her prone for longer than a few moments.

  He felt as though he were wrestling with the Great World Serpent. Imminently he would be thrown across the hall and then hacked to bloody ribbons where he lay.

  ‘First blood!’ he screamed. ‘FIRST BLOOD!’

  With another piercing cry Magnhilda threw him off her. He landed painfully on his back several paces away. She rose, sword in hand, looming over him like the death goddess Hela – which to all intents and purposes for him she was.

  From her nose a thick stream of red poured into her mouth.

  ‘HOLD!’ boomed Canute, stepping into the fighting area and motioning for several other seacarls to do likewise. ‘Thegn Guldebrand has the right of it! Restrain the Shield Queen before she dishonours herself!’

  It took Canute and half a dozen other strong men to disarm the shieldmaiden and restrain her. Presently she quivered into submission as the berserker rage left her. Her nose was still bleeding where Guldebrand had headbutted it.

  ‘Mead for the Shield Queen!’ thundered Canute. ‘She needs a drink to revive her!’

  Guldebrand made sure he had one himself. His gambit had paid off, but he was more surprised than exalted. On the field of battle berserker rage was a deadly thing, and one possessed warrior might cut down half a dozen or more before being slain. But in a carefully balanced fight to first blood, it was likely to prove a liability.

  Or so he’d hoped – and so it had proved.

  If Ragnar was impressed or pleased by the outcome, he showed no signs of it. Stepping forwards he held up his shackled wrists.

  ‘The fight is done,’ he said. ‘Have your smith strike off these chains.’

  Magnhilda, pressing a rag to her nose in between taking slurps of mead, glared at him. For half a second Guldebrand thought she was going to fly into another rage, but instead she nodded and motioned for the blacksmith to do his work.

  ‘Well, Guldebrand Gunnarson,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘You have proved yourself a cunning foe, as well as a passable swordsman. There is a touch of Logi about you, methinks – but maybe that will prove useful.’ She caught Canute’s eye. Her champion had abided by the rules of the contest, but judging by the expression on his face he wasn’t too pleased with Guldebrand’s method of winning.

  Let him sulk – he’d answer to Guldebrand before long.

  ‘Ragnar,’ she continued, ‘you were a priest, before you took a darker road. Continue your return to the fold by witnessing this betrothal – Magnhilda the Shield Queen shall wed Guldebrand Gunnarson when Oldrik Stormrider feeds the eagles! Let us see the ceremony done here and now!’

  ‘As you wish, Thegn of Scandia,’ replied Ragnar, massaging his free wrists. He sounded as neutral as ever.

  But that scarcely bothered Guldebrand. His heart soared as Ragnar declared them betrothed in sight of Godshome and mortalkind. He was one step closer to his dream of being Magnate. And once the Ice Thegns were united behind him, the real work would begin: the Known World would see a new Age of Reavers, the first since his ancestors had conquered the mainland seven hundred years ago.

  A cawing sound caught his ear. He turned quickly, his heart in his mouth as he saw a black bird flying in through a window… But it was no raven, just a crow come to peck at scraps on the tables. Heaving an inward sigh of relief he turned back to face his newly betrothed.

  She stared at him with cloud-coloured eyes, another playful smile on her lips.

  CHAPTER III

  Spared and Ensnared

  ‘… and, due to lack of evidence, the tribunal finds you not guilty of high treason.’

  Sir Vertrix heaved an inward sigh of relief. He found time to exchange grateful glances with Bryant and Regan before they were ushered from the Chamber of Justice by guards. The half dozen tribunes, none of them men he recognised, rose from the mahogany table from where they had just saved three good knights from going to the gallows. Not one betrayed a flicker of emotion at the judgment they had just pronounced.

  More of Abrexta’s thralls, thought Vertrix. The question is: why did they spare us?

  Sir Lyall, captain of the guards, escorted them through the cramped corridors of the palace to a chamber in the guests’ wing. Their walls were fashioned from interlocking branches, an eerie reminder of the Faerie Time when the Island Kings had ruled in Thraxia.

  His bluff bearded face betrayed no expression as he said: ‘You’re to stay here until called for by the King.’ Nodding towards the next door along, flanked by two men-at-arms, he added: ‘Your squires are lodged in the room hard by. You may speak with them if you wish, but on no account are you to visit any other part of the palace without my say-so. I’ll be posting guards on your door as well.’

  ‘That’s a fine way to treat three dist
inguished guests exonerated of groundless charges,’ said Vertrix, trying his luck.

  ‘Aye, it is,’ returned Lyall, ignoring his irony. ‘You’ve just been spared your lives. That’s a sight more than most who go before the tribunal can say nowadays.’

  If he had any feelings about that, the captain showed no sign of them.

  ‘Good day to thee,’ said Lyall courteously, clicking his spurs and striding off with the rest of his guard in tow – less two men who now lingered by the door to their room.

  ‘Strange man,’ murmured Regan as they entered it. ‘Not seen him before at court.’

  ‘Not strange – ensorcelled,’ corrected Vertrix as he closed the door behind them. ‘That’ll be why you haven’t seen him before. Anyone in authority whom she couldn’t enthral has been replaced with someone she could.’

  ‘Why hasn’t she enthralled us?’ asked Bryant, looking unusually nervous.

  But Vertrix had no answer to that question. An Argolian might – but he’d seen none since arriving at Ongist, apart from the poor devil they’d executed at Market Circle.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered, reaching for a jug of wine on the chamber’s single table. ‘Let’s have a quick stoop before we go and tell our faithful squires we’re safe and sound.’

  His sarcasm did nothing to lighten his mood. Hopefully the wine would.

  The King’s voice was stern and unyielding as he spoke. ‘Northern Dréuth is lost – Tíerchán has defeated Lord Tarneogh and put his people to the sword,’ he said. ‘Your soon-to-be-erstwhile liege Lord Braun shall join him: more than half his knights have been slain or taken and the rest cower behind the walls of Gaellen. As for Lord Cael of Varrogh, he stands to share a similar fate. Word reached us yestere’en that the highlanders are marching through his lands, laying waste and burning as they go.’

  ‘I cannot believe this news moves you not,’ was all Sir Vertrix could say. The throneroom was all but empty – besides himself, the King, Regan and Bryant, the only occupants were the palace guards.

  And, of course, Abrexta.

  She sat beside the Seat of High Kings, coolly impassive. That she was fair there could be no doubt: her raven tresses fell to her supple waist, about which a girdle drew a robe of deep green velvet to her curving figure to pleasing effect. She was as tall as any Northlending beauty he had seen at the court of Strongholm, with pale skin. Her dark eyes looked right through him under lustrous eyelashes.

  Wrenching his eyes from her he prayed she wouldn’t try to ensorcell him. Her looks alone were enough to bewitch a man.

  ‘No, the news does not move us,’ replied the King firmly. ‘Because we are going to do something about it.’

  A flicker of hope dared to cross Vertrix’s heart. ‘You will march to war against them?’

  ‘No, I shall invite them to peace,’ said the King. ‘In fact, I have already invited an emissary from the highland forces commanded by Slangá Mac Bryon to parlay.’

  Vertrix’s disapproval must have been written across his face, because the King eyed him coldly and said: ‘You should be thankful I’m including you in our regal council, Vertrix – your reputation precedes you. Otherwise, the accusations against you might have been more readily believed.’

  And who levelled those in the first place, as if I didn’t know? thought the old knight.

  ‘And why does Your Majesty confer such a boon upon me?’ he asked. Might as well get to the truth of it if he could: he no longer cared for his life, it would perish along with everything he held dear in Gaellentir.

  ‘Because the time has come for unity,’ said Cadwy. ‘We have put down numerous uprisings against our royal person here in Umbria. Tul Aeren complains of our new taxes, and rumours abound that it plans to lead the other regions of the south in rebellion. The realm needs a new cause, a real enemy to fight! You’ve seen the ships being built at harbour no doubt… Well, the time has come to reveal their purpose. Bring in my court! The King has an announcement to make.’

  Like sheep to the fold, they filed in. They were for the most part knights and lords that held land in Umbria. All of its lands north of the Rundle were ruled directly by Cadwy; its southern reaches were parcelled out between a handful of barons.

  Vertrix saw few faces that he recognised. These men had replaced the loyal nobles who had dared oppose their King’s madness. How many of these new faces belonged to men who’d been ensorcelled, he wondered – and how many were simply toadies who knew when to knuckle under?

  ‘I’ve summoned you all here to make an important announcement,’ declared the King. He barely raised his voice, which sounded strangely neutral. ‘For a while now rumours have been swirling about the capital – concerning the fleet under construction.’

  He paused as if to let his words sink in, but there was scarcely a reaction. Some of the courtiers even looked bored – though it was clear their liege planned to tell them something of great import.

  ‘Well, the rumours are true,’ went on Cadwy, unabashed. ‘A hundred war galleys our royal person has seen fit to commission – even now I have sent agents abroad to solicit mariners from our erstwhile foe Cobia. For their excellence at sea shall be needed in this coming campaign.’

  Even the subdued court could not help but react to that. Memories of the War of the Cobian Succession were still painful to any self-respecting Thraxian.

  ‘Why solicit our implacable foes for help?’ one noble dared to ask. ‘Are our own mariners not good enough for the fleet Your Majesty is building?’

  ‘Not for what we’re planning, no,’ answered the King bluntly. ‘For we’re going to take back the land from which our ancestors were so unjustly banished ages ago – we’re going to war against the Westerlings! For that we’ll need the best navy this realm has ever seen – and we’ll need the finest army too. That’s why I’ve sent word to all the southern barons – every lord south of Umbria shall commit an hundred knights and a like number each of archers and men-at-arms to the cause.’

  ‘And what of the lands of the north?’ one young knight dared to ask.

  About time one of you showed an awareness of reality, thought Vertrix bitterly.

  The King’s face did not change as he turned to face the knight. ‘The highland presence is a reality,’ he said. ‘Only Lord Cael of Varrogh holds back the armies of Slangá and Tíerchán. But fear not! For I have resolved to turn this pressing problem to our advantage – a thorn in our side shall be plucked forthwith, and pressed instead into the flanks of our age-old enemy. Let the emissaries be permitted to enter!’

  The doors were thrown open and in walked four highland warriors. Favouring the throng with contemptuous sneers they approached the dais, pointedly refusing to take a knee and meeting the King’s stare with defiance. They were dressed in the brightly coloured interlocking patterns of their clan and clad in furs and boiled leather. Rude weapons – axes, short swords and long knives – were clutched in their hands in further show of their complete indifference to courtly protocol.

  Vertrix scowled as the tallest of them spoke up.

  ‘Slangá Mac Bryon, conqueror o’ the northern reaches, sends his greetings to ye, lowland king,’ he said in thickly accented Thrax. His hair was tied back in a bun, his beard decorated with silver rings. Several of his teeth were missing, making his sneer all the uglier.

  ‘Cadwy, First Man of the Ruling Royal Clan of Cierny, King of all the Thraxians, bids you welcome to his hall,’ replied the monarch.

  Was it his imagination or did the brigand’s eye flicker momentarily towards Abrexta? The old knight felt his anxiety go up a notch – some dark conspiracy was afoot, of that much he felt certain.

  ‘Well,’ pressed the King. ‘Here you are in my hall, granted safe passage by our terms of parlay. So out with it – say what you have come here to say.’

  ‘I’ve nothin’ tae say but this – Dréuth is oors, like it or no! Ye can send an army o’ yer own tae fight it oot, or ye can come tae peace terms wi’ us. It’s the easy
way or the hard way, yer royal majesty.’

  The King turned to smile at Abrexta, who favoured him with a knowing smirk.

  Oh you blasted fool, you think she’s laughing with you not at you, thought Vertrix desperately. He knew what was coming next, but it still made him sick to hear it.

  ‘You wish to settle the lands you have conquered,’ the King went on. ‘Without further dispute from our royal person. It shall be granted – on condition that you agree to ally yourselves with us.’

  That seemed to take the messenger aback. ‘Aye?’ he managed presently. ‘And what alliance are ye proposin’?’

  ‘Firstly, our offer. All lands north of the holding of Varrogh shall be yours to do with as you wish, save for Port Grendel, which shall retain its status as a free cityport. In return I want the highland tribes to guarantee lowland merchants safe passage to and from it, for which you may of course exact a reasonable toll.’

  The emissary raised an eyebrow, but did not interrupt the King as he went on: ‘We are raising a fleet to attack your – nay, our – Westerling cousins. Kaluryn and Skulla shall be brought to heel, and Ongist shall rule a maritime empire that straddles the Tanagorm Sea and Tyrnian Straits.’

  The four emissaries exchanged whistles and glances. If they had expected to hear this, they hid it well.

  ‘I want the highlanders on board – literally,’ the King continued. ‘Slangá and Tíerchán are both to send a thousand of their finest screamers to join the invasion army. All things going well, it shall sail for the Island Realms on the autumn tides. Those men who join shall of course receive new lands in the Westerling Isles, as befits conquerors. In return for all of this you shall keep the lands you’ve conquered, but Varrogh you’ll spare. You’ve enough as it is, and I need at least one buffer province betwixt my lands and yours for security.’

  The emissaries exchanged glances again. Abrexta stared at them all with glittering eyes.

  ‘That’s… a fair offer,’ the spokesman said at length.