by Damien Black
‘I see,’ said Wolmar. ‘I thought a war would have appealed to any self-respecting baron.’
‘You’d be surprised. Not all relish the idea of a war with our northern neighbour. Rhunia, Narvon and Orrin are proving intractable – they’ll stay put, they’re far more concerned about defending their borders from the Thalamians I’m afraid. And about half a dozen margraves despise the King so much they’ll never agree to follow him to war, not even for the sake of plunder and glory.’
‘Is Morvaine one of them?’ asked Wolmar.
Ivon favoured him with a smug smile. ‘Actually no, Morvaine agreed to the invasion some time ago – our enmity is based on purely personal issues. I seduced his sister last summer.’
‘So what will happen with the barons who don’t agree to invade?’ asked Wolmar, choosing to ignore this revelation as something else occurred to him. ‘What’s to stop them trying to take the throne for themselves while the King is away fighting in Vorstlund?’
‘That’s the spirit, my sweet prince!’ exclaimed Ivon. ‘Now you’re thinking! Yes, that is exactly what the King and I have fathomed… which is where His Supreme Holiness comes in.’
Wolmar blinked, nonplussed. ‘Cyprian?’
‘Oh yes, don’t be fooled by the way Carolus talks to him – he and the King are in fact quite close. His Majesty was wise enough to exempt the Temple from his new taxes. In return His Supreme Holiness is going to declare a fresh crusade. You see, the margraves who hate the King most do so precisely because they are god-fearing men who respected Carolus the Elder. But when the Supreme Perfect declares the Fourth Pilgrim War they won’t be able to resist the call – they’ll be packed off to the Blessed Realm, leaving the King free to invade Vorstlund.’
‘Very clever,’ said Wolmar. ‘Is that the real reason why Uthor the Younger is at court, to help broker another crusade?’
‘Just so,’ smiled Ivon. ‘Although the taxes are a genuine issue in themselves.’
‘So why are you telling me all of this?’
Ivon leaned in close and stroked his hair.
‘My dear Sir Wolmar, as you may have noticed, I have taken a liking to thee… And I sense your rage and frustration. You have been overlooked all your life. When I look at you I see potential! I would have you join us – the King is an ambitious man, and will reward his allies well. You’ve already told me of your deeds of valour in your uncle’s war – a pox on these gilded tourneys, you were made for sterner stuff!’
‘What kind of sterner stuff do you have in mind?’ asked Wolmar. He felt suspicious, but at the same time he was intrigued. The Margrave’s words had piqued his pride.
Ivon smiled a sickly sweet smile.
‘Why Sir Wolmar, I must confess it’s been an absolute age since I donned armour and couched a lance... far more interesting things to do with one’s time. Vichy has five hundred knights ready to do service at my command. You shall lead them into Vorstlund for me.’
Wolmar squinted at him, not quite believing it.
‘You want me to be your marshal?’
‘To begin with… and perhaps other positions shall open up later.’
Wolmar looked away, suddenly unable to meet his lover’s eyes.
‘I could not desert my country,’ he faltered. ‘I have sworn to defend it.’
‘Aye, and what thanks did you get in return?’ Ivon shot back. ‘Sent hither like an errand boy. What business is it of yours to get involved in some sorcerous plot? You belong in the field I say!’
Wolmar turned and grabbed Ivon by the hair.
‘How do you know of my mission?’ he snarled. ‘Speak now!’
‘Ah… so hasty, my sweet prince,’ winced Ivon. ‘Did I not tell you just now I have the King’s confidence? He tells me everything.’
Wolmar relaxed his grip. ‘So you know about the Headstone fragments?’
A curious glint entered the Margrave’s eyes. ‘Oh yes… I took time to acquire my letters in my youth. I have read about them, enough to know that there are far older, darker powers in this world than you or I can fathom.’
‘So the Argolians would have us believe,’ said Wolmar, letting go of his lover. The new turn of conversation made him feel uncomfortable.
‘I already told you that my house is intermingled with the royal blood of Rius, but we have many other stories, some glorious, some tragic, and some… strange.’
‘Strange?’
‘The ruling house of Rius is not the first time we Laurelins have married into royal blood. Centuries ago, when the kingdom was young, Tristande the Third Margrave of Vichy married the daughter of Aaron III. Ever afterwards he was known as the Bridal Cursed. His wife was Arawin the Benighted, and it was said that she learned pagan sorcery at the feet of her father, whom posterity now call the Bewitched.’
Wolmar gaped. ‘You’re saying one of the first kings of Pangonia was a warlock?’
‘Just so,’ replied Ivon with a sardonic smile. ‘He lived a long life, but many about his court withered and died… including my ancestor Tristande. But not before Arawin had borne him a single son, Salomon, who inherited his title. He is said to have been taught the black arts by his mother… some even say he was carried off by the North Wind to the Other Side one moonless night, never to return.’
‘I should have expected no less from Pangonians,’ spat Wolmar. ‘Thank Reus my own royal blood is not so tainted.’
‘Yes,’ said Ivon, caressing the princeling’s cheek. ‘You are indeed… fortunate. Such powers as the Elder Wizards wielded are not to be trifled with. And that is why I urge you to distance yourself from this business of the sorcerous fragments – you were made to fight foes of flesh and blood, Wolmar.’
Wolmar felt a shiver run down his spine. He had not told Ivon of the demon at Staerkvit. Even if he had wanted to, how did you broach such a subject?
Ivon let his hand run down Wolmar’s back, soothingly stroking the knotted muscles.
‘So tense, my sweet prince,’ breathed the Margrave. ‘You have witnessed such horrors, that I can see plainly. And losing your poor father on top of it all. No, you need a purpose – a worthy goal to set your sights on to banish this darkness from your mind.’
A barely suppressed shudder ran through Wolmar. The night suddenly felt very cold.
‘I have seen… some terrible things,’ he said.
‘But you have done glorious things too,’ said Ivon. ‘And shall do yet more. Join with us, Sir Wolmar, and I promise the terrible things you have seen shall not seem so terrible any more.’
Wolmar felt powerless to resist as the Margrave gently drew his head down to rest in his lap. A great weariness was on him: all he wanted now was to sleep. As he drifted into unconsciousness he was dimly aware of Ivon murmuring words in a strange-sounding, alien tongue.
CHAPTER VII
The Warband Musters
‘We’ve more than two and a half thousand fighting men at our disposal,’ said Guldebrand. ‘Not counting the five hundred we’ve sent to Ystad.’
A dozen war-lined faces peered at him as he went on outlining his battle plan. They belonged to some of the most powerful men and women in the Principalities. He could not afford to show any weakness.
He pointed to the map laid out on the tree stump and continued. ‘I propose we divide the rest of our forces, send half across the Hror Ranges to attack Halgaard directly. The other half should cut through the Hrorwood and start pillaging the lands thereabout.’
Magnhilda raised an eyebrow. ‘Pillaging? Why waste good men doing that? This is a war not a mainland raid.’
Guldebrand shook his head. ‘No, we need to draw them out, provoke them. If we concentrate all our forces in a single pitched battle we risk losing everything on one throw of the dice. Not all of Oldrik’s warriors will be mobilised – we kill as many shieldmen on their farms as we can, weaken his leidang and those of his jarls. So I say two forces.’
He moved a couple of chequers counters across the vellum to demonstr
ate his meaning.
‘The first force takes Halgaard and commandeers the ships at the nearby river port of Umtsk to sail up the Holm towards Landarök. Meanwhile, the second force strikes north-west towards it, burning and slaying as they go. Both forces converge on the capital, like so – and we have Oldrik in a pincer. A crab’s claw to crush him with!’
He glanced around the all-thing to see how his proposal was being received. Two weeks had passed since his duel with Magnhilda, and their combined forces were mustered. More than half a dozen jarls, Brega and Varra, the Mountainside, Magnhilda and Ragnar and several other champions were crowded under the awning. The sound of warriors drilling filtered in from the bustling camp that filled the plains around them.
‘The original plan was simply to march on Halgaard,’ rumbled Mountainside. ‘But I like this change, it’s bold and it’s ruthless. I say we do it.’
‘But how can you be so sure of Oldrik’s deployments?’ asked one jarl. ‘What if he has all his leidangs mustered already?’
Guldebrand favoured him with a sly smile. The jarl was in service to Asmund – Ragnar had delivered him news of the alliance and the timid Thegn had quickly judged which way the wind was blowing.
‘He doesn’t,’ said Guldebrand. ‘This is where we have an advantage the Stormrider lacks – we have a spy who can fly! White Eye, now is the time for your latest report I think.’
Ragnar nodded curtly and pointed at the map with his trident. ‘I have scoured all the lands of Gautlund. The Stormrider knows nothing of our alliance and is not expecting an attack. He has a thousand men under sail, heading towards Varborg to try and reverse our gains in Jótlund. He has despatched another jarl to deal with the men Magnhilda sent to Ystad a tenday ago.’
Mountainside whistled. ‘So he took the bait then? Good, very good! Let the Stormrider waste five hundred men chasing our lads back across the Vakka, while we descend on him from the east. With any luck they’ll come marching back to a conquered realm!’
‘On top of that he has hundreds of men away on mainland raids,’ continued Ragnar. ‘By my estimates that leaves him with two thousand men. Five hundred are garrisoned at Halgaard under the command of Jarl Edgard. Another five hundred are in the lands south of the Røk and won’t be on hand. That leaves a thousand stationed in Landarök and settled on the lands about it.’
Magnhilda smiled. ‘Fifteen hundred men including Edgard,’ she said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘I begin to see your purpose, my betrothed. If we take Halgaard quickly we should be able to overwhelm Oldrik before any reinforcements arrive.’
‘How will that be possible?’ asked Brega. ‘Halgaard is well situated, it commands a view of the Hrorpass – they’ll see us coming for miles!’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ said Ragnar. ‘I shall put a glamour on the men who cross the Hrorpass. You will not be seen, until you are close enough to launch a surprise attack.’
Guldebrand’s smile broadened. ‘Useful to have a wizard in tow,’ he said.
Several of the men including the Mountainside looked distinctly uneasy at that, but Guldebrand was quick to reassure them.
‘Tis but illusion magick, friends,’ he said. ‘No harm will befall you!’
Magnhilda bit her lip. Several of the jarls and champions exchanged uncertain glances and one or two shook their heads.
‘What guarantees do we have that this isn’t some sorcerous trick?’ said the Shield Queen, looking askance at Ragnar.
He returned her stare, his frosted eye catching the setting sun with a queer gleam. She held his cyclopean gaze unabashed. Guldebrand could have sworn something passed between them then, like a current of energy.
‘I can offer you no guarantees,’ said the mage coldly. ‘You either choose to place trust in my powers, or you don’t.’
‘I say a pox on his powers!’ cried another jarl, this one in service to Magnhilda. ‘We are true-born Northlanders and should fight as such!’
A few throats showed what the men thought of that.
‘Very well,’ said Ragnar. ‘Go marching down the Hrorpass without my protection. I guarantee you will find a host of armed men waiting for you at Halgaard. Other shieldmen on the lands below shall see you from miles away, and will mobilise. You will have a pitched battle with many lives lost on either side.’
‘If that be Tyrnor’s will, so be it!’ cried a battle-scarred champion. ‘Let the souls of the slain seek the Halls of Feasting and Fighting, as befits warriors who die in battle!’
‘Enough!’ cried Guldebrand, holding up a hand. ‘I am fighting to consolidate a realm, and do you know why?’
He caught the eye of the jarl who had spoken, before turning to look everyone in the face in turn.
‘Because this is just the beginning, my friends! Once Oldrik is slain, Magnhilda and I shall rule the Frozen Principalities! And then we shall bring together such an army as has not been seen since the time of Søren! Aye, the tumult of axes we shall bring in sea steeds across the sail road to the mainland, and take back the lands that dared sunder themselves from us! The Kingdom of Northalde we shall rule as ours, the race of northmen shall be reunited under our banner! Does this not appeal to you my friends?’
The myrmidons shrugged and suddenly looked bashful. He was thinking bigger than them, and they knew it.
‘I still don’t see why we need to use sorcerous trickery!’ said the champion.
‘Because to conquer the mainland we’re going to need as many warriors as we can get, living and whole,’ said Guldebrand. ‘A fat lot of good we’ll be if half of us are butchered in a costly civil war! For too long Northlander has turned on Northlander – in the days of Olav Ironhand it was not so! That is why we must strike quickly and decisively, best Oldrik as easily as we can – with the minimum of bloodshed. We take Halgaard, and we close in on Landarök. When he sees our superior numbers, he may even surrender to save his skin!’
Magnhilda frowned. ‘I don’t see Oldrik doing that,’ she said. ‘What’s to stop him holding the walls until his reinforcements arrive?’
Guldebrand tapped the map. ‘Because half our men will be assaulting him by river, remember? There are no walls where the Holm passes through the city. Once our men are inside, there’s no way Oldrik’s can hold us to a siege.’
The mutterings had turned to approval. The jarls and champions definitely liked his plan. Guldebrand felt his heart soar. By the time his sixteenth summer was over, he would rule all the Frozen Wastes.
Canute was looking at Magnhilda, his ugly face cracking a broad grin. ‘By Thoros and Sjórkunan but the lad’s plan is a good one,’ he said.
‘Well, betrothed,’ said the Shield Queen, a smile on her own face now. ‘It seems it was true what I said about you before – you really do have something of Logi about you. But your ambitions are worthy of Tyrnor.’
She held out her hand in the warrior’s clasp and he took it. It was an odd gesture between a man and his future wife, but somehow it felt appropriate.
‘Very well,’ said Magnhilda. ‘Let us deal with Oldrik as swiftly as we can, by fair means or foul, and consolidate our new kingdom. Then we’ll bring such weather of weapons to the mainlanders as they have not seen in seven hundred years!’
The awning erupted in cheering. Guldebrand smiled, flushed with his success, and called loudly for mead. As he did he caught Ragnar’s one good eye. The warlock did not join in the merriment, but merely stood stock still leaning on his trident.
In spite of himself, Guldebrand found his fingers reaching towards the pomander about his neck.
CHAPTER VIII
A Palace Coup
‘All right, you all know what you’ve to do.’
The faces of his companions were set grim in the fading light. All except Regan’s that was. The young knight worried Vertrix. He seemed like his old self, breezy and confident. And that was the problem: no one in their right mind should feel that way given what they were about to undertake.
Bryant nodded slowly. ‘The plan is simple enough after all,’ he said, speaking softly. The guards outside their door most likely wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway, but it was best to be sure.
Vertrix turned to look at the others. Their squires were with them, all except Paidlin of course, who wouldn’t have any pretext to be attending them on the eve of the feast. But the poor lad could have no part in their plan anyway, crippled as he was. Mulling over its chances of success, Vertrix reflected that perhaps that was for the best. At least one of them had a better than average chance of living out the day.
He met Regan’s eyes last, holding them in his own as he asked him once more if he understood what was required of him.
‘Well I’m still carrying an injury from the Northlending war,’ said the knight, ‘but Reus willing I’ll be able to move quickly enough when the time comes.’
He sounded as confident as ever. Too confident. Vertrix’s guts found a tighter knot for themselves as he forced himself to dissemble.
‘All right, good,’ he said, addressing all of them. ‘Now let’s be about it, lads. I believe we’ve a royal feast to prepare for.’
They dressed in silence, the absence of sound doing little for the old knight’s nerves. It had taken him a fortnight to persuade Abrexta and the King that he had come round to their madcap plan to conquer the Westerling Isles. Tonight he’d be rewarded for his efforts with a place at the table adjacent to the King’s. All his years of military experience had gone into winning that favour; if he could not expect to win their trust, at least he could prove himself indispensible and worthy of a more honourable position.
A knock on the door heralded the event they had prepared for. Taking a deep breath Vertrix called for their escort of guards to enter.
Just as they did and the others turned to face them, he leaned in and whispered to Gormly: ‘You know what to do if he can’t be trusted.’