Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising
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‘And what about Abrexta? Is she a suspect too?’
‘Every warlock of repute is a suspect right now,’ said the adept. ‘But by all accounts Abrexta is an enchantress, not well versed in Demonology. I suspect she is another apprentice, as was Andragorix – but we shall see!’
The sun was setting by the time they emerged from the Glimmerholt. The eight turrets of Graukolos were etched against the skyline, a formidable silhouette beckoning them back. Adelko suddenly realised he was famished: the Eorl had said something about a celebration feast. On the other side of the Graufluss he could make out a camp of tents, pennants flying in the twilight breeze.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll be going anywhere in the next few days with a tournament on,’ he said, trying to sound light.
Horskram harrumphed testily. ‘I have little doubt our chivalrous bodyguards have lost no time in entering themselves,’ he said, pausing to relight his lantern. ‘But the hinterlands of Vorstlund are lawless places, and we may need our trusty swords again. Be sure I shall take advantage of the interval to resume your tutelage – it’s high time you caught up with your studies, young man!’
Adelko had to smile at that. Though the past few months had changed him, he felt that things between him and his mentor had normalised somewhat. For all their bickering, he still admired the adept immensely. And whatever the Earth Witch’s prophecies had to say, he was still just a novice.
The sun was vanishing by the time they struck the road leading to Graukolos. Just then they caught the sound of wings flapping: an eagle descended into their circle of light, flying around them once, twice. Something was clutched in its beak. It dropped the object on to the path and flew back into the deepening dusk with a shriek.
Horskram bent down to examine the item before picking it up. It was a leathern tube. Unbuckling it he emptied out a vellum scroll bound with a length of twine and opened it. A message was written on it in a spiky hand that Adelko did not recognise.
‘The Ogham script of the Westerling Isles,’ said Horskram. ‘I think our ally from the Argael has something to tell us.’
Horskram read the message, then translated for Adelko’s benefit:
Friar Horskram, I trust this finds you safe and well.
My thanks for your aid in ridding the world of Andragorix. If ever you pass this way again, the Girdle is yours to use as haven and sanctuary – for as long as it stands.
I wish I could repay you with better news, but my attempts at Scrying have borne little fruit; somebody somewhere is countering to great effect, and farseeing is difficult. As far as I can fathom, Abrexta is planning an invasion of the Island Realms: the northern wards have all been conquered or pacified and the Highlanders dance to her tune. And another power is stirring in the Far Southlands, but who or where exactly I could not divine.
And I sense another warlock operating, closer to home. If you intend to continue your journey to Rima, be on your guard! Something stirs in the Pangonian capital, someone powerful enough to blindside all the adepts of your Order. More than this I cannot tell.
These are complex times, when faeries aid mortalkind and witches and witch-hunters ally themselves to one another, so my advice to you is to expect the unexpected and trust no one.
I repeat, trust no one.
CHAPTER X
In Search of Prey
‘A splendid day for hunting, quite simply marvellous!’
Lord Ivon squinted up into the cloudless sky, his handsome face creasing in the sun’s strong rays. Wheeling his courser around to face the others he beamed. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll find ourselves a deer or two.’
Wolmar scowled as he took the saddle of his own horse. It was a piebald stallion the Margrave had lent him, but he felt little enthusiasm for the sport. As far as he was concerned, hunting was for petty vassals and those too weak or afraid to fight real foes.
Yet he increasingly found he could refuse his paramour nothing. Even now as their eyes met he felt a thrill course through his body. And it had only been a couple of hours since they had lain together that morning…
He caught Lord Kaye’s eye as they nudged their horses into a canter, leaving the manor house where they had guested the previous night. The Margrave of Quillon had showed him grudging respect since the Crescent Bridge Tourney a week ago, though there was still no love lost between them.
Wolmar scowled at him and nudged his courser next to Ivon’s. He didn’t like to be apart from him. The trail they followed took them further up into the hills, past the hunting lodge where the pair of them had trysted a few nights ago.
He had been mulling over Ivon’s proposal ever since, and knew not what to do. The idea had grown on him, he had to admit: serving as Marshal to a powerful baron from the most powerful of the Free Kingdoms promised fortune and glory. And what could he expect as an alternative in his homeland, where he was scorned, disliked and under-appreciated?
And yet… He was a prince of the House of Ingwin. Northalde was his native country. Something held him back from accepting Ivon’s offer.
At any rate he still had time to make his mind up. That old fool Hannequin had not sent him any communication since their last meeting. Probably up to no good: secretive and suspicious, just like all Argolians. But at least it meant he could linger in Rima a while longer, until Horskram turned up. The monk would give him the latest news of the mission and he could take that back to his uncle at Strongholm.
Or that was the excuse he gave himself for remaining.
They continued riding along a winding trail. As well as Kaye there was Aravin and Rodger, with their squires bringing up the rear leading sumpters laden with bows, arrows, spears, hunting knives and camping gear.
At the crest of the hills Wolmar could see their destination: the dark line of trees fronting the Arbevere.
‘Prime hunting to be had!’ said Lord Ivon. ‘Tonight we’ll feast well – the Arbevere is normally reserved exclusively for the King’s privilege…’
‘… but you enjoy the King’s favour,’ Wolmar finished for him dryly.
‘Exactly!’ said the Margrave, favouring him with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Come now, look lively my dear nobles,’ he barked, turning in the saddle to address the others. ‘The game’s afoot as they say!’
Kaye started to reply in Panglian but Ivon cut him off.
‘In Decorlangue, please,’ he said. ‘You know how rude it is to speak in a tongue our guest has not mastered.’
Wolmar didn’t bother to turn around, but he could guess the margraves were exchanging sneers. Typical Pangonians – expecting everyone else to learn their language.
‘My head hurts,’ offered Lord Rodger, now speaking in Decorlangue. ‘Too much Armandy red last night.’
‘Too much time spent debauching our host’s daughter,’ quipped Lord Aravin. ‘Half the house could hear you.’
‘She won’t be marriageable now,’ said Kaye. ‘A vassal of the King gives us hospitality and thus you repay him.’ His tone of voice suggested he couldn’t care less, but then neither could Wolmar.
‘Pah, he’s only a landed knight, whilst we are lords of the realm,’ scoffed Rodger. ‘What do I care for the lesser nobility’s opinion?’
The distinction baffled Sir Wolmar. ‘In my homeland all men with titles are considered of noble birth… knights and barons share blue blood and may duel equally.’
‘Your northern manners are as crude as your jousting technique,’ said Lord Aravin, raising sniggers from Kaye and Rodger. ‘No wonder Sir Aremis bested you in the third round.’
Wolmar brought his horse up and rounded angrily on the Margrave of Varangia. ‘And I suppose he found you made of sterner stuff, did he?’
There was a dangerous glint in Lord Aravin’s eyes as he answered. ‘He didn’t knock me off my horse – three tilts and I was still in the saddle.’
‘He bested you on foot though didn’t he?’ snarled Wolmar. ‘Put your clumsy swordplay to shame, the way I heard it told.’
‘Oh aye?’ shouted Wolmar. ‘Shall we repair now to a place of our choosing and see who wields the better blade?’
Aravin was about to answer when Ivon moved his horse between them. ‘My dear nobles, peace! Now is a time to seek sport with the beasts of the wood, not each other.’
Aravin remained unmoved. ‘As to that, if the Northlending desires satisfaction, he may have it forthwith.’
Ivon’s face lengthened. ‘I said enough is enough! We are not here to fight one another like disgruntled tourney knights.’
Something in his voice changed when he spoke: the timbre hardened and the words sounded deeper, more hollow somehow. Wolmar felt compelled to obey instantly. Aravin blanched and looked away. Rodger seemed confused, while Kaye simply frowned and shook his head as if to clear it.
‘Forgive me Lord Ivon,’ mumbled Aravin. ‘I did not mean to speak out of turn.’
‘I say while Sir Wolmar remains at court he is one of us,’ said Ivon. His voice had returned to its usual affable tone, but Wolmar sensed that things were different somehow. ‘I’ve vouched for him, and I won’t have anyone gainsay that. You’ve all had your sport with the foreigner, now leave him be… I hope that’s understood.’
The Pangonian lords looked from one to another before nodding. They were all high-born, but there was no doubt who was really in charge.
‘Now come, come!’ said Ivon, turning his courser again to follow the trail. ‘There’s fine hunting to be had, let us enjoy the day…’
Wolmar followed, feeling very peculiar indeed. Something told him he should be anxious, but instead all he felt was an odd tranquillity. That and an abiding adoration for his lover. His homeland was so far away… But Ivon was right here beside him. With one of its most powerful men to vouch for him, Pangonia seemed rich with opportunity.
He felt his loyalty to king and country fading.
They spent the rest of the day in predictable fashion. Wolmar took part with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, helping Aravin chase down and kill a deer. Kaye felled another with the bow – he was clearly a better marksman than a jouster. Rodger managed to fall off his horse into a thicket, his contribution to the day’s event.
Ivon seemed to do little, Wolmar noticed. He was always in the rear, yet there was never a sense that he was lagging behind. Rather the opposite… it felt as though he were orchestrating the whole day, to what end the princeling could not say.
At least it was cool in the Arbevere, Wolmar reflected as they made their way towards the spot they had designated for their camp. The late afternoon rays dappled through the verdant leaves as they pushed through the trees and into the clearing. Two of their squires had set up pavilions in anticipation of their arrival; the other pair led in the day’s kill, strung across the sumpters.
The source of the Athos was not far from the clearing and poured from a cavernous rent in the high wooded hills overlooking it. The four Pangonians stripped and went to bathe in its waters. Another strange custom. Wolmar reluctantly followed suit and plunged into the icy waters. Pangonians were said to bathe once a month, whether they needed to or not. Wolmar didn’t see the point – and he was sure he’d heard a physicker in Strongholm say bathing was bad for the constitution.
He had to admit though, the rushing torrent was exhilarating. He was shaking his red-gold locks and hauling himself out of the water when Ivon suddenly pulled him back in. A few seconds later Ivon was kissing him full on the lips.
He moves quickly for a man who doesn’t engage in tourneys or hunting, Wolmar found time to think before baser thoughts overwhelmed him.
When it was over they pulled themselves from the river and lay together for a while beneath an ash tree, watching the stars wink into life above them. The others had returned to the camp.
‘Have you had time to think over my proposal?’ asked Ivon from where he sat cradled in Wolmar’s lap.
‘I have…’ Wolmar hesitated. But what was there left to mull over? The Margrave loved him and had vouched for him, gainsaying some of the most powerful nobles in the land. Here he could look forward to a bright future. Back home he would always be in Torgun’s shadow. And his late father’s, come to think of it.
‘I accept your offer,’ he breathed, feeling the words carry across the gloaming. ‘I accept your offer gladly.’ It almost felt like somebody else were speaking. Something deep inside him screamed ‘no’, but he ignored it.
Ivon reached up to caress his cheek. ‘I am so happy, my sweet,’ he said softly. ‘It would have been such a pity to send you back to Rima now and miss the rest of the night’s entertainment.’
Wolmar stiffened, and not amorously. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
The Margrave got up. ‘You’ll soon see,’ he said, smiling and offering the princeling his hand. ‘Come, let’s get back and join the others. I’m famished, darling!’
The sun had set by the time Wolmar and Ivon rejoined the others. The squires were cooking the venison, having seasoned it with a bewildering variety of herbs and laid on a spread of cheeses and bread to go with the meat. Even in the wild, Pangonians insisted on eating well. Wolmar felt his stomach tighten as he caught the smell of meat: hunger was one appetite he had not satisfied today.
Rodger clearly did not have that problem, and was getting stuck into a wineskin to wash down the half a cheese he’d already guzzled. He had dressed again along with the others. He looked ridiculous in his green and brown hunting clothes, which were covered in crumbs and offset by the ripe red that now suffused his cheeks and nose. Wolmar wondered what he must look like in harness.
This is no man, he thought contemptuously. I wonder he can even sit a horse.
Presently they all sat down to eat, feasting from trenchers. The seasoned meat was delicious, and the wine was from the King’s cellars and of the finest quality.
They seem to do everything better than us, Wolmar thought grudgingly. I probably am better off serving here.
Darkness was thickening about the fringes of the campfire when they had finished eating. The squires cleared away their trenchers and brought more wineskins.
Ivon paused to take a sip before languidly getting to his feet. He had drunk little throughout the evening.
‘My dear nobles,’ he said. ‘We have disported ourselves admirably, but now the time has come to speak of business. You know why I have invited you here.’
The Pangonian lords exchanged uneasy glances.
‘You would speak of this now… in Decorlangue?’ queried Aravin, glancing at Wolmar meaningfully.
Ivon smiled thinly. ‘As I said, the Northlending princeling is one of us. I have told him of the King’s plan to invade Vorstlund and he has agreed to join the invasion.’
‘What else does he know?’ cried Aravin, his eyes bulging.
‘Peace,’ said Ivon, raising a hand. Aravin went quiet, like a dog brought to leash.
Rodger was looking confused again. ‘I don’t follow your meaning, Lord Ivon,’ he said. ‘I thought we had already agreed to take part in the invasion, what else is there to discuss?’
Wolmar was wondering the same thing.
Ignoring Rodger, Ivon turned to address Aravin and Kaye. ‘My investigations are complete. His brother is the sort of man we are looking for – it’s time to put the next phase of our plan into action.’
Kaye and Aravin exchanged uncertain glances. ‘Here… now?’ ventured Kaye. He motioned towards Wolmar. ‘But what about him?’
Ivon took a step forward. Something in his gait became menacing. ‘Do you doubt me now, worthy margraves, at the final hour?’
His voice had the same hollow timbre to it as before. The two lords shook their heads.
‘We serve you in all things, Lord Ivon,’ said Aravin.
‘Excellent!’ cried Ivon, clapping his hands together and pr
onouncing a harsh syllable.
Two things happened at once. The fire guttered and went out; and a cry went up from the edge of the clearing, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.
Wolmar sprang to his feet, hand instinctively reaching for his sword and finding only a hunting knife. Another strange word cut the night air, and the fire flared up again. Kaye and Aravin were standing to either side of Rodger, each holding one of his arms.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried the Margrave of Narbo. ‘Unhand me at once!’
Lord Ivon stepped around the fire as the margraves hauled Rodger to his feet. There was anger in the corpulent lord’s eyes now, poking through the bibulous glaze that suffused them.
‘Lord Rodger de Narbo, I regret to inform you that you are a weakling,’ said Ivon flatly. ‘My plans extend far beyond the conquest of our crude northern neighbour, and I would fain have strong men at my side to execute them.’
Rodger began yelling for his squire.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Ivon. ‘Your squire won’t be coming to your rescue.’ As if on cue three of the squires emerged into the circle of light, dragging the bloodied corpse of the fourth.
Lord Rodger gasped as he saw his dead squire. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘Lord Ivon, I beseech you – ’
‘Unlike others of my brethren, I do not believe in wasting my elan enthralling weak-minded idiots,’ said Ivon, as if explaining a lesson to a child. ‘I prefer to focus my talents on men worthy of being controlled. I hear your younger brother is proving himself a fine squire, well suited to knighthood… and other things. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear he’s inheriting the margravate of Narbo.’
A stink reached Wolmar’s nostrils. A wet pool was forming about Rodger’s feet. ‘But I’m the Margrave of Narbo!’ he squealed. His voice was shaking with fear now. ‘You can’t do this! Please! I’ll do anything! Whatever it is you have planned, I’ll go along with it! I swear!’