Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Adelko nodded and took a few swigs. Braxus eyed him keenly. ‘You think Horskram will throw his lot in with us?’ he asked Adelko. ‘For old times’ sake, as it were.’

  Adelko shook his head sadly as he passed the wineskin to Vaskrian. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘We won’t be joining you. Not unless we catch up with you, but you won’t want to see us then. Chances are we’ll be riding with the knights the Eorl sends after you.’

  Braxus laughed at that. ‘Of course! For security on the roads. Well, thank you for your help, Adelko of Narvik, and I wish you well. It has been emotional.’

  ‘There’s another couple of days left before the melee,’ said Adelko. ‘Hopefully I’ll get a chance to drink a stoop with you before then.’

  Torgun shook his head. ‘That cannot be,’ he said. ‘If this plan is to work, we must to all intents and purposes be gone from Graukolos tomorrow, before dawn. We can lie in wait in yon copse of trees – they’ll provide us with cover so we can’t be seen from the castle.’

  Vaskrian felt a stab of sorrow as Adelko bade them farewell. Fate had kept them on the road together for so many weeks, but now it looked as though they would finally be parted.

  ‘So long, Adelko,’ he said as he took his young friend in an awkward one-armed embrace just outside the tent. ‘I kept you safe on the road, just like the Earth Witch said, eh? But I suppose you’re getting tough enough to look after yourself nowadays. Besides, you’ll have the Eorl’s knights for protection.’

  ‘If they aren’t too busy tearing up the highway after you,’ replied the novice glumly. ‘Look after yourself, Vaskrian.’ He paused, then added: ‘And don’t set too much by the words of a sorceress either. Prophecies can be misleading.’

  Something in the self-assured way he said that caught Vaskrian’s attention. ‘How did you know I was thinking about…?’

  Adelko shrugged. ‘I just know things sometimes,’ he replied. Then his face grew serious again. ‘This idea of Anupe’s, I know she means well but…’

  ‘… it’s going to get us into trouble,’ the squire finished for him. ‘I know – I don’t need your special sense or whatever you call it to fathom that much. Don’t worry, I’ll look after these crazy bluebloods – I mean prophecy or no it’s what I do, right?’

  The novice nodded and smiled, then pulled up his cowl and stepped from the porch. Another light drizzle had begun to fall. A brief wave and he was off, trudging through tents back towards the castle.

  Vaskrian sighed as he watched him go. Curious goggle-eyed fellow – unlike any youth he’d ever known. Strange how he missed him already.

  ‘I’ve missed the boat for Linden,’ said Wrackwulf, scratching his bushy black beard. ‘Took me longer than I thought to sell on the armour and horses I won. I’ll never make the entry signing now.’

  Vaskrian eyed him quizzically. ‘Didn’t the knights you bested want to buy them back?’

  ‘Nay,’ replied the Vorstlending. ‘One of them lost most of his coin at dice, another was too poor to buy his harness back. Had to go into town and sell the horses at Merkstaed. Managed to flog the hauberks to a smithy, but a wretched price I had for them! Got well and truly swyved!’

  Vaskrian made a sympathetic noise and took another slug on his tankard. They were drinking outside the beer tent. There were still plenty of commoners and poorer knights out roistering, despite the lateness of the hour.

  ‘So where will you go next?’ asked the squire. He liked drinking with Sir Wrackwulf – he was the one cheerful knight he knew, now that the Chequered Twins were dead. And making small talk helped to take his mind off their mad rescue attempt.

  ‘Think I’ll head to Dunkelsicht – the Eorl of Upper Thulia holds a tourney there on the 1st of every Gildmonath. It’s not so far from here – a few of the other freelancers are heading that way. The Blattholt isn’t too safe nowadays, but let’s see how our highwaymen friends fare against a party of knights!’

  Vaskrian murmured his assent, dissembling nervously.

  Wrackwulf patted his bulging money pouch contentedly. ‘Well it’s been a good tourneying season so far,’ he said. ‘I’ve a fair purse of regums and marks to show for it, despite that coxcomb of a smith doing his best to bugger me like a catamite! A pity you and your friends insist on leaving so early tomorrow – it would have been nice to ride with you. But then I expect we’ll catch up with you on the road!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Vaskrian, feeling his nerves tighten. ‘Chances are my guvnor will want to enter the same tourney.’ It was a hasty cover story they had prepared – plenty of foreigners could be found doing the tourney rounds in summertime.

  ‘See that he does!’ said Wrackwulf. ‘I’d welcome the chance to have a crack at him in the lists – see if I can’t get one over on the champion of Graufluss!’

  ‘So… you still think him worthy? After his duel against Sir Torgun I mean?’

  The burly knight shrugged. ‘Of course, he fights well enough doesn’t he? I’ve been on the circuit long enough to know the Code of Chivalry goes out the window when a knight’s blood is up. We can’t be perfect gentlemen all the time.’

  ‘Try telling that to Sir Torgun,’ said Vaskrian.

  ‘Well, perhaps he hasn’t been challenged enough yet – I wouldn’t mind another crack at him either, if he comes to Dunkelsicht!’

  ‘Perhaps he will,’ mumbled Vaskrian. He hated all this lying. Wrackwulf seemed an ingenuous fellow; besides that, good squires were supposed to be honest.

  Wrackwulf took another slug of ale. ‘At any rate, I look forward to another chance to sing with Sir Braxus – plays a passing fine lyre, that one.’

  For the second time, Vaskrian was forced to dissimulate. Wrackwulf’s singing voice wasn’t as bad as Sir Carlus had claimed, but he’d heard better. Draining his flagon he motioned towards the counter. ‘Fancy another?’ He couldn’t get too drunk the day before their rescue attempt – but he also had to keep up appearances for the plan to work. And the Vorstlendings didn’t half brew a good drop of ale.

  ‘Aye, why not?’ beamed the freelancer. ‘Not as if we have to worry about getting any work done tomorrow, eh?’

  Vaskrian muttered something in the affirmative before turning quickly to order another round.

  Hettie woke to a soft touch on her shoulder. One of the Marionite brothers was there, as always, proffering her a cup of tea infused with St Elenya’s Root. Sitting up in bed she sipped the bitter brew.

  At least her sleep had not been disturbed by nightmares, she reflected gratefully as she blinked herself into full wakefulness. That was the second or third night running her hideous dreams had subsided. Perhaps Adhelina was right and the tournament spectacle was doing her some good. It was violent – but at least it was a familiar kind of violence. Not like the white-faced horrors who had come so close to dishonouring them both. For the umpteenth time, she shuddered at the thought.

  The Marionite bowed and withdrew from her room. She did not know his name and the brothers seldom spoke if at all. By virtue of her high status she had been given a cramped little cell to herself; most of the other patients were housed together in the main infirmary. Brother Aethelwold, the Abbot and the only monk whose name she knew, made sure she mingled with the other patients in the herb garden daily. Keeping company with others and the sunlight were good for her melancholy, he insisted.

  And she got precious little sun in her chamber. Only a narrow slit high up in the wall permitted any light, and she shivered in the cold dawn as she pulled herself out of bed and dressed. Taking up the cup she drained it before heading over to the refectory.

  This was a long low oblong room, dimly lit by more slits. There were two rows of trestle tables: one for the lay brothers and patients and another for the ordained monks. Sitting down to a simple breakfast of gruel and weak wine, she reflected for the thousandth time on the course of events that had brought her here.

  There were things she had seen that she would never be able to confront. She had r
ealised that much, tossing and turning in her bed at night as she relived their captivity in the darkness of the Wytching Hour. The spectacle of a woman, her distended belly splitting apart, her pitiful shrieks drowning out the wailing of the newborn monstrosity her captors had forced upon her… Thank Reus the beastmen had seen fit to do their ravishing elsewhere, she felt sure such a spectacle would have driven her mad.

  She started as she felt another touch on her shoulder. She was clutching her spoon tightly, revulsion spilling from her with every ragged breath. Her bowl lay upended on the table before her, its contents spilling onto the stone floor. Several of the other patients and lay brothers sitting near her had moved up the benches away from her.

  She looked up into the kindly bearded face of Prior Aethelwold.

  ‘All is well Hettie,’ he said softly. ‘Come with me to the gardens. Some fresh air will do you good.’

  Presently they were sitting on a stone bench. Hettie stared at the chrysanthemums and dandelions and tried to soak up some of the calmness emitted by the bushes and shrubs and trees. Sat next to her Aethelwold looked at her sympathetically. Her hand was in his; the celibate septuagenarian could take such a liberty without seeming inappropriate. Hettie trusted him.

  ‘You may not be capable of believing this right now, but your condition is improving,’ he said, fixing her with his soft grey eyes. ‘In a week’s time I shall discharge you from our care. It is time you went back to your life, Hettie Freihertz.’

  ‘What life?’ asked Hettie sorrowfully. ‘Even if I do recover, I doubt Wilhelm will want me back, not after I helped milady to…’ Her voice trailed off. Even now she couldn’t bear to recount their misadventures.

  Fortunately the Abbot knew all too well what had transpired. Not even the recondite monks could have missed the biggest story in town for a generation.

  ‘The Stonefist is a more forgiving man than his epithet suggests,’ he said. ‘And your lifelong companionship with Adhelina will not count for nothing, even now.’ He placed another gentle hand on her shoulder and turned her slowly to look at him. ‘Hettie, you are stronger than you give yourself credit for,’ he said, his voice becoming serious. ‘Given the horrors you’ve had to endure, the swiftness of your recovery is remarkable. In order to deal with what lies ahead, you must learn to believe in your own resourcefulness.’

  Hettie fought back incipient tears. ‘Fat lot of good my resourcefulness has done us of late,’ she snuffled. ‘First I get sick on the road and delay us, then when the beastmen attacked us in the woods I succumbed to panic, and ever since I’ve…’ She broke off as the monk’s words finally sank in. ‘What do you mean “to deal with what lies ahead”?’ she asked, peering at the abbot askance.

  Aethelwold smiled avuncularly. ‘The Order of St Marius has ever been a humble one, devoted to the healing arts of both mind and body,’ he said. ‘But we would scarce be able to heal either if we didn’t spend time nourishing the spirit as well. Our aptitude in that area falls short of our Argolian brethren, but sometimes the Almighty permits me a glimpse of the future. Just a small one here and there.’

  Hettie felt unsure of what to say to that. ‘Go on,’ she said after a few moments of silence punctuated by birdsong and buzzing.

  ‘You have featured in my dreams of late, aye and your mistress too,’ said the Abbot, letting go of Hettie and turning to stare at a small cluster of cypress trees in the corner of the garden’s walled enclosure. ‘You have both been caught up in a larger destiny, what the farseers of the northern lands call a wyrd. The parts you both have to play may be small, but they will be significant.’

  ‘But our adventures are over,’ protested Hettie. ‘We’re bound to the castle now, probably for life. I don’t see how we can influence anything any more.’

  The Abbot did not take his eyes away from the trees as he answered. ‘No, you don’t see, not right now. Only the Almighty sees all. Not even Azrael, against whom my Order toils night and day, has the gift of perfect farsight. Long ago, an enlightened man, whom some say was more than mortal, posited that time does not exist. It is only mortal ken that makes it seem so – past, present and future. But in reality everything that ever has been and ever will be simply is – happening since always, now and forever. Only Reus sees this with perfect clarity, and not even the Unseen share His complete vision.’

  Hettie frowned. The old prior was starting to sound like Adhelina when she got carried away talking about her books. But it was better than thinking about her horrid ordeal.

  ‘So what’s your point?’ she asked.

  The prior laughed. ‘Must there always be a point? But no, if there is, it is to say that you can’t see yourself completely because your perception is restricted by time – you have powers that you have yet to discover in yourself, that only time will reveal. Your mistress too, I trow.’

  ‘Powers? What kind of powers?’ Now she was feeling anxious again. She didn’t care much for this kind of talk.

  ‘Oh they may be quite mundane – I’m not saying you’re going to become a witch, so don’t worry!’ The Abbot chuckled. ‘Just don’t be so quick to dismiss yourself because of what you have been through recently. The whole story of who you are is far from told.’

  The old monk rose slowly to his feet. ‘Well, I’d better be getting back to the rest of my patients, morning rounds and all that. Ah Reus, but my knees are stiff! The one thing we Marionites don’t know how to cure is old age. But that too is part of the Almighty’s plan, I suppose. I bid you good day, Hettie. I believe your escort will arrive shortly.’

  ‘Escort? What for?’

  Aethewold looked over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘Have you forgotten? It’s the final day of the tournament. Adhelina wishes for your presence at the melee, and once again her father has acquiesced to her wishes. I told you he is more forgiving than he seems.’

  With another wry chuckle the Abbot disappeared back inside the monastery, leaving Hettie to mull his words over in the company of the songbirds and the fruit flies.

  Adhelina smiled warmly at Hettie as she dismounted. Her knightly escort lost no time in nudging their steeds over towards the Markward camp to join the melee. It was but two hours away: over by the awning reserved for the noble spectators the heralds were ready with signal flags and trumpets.

  ‘Hettie, I’m glad they let you out again,’ she said, embracing her friend. ‘The weather’s cleared up and it’s a fine day to be out! How is old Aethelwold treating you?’

  ‘Well as ever,’ said Hettie, then looked at her curiously. ‘What’s got into you? It’s only been three days since we saw each other, and you act as if it’s been a lifetime!’

  It certainly felt that way to Adhelina, what with all the carry-on. Sir Agravine had tried to catch her eye repeatedly at feast-times, though she had been unable to bring herself to acknowledge him. He would soon be banished and that would make it a hopeless romance. Perhaps tales of his deeds done in her name across the realm would filter back to her, but like Lancelyn and Isoud it would be a distant love, one never consummated.

  Much the same could be said of her other two paramours: they had left early yesterday, without so much as a farewell.

  Or perhaps there would be no deeds, no long-distance love affairs. Perhaps the passions of chivalrous knights were more fickle than the courtly romances told.

  And perhaps it would be easier for everyone that way.

  Adhelina did her best to quell her sad thoughts as she watched Agravine buckle on his armour with the other knights who had been picked to represent Graukolos. He still carried her favour, tied to the lance he would use in the first charge. He had made sure of being in the vanguard, to try and make up for falling short in the joust. But glory wouldn’t do his suit much good now.

  ‘Adhelina? Oh but you’re miles away!’

  ‘I’m sorry Hettie,’ said the damsel. ‘A lot to think about, that’s all. You seem well, anyhow… or better at any rate.’

  Hettie nodded, almost
looking cheerful. ‘I think so milady,’ she said. ‘I have started to feel more like my old self this past week or so. I don’t suppose I’ll ever fully recover, but if your father agrees to take me back into service then…’ She glanced meaningfully over to where Wilhelm was sat next to Albercelsus and Berthal. He was already drinking, but then the melee was a grand event and only came to Dulsinor once a year. Behind them men at arms from both houses stood, sweltering in the rising heat.

  Adhelina took Hettie’s hands in her own. ‘I’m sure we’ll work something out,’ she said. ‘After all as Grand Duchess I’m bound to wield some influence! Just steer clear of him for now.’

  Hettie nodded docilely and allowed Adhelina to lead her over to where tables and chairs had been set up beneath the awning. Of the rest of the Lanrak retinue there was no sign: Sir Adso, her future husband and his hangers-on would be in their camp on the other side of the field. That just left the ladies of the house, but they were running late as usual.

  ‘I’m afraid the Lady Berta will not be joining us,’ said Berthal when she quizzed him on the subject. ‘Taken ill with the gout. Her daughters are staying with her in Merkstaed while she recovers.’

  ‘Merkstaed? Why aren’t they in the castle?’ asked Adhelina.

  ‘Her Grace was taken ill during a shopping expedition,’ said Berthal, tugging at his wispy white beard. ‘Some fine baubles she was interested in purchasing I believe.’

  Adhelina wondered wryly if she’d had an eye for the brooch Hettie had sold for her. Back when her escape had been an exciting possibility. Ignoring her gloomy thoughts she asked: ‘Where exactly is she staying? One of the inns?’

  ‘I believe so, milady.’

  Adhelina allowed herself a slight smile of satisfaction. That would be a painful experience for the haughty old harridan – sojourning at an inn like a common traveller.

  ‘I’m sure she’s loving that,’ was what she contented herself with saying.

  Presently the knights were ready to deploy. Those on her side had divided themselves up into three contingents. Sir Urist took the vanguard of fifty, taking up position in a wedge-shaped formation on a stretch of green surrounded by hills and wooded dells. One group of twenty-five knights led by Sir Ruttgur had crested a hill to her right, using the cover of trees to lie in wait. The third group were being held in reserve, flanking the vanguard’s rear left.