Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  ‘Lord Ulnor, need I remind you that Prince Wolfram has not yet recovered from his injuries? Why only two nights ago he fell into one of his rages!’

  Her brother had not been himself since taking the arrow wound at Linden. Though his body had healed well enough – less one eye and the bridge of his nose – his mind had been corrupted. Yurik had said something about a splinter entering his brain, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  She didn’t know much about chirurgeon’s talk, but she did know one thing. Her brother was too unstable to rule.

  ‘He is not like that all the time,’ insisted the seneschal. ‘And when he is, there are trusted advisers he can count on to guide him.’

  And no tourney prize for guessing who those might be, thought Hjala sourly. Men of power. Always pursuing an angle. Even the loyal ones like Ulnor.

  ‘And when he isn’t, is he fit to lead us at a time like this?’ she pressed, trying a different tack of her own. ‘My brother spent his years hunting, hawking and tourneying – he knows nothing of how to rule a realm in times of trouble!’

  Ulnor’s face hardened. ‘And I suppose you do?’ he asked pointedly. ‘Like it or not, your brother will be King soon enough. Better to get him accustomed to his royal duties now.’

  Hjala shook her head. Technically what Ulnor said made sense, but all her instincts told her it was the wrong move. ‘Not yet, he needs more time to recover – and learn what it means to be a king. Throwing him in the watery deeps won’t help – ’

  A spasm of pain crossed her breast as she unwittingly brought back the ghosts of her children. Ulnor took advantage of her discomfort to ram his point home.

  ‘I am calling a royal council to decide the matter. I’ll need to send to Staerkvit for Sir Toric, so you’ve a couple of days to come to your senses.’

  Without another word the steward turned to leave, his walking stick clacking as he exited the room.

  ‘Well what did you expect?’ said Lady Walsa, pausing to nibble daintily on a sweetmeat. ‘Ulnor’s always been obsessive about controlling all that goes on in the palace. You know full well what he’s like.’

  Hjala let a frustrated sigh off the leash as she sipped wine from a silver goblet. But not even a vintage white shipped all the way from Aquitania could soothe her troubled mind. It wasn’t just palace politics that troubled her. She missed Torgun. Memories of their last night together washed across her mind… She could feel his hot embrace, strong yet gentle. It brought her a different kind of pain, a longing that was all the more tantalising because she knew it might one day be fulfilled.

  ‘My brother isn’t fit to rule the kingdom,’ she said, staring absently at her favourite tapestry. It depicted a gallant knight slaying a Wyrm and had adorned the far wall of her room since she was a child. But the dragons were all dead, and her gallant knight was off who knew where trying to save the world.

  ‘Well of course he’s not,’ snapped her aunt. ‘Wolfram has about as much sense in him as a brained hare. Too much fatherly indulgence and not enough scripture, if you ask me. If only Brother Horskram were here to knock some sense into him.’

  Walsa gazed wistfully out of the window as she sipped her wine.

  So that’s who she’s been thinking about while I’ve been pining for Torgun, thought Hjala with some amusement. Her aunt had not been noted for chastity in her youth: who could say how pure her reverence for the mysterious monk was? Horskram might be celibate, but he was handsome enough for a man his age.

  ‘What are you smirking at?’ cawed Walsa, catching her eye.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ replied the princess, wiping the tell-tale smile off her face. ‘Anyway, more to the point, what do we do? As nearest relative to the King, I’ll get a vote on who serves as regent. That’s assuming Wolfram consents to have his name put forward.’

  ‘Oh he will, don’t you worry,’ said her aunt. ‘As proud as the day is long, that one.’ She was about to launch into one of her tirades when what Hjala had just said registered. ‘Wait, how does that make you the nearest blood relative? Have you forgotten your other brother…’

  She trailed off, her eyes widening as she finally grasped Hjala’s meaning.

  ‘Ah, so that’s your game,’ she said. ‘You want to nominate Prince Thorsvald!’

  ‘He’s a lot more sensible than Wolfram,’ ventured Hjala. ‘And would never put his own contumely above the needs of the realm. He served with honour during the uprising, keeping Thule’s fleet at bay – why even now he continues to defend us from northland reavers, while Wolfram rants and raves and plays at dice and prepares for the Strang Bay Tourney!’

  Tournaments. The realm had just had a real war, but that wouldn’t stop the local chivalry engaging in a mock one at the drop of a lance.

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the younger son,’ said Walsa. ‘Even allowing for the vagaries of the law, it would be most irregular. Sets a bad precedent, putting a younger sibling on the throne.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be forever,’ pressed Hjala. ‘Just long enough to give Wolfram more time to recover, while father…’ Her voice trailed off. She drained her goblet, willing the musky wine to banish away her sorrow.

  ‘Yes, it is a dreadful thing this illness of your father’s,’ sighed Walsa. ‘It’s funny, I always thought he’d meet his end in the field, or on horseback at least. Northalde won’t be the same without him. Rulers like that don’t come along too often.’

  ‘That is precisely what I am afraid of,’ said Hjala, reaching for the wine jug. ‘That’s why we have to put Thorsvald on the throne, at least buy Wolfram – and the realm – more time to recover.’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll get any better?’

  ‘If he doesn’t get better then chances are he’ll get worse. If his condition degenerates, not even succession purists like Ulnor will be able to deny that my brother is unfit for office.’

  Lady Walsa gawped at her. It was amusing to see her crusty aunt look thus – she was seldom surprised at anything. ‘You really have been thinking this through – how unflinching you are! A true scion of our house.’ Walsa raised her goblet in a half-toast.

  ‘I’ve only ever wanted what is best for the house of Ingwin – and the realm it rules.’

  ‘Well even if you’re right, you’ll have a job persuading your candidate,’ said Walsa. ‘Thorsvald is a second son to his core – loyal, dutiful, and humble too.’

  ‘That’s why I’m sure he would make a good king,’ replied Hjala. ‘There will be five of us on the council – myself, Lord Ulnor, Sir Toric as head of the Valravyn, Visigard as Marshal of Strongholm, and the head of the Temple… I even forget his name.’

  ‘Cuthbert of Leirvik,’ supplied Walsa. ‘Complete non-entity, small wonder you should forget his name. I daresay he can be plied either way.’

  Hjala put down her goblet. She needed to think straight. ‘Visigard will vote with Ulnor, he doesn’t have the intelligence to see sense above tradition. Sir Toric I’m less sure of… Had it been Freidhoff there would have been no chance of getting that vote, he was always a stickler for form. But Toric is unquantifiable… with him on the council we might just have a chance.’

  Walsa nodded slowly over her goblet. ‘Yes, if you can get Cuthbert and Toric on board you could put Thorsvald on the throne, at least until your father passes. If Wolfram is officially declared mad by then you’ll need another vote to decide who serves as regent until his son Freidhrim comes of age…’

  ‘… but by then my younger brother will have hopefully established himself as a steady pair of hands,’ Hjala finished for her. ‘And Prince Freidhrim is but eight summers old. He has six years before he comes of age.’

  ‘That gives Thorsvald the time he needs to prepare his nephew for the throne. Time enough to steer the realm through whatever crisis awaits.’

  Hjala could not resist another sip of wine. She had to admit planning the future of her realm was exciting. Behind that was a sense of shame though – sh
e could not deny that part of her hoped her older brother did not recover. But the good of the realm outweighed the good of one man – even its heir apparent.

  ‘No, the more I think about it, the more I share your enthusiasm,’ said Walsa. ‘It’s about time we women had more say in the affairs of state in any case.’

  ‘So you’ll help me?’ Hjala felt her spirits rise. She had hoped to gain her aunt’s support.

  ‘Of course I’ll help you,’ said Walsa with mock irritation. ‘Now that poor Freidheim lies on his deathbed it’s fair to say we’ve got more sense between us than the rest of the menfolk in the palace put together.’

  ‘I’d hoped you felt that way,’ beamed Hjala. ‘A toast then – to wise women!’

  ‘To wise women,’ replied Walsa, clinking goblets with her. ‘So when will you broach the matter with Thorsvald?’

  ‘This evening,’ replied Hjala. ‘I want to hear what he has to say about the Northland reavers in any case. If we’re going to manipulate the succession in the name of the realm, we’d best learn more about the dangers it faces.’

  Thorsvald was in his bedchamber playing with his son Linnaeus when Hjala entered. Over by the window sat his wife, Princess Lif. A dark-haired slip of a girl with little to say, and little to her merit, other than her pallid beauty and blood ties to the House of Hjalfaste – her uncle was Lord Kelmor of Salmorlund. Hjala had never had much time for her. Weak-minded women were bad for the cause: they only encouraged the menfolk to clutch the reins of power more tightly.

  ‘Hjala, sister dearest!’ boomed Prince Thorsvald, rising to take her in a brotherly embrace. Tall and lean and hard-muscled, he smelled of the sea as always, salt and brine tanging in her nostrils as he took her in a crushing embrace. His long red locks reeked of the stuff; even on land he was never away from the sea. His chambers were directly above the throneroom and overlooked the harbour; her people’s ancestral love of the waves roared in his bosom with the force of a tidal wave. A coral effigy of the un-angel Sjórkunan was fixed above his bed; it had stood there since he had come of age, in defiance of the Temple who had accused him of paganism and idolatry. Never was there a man more fit to be Sealord than Thorsvald.

  That was why it pained his sister to do what she had to do next.

  ‘Aunt Hjala! Aunt Hjala!’ Linnaeus pulled excitedly at her skirts. The boy was barely three summers, and still excited by his powers of speech and walking.

  Hjala picked up the lad and kissed him affectionately on the forehead. Already he had a mass of flaxen curls just like his father. Lif walked over from the window and took the boy from Hjala, smiling wanly. Hjala returned the smile perfunctorily. She still didn’t think much of her, but she would do well enough as a bearer of her brother’s children. Assuming she could squeeze any more out of that skinny frame of hers.

  ‘Come sit with me!’ said her brother excitedly. He was seven years younger than her. He had always looked up to her as a small boy, when she had taken him about the castle on mock adventures, holding him high above her head and pretending to make him fly like an eagle. But he had loved it best when she took him down to the Strang Estuary, so he could be close to his beloved sea.

  He offered her a goblet of wine, which she refused. She had drunk enough that afternoon with her aunt.

  ‘So tell me how have you been?’ he asked when they were sat by another window. His wife had disappeared into the next room with Linnaeus. That was good – she could speak frankly.

  ‘Never mind about me,’ she countered. ‘You’ll have heard about father – well, it’s as bad as they say.’

  Thorsvald’s face darkened. ‘Lord Ulnor told me this afternoon,’ he said. ‘There’s to be a council.’

  Hjala nodded. ‘I want to talk about that in a minute,’ she said. ‘But first I want to hear from you – how speed things at sea?’

  Her brother sighed. ‘Well enough – for now. The last of Thule’s fleet have disbanded. Half of them were pirates recruited out of Port Urring. Now we’ve secured it, most of them have given up the cause as lost. The rest of the rebel fleet – Saltcaste’s vassals – have surrendered in return for a general amnesty.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Hjala. ‘I have a feeling we’re going to need them.’

  Her brother nodded. ‘You always were the clever one,’ he said ruefully. ‘How I wish you were wrong in this case… The threat from the Northlanders is growing. A tenday ago we intercepted a dozen longships.’

  ‘Freesailors?’

  The Sealord shook his head. ‘Seacarls, serving Oldrik Stormrider. We luffed up to them on a starboard wind and fought them to a man. I lost seventeen good men, but finally we had the best of them. We managed to take a few prisoner. Questioned them with iron and fire. Our northern cousins are as hardy as any, but one of the younger ones finally broke and told us what we needed to know. They’d been preying on shipping in the Wyvern but their next destination was the mainland. They’re getting bolder, Hjala – this is just the first taste. They know all about the civil war thanks to Hardrada’s involvement – they know we’re preoccupied, weakened.’

  ‘That’s why we have to – ’

  But her brother wasn’t done yet. He continued: ‘The last reaver also told us that Hardrada’s neighbour has taken advantage of his weakened position to raid his lands. The Thegn of Kvenlund is said to be an ambitious man – a young ruler anxious to make his mark. Chances are the Thegn of Jótlund won’t be the only one sending ships south-west before long.’

  Hjala took a brief moment to digest the news. That only made her plan more urgent. She looked her brother square in the eyes.

  ‘Thorsvald, we need strong leadership.’

  Her brother nodded. ‘Aye, the council. We need to get Wolfram appointed as regent right soon, when Sir Toric arrives we’ll take a vote – ’

  Hjala reached out and put her hand on her brother’s. ‘That isn’t strong leadership, brother, and you know it. Wolfram is still sick. He hasn’t fully recovered from his injury and I’m not sure he ever will. He has fits of apoplexy. He cannot rule.’

  Thorsvald stared at her, a shocked expression on his ingenuous face.

  ‘But… Freidhrim is just a boy, he can’t…’

  ‘I’m not talking about Freidhrim. I’m talking about you.’

  Her brother shook his head and started to protest, but Hjala cut him off.

  ‘I need you to consent to be nominee for regent,’ she said. ‘Do that and I’m entitled to sit on the council. You’ll get my vote. After that we need just two more to put you on the throne.’

  ‘I can’t, my duty lies at sea! And I’m the younger son, it’s unheard of…’

  ‘But not against Northlending law,’ pressed Hjala. ‘The chirurgeon has given our father a few months to live. That’s time enough to see if Wolfram recovers more fully.’

  ‘I don’t want to be regent!’ Thorsvald protested. ‘I am not made for the cares of state.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ persisted Hjala. ‘You are loyal and cautious, not only courageous but a man who puts others before himself. You would make an excellent king.’

  The word that exited her mouth unbidden shocked her as much as it did her brother.

  ‘Hjala, you’re speaking treason!’

  She shook her head, inwardly cursing herself for having had too much Aquitanian white. ‘Oh, king, regent… call it what you will. You should lead us in this time of trouble, not Wolfram! He nearly lost us Linden, all because he was too busy playing at war to fight a real one! With Freidhoff gone and our father dying who do we have left to rule the realm?’

  ‘Ulnor is a wise man,’ ventured her brother. ‘He can be trusted to guide Prince Wolfram.’

  ‘Can he? Ulnor is a schemer, always has been. He’ll run things to his benefit and convince himself that he is serving the realm by manipulating Wolfram. But he’ll be the power behind the throne. I would have Northalde ruled by the House of Ingwin, its rightful owners, not a scion of the House of Canwolde!’


  Thorsvald frowned. ‘It sounds to me as though you are more concerned with the fortunes of our house than the realm, sister,’ he said sternly.

  That gave her pause for thought. ‘Aye, perhaps I am,’ she conceded. ‘Or perhaps I truly believe that the two are one and the same.’ She was squeezing her brother’s hand now. ‘Thorsvald, while you were away at sea, a secret council was held… concerning the cause of the war, and another much larger matter. If half of what I heard was true, then all the Free Kingdoms and beyond are going to face a threat that transcends all the petty wars of mortal men. That’s why Northalde is going to need a strong ruler, the strongest we can find.’

  Her brother looked at her askance. ‘Sister, are you well? Now you’re sounding like a farseer.’

  The princess bit her lip. This was the part she had the most misgivings about. Her father had sworn them all to secrecy. But her brother was blood royalty, if he hadn’t been at sea he would have been included in the secret council. And besides that, her father was dying.

  Taking a deep breath, Hjala made her decision.

  ‘You must keep what I’m going to tell you an absolute secret…’

  When she was done Thorsvald leaned back in his chair and drained his goblet. It was a lot for him to take in. His life had been simple and worldly. Up until now.

  ‘There’s far more at stake here than house politics,’ said Hjala. ‘We can’t afford to take any chances with the succession. Once he’s installed on the throne Wolfram has absolute power – not even Ulnor would be able to keep him in check if he’s minded not to heed his counsel.’

  Thorsvald stared out of the window at his beloved ships and harbour and the rolling waves beyond, slowly being absorbed by the darkening skies. Anguish buckled his proud face. Wolfram looked more like their father, but Thorsvald had inherited the lineaments of their mother, as elegant a woman as any who sat a throne. Hjala hoped Weirhilda would have done likewise in her position.

  ‘All right,’ he said at length, turning back to look at her. ‘I’ll stand for regent – but only until our father recovers or passes. After that… well it depends on how things speed with Wolfram.’