Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Hjala felt her tension give way to relief. She had hoped he would say that – it would make his candidature look more sympathetic, less self-interested.

  ‘Thank you brother,’ she breathed softly, reaching out to take his hand again. ‘I know how hard this is for you. The realm owes you a debt.’

  Thorsvald said nothing, just smiled weakly before turning to look out at the dark waves again. She followed his gaze as they sat in silence, listening to the distant sound of the sea above the evening clamour of the city. Somewhere beyond the vanishing horizon an invading army was gathering.

  CHAPTER II

  An Invasion Stalled

  Abrexta forced herself to remain calm as the Lord Treasurer gave his unwelcome news. Dressed in fustian robes of office and standing nearly a head shorter than average, Caratacus was an unprepossessing sight – but she knew better. As he finished giving his report she visualised a hand clutching a heart inside a cage, but her Enchantment was weak and lacked power: she was sorely overstretched.

  At least she did not have to ensorcell him fully; a light suggestion would do. Caratacus was the type of man who lived to serve the crown. He would follow his King unto death, even if that king happened to be enthralled by a witch.

  ‘And cannot you chastise them? Why not hang a few as an example to the rest?’

  Caratacus shook his head. ‘The shipwrights’ guild has ever been solid,’ said the treasurer. ‘They will not resume work on the fleet until they get the wages promised them. Shipwrights are hard to come by – if you start killing them you won’t get your fleet built. And as I have just endeavoured to explain, that cannot happen until the tax revenue is in. It would help if the southern wards agreed to pay their share.’

  ‘Yes, well you leave me to worry about the southern wards,’ snapped the sorceress. The reports south of the Fern river were growing more disturbing: Garro, Fythe, Penllyn and Tul Aeren had now united in a flat refusal to heed the call to war. Worse still, the rumours of a planned uprising had been thickening about this already unwelcome news, and a full-blown southern rebellion against the crown now seemed likely.

  ‘The treasury’s coffers are all but empty,’ pressed Caratacus. ‘Had the taxes you levied earlier this year not been spent in idle dissipation – ’

  ‘How dare you question the will of the King?’ she rounded on him in a fury, rising from her seat. Then she remembered that same king was next door in an entranced slumber and lowered her voice. ‘The King’s Fold shall spend as it sees fit,’ she continued, forcing herself to look out of a window to calm herself. The harbour was just visible: she could see the skeletal galleys, bereft of the ants she needed to complete them. ‘I thought the last tax levy was enough to cover their wages in any case.’

  ‘It should have been,’ replied the treasurer implacably. ‘But corruption is rife since you got rid of my inspectors and replaced them with men ill suited to the office. Might I suggest in future you vet their replacements more thoroughly?’

  Abrexta shut her eyes, silently wishing she had done a more thorough job of enthralling the treasurer instead. But some men were more resistant than others to her Enchantment, especially those such as Caratacus who did not desire her.

  ‘We need to levy more taxes, on the nobles who have already paid and the townsfolk from here to Port Craek,’ she said at length.

  She turned back to see how the treasurer was receiving her new order. He had a shock of red hair that was still rich for a man of fifty winters, though his skin was pock-marked by an old disease. He disgusted her, but such mortals were useful after their own fashion.

  ‘I doubt even the most loyal nobles will be able to stomach more payments,’ he said, making sure to keep his voice neutral. ‘And they need money to outfit their contributions to the invasion army.’

  ‘Very well then, put your tax collectors under investigation,’ she said. ‘If you suspect them of embezzling revenue I want them brought to justice immediately.’

  The treasurer blinked, surprise registering for the first time in his hazel eyes. ‘You would give me power of attorney in this matter?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and all the resources you need – just get me that blasted coin! I want those churls paid and back working on the fleet as soon as possible!’

  ‘It shall be as you say,’ said Caratacus, bowing and withdrawing.

  She poured herself some wine as he withdrew from the antechamber. Things were not going according to plan. Gildmonath was just a few days away; at this rate the fleet would not be ready to sail on the autumn tides come Ripanmonath. Not only that, but the Highlanders were dragging their feet. Too busy plundering and ravaging the lands they had conquered to muster their own contribution to the army. The pirate kings of Cobia were also a problem. The men she needed to navigate and captain ships had refused the crown’s standing offer, and as it was that would empty what was left of the royal coffers.

  She took an angry gulp of wine as she stared at the stinking city she had been forced to call home these past two years. Even with half its notables ensorcelled, a realm was not easy to rule. Forcing herself to relax, Abrexta drained her goblet, taking a pinch of Tyrnor’s Foil with it. She would need the extra strength, for she had a report of her own to make.

  For the third time Abrexta visualised a hawk, an ear, and an eye in succession, breathing gently on the silver mirror she kept on her dressing table. Behind her Cadwy snored, his breathing weighted by the light spell she had placed on him. Ignoring the sound and forcing herself to concentrate, she let herself reach out, questing for Andragorix…

  Nothing. Once again only darkness answered her call.

  Sitting back in her cherry wood chair she exhaled a long slow breath. This wasn’t good. With Andragorix eliminated the chain of command changed. That meant reporting directly to… No, she couldn’t think about that, not yet. Gathering her elan for another attempt at Scrying, she visualised the symbols again, attuning herself to another warlock’s psyche. She hadn’t communed with him before and it required more effort; she would have to let a few thralls go for now.

  A few leagues away a couple of vassals in Umbria suddenly stopped what they were doing and wondered why they had spent the past year serving a pagan enchantress who didn’t have the realm’s best interests at heart.

  No matter, she would re-enthral them when she was done.

  The room was dark, with heavy brocade curtains drawn across the windows; only light from tallow candles on the mahogany dressing table spilled across the dark. From a censer she had hung from the ceiling the scent of incense, brought from the Pilgrim Kingdoms at considerable expense, filtered through the air borne on tendrils of smoke. It helped her achieve the necessary mindset.

  At last she felt something. The mirror began to swirl before her, adding an unnatural light to the flickering candles. The King moaned softly in bed but she ignored him.

  Gradually the features of an old man took shape. His beard and moustache seemed to glint with hoarfrost; one of his eyes was like a cloud.

  ‘Ragnar of the Frozen Wastes, we meet at last,’ she murmured.

  ‘Abrexta the Prescient, if my Scrying doesn’t deceive me,’ he replied. ‘Your reputation precedes you. The will of kings bends to thy incanted word.’

  ‘And the four winds gather at your invoked command.’ Protocol required accomplished sorcerers meeting to acknowledge one another’s power: neither wanted to provoke an uncertain ally.

  ‘What moves you to make direct contact?’ asked Ragnar. ‘I was under the impression we both reported to the same master.’

  ‘That master is no longer potent. The seventh sense heeds not his elan.’

  Ragnar’s face darkened briefly, his icy mask of composure breaking. ‘You are quite sure?’

  ‘As sure as the seventh sense can render an adept practitioner. His elan moves not through the cosmic interstices that separate and join the two worlds.’

  Ragnar frowned. ‘I had wondered why he had not reached out of late,’ h
e said. The mage paused a few moments, then added: ‘We must proceed as planned. If we know that something has befallen Andragorix, doubtless the Master does too. I have no doubt he shall reach out to us individually, when the time is right.’

  ‘Proceed as planned?’ Abrexta spat. ‘I was promised an undead army and a Gygant to crush the southern provinces, who even now seek to move against me! How am I supposed to invade the Westerling Isles with a rebellious army at my back?’

  ‘I too had hoped for better luck with my own civil war,’ replied Ragnar impassively. ‘Plans change. The war for both worlds will not be won without setbacks. Do what our kind do best and improvise.’

  ‘That is easy for you to say.’

  ‘Nothing worth achieving is ever easy. I have my own difficulties to contend with.’

  ‘That’s all you have to say?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact I can probably tell you who is responsible for eliminating Andragorix. A monk who goes by the name of Horskram, an age-old foe of his. ‘Twas his meddling that helped the Northlending King put down my rebellion. If someone has written Andragorix’s ruin, chances are it will be him.’

  ‘This is your idea of help?’

  Ragnar smiled thinly. ‘I thought you might derive some comfort from knowing we share the same foe. Doubtless the Master shall deal with him in time.’

  ‘And in the meantime I have a near impossible task on my hands! I’ve to keep half a kingdom pacified and fend off the other half while planning an invasion of the druid islands.’

  ‘I’m sure the Master is aware of your difficulties and will make contact directly. For now I would look on this as a blessing in disguise – Andragorix was an unstable master at best.’

  ‘But his power was indisputable – we are greatly weakened without it.’

  ‘You forget that the Master whom we ultimately serve is more powerful than all of us put together. We report directly to him now. Look on this as an opportunity for personal advancement – but woe betide you if he finds you wanting! If I were you, I’d spend less time complaining and focus on a contingency plan.’

  Ragnar muttered the closing sequence and the mirror faded back to normal, leaving her alone in the flickering candlelight. Leaning back she shut her eyes tightly. She felt drained. She almost forgot to re-enthral the two knights, she was that tired.

  Improvise. Contingency plans. Yes, she needed to think her way out of this situation, but not right now. Her lithe body trembled as she stood and walked over to the bed. Without bothering to undress, she pulled back the silk sheets and climbed into the four-poster bed next to the king she commanded.

  She needed to sleep, to regather her strength. With any luck the seventh sense would guide her as she dreamed, help her plan her next move. Within seconds she was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER III

  Of Birds and Men

  Wolmar watched with little interest as the falcon lanced across the skies and turned a graceful arc, before plummeting towards its prey. The pheasant gave a dismal screech as the blue-grey raptor eviscerated it in mid-air, yanking its entrails from its cloven belly.

  ‘Oh splendid!’ cried Ivon, holding aloft his buckskin glove and beaming as Kaye and Aravin applauded. ‘What did I tell you? A fine day for falconry, no? Aotus is on us, and a fine summer month it is for sport!’

  They were on the hills south of Rima and the sky was a perfect cloudless blue. Not that it did anything to raise Wolmar’s spirits.

  ‘Wolmar, darling!’ chided the Margrave. ‘Not enjoying the spectacle? Falconry is the sport of kings – it’s high time you learned!

  ‘Really,’ said Wolmar. At least the Margrave’s bewitchment hadn’t robbed him of his sarcasm.

  ‘The loremasters say it was introduced to Urovia by the Muradis,’ continued Ivon unabashed, ‘when they conquered Mercadia in the time of King Lotharion – why it’s been with us since Pangonia was young!’

  ‘I knew there was a reason why I disliked it,’ muttered the princeling.

  ‘So obstinate!’ laughed Ivon, as Aravin pulled on his gauntlet and stepped up to release his own falcon. Across the top of a copse on the next hill a couple more pheasants could be seen swooping to and fro. Ivon’s falcon was winging its way back; he held up his gauntlet and caught it.

  ‘That’s a good boy!’ he said, refastening the creature to the glove. It peered skittishly from Wolmar to Ivon, its eyes looking almost comical beneath its hood.

  ‘You see, you misunderstand the point of falconry,’ said Ivon. ‘Or hawking as you call it in your vulgar language. It isn’t about catching the prey – it’s the relationship between bird and master that makes it such a special distraction.’

  ‘I’m bored,’ Wolmar deadpanned. ‘Can we go and do something interesting?’

  ‘Oh Wolmar,’ said Ivon, pouting. ‘I am trying to tell you something interesting, if you’d only listen…’ His black eyes suddenly became intent and feral. ‘You see, the falcon is not like a horse or hound – it does not love its master. It serves him, out of loyalty motivated by self-interest. I train the falcon and reward it with food, and it learns not to desert its master – it chooses to be bound rather than free. And why? Because I have shown that it can expect a greater reward through being bound.’ To demonstrate his meaning, Ivon took a piece of raw meat from a leather bag. The falcon fed greedily.

  ‘Do you see?’ said Ivon. ‘I have instilled loyalty in the falcon by appealing to its greed – even to the point where it is willing to forsake its freedom. And that is the lesson – greed trumps freedom, always! You can learn much about the ways of men by studying the animal kingdom, Wolmar.’

  ‘If that is true, why bother ensorcelling me?’

  Ivon grinned a vulpine grin. ‘Some birds are wilder than others. A little extra incentive is needed – in the first instance. But in time I shall not need to enthral you – when you see for yourself how great the reward I promise is.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Wolmar did his best to keep his thoughts suppressed. He wasn’t sure if the warlock could read minds, but he didn’t want to take the risk. He had to appear to be coming round to the warlock’s plan for his own to work…

  Fortunately the need for dissembling wasn’t immediate. As Aravin released his falcon Ivon looked past Wolmar, shading his eyes.

  ‘Ah very good,’ he said. ‘Here comes Rodger’s younger brother, right on time.’

  A rider was approaching from the direction of the Crescent Bridge, galloping towards them across the plains that rose gently to meet the hills.

  ‘Ah the young,’ smirked Ivon. ‘Always in such a rush! Unbefitting a noble, but he’s young and will learn… Aravin! Kaye! Look lively there! It’s time to receive the new Margrave of Narbo.’

  The flushed youth who dismounted from a piebald palfrey could not have been more different from his late brother. Though but sixteen summers, Clovis was well made: stocky and muscular. He wasn’t the handsomest of men, but a keen manliness was in his mien. He would make a good knight.

  Or a good thrall, thought Wolmar as Ivon favoured him with a courteous bow.

  ‘Clovis, welcome!’ he said, leading the youth over to where their squires had pitched an awning. Sweetmeats and wine were laid out upon a thick rug of ermine. ‘And may I be the first among us to say how dreadfully sorry I am about your poor brother. His tragic loss grieves the depths of my very soul.’

  Or would if you hadn’t sold it to the Fallen One, thought Wolmar as the other margraves offered their false condolences.

  ‘Let us not prevaricate,’ replied the youth bluntly. ‘My brother was weak and lecherous, over fond of wine and women. He was bound to come to a bad end eventually.’

  ‘Your Lordship is most direct of speech,’ said Ivon, exchanging amused glances with Kaye and Aravin as they accepted wine from their squires. Their duty discharged, the squires left the five nobles alone under the awning.

  ‘Clovis, you have been direct with us, and I shall deem it a point of honour to repay your frank
ness in kind,’ said Ivon, studying the youth over the rim of his goblet. ‘Your late brother – Reus bless his soul! – may have appeared a drunken sot to many, but he was party to some pressing affairs of state.’

  That appeared to catch the young noble’s attention. ‘I see,’ he said. His voice was neutral, but his eyes told a different story. Hooked, like a fish on a reel. Or perhaps one of Ivon’s trained falcons.

  ‘You have just arrived at court and cannot be expected to know all its goings on.’ Ivon handed the young noble a goblet. ‘So allow me to supply you with the requisite information. The King means to take us to war next year – for too long now have we allowed our unrefined northern neighbours to lounge uncontested beyond the Orne Ranges. A new age is dawning, and Carolus means for all who follow him to share in its glory!’

  ‘So you want my knights to join an invasion of Vorstlund?’ The youth certainly did not mince his words.

  ‘Quite,’ allowed Ivon. ‘As you will doubtless know, not all the margraves are favourably disposed towards their king. If the planned invasion is to succeed, he needs to know who his friends are.’

  Clovis nodded, thoughtfully sluicing wine around his mouth before swallowing. ‘I am not my brother,’ he said. ‘If there is to be a war, I would glory in the chance to serve my king, not shy away from battle like a coward.’

  ‘Ah, eloquently put,’ smirked Ivon. ‘I knew we could count on you, Your Lordship – I have heard much about you that is promising.’

  ‘Before I came by my title I was squiring for a vassal of my father’s. He says I couch a lance as well as any dubbed knight after but two years’ training. Before that I was a page of course, but that didn’t stop me from practising – ’

  Ivon raised a bejewelled hand. ‘Yes, yes… I am well aware of your credentials, Lord Clovis. I have no doubt that you shall be useful in the field.’