by Damien Black
‘Leave them be!’ cried Braxus, ‘we’ve agreed a truce!’
Torgun sneered at him. ‘Think you that I would condescend to strike poor churls, Sir Braxus? Even for a knight of your calibre, that is low.’
Braxus flinched and seemed about to step out of the inn, but Hettie laid a hand gently on his arm. ‘Please, Sir Braxus, now isn’t the time,’ she said, hoping it would be enough to bring him to his senses. Fortunately it was. ‘Did you get the other Lanrak?’ he managed to ask.
‘Aye,’ replied Torgun. ‘Hilmir is not only swifter and stronger than other horses, he has an instinct that will not be stayed by dead of night – ’
Braxus waved him away disgustedly. ‘Spare me the catalogue of yon horse’s merits,’ he said. ‘I feel his loss keenly enough as it is! All I need is the sum of your actions.’
‘Another Lanrak seeks the Judgment of Azrael,’ supplied Torgun.
‘Good,’ said Hettie. ‘We’ve just negotiated a truce with the townsfolk here. They don’t want any more trouble – we’ve to get out of town now though.’
Sir Torgun frowned at the mob. ‘Running from such commoners is unseemly,’ he said. ‘Tell them we shall stay the night here and be on our way in the morning.’
‘Are you wise?’ cried Sir Braxus. ‘If we stay here any longer they’ll have the half the garrison from Turstein on us!’
‘As to that,’ replied Torgun, dismounting, ‘a knight does not flee a mob of peasants. How sad that you need reminding of that.’
Braxus was about to say something but held back, his face reddening. Torgun began making his way through the mob, leading his horse towards the stables. One or two of the men muttered, but none dared touch him as he moved among them.
‘That idiot will be the death of us one day,’ said Braxus, finally finding words.
Anupe and Vaskrian were gazing at them in bafflement: the entire exchange had taken place in Decorlangue. The Harijan shook her head as Hettie translated. ‘This is no time for chivalrous – how do you say it? – antics.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ sighed Hettie. ‘But knights will be knights, I suppose.’
Sunrise was about an hour away when Adelko finally saw the lights of what he hoped was Volfburg. They had rejoined the road a few leagues north of the town. As they were approaching the outskirts Wrackwulf suddenly pulled his horse up short.
‘Give me that torch,’ he said. ‘I think I saw something glinting off the highway.’
Adelko complied and they nudged their steeds over towards it. A hewn corpse of a man in armour, cut down by two fierce strokes. A whickering sound caught their attention. On the other side of a ploughed field a charger stood riderless, obediently waiting for a master who would never take the saddle again.
Horskram shone his own torch over the dead knight. ‘One of the Lanraks, judging by the tabard,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know many knights strong enough to cut through a mail byrnie – I think our old friend Torgun has been distinguishing himself again.’
‘I can cut a man through his byrnie,’ offered Wrackwulf cheerfully. ‘Tends to happen when I’m using my double-handed war axe…’ His voice trailed off as Horskram fixed him with a sour look. ‘Ahem,’ he said. ‘So, it looks as though your comrades passed this way then.’
‘Let’s get into town,’ said the adept. ‘I’ve a feeling it won’t be sleeping, despite the hour.’
It wasn’t. A crowd of townsfolk were gathered around an inn just off the central square. Horskram had whiled away the moonlit journey telling Adelko all he needed to know about Volfburg. It was a market town of some two thousand souls, mostly tanners and fullers who worked side by side with the dyers who made a prosperous living from the woad trade; besides that were traders who profited from the weekly horse market in the nearby town of Turstein. The proximity of a castle had left them confident enough to live without walls, although perhaps they were regretting that now.
For outside the inn were piled half a dozen corpses: he saw one middle-aged woman weeping over the youngest, a lad of no more than sixteen summers, a levied constable by the looks of things. Adelko murmured a prayer for his soul and wondered how much more of Azrael’s ruin he would have to see before his adventures were at an end.
The townsfolk met the new arrivals with timorous stares. Several of the nearest watchmen levelled rusty spears in their direction, but Horskram paid them no mind.
‘Good morrow,’ said the adept. ‘Horskram of Vilno, adept of Ulfang, greets thee.’
The mutterings that greeted the monk sounded more relieved than anything. Evidently the townsfolk recognised him. Adelko had to marvel: they had travelled hundreds of miles and still his mentor could count on being known wherever he went.
‘Good morrow to you, Horskram,’ said one of the town elders, a wealthy looking man about the monk’s age. ‘Though in truth it’s hardly a good one, under present circumstances.’
‘I can see that, Aelfred,’ replied Horskram, nodding towards the corpses. ‘You’ve had some troublemakers by the looks of things.’
‘We’ve had to send someone to the castle,’ replied Aelfred. ‘Robber knights kicking up a storm – a host of them are still holed up in the inn. We offered them a chance to leave, but one of them wouldn’t stand for it apparently.’
‘I see,’ said Horskram, exchanging a wry glance with Wrackwulf. ‘And this “host” as you put it, was led by…?’
‘Tall well-made chap, a northerner if I’m any judge,’ replied Aelfred. ‘Or he’s the one that refused to leave, from what I can gather. Doesn’t speak the language.’
‘Hmm,’ said Horskram. ‘Blond fellow? Rides a dappled grey stallion, eighteen hands high?’
‘That’s the one!’ barked Aelfred. ‘You know him?’
‘I do indeed,’ replied Horskram. ‘He was lately in my service.’
A few outraged yelps went up at that. With some difficulty Aelfred silenced the crowd. ‘Let Master Horskram speak!’ he cried. ‘He’s helped us out enough times – it was only last summer he banished the evil spirits inside of Gretta.’
‘Thank you,’ said Horskram cordially. ‘And how does Gretta, incidentally?’
‘She died, last winter,’ said Aelfred. ‘Still it was a clean death at least, thanks to you.’
Horskram cleared his throat. If he felt embarrassed at his faux pas he showed no sign of it. ‘My condolences,’ he said. ‘May the prophet’s peace be upon her spirit. If you’ll just let me and my companions through, I can have yon outlanders out of Volfburg come dawn. Is that agreeable to you?’
As one the townsfolk nodded. Clearly it was very agreeable.
‘Excellent,’ said Horskram, dismounting. ‘If you’ll excuse us now, we’ll have a word with our friends inside. Adelko, come along! Sir Wrackwulf will stay here and mind our horses.’
‘Have you taken complete leave of your senses!?’ Horskram stared about him in bewilderment before levelling his stern gaze on Torgun. ‘I leave you to your own devices for a week, and you concoct a hare-brained plan to abduct one of the most powerful women in Vorstlund – a few weeks after we rescue her! And not content with that, you get into a lethal brawl in the middle of the largest town in Upper Thulia!’
The common room was a wreck. Smashed tables, overturned barstools and cracked flagons vied for space on the floor with smears and pools of red where the slain had fallen and been dragged outside. Adelko sighed inwardly. Maybe Horskram had a point about taking up with killers after all. Were these really the sorts of friends he wanted?
Suddenly he thought of his old cronies, Arik and Hargus and Yalba, back at the monastery. Yalba! To think he’d once felt intimidated by his oafish friend.
Sir Torgun met Horskram’s stare defiantly. ‘I fail to see how we could have done otherwise,’ he said. ‘We saved Her Ladyship from certain death. As for the Ostveldings, you speak of abducting the damsels? That is just what they were about to do when we stopped them! A chivalrous knight would have done no less.’
&
nbsp; ‘And the dead watchmen?’ said Horskram. ‘Was that a chivalrous thing to do too?’
Torgun averted his eyes. ‘That was… regrettable,’ he conceded. ‘I for one struck no common man down.’
Braxus spoke up. ‘They were in over their heads,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t even tell you who killed them. Commoners have no business getting in the way of knights going about theirs.’
‘Eloquently put,’ sneered Horskram. ‘Nonetheless your “knightly business” as you put it has stirred up the wrath of Upper Thulia. Now there’ll be plenty more knights, coming from Turstein to apprehend you even as we speak.’
‘We know that full well!’ said Braxus. ‘We wanted to leave, but somebody’s sense of honour got in the way.’
Torgun stared at Braxus coldly. ‘Yes?’ snapped the Thraxian. ‘Something bothers thee, sir knight?’
The two of them were about to square off against one another when Horskram stepped between them. ‘ENOUGH!’ he roared. ‘I’ve a good mind to leave the pair of you to face the Eorl’s justice! Peace now, let me think a minute.’
Adelko exchanged a wry glance with Vaskrian while Horskram ordered the innkeeper’s wife to pour him a cup of ale. He had to admit, it felt good to see his friend again, even if he was trouble. Two wounded knights lay slumped against the wall. One of them was groaning pitifully but the other was fully conscious and alert. He felt his sixth sense tingling. They would have to plan their next move carefully.
Clearly his mentor was thinking much the same.
‘We can’t take the south road, that’s obvious enough,’ he said. ‘There’ll be knights upon us and the rest of the Lanraks might decide to circumvent the town and lie in wait for us there. We must take the west road.’
‘But that’ll take us straight to Dunkelsicht,’ protested Adhelina. ‘You heard what yon Ostveldings tried to do! The House of Ürl was opposed to our alliance of houses too – most likely he’ll kidnap me and hold me for an Eorl’s ransom!’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ snapped Horskram testily. ‘Let me finish, Reus dammit. We take the west road ten miles out – it meets with another heading to Turstein. At that point we get off the road and strike directly south, make straight for the Draugmoors.’
Adelko’s heart sank. The name of the place alone told him what dangers that route would offer. He thought immediately of Tintagael.
‘Are you mad?’ gaped Adhelina. ‘Those moors are haunted! The Draug Kings suffer none to pass through their realm and emerge… not in this world at any rate.’
‘In case it had escaped your notice,’ said Horskram in a brittle voice. ‘I am an ordained adept of the Argolian Order, and as such I don’t need a lecture from a damsel on the perils of the Other Side!’ Adhelina shot him a peeved glance, but he ignored her. ‘No, it’s our only option,’ he continued. ‘If we can find the Draugfluss river we can follow it out of the Draugmoors. That will lead us straight to Heilag monastery, established by my order to stop sorcery leaking into the Westenfluss. From Heilag we can cross over into Lower Thulia – the Herzog there has no love for his northern neighbour, we’ll have no trouble from Ürl soldiers on his lands.’
‘And what about the Lanraks?’ queried Braxus, although his tone suggested he was considering Horskram’s plan.
‘I doubt they’ll get much further once the Eorl of Upper Thulia finds out about them,’ said Horskram. ‘Their last chance will be to catch us as we leave Volfburg – so if we take the west road now we should be able to shake them off for good.’
Adhelina still looked unconvinced. ‘I know of Heilag monastery,’ she said. ‘They say even its monks won’t venture on to the Draugmoors they guard – and with good reason! What makes you so sure you can lead us through them safely?’
Horskram produced the Redeemer’s blood. It caught the torchlight in a blaze of red-gold that seemed to fill the room with warmth. Adelko felt a beatific peace descend over him. His sixth sense stopped tingling.
‘Behold, the blood of Palom, True Prophet, broken on the Wheel in mortal form for our salvation!’ cried Horskram dramatically. ‘His grace shall be our guiding light!’
Torgun dropped a knee to the rushes and made the sign. Even Braxus did likewise, albeit more hesitantly. Vaskrian glanced at them and followed suit awkwardly. Anupe slouched by the doorway, looking bored. Perhaps she wouldn’t be when Adhelina told her what was going on.
At any rate the damsel seemed impressed. ‘You are full of surprises, Master Horskram,’ she said, gently making the sign. ‘Well, it would seem providence has put us on the same road. I’ll trust your judgement, for now.’
‘Excellent,’ said Horskram, putting the relic away and draining the last of his flagon. ‘Now let’s be moving along! We’ve less than an hour before dawn – we’ll need as much of a head start as we can get on our pursuers.’
With a flurry of activity they scrambled to obey.
‘I hope your guvnor knows what he’s doing,’ Vaskrian whispered to Adelko as they hurried out of the inn. ‘I don’t speak Decorlangue too well, but it sounds like he’s leading us into another mess!’
‘Be of some cheer,’ replied Adelko. ‘He’s steered us right so far, hasn’t he?’
‘Try telling that to Sir Branas,’ said Vaskrian, before sloping off to the stables.
Adelko felt a pang of guilt as he watched his friend go. Or Sir Aronn, or the Chequered Twins, or Kyra, he thought disconsolately.
The townsfolk muttered darkly as they rode out by the west road, but did nothing to stop them leaving.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Wrackwulf, looking perplexed.
‘Um, I’ll explain it to you as we go,’ hedged Adelko.
Dawn broke at their backs as they thundered up the highway. As the sun reached for the company with infant fingers, Adelko wondered how long it would be before the Draugmoors deprived them of its light.
CHAPTER VI
A City Under Siege
With a triumphant roar Guldebrand’s leidang poured over the outer walls of Landarök. The inner wall of timber and turf was burning in several places. Magnhilda and Canute had done their work well.
But then that was what happened when a battle plan worked, thought Guldebrand as he led his men across the ditch towards a smoking gap in the wall. Magnhilda’s forces had commandeered twenty warships and sailed down the Holm to storm the city. Sped by Ragnar’s sorceries, they had arrived there in half the normal time; Guldebrand had crested the high hills overlooking the river to see a thousand warriors pour into the city, clashing with Oldrik’s shrinking forces in a vicious street battle.
That was a fight he was keen to join. Striding across smouldering planks into the city outskirts, he roared a command to his men. ‘Make for the harbour! Kill any fighting man you find but don’t waste time raiding houses! We’re going to cut the serpent’s head off at its neck!’
Ragnar had told him all he needed to know. The Stormrider and what was left of his leidang were retreating back towards the centre for a last stand. Two jarls were with him: Canute had one of these pinned in the northern half of the city, Magnhilda was closing down the second in the south. That left Guldebrand to take care of Oldrik.
He and his men dashed along the narrow boarded walkways running between tenements of houses. Some of them were burning, while warriors could be seen butchering families and ravishing women in courtyards joining the houses to the streets. They were running through the south of Landarök now – clearly the jarls serving Magnhilda were not showing much in the way of restraint.
‘Stay with me!’ he bellowed back at the line of men following him. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for looting and ravishing once we’ve taken the Stormrider’s head!’
Varra turned to repeat his command. The streets of Landarök were built in crisscross fashion; Brega could be seen in the next street parallel to them, leading a company of men towards the centre. He hoped Bjorg and Vilm would be doing likewise. They were so close to victory now – everything depended
on discipline. He knew from Ragnar’s report that he outnumbered the Stormrider two to one: he couldn’t afford to lose men to looting now.
They passed skirmishing warriors in the streets amid screaming civilians running to and fro. This far into the thick of it he couldn’t even tell friend from foe. Best to leave them to sort it out themselves.
As they reached the city centre the wooden buildings gave way to stone ones. Crossbow bolts zinged from a top window, one whistling past Guldebrand’s head and another burying itself in Varra’s throat. Oh well, he’d been loyal to a fault and helped him get this far.
‘Ryghar, take ten men and storm that house!’ he ordered a seacarl, ignoring Varra’s death throes. Ryghar nodded and took a detachment of shieldmen across the courtyard towards the house. ‘The rest of you with me!’ cried Guldebrand. ‘Keep your shields up, chances are there are more of them holed up in this part of town!’
From here the walkways dipped, sloping down to meet the river’s edge. By the time they burst into the main square adjoining the south harbour, Guldebrand had lost several more men to snipers and sent another few dozen to clear the buildings housing them.
All such thoughts vanished from his mind as he sized up his final foe. A shieldwall several scores strong awaited their arrival. Behind them longships burned, sending ugly grey columns to the cobalt skies as warriors fought and died on the wharf before them.
Guldebrand returned his attention to the shieldwall. It retained formation, inviting him to attack. Swords and axes bristled behind a hotchpotch curtain of hide and oak.
‘Prepare to charge!’ cried Guldebrand at the men who poured into the enclosure behind him. ‘Formations NOW!’
His warriors obediently scurried into position, forming five companies each a hundred strong. More and more fighters were flooding in, led by Brega, Bjorg and Vilm.
‘OLDRIK!’ he roared, pointing at the shield wall with his sword, slick with the blood of seacarls who had died on his blade. They had fought hard for half a day before finally breaching the outer walls: after today he would need prove himself no longer.