by Damien Black
‘The Warlock’s Crown was under a sorcerer’s control,’ replied Horskram. ‘Andragorix kept the entities in check. Also, it is not thought the Warlock’s Crown was a watchtower – originally it was most probably a prison colony for the Gygants whom the Elder Wizards enslaved. As such its sorceries were not quite as potent. Judging by his paraphernalia, Andragorix had yet to obtain power enough to master the magicks of a watchtower.’
‘But there is one sorcerer alive today who can?’ ventured Adelko. ‘The one who lives in the Sultanates.’ His sixth sense told him it was best not to name Abdel Sha’arza right now, though he was hungry for more information about the Sassanian warlock.
‘Indeed, but I will not speak of him here,’ said Horskram, confirming his instinct. ‘It is time we began reciting the Psalm of Fortitude.’ Turning in the saddle he addressed the others. ‘Same procedure as the Warlock’s Crown,’ he said. ‘Stay in formation, and focus on our words if you value your sanity!’
Sir Wrackwulf frowned. ‘I still don’t think this is a good idea,’ he protested. ‘And I’ve never been one for scripture, master monk. I say we turn about and take our chances with the Eorl’s knights.’
Most of the company clearly agreed. Horskram wheeled his courser around to face them. Drawing the Redeemer’s blood out he held it aloft. The ghostly light from the moors suddenly seemed a little fainter, and the chill of the twilight hour abated slightly. ‘The sword shall avail us nothing against an eorldom of men!’ he cried. ‘It is in this that you must place your trust – the blood of the Redeemer, sent to save our souls from perdition!’
The company still did not look entirely convinced. Horskram motioned towards Adhelina. ‘Would you give this lady up to captivity, having fought so hard to rescue her? For such is the risk you run, if you heed not my counsel.’
Braxus and Torgun exchanged frowns, both sharing the same sentiment for once. Adhelina spoke up. She looked pale and drawn, but Adelko sensed her courage had not left her. ‘If Master Horskram says the Draugmoors are our best chance of escape, I say we follow him,’ she said.
Sir Torgun looked more than a little disgruntled at that. Adelko sensed he still carried sorrow for his dead brothers in arms and didn’t trust Horskram one jot. But that feeling struggled with the love he bore for the damsel.
In the end love won out: the tall knight nodded and said no more. Sir Braxus shook his head in disgust and shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
‘Good,’ said Horskram, just a hint of smugness entering his voice. ‘That settles that then. Remember, do not stray from the path I lead you on! Stay within the light of Palom’s blood, and heed the words of the Holy Book. The Redeemer shall be our succour.’
Without another word Horskram turned his horse again towards the moors. Adelko mulled over the ways of men as they followed him. Girls. He still couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about.
The cold mists wreathed themselves about the company as they penetrated the Draugmoors. Instantly the fading sunlight was transformed into diffracted beams that seemed to turn those mists into something thick and tangible; Adelko had the feeling of moving slowly through thick tar. The words of the Psalm of Fortitude sounded muffled in his ears as he chanted them with Horskram: ‘… a crooked path … darkened vale… not falter… soul corrupted…’
The sound winked in and out, confusing his senses as he nudged his horse between the hills. The sedge atop them shared the flinty colour of the skies, now faintly illuminated by a shrouded sun.
‘…wings of Morphonus… my shield… Oneira… my dreams…’
Gradually the ghostly voices that whispered in his head receded; he felt a calmness infuse his spirit as the crimson circle of light emanating from the glass phial about Horskram’s neck grew stronger, driving back ghostly tendrils that threatened to engulf them. A profound warmth washed over him, and he was smiling as he recited the next verse of the psalm, which sounded clearer now:
The Betrayer’s words shall stick in his mouth
For the manna of the archangels shall be my balm
Against the poisoned words of his perfidy!
Glancing behind him without breaking off the psalm he saw his companions riding as if in a trance, sitting stock still in the saddle. Beyond them the hills and valleys receded into shapelessness, banished into darkness by the light of Palom’s blood.
The Almighty hears the prayers of strong and weak
The archangels shall give them the wings to fly
And though the road be broken it shall not hinder them!
On they went, repeating the psalm as they had done all the way up to the Warlock’s Crown. Adelko fell into a meditative state. He felt the Redeemer’s benign presence; yet he felt his pain also. The words of the Earth Witch came back to him, telling him to question everything… He could still feel the dark voices trying to penetrate his inner sanctity, to profane his serenity with spiteful words. What tongue they spoke he could not say; all he knew was that they did not mean him well.
The mists began to darken, deepening into a grey that bordered on black. The sun vanished, choked into extinction by the preternatural fog that held them in a cloying embrace. Only the circle of crimson kept them from being swallowed up by the cursed moors that now sought to tear them from the mortal world. A foul odour began to permeate the dead air: the charnel stench of decay.
Changing tack in response, Horskram began reciting a different psalm. Adelko didn’t know it by heart, though he had read it before. The Psalm of Death’s Lingering, the adepts called it.
‘Ma’alfecnu’ur, prince of decay,’ declaimed Horskram in his sonorous voice, ‘Thine foetid raiment shall not clothe the one who walks in the path of the Archangels! Thy corruption shall turn and feed upon itself before the bright eyes of the Seven Seraphim! Begone, foul canker! Trouble the flesh and spirits of the living no more! In the name of Virtus, I command it! In the name of Stygnos, I command it! The Redeemer’s power I invoke, He that defied the grave to seek the blessed bourne of the Unseen shall shield me now! IT IS THE POWER OF THE REDEEMER THAT COMPELS THEE!’
The light from Palom’s blood flared, growing brighter. Adelko felt the voices recede and a joyous wellbeing returned; the noisome smell of rotting flesh ebbed away and the fog about them lightened somewhat. High overhead the sun made its presence felt again, and although it was but a pale imitation of summer he was glad of its stifled rays. Horskram went on repeating the psalm as their horses whickered nervously beneath them. Had it not been for their sacred protection Adelko could well believe their steeds would have been driven mad. After a while the novice had memorised the psalm and joined his voice to Horskram’s. They continued reciting in unison for some time. Glancing back at the others Adelko saw that their trance-like state had not lifted, though their faces seemed less pallid and drawn now.
It was only when the sun was disappearing behind a horizon they rode towards but could not see that a question occurred to him. He was reluctant to risk breaking off the litany to ask Horskram, but there was no need in any case: by now their sixth senses were attuned to one another and the adept knew his question.
‘We must trust to the Redeemer and Reus Almighty to guide us through our prayers,’ said Horskram softly, risking breaking off the psalm. ‘Once the sun goes down, Palom’s blood is the only thing that will keep the stygian night of the Draugmoors at bay.’
His mentor’s melodramatic turn of phrase did little to reassure Adelko. ‘But don’t we run the risk of getting lost? Just like we did in Tintagael?’
‘This won’t be the first time I’ve attempted to enter and leave the Draugmoors alive.’
‘Really? You never said… What happened?’
‘It was many years ago,’ said the adept. ‘Some fool son of a craftsman at Turstein took it into his head to flee the town and seek a life of adventure. Before long he got lost in the wilderness and stumbled into the Draugmoors. I was charged with rescuing the lad.’
‘And…? Did you find him?’
Horskram pursed his lips as they rode along. ‘I did in the end, but it was a close-run thing. Luckily some villeins working the fields not far from the moors had seen the lad enter them. I was on horseback so I managed to catch up with him not too far in. He’d only been on the moors for a few hours, but already he’d seen enough to drive him half mad with terror. I managed to calm him down with the Psalms of Fortitude and Spirit’s Comforting. Then I took him on my horse and prayed for deliverance. The Almighty answered my prayers and we managed to retrace our steps and get out in time.’
‘Well that doesn’t sound so bad,’ ventured Adelko. ‘And now we have Palom’s blood, there’s even more chance that Reus will hear our prayers.’
‘That is what I am hoping,’ said Horskram. ‘We need to find the source of the Draugfluss so we can follow it to Heilag. The only problem with that plan is it means travelling into the heart of the moorlands – according to maps sketched by apprehended warlocks, it starts some leagues south of the watchtowers’ ruins.’
Adelko was quick to pick up the thread. ‘… which means the Draug Kings’ barrows won’t be far away.’
‘Indeed,’ confirmed Horskram. ‘Not ideal, but then since when has anything ever be-’
His voice trailed off as they came upon the first sign of the Draugmoors’ hideous rulers. The light of Palom’s blood revealed the bones of several men and horses. All had been scrupulously picked clean.
Adelko shuddered and made the sign, repeating the psalm again as they passed through the hecatomb. Somehow the sight of white skeletons and glaring eye sockets was more horrible than the butchered peasants he had seen up north. The remains appeared to reach for them with ivory fingers frozen in the paralysis of death. The novice half expected them to come to life, as the skeletons had done at the Warlock’s Crown. The thought of that comforted him though: it reminded him they had been through much worse than this.
He voiced that thought to Horskram.
‘Don’t get too complacent, Adelko of Narvik,’ he admonished. ‘Their dead victims may not harm us, but the power of the Draug Kings is not to be dismissed! Andragorix himself might have quailed before them.’
That statement instilled a healthy respect into Adelko. ‘Let’s pray we don’t meet them then,’ he said.
‘Indeed,’ replied Horskram.
Adelko didn’t need his sixth sense to tell him their prayers would not be answered. Hard experience told him as much.
The sun had long vanished, swallowed up by the mortal vale, and a sere cold had settled in, stealing into the rocky crooks and hollows they now wandered through. Adelko had no idea what time it was when something caught his eye.
Shivering into his cloak, he squinted and could make out a peculiar looking creature. It took a few moments of scrutiny before he could pair it with pictures he had seen in books at Ulfang.
‘A cat…’ he mouthed softly. ‘Look Horskram, its fur is all grey, just like the fog…’
Grabbing his sleeve Horskram called a halt. Like automatons, their companions obeyed, looking about them with bewildered expressions. The cat continued to stare at them from where it perched on a rock halfway up a hill, its eyes a strange blue colour.
‘Draugs have the ability to shapeshift,’ hissed Horskram. ‘We’re being spied on.’
No sooner had he said that than the cat darted off the rock, disappearing into the darkness.
‘Well that’s quite literally the cat out of the bag,’ muttered the adept. ‘They know we’re here now.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Adelko. Their comrades remained seemingly oblivious.
‘We’ve no choice but to press on,’ said Horskram. ‘Put our trust in the Redeemer to guide us to the river. Keep the Draugfluss ever in your thoughts as we pray, Adelko! Otherwise as like as not we’ll be meeting more draugar before long.’
‘What about if we just stay put?’ suggested the novice. ‘Wait until dawn. At least we get some sunlight here, not like in Tintagael.’
Horskram shook his head. ‘We’ve just been spotted by a draug – if we stay here we’ll have a host of them upon us long before sunrise. No, we press on! Faith alone must be our guide now!’
Perhaps the Earth Witch had shaken that faith, or perhaps it was Adelko’s sixth sense that told him Horskram’s choice would only lead them into greater danger: whatever the cause, he felt a sense of foreboding grow steadily as they chanted their way between hills that now seemed wrought half of shadow. Even the Redeemer’s blood seemed to offer less cheer, its scarlet hue limning the black fog and giving it a perversely hellish look. On the penumbra of this ghastly chiaroscuro the sloping sides of cragged dells loomed, their creviced surfaces grinning soullessly at them as they meandered they way across the moors. It was as if the very land itself were hostile to them, and cursed their intention ever to leave it behind.
After what seemed like hours but could have been minutes, Adelko broke off the psalm. He was on the point of saying what he previously had not dared to when Horskram did it for him.
‘We’re lost,’ said the adept grimly. ‘Only a madman would call the crooked path we have wandered a straight line.’
Adelko was mulling over whether a muttered ‘told you so’ would be appropriate or constructive when they heard something. The sound of stones being dislodged and rattling down a hillside.
‘Up over there!’ whispered Horskram, pointing to their right beyond the circle of light. Reaching into his habit he pulled out his circifix and held it aloft so that it caught the full glare of the Redeemer’s blood. The silver shone brilliantly, extending the light.
‘Hellspawn show thyself!’ bellowed Horskram. ‘By the grace of the Redeemer let thy lucubrations of wickedness be exposed!’
A silhouetted shape appeared on the edge of their halo. It was humanoid, though its limbs appeared elongated and disfigured. Presented with the blinding rood it collapsed on the side of the hill. It started whimpering, then began to weep.
‘Ye Almighty!’ breathed Horskram. ‘That is no denizen of the Other Side, but mortalkind sure as we are!’ He shone his circifix in Torgun’s eyes. The knight blinked and shook his head, as though awakening from a reverie.
‘Where are we?’ he asked sleepily.
‘Never mind your foolish questions,’ snapped Horskram. ‘I’ve a heroic task for you, sir knight. On yonder hill is a mortal man. Bring him down to us – I need to stay here and maintain our aura of protection.’
Sir Torgun frowned at the old monk, but did as he bade him. Dismounting he clambered up the hill towards where the frightened figure huddled. It screamed and thrashed as the knight dragged him down the hill.
The others were coming to their senses when Torgun deposited the wailing figure in a heap on the ground between their horses.
Adelko peered at him in the silvery-red light. He was a tall gangly man in early middling years; his blunt features, large hands and rude woollen clothing told of a labourer, probably itinerant and seeking work over the summer. What fey moon had led him here, the novice wondered.
The hapless wanderer stopped writhing around long enough for Adelko to make him out more distinctly. He wasn’t disfigured after all – that must have been a trick of the light – but Adelko noted the man’s hair, which was white as the driven snow. Besides hoary old age, only a direct confrontation with the Other Side could do that to a mortal.
‘Oh no, oh no, oh no, OH NO…! Wulbert will be quiet yes, he’ll be very quiet! He won’t tell a soul, no, only leave him be, oh leave him be…!’
The man called Wulbert continued his ranting, mostly repeating the same words and punctuating them with pathetic moaning.
Horskram recited the Psalm of Spirit’s Comforting, holding his circifix aloft while presenting the Redeemer’s blood. Adelko joined in with the psalm. He felt pity for Wulbert, who had been driven mad by draugar by the looks of things.
Their prayers had the desired effect, and gradually the man’s gibbering subsided. He stared up at
them with terrified eyes, his body shivering. But slowly a vestige of sanity returned to him.
‘They killed them all…’ he gasped. ‘The blue-eyed kings killed them all… They tore out poor Ulrick’s heart before mine eyes… They ate… they ate…’
Turning over the labourer wretched, but nothing came up. Taking a wineskin from his saddle bag Torgun proffered it. The labourer gazed at it stupidly, as though he had been presented with some long lost treasure. Then, slowly and gingerly, he took the skin and gulped back mouthfuls.
‘Tastes good,’ he hissed. ‘Oh tastes so good… So long since Wulbert tasted wine! Oh thankee sir knight, thankee, thankee!’
Sir Torgun glanced quizzically at Horskram. Wulbert was speaking Vorstlending.
‘Yon labouring man finds your wine passing fine,’ translated Horskram. Turning to Wulbert he addressed him. ‘The words of the Redeemer and Kaia’s bounty have fortified your spirits, now speak! Tell us what happened to you.’
Wulbert grimaced, as though the memories conjured by Horskram’s question pained him. But at last he managed to gasp out his sorry tale.
‘A dozen of us there were, travelling to Dunkelsicht for to seek work in the Eorl’s demesnes,’ he said, taking another swig. ‘But attacked by highwaymen we were, on the road from Turstein – four of us managed to escape, and we fled into the moors. Lost our way in the fog we soon did, and then the night came… They took us one by one… Poor Otho was the first, they cut him to pieces with their huge black blades… The rest of us ran and wandered we knew not how long. At last, when we could go no further, we fell asleep where we were. When we awoke…’
He paused and started to shudder again. ‘When we awoke… they’d returned Otho to us. Only gutted he’d been, like a wild animal! And parts of him were missing, the fleshy parts… Oh Reus Almighty, I’ll never forget what they did to his face… HIS FACE!’
Wulbert screamed and lapsed back into gibbering insanity. Clearly the power of the Redeemer’s words and Pangonian wine only went so far.