Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  The waters of the Draugfluss carved a slate-coloured rift through a great valley, larger than any they had passed through. The source was a gaping chasm that yawned starkly above its fast-flowing waters. The ground before them fell at sharp angles towards the riverside; Wulbert was clambering lithely across rock and scree to get to it, and could be glimpsed through patchy rents that had appeared in the fog.

  Dismounting, they gingerly led their horses down towards the river. The going was not easy for their steeds, and they had to take a zigzag route. By the time they reached Wulbert he had drunk his fill, and was perched atop a rock, singing a tune contentedly.

  ‘See, told you Wulbert would bring you here,’ he beamed, looking happy for the first time since Adelko had met him. ‘Now you brave adventurers can rest and drink! Then you can take Wulbert with you when you leave, yes?’

  ‘Your service to us will not go unrewarded,’ Horskram promised. Stepping over to the river he eyed its leaden waters distastefully. Bringing out his circifix he intoned the Psalm of Cleansing and Consecration. As he closed the prayer, he reached down and touched the river with the rood.

  Three things happened at once. The fog hanging in thick tendrils over the river retreated as smoke before a keen wind, and its waters nearest the monk took on a silvery sheen, as though reflecting the brightest sun. But it was the third thing that caught Adelko’s attention. A low rumbling sound reverberated from the hills that loomed about them. With a shock the novice realised it sounded like voices. Deep voices crying out in profound anger.

  The fighters in their group clutched weapons more tightly, casting about them fearfully. Wulbert fell off the rock with a tortured scream and began convulsing, tearing clumps of white hair from his head. Horskram backed away from the river and brandished his circifix and the Redeemer’s blood.

  ‘Everyone stay in formation!’ he cried. ‘Keep within the circle of light, no matter what!’

  The fog continued to recede, rolling back from both sides of the river and clambering up the sides of the valley. The skies above remained the colour of granite, but far, far above the tenebrous clouds Adelko fancied he could make out the faintest glimmer of sunlight.

  ‘Remount!’ yelled Horskram. ‘We’re taking up too much room as we are! Everyone get inside the circle!’

  The party scrambled to obey his orders, but their horses were skittish and chary of being ridden. By the time they had all managed to get back in the saddle the fog had rolled back entirely, revealing the valley.

  Adelko felt a chill of horror ice his bones as he realised it was not lined with hills. On both sides of the river as far the eye could see stretched barrows, each one sealed fast with a stone slab covered in strange sigils. No, not strange any more, but all too familiar. Memories of Andragorix’s lair and the Abbot’s inner sanctum came flooding back to him as he recognised the hieratic language of magick.

  Horskram turned on Wulbert with a snarl. ‘You faithless cur! We offer you a chance of succour and you lead us straight to the Draug Kings!’

  Wulbert had stopped his convulsions and was huddled up against the rock he had been sitting on. Without taking his head out of his hands he snivelled: ‘Wulbert didn’t lie – led you to the river he did! But the grey kings see everything, everything…!’

  The wretch was just outside the circle of light.

  ‘Never mind that for now,’ said Horskram, relenting. ‘Get up and come over here.’

  But Wulbert had no ears for the adept now. ‘C-can’t,’ he moaned. ‘Blue-eyed lords see all… punish me they will…’

  ‘WULBERT!’ cried Horskram. ‘Get over here now! Only the power of the Redeemer can save you!’

  ‘Master Horskram, look!’ cried Adelko, drawing his attention back to the barrows. From around the sides of the slabs a thin mist was beginning to emanate. Unlike the fog, it was of a grey-blue sheen and diaphanous; Adelko fancied he could see right through it.

  ‘Of course the Draug Kings would guard the only route out of their realm,’ muttered Horskram. ‘I should have known better!’

  But it was past time for self-recriminations. The mists began to coalesce in front of the barrows. Ghostly forms could now be discerned, inchoate shapes of humanoid figures that stood taller than the tallest man. The low rumbling cry continued unabated as the draugar condensed into awful reality; with horror Adelko realised it was a chorus of unearthly voices, venting their anger in unison.

  The voices ceased just as their unnatural owners finished taking form.

  Several dozen figures looked down on them from either side of the valley. Each one was clothed in strange armour, fashioned of interlocking plates that were black as charcoal yet tinged with a silvery sheen. It surpassed even the complexity of the Thalamian harnesses Adelko had seen drawings of at Ulfang: the pauldrons were a series of carapaced spiked plates, giving the draugar the appearance of having wings; their vambraces were likewise of a baroque design that hurt the eye with its peculiar symmetry.

  Next to him Vaskrian gasped. Adelko sensed his friend was awestruck by the frightening beauty of their arms. Each king wielded a great sword fashioned from the same silvery black metal; on the fullers of each blade the sorcerer’s script danced, its spidery engravings burning with a resentful orange light.

  But it was their owners who really took the novice’s breath away. Tall and proud they stood, though their grey skin was pulled taut over their faces, obscuring their mortal provenance; their contours were tinged a ghastly blue, and deep in their sockets ancient eyes flickered with a relentless white fire. Upon their eldritch brows were set crowns of tarnished silver that resembled a hotchpotch of swords and other blades.

  High and proud the Elder Ones built their towers/And just as high walked those who served them in their glory!

  With a start Adelko realised the draugar were not speaking: the words were disembodied. They were perfectly comprehensible to him, and yet he could not tell for all the world which language they addressed him in. The effect was profoundly unsettling.

  The Priest-Kings taught their craft to those deemed wisest/Princes who served them in life and beyond!

  Adelko glanced at his companions to see if they understood, but he could glean nothing from their entranced faces. They were barely moving.

  With sword and spell we carved out distant empires/Wherein mortalkind was bound in blissful bondage!

  The Unseen hearkened to our call in forms both fair and foul/All shared in plenty yet none were free!

  The balance was disrupted and the World Order fell to ruin/Leaving naught but draugar in their howes where princes once did sport!

  At last Horskram spoke up. ‘Spare us these elegiac lamentations for the bygone days of your wicked reign,’ he sneered. ‘Your punishment was justly deserved after you and your arcane masters turned to deviltry. The Almighty Himself declared your civilisation wanting, oppressive and unfree as it was, and sent the angels down upon thy halls with righteous wrath!’

  Adelko sensed his mentor had entered into a psychic duel with the Draug Kings. He spoke in Decorlangue, the language of the Redeemer; the novice could feel him channelling his elan.

  Blessed in His eyes were all our halls for many years/Yet there was another to whom we learned better allegiance!

  The King of this world and the next unrightly deposed/The time fast approacheth when He shall take up his brass sceptre!

  Then all shall quail before us as the seas roil red and gold/The rivers shall run with liquid fire that purifies as it burns!

  ‘Enough of your blaspheming cant!’ snarled Horskram, brandishing his circifix and the Redeemer’s blood. ‘Into your bourne have we strayed, and out of it we shall emerge, whole and unharmed! You know what power it is that I wield – obstruct us at your peril!’

  The disembodied voices started laughing in unison. Experienced though he was, Adelko felt the hairs on the back of his neck turn to pins and needles as the fell sound reverberated through the valley. Wulbert whimpered, curling hims
elf up into an ever tighter ball of trembling flesh.

  The Five shall summon back the Seven and the One/The Master and Disciple and Descendant will join forces!

  The Draug Kings shall stir from their barrows to reclaim their realm/Our black swords will cast long shadows across the lands of the earth!

  None who oppose us shall go unscourged/The flesh shall be torn from the bones of our enemies!

  The draugar started laughing again. With a shock Adelko suddenly realised that he recognised the undead kings… But where from?

  Then it hit him. Of course, his dream… Which of the hosts had it been? He shut his eyes tightly, trying to focus above the laughing as he struggled to recall his earlier vision.

  He was dimly aware of Horskram shouting.

  ‘What is this unholy trinity thou speakest of?! Tell us more – by the Redeemer’s grace I command it!’

  The laughter died off, but the next words felt rather than sounded cruelly mocking:

  Your profane magicks cannot compel us in our realm/The which shall presently extend over all the peoples of the earth!

  A gift of prophecy have we given thee for thy power/Now take it back to thy benighted mortal bourne!

  But as you speed take one last parting gift from draugar lords/A taste of the splendour of dark kingdoms to come!

  A horrible hissing sound filled the air. Opening his eyes Adelko saw that the undead princes had opened their mouths, and from their distended maws a black smoke billowed. Down the hills on either side of the river it rolled towards them, blotting out all in its wake. The draugar vanished behind two undulating curtains of blackness that crept down steadily towards them in a horrid pincer movement. A stench filled the air, like before only many times worse. Adelko doubled over in the saddle and began retching. He was dimly aware of the others doing the same. Just before the tidal wave of smoke rolled over them he saw Wulbert shrieking as it consumed him...

  Somewhere in the deepest dark a red light flared. By it he saw the vague outlines of his companions, their horses rearing and panicking. He felt his own steed buck and jolt; instinctively he pulled at the reins, digging his heels into its flanks as he struggled to stay in the saddle. He felt sheer naked terror slide cold fingers through his guts, pulling at his entrails with supernatural strength.

  Forcing himself to concentrate he began mouthing the Psalm of Fortitude. He felt the syllables float from his mouth to be swallowed up by a hollow silence, but somewhere in the void they resonated with similar words spoken by another… Adelko dimly recognised the Psalm of Spirit’s Comforting. Somehow the two psalms were intertwining, augmenting one another. He felt rather than saw the light of the Redeemer flaring brightly…

  He blinked as wan light pushed against his eyes. Sitting up he saw he was still in the saddle; somehow he had managed to stay mounted. Around him he saw his companions coming to in the same bewildered fashion. The putrid black fumes had gone; so had the fog. Overhead a weak sun pressed against thick clouds. Gazing up at the sides of the valley he saw the Draug Kings had vanished. Their barrows still remained, the sigils on their stones glowering softly. With a trembling hand he made the sign, mouthing a thankful prayer.

  Something else caught his eye. Over by the rock Wulbert had slumped against, the blackened silhouette of a humanoid figure was sketched against the hard ground.

  It took them a while to recover. A subdued air lingered over the group, a funereal aura that was not easily abated. They risked a quick drink from the Draugfluss, whose waters nearest them had at least retained some of the sparkle Horskram’s blessing had brought them. Then they followed the river west.

  It was not long before they had an inkling as to the draugar’s parting gift.

  Vaskrian was the first to demonstrate symptoms, coughing and shivering. His skin had acquired a greyish pallor and the whites of his eyes took on a bluish tinge. The damsels were next, followed by the knights and Anupe.

  ‘Draugbreath,’ muttered Horskram as they stopped to rest and eat. ‘A sickness of the spirit that corrupts both mind and body.’

  Adelko glanced over at his comrades. They could barely force down enough food to make it worthwhile; one or two heaved up the contents of their stomachs immediately.

  ‘I thought the Redeemer’s blood and our prayers should have been enough to protect us?’ hissed Adelko. He struggled to master his rising anger. Once again his mentor had led his friends into grave danger on a pretence of protection.

  ‘Well they were certainly enough to protect you and me,’ said Horskram tartly. ‘But then we are seasoned members of the Order… The others have not such natural defences.’

  Adelko was too upset to register the compliment implicit in being called ‘seasoned’. ‘But what will happen to them?’ he demanded. ‘You said we’d keep them safe!’

  ‘I said the Redeemer’s blood would protect us from the draugar, and so it proved,’ said Horskram. ‘Had we not enjoyed His protection our fate would have been the same as Wulbert’s.’ The adept made the sign, but that only made Adelko angrier.

  ‘So it’s better this way is it?’ he snapped. ‘They don’t get disintegrated, they just die slowly of a horrible sickness instead!’

  ‘Heavens, lower your voice!’ Horskram snapped. ‘I didn’t say their cause was hopeless. We should reach Heilag monastery in a day or two if we keep following the river. Our brethren there should be able to treat them.’

  ‘Well I certainly hope so,’ said Adelko pettishly. ‘It’s not fair to keep risking other people’s lives like this.’

  Horskram flashed his novice another piercing look. ‘Isn’t it? And didn’t you do just that at Salmor when you bade those brave knights charge at trees? War is war, Adelko, and that means risks must be taken – often with the lives of others. You of all people should fully appreciate that by now.’

  Adelko was about to give a sarcastic response when a sudden realisation hit him, borne on his sixth sense.

  ‘Wait… It wasn’t by accident that you led us into the Draugmoors, was it? You knew the Lanraks and other knights chasing us would give you the perfect excuse… You planned to take this route all along, didn’t you?’

  Horskram raised an eyebrow. ‘Astute as ever, Adelko… You are not quite right in this instance, but still you ask a good question! To answer it truthfully, no – I did not intend for us to encounter the barrow kings directly. My prime motivation was to get us out of Upper Thulia safely, as I said. But after the Fays of Tintagael, I had an inkling that some of our enemy’s future generals might have advice should my original plan to avoid them go awry… So I resolved to leave it in the Redeemer’s hands. Once we became lost, I began to suspect it was indeed the Almighty’s will that we meet the Draug Kings, for good or ill… and thus have things transpired! We have been gifted with another dark prophecy, and must ponder its words at length to see what we can glean.’

  ‘But… how did you know the Draug Kings would talk?’

  ‘Little is known about draugar for certain,’ replied his mentor. ‘But one common tradition has it that they are compelled to give prophecy to those who can withstand them. According to this theory they are frustrated by their powerlessness in the mortal vale, and will seek to torment those they cannot defeat within their realm with glimpses of a darker future. Now, that’s enough questioning until we reach the monastery – let’s be getting along, while our sick friends are still fit to ride!’

  Horskram got up from the boulder they had been sitting on and barked a curt order, leaving Adelko to wonder if wars were ever worth taking sides in at all.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A Spell Broken

  The weaponsmith looked at Wolmar as though he had just asked to be slapped in the face. He felt like doing just that to the snobby master craftsman. Pangonians, insufferable to the core – even their commoners were haughty.

  ‘You wish me to make you a sword from pure iron?’

  He repeated the words in Decorlangue, slowly and incredulously. At least W
olmar had found a bladesmith conversant in the common tongue of the high-born. But then the palace armoury was likely to have nobles from all over the Free Kingdoms coming to stay and needing blades and other harness repaired.

  ‘No, not a sword, a dagger,’ repeated Wolmar patiently. ‘About so long…’ He held his hands apart to demonstrate the length.

  The bladesmith licked his lips. ‘Many centuries have passed since your ancestors relearned the secret of steel from the ancients,’ he said. ‘Why would you want such a primitive weapon?’

  The smith looked mocking now. Wolmar resisted the urge to strike him on the spot. He couldn’t cause a scene. He was already lucky to have distracted his squire – surely a spy paid or enthralled by Ivon – long enough to give him the chance to visit the armoury. He could only pray the fireside tales his governess had told him as a boy would prove true…

  ‘A chivalrous pledge to an amor, if you must know,’ Wolmar lied. ‘I swore to my lady love that I would fight my next three duels with a dagger made of crude iron.’

  The princeling felt secretly proud of himself for coming up with such a tale: outlandish deeds were not uncommon among knights devoted to the Code of Chivalry. Sir Lancelyn himself had pledged to fight for a year with one eye closed. Apparently that hadn’t stopped the legendary knight killing all his opponents.

  The smith smiled indulgently, his demeanour changing at once. ‘Ah, love is love, as we say in Pangonia,’ he said. ‘Now I understand! Pray forgive me, sir knight, I did not think the Code of Chivalry was so popular in the northern kingdoms.’

  No of course you wouldn’t, you ignorant dolt, thought Wolmar.

  ‘Your opinions are of no concern to me,’ he snapped. ‘I am a prince of the realm and expect to be served without foolish questions.’

  ‘A hundred apologies,’ said the armourer, bowing curtly. ‘When will you be needing the blade?’