Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  ‘I’m to fight a duel of chivalry tomorrow,’ Wolmar lied again.

  ‘Ah, I regret to say I have many prestigious patrons in need of – ’

  Wolmar cut him off by placing a gold sovereign on the work bench next to him. The coin caught the sunlight streaming in through the nearest window. The armourer smiled, reaching out and pocketing the coin before his busy team of craftsmen could notice it. There were half a dozen of them in the large rectangular room, working on a variety of blades, helms and hauberks.

  ‘It shall be ready by sunset,’ smiled the smith, running a hand casually through his sooty white hair.

  ‘Good,’ said Wolmar. ‘I would send my squire to pick it up, but the wretch has taken ill with the Runny Sickness. I’ll just have to come by again myself.’ He did a good job of putting on the air of a haughty princeling incensed by his circumstances. ‘And one last thing,’ he added. ‘Tell no one of this transaction. I’d rather people didn’t know what I’m doing… In truth I fain wish I had promised Her Ladyship some other task.’

  The smith smiled again. ‘Love is love, sir knight! It makes even the highest born do strange and foolish things.’

  Impertinent cur – clearly his status as master bladesmith to the King had given him ideas above his station. Wolmar swallowed the urge to backhand the commoner and stalked out of the armoury.

  He felt an unseen weight pressing down on him as he made his way through corridors decorated with ornate tapestries and teeming with busy servants. He could feel the enchantment Ivon had put on him, trying to quash his natural impetuosity; several times he had to fight the urge to go back to the armoury and cancel the job he had just ordered.

  Likewise as he approached his quarters he felt the keen desire to throw himself at Ivon’s feet and confess his plan well up inside him. He clenched his fists so hard the fingernails dug into his palms.

  Sweeping into his rooms he found them empty. So Ivon was still busy consulting with the King. That was a good thing. Probably planning the next stage of the invasion of Vorstlund. The Supreme Perfect had arrived at court this morning as well, that probably meant the next Pilgrim War would be discussed too.

  Ivon and his nefarious scheming… Well he wouldn’t be part of his plans for much longer. No matter the cost.

  Wolmar helped himself to a goblet of wine and gazed fretfully across the palace grounds. The wing he was staying in overlooked a series of walled gardens, but the riot of colours offered him little in the way of comfort.

  Reus damn it, but where was Horskram? Much as he hated to admit it, the old monk’s arrival might help. Not that he would be able to confess what he knew – Ivon’s spell prevented him from divulging his diabolical plans to anyone. But at least Horskram would recognise Wolmar and want to question him – the adept’s sorcerous powers might enable him to divine what Wolmar knew without his having to tell him.

  His next sip of wine tasted bitter. A pretty pass things had come to, wishing for an Argolian’s help! He supposed there was Hannequin too… but the Grand Master hadn’t paid him much attention, treating him as little more than a messenger, and he hadn’t met him again since Ivon had enthralled him. His lover had made sure of that.

  Wolmar emptied the contents of his cup. No, a pox on the Argolians – for all he knew they could be in league with Ivon, he wouldn’t put it past them. He couldn’t afford to trust anyone. And that meant going ahead with his plan. And that meant…

  His sad reverie was interrupted by the door opening. In stepped his squire. A diffident, chinless stripling: poor material for knighthood, perfect material for a spy.

  ‘Well, did you see to it that my horse is receiving the special care it deserves?’ he snapped, putting on his act again. ‘Yon Farovian is worth ten Pangonian destriers!’ It wasn’t much of an act come to think of it – he would have behaved no differently where his horse was concerned in any case.

  The squire gave no indication of what he was thinking as he replied calmly: ‘Yes, Your Highness, your horse is being kept in the finest wing of the royal stables. I saw to it personally.’

  Yes, I’ll wager you did what with your connections, thought Wolmar acidly.

  ‘Good,’ he said, turning back to gaze out of the window. ‘Now pour me another cup of wine.’

  Wolmar was finishing his last sword bout as the sun slipped down beyond the white walls enclosing the palace grounds. The practice yard was located just next to the armoury, as one would expect: he was perfectly positioned to pick up his special order. All he needed now was to get that damned prying squire out of the way.

  He looked down at the knight he had just knocked into the dirt. He was one of the ordinary palace knights and not a member of the prestigious Crescent Table. A pity that, but at least he was Pangonian. He favoured his beaten opponent with a mocking sneer before beckoning curtly to his squire.

  ‘Bertrand, come here!’ The squire ran up dutifully. ‘You’re to go to Lord Ivon’s chambers and tell him I want to meet him down here right away.’

  The squire looked surprised. ‘But, sire… you need help with your armour – ’

  ‘I served in the White Valravyn for years,’ Wolmar reminded him sternly. ‘And we make do without squires, like the true errants of old. Now do as you’re told and go and fetch His Lordship.’

  Bertrand could do little but obey. He might serve Ivon, but he had to defer outwardly to his betters. That of course was what Wolmar was counting on. Ivon’s chambers were on the other side of the palace. That should give him the time he needed.

  He waited until Bertrand was out of sight, then headed straight for the armoury.

  Ivon had not yet arrived by the time he returned to the training grounds. Excellent – everything was going to plan. He felt the rude blade pressed against his flesh where he had hidden it beneath his girdle and undertunic.

  A wave of sorrow rolled over him as he contemplated what he must do next. How easy it would be, to succumb fully to Ivon’s enchantment and go along with his plans…

  He shook his head to clear it, clenching and unclenching his fists. In his mind’s eye he pictured the double unicorn insignia of Ingwin. He would not betray his countrymen; nor would he condemn his soul to eternal perdition. No ensorcellment would ever make him perjure those things – not if he could help it anyway.

  He paced the yard, watching his lengthening shadow as it swayed unsteadily in the fading light. A roil of emotions was tearing its way through his guts. Anger, guilt, despair, determination: all vied for a slice of his troubled soul.

  ‘Wolmar! Darling! You look ever so worked up – been practising over much in the yard, Bertrand tells me…’

  The princeling looked up, fixing the lover he had learned to despise with a venomous glare.

  Ivon pouted. He was dressed like a dandy as usual: his sequinned doublet and hose caught stray slashes of dying sunlight and seemed to mock the dimming skies with their cobalt hues.

  ‘Oh Wolmar, if looks could kill…! And you’re still dressed to kill too, quite literally. Night is almost on us and it will soon be time to feast… Can’t have you turning up to dine in full armour now can we?’

  Wolmar pushed the Margrave away, preventing him from kissing him.

  ‘Don’t patronise me,’ he snarled. ‘You may have’ – he felt the enchantment tighten around him like an invisible noose – ‘… influenced me, but I will not be your plaything any longer…’ He struggled to get more words out. He could feel the warlock tightening his grip. Desperately he forced his mind to focus on the Margrave and not his plan.

  Fortunately Ivon seemed more intent on other things. ‘Ah but that is where you are wrong, sweetling,’ he said, his tone catching a shade of the encroaching dusk as he reached out to caress Wolmar’s cheek. ‘You are soon to be mine, body and soul…’

  He winked towards the dark blue skies and lowered his voice to a sibilant whisper. ‘Full moon is nearly upon us! Tomorrow at the Wytching Hour you shall be initiated… Then all of this will seem
but as a frightful dream… Bertrand!’ Turning to the squire he snapped his fingers. ‘I think Sir Wolmar needs help with his armour – we’ve some important guests at the palace tonight including His Supreme Holiness, it would be criminal not to attend in timely fashion…’

  Back in his chambers Wolmar sent Bertrand packing after he had laid out his clothing on the bed. Taking the iron dagger out, he placed it under his mattress. Not the best hiding place, but he was a knight not a sneak thief. Besides, that way it was handy. If Ivon decided to spend the night with him in his chambers… All he would need to do is break the enchantment for a few precious seconds…

  He felt the weight press down on him, followed by the urge to run in search of his lover and tell him everything. Forcing his attention to the clothes on top of the bed, he began to dress for dinner.

  He need not have worried about keeping his mind distracted from his true intentions at feasting time, for Ivon had plenty of things to talk about.

  ‘See that one there, next to the Supreme Perfect?’ he asked Wolmar, surreptitiously pointing towards the spare pale man dressed in a white kirtle. His head was shaven and his pinched face showed little emotion. His economy of movements betrayed a martial man, though he resembled a Marionite monk in his simple garb.

  ‘Another distinguished guest?’ asked Wolmar cynically.

  ‘Oh very distinguished,’ replied Ivon seriously. ‘That man is Sir Godfrey, Master of the preceptory of the Bethler Order here in Rima. Those estimable warrior-monks have made themselves indispensable to any crusade – doubtless his presence here means Cyprian means to make good on his pledge to declare another Pilgrim War.’

  ‘When will it be declared?’ asked Wolmar, feigning interest.

  ‘Soon, don’t you worry!’ grinned Ivon, patting him on the shoulder. But he said no more on the matter.

  ‘I notice your great rival Morvaine isn’t here,’ said Wolmar, keen to keep himself as preoccupied as possible. He still feared succumbing to his lover’s magic and telling him everything if he dwelt too much on his plan.

  ‘That is because Lord Morvaine has got what he came to court for – the war in Vorstlund is a certainty. His job now will be to persuade the rest of the Occitanian barons to sign up… and join my little coup afterwards. He thinks we’ll be putting him on the throne once that’s done, but of course my plans are quite different…’

  Breaking off from his whispered conversation he addressed Aravin and Kaye loudly. ‘My lords, such fine weather cannot possibly be allowed to go to waste – what think you both of another hunting trip? Tomorrow perhaps?’

  Aravin betrayed the hint of a grin as he replied: ‘Why, I was just thinking the same thing. I’ll have my squire make the necessary preparations.’

  Kaye murmured his assent, catching Wolmar a meaningful glance. The princeling feigned resignation, dropping his eyes to his silver trencher.

  ‘Ah what a life of ease and comfort we lead,’ sighed Ivon, beckoning for more wine. ‘You’d think we were in the Heavenly Halls, when all that falls to us is to disport and make merry…’

  Taking a deep draught of wine Wolmar forced himself to think of the White Valrayvn, the insignia he had worn and served for so long. He felt tears welling up behind his eyes, and blinked hard to keep them in check.

  One way or another, soon it would all be over.

  Back in his chambers, Wolmar paced again frenetically. Glancing out of the window he caught the silvery moon, nearly fully waxed. Was it his imagination or did it seem to mock him somehow?

  He hadn’t expected Ivon to leave him directly after the feast. Not for the first time, anxiety lanced his pounding heart. Did the Margrave suspect him? No, he reminded himself yet again, he had muttered something about needing to prepare himself for tomorrow night’s ceremony. Wolmar barely suppressed a shudder. He didn’t like to think what blasphemous arcana the warlock was revising in his own suite right now.

  So his initial plan was out. A pity. Bringing an end to the depraved mage’s life during their lovemaking, he would have liked that. But the more he thought on it, the less likely it seemed that such an attempt would have worked. Ivon had already hinted that their liaison had made him more susceptible to ensorcellment: small chance then of breaking it while they were engaged in an amorous clinch.

  Again he felt the yearning seeping through his pores… He could just take the dagger and go now to Ivon’s chambers, tell him everything… Wolmar pressed his hands to his temples, trying in vain to crush the point of sharpening pain coalescing in the middle of his skull. A whispering voice seemed to call to him, telling him to give it up as lost…

  With a groan the princeling slumped to the carpeted floor, hunching over as Ivon’s magic fought to overthrow the last vestiges of his will. He could only pray the warlock was too engaged in his preparations to notice the struggle; forcing himself to stand with a gasp he stepped over to the garderobe and flung open its cedar door. Rifling through the court finery Ivon had furnished him with, he found what he was looking for: his old surcoat, emblazoned with the crest of the White Valravyn. It seemed so long since he had worn it.

  Pulling it free he wrapped it around his head and shoulders, inhaling the musty wool like a dying man gasping for breath. He forced himself to think of his homeland, his father… even his brethren in the Order seemed a welcome thought now. He pictured the high grey walls of Strongholm, the banner of Ingwin fluttering in the strong sea breeze…

  Falling onto the bed he wept into the tabard, torn with longing for a home he would probably never see again.

  He awoke to the sound of knocking. Sitting up on the bed he glanced out of the window, suffused with the rosy tinge of dawn. Springing off it he discarded the surcoat, reached under the mattress and found the iron dagger.

  Again the knocking, a little louder this time.

  ‘I’m coming, Reus dammit!’

  He slid the blade back beneath his undertunic, binding it in place with a length of twine he had secured for that purpose. It felt cold and hard against his skin; the feeling reassured him.

  The door opened and in stepped Bertrand.

  ‘I told you never to enter without my say so!’ snarled Wolmar.

  ‘And Lord Ivon told you to be ready to leave at dawn,’ replied the squire coldly. ‘You’re not even dressed.’

  All pretence of deference was gone. The princeling met the squire’s defiant gaze and resisted the urge to throttle him.

  ‘Well help me by fetching out my hunting clothes then,’ he barked, swallowing his pride for the umpteenth time.

  The squire shut the door behind him and did as he was told. When he had laid out the clothes Wolmar began to dress. He was just pulling on his hose when the squire picked up the jerkin and went to put it on him.

  ‘I said I always dress myself!’ shouted Wolmar, conveniently concealing his rising fear behind genuine anger.

  ‘And I say we are running late,’ replied Bertrand implacably. He had a completely different air about him now, like a long-suffering servant about to trump his master. The squire reached over to grab Wolmar’s undertunic. ‘You don’t need this, it’s going to be hot – ’ Wolmar pushed him away but it was too late: the squire had hold of the tunic and he pulled on it as he staggered back. The linen tore, exposing a glint of metal. Bertrand’s eyes widened as he registered what it was.

  Wolmar didn’t even think about his next move. Stepping forward he slammed an uppercut into the squire’s chin, knocking a tooth out as he sent him sprawling back against the bed. Grabbing him by his lank mop of hair, the knight smashed his head into the oak headboard several times. He felt a tremble of satisfaction run the length of his body as the squire slumped senseless and bleeding to the ground.

  Bending down Wolmar checked him. He had a vicious cut to the head and a bloody mouth but he was still breathing. Not dead then. The princeling was on the point of pulling out his dagger and cutting the stripling’s throat when he thought better of it. Ivon might notice if one of his
thralls suddenly died, and he’d have some explaining to do as it was.

  Shoving Bertrand under the bed he finished dressing quickly, first changing into a fresh undertunic. The sun’s rays were hardening through the window as he exited his bedchamber.

  The others were waiting for him outside in the courtyard. Ivon narrowed his eyes as Wolmar approached. The princeling took a deep breath and focused.

  ‘Where is Bertrand?’ he asked suspiciously.

  I just knocked him unconscious after he discovered my attempt to foil your plans. Those words were on the point of exiting his mouth but somehow Wolmar found the willpower not to utter them.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied levelly. ‘I had to fetch a courser from the royal stables myself. I assumed you had him running another errand.’ Just for good measure he underscored the final word with contempt.

  Ivon eyed him darkly. Aravin and Kaye and their squires barely spared him a glance. They seemed far away. Just as well.

  ‘I sent him over to your chambers just before dawn,’ he said. The Margrave’s eyes continued to search him. He could feel his will bending his own…

  It was useless to struggle.

  ‘I knocked him unconscious,’ sighed Wolmar.

  That got the other lords’ attention.

  ‘What?’ gaped Ivon. Wolmar had to relish the look of outrage and surprise on his face.

  ‘He keeps trying to dress me,’ said Wolmar. ‘I’ve told him I don’t know how many times that a knight of the White Valravyn dresses himself, but did he listen? I lost my temper and gave him a beating. It was high time the youth learned his manners.’

  Aravin and Kaye exchanged glances. They seemed more amused than anything.

  ‘That youth happens to be my second cousin!’ snapped Ivon. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Sleeping off his injuries in my bedchamber,’ replied Wolmar, telling the perfect truth. ‘I’m sure he’ll recover in time… and perhaps learn to treat princes of the blood royal with more respect in future.’