by Damien Black
‘Bah, I should never have entrusted him with keeping an eye on you,’ sneered Ivon. ‘Always was an overweening little troglodyte, that one. You do a favour for one of the family and this is what comes of it…’ He rolled his eyes melodramatically. ‘Very well, we’ll just have to manage without him. I won’t be needing anyone to keep an eye on you after tonight in any case. Right! Let’s be off then, noblemen. We’ve a long day ahead of us and we need to make a start.’
Without another word, the margraves turned their coursers towards the palace gates. Wolmar allowed a slow sigh of relief to escape his lips as he followed. The iron blade still felt cool and hard against his skin.
It was another hot day, and before long Wolmar felt the sweat coagulating beneath his woollen hunting clothes. They rode hard the whole morning, and the blazing sun was approaching its zenith when they found the cool comfort of the Arbevere. Ivon did not stop there, but took them further up into the wooded hills. It was obvious where they were going long before they reached the clearing overlooking the source of the Athos.
Barely a word had been spoken during their journey. Ivon barked a curt command at their squires and the three youths laid out a spread. It looked for all the world as though they were just another party of nobles enjoying a pleasure trip, but Wolmar’s entrails failed to unknot themselves as he sat down to eat.
Despite his natural hunger after hours in the saddle, he had little appetite for the wine, cheeses and sweetmeats. He forced himself to eat abundantly anyway: he would need all the energy he could summon if his plan was to work.
Afterwards he went over to the riverbank to relieve himself. Ivon did not bother to send a squire with him, but merely issued a stern command not to run off. He felt the words bind him like shackles: his plan really had little chance of fully succeeding. But then he had known that all along. He drank in the forest sounds and smells as he emptied his bowels, wondering if this really was the last time he would experience the natural world’s pleasing embrace. He had never had much time for such appreciation: funny how it came to him so poignantly now.
He returned to the clearing to find the remainder of the food packed away. The squires were busy unpacking something else from their horses’ saddle bags, what looked like bundles of linen.
Ivon stood and stared at him. His voice was bereft of all emotion as he ordered him to undress.
Wolmar felt panic churn upwards from the base of his stomach as he struggled to disobey the command. Forcing himself to think of his homeland and the White Valravyn slowed down the process somewhat, but eventually his fingers complied. To his surprise he saw Kaye and Aravin were also beginning to strip.
He pulled off his cloak and riding boots, before taking off his hose and tunic and chausses. He was down to his undertunic and breeches. Slowly he began to pull the latter off… The iron dagger pressed against his sweaty skin, slipping down his body slightly. The twine held it, but its point was just above the hem of his tunic. He tried to resist following the command literally, but Ivon’s words were like a binding law to him.
He shut his eyes tightly as he grasped his tunic…
‘All right, that’s enough. It gets chilly up there at night and I won’t have you shivering in sight of the Master’s servants like a timorous peasant. Put this on next.’ Ivon’s voice was still strangely flat.
A squire came over and proffered him a bundle of white linen. Taking it he saw it was a kirtle, oddly reminiscent of that the Bethler commander had worn at dinner. He was too busy feeling relieved to ponder that as he slipped it over his head and shoulders. The squire handed him a girdle and he tightened it at the waist, just above the concealed dagger.
‘Good, now sit down,’ commanded Ivon. ‘We’ve quite a wait before the others arrive. If I were you I’d concentrate on preparing your mind for what’s to come. Not lightly should mortal men look on one of the faces of their true maker.’
Wolmar could scarcely begin to ponder the cryptic nature of Ivon’s words. His mind was concentrating all right, but not on what the warlock hoped.
Aravin and Kaye were getting into similar gowns, only theirs were black as night. The three squires followed suit. Only Ivon remained dressed in his hunting clothes, looking curiously mundane as he sat on a rock. But there was nothing mundane about the strange words he mouthed silently to himself, nor his eyes as they rolled back up into their sockets.
Wolmar glanced at the sun. It must be around three hours after noon. Wait before the others arrive. He should have known the warlock would have more members in his arcane cult. Perhaps now was the best time to strike, before more people arrived, while Ivon was in a trance. He tried to order himself to get off the rock, to dash over to Ivon and stab the life from him… But his limbs remained rooted in place.
There was only one way his plan might work.
Once again he cast his mind back to the secret council at Strongholm, and their interrogation of the monk Horskram at Staerkvit. From what he had gleaned, warlocks could only concentrate on so many magical tasks at once; take on too much and their powers became overstretched and weakened. He had to pray that whatever ghastly conjuration Ivon planned for tonight, it would be enough to loosen his grip on him: he had long been regarded as one of the swiftest swordsmen in his kingdom, all it would take was a few seconds…
When he was sure the others weren’t looking, he slipped a hand into his kirtle and felt the dagger. It was an unusual place to keep a weapon but he was confident that wouldn’t slow him down too much. Glancing back at Ivon he saw him muttering the strange syllables. Rehearsing a spell, surely… Then he felt the weight pressing down on him. He kept his hand inside the gown, struggling with the urge to reveal the dagger and beg the Margrave’s forgiveness. Screwing his eyes shut he burned the image of the Valravyn into his mind, and with agonising slowness the urge subsided.
He was breathing heavily when he withdrew his empty hand.
Presently Ivon ceased his silent recital. Getting up he walked over to Wolmar and gently brushed delicate fingers through his hair.
‘I think it is time you rested ahead of your ordeal,’ he said in the same neutral tone. ‘Initiation into the rites of the Master are not easily borne.’ He murmured a few syllables in the hateful tongue of magick. At first their sound set Wolmar’s teeth on edge, but the feeling was replaced almost immediately by a pleasant sensation of ease and comfort. The princeling saw his lover’s eyes fill his vision, two dark pools of night that grew to swallow him up…
… he awoke to the sound of an owl hooting. Sitting up on the rock where he had fallen asleep he glanced around fitfully. Evening shadows were painting the clearing with long, tenebrous fingers; Aravin and Kaye and the three squires were sat at five points around where the fire had been the night they sacrificed Rodger. They appeared to be in a similar state to Ivon, their eyes half shut and murmuring softly to themselves. Of the warlock himself there was no sign.
No sooner did the thought of running occur to him than he felt the weight return. Shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath he thought of his house’s banner and the insignia of the Valravyn.
A sound alerted him to a figure approaching through the gloaming, from the path up to the plateau where the eldritch stone lay. It was Ivon, only now he was dressed in a manner befitting the head of a coven of witches. Sorcerous sigils writhed in a faint orange glow upon rich robes of purple velvet; about his neck was an amulet of crystal, its five points mocking the four limbs of the Redeemer. He wore white silken gloves, above which bejewelled rings flashed with an unnatural luminosity in the fading twilight.
The five acolytes stopped chanting as he stepped up to address them in Panglian. As one they stood up. Walking over to their saddle bags they reached inside and each produced a hollowed-out goat’s head. Wolmar felt his hackles rise as they put on the diabolical masks. Ivon beckoned to the princeling and he followed him obediently towards the trail, like a lamb to the slaughter.
The Wytching Hour was fast approachin
g by the time they reached the plateau of rock where Rodger had breathed his last. The balmy summer night did little to abate Wolmar’s rising tension. If the presence of manifest evil had been acute before, it was palpable now. On the far side of the rocky shelf was a boulder. Ivon barked something in Panglian and two of the acolytes went and rolled it over, revealing a great hollow beneath. Wolmar felt his gorge rise as they dragged a whimpering figure from its lightless depths: the bound and gagged form of a girl dressed in naught but a dirty shift. Wolmar fixed his eyes on her as they brought her back to the cursed stone and forced her down on to it. She could not have been older than fourteen summers.
‘The serfs won’t long miss a daughter of theirs,’ said Ivon coldly. ‘Most of them are fated to die of disease and ill usage as befits their lot – but this waif shall join the King of All in glory tonight!’
Wolmar made to curse the depraved warlock, but no words came from his clenching throat. Ivon pulled a phial from his robes and nodded towards one of his acolytes; Wolmar couldn’t tell which of them beneath the goat head. The acolyte pulled the gag from the girl’s mouth and Ivon poured the phial’s contents into it before she could start screaming.
In moments the potion took effect and the girl stopped struggling and went limp. No sleep spell this – her eyes remained open but glazed over. Reaching down Ivon tore the shift off her, leaving her nubile form exposed upon the stone, which seemed to burn at the edges with a lustful red light.
A more natural yellow flickering caught Wolmar’s eye. Glancing back down towards the clearing far below, he saw faint points of wavering torchlight.
‘The others are here,’ said Ivon. ‘All is going according to plan.’
Wolmar watched as the acolytes set up braziers at five points around the stone. By their light he could see a pentangle had been scored with silvery dust around it, each of its points terminating in one of the braziers. Ivon began to walk around the circle, muttering softly in the language of magick. Wolmar shuddered with every syllable. Instinctively he moved a hand to where the iron dagger lay pressed against his midriff.
The silver dust seemed to glow faintly in the dark now, the pentangle it sketched taking on a lucent definition eerily reminiscent of the natural light of the stars above. It was only then that he noticed he had been placed inside the pentacle, within one of its triangular points.
Gradually the other members of Ivon’s cult began to arrive. Who they were he would never know, for all were dressed in black robes and goat head masks. They carried torches and filed silently onto the plateau, forming a thickening circle about the pentacle as Ivon continued to perambulate it, chanting in the fell tongue of sorcery.
Wolmar’s heart sank as they encircled him. There were at least fifty of them, staring at him through shadowy sockets. Escape was impossible. All that remained was one last superhuman effort of will – at least he would go down fighting.
Night had reached its zenith by the time Ivon ceased his preparations. Stepping into the middle of the circle he stood before the glowing stone, which made the drugged girl draped across it look like a harlot from hell.
Inverting the sign of the Wheel, the warlock addressed his blasphemous congregation in Decorlangue. ‘Lords and ladies, from castle and temple, manor and monastery have I chosen thee! The Hour of All’s Ending approacheth, and the King of Gehenna shall soon return to reclaim His birthright! That which was stripped away from Him at the Dawn of Time, during the Battle for Heaven and Earth, shall be restored to Abaddon, and his true servants shall share in His glory!’
The warlock paused. Wolmar half expected the diabolical flock to cheer, but all were deathly silent.
Ivon continued: ‘Our numbers have grown steadily, both those of us here deemed strong enough to be privy to the Master’s darkest arcana, and those who will serve us, knowingly or otherwise. Soon the antiquated realms of mortalkind shall be swept away, the Synod of Priest-Kings that once ruled the Known World shall rise again – through us, and others like us! Sorcerers shall rule the Known World once more, and all shall be fettered in blissful bondage!’
Again he paused; again a quiet as still as the grave met his words. Only the crepitant fires of the braziers could be heard above the rising wind.
The Margrave who would be master of the world turned to face Wolmar. ‘Tonight we gather, brothers and sisters, to welcome another member to our illustrious fold – Sir Wolmar of Strongholm, who came to us a prince of mortal blood royal… Tonight, if he prove strong enough to pass his initiation, he shall emerge a scion of a new world order! Wolmar, kneel!’
The princeling did as commanded. No point in trying to fight Ivon now, while he was out of striking range. Best to bide his time.
The congregation at last broke its silence, and began to chant in a strange tongue. At first Wolmar assumed it was the language of magick, but he quickly realised it was something else: at once strangely familiar and yet completely outlandish.
He had little time to ponder that as Ivon addressed him again. ‘Wolmar of Strongholm, thou hast been chosen to receive the rites! Molaach, Receiver of Souls and Seneschal to Abaddon in his city of burning brass, shall I implore on thine own behalf! From the Second Tier shall he be moved to make a reckoning of thine animus! Wolmar of Strongholm, earthly power such as you have never known shall be yours in recompense! Your soul shall be ripped from thy heart and broiled in a casket of fire – dost thou consent?’
Wolmar could barely stop the words escaping his lips. ‘I do consent,’ he gasped in Decorlangue. He kept the image of the White Valravyn and the standard of Ingwin burned in his mind: the two merged and blended, a white raven circling above two unicorns that danced and reared…
If he could retain some of his willpower for just long enough…
Ivon turned to face the girl. Her glazed eyes stared up into the night. Was she aware of what was happening to her? Wolmar prayed she wasn’t: not even he could be so cruel as to wish otherwise.
Raising his eyes to the heavens, Ivon cried aloud in the language of magick. Wolmar could not fathom its meaning, though he heard the name ‘Molaach’ repeated over and over again. Around him the chanting swelled as the dark disciples raised their voices. Though not eldritch like the sorcerous tongue, there was something undeniably profane about the language they spoke.
Wolmar could only watch as Ivon pulled the hapless girl’s legs apart. Opening his robes he exposed his sex. His erstwhile lover was fully engorged, just as he had seen him on many a hot night in the palace at Rima. That seemed a thousand years ago now.
Holding the girl firmly by her supple waist the warlock entered her. The chanting reached a fevered pitch as Ivon violated her, all the while crying aloud in the language of magick. Reaching into the upper folds of his robe without breaking off his copulation, Ivon produced a kris-shaped dagger, its wavy blade seeming to undulate with a malignity of its own.
Wolmar had done many questionable deeds in his life, but this was beyond the pail of anything he had ever witnessed. He felt his last meal come up in a burning torrent as Ivon climaxed inside the prostrate girl, uttering the last syllable of his spell and plunging the knife deep into her heart. His frenzied thrusting slowed as her lifeblood pumped across his exposed torso, her body quivering into lifelessness as he slumped over her dead form with an ecstatic sigh. The congregation did not cease its chanting, though a euphoric tone now suffused the rising voices.
Withdrawing from the corpse, Ivon stood and raised his arms. His white-gloved hands and wilting member were slick with fresh warm blood.
‘Molaach, a soul I give thee in bondage, borne on a tide of blood and seed! Now take a second soul, given willingly by one who would serve thee in life!’
The warlock began to back away out of the pentangle, genuflecting as he did. Wolmar realised it was now or never. Forcing himself to stand, he pulled the iron dagger from his kirtle. Ivon’s eyes widened as he registered the glint of metal. The chanting wavered as some of the acolytes noticed it too.<
br />
‘Do not break off the chant!’ he cried. ‘We must not be discovered!’
Turning back to face Wolmar he said in a low even voice: ‘Put that down.’
Wolmar felt the weight pressing him from all sides. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to think only of a white raven circling a pair of unicorns.
Slowly and painfully he took a step towards the mage. The circle continued chanting, though the euphoria had left it.
Ivon repeated the command. Again Wolmar took a step forwards, though every movement was agony. His fingers, clenched feverishly around the dagger’s hilt, felt as though a Wadwo were trying to prise them apart.
Anger crossed the warlock’s face and he barked a few syllables in the language of magick. It was the same incantation he had used before to turn Wolmar’s steel blade into a serpent. But this time nothing happened.
‘Very clever,’ breathed Ivon. ‘Pure iron. Your resourcefulness does you credit.’
Again Wolmar took a step forwards. The weight was almost unbearable now. He could feel Ivon fighting him. Beads of sweat stood out on the mage’s forehead, dripping down his face to mingle with the girl’s blood spattered across his midriff. But behind the force he could sense there was a weakness. He had guessed rightly – his lover had been left drained by his spell-casting. His plan was working!
Only he had not reckoned on what purpose the spell had served. A flaring light from the stone informed him.
Turning to look he saw the girl’s corpse rise off it. Where but a moment ago blood had gushed from a mortal wound now red fires sputtered; her eyes burned with flames as black as the night skies.
Ivon scurried out of the pentacle as the girl’s form lurched towards Wolmar. Her lithe body shifted and cracked as she did, the limbs distending and contorting horribly as she grew in stature. Her drooling mouth opened and an impossibly long tongue snaked out, as if tasting the air between them. Her skin had taken on the reddish hue of the stone.