by Damien Black
Ivon addressed the demon now, speaking in the language of magick. The dead girl’s form spat out some words in a cracked voice. To Wolmar it felt like there were aeons of hatred in it. A hint of desperation entered Ivon’s voice as he yelled back at the demon he called Molaach.
Switching back to Decorlangue he barked: ‘Wolmar, kneel before thy true master! Do not spurn a second-tier Lord of Gehenna, or he shall consume thy body as well as thy soul!’
Even now Wolmar felt the enormous pressure on his will. As well as Ivon’s power of suggestion, he now had mortal terror of a ravening demon to compel him. And the warlock had taken advantage of the distraction to back away out of range. The acolytes remained an unbroken circle around him, though their chanting was now suffused with fear.
There was only one option. There had only ever been one option.
Turning from Ivon he looked upon the demon called Molaach, as it beckoned towards him with fingers that bent back on themselves and cracked hideously.
‘Releassss the iron… come… and… kissss me…’ It was using Decorlangue to speak to him; there was a susurration to the demon’s speech that made Wolmar feel nauseous. He retched up bile as he registered the lop-sided grin on the peasant girl’s face, now horribly twisted.
‘Do as he says!’ shrieked Ivon. ‘Embrace Molaach and become one of us! Or go straight to Gehenna and burn there forever!’
Shutting his eyes Wolmar clutched the dagger in both hands and raised it high above his head. ‘Oh Reus, forgive me,’ he managed to utter, before plunging the blade deep into his chest.
The pain that lanced through him was almost welcome as he slumped to his knees with a gasp. He was dimly aware of the congregation breaking up as the demon gave vent to a roar of primordial rage. Falling onto his side, he saw Ivon presenting his amulet as he yelled another incantation. The demon had warped the girl’s body even more in its rage; it looked like a gigantic four-legged spider as it stalked towards him. Ignoring the iron blade lodged in his chest Wolmar dug his fingers into the rocky ground and began pulling himself towards the edge of the pentangle with the last of his strength. By now he was beyond all pain; his only thought was to get his body out of the demon’s clutches so he could die a clean death.
He was peripherally aware that Ivon was still standing just outside the pentagram, casting another spell. The demon’s host body was now suffused with fires that changed colour; its form seemed to grow long and diaphanous, its undulating contours swallowed up by a shadow that grew steadily from out of the flaming miasma where its heart had been…
With a strangled cry Wolmar reached the edge of the pentacle just as Ivon mouthed the last of the spell. The demon seemed to collapse in on itself in a ball of darkness and guttering light. The braziers went out all at once, plunging the plateau into starlit gloom. Wolmar felt a searing pain in his chest grow and spread throughout his body, a welcome numbness following hard on its heels. A deep sadness rippled through him…
Then he felt no more.
CHAPTER IX
Unwelcome Tidings
The brawny highlander leaned back in the creaking chair. It was made of oak, but barely looked strong enough to support his weight. Wiping greasy fingers unceremoniously on his fur cloak, he gave vent to a satisfied belch.
Abrexta distastefully eyed the ravaged remains of boar he had chomped his way through. To most lowlanders, Cormic Mac Brennan was a fearsome sight, all the more so given the ugly scar that appeared to give him a perpetual rictus grin, but she simply found the highland general uncouth and distasteful to look upon. The allies the Moon Goddess commanded her to make… Reminding herself that it was for the greater good, she pressed him again for answers.
‘So, when you’ve finished your ravaging, your ravishing and your burning – when all the “essentials of conquest” as you so eloquently put it are done – when do you think the lords Tíerchán and Slangá will be ready to send me their warriors?’
A fortnight had passed since her conversation with Ragnar. He was not the only warlock she had communed with during that time, and her last scrying had given her good reason to expedite her plans. The Master was not someone who tolerated failure.
All of this and more went through her mind as Cormic took another slurp of mead. She almost regretted having chosen to grant him private audience in her personal antechamber, but she needed to be alone with him.
‘As I’ve just told ye,’ he breezed, licking froth from his scarred mouth. ‘There’s nae cause for concern, yer ladyship. Two thousand o’ our finest screamers ye’ll have by month’s end.’
‘But that takes us to the eve of Ripanmonath and the beginning of autumn,’ said Abrexta, reaching irritably for her goblet. ‘You know full well how early winter sets in on the seas that surround the Westerling Isles – in all probability that will mean delaying the invasion until spring!’
‘Aye, lassie, it will,’ conceded Cormic, who seemed to be paying more attention to the mead than her. ‘But I couldnae help but notice that yer fleet’s no’ exactly close tae bein’ finished. Canny set sail withoot them in any case…’
She wished she could enthral him, or better still, set fire to his ermine cloak and braided beard. But that was out of the question while she was this taxed. He stared at her across his silver tankard, his dark eyes meeting hers. A naked savagery was in those eyes, one that well matched the necklace of cured tongues he wore: keepsakes from his many victories. The Cormic Death’s Head had become a thing of legend.
But that was exactly why she needed him. His kind of brute strength, animal cunning and ruthless savagery would make him a formidable ally.
‘The dock workers are being appeased,’ she said. ‘The shipwrights are due to go back to work after this Restday. It’s true they’ve delayed things, though we should hopefully have a hundred ships ready to set sail by the end of Ripanmonath.’
Cormic shook his head. ‘That’ll be too late,’ he said, emptying his tankard and beckoning towards a page boy for a refill. ‘By Blakmonath the seas’ll be too rough tae sail… So ye’re looking at a spring invasion in any case.’ His rictus broadened as he took another slurp. ‘That’ll be bonny, the lads are tired after all the fechtin’ we’ve been daein’ of late – be good tae rest up an’ celebrate the Year’s End in style.’
Abrexta fought to keep her temper. ‘Then why are you even here?’ she barked.
‘Show of good faith,’ replied the highland chief. ‘By sendin’ me doon here, Slangá’s demonstratin’ that he’s loyal tae the crown… Ah’ve plenty tae keep me busy up north but he deemed it important. Still, I have tae say, it’s no’ been a bad trip all in all. Yer meat an’ mead’s passin’ fine, and ah love what ye’ve done wi’ the palace decorations.’
Cormic was referring to the corpses of Vertrix and the other rebels she’d had eviscerated and strung up above the gates. Yet another example of what happened to those who dared defy her. But she wasn’t in the mood for flattery.
‘Yes well, regardless of whether it’s a spring invasion or not,’ she said, ‘I’ll be wanting you and your men down here by end of Ripanmonath. You’ll need to be present for planning the invasion in any case.’
‘Aye, aye, dinnae worry, yer ladyship,’ replied the highlander. ‘I’m fully lookin’ forward tae enjoyin’ the king’s hospitality over winter. Just ye make sure my lads have bonny lodgings – they’ve become quite accustomed to such since they took Daxor and Gaellentir.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard all about the orgy of rapine and slaughter your “lads” have been indulging in since we gave you the north,’ said Abrexta. ‘I do hope you’ve left some of the original inhabitants alive.’
‘Aye, that we have,’ Cormic assured her. ‘Enough tae see tae oor needs, anyway…’ He grinned again, revealing a cluster of silver teeth.
Abrexta hid her revulsion. She knew exactly what kind of needs the womenfolk of Daxor and Gaellentir would be serving. When the new order was imposed women would no longer be the thralls of
men, not under her rule at least. The Moon Goddess demanded it.
‘Well, don’t forget that lands need to be ruled after they’ve been conquered,’ she contented herself with saying. ‘You’ll need peasants to work it… until my kind are able to bend nature to our will again, as it was in far-gone times.’
For the first time during their audience the highlander looked perturbed. ‘Aye, well… I’ll leave matters o’ religion tae you, o’ course…’
He still looked distinctly uneasy. Abrexta shook her head inwardly. In the long centuries that had passed since the Westerling clans ruled in north-west Urovia, even those descended from their stock had forgotten the ways of the druids and priestesses, succumbing to superstitious fear of magic. She would fain see those days at an end – even if it meant serving a Left-Hand warlock. That thought brought back fears of her own as she rose to usher the highland chieftain out of her chambers.
But she had no time to ponder the dark master that Kaia had willed her to serve. Caratacus was her next visitor – she hoped he had better news.
Fortunately he did.
‘The Shipwrights’ Guild has accepted our offer,’ he confirmed. ‘Work on the fleet will recommence next week.’
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘And the coin to pay them?’
The treasurer nodded contentedly. ‘My investigations were swift and thorough. Several dozen talents of gold have been recovered and five men have been hanged for embezzling the Royal Fold. I’ve replaced them with men more suited to the office.’
And doubtless more inclined to doubt my rule, the sorceress thought disparagingly, though it was a necessary sacrifice.
‘Good. And how speed things with the Cobians?’
‘Now that we have more coin and are in the process of collecting taxes we should be able to persuade them,’ said Caratacus. ‘In all likelihood we’ll have a fleet of officers assembled in Ongist by early Ripanmonath.’
‘Cormic assures me that Tíerchán and Slangá will have their warriors posted here in the capital by that time. So we’ll be ready to plan in earnest by then – what of supplies for the journey?’
‘All victualing is proceeding as planned,’ replied Caratacus. ‘The invasion fleet should be ready by Blakmonath.’ He hesitated. ‘In all probability that will mean delaying until – ’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Abrexta, cutting him off irately. ‘Well there’s naught else we can do about it – we’ll just have to sail with the spring tides. At least that will give us time to train our forces for the coming war. Have you given any thought as to where we’ll house the highlanders?’
‘Lands without the capital are being made ready for them.’ The treasurer’s tone betrayed his misgivings.
‘I’ll see to it that a guard is posted about their camp over winter,’ said Abrexta, correctly reading his concerns. ‘See to it that they don’t run amok.’
‘As you say, your ladyship,’ replied Caratacus, favouring her with a half bow. If he still had any misgivings he didn’t show them. Just as well, because –
Her train of thought was interrupted by a banging at the door.
‘Enter,’ she said, wondering who dared disrupt her private audience.
A flustered courtier entered. Another of her thralls, she could not even remember his name.
‘What is it?’ she asked, noting the expression on the young knight’s face.
‘We’ve just had messengers arrive… from the south,’ he faltered. ‘They are asking to speak to His Majesty the King.
‘Cadwy is away on a hunting trip,’ she informed him curtly. These days it was simpler just to keep the King out of the way by distracting his attention with useless sports. ‘You may address me in his stead.’
‘The messengers come from Port Craek,’ he said. ‘It’s about the southern wards.’ His voice trailed off hesitantly, in the manner of one afraid to give bad news.
She didn’t need farseeing to divine what was coming next.
‘Out with it,’ she said, gesturing impatiently.
‘Garro, Penllyn and Tul Aeren have declared war,’ stammered the knight. ‘They are marshalling their armies and plan to march on Garth imminently.’
‘And what of Fythe?’ The courtier had not mentioned the southernmost province of Thraxia.
‘The lord of Fythe has his hands full coping with border raids from Cobia – he won’t be taking part in the rebellion, but he won’t be joining us either. Some good news at least, my lady.’
Abrexta scowled. Some, but not much. The three provinces combined would be able to field a sizeable army. And now Andragorix wouldn’t be sending her any help, she would have to deal with it herself. That would mean a civil war to fight on land before any invasion of the Island Realms.
‘Leave me, both of you,’ she said. ‘Caratacus – speak to these messengers yourself and glean all you can from them. Then come and make your report to me.’
Without another word both men bowed and left.
Suppressing a sigh of trepidation she turned towards the bedchamber, where her polished silver mirror and incense brazier awaited. It was time to make another report of her own. The Master would want to hear this news at once, bad as it was.
CHAPTER X
A Regency Disputed
‘I put myself forward as candidate for regent.’
A shocked silence greeted Prince Thorsvald as he stepped from the throng of courtiers and drew level with his brother. Prince Wolfram stared at him, mingled disbelief and rage fighting for a place in his one good eye. His younger brother could barely meet it; Hjala winced as she registered the pain in his face. Ulnor was staring at her with a barely tamed anger of his own from where he sat as acting regent on the Pine Throne.
A hubbub began to brew among the elegantly dressed men and women in the high hall. Ulnor banged down his staff of office for silence.
‘ENOUGH!’ he roared when the chattering failed to subside. ‘This is a crucial matter of state, not some gallery at a performance.’ The noise subsided reluctantly. Fixing Thorsvald with a keen stare the seneschal addressed him. ‘Your Highness, are you quite sure this is what you want?’
Pained though he was, Thorsvald did not hesitate to answer. ‘I am, my lord. With all due respect my brother has yet to recover fully from his wounds. As such, it behoves me to rule as regent in his place, but temporarily, until he has had more time to heal.’
‘YOU DARE!’ yelled Wolfram, barely containing himself. ‘I will be the judge of whether I am WELL ENOUGH TO RULE!’
Hjala closed her eyes. For an instant it looked as though Wolfram were going to have one of his fits on the spot. She supposed that might decide the matter in her favour, though the last thing the realm needed was to have its future ruler show such weakness.
As if sensing this Wolfram moderated his speech, though not without difficulty. ‘Who put you up to this, brother?’ he demanded, taking a step towards Thorsvald. ‘Always I have loved you, treated you as an equal – now this is how you repay me? Oh, base treachery!’
‘Aye, treachery!’ cried one knight, a hanger-on of Wolfram’s. ‘He bides his time, then strikes when he sees a chance to take the throne! Don’t trust him!’
‘Aye,’ cried another. ‘Wolfram is our future king, not his child brother!’
Hjala bit her lip nervously. For all his faults Wolfram was immensely popular, loved by noble and commoner alike. This was not going to be easy.
Ulnor banged down his staff again. ‘I said SILENCE!’ he roared, his voice reverberating around the hall. Hjala fancied even the Giantslayer’s Gift trembled at his voice. ‘There will be no running commentary while we discuss MATTERS OF STATE!’
Credit to Ulnor, he would have due protocol, even though he obviously sympathised with Wolfram’s supporters.
‘I bear no treason in my heart towards thee,’ said Thorsvald sincerely, finally managing to meet his older brother’s burning stare. ‘Nor do I covet what is rightfully yours. But brother, the realm is in grave danger –
only yesterday did you hear my latest tidings! Before that you were… indisposed. The king’s own chirurgeon has recommended further rest – it is to preserve your very reign that I would not have you jeopardising it by returning to duty too soon.’
‘A likely story, I am sure,’ sneered Wolfram. ‘Someone has put you up to this, for what fell purpose I know not.’ He looked about the throneroom, as if daring anyone to step forward. No one did, though Hjala flinched as his eye passed her by. Of course, her hotheaded brother would never credit a mere woman with coming up with a scheme like this.
Ulnor sighed. ‘Well, if you’re determined in this matter, Prince Thorsvald, I’ve no choice but to proceed accordingly.’
Looking over to where the royal scrivener sat behind a cramped desk in the corner, he declaimed: ‘Amanuensis of the court, note it duly – Prince Thorsvald of the House of Ingwin presents himself as candidate for Regent until His Majesty King Freidheim II should recover from his malady or seek the Judgment of Azrael. A vote of council will be held at the next moon to decide which of the two candidates shall be selected. Votes to be held by Lord Toric of Runstadt, High Commander of the White Valravyn; His High Holiness Cuthbert of our most sacred True Temple; Lord Visigard, head of palace security; and myself, Lord Ulnor, seneschal of the realm. Final vote to be held by nearest of royal kin to the present incumbent, King Freidheim, which in the absence of candidates Prince Wolfram and Prince Thorsvald…’ – he shot a glance at Hjala that had a bodkin-like quality to it – ‘… is Her Royal Highness, Princess Hjala of the House of Ingwin. Myself, Lord Ulnor, to serve as acting regent until said council has convened and made its decision. This matter being now settled, court is hereby dismissed.’
The seneschal banged his staff once on the dais. Hjala had a feeling he wished the flagstoned floor was her head.
Next to her Visigard was muttering, loudly enough for her to hear him. ‘A younger son standing for regent, most irregular, most irregular indeed…! What on earth has got into his Royal Highness?’ The hoary old raven plucked at his sideburns disapprovingly, oblivious to her part in the whole thing.