by Damien Black
Well, there was no doubt which way his vote would be going.
Doing her best to be surreptitious, Hjala left the hall swiftly. The last thing she needed right now was to be accosted by her brother Wolfram, or Lord Ulnor for that matter. The game was afoot: now all that remained was to hunt it.
It was time to seek out her aunt Walsa, and see how her morning visit to the Temple had gone.
In his room overlooking the citadel, Lord Ulnor paced fretfully. He was far from a young man and the effort tired him, but his nerves demanded it. That wilful strumpet would be the death of him – and the realm. This was what came of allowing a woman into the affairs of men, he thought ruefully as he turned and gazed out at the clustered streets below him. The city he loved more than any place on earth had returned to normal since the war’s end. The refugees had been a problem: some had starved while others had been hanged after taking to thieving to feed themselves. But since then most had been resettled. He had no doubt the outcome was better than it would have been if Thule had won the war.
But now he was faced with an altogether different kind of problem. The line of succession could not be broken, of that he felt certain. True, Wolfram had his flaws, but he was the rightful heir and immensely popular. Under his careful tutelage, he felt sure the prince would blossom into a worthy successor to his father.
And why shouldn’t he influence the throne when Freidheim was gone? Better him than a woman, with no practical experience of the affairs of state.
Yet that was surely what would come to pass should Hjala succeed in putting her younger brother on the throne. The two younger siblings had always been close: that would shut him out of the Regent’s confidence. And should Wolfram’s condition worsen during that time, Thorsvald’s tenure might stretch into years until his nephew Freidhrim came of age… By which time Ulnor would be long gone.
No, it was unthinkable. He had not served the realm body and soul all these years to see its care snatched from him in the twilight of his life. Something had to be done.
That Hjala had her allies at court he knew all too well. His eyes and ears kept him informed of all the things his own keen judgement had not already revealed. The princess’s long-standing affair with Sir Torgun had brought her close to men who served the White Valravyn. Visigard, loyal dolt that he was, could be trusted to stick to protocol, but Toric… He might be swayed by his best knight’s paramour. And as for the Temple… His High Holiness Cuthbert appeared pliant enough, but where had Lady Walsa been during the hearing? It wasn’t like that interfering old busybody to miss out on court intrigue of any kind.
A knock on his door heralded an answer to that question.
A page opened the door and in came a stableboy. Well, that was his official job: his unofficial duties entailed keeping track of who left the palace and reporting anything unusual to Ulnor.
‘Well boy,’ said Ulnor, not entirely unkindly. ‘Have you news for me that will earn you a silver or two?’
‘Yes, milord,’ said the raggedy boy, managing a half bow. ‘I b’lieve so, milord. The Lady Walsa took a horse this mornin’, milord.’
‘I see,’ replied Ulnor. ‘Was it a palfrey or a courser?’
‘Twas a palfrey, milord,’ said the boy. ‘Meanin’ Her Highness wasn’t planning on venturing out of the city, milord.’
‘Thank you, I know full well what her choice of steed indicates. Have you anything else to report?’
‘Yes, milord. She returned an hour after noon, milord. Looked very satisfied and sure of herself if I may say so, milord.’
‘You may,’ replied Ulnor crisply. ‘Every detail is important. And did her horse’s hooves have little muck or much muck on them?’
The stablehand paused for a second or two, reflecting. Then he said: ‘I believe they had little muck on ‘em, milord.’
‘Thank you boy, your services have been most useful.’ Reaching into a box on his desk he pulled out two marks and tossed them over. The boy caught them expertly and tucked the shining pieces into his coarse jerkin.
‘Not a word of this to anybody, as per usual,’ Ulnor said sternly.
‘Yes, milord, I mean no, milord – thank you, milord,’ he stuttered, managing another half bow before exiting the room.
Ulnor felt his chest tighten as he returned to his pacing. A short visit, probably within the confines of the less dirty citadel, most likely meant one thing: Lady Walsa was using her influence with the Temple to pull a few strings.
Blasted women. They did so love to scheme and plot against the menfolk.
Well we’ll soon see about that, he thought.
After a few more turns about his room, he barked an order to the page boy outside. The youth opened the door, wearing his most obedient face.
‘Fetch my cloak,’ he ordered. The page scurried across the chamber to obey.
He would need it where he was going: it was cold in the dungeons, and it was time he made a little visit of his own.
Prince Thorsvald stared out at his beloved sea, but not even its sparkling rills could assuage his anxiety. Once again he shook his head, absent-mindedly fingering the goblet of untouched wine in his hand.
‘I already told you I don’t like politics – temple politics even less!’ he said, turning back to face the two women.
Lady Walsa was as implacable as ever. ‘Yes well, I’m afraid that’s just what you’ll have to get used to if you’re to be Regent,’ she said. ‘His High Holiness Cuthbert is more malleable than most, but he isn’t a complete milksop. I’ve been organising donations to the Temple regularly since Brother Horskram cured me, so I’ve got quite a bit of leverage there, but even so he won’t help us for nothing.’
Hjala watched her aunt work over the Sealord. He looked so confused, tormented even: part of her hated herself for putting her brother in this position, but she knew it had to be done.
‘Aunt Walsa is right, brother,’ she said softly. ‘And Cuthbert’s request is a reasonable one. Already he has received three petitions from the Supreme Perfect to send the Redeemer’s blood to the head of the True Temple in Rima. Our father promised he would vouch for the Northlending branch of the Temple, and now our father lies sick and incapacitated. All his High Holiness requires is a guarantee that you will back his claim that the relic remain here and pilgrimage routes to Strongholm be opened up.’
‘It will be a good policy for the realm in any case,’ put in Walsa. ‘Think of all those revenues the crown will get from wealthy Pangonian pilgrims.’ She paused to make the sign. ‘Not to mention prestige in the eyes of our father the Almighty.’
Hjala had to suppress a wry smile. Her aunt had always seemed sincere in her devotion to the Creed since Horskram banished the Ifrit that possessed her – but she had learned the value of money from a much earlier age.
Her brother sighed and turned from the window, draining his goblet in one go. ‘All right, tell His High Holiness that if elected as Regent I will undertake to vouchsafe all Northlending claims to the relic’s being kept here in Strongholm. Cuthbert has my word that my father’s intended policy in this matter will be carried out.’
Hjala and her aunt exchanged triumphant smiles. ‘Excellent,’ said Walsa. ‘I’ll let His High Holiness know directly. You can count on his vote at the council next moon.’
Hjala felt a sense of relief. It had been a sound stratagem: Wolfram was well known in his disregard for the Temple, and had even expressed a grudging admiration for the Pangonians on a few occasions. As Regent, his chances of angering a powerful king whose country he admired for its martial spirit would have been less than sure. That was just one example of why Thorsvald would make a better ruler: as much as he purported to hate politics, he was far more capable of seeing the bigger picture than his narrow-minded brother.
She caught herself, realising where her thinking was leading her once again. Reus’ teeth, was she really wishing for Wolfram not to recover? It was true she had never been as close to him as she was to Thorsvald.
From a young age, their older sibling had made clear that he regarded himself as different, the heir to the throne. Not that he had been unkind or even haughty towards them… just somewhat aloof. Maybe that was enough to prevent her having too many qualms about intriguing against him, but it wasn’t enough to despise him. Despite believing that she was acting for the good of the realm, Hjala felt a gnawing sense of guilt. Her older brother must despise her now.
Pushing the unwelcome thoughts aside, she bade her aunt a cordial farewell as she left to see word delivered to Cuthbert.
When she was gone Thorsvald refilled their goblets. There were no page boys on hand to serve them – with Ulnor in charge of the palace spies it was best to keep things as secret as they could. They had even made sure his wife and children were away on a pleasure trip out of town.
‘So what about Toric?’ asked Thorsvald. ‘Do you really think you can sway him?’
‘You leave me to worry about the High Commander,’ replied Hjala, sipping thoughtfully from her goblet. ‘Sir Torgun introduced me to him, back when we were… He’s a bluff, stern character, but I think he liked me all the same. And like any good raven he’s absolutely loyal to the crown. Reus willing he can be made to see the sense in this – as you were.’
Her brother’s pained expression did little to encourage her. Even now, with everything in motion, he remained conflicted.
‘Oh Thorsvald, this must be,’ she insisted. ‘After everything I told you the other evening…’
Her brother raised a calloused hand. ‘Yes, yes… I know that,’ he muttered, still not meeting her eye. ‘It’s just a lot to take in – a mad warlock bent on subjugating the Free Kingdoms, and we don’t even know for certain where he is or with whom he is allied… Normal wars I can understand, but this…’
‘Have faith, brother,’ said Hjala. ‘The monk Horskram is both learned and resourceful, and with Sir Torgun at his side, his victory must be assured.’
Now it was her turn to feel pained. She missed the earnest knight, heart and soul. Part of her wished they had not rekindled their romance on the eve of his parting. Life seemed to be relentlessly cruel: it visited misfortune and misery on one so often, then it dropped a boon into one’s lap unexpectedly… only to pluck it away again, leaving the fresh pain of a new loss to cope with.
Slugging back her wine she conquered her thoughts. They were brooding and weak, unbefitting a princess of the house of Ingwin. Stepping closer to her brother she took him gently by the shoulders and met his eyes.
‘It is not for us to choose what fortunes the Almighty visits upon us,’ she said, her voice hushed yet strong. ‘We do what we must, and that is all.’
Thorsvald stared back at her before nodding. ‘Of course you are right, dear sister,’ he replied. ‘Please forgive my frailty, I shall endeavour to grow into the role the Unseen have assigned me.’
She kissed him gently on the forehead, standing on her toes to do so.
‘There now,’ she smiled. ‘That is more like it – scions of the House of Ingwin are we! Now, I’d better see about Lord Toric, and hope my female charms can weave some magic of their own.’
‘Last I heard the High Commander was still down south, pacifying the conquered territories.’
‘I’m sure the scions of the Efrilunders and the King’s Dominions our father settled on the rebel provinces will be only too ready to take such matters in their own hands,’ replied Hjala wryly. ‘I doubt the King’s Justice will stretch into his newly extended dominions for long.’
‘I’ll see to it that it does if I’m elected,’ said Thorsvald. ‘Even if it means extending the White Valravyn’s charter.’
She cupped her brother’s rugged cheek affectionately. ‘I’ll be sure to mention that to Toric when he arrives at court,’ she said knowingly.
At last her brother managed a half smile. ‘I suppose one could get used to being Regent,’ he offered tentatively.
Her own smile broadened. ‘I’ve no doubt that you will,’ she said.
‘How long until he arrives?’
‘Ulnor will have sent word directly that he’s summoned to a council of state,’ said Hjala, her smile dropping into a frown. ‘That means the Lord Seneschal has stolen a march on us, so to speak – doubtless his message will stress the urgency of keeping the line of succession intact.’
‘So what will you do?’ Her brother’s face became anxious again.
‘I will bide my time for now,’ replied Hjala. ‘Toric won’t get here for a few days and from what I know of him he is a sensible, prudent man – he won’t make up his mind about whom to back until he’s had a chance to get the lie of the land. Wolfram may be popular with the regular chivalry, but many in the White Valravyn feel he was remiss in his duties, caught tilting when he was badly needed in a real war. I think the head of the Order can be persuaded to take our side – the ravens prize loyalty above all, and yours is peerless within the realm.’
Her brother actually had the grace to blush slightly. ‘You do me too much kindness, sister,’ he said. ‘I but serve the realm.’
‘That is exactly what a good raven would say,’ replied Hjala. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll away to my chambers. I need to be alone to think a while. In the meantime, don’t talk to anyone about what we’re doing, not even your wife understand?’
Her brother smiled again. ‘Now you chide me, just as you used to when we played games about the palace!’
‘It’s for your own good,’ she replied tartly, ‘now as it was back then. Good day to you, brother.’
Kissing him lightly, on the cheek this time, she swept from the chamber. Turning once from the doorway she saw her brother had returned to looking out at the lashing waves of the Strang Estuary. The brooding expression was back on his face.
Suppressing a sigh, she closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER XI
In Search Of Succour
‘The damsels should be fully recovered in a couple of days – but as for the others, such tainted souls cannot so easily be cured of the Draugbreath.’
Brother Johann’s face was like a granite sculpture in the firelight as he addressed Horskram. The Abbot of Heilag Monastery was as stern a patrician as any in their Order. He had rather too much of Lorthar about him, inflexible in his thinking: it surprised the adept he was an Argolian, never mind a prior trusted with a key outpost.
Horskram had never liked him, and was sure the feeling was mutual.
‘Really Brother Horskram, bringing women and men of the sword into this hallowed precinct!’ he said for the umpteenth time. ‘We’ve enough to contend with daily what with warding off the evil that pours from the Draugfluss without – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ Horskram cut him off, raising a tanned hand in acknowledgement. ‘I am well aware of your misgivings, Brother Johann. Suffice to say that I am forever in your debt and shall be gone with my unwelcome ragtag band right soon. Just tell me what the prognosis is for the others.’
‘The prayers of this chapter have done somewhat to allay the psychic illness that afflicts them,’ said Johann, assuming a matter-of-fact tone. ‘But without further help they will wither soon enough. Their skins shall fall from their flesh, which shall weaken by the day as their souls pass over into the shadow world of the Other Side… A week or two from now they’ll begin coughing up blood as their entrails collapse beneath the draugar’s curse – ’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ thundered Horskram, losing his temper. ‘I meant how long do they have before the curse does irreversible damage! I don’t need a ghoulish enumeration of the symptoms that will destroy them!’
Johann’s face remained unyielding as he replied: ‘Thanks to our efforts, I’d give them a fortnight at most.’
‘Well that settles it,’ said Horskram irritably. ‘We had best be on our way – only such power as we have pooled at our headquarters can save them if what you say is true.’
‘Yes, well,’ sniffed the Abbot. ‘I’ve no doubt that Rima could
summon a greater elan than we here at Heilag can muster – though I for one am not sure such killers deserve succour.’
‘You have no idea of the debt mortalkind owes those killers,’ snapped Horskram. It felt strange to be defending the very warriors he had warned Adelko against taking up with, but it was true nonetheless: without their aid his mission would surely have faltered by now.
‘Yes, I have no idea,’ Johann was saying, ‘because you refuse to tell me anything! Four nights since you and your rakehell band tore out of the moors seeking sanctuary, and naught but a secret mission have I heard you tell of.’
‘Well if Hannequin acts on my news as I expect him to, you’ll find out soon enough,’ said the adept, secretly glad that Johann’s sixth sense wasn’t as acute as Prior Aedric’s. Had the Abbot of Ørthang reached any conclusions about Belaach’s prophecy, he wondered? He had asked him to send word to Rima should he do so, though their headquarters still seemed a long way away.
‘We need to get to Westerburg as soon as possible, see about getting berths on a ship to Rima,’ said Horskram, giving voice to just some of his thoughts. ‘Reus knows but we’ve delayed enough as it is.’
To make matters worse the Draugmoors had played tricks with time just as Tintagael had: though it had felt like a journey of a few days to follow the Draugfluss out of the moorlands, a couple of weeks had passed in the mortal vale.
‘Remind me again, what date is it?’ asked Horskram.
‘Tomorrow will be the 14th of Gildmonath,’ replied the Abbot.
‘Right, we’ll leave on the 16th then, said Horskram. ‘Two more days should give you enough time to finish treating the others?’
‘As much as we can with the craft we here possess,’ replied Johann pompously.
‘Very well,’ said Horskram, rising to leave the inner sanctum. The round window overlooked Heilag’s precinct and the view it gave caught the adept’s eye as he rose, giving him pause. It was night and a few clusters of journeymen and novices were leaving the cloisters, having finished their lucubrations. Heilag was built around a bridge that straddled the Draugfluss: the cursed river entered and exited via its circular compound walls, bifurcating the courtyard. The cloisters ran in colonnaded covered walkways around the circumference of the wall on one side of the river, centring on the library; on the other side were the refectory, kitchen, storehouses and sleeping quarters. The sanctum was located in the top floor of a tower that crowned the bridge. He could hear the sound of monks softly chanting scripture in the chapel below, channelling the Redeemer’s words to keep the terrible magicks of the Draugmoors in their place.