Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Adelko flicked his gaze back to the freeswords. The blond leader still had not given the order, and the novice could sense he was perplexed about something.

  ‘We don’t want trouble with the Bethlers,’ he said at last, motioning for his men to sheathe their swords and doing the same. ‘Just tell me one thing – where have you come from?’

  The Bethler glared at him suspiciously. ‘I don’t see how that is any business of yours, rakehell,’ he said.

  ‘Ach, we’ll be on our way,’ said the freesword captain, adopting a conciliatory tone. ‘I’m a vassal’s bastard son – so I’ve some blue blood in my veins. You’ll do me the honour at least of telling me which direction to avoid taking next!’

  That seemed to mollify the old warrior-monk. ‘If you must know, we’ve just come from Regensburg,’ he said gruffly.

  The blond mercenary nodded, as though that made sense. ‘Well perhaps that explains things,’ he said, though he looked deeply unsatisfied.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean by that,’ said the Bethler. ‘But if you are thinking of heading south only to cause further trouble when we’re gone, I would advise against it.’ He held the freesword’s gaze to underscore his meaning.

  The captain met his eyes for a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Have it your way,’ he said, sounding affable again despite the expression on his face. Turning to his men he added: ‘Alright lads, let’s be having you! We’ll just have to pass up this opportunity for another one. Back to Tamsweg it is then – and from there we’ll head north, see what the fortunes of war bring us!’

  The freeswords left the inn boisterously, though Adelko noticed they gave the Bethler knights a wide berth.

  When they were gone the innkeeper scurried over to bolt the door after them, calling for his daughter to clear up the mess and right the tables. The old Bethler waved him away curtly when he proffered his thanks. ‘Just bring us stoops of your finest ale,’ he said. The three of them had taken up seats where the mercenaries had been. He motioned for the two monks to join them. The damsels were sitting a couple of tables up with their bodyguards, who had lapsed back into their morbid state.

  The Bethler looked them over suspiciously as he addressed Horskram. ‘Well, friar, now is the time for introductions I believe. I am Brother Sir Guthrum of the preceptory of Tamsweg.’ He returned his keen eyes to the adept’s face. Clearly he expected an answer.

  ‘I am Horskram of Vilno, adept of the Argolian Order, from Ulfang chapter in Northalde. This is my novice, Adelko of Narvik. Yon damsels are travelling in our care, as are these warriors who have come down with a spiritual sickness. I have been charged with taking them to our headquarters in Rima for healing.’

  Ecbert’s daughter had just set fresh ale on the table before them. Sir Guthrum licked the froth from his bearded lips before replying. ‘I see. And what, pray tell, is the exact nature of this “spiritual sickness”?’

  Adelko felt his sixth sense start up again. He knew little of the Bethlers, but recalled that the Argolians had never endorsed the Pilgrim Wars. That alone would be enough to earn their enmity, if everything he had heard about the fanatical order was true. Next to Guthrum the two knights quaffed their beer and said nothing. Did they ever speak, the novice wondered.

  ‘The five warriors you see were recruited by myself to help in a witch hunt,’ replied Horskram. ‘We apprehended her in a cabin on the fringes of the Draugmoors. We believe she had been drawing her power from the cursed magic that stems from the ruined Watchtower of the Elder Wizards.’

  All three Bethlers followed Horskram in making the sign.

  ‘We were able to overcome her magic with prayers, and my trusty swords slew her along with several knights she had bewitched into serving her,’ Horskram said, continuing his dissimulation. ‘As she lay dying, she invoked her foul demon-gods and put the curse of Ma’alfecnu’ur on my companions.’

  They all made the sign dutifully again at the mention of the demonic avatar of decay and corruption. Adelko felt all the worse for knowing it was a pack of lies, but Horskram went on: ‘Not even our prayers were enough to overcome her last spell – though myself and my novice resisted it, our comrades were not so lucky. They are now wasting away psychically, and only the prayers of my Order in Rima can save them. We took them back to Heilag, whence I had originally been assigned the mission, but it is a small chapter and much of its elan is already spent stemming the tide of evil that flows from the Draugfluss.’

  ‘That is a black evil, well expunged!’ cried Guthrum, slamming his empty tankard down on the table. ‘What a pity you could not bring her to death by the fire, as befits all pagan witches! But what of yon damsels? How did they come to be in your company?’ The keen light had returned to his eyes. Adelko could sense some kind of counter intuition at work in the old warrior-monk. Could it be that the Bethlers cultivated a sixth sense of their own, given their renowned piety and devotion? His mentor had better tread carefully if so.

  ‘Yon damsels had been put under a spell by the sorceress we slew,’ dissembled Horskram. ‘They are from Westenlund, and we will return them to their castle on the way to Rima.’

  ‘I see,’ said Guthrum, clicking his fingers for more ale. Adelko now knew where the expression ‘to drink like a Bethler’ came from. And he’d thought the Argolians were bad. Even the most religious orders needed a vice, he supposed.

  Guthrum’s eyes narrowed as he went on talking. ‘The Bethlers have always admired the service the Argolians do against the works of the Author of All Evil,’ he said. ‘What a pity your Order does not see the wisdom in supporting the Pilgrim Wars.’ His voice had hardened.

  ‘Our order has ever believed that the fight against the Fallen One is of a spiritual nature,’ replied the adept diplomatically. ‘It is not for us to give an opinion on the wars of men.’

  Guthrum’s eyes blazed. ‘And yet we fight on behalf of the Almighty! For only by His grace could the First Pilgrim War ever have succeeded – when with but ten thousand soldiers of Palom we retook the Holy City!’

  The warrior-monk’s zeal was palpable. The Bethler knights paused from their drinking to make the sign again.

  ‘The accomplishments of the crusaders and the Bethlers who guard the Blessed Realm they conquered are widely and justly praised,’ said Horskram, almost sounding unctuous now. ‘They surely need no further approbation from a humble friar such as myself.’

  Guthrum frowned at that. ‘Yes well, you Argolians have ever been a slippery lot,’ he muttered, taking another swig. ‘Very well, you seem to have your own matters in hand at least. Just tell me one more thing – how did yon freeswords come to trouble you?’

  Horskram paused to take a sip of ale before answering. ‘Freeswords have ever been a troublesome lot,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘My guess is they saw two monks and a pair of damsels accompanied by naught but sick bodyguards, and sought to kill us for sport and plunder. Even with the efforts of the Bethlers, these are lawless times.’

  ‘They are indeed,’ sniffed Guthrum. ‘About time we had another crusade, if you ask me – that should get the robber knights out of the Free Kingdoms, give them a righteous outlet for their violent spirits.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Horskram. ‘And may I ask what brings you to the road?’

  ‘Business,’ replied the Bethler. ‘I have just concluded a loan agreement on behalf of my Order with some merchants at Regensburg. We’ll need every bit of coin we can get if there’s to be another Pilgrim War.’

  Horskram raised an eyebrow. ‘You really think there will be another one soon?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Guthrum. ‘We’ve heard that the King of Pangonia and the Supreme Perfect are planning to declare it. About time too, as I said.’

  The adept said nothing more, but Adelko sensed the news troubled him.

  The Bethlers finished their stoops and rose. ‘And now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve had a long day’s ride and I need to make sure our squires have seen to our hors
es before turning in for the night. If I were you, I’d get to Westenlund with all haste – the Prince rules there with an even hand, and the roads are a lot safer.’

  ‘That is what I am counting on,’ replied Horskram, bidding the Bethler a cordial good night.

  When they had left, the adept breathed a sigh of relief and drained his flagon. ‘Right, we’d better see about getting some rest ourselves,’ he said. ‘With that shambling lot in tow it’ll take us the whole of tomorrow to get to Regensburg.’

  Adelko could not help but feel disappointed. Their latest encounter had left a lot of unanswered questions.

  ‘Who were those freeswords?’ he asked. ‘How did they recognise us so easily?’

  ‘That was just what I was asking myself while I was spinning fairy tales for that zealous idiot,’ replied Horskram. ‘But it’ll keep for now. Time to arrange supper and a room I think.’

  Adelko decided that right now, food and sleep were just as welcome as questions and answers. As his mentor rose to speak to Ecbert, he looked across the room at his companions. The damsels were speaking in low voices and looked frightened. The other five sat slumped against the wall, staring at the table with glassy eyes as they shivered against the encroaching night.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Wedding Of Reavers

  Raucous cheering greeted Guldebrand as he ascended the raised wooden platform overlooking the feasting tables. His bride was waiting for him, standing beside the priest in his glaucous robes. The magnate-in-waiting grinned at the assembled seacarls as they raised drinking horns in yet another toast to their new ruler.

  The wedding feast had lasted with scarcely a pause for the past five days: now it was time to crown the celebration. After that a few more days of feasting would follow, before sobering-up time. Then he himself would be crowned in Landarök. Turning from the rows of warriors, he looked down at the city he now owned. From the cliff top where they were celebrating he had a perfect view of the Sea of Valhalla, its foaming waves matched by the deepening blue of early evening skies. To either side of the platform burning braziers filled with incense banished darkness and cold alike, filling his nostrils with an intoxicating scent.

  He felt intoxicated enough as it was, even though he had made sure to stint on the wine and mead in the past couple of days. Tonight he would consummate his marriage vows: he wanted to be in fine form for that. He’d had a couple of town girls brought to him on the night of their victory over Oldrik, but he’d stinted on women too since then. Again, he wanted to give the best of himself to his new bride.

  Taking her in, he thought her worth every effort. Dressed in a sky-blue woollen gown that hugged her lithe figure, she looked savagely beautiful; a pair of electrum oval brooches held the garment in place, and between them she wore a silver pendant set with an amber stone the size of a duck’s egg. Her wild hair was hidden by a silk head-dress of purest white, fastened with a circlet of worked gold set with garnets. Around her slender neck was a close-fitting gold ring made from plaited strands; similar rings encircled her bare wiry arms.

  He could not wait to get her back to the palace, strip all that finery off her a piece at a time, and hold her naked in his arms. It would be worth a thousand ravishings and more.

  She smiled back at him as he beamed at her, the broad mouth he had come to love doing nothing to abate his desire. The priest raised his hands for silence. Slaves came and laid platters of fresh meat and refilled cups one last time before retreating into the shadows. A hush fell over the thousands-strong assembly, and the priest began to intone the rites of brudhlaup.

  ‘We are gathered here, in sight of the Lord of Oceans, to join together these two children of Aurgelmir, who fathered the race of Gygants that once ruled the earth whence all men sprung,’ the priest intoned. ‘Does anyone here find fault?’

  ‘NAY!’

  ‘Magnhilda, Thegn of Scandia, consents to be bound to Guldebrand, Thegn of Kvenlund, Thegn of Jótlund, and soon to be Magnate of all the Principalities, and he undertakes to make her his girl of the houses. Does anyone here find fault?’

  ‘NAY!’

  ‘It is well. Guldebrand, take Magnhilda’s hand betwixt thine own and repeat after me: “I, Guldebrand Gunnarson, in sight of Thoros, wielder of lightning, king of the firmament who sees all, take Magnhilda as lawful wife.”’

  Solemnly, Guldebrand repeated the vow.

  The priest turned to Magnhilda. ‘Magnhilda, repeat after me, “I, Magnhilda, Shield Queen of Utvalla, in sight of Kaia, bringer of bounty, earth mother who gives life to all, take Guldebrand as lawful husband.”’

  Steadily, Magnhilda repeated the words. The broad smile was still on her face, and her eyes sparkled in the firelight.

  ‘Guldebrand, repeat after me: “I swear in sight of the gods to treasure Magnhilda, my girl of the houses, to render unto her all the spoils of the sail road to look after as she sees fit.”’

  Again Guldebrand repeated the words. It seemed strange investing her with the power of a housewife, given her status as shieldmaiden, but the marriage traditions of his people did not vary.

  ‘Magnhilda, repeat after me: “I swear in sight of the gods to be a loyal wife to Guldebrand, to render unto him all my chattels as bride price, and to take care of all his estate in his absence.”’

  Slowly Magnhilda repeated the words. If the Shield Queen felt any resentment at uttering them she did not show it.

  The priest raised his voice as he intoned the final words of the ceremony. ‘In sight of the Great North Wind, sent by the Sky Eagle’s wings to sweep the sail road and the plough road, I proclaim thee man and wife. Guldebrand Gunnarson, cleave unto thy bride!’

  Hoots and cheers erupted as Guldebrand took his wife in a firm embrace. Her salty tongue tasted of the sea; he felt his loins stir beneath his rich woollen hose.

  As he turned to face the cheering warriors he caught sight of Ragnar, lurking on the edge of the circle of light. The saturnine warlock had not been much present during the feast, though Guldebrand could hardly say he was unhappy about that. He felt an unwelcome tension coiling in his gut. The warlock seemed to stare at him with his one good eye for the briefest of seconds… then he was gone, vanished into the shadows whence he came.

  Guldebrand’s men were still cheering when they carried him up the ramp and through the gate into the courtyard of the palace. As they had borne him through the streets of his capital city, he had found time amidst the euphoria to note that most of its stone buildings were intact. That was good: the less time and energy spent rebuilding Landarök, the sooner he could concentrate on raising a national army. Many of the wooden buildings of the outer city had been burned, but they could be replaced easily enough. Likewise, most of the city’s ten thousand souls had been spared the depredations of conquest, save of course for the obligatory ravishings. That was good too: he would need a loyal population in the coming years of war.

  All thoughts of future conquest vanished as his men carried him into the great hall and set him down. Another party had arrived ahead of him, bringing the bride in first as custom dictated. Magnhilda was there already, shieldmaidens enthusiastically divesting her of jewellery and outer garments. And he had so been looking forward to doing that himself.

  The berserker women stood back from her now, giving him a view of his wife. She was dressed only in her linen chemise that came down to her thighs. He felt desire welling up in him again as his seacarls began to strip him of his cloak, brooch and tunic. Brega had been with him every step of the way, leading in the singing, a tankard never leaving his hand. Loyal Brega… He would see him made a jarl for his services.

  Soon he was dressed only in his underbreeches and shirt. The rough flagstones felt oddly pleasant beneath his bare feet.

  ‘AND NOW,’ bellowed Brega. ‘TO THE BEDCHAMBER WITH THEM!’

  More raucous yelling. The gathered men and women swept them both up again and began carrying them up the rude stone stairs towards the wing of the palace where the
y would lie as man and wife. The palace was centuries old, having been built by Olav Ironhand, and at three storeys it was higher than ten men – easily the tallest building in the Principalities.

  The consummation party arrived at the top floor and brought them into a chamber that was surprisingly small and intimate. Well, Northlanders weren’t known for their grandiose architecture. Perhaps he’d take up residence in the palace at Strongholm, once he’d crushed the Northlendings.

  The bed looked grand enough, fashioned of pine and coated with sheets of white satin imported from the Empire, and shrouded with gossamer hangings. The men and women set them down on either side of it.

  ‘My king and queen,’ said Brega, giving a florid bow and nearly spilling his drink. ‘Now is the time to leave you to celebrate your wedding… We’ve left a pitcher of wine and cups for you, just in case you need some refreshments!’ The burly seacarl winked and backed out of the room. He was the last to leave and shut the oak door behind him.

  Glancing over towards the side of the bed, Guldebrand saw the silver pitcher filled to the brim with wine. He hoped it was that Pangonian red he’d become so fond of. Although right now drink wasn’t what he wanted.

  Turning to look at his wife, he smirked and said the words he had longed to say all day.

  ‘Magnhilda, my sweetest! Alone at last.’

  Within seconds they were both naked. With a shock Guldebrand realised he was still wearing the pomander that Radko had given him. He was wondering whether to take it off when Magnhilda pulled him to her.

  ‘Kiss me, my love,’ she whispered, her voice hot and breathy in his ear. He complied gleefully, lying on top of her as she moved her long legs open to accommodate him. Now he was inside her, his senses exploding with pleasure as he gyrated on her and in her. She wrapped her legs and arms around him tightly and began to moan loudly. He forced himself to focus, not wanting it to be over too soon. The pomander bounced between them, obstructing their lovemaking maddeningly. With a fierce grunt he tore it from his neck, flinging it across the room. She cried out as he thrust himself into her with renewed savagery. He felt her fingers digging deep into his back. It was almost painful but it was a pain he enjoyed. They rolled together madly on the bed, caught up in the lustful play of love.