Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  Horskram looked at the pair of them, then back at the forester and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Too much excitement,’ he suggested. ‘They have been through quite an ordeal. The sooner I get them back to their castle the better.’

  The forester shook his head and took another sip of ale.

  The well-tended pastures dotted with cows and sheep made Hettie feel homesick: Westenlund looked every bit as prosperous as Dulsinor. Or as prosperous as it had been. The thought of her countrymen fighting and dying was too much to bear on top of homesickness, yet she could not shake the thought. She had half a mind to beg another leaf of Silverweed from her mistress. Last night had been the most fun she’d had in ages.

  Adhelina seemed scarcely less troubled, gazing across the lands they rode through with a troubled mien. At least they were able to travel more quickly now: Prince Leopold kept his roads well, and there was nary a pothole to be seen. Good, the sooner they were out of this pleasant land the better: she didn’t like being reminded of a home she would probably never see again. Not that the prospect of a sea journey appealed much either. She had only ever seen it once, on a pleasure trip to Meerborg shortly after coming of age. How exciting the bustling cityport had seemed back then, full of sights and sounds and smells – though not all of them had been wholesome. By all accounts Westerburg was even bigger, perhaps twice the size of its northern rival. Hettie couldn’t summon much in the way of excitement, but at least a city’s streets or a ship’s deck wouldn’t remind her of her ravaged homeland.

  ‘The peasantry are well kept here as you can see,’ said Horskram, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Prince Leopold has a reputation for ruthlessness against those who cross him, but he believes in looking after his subjects. Makes them less likely to revolt, you see.’

  ‘I read that it used to be different,’ ventured Adhelina. ‘Before the Red Plague. My great grandfather Urus the Strong was married to a Drüler. By all accounts they were insufferable – as haughty and arrogant as the day was long. Why, after the Partition Wars they even insisted on keeping the title “prince”! And all because Aelle was the last king of Vorstlund!’

  ‘You are well read, Lady Dulsinor,’ replied the adept with a nod of approval, oblivious to the spasm of pain that mention of home brought to Adhelina’s face. ‘You are correct – the Red Plague changed many things. Loremasters say it killed a third of the population of the Free Kingdoms – more than half in some parts. In those places it made farmers such a rarity that the survivors were able to negotiate better conditions, elevating themselves from serfs to freemen. That happened here and in your homeland, and many parts of Northalde too.’

  The monk paused, as if deciding whether to continue. Then he added: ‘Some even say the Red Plague was divine punishment, brought back by rats infesting crusader ships – for making bloody war on the Sassanians in the Redeemer’s name.’

  Horskram made the sign. Hettie didn’t see what he was getting so pious about. As far as she was concerned, all wars seemed fairly unholy. Palomedians were supposed to respect life and be pacifists, as the Redeemer himself had done. Then again, not even the prophet had been perfect in that respect.

  ‘But the Redeemer was a soldier, wasn’t he?’ she asked, daring to voice her thoughts. ‘Oh, I know he renounced the sword eventually, but the Holy Book says he spent years leading a rebel army of deserted legionnaires against the Thalamian Empire.’

  Hettie felt a patch of hot scarlet reach her ears as Horskram looked at her with surprise.

  ‘My, my,’ said Horskram, raising an eyebrow. ‘Two well-educated damsels! The Redeemer evidently sent us to save you with good reason.’

  Hettie couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  ‘I made sure she was taught well,’ said Adhelina, beaming at Hettie. ‘I had to have someone in the castle I could talk to about all the books in my father’s library!’

  Hettie smiled back at her mistress bashfully. The conversation felt awkward to her, but she was happy to see Adhelina in better spirits.

  ‘Yes, it is a good point anyway,’ resumed Horskram. ‘All too many unscrupulous men of power have seen fit to use Palom’s early life to justify bloodshed.’

  ‘Even so, why does your Order not support the Pilgrim Wars?’ asked Adhelina. ‘It’s a holy cause… Surely it’s different if you’re fighting against heathens to keep pilgrimage routes to Ushalayim open? I read that’s how the crusades started… the Sultan wouldn’t let Palomedians into the city unless they paid exorbitant tariffs.’

  ‘That is a very idealistic way of looking at the Pilgrim Wars,’ said Horskram. Hettie could see from the dark expression on his face that the subject displeased him. ‘There are certain theories about how the crusades really started, which I shall not detail here. But suffice to say we Argolians do not see the validity in seeking conflict in Palom’s name… even if pilgrimage routes are at stake.’

  ‘And I thought the Argolians had a reputation for secrecy,’ smirked Adhelina ironically.

  Horskram frowned at that, but stubbornly held his peace.

  ‘Master Horskram, something’s wrong!’

  It was Adelko, who had been bringing up the rear and shepherding their sick bodyguards along the road.

  Turning Hettie saw the six of them were lagging far behind. They had been riding at a brisk trot and hadn’t noticed. Their horses were neighing and stomping; a couple looked as though they were about to rear and throw their riders.

  Hettie could see why. The hot sun seemed almost to shine straight through the once-hale warriors. She shivered involuntarily and made the sign. Horskram cursed and nudged his own steed back down the road for a closer look. Sprinkling them with holy water, he intoned a prayer. Only when he produced the relic he wore around his neck and touched each of them with it did they show any signs of improving. Their pallor seemed to lighten and Vaskrian’s cough subsided. Hettie almost cursed herself for the relief that flushed through her when that happened.

  ‘I’ve managed to abate the illness somewhat,’ said Horskram. ‘But we’ve no time to lose! With every minute they are slipping further towards the Other Side. No member of the animal kingdom will suffer them in this condition.’

  Hettie gulped nervously. Perhaps this sort of thing was meat and drink to an Argolian, but she’d had quite enough of supernatural scares. To last something in the region of a lifetime.

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Adhelina. Both monks were ushering the five warriors off their horses. ‘It’ll take far longer to reach the cityport if they’re walking.’

  ‘Well observed,’ replied the old monk sarcastically. Hettie felt sure that was no way to talk to a lady, even a disinherited one; she was about to say so, but her friend shot her a glance and shook her head.

  ‘Travelling at this rate we’ve another three days on the road,’ continued the adept, oblivious. ‘I’m friendly with some vassals in these parts, we’ll just have to impose on them.’

  ‘Won’t that mean unwanted questions?’ asked Adelko.

  ‘It will,’ conceded Horskram. ‘But frankly I’m past caring about that now. The sooner we get to Rima and pass this mission over to Hannequin’s oversight, the better I shall like it. Keep bringing up the rear, Adelko! See that our friends don’t lose their blasted horses!’

  Retaking the saddle he nudged his steed into motion again. Hettie sighed as she and Adhelina did likewise, sparing a furtive glance for the squire as he stumbled along the road like a blind man.

  CHAPTER XV

  A Throne Secured

  Sir Toric’s granite face never gave away too much, but Hjala could sense his scepticism. ‘So you say he might extend the Valravyn’s charter if he becomes Regent?’ asked the commander. ‘And where, if you don’t mind my asking, would the resources come from?’

  Princess Hjala waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, these are but details – as you know full well,’ she said.

  Her glance lighted uneasily on her mahogany dressing table, and the shards of broken mirr
or lying on it. It had been imported from the Empire at considerable expense, but she’d broken it the other day by accident. She’d heard that some mystics believed breaking a mirror was bad luck; Hjala used to think it just a superstitious metaphor for not breaking costly items, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Well?’ she said, turning to look at the High Commander, who was deep in thought. He was dressed in mail and tabard despite being at court. The candlelight in her room reflected off his shiny bald pate, making it look as though he had turned up at her chambers in a helm too. The knight tapped his broad fingers on the pommel of his sword, his eyes narrowing as he continued to mull over her proposal.

  He had arrived that afternoon, almost a week later than expected. Apparently the new lords of the Southern Dominions had needed a bit of pacifying themselves, and Toric had stayed behind to prevent a bloodbath in Saltcaste.

  ‘I’m considering your proposal,’ he said laconically.

  ‘Well at least let me know what form that consideration is taking.’ She hated being kept in the dark.

  The raven remained silent for a few moments more, then he said: ‘I can see how putting Thorsvald on the throne as regent might be a wise thing to do. The news we are getting from the Sealord and other sources is that the Northlanders are uniting – we’re not sure who it is yet, but it would appear they will soon have a Magnate for the first time in generations. It’s also rumoured that the Sea Wizard is involved. Very likely we’ll have an invasion next spring – perhaps sooner if that accursed warlock meddles with the elements.’

  Hjala’s windows were open despite the lateness of the hour. Autumn arrived early this far north, and already the air had a chilly tinge to it. Walking over to the window she brought the translucent bone panes together and fastened them.

  ‘So what are your misgivings?’ she asked, turning to look at him.

  ‘As leader of the White Valravyn and High Marshal of the country’s forces, I must weigh two considerations,’ replied Toric. ‘Loyalty to the crown, and the security of the realm. Currently it feels as though the two are in conflict.’

  Hjala sensed her opportunity. ‘Oh, Lord Toric, then you do admit that putting Wolfram on the throne would endanger Northalde – even if he is the rightful heir!’

  Toric’s cheekbones sharpened. That was the closest he came to showing inner turmoil, she supposed.

  ‘I have heard that His Highness’s condition is… unstable. But here’s the thing – we’ve just fought a short but brutal war to see off another pretender. Administering the peace is always more difficult, and so it’s proving. If we abrogate the line of succession – and whatever the law says that’s how it’ll look – we’re sending a message to all the disinherited squires and pages down south. We’re saying, “the crown we just fought so hard to protect lies askew”.’

  He held her gaze, allowing his words to sink in.

  Hjala considered them. Perhaps he had a point. ‘But surely we can unite against a common foe,’ she said. ‘Those squires can be readily pressed into service against the invaders, a chance to redeem their tarnished family names!’

  Toric put his tongue in his cheek and nodded slowly. ‘Yes… I can see how that kind of message could be delivered to some effect.’

  Hjala sensed she had him; now she closed in for the kill.

  ‘Toric, if we don’t unite behind an able leader, there’ll be no kingdom left to have another civil war in! How many experienced seacarls and berserkers do you think a new Magnate will bring at his back? If we have to fight it out with the southrons again after we’ve sent the Northlanders packing, then so be it – but I will not sacrifice my kingdom to lineal propriety and my older brother’s whims!’

  Toric bunched up his face. Hjala almost swore she could hear a grindstone at work.

  ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You’ll have my vote next week. But I want that charter extended. Ezekiel knows we’ll need the White Valravyn’s powers augmented if we’re to come through this.’

  Hjala could have hugged him. Restraining her ebullience, she said: ‘Thank you, Lord Toric. Thank you for seeing sense on this matter.’

  The bull-necked knight refused to meet her eye. ‘Don’t make me regret it,’ he said gruffly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been busy all day and I’m famished. I’ll away to the kitchens before bedtime.’

  ‘No need, I’ll have a page boy bring you supper,’ said the princess, showing him out.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Sir Torgun?’ he asked her on the point of leaving. ‘Last we heard down south, he and the others stayed a couple of nights at Ørthang before pressing on for the Argael. But that was three months ago.’

  Mention of her paramour made her heart jolt. ‘Then you know more than I do,’ she said sadly. ‘I pray for him every day. The others too.’

  Toric nodded curtly and bade her good night. The pain lingered in her breast as she closed the door behind him. Her brave goodly knight errant – wandering the wildernesses of the world trying to save it. She supposed it was his wyrd, to do such great deeds. All the same, she missed him. Did he think of her every day too, she wondered?

  ‘Well, we’re poised for victory!’

  Lady Walsa raised her goblet in an impromptu toast to Thorsvald, who was nervously fidgeting in his new court clothes. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in his cobalt silk garnache lined with beaver fur, gold-buckled girdle and black hose decorated with silver lace. His pointed chausses were really quite fetching Hjala thought, though she knew her brother would far prefer to be in his usual breeches and chemise.

  But her aunt had insisted that if he was running for Regent, he must look the part. She was probably right, although the princess had to pity Thorsvald just a little.

  ‘I think any such toast is premature,’ he said, pointedly refusing to pick up his goblet from the marble table. They had gathered in Walsa’s suite of chambers for a last-moment confabulation. Though really there was nothing left to discuss.

  ‘I believe there is nothing left to worry about,’ said Hjala, trying to reassure her brother. She took a sip of her Mercadian dry white. It was a delicious vintage that tasted of the exotic lemons that grew in that southerly kingdom, and matched the zest of her spirits.

  Today at noon they would assemble in the throneroom. All five council members would declare which of the two candidates they had picked. As long as Cuthbert and Toric held good to their pledges, hers would be the deciding vote.

  Her final misgivings had been swept away by Wolfram’s latest fit: two days ago he had been brought back to the palace raving, after falling into an apoplexy on his way to the Strang Bay tourney. Thank Reus he had only just left the palace. His courtiers had thrown a cloak over him to obscure his identity. Fortunately there had only been one or two bystanders in the citadel, with most of the nobility being down on the plains to watch the jousting. They had been bribed into silence, although she couldn’t help but wonder whether Ulnor was taking more drastic measures into consideration.

  Perhaps that would be enough to make the hoary old seneschal finally see sense. She doubted it somehow: men and their vanities, they could never be counted on to do the sensible thing.

  Meanwhile her poor father’s condition had worsened. Yurik was now saying it would be a miracle if he lasted out the rest of the year, never mind the winter. There had been no further news from the Frozen Principalities, but she knew time was pressing. The sooner they had Thorsvald safely on the throne the better. Even if he only got to rule for a few months before Freidheim passed, that would be enough for Wolfram’s condition to worsen… Then everyone would have to see the sense in keeping on his younger brother.

  ‘Hjala! Dearest, but you’re miles away… are you quite all right?’

  Hjala brought her attention back into the room, smiling at her aunt. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just… there’s been so much to think about lately.’

  ‘Yes there certainly has,’ said Walsa, with just a hint of smugne
ss. ‘But we’ve dealt with it marvellously. And don’t you worry about young Cuthbert, he’s quite amenable. When I told him of our promise to shore up his position against that horrible Supreme Perfect in Rima, why he positively drooled!’

  ‘Auntie!’ Hjala admonished. ‘As a woman of the Creed, aren’t you supposed to look up to His Supreme Holiness as Reus’ deputy on earth?’

  Walsa sniffed. ‘A Pangonian? The Almighty’s right hand? Why certainly not – I’ve never met this Cyprian, but I’m sure he isn’t half the man Friar Horskram is…’ The feisty old dame took another mouthful of wine. There was definitely a glint in her eye that was not borne of zeal. Hjala exchanged a glance with Thorsvald. She could tell her brother was trying not to laugh.

  But some shared humour was a good thing. Reus knew, they all needed it as much as the wine right now.

  A knock at the door announced the moment they had all been anticipating. Hjala ignored the butterflies in her stomach as her aunt bade them enter: a clutch of raven knights come to escort them to the throneroom.

  Falling into step among them, Hjala forced herself to concentrate as they took her along the echoing corridor lined with furs and tapestries. She didn’t dare look at the latter – she didn’t want her eye to chance on some tale of the Ingwins that might presage doom of any kind. Getting involved in politics had made her decidedly superstitious.

  Every noble of any importance was gathered in the throneroom. The antechamber was crowded with commoners: word of the election had got out and even proximity to the grand event was considered worth clawing out a space for. The sash windows that looked onto the harbour showed leaden skies and wet sails and streets: not even the rain had dissuaded them from coming out.

  All such thoughts vanished from her mind as they drew level with the dais on which the throne rested. Before it an oval table of cedar had been set up, with five sieges around it. Ulnor was there already, standing to one side of the table. Next to him stood Lord Visigard and Prince Wolfram. Her brother had recovered from his latest fit, but the look he shot at Hjala and Thorsvald was filled with feral hatred. She didn’t like to think what he might have done had she failed to win over Cuthbert and Toric. Neither of them had arrived yet, which didn’t help her nerves any.