Devil's Night Dawning: The First Book of the Broken Stone Series

by Damien Black

  ‘Lotho, don’t record what I am about to say. Adhelina, you are my daughter, blood of my blood, and in spite of what you may think, I love you dearly. And you are no fool. I should hope not, being my kin! Being no fool, you are absolutely right about Hengist. The man is a boor and a popinjay – I’ve more respect for our buffoon, Jaelis, who at least knows when he is playing the idiot. But more importantly than all of these things, Lord Storne owns all the lands from the east side of the Graufluss to the Great White Mountains. And he is our neighbour. That makes him either a powerful ally, or a formidable enemy.’

  The Eorl paused to quaff from his wine cup again, allowing his daughter to absorb the words. His faith in her was not misplaced, for though headstrong the heiress of Dulsinor was indeed no fool. Slowly and reluctantly she nodded.

  ‘I understand,’ she said sullenly.

  ‘Not entirely, not yet you don’t,’ her father replied, shaking his head solemnly. ‘In time I will sicken and die, or perhaps even meet my end in combat as befits a true knight. The perfects will come and shrive me, and say prayers for my immortal soul. My body shall be laid to rest in the Werecrypt below, where the bones of our ancestors have found their repose for centuries. Then, it will be left for my shade to wander the unseen islands of the Other Side until, Almighty willing, it finds admittance to the Heavenly Halls by His grace.’

  Adhelina stared at her father in stunned silence. He never talked like this – next thing he’d be quoting scripture, he practically already was.

  The Eorl continued: ‘One thing that will ease my troubled spirit on its celestial journey – wherever it be my doom to end it – will be knowing that I did the right thing by my House, and left Dulsinor in good and able hands.’

  Adhelina felt her heart rise into her mouth as her father paused again to take another drink. She knew exactly where this was going. But before she could utter a word the Lord of Graukolos went on.

  ‘Lotho, you may start recording. For generations, the Vorstlending barons have fought one another. Alliances have been forged and broken, wars prosecuted and peace made thereafter, for a time. The House of Markward has been no stranger to such conflicts. Thrice in my reign have we been to war with the Kaarls and the Ürls. Like many before them, they have tried and failed to take this castle. Doubtless they will try again – they, or another House. As far as I am concerned they shall never succeed, for is it not rightly said that the eight turrets of Graukolos have never fallen? But sadly, that’s not an end to the story...

  ‘This castle is a jewel, coveted by every man who commands swords in the northern reaches of our realm. Many say it is a seat fit for a king, and should never have passed to a mere eorl – but I say fie on them! For three hundred years there has been a Markward at the helm of Graukolos, and so there shall continue to be – though sadly, not entirely in name.’

  ‘But I shall bear the family name!’ protested Adhelina, trying to stave off the inevitable. ‘Under the laws of our land I can inherit! Who says I have to marry and take another man’s name?’

  Her father shook his head again, this time in sorrow. ‘When I said this castle was a jewel, I did not mean it as a good thing. For decades this holding has provoked one invasion after another – oh, they’ve all come to grief against the walls of this place, but that hasn’t stopped them ravaging their way through Dulsinor to get to it. I’m tired of picking up the pieces of lives broken by other men’s vanity...’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Think on it. If the castle alone is enough to provoke one invasion every ten years, what do you think the spectacle of Graukolos ruled over by a virgin Eorla will do? They’ll redouble their efforts! Every lord within a hundred miles of Dulsinor will want to be remembered as the one who took the castle – and its unspoilt mistress too! But that won’t happen if you’re married off first.’ His voice suddenly became steely as he uttered the last sentence.

  Adhelina rose abruptly to her feet. ‘No father, don’t even say it!’ she cried. ‘I won’t! You know I won’t do it!’

  ‘Heavens, Adhelina!’ thundered the Eorl, rising to face her. ‘How long did you think you could put off marriage? I’ve indulged you far too much over the years, all for the sake of your mother – Reus rest her soul! It’s time to grow up! Your position is a privileged one – did you really imagine it would come without responsibilities?’

  ‘No, I won’t! I won’t marry him!’ Adhelina was close to tears as she stared into her father’s flint grey eyes, her body trembling with barely suppressed rage and frustration.

  ‘Aye, you will marry him!’ barked Wilhelm angrily. ‘The Lanraks are the only neighbouring House that haven’t been to war with the Markwards in the past hundred years! They are our only ally, in a viper’s nest!’

  ‘But why!?’ exclaimed the damsel. ‘Who’s idea was this? Surely not...’ she couldn’t bear to utter the loathsome Herzog’s name.

  ‘Hengist’s?’ laughed the Eorl. ‘Reus’ teeth, no! It was his steward’s. The truth is they covet the castle as much as the others do, but they’re smart enough to know there’s an easier way to get into it – now that you’re my only heir and I’m on the way out.’

  ‘Don’t talk so! You’ll live another twenty years!’

  ‘Oh aye, and what then? What happens when your time comes? No children of your own – then who inherits? My siblings are all dead, except my sister – and she’s holed up in a priory somewhere in the mountains, childless... they’ll have to dig up one of my cousins, drinking himself to oblivion in a fleshpot in Meerborg. Fie on that! I’ll not have it! The family name deserves better!’

  ‘But if you marry me to... him, the family name will die out anyway!’

  A crafty look came into the Eorl’s eyes. ‘Not altogether it won’t, not according to our little arrangement.’

  ‘What arrangement? How long have you been planning my future?’ demanded Adhelina, her voice cold with rage.

  ‘Long enough to know what’s good for it! Under the terms of our proposal, Lord Hengist would come and reside here – the Herewyrd of Stornelund and the Griffenwyrd of Dulsinor would be joined and become the Grand Herewyrd of Stornelund-Dulsinor, with Graukolos as its official seat. Our houses would be forever joined together into one – the House of Lanrak-Markward! Think on it, Adhelina, we’d become the most powerful family in Vorstlund! And you’d be instrumental in bringing it about!’

  ‘You mean my enslavement would be instrumental,’ snarled Adhelina, her lip curling in disgust.

  Wilhelm’s face darkened. ‘Now girl, don’t try me. Reus knows, I’ve been patient with you for too long, but it’s not an inexhaustible well. And don’t think of crossing me – this has been a long time in the making.’

  ‘Then it can be swift in the breaking! I’ll not have him, not if all the lands of the Free Kingdoms came with him!’

  ‘Oh yes you will,’ snarled Wilhelm. ‘I’m announcing your nuptials at the feast tonight – Hengist’s mother and his other important family members should be here shortly. Don’t disappoint me, daughter – your future, all our futures, depend on your reining in that infamous impetuous streak of yours. You and Hengist will be wedded a moon from today.’

  Adhelina felt the blood drain out of her. The feast... of course. That had been her father’s purpose all along – hidden beneath the smokescreen of his well-known love of a good feed.

  Her heart went numb as the realisation sank in. Then, in an icy voice, she asked: ‘May I be dismissed now, father?’

  ‘Yes, you certainly may,’ he replied, walking back across the room to pour himself another cup of wine. ‘Get back to your chamber and prepare for the feast. I suggest in the interim that you think long and hard about what it means to be a nobleman’s daughter.’ He gestured expansively at the study’s rudely opulent interior. ‘In case you hadn’t realised, all of this wasn’t built on romances and herb lore – it’s founded on blood, tears and sacrifice.’

  Hettie combed her mistress
’s long tresses in silence. Adhelina stared wordlessly at the polished silver mirror on the dressing table in front of her, but her sullen angry eyes told a story all of their own. She had raged for well over an hour after she returned to her bedchamber with the news, and it had taken all of Hettie’s level-headed forbearance to calm her down.

  Even so, her mistress was inconsolable. Hettie had to sympathise – the Almighty knew, Hengist was a loathsome prospect of a bedfellow. And yet her natural common sense told her an awful truth – Adhelina’s father was right, the match did make good sense politically. She had not dared to venture this opinion, however.

  When she was done combing her friend’s hair she took up a circlet of white gold and set it on her brows. It had been a gift from the Eorl when Adhelina had come of age, and though since then he had showered her with many other baubles it was the only piece of jewellery she could ever be persuaded to wear. The design was simple and elegant; it was set with a single ruby that caught the flickering candlelight with a fierce lustre.

  Stepping back Hettie surveyed her handiwork with quiet satisfaction. Her mistress was beautiful. She was tall, with a full-bodied figure, her heart-shaped face pleasing to look upon – or would be if she would only smile more often. Her pale skin was offset by her full red lips and sparkling blue-green eyes; her red-gold hair fell abundantly to her lower back. Yes, any man with eyes in his head and red blood in his veins could not fail to find her attractive.

  ‘You look stunning, my lady,’ Hettie breathed softly in the shifting light of the room.

  Adhelina managed a wan smile. ‘If only such things pleased me, Hettie,’ she replied in a subdued voice. ‘But tonight of all nights, I’d give all my tresses and fineries to look as ugly as a Wadwo.’

  An involuntary shiver ran up Hettie’s spine as she said this. She didn’t like hearing the beast-folk mentioned so lightly – she could still remember her uncle Tomas’s fireside tales, of how he had narrowly escaped being ripped to shreds by one of them in the Argael Forest during a period of errantry. Her mistress seemed to think they only existed as a byword for ugliness – but Hettie knew better.

  ‘I should have hoped for a little more appreciation for all my hard work than that,’ was what she contented herself with saying.

  ‘Oh Hettie!’ Adhelina turned in her chair, looking up at her best friend with eyes that were sad and apologetic. ‘I don’t mean to take any of this out on you! But can’t you see what a horrible fix I’m in?’

  ‘I feel for you milady, really I do...’ Hettie faltered. ‘As I’ve said already, I of all people know how... unappealing the Lord Storne is. But...’ – she screwed up her courage and spoke frankly – ‘your father speaks sense. You are the heiress of Dulsinor – that means you must marry. Indeed most in your position would have been long since – you’ve been of age for six years now. You’ve been lucky enough to preserve your freedom this long – and don’t you want a husband to warm your bed at night and give you children to bear your name?’

  ‘Oh I do eventually – but why him?! He is... vile, in every way!’

  Adhelina lapsed back into moody silence. She didn’t know what else to say – she had dreamed of being married one day, that was true enough. But in her dreams it had always been a perfect knight who won her hand – fighting for her love in one of her father’s tourneys, courting her assiduously for months...

  She wanted to know the man she would marry before she married him, was that so unreasonable? That’s how it happened in the courtly romances – surely Gracius and his ilk weren’t complete fantasists?

  And yet, as she had grown older and mingled more freely with the castle knights and her father’s landed vassals she had grown swiftly disillusioned.

  It wasn’t that they weren’t brave, or loyal, or skilled in combat – they were all of those things. But the warriors who served her father were mostly boors. The knights she read of in the Lays of King Vasirius could all fight too, but they were modest and merciful as well – and when they wooed a lady, they did so with sweet words as well as bold deeds. Sir Aremis of the White Rose had earned his epithet after climbing the peaks of Valacia in full armour to pick the rare bloom for his lady-love, Gorlivere. Sir Malagaunce of Triste had composed twelve verses of love poetry for his amour, each one detailing a trait of hers that he worshipped.

  Such a far cry from the knights of Graukolos. She knew that this evening she would have to listen to Sir Balthor boasting of his latest triumphs. He was her father’s greatest knight and had won countless victories on the field of war, his tournament trophies clogged up an entire room in his manor house, maidens had swooned for him in his youth... as he liked to tell everyone within earshot, again and again and again.

  Most of her father’s other vassals were every bit as haughty as Balthor, if less accomplished. When they weren’t fighting or boasting they spent the rest of their time feasting, wenching and hunting. But what appalled her most was their cruelty and lack of mercy – during the last war her father’s men had despatched fallen foes on the left hand and the right, driving bloodied sword between chink of armour without compunction. In the days of King Vasirius only the wicked knights opposed to his reign had done that kind of thing.

  When she’d protested this to her father he’d laughed and told her that Gracius might be a fine poet, but had little idea how to fight a war. She had been fifteen then, and his cynicism had stung her – but even so she’d refused to accept his argument. Where did it say that a war could only be won by butchering surrendered captives or an injured foe?

  As it was, her father’s knights would only spare a man if they thought his ransom money made him worth more alive than dead. In her eyes that made them little better than mercenaries with knighthoods.

  Presently Sir Urist Stronghand, Wilhelm’s marshal, arrived with three other knights to escort Adhelina to the feast.

  Urist was middle aged but well preserved – his dark brown hair was barely streaked with grey as it hung about his shoulders in unkempt strands. He was ruggedly handsome and slightly taller than average – with his keen grey eyes and stoical demeanour he well looked the part of the man in charge of the household knights and the castle’s defences.

  He was dressed simply, in a deep blue doublet and breeches, some simple silver filigree on the hemline of the sleeves his only concession to finery.

  ‘Good e’en, milady,’ he said with a stiff bow. ‘I trust you are ready for the feast. And may I take the trouble to say you look ravishing this evening. Your father will be pleased.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Urist,’ replied Adhelina, curtseying perfunctorily.

  At least Urist didn’t share the boastful arrogance of most other knights at the castle. He had been widely regarded as the Eorl’s fiercest fighter, until Balthor bested him in the lists some ten years ago and followed this up by downing him in the melee, breaking his thighbone. Urist had taken this all with characteristic stoicism, contenting himself with remarking that he might only be the second best knight in the Griffenwyrd now but he was still in charge of Graukolos – a duty that came before everything else.

  But he was so stiff – Adhelina couldn’t imagine him composing a line of verse, let alone a dozen stanzas, and as for climbing a mountain to pick some flowers... she wasn’t even sure Urist had enough humour to laugh at the idea, such a request would probably have simply baffled him. Besides that he was married – and far too old.

  ‘We are nearly ready, my lord,’ replied Hettie, stepping around a hanging basket of sweet-smelling herbs to fetch the cloak Hengist had bought her mistress.

  Adhelina knew she was obliged to wear it – that and the damned long skirt. She held her tongue as Hettie fastened it around her neck, using a platinum brooch fashioned in the shape of a rose. Give me white roses over platinum ones any day, she thought disconsolately.

  When she was done Hettie gently turned her mistress to look again in the polished silver mirror.

  ‘Never mind a duchess, you look like a que
en,’ she dared to breathe in her ear.

  Gazing at her reflection, Adhelina had to admit her friend was right – dressed in elegant white samite, cloaked with royal purple and crowned with bright gold, she did look regal. But if she was so regal then why was she so powerless?

  Her fate sealed by men of real power, she had been perched on a throne that was hollow to the core.

  CHAPTER VII

  For King And Country

  Sir Aronn crumpled in the dirt, his sword skittering out of his hand, his broken shield hanging uselessly off his left arm as his opponent loomed over him.

  ‘Touch!’ cried Sir Baltimere, raising a gauntleted hand to indicate a successful strike.

  ‘I think you had best yield Aronn,’ said Sir Torgun with a grin, placing the tip of his blunted blade close to his throat. ‘I have the advantage.’

  ‘As usual,’ replied Aronn with a scowl, as Torgun reversed his sword and offered a hand to help him up.

  ‘It was well fought,’ said Torgun, clapping the burly knight on the shoulder and doing his best to placate him. ‘You nearly had me a couple of times and no bout against you is ever easy.’

  ‘Nor ever lost, in your case,’ muttered Aronn, his ruddy face flushing a deeper red as both knights shook hands. ‘One day I’ll have you, Torgun, don’t know when, but one day by Reus I shall!’

  Torgun grinned again. Though Aronn was a little too proud, he had a valiant heart and was as honest a man as any Torgun had ever met. It was an honour to serve alongside him in the Order of the White Valravyn.

  ‘I look forward to that day,’ he said humbly. ‘One can learn as much in defeat as in victory.’

  Aronn raised an eyebrow at this. ‘Well that’s half your education missing!’ His scarred face cracked into a grin, and both men laughed gladly. Torgun felt his heart soar, as it so often did – he was in his prime, serving in the most prestigious order of the land. He had devoted his life to the Code of Chivalry and service of the King – a good King at that. Did it get any better than that?