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

by Damien Black

  Sir Baltimere, in charge of combat training for the day, was already motioning for the next pair of knights to step into the yard and square off for battle. The white walls of Staerkvit loomed high and proud above them. Flags atop its four turrets boasted a white raven taking flight above two crossed spears on a sable background, the Order’s coat of arms.

  Some twenty mailed knights were gathered about the practice yard, all keen to hone their skills. There hadn’t been a real war for a good long while, so it was all about training and tourneying. Of course there would be the odd skirmish here and there, but generally the Knights of the White Valravyn did their job so well that the King’s Dominions were free of marauders.

  Not that the Order was inexperienced – to be admitted in the first place you had to have proven yourself in battle. That meant seeking out trouble wherever you could find it – more often than not in the lawless hinterlands and restive southern provinces.

  Torgun had done plenty of that since being knighted in his seventeenth summer. He’d completed his squirehood in half the time it normally took a good knight to do so. People said he was gifted – Torgun just put it down to hard work and application. If something was worth doing, it was worth doing well.

  He’d spent the next three years as an errant, travelling the lands beyond the Dominions where he’d been born and raised. Fewer and fewer knights did that nowadays – a damn shame too, errantry was a fine tradition and it toughened you up no end.

  Good years those, he recalled them fondly. He’d distinguished himself in tournaments, rescued the odd damsel, slain robber knights (mostly Woldings – a bad lot that, no respect for the King’s Law), and even vanquished a hedge wizard or two. Not that he ever boasted – that would be bad form of course. Heralds, troubadours and town criers were quick to pick up on his deeds in any case, so there was no need to.

  Three years ago the King, hearing of his exploits, had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Joining the Order was a rare honour for one so young – most of the knights here had seen at least twenty-five summers before they were admitted.

  True, sometimes he missed the wandering days of his wild youth. But he had been happiest here, in Order’s century-old headquarters. He loved the strict regimen, the camaraderie of fellow knights, the emphasis on duty. Knights were meant to serve their lords but they should also protect the poor and weak – that’s what it said in the Code of Chivalry, so it must be true.

  Torgun knew that too many knights were proud and arrogant. Too many neglected their duties to the less fortunate, robbing the defenceless at will and defying royal law. Such men were little better than common freeswords as far as he was concerned – they didn’t understand what knighthood was really all about. And their souls were poorer for it.

  Torgun belonged to one of the oldest noble houses in Northalde, and his sister was married to Prince Wolfram, heir to the throne. But more than that Freidheim was a just liege, a true successor to his great-grandfather Thorsvald. His famous victories against the Thraxians and the southron traitor Kanga in the War of the Southern Secession had cemented his reputation, but it was his devotion to chivalry and justice that Torgun admired most.

  King Freidheim II and old Northalde forever!

  Striding over to the weapon rack, Torgun and Aronn replaced their blunted blades. Aronn’s shield would have to go straight back to the armoury after the battering it had received. This Torgun did himself – the rules of the Order stated that knights must be self-sufficient and take no squires, in keeping with the custom of the errants of old.

  All the same, he wasn’t looking forward to the poor armourer’s rueful looks when he brought him the shield – it was the fifth one he’d broken this month. And he hadn’t even been using his full strength, seeing as it was non-lethal combat.

  He was about to head over to the armoury when he caught a familiar figure strutting his way across the courtyard towards the practice yard. He felt his high spirits dampen slightly – it was Sir Wolmar. Following his gaze Sir Aronn muttered a curse.

  ‘Well look who it is,’ the ruddy-faced knight said darkly. ‘The High Commander’s son comes to grace us with his presence – an hour late as usual. I wonder that they admitted him to the Order, I really do.’

  Torgun’s face was even as he replied softly: ‘To be fair, Sir Wolmar couches a decent lance, and his swordsmanship is excellent. He is a valuable addition to our ranks.’

  Though the first part was true enough, his last remark lacked conviction, and Aronn knew it.

  ‘He’s here because he’s a Prince’s son, Torgun – let’s not deceive ourselves, even if we have to lie out loud to the rest of the Order about his qualities. It takes more than being a good warrior to be a White Raven, Torgun – you of all people know that.’

  The flaxen-haired knight’s deep blue eyes were on the ground as he replied: ‘Wolmar could be a little more... virtuous, it is true.’

  Aronn snorted. ‘He could learn to understand the concepts of mercy and justice, is what he could do! I still haven’t forgotten what he did to those poachers he caught at Marring. Would that I had been there to stop him! It’s a travesty, I tell you – the man is a living stain on our Order!’

  Torgun felt a surge of guilt as the unpleasant memory came back to him – even though he’d had nothing to do with it. Like the rest of their company he had ridden up to the village on the border of the Staerk Ranges and been horrified to find that Sir Wolmar had meted out summary justice to the peasants he’d caught thieving from yeoman farmers in the area.

  ‘The law says you’re only supposed to mete out capital punishment if it’s a third offence,’ said Aronn, shaking his head. ‘And even then it’s only supposed to be a single hand – by the time he was done with the three of them they were in pieces! And how old do you think the youngest of them was? Sixteen summers?’

  Torgun grimaced. ‘If that – we should never have agreed to let him scout ahead while we were refreshing our horses. What was Tarlquist – I mean... forgive me, Aronn, I am speaking out of turn. Sir Tarlquist is a fine commander. He could not have foreseen what would happen.’

  Aronn scowled. ‘Tarlquist has his hands full enough as it is, without keeping a spoilt princeling with a lust for blood in check – Reus knows Prince Freidhoff is as fine a leader as the Order could wish for, but where his son is concerned he’s as blind as Yareth the Predictor!’

  ‘We should not speak ill of the High Commander,’ Torgun admonished the older knight gently. ‘A father cannot be blamed for loving his son.’

  ‘No, but his son can be blamed for loving himself,’ replied Aronn bitterly. ‘Look at him – he’s breaking up the bout so he can step in and fight straight away. How I wish I hadn’t already gone – I’d love another chance to knock him in the dirt!’

  Torgun was far too polite to say it, but he silently wondered what the chances of that were. The two knights had sparred three times, and Wolmar had won every bout. Though Aronn was the stronger of the two, Wolmar was deadly quick on his feet, and faster than a striking snake. He had even bested Torgun at swordplay on one occasion – no one in their company besides Tarlquist had ever managed that. After his victory Wolmar had boasted non-stop for a week – never mind that Torgun had bested him five times before and never mentioned it once. But then the likes of Wolmar could hardly be expected to show the modesty befitting a true knight.

  One of the chequered twins, Doric, had accepted Wolmar’s challenge and was getting ready to square off against the haughty princeling, who flicked back his red-gold tresses with an air of casual arrogance before donning a light helm to complement his hauberk, sword and shield. Doric’s brother Cirod called out encouragement as the two began circling each other.

  ‘Come, let’s go and give Doric some moral support,’ said Aronn.

  ‘In a minute,’ replied Torgun. ‘I’ll just drop your shield off at the armoury first.’

  Aronn nodded curtly before striding back over toward the practice yard, c
heering loudly for Doric every step of the way.

  By the time Torgun returned from the armoury it was all over. Doric was being taken by his brother to the castle chirurgeon to be treated for mild concussion. There was more to it, though. A crowd of angry knights was circling around Wolmar. Aronn had to be restrained by two more, his face beetroot red as he snarled one insulting challenge after another at the princeling.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Torgun of the nearest knight.

  ‘Wolmar beat Doric fair and square,’ replied the raven. ‘He outfooted him and knocked him to the ground. Seems that wasn’t enough for him – he had to step in and hit him again, even after Doric called yield. Lucky his helm took the brunt of it – he’d have a cloven skull otherwise.’

  Sir Torgun struggled to control his mounting anger. Of all the churlish things to do – striking a fallen foe who had surrendered! Was there no end to Wolmar’s shocking disregard for the Code?

  Sir Baltimere and several more knights had interposed themselves between Wolmar and his antagonists. Just as well, because Wolmar was still clutching his sword and shield and looked happy to fight some more.

  ‘Aye come then, Aronn!’ he snarled venomously, his cruelly handsome face contorted in a sneer. ‘Let’s see if you can match that colourful language with some equally colourful swordplay! Or shall I make you look an oaf again – as I did the last three times we met?’

  Aronn roared, struggling to free himself. ‘Let go of me dammit! I want to fight again! I’ll show you who’s the oaf, you vicious scoundrel!’

  Wolmar brayed with laughter. Torgun hated that laugh, full of spite and arrogance it was. ‘Is that the best insult you can come up with?’ sneered the princeling. ‘Why, your words are as weak as your swordsmanship!’

  That was quite enough. Stepping up to Wolmar, Torgun met his gaze before saying calmly: ‘Perhaps you would care to take a bout with me, Sir Wolmar? I have already sparred once today, but if the others permit it, I would be happy to oblige you – seeing as you have such a thirst for combat.’

  He held his gaze. Wolmar blinked first. Torgun could see a look of uncertainty in the princeling’s face. Then it was replaced by one of pure hatred.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t our resident perfect knight,’ he said, his green eyes narrowing to slits. ‘If I recall, the last time we met I bested you too! Come then! A foe far more worthy of my prowess than yon armoured bullock! Let’s to it!’

  You could say one thing for Wolmar: he was no coward. Merciless, proud, vain and cruel, yes – but he wasn’t one to back off from a fight. Torgun favoured him with a curt nod before turning back to the weapon rack to rearm himself.

  They squared off and prepared to fight. Most of the company was cheering for Torgun, but he banished their voices from his mind as he focused on his opponent. Wolmar was a confident fighter – too confident. He would come out swinging, which meant a defensive posture could allow an effective counter-strike.

  But defensive fighting wasn’t in Torgun’s nature.

  When Sir Baltimere gave the order to begin Torgun launched himself at his rival. Wolmar was taken aback by the sheer ferocity of his attack, and at first it took all his agility and guile just to keep Torgun at bay. But as he adjusted to the onslaught he began to get in several good ripostes of his own, and the contest started to look more even.

  Again and again their blades rang as they lunged and hacked at one another, punctuated by the dull thunk of steel on oak as they parried with their shields. The cries of their comrades intensified as they circled one another, sweat running down their faces. These were swelled by the arrival of the next company due for sword practice, and soon a crowd of more than forty knights ringed the two warriors.

  With a snarl Wolmar feinted at Torgun’s head, before nimbly sidestepping and thrusting towards his midriff on his right side where he couldn’t interpose his shield. It was a cunning move, but Torgun had fought Wolmar enough times to see it coming, and turning the blade aside dismissively he brought his sword up towards his chest with a deft flick of the wrist. From a lesser knight such a blow would have lacked power, but Torgun was as strong as an ox. It took all of Wolmar’s agility to step back out of reach, and as he did so he nearly fell over backwards.

  ‘At him Torgun!’ yelled Aronn from amidst the press of knights. ‘You’ve got him now!’

  Torgun needed no encouragement. Stepping forwards he aimed another strike at Wolmar’s head, forcing him to bring his shield up to block. The force of the blow was enough to knock him off balance, but even so Torgun had to twist sideways to avoid a counter-attack to his midriff as Wolmar went down.

  Even now the princeling would not yield. Torgun raised his sword to strike again, the yells of the knights resounding in his ears... But at the last minute Wolmar rolled away, and Torgun’s blade bit dirt. He recovered himself quickly and wheeled around to face the princeling, who had pulled himself up into a crouching position, his blade extended and a feral snarl on his lips.

  He’s going to come at me low, thought Torgun. He was just preparing himself for the attack when a clarion call rang across the courtyard.

  It was a summons to the Great Hall.

  ‘Bout suspended due to garrison duties!’ cried Baltimere above the clamour of the crowd. ‘All right, Sir Torgun, Sir Wolmar, put your blades up and return them to the rack. The High Commander must have something important to say if he’s interrupting martial training.’

  Torgun and Wolmar both turned to look at Baltimere with a frown. He was right. Their mock duel would just have to wait.

  Removing his helmet Wolmar shook out his fiery tresses and smiled icily at Torgun. ‘To be continued, Sir Torgun,’ he said, underscoring every word with contempt. ‘I’m not done with you, not by a long chalk.’

  Torgun glared back at him. He was normally courteous to all his opponents, but Wolmar was impossible. ‘Nor I with you, Sir Wolmar,’ he replied in a dangerously calm voice.

  Presently every knight not on patrol duty was gathered in the Great Hall. A vast square chamber, its buttressed walls were the height of many men. Scenes from the life of St Ulred, the poor knight whose legendary retribution had inspired the Hero King Thorsvald to found the Order, were painted the length and breadth of it. Two hangings on the far wall behind the dais supporting the Chair of Judgment depicted the symbol of the White Valravyn and the royal coat of arms of the Ruling House of Ingwin, two rearing white unicorns facing each other on a purple background.

  The High Commander Prince Freidhoff, brother to the King, was sat on the Chair of Judgment, a plain affair of white marble. Sir Toric of Runstadt, his deputy, sat at his right hand. The seven other commanders had taken their seats – Sir Tarlquist, Sir Yorrick, Sir Redrun and the others.

  Sir Danrik, the Herald, stamped his great iron staff thrice on the floor of the dais for silence. Within a few seconds the excited hubbub had died to a deathly hush.

  Prince Freidhoff rose and approached a stone lectern in front of his siege. His tall frame seemed to fill the hall – though well past fifty he was still hale, and the years had not diminished his presence.

  ‘Knights of the Order!’ he began, the echoing hall amplifying his gravelly voice. ‘As you may have gathered from the abruptness of the summons, I have important news – news that is both grave and good.’

  The High Commander paused momentarily to clear his throat. Sir Aronn glanced sidelong at Sir Torgun, who responded with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders.

  The High Commander went on: ‘I am not one for wasting words as you know, so I will come straight to it – war is imminent. That is the good news for those of you eager to test your mettle in the field!’

  The assembled knights fell to chattering again excitedly. Prince Freidhoff was right of course – tourneys were all well and good, and by no means non-lethal affairs, but real war was meat and drink to any true knight. Torgun glanced at Aronn and could not help but return his grin.

  ‘Silence!’ bellowed Freidhoff, gettin
g it instantly. ‘I also said it was grave news – and so it is. For we shall be fighting our own countrymen again – Krulheim, Jarl of Thule, has declared himself a Prince in his own right, over all lands south of the River Thule. He has united the Southron barons behind him and means to supplant our rightful King, just as his father sought to a generation ago!’

  Freidhoff fell silent again. Once again the hall was plunged into babble, only now the angry voices of the knights sounded like a hive of bees.

  ‘Krulheim!’ exclaimed Sir Aronn, his face twisting with anger. ‘But... the King spared him years ago – when he could have legally had him executed for his father’s treasonous crimes!’

  ‘His Majesty was ever a merciful liege,’ replied Torgun, only raising his voice loud enough to be heard above the din. ‘It is a sad truism that the wicked will often take advantage of mercy to do an ill deed.’

  Prince Freidhoff bellowed again for silence. This time the Herald had to bang his staff repeatedly to get it.

  ‘The last we heard the King had sent messengers beseeching the Jarl of Thule to desist in this madness,’ the High Commander continued. ‘But if, as seems likely, he refuses we shall once again be in a state of civil war. Naturally it shall fall to us, as the doughtiest warriors in the realm, to lead in the coming conflict. As such, every knight is to double combat practice from this day on – we’re going to war, men of the White Valravyn, and I mean to see that we don’t dishonour our standard!’

  A roar of approval met his words. Sir Torgun and Sir Aronn joined in with gusto, punching the air with mailed fists. Even Sir Wolmar seemed swept up in the fever – no doubt relishing the chance to shed blood legitimately to his heart’s content.

  But as excited as he was, Torgun also felt a tinge of sadness – his first full-blown war would be fought against his countrymen, albeit treasonous ones. Freidheim had worked hard to consolidate his kingdom, yet still there were truculent provincial barons who refused to heed his message of strength through unity.