by Damien Black
‘Why did she do that?’ Regarded as an un-angel, neither good nor bad, Kaia had a reputation for disobedience and fickle behaviour. Even Adelko had no inkling why she would have transgressed against so serious an injunction. Truly the Unseen moved in mysterious ways.
‘Who can reason at the motives of the Unseen?’ replied Horskram, reading his thought. ‘But the Island’s druidic codices claim Kaia acted out of compassion, for the Islanders’ lives were relentlessly harsh and bleak – the Realms in those distant days were rocky and barren, affording little sustenance. Under her divine tutelage they learned to coax plants from the soil, and fruits ripened on the bough, and for many centuries the island clans lived in peace and prosperity.
‘The druids who practise the arts she taught them adhere to strict rules, and anyone found practising the black magic of the Left-Hand Path is put to death immediately. But where one viper is rooted out and crushed another will always pass unnoticed and flourish, as the Redeemer sayeth – and so it was with Morwena, who began to study the forbidden Left-Hand Path in secret. And this is why I always say there is no such thing as white magic, Adelko! Even the most well-intentioned souls can stray and become corrupted in their thirst for knowledge and seeming desire to do good – just as Ma’amun himself was. Fools will ever light their own way to darkness and damnation, to quote Maegellin, and no doubt it is from his renowned works that you will have heard some of this story.
‘Beaching his longship and striking inland, Søren entered the Valley of the Barrow Kings, and there he met Morwena. Inviting him into her damned precinct she ensorcelled him, and before he knew where he was that mighty warrior was enthralled by her and seduced to her will.
‘And thus began the Seven Deeds of Søren, and every one of those mighty adventures he undertook was purposed but to extend her power, and thus the tales of his exploits are underpinned with tragedy from start to finish. I shall not dwell on these, for doubtless you will have read Maegellin’s account of them, how he wrestled great Wyrms and slew Gigants in the Frozen Wastes of the uttermost North, and cast down Ashokainan, crushing his demonic servants and destroying his tower in the Great White Mountains. Søren’s seventh and most perilous deed took him to the heart of the Forbidden City, where he endured and fought nameless horrors beyond imagining, for it was infested with devilish guardians long conjured up from the Void that still haunted its cyclopean walls. But through great terror and hardship he won the Headstone, casting down Hydrae the Many Headed, Queen of Wyrms, enduring countless grievous burns from her venomous spittle.
‘But I will tell you what Maegellin does not treat of in his Lays – namely, what happened to Søren afterwards. Taking the Headstone on his back, he returned after a journey of many weeks to the Islands, where his witch-mistress awaited him. And upon his triumphant return he exulted, for he truly believed that with his final task complete his reward was at hand, and that he would hold his paramour in his arms forever.
‘But taking the stone from him she waxed terribly proud, for all her designs were come to fruition if only she might learn the using of the Headstone and unlock its ghastly powers. And, his usefulness at an end, she spurned Søren cruelly. And with such words, harder than the hardest steel, Søren’s heart was broken – but so too was Morwena’s spell over him. From the depths of his mighty spirit a fierce pride kindled, waxing into a terrible fire of wroth. And he pulled out his sword, Orm-Killerin.’
Adelko’s eyes lit up at the mention of that legendary blade. Its name meant the ‘serpent killer’ in the Norric tongue – it was probably called that because Søren had used it to kill Hydrae. The Lays told how Søren had worn the silver blade at his side after Morwena fashioned it for him from a sliver taken from the great axe wielded by the Gigant, Arthrax, whom he had slain on his third deed.
‘Morwena turned from contemplating her newest prize and spoke a word of power that condensed the air between them, making it hard as iron,’ continued Horskram. ‘But the strength of a dozen Wadwos was in Søren’s right arm, made all the mightier by the rage of a spurned lover, and the blade of Orm-Killerin, forged by his erstwhile mistress’s potent sorceries, was harder than any earthly metal. His blow pierced past Morwena’s magic shield, passing through her fair breast and cleaving her cankered heart in twain.
‘As she fell dying to the floor of the great balcony overlooking the steep valley, Morwena reached one last time in vain towards the Headstone of Ma’amun. And as Søren gazed upon the dying form of the woman he had loved above all else, he saw her eyes fixed in the lifeless stare of death upon the ancient stone he had suffered so much to obtain on her behalf. And in a rage borne of bitterness he took the Headstone his faithless mistress had so coveted, and lifting it high above his head, he cast it down into the rocky valley below with a great cry of furious anger and terrible despair, where it sundered into four pieces.’
Horskram paused as if for dramatic effect, his keen blue eyes gleaming intensely in the firelight. Looking into them Adelko could almost believe his master had actually been present when Søren’s mighty adventures reached their dramatic conclusion. Outside the cramped cave, their horses whinnied nervously, although the wind and rain had subsided somewhat. Again he heard the piercing cry; this time it seemed closer than before. It didn’t sound like wolves to Adelko. His master was too busy with his story to notice.
‘What fate Søren met after that no tale tells,’ he said. ‘All that is known is that the grief-stricken hero left the Island Realms on his ship Jürmengaard, and sailed out across the Great Western Ocean, never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
‘What became of the fragmented pieces of the Headstone is somewhat better documented. Morwena’s tower burned to the ground shortly after her death, and who knows what diabolical powers finished the work of destruction left incomplete by the Unseen centuries before? With it perished most of her treasures, including those brought back by Søren on his Deeds, and her demonic servants vanished back to their hellish domain on the Other Side, the spells binding them to the mortal realm broken.
‘But the fragments of the Headstone remained, lying in the valley where the Watchtower had once stood. As time went by many said it was not just the remnants of its ghastly sorceries that cast an evil pall over that once-fair region. The island druids whispered amongst themselves fearfully, of a far more ancient and dreadful power than any its witch-mistress had dared conjure up.
‘Eventually the druids and clan chieftains came together and agreed that something had to be done – a thing of such obvious evil could not be left in the open unguarded forever. After much lengthy debate, it was decided to take the pieces and scatter them to the four corners of the Known World, so that none might reunite them.
‘One of the pieces was entrusted to the clan chieftain Orbegon and the high priestess Jedda, who resolved to take it to the Principalities of the Frozen Wastes – for it was rightly deemed that those people should bear some responsibility for the burden, seeing as it was a Northlander who had brought the Headstone out into the world. And so they sought an audience at Landarök with Prince Olav Iron-Hand, so called because of his prowess at war – and also his unwillingness to lend money to anyone, friend or foe.’
Adelko shared a half-smile with his master at this. Prince Olav’s unpleasant traits were well documented.
‘And to this unlikely source of help Orbegon and Jedda made many a grim entreaty,’ Horskram went on. ‘For Olav was on his mother’s side a descendent of Gunnehilde that had borne Søren, and on his father’s was connected to Orbegon’s clan by a truce marriage that had helped to broker a peace treaty between the Islanders and Northlanders, who had been at war for many years. Eventually, the barbarian prince was prevailed upon to accept the shard – it probably pleased his vanity to possess a keepsake of his legendary forebear’s mighty travails, for by that time tale of Søren’s deeds had spread far and wide. But woe betide an alliance through pride, as the Redeemer sayeth! For Prince Olav strayed from his promise, which wa
s to keep the shard locked in the dungeons beneath his great stone fort at Landarök, and before long he went off to war against the mainland, as Søren had done before him.’
Adelko almost felt relieved to get back on familiar ground. Olav had been among the First Reavers, bloodthirsty colonists who settled the lands that would eventually become Northalde. He had founded the Old Kingdom of Nylund and built Strongholm on its southern border.
‘And in his pride and contumely Olav took with him the shard of Ma’amun’s headstone, thinking to build his new throne upon it,’ said Horskram. ‘But not lightly should petty kings of latter days use the heirlooms of the greatest race of wizards the world has ever seen! The Northern Chronicle tells of the curse that fell on Olav and all his line, for daring to use that eldritch stone as a foundation for his royal seat. He was the first to wither away, a tortured victim of the Rotting Death, which none but his wife and children contracted from him, and they all met a similar fate.
‘All that is, but one. His son Ulfric escaped the disease and succeeded him, only to be driven slowly mad by spectral voices that whispered to him from his throne at night. One red morning he could bear it no more, and cast himself into the sea from the high stone walls of the city his father had built, where his body was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. And of Ulfric’s three sons the first, Wulfric, drowned at sea when he was eighteen. The second was slain by a poisoned arrow during a border war with the neighbouring Kingdom of Wessia, which comprised the lands directly south of Strongholm. The third disappeared into the haunted forest of Tintagael on a mad quest to find a bridge to Gods-home, never to return.’
‘Gods-home? What’s that?’ asked Adelko.
‘That is the name our ancestors gave to the Other Side,’ replied his master, frowning at his unusual lack of elementary knowledge. ‘Hence when Ulfric died none of his lineage was left to succeed him. His eventual successor was Manfred the Ready, another barbarian ruler from the Principalities. Upon taking the crown of Nylund, he had the throne that had brought so much trouble broken up, and the accursed fragment taken to a shrine in the Highlands for safe-keeping with the priests there. These were pagan times, but before another century had passed the Creed had spread its light across Urovia, and the Northland settlers had embraced the Redeemer. And as the old rites gave way to the new, the shrine was reconsecrated as a monastery – the very monastery that you have called home these five years past.’
Adelko’s eyes widened as the significance of that statement dawned on him. Though he knew it held many secrets, he would never in all of time have guessed that Ulfang held such a powerful artefact. Not that it did any more, come to think of it. The magnitude of the theft he had unwittingly learned of suddenly loomed large in his consciousness.
‘But why... why keep it there?’ he asked. ‘Ulfang is a holy place – surely such things are not fit to be housed there?’
‘The monastery had already been built by the time the pagan shrine’s darker secrets were discovered,’ replied Horskram. ‘It was decided that the Headstone fragment – and other things you may have seen in the Abbot’s inner sanctum – should remain precisely because it was judged safer to keep such things on holy sanctuary than elsewhere, where the unwise might try to use them. And for five long centuries it would seem the wisdom of such thinking has been borne out – until now.’
The adept gave a deep sigh and fell into silent contemplation of the flames. Adelko was left speechless, and for a long while he joined his mentor in silence as he did his best to digest everything he had heard.
At length he spoke up. ‘So... is somebody trying to reunite the Headstone then?’
‘It would certainly appear so,’ replied Horskram flatly, continuing to stare into the fire. ‘Though we cannot be certain until we visit Graukolos.’
‘Is that where the other fragments are being kept?’
‘One of them, yes. But I will not speak of the other shards tonight. You have learned enough for one evening.’
‘Very well, Master Horskram... just one more question, I promise – those strange books in the Abbot’s attic, the ones with the peculiar markings on them, were they magic books? You said the monastery kept other dangerous things, apart from the fragment...’
Horskram raised his eyes from the fire to look into the novice’s. As on so many other occasions, he felt as though his mentor were reading his very thoughts.
‘Yes. They are not tomes instructing use of the Left-Hand Path, which is why the Abbot permits them to survive intact and not be burned. Had it been my say in the matter, I would have had them destroyed regardless, for as you know I do not believe there is such a thing as “good” magic.’
‘And how did they get to be in the monastery in the first place?’ Adelko knew he was pushing his luck asking another question, but thought it worth a try all the same.
‘The pagan priests of old sometimes practised Right-Handed magic. But, as my fireside stories tonight should amply illustrate, to meddle with such powers is to put one’s very soul at risk.’
Adelko fell silent again as he pondered this for a while, before yet another question occurred to him.
‘And what about Andragorix? Is he a Left – ’
‘Heavens Adelko!’ thundered Horskram, his face darkening. ‘Do you not know when to cease your questioning and fall silent? A castle torturer would envy your persistence!’
Adelko reluctantly held his tongue. He was just about to offer an awkward apology when it cut through the drizzling rain like a knife. It was the same howling sound as before, only now it was loud enough for him to be certain of one thing.
It most definitely was not a wolf, or anything else belonging to the animal kingdom.
Outside the cave their horses, visibly agitated, neighed and stirred. Getting to his feet hurriedly and motioning for Adelko to stay put, Horskram stared fruitlessly out into the darkness for a few moments before turning and stamping the fire out.
His face was grim as he said: ‘Well, young Adelko, you may yet even have your last question answered – more swiftly than you might hope. No more lights tonight! Whatever made that awful noise means us no good, I’ll warrant! Now lie down and be still! Make no sound!’
His heart pounding, Adelko did as he was told. As he lay next to the dying embers of the fire, he heard the sound again: something in its unearthly timbre set his teeth on edge and reminded him of the top chamber of the Abbot’s inner sanctum. Once more he heard it, and then it was gone, leaving him wide awake in the darkness with nothing but the keening wind to trouble the silence.
CHAPTER IX
A Run Of Bad Luck
Sir Branas howled in agony on the bed, his rotund form writhing around like a beached whale.
‘The apothecary says to drink it down while it’s hot,’ said Vaskrian, trying not to laugh. ‘The herbs are at their most potent when the water they’re mixed with is boiling.’
Gritting his teeth the old knight propped himself up and took the proffered cup from his squire. He grimaced again as he sipped at the foul brew – if it tasted anything like it smelled Vaskrian did not envy him.
Fortunately there wasn’t much to swallow. Having taken his bitter medicine Sir Branas let himself sink back into bed with a groan.
‘Of all the things to lay me low,’ he growled, gritting his teeth again. ‘Gout! I’ve a good mind to demand a refund from that churl Vagan – it’s his stew that’s caused this, I’ll be bound!’
Or the fact that you guzzled three bowls of it on our first night here, Vaskrian thought. He felt some sympathy for his guvnor, but all the same it was funny – to see a hardened veteran howling like a smacked child over a touch of gout was, frankly, hilarious.
At any rate, they were stuck in Kaupstad for a few days at least, which meant they would probably miss the entry-signing to the tournament at Harrang. That wasn’t funny at all. But it couldn’t be helped – Branas could barely rise right now, never mind sit a horse or fight. They might still get a place i
n the melee at least – it was less exclusive than the jousting event.
The apothecary up the road had said the infusion would do its work in a couple of days. That probably meant three or four. At least it wasn’t food poisoning – more than one good knight had met his end at the groaning board due to over-indulgence.
‘All right, leave me be,’ said the knight, waving a thick-fingered hand at his squire. ‘See that the horses are being well kept. After you’ve done that you can spend the rest of the afternoon as you wish. But don’t get too drunk – and above all, don’t get into any fights! I’m in no state to contest another duel on behalf of your reckless temper!’
Vaskrian breezed out of the room they were sharing on the middle floor of the Crossroads Inn. They always used it on the way to Harrang and other tourneys – Branas insisted it did the finest ale this side of the Rymold. Not that he was praising it now.
A couple of days had simmered things down between the two of them. Well, somewhat anyway. He still felt bad about the way he’d killed Derrick – he’d rather have done him over in a fair fight. But then again Derrick should have kept his mouth shut.
He would have thought the pasting he gave Rutgar last summer was enough to warn the others – you didn’t want to mess with Vaskrian of Hroghar, commoner or no. But then Rutgar had got his spurs and started up again. That had obviously encouraged his cronies.
Thing is, they weren’t knights yet. That meant they couldn’t hide behind a title. Derrick had learned that the hard way.