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

by Damien Black

  Horskram, sweat pouring from his brow, steeled himself and held his circifix aloft. Gazing resolutely up at the ceiling, he began yelling scripture at the top of his lungs.

  ‘Desist, dark-winged phantasm of the Other Side! Unlawfully have you exited the Isle of Gehenna to desecrate the Almighty’s Kingdom on Earth, whence you and all your ilk were banished aeons ago! Therefore I say begone! Go back to your lightless realm! The mark of the Redeemer is upon this house! The unbroken circle of our faith protects us – you shall not enter this dwelling!’

  As if in response, a strange gurgling sound came from the roof. Though it was scarcely human, Adelko could sense the unbridled malice in it.

  Barely pausing for breath, Horskram continued yelling scripture: ‘Let the iniquitous followers of Abaddon cower before the bright gaze of the Archangels! Virtus! Ezekiel! Stygnos! Morphonus! From the four corners of Heaven hear my plea – your humble servant implores you, lend him the strength to drive this creature back into the pit! It is their power and the power of the Redeemer that compels thee!’

  The thing on the roof responded, another blood-curdling screech that now carried a note of pure hatred as it registered the detested words. A scraping sound could be heard as well – more dust began to fall from the ceiling in thick streams, causing both monks to cough and splutter. Adelko could hear the heavy stone tiles of the roof rattling and falling outside as the thing began clawing them away.

  Undaunted, Horskram repeated his intonation over and over, raising his voice still louder until it seemed as if he was a demon himself, shrieking the words that the Redeemer had first uttered ten centuries ago, when the Arch Deceiver’s wickedest servants chastised him on the Plains of Abram.

  But gradually the old monk’s voice began to weaken and lose conviction. His face grew drawn and his throat became hoarse from trying to shout above the thing’s horrid screeching.

  Still kneeling on the dirt floor, Adelko bent over double, breathing rapidly, his hands raking the dirt floor as he struggled to ward off the awful madness engulfing him. He felt himself retreating into the innermost recesses of his mind. His life flashed before him. He was back in the clearing overlooking the valley next to his village, his eyes meeting Horskram’s for the first time...

  And somewhere deep within him, he felt a strange strength muster its power, galvanising his limbs and steadying his mind.

  Suddenly he raised his head and opened his eyes. The words that the Redeemer had spoken on the Plains of Abram came to him with a perfect clarity, resounding in his head like the tolling of heavenly bells.

  Reaching calmly for his circifix, he stood up slowly as if in a dream and raised his eyes to the ceiling, which was raining dust as the creature of nightmare above them wrenched at the packed stone tiles. Even now Horskram was still reciting the Psalm of Abjuration, but his voice had grown faint and he sounded like a dying man praying for his own soul.

  Holding the rood aloft Adelko joined his voice to Horskram’s, matching him word for word. The beleaguered adept spared a stupefied glance at him before chanting the Psalm with renewed vigour.

  Again and again they recited the words, their voices steadily growing stronger in unison. The unseen devil above them began thrashing around wildly, its awful voice now registering pain as the Psalm penetrated its profane consciousness. Adelko felt cold sweat pouring from his body as a yawning gulf threatened to swallow his mind...

  Again he recited the words, in a voice he never knew he had. He had never felt such conviction as he did then, save perhaps when he had first told Horskram he wanted to leave Narvik and see the world.

  Again he recited the words...

  And then he felt something give. A profound shift, like a ledge of rock giving way above a precipice, breaking into small pieces and tumbling into darkness...

  With a final cry of frustrated malice, the thing lurched off the roof. Adelko felt his spirit surge with relief and exultation. They had done it! They had broken the demon’s will! It was fleeing their pious might!

  Then his heart clenched again as he heard the screaming of horses and a wet tearing sound. A mad notion seized him, his natural compassion getting the better of him.

  ‘Our horses! It’s killing our horses!’ he yelled as he made a dash for the door. He was saved by Horskram, who grabbed him in a vice-like grip and restrained him.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do for them now, Adelko!’ shouted the adept. ‘Stand fast, and trust in the Almighty! Only He can deliver us now!’

  The tortured screams of their hapless steeds soon subsided into deathly silence, punctuated only by another low buzzing sound that swiftly receded into the distance. A final hideous shriek and it was gone, careering off into a night made pregnant with fear.

  Exhausted by their ordeal, the monks collapsed to the ground, clutching one another like fearful children. Beside them Landebert convulsed on the ground, his spasmodic shivers gradually subsiding into the stillness of profound shock. His surviving animals grew calmer, although they remained extremely agitated.

  With one exception. Over in its corner, the goat stared impassively at its animal brethren and the three men on the floor, and calmly chewed some oats.

  CHAPTER XI

  A Refuge In The Wild

  It was well past sunrise when the three of them screwed up the courage to venture outdoors. Landebert had recovered enough to regain his senses, although by his drawn white face and blank eyes it was apparent he was still in shock.

  Amazingly, the damage to his hut was not extensive. The thing had succeeded in dislodging some of the smaller stones, which lay scattered about the enclosure like the broken teeth of a giant. Their poor horses made for a far more upsetting spectacle. Staring at their torn and bloody carcasses, Adelko shuddered at the thought of the terrible strength that had killed them. He offered up a heartfelt prayer of thanks that the hut which had sheltered them was made of stone and not wood.

  Luckily, the demon in its mindless rage had not thought to despoil their saddlebags, leaving all their carefully packed provisions untouched along with their iron-shod quarterstaves. Looking on the latter the young friar wondered what use mortal weapons would be against such a thing.

  At Horskram’s bidding they built a fire on which to burn the dead animals, and Adelko noticed that his master took care to intone a Psalm of Blessing over the smouldering corpses.

  After they had brought their supplies into the hut the three men sat down to decide what to do next. Poor Landebert was clearly still out of his wits with terror, and Horskram took considerable pains to convince him that he would be safe once they were gone.

  ‘Whatever it was that troubled us last night is clearly pursuing us,’ the adept said, doing his best to sound reassuring. ‘Soon we will be on our way, and no further harm will come to you – so have no more fear, good Landebert!’

  The traumatised crofter nodded his head abstractedly, clearly doubting this but too exhausted and frightened to argue.

  ‘We’ll strike south-west towards the Brekawood,’ continued Horskram, addressing Adelko. ‘Our ghastly malefactor appears to have the power of flight – the trees should shelter us and provide us with some cover until we reach the River Warryn. It should take us three days on foot – if we’re swift, so we’ll have to pack lightly. We can break cover of the woods and rejoin the highway just before it crosses the bridge – from there it’s a short distance to Kaupstad. It’s an old market town, we’ll be able to buy new horses there and find shelter at an inn.’

  ‘What do we do then?’ Adelko could not help but ask.

  Horskram eyed him testily, before replying: ‘I suggest you think about packing for our journey, and leave me to worry about that. Time is of the essence, and we’ve delayed long enough as it is. Come now, let’s sort through our saddlebags!’

  Delving inside these the monks produced two small knapsacks, which they crammed with enough provisions to last them five days plus their blankets and sleeping pallets. To these Horskra
m added his lantern and tinderbox, a fat purse stuffed with silver marks, and a few other essential items.

  Turning to Landebert, he pressed five coins on the reluctant crofter in compensation for his damaged roof and livestock before tucking the pouch deep into the folds of his habit. They also availed themselves of a spare phial of holy water, which they used to refill their depleted vessels. Then they filled two gourds with drinking water from the well outside, to which the kindly crofter added another full of fresh goats milk.

  Taking up their quarterstaves the two monks bade him a hurried farewell before setting off into the cold grey morning.

  The way was hard, and before long Adelko, deprived yet again of a good night’s sleep, felt himself tiring. Horskram, buoyed by his iron constitution and possessed with a feverish intent, harried them on, permitting only one break shortly after noon to snatch a meal. They walked for hours, slogging through rain-soaked hill trails that were often knee-deep in mud. At one point Adelko felt he could go no further; without breaking his stride Horskram seized him by the upper arm and continued to march, pulling the exhausted novice along with him.

  Dusk came, obscuring the hills in a deepening gloom, and still there was no sign of the Brekawood. Horskram cursed under his breath before stopping to light his lantern, allowing Adelko to collapse gratefully against a rugged hillock. But in five minutes they were up again, striding into the gathering night with an endurance borne of desperation. Even Adelko, broken as he felt by their ten-hour march, found new vigour returning to his aching limbs as the encroaching darkness brought thoughts of their horrid pursuer flooding back into his mind.

  They struggled on for another couple of hours. Dusk deepened into stygian night, and nothing could be seen beyond the yellow circle of light which shrouded them. In any case Adelko by now would have been capable of registering little, for he felt that his body was detached from his mind; it seemed to him that he looked down as if from a great distance at his lumbering feet.

  On and on they went. Adelko felt like a sleepwalker, barely conscious. And then suddenly he heard his master speak.

  ‘We’ve reached the Brekawood. Lie down and get some rest. We’ll continue at daybreak.’

  Looking up for the first time in hours the novice saw the gnarled boughs of oak and laurel trees looming around him, their green leaves glowing softly in the lantern-light. Just off the trail they had relentlessly followed was a patch of grass. Removing his knapsack to use as a pillow, he threw himself on the sward, not even bothering to take out his pallet. In less than a minute he was fast asleep.

  Adelko woke to find his mentor tugging at his shoulder. Rolling over he winced; every part of his body was stiff and sore. Sitting up with some difficulty he blinked away sleep and gazed at the lofty trees in the morning light. All about him he could hear the sound of birds making their love songs to the spirits of the sky. Inhaling deeply he registered with faint pleasure the fragrance of wild mushrooms and damp foliage. After the rough hill-lands they had endured his present surroundings almost seemed like a paradise.

  Horskram was obviously in no mood for such pastoral reflections. Handing him a cup of goats milk, some biscuit, cheese and raisins, he said curtly: ‘Eat these quickly and get your strength up. We’ve no time to lose.’

  Falling ravenously on his first meal in nearly a day, Adelko replied between mouthfuls: ‘But what about you, Master Horskram?’

  ‘I’ve already eaten. You overslept. Now hurry up and finish – we’ve only reached the outskirts of the Brekawood and we need to get deeper in, for our own safety. That otherworldly fiend cannot harm us by day – only at night-time can such diabolical monsters venture onto the mortal plane in physical form. That gives us one slender advantage. By my reckoning we should be able to make the journey to the river under cover of the trees in two days – if we break cover on the morning of the third that gives us plenty of time to rejoin the highway, cross the river and get to Kaupstad by nightfall. But it’s a while since I wandered the paths of the Brekawood, and I’m concerned about getting lost.’

  Adelko was somewhat surprised by this candid admission. As far as he could recall, his mentor never seemed to get anything wrong.

  They made good progress, and as the morning drew on the sun – so long a stranger to their journey – slipped out from behind the sundering clouds, casting its rays in golden cascades through the tops of the trees and painting their arboreal surroundings in a sylvan light. Tired as he was, Adelko felt his troubled spirits rise, and found renewed energy to traverse the wooded hills through which Horskram now led them.

  When they stopped by a babbling stream in the early afternoon to fill their water bottles and take another meal something caught Adelko’s eye. Glancing over to his right he saw it again: a little way up the side of the hill, where the stream came tumbling over a jumble of mossy rocks, he could make out an ephemeral humanoid shape in the water.

  No, not in the water – it was part of it. As he stared open-mouthed, the tiny figure – surely no bigger than his forearm – seemed to turn and look at him, its slender, curving form undulating and sparkling translucently in the glinting sunlight.

  The body resembled a naked female – or what Adelko in some of his more guilty dreams imagined such to look like – but the head was entirely androgynous, appearing smooth-crowned and hairless.

  Adelko continued to stare. It stared back at him and, he could have sworn, winked at him before suddenly shooting upwards against the flow and disappearing over the top of the hill.

  ‘Adelko!’ barked his mentor. ‘What are you staring at?’

  ‘I... I think I just saw a water spirit – a Lymphus,’ replied the novice, quickly remembering the correct definition in Decorlangue. Even now he didn’t want to be caught short on his knowledge of the Elementi.

  Horskram humphed testily before saying: ‘Yes, well, that’s hardly the worst inhabitant of the Other Side you’ve been dealing with lately, Adelko – my advice is to finish your lunch and not concern yourself with such things.’

  ‘No... I wasn’t scared. It looked at me and... it was beautiful.’

  Horskram put a firm hand on his shoulder and turned him around to face him.

  ‘Be careful of thinking such things, Adelko,’ he said, staring keenly at the novice with his piercing eyes. ‘Lymphi are generally harmless if left well alone, but they have occasionally charmed unwary travellers into drowning themselves. This forest is mostly safe, but you would do well to keep a level head in it all the same.’

  ‘Is it haunted, then?’ asked Adelko.

  Horskram shook his head. ‘Not really, no. I’m just being cautious, that’s all. The Brekawood is an old forest but its inhabitants – earthly and unearthly – are for the most part benign. It was never really polluted by the Elder Wizards’ magic, unlike Tintagael to the south.’

  Adelko had heard many tales of haunted Tintagael. It was said to be inhabited by the Fay Folk, immortal nature spirits who delighted in crossing over from the Other Side to trick mortals into bringing about their own ruin. Sometimes the creatures would appear as a distant pinprick of light at night, goading hapless wayfarers into becoming hopelessly lost in treacherous marshes. But those that chose to sojourn in Tintagael were said to be especially vicious, and few travellers mad enough to venture beneath its forbidding eaves ever emerged. The novice had heard his Aunt Madrice whisper in fireside tales how the spirits of those who perished there were cursed never to leave, but stayed trapped in the forest till the end of time, becoming ghostly eidolons whose only joy was in tormenting their unfortunate successors before they joined them forever.

  The most well-known tale of such damned souls was that of the Thirteen Knights of Thorsvald the Hero King. They had been the greatest of the Northlending chivalry a hundred years ago. Their fame had spread far and wide, and tales of their quests and deeds in battle were legion. But they were tricked by an enchantress into declaring war against the Fays, and riding without a backward glance into gloom
y Tintagael on a sunlit morning they were never seen again.

  The number thirteen had been deemed to betide ill fortune ever since by superstitious Northlendings.

  It was rumoured that more ghastly and wicked things than fays and eidolons also called Tintagael home, but Adelko knew little of those.

  ‘Is that why Tintagael is such an evil place – because of the Elder Wizards’ magic?’ he asked.

  ‘For the most part, yes,’ replied Horskram. ‘It lies next to the Watchtower of Tintagael – one of the ancient fortresses built by them across the Known World that I mentioned in the cave. The Vedict Texts claim that in their heyday these would have been a great benefice to the people, for their wizardly masters took pains to provide every comfort and luxury for the tribes they had conquered.’

  But the more they practised their arcane arts, the adept explained, the wider grew the rent between worlds, allowing spirits from the Other Side to spill across in ever greater numbers and pervert the natural laws decreed by the Almighty at the Dawn of Time. And as the poison of Ma’amun spread far and wide and the practices of the Elder Wizards became increasingly corrupted, the great forest that was once green and good became polluted by its proximity to the steadfast evil emanating from the Watchtower that had once guarded it.

  ‘That devilish edifice was levelled at the Breaking of the World,’ concluded Horskram. ‘But like others of its ilk it was not completely destroyed, and even now it is a ghastly place and none will live for miles around it. In fact only the most foolhardy adventurers, lured by legends of the Priest-Kings’ ancient wealth, would dream of approaching it, and of those that do few if any return.’

  Gazing at the dappled sunlight filtering gently through the trees of the Brekawood, Adelko found it hard to picture the horrors of Tintagael. But he did not look at the stream again.