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

by Damien Black

  Left alone with his ale, Adelko finished it off and immediately thought about getting some more. A minor commotion had broken out on the far side of the common room, where a freesword had caused a scene by grabbing one of the more attractive wenches by the haunches. A winsome peasant girl with long dark tresses and a full figure – not that that was any excuse, of course.

  An old knight had come over to intervene, and was now squaring off against the loutish bodyguards. He was clearly outnumbered and looked somewhat pale and drawn in the face despite his well-fed girth. Still, he seemed hardy enough, dressed in mail and carrying a stout sword at his belt. He wore a sky-blue tabard over his armour bearing his coat of arms – a stylised coiled green serpent, or perhaps a wyrm.

  Someone else was joining the dispute now. A tall, wiry youth with a scar on his forehead and a dangerous light in his eyes stalked over to stand wordlessly beside the knight. He was dressed in travel-soiled clothes and a well-worn brigandine and carried a blade of his own. Probably the old knight’s squire.

  With both parties exchanging harsh words and staring at each other menacingly things looked set to turn ugly – until one of the merchants stood up to intervene, admonishing the men in his service and apologising humbly to the knight before proffering a silver mark to the offended girl. That seemed to mollify the stern old vassal, who stomped back to where he was sitting out of Adelko’s view, accompanied by his sullen young squire.

  Returning to the counter with an armful of empty mugs Rudi looked at Adelko and rolled his eyes. He could not have been much more than a few summers younger than the novice, but with his skinny frame and pallid skin he looked far away from manhood.

  Realising that the lad would probably serve him, Adelko looked down at his empty tankard and, glancing sidelong at the door to the courtyard, said: ‘I think I’ll have another if you please.’

  Even so, he was half expecting Rudi to laugh and shake his head, but the boy simply nodded and took his tankard, filling it up again from the same barrel.

  Feeling triumphant, Adelko took up his master’s half-finished stoop too and moved around the U-shaped bar to a stool, which had just become vacated by a drunken craftsman falling off it in a stupor.

  From here he still had a good view of the bodyguards, who were now singing an old mercenary marching song. Given their coarse manners they were surprisingly tuneful, and Adelko caught some of the words as they came floating across the hubbub of the inn:

  The blood sun rises on the morn

  And sees us off to war, hey!

  We’ll go marching up the hill

  To meet the crimson dawn!

  A soldier of fortune has no home

  But the camp and field of war, hey!

  His brothers in arms his family

  No other friends he owns!

  We fight for a purse of silver marks

  Gold bids us go to war, hey!

  No king commands us lest he pay

  No perfect moves our hearts!

  The only fate a freesword craves

  Is a glorious end in war, hey!

  And when his time comes he’ll be found

  Lying in an unmarked grave!

  So it’s off to fight in the cold grey morn

  To try the chance of war, hey!

  We’ll come marching down the hill

  Stained with the crimson dawn!

  Supping on his ale as he listened to the grim verses Adelko couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement – these men knew full well the dangerous nature of the life they had chosen, yet they embraced it with gusto regardless.

  Then he caught himself – what was he thinking? They were hired killers, revelling godlessly in that sinful fact. Staring at his second ale he began to wonder just how strong Vagan’s stuff really was.

  Just then he heard the sound of many horses pulling to a halt outside the taproom. Several of the patrons sitting by the windows had noticed too, and were turning to peer through the cracks in the shutters.

  A minute later the main door was flung open and four burly warriors strode purposefully inside. Adelko felt his hackles rise: with their braided hair and beards they had to be part of the group of riders at the bridge. Highland clansmen braided their hair too, but at this range he could see the style was different. Nor did they wear the distinctive clan colours: these men were definitely foreigners. Nasty-looking ones at that.

  Approaching the counter they eyed poor Rudi with a mixture of amusement and contempt before one of them, a muscle-bound, red-haired man with a look of cruelty etched into his rough face, barked at him in a thickly accented voice: ‘Gif us strong drink, now, boy.’

  As Rudi scurried to obey, the four men stared around the common room. A pilgrim sitting nearby made the mistake of catching the eye of the red-haired warrior, who snarled viciously at him and made as if to step over. The terrified pilgrim turned immediately to stare down at his ale, his companions quickly following suit.

  The warrior laughed, a harsh grating sound, and turned back to face the counter.

  Somewhere across the common room somebody had broken out a lute, and now the raucous singing of the freeswords was accompanied by a wild frenetic strumming that briefly put Adelko in mind of old Lubo and his brothers back in Narvik. It certainly seemed a world away now.

  Rudi set the tankards of ale before the four men, who picked them up and quaffed them eagerly. Slamming his down with unnecessary force the red-haired brigand, who appeared to be the leader, leaned over the bar menacingly to address Rudi again.

  From where he was sat half in the shadows Adelko strained to hear what he was saying over the music. He couldn’t make it out, but then he heard the stable boy reply in a high, nervous voice: ‘I – I’m not sure if we’ve got enough room for that many, sire, and the stables are quite full tonight. I’ll ‘ave to go and check wiv the guvnor.’

  Gratefully rounding the counter, Rudi bounded out into the courtyard.

  Just as he did one of the four men glanced over in Adelko’s direction. He was a hulking brute with a rough piece of cloth covering one eye; the other burned with a malign light. Instinctively the novice drew his head back so it was in the shadows – the one-eyed brute turned to size up the singing bodyguards, drunkenly oblivious to their new rivals.

  Adelko pulled his cowl over his head to better obscure his face. His sixth sense was jangling unpleasantly.

  Vagan’s ale did a good job of dulling his nerves, but even so he made a point of staring down at his mug as the cowed pilgrims had done. Glancing up surreptitiously a minute later he felt his anxiety increase as he registered the red-haired man peering at him in the gloom over his flagon, trying to make him out.

  Just then the brigand was distracted by Rudi returning to tell him that begging his pardon but the guvnor was coming to see to him now.

  Seizing his chance, Adelko slipped off his stool and made for the courtyard door, almost bumping into Vagan, who was coming back in wearing a harassed look on his face.

  Outside it was chilly. The clouds had drawn in again and a mist had rolled in from across the plains, giving the air a thick dampness. His master was standing in the torchlit courtyard, an impatient look on his face. The watch were nowhere to be seen.

  Rushing up to Horskram, he exclaimed: ‘In the common room! I’ve just seen... them! The horsemen we saw at the bridge!’

  Adelko lowered his voice, looking around nervously as he remembered the rest of the brigands would be in the street just outside.

  Horskram frowned. ‘Are you sure? How many?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Four of them. But I think there’s more outside – they were asking for lodgings, that’s why Rudi called Vagan in just now. Two of them were looking at me – one of them was wearing an eye-patch and there was another one with red hair who seemed to be the leader...’

  ‘Did they get a clear look at you?’ Horskram’s face was intent and serious now.

  ‘I don’t think so... I’d moved to a stool away from the lantern
-light.’

  Horskram stood still, his eyes glinting in the torchlight as he pondered their options.

  ‘Master Horskram, what should we do?’ hissed Adelko after a short while had passed. His master waved him to silence. Moments later he nodded to himself, appearing to make his mind up about something.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Adelko firmly, before re-entering the common room.

  With a cocksure swagger Vaskrian got up to order more ale at his master’s behest. As predicted, it had taken several days for the apothecary’s poultice to work its wonders – if indeed it had had anything to do with the prickly old knight’s recovery at all. By then Sir Rudd and Sir Ulfius had left for Harrang, taking Edric and Cedric with them.

  That was some relief. He’d come close to having his melee privileges revoked – he didn’t need Edric in his face goading him into another fight. As it was, he reckoned he’d narrowly avoided the worst thanks to a long-standing antipathy between his guvnor and Sir Ulfius. That hadn’t got him off the hook completely, but it had at least made Sir Branas less inclined to take the complaint against his squire seriously. If he hadn’t been bedridden there might even have been another duel of honour on the cards.

  ‘Who does that pompous idiot think he is?’ he’d growled at Vaskrian, who had been summoned to receive his due bollocking after the haughty knight complained. ‘At least I didn’t choose a common churl for a squire, let alone a Wolding one! I might just make up for missing the jousting by demanding satisfaction when we get to Harrang!’

  Then he’d got his bollocking. Turning beady eyes on his squire Branas had covered him in scorn, berating him fiercely and cursing him for a low-born coxcomb and other unsavoury things. No one did bollockings quite like Sir Branas – yet all the same Vaskrian couldn’t help but feel loyal to him. The old knight still put up with him – he’d never once voiced a word of complaint to Lord Fenrig, despite everything.

  ‘That’s twice you’ve brought trouble to my door!’ he’d yelled, wincing with every word. ‘It’ll be a wonder if we get to Harrang in one piece – at this rate you’ll bring every knight we meet down on us in a blood-feud to end the ages! I swear you get worse with every passing season!’

  Vaskrian had bit his lip and stared sullenly at the floorboards, for once knowing better than to protest. Branas had finished by docking his prize money for the next three tournaments. It must be nice to mete out a punishment that filled your own purse, he’d reflected bitterly.

  With Branas fully recovered, they were due to leave first thing tomorrow. After spending several days bedridden, his guvnor was in a drinking mood. Vaskrian was pleased – that meant he could enjoy a few flagons too.

  It got better. Vagan and his wenches were swept off their feet tonight, and that gave him the perfect excuse to approach the counter and order. That meant he’d have to pass the freeswords they’d just quarrelled with – maybe one of them would shout something at him and provoke him. Though men of arms, they were commoners, so he could legitimately pick a fight if they did.

  Even his irascible guvnor would have to allow it to happen, for honour’s sake – old Branas had fairly been spoiling for a fight himself just now. That had been a lot of fun, the two of them squaring up to a dozen fighters, just like in Maegellin’s Lays of King Vasirius and His Noble Knights.

  And he was itching for another scrap – anything to assuage his wounded pride from the last one. Edric had been quick to boast of his ‘near victory’ to anyone who cared to listen, knowing full well there wouldn’t be a rematch.

  That had riled him and no mistake – he’d had the oaf on his last legs before he slipped over. His luck of late had been miserable – had some hedge witch cursed him, he wondered?

  He reached the counter without incident. Caught up in their raucous singing, the freeswords hadn’t even noticed him pass by.

  Oh well, perhaps Vagan’s ale had dulled their senses. Good job for them.

  Besides, here was a sight to quickly take his mind off the boorish bodyguards. Stood at the counter were four more warriors – but these had a very different look about them.

  Vaskrian eyed them keenly. Dressed in light mail shirts and armed with axes and swords. Probably just another band of mercenaries seeking strong drink and shelter for the night. Definitely not local though – foreigners, they had to be, no self-respecting fighters from these parts wore their hair and beards like that. They looked like barbarians – clansmen from the Highlands perhaps, or possibly even Northlanders from the Frozen Wastes.

  All four were scowling as Vagan bravely met their eyes and shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, sirrahs, as I say we’ve no room for a dozen horsemen tonight – and I’ve seen no one of that description round ‘ere. The Journeyman’s Rest down the road past the square might still ‘ave room, beyond that I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  ‘Ja ja, you vaste our time,’ snarled one of the men, a beefy looking fellow with flame-red hair. ‘But ve take der free ale as payment.’

  Turning to the others he laughed nastily and said: ‘How you say in your tongue? On der house, ja?’

  The others laughed too before all four exited the common room as suddenly as they had entered, barging their way past the stoical innkeeper and not bothering to close the door behind them.

  Following on their heels Vaskrian had half a mind to yell out a challenge, but thought better of it as he saw there were at least half a dozen other barbarians waiting for their comrades out in the street. All were likewise armed, and mounted to boot.

  No – if he challenged this lot to a fight without Sir Branas’s approval he’d be in serious trouble. Also they might be from noble clans in their own benighted lands – and Vaskrian wasn’t sure if that meant they counted as knights according to the Code of Chivalry.

  That he would also lose such an encounter through sheer weight of numbers barely occurred to him.

  With a sigh he shut the door and turned to see the innkeeper talking agitatedly with an Argolian friar who had just entered from the courtyard.

  ‘... think it would be best if you showed us to our room,’ the friar was saying. He was a sturdy looking fellow, about his guvnor’s age or perhaps a little older. Something in his hard blue eyes and taciturn demeanour told Vaskrian that this was a man who could hold his own, monk or no.

  That didn’t stop him interrupting. The squire was voicing a request for more ale when the innkeeper cut him off.

  ‘Ah, young Vaskrian, please wait a minute – young Rudi is just serving yonder artisans, and will attend to your order right after.’

  Vagan motioned for the friar to follow him up the stairs. Just at that moment the door to the courtyard opened again, and another friar – perhaps a couple of years younger than Vaskrian – entered the common room.

  ‘Ah, Adelko,’ said the older monk in a voice that was gruff but not unkind. ‘I thought I could rely on you to disobey my order, but at least on this occasion it saves me going back out into the cold. Come along, Vagan will show us to our room now.’

  Hastily the young monk scurried over, catching Vaskrian’s eyes as he did. He seemed a timid fellow, with his round face and goggle eyes. Nothing like his stern master. But then that’s what a life spent in the cloister sheltered from the rough and tumble of the world did to you, he supposed.

  As the three of them went upstairs, the squire leaned against the bar and glanced over impatiently at Rudi, struggling to hear the craftsmen order above the din.

  Vaskrian rolled his eyes to the rafters. A frustrating night, all in all: what did it take to get a drink or a fight in this place?

  Their room was a cramped, dingy affair on the corner of the uppermost floor with two beds and a small table by the shuttered window. The innkeeper ushered the monks inside before following them and shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Well now, Master Horskram,’ he said. ‘I’d better tell you what those... gentlemen had to say just now.’ He spoke in a hushed voice even though he had j
ust closed the door. ‘So as I was sayin’ downstairs, there’s four of them and they say they’re looking for stabling and floor space for a dozen. I told them I’ve no such room – which as you’ll have gathered is the truth – and they went all sour on me. Mean bunch of fellows, soldiers of fortune like yonder louts downstairs, but foreigners as well to boot. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind foreigners or freeswords, so long as they mind their own business and pay their way – but these look like they don’t do neither.

  ‘Anyway, I’m about to steer them towards the Journeyman down the road hoping they won’t cause any trouble, when one of them – a red-headed, evil-looking fellow if ever I saw one – asks me if there’s any priests staying here tonight. I don’t rightly follow him at first, then he leans in my face and says: “Priests, monks, worship Argo! Wise god, ja? Any here tonight?”’

  Vagan paused and made the sign. Only a pagan would refer to a saint as a god. ‘Forgive me my talk, Horskram, but that’s the Almighty’s honest truth what he said. I told him I wouldn’t be havin’ any blaspheming under my roof and he looked at me again all nastily. I weren’t about to back down before any pagan blasphemers in my own house, so I just stared back at him and said I’d seen no men of the cloth here for several moons. Hardly the kind of place such men’d frequent in any case, I said.’

  Horskram and Adelko exchanged glances in the gloomy light of Vagan’s single candle.

  ‘Rest assured Master Horskram,’ continued the innkeeper hastily. ‘I know a bunch of rotten apples when I see one, and I wasn’t about to take a bite. I made my excuses and told him I had customers to attend to. They left after that – didn’t pay for their drinks o’ course and looked none too pleased, but I reckon I’ve thrown them off the scent at least.’