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

by Damien Black

  Finally, word of his rumoured demonology spread so far that the neighbouring earls of Vorstlund, of whom our most worthy late Ludvic was one, resolved to meet and determine how to proceed against their blasphemous neighbour.

  Message was sent to the Supreme Perfect of the True Temple in Rima, who swiftly sanctioned a provincial holy war against Alaric. Ludvic and two other barons, Otho of Hyrlund and Ormrick of Dreylund, made plans for battle and laid siege to Alaric’s castle.

  There have been many tales told of that ghastly conflict, during which Alaric confirmed all rumours of his delvings into the Other Side, conjuring up a host of fiery anti-angels to do his bidding. And it is told how these awful servants cut a swath through the tripled ranks of his antagonists, slaying Otho and grievously disfiguring Ormrick.

  Indeed, it might have been a black day for all godly men had not Ludvic worn the Wheel of Saint Albared about his neck. And that relic, given to Ludvic’s grandfather Albaron the Pious by temple perfects in return for generous donations, saved him – for none of the devils torn by Alaric from the flaming pits of Gehenna would come near it.

  And so Ludvic mounted to the summit of that ensorcelled tower, and there he met Alaric in mortal combat and slew him, casting his body over the battlements. At Ludvic’s pious behest the victorious raiders burned Alaric’s castle to the ground, destroying everything within.

  Everything except one thing. For as the smoke and fires of war cleared against a smouldering dawn, the surviving warriors saw a fractured piece of unearthly stone sitting atop the ruins, the eldritch and unfathomable glyphs carved on it glowing with a sinister light.

  Loath to take it into his possession yet fearing to leave such a diabolical heirloom unguarded, Ludvic brought it with him back to Graukolos, where he placed it in a great casket bound on all sides with iron – said by the wise to be the only metal that has any chance of abjuring sorcery. He placed it in the lowest vault of his castle, forbidding any – family, friend, vassal or servant – to enter it under pain of death. And atop the casket he fixed the relic that had saved his life, trusting in the power of the Redeemer to keep the ancient evil in check.

  And may the Almighty grant our prayers that it does so forever!

  Adhelina paused to accept a cup of watered wine proffered by Hettie. The rest of the life of Ludvic dealt with other matters of his reign that had nothing to do with the fragment. But all the same she knew full well that the prayers of the long-forgotten amanuensis had gone unanswered.

  Two centuries later the Wheel of Saint Albared had been needed again, this time to deal with the sorcerer Aracelsus, whose black arts had blighted Vorstlund’s southern fiefdoms. And though Sir Wolfram of Gottingen, the pious hero who took the relic, was successful in his quest and made an end of that warlock, the sacred rood had been destroyed in the process.

  Even then, the stone’s power had seemingly continued to lie dormant – as though its long exposure to the saintly circifix had subdued its malign influence. At least, that was what her father and all his ancestors as far back as Ranveldt had hoped.

  And so it had proved – until now.

  Closing the book gently, Adhelina took up her cup once more and drained its contents. Then she rose and motioned for Hettie to open the door for her.

  ‘I must see my father,’ she said in a subdued voice. Her oldest friend looked at her, the pity in her pretty hazel eyes speaking volumes. She said nothing, but pursed her lips before walking over to the door and undoing the bolt.

  The castle corridor was cold as she passed out of the warmth of her chamber, and Adhelina shivered in the chilly breeze wafting through the windows as she made her way down to her father’s solar. Outside the stars were gradually blinking into life across the darkening skies.

  Reaching the door she rapped loudly on the knocker, its sharp report sounding loudly in her ears. It was opened by Berthal, who was apparently just leaving. She stepped aside for him but just as she was about to enter she found the door closing, pushed timorously but firmly by her father’s page boy.

  The seneschal looked at her kindly as the oak door closed in her face with a decisive thunk.

  ‘I am sorry, my lady, your father is granting audience to Balthor and Urist in his private chambers – he has left strict instructions not to be disturbed.’

  Adhelina fixed the seneschal with eyes that made the flaming torches next to her seem like mere tapers. ‘When will he be done with them, do you know?’

  Her voice sounded curt and abrasive; she could not find a soft tone now, not even for Berthal. But the old steward merely shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry my lady, your father won’t be admitting anyone else tonight. He has... pressing matters to attend to, I am sure you will have heard the rumours by now.’

  Yes, she thought to herself bitterly, I’ve heard them and I understand them better than most.

  Berthal took a deep breath and let out a sigh. He paused and then seemed to make up his mind to say something more.

  ‘I wouldn’t trouble about them too much if I were you, my lady,’ he said. ‘Matters are all in hand, I can assure you. And you have your nuptials to prepare for. Think on that, my lady. Good night.’

  The seneschal bowed before descending the stairs towards the exit far below.

  Left alone, Adhelina stepped over to the window overlooking the middle courtyard. The training grounds were deserted; all the knights would be in the Great Hall for the evening meal. The outer ward was also still – the craftsmen would be wending their way down the hill on which the castle had brooded for six centuries towards their homesteads, where their wives and families would greet them with food and drink. All about her was a hubbub, as the clamour of Graukolos filtered out through its multitude of windows, borne on gathering winds that swirled her lustrous tresses and whipped her samite dress about her handsome frame.

  Raising her eyes from the castle precinct to the limitless skies above, the heiress of Dulsinor resolved to abandon her inheritance forever.

  CHAPTER VI

  The Faerie Kings Speak

  They disposed of Sir Branas’s remains as best they could. At Horskram’s insistence they built a funeral pyre using wood from the hut, for a body so polluted had to be given to the fire. In accordance with custom they laid him out in full harness with his sword across his breast. His ghastly wound they covered as best they could with his cloak.

  At the signal from Horskram his erstwhile squire lit the pyre, blinking back tears as he did. Northlendings ought to be stoical at funerals, but Vaskrian struggled to contain his emotions.

  Adelko silently mouthed the Last Rites with Horskram, as he implored the Almighty to forgive the dead knight his sins and admit his shade to the Heavenly Halls.

  They were a crucial part of any Palomedian funeral. The scriptures taught that shriven souls crossing over to the Other Side faced a harrowing journey. Drawn across the Sea of Second Sleeping by an irresistible force, they eventually found themselves on the shores of Azhoanarn, Island of the Dead. There they would be taken by un-angels across the Bourne of Night’s Awakening to the Plain of Azrael, where the Archangel of Death would weigh their sins. Those found wanting would be chained to a vast galleon wrought of tarnished iron, and sent to the City of Burning Brass in Gehenna.

  But those who died without receiving the Last Rites were doomed to wander lost in Azhoanarn, along with the pagan idolaters who had worshipped angels and demons as gods before the Coming of the Prophets. Certain of the Unseen might pay them a visit – religious scholars disputed whether the old ‘gods’ still had a hand in their worshippers’ afterlife – but the blessed light of the Heavenly Halls would be barred to them until the Day of Final Judgment.

  Shrewd scholars had pointed out that an unrepentant sinner might prefer such a fate to the City of Burning Brass – but the sages agreed that Azhoanarn could also be a dreadful place for wicked souls. And when the Day of Final Judgment came, they would get their comeuppance anyway.

  In a
ll honesty, Adelko found the conflicting accounts of what happened to a soul after death inconclusive at best. Even the scriptures were vague on the matter. And the dead weren’t in the habit of returning to confirm or deny theories.

  Horskram closed the prayer in his sonorous voice: ‘May this humble spirit be taken in by Reus and commended to eternal rest by the guidance of Palomedes, the One True Prophet. Forever and anon, amen.’

  All three made the sign of the wheel. The thickening flames curled around Branas’s corpse in a fiery embrace. Overhead the looming trees shifted and cracked uncomfortably, but did nothing to menace them. Perhaps the Fays were indeed mindful of a service rendered, as Horskram hoped. Adelko hoped so too – it had cost them dear.

  They stayed like that for a while, heads bowed in silence and hands splayed across their chests. Presently Horskram spoke again. ‘We can do nothing more for him. It is for the Almighty and the instrument of His will Azrael to decide his fate now.’

  ‘What about the Fays?’ asked Adelko. ‘Might they not hinder his spirit on its journey to the Other Side?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ answered Horskram with a slow thoughtful shake of his head. ‘Branas perished not by their magic, therefore by rights they should have no power over his shade. But come! Let’s speak of it no more – we must be going on our way. I sense our gracious hosts are anxious to meet us in person.’

  ‘Can’t we stay until his pyre burns down?’ asked Vaskrian in a miserable, faraway voice. ‘It’s a shame to leave him, seeing as how none of his kith and kin could come to his funeral...’

  His eyes were glazed, his face pale. He hadn’t fully recovered from his ordeal and seemed not to be completely aware of where he was. In hushed tones Horskram had told Adelko it would probably go better for the squire if he remembered as little as possible – even in defeat the magic of a hag could wreck a victim’s sanity.

  ‘We must needs press on,’ Horskram told him gently. ‘It is not safe to stay here over long under the trees while a fire is burning, even one so necessary.’

  As if echoing him, a queer groaning sound began to emanate from some of the trees. Adelko could swear he saw lichen creeping across one or two.

  He quickly added his voice to his mentor’s: ‘Yes I think Master Horskram’s right, Vaskrian. There’s a clear trail over yonder for us to follow, and it’s obvious these trees don’t want us here any longer. Branas’s soul will find his way to the Plain of Azrael for judgment now we’ve given him the Last Rites, so don’t you worry.’

  It was difficult to sound reassuring under the circumstances, but somehow he managed it. Vaskrian nodded absent-mindedly, allowing himself to be led out of the clearing by the two monks after they had gathered up their belongings.

  The new trail appeared no different from the others at first, but before long it began to follow a gradually steepening incline. As they followed it ever down deeper into the forest the gnarled branches of the trees parted to make way for them; no longer did tangled briars curl up out of the sedge and try to trip them up. At last Tintagael seemed to be bending to their will.

  But if so it was an illusory concession of power, for still the forest commanded the direction they must take. At least the way was becoming easier: looking down at his mud-caked boots Adelko noticed that where the soil had been damp and clammy it was now dry and firm.

  After another indeterminate length of time the path gradually straightened out altogether. The gradient subsided and they found themselves following a level broad track not unlike a highway. The trees on either side became more orderly, and now stood serried ranks of trunks, uniform as pillars in a great hall of men. Even the branches seemed to jut out at regular intervals, forming an arched tunnel of wood and leaves. It felt every bit as unnatural as the forest’s previous incarnation, but somehow a little more reassuring.

  The path terminated in a vast rectangular clearing. Its floor was covered in emerald sward; every blade of grass seemed perfectly ordered and sparkled with an impossibly bright lustre. Overhead the trees repeated their trick of intertwining to form a ceiling, only this time, as with the new path, it was ordered far beyond the wild design of nature. Adelko almost fancied he was gazing up at the rafters of a building, the height of several tall men above his head.

  From the four sides of the clearing the distended branches converged and tapered to meet at a central point, resembling the ceiling of some great temple. From regular intervals hung what seemed at first glance to be apples, each one kindled with a strange green glow that enhanced with the sylvan light of Tintagael. The faces of his two companions shone luminous beneath the glowing fruits.

  The trees on the far side of the clearing were twisted around one another in what looked like a tangled riot of boles, branches and twigs. As Adelko studied these against the intense light he realised they were great chairs, constructed from the defiantly unnatural flora of Tintagael.

  Gradually he became aware of humanoid forms coalescing on the arboreal thrones. It was as though the sylvan mists of Tintagael had taken on a denser substance, still translucent but more solid. They resembled androgynous human figures, impossibly beautiful: at once unearthly and familiar. As their spectral gossamer frames caught and trapped the light, the illusion (for surely it must be such?) of fine apparel could be discerned: rich robes infinitely far from any finery a mortal king might display. Though seated they appeared taller than mere men by at least a head.

  ‘So the self-appointed masters of Tintagael show themselves at last,’ breathed Horskram.

  Though he had not spoken loudly, a shimmering chorus of eerie voices drifted across the clearing as if in answer. The phantasmal figures opposite them did not move; not so much as a flicker graced their ghostly lips. In keeping with the ways of their immortal kind, they spoke in rhyme, though their grasp of the Northlending tongue was strangely perfect:

  Travellers three from mortal bourne,

  Beneath our eaves of hope forlorn!

  One comrade slain, and one near lost,

  Life’s flame gutters ‘Neath death’s hoarfrost!

  The woods you sought in fear of steel,

  Yet wounds ‘Neath woods are harder healed,

  What perils did you hope to flee,

  To seek the silence of the trees?

  As abruptly as they had commenced, the voices fell silent. Adelko glanced uncertainly at Horskram. Vaskrian stared ahead wordlessly, seemingly at nothing.

  ‘What do they want?’ hissed the novice.

  ‘Even now they are testing us,’ replied the adept in a low voice. ‘Fays speak in riddles as oft as not. But if we’re to survive we must play their game.’

  Clearing his throat he addressed the spectral kings and queens in a loud, clear voice: ‘It is true as you say that we lost a comrade, but false to say that we gave up hope – for those who hold to the Redeemer shall never forsake it, in life or death.

  ‘As for yon squire, I shall take care to see that his wounds are indeed healed, for his spirit is strong.

  ‘As to the dangers we fled, you know well enough we were pursued by armed brigands belonging to our earthly realm – but it is also true that the girdle of Tintagael has provided us with welcome concealment from other far deadlier foes, though it is bought at a dear price.’

  A sussurant laughter filled the clearing, crystal clear yet disembodied. Though it set Adelko’s hackles rising he sensed the Fays seemed pleased by his master’s response. They answered:

  Oh mortal wise beyond your time,

  Gifted with reckoning sublime!

  The Vylivigs salute your mind,

  So far above your meagre kind!

  Your Order has ne’er seen your like,

  Brave monk your time shall come to strike,

  Forces of darkness are abroad,

  Not all shall take an open road!

  Two enemies have brought you here,

  Where fay folk rule in sylvan fear,

  Yet fear is felt by those a ’feared,


  Our doom pronounced by ancient wyrd!

  For all shall dread the coming night:

  Both mortal-kind and faerie sprite

  Shall quail before the rising fire,

  As worlds make a funeral pyre!

  Horskram frowned. ‘Spare us your flattery,’ he replied coldly. ‘Although you have guessed aright – it is two foes and not one that pursue us. But what is this coming darkness and hellfire of which you speak? You are not the first of the spirit world we have encountered lately to tell of such conflagrations. We have helped you, as you bade us do – yon Hag is despatched. Our part of the bargain is fulfilled – now repay us our labours and set us on a free path out of Tintagael unmolested!’

  The faerie voices seemed to reply all at once. A susurration of conflicting whispers rose and fell for a while before finally subsiding into coherence:

  Tic true we tested you before,

  Mere torment is no fitting sport

  For such troubled age of mortals,

  When dark powers strain the portals!

  For the rent ‘twixt worlds grows wider

  To tear asunder the great divider,

  So faerie kind seek mortal aid,

  For which their own they gladly trade!

  Horskram’s face showed his growing consternation. ‘Powers of darkness grow apace, this much we have fathomed ourselves,’ he declared. ‘But what and who moves them? And what aid do you speak of? If you would aid us, then set us free of this accursed forest!’

  The spectral figures laughed again. Thus far they still hadn’t moved – but now Adelko could see their glinting forms starting to stretch, growing longer and thinner, whilst their shimmering colours began to coalesce into a glowing green light that grew steadily more intense. The disembodied voices spoke again:

  Freedom from faerie realm we’ll give,

  But who can say how long you’ll live?

  Bloody strife bars the southern way,