by Damien Black
CHAPTER VIII
Storm Clouds Gather
Vaskrian woke to find his horse nuzzling him. It was another clear bright day, and the sun was directly overhead. That meant it was noon – they had overslept. It was only when he was pulling himself up off the green sward that he remembered with a shock that their horses had been lost in the forest.
The forest... he tried to recall it. It all seemed so vague somehow. He remembered meeting a ghostly knight (hadn’t he claimed to be one of King Thorsvald’s Thirteen?) and then there was a perilous bridge crossing – he’d survived that, though he had lost his father’s sword. But he had lost something else too, what was it?
The recollection came to him suddenly, borne on a surge of grief. Of course, his master: prickly old Branas. What had happened to him? Try as he might he couldn’t recall... he only remembered lighting his funeral pyre, then some half-glimpsed memory of tall sylvan figures that looked like elongated spectres... They had definitely lost their horses though, because much of the time they had been on foot... hadn’t they?
Yet here they were – his courser and the rouncies belonging to the two monks at least. Of his dead master’s charger there was no sign.
Adelko and Horskram were beside him, both snoring softly. Nudging them awake with his travel-stained boots the squire pointed at their steeds. ‘Now what in the Known World do you make of that?’ he asked.
Adelko sat up slowly, yawning and blinking away sleep before putting on that goggle-eyed look he seemed to get whenever he was perplexed. Horskram harrumphed and cursed them all (including himself) for oversleeping, before getting up to inspect their steeds.
‘Well,’ he said, running a hand thoughtfully over his beard, now bristling and unkempt after days on the road. ‘It seems as though the Fays have proved true to their words, however cryptic. They are indeed trying to help us – not only have they returned us our steeds, I think they’ve seen to it that their sojourn in the faerie kingdom was beneficial!’
It was true. Where before there had been two tired old nags of rouncies there now stood two healthy, robust animals: their brown pelts were rich and glossy, their limbs seemed fuller, their eyes keener. Both steeds whickered impatiently to be off, as if well-fed thoroughbreds.
Vaskrian’s courser had undergone a similar subtle transformation. Yorro had always been well-kept – he had seen to that diligently – but he seemed a little taller and stronger than before, and the hair that glistened on his flanks was now as fine as that of any rich knight’s palfrey. As Vaskrian reached out to pet Yorro, he whinnied and stamped, as if demanding to be ridden into battle.
‘Well, Yorro, you’re looking better than ever!’ exclaimed the squire. Hearing his name Yorro tossed his head and whinnied even more loudly, his glinting mane catching sparkles of noon sunlight.
‘Can we really trust steeds tainted by faerie magic?’ asked Adelko tremulously. ‘Surely it would be a grave sin to ride such mounts!’
Typical. They’d just survived Tintagael and now the novice had to find something else to be frightened of. He reminded Vaskrian of Festius, the glum fool in Maegellin’s satire about a jester who always saw the worst in life. But Vaskrian was far too pleased to have his horse back to brook any Festian mutterings about it.
‘I don’t see any sin in it!’ he retorted. ‘Yorro’s still Yorro... he’s just, well, a bit different is all. And I don’t see any magic to it either! His hair is glossier and he looks a bit sprightlier, but where’s the harm in that? It’s the same with your steeds, and Reus knows they needed sprucing up more than Yorro did!’
Adelko was about to protest when Horskram interjected.
‘For once I am inclined to agree with a layman on this matter,’ he said, measuring his words carefully. ‘For my part I do not believe our horses have been bewitched – for one thing they would not bear us if so. And there is one way to be sure...’
Pulling his circifix from his habit the monk presented it to each of the horses in turn, intoning a simple blessing as he did. He made for an amusing sight doing this, but he proved his point.
‘I think we can rest assured that we have not been given possessed steeds,’ he said finally. ‘But it is true that the Fay Folk can alter the nature of things in this world somewhat, as their sorcerous sway over Tintagael Forest proves in abundance. And whilst I would not normally hold with using mounts that have been so influenced, our need is great and I am now genuinely persuaded that the Fays are trying to help us. Now, what I – ’
He was interrupted by Vaskrian.
‘Look!’ he exclaimed with a cry of joy. ‘They returned my father’s sword! They’ve given it back to me!’
He drew the blade from its sheath: he’d been so preoccupied with the horses and trying to recall what had happened in the forest that he hadn’t noticed it hanging at his side.
It soon became obvious that his sword had been touched by the Fays too. In shape and form it still resembled a common serjeant’s sword, but the Kindred had given it a straighter edge and sharper blade. The balance felt better too; trying a few practice cuts it felt as easy in his hand as the best-forged blades of Strongholm steel.
‘They’ve enchanted... I mean improved my blade as well!’ he said, trying a florid swipe that had Adelko flinching backwards. ‘I’ll thank them by slaying a few brigands with it!’
‘Perhaps you should thank them for driving your erstwhile master into a situation that killed him too,’ replied Horskram, more sadly than anything else. ‘Make no mistake – the Fays are only helping us out of self-interest. Whatever coming evil we are facing, they fear it as much as any mortal. Which makes me fear it all the more... I must meditate upon their words, one or two things have already become apparent. Now sheathe that thing and let’s have a bite to eat – I hope they haven’t meddled with our provisions as well!’
To Adelko’s relief it was not so, and the hardened cheese and bread, washed down with a few mouthfuls of water, tasted delicious. They ate ravenously, each taking at least twice what they would normally eat. Even Horskram, usually so frugal, did not stint. How long had they gone without eating, the novice wondered.
After their meal both youths lay down in the sun to digest. Adelko felt its warmth against his face, pleasantly offset by a chill easterly breeze...
Horskram nudged him in the leg with his quarterstaff.
‘Best let me have another look at your wound,’ he said gruffly. ‘Then we must be off, we’ve lost half the day and we’ll struggle to make the crossroads by nightfall, swifter steeds or no!’
Vaskrian frowned and sat up. ‘What are you talking about? We’ve emerged south of the crossroads – all we need to do is find the southern road and we can continue our journey. The Vyborg can’t be more than a few leagues south of here – we could probably make Linden by nightfall, I’m sure they’ll remember me. We might even get lodgings in the castle if we’re lucky.’
Horskram frowned and shook his head. ‘I hardly think turning up at Linden and proclaiming poor Sir Branas’s passing and all our troubles besides will help our cause,’ he said. ‘And in any case, we aren’t heading south – our road now lies east.’
The pair looked at him askance.
‘Bloody strife bars the southern road, the Fays said,’ he reminded them patiently. ‘They’re probably referring to the war stirring down south – if what the guard at the Rymold told us is true, the Jarl of Thule and his allies will be up in arms.’
‘But I thought our Order takes no part in earthly wars?’ Adelko protested. ‘Surely they’ll let us pass?’
‘You underestimate the suspicions of powerful men,’ replied Horskram. ‘For all Krulheim knows, we could be spies – and not all the southern barons are friends to our Order. Though I hate to agree with such malicious sprites, the Fay Folk are probably giving us good counsel. Eastward is our best way now, for two reasons. We may be able to take a ship at Strongholm to take us to Meerborg – from there we can ride or take a river barge to Graukol
os, which is our next major destination ahead of Rima anyway.’
‘But ship berths are costly, and you said you don’t have any money left,’ protested Vaskrian. ‘And poor Branas kept all his on his charger. I only found a few silver marks on his purse when we... gave him his funereal rites.’
‘I’ve already thought of that,’ replied Horskram. ‘There is another monastery belonging to our Order, in Urling at the foot of the Staerk Ranges – we could stop there on the way to the capital and secure funds from the Abbot, or failing that the King himself is not unknown to me.’
‘But wouldn’t asking either of them to help us mean breaking with our secrecy?’ asked Adelko.
‘Secrecy, secrecy,’ echoed Vaskrian, getting exasperated. ‘All I ever seem to hear from you Argolians is secrecy! You won’t tell me what’s really going on – that much is clear – but what could be so terrible that you won’t even tell your own kind, or our King? It can’t be any worse than what we’ve just faced!’
‘I will not speak further of such things now,’ said Horskram, favouring the squire with a dark look. ‘As for your involvement, my deepest condolences on behalf of our Order – it was never my intention that you or your master should come to harm. But what the Almighty has written cannot be unwritten, as the Redeemer sayeth. I can put in a good word for you at Strongholm, or any other suitable place we come to, in the hope that some brave knight will take you into service to replace the living you have lost. Unless of course you wish to return by your own way to Hroghar – though I cannot guarantee that your journey home would be a safe one.’
Vaskrian shook his head emphatically. ‘Sir Branas swore an oath on behalf of us both, I’m still bound by it even though he’s… gone. I’m coming with you, as far as Strongholm at least. If you can find me another guvnor once we’re there, so much the better.’
With a flourish he drew his sword again, giving it a couple of twirls for good measure.
‘And let’s face it, now poor old Branas is gone you’re going to need this more than ever,’ he said, his face suddenly cracking a grin. ‘Vaskrian, esquire of Hroghar, is officially at your service!’
Horskram smiled sardonically and rolled his eyes. ‘Heavens! Well that’s all our troubles dealt with in a trice!’
Adelko couldn’t help smiling himself. The squire was obviously slightly unhinged, but he was high-spirited too. He supposed friends like that were good to have around in dangerous times.
Vaskrian saw every reason to feel high-spirited. Though he genuinely mourned old Branas, and memories of the forest were a lurking chill of horror at the edge of his recollection, he could see prospects in this venture. The older friar clearly knew some very influential people (the King, for Reus’ sake!), and a journey to the capital he’d never seen seemed a far more cheering prospect than a lonely trip back to Hroghar, Rutgar’s barbed jibes and a blood-feud with Derrick’s family that would probably see him finished without Branas’s protection.
He was duty-bound to tell the Jarl about Sir Branas, but he could always send word from Strongholm – with the country preparing for war there would be plenty of messengers knocking around. Yes, better to do it that way – telling the unlikely story of the old knight’s death in a haunted forest to Lord Fenrig in person didn’t seem like such a good idea.
Far better to journey on into perils that held some chance of reward.
Sheathing his sword, Vaskrian set about preparing his horse with a cheerful hum.
‘You said two reasons for heading east – what’s the second?’ Adelko asked his mentor as he tended his wound. It was still there, a nasty gash across his right side, but the pain had ebbed considerably and mercifully there was no sign of infection.
‘The second just occurred to me while we were breaking our fast,’ replied Horskram. ‘And I must confess I felt rather a fool for not having thought of it before. I should have recalled the Gospel of St Alysius, and in truth I’m shocked that it would take the soulless faerie kindred to remind me of its relevance.’
His mentor said nothing more for a while, as he washed the makeshift bandage with water from his skin and fastened it around his waist again.
Adelko frowned as he tried to make sense of the titbit Horskram had thrown him. St Alysius had been one of the Redeemer’s Seven Acolytes: the first of Palomedes’ rebel soldiers to follow his example and put aside the sword, seeking victory over the pagan unbelievers with preaching and prayer rather than war and strife. The Redeemer’s lieutenant, Antiochus the Red-Handed, had betrayed him soon after, giving him up to the soldiers of the Old Thalamian empire through treachery; not long after, the Redeemer had been broken on the Wheel in Tyrannos, relinquishing bodily life without a fight so that all the faithful might follow his example and be saved.
The fate of Antiochus, who as punishment for his sins was stung to death by hornets possessed by divine wrath, was well documented, as was the fate of the other Acolytes. Most of them had travelled east and west, spreading the Creed throughout the vast dominions of the Thalamian Empire.
But on the fate of St Alysius few scholars agreed. Even the Gospel dedicated to his doings after the Redeemer’s sacrifice was vague and shrouded in mysteries, written in tantalising couplets that offered recondite truths obscured by dense imagery and rich symbolism.
Most did agree that he had been one of the last Acolytes to leave Tyrannos, lingering there at great risk to his life. Common consensus also had it that he had taken with him a vessel containing drops of the Redeemer’s blood, which he had caught as they flowed from the cruel wounds inflicted on him by the torture-master of Thalamy at the Emperor’s behest.
Religious authorities disagreed wildly as to what happened next, but one popular legend had it that Alysius headed north, journeying hundreds of miles through the imperial heartlands and barbarian forests and wildernesses beyond, until arriving at a port overlooking the Wyvern Sea he finally took ship and crossed over into the far north of Urovia...
That was interpreted by some scholars to have been present-day Northalde, though it would have been long before the reavers came and settled there. Not even the Headstone fragment that was the cause of all their troubles would have been brought there yet – Palomedes and Alysius had lived three hundred years before Søren. The lands about them would still have mostly been occupied by Westerling tribes, the descendants of exiled clans from the Island Realms who had fled to the mainland after the Wars of Kith and Kin a thousand years before.
But he was allowing history to distract him, he reflected as he mounted his horse – just what was his mentor getting at?
The Fays had referred to the Redeemer’s blood being shed for mortalkind – that was clearly what they meant by warrior-prophet... The legend also claimed St Alysius had been buried, with his treasured relic, in a tomb on the site of Strongholm. Centuries later, when that city was founded by the ill-fated King Olav, St Alysius’ resting place was all but ignored, and a pagan princeling built a hall atop it.
But in time the Creed came to the old kingdom of Nylund, which was later absorbed into Northalde. When the newly ordained perfects had learned of the tomb’s existence, they had destroyed the mansion and laid the foundations of the High Temple over it, that the centre of the realm’s faith might be built on the blood of the Redeemer and the bones of his bravest acolyte.
Or so the perfects of the Most Holy Bethel of St Alysius liked to claim. Adelko had heard that rumour spoken of before at Ulfang – but he’d also heard several of the adepts there disputing its veracity.
But more to the point, what did such a thing have to do with their mission?
He voiced his query as the three of them nudged their steeds into a north-easterly amble towards the highway.
‘So you have worked out one puzzle – that is good,’ replied Horskram, who liked to test his novice’s faculties whenever possible. ‘Now you must think on the answer to the next. Assuming the legend of St Alysius is true, and the Arch-Perfect’s seat in Strongholm holds n
othing less than the blood of the Redeemer, what could it mean for us?’
Adelko thought long and hard about that while his master waited patiently and Vaskrian heedlessly whistled a marching tune beside them. Then, unbidden, the words of the Fays came back to him.
Seek the sanctuary of your creed.
‘Sanctuary!’ he gasped aloud, the realisation suddenly dawning on him. ‘Of course, if we manage to get to Strongholm, the blood of the Redeemer will shield us! No lesser denizen of the Other Side would dare come near such a powerful relic! Even... even a greater demon might have pause before the remains of the True Prophet himself!’
‘Well done,’ replied Horskram crisply. ‘I am glad to see our recent ordeal has not sapped your intellect. Indeed, now I’m sure you can appreciate my embarrassment at having overlooked the High Temple before.’
‘Yes but... this is all assuming those stories are true, isn’t it?’ said Adelko anxiously. ‘I remember a lot of the adepts saying that they doubted the legend...’
‘As I’m sure you are becoming aware, there is not always a great deal of love lost between the Temple and our Order,’ said Horskram. ‘Since... certain events, there has been much suspicion on either side. I will not detail them now, but suffice to say that many in our fraternity feel it is in their interests to denigrate any claims to sanctity made by the mainstream clerics, and vice versa. But having read much on the subject myself, I am inclined to believe the legend is true – though there can be no doubt that if the blood of the Redeemer is indeed kept below St Alysius’ Bethel it has been a jealously guarded secret for centuries.’
‘So... why do you believe it, Master Horskram?’
The adept’s response surprised him. ‘Doubtless, young Adelko, you have found occasions to read Gracius’ Lays of King Vasirius and the Knights of the Purple Garter when you should have been reading Scripture?’
Adelko flushed, feeling suddenly guilty. But Ulfang library contained hundreds of texts from far and wide, and not all tomes could be religious. And the stories of the Pangonian King who founded the Code of Chivalry more than a century ago made for a gripping read.