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

by Damien Black

  CHAPTER IX

  The White Raven Flies

  They had been on the king’s highway for several hours out of Ryosfal when they heard the sound of many horsemen closing on them from behind at a gallop.

  Adelko stiffened in the saddle; the road leading out of town had been clogged with wayfarers also heading to the capital, but with most of these on foot the trio had soon found themselves alone on the highway.

  The sound of swift horses brought thoughts of slavering brigands back to his mind with an unpleasantly sharp clarity. Next to him Vaskrian wheeled his steed around, his hand flying to his sword hilt in evidence that he was thinking much the same thing. Horskram bade them stand their ground.

  ‘If it’s our old friends from the Far Northlands we won’t outrun them,’ he said. ‘Their chargers are swifter than our rouncies, though Vaskrian’s courser might outrun them.’

  ‘But,’ Adelko protested, ‘our horses are different since... the forest. I can feel it when we ride them...’

  Horskram scowled. ‘I’ll not trust my life to faerie magick until all else fails! But let us get off the road – yonder trees may give us some cover.’

  Adelko glanced over doubtfully at the half dozen yew saplings languidly stretching towards maturity a few paces off the highway. Squinting back down the road he could see the outlines of a company of horsemen approaching. Judging by the glint of weak sunlight on their frames they had to be knights – or heavily armed mounted serjeants at the least. Or brigands contracted by an unknown enemy to kill them.

  Cultivated farmland stretched flatly to either side of them – there was nowhere else to hide. Hurriedly they nudged their horses over to the trees, dismounting so as to be less obtrusive.

  Vaskrian as usual took some persuading, deploring the monks for cowards – until Horskram took his reins in a vice-like grip and urged him off the road in an icy voice. Even the hot-headed squire knew better than to tussle with a man of the cloth. Or an angry one, at least.

  By the time they were off the road the horsemen were clearly in view. To Adelko’s relief they were not brigands, but heavily armoured knights, about a dozen strong.

  Leaning forwards Vaskrian peered at them intently. Adelko followed his line of sight. He was scrutinising the banner that one carried. The heraldic coat of arms on it loomed into focus: a white raven taking flight over a pair of crossed lances picked out in the same colour, on a jet black background.

  ‘They’re knights of the White Valravyn!’ yelled Vaskrian. ‘They’ll help us!’

  ‘No, you fool, leave them be!’ cried Horskram.

  But it was already too late. Vaskrian stepped back on to the highway, his arm raised in a gesture of parley. In what seemed the blinking of an eye, the knights closed the distance and pulled up their snorting chargers, facing the squire in a semi-circle. They did not lower their spears, but all glared at him suspiciously.

  To Adelko they seemed a fearsome bunch: long-limbed, keen-eyed and broad-shouldered. Though dressed in full armour from neck to knee none wore a helm; their long hair ruffled in the mid-morning breeze. Their complexions were for the most part fair, their locks flaxen – noble Northlendings in the King’s Dominions had kept their Northland ancestry purer than most.

  To Vaskrian they were a glorious sight. Though stained by caked mud and dried blood their mail was of the finest quality, their black surcoats fashioned of rich wool and depicting the same coat of arms as the banner, whilst their cloaks were chequered black and white. Their dappled grey Farovian destriers were caparisoned in a like manner, armoured only in boiled leather to allow for greater speed. Each knight carried a shield of iron-shod oak besides his long ash spear, and a stout sword was girt at the belt of every one.

  The apparent leader, a doughty-looking fighter of some forty winters with neck-length dirty blond hair, a rugged beard and pale grey eyes, addressed the squire sternly. ‘What business do you have, obstructing the Order of the White Valravyn? The country is at war, and we ride urgently on the King’s errand – speak swiftly, and your reasons for stopping us had best be good ones!’

  Vaskrian faltered. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to stop them. But now he had, he wasn’t sure what to say. We’ve just been adventuring in Tintagael Forest after being pursued by a demon and a pack of Northland brigands didn’t seem like a good place to start.

  ‘I... forgive me, sir knight,’ he mumbled, suddenly feeling like the fool he probably was, ‘er, that is to say...’

  The leader knight’s face darkened, his countenance more angry than stern now. ‘Well, spit it out lad – you’ve taken the trouble to stop us. What is it that ails you, besides a twisted tongue?’

  Several of the other knights were exchanging bemused glances now, whilst one or two muttered darkly and sneered. One of the latter caught Adelko’s eye – well built like all his fellows, his wavy blond hair had a reddish tinge to it. Unlike the rest of the company, his beard and moustache were finely trimmed and well-kept; his green eyes had a malignant gleam to them that he thought went rather too well with the cruel twist of his otherwise handsome mouth.

  By now Horskram had stepped on to the road. Clearing his throat pointedly the old monk addressed the whole company, but kept his eyes fixed on their leader.

  ‘Greetings, knights of the Order of the White Valravyn, protectors of the King’s Dominions, keepers of the peace of his realm, justiciars of royal law,’ he declaimed, drawing on protocol. ‘Horskram of Vilno, adept of the Ulfang chapter of the Argolian Order, salutes thee! He also offers his humble apologies for the rash actions of yon squire, bound by oath to his service until circumstances dictate otherwise.’

  The leader knight raised his eyebrows. He looked somewhat taken aback. ‘Two Argolians and a squire without a knight, travelling as boon companions,’ he mused aloud. ‘Now that is an unusual band of wayfarers – even in wartime! There’s more to this than meets the eye I’ll warrant – come now, sirrah, let us have your story, and have it quickly.’

  ‘I regret that I cannot divulge all its details,’ replied Horskram warily, ‘but suffice to say that my novice and I are on urgent monastic business – it is imperative that we seek an audience with the Arch Perfect at the High Temple in Strongholm. Vaskrian of Hroghar here is accompanying us for our protection in these troubled times, though we would be grateful for an armed escort if you would be willing to let us accompany you. Are you headed for Staerkvit Castle, pray?’

  The leader knight’s eyes narrowed at this. ‘He who answers a question with a question wishes to avoid being questioned, methinks... now why might that be, I wonder? You tell us next to nothing of yourself, then request an armed escort! Since when were humble friars so audacious?’

  The knight with the cruel mouth spoke up. ‘Sir Tarlquist, we should not be allowing this Argolian churl to bandy words with us at such a perilous time! Who does he think he is, I wonder? Perhaps a spell in the dungeons of Staerkvit would teach him a lesson.’

  Hearing this another knight with rich neck-length golden hair teased his Farovian charger forward a step or two. He was even taller and more powerfully built than the other knights; well-made as they were, they looked like ordinary fighters next to him.

  ‘Sir Wolmar, those are unmannerly and ungodly remarks both,’ he said. ‘A knight of the Order should know better than to chastise and threaten a man of the cloth. The Argolians have ever been friends to the realm.’

  Unlike the other two knights he was clean shaven; a pair of grey-blue eyes burned with a singular intensity in his ruggedly handsome face.

  ‘That’s not the way I heard it,’ snarled the knight called Wolmar. ‘I heard that the Argolians are heretics who practise dire sorceries in the privacy of their monastic retreats – perhaps that is the business they ride to now in such great secrecy!’

  ‘Enough!’ barked Sir Tarlquist. ‘I’ll have no squabbling – now, master monk, if you please, a little more candour would not go amiss. Your young swordsman friend was certain
ly eager to attract our attention – why would that be, pray? And where is your knightly master?’

  Sir Tarlquist turned his flinty eyes on Vaskrian as he asked the last question – but the squire had eyes only for the golden-haired knight who had spoken before.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed, gaping in delighted astonishment. ‘But you’re... Torgun! Sir Torgun of Vandheim!’

  ‘I must confess I am not used to being recognised by strangers without my own coat of arms,’ replied the golden-haired knight mildly. ‘Have we met? If you have squired for me before and I have forgotten, pray forgive the oversight on my part...’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that!’ blurted Vaskrian. ‘I saw you joust – at Linden Castle last summer! You were… magnificent!’

  ‘Why look, Sir Torgun’s found himself another damsel admirer,’ sneered Sir Wolmar, getting a few chuckles from among the other knights. A few chuckles – but more glares, Adelko noticed. Clearly this Wolmar was not universally liked. The novice already knew which camp he belonged to.

  Vaskrian was too excited at meeting his hero to pay Sir Wolmar any heed, and was virtually re-enacting Sir Torgun’s victory over Sir Brogun in the jousting final for the benefit of the monks, much to the knights’ amusement. Even stern-faced Tarlquist could not help smiling.

  Sir Torgun merely nodded in modest acknowledgement. ‘I am pleased you enjoyed the event,’ was all he said, though a slight smile played on his lips too.

  ‘All right, that’s enough reminiscing,’ said Tarlquist. ‘There’s a real war on, in case anyone’s forgotten – and I’d still like to know more about your story, lad. What of your knightly master?’

  ‘He...’ Vaskrian paused, feeling Horskram’s icy stare on him. ‘He’s dead.’

  Horskram rolled his eyes to the heavens. Adelko stood silently, unsure what would happen next. The knights seemed unperturbed – after all, warriors died all the time.

  ‘Aye?’ replied Tarlquist patiently. ‘And how, pray tell, did he meet his end?’

  ‘In... in Tintagael Forest,’ blurted Vaskrian. Adelko felt his heart sink. Horskram was staring at the squire aghast. Several of the knights gasped; some made the sign of the Wheel.

  ‘Tintagael?’ gaped Sir Tarlquist. ‘What is this madness you speak of? None have ventured there for years – and no sane man ever would!’

  Turning his eyes on Horskram again he glared flintily at him. ‘Tell me, is this true?’

  The adept took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He met the knight’s gaze.

  ‘It is true,’ he said.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Sir Wolmar snarled. ‘They are black magicians, in league with the Fallen One – for all we know they’ve been sent by the rebels to wreak havoc behind enemy lines! We should hang them forthwith!’

  ‘You’ve no way of knowing that,’ replied Sir Torgun evenly. ‘And in any case – innocent until proven guilty, that is our way! These men deserve a trial at least!’

  ‘Trial?’ replied Wolmar, incredulous. ‘They’ve just condemned themselves out of their own mouths!’

  ‘Which is what you do every time you open yours,’ interjected another burly knight with thick blond curls and a scar running down one of his ruddy cheeks.

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ snarled Sir Wolmar.

  ‘Meaning you condemn yourself for an unjust fool every time you speak,’ replied the ruddy-faced knight. ‘Torgun has the right of it – our Order has never hanged a man without trying him first!’

  ‘You dare speak to me that way!’ retorted Wolmar. ‘Check your words, Sir Aronn, or I’ll see to it you’re reprimanded!’

  ‘If you think you’ll be able to pull strings because of who you are then you’re wrong,’ growled Sir Aronn. ‘I was in the Order keeping the King’s peace when you were still a page boy – His Royal Highness won’t forget that, even if you have! All men are equal in the Order, save for those of higher military rank – or had that slipped your mind?’

  The knights degenerated into a heated argument that lasted several minutes. Wolmar and Aronn continued to bicker at one another while the rest of the company argued over what to do with the trio. Some including Torgun were for trying them on the spot; a couple advocated handing them over to their fellow Argolians to be tried for witchcraft; a few were simply for leaving them and pressing on.

  With some difficulty Tarlquist silenced them, before addressing Horskram again.

  ‘Well, master monk, what more have you to say for yourself? As you can see we are quite at odds as to what to do with you.’

  ‘I can only tell you that we are being pursued by a great evil,’ Horskram sighed. ‘Believe me, sir knights, there are dark forces abroad, but we are not the cause – rather we are the victims of such. If I were to tell you our tale in its entirety perhaps the hairs on your noble heads would turn as white as the Valravyn itself – but you have my sworn oath, by the Redeemer’s own blood, we are no black magicians! In fact quite the reverse.’

  So saying, Horskram made the sign and intoned a curt blessing on them all.

  If this mollified Sir Tarlquist, it did so only a little. He continued to glare at the adept as he said: ‘You offer assurances, yet still your story is shrouded in mystery! Very well, keep your secrets – for now. There is nothing apparent to suggest that you yourselves mean any harm – but I cannot in fairness allow you to continue through the King’s lands unchecked until you have been examined further. You are to surrender your weapons and come with us to Staerkvit – we’ll see what the High Commander has to say, although Reus knows he’s sore pressed as it is! Unhappy day, that you should stray into our path now of all times!’

  Sir Aronn protested. ‘But, sire, with all due respect, they’ll only slow us down! We have to report back to Prince Freidhoff as soon as we can!’

  ‘I know my duty, Sir Aronn, and I haven’t forgotten the urgency of war either!’ Sir Tarlquist shot back testily. ‘Their horses look swift enough, and we’ll ride them hard, so don’t you worry! Since you’re so concerned for our speed, you can tether our learned friar’s mount to your own horse and make sure he keeps up.’

  Turning, he addressed two more knights. These were identical twins, save for their hair – one had jet-black locks where the other’s were snowy white.

  ‘Doric! Cirod!’ he barked. ‘Tether the other two to your own mounts. Make sure you take all their weapons too – and that includes the monks’ quarterstaves. I’ve heard they can crack a man’s skull like an egg with those iron-bound beauties if they’re so minded.’

  Horskram bowed his head in obeisance. ‘Have no fear, sir knight, you will find no resistance from us – all we craved was an armed escort as far as the road to Staerkvit, although we hadn’t intended being taken to the castle itself as captives. But if such is your will we cannot in all rightness refuse the King’s Law. Might I at least know the full name of my captor?’

  ‘Take caution, sire,’ interjected Sir Wolmar, ‘I’ve heard tell an enchanter needs only learn the name of a man to have him in his thrall forever!’

  ‘And I’ve heard tell far too much from you for one day!’ Sir Tarlquist growled back. ‘Now be silent and leave me to make the decisions!’

  That exchange seemed to make up his mind. ‘I am Sir Tarlquist of Gottenheim, Commander in the Order of the Knights of the White Valravyn,’ he said. ‘And between here and Staerkvit, I’ll be giving you the orders – I hope that’s understood.’

  ‘Most eminently,’ replied Horskram courteously as he surrendered his quarterstaff, before turning to give Vaskrian a look that Adelko thought almost as terrifying as Tintagael. The squire was too busy staring at Sir Torgun to notice.

  True to Tarlquist’s word, they rode swiftly, and around mid-afternoon the land began to rise steadily again. Vaskrian had seen enough of maps to know they were approaching the Strang Ranges, a girdle of wooded ridges that surrounded the coastal arable lands that fed Strongholm. Their steeds had little trouble keeping up with the knights
’ Farovian destriers. Vaskrian had to marvel at this, for the dappled grey steeds were the mightiest of great horses, famed far beyond their island home for their speed and endurance.

  There was little hope of conversation above the thundering of hooves, but from the knights’ bloodstained apparel and grim faces it was obvious they had been in a battle. Vaskrian knew enough of war to read their grim expressions and guess that the outcome hadn’t been a good one.

  They soon reached a junction. The king’s highway continued to plough on steadily through the ranges; another path, narrower and meandering, struck due north. The knights took the latter road, riding two at time. Soon it began to climb steadily as they pushed on into the highest part of the ranges.

  They had left the lush meadows and fertile farmlands far behind them; the trees and bushes that now teemed to either side of them were a riot of unkempt nature. Birds flew from crooked trees in alarm at the boisterous sound of the approaching knights, who rode on regardless, their unshorn locks and chequered cloaks streaming behind them. All the while the road zigzagged upwards, heading steadily north.

  It was drawing towards early evening when Vaskrian caught his first glimpse of the white walls of Staerkvit. The trees had thickened; the first flash of sunlight on silvery stones was quickly replaced by a flurry of green as they rode through another copse. As they emerged from it the ranges began levelling off and he could see it clearly.

  Perched imposingly beside a sparkling lake nestled between tree-lined ridges, the castle was every bit as impressive as he had heard. His heart leapt – he’d often dreamed of visiting the lofty headquarters of the Order of the White Valravyn, though he had never imagined he would do so as a captive.

  Its square curtain wall stretched high up into the firmament, enclosing a single keep that stood at least thirty men high. A square turret stood at each corner of the outer wall, whilst its mighty gatehouse was topped with crenelated machicolations that loomed menacingly over the only entrance. The castle’s founders had chosen their spot well, for the promontory of rock on which it rested meant that it was surrounded on three sides by the lake.