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

by Damien Black

  The High Commander waved the others silent and sat in contemplation for a short time. Then he said: ‘You are right to proceed with caution I think – as you say we do not know enough about the nature of the threat we face to let word spread. It seems to me that this strange and dreadful incident is connected to the traitor Thule and his sorcerous ally, though that too remains to be proven.’

  He paused again before saying with an air of finality: ‘Master Horskram, I will allow you to continue your journey – for one thing, if it is true that this winged devil is pursuing you then the sooner you are away from my men the better I shall like it. It is hard work enough putting down a treasonous rebellion without having one’s best warriors decimated by hellspawn as well!

  ‘Given that consideration, I would be extremely reluctant to send you to the capital with a ravening demon on your trail, but I will defer to your superior knowledge of such matters and trust your assurances that the reliquary of the High Temple at Strongholm will preserve you from its depredations. If what you say is true then once through the Staerk Ranges you should be safe from it – for the time being anyway. But I will not have my brother, the rightful ruler of this realm, kept in the dark about an urgent matter that concerns his lands, whilst you and your priestly ilk confer, connive, and bicker.’

  Horskram seemed about to protest but Freidhoff bellowed: ‘Enough! Silence when a prince of the realm is addressing you!’

  The adept reluctantly deferred and the High Commander continued: ‘I shall send an escort with you to Strongholm, to ensure you stay out of further mischief – Tarlquist, you shall take Wolmar, Torgun and three other knights of your own choosing. See that our guests are escorted safely to the King’s palace. I shall write a letter of introduction which you shall bear.’

  Turning to Horskram again he continued: ‘If His Majesty sees fit to grant you an audience with the Arch Perfect, you may pursue your claim with him then. As for the rest of your journey, that will be up to the King to decide. Now, I have considered your story and I appreciate your argument for secrecy – besides that I do not think it fitting that anyone else learns of this before our royal liege. As such, every knight in this room is to swear an oath not to breathe another word of what they have heard here to anyone, on pain of death, until such time as I or the King release them from that oath. Is that understood?’

  The assembled knights nodded their assent. ‘Very good,’ resumed the High Commander. ‘I am glad that is settled. Horskram, I will trust you to keep your two companions silent until His Majesty has been told of this. The rest of you shall swear your oaths here on the standard of the White Valravyn.’

  He added: ‘Master Horskram – if I could prevail upon you to bless my garrison before you set out, I would be much obliged. The White Valravyn is renowned for its courage and rightly so, but it is not in the habit of fighting devilspawn. The sooner the men put this behind them the better – we’ve a civil war to fight and frankly speaking an enemy we know how to kill will be more than welcome after this frightful encounter. For all our sakes I wish you Reus’ speed on your journey. You will leave at noon.’

  At midday they were assembled in the courtyard. The intervening hours had not been ill spent and it had been cleared of the previous night’s horrible slaughter. Just beyond the castle walls smoke still rose from the ashes of the pyre built for the dead horses; the common soldiers who had shared their fate were being laid to rest in plots dug by their erstwhile brothers in arms, whilst the corpses of the noble dead lay waiting below the keep for their relatives to send for them.

  The Argolians’ fervent prayers had worked a sacred magic of their own. By the time the sun was overhead and turning the castle walls a silvery white, most of the knights and soldiers had recovered their wits sufficiently to resume duties. The courtyard was thus the same hive of activity as it had been when they arrived at the castle as captives; now they were preparing to leave it as free men, with an honour guard of six of the best swords in the land. Adelko added a silent prayer that it would be enough.

  As well as Wolmar and Torgun, Tarlquist had chosen the chequered twins Doric and Cirod and a handsome young knight called Sir Corram to accompany them. Their weapons had been returned to them, and the garrison had gifted Vaskrian with a small target shield and mail byrnie to replace his broken buckler and tattered brigandine. The storehouses had also been generous, and their dwindling provisions were now bolstered with salt beef and pork, bread, biscuit and dried fruits.

  That pleased Adelko every bit as much as Vaskrian’s new harness delighted him. Their horses had not been neglected either, and had plenty of oats for the rest of the journey.

  At a clarion call from the sentinel on the gatehouse parapet the drawbridge was lowered. The sky was clear but for a few clouds, and though the breeze that ruffled the banners on the high walls was chilly it had a bracing quality to it. Passing out of Staerkvit they caught a glimpse of the long lake to either side of them; its glossy waters caught the noon sun with a sheen that justified its sensuous name.

  Adelko had resigned himself to an afternoon of hard riding. Horskram and Tarlquist hoped to rejoin the king’s highway and break clear of the ranges by sunset; by that time, the adept hoped, they would be close enough to the capital for the Redeemer’s blood to protect them. As a denizen of the lower tiers of the City of Burning Brass, the demon was probably not strong enough to approach such a powerful relic without suffering unbearable agony... or so the old monk prayed.

  Thinking on this, Adelko felt uneasy. Two demons he had encountered now in his young life, one a bare spirit in a mortal host and another in corporeal form. Neither was considered the deadliest subject of the Kingdom of Gehenna, yet one had proved dreadfully malicious and resilient, the other capable of troubling one of the strongest garrisons in the land – he did not care to think about what the more powerful servants of the Fallen One could do if summoned.

  He recalled the words of Belaach in Rykken, the ones the spirit had spoken just after they drove it out of Gizel’s body. Horskram had recited them for the knights that morning while giving a full account of their mission.

  Hell’s Prophet shall reawaken/the Five and Seven and One shall lead the hosts of Gehenna to victory

  The Five and Seven and One. The first number referred to the tiers of hell: the first and foremost of which was occupied by Abaddon and his most powerful servants, fallen archangels who had sided with him in the battle for worlds at the Dawn of Time. The second number referred to the Seven Princes of Perfidy – foremost among these entities.

  His lessons in counter-demonology at Ulfang came back to him, and he could picture Brother Rothrik teaching them in his soft voice: ‘The Seven Princes of Perfidy represent emanations from the seven archangels of virtue, the Seven Seraphim. That is to say, they are at once essential to and distinct from the archangels they originally emanated from at Abaddon’s behest. They represent the perversion of these virtues, and thus are a powerful embodiment of the Fallen One’s efforts to corrupt and subvert all that is good.’

  The mainstream Temple held that the Seven Princes had always been distinct from the seraphim they mocked; but the Argolians taught the more radical doctrine that they had originally been one with them. On the eve of the battle for worlds, Abaddon had sought to corrupt the Almighty’s foremost servants, appealing to their darker impulses. The Seven Seraphim had resisted him, but only with great effort and at great cost: in suppressing their darker nature to resist his call they had been forced to divide their essence, casting out all that was selfish and wicked.

  And thus the Seven Princes had been born, a dark mirror image of the Seven Seraphim.

  ‘Thus Sha’amiel, avatar of greed and bigotry, is the dark emanation of Logos, archangel of prosperity and tolerance,’ Rothrik had quavered. ‘Azathol, avatar of vanity and hubris, is the emanation of Siona, archangel of grace and dignity.’

  The ageing monk had gone on to list the other five: Zolthoth, avatar of wrath and dark ema
nation of the archangel Virtus, avatar of courage; Ta’ussaswazelim, who represented cruelty and had emanated from Stygnos, embodiment of fortitude; Chreosoaneuryon, avatar of gluttony and intemperance, the emanation of Euphrosakritos, archangel of merry-making; Satyrus, avatar of lust and sexual depravity, set against Luviah, archangel of love; and Invidia, personifying envy, the twisted mirror image of Aeriti, archangel of aspiration.

  The Seven Princes of Perfidy, led by Abaddon, the original Fallen Angel, who had made mortalkind cunning and clever, and in doing so poisoned the gift of free will bestowed on it by the Almighty in the beginning.

  The One.

  Abaddon would lead the hordes of Gehenna back into the world he had failed to seize aeons ago, if Belaach’s twisted prophecy proved true.

  And from everything he’d heard his mentor say about the Headstone, it had the power to summon just such a host if reunited... small wonder the Almighty had seen fit to lay waste to the world He had created, rather than allow it to suffer such an invasion at Mammon’s behest.

  What would He choose to do if confronted by that possibility a second time? The Temple and Argolians both taught that Reus was omniscient – but in that case, had He always known such an event was destined to come to pass again? And if so, was this all just a test of His creation’s wits and moral character? In that case, how important a part would they play in the tumultuous events to come?

  As they set off through the Staerk ranges, Adelko made the sign. Just what doom had he unwittingly embraced in Malgar’s hut, a seeming lifetime ago, when Horskram had placed the book on the table in front of him and asked him to choose his fate?

  Questions. Always so many questions.

  They retraced their steps back towards the highway, galloping through the afternoon with scarcely a pause except to water their horses and snatch a morsel of food.

  Adelko’s feelings of unease deepened into trepidation. Though the sun was still shining and by now the temperature was quite warm he felt chilly – his encounter with the demon had not left him unscathed. In his unnerved state he couldn’t even tell if it was his sixth sense troubling him, or just the aftershock.

  He glanced around to see if his companions appeared similarly troubled. Vaskrian was riding beside him, singing another battle tune, revelling in his shiny new harness. Like Adelko he had only managed to snatch a few hours of troubled sleep, but nothing ever seemed to dampen his spirits for long. Just before them Wolmar and Corram rode together, with Horskram and Tarlquist in front while Torgun rode up ahead alone and the chequered twins brought up the rear.

  None of them seemed overly troubled – but then they were all moving quickly and it was hard to tell what everyone was really thinking. Adelko had little choice but to keep his anxieties to himself – perhaps he would seek his mentor’s counsel when they paused at the highway.

  They were just navigating a steep stretch of hill road, dipping down through a valley crested on either side by trees before rising sharply again, when the novice’s fears were realised.

  From the trees came an all too familiar twanging sound. Quarrels strafed them from left and right. Corram fell screaming, a bolt sprouting from his neck – a split second later Adelko felt a stab of pain across his forehead and something sticky run into his eyes. With a cry he toppled backwards off his horse... a clump of bushes broke his fall and saved him from further serious injury, though several branches tore through his habit and gashed his flesh. Overcome by pain, he fainted.

  Vaskrian felt a quarrel whistle past his ear and wasted no time in drawing his sword, wheeling his mount around to face the attack. He could see them up between the trees to his right, around half a dozen Northlanders reloading crossbows.

  With a great war-cry he spurred his horse up the rocky slope towards them. He was joined by Sir Wolmar, who had a bolt dangling from his mailed shoulder – his fine armour had absorbed the brunt of the impact, although not enough to prevent it drawing blood.

  The bolt intended for Horskram had missed him but slashed his horse across the back of the neck. The terrified steed reared screaming and it was all the hardy old monk could do to stay in the saddle. Torgun was already charging up the left bank, his sword drawn and a quarrel protruding from his shield. Tarlquist had been hit in the thigh – gritting his teeth he ignored the pain and joined Torgun on the counter attack. The chequered twins spurred their horses together up the right bank to join Vaskrian and Wolmar.

  As the squire reached the top of the rocky bank he could see their assailants clearly. They were the same brigands who had attacked them in the clearing by Lake Sördegil, still relying on the same cowardly weapons and the element of surprise. All were mounted.

  Only two of them had managed to reload by the time they reached them. One fired at Vaskrian’s face but the squire’s quick anticipation saved his life: bringing up his target he caught the quarrel, which glanced off the iron rim of his shield with a whining ring.

  In a flash he was on the brigand, bringing his sword down onto his head in a curling arc before he could reach for his axe. The blade sheared through the barbarian’s skull, cleaving it in twain right down to the nose bone. He felt a surge of joy as a fountain of blood erupted from the brigand’s head. His sword was sharper than ever, and he hadn’t even had the chance to run a whetstone across it in the past few days. He could thank the Fays for that.

  Yanking the blade free he turned to see Wolmar already on to a second opponent, hacking at him with a blistering savagery. The Northlander had barely had time to draw a crude-looking broadsword and unsling his shield as the knight cut down his comrade, who now lay on the ground groaning pitifully as he tried to stop his entrails spilling from a great gash in his belly just below his byrnie. He would have little joy there – his hand was missing three fingers and his other arm was twisted beneath his torso at an odd angle, broken in the fall from his horse.

  The twin knights were fighting on horseback with the last two Northlanders and also looked to have the upper hand, driving them back into the trees with fell strokes that seemed perfectly choreographed.

  Wheeling his neighing steed around Vaskrian stared across the narrow valley. Tarlquist and Torgun were outnumbered five to two on the other side, but that didn’t seem to bother them – with a mighty sweep of his sword the greatest knight in Northalde beheaded one Northlander whilst effortlessly parrying a second attack with his kite.

  Vaskrian recognised the other attacker – it was the one-eyed brute he’d fought at Sördegil. The hulking Northlander squared off against Sir Torgun now, the pair of them rashing together as their horses reared and bit viciously at one another.

  The barbarian was a mountain of a man, but Torgun’s strength and speed were astonishing: within a few swift exchanges he had slain his opponent, parrying a crude blow before disengaging his blade in a riposte that transfixed the Northlander’s throat before he had time to realise he was dead. His single eye rolled up into his head as he slumped off his horse, choking on his own blood.

  That was the only chance Vaskrian had to admire his hero’s swordsmanship as the remaining three brigands caught his eye. Two including the red-haired leader were charging down towards the monks whilst the third fought with Tarlquist. Adelko was only just regaining consciousness, blood pouring from a cut in his forehead where a quarrel had grazed it. Horskram had been forced to dismount from his horse, which was still rearing in agony. Vaskrian supposed there was a limit to what faerie magic could do.

  The two monks looked to be fodder – the squire didn’t fancy even the hardy adept’s chances against two mounted foes on foot and armed with naught but a quarterstaff.

  ‘Master Horskram, look out!’ he cried, spurring his horse down towards the trail to meet the brigand charging Adelko. Alerted, the adept let go of the reins of his horse and turned to face his oncoming barbarian, pulling his staff free from its sheath.

  The red-haired brigand was nearly on him now, whooping and swinging his war axe in a dreadful arc above his
head. Bearing down on Horskram full tilt, he raised the weapon to strike as the monk crouched in the road, both hands gripping his quarterstaff...

  At the last moment Horskram sprang agilely to one side, ducking under the sweeping blade. As the brigand’s horse galloped past, the monk whirled and struck its hind leg with all his might. The iron-shod pole snapped it like a twig. With a scream it buckled, bringing down its rider with it. The brigand was not so lucky as Adelko, and falling into the rocky trail with an agonising crunch he could do nothing but lie prone as Horskram leapt over him and struck him full in the face, shattering his front teeth. The red-haired warrior writhed in agony, dropping his axe and clutching his bloody mouth as Horskram mouthed a few quick words of repentance for his violent but necessary act.

  Vaskrian reached the other brigand in the nick of time, once again saving Adelko from almost certain death by brigandage.

  ‘That’s at least two lives you owe me!’ he yelled as the two of them fought fiercely, trading strokes. But the brigand had one advantage he lacked. Whatever wonders Fay magic had worked on their horses, it had not made Yorro more vicious. A seasoned courser though he was, trained and accustomed to war, he could not hope to match the Northlander’s great black brute of a charger. Lashing out with iron-shod hooves, it forced Yorro to retreat, pulling Vaskrian back on to the defensive. The brigand was about to press his advantage – but at that moment Sir Torgun rode down into the road, his bloodied sword held high.

  ‘Turn and face me, Northland savage!’ the young knight cried. Even now he was chivalrous – Vaskrian had to admire him for that. The brigand wheeled his horse around to oblige him.

  If a man is going to oblige the best knight in the realm, he had best be fighting for love, or else a mighty warrior himself. The brigand was neither. A lightning strike to his shield arm broke both, and Torgun’s second blow was so hard it shattered his sword into fragments before shearing through his byrnie, collar-bone and sternum. A great gout of blood erupted from the Northlander as the knight wrenched his blade free. The brigand’s mangled frame slumped off his horse like a sack of offal.