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

by Damien Black

  And suddenly it was all over. Looking around him Vaskrian saw another brigand lay dying at the tree-lined top of the slope above, blood pouring from his guts where Tarlquist’s sword had pierced him; the twin knights and Wolmar had made corpses of their opponents too, one groaning pitifully from a mortal wound until the High Commander’s son drew his dagger and despatched him.

  The only survivors were Tarlquist’s foeman, whom they dragged down into the road, and the red-haired leader. The former died before they could question him, bleeding his life away as they were tending to Adelko, Wolmar and Tarlquist and saying a prayer for poor Corram.

  Snarling fiercely and swearing revenge Wolmar yanked the red-haired brigand up by his braided beard, brandishing his blood-stained dagger.

  Torgun grabbed his wrist firmly before he could strike. ‘No Wolmar!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do not sully yourself! He is a vanquished foe!’

  Wolmar sneered and was about to reply when Tarlquist interjected with a more pragmatic argument for sparing the leader’s life. ‘Do as he says and let him live, Wolmar,’ he said. ‘We need to question him. Put him over against yonder rock.’

  The raven knights had already disarmed and bound the brigand. Now they complied with their leader’s request. The red-haired Northlander was grievously injured but not mortally so. His mouth was a bloody ruin where his front teeth had been and the fall appeared to have broken his back, but he would live – for as long as they needed him to at any rate.

  Horskram led the questioning, speaking in the Low Norric tongue. Adelko had studied enough of it at the monastery to be able to follow the interrogation. He’d had trouble understanding the Northlanders when they yelled commands at one another, but his mentor spoke slowly and deliberately.

  ‘You have pursued us since Kaupstad,’ he said in a flat voice that betrayed no emotion. ‘Why this relentless attempt on our lives? Who sent you and why?’

  The brigand gazed upwards and grinned through the bloody stumps of his teeth. His face looked like a ghastly death’s head. He appeared to be staring at something else, though his blue eyes were fixed on nothing Adelko could see.

  A drool of blood and saliva ran down his chin and into his beard as he turned his eyes on Horskram and replied: ‘Blue eye... sees everything, yes, everything...’

  ‘Blue eye? What is this you babble of? No riddles, man – speak clearly and these men can ease your passing!’

  ‘The priest tricked us... gave us jewels, said go kill monks, one young, one old, travelling on the south road...’

  ‘What priest? Where did you meet him?’

  The warrior was struggling to speak now, his harsh voice becoming more strained.

  ‘C-Cravern, Port Cravern... where our ship landed... the tall priest met us at the docks, he was from our land, spoke our tongue... ack... said he’d give us more when we were done... ack... cursed, they were cursed...’

  The red-haired mercenary was twitching spasmodically now. The knights and Vaskrian, unable to follow the exchange, were looking at each other in perplexity. Horskram pressed on with his questions, his face growing more intense.

  ‘What was cursed?’ he demanded.

  ‘The jewelled necklaces he gave us,’ gasped the brigand. ‘Cursed... oh Lord of Oceans, help me...’

  A torrent of blood suddenly washed down over the neckline of his mail shirt. Wrenching the byrnie downwards Horskram gasped – about his neck a chain of silver, previously concealed by the shirt, was contracting with an unnatural will of its own, tearing through skin and choking the life from its wearer. At the end of it a pearl-shaped gemstone pulsed with a blue light tinged with a sea-green radiance.

  ‘It’s killing him!’ cried the monk. ‘Quickly, a dagger to cut it free!’

  But it was too late. The enchanted necklace finished its evil work, contracting horribly about its victim’s neck with an agonisingly drawn out crunching sound. The red-haired killer writhed and twitched violently, his upper body twisting and turning as his face turned blue, then black.

  As he quivered his last Adelko saw that the gem had gone through the same change of colour. Before his eyes the strange jewel sloughed and steamed, dissolving into an ugly puddle of tarry ichor that mingled nastily with the dead man’s blood.

  Horskram stepped back with a shudder and made the sign. In a shaken voice he muttered a quick prayer.

  At his behest they searched the rest of the Northland mercenaries – besides a quantity of gold and silver they found a silver necklace around the necks of every one. On the end of each chain steamed a tarry black gobbet of foul-smelling ichor.

  ‘A Northland priest hoodwinks reavers from his land into trying to kill you,’ said Tarlquist after Horskram had translated the interrogation for him. ‘It seems as though Thule’s rebellion and your own troubles are linked after all.’

  ‘As I keep saying, they will be more than just our troubles if what I think is afoot is allowed to come to pass,’ replied Horskram, frowning. ‘But as for what you say, it certainly seems as though this Sea Wizard was behind these killers – indeed only a powerful enchantment could have induced such men to pursue us so deep into the heart of the realm, for the mere promise of gold would not likely have compelled them to undertake so dangerous a mission. Were it not for the smokescreen afforded by civil war I doubt they would have got this far.’

  Yet still he continued to frown, as though unsatisfied.

  ‘Something troubles you, Master Horskram?’ pressed Sir Tarlquist.

  ‘Nay... ‘tis no matter,’ replied Horskram, shaking his head. ‘I am quite confident that yon cursed jewels were the “blue eye” the leader spoke of before he died – I have heard tell of warlocks who use such devices to communicate with their servants across great distances, and to keep control of them as well. Such glamours work a powerful charm on the greedy and the foolish – doubtless these Northland brigands would have been quick to accept such spoil when they met this priest at Port Cravern. Merchant ships carrying goods from the Northland Wastes and the Empire often employ their kind as bodyguards – to ward against their very kindred who ply the Sea of Valhalla as pirates, as often as not.’

  ‘The Northland reavers have ever been the curse of the northern seas,’ said Tarlquist ruefully.

  ‘Our ancestors were Northland reavers – it was such who founded this kingdom,’ Horskram reminded him. ‘But enough of this – we have survived another foe and have a better idea of who we’re up against, though to my mind many questions remain unanswered.’

  No more was said, and they busied themselves with the aftermath of battle. The horse whose leg had been broken by Horskram was still whinnying pitifully until Vaskrian reluctantly put him out of his misery – good vicious warhorses were prized by knight and squire alike.

  The rest were theirs for the taking. The rules of the Order dictated that a portion of all spoils be donated to the White Valravyn, but even so there would be enough to make it a good day’s work, all the more so given the contents of the horses’ saddle bags.

  ‘It was definitely them who looted the bodies of the merchants and their bodyguards back at Sördegil,’ said Vaskrian, his eyes shining nearly as brightly as the plate, coin and semi-precious stones they had just found. There were also bolts of silks and other valuable cloths in the bags. ‘I’ve never seen so much treasure! This beats melee prize money at a tournament any day!’

  ‘You’ll still only get a squire’s share, so don’t get too excited,’ Tarlquist reminded him gruffly. ‘But you fought well, so you won’t go away empty-handed,’ he added, clapping Vaskrian on the shoulder when he saw his face fall.

  The silver necklaces they threw on a fire at Horskram’s insistence – such items were cursed and should not be kept or left for others to find. His steed was thankfully not grievously harmed; like Adelko, Wolmar and Tarlquist it would recover in time from its injuries.

  The same could not be said for Sir Corram. They wrapped his body in his chequered cloak and lashed it to his horse.
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  ‘We’ll take him to the next village and have a yeoman deliver his remains back to Staerkvit to await proper burial,’ said Tarlquist, shaking his head sadly. ‘This is bad, very bad – the best knights in the land dropping like flies, and we haven’t even engaged the enemy yet!’

  ‘We just did engage the enemy, if our surmise is correct,’ Horskram said darkly.

  The corpses of the Northlanders they left for the worms and crows. They divested them of their mail shirts, which were of decent quality, and piled these alongside their shields and weapons.

  ‘Someone from the Order should be along presently,’ said Tarlquist. ‘They’ll know what to do with these – doubtless the levies and other conscripts may find a use for them. Every bit helps when there’s a war on.’

  With that they were off again, Cirod leading Corram’s horse as he had done Vaskrian’s on the journey to the castle. The squire was glad to have avoided the young knight’s fate – Corram could not have been more than a few summers older than he was, and Torgun especially was clearly much grieved by his companion’s unchivalrous death.

  ‘Corram was a good knight,’ he said dolefully as they remounted. ‘He deserved better than to die by such an ungodly and cowardly weapon!’

  ‘At least his soul won’t seek the Heavenly Halls unavenged,’ put in Wolmar grimly. It was first thing the princeling had said that Vaskrian could warm to.

  The afternoon shadows were lengthening by the time they reached the highway again. It was bustling with traffic, and they overtook a motley of knights, soldiers, mercenaries and craftsmen making their way towards the King’s muster.

  The number of refugees had increased. During their enforced stay at the castle, word had reached it that Thule’s men were ravaging the southern reaches unchecked, having taken Rookhammer, the last castle before Linden, after a week-long siege. The Young Pretender had slaughtered the entire garrison, mounting the heads of the castellan and his family on spikes as a warning to the defenders at Linden. Loyalist forces who had managed to avoid capture were now gathering there under Prince Wolfram’s banner, in anticipation of the coming assault. No quarter would be asked or given.

  To the left and right stretched rich arable lands dotted with sturdy farmsteads and lush orchards; the heartlands of the King’s Dominions, as yet untouched by war, enjoyed a prosperity that left its stout yeomanry well fed and industrious.

  Even so, with his heightened intuition Adelko could see in his mind’s eye a brooding shadow of war, dark clouds edging the clear firmament with promises of storm and thunder. And though his bandaged head stung and they now rode at a breakneck pace, the peasant militias training in the fields with pitchfork and wood-axe were not lost on him.

  As the sun was setting they reached a prosperous-looking village. Sir Tarlquist spoke with the headman and explained their need in terms that were courteous but brooked no argument from a commoner. The headman, a plump tremulous fellow, barely had time to nod and stammer his compliance before Tarlquist was barking an order to his men to be off again, leaving the dead knight and his steed in their wake.

  It was dark when they arrived at Sir Albrik’s manor, a couple of leagues from the village. Its lord was away – he had obeyed the King’s summons and ridden off to the muster at Strongholm in full panoply of war several days ago. It was left to his wife Lady Selma, a timid young thing, to show them hospitality.

  Her name reminded Adelko of Silma, the girl his eldest brother Arik had courted and probably married by now. That put him in mind of the home he had left so long ago, and a pang of homesickness suddenly washed over him. He felt then a profound longing – for the life he had deserted, one he would now never know. A simple existence of hardship and reward, love and bereavement, family and familiarity.

  As he sat around the table in the hall eating and drinking by candlelight with knights, squires and ladies, he felt the pang subside – this was after all everything he had dreamed of doing in his remote childhood.

  The white ravens were in high spirits after their victory over the Northlanders and the unexpected booty, and their ebullience carried over into optimism for the coming war – a chance to uphold the King’s justice and cover themselves in glory. Vaskrian was all agog as Sir Torgun condescended to talk to him during the meal, taking time to praise his swordsmanship and advise him on one or two areas of improvement. Even Horskram seemed unusually light-hearted, perhaps buoyed by their recent triumphs and the knowledge that they would at least be safe for a while from the dreadful demon.

  And so Adelko joined in the fun, embracing a welcome respite from danger and gladly accepting the serving girls’ offers of more food and ale as he listened to the knights’ stories of battles and victory and hardships overcome.

  They continued thus until the Wytching Hour, when Horskram intoned a blessing on the house before the guests sought the pallets laid down for them in the hall by Lady Selma’s servants.

  But warmed by drink as he was, Adelko found his thoughts returning once more to Narvik as he drifted off to sleep. One by one his loved ones appeared before him: his father Arun, his brothers Arik and Malrok, his Aunt Madrice. But their faces appeared unclear to him in his dreams, and when he awoke next morning he struggled to remember what they looked like.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Salt In The Wounds

  They were two days out of Caldeshavn when they spotted the longship. At first no more than a dark scratch on the blue horizon, the tell-tale square sail and sharp prow coalesced into view, along with the bristling oars propelling it towards the Jolly Runner.

  Reaching into a large leather pouch at his belt, Captain Conway produced a curious-looking item. Fashioned of brass, it was cylindrical in shape. Tugging firmly on it he nearly doubled its length before putting it to his eye, squinting into it.

  ‘Aye, Northland Reavers, sure enough,’ he said, showing less fear than he ought to. ‘A good forty of them, I’d say. Hungry for our spoil, heh heh!’

  Pushing the brass cylinder back to its original size he turned to Braxus. ‘Freesail buccaneers, they must’ve got wind o’ Freidheim’s war – takin’ advantage of the distraction to prey on merchant shipping. Cullem! Bring her round – we’ll tack into the north-easterly wind and see if we can’t outrun her first. Take us out of our way a bit, but then so will a skirmish on the high seas! And if we can’t outrun her, well...’ He fingered the hilt of his cutlass. ‘We’ll just have to give ‘em that skirmish!’

  Conway grinned crookedly. He was the only sailor on board that did not look perturbed.

  Braxus turned to Vertrix and barked an order of his own. ‘Fetch Regan and Bryant,’ he said. ‘And get the squires up here too – all fully armed. Don’t bother with armour, there’s no time. We’ll need every sword-arm on deck if that lot catch up with us.’

  Vertrix nodded and strode off towards the hatch leading below decks, his dirty-grey hair streaking behind him in the wind.

  Turning back to face the captain Braxus looked at him quizzically. ‘Forty? You’re sure? How can you tell at this distance?’

  Conway favoured him with another grin. ‘This here’s a looking glass,’ he beamed, holding up the brass cylinder. ‘Won it off a sea captain of an Imperial dromon in Port Cravern two years ago. It’d be his head if the authorities over there ever found out he’d gambled away such a precious thing, for they guard their secrets carefully! But then old Sagitus always was a fool for the dice! Here, take a look for yourself!’

  The captain proffered the cylinder as the crew brought the cog round hard to take the wind full in its sails. It was blowing up a fair gust today, but even so Braxus doubted it would be enough to outrun a swift longship manned by forty strong Northlanders.

  But for a moment their impending danger was forgotten as he fumbled with the strange article.

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ said the captain as he clumsily extended it, keeping one eye on the looking glass and the other on the approaching longship. ‘Now just put it to your eye, no th
e other end – that’s it...’

  Holding up the looking glass and pointing it out to sea in the direction of the longship, Braxus got the shock of his life. Where before a growing but still distant outline had been, now a vessel loomed before him, crammed with hardened Northlanders dressed in studded leather jerkins, with axes and swords on their backs. He was so stunned he almost let go of the looking glass.

  ‘Watch it!’ bellowed the captain. ‘I could sell that for a hundred gold regums in Meerborg, if I had a mind to! You drop it, I’ll throw you overboard after it!’

  Braxus turned from the looking glass to favour the captain with an icy stare. Here on the high seas, where his ship was his realm, the commoner had forgotten himself.

  Realising the same thing, Conway faltered. ‘Begging your pardon, sir knight, I – I meant no offence... just that that glass is very precious to me, is all. Hard to come by, you see...’

  Pursing his lips, Braxus let the slight pass and turned back to look in the glass again. There was no honour to be had in chastising a common sailor after all. And by the looks of things they would soon be needing every able man on deck. The glass was a strange and miraculous device, typical of the sophisticated Empire, but it seemed to be telling a plain enough message. Forty reavers. The captain had been right.

  ‘How do you propose to fight them if they do catch us?’ he asked bluntly, handing Conway’s precious looking glass back to him. ‘I’ve got seven good fighters with me, and you and your mate look as if you’ve seen some action in your time, but...’

  ‘Them?’ laughed the captain throatily, nodding towards the scampering crew as they scuttled up the rigging and ran to and fro across the deck. ‘Don’t you worry, sir knight – they may seem a timorous bunch, but they’ve seen their fair share o’ bloodshed too! We fought to a man in the War o’ the Cobian Succession – why d’ye think I take no mercenary guards on these jaunts? We’re more than capable o’ defendin’ ourselves – though it’s bad luck alright to have reavers on our tail. Aye, very bad luck indeed!’