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

by Damien Black

  The Pretender continued: ‘But what of their supplies? Have we an inkling as to how much they have? Freidheim shall not be over long in mustering an army, I trow – we were best to be meeting it from within Linden’s walls.’

  Jord shook his head frowning. ‘Linden will be well victualled, make no mistake, Your Highness,’ he replied. ‘Do not hope to starve them out before the capital comes to their rescue – though we have taken pains to ensure there will be no other relief. Lord Magnus and Lord Johan – if you would both be so kind...’

  The first of these two, a flint-faced man with dark close-cropped hair, nodded curtly before speaking. ‘My forces ravaged the lands for leagues about, Your Highness, and we have occupied those that feed the castle. Lindentown, as you know, has surrendered, and its provisions have been given over to us for our use. The river is secure – we guard it night and day. There’ll be no midnight forays for extra food and drink – whatever the garrison has stored, it’s all they’ve got.’

  The second baron, a huge fat man with an unkempt mane of dirty blond hair and an unshaven face flushed red from too much wine, slurred his way through his own battle report.

  ‘Indeed, Your Highness, be assured – we have burned and ransacked every village and poisoned every well within five miles of this place. That should make trouble for any relief army seeking provisions, and we’ve got scouts roaming the riverlands and sentries posted all about the vicinity – if anyone comes within a country mile of us, we’ll know about it.’

  Lord Johan slapped his mailed belly, as though his words signified a great victory in themselves.

  The Pretender nodded again and was about to say something when he was interrupted by a commotion outside the tent. The dozen or so men gathered about the table turned to look as Father Pretchon, Superior Perfect of the Temple of Urring, strode in. A slight man in early middle age with blood-red hair, his eyes burned with a fire not unlike Krulheim’s. Only where that lord’s smouldered with the fires of unwreaked vengeance, those of the priest blazed with the zealotry of the Creed.

  Krulheim’s voice was conciliatory as he said: ‘Pretchon, what mean you, barging past my sentries? This is a counsel of war, which methinks a perfect of the cloth should not be party to.’

  ‘It is in the name of the very Creed that I come here now!’ exclaimed the perfect in his thin reedy voice. It grated so on Jord: he knew how important it was to have the blessings of the Almighty invoked on any army before battle, but the priest’s fanaticism irked him to the marrow.

  ‘This heresy must stop!’ continued the perfect, his pallid face looking even more wan in the disappearing sunlight. The braziers were beginning to burn more strongly now, but this did little to bring colour to Pretchon’s pinched features. ‘Only just now have I learned of the dire means by which Castle Salmor was won! Your Highness – do not, I implore you, surrender your cause to the forces of darkness! Though it be just in the eyes of the Lord Of Heaven, this unholy alliance shall put your immortal soul beyond His aid! Aye, and those of them that choose to follow you in this iniquity!’

  The perfect paused to let his words sink in, gazing around the table at the assembled barons and lordlings, his fevered eyes catching the flames from the braziers with fearsome effect. Several of them flinched, and even Jord, loyal to Thule as he was, felt himself tensing.

  For some time now there had been mutterings in the camp. Many of the men were beginning to voice a similar opinion to the pious perfect – that Krulheim’s alliance with the foreign wizard was a step too far. Now it was obvious that even some of the highest lords in Thule’s host, who stood to gain most from a successful rebellion, were uneasy at the thought of the price they might pay in the life hereafter for putting themselves in league with a pagan sorcerer.

  But Krulheim betrayed no such misgivings. A wan smile flickered across his face as he said: ‘Father Pretchon, be of good cheer – Ragnar of Landarök is here to help us win what is rightfully ours. You know he has prophesied our victory – surely it could not be so if the Almighty were not on our side. For years now the northern lords have taxed us unfairly, and with many an unjust tithe have our people been burdened. Nowhere is it written that a lord may not carve out his own kingdom – so long as he does obeisance to the Creed...’

  ‘Aye, so long as he does obeisance to the Creed!’ echoed Pretchon, stepping forward and shouldering past the nearest lordling to lean across the table, fixing the Pretender with a venomous glare. ‘That was precisely what was agreed, when we planned this rebellion! ‘Twas all well and good – until you solicited the diabolical services of this pagan witch!’

  ‘I presume you are referring to me?’

  The voice was thickly accented and unmistakable. The assembled barons had looked unsettled in the presence of Pretchon; they looked decidedly afraid as Ragnar of Landarök, whom some men called the One-eyed Tamer of Oceans and others simply called the Sea Wizard, strode into the pavilion with a measured tread.

  Pretchon rounded on him unabashed. ‘Poltroon! Idolater!’ he spat. ‘You dare to come to this god-fearing land with your pagan filth! Begone I say, back to your own benighted bourne – before I have you hanged for your sinful crimes!’

  ‘And what crimes are those, pray tell?’ replied the foreign priest in a hushed voice. ‘As I believe your liege lord was just pointing out, I am merely helping a future king secure what is rightfully his. All I ask in return is the right to establish a temple of my own here, so that its people may choose to return to the worship of their ancestors – if they so wish.’

  ‘You would have them throw away their immortal souls!’ gasped the perfect in a horrified voice. ‘Abandon themselves to eternal perdition – this is blasphemy! This... lord of oceans you and your savage kind worship as a god is naught but an un-angel! He does not even sit at the side of the Almighty’s throne – even to worship one of the Seven Seraphim as a deity would be a gross heresy, but this... this is unspeakable!’

  Ragnar’s face darkened. The scales covering the one side of his face glinted in the brazier-light. They were a grey-green hue, similar to the robes he wore. Outside, the last of the sun’s rays were disappearing beyond the far-off peaks.

  ‘You should learn to speak more respectfully of Sjörkunan,’ the pagan priest said gravely. His voice was still hushed, but now there was a deathly silence in the air that made his words seem to resonate more loudly. ‘You would find him a most powerful deity, if only you would open your heart to him – aye, him and others besides. No man can hope to live upon this earth and defy the elements – let you and all your kind speak of this One God how so ever much you will, it is not He who governs the forces and powers of this world from his far-flung heavenly throne.’

  Pretchon said nothing, only staring at him with a contorted look on his pinched face. Krulheim seemed about to say something in protest at what was undeniably blasphemy, but the pagan priest was quick to forestall him.

  ‘But be that as it may,’ he said, raising his gnarled hand in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘I make no attempts at conversion – let each man here believe as he will. I shall not proselytise, nor shall I preach. No man in this army, no subject of this realm, will I induce to abandon any faith that has sustained him to this day. But perhaps there shall come a time when others seek me out of their own free will.’

  Krulheim closed his mouth, apparently mollified if not entirely reassured. Aelrød frowned and looked away, as did many of the other barons including Magnus. Jord scowled – he did not care for the pagan foreigner and his sorcerous ways any more than Pretchon if the truth be told, but he obeyed his liege’s will in this as in everything. That was enough for the Marshal to hold his tongue – though he was surprised that the zealous perfect had not launched into yet another fire-and-brimstone diatribe.

  He was just thinking this when the perfect made a horrible choking sound.

  Turning to look at Pretchon, Sir Jord saw he was still staring at his rival with a contorted look on his face. Only what
he had assumed a moment ago was an expression of righteous rage was now revealed for what it was.

  It was an expression of profound agony.

  Another choking sound escaped the perfect’s drawn lips, from which a thin drool dangled as he bent over double to grasp the edge of the table. This was followed by a high, thin cry as the perfect pitched over, falling to the ground where he began convulsing horribly. He grasped frenziedly at his black habit and white scapular, his chalky hands tearing the thin cloth as he clutched at his chest. Knights and lords gathered around him and exchanged stupefied glances as they began speaking all at once, taken completely by surprise and at a loss as to what to do.

  Only Pretchon’s Northland rival remained unperturbed, standing as still as a frozen stream in winter while the others rushed to and fro.

  ‘Send for a chirurgeon, for Reus’ sake!’ cried the Prince of Thule.

  It was a futile command. The hapless perfect gave a final elongated cry, his body convulsing one last time as his zealous eyes froze over in the sightlessness of death. More than once Jord had seen a man run through with a spear die in a like manner, though not a speck of blood stained the rushes on the tent floor.

  ‘Well, it seems as though your god has spoken,’ said the Sea Wizard, his cloudy eye pale and pitiless in the flickering firelight. ‘I shall leave you all to meditate on the ramifications of this occurrence, as rest assured will I.’

  Without another word, the priest swept out of the tent, leaving a gaggle of stunned nobles in his wake.

  The camp was gradually becoming suffused with the scattered light of cooking fires. The urchin shivered in the chill breeze that had begun to billow the tents about him. His surroundings were noisy, but he could have sworn he’d heard a strangled cry coming from the pavilion as he was performing his duties. He didn’t like this, not one bit – the sooner he was done with the frightening priest the better. It was almost a relief to see him emerge from the tent and walk over to where he skulked, though the boy shivered again as he drew level with him.

  It was probably just a trick of the light, but the Northlander seemed to have grown even taller – he felt his presence looming over him. Though he scarcely had the words to describe it thus it felt like the first frost of winter, only it was a winter that chilled the soul not the body.

  In his strange flat voice the priest said: ‘You have performed your task satisfactorily. Give me back the things I gave to you, and you shall have your reward.’

  By now the urchin was too afraid to hold out for his money first. With hands that trembled he pressed the desired articles into the priest’s icy hand.

  Reaching into the folds of his sea-green robes the Northlander pulled out a peculiar-looking blue gem on a silver chain. It sparkled like hoarfrost in the twilight.

  ‘Th-that isn’t the price we agreed,’ said the urchin nervously. Yet all the same, he found his eyes drawn to the blue bauble, which was tinged with a grey-green colour at the edges.

  ‘It is worth many times more than the price we agreed,’ replied the priest. ‘An extra reward for performing so well. It has special properties. Put it about your neck, boy, and I promise you shall never feel the cold again.’

  Robbed of all volition, the urchin took the necklace and did as he was told.

  The priest did not wait to observe the last of the urchin’s death throes, but turning swiftly he walked across the clearing towards his own tent. As he did so he put the two items the cutpurse had given him back into the deep folds of his robe.

  One was a sharp needle. The other was a tiny effigy of a priest dressed in black and white robes, with a lock of blood-red hair attached to its head.

  CHAPTER II

  A Clandestine Trip To The Market

  ‘I’ll give you ten regums for it, and not a penny more,’ said the hunchbacked merchant, his crooked teeth glinting in the lantern-light as he scrutinised the gem-studded gold brooch.

  ‘Ten regums?’ spluttered Hettie from behind her shawl. ‘It’s worth twice that at least – give me twenty, that’s a fair offer.’

  The jewel merchant laughed at this, his teeth glinting again. Hettie had seen a few gold teeth in her time, but she had never seen this many in one mouth. She wondered if perhaps the merchant’s body was his strongbox. His bodyguards had better be handy swordsmen if so.

  ‘There is barely gold for two regums in the brooch,’ he said, as if explaining patiently to a petulant child. ‘I am already being generous with my offer. No, I’m sorry, madam – it’s ten regums or no deal.’

  ‘You’re patently ignoring the fine workmanship – made in Meerborg that was, look how detailed the horses and stags are. Not to mention that it’s studded with rubies and emeralds – d’you take me for a complete fool, sirrah?’

  ‘Hmm, no doubt it was made for a fine high lady,’ replied the merchant, the glint transferring from his teeth to his eyes. ‘Who did you say she was?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Hettie. ‘A wealthy jeweller’s wife from the Free City if you must inquire. She has run into certain financial difficulties but would rather nobody knew, hence she has sent me here to Merkstaed for secrecy... I’m sure I need say no more on the matter.’

  The gem merchant was nodding. With his crooked back and dark brocade gown he looked positively sinister in the cramped interior of his little shop, which was festooned with wooden shelves crammed with an assortment of jewellery, most of it worth considerably less than the piece they now haggled over.

  Outside the shop’s single entrance just behind Hettie loitered a pair of freeswords. The merchant was new to town, having set up shop in Merkstaed last spring after the original owner Otho died of the pox.

  That was good. This newcomer was far less likely to recognise Hettie’s voice and see through her disguise than poor old Otho.

  ‘I see, yes,’ the merchant was saying. ‘But that rather puts you at a disadvantage in terms of bargaining. You wish to make a sale without causing your mistress any... inconvenience. Or to put it another way, I am providing you with a conveniently inconspicuous sale. But as I am always fond of saying, convenience costs money.’

  Hettie fixed the loathsome merchant with a disdainful stare. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘Well... you say you cannot make the sale in Meerborg. Here I am, the nearest alternative. To seek out another buyer for the brooch you would have to ride many leagues further south of here. So, unless you wish to greatly extend your journey, you are not in a very good position for bargaining. And therefore I say – ten regums, and not a gold piece more.’

  Hettie sighed. She had rather suspected it would turn out like this.

  ‘Very well,’ she said with an air of faint resignation. ‘How about fifteen? You’ll sell it for more than twice that – a precious piece of work as fine as that, why you might even persuade the heiress of Dulsinor herself to purchase it next time she comes to town!’

  Hettie caught her breath as she said this, shocked by her own impulsiveness. But the ruse was a good one, though bold. Throw the weaselly merchant off the scent as much as possible. He could not be allowed to suspect anything.

  Sitting back in his walnut chair the merchant held the brooch up to the light again: common security dictated that a store such as his should have as few entry points as possible, and the shop had no windows. After a couple of moments’ further scrutiny he turned his flashing eyes and teeth on Hettie again and said: ‘Well, Reus loves a trier, as they say. I have taken rather a liking to you, persistent as you are. Twelve regums shall I give you for this brooch – that, and my solemn oath to remain silent on the matter of this transaction, as per your wishes.’

  Hettie returned his stare. ‘Twelve gold pieces? For that you’ll swear secrecy – on the Redeemer’s wounds? Not a soul you’ll tell how you came by this brooch?’

  ‘Not the truth of it surely,’ replied the greedy merchant, nodding enthusiastically. ‘If pressed by a future buyer for its origins, I shall say that I brought it with me from
my home city of Westerburg, where the jewellers’ craft more than rivals that of Meerborg.’

  Hettie nodded. ‘Twelve it is then – though this is daylight robbery methinks.’

  ‘Call it lantern-light robbery,’ responded the merchant with an oily smile. Hettie showed exactly what she thought of his sense of humour by not laughing.

  With the transaction done and her first errand completed, Hettie stepped back outside into the busy street and adjusted her shawl and hood so most of her features were concealed.

  She felt dreadfully self-conscious: Merkstaed was a bustling town of more than two thousand souls, and she only visited it once a month or so, but nonetheless she felt sure that somebody would recognise her sooner or later. Either that, or someone might pause to ask what a lady was doing going about with her head and face covered on an overcast but dry spring day.

  But she need not have feared: the tradesmen and women of the busy riverside town were far too preoccupied with earning their daily bread to give any concern to a lone woman, even if she was somewhat outlandishly dressed. After all, Merkstaed was no stranger to strangers: sometimes you even got a foreigner or two passing through, usually travelling to or from the Free City, a bustling port in its own right.

  Pushing her way up the filthy muddy street towards the river, Hettie turned her attention to her second errand.

  Merkstaed’s horse market came to town once a month – most if not all of the dealers would be from out of town, another good thing.

  The price of that advantage had been time – the horse market was held at the beginning of every month, and so they had had to wait more than a week to put this part of their plan into action.

  The paddocks were set up in a series of enclosures overlooking the Graufluss. Already the area was thronged with potential buyers, haggling furiously with the tradesmen. Half the horses there were worthless old nags scarcely worth her attention, but Hettie’s eye soon settled on something more appropriate to their needs.