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

by Damien Black

  ‘You are indeed as shrewd as your father says, Your Highness,’ said Horskram, inclining his head towards the Princess. ‘Thus far I have two chief suspects in this foul business – one of them is Andragorix, the other is this Sea Wizard we have been hearing so much of lately.’

  At the King’s behest the knights recounted their story of the watery apparitions at the siege of Salmor.

  ‘You mentioned how the brigands you slew on the road from Staerkvit seemed to have been in thrall to a wizard commanding similar powers...’ said Holfaste.

  ‘We do not know that for sure,’ rejoined Horskram. ‘But there do appear to be some similarities, yes: the wizard who commissioned and enthralled the Northland mercenaries sent to kill us hailed from the Frozen Principalities, according to the one we managed to question briefly. And it is noised abroad that this Sea Wizard is a renegade priest from the Northlands, where Sjórkunan is still worshipped as a god and his priesthood routinely practise magic.’

  ‘But what of Andragorix?’ queried Prior Holfaste. ‘He hasn’t been heard of for many a moon. The last we heard, he was somewhere in Vorstlund.’

  ‘That would place him ideally for the theft at Graukolos,’ mused Horskram. ‘But no – I have no concrete evidence that he has resumed his diabolical scheming in earnest. Certainly his lust for power is a matter of record – had not Belinos and I sought him out he would no doubt by now be meddling in the affairs of Thraxia with his gramarye and trying to subjugate that realm to his will.’

  ‘Wait,’ Adelko piped up, breaking his mentor’s injunction for a second time. ‘Somebody is meddling in Thraxia though – not him, but another witch. The Thraxian knight Sir Braxus told Vaskrian and me when we met him the other day... Abrexta the Prescient they called her.’

  ‘They called the Vorstlending mage Alaric that, before the second fragment corrupted his mind,’ said Horskram thoughtfully. ‘Adelko, are you sure this is true?’

  ‘It is true,’ said the King. ‘A few days ago I finally found time to grant Sir Braxus of Gaellen the audience he craved. King Cadwy has been enthralled by a witch, and visits ruinous policies on his realm while mountain clans take advantage of his ensorcellment and run amok. He wanted my help to temporarily depose his liege and overthrow this Abrexta and her followers.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ said Horskram. ‘So now we may add a third suspect to our list... Three witches, one of them a noted black magician of depraved character, the other two meddling in the worldly affairs of men. The more I see of this, the less I like it. It seems we must now add Thraxia to our list of countries to visit – though it lies on the way to the Island Realms in any case.’

  ‘If this now concerns his kingdom too, perhaps we should invite the Thraxian knight to this meeting?’ suggested Tarlquist.

  The King frowned as he mulled this over. ‘Perhaps he should be made a party to this, but not yet – I would rather not go divulging what we know to foreigners until we are more certain as to who is behind what.’

  Horskram voiced his assent to this, but Lorthar scowled and muttered: ‘Last time I looked, Grand Master Hannequin and the Supreme Perfect of Rima were foreigners.’

  Ignoring him, the King rose and said: ‘We have taken long counsel here today, and heard many unsettling tales. Now the time has come to decide what to do. Master Horskram, I have already given you leave to journey on when this war is done and seek your leader for whatever wisdom he can offer. But now I think it becomes clear that your cause and mine dovetail – for it seems at least possible that this Sea Wizard is involved in your affairs as much as he is in mine. So I would say to thee – when the time comes ride out with us, and if we can capture this warlock alive he shall be given up to you for questioning before we put his head in a noose. You have my word as your King on that.’

  Horskram nodded. ‘My thanks, Your Majesty. If it be Reus’ will that he falls to us alive, I shall be grateful for the opportunity to question him.’

  The King turned to the Arch Perfect. ‘Lorthar, you have heard the story in full, or as much of it as we know. Thus far you have steadfastly refused to countenance giving up a single drop of our saviour’s blood or even acknowledge its existence. Know that as your King, I do wish with all my heart that you relent in this.’

  The perfect drew himself up proudly and, casting a venomous glance at the three Argolians, turned to the King and said: ‘It is written in the Scriptures: “Render unto kings of men their lands to rule; but their souls my apostles shall command, yea, and all their disciples hereafter.” As the noble knight Sir Wolmar so rightly reminds you all, here in Northalde I am that disciple. And though I hold from you all temporal lands as is right, in this matter, which concerns the Redeemer’s blood and thus the souls of us all, I cannot and will not be compelled.’

  Finishing his bombastic speech the Arch Perfect stared brazenly at the King with a smugly sanctimonious expression.

  The King looked vexed for a few moments, then his expression cleared. ‘Your High Holiness, you are indeed right,’ he sighed. ‘In this matter I cannot compel you, for as you say your will must be free in this matter.’

  Horskram seemed about to protest, but the King went on without a pause. ‘That is why I must now do something that pains me, and which for all the world I would have averted. Guards!’

  Sweeping over to the door, the King unbolted it to allow four men of the Royal Guards to bustle in. Pointing at the gaping Arch Perfect he thundered: ‘Arrest this man! Take him down to the dungeons directly, and permit him to speak with no man or woman on his way there. His High Holiness Lorthar stands accused of high treason, for defying the will of his King. He will languish in gaol until such time as this war is done and he may stand trial. Until then he will receive no visitors, except when his gaoler visits him twice a day to feed him.’

  The stunned perfect managed a single strangled word.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh I may not be able to compel you in matters of the cloth, Lorthar, but that doesn’t mean I can’t attaint you when you break the laws of my land,’ said Freidheim darkly. ‘Defying your King is an act of treason – is that not written in the statutes? Your very own Scriptures say so: “Render unto kings of men their lands to rule.” Well, your precious Temple – and everything in it – sits on my lands.’

  Turning to Lord Ulnor he said: ‘You will send word to Lorthar’s deputy that pending his superior’s trial he is acting Arch Perfect. You will also explain my request, and what has just befallen his predecessor for refusing it – I trust he will prove a wiser man in this matter. He will also be strongly advised to dispense with Temple politicking and make prompt confession as to the contents of his precinct when his King commands it.’

  ‘It shall be done at once, Your Majesty,’ said Ulnor, before sweeping out of the chamber on his cane.

  ‘Well what are you waiting for?’ growled the King at his startled guards. ‘Get this traitor out of my sight – I’ve enough of them to deal with thanks to Thule, Reus knows.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of this!’ Lorthar managed to scream as the guards dragged him from the room. ‘His Supreme Holiness will hear of this, mark my words! You’ve just made an enemy you can’t hope to defeat in battle – you will be sundered from the Temple for this!’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ replied the King, looking singularly unmoved. ‘I don’t think his Supreme Holiness will be overly pleased when he learns what you’ve been keeping back from him for years – think of all the pilgrimages you’ve denied good Palomedians! I’m sure the Supreme Perfect and I will be able to come to a happy arrangement on the matter – so no need for any sunderings! Oh, one last thing – see that this traitor is stripped of all his baubles, I’ll think I’ll have them requisitioned for the war effort. That will be all – now get him to the dungeons where he belongs!’

  The former Arch Perfect of Strongholm wailed all the way down the stairs as the guards dragged him off.

  The King slammed the door s
hut behind them.

  ‘Uncle, this is sheer madness – ’ began Wolmar, his eyes bulging.

  ‘Silence!’ roared the King. ‘Silence or I’ll have my brother expel you from the Order! I’ve had enough of your mouth!’

  Wolmar cringed back into his seat like a beaten dog.

  ‘Brother,’ said Prince Freidhoff, breaking his silence. ‘I apologise for my son’s temerity, but he has a point I think – this is rash indeed.’

  But the King was in no mood to brook any more dissent. Waving his huge hand he said: ‘I’ve heard enough. I know when I’m making powerful enemies, and I’ve also reigned long enough to know when a more powerful enemy is hatching plans. True, we don’t even know yet who we are rightly facing, but if everything I’ve heard today is true, then whoever they are, they mean to cover us all in darkness. If the Fay Folk fear what’s brewing enough to aid mortals, I’ll warrant the wars of kings will seem like a storm in a flagon if this malefactor has his or her way! That is what you have rightly been getting at all along isn’t it, Horskram?’

  The adept, who looked as astonished as everyone else, nodded humbly and said: ‘Aye, my liege, it is.’

  The King fixed him with a beady look. ‘Then hear this, master adept,’ he intoned. ‘I’ve just put my royal neck on the line for the sake of you and your quest, and my aid does not come without a price. This Redeemer’s blood I have secured for you – and in so giving it, I do charge you, as your rightful sovereign, to seek out this black sorcerer. And if it happen that he or she is doing evil on my soil, you will do everything in your power to overthrow them. Yea, if it costs you your life to do so! Do you solemnly swear to this?’

  To Adelko’s surprise his mentor knelt. ‘I do so swear,’ he said gravely, his eyes to the ground as he made the sign. ‘All I have ever wanted is to oppose the servants of darkness and defeat them where I can. I pray that your trust in me does not prove unwarranted, and may the Redeemer light my path and guide me in all ways.’

  ‘Very good, you may rise,’ said the King peremptorily. ‘Most of the rest of you have duties to attend to – well get to them, we’ve a war to fight! Everyone in this room is sworn to secrecy about everything they have heard here – save for you and your novice Horskram, you may divulge what you already knew as you see fit. The rest of you: it’s treason and the dungeons with Lorthar if you breathe a word of this to anyone without my say-so. Is that firmly understood?’

  As one the remaining councillors nodded. It was most firmly understood.

  ‘Very good,’ rejoined the King. ‘Now let’s to it! There’s a traitorous upstart waiting to meet us in battle – and I have a feeling that’s only going to be the beginning of our troubles.’

  CHAPTER VII

  A Muster at Dawn

  Eight thousand fighting men. After three weeks in a city of twenty thousand people, it seemed a slender hope for a kingdom.

  Not that they weren’t an impressive sight to Adelko. The pitched tents of the loyalist muster sprawled before him, sporting hundreds of pennants, each one bearing its own unique coat of arms. Each section of the camp was earmarked by a standard, one for each lord who had brought knights and other soldiers to the coming conflict. The section belonging to the White Valravyn was conspicuous by its absence of heraldry: a single standard bearing their age-old symbol ruffled alone in the breeze.

  ‘That’s where I’ve been staying,’ said Vaskrian with more than a hint of pride in his voice. He was pointing at the clutch of pavilions centred on the standard bearing the double unicorn insignia of the Ruling House of Ingwin. As a vassal holding lands directly from the King, his new master was part of the contingent that styled itself the Royal Knights.

  ‘We’ll break camp in an hour, so I can’t stay long,’ the squire added breathlessly. ‘The Royals have been picked to take the vanguard, along with the White Valravyn – that means we’ll be part of the central charge when we get to Linden!’

  He looked as fevered as he had ever done to Adelko, which was saying a lot. The novice guessed that even their shared adventures paled next to the prospect of his first proper war.

  He didn’t share his friend’s enthusiasm. He’d gotten more than used to the luxury of living in a palace, albeit a martial one belonging to a hardened warrior-king: the prospect of returning to the road with a war waiting at the end of it didn’t appeal.

  He caught himself, feeling suddenly ashamed. Who was he to complain? He would be riding with the King’s entourage, afforded relative comforts during the journey. When that was over he would watch the fighting from a safe distance with Horskram, Freidheim and his closest advisers. Well, safe unless they lost.

  The camp suddenly rang with the blaring of trumpets.

  ‘It’s the order to strike camp,’ said Vaskrian. ‘Where’s your guvnor? I should say goodbye to him – chances are we won’t see much of each other during the march.’

  Adelko glanced over his shoulder, back towards the city gates.

  ‘He’ll be along in a minute, I should think,’ the novice replied. ‘He’ll be coming with the royal entourage – they’re supposed to arrive in time for the King to give a speech to the army before we set off.’

  ‘Surprised he let you out of his sight for so long,’ quipped the squire. He had a point. Adelko had sent him a messenger, arranging to meet at dawn on the fields between Strongholm and the muster camp. Horskram had indeed been indulgent, complying with his novice’s request. Adelko liked to think it had something to do with his contribution to the secret council last week. True, he’d broken his mentor’s injunction yet again, but some good had clearly come of it. Surely even the irascible old adept could see how much his adventures had improved him. He might not be strong like Vaskrian or the knights they’d met, but he’d proved he could think clearly under pressure.

  A second series of trumpet blasts sounded. These were from the turrets atop the gatehouse guarding the entrance to Strongholm.

  ‘That’ll be them now,’ said Adelko. He was on the point of turning back to face his friend when his eye was drawn to the left. On the other side of the gates from where they were, another camp huddled against the grey city walls. Unlike the muster, now a bustle of activity pulling down tents and saddling horses, they were a pitiful sight. The refugees fleeing Thule’s depredations had multiplied during the first week of their sojourn in the capital; the King had been forced to order them settled outside Strongholm. They numbered a good ten thousand at least – already the loyalist victims of war outnumbered those who would fight their cause.

  The new-born sun was rising on a mild day, but that did little to raise his spirits. Its inchoate rays tinged the seas of the Strang Estuary an ominous red that put him in mind of Prince Thorsvald’s efforts to hold off the rebel fleet. The last they had heard, the Sealord was putting up a valiant fight – but that had been three days ago and things could change quickly in a war. Especially when you were outnumbered.

  Besides that, he felt homesick. He’d caught his first glimpse of the Highlanders a few days ago, when he’d been taking in the view from the palace rooftop.

  He had been about to make his way back down when he’d heard it. The unmistakable sound of a highland horn. They had come riding in from the north-west, mounted on shaggy mountain ponies: a six-hundred strong host of bearded, braided men bearing a myriad of brightly coloured banners. The sound of clan pipes mingling with the horn blast heralding their arrival had driven a phantom knife through his heart; the bitter-sweet longing for a home left far behind.

  In keeping with their fiercely independent nature the clans had set up their own camp, a little apart from the main muster. Adelko could see them joining themselves to the middle host now, rugged warriors dressed in studded leather jerkins and carrying stout axes.

  Each banner bore its own distinct pattern of interlocking shapes, woven from threads of different hues. A sash worn by every warrior mirrored the design appropriate to their clan. So very different from the knights’ pennants with t
heir pictorial devices.

  Scouring the banners, Adelko had found the one he was looking for: the yellow and green diamonds of Clan MacLingen, which ruled the stretch of Highlands he’d grown up in. Perhaps old Whaelfric, his local clansman, would be among them.

  ‘I’d best be going,’ said Vaskrian regretfully. ‘Too bad I can’t say farewell to the old monk in person, but I have to get Sir Ulfstan ready for the march.’

  ‘I’ll give Master Horskram your best wishes,’ replied Adelko, wondering how much the adept would care for those. His mentor had given little indication that he thought any better of the headstrong squire since Staerkvit. ‘What’s he like, your new master?’ asked the novice, changing the subject.

  Vaskrian wrinkled his nose. ‘Not much to say, really. Don’t think he’s half the man my old guvnor was. You know how it is – there’s bluebloods that can fight, and there’s bluebloods that only think they can.’

  Adelko merely nodded. He sixth sense told him that beneath his excitement his friend was concealing a profound dissatisfaction. Evidently the squire’s hopes of a knighthood weren’t being encouraged by his new master.

  Vaskrian turned to go. Adelko bit his lip. Now was the time.

  ‘Vaskrian…’

  The squire turned to look at him again.

  ‘What ails you?’ he asked, suddenly frowning when he caught the look on Adelko’s face.

  Adelko flushed. How did you thank someone for saving your life?

  And then the answer came. It was simple. You thanked them.