by Damien Black
Thinking on this Adelko mouthed a second prayer for the dead knight as he stared sadly into the fire. At Horskram’s behest they had taken leave of the King’s contingent to eat and drink among the Royal Knights, joining his nephew. Sir Manfry was still the height of cheerfulness despite having broken his shield arm in the battle.
‘Still able to wield a flagon, what!’ he said gaily, his eyes glowing feverishly in his moustachioed face.
Adelko tried to smile back, but found it difficult. He felt exhausted. Saying prayers all day was draining work. But then, he hadn’t been doing any fighting: what right had he to feel tired? A wave of guilt washed over him to complement his melancholy mood.
‘Now, young Adelko,’ continued Manfry, oblivious, ‘before seeking out your darling brother again, I must insist you make good on your unkept promise and drink a stoop with us first!’
All about them the camp was a riot of celebration tinged with sorrow. There was no time like war to remind men of the precious value of life. The sorting of the dead and treating of the wounded would go on long after the victory feast, which would be held at Salmor in a couple of days. And as for the lands that Thule in his prideful ambition had seen fit to lay waste, such hurts would be healed in no short time. How many hundreds or thousands had died or had their lives ruined by one short war?
Pushing away his miserable thoughts Adelko agreed to stay for a stoop of ale. He longed to visit Arik again now Horskram had given him permission, but it was hard to refuse the jovial Manfry. Besides, this time they would have the whole night to drink away the gloom of war together.
Or so he thought, until Horskram addressed him halfway through his first flagon. The ale was strong, and he could feel his spirits beginning to rise again.
‘I hope you aren’t planning on getting uproariously drunk with your brother tonight, Adelko,’ he said, fixing the novice with piercing eyes.
‘Oh leave him be, uncle!’ laughed Manfry. ‘If everything I’ve heard today is true, he’s as much a hero in this war as any knight! Why, if it wasn’t for his seeing through that sea mage chap’s frightful delusions, we mightn’t be sitting here celebrating at all!’
Adelko started at that thought. He had been so busy it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that his small part in the battle may have been pivotal.
But his mentor replied seriously: ‘Yes, and that’s exactly why I want young Adelko bright-eyed first thing tomorrow – we still haven’t got to the bottom of the Sea Wizard and his said frightful delusions. The King promised me leave to question him should he be captured. That hasn’t come to pass – but the least I can do is inspect the warlock’s chambers at Salmor. I’ve had a word with the King in private and he’s sent strict instructions to Lord Kelmor that they are not to be touched until we’ve had a look for ourselves.’
The adept turned to scrutinise the novice again. ‘And seeing as you have proved yourself to be so acute, young Adelko, I shall be taking you with me when I go there at dawn.’
Adelko’s heart sank again. So much for a badly needed night of revels – but then he supposed he hadn’t become a monk for such things.
Quaffing the rest of his stoop, he bade Manfry a fond farewell and promised Horskram he would be back at a reasonable hour. Then he went in search of his brother. They’d get a few ales in before bedtime at least.
As he passed groups of knights and soldiers singing and drinking by firelight, Adelko reflected wryly that an Argolian’s work was never done.
CHAPTER XIV
A Villain Unmasked
Dismissing the weary guardsman Lord Kelmor opened the door and ushered both monks inside a spacious chamber. It overlooked the southern grounds of the castle estate; dawn light streamed through a window where the shutters had been left wide open.
The room was spartanly furnished, but tables and chairs were hardly what drew the eye to its contents. Rude shelves to one side were crammed with strange books covered in peculiar markings, many of them bound in an odd-looking sea-green hide.
They immediately put Adelko in mind of the books he had seen at the Abbot’s inner sanctum weeks ago. Ancient scrolls of vellum and parchment peered from between the tomes; he could see similar markings on their worn surfaces. Not even the old Sassanic texts he had looked at in Ulfang matched their alien foreignness.
The secret language of magic. The one Horskram had told him of back in the cave on the fringes of the Brenning Wold. The arcane tongue taught to the Varyans by the Unseen, in the long-ago days when archangels had walked on earth and visited mortalkind. He presumed this was its written form – words of an ancient power that they were fighting to suppress, before it overwhelmed them.
A table was crammed with odd paraphernalia: vials and phials containing liquids and powders of different colours. A pestle and mortar lay in the midst of the clutter. In it was a thick paste, again of a sea-green hue. Curious instruments there were too, tweezers and sharp knives and other metal tools Adelko didn’t recognise that resembled tiny square-headed spoons.
Set on a wooden plinth in the middle of the chamber was a wide shallow basin crafted of silver. Its ancient rim had been wrought to resemble creatures of the sea. Dolphins and seakindred and tritons were embossed on its polished surface, and other more nameless creatures of the unfathomed deeps: horrid-looking alien things, with tentacles and suckers and malignant eyes fashioned to reflect a queer intelligence. They reminded Adelko of the demon at Staerkvit, when it had finally revealed itself in all its unnatural loathsomeness. Shuddering, he made the sign.
As they drew closer they saw that the basin was filled to just below the brim with clear water. On a smaller table besides stood a silver ewer containing more.
‘The Sea Wizard’s scrying tool,’ breathed Horskram softly. ‘He will have used this to spy on his foes, perhaps to communicate with other adepts of the art of far-seeing.’
‘Ye Almighty,’ breathed Salmorlund, also making the sign. ‘That my own holding was used for such dastardly practices! This shames me as much as losing the castle itself.’
‘Be of some cheer, my lord,’ replied Horskram. ‘Your castle is yours again, and I shall put a blessing on this chamber once we have examined the paraphernalia and destroyed it. But first we must inspect.’
This the two monks did under Horskram’s careful supervision, the Jarl hanging back nervously. Much of the equipment was of unknown purpose to Adelko, whose career as a witch-hunter had barely begun in earnest.
‘It is clear that our warlock was accomplished in Thaumaturgy, Scrying and Enchantment,’ the adept said presently, citing the Seven Schools of Magick. ‘The first and last would explain his powers over the elements and his mastery of illusion. And we now can say for almost certain that he was behind the original band of brigands sent to kill us on our journey from Ulfang.’
Their search had uncovered more of the strange blue-jewelled necklaces they had found on the Northlanders; even now they glowed softly at the edges with a resentful green light.
‘However,’ added Horskram, ‘without being able to operate his scrying pool we cannot determine if he was in collusion with other warlocks.’ The old monk rubbed a hand over his beard, looking pensive. Adelko stared at the room and its bizarrely blasphemous contents, also at a loss for a solution.
After some moments Lord Kelmor spoke up. ‘Master monk, I hesitate to offer this counsel, for I would not rightly be party to any sin, but... I think I may know of someone who might be able to help.’
Horskram, still deep in thought, looked at the Jarl of Salmor absently. ‘Hmm, and who might that be?’
Salmorlund licked his lips nervously. He bore little signs of his captivity – Thule had treated him well along with the other noble prisoners, doubtless hoping to augment his coffers with a tidy ransom after the war. The occupants of Blakelock and Rookhammer had not been so lucky – Thule’s ruthlessness had apparently escalated with his ill-fated campaign.
‘Not long before the war broke out, my men appre
hended an old crone,’ the Jarl continued. ‘She hails from the foothills of the mountains – she had been accused by her fellow villagers of being a witch. Of course, we had no way of being certain of that until an Argolian could be fetched, but the peasants were convinced of it and would have lynched her had my soldiers not intervened.
‘It was resolved to bring her back to Salmor and keep her in the dungeons until one of your Order could be summoned to interrogate her. Then of course Thule launched his campaign and such trifling concerns were pushed far from my mind.’
‘Accusations of witchcraft, founded or no, are never trifling concerns,’ replied Horskram testily, but Adelko could sense elation in his tone as well. ‘Where is this crone now?’ he asked. ‘Can you bring her to me?’
‘Aye, that I can, master monk,’ replied Lord Kelmor.
‘Then do so,’ replied Horskram. ‘Is she chained?’
‘I believe she is, in links of cold iron.’
‘Good. Keep her thus for the nonce – we don’t want her trying to charm her way out of difficulty if she is a genuine witch.’
Presently the crone was brought before them. She was a filthy sight. Her bleached hair was matted with the dirt of the dungeons, her ragged homespun stained and blotched. When two guards dragged her into the room she looked up at the monks and smiled. Adelko could count her teeth on the fingers of a mangled hand. She was tiny – at least a head shorter than average, and her back was crooked and hunched.
Adelko was put briefly in mind of the awful Hag in Tintagael; suppressing a shiver at the memory he banished the thought.
‘What is your name?’ Horskram asked her coldly.
‘Ulla, begging my lord’s pardon,’ replied the crone, still grinning.
‘I am no lord,’ replied Horskram. ‘But a monk of the Order of St Argo. I have brought many a witch to justice in my time.’
The crone appeared unperturbed, merely smiling again and raising her shackled hands in a gesture of supplication.
‘Oh, very good!’ she cackled. ‘Very good! I am at your service!’
‘That remains to be seen,’ answered Horskram levelly. ‘You stand accused by the folk of Wethering of witchcraft,’ he continued, Salmor having apprised him of the details of her case while she was being fetched. ‘What have you to say to these accusations?’
The crone shook her head furiously. ‘No, my lord monk! No! It isn’t true! They’re lying, every one of them!’
But Adelko had registered the keen eye with which she took in the room’s contents. He was already beginning to form his own judgment of her guilt or innocence.
Taking out his circifix Horskram brandished it and muttered a prayer. The crone did not flinch, but plainly looked uncomfortable. Such a reaction usually meant the likelihood of a Right-Handed practitioner: most black magicians of Left-Hand Path would have registered instant loathing at the sight of the holy rood – only the most powerful would be strong enough to resist displaying instant revulsion.
Horskram questioned her closely for the better part of an hour, with Adelko observing, just as they had done at Lönkopang the previous year when they apprehended the witch there.
Now as then the principle was the same: the trick was not simply to catch out a suspect witch with clever questioning, to get them to say something that would incriminate themselves. That method had been tried by the mainstream perfects for centuries, often with disastrous results, and many an innocent had been hanged or burned at the stake as a result of their clumsy gropings after the truth.
But an Argolian’s sixth sense was attuned from an early age, honed and refined through years of meditation, prayer and fasting. The object of their interrogations was to provoke an emotional response from the subject; by doing so they would be able to uncover a suspect’s psychic spoor. Because the latter tended to be much stronger in a practising witch, this would quickly enable a skilled Argolian to spot one.
As the interrogation drew to a close it was fast becoming apparent that the villagers of Wethering had had good reason to accuse the crone. Though she deftly evaded all of Horskram’s questions, saying nothing that directly incriminated her, her psyche told a myriad of tales.
Every time Horskram mentioned one of the Seven Schools of Magick the novice could sense her pulse quicken. The two schools she responded to most strongly were Alchemy and Scrying. When he thrust the Holy Book of Psalms and Scriptures at Ulla and called on her to renounce her worship of the Unseen as pagan gods and embrace them instead as archangels at the Almighty’s right hand, she acquiesced with a gap-toothed leer.
But her resentment and insincerity were palpable; the novice could feel the tension rising in her like the growing heat from a kindling fire as she said the words. Her skeletal hand quivered as it rested on the leather cover of the sacred tome – her spiritual anguish was just as perceptible to his attuned sixth sense.
‘We have our witch,’ intoned Horskram finally. ‘Ulla – you have been found guilty of practising Right-Handed Magick. Though this is a lesser crime than following the darker Left-Hand Path, I am still obliged to have you branded as a witch. These chains you now wear shall remain on you for life, and all shall know you for what you are by the mark. Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?’
‘No, please, lord monk!’ begged the witch, crawling on her knees towards him, her manacled hands raised in a pathetic gesture of supplication. ‘Don’t brand me, I beg of you! I was only spying on my neighbours... and I might have made a potion or two – to make the younger lads fall in love with me.’
Horskram stared down at her in disgust. ‘Foul and lecherous crone,’ he said coldly. ‘You made blasphemous pacts with the spirits of the Other Side so you might cater to your depraved lusts, and gain advantage over your honest neighbours by spying on them! You used your ill-gotten powers to turn man against wife, while you preyed on their children for your own abominable satisfaction! Let the sentence be carried out henceforth, and consider yourself fortunate not to be hanged! You are banished from returning to Wethering, on pain of death!’
The crone wailed as the soldiers stepped forwards and hauled her up from the ground. Even now Adelko couldn’t help but feel some pity for her – he had rarely seen his master so cold, not even at the previous witch trial they had conducted together.
The men were dragging her off when Horskram cried: ‘But wait! Hold her here a little longer.’
A gleam of hope returned to the witch’s eyes as Horskram asked: ‘Now your status as a witch is in no doubt, do you recognise much of what you see in this room?’
The gleam intensified. ‘Some of it... my lord monk. Yes, yes, lots of nice, interesting things in here, oh yes... I’d heard tell there was a mighty mage staying here, oh yes, so I’d heard, mmm...!’
Horskram’s voice was still cold as he asked her: ‘Yonder scrying pool – do you think you can use it?’
The witch cocked her filthy head to one side. ‘Well, I might... would need to look at the words, though, mm, yes, the words...’
Salmor’s expression turned from one of disgust to bafflement as he glanced over at Horskram.
‘She means the proper incantation. It will be written down in one of yonder tomes, inscribed in the sorcerer’s script.’ Ignoring the nonplussed look on the Jarl’s face he turned to face the crone again and proclaimed: ‘We seek the sorcerer who was using this paraphernalia. That, and we needs must learn if he had any accomplices of his calling. If we free you of your shackles, do you think you can operate his scrying pool?’
‘Well, yes... I suppose I could,’ replied the crone. ‘Ulla can be nice yes, nice and helpful. What help will Ulla get for her services?’
‘I can reverse the sentence, if you pledge to do as asked and don’t try to magick us when we free you from your chains,’ replied Horskram.
A look of joy suffused the old crone’s crumpled features. ‘Oh, you’d let Ulla go! Free?’
Salmorlund was staring at Horskram aghast, but the
monk raised his hand to indicate silence. ‘You will still be forbidden from returning to Wethering – but you’ll be set free, yes. Doubtless the Jarl will want to banish you from his lands, but so long as you leave them, you will be free to go wherever else you will – if you help us.’
‘Oh yes, yes!’ breathed the crone. ‘Ulla will help! Ulla swears to help and not try any tricks – just get these chains off!’
At Horskram’s bidding the Jarl reluctantly had his men strike them off. The crone rubbed her spindly wrists with a reedy sigh of satisfaction. The two monks kept a close watch on her, ready in case she tried to enthral them.
‘She does not appear to be overly versed in the ways of the enchantress,’ said the adept, ‘relying instead on her potions to seduce her victims. All the same, we should be careful. Ulla! Know this – two stout soldiers will be here at all times, ready to strike off your head if I sense you are trying to ensorcell us in any way. Be warned – I am now strongly attuned to your psyche. Try anything untoward, and I shall be the first to know of it.’
But Ulla was scarcely listening to him, and was already rifling greedily through the Sea Wizard’s library.
It did not take her long to find the one she was looking for.
‘Oh yes, yes!’ she hissed. ‘A great and mighty wizard this one, lots of books, lots of spells... he knew an awful lot, this one!’
‘Just find the one we need,’ said Horskram sternly. ‘I need that scrying pool activated, and we don’t have all day.’
While the crone was busy poring over manuscripts, Horskram offered up a prayer, imploring the Redeemer and Almighty to forgive them the sin they had to condone to do His work.
When he was finished Ulla was ready. Horskram took her aside and whispered some final instructions in her ear.
‘Everyone else stand back behind yon witch,’ he said, turning to address the rest of them. ‘Salmor, have your men ready with their blades drawn just in case.’