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

by Damien Black

  ‘And those are?’

  ‘Assuming Andragorix is responsible for the thefts of both fragments, he would need his powers free to command the agents he used to steal them. And then there is the matter of the other two fragments – he will no doubt be laying plans to steal the third from the Island Realms, and be searching for the fourth in the Sassanian Sultanates. Even a wizard of his stature must grow weary after such efforts, so it makes sense that he was relying on Ragnar to spy on us in the meantime. I think it likely that, once we reached divine sanctuary at Strongholm, he gave up on the chase for a while and turned to focus his energies on those other tasks, leaving Ragnar to keep him informed of the war and our movements.’

  Freidheim still wasn’t satisfied.

  ‘But why this war, Horskram?’ he demanded. ‘Why bring ruin on my kingdom – it has little to do with his mad quest for these fragments as far as I can see!’

  Horskram’s face was set grim as he answered. ‘Whoever seeks to reunite the Headstone seeks to have power over many kingdoms not one. There are rulers who would gladly throw their lot in with such a person, if they saw their own benefit in it. But there are other rulers, perhaps rarer, who would seek to oppose such a worldwide tyranny, and do everything in their power to stop it. You are such a prince, Your Majesty. For that reason, it made perfect sense to try and supplant you while the Headstone remains incomplete – and replace you with a more pliant ruler.’

  The King, though flattered, was not wholly convinced. ‘But why not simply wait until the Headstone is reunited, if it’s so damnably powerful? Why bother with all that intrigue?’

  ‘The fourth fragment remains unaccounted for,’ Horskram reminded him. ‘Andragorix may never find it. Even then it is said that only a mighty sorcerer could ever hope to wield its power – Morwena clearly sought to, seven centuries ago. But whether any latter-day warlock can ever hope to do such a thing remains uncertain at best.’

  ‘Then this Andragorix is mad!’ exclaimed the King.

  ‘Oh, yes, quite,’ Horskram confirmed. ‘But not so mad as to realise that if world domination is what he desires, a good way to start is by bringing the kingdom of his birth under his control. I say this to you, Your Majesty – Andragorix may not yet be powerful or knowledgeable enough to use the Headstone, or even canny enough to reunite it, but his powers have clearly grown since I fought him in Roarkil. I sensed that much today. What has fuelled those powers, I cannot yet say. But the fact that he is ambitious enough to seek to take over a realm from afar shows how confident he is in them. And it’s obvious his plans are far more elaborate than we can yet fathom. I fear we have answered a few questions, merely to be presented with others.’

  The monk sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring out of a window at the darkening skies. The sun would be setting soon.

  ‘And you were unable to determine Andragorix’s whereabouts during your interrogation?’ asked the King.

  ‘It was hardly an interrogation, more a sparring of words,’ sighed Horskram. ‘And no, he gave little enough away.’

  The King frowned. ‘So why not send to Urling Monastery, have Prior Holfaste sanction a… what d’ye call it?’

  ‘A divination?’ supplied Horskram. ‘That would have been my preference initially – back at Ulfang, when all this mess began. Sacristen would not hear of it, and I cursed his abject secrecy at the time. But since then… I’m more inclined to agree with the abbot. Andragorix may have revealed himself, but there is still too much about this situation that we do not know. I still feel that the fewer people we tell, the better. Even if that means forgoing a divination. To hold one at Urling, Holfaste would have to tell all his adepts Andragorix was at large. That would inevitably lead to questions as to how we know and what he is up to.’

  ‘So what?’ asked Freidheim bluntly. ‘Everyone who was at the council knows – and it won’t be long before I can get a messenger to your precious Hannequin. When the rebel fleet hears of our victory on land they will doubtless flee or surrender to Thorsvald. That means the Wyvern should soon be open to us again. As you said yourself at the council, once your Grand Master knows he’ll inform the Pangonian King and the Supreme Perfect. Why all the need for secrecy?’

  The adept tapped his lips thoughtfully and gazed distractedly out of the window. Dammit but the man’s recondite musings were irritating – if not downright suspicious.

  ‘The Temple will learn of the theft before long,’ the King pressed. ‘And don’t count on me to have that pompous idiot Lorthar executed, though I may yet. But if I do, rest assured it won’t be to save your Order from being embarrassed!’

  ‘There is a good deal more to it than being embarrassed, Your Majesty,’ returned Horskram, far too sharply for his King’s liking. ‘But it’s more than just Temple politics that stays my hand…’ His face grew anxious. ‘Every time I think of any more people being privy to this affair my sixth sense jangles.’

  Freidheim stared at him. ‘Your what?’

  Horskram sighed. ‘Tis a psychic attunement that Argolians cultivate from an early age. It makes us sensitive to witchcraft and can also heighten our intuition in certain matters… I am sorry, sire, I wish I could be more concrete on the matter, but to one not gifted with the sense it is difficult to explain… with all due respect.’

  The King shifted uncomfortably and huffed irritably. Argolians and their blasted mysticism. Sixth sense, divinations – in their own way, they were almost as bad as the sorcerers they claimed to oppose. Perhaps it was with good reason that Lorthar and his ilk distrusted them so. He thought of the erstwhile Arch Perfect, languishing in the dungeons beneath Strongholm. He damn well hoped he had chosen the right side in this preternatural struggle.

  ‘Besides,’ continued Horskram, ‘I am no longer convinced a divination at Urling would do us much good.’

  The King glared at Horskram suspiciously.

  ‘And why is that?’ he growled.

  ‘Andragorix will almost certainly have placed a blanketing spell on his new lair,’ replied Horskram. ‘Before, I would have been confident that an Argolian chapter would be able to channel enough of the Redeemer’s elan to break through such a defence. But after the power I sensed in him today…’ The monk shook his head. ‘Urling monastery is smaller than Ulfang, its adepthood less potent – and largely untested thanks to the sanctity of the Redeemer’s blood. And even Ulfang, I now think, would be hard pressed to divine past Andragorix’s witcheries. In fact the only chapter I can think of that might muster enough spiritual essence to do such a thing - ’

  ‘Is the Grand Monastery in Rima,’ the King finished for him resignedly.

  ‘Precisely, Your Majesty,’ rejoined Horskram with a deferential nod that Freidheim found infuriating. ‘So if I’m to find him before I go there, I must think of some other way to do it.’

  ‘Well you better had,’ replied Freidheim sternly. ‘Hopefully I need not remind you that you have sworn your King an oath to seek out Andragorix and destroy him.’

  ‘And that I shall,’ Horskram reassured him. ‘As soon as I know his whereabouts. The last I heard he was in Vorstlund, but that was many moons ago. He could be anywhere in the Free Kingdoms by now, perhaps beyond.’

  The King shook his head, feeling thoroughly exasperated. ‘Well this is a merry dance and no mistake!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘There is nothing merry about it,’ replied Horskram glumly.

  Adelko sipped his stoop of ale and tried to lose himself in the music, as servants moved about the castle courtyard lighting torches. Braxus was in fine form on the harp, and his compatriots were in good voice; the troubadours had gathered quite a crowd in the run-up to the feast, and the ward was teeming with carousing knights and soldiers. Mail and shield had been discarded in favour of doublet and hose, giving the Thraxian lordling a chance to show off his finest clothes: slashed russet-red silk with black velvet undercloth, and an elegant cocked cap of matching colours. He broke off his playing to take a sweetmeat from a tr
ay – and flirt with the serving wench bearing it.

  Vaskrian was as happy as Adelko had ever seen him – clearly he had done well out of the fortunes of war, his purse jingled with silver marks to prove it. He’d managed to avoid further injury in the last battle, and killed a few more rebels. Or so he had told Adelko, several times.

  The novice didn’t care to hear it – he was heartily sick of war. His mentor’s hard words that morning had left him nursing a guilty conscience that even the potent combination of Northlending ale and Thraxian song could not entirely dispel.

  ‘Will you be eating in the hall tonight?’ the squire asked him, his face flushed with success – and the copious amounts of beer he had already downed.

  Adelko shook his head and forced a smile. ‘I could have – Master Horskram has a place at the table of honour, and the King said I could have the same, for spotting Thule’s knights.’

  The squire suddenly looked crestfallen. ‘You turned down a place at the King’s table? Why in the Known World did you do that?’

  ‘I want to sit with my brother Arik – out there in the good green fields,’ replied Adelko, motioning vaguely beyond the castle precinct with his half-empty horn. ‘It’s where I belong – I’m no hero, Vaskrian, just a novice of the Order.’

  Vaskrian frowned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Suit yourself,’ he replied nonchalantly. ‘I’m eating in the hall – I’ll have to carve for Sir Braxus first of course, but they say the spread will be staggering – even for us squires!’

  ‘I should think so,’ replied Adelko, taking another swig. Kelmor’s lands had been spared Johan’s scorched earth tactics – presumably Thule had felt confident of holding that much land indefinitely at least. The ale was fruity and frothy on his tongue; brought up from Lord Kelmor’s cellars, it was as good as anything Sholto brewed back at Ulfang. ‘Salmorlund’s had the kitchen staff working day and night – I’ve heard he’s even pressed some of the men-at-arms that served Thule into service.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be happy with that,’ replied the squire with rare sarcasm. ‘Well, they’re lucky to be keeping their heads – hope they don’t poison the food, though!’

  Adelko winced at the ugly thought. After all they had been through and survived, being poisoned at a celebration feast sounded like an ignominious – and painful – death.

  Just then Braxus started up again. Adelko recognised the song immediately – it was the Northlending bard Halreth’s Lay of Sleeping Steel. A well-known tune in those parts, written to celebrate the final defeat of the Northland reavers a hundred years ago. That had ended in the signing of the Treaty of Ryøskil, and King Aelfric III, son and heir to the Hero King Thorsvald, had commissioned Halreth to write a song celebrating the end of the long war with the Ice Thanes.

  ‘Ah, one of my favourites,’ slurred Vaskrian as he grabbed another horn off a passing wench. ‘You can’t beat old Halreth for a good tune.’

  ‘I know he’s playing local stuff to please the crowd, but I can’t see why Braxus is playing Sleeping Steel – the peace it celebrates has just been broken in our time,’ replied Adelko glumly. ‘Then again, I don’t suppose he was going to play Vakka’s Lay of Blood’s Rest.’

  That particular ditty had been penned by the contemporary of Halreth some ten years before – to celebrate a crushing defeat of the Thraxians by the Hero King. It had been revived after Freidheim did likewise at the Battle of Corne Hill, the year before Adelko was born.

  ‘They don’t have much luck against us, your new master’s people, do they?’ mused the novice, following his sombre train of thought. ‘I wonder, how did Braxus and his countrymen feel when we passed Corne Hill on the march to Salmor? They didn’t look too pleased – especially not when half the army started cheering it as a good omen.’

  The ale was starting to go to his head. Given his mood it wasn’t likely to be a good kind of drunk.

  Vaskrian screwed up his face. ‘What’s got into you?’ he demanded, frowning now. ‘You’ve been in an ill humour all afternoon! I don’t understand – we won, Adelko. And you played a big part in that. This is a time to celebrate, not sour your ale with one miserable remark after another! And as for Sir Braxus, you leave him out of this – Thraxian or no, he fought in our war on our side. Or have you already forgotten that?’

  Adelko sighed, downing the rest of his drink. There was no use trying to explain his feelings to the hot-headed squire – but there was no need to poison his humour either.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vaskrian,’ he sighed. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. This morning was… draining.’

  Vaskrian fixed him with a stare. ‘Look, I don’t need your sixth sight or whatever you bloody call it to see that it was more than just draining. You’ve hardly told me anything about it! Reus’ sake, I’m your friend, Adelko – you should be able to talk to me about this kind of stuff.’

  Adelko nodded perfunctorily, staring absently about the courtyard. Several of the knights and soldiers had begun to dance with the serving wenches, who seemed happy enough to be distracted from their duties. A general mood of euphoria was permeating the ward, one he couldn’t share.

  ‘We’ve identified who was trying to have us killed,’ replied Adelko, lowering his voice despite the noisy laughter and music. ‘It wasn’t only Ragnar… there’s another warlock behind it all. He’s called Andragorix – you may remember Horskram mentioned him at Staerkvit, when the High Commander interrogated us.’

  Prince Freidhoff. Another noble corpse made by the war. Hard to believe the stern old patrician was rotting in the ground. Reus willing, his soul was on its way to a better place. Once he would have taken that for granted: but after everything Horskram had said he wasn’t so sure anymore.

  ‘So is he the one behind that theft you’re all so concerned about?’ The squire sounded positively nonchalant. But then he hadn’t been at the secret council – the gravity of the fragment thefts would be largely lost on him, unlettered as he was. Adelko could not have envied his ignorance more.

  ‘It looks that way,’ he said, as Vaskrian turned to grab him another horn from a passing wench. Taking the fresh stoop gratefully, Adelko sighed: ‘So he’ll be our next assignment.’

  Vaskrian grinned. ‘Really Adelko, you need to cheer up. After helping to put down an armed rebellion, what’s one more wizard? Why at this rate, you’ll be a chief monk in no time!’

  Adelko had to smile at that. ‘We don’t have chief monks you idiot – they’re called abbots, remember?’

  ‘Whatever you say. Hey, did you see that wench just now? She was definitely looking, know what I mean? Reckon we’ll have some fun tonight, eh?’

  Adelko flushed. ‘You know I can’t… I mean I’m sworn…’ He looked at the ground, his face burning.

  Vaskrian smiled again, not unkindly. Then he leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. ‘But surely, on account of you being a war hero and all, just this once your master might, y’know, let you…’

  ‘No!’ replied Adelko, genuinely shocked. ‘That wouldn’t be proper at all! Argolians are forbidden - ’

  ‘Oh fie on that!’ laughed the squire. ‘Why, I’ll bet your old mentor had a few wenches in his time, back when he was a knight. Oh, I’ve heard about his wild youth – he looks at me like I’m a man gone wood half the time, but I reckon there was more of Vaskrian of Hroghar in Horskram of Vilno than he cares to admit.’

  After everything he’d learned about his mentor, Adelko could almost entertain the possibility. Almost.

  ‘Hmm… they say he was a very pious knight, though,’ said the novice, mulling it over as he took another sip of ale. However inappropriate the squire’s bawdy conversation was, it was certainly good to get his mind off his gloomy thoughts. ‘I really don’t see him being quite the knight… you plan on being.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, Adelko,’ replied Vaskrian, grinning devilishly. ‘I can definitely see him riding a few nags in his time… Maybe he read them scripture while he was doing it!
Commit the sin and, what d’yer call it, absolve the sin at the same time…’

  ‘Vaskrian!’ Adelko was even redder than he had been just a minute ago. ‘Of all the blasphemous things you could say…!’

  The squire was miming along with his filthy words now, moving his hips back and forwards and pretending to read from a book. Behind him Adelko could see Regan and Bryant looking at him curiously and exchanging bemused glances.

  And then he started laughing. Maybe it was the ale. Maybe it really was that funny. Or maybe a youth of fourteen summers with his whole life ahead of him could only stay sad for so long. Whatever it was, that laughter was the best he’d enjoyed since he and Yalba and Arik and Hargus had shared a gourd of cider, the same spilled gourd that had changed his life forever.

  They both laughed for a seeming age, bent over double, ale spilling messily from their cups. The sound mingled with Braxus’ clear high alto as he took the music up another notch; it mingled with the revelry and joy that swirled in the courtyard about them, the stomping of feet and raucous babble of voices as noble and commoner alike forgot decorum and lost themselves in the purest joy of all, the joy of being alive.

  They were halfway through their next drink, clapping each other merrily on the shoulders and laughing loudly when Adelko screwed up the courage to ask his friend the question he’d been afraid to.

  ‘What will you do next? After the feast I mean?’

  Vaskrian shrugged. ‘Don’t know – it’s not up to me, is it? Braxus is my guvnor now – where he goes, I go.’

  Adelko nodded sadly. He knew what that meant.

  ‘Well…’ he faltered. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself saying this to a man of the sword but... I’m going to miss you.’