by Damien Black
Vaskrian gazed at him, a slightly wistful look entering his dark eyes. Then he laughed again. ‘Don’t get maudlin on me again, Adelko! We haven’t parted company yet! And there’s a whole night’s celebrating to get through – I shall need you along! I’m sure we’ll meet up for a few more after the eating’s done!’
‘Aye,’ Adelko nodded. ‘I’d like that. I’d like you to meet my brother too.’
‘There we go then,’ replied Vaskrian, putting a wiry arm around the monk and clinking horns with him. ‘No need for sad farewells just yet! We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!’
Just then they were startled by a commotion. A group of ravens came tearing into the courtyard at a gallop. As they dismounted Adelko recognised Sir Torgun. His face was grave as he handed the reins to an ostler and stalked towards the keep, closely followed by his knights.
‘What do you think that’s all about?’ asked Adelko, feeling suddenly anxious. The music had stopped abruptly. Sir Braxus had left off playing some time ago to get a few ales in and start wenching, but by then the castle troubadours had arrived. Their sudden silence filled the courtyard, now awash with muttering.
‘Dunno,’ said the squire. ‘Torgun’s been promoted to Commander, to replace poor ol’ Tarlquist as head of his company. I think he was sent riding south with a larger detachment to secure Thule’s holding.’
‘Do you think they’re holding out?’ asked Adelko nervously.
‘I doubt it,’ replied Vaskrian. ‘From what I hear Thule emptied his lands of able-bodied men to fight his war. Only a fool would try to hold Thule Castle against all the King’s men. He did look concerned though.’
From somewhere in the courtyard a piper started up again, closely followed by drums and harp. The castle quickly returned to its twilight revel. Adelko looked at Vaskrian and shrugged. No point worrying about it now – if the past weeks were anything to go by, he’d learn of any fresh trouble soon enough.
The King was just about to dismiss Horskram and retire to prepare for the feast when there came a knock at the door.
Reus’ teeth, was a king’s work was ever done?
‘Enter!’ he bellowed.
A guard poked his armoured head around the door. ‘Sir Torgun of Vandheim is without, sire,’ he said. ‘He craves an audience with you directly. Says it’s urgent.’
The King rolled his eyes. ‘Heavens! Those rug rats had better not be holding out at Thule Castle or I’ll have it razed! All right, let him in. Horskram, you may as well stay – I’ve come to value your counsel, even your novice is wise beyond his tender years.’
Horskram acquiesced with another one of his deferential nods. The King had bid him stay for a cup of wine. He’d hoped to wheedle more out of the wily adept as to his plans, but he had dissembled evasively. Damned secretive Argolians – still, they had just helped him win the war.
Torgun strode in, taking a knee.
‘Get up, Torgun, and have out with it,’ said the King, in no mood for formalities.
‘Thule Castle is secure, Your Majesty,’ said Torgun, rising swiftly.
‘Good. Then why the long face?’
‘During our reconnaissance of Thule’s lands we heard disturbing stories,’ said Torgun, licking his lips. ‘Most of the levies who fled the field at Linden appear to have returned to the lands of their birth, only they have turned outlaw. They’re causing trouble and turning on their own folk.’
‘That is no great surprise,’ replied the King. ‘We’ll rest up and celebrate our victory in the field, and then we’ll deal with any remnants. Seeing as I intend to annex the southron fiefs to my dominions, I’ve been expecting to meet resistance anyway. We’ll have more than just a few rag-tag outlaws to deal with too – there’ll be younger sons and brothers of disinherited knights looking to stake their claim. When the feasting’s done I’m going to begin parcelling out the baronies that belonged to the rebels, we’ll create new lords and knights - ’
‘Begging your royal pardon,’ Torgun interrupted. ‘But this isn’t the only news I bring.’
The King frowned. ‘Well, what else could there be? Don’t tell me the Sea Wizard has resurfaced!’
‘Not as far as we know,’ said Torgun. ‘But we’ve heard strange stories – coming out of the Argael Forest.’
The King exchanged glances with Horskram. ‘The Argael? But that’s right on the border of my kingdom. What has that to do with anything?’
‘We met a lone mercenary not far from the south highway,’ said Torgun. ‘A freesword returning from Vorstlund. He was grievously wounded and being tended to at a manor belonging to one of Thule’s dead knights.’
‘Dead disinherited knights,’ the King corrected. ‘Go on.’
‘He said he’d been in a party of bodyguards, travelling through the forest with a group of merchants on their way to trade with the southrons.’
‘Not caring a fig that those same southrons were wreaking havoc up north I’ll be bound,’ exclaimed Freidheim. ‘Pah, a pox on those up-jumped market hawkers, they’re all the same!’
‘I share your opinions of the merchant class,’ interjected Horskram. ‘But perhaps we should let Sir Torgun finish his story.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the King with an impatient wave of the hand. ‘Sir Torgun, pray continue.’
‘His party was attacked. He was the only survivor, and barely at that.’ Torgun paused. ‘He claims the attackers were beast-folk of the woods.’
‘Wadwos?’ asked Horskram, looking suddenly very interested.
‘Just so,’ confirmed Torgun. ‘He says they were clumsy, but hugely strong – white-faced brutes with strange hands and stranger faces, loathsome to look upon. They set upon them at dusk when they were busy making camp. They were a large group, at least a dozen strong, well armed. From the way the freesword told it, they sounded well organised too. I thought you should know, Your Majesty, as it happened on the Northlending side of the forest.’
The King and the adept exchanged glances again.
‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ said Horskram. ‘From what I know of Wadwos, hugely strong and malicious though they are, they seldom cooperate. They mostly live alone, and are as like to turn on one another as they are to prey on ordinary mortals.’
Sir Torgun nodded gravely. ‘I once slew a Wadwo myself, master monk, and my experience of them is likewise.’
‘So what does this mean?’ sighed the King. ‘Have I defeated an army of rebel traitors only to be faced with a slavering pack of beastmen in my back yard?’
‘There is more, Your Majesty,’ said Torgun. ‘During their journey – before they were attacked – the merchants and their bodyguards encountered frightened groups of woodfolk abandoning their homes. They say a dreadful curse has descended on the forest – they also spoke of another warlock who walks abroad at night, chanting fell sorceries beneath the trees.’
‘Ragnar?’ asked the King.
‘Nay,’ replied Torgun, shaking his head. ‘Another elementalist by the sounds of it – they call her the Earth Witch.’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ mused the King. ‘Legend has it she keeps the deepest part of the Argael as her private realm, and suffers none to tread there. But few if any have ever had contact with her – to tell the truth I never really believed it.’
‘No, I think the legend is true,’ said Horskram thoughtfully. ‘She is a Right-Handed practitioner of fearsome repute, a pagan priestess who worships the Moon Goddess and can bend nature to her will. Some say she hails from the Island Realms, where she learned her craft of the druids before being banished as punishment for a failed attempt to wrest power from her rivals. Others say that she was born in the Argael, and that her mother was a Terrus – an earth spirit.’
Torgun gaped. ‘A spirit and a mortal bearing offspring in coitus! Is such a thing possible?’
‘It has been known,’ replied Horskram laconically, briefly making the sign. ‘But nobody knows her true origins for sure. Unlike most warlocks
she seldom stirs from her lair and never troubles those that leave her alone. That’s why we Argolians have never had cause to seek her out.’
‘Well, if the freesword is to be believed, something has her stirred up,’ said Torgun. ‘The wood-dwellers he spoke of said she’s been seen beyond the heart of the forest where she usually dwells.’
‘Could she be behind the Wadwos?’ ventured the King. Once again he was getting the sinking feeling that matters had taken a turn that went well beyond his experience. Perhaps he should consider employing an Argolian as a court adviser in future. Secretive or not, they were undeniably useful.
Horskram shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Wadwos are an abomination – the descendants of failed attempts by the Elder Wizards to create a race of super-soldiers thousands of years ago. It’s unlikely a Right-Handed warlock would have any dealings with beastmen – such wizards are more wont to harness the Elementi, what you would call nature spirits, to their will. It would take a Left-Handed sorcerer of considerable power to enthral such creatures... I don’t think I need to spell out who it might be.’
Torgun looked confused.
‘He means Andragorix,’ said the King, before telling him of the morning’s events.
Torgun made the sign. ‘So Andragorix was behind the war and now he’s amassing a loathsome army of his own! Dastard!’
‘Well we don’t know the latter part for sure but it would appear so,’ said Horskram. ‘And that might explain what is depleting his psychic strength – ensorcelling an army of Wadwos would require considerable sorceries. One would have to be a past master in the School of Enchantment, and prepared to expend a good deal of energy…’ A thin smile crossed the monk’s face. ‘In any case, at least now we have a better idea of where he could be. Indeed, this is an excellent development.’
‘How so?’ asked the King.
‘Why it’s quite elementary, Your Majesty,’ replied Horskram, sounding almost affable now. ‘If Andragorix is behind the beastmen, he’ll be somewhere in the vicinity of the forest – not even he could hope to ensorcell a pack of Wadwos from afar. So he was toying with me this morning – I might have guessed.’
Both Torgun and the King looked at Horskram quizzically.
‘He must have known I would learn about the beastmen before long,’ explained the adept. ‘He isn’t going to make it easy by spelling it out for me, because that would ruin his game, you see. But I think he wants to be found – he’s itching for a confrontation.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ replied Freidheim. ‘Last time you encountered him, he lost a hand and nearly his life. Why should he seek to meet you again?’
‘You forget what kind of man this is,’ answered Horskram gravely. ‘In fact even to call him such is perhaps wide of the mark – after a near lifetime of servitude to the Fallen One he is more a living demon than a man.’
Torgun and Freidheim exchanged uneasy glances. ‘I fear this requires more explanation, though the subject is in serious danger of ruining my appetite!’ said the King, glancing ruefully out of the window at the deepening dusk.
‘Andragorix is a fetishist in the classical sense,’ said Horskram. ‘He is a living embodiment of the Seven Princes of Perfidy, to whom he has given himself up, body and soul. Lust, envy, greed… such dark drives consume him night and day. But to these we may also add vanity and pride, wrath and cruelty – and therein lies his weakness. His pride and anger will demand that he have an opportunity to be revenged by inflicting pain and torment on me. And in his vanity he will gloat at the idea of showing the world that he finally bested me. He may have mocked me for seeking a duel of honour, but he himself craves a duel – a duel of vengeance in a place of his choosing.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Sir Torgun. ‘If what you say is true then it sounds as if you plan on walking into a very death trap.’
‘And I have sworn an oath to His Majesty that I will do everything in my power to destroy Andragorix,’ returned Horskram, glancing sidelong at the King, ‘rendering such concerns immaterial.’
He turned to meet the King’s gaze fully. ‘Moreover, I believe Your Majesty has been viewing me with considerable scepticism this past hour – and with all due respect I would fain put your mind at rest. I may be secretive when the need arises, but be assured my liege, I am without doubt the lesser of evils presented before you.’
The King allowed himself a wry smile at that. ‘I see this sixth sense of yours serves you well, Brother Horskram – perhaps I was wrong to look askance at an Argolian.’
Horskram shook his head. ‘Nay, Your Majesty, you would not be much of a king if you took everything at face value like a trusting fool,’ he said with characteristic candour. ‘In any case it looks nigh certain Andragorix is behind the theft of the fragments and has them in his keeping. I shall seek him in the Argael – dangerous as that will be, it’s too good a lead to pass up.’
‘But how will you find him?’ queried Torgun. ‘The Argael is vast – you can hardly go scouring it branch and tree, all the more so if there’s a horde of Wadwos at large!’
‘Thank you, sir knight, I’m well aware of the conundrum,’ replied Horskram tartly. ‘This matter bears some consideration…’
‘Well, you can consider it over another cup of wine in the hall – I’ve a victory feast to preside over and I need to get dressed,’ said the King, starting to rise.
‘… although I think the obvious course of action presents itself clearly enough,’ continued the monk, as though no one had spoken.
The King frowned. ‘Well, out with it!’ he growled, sitting down again heavily.
‘Wait! Should you speak so candidly?’ exclaimed Torgun suddenly. ‘What if Andragorix hears us, even now?’
Horskram smiled wanly. ‘He cannot hear us. He can only see us – to attain far-hearing he must have another scrying tool connected to his own.’
Torgun blinked, looking none the wiser.
‘The surviving mercenary spoke of rumours that the Earth Witch has stirred from her lair,’ continued Horskram, running a hand over his beard thoughtfully. ‘From what little we know, that is certainly not like her – she is so reclusive her real name is unknown. For years she has kept her lair protected with her sorceries, suffering none to encroach. Divided and leaderless, the beastmen of the woods would pose little threat to the spirit guardians bound to her will…’
‘… but united under another wizard, they might,’ breathed the King as realisation dawned on him. ‘Reus almighty! He’s fighting her for mastery of the forest!’
‘No wonder she’s so stirred up,’ replied Horskram, nodding. ‘Andragorix isn’t content with overthrowing kings – he also seeks to supplant rival sorcerers. While his pawns have been busy trying to undermine realms, he is trying to annex those parts of the world where not even kings hold sway. That is quite in keeping with his twisted ambition, as not all warlocks would choose to ally themselves with him, especially not those of the Right-Hand path, who often hold themselves to be “good” or white witches.’
The monk’s curling lip showed what he thought of that last notion.
‘And what does this mean to us?’ asked Torgun, looking perplexed.
‘It means my enemy’s enemy is my friend,’ replied Horskram, suddenly looking as if he had tasted vinegar. ‘Andragorix is probably too well shielded by now for a divination to avail us much without the power of Rima behind it – but a rival witch, who is in daily contest with him, and thus attuned to his psychic spoor…’ Suddenly raising his eyes to the heavens, the old monk made the sign again. ‘May Reus forgive me the sin I am about to commit,’ he intoned.
‘Surely you don’t mean what I think you do?’ asked the King dubiously. ‘You’ve already made one alliance with a witch today – how many more do you plan on making to keep your oath?’
‘As few as possible,’ replied Horskram grimly. ‘But faced with the circumstances, I don’t see a better alternative. At least we have some idea where this Earth
Witch is – I shall seek her out and persuade her to help me find Andragorix.’
Adelko awoke with a thumping headache. Turning over on his bed he saw his mentor was up, staring out of the window across the castle grounds. Groaning he turned over on his back, trying to ignore his churning guts.
The victors had celebrated in style. The castle walls had rung with the sounds of music and merriment, the brazier-lit fields echoing them as the common folk showed they could drink and feast like their lordly masters given half a chance.
Adelko had got uproariously drunk, celebrating with his brother Arik and the rest of the Highlanders till dawn. Vaskrian had descended from the castle to join them shortly after the Wytching Hour, disappearing with a comely wench on his arm just before sunrise.
Sir Braxus had found time to join the commoners too, for they had a love of the lyrical music of his countrymen that surpassed the stoical appreciation of the haughty Northlending nobles. The Highlanders especially loved to hear him, and many even knew the words to his songs thanks to their Westerling ancestry. Adelko foggily remembered linking arms with Arik and Whaelfric as they had sung along to Maegellin’s Lay of High Firth and other classics.
Braxus had also disappeared just before dawn, with two comely wenches, one for each arm.
Adelko didn’t remember much about what happened after that. How had he got back to his chamber? He didn’t even know where it was – they had only moved there from the camp a few hours before the feast.
Reus Almighty but it hurt to think.
His painful reverie was interrupted by Horskram proffering him a cup of water. At least it looked fresh.
‘Drink this and get up,’ he said curtly. ‘We must speak with the King.’
‘What, right now?’ protested Adelko. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time to be getting up and doing as you are told,’ answered Horskram sternly. Sunlight was streaming through the window. The cock must have crowed some hours ago. Wincing, the young monk hauled himself upright and quaffed the water, trying to focus on that and not the room spinning around him.