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

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully, Horskram only once retracing their steps to take a better choice of turning. Most of the trails were easy enough to follow, for foresters maintained them regularly for the Wolding nobility to use on their hunting trips.

  Towards late afternoon the two monks encountered a deer, which sped away fleet-footedly no sooner had it seen them. Thinking on this as they stopped to rest for the night in the hollow of a dead oak tree, Adelko suddenly recalled the goat at Landebert’s hut and how calm it had remained throughout their terrifying ordeal.

  As they sat down to their final meal of the day he asked his mentor about this.

  ‘That is hardly surprising,’ replied Horskram. ‘Goats are one of the few creatures of the animal kingdom that were created by Abaddon. As such they feel no fear in the presence of his diabolical servants, who will never do them any harm.’

  Adelko spat out his goats milk in horror. Was he drinking the very blood of the Fallen One?

  ‘What!?’ he exclaimed. ‘But how can that be? I – I’ve fed on goats all my life, one way or another!’

  ‘You should make more effort to remember your scripture,’ said Horskram with sardonic humour. ‘Don’t forget the Fallen One was once one of the archangels – the foremost among them in fact. As such, he had a hand in making the world on the Almighty’s behalf – and goats are one of the creatures he invented, before his fall. But don’t concern yourself! They are quite harmless, for he did not yet intend any malice when he made them – although it is true that in some parts they are held by the overly superstitious to be wicked creatures.’

  Adelko thought about this for a moment. Looking around the forest in the evening twilight and listening to the fading birdsong, he began to wonder what else the arch enemy of mortalkind had created.

  ‘Young novices who ask far too many questions,’ Horskram answered wryly when he asked. Adelko pressed him further and he conceded another nugget of information.

  ‘Cats – of all kinds, great and small,’ said the adept. ‘But of those you will probably see little, Adelko, for such creatures are native to the hot lands of the Far South.’

  ‘Cats? Does that include lions? The Thalamians used to feed early Palomedians to the lions, didn’t they?’ Adelko was thinking of the bronze knocker on the front door of the Abbot’s inner sanctum, when he had unwittingly stood on the threshold of his great adventure.

  ‘Yes, that includes lions,’ replied his master, his face suddenly growing grim again. ‘I am sure the Author Of All Evil appreciated the delicious appropriateness at the time. Now, finish up your devil’s juice, and get some rest. Let us hope our unearthly pursuer spares us another night of torment!’

  Adelko had been thinking about that as well. ‘Why are we being pursued? Is it to do with everything that happened at the monastery?’

  Horskram’s face grew darker still. ‘That is something I have been trying to work out myself. Go to sleep! Tonight is not the time to discuss such things.’

  It was well past the Wytching Hour when Adelko found himself sitting bolt upright again, staring feverishly at the darkly silhouetted trees. He fought to control his rising panic. The awful cry he had learned so well to fear was much further away than it had been on previous nights. That was some relief at least.

  ‘It’s not as loud as before! Does that mean it’s lost our trail?’ He glanced nervously at Horskram, sat beside him on his pallet and looking tense and drawn.

  ‘Possibly,’ he replied. ‘It can only materialise on our plane at night – that means it has to start over each time. Such entities cannot always choose exactly where to materialise – if sent to pursue someone, a demon will always appear within a certain radius of its intended victim, but rarely in the exact same spot. Two nights ago it got very close – we were lucky to escape alive.’

  ‘But how did it find us? It came on us in the dead of night!’

  ‘Night-time means nothing to the devilspawn of Gehenna – for them the deepest dark is as a sunlit plain to mortals. It probably saw us from several miles as we were approaching Landebert’s hut. Fortunate indeed for us that it cannot fly as fast as it can see far! That’s why I sought the cover of the trees – not even the Fallen One’s servants can see through material things. Or not this one, at any rate.’

  ‘So... it has limitations then? Weaknesses – after all, we drove it off didn’t we?’

  Horskram’s voice betrayed a hint of admiration as he answered: ‘Yes – we certainly did. I must say your efforts that night were impressive, and quite possibly saved us from ruin. Your conviction in the words of the Redeemer in the face of so great an evil was commendable. And I had not realised you knew the Psalm of Abjuration by heart.’

  Adelko felt himself flushing at this rare compliment from his normally taciturn mentor. ‘I... I didn’t,’ he replied. ‘Not until I heard you repeating it that night. You were screaming it so loudly... I suppose it just went in.’

  Horskram looked at him with even greater admiration. ‘Well, young Adelko, a journeyman of the Order in the making indeed! For all your youthful exuberance, I see my faith in you has been far from misplaced – but listen! It’s getting fainter still – the damned thing has lost us this night, Reus willing!’

  Another question occurred to Adelko. ‘How powerful is it?’ he asked. ‘I mean… compared to Belaach for instance?’

  ‘Without knowing a demon’s name that is difficult to assess,’ replied Horskram. ‘But generally speaking, the more powerful a demon the more difficult it is for it to take corporeal form in our world – a greater demon in physical shape would be a terrible thing indeed. But only a great power could bring about such a happening…’

  ‘Like the reunited Headstone?’ Adelko finished for him. His anxiety was growing at the thought. Sometimes he wished he didn’t think so much – he didn’t always feel comfortable in the places his thoughts took him to.

  Horskram looked away. Clearly he didn’t like contemplating the subject either. ‘Indeed,’ was all he said. Then he added: ‘Our pursuer is probably a devil of the Fifth Tier, or perhaps the Fourth at most.’

  Adelko felt his anxiety twist up another notch. If the thing that had almost killed them at Landebert’s hut was just a minor demon in physical form, it didn’t take a savant to work out what the reunited Headstone could mean for the world.

  Belaach’s words at Rykken came slinking back to him: The Five and Seven and One… the fires will rise… those who oppose us shall scream for eternity…

  Adelko shivered in the night.

  CHAPTER XII

  A Celebration Soured

  The feast was already under way when Adhelina arrived in the Great Hall. The vaulted chamber where the lords of Graukolos had heard petitions, received important guests and feasted their vassals for generations was vast enough to fit three rows of trestle tables, each long enough to sit more than a hundred people. Most of the knights and ladies attending were already there, laughing and chatting freely as they guzzled strong wine and picked at platters of cold meats set before them in anticipation of the banquet proper.

  The heiress of Dulsinor was accompanied by Hettie, Sir Urist, and an escort of bachelors. She had a passing fancy for one of them, a newcomer called Agravine who seemed to have mastered the art of paying her the most appropriate compliments – while flirting with her most inappropriately. With his sandy curls and charming smile he was handsome enough, and she liked the attention in spite of herself. In truth the young knight was just as shallow as the rest of them, concerned only with war, women and spoil – but at least he was modest and courteous, like the fabled heroes she’d read about.

  If only the same could be said of Sir Balthor – he was well in his cups already, boasting to a flock of hangers-on about his latest hunting trip to the Glimmerholt. To hear him tell it, you would think he had slain the two-headed boar of Alixos, felled by the mariner Antaeus on his sixth voyage, or captured the enchanted silver hart sent by Kaia to test the Nort
hlending hero Sir Damrod, famed for his hunting prowess... Balthor had felled an aurochs, albeit a huge one (according to him).

  Her future husband was also present, surrounded by his own fawning retinue. He had changed clothes for the feast, and was dressed even more outrageously than before. He wore a rich woollen doublet and hose of striped orange and purple trimmed with gold silk lace, a blood-red cloak fashioned from dyed feathers and a sky-blue velvet cap topped with three more taken from a peacock.

  As custom dictated, the betrothed-to-be were sat next to one another at the table of honour just before the Eorl’s high seat, on a dais overlooking the triangular hall from its broadest end. The tension between them was palpable. She felt as if the air between them were congealing.

  Her father sat at his usual place next to her, with Berthal the seneschal to his right. The rest of the honour table was occupied by Sir Urist, Sir Balthor, the castle perfect Tobias, and the guests of honour. These were scarcely a welcome sight. Hengist’s elder sisters, Festilia and Griselle, rivalled their brother in fashion-sense and ugliness, and their mother Lady Berta was as frigid an old dame as Adhelina had ever seen.

  And then there were Hengist’s two favourite toadies, Sir Reghar Headstrong and Sir Hangrit Foolhardy, a loutish pair of rakehells who revelled in their reputation. Watching them pour wine into each other’s mouths as servants began bringing out the first course, a thick fish broth that was more like a stew, Adhelina hoped they wouldn’t cause any trouble.

  On the other side of Hengist sat Sir Albercelsus, Seneschal of Castle Storne. A tall spare pale man, he had a granite face that gave nothing away and eyes of cold flint that told an even more meagre story. Everybody knew Albercelsus was the brains behind the Lanrak family – had been even in Lord Henrich’s day, and by all accounts he had been a far wiser scion than his popinjay of a son. Adhelina could well believe he had concocted the plan to inter-marry the Houses of Lanrak and Markward.

  The feast didn’t lack for entertainment. Baalric Swiftfingers, the castle’s troubadour in residence, was on top form, dazzling the assembled guests with virtuoso renditions of old favourites. As the banquet progressed he threw in a few bawdy songs, the best loved being an old ditty about a merchant’s wife who was cursed by a witch and developed an insatiable lust for the most inappropriate of swains – stable boys, beggars, apprentices and the like.

  Vorstlending humour was coarse and simple – and the aspiring merchant class an easy target for a high-born audience – but it was Baalric’s renditions of the Pangonian classics telling tales of chivalry and derring-do that moved Adhelina the most.

  As the troubadour drew elegant fingers over harp, lute and mandola and trilled one song after the next in his accomplished contralto and the wine and food flowed freely, Adhelina felt herself relax slightly. She was careful not to drink too much, though the Herzog showed no such temperance, knocking back the stuff as if it were grape juice and loudly calling for more when the silver wine-jug at his elbow was empty.

  So far neither of them had said a word each other.

  During the fifth course Jaelis Wenchbottom, Wilhelm’s fool, took to the boards of the central table.

  Adhelina smiled fondly as the jester began his routine. Jaelis was a short, pudgy fellow with elaborately tapered black mustachios who wore a ridiculous straw-coloured wig. In keeping with the gravity of the occasion, he’d toned down his usual filthy language – somewhat.

  Not that that hampered him in the slightest. He soon had everyone roaring with laughter, and several guests nearly choked on their food. Even pompous Hengist brayed at his antics. Only one man in the hall did not so much as crack a smile, Adhelina noticed: Albercelsus remained as lifeless as a waxwork throughout the performance.

  Some fools relied solely on antics, but Jaelis was more developed in his art, interweaving humorous stories between frolics. Sometimes he would even improvise, inventing gags on the spot at the expense of random audience members, taking full advantage of the immunity that his patronage granted.

  He was one of the best loved fools throughout the land, and as a child Adhelina had adored him, when he would seemingly pick crab apples and chestnuts out of her ear while singing silly songs that had her in hysterics.

  It was even said by some that after Graukolos itself and its lovely heiress, the Stonefist’s most widely coveted possession was his jester.

  ‘Well m’lords ‘n ladies,’ Jaelis declared presently, pausing to let the audience recover from their laughter. ‘I must say I’m right glad t’see you all ‘ere laughing at your ‘umble servant – especially you Lord Storne.’

  The jester removed his toupée as if it were a hat and bowed low at the Herzog, the tiny pewter bells sewn into his chequered yellow and black motley jingling. A few titters here and there trailed off into silence – no one quite knew what to expect next.

  Hengist nodded curtly, not deigning to meet the fool’s eyes, and snarled into his goblet. Compared to last time he had stinted on the wine, but he’d still had enough to leave his face flushed and even uglier than usual. He evidently did not appreciate being addressed directly by a commoner – even one permitted to do so by the circumstances of his profession.

  Adhelina could have kissed Jaelis for what he said next.

  ‘Aye, I must confess, bein’ a simple man as I am, I didn’t recognise him at first,’ the jester continued, addressing the rest of the hall again. ‘Took one look at him and I thought: “Bugger me, I’m out of an effin’ job!”’

  Roars of laughter shook the foundations of the hall. Balthor laughed so hard that wine spurted from his nostrils, and down in the lower hall Hettie giggled mischievously and exchanged knowing glances with the wife of a vassal next to her. No one laughed harder than her father, Adhelina noted with satisfaction.

  Wilhelm’s canny fool had hit the nail on the head. By and large, Vorstlending nobles were fairly restrained dressers. Even allowing for the importance of the occasion, Lord Storne had overstepped the mark, and few outside his sycophantic entourage could have approved of his ludicrous weeds.

  Jaelis bowed again triumphantly. His riskiest joke had paid off and everyone had seen the funny side.

  Everyone, of course, except for the butt of the joke.

  Hengist turned a deep purple, looking even more enraged than when Adhelina had insulted him in her father’s solar. Lurching suddenly to his feet he stormed from the hall, flinging his cup furiously at Jaelis as he did. Drunk as he was, it missed the jester by a country mile, but that was small consolation for the poor serving wench who caught the ill-aimed shot in the face with a piteous scream.

  Reghar and Hangrit scrambled to their feet and went after the Herzog as silence descended on the shocked knights and ladies. Out of the corner of her eye Adhelina caught Lady Berta frowning before exchanging meaningful glances with Albercelsus.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ boomed Wilhelm, getting to his feet angrily and motioning for Berthal to follow the offended Herzog outside and placate him. ‘There always has to be someone who can’t take a bloody joke! All right, Jaelis, that’ll do for now. The next course, please! Baalric, more music! And more wine, for heaven’s sake!’

  Her father turned to glower accusingly at Albercelsus, who had tapped him on the arm and seemed about to say something but suddenly thought better of it. Favouring the Eorl with a frosty smile he sipped perfunctorily at his wine instead. Adhelina reached for her goblet too as she and Hettie exchanged meaningful glances of their own across the hall.

  Halfway through the next course Adhelina could still hear her future husband ranting in the courtyard outside.

  Berthal had had little success with the enraged Herzog, returning to the feast and shaking his head and muttering disparagingly. Hengist’s mother and his own steward had gone out to try where Berthal had failed, but they didn’t seem to be having much luck either.

  Not that that bothered Adhelina: the more time she spent away from the Herzog the better.

  Presently Albercelcus r
e-entered the hall and approached Wilhelm.

  ‘Is the boy recovered?’ said the Eorl, in between mouthfuls of roasted goat and onions. ‘He should be present – after all it’s his betrothal feast.’ Adhelina noticed that her father didn’t seem all that concerned.

  ‘His Grace has been subjected to the most frightful abuse and is chary of returning,’ replied the seneschal, proffering another frosty smile. ‘But perhaps if your jester were to receive… due punishment for his insolence, it might expedite Lord Storne’s recovery.’

  Wilhelm put down his goblet and favoured the steward with a fiery stare.

  ‘Retribution against fools is against custom – as well you know. Lord Storne will just have to draw on his fortitude to recover.’

  The seneschal’s face tightened. ‘I can only commend your respect for tradition, Lord Wilhelm,’ he replied. ‘However, without some chastisement, I fear the Herzog will be in no fit state to rejoin - ’

  ‘Dammit, I said no!’ roared Wilhelm, slamming a meaty palm down on the table and upending his goblet. ‘A joke is a joke, for Reus’ sake! I won’t hear another word on it! If a man can’t take being made a fool of by a fool then he ought not to dress up like one in the first place!’

  The table lapsed into nervous silence again. Lady Berta’s face, cold at the best of times, hardened to ice, but Albercelcus smiled self-deprecatingly and offered a half-bow.

  ‘Lord Markward, as you see fit,’ he replied in a brittle voice. ‘You are of course free to govern as you will in your own hall.’

  His words were courteous enough, but the flint-eyed stare he fixed her father with before leaving again was anything but friendly.

  Adhelina felt her blood boil. How dare he? To suggest having a fool flogged – or worse – simply for doing his job… Just what kind of people were they joining themselves to? She tried not to think about her fate as she took another swallow of wine.