Devil's Night Dawning: The First Book of the Broken Stone Series Page 23

  ‘Deep enough to meet your end if you fall in – so don’t!’ replied his master.

  ‘It’s just that... I can’t swim,’ blurted Adelko nervously.

  ‘Well of course you can’t!’ exclaimed Horskram. ‘You’re a mountain lad, not a fisherman’s son! Now, if you’re done stating the obvious, follow my lead. Remember, these rocks are slippery, so always have three points of contact with them – you’ll be fine, just do as I do!’

  Horskram stepped lightly onto the first rock, crouching low and clambering up on to the next one, which was half a man’s height above the first. Turning around to look at Adelko he beckoned for him to follow with his free hand.

  Taking a deep breath the young monk stepped gingerly on to the first rock. The water flowed and splashed across it with the free abandon of wild nature. Trying not to look at it, he picked his way unsteadily onto the next rock, just as Horskram moved on to another.

  They were more than halfway across when Adelko began to feel surer of himself. He had slipped a couple of times, and felt his heart in his mouth when he did, but managed to recover his balance and avoid falling into the river. His mentor was by now several rocks ahead of him, and once again Adelko had to marvel at the able-bodied nimbleness of one so advanced in years. But then Horskram had spent most of his life on the road, his body hardened by decades of grappling with the unforgiving wildernesses of the world.

  Adelko could hardly say the same – he had found the last six months as exhausting as they had been exhilarating.

  He was nearly across when he slipped again. This time he almost tumbled headlong into the water, and only saved himself by grabbing frantically at a mossy outcropping of rock. Getting to his feet with a stream of curses unbefitting a pious monk he winced; he had grazed his knee, but at least he hadn’t fallen in.

  Looking up he saw Horskram standing at the edge of the river with his hands on his hips, a wry half-smile on his face as he barked: ‘Well, come on! We haven’t got all day – we’re behind schedule as it is!’

  Adelko frowned and bit his tongue, and focused on navigating the rest of the crossing in safety. He was growing weary of his mentor’s caustic humour – at times he felt Horskram was deliberately poking fun at him to test his resolve in the face of adversity.

  It only occurred to him later that perhaps Horskram’s uncharacteristic quips were intended to take both their minds off the mortal peril they were in.

  On this side of the river the Brekawood lay on the fertile plains of the lowlands proper, so at least it was less tiring to travel through. Adelko was more than grateful for this, for he now had a sore knee to add to his woes.

  They reached the western highway at dusk. Adelko groaned inwardly as he registered its shocking state of disrepair.

  ‘I’ve seen fewer holes in Yalba’s Norric translations,’ he said glumly. ‘I would have thought the local baron would have kept a road this size in better condition.’

  ‘It used to serve as a main trading route with Thraxia,’ explained Horskram without breaking his stride, ‘before it fell into disuse during the Border Wars.’

  That series of internecine skirmishes between the two kingdoms had lasted more than a century. The Border Wars had finally come to an end with King Freidheim’s decisive victory over the Thraxians at the Battle of Corne Hill. It had been half a century since the Boy King had routed the invading army and their mercenary allies from Vorstlund, and that mighty struggle had passed into Northlending folklore. In keeping with his unusually wise and benevolent nature, Freidheim had chosen not to press his advantage against the defeated Thraxians, instead suing for peace. His advisers had protested this decision, putting it down to the optimistic folly of youth, but the Boy King had proved to be shrewd beyond his years.

  Not long after peace was made between the two kingdoms, Morwyne, Thraxia’s fierce patrician king, had died. His son Cullodyn was a far more level-headed man than his fiery father and had recognised the wisdom in maintaining cordial relations with his Northlending rivals; for within a few short years Freidheim had laboured to make Northalde a sturdy kingdom once again, reviving the Order of the White Valravyn and garrisoning and repairing the castles that his great-grandfather had built.

  With lasting peace made with the Thraxians, and the age-old threat from the Northland reavers extinguished by Freidheim’s grandfather Aelfric, the young monarch had been free to consolidate his realm. He had proved to be as able a ruler as he was a general and diplomat, and the years that followed Corne Hill were mostly happy and prosperous for those living in the King’s Dominions and the surrounding lands ruled by loyal barons.

  But not even so wise a liege as Freidheim could please everybody or pacify all. Though the highland clans where Adelko was born used their autonomy wisely enough, their neighbours on the Wold were another matter.

  ‘The barons there can always be relied upon to cease their bickering and present a united front whenever the King tries to bring them to heel,’ said Horskram ruefully as they got onto that subject. ‘They will never apply his just laws to their oppressed people.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Adelko, feeling suddenly naive.

  ‘Because it would cost them money,’ answered Horskram. ‘Justice always costs rulers money, one way or another.’

  He said no more on the matter. Adelko found himself thinking of his mentor’s conversation with Landebert before the demon attacked.

  ‘What about the southern barons?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t read much about them – I know they rebelled against the King after the Thraxians were beaten at Corne Hill, but why did they do it?’

  ‘Their quarrel was an old one,’ explained Horskram. ‘For in bygone days before the Unity of Crowns, when Northalde was three separate realms, the lands they ruled comprised the Old Kingdom of Thule, from where the present-day jarldom takes its name. The pretender Kanga meant to revive his antiquated royal seat and have himself crowned as head of a breakaway kingdom. So together he and half a dozen of the most powerful southron nobles raised an army to fight for secession. It took seven years of bitter civil war to thwart him, until finally he perished by the King’s own sword at the Battle of Aumric Fields, in sight of the very walls of Strongholm.’

  Once again Freidheim had shown mercy in victory, and against all advice had refused to execute Kanga’s young son Krulheim, as was customary when dealing with traitors. Instead he had made conciliation with the southern provinces, forbidding his victorious armies from despoiling their lands.

  That had been fifteen years ago. Since the War of the Southern Secession the King had reigned in peace, and many living in the Dominions and loyalist territories had even begun to say that Northalde was almost back to its heyday of a century ago, when Thorsvald the Hero King had sat on the throne of a regional power.

  But others murmured that the present King’s kindness was a weakness, and that no good would come of his excessive clemency; many loyal knights and nobles with holdings on the southern borders of the Dominions eyed their neighbours with suspicion, and kept their swords sharpened.

  The two monks trudged along the highway in the deepening dark, with only the steady yellow glow of Horskram’s lantern for company as they debated their country’s troubled history. The road was deeply rutted and potholed. Despite the peace, trade between the two nations had never fully recovered from the wars.

  ‘In any case the route across the mountains is now too dangerous to travel,’ said Horskram when Adelko complained about the road again.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked the novice. ‘The Border Wars are long over.’

  ‘Northalde is not the only kingdom to suffer the privations of civil war,’ replied his mentor. ‘Over on the other side of the Hyrkrainians, mountain tribes have been fighting the lowland Thraxian nobles for generations.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Much the same reason as we fought the southern barons. History, land, power. When you have seen enough of the world, young Adelko, you will learn that most conflic
ts boil down to the same handful of ideas in the end. They’re seldom very good ideas either, but that doesn’t stop them being revisited time and again.’

  Horskram fell silent again, grimly staring into the night as the pair of them trudged on towards Kaupstad.

  Though Adelko supposed he was too young fully to appreciate what his master was telling him, he felt a twinge of pity for the old monk – he had seen so much of life, yet so little of it seemed to bring him any joy.

  Contemplating this, he began to wonder if he had chosen the best path in life. Then he thought of himself back at his father’s forge in Narvik, hunched over yet another horseshoe, and his doubts vanished.

  It was more than two hours after sunset when they finally reached Kaupstad. The town was enclosed on all sides by a roughly rectangular wooden palisade built of logs twice a man’s height, hewn into square shapes and fitted closely together. From the lintel of the western gate they approached hung two lanterns, their flickering light meanly reproaching the still darkness. Perched atop this on a platform hidden from view behind the palisade slouched a balding town dweller, dressed in a tatty brigandine and clutching a rusty spear.

  He must have been half asleep, as he didn’t notice them until they were well within the circle of lantern light. As if to make up for his lackadaisical sentry-keeping, the hapless guard now made a great show of challenging them.

  ‘Who goes there?! What time of night is this to be wayfaring?’

  ‘Far too late for respectable men of the cloth to be bandying words with a dozy guardsman,’ replied Horskram sharply. ‘We are Argolian friars, from Ulfang chapter in the highland ranges. Our journey has been a long and hard one, and all we crave is food and shelter on a chilly night.’

  The sentry eyed them suspiciously. ‘Ulfang, you say? I thought that lay to the north – what brings you ‘ere by this route, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  Adelko couldn’t stop himself frowning. Of all their luck – had they landed themselves a shrewd watchman?

  But Horskram was unruffled. Without a pause he replied: ‘A forester’s daughter was recently taken grievously ill. A friend of mine on the Wold connected to his family by marriage told me of this when we took shelter with him several nights ago. I considered it my duty to make a detour so I could give the poor girl her Last Rites. There are few perfects to be seen in the lawless lands hereabouts, as you no doubt know.’

  The sentry licked his lips nervously. ‘Well, I’m awfully sorry to ‘ear that, sirrah, and please don’t be offended by my askin’ such questions – it’s just that it’s me job, you understand. Hang on a minute and I’ll let you in.’

  Descending a short flight of wooden steps behind the wall the sentry lifted the bar before opening the gate to admit them.

  Adelko had to marvel again at how readily his mentor was prepared to lie when necessary – the first time had been in Landebert’s hut, when Horskram invented the story about the castellan’s daughter turning to witchcraft.

  The secrecy excited and unsettled him. For his mentor to break with good Palomedian behaviour by uttering falsehoods so liberally underscored how vital and dangerous their mission was.

  Entering the town they trudged up the highway, which now became one of Kaupstad’s main streets. Lights flickered in the windows of mean-looking buildings that hunched over them menacingly like lurching footpads. The stink of human and animal refuse and discarded rubbish assaulted his nostrils as they made their way towards the market square at the town’s centre.

  During their evening journey Horskram had told him what little he needed to know about Kaupstad. For generations it had thrived on its renowned horse market, gradually drawing artisans and craftsmen from the lands about to hawk their wares and further increase its fortunes. The loss of the Thraxian trading route had hurt these somewhat, such that its prosperity was less than of old; yet still the fifteen hundred citizens who huddled within its crooked walls gleaned a fair enough living from their varied trades. Castle Hroghar lay a day’s hard ride to the east. It was the seat of the Jarl Fenrig, a loyalist baron who owned the town and much of the surrounding lands. The proximity of a strong garrison was enough to discourage most outlaws and robber knights from despoiling its wealth.

  Adelko breathed an inward sigh of relief when they drew level with the inn. The way things had been going of late he would not have been surprised to find a ramshackle affair with cramped rooms and a leaking roof, but at first glance his master’s choice of hostelry appeared to be reassuringly well appointed.

  A sizeable wooden building three storeys high overlooked an enclosed courtyard where the horses were stabled; light peeped through cracks in the shutters on the ground floor and a raucous din could be heard from inside. Beside the mews entry to the courtyard was another door leading directly into what must be the taproom, judging by the noise.

  A painted wooden sign above the door swung aimlessly in the gathering wind. The simple cross daubed in gold on a red background proclaimed the hostelry’s name: The Crossroads Inn.

  Pushing open the door the monks stepped into the reeking common room. At one end was a counter, behind which were shelves crammed with flagons and barrels piled up on top of one another. The rest of the place was no less crowded; nearly every table was taken, and Adelko found himself blinking in the candlelight after the relative darkness of the ill-lit street outside. The common area formed a U shape around the counter; next to it a flight of stairs led up to the rooms on the next floor. Over to the right another door led out into the courtyard, whilst a fire roared in the hearth against the far left wall.

  The taproom’s occupants were mostly a motley crew of merchants, freeswords, travelling artisans, and what looked like pilgrims, probably bound for the Blessed Realm in Sassania. There must have been some forty or fifty drinkers there, and Adelko began to despair of finding lodgings, but the innkeeper nodded at Horskram in recognition as they approached him at the counter.

  ‘Well, well, if it ain’t Brother Horskram, the master witchfinder himself,’ he exclaimed. A stocky, ruddy-faced man of middling stature and middling age, his brown beard was flecked with tinges of grey that matched his keen eyes. ‘Haven’t seen you round here in a month of rest-days! What brings you up to these parts then? Trouble, I’ll wager – there’s never any need for an Argolian unless there’s trouble brewing!’

  ‘I’m glad to see the inclement weather has done nothing to dampen your dry sense of humour,’ replied the adept with a wan smile. Then, lowering his voice: ‘Yes, trouble of a kind you might say, although not around here... or not yet at any rate.’

  A couple of merchants slouched over the counter next to them were eyeing them blearily. Adelko guessed they’d had a few stoops of ale already.

  Registering them with a sidelong glance Horskram raised his voice again: ‘The famed quality of your ale is always enough to bring me back, Vagan, trouble or no. This is Adelko of Narvik, a novice of the Order seconded to me for training. However, tonight I think he is in need of refreshment more than anything else – so two stoops if you please!’

  Without changing his neutral expression Vagan nodded and reached behind him for two pewter tankards, which he filled to the brim from a nearby barrel with frothy amber-coloured ale. Setting these before them he asked: ‘I take it you’ll be needing lodgings for the night then?’

  ‘You presume correctly,’ replied Horskram, nodding and taking a sip of ale. ‘Preferably a room – we’ve had a long hard journey and we’d rather not sleep on the common room floor if possible.’

  Vagan nodded, pursing his lips noncommittally. ‘It’s a busy night as you can tell, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  Someone called loudly for more ale. Excusing himself the innkeeper went off to tend to their needs. Taking a slug of his beer, Adelko instantly felt better: it was indeed impeccable, and after all his labours it didn’t take much to induce a feeling of light-headed euphoria in him.

  Gazing idly around the common room he pulled
up short as he recognised the merchants who had stayed at Ulfang.

  They were sat in the corner playing eagerly at dice, stroking their forked beards with an air of great concentration while their freeswords clustered noisily around two broad tables close by. They were drinking heavily and yelling coarse jibes at the flustered serving wenches.

  The novice turned back to see if his master had noticed, but he appeared sunk in one of his reveries and barely seemed to register his surroundings.

  Soon Vagan returned to tell them a room was free on the top floor. He was about to say more when his stable boy came tugging at his sleeve.

  ‘Vagan, sir, the night watch are in the courtyard,’ said the grimy-faced boy in a high, reedy voice. ‘They say they’ve ‘ad anover complaint about the noise.’

  Vagan rolled his eyes and cursed. ‘That’ll be Vara Busyhands kicking up a fuss again – I’ve told her a hundred times I’ve a licence to keep tavern behind closed doors for three hours after curfew, but she won’t listen. Her husband runs for town mayor once and she thinks she owns the place!’

  Turning to Horskram, he said: ‘I’d better go and deal with this. I’ll show you to your room afterwards – Rudi, mind the barrels while I’m gone, there’s a good lad.’ Shaking his head wearily he went off to appease the watch.

  Horskram took another slug of ale and smiled. ‘He’s always getting into trouble with his neighbours – it’s his ale, it’s too strong for its own good! Makes his clientele overly rowdy.’

  Looking around him at the unfolding debauch, Adelko could well believe it. He had never been in a proper inn until now – none of the mountain villages he had passed through were large enough to warrant having one – and to tell the truth he was rather enjoying the experience.

  The monks drank their ale in silence for a while and Vagan did not return. Presently Rudi rushed off to help the serving wenches, who were having difficulty keeping up with the freeswords’ voracious demands for more ale.

  Putting his half-empty tankard down with a sigh Horskram said: ‘I have to ask Vagan about the horse markets. There should be one tomorrow, but he’ll know who’s best to approach. You stay here and finish your ale – I’m going to go outside and speak to him now, otherwise I’ll never pin him down on a busy night like this. Besides, it looks as if he might need a respectable member of the religious community to vouch for his establishment.’