Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising Page 3

  Aedric snorted derisively. ‘What that bunch of sword-wielding fanatics thinks is of no concern to me, Brother Horskram – the Bethlers are a perversion of all monastic orders and an insult to the Creed.’

  ‘And they are the most powerful religious organisation in the southerly Free Kingdoms,’ Horskram reminded him. ‘Ah Aedric, you focus too much on what is right and think not enough of what is real. The Temple commands lands and fighting men, as do the Bethlers and the King of the Pangonians – that is what counts in this godless world, not whose hearts are closest to Reus.’

  Aedric frowned. ‘So cynical…! You have wandered the realms of mortalkind over long – it has hardened your heart.’

  ‘It has done nothing of the kind – it has rather opened my eyes.’

  Both monks fell silent. The sun began to slip behind the Hyrkrainian ranges to the west. The brooding peaks had been an almost constant companion on the adept’s journey from the Highlands. They had provided little in the way of cheer, he noted ruefully.

  The circular courtyard stood empty, Adelko and the other novices having shuffled off to the refectory. This was located to the north side of the monastic compound with the storehouses and chapel, opposite the barracks and living quarters of the journeymen and novices. The monastery was similar to Ulfang, though somewhat smaller. The cloisters surrounding the inner sanctum were adjoined by buildings housing the monastery’s two dozen adepts. The sanctum’s walls were a little higher than Ulfang’s and commanded a spectacular view over the plains. On a clear day it was even possible to make out the roiling blue dunes of the distant sea.

  Presently the Abbot turned to look at Horskram. ‘We must go to eat now – what else did you want to ask me about?’

  ‘It can wait until after supper – the Farseers of Norn aren’t the only ones whose prophecies we must consider.’

  Aedric raised an eyebrow again. ‘Oh no?’

  Horskram did not turn to look at him as he replied. ‘The demon Belaach and the Fays of Tintagael both gifted us with prophecy… meaning we must also weigh the words of immortalkind.’

  The Abbot sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Horskram, this is a serious matter – why did you not tell me of this along with the rest of your story this morning?’

  ‘I thought you might have already divined it,’ replied Horskram wryly, though he scarcely felt mirthful.

  ‘This is no occasion for levity,’ said the Abbot. ‘Bad enough you let yesterday elapse before giving me details of your mission, but you keep this from me until now? And what else do you guard I wonder?’

  Not half so much as I would like, reflected Horskram sourly. But there had been little keeping the Abbot at bay – as one of the eldest and wisest Argolians, Aedric had a keener sixth sense than most. Not even a hierophant could keep him off the scent for long.

  ‘I am giving you the sum of all I have to tell,’ replied Horskram cautiously. ‘I needed to measure your reaction to the rest first.’

  ‘To divine if I am friend or foe, I suppose!’ exclaimed Aedric. ‘Well I trust you are finally satisfied as to my trustworthiness. Now hear this,’ – he raised a gnarled finger and wagged it at Horskram – ‘I may not be possessed of your gifts, but while you shelter behind my walls I outrank you, hierophant or not! So give me the rest of your story – or you and your knightly bodyguards can go and beg their bed and board elsewhere.’

  Horskram stared at him, mastering his anger with some difficulty. Aedric had never been easily cowed, unlike Sacristen who always deferred to him. But his sixth sense told him the octogenarian could be trusted.

  Closing his eyes he cast his mind back to the last day of the exorcism in Rykken, sifting through strands of memory until the demon’s prophecy bubbled to the surface:

  Hell’s Prophet shall reawaken/the Five and Seven and One shall lead the hosts of Gehenna to victory

  Silver shall be tarnished black as night/the fires will rise and consume all in their path/the righteous shall moan beneath the scourge

  Those who oppose us shall scream for eternity/the flesh shall be broiled from their bones/their souls shall be bound in burning brass

  For the war of worlds is coming…

  The adept opened his eyes. He felt sick, but then recalling the words of demonkind was a sickening experience. The horizon seemed to have darkened behind the Abbot, throwing the mountains into stygian gloom. The banner bearing the lectern motif of the Order flapped noisily in a rising wind.

  ‘A demon’s word is never to be trusted,’ said the Abbot after another silent pause. ‘Not even in defeat. It will twist the truth always.’

  Horskram nodded. ‘And yet once uttered its words should never be ignored – for there is always useful advice contained therein. If one can decipher one’s way past the innate lies and trickery.’

  Aedric frowned, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. ‘On the surface, Belaach’s words appear straightforward in their prediction – Hell’s prophet is the Priest-King of Varya, Ma’amun; the Five and Seven and One respectively correspond to the Five Tiers of the Kingdom of Burning Brass, the Seven Princes of Perfidy, and Abaddon himself.’

  The Abbot made the sign of the wheel. Horskram followed absently, his mind now thoroughly engaged with the puzzle that had troubled him since Rykken.

  ‘… the rest of it is a simple assertion of future victory, in this war betwixt the mortal world and the Other Side that the fiend predicts,’ continued Aedric. ‘Where is the trickery?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ asked Horskram.

  ‘There is nothing there suggesting a course of action,’ rejoined the Abbot after another pause. ‘The words aren’t intended to mislead in that way. Belaach was compelled in defeat to give up a glimpse of the future, as he sees it… to share with mortals an insight a demon possesses into what will be.’

  ‘… but he is concealing it deliberately. That’s the deception,’ said Horskram, catching on.

  ‘I think so,’ said the Abbot. ‘He isn’t trying to lead you down a blind alley. After grappling with you for five days he knew you were too wise for that. So he’s settled for hiding the truth in his own words. He’s given you a prophecy you can’t use.’

  ‘Unless we can decipher it.’

  ‘Indeed. I will meditate upon this matter after supper. What of the Fays?’

  Again Horskram cast his mind back. The eerie words of the Faerie Kindred caused him less discomfort than those of Belaach, though tapping into their otherworldly essence scarcely felt pleasant. Their lambent forms flitted through his mind’s eye as he recounted their words.

  ‘Twelve verses!’ breathed Aedric. ‘Never before have the Faerie Kindred shared so much with mortalkind.’

  ‘The Farseers of Norn predicted as much,’ Horskram pointed out. ‘“The two hierophants shall come unto the realm of sylvan kings/Half a hundred lines of prophecy shall be bequeathed them by the Fay Folk.’”

  ‘And it is the last verse that proved so instrumental in young Adelko’s undoing of the Sea Wizard’s deception at Thule,’ said Aedric, pointedly ignoring Horskram’s reference to the Farseers.

  ‘I said his powers were remarkable.’

  ‘His insight certainly,’ mused the Abbot. ‘The Fays have advised you well, for to seek Strongholm surely saved your skins and kept your mission alive. And their dire predictions dovetail with Belaach’s own… The Faerie Kindred fear the return of Ma’amun, or another incarnation. And rightly so, if the Headstone is reunited and all the hosts of Gehenna return to the mortal vale led by the Fallen One.’

  The old monk shuddered and made the sign again. This time Horskram was too preoccupied to follow suit.

  ‘The verses trouble me in other ways,’ said the adept, before repeating the third and fourth stanzas:

  Oh mortal wise beyond your time,

  Gifted with reckoning sublime!

  The Vylivigs salute your mind,

  So far above your meagre kind!

  Your Order has ne’er seen your like,

 
Brave monk your time shall come to strike,

  Forces of darkness are abroad,

  Not all shall take an open road!

  ‘Why surely Brother Horskram, you would welcome acknowledgement of your cherished status?’ asked the Abbot sarcastically.

  Horskram shook his head. ‘You do me a disservice, Brother Aedric – for I do not believe the Fays were addressing me.’

  ‘So you believe this is yet another endorsement of your young disciple?’

  ‘Aye. I am considered blessed among our Order, but there are others whose powers overmatch mine – Grand Master Hannequin and Malthus of Montrevellyn. No, the Fays’ words suggest the advent of one among us who surpasses all that have come before. Adelko could be such a one – his powers are yet untested and far from full fruition.’

  ‘Far indeed,’ replied the Abbot, resuming his scepticism. ‘Too far to make any such pronouncements. The youth is not the only promising novice in the Order.’

  ‘Granted,’ Horskram had to allow. ‘And yet I think it is another indicator – the Fays have not led us astray thus far. They have as much to lose from the coming holocaust as ordinary mortalkind.’

  The Abbot looked sharply at Horskram. The adept sensed a meeting of their six senses: both monks had been talking for a while and were by now attuned to one another.

  ‘What else about the stanzas concerns you?’ asked the elder monk.

  Horskram turned to look across the darkening plains. Hardy though he was, up at the sanctum’s summit the dusk air carried a chill he felt all too keenly.

  ‘The last couplet… the part about dark forces not taking an open road,’ he said presently. ‘Something in it unsettles me… there is still far too much we don’t know about our enemies.’

  ‘Indeed – all you have fathomed thus far is that this Sea Wizard was in the employ of Andragorix, and that another witch in Thraxia may or may not be allied to him. You still have not divined his whereabouts. The couplet states the obvious – your enemies come at you unawares, this has been the case since the outset of your mission.’

  Horskram shook his head. ‘That is all true enough, but I believe there’s something more to it than that… the Fays are trying to tell us something else, in their roundabout way.’

  The Abbot sighed. ‘Well, both conundrums will have to wait until after evening prayers,’ he said. ‘Now ‘tis time we supped. You are due to leave at daybreak tomorrow and should eat – it’s another four days’ ride to the Argael.’

  The Abbot turned to leave, gingerly taking the stairs that led back down to his private chambers. Horskram lingered a few moments longer, staring at the diminishing horizon, but the blackened landscape told him nothing. Heaving a tired sigh he followed Aedric down the stairs, feeling the weight of his mortal sins and unsolved problems with every step.

  CHAPTER III

  At The Court Of Fools

  From the Seat of High Kings, Abrexta the Prescient gazed coolly at the court she had subjugated. Beside her the mortal king she had bewitched slouched, one bejewelled hand clasped loosely about a goblet of wine, the other holding her supple waist tightly. The rich ruby liquid dripped from the goblet’s golden lip and splashed across the flagstoned floor of the hall, drowned out by the clashing of arms. Both knights wielded their greatswords clumsily. But then that was hardly surprising given that each had a hand tied behind his back. The pots and pans lashed to their hauberks were also bound to make elegant movement difficult, or any movement come to that.

  Abrexta smiled thinly, sipping from her own goblet as she reflected on the subtle joys of Enchantment. By far her favoured of the Seven Schools, it had given her the power to control a kingdom, or the city that hosted its ruling house at least; even now, as King Cadwy stirred beside her, she kept the stylised images of a caged bird and hooked fish clear in her mindset, while wordlessly intoning the Sorcerer’s Speech.

  Her elan had grown apace in recent years. Dozens of others, all lords or men of high office, now danced to her tune. Those she had not been able to enthral had been despatched by those she had.

  One by one she named her high-born thralls in the language of magic, the age-old speech taught to the Varyans by the Unseen in days far gone, when gods had walked the earth and the very Gygants trembled at their passing. As she did, she visualised the syllables dancing to and fro amidst the symbols occupying her central mindset.

  So accomplished had she grown at her art that Abrexta could keep her perverted litany going whilst gazing on the mortal fight of flesh before her, and register excitement as Sir Mordàen struck Sir Aédan across the head. It was an ill-timed blow from a weapon designed for two-handed use, but enough to draw a torrent of blood from the older knight’s forehead and send the cooking pot lashed to it skittering across the flagstones. Sir Aédan gasped and crumpled to his knees, his own sword slipping from his hand as his grey beard turned dark red.

  The throng of courtiers tittered and clapped sycophantically. Abrexta marvelled at the capricious ways of men, that so few needed ensorcelling to do one’s bidding. Enthral the men at the top, and the rest fell into line of their own free will.

  The knights had both professed loyalty to the Seat of High Kings, each accusing the other of fomenting treason. Some men were more resistant to Enchantment than others, and she had to be careful not to over-stretch her powers, so she had resorted to more conventional methods to learn the truth. With access to the palace spies that had been easy enough – both men were plotting rebellion but had been rivals for years. That rivalry had spurred them to try and do away with each other.

  Such foolishness. Had they reconciled their grievances the two bannermen might have caused her some trouble, for each commanded twenty lances. As it was, they had delivered themselves straight into her hands. The death duel to decide the truth of the matter had been her idea, conveyed silently to the King who had pronounced judgment after hearing them. The details – that they should fight one-handed, with half the royal kitchens strapped to them, and a skinful of Pangonian red forced down their throats for good measure – had been Cadwy’s own notion. A man ensorcelled could still come up with ideas of his own: it pleasured her daily to see what whim would take the King next, just as it pleasured her nightly to see what deviant new practice he would suggest abed.

  Perhaps she had done the King a favour by enthralling him – all those freakish fancies he had never dared indulge before she entered his life, why the poor fool had never had so much fun.

  All the same, as Aédan gasped and bled and Mordàen loomed above him, Abrexta felt the need to return her focus to bending Cadwy’s will. Even now she could feel the vestiges of honour fighting her urge to give the command. Shutting her eyes she silently gave the order in the Sorcerer’s Tongue…

  ‘Kill him,’ said the King.

  Mordàen brought the blade down again, missing by inches and jarring the weapon from his hand as it glanced off a pan strapped to Aédan’s shoulder. The younger knight fell on the older, drawing a dirk from his belt. Aédan had no time to draw his own but instead grabbed his assailant’s wrist, both knights making an awful clattering sound as they grappled on the floor like lamed beggars fighting over a coin.

  More sniggers from the courtiers. The King relaxed back into his throne, pulling her closer as he drained his cup. Like the palace it rested in, the Seat of High Kings was constructed of interlocking branches, their natural forms bent by faerie magick into shapes that mortals could use. The Palace of Bending Branches and the ancient sorcery that still held it fast in place was testimony to a near-forgotten time, long before the coming of the Creed, when descendants of the druid clans of Skulla and Kaluryn had practised the Right Hand Path in leafy glades and worshipped the Moon Goddess openly on starlit nights. Some loremasters claimed that in those days mortalkind had wedded the Fays, whose lucent hands had helped build the preternatural edifice that overlooked the mundane wooden houses of Ongist.

  How fitting then that this city should fall under her sway, for wa
s she not the descendant of faerie union with mortalkind? Had not Yathaga the Three-Eyed prophesied the return of the Kindred to the Seat of High Kings more than a hundred years ago? The great witch had been burned at the stake in Market Circle for her troubles, before the stern-eyed Argolians who had brought her to so-called justice.

  Abrexta felt her heart harden at the memory. She turned to kiss the King full on the lips and, resting his shaggy-maned head on her shoulder, gazed across the smoky hall and out of a broad palace window. The palace was built on giant stilts that allowed it to straddle the River Rundle and gave it a commanding view of the city around. Ongist fell in a disarrayed jumble down the hills on either side of the river towards the thriving port and harbour at its edge. It was home to some forty thousand souls, most of whom eked out a miserable existence that would have been unknown in the times when mortals mingled with faerie-kind. She could see Market Circle about halfway down, crammed with unwashed hawkers trading rotting meats, threadbare textiles and other soiled goods.

  Such is the bounty of the Palomedian calling, she reflected bitterly. How different to the days of Bendigedfryn and his ilk! Back then, lesser god-things had taught men and women to coax the treasures of the soil from the earth’s rich bosom. Starvation and disease had been virtually unknown.

  A yowling brought her attention back to the fight. Mordàen had managed to overpower his wounded opponent, driving his dagger past his mailed shirt and deep into his breast. As the older knight expired in a twitching heap, his killer hauled himself unsteadily to his feet and stared as keenly at the King as his drunken eyes would allow.

  ‘I hath vanquithed my thoe,’ the younger knight slurred. ‘My innothence ith provthed in the eyeth of the Almighthy.’

  But the Almighty had no place in a court ruled by a pagan witch.