Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising Read online

  Ørthang was altogether less impressive, and housed half the number of Argolians, but it was alike enough to bring on another bout of homesickness. He missed his brother Arik, so briefly rediscovered.

  But more than that, he missed the feeling of innocence.

  Since leaving Ulfang he had encountered spirits, devils, freeswords and faeries; he had seen war in all its horrors and even had a hand in its outcome. He was leading the life of adventure he had always dreamed of… and while he couldn’t deny it thrilled as much as it horrified him, he also felt a lingering sadness that hadn’t been there three months ago. He was sharing his mentor’s fate, becoming bound up in events greater than himself – and getting blood on his hands. Not literally perhaps, but Horskram’s hard words at Salmor had struck home.

  He’d had a say in whether men lived or died, and that changed you.

  The other novices treated him with a mixture of curiosity and awe: even leaving most of it out, his story had been enough to leave half of them dumbstruck. And yet he’d just got a pasting from a novice of seventeen summers who reminded him of Yalba, his loudmouth friend from Ulfang.

  A life of adventuring only changed you so much, he reflected wryly – for all the trials he’d survived, he was still a near hopeless fighter.

  He thought back to the exorcism that had started it all. He still recalled the demon Belaach’s power, how it had tried to torment him, opening up dark pockets in his mind in an effort to quash his soul and break his will. The Psalms had kept him going on that occasion, and many others.

  But now he began to feel gnawing doubts that were very much his own: had he done the right thing, choosing to be an Argolian?

  The sound of a bell brought Adelko from his uncomfortable reverie. The evening meal was over, and it was time for prayers. Getting up with the rest of the novices, he glanced over at the corner table where his companions sat. Seeing Vaskrian, Sir Braxus and the four raven knights put him in mind of the refectory at Ulfang again, when he had looked over furtively at the freeswords guarding the merchants who had stopped to visit.

  Back then he had looked upon fighting men with fear and unease: now they were his friends, bosom companions who would die protecting him if need be. And yet Horskram had told him on the eve of the march to war that a true Argolian could never be friends with such men, no matter the cause… Never mind that his mentor had once been a crusader and done his fair share of killing.

  Adelko felt a tightness in his chest that he hoped prayer would diminish. His mind, restless at the best of times, was riven with conflicting thoughts. The aches and pains from his quarterstaff bout seemed trifling in comparison. He’d had worse. The cut to his forehead had healed, as had the gash in his side: though he couldn’t look at that scar without a chill of horror as he remembered the Hag in Tintagael.

  As the two hundred monks of Ørthang filed outside and made their way across the twilit courtyard towards the chapel, Adelko wondered grimly what his fifteenth summer held in store. Somewhat more than his fourteenth, he suspected.

  Vaskrian watched the monks file out of the refectory. He felt satisfied. He’d had his fill of good food and watered wine, but that wasn’t the real reason why.

  His war wounds still ached – his war wounds. The pain brought him an intense pleasure. He’d fought in battles and survived, killing his share of fighters. He thought back to the clearing on the way to Harrang, when Sir Branas had forced him to put Derrick out of his misery. He still felt bad about that, truth be told. Not a good kill. It hadn’t felt… knightly.

  But this time around was different. He’d slaughtered rebels, men fighting against their King. He’d fought on the right side, and the Almighty had witnessed that and brought the Loyalists a resounding victory. He’d played his part, a small one maybe, but enough to raise a humble squire in estimation.

  He glanced sidelong at his new master. Sir Braxus of Gaellen – a Thraxian and a foreigner, there was no denying it. But a foreigner who’d promised him great rewards, if he served well. That was a damn sight more than his last two guvnors had offered. He felt a surge of excitement and reached for the hilt of his sword… before remembering he’d left it in his lodgings, along with the rest of his weapons and armour. He’d wanted to wear his mail shirt to supper, it was made by Strongholm smiths and of the finest quality. But Braxus was having none of it: warriors or no, they would abide by the rules of the Argolian Order.

  That annoyed him. Monks! All good and well for healing the sick or fighting evil spirits, but what gave them the right to tell fighters to abandon the tools of their trade?

  Still, he had befriended one of them… Adelko, funny sort of chap with his round face and goggle eyes. Always talking about things Vaskrian didn’t understand, like history and languages and doing the right thing. And yet he liked the lad. He didn’t talk down to him like so many others; he never criticised him for his ambitions to become a knight, even though he obviously disapproved of violence. And the night before the battle at Linden, when he’d thanked him for saving his life… it would have been much better coming from a fine-looking damsel, but it had been right nice all the same. That was what knights were supposed to do: crush rebels and robbers and protect the weak and defenceless.

  In fact it was just about the best reason for killing someone he could think of.

  Vaskrian looked past his master at Sir Torgun. His hero. The knight’s rugged face looked serious and troubled. The squire couldn’t think why, he had everything going for him: the best knight in the land, serving in its most prestigious order (an order he longed to join someday).

  And now he was sharing the road with him, on a madcap quest that belonged in bard’s song.

  The thought of it sent another thrill through his wiry frame as the six of them rose to leave the refectory. Strictly speaking Sir Braxus was in charge of his combat training, but he hoped to sneak a few tips from Sir Torgun here and there. After all he was the best swordsman in their company, and it paid to learn from the best.

  Following his master out into the courtyard Vaskrian felt a twinge of unease. Yes, it was a madcap quest… he still struggled to remember what had happened to him in Tintagael. Bard’s song – hadn’t he met someone in that cursed forest, a knight who’d served in the time of Thorsvald the Hero King, celebrated himself in verse? He shook his head. No, that was impossible – Thorsvald had lived and ruled more than a hundred years ago, the Thirteen Knights who had met their end in Tintagael were long gone…

  Or were they? The forest was haunted, after all. Oh why couldn’t he remember?

  ‘What ails thee?’

  His guvnor was looking at him keenly in the gloaming.

  ‘Nothing, Sir Braxus, just… I was thinking about Tintagael.’ He found it hard to lie to his new master, the foreigner was far too perceptive for that.

  ‘Well don’t,’ replied the Thraxian. ‘From what I know of the Faerie Kindred, the less you dwell on their ways the better. Just be thankful you survived your journey through that accursed place – few do from what I’ve heard. Now let’s away to bed – we’ve a long day ahead of us on the road tomorrow, you’ll need to check everything so we can set off at first light.’

  Vaskrian nodded and did as he was told. For once the mundane duties of squirehood didn’t bother him over much – he didn’t like thinking about the forest, and any distraction was welcome.

  Braxus sighed as he lay down on his pallet while his squire busied himself checking their equipment. A disused storage room in one of the monastery’s outhouses, hardly lodgings fit for men of noble birth. But that was the Argolians for you. They had long followed nobody’s rules but their own – small wonder so many powerful people despised them.

  And here he was, taking orders from one. A merry band of adventurers they were, and there was no doubt who was in charge. Horskram of Vilno.

  Braxus had no reason to like the man. He was arrogant and conceited; always so sure of himself, bereft of any manners. The Thraxian hadn’t forgot
ten the way the old monk had spoken to him on the morning of the march to war. Just who did he think he was? His father Lord Braun had always respected the secretive order of monks – that in itself was enough reason to dislike them.

  But what choice had he had? The Northlending King had played him skilfully; he dared not return to Thraxia empty-handed, and if this fool’s errand was the only chance of getting Freidheim to consider giving military aid to his countrymen, so be it.

  Braxus shifted uncomfortably on his pallet in the flaring light of the taper Vaskrian had lit. All the same, there was something afoot… Abrexta’s witcheries were the cause of his homeland’s woes, of that he was certain. Without her sorcerous meddling King Cadwy would have despatched reinforcements to aid the northern lords against Slangà and his highlanders long ago. The Sea Wizard was gone who knew where, but he’d clearly had a hand in the civil war of the Northlendings… And Horskram’s tale of horror from the Highlands to Strongholm bore all the hallmarks of a Left-Hand warlock hell-bent on destroying anyone in his or her path. Wherever he was, this Andragorix certainly seemed to fit the description.

  His knowledge of the Headstone of Mammon was hazy, and he liked it that way. Tales of that legendary age of sorcerer-kings had never made him feel anything but uneasy. But piecing together everything Horskram and King Freidheim had told him, it looked for all the world as if he was caught up in events that went beyond the borders of a single country.

  Reus damn it, by the looks of it someone was trying to bring the whole of the Free Kingdoms under their control.

  At any rate, that was the message he’d given to Vertrix for his father. He doubted the old man would give it much credence, he reflected bitterly: just another excuse for his wayward son to remain wayward.

  Thinking on his compatriots brought a pang of homesickness over Braxus. Even now the seven of them would be taking ship back to Thraxia, and Reus knew what state the kingdom would be in by the time they returned. Would there even be a home to come back to? Between them Slánga and Tíerchán had fielded a formidable force of hate-filled highlanders; and thanks to that sorcerous bitch Abrexta the northern lords wouldn’t hold out for much longer.

  Vaskrian returned from the stables having fed the horses, and gestured at the taper. Braxus nodded curtly. His squire extinguished the light, and the heir of Gaellentir turned over and closed his eyes, silently praying for Morphonus to grant him the sweet release of sleep.

  Torgun sat on an uneven stone that jutted out from the perimeter wall of the monastery, sharpening his sword. He knew he should get some rest, but there was no sleep in him tonight. Glancing up at the dark skies, he wondered if the stars would look any different in the lands they were journeying to. A loremaster had once told him they did if you went far enough south, but Torgun had paid him little heed. What concern had he for foreign climes, when lifelong duty would keep him at home in Northalde where he belonged? Even his errant days venturing beyond the King’s Dominions had seemed like a great journey.

  Now his King had told him his duty lay elsewhere, beyond the borders of the very realm he had sworn to serve. His heart yearned for high adventure and Freidheim’s word was law, but he felt sad all the same. He didn’t like the thought of leaving Northalde, especially not in the aftermath of a war. The southern provinces would be crawling with remnants of Thule’s levy, causing trouble for ordinary commoners.

  You were made for greater things than harrying outlaws… the King’s words came back to him. Perhaps he was, but that wasn’t for him to say. And surely protecting His Majesty’s subjects was more important than winning glory?

  Freidheim had spoken to him of a plot to rule realms that lay behind the war they had just won. Torgun had seen enough at Staerkvit to be convinced that some awful devilry was in the air – for only a black magician could conjure up such foul fiends. The thought of it sent a rare shiver down his spine.

  He didn’t like that feeling, not one little bit.

  No mortal man would ever instil fear in his heart, of that he was certain. He had slain dozens of brave fighters in his young life; injured and ransomed and unhorsed hundreds more.

  But warlocks and demons and wadwos – they were a different story. He’d faced all three, and had hated fighting them. Mortal men could be killed or vanquished, you could beat them in a fair fight. But the powers of the Other Side… that was a different matter. He’d seen the demon at Staerkvit slay dozens of his comrades effortlessly – without the prayers of Horskram and his understudy, who knows how many more would have died?

  Running his whetstone up and down his broad blade, he glanced across at the monks leaving the chapel and heading back to their quarters. This was their kind of fight – knights weren’t supposed to engage the supernatural.

  Putting the whetstone down he hefted his sword. It was larger than the usual size: even a strong knight would struggle to wield it one-handed, yet he used it with ease. And he’d had to hack with all his might just to inflict a slight wound on the horror at Staerkvit.

  His mind went back to when he’d travelled the kingdom as an errant, before joining the White Valravyn. In his nineteenth summer, he had fought a duel with a sorceress in the Laegawood. Halga Bloodmouth, the local woodfolk called her. She had preyed on them for weeks, stealing their children to use in her awful sacrificial rites. An Argolian had been sent to apprehend her, but died trying: his mangled corpse had been found hanging from a tree. Torgun had been staying with the woodfolk when they heard that news: he had jumped at another chance to win more renown and set off in search of her.

  He had found her living in a disused fort on the western edges of the woods. He soon learned the reason for her name. Looking at his sword glinting in the starlight he remembered how he had drawn it and approached the witch, offering her one chance to surrender and come quietly. She had laughed in his face, an awful scratching sound. Clearly the woman was out of her wits, driven mad by the unclean powers she had channelled.

  As he had advanced on her she had spat on the ground between them. Her saliva was red and there was far too much of it… he could see it now, dropping in thick gobbets on the long grass between them, burning and cracking the bright green blades. The gobbets had bubbled up and expanded as the witch spoke words in an unnatural tongue, clumping together in a red miasma before turning into a host of blood-coloured scorpions.

  He had barely survived, being stung several times as he crushed them one by one in his huge mailed fists. Only his iron constitution had saved him, and as Halga had approached him to cut his throat with a silver knife, he had grabbed up his sword and plunged it into her belly. Even then it hadn’t been over. Mouthing a spell through dying lips, the witch had transformed her spilled entrails into a swarm of serpents. It had taken all of his last strength to cut them to ribbons before he passed out.

  He’d been found by the woodfolk, who tended him. It had taken him a couple of tendays to recover physically, and even now he sometimes had nightmares.

  Apart from anything else, killing a woman did not sit easily on his conscience – even an evil one like that who had given up her soul to the Fallen Angel. He hadn’t earned his spurs to kill women. And now he was off to find another witch in another forest, this time to seek an alliance – against yet another sorcerer. Torgun felt his temples throbbing. Thoughts of warlocks and witchery made his head spin.

  He missed Hjala too – he’d known it was a mistake rekindling their romance. Now he had that to deal with too, but then chivalrous knights were supposed to yearn after a true love, he supposed. Reaching into his tunic he pulled out the token she had given him on their last night together – a platinum amulet fashioned to resemble one of the rearing unicorns of the Ingwin coat of arms. A precious gift from a peerless lady. Holding it gave him renewed peace of mind, and he began to be ashamed of his fearful thoughts of the Other Side.

  Standing up, the young knight sheathed his sword. Yes, he ought to be grateful – war and quest were the stuff of knighthood after all
. His King had been right, he was certainly made for this sort of thing. But walking back towards his lodgings, Sir Torgun could not shake the feeling that he had left a simple life of service behind forever.

  CHAPTER VI

  A Chase Renewed

  ‘I think we’ve found it.’ Sir Redrich’s face looked flustered as he pushed back through the undergrowth. Sir Balthor was hardly surprised – riding cross country through the wilderness was bad enough at the best of times, never mind on a hot day like this. Dismounting from his courser, he felt the sweat trickling beneath his armour. It was just a light byrnie but all the same it itched in the heat.

  ‘Step aside, let me see,’ he ordered curtly, nudging past the other knight into the clearing. There it was, just as the mysterious hermit’s message had said it would be – an old well, broken and disused.

  ‘Well I don’t see any sign of a hermit,’ he growled.

  Sir Redrich squinted up at the sun, trying to fathom its position behind the thick clouds. ‘She said noon – by my reckoning we’re about an hour early.’

  Early. Balthor hated that word even more than he hated riding cross country. A nobleman was never early, nor should he rush, unless it was an emergency. Well technically speaking this was an emergency, but all the same it galled him – to rush to get somewhere only to wait… on a commoner, of all things!

  He would never live it down – he was the greatest knight in Dulsinor, he deserved better than this.

  All told, it had been a horrendous few weeks. First of all failing to find any clues as to the theft from the Werecrypt, then letting the runaway heiress elude him. He had visited every merchant house in Meerborg, describing the Stonefist’s daughter and her lady-in-waiting over and over till the words became tedious to utter. Stuck in the bustling stink of the Free City, having to ask – ask – the merchant class for help. Insupportable! Didn’t they know who he was? Not even its brothels and taverns had been enough to relieve his pains.