“I serve, milord,” Dech said flatly.
Arundel smiled. “That you do. Mages would be better to send, but getting them there would require more forces than we can spare. That said, we should see if the mage council might send at least a few on your mission.”
“The Abbess Dealan insists she will accompany me.”
“That should prove useful, yes?”
“Indeed.”
. . .
The first day of the council proved to be a waste of time. With many of the summoned peers still en route, no plan or strategy could be agreed on and most of the discussions were little more than arguments.
Members of the peerage arrived in Cruxford throughout the night and next morning, enough that King Harold reconvened the war council in the afternoon. All four of those that held ducal rank within Arataine were present, Duchess Eleanor and Dukes Frederick, Philip, and Roger, along with a majority of Arataine’s earls and countesses. Dozens of greves and barons were summoned as well, including Greve Gerald Moore.
The next day was tedious for the likes of Dech. Having little to contribute, he checked in with the mages council often. Recalling his tenure as King Harold’s Knight-Commander, he felt for Sir Oliver and the political nudging and tugs by those far above him, currying favor or seeking positions where they might find glory.
Much time was spent announcing those of lofty rank present. Decorum required each be presented with full titles, a process that could take minutes in some cases. Several bishops attended and orders arrived from the Grand Master of Contrition Knights that Order-Captain Niall and Warders Bernard and Dech were to represent the order though the king had already issued orders to the Contrition Brothers.
Following a prayer, the council got underway with a herald reading the latest report from Byrmont, a call to action by Bishop Alredd of Ke’Ammar.
“A dark line in the sky, the sound of rumbling thunder and hissing of steam,” began the herald in a loud and clear voice. “It is as the prophecy portends. It is as the histories report. It is the Cataclysm!
“The Great Rift cracks the heavens. The chronicles are clear, the Lord of the Vile shall bring forth his avatar over the Southerlies once again!
“Gather beings of stout heart. Gather to fight those foul creatures of the Underealm. The enmities of yesterday must be put aside. We must come together as one or all is lost!”
Duke Frederick stood from his place at the central table as the herald walked away. “I’ve seen it myself, Sire. South of Ke’Ammar. Over Byrmont, yes, but on our doorstep. It continues to grow and I fear it is the Great Rift as they proclaim.”
“And on the doorsteps of Marador and Fromaer as well,” Duchess Eleanor said.
Arundel nodded. “We still must deal with Malig.”
“We certainly must,” Duke Philip said. “The force he gathers grows by the day, but Arataine possesses the might to sweep him from the field.”
“That we do,” agreed Harold. “We have force enough to send fighters to Byrmont and deal with Malig.”
“And what if Marador seeks to use this time to invade us, Sire?” Eleanor asked. Her duchy bordered Marador to the east of Frederick’s, a fact not lost by many in attendance.
“We must see if that is the case,” Harold replied. “What do we know as of now?”
“My knights report no change as of yet,” Eleanor said.
“Troop disposition appears to be the same as it has been for the last few years,” Frederick agreed. “No more, no less. They adhere to the treaty, but we know Marador all too well.”
“Then we cannot lower our guard either,” Harold said. “We need speak with Marador’s representatives. Forces left eyeing one another when they might be repelling those from the Underealm may be the difference between victory and defeat.”
“Yes,” Lord Arundel said, “but whatever we might resolve through talking, we all know considerable force will be left at the borders. Treaties, common cause, and common sense will lose the battle against fear and suspicion, even if the Underealm threat is larger than any we face otherwise.”
“And what does that leave to fight Malig?” Philip said. “Am I to stand alone against him? We are a kingdom. As such—”
“I said we have force enough to deal with all threats,” Harold replied sternly. Looking at the rest of the gathering, he continued. “I feel Frederick is best to lead those that travel to Byrmont. Despite our poor relationship, they will need all help sent from all lands. I shall lead the force that opposes Malig. With aid from Duke Roger, the fighters I take south, and Philip’s own, we shall end Malig. Then we march north to oppose the infernal foe.”
Frederick nodded in agreement. “A sound plan, but what of allotting troops? We must determine where we draw our forces and where they go. I muster near the city of Shadow those that go to Byrmont. I would like to travel there tomorrow if possible. Time is a commodity with limits.”
The council broke into loud arguments that Dech knew would take some time to quell. Rather than join in or wait it out, he left and made his way to the Hieronymus Institute. He learned the mages seeking Mirkness were trying to utilize Dealan’s knowledge of derkunblod to confirm the grandmage was at the Castle of the Dark Forest, and do so without Olk being aware of their efforts. Thus far, it was slow going, but confidence remained high they would succeed.
Dech stayed until late before making his way back to the order house. Passing by some of the finer taverns in Cruxford, he found them raucous and overflowing with knights and others at-arms. He knew it was the same throughout the city as forces gathered to take to the field and taverns and inns all over the capital were pulling in coin at a prodigious rate.
The following day was another one of contention among those at the war council, but they managed to hammer out a strategy and determine the deployment of forces. With that settled, those units who were to accompany King Harold were given marching orders: to move west-southwest toward the Helsh Forest region opposite Nevar the following day.
Knowing his mission was likely to keep him from the army and the battle with Malig’s forces, there was a part of Dech that hoped the mages’ search would find Mirkness to be with Malig or beyond reach and render the hunt for the grandmage unnecessary. As the army marched the following afternoon, the warder looked on with worry and envy—worried for the many friends he knew to be in the ranks and envious of those taking part in such an undertaking.
The mages continued their search, a wearing process that Dech could see taking its toll on them. By late afternoon the day after the army departed, the mages had their quarry, the great effort the mages expended paying in knowledge.
“We know where Olk Mirkness is,” McGrew announced when Dech was introduced to the mages who sought Olk Mirkness. “He is at the Castle of the Dark Forest in Nevar. Even better, Mirkness did not detect those seeking him. Oh, that we might have had Andre Fillister here.”
“There was a reason they targeted him,” Dech replied. “What is Mirkness doing at the castle?”
“We discovered an altar of dark summoning,” Conway Wace said, his face haggard from his participation in the hunt. “Strange and powerful summoning incantations, much of it undoubtedly part of opening rifts as an element of the Cataclysm’s initiation. There is more though, unknown infernal spells the likes of which no one has seen. The abbess and Granum were able to identify parts that were derkunblod without a doubt. It was this that allowed us to pinpoint his location.”
“How many mages does he have with him?” Dech asked.
“None,” Wace said. “We would have sensed them.”
“A single mage is doing this summoning?”
“It seems so,” Wace said with a concerned look at the other mages. “This should have occurred to us.”
“How can one man do this?” Dech asked.
“The Gout,” Dealan said. “As we left Cashel Abbey you asked me about the powerful draw I sensed. I now think it was Mirkness.”
Dech thought of
Rasimus’ information. “Does this link to the reports of Mirkness being different than he once was?”
“Granum brought this up and I am still not convinced,” a mage said. “His questionable ideas of Mirkness’ transformation have no merit. A man becomes an immortal? Ridiculous.”
“I never said he was immortal,” Granum replied. “Mirkness is still a man… mostly.”
“What does that mean?” another mage asked.
“It means precisely what I said. The Abbess Dealan all but destroyed him in their fight so many years ago, but he never died. I theorize he somehow managed to project himself—mind, body, and soul—to the Underealm. Possibly, he was taken there via some other process. It was there he regained his essence in some fashion. The man he was is still there, enough that he can be sensed.”
“I tend to agree,” another mage said. “Those of us that knew Olk can confirm this.”
“If he is still human, he can be killed,” Dech said. “If he is alone, there is but one mage to contend with.”
“Killed? Most certainly,” Granum replied. “Yet we all know how difficult it can be to do such a thing when one puts their mind to staying alive. Mirkness most very obviously wishes to remain living. I surmise he won’t be easily slain.”
“In your opinion, is Mirkness’ location the sole point where the Cataclysm was brought forth?” Dech asked.
The mages looked at one another, most of them nodding.
“We cannot say with absolute certainty,” one of the mages said, “but detecting nothing else resembling Mirkness’ work, it simply must be.”
“Knowing what it is now and how to sense it, there is no other source,” another added.
Dech nodded. “Considering what you now know, can you reverse the process and close the rifts?”
“We cannot at present,” Wace said, “but we must pursue this further. It may be possible when we know more.”
Dech nodded again, his face expressing his admiration of the council’s toils. “Will stopping Mirkness end the opening of other rifts?”
“If he has more to bring forth and our theories are correct, yes,” said another mage.
“That is encouraging,” Dech said. “Did any of the information gathered concerning derkunblod yield any insights on fighting a practitioner of this magic?”
“The mage-scholar Fallon provided a great deal,” Granum said. “She had amassed considerable information. Unfortunate she was murdered. Quite a fine and inquisitive mind she had. Most thorough. She was studying the Gout and its properties. She knew of three magical forms that drew from it, one solely by infernal creatures.”
“I am simply a knight with little magical ability,” Dech said curtly. “How do I battle Mirkness with sword and shield?”
“You can fight a practitioner,” Granum said. “Just as you did with the siphon.”
“But you will be better prepared,” Wace added. “Knowing what we do now, defenses can be fashioned beforehand. Wards, enchantments, even counter-spells.”
“Counter-spells require mages,” Dealan said. “Contesting Mirkness will also. If he can draw so much from the Gout as it seems, it will take much to defeat him. I will be accompanying you.”
“As will I,” Granum said.
“I would also,” Wace said, “but I am ordered to travel northwest and join Frederick’s efforts.”
“As am I,” McGrew said. “Most of us here have tasks already.”
“While I would welcome the presence of you both, Dealan and Adelbert should prove most sufficient.” Dech looked at the two he mentioned. “Are you up to traipsing through heavy woods? That part of Nevar is rough country.”
“I lived a significant portion of my life in dense forest,” Granum said. “I am confident I can manage.”
“I am mildly insulted you would even ask,” Dealan said.
“It was question a leader need ask prior to departure,” Dech replied. “Consider it retracted. Prepare for a journey then.” He cast his gaze over the tired mages before dipping his head. “For what little it is worth, you have my thanks. I will bring news of your fine work to King Harold.”
“When do we depart?” Granum asked.
“At first light.”
. . .
Dech had word sent to Dissy, Josip, and Mayhaps before he returned to the order house to inform Order-Captain Niall of his departure.
“I do not envy you the task you have been given,” Niall said. “I have no advice to provide but say be careful, you deal with dark forces unknown. There are none of our brothers I can spare to aid you. Those not assigned to patrol duties go to Byrmont save for a few who will join with Duke Roger’s forces coming from the southeast of Arataine. There—”
“Might I use some of those contrition knights with Roger’s contingent?”
“If you can persuade the leader of his force to part with them or compel King Harold to order it, yes. While personnel may be unavailable, aid of another form just might be at hand. A man sent from the Fortress with an array of arms arrived not long ago. Phidias is his name. You can find him at the armory. I also have a letter for you from a concern in Drumming.” Sliding open a drawer on his desk, he retrieved a sealed packet and handed it to the warder.
Cracking the seal before unfolding it, Dech found a note and another sealed packet within. The note read,
The accompanying packet contains information King Harold’s Mage Council may find useful.
We have little to aid you in these trying times but information. Sources report mages and scholars killed by various means in Marador, Destria, and Fromaer, with connections to derkunblod being a commonality. As much as it pains us to admit, Ludd has provided much. Perhaps we can reach an accord of sorts with the man. Assets should never be wasted.
In that vein, your dying on some battlefield would also be a waste of assets. Take care such does not occur.
—Leophric and Ives
He smiled and considered their comment high praise. After asking that the packet be delivered to the mage council, he went to the armory and found Bertrand Phidias and the knight serving as house armorer engaged in an animated conversation concerning sword fighting.
“You’ve made yourself right at home,” Dech said.
“I suppose I have,” Phidias said with a smile. “It’s not soldiering, but I have a purpose again… thanks to you.”
“Knowledge should not be wasted,” Dech replied.
“Wait until you see what he brought, Warder,” the knight-armorer said.
“Our young friend speaks true,” Phidias said. “Ancient arms the Grand Master authorized for use.”
The knight-armorer gestured at a cloth covered counter. “May I?”
Phidias smiled and nodded.
Whisking the cloth free with a flourish, he exposed a row of weapons neatly laid out for presentation. There were axes, short horseman’s and hefty bearded Nordic varieties; a pair of war-hammers, a six-flanged mace, a short poll-axe; but mostly swords of various blade lengths.
As Dech perused the weapons, Phidias spoke. “I found the armorer that fashioned your shin guards. We didn’t exactly hit it off at first, but after an hour or so of yelling at one another, we found an accord. He has little experience in battle, but much in crafting weapons, I the opposite. We both have minds that wonder so we came up with a couple of things after combining our strengths. I have them in my baggage. I guess the head armorer liked what I did, enough that he had me and the head clerk check the inventory of the vault for items that might serve in battling infernal foes. What a place the vault is. Legendary things, ancient things. Some lack provenance, but their capabilities are listed, at least partially. The Grand Master sent me here with some in case you wished to use any of these.”
For some reason Dech was drawn to the odd poll-axe, in spite of his preference for swords. While intensely bright, its finish was streaked with grey and brown. Its haft was short for the type and formed as part the same masterly crafted steel that made up the head an
d lower handgrip. The head was comprised of three different weapons: a spike that protruded along the same axis as the haft; a hammerhead with a heavily toothed face on one side: and opposing the hammer was an axe with a slightly curved edge. The word “poll” was an old word meaning head. Poll-axes were capable of denting or even penetrating the stoutest helms, while the spike could pierce even the best of mail. A weapon for those on foot, the poll-axe had little utility from horseback. While not considered unknightly, it was rare to see one equip such a weapon except for specific encounters. Something within Dech told him dealing with Mirkness might be one such encounter.
Dech hefted the weapon. Not much longer than a war sword, it was heavier by a noticeable margin, though not unwieldy. As a two-handed weapon, the poll-axe would make using a shield awkward at best. Lacking the sword’s grace, combat versatility, and sheer killing power, the short poll-axe was still capable of being brutally effective in the right hands.
“I’m not surprised you are drawn to that,” Phidias said. “I can’t say why I brought it. They said swords were what you favored, but there’s something about that old thing, yes?”
“Yes,” Dech said shifting the weapon through different holds. “Where does it come from?”
“It’s not clear, but it’s a named piece. It is dubbed, De Vasten, Eastern Human Old Tongue for The Waster. It carries enchantments and is warded, but they aren’t fully documented and the order mages were too busy to scry it. It was carried in the Second Cataclysm four hundred and fifty years ago. It was apparently built to counter infernal foes.”
“Is there a reason it is short hafted?”
“For use in tight quarters,” the knight-armorer suggested.
Bertrand nodded. “He may be right.”
Rolling the weapon in his hands and considering its strengths and shortcomings, Dech nodded. “I think you chose well. I have a man traveling with me that might be able to tell us what else this weapon is graced with. I’ll take this in place of my war sword.”
The Warder Page 36
