Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

‘ – then we make do with a copse for the night.’

  With a curt nod the mercenary pocketed the purse.

  The twinkling lights of Bergen greeted them about an hour after sunset. Hettie knew a little of the town. It had some five hundred souls, mostly traders who thrived on commerce with travelling merchants from Northalde and the woodfolk of the Argael; furs, ale, timber and iron tools mostly changed hands for meat, cheese and woollen garments. The town wasn’t protected by a wall or stockade: one of Wilhelm’s bannerets had his holding nearby, and commanded a dozen knights and a like number of men-at-arms.

  Hettie bit her lip. That was good for the town’s security, less good for theirs. She supposed Sir Bertram’s knights and serjeants were likely to stop and enjoy a stoop or seven when not patrolling their liege’s demesnes… She felt bad, it was as if she were the cause of their taking yet another risk.

  The road continued straight through Bergen, its wooden houses clustered on either side in hotchpotch fashion. One or two were painted bright colours, but most were a simple dun-brown; Vorstlendings tended not to be showy in prosperity.

  ‘Both of you wait over there, by yonder trees,’ said Anupe, pulling her hood down tightly. ‘I will return shortly.’

  Hettie shivered in the gathering breeze, wrapping her cloak about her. A flock of birds could be heard squawking in the distance. She hoped they weren’t ravens – her mistress said the Northlendings believed them to be an omen of doom. She felt as though they were already half in Northalde: this was the closest she’d ever come to leaving Vorstlund.

  Presently Anupe returned.

  ‘We have a room for the night – lodgings have a separate entrance, which means you can avoid passing through the taproom.’

  ‘Who did you see there?’ asked Adhelina. ‘Anyone we should know about?’

  ‘Just a couple of serjeants, but they were so drunk they didn’t even notice me.’

  Hettie felt relief wash over her. Adhelina smiled: ‘Reus bless the intemperance of the Vorstlendings! Probably Bertram’s soldiers, drinking themselves into a stupor. Well at least that’s something we don’t have to worry about!’

  The inn was halfway up the road. It was divided into two buildings, the taproom and lodging house. A rickety flight of wooden stairs attached to the outside of the latter took them up to their chamber on the top floor. Anupe had chosen well, though it was small and cramped, with just enough room for a bed and a space on the floor for the Harijan. They ordered supper to be brought up but Hettie was too tired to eat. Curling herself up on her half of the bed, she felt a delicious release flood her aching limbs. In a few moments she was fast asleep.

  She woke to feel Adhelina prodding her gently. Sunlight was peering through cracks in the crude shutters.

  ‘Breakfast is here,’ said her mistress. ‘I’ve ordered extra for you – you didn’t eat last night.’

  Hettie fell ravenously on the food. It was good Vorstlending fare: boiled eggs and cheese and bacon, with a hunk of crusty bread and a mug of weak ale to wash it down. After that she felt much better.

  ‘How long was I asleep for?’ she asked.

  ‘Too long,’ put in the Harijan, picking at her food. ‘It is well past sunrise and we need to be going if we want to reach the forest before sunset.’

  ‘Here, drink this,’ said Adhelina, proffering a phial with green liquid in it. Hettie could see herbs swirling around inside it.

  ‘It’s a tincture I prepared while you were sleeping, it’ll help with your symptoms.’

  Hettie grimaced as she swallowed the liquid. Her mistress’ concoctions were rarely tasty.

  ‘Best to leave some ale for after,’ quipped the Harijan, seeing the look on her face.

  Gathering up their things they made their way down to the stables, which were an annex of the lodging house. They hadn’t been able to avoid being seen by the ostler, but Hettie could only hope they wouldn’t be unlucky enough to have problems with a stablehand twice. The lad seemed flushed and preoccupied; perhaps he was new to the job.

  All to the better, thought Hettie.

  They rode out of the yard and back onto the main road. As they left the inn Hettie saw a man relieving himself outside the taproom. He glanced up at her and leered. Judging by his rough green breeches and jerkin he looked to be a woodsman, probably come from the Argael to trade.

  She turned her head away quickly and focused on the road leading out of town, but it felt as though his eyes were still staring at her back. Despite feeling much better, she shivered again.

  It was late afternoon when the Argael began to impose itself on the horizon. Just a dark smudge of green at first, it soon loomed large, stretching across their line of sight. Gazing at the oaks Adhelina felt a sense of triumph, mingled with trepidation. They were nearly out of Vorstlund, but she knew that Hettie’s misgivings about the ancient forest were not entirely misplaced.

  It had once been much larger, before the rise of the Free Kingdoms brought on the Great Clearing, as mortalkind emerged from the Second Age of Darkness and strived once more to carve a civilisation from the wildernesses of Urovia. Disparate communities of charcoal burners and huntsmen – known as the woodfolk – had settled beneath its eaves during that time.

  But they shared the Argael with far older things.

  The Wadwos – or Woses as they were sometimes called – had lived there for millennia, long before the Reaver Kings had settled the mainland. Mostly solitary creatures, they preyed on woodfolk and travellers alike, but could be overcome by weight of numbers. For that reason few merchants dared take the road between Northalde and Vorstlund without a strong party of freeswords. Outlaws too had been known to take refuge in the forest, and elementi were said to dwell in its innermost reaches, where not even the woodfolk dared venture.

  That part of the forest had been taken over by a mighty woods witch, so it was told, decades ago – perhaps even a hundred years past, according to some legends. Argolian testimonies she had read named her a Right Hand practitioner – not entirely evil, but one who commanded the spirits of nature and expected to be left alone. According to these reports the Earth Witch had put a glamour on the stretch of forest she ruled, suffering none to enter freely: the Girdle of the Earth Witch, they called it. Maps Adhelina had looked at indicated the road they took passed east of the Girdle, joining up with that from Graukolos before striking roughly north-west towards Northalde.

  That suits, she thought. I’ve no wish to beard a witch in her lair.

  A glance at Hettie told her that she was thinking much the same and none too pleased about their chosen direction. But there was nothing else for it – as long as they stuck to the main road and didn’t detour too far from it, they had a good chance of getting through unharmed.

  Or that was what she told herself anyway.

  At sunset they stopped to take their last meal of the day at the forest’s edge. Anupe had insisted, saying they would need their strength in case the worst should happen, but Adhelina could scarcely eat she was so nervous. Gazing back down the highway she kept expecting to see Balthor and a company of knights thunder into view.

  No, she kept reminding herself, we must have at least two days on him.

  They finished supper and remounted. Anupe had lit a taper to light their way as they penetrated into the gloom of the forest. The road remained broad, but the trees blocked out much of the sky. It felt cool beneath the densely packed leaves; the fragrance of forest smells was delicious in her nostrils. Adhelina felt glad, thinking of the abundance of herbs and good growing things that the Argael must be home to… never mind all the Wadwos and witches and nature spirits.

  That reminded her of something. Nudging her courser into line with Anupe’s, she reached into her saddlebag and produced a small jar of ointment.

  ‘Here, take this,’ she said, proffering the jar. The mercenary raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s a tincture I prepared from Wose’s Bane, when we were staying at the burned witch’s grotto –
I’d been meaning to give it to you sooner, but we’ve been quite distracted.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the freesword, taking the jar. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s poison to any Wadwo,’ explained Adhelina. ‘Rub a small amount on your blades – a slight gash should be enough to pass it into a Wose’s bloodstream. They won’t last long after that, if the tome I read tells true.’

  The mercenary cracked a grin. ‘Well, the runaway lady is certainly full of surprises! I thank you for your gift – let us hope I do not find a use for it.’

  ‘No indeed,’ said Adhelina. The dark forest suddenly seemed less welcoming.

  Stars were peeping through silhouetted branches when they came to a trail leading off to the left.

  ‘We should stop here for the night,’ said Adhelina. ‘There are blockaded clearings off the road, built years ago to protect travellers against Woses and roving outlaws.’

  Anupe nodded and they struck off the road. Adhelina felt her nerves jangling – don’t stray too far – but a minute later she felt relieved to see the stockade.

  Her relief was quickly dispelled. It was constructed of barked logs running the perimeter of the clearing – but half of what used to be the gate was hanging off its hinges, with the rest scattered across the clearing. Anupe’s taper told a similar tale as they inspected further – a great breach had been gouged at the far end, two logs smashed to splinters.

  ‘Those were logs of oak,’ said the Harijan. ‘These Wadwos must have the strength of giants.’

  ‘Bloodstains…’ said Adhelina, staring at the dark smears lashed across the beams.

  ‘They are old at least,’ said Anupe, holding up the torch and looking closer.

  ‘Let’s be gone from this place,’ wailed Hettie. ‘I told you we shouldn’t have come he-’

  ‘Na mun is gawn nawhere,’ a strangely accented voice rang out through the night. ‘Nee na wummun neither.’

  The three of them wheeled their horses around. Standing in the entrance was a stocky man, dressed in green garb and carrying a longbow. Two other men in similar attire, likewise armed, stepped into the clearing just behind him.

  Anupe drew her blade. ‘Impressive,’ she breathed. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. Not easily do men fool the ears of a Harijan.’

  The lead figure frowned. ‘What’s she seyin’?’ he asked, addressing the damsels. ‘Funny accent, canna ken a word she sez.’

  ‘You’re woodfolk,’ said Adhelina slowly. ‘Our bodyguard is an outlander, her accent will be strange to you.’

  ‘My accent?’ put in the Harijan, but Adhelina ignored her.

  ‘We seek passage through the forest, nothing more. We want shelter for the night, in the morning we will be on our way.’

  ‘Aye, that mebbe,’ replied the lead woodsman. ‘But things ‘ave chenged roon’ these parts, ‘n’ we canna be trustin’ anybody nowadays.’

  ‘We are peaceful travellers, our bodyguard is just doing her – his – job protecting us. Anupe, lower your blade!’

  ‘That I will do when they lower their bows,’ replied the Harijan, nudging her horse forwards.

  It was an unusually rash move for the swordswoman.

  ‘Draw,’ said the lead woodsman. In a heartbeat three shafts were pointing at the outlander’s heart. Anupe pulled her horse up. It whickered skittishly, steam escaping its nostrils into the night.

  Adhelina felt her pulse racing. Woodsmen seldom interfered like this with travellers. What was going on? She began to wonder if the apparent Wadwo attack had been so long ago after all.

  ‘Milady, there’s more of them!’ exclaimed Hettie. Adhelina turned to see another three woodfolk push their way in through the rent behind them. Fanning out, the newcomers nocked and drew.

  Anupe glanced backwards and forwards.

  ‘Perhaps you will miss and kill each other,’ she offered dryly, enunciating her words so they could understand.

  The leader gave a brown-toothed grin and said: ‘Nah, think not sirrah. Woodfowk dunna miss, not at this range.’

  ‘What do you want with us?’ barked Adhelina. It was clear that they were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred: she couldn’t see even the skilful Harijan winning now. Besides, she did not want to hurt the woodfolk – despite their behaviour, everything she had heard about them suggested they were mostly honest people.

  ‘Ah canna sey that until we’ve tekken ye back t’oors fer questionin’,’ replied the leader. ‘The headman’ll be wantin’ a word wit’ youse – not often ye see two rich ladies ‘n’ a lone freesword travellin’ through oor woods. But strenge fowk fer strenge times, as they say.’

  He made a clucking sound. The two men next to him sheathed their bows and slowly approached Anupe.

  ‘Four arrows still trenned on ye, try anythin’ ‘n’ yer all dead,’ he said. ‘So I’ll thank ye te come quietly down offa them ‘orses. Dunna worry – they’ll be tekkin’ good care o’. Woodsman’s promise.’

  ‘I think we’d better do as he says,’ said Adhelina, quickly translating for Anupe’s benefit. ‘If they just want to question us, I don’t see any need for bloodshed.’

  ‘For once I agree,’ sighed Anupe. ‘A Harijan hates surrender, but I like not these odds.’

  Once they were down the leader nodded at them and made another clucking sound.

  ‘Now we need t’ search ye fer yer weapons,’ he said. Four woodsmen still had their arrows trained on them.

  Anupe glanced at Adhelina, her eyes glinting beneath her hood. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring.

  They searched them all closely, but seemed interested only in Anupe’s weapons, leaving everything else in their possession.

  Definitely not outlaws then – something to be grateful for, thought Adhelina.

  She was just thinking this when the woodsman searching Anupe suddenly pulled back her hood. Their captors’ eyes widened when they saw her face.

  ‘Well, well,’ breathed the leader. ‘A wummun wha kens how t’use a blade… strenge times, strenge fowk indeed.’

  He gave a nod to the other woodfolk, who had shouldered their bows and drawn long hunting knives. Now they surrounded the three women in a loose circle.

  ‘C’mon lads,’ said the leader. ‘Let’s be ‘avin ya. There’s Woses aroond as like as not, an’ ah dunna fancy bein’ caught oot in the open wi’ these numbers.’

  The woodfolk steered them back out of the stockade, before striking west into the forest away from the main highway. It was not long before the Argael had taken them into its hoary bosom, and all sight of it had vanished.

  Why do we always have such trouble sticking to the road? Adhelina wondered disconsolately.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Under Eaves Again

  ‘And that,’ said Braxus, brushing his fingers lightly over the strings of his lyre, ‘is how Bendigedfryn tricked the sorceress Myrca into parting with the golden apple.’

  Everyone applauded, save for Horskram, who was sat on a tree stump at the other end of the stockaded clearing, deep in thought as usual. Vaskrian clapped loudest of all. There was no denying his guvnor’s skill behind the strings, and he sang like an angel. It cast his mind back to the day they’d met, atop the King’s palace at Strongholm.

  But Torgun frowned. He looked confused. ‘Your skill at music is unsurpassed, Sir Braxus,’ he said courteously. ‘But I’m not sure I can applaud the song’s sentiments.’

  Braxus raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, and why is that?’ he inquired.

  ‘This trickster hero you describe… why he uses nothing but base methods to steal the apple from the witch! Surely you must know some nobler songs?’

  Braxus rolled his eyes. ‘That isn’t the point, Sir Torgun – Bendigedfryn needs the apple to cure the Princess Olwen of her sickness. Myrca is a selfish woman who only wants to keep it so she can treasure it. Bendigedfryn is using trickery, aye, that I’ll grant you. But he’s doing so for the greater good.’

  ‘I still don’t see
why good song should be spent celebrating the deeds of a trickster,’ said Torgun, still frowning. ‘Though as I said, your skill at harp is unsurpassed.’

  ‘It’s a lyre, not a harp,’ said Braxus, laughing.

  Adelko quickly hid a smile, though none of the raven knights laughed back. Aronn stared stonily at the Thraxian. Torgun looked away, losing interest in the conversation. The Chequered Twins exchanged bemused glances.

  Vaskrian felt the food he’d just eaten sitting heavily in his gut. They had been on the road for nearly a week now, and tensions between his master and his countrymen seemed to be running as high as ever. But then how could knights sworn to defend the realm be expected to take a liking to a foreigner whose people had made war on theirs for generations?

  And that foreigner just happened to be his new guvnor.

  Getting to his feet he set about clearing up Braxus’s trencher and knife. It was a clear summer’s night and the stars and moon were shining brightly overhead.

  They had reached the Argael without much incident – that had been a disappointment of course, he’d been hoping they would bump into some of Thule’s former levymen. The battle for Salmor already seemed a long way away, and he was itching for a good scrap.

  The only thing of note had been the awful ruin they had passed on the northern skirts of the forest. Who knew how long it had been there – Adelko said it was thousands of years old. Vaskrian hadn’t liked the look of it one bit. It had reminded him of the broken tower they’d seen after leaving Tintagael: the stones hadn’t looked right, all funny angles and bizarre shapes that hurt his eyes to look at. It hadn’t been a tower this time: the novice had whispered it was possibly a fragment of an ancient city that had survived the Breaking. Whatever that was.

  At any rate, it all had something to do with this mad quest they were on. If they didn’t find this evil sorcerer and stop him, maybe the people who had built that ruin would come back. Whatever: it all sounded like mumbo-jumbo to him. All Vaskrian needed to know was where the next fight was.