Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  As he cleaned his master’s utensils, he wryly reflected that maybe the next fight would take place here, between knights who were supposed to be allies. He didn’t like that thought at all: which side would he be on if that happened?

  Horskram stirred from his reverie, getting up and approaching the fire to warm his hands.

  ‘Now you are done entertaining yourselves, I would suggest an early night,’ he said, without looking at any of them. ‘We’ll need to detour from the main road tomorrow, and that will mean leading our horses and travelling on foot.’

  ‘And you’re sure this woodland commune you mentioned will help us?’ asked Aronn. ‘Last I heard the forest dwellers aren’t too welcoming of strangers.’

  ‘They should be minded to help me at least,’ replied the adept. ‘I know their headman well. I once saved his nephew from possession, not to mention banishing several Terri that were terrorising them a few winters ago.’

  ‘Terri?’ Aronn’s ruddy face looked perplexed. No wonder, Vaskrian thought – the old monk was even harder to understand than Adelko.

  ‘Earth spirits,’ clarified Horskram. ‘There’s a good deal more to be found in this part of the world than many others – my services have often been sought here.’

  ‘So in other words,’ put in Braxus, packing away his lyre, ‘they owe you one.’

  Horskram favoured him with a flat stare. ‘If by that, sir knight, you mean they are indebted to me, then yes. We’ll leave our horses with them for safekeeping and collect them when our business here is done. The Earth Witch’s Girdle is at the heart of the forest – we’ll need a local guide to find it.’

  ‘And what do you plan on saying to this Earth Witch once we do find her?’ asked Braxus. ‘From what I know of magi, they don’t take kindly to strangers wandering in and asking them for help. Especially not if those strangers happen to include an Argolian friar.’

  ‘If the rumours we have heard be true, the Earth Witch is fighting for her territory against another wizard – only one versed in the black arts could hope to control and unite the Wadwos. Our interests therefore should dovetail – we both want Andragorix apprehended or dead. She’ll help us.’

  Braxus frowned. ‘Assuming the warlock behind the Wadwos is this Andragorix. We don’t know for certain he is – you said yourself the demonologist likes to play with words.’

  Horskram’s eyes were bright pinpoints in the firelight, his face set grim as he answered: ‘Aye, that he does, Sir Braxus. But unless I’ve misjudged him, he is longing for this confrontation. He wants me to find him – so he can be revenged for the injuries he suffered last time we met.’

  ‘Injuries inflicted on him by a Thraxian knight who died fighting him, if my memory serves,’ said Braxus. ‘I hope I don’t make it two!’

  Horskram said nothing to that, but returned to gazing at the fire. Vaskrian hoped the Thraxian didn’t die too – that would make it three dead guvnors in a row for him. He didn’t fancy garnering a reputation as the Cursed Squire of Hroghar.

  They all turned in shortly after that. Vaskrian didn’t fall asleep immediately, but stayed awake staring up at the stars thinking about what had been said.

  Wadwos – they hadn’t met any yet, but it seemed likely they would. Sir Torgun had killed one in single combat, before he joined the White Valravyn. He said it had been hugely strong and hardy as an ox, though clumsy and ill disciplined. It had taken him several sword strokes to kill it – and Torgun was the strongest knight in the realm. The thought of that made Vaskrian feel unusually nervous. What kind of fight would that make for? Reckless though he was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  Where were those outlaws, Reus damn it?

  Adelko woke to the sound of birdsong and the feel of sunshine on his face. Yawning, he sat up on his pallet and stretched.

  The Argael certainly wasn’t as creepy as Tintagael – he was thankful for that much at least. He had been secretly dreading another haunted forest; nightmarish memories of the realm of the Faerie Kings still clustered at the back of his mind.

  Seek sanctuary beneath the trees…

  The words of the sylvan lords, spoken in rhyme and riddle in the heart of their spectral kingdom. He shivered despite the clement morning, lurching to his feet to banish the recollection.

  They weren’t seeking sanctuary this time in any case, he reflected grimly as he went over to join the others for breakfast – if Horskram’s guess proved right they were seeking the endgame. If Andragorix was here somewhere, lurking beneath the eaves of the Argael, this was their chance to apprehend the mad mage and put everything right.

  He felt more uneasy at that thought than anything else. His sixth sense told him that the outcome of the next few weeks would be anything but straightforward. It also told him his mentor was thinking much the same.

  He glanced over at Horskram, who was busy checking their horses. Ever since Salmor, he had felt increasingly attuned to the old monk. And he sensed that the adept was anything but sure of himself. He hid it well – portraying an aura of steely confidence that had all the others convinced. Except perhaps Sir Braxus. Adelko’s sixth sense also told him there was more to the foreign knight than met the eye – he had a keen intelligence that none of the other fighters in their group possessed. Perhaps that was why Horskram had decided to enlist him. Not that he showed much sign of respecting the Thraxian on that account. But then Horskram rarely showed signs of respecting anyone – he had even seemed pushy with his king at times.

  Horskram, always so difficult to get along with.

  Still, that didn’t change matters – they were headed into grave danger together again, and that meant he had to try and clear up the bad blood between them. Before any of it got spilled.

  Packing up camp they left the clearing, following the trail back to the main path and retaking it southwards. Adelko nudged his steed into line with Horskram’s. The adept said nothing, staring fixedly ahead.

  They continued like that for a while before Adelko screwed up his courage and spoke.

  ‘When will we reach the woodfolk settlement you mentioned, Master Horskram?’ he asked.

  ‘Before sunset, assuming the road remains good all the way to the turning we need.’

  Silence followed.

  ‘My quarterstaff technique still needs a lot of improvement,’ Adelko tried, hoping for a better response. ‘Funny, given everything we’ve been through.’

  ‘You have plenty of warrior friends now – I am sure they can help you with your footwork.’

  ‘I’m sorry Master Horskram, I understand why you don’t want me to befriend these people…’ He lowered his voice, glancing back timidly at the six armed men that rode behind them. ‘But they’ve pledged their lives to protect us. I can’t just ignore them.’

  ‘I am not asking you to ignore them. I am asking you to remember your vows, and keep them at a distance. You’re an Argolian – we do not take men of the sword as our bosom companions. Even if they are sworn to protect us.’

  ‘But they’re on our side – they’re fighting the good fight, aren’t they?’

  Horskram sighed, that same weary sigh. ‘There is no such thing as a good fight. If you still do not understand that, there is little point in our having this conversation.’

  His mentor lapsed back into silence. Adelko could sense the pain in him, the anguish and conflicted feelings. He felt a sudden pity for the old monk.

  And yet the novice’s next words sounded pitiless enough.

  ‘Then… how do you live with what you’ve done? When you were a crusader?’

  Horskram seemed ready for that question though. ‘By striving not to be the man I once was, every day. As I told you outside Strongholm, I have repented my sins.’ He paused, then added: ‘And that means realising what you have done, and accepting the pain that comes with it. Only by going through that pain can you emerge from it.’

  ‘Then… why do you seem so troubled still? I can feel it… you’re, well, confl
icted.’

  ‘Did I not make myself clear at Salmor? One does not have to wield a sword to cause the deaths of men. One can take decisions, or influence those of other people, that will result in just the same… As you have already begun to do.’

  Adelko felt a stab of guilt. How foolish to hope his mentor would not bring that up.

  ‘But if the alternative would have been worse…’

  His mentor’s face remained unsmiling beneath his cowl. ‘And can you say for sure it would have been? Right and wrong, good and evil, loyalist and rebel – these are terms that mortal men have conceived. Only the Almighty knows all, and sees the true face of things as they are. The rest of us but see through a glass darkly, as the Prophet sayeth.’

  ‘But the Prophet himself took sides, and spilled blood, before he saw the error of his ways,’ said Adelko.

  ‘Aye, true enough,’ allowed Horskram. ‘But in the end he achieved his goals through peaceful resistance – and self-sacrifice.’

  That got Adelko thinking. Palom’s campaign of boycott had flummoxed the Thalamian Empire, damaging its already fragile revenues. It was a less emphasised part of the Scriptures, but true enough: the Redeemer had stood up to the Emperor by ordering his followers to stop attacking legions, down their tools, and refrain from engaging in commerce. It had worked – until the Empire had caught Palomedes, dragged him back to Tyrannos in chains, and executed him publicly. Deprived of its leader, the movement he started had crumbled. But the seed of his message survived, thanks to the Seven Acolytes, and slowly spread its way across Urovia. Thus had the Creed been born.

  ‘Palom’s message is clear enough to those that have eyes to see,’ continued Horskram. ‘If you forsake violence and greed, and are prepared to forgo the comforts of civilisation for a time, you can bring a tyrant to his knees – without using bloodshed.’

  ‘… and yet here we are, answering violence with violence, supporting one ruler over another just because they seem less bad than the alternative,’ said Adelko, finally catching on. ‘We might stop the worst from happening, but we’re not really improving things either.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Horskram, perhaps a hint of respect returning to his voice. ‘We may defeat Andragorix or we may not, but either way we still fall far short of the example Palom set us, and the world he envisaged.’

  Another thought occurred to Adelko. ‘And yet as one of the avatars, surely Palom should have known better than to begin his campaign with violence?

  ‘Palom was indeed an avatar – one of the Unseen descended to earth in mortal form,’ Horskram agreed. ‘The same Unseen who taught magic to mortals in the first place. They are far from perfect themselves – they have made many errors in their time.’

  ‘And yet we revere many of them as archangels,’ put in Adelko.

  ‘Angel and demon – another construct of the mortal mind,’ replied Horskram. ‘The peoples of the Golden Age saw them as gods and goddesses, the pagan Northlanders still do. The Unseen… the clue is in the name, Adelko. The pagans “saw” the Unseen as they wanted to see them. Perhaps we still do the same.’

  ‘But… that’s blasphemy,’ gawped Adelko.

  ‘The perfects of the so-called True Temple would have you believe that,’ said Horskram. ‘But in truth, these terms are all relative. Yes, Virtus, the angelic avatar of courage, is certainly more wholesome than demonic Zolthoth, who represents wrath. Yet many a warrior has called upon the one only to be poisoned by the other.’

  ‘But… that isn’t the fault of Virtus,’ argued Adelko. ‘That’s Zolthoth undermining him.’

  ‘And the Scriptures teach that Zolthoth is a dark emanation of Virtus – he was born of him, Adelko. Even if you discount that, how many warriors in history have showed courage on the battlefield, only to shed blood? One does not have to be in the grip of rage to kill – in fact, the less enraged a fighter is, the better he kills.’ Horskram nodded back towards the others. ‘Ask any of them, except perhaps Vaskrian, and they will tell you as much.’

  Adelko frowned. Horskram was making sense, but the novice didn’t like what he was hearing. It made him feel troubled and confused.

  ‘So… you don’t think we should revere the Seven Seraphim then? Or the rest of the archangels? Is that no better than calling them gods?’

  ‘I did not say that,’ replied Horskram firmly. ‘No – the reason we call the Unseen angels or demons and not gods is precisely because they are not flawless, nor do they operate autonomously. All of them come from Reus – but at least the angels still follow His command, or try to as best they can, unlike Abaddon and his followers.’

  ‘And yet if the Unseen are manifestations of Reus, who is all-knowing, how can they have made such flawed decisions?’

  ‘Perhaps now you understand why your sixth sense is telling you I am conflicted,’ said the adept, more sadly than anything else.

  Adelko was about to ask another question but Horskram quickly added: ‘That is enough theology for today. Think on what you have learned from this discussion – and think twice before you befriend yon swordsmen.’ Flicking the reins, he nudged his horse ahead of Adelko’s to forestall any more questions.

  He needn’t have feared on that account. The novice felt more relieved than anything else: his urge to question things was usually compulsive, but this time it was making his head hurt.

  Steering his thoughts elsewhere, he reflected that at least he appeared to have mended fences with his mentor somewhat; some of the tension between them had ebbed away. Focusing on the feel of his horse ambling beneath him, and the sound of birdsong in the trees, Adelko fell into a meditative state. As his painful thoughts dropped away from him, he felt a welcome calmness wash over him like warm water.

  The afternoon was growing old when the first signs of trouble made themselves known. Corpses of freeswords littered the road, their light armour no protection against the myriad strokes that had cut them down. There were five in total. Besides them were the hewn bodies of two other men, their fine robes spattered with blood.

  But it was the last corpse that brought a stab of pity to Torgun’s heart: a girl of no more than ten summers, her terrified eyes frozen and sightless.

  He made the sign before dismounting with the other knights to investigate. Merchants sometimes travelled with their families, if they felt well protected enough to take the risk.

  Poor souls – they must have had no inkling of the dangers they were heading into. He didn’t think much of the merchant class, but they hadn’t deserved to die like that. Especially not a blameless girl.

  Swallowing his rage at the unchivalrous deed, Sir Torgun bent to examine the corpses and swore silently he would bring justice to her killers if he could.

  ‘They’re dressed well, but not as richly as a Northlending merchant,’ said Sir Aronn. ‘That probably means they were Vorstlendings, travelling from the south.’

  Torgun nodded. That made sense – the Vorstlendings were known for their dislike of excessive finery.

  ‘That explains why they were travelling with a child and not more strongly protected,’ he said. ‘News of our war and the outlaws probably hadn’t reached them.’

  It had to be Thule’s former levies: the merchants’ purses had been slashed open, there were no signs of any horses or other treasures. Unless Wadwos had taken to thieving as well as slaying.

  ‘Over here! There’s a blood trail leading off the road – one of them must have survived.’

  Braxus was standing by the side of the highway, pointing at a dark smear that led off into the woods.

  Torgun went over to look, pushing his conflicted thoughts about Braxus away. He was grateful for the Thraxian’s help and did not doubt his strength or courage… but all the same there was something of the rogue about the foreigner’s manner, and that didn’t befit a true knight. He didn’t trust him.

  ‘He or she must have crawled into the forest after they left,’ said Torgun. ‘Judging by their wounds they were greatly outnumbe
red… no one could have escaped while the brigands were still here.’

  Sir Braxus nodded. ‘Perhaps best if we leave it – no sense in jeopardising our mission for someone who probably didn’t survive long in any case.’

  Sir Torgun stared at him disapprovingly. ‘I’ll not abandon a man until I know for sure he is dead. If the outlaws did this, they are my responsibility – two thousand of Thule’s levies escaped, and I will bring them to justice wherever I can.’

  Horskram leaned over his saddle to address Torgun. ‘I agree with Sir Braxus – we already knew there was a risk of outlaws, and gain nothing by detouring here. The turning we need is but an hour’s ride away. We must press on.’

  Sir Torgun frowned. He did not like to take issue with an Argolian, and Horskram was well respected. But he liked shirking his duties less. ‘Master monk, our responsibility as knights of the White Valravyn – ’

  ‘ – expired the minute you left the kingdom,’ Horskram finished for him. ‘You’re sworn to protect me, on an oath to the King himself need I remind you? We leave the bodies where they lie and carry on – when we get to the woodlanders I’ll have them bring the bodies back so we can give them the Last Rites.’

  Sir Torgun looked from Braxus to Horskram, suppressing feelings of resentment. He hated to admit it, but the old monk was right. He had sworn an oath, and his king’s word was law.

  Sir Aronn wasn’t done yet though. ‘I say no man’s vow should keep him from following his knightly duties,’ he protested. ‘And this man could help us if he still lives!’

  ‘How?’ sneered Horskram. ‘By telling us he and his godless friends were set upon by outlaws? I think we have gathered as much.’

  ‘What if they were Wadwos?’ persisted Aronn. ‘A survivor could tell us.’

  ‘It makes no difference,’ said Horskram. ‘We know the dangers we face. And Wadwos fight better at night, their pale skins like not the sunlight. So the longer we delay the more chance we have of meeting them before we reach the settlement.’

  Sitting up, the adept flicked his reins and began steering his mount past the bodies. ‘This isn’t a discussion,’ he said. ‘So get back on your horses. We leave the bodies where they lie.’