by Damien Black
‘I’ll come to that in a minute,’ replied Horskram, not seeming annoyed or perturbed by the interruption.
He’s been preparing for this moment for years, Adelko realised as the adept continued: ‘As some of you already know, I fought Andragorix at Roarkil in Thraxia several years ago, myself and one Belinos of Runcymede.’
‘A dreadful place if all the tales be true,’ put in Braxus. ‘They say it’s haunted with the shades of slaughtered soldiers.’
‘I’ll not deny it,’ replied Horskram. ‘You will recall the part Roarkil played in the loss of a Headstone fragment – it was the very thing we seek that led to the forest and fortress of that name becoming cursed in the first place.’
Sir Braxus nodded. ‘Cadwyn’s betrayal of Corann is well known among my people. He is not called the False Friend for nothing.’
Adelko caught Kyra and Anupe exchanging bemused glances. Horskram was speaking in Decorlangue, a language they didn’t understand. Once again his wily mentor was indulging his penchant for secrecy. But that was hardly surprising.
‘Thing we seek?’ queried Aronn, looking to Torgun for an answer. ‘All I know is that we’re to protect you until you find and defeat this sorcerer.’
A pained looked crossed Sir Torgun’s face. Adelko sensed the young knight wasn’t nearly as comfortable with keeping secrets as his mentor.
‘Forgive me, Sir Aronn,’ he said. ‘I was sworn to secrecy and told to tell you and the twins only what I thought you needed to know. There is more to this mission than at first seems, but for now you need to trust Horskram and listen to what he says.’
Aronn shook his head and took a pull on a wineskin, gesturing irately at the monk to continue.
‘I will tell you of our encounter and do my best to explain the powers he marshalled against us, so that you have a good idea of what to expect. Adelko, I hope your Vorstlending isn’t too rusty – you can translate for the benefit of yon women.’
Adelko permitted himself a wry smile. Now that he had got the need for secrecy out of the way, his mentor was inviting them to join the briefing.
‘As we have gleaned from many a witch trial, every sorcerer learns from the Seven Schools of Magick,’ said Horskram. ‘Andragorix is versed in all of these in varying degrees. That he is a demonologist of growing powers we already know – he set demonic servitors to guard him at Roarkil, such as I will not describe here.’
The adept paused to make the sign and Adelko flinched as he felt a chill momentarily freeze his mentor’s soul. ‘However, I do not think he will send such against us, for reasons I’ll come to. He also used Necromancy to send the remains of some of Cadwyn’s dead soldiers to attack us. It was a horrid sight, watching as he bound their tormented shades to their skeletal bodies and sent them against us!’
His mentor paused and made the sign again. Once more Adelko had to suppress a smile. Horskram was indulging his storytelling histrionics again. If one hard question was asked of his soul at the gates of the Heavenly Halls, it would surely be of his vanity: Horskram could not help himself when he had an audience, he simply loved to tell a good story. Even if it was one that might be a prelude to their deaths.
‘How many did he send?’ asked Sir Braxus, clearly keen on keeping things practical.
‘A good question,’ allowed Horskram. ‘He is not an accomplished necromancer, thank Reus, and should not be able to send more than ten reanimated corpses at us.’
‘Only ten undead warriors,’ said Braxus. ‘Well that should even up the odds nicely, assuming he doesn’t already have another garrison of beastmen waiting for us up there!’
‘As I said, we’ll come to tactics in a bit,’ said Horskram, glancing at the Thraxian severely. ‘After fighting our way past the skeletal swordsmen and demonic bodyguards we found him alone in his chamber. But I warn you, even bereft of such henchmen, Andragorix is no weakling in a straight fight. His knowledge of Alchemy has taught him to concoct distillations that give him unnatural strength and speed. But most deadly of all is his command of Thaumaturgy. You’ve already seen what he can do with elemental magic – well, expect more of that. Last time I fought him he sent bound Saraphi to fight us, and that was the death of poor Sir Belinos. He can also conjure Aethi and use those to harden the air around him in a protective shield, or to fly out of range.’
‘Excuse me… “bound”?’ Even when was translated, Anupe did not understand the word from its context.
‘A sorcerer can choose to bind Elementi after he has summoned them,’ explained Horskram, ‘much as he can choose to bind demons – all that is needed is an inanimate host object. In our case it was a staff of silver and mahogany, a fair thing to look upon but when used for such foul – ’
Anupe cut off both Horskram and Adelko – who was struggling to keep up with Horskram in his halting Vorstlending – with a wave of the hand. ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ she said. ‘I do not need a merchant’s description of the item in question.’
Horskram allowed her a wry smile of his own. Adelko felt his spirits lighten a little. As always, it felt good to share a joke before going into danger.
‘He may also try to use the School of Transformation to turn himself into a bird of flight or even a wreath of mist,’ Horskram continued. ‘But chances are he’ll only use that if he feels the need to escape as he did last time.’
‘What about us?’ asked Kyra, looking terrified now. ‘Won’t he just transform us into… insects or somethin’?’
‘So far as we know, the only warlock since the Elder Wizards well versed enough in Transformation to turn others into creatures against their will was Proteana, who troubled Antaeus on his voyages more than two thousand years ago.’
Adelko didn’t bother translating that part. A simple ‘no’ sufficed to answer the superstitious woodlander’s question.
‘So let me see if I have this right,’ queried Braxus, counting off on his fingers. ‘You’re taking us to fight a mad warlock who can fly, shoot fireballs at us, defend himself with an invisible magic shield, has the strength and speed to match the strongest knight, and can always transform himself into something conveniently fast or unassailable if by some miracle we do get the better of him. And that’s leaving aside that he may be surrounded by a horde of Wadwos, a host of demons, and an elite bodyguard of undead warriors for good measure. You’ll forgive me if I’m having second thoughts about this mission.’
His comments produced cracked smiles if not outright laughter. But then it was difficult to laugh at a joke when the punchline appeared to be their imminent and gruesome deaths by a variety of unnatural means.
‘That brings me to what we can do to protect ourselves,’ said Horskram, pointedly ignoring the Thraxian’s attempts at humour. Reaching into his habit he produced the phial containing the blood of the Redeemer. Adelko made the sign, Torgun and Aronn quickly following suit, though Braxus and Vaskrian looked unimpressed and Kyra and Anupe simply baffled.
‘This will protect us against any demons, save those that he binds to natural matter, so we shouldn’t have to worry about any demonic servitors,’ he said. ‘Likewise any undead he sends to fight us should be given pause.’
‘Well that takes care of his henchmen, barring the Wadwo horde,’ said Braxus dryly. ‘What about him though?’
‘Andragorix is a fetishist of the Seven Princes of Perfidy,’ explained Horskram. ‘That means he considers himself the living embodiment of all the sins they represent, and as such the proximity of this relic will appal and sicken him. That should weaken his elan somewhat.’
Horskram anticipated the question before Anupe could ask it. ‘A sorcerer’s elan is his stock of psychic power, that which he draws upon to use magic. It is also worth bearing in mind that Andragorix’s should also be strained by keeping a Wadwo army in thrall and whatever else he is planning on conjuring up.’
Sir Braxus nodded. ‘Will it be enough to stop him from blasting us into oblivion or making himself invulnerable to attack?’
/> ‘Not on its own,’ admitted Horskram. ‘However, Adelko and I will channel the powers of the Redeemer – using the Psalm I recited at the Earth Witch’s Girdle. His blood will amplify our prayers. If Reus smiles on our efforts, we should be able to neutralise his magic.’
Adelko felt a palpable sense of relief go through the company at that. Good news had been in short supply of late.
‘However, I’ve a feeling he won’t send much in the way of demonic agents to trouble us on our journey to the Warlock’s Crown,’ added Horskram.
‘Why is that?’ asked Sir Torgun.
‘He’s been yearning for this showdown for years,’ replied the adept. ‘I don’t think he wants to put this duel off for much longer. Oh he won’t make it easy for us once we reach the Crown, but he wants to be in our presence when he attacks us, so he can see me suffer first hand.’
‘Sounds like a lovely individual,’ quipped Braxus, though Adelko could sense the Thraxian hid foreboding behind his humour.
‘So that brings us on to tactics,’ said the adept. ‘When we root him out Adelko and I will be chanting the Psalm. It’s down to the six of you to take advantage of our efforts to press him. Under no circumstances allow him any respite! Andragorix will always seek to attack, whenever he can. Once you let him do that, his elan will run riot and he will destroy you and then us. So keep attacking! We’ll do our best to neutralise his command over fire and air to give you the chance to do that. Kyra, I presume your arrow-tips are made from iron and not steel?’
Kyra blinked, looking surprised. ‘Aye, master monk,’ she said. ‘Couldna afford steel ones!’
‘No, that is a good thing. Sorcery likes not pure iron – that’s why we always chain apprehended witches using shackles made of it. If you concentrate your fire on him, his wizardry will be less of a defence against it. Adelko and I have quarterstaves shod with iron for much the same reason, though I doubt we’ll get involved in close combat – unless things really go ill with the rest of you.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us that when we were back at Salmor?’ demanded Aronn angrily. ‘Our swords are made of steel!’
‘And have been since your forefathers relearned the secret of smelting it centuries ago,’ put in Braxus, looking exasperated. ‘What was Horskram supposed to do, have us look up a bladesmith and ask him to make us a clutch of swords our great-grandfathers wouldn’t have been seen dead carrying?’
‘Sir Braxus is right,’ said Torgun mildly, though Adelko sensed his keen resentment for the Thraxian. ‘We cannot expect Horskram to think of everything weeks in advance. Besides, as he says, a knight of your station wouldn’t have carried such a crude weapon, never mind consented to use one. Nor would I.’
‘I suppose we could always punch him instead,’ muttered Aronn sarcastically. ‘Our gauntlets are mailed in iron.’
‘Enough!’ snapped Horskram, betraying his tension. ‘As I said, if we work together and stick to the plan, you won’t need iron weapons to get past his shield – Adelko and I will neutralise it with prayer and you can give him a steel farewell to your hearts’ content.’
‘Assuming his potions of Wadwo-strength and the like don’t have something to say in the matter,’ said Braxus. ‘Does he use any conventional weapons?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ replied Horskram. ‘But be prepared for anything. His powers of Demonology have grown, as has his command of elemental magic – he may have other surprises up his sleeve.’
‘So that’s our plan?’ asked Aronn incredulously. ‘We just march into his cursed stronghold, say a few prayers and hope that’s enough for us to kill him?’
Horskram glared at him icily. ‘Your reductionist remarks put said plan into rather an unfavourable light,’ he said brittlely.
‘Fie on this melancholy mood!’ cried Torgun. ‘I trust I do not boast when I say we have proved ourselves stout and valiant ere now – if we follow Horskram’s advice and work together as he says we shall triumph over this fiend!’
Sir Braxus sneered and rolled his eyes at Vaskrian, who merely looked resigned and weary. Sir Torgun stared at the Thraxian coldly, his fists clenching.
Not for the first time, Adelko wished he could turn his sixth sense off. Bad feelings were running through the company like a sewer. Even Torgun had betrayed a hint of doubt behind his bold words.
The novice tried to think of something to say, something that would lift their spirits, but no words came. Turning to look gloomily out of the cave, he watched the night rains harden.
‘Don’t be afraid, we mean you no harm.’
Sir Torgun raised his hands to show they were empty. The terrified villagers huddled together, not knowing whether to believe him. Around them the wreck that had been their hamlet lay scattered across the side of the mountain. The corpses of its twenty-odd residents were crushed into its side, the huts where they had lived lying in piles of smashed wattle.
The night rains had done nothing to dispel the clouds, and a cold grey morning had greeted them as they continued their journey further up into the Hyrkrainians. The hamlet lay at the end of a trail leading off the pass. Horskram had wanted to continue without stopping, but Torgun wasn’t about to leave innocents to die a second time.
Not that there were any lives to be saved. The four surviving villagers had escaped death, but the rest were beyond aid, ugly red smears against the green mountainside. The bodies had been crushed by some awful strength.
‘Did Wadwos do this?’ he asked gently, kneeling slowly before the foremost villager, a greybeard of fifty winters or so. The poor man shook his head. He stuttered, trying to speak and failing.
‘They’re too afraid to talk,’ said the blond knight.
‘Tell us something we don’t know,’ muttered Sir Braxus.
Resisting the urge to draw his sword on the Thraxian, Torgun ignored him and addressed Aronn. ‘Do you have any wine left in your skin?’
The knight nodded reluctantly and passed it over.
‘Here, have some of this,’ said Torgun. ‘There’s enough left for a mouthful each.’
The greybeard accepted the skin gratefully and took a swig before passing it to the others: a bedraggled-looking woman of about five and thirty, another man around the same age and a lad of less than ten summers who was crying.
It seemed to do some good. The greybeard looked at him again. ‘My thanks, sirrah,’ he stammered. He spoke the same mishmash of Northlending and Vorstlending that all border folk used, though his accent was less strong than that of the woodfolk. All the same, he wasn’t easy to follow in his terrified state, so Torgun beckoned Kyra over to translate.
‘Says it ‘appened four o’ five nights ago,’ she explained. ‘It were rainin’ and they could ‘ear Gygants shoutin’. Didna think much o’ it – Gygants dunna often venture from the higher ranges north o’ here. But this time it were different – it got louder an’ louder, then…’
The old man broke off, crying hysterically.
‘Canna follow what he’s sayin’…’ said Kyra. ‘Somethin’ abowt losin’ ‘is whole family…’
‘Ask one of the others,’ said Horskram, stepping forwards and suddenly taking interest. ‘This could be relevant.’
Sir Torgun spared the monk a reproachful glance. Now it’s relevant, he thought. Now they know something he considers useful, not when they were just strangers in need of help.
He had respected the Argolian Order all his life, defending them vehemently from the accusations of witchcraft they had so unjustly incurred since the Purge, but the adept’s seeming disregard for ordinary mortal concerns irked him.
The woman started to pick up the thread of the story, putting a comforting arm around the greybeard.
‘Says it were dark, but they saw what looked like a man flyin’ through the air,’ said Kyra. ‘He were carryin’ somethin’, a cage it looked like… Then they ‘eard a great crashin’ sound, got louder an’ louder, along wi’ the screamin’ …’
Kyra gaped as the
woman finished her story. ‘She says a Gygant came crashin’ across the crest o’ yonder peak,’ she said, pointing to the next mountain along. ‘It ‘owled like it were… sad?’ She interrupted the babbling woman to check she had heard correctly. ‘Sad,’ she confirmed.
‘That isn’t so strange,’ said Horskram. ‘Gygants have been sad since the Elder Wizards killed most of their race and enslaved half the rest. Tell her to go on.’
‘The thing stopped givin’ chase, the flyin’ man or whatever it were disappeared…’
‘Which direction?’ asked Horskram.
‘That way,’ said Kyra, pointing to where the pass snaked up and around towards a higher belt of mountains. Where the Warlock’s Crown lay waiting for them. Horskram anticipated reaching it by dusk: once they rounded the bend the villager had pointed to they should be able to see it.
‘It turned around and spotted this ‘amlet,’ she said, her voice quiet now. ‘Went into a rage and walked right up to it, smashed it to pieces, killed everyone except them. They’ve been too scared to move since then.’
Horskram frowned, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. ‘Sounds as if Andragorix is provoking giants,’ he said. ‘The question is why?’
‘What was in the cage?’ asked Sir Braxus. ‘Ask her if she saw.’
Kyra relayed the question but the peasants shook their heads. ‘Says he was movin’ too fast and it were too dark to see clearly. They’re not even sure it were a cage he was carryin’.’
‘What happened to the Gygant?’ asked Horskram.
‘Turned around and went back up to the higher ranges where it came from,’ said Kyra.
‘Well at least it reverted to type,’ said Horskram. ‘That means Andragorix hasn’t learned how to enthral giants, not yet anyway.’
‘We thank you for the information.’ Fishing into his pouch the adept scooped out a handful of silver marks from the money supply King Freidheim had provided him with. He pressed the coins on the younger man. ‘Take these and get yourselves to safety – there is nothing for you here any more, your crops are ruined, your livestock fled or killed. Follow the pass downwards until you reach our camp. You’ll get food and shelter there.’
