by Damien Black
Adhelina looked from Madogan to Hettie, to the grim faces of her forced new retinue, and saw it was hopeless. She suddenly felt dreadfully alone.
She had tried the powers and chances of the world of men, but for all her resilience and ingenuity men had bested her: not because they were cleverer or braver than she was, but because they played by rules they had set down long ago to suit themselves. Her father commanded a small army, even the threat of it was enough to move the hands of other men against her. Faced with such odds, what chance had she ever had of winning?
The heiress of Dulsinor felt her heart turn to lead as she took a step towards the waiting pony.
CHAPTER V
Of Sour Times
Once the spectacle of Graukolos would have impressed him, but now all Adelko could find was a feeling of foreboding as they rode up through Merkstaed into the looming shadow of its eight towers. The skies that compassed its gargantuan frame were azure blue: it was early Balmonath and approaching high summer. The fast-flowing waters of the Graufluss sparkled in the sun’s rays, and birds skittered to and fro above the burgeoning marketplace, hoping to pick up a scrap or two.
None of it could warm the chill of horror that had lain on his heart since the Warlock’s Crown. It had been some two weeks since they left its cursed precinct, but everything he had witnessed there remained embedded in his mind like a poisoned arrow.
As they rode through the market square and out of the bustling town the novice muttered the Psalm of Spirit’s Comforting for the umpteenth time that day.
He did not know which had been worse: the demonic friezes intertwined with angels (angels!) that had lined the asymmetric interior of the blasted ruin Andragorix had called home; the lingering aura of evil about the place; the putrefying stench of the hecatomb of corpses; the no less foul remains of some devilish consort they had found, looking like a half-melted skeleton with gobs of pus and flesh sloughing off it. And then there had been the all-too-human horror of the wretched lad they had found chained up in the mad mage’s laboratory…
Perhaps that had been the worst of all, barely living evidence of the awfulness that mortalkind could visit on one another when caught up in the worship of Abaddon.
Or was the Fallen One just an excuse? The Earth Witch would probably have said as much. Were men wicked because they allowed themselves to be possessed by devils, or did they allow themselves to be possessed by devils because they were wicked in the first place?
Andragorix had made his choice. His mother’s trapped spirit had said as much, just before the spell binding her to the ring he wore had expired, leaving her free to seek whatever fate awaited her on the Other Side.
Through all that horror – man and devil-made – they had searched, destroying everything they could: the grimoires, the scrolls, the paraphernalia. But no Headstone fragments. Together they had conducted a divination, used every psalm in the Holy Book. All to no avail. Andragorix had not, apparently, been lying: he did not have the fragments, nor the power to wield them.
Now they were at Graukolos, hoping to find another clue as to who did.
Vaskrian shifted uncomfortably in the saddle as they rode into the barbican so Horskram could state their business to the serjeant-at-arms guarding the outer ward.
By Reus, but he hurt. The woodland women had treated his burns during the week they had waited for their horses to be brought from the settlement they had saved from the outlaws. His arm was trussed up in a sling, and would be for at least a few more weeks, but it was his face that hurt most. Horskram had told him he should consider himself lucky; had they not had the Redeemer’s blood to help them with their prayers, he would have been roasted alive just like poor Sir Belinos. One of the women treating him had told him he would be scarred for life.
Disfigured and out of action for the foreseeable future. Time was that would have left him crestfallen. Now, he just felt bitter. His fate was already sealed, if the Earth Witch told it true: he’d risk life and limb on one mad quest after the other, but no man would ever bestow title on him no matter how much he did to earn it. Once he would have put his faith in Braxus, the foreigner who had promised him much, to elevate him beyond his status if his deeds merited it. But since the Warlock’s Crown his new guvnor had not been himself. Ashen-faced and withdrawn, the Thraxian simply stared into the middle distance, saying little and only when spoken to.
What did Sir Braxus have to feel so glum about, Vaskrian wondered. The Thraxian had escaped the worst of it: he wasn’t scarred or maimed – or dead like poor Sir Aronn. Another funeral, for him and the woodland girl who had died fighting alongside them. He’d caught Sir Torgun and Anupe staring at Horskram darkly as the monk had given them both their Last Rites back at the camp.
There was bad blood brewing in the company all right.
The guards on the gate blew a note and the gates of the outer ward opened to admit them. Riding into it, Vaskrian glanced at the hurly-burly of the craftsmen’s’ stalls to his right. He looked up at the looming walls about him. The castle was huge: even bigger than Linden and Staerkvit. Adelko had said it was built by a stonemason inspired by wizards, or so the legend had it.
He didn’t like the sound of that. He’d had enough of wizards and their doings to last a lifetime.
Half a dozen guards came to escort them through to the next ward. Across the yard from the craftsmen, ostlers emerged from the stables to take their horses.
Vaskrian dismounted, wincing all the way. At least they’d get some more rest while they were here. And he’d heard something about a wedding – involving the strange noblewoman who’d apparently been trying to escape her future spouse and been brought back while they were off trying to get themselves killed. Naturally, there’d be a tournament to celebrate.
Not that he’d be doing much there. Nor his guvnor, if he didn’t pull himself together.
Torgun took a good long look around the courtyard. By Reus but it felt good to be back in a castle again, albeit a foreign one. Drinking in the neatly piled blocks of limestone, he inhaled deeply, banishing the memory of the Warlock’s Crown. A stablehand took his horse from him; he felt a momentary twinge as the lad led his Farovian destrier away. It had been good to be reunited with Hilmir, to feel his mighty flanks beneath him again as they took the road to Merkstaed.
Merkstaed, and the castle that guarded it. Instead of urging Hilmir north, back towards his homeland, Torgun had chosen to steer him south, in the company of the monk who had become so disagreeable to him. His three best friends in the Order were dead, their lives spent on a mission that had proved only half successful. His duty was done: the King had given him the choice, whether to continue his adventures with Horskram after Andragorix was slain or return home to where he belonged.
So why was he here?
He knew the answer, even as the Eorl’s soldiers escorted them towards the middle ward where their liege would receive them in the Great Hall.
He had not been able to get the winsome heiress of Dulsinor out of his mind since they had returned to the woodland camp to find her gone, spirited away by Madogan’s men and back to the keep where she belonged. Even as they had buried Sir Aronn with full honours, her face had appeared before him, beautiful and proud as a morning sunrise. He had tried to force her away, fixing his eyes on Horskram as he intoned the Last Rites, replacing secret love with not-so-secret resentment.
To no avail.
The old monk had seemed surprised when Torgun told him he would continue his journey with them. Andragorix’s sorcery had left him nursing burns on his chest, but the women had given him a salve for the pain and he’d soon got used to it. Doubtless the adept had expected him to ride off once the woodlanders brought them their horses and other supplies.
Instead he had calmly divested himself of his charred tabard and cloak, swapping the age-old insignia of the White Valravyn for the plain black surcoat of an errant.
It was an impossible love, and he knew it. Soon she would be married off
to Lord Hengist, Herzog of Stornelund, soon to be Grand Herzog of Stornelund-Dulsinor. The Code of Chivalry’s stipulations on romance didn’t explicitly preclude a knight from having an affair with a married woman, so long as all the usual observances were made. But even an idealist like Torgun knew that such a powerful marriage alliance should not be interfered with.
Besides that, once the monk was done with his inspection of the castle, he would be off again, this time to Rima where he would report back to the Grand Master of his Order. Torgun would have no excuse for lingering at Graukolos.
He’d mulled that over time and again, but it made no difference. His heart was already beating faster as the guards escorted them through a second pair of double doors to the middle ward. The truth was, he would cross fire and flood for another chance to set eyes on Adhelina of Dulsinor.
Braxus tried unsuccessfully to shake the cloud from his mind as they walked across the central courtyard towards the entrance to the Great Hall. The donjon loomed high above them; one of its turrets was covered with ivy, but he scarcely registered that or the clash of arms in the training yard.
Horskram had explained to him what had happened with the Gygant, how it had wanted to attack its captor but its natural fear of wizards had stopped it; how the old monk had persuaded it to let them live so they might be revenged on Andragorix on its behalf. It had been a close run thing, but eventually the Argolian had convinced it to leave them be.
Braxus had hoped that by understanding what had transpired he might be able to overcome the shame of his own fear, but thus it had not proved. Horskram had warned him that the very buildings of the Elder Wizards could wreak havoc with a man’s mind. He had recited numerous psalms with his novice during their stay with the woodlanders and journey to Graukolos. They hadn’t cured his melancholia, but at least he hadn’t turned into a gibbering lunatic as other adventurers were said to have done after braving the ruins of the priest-kings.
The knight barely listened as the Eorl’s chamberlain rattled off formalities before ushering them into the castle’s triangular great hall. He had half hoped to catch another glimpse of the Eorl’s daughter, now seemingly beyond his grasp. Hopefully that would cheer him up – he had thought about her many times during the journey to Graukolos, but all that did was intensify his shame. How could he possibly meet the lovely heiress’s eye now? He had been tested, and found wanting. His poor squire, a man he was responsible for, was scarred for life. At least his sword arm should heal. The cut to Braxus’ side was not deep and would heal too, though at nights it seemed to burn with a strange cold fire.
As they strode up the hall to meet their new host, Braxus tried to pull himself together. Perhaps he wasn’t much of a knight errant, but he was still a lord’s son.
Sir Urist Stronghand surveyed the new arrivals as they drew to a halt before the Eorl’s dais.
A mismatched band of companions… it was like something out of one of Baalric’s lays, the sort written a couple of decades ago about a motley group of adventurers thrown together by improbable circumstances.
Here was a lay being played out in real life and no mistake. The monk was not unknown to him: Horskram had been a guest at Graukolos on a few occasions, stopping over on his way from one witch-hunt to another. The younger monk was evidently his novice. Curious-looking fellow, with his chubby face and timid eyes: clearly not of noble stock, unlike his mentor. But then the Argolians judged the mettle of men differently to most mortals.
The two knights were clearly foreigners, judging by their dress: the Northlending was an impressive sight, towering over every other man in the room, though his strong features had a sorrowful cast to them. He was dressed in a sable tabard bereft of heraldic achievement, and carried no sword – bizarre, for such a well-made man must surely command some station in his homeland?
The handsome knight next to him looked even unhappier, though he was dressed better, in gilded mail and a surcoat bearing a stylised red wyvern coiled about a violet jewel on a verdant green background. He was flaxen-haired like the Northlending but of a lither build… a Thraxian or Cobian if Urist had to guess. His squire could be from anywhere – half his face was bandaged and his arm was in a sling.
But it was the sixth stranger who caught his eye. He was of slighter build than the Thraxian, and wore a hood brought low over his face. That wouldn’t stand: court protocol demanded that all guests show their faces to the lord of the hall.
He was about to say something to this effect when Wilhelm spoke.
‘So Brother Horskram returns to my hall, with a right ragtag band of freebooters in tow by the looks of it! I suppose you’ve heard about the theft, and want to conduct investigations.’
Horskram gave a courteous half-bow. Half, but not a full one, Urist noticed – these damned Argolians were notoriously dismissive of worldly rank and title.
‘You are as direct as ever, Lord Wilhelm,’ the monk said. ‘And correct. Also, as you can see, my ragtag companions have seen some wear and tear – if they might have quarters and rest while my novice Adelko of Narvik and I conduct our investigation, I would be most grateful.’
‘Of course!’ boomed Wilhelm. ‘Are we Vorstlendings not rightly renowned for our hospitality? Bed and board shall be given to your retinue without stint – but first I would know who my guests are.’
‘Naturally,’ replied Horskram, before rattling off introductions. When he got to the last one, a few gasps went up around the hall as the freebooter pulled back his – or rather her – hood.
‘Anupe of the Harijan Isles seeks the favour of your hall,’ said Horskram.
‘She also seeks coin,’ added the mercenary bluntly. ‘I saved your daughter many times, during her bid for freedom.’
‘How now?’ cried the Eorl, fixing her with a look that might have melted frost. The monk was giving her a furious stare of his own: clearly this Anupe was not behaving as expected. But then what could one expect from a barbarian?
‘Ah, forgive my companion’s unguarded tongue,’ interjected Horskram. ‘If your lordship will permit me to explain, with fewer ears present…’ He glanced meaningfully at the knights and ladies gathered in the frescoed hall.
The Eorl sighed and dismissed them with a wave of the hand. All that was left were the half dozen visitors, the Eorl, his seneschal Berthal and of course Urist himself.
‘These are my most trusted advisers,’ said Wilhelm. ‘What I hear, they hear – my hall, my rules. Now out with it – I’ve a feeling you’ve been on one of your blasted missions again.’
Horskram cleared his throat and told them his tale. It wasn’t a short one, and by the time he was done shadows were lengthening in the hall.
Urist didn’t know what shocked him most – the story of Horskram’s mission to root out Andragorix and recover the stolen stones, or the stab of pain that came to his heart when he learned that Sir Balthor was dead.
There had been little love lost between them, but for all his pomposity Sir Urist had admired the man. Now he was lying in a grave marked only by his sword on the northern foothills of the Eorldom, his life laid down trying to save the Lady Adhelina from an army of beastmen. At least it was a heroic death, one worthy of the knight Sir Balthor had thought he was.
He felt a flash of anger towards his liege’s daughter – were it not for her headstrong wilfulness Sir Balthor would still be alive. The knight had been vain and boastful, but had not deserved to die. Urist made a mental note to have Baalric write a song in honour of his passing – that should please his shade as it gazed on the mortal vale from the Heavenly Halls.
‘Well that is a grim tale and no mistake,’ sighed the Eorl when Horskram was done. ‘For all your efforts you’re none the wiser as to who this thief is. You and your novice shall have the freedom of the Werecrypt – if it can furnish you with any clues, all to the better!’
He turned a beady eye on the Harijan next.
‘As for you, tell me why I shouldn’t have you clapped in irons pending
execution for abetting the attempted escape of my daughter?’
Anupe stared back at him boldly. If she felt any fear she hid it well. ‘I was in the employ of the Lady Adhelina,’ she replied. ‘It is not for a freesword to question her paymaster. I did what I was asked and expect to be paid for it. I had heard that the Markward family keeps its word.’
The Eorl stared at her. Berthal shot a sideways glance at Urist, who tensed at her insolence.
Just say the word my liege, he thought, and I’ll have half a dozen strong knights in here and a blacksmith in tow.
An uncomfortable silence stretched across the next few moments.
If he gestures towards me, her life is over, thought Urist. If he gestures towards Berthal, she’s just enriched herself.
The Eorl gestured towards Berthal.
‘Pay her,’ he said gruffly. ‘Terms as agreed with my daughter. Time to draw a line under this infernal business.’
Urist could not resist breaking his silence. ‘But, my lord, she – ’
‘I said pay her and be done with it,’ said the Eorl firmly. ‘The sight of this outlander sickens me, I’ll not sully my walls with her pagan head.’
‘My lord is gracious,’ said Anupe, bowing low and deep. So far as Urist could tell, she wasn’t being sarcastic.
‘Yes, yes, carry tales of my generosity and justice back to whatever benighted bourne you came from,’ said the Eorl dismissively. ‘Berthal will accompany you and see your business settled, then you can thank me by getting out of Dulsinor with all due speed.’
The Harijan said no more at that and turned to leave with Berthal.
At least the savage knows when to shut up, thought Urist. He burned with resentment. This had not been a good day.
‘The rest of you can go with him as well – he’ll see you all quartered,’ added Wilhelm. ‘Then you can join us for supper. This horrid business aside, it’s a joyous occasion. The Lanraks are coming to feast with us – in case you hadn’t heard, there’s a wedding back on.’
