Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising
Page 77
Walking up the stairs of the dais, she took her position on the other side of the table with her brother. Walsa whispered a last word of encouragement before joining the front of the throng of courtiers. Above it all loomed the Giantslayer’s Gift, its vast eye sockets staring dispassionately down at the unfolding spectacle.
Minutes dragged past. The excited hubbub of courtiers did little to calm her. Presently the herald announced the arrival of Lord Toric. Hjala felt her nerves settle a little. She shot a sidelong glance at Ulnor as the High Commander jingled his way up to the dais. He was still dressed in full battle armour, save for his helm.
Ulnor’s stony demeanour gave nothing away. As Toric took his place behind his designated seat, an under-seneschal ushered the two candidates to stand before the Pine Throne. Neither brother looked at the other; both men stared ahead into the middle distance and tried to look as regal as possible. Wolfram was dressed in a similar fashion to Thorsvald, only his chosen colours were cream and white. On a marble plinth off to the side she caught a silver circlet fashioned to resemble Seakindred and war galleys, set with a single blue topaz: the Regent’s crown. She drew in a tight breath and forced it out slowly.
The hubbub seemed to raise itself a notch. It was impossible to tell with the overcast weather, but surely it must be noon by now? Hjala shot a nervous glance at her aunt, who raised her eyebrows. The princess was on the point of asking the under-seneschal where on earth Cuthbert was when the herald declaimed: ‘All make way for His High Holiness, Lorthar, Arch Perfect of Strongholm!’
Hjala gawped as the familiar figure swept into the throneroom. He looked a lot more emaciated than the last time she had seen him, but everything else was the same: the regal finery, the staff of office, the confident manner. The zealous look that burned in his eyes.
She shot a furious glance at Ulnor. He met her gaze, and this time a thin smile crept up his craggy features.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ she barked. ‘Lorthar was attainted of treason and stripped of office!’
‘Charges which I was entitled to reverse as acting regent,’ replied Ulnor coolly. ‘On further consideration, it was found that the accusations levelled against him were… unfounded.’
‘This is in direct contravention of my father’s own decree!’ she yelled. ‘How could you?’
‘Doubtless His Majesty’s illness was already upon him when he imprisoned His High Holiness,’ replied Ulnor, unable to keep the smugness from his tone. ‘Freidheim was a great monarch, but even the greatest are vulnerable to fault, particularly in their last days.’
‘And what about the war he won that saved all our necks in his last days!?’ cried Hjala as Lorthar took up his position at the table. ‘Have you forgotten about that?’
But Ulnor did not reply. The under-seneschal called for silence and formally declared the reason for the assembly.
The words disappeared behind a torrent of rage and despair. All her wily politicking had come to naught. She had been outplayed from the start by a man who held a deck of cards stacked in his favour.
The vote proceeded, though she knew it was now a farce. As Lorthar cast the deciding vote in favour of Wolfram she caught the perfect smiling at Ulnor. Oh, he had earned his freedom well… She spared a glance for the two princes standing behind them. Wolfram was smirking triumphantly, a savage look in his eyes. Her brother was inscrutable: he simply stood and stared ahead, his face pale and taut.
The coronation proceeded swiftly. Being only for a regency it wasn’t a long ceremony; when it was done, Wolfram stepped up to the edge of the dais and raised his hands for silence from the applauding nobles. Many young knights were cheering and it took a while for them to settle down.
‘My Northlending brothers – and sisters!’ said Wolfram. ‘It is with great gladness on this happy day that I accept the crown of Regent! I promise to serve thee all, and the realm too, as it faces glorious new challenges in the coming months!’
More cheers erupted. Hjala felt a core of sickness growing in the pit of her stomach.
‘By land we have been assailed,’ continued the Regent. ‘Now by sea a new danger comes – the Northlanders have ever been covetous of our status and our wealth!’
The cheering intensified, some of the supporters hooting at the mention of their barbarian cousins. The under-seneschal banged down his staff for silence.
‘And I say – LET THEM COME!’ roared Wolfram, to tumultuous approval. ‘They shall not find us unprepared! For we shall gather our armies from the four corners of this kingdom – the which we have but lately defended from treasonous rebels – and together we shall make a fist to SMITE THEM WITH!’
Wolfram shook his fist for effect. Hjala felt her sickness ebb slightly. It was undeniably a good speech – an honourable tribute to their father’s charisma. Had she misjudged him? Would the boy prince finally become a king and a man?
Wolfram raised his hand again for silence. ‘But while we are speaking of TREASON…’ He turned a jackal eye on his sister. Hjala felt her blood run cold. ‘Mine own sister sought to put my younger brother on the throne instead of me, its rightful heir! IS THIS MEET?’
The cheering soured immediately into boos and jeering. Hjala felt her sickness return. Her brother rounded on her and Thorsvald. ‘Should the rightful Regent of Northalde stand for such base TREACHERY!?’ Wolfram took a step towards her. ‘NAY! I say – ’ He stopped in his tracks. His one good eye was twitching spasmodically. His fist remained clenched. ‘I say…’ he repeated, in a weaker voice. ‘I say… suh-say…’
The Regent’s body started spasming. He fell to one knee, still struggling to finish his sentence.
Not even Hjala could have predicted what happened next. Ulnor motioned to the under-seneschal, who immediately ordered guards to escort the Regent from the throneroom. She was expecting him to address the assembly, to proffer some feeble excuse for her brother’s illness.
Instead it was Lorthar who stepped up to address the crowd.
‘My lords and ladies, hearken to me now!’ His voice was less loud than Wolfram’s, but it carried such conviction that it cut across the muttering nobles. ‘This is no ordinary affliction! This is a sign, I tell thee!’
The throng hushed. All eyes including Hjala’s were now fixed on Lorthar.
‘In ages past, when the Redeemer made war on the Thalamians for the souls of mortalkind, the Holy Book tells us he was gifted by the Almighty with prophecy! And this gift he passed down, upon his death, to one of his Seven Acolytes.’
The Arch Perfect paused to let his words sink in, and they did. A man did not rise to such a position in the Temple without becoming a skilled orator.
Lorthar went on: ‘Twas St Athanasius, who wept when they broke his soulfather on the Wheel in Tyrannos, that received this gift. And the Redeemer said unto him, “let thine eyes be touched with the gift of farseeing whenever they shed tears; let the futures of men be seen in their glistening drops”.’
The hush had turned deathly. The Northlending nobility were as godless as any in the Free Kingdoms, but a good story wasn’t lost on them. Hjala knew this one from her visits to Temple on Restdays – but why in the Known World was Lorthar bringing it up now?
She soon had the answer to that question.
‘And the scriptures tell of St Athanasius’ many prophecies – including one that I shall recite to you here and now.’ The pompous perfect paused and drew himself up to stand even taller. “‘Mighty forces shall sweep the lands of men in the Last Hour of Judgment/Great armies shall war for the kingdoms of the earth/But all shall fall before the One-Eyed General.’”
Lorthar pointed at Wolfram, being escorted towards the double doors leading out of the throneroom. He was convulsing horribly, a nasty juddering sound escaping his lips.
‘Such is our Regent!’ cried the Arch Perfect. ‘Touched by the Almighty Himself! Sent to us by the Unseen to aid us in our darkest hour! BEHOLD, THE ONE-EYED GENERAL BEFORE WHOM ALL SHALL FALL!’
Springing down the stairs Lorthar marched up the horsehair carpet, repeating his last words over and over again as he strode into the antechamber after the Regent. By the time he had disappeared upstairs with Wolfram and his guards some of the common folk were even repeating them.
As the bemused nobles filed out of the throneroom jabbering excitedly, Ulnor turned and favoured Hjala with a triumphant glance.
‘You engineered this entire charade from start to finish, didn’t you?’ she said venomously.
Ulnor shrugged. ‘I am a secular man of state,’ he replied. ‘It is not for me to gainsay our highest religious authority in matters of holy prophecy.’
Thorsvald remained rooted to the spot, unable to take in what had just happened. Visigard looked at the ground, unwilling to meet anybody’s eye.
‘No good will come of this, Ulnor,’ Hjala assured him. ‘Wolfram is constitutionally unfit to rule. We both know it.’
Ulnor smiled. ‘Then we shall have to trust that the Almighty provides His chosen one with advisers to steer the realm through the challenges awaiting it.’
Without another word the seneschal turned and began walking down the stairs, his cane clacking rhythmically.
The throneroom was emptying, but Lady Walsa had remained behind. She approached Hjala.
‘Well this is a fine mess, and no mistake,’ she said. ‘We’ve just been outplayed by a schemer and a fraud. We’d best away to my rooms – all of us. At least your brother’s fit gives us a chance to get you and Thorsvald out of the city. Judging by his last coherent words, I don’t think Strongholm will be very safe for either of you for much longer.’
Hjala did not reply. She stood watching as the throneroom continued to empty, until just the three of them were left. She suddenly wished she were with Torgun: wherever he was right now, it had to be better than here.
Above the throne that had caused so much tumult, the Giantslayer’s Gift continued to stare down at them, a gargantuan grin on its fleshless lips.
CHAPTER XVI
The Final Stretch
‘If you think I’m taking that lot on board my ship, you’ve been fighting phantoms in the wilderness over long!’ The sea captain spat on the wharf for emphasis. Shaking his head he ran thick fingers through his grizzled beard as he added: ‘I’ve a fine cargo of trade from Port Craek. I didn’t just run the gauntlet of the Pirate Straits to lose my ship to a curse!’
‘We don’t fight phantoms,’ said Horskram pedantically. ‘We exorcise them. And I can assure you, captain, that yon men are nothing of the kind.’
The captain had beady black eyes which became even smaller as he screwed up his fat face. ‘Avast your protestations,’ he growled. ‘You said yourself they’d been cursed by a witch! That’s just as bad in my reckoning.’
Horskram sighed, fighting to keep his exasperation in check. Pangonians. Insufferable to the core – always thought they knew better. But the captain was still here talking to him. He didn’t need his sixth sense to tell him a deal could be struck.
‘I’ve already offered you my assurances as a sworn brother of my Order that these men will not bring any calamity on the Red Jerfalcon while aboard her. And I’ve offered you double the going rate for berths.’
‘Ah I see,’ sneered the captain. ‘So in other words everything’s all fair and above board is it? Well let me tell you this, friar – I know the world, see? And I’ve heard it told that you Argolians are naught better than witches yourselves. Now why don’t you go about and leave me to get on with my job, eh?’
Behind the captain his crew were busy loading barrels and crates and chests on to the deck of the ship, a sturdy looking hulk whose canvas sails fluttered in the late afternoon breeze. The captain intended to sail with the evening tide: it was convince him now or wait another few precious days. Most of the other ships at Westerburg’s harbour were fishing vessels and wouldn’t be heading to Rima. More to the point, the Jerfalcon was the only ship at port large enough to take their horses.
‘I’ll pay you triple,’ said Horskram, meeting the sailor’s eye.
‘Oh and a fat lot of good that’ll do me, sirrah, when we all go under to the Seakindred’s Locker.’ But a light had entered those gimlet eyes.
‘Might I intervene?’
Adhelina stepped up to join the conversation. The damsels had used their couple of days in the cityport to spend the King’s coin well, purchasing new clothing to complement the snatched belongings they had brought with them from Graukolos. Though still dressed for a long journey she looked every inch the noblewoman now, a fine shawl wrapped around her head.
‘Captain, I don’t believe I know your name,’ she said, addressing the mariner in fluent Panglian.
‘Abrehan, ma’am,’ he said, managing a half bow. ‘At your service.’ Pangonians might be rude, but they knew when to defer to their betters.
‘A pleasure,’ replied Adhelina. ‘Now there’s no way you could know this, but my lady-in-waiting and I have been through quite a frightful experience. We’re from Asberg and my family is related to the House of Hessé. You do know who the Hessés are don’t you, captain?’
The captain muttered something but Adhelina cut him off. ‘That’s right – they rule all of Aslund. In fact my father is a personal retainer to Eorl Aethelbald, and as a man of the world, I’m sure you know he controls all the trade routes that pass through Asberg to this very port.’ She pointed a slender white finger downwards for emphasis. The captain looked somewhat perplexed.
‘So my father is a very influential man,’ Adhelina went on. She gestured towards the three knights sitting slumped over their horses. ‘Yon knights are three of his finest swords, whom he sent with this learned friar to rescue me and my lady-in-waiting. The witch that kidnapped us managed to magick them before they put an end to her, as you’ve probably gathered. But my father would fain not see his most heroic bachelors die of such a curse. In fact he’d be very angry if he learned that happened.’
Adhelina paused briefly, favouring the captain with a dazzling smile. ‘So angry, in fact, that he might just put in a word with the Eorl, who might just send word to the Prince of Westenlund. And when that happens, His Highness might just send word to the merchant houses here in Westerburg, asking them to revoke the Jerfalcon’s docking licence.’
Adhelina continued to smile sweetly, fixing the captain with eyes that sparkled in the lowering sun.
‘This is outrageous!’ spluttered Abrehan. ‘You’re threatening me!’
‘No,’ replied Adhelina, her voice hardening. ‘I’m offering you an excellent opportunity – a chance to take on nine extra passengers at double the rate, while gaining the Eorl of Aslund’s undying gratitude and keeping your trading privileges in Westerburg.’
The captain’s fat face flushed red. ‘Double? He just said triple!’ He motioned towards Horskram, who could not hold back the amused smile that now played on his lips.
Adhelina cocked her head coquettishly. ‘Oh no, captain, I definitely heard him say double. Isn’t that what you said, master monk?’
Horskram cleared his throat. He didn’t normally like to go back on his word, but the captain was a greedy coxcomb and he supposed Adhelina had a point to make.
‘Oh yes, yes indeed,’ he said affably. ‘I apologise if it sounded like triple. It is a while since I used my Panglian.’ The monk favoured the captain with a smile of his own.
‘Fie on all blasted foreigners!’ snarled Abrehan, spitting again. ‘All right then – but I’ll be wanting payment up front, if you please.’
‘Certainly,’ beamed Adhelina. ‘Master Horskram, I trust you will attend to business…’
Horskram favoured her with a deferential nod. ‘With pleasure,’ he purred.
With some trepidation
Adelko ushered their stricken charges on board. It wasn’t just the suspicious glances of the crew that made him nervous, but the prospect of his first boat trip too. As he helped Anupe, last in line, up the gangplank he felt the Jerfalcon lurch slightly. It reminded him of the horrible moving room they had used to enter the Warlock’s Crown. At least that abnormal journey had lasted barely a minute; Horskram had told him they could expect a sea voyage lasting several days. His feet found the deck unsteadily.
One of the bigger mariners had stopped what he was doing to stare at the Harijan. She had enough presence of mind left to travel with her hood up, but she clearly had the air of an outlander. But then sailors should be used to seeing foreigners… The sailor returned to working on his rigging, just as the captain bellowed at him: ‘Look lively there! I want that shroud fixed afore we set sail!’ Striding across the deck, Abrehan singled out another sailor, a hapless looking lad of about ten summers struggling with a large chest.
‘What are you doing there!? I said lash down those chests to the larboard side! Larboard not starboard! Port side, dammit! You think I’d ask a barnacle like you to lug heavy loads across the main deck?’
Horskram drew level with Adelko as the flustered lad began dragging the chest back to port side.
‘Good to see our captain runs a tight ship,’ he said dryly.
Adelko couldn’t help but share his amusement. ‘He reminds me of our old friend at Ulfang… Sholto used to call his underlings barnacles.’ Thinking on the old quartermaster who begrudgingly got their journey off to a start months ago felt strange.
‘Well let us pray Abrehan’s eyesight is better than Sholto’s – otherwise we’re in for another misadventure!’