by Damien Black
‘She will live, though her body will take time to heal and her mind will not recover immediately from such an affliction,’ he replied. ‘Keep her fed and warm, and above all be vigilant at night – make sure she doesn’t fall asleep with the candle on again! Devilspawn are drawn to such signals – for an unguarded flame reminds them of the hellfire they use to torment their victims on the Other Side. Before we leave I will daub the sign of the Redeemer on her – that should help her if there are any further attempts to claim her body and corrupt her soul.’
‘You think there will be... others?’ The faces of the peasants grew anxious again.
But Horskram shook his head. ‘It’s just a precaution, never fear. The denizens of the Other Side sometimes return to inhabit the recently possessed while they are still weak, but it’s rare. It’s more likely that, having been cast out of one person, they seek another where the prayers of our Order are not so fresh. Reus willing, no further harm shall befall your daughter.’
‘The Redeemer be praised!’ Lubo exclaimed again. ‘And thanks be to the Almighty for the friars of St Argo!’
‘I thought I’d lost her forever, master monk,’ said Lara, breaking into tears again. ‘I can never thank you enough! Oh, glory be, what a day is this!’
Horskram smiled graciously and stretched briefly on his stool, before taking another sip of goats milk. Despite the recent ordeal he showed little sign of physical fatigue – during their past six months on the road Adelko had noticed that his mentor rarely seemed to tire. Although he must have seen sixty winters, his robust frame remained gifted with the vigour of youth.
Adelko could not help but reflect somewhat ruefully at how much this contrasted with his own chubby body. But then he had seen only fourteen summers, and he supposed he had time left to grow yet. He certainly hoped so – a little more height and a little less puppy fat would suit him well.
‘No need to thank us,’ Horskram was saying. ‘Our reward is the work we do – every soul saved is a stroke against the Fallen One, as the Prophet sayeth. Now, I will put the sign on your daughter while she is sleeping, and then we shall be on our way. There is just one more thing I would ask you – are you quite sure, as you said before, that Gizel had not fallen into any… trouble before she was taken?’
They had been through this four nights ago, when the pair of them arrived at Rykken in the pouring rain after word of Gizel’s plight reached them at the nearby priory where they were staying. Lubo had answered this question as candidly as he could – or so Adelko thought – along with all the others the adept had asked him as part of his preliminary enquiries.
Hearing the matter brought up again now, in a more relaxed atmosphere, gave the adept’s words a more pointed slant. For a moment no one said anything, and the fire crackled loudly in Adelko’s ears.
Then with a bemused shrug Lubo replied: ‘Master monk, what more assurances can I give? As Reus sees all, to the best of my knowledge my daughter was – is – a good and virtuous girl. She prays on Rest-day as a good Palomedian should, and on all the others you’ll find her helping her ma, as a good daughter ought. Until now, that is.’
The village headman gazed at the dirt floor of his hut, sadness creeping over him again.
‘A more dutiful child you could not hope for, Master Horskram,’ said Lara in a voice that now betrayed a mother’s pride. ‘Why, since she was a little lass I’ve barely had a day’s trouble with her! And as for the menfolk – if that’s what you’re gettin’ at – well she’s had no want of offers, but she’s turned them down, every one! Said her duty was to her family, and she’d have no business marrying a man and takin’ up with his kin. I ask you, sir, what more could honest folk expect from a good daughter?’
Horskram nodded, giving the kindly couple another reassuring smile. ‘I quite understand. Please don’t be offended by my asking again. I am sure Gizel is indeed as pure of heart as you say she is. It’s my job to make sure of these things, that’s all... and now, I’ll look in on her once more before we depart. Adelko, put aside that bowl and come along!’
Taking one last mouthful before reluctantly leaving Lara’s watery gruel, Adelko did as he was told. Their leave-taking of the grateful peasants was cordial enough, but as they rejoined the trail outside Adelko noticed that his master’s face had darkened again.
While Horskram was daubing the sign of the Wheel on Gizel, Adelko went back to the hut where they had slept to pack up their things and ready their horses. He had just finished loading on the saddlebags when his master returned. The village was quiet; the peasants had returned indoors to spend the rest of the day giving prayers of thanks for Gizel’s deliverance.
Slinging their iron-shod quarterstaves across their backs, the two Argolians took to the saddle and followed the trail out of Rykken at a brisk canter. A thick mist had begun to fill the valley, nestling against the knuckled crags of the highland ranges as afternoon slid inexorably towards dusk.
Resigning himself to a night of snatched sleep under open skies, Adelko consoled himself with the thought that he would soon look upon the home he had not seen for nearly five years – Narvik was a day’s ride away and Horskram had said they could stop there on the way to their next assignment. The thought of his long-missed family and friends was a welcome antidote to the cheerless road they now took.
Once or twice before they stopped to make camp he glanced sidelong at his mentor, but the older monk had fallen into one of his brooding silences. The dark expression had not left his face.
CHAPTER II
Of Humble Beginnings
Memories of home stayed with him on the trail out of Rykken. As dusk deepened into night, they found a tree-lined dell in which to make camp and bed down.
Sat on a rock idly poking at the fire he had built, Adelko glanced at his mentor sitting on another rock next to him. He was staring into the flames, lost in his own thoughts. The old monk had barely said a word since they left the village, but for once the silence suited Adelko. Poking the burning branches again, he let his mind drift back into his childhood.
Narvik was a day’s ride from Rykken. Several times larger, its people were no less tightly knit, and few strangers ever passed between its crooked wattle huts.
That suited most of its inhabitants well enough, including Arun the blacksmith, Adelko’s father; but from an early age his youngest son had nurtured a deep yearning to expand his limited horizons.
On summer afternoons he would climb the slopes overlooking his village and listen to the far-off cries of the last Gigants, as they mourned the passing of their gargantuan race from the loftiest peaks of the Hyrkrainians.
His mother Lettie – before the ague took her – would admonish her reckless youngest son. If he strayed too far, she warned, the spirits of the North Wind would carry him off to their airy palaces on the Other Side, never to return.
To no avail. Adelko was steadfastly in a world of his own most of the time, and before long the other villagers began to nickname him ‘the dreaming wanderer’ in gentle mockery of his fanciful excursions through the valleys around Narvik. His father Arun was exasperated – after all, his two elder sons, Arik and Malrok, were sturdy, dependable lads more than happy to learn the family trade. But his youngest could not have been more different.
When the Archangel Morphonus refused to bestow the gift of sleep on him Adelko would lie awake at night, dreaming of what he would become. A swordsman perhaps, or an archer. Or maybe an outrider, scouting for armies – he wasn’t all that nimble if the truth be told but he certainly liked to roam.
Well, he was the dreaming wanderer after all.
He went about his chores at the smithy with a sullen reluctance, and neither scolding nor belt across the backside could put a spring in his step. Reus knew, his parents tried both more than once, but somehow the message never sank in.
Simply put, horseshoes just weren’t for him.
In his ninth year Adelko’s mother passed away. A bad harvest and harsh winter
robbed her of her strength, and several other villagers shared her fate that year.
As they had done for generations, the inhabitants of Narvik pulled together in times of strife. Food was rationed and shared, and the young and strong lent a hand to help the weak and ailing. Arun’s sister Madrice came to stay with them and help keep house now that Lettie was gone.
Little by little, the villagers’ tolerance of hardship paid off, and as the long winter thawed into spring they began once more to graze their goats and sow crops.
‘Well, it could be worse – at least we don’t have it so bad with the highland chieftains,’ Arun would say over his stoop of ale in the evenings. ‘Not compared to some o’ the lowlanders anyway.’
Most of the blacksmith’s friends agreed. Down south, the Highlands gradually gave way to the Brenning Wold, a rugged expanse of rolling hills that ended with the River Warryn and the Brekawood to the south-west. There the lowland Wolding barons held sway, unchecked by royal law, squeezing their common folk with harsh taxes and unfair tithes. Arun and the other grown-ups in Narvik would shake their heads disapprovingly whenever they spoke of them.
‘Reus Almighty, we may be poor Highlanders, but at least we aren’t Wolding peasants!’ the blacksmith was fond of saying, to a general chorus of ‘ayes’ and ‘amens’.
Things were different in the mountains, where for centuries the semi-autonomous clans had ruled their peoples with more leniency and less pride. A royal edict issued by King Freidheim II of Northalde early on in his long reign had preserved a state of quasi-independence in the Highlands, although Adelko’s father often said that what really kept the Wolding barons from making trouble up north was the simple fact that there was little worth taking: not easily assailed and still less easily borne, the harsh landscape they called home afforded a meagre existence to clansman and commoner alike.
As Arun played host to his drinking cronies, Adelko would lie awake in the next room, refusing sleep and eagerly devouring the grown-ups’ talk of the outside world. Sometimes their words would carry his greedy imagination further afield, out across the Wold and over the Warryn onto the fertile plains of Efrilund and the King’s Dominions beyond. He had often heard the grown-ups muttering that down south the yeomanry were better treated than the sorry Wolding lot, for they were ruled by barons loyal to the King, or directly by Freidheim himself.
‘He’s alright as kings go,’ Arun would pronounce over his stoop. ‘At least Freidheim saw fit to leave us Highlanders alone – he’s got enough sense to see there’s no call to be botherin’ us mountain folk.’
‘Not unless there’s a war on,’ his best friend Yurik would always remind him. A condition of Highland independence was that the clans had to contribute warriors in times of strife. That wasn’t too likely to affect ordinary villagers, as clansmen seldom used conscripts, but men like Arun with useful skills might be called up. Not that Arun was ever concerned about that.
‘Aye, but when was the last time we had one of those?’ he would reply. ‘He thrashed the Thraxians at Corne Hill before any of us were born, then he put paid to the pretender Kanga – and that were fifteen years ago! Wins the wars and keeps the peace, that’s Freidheim for you – we won’t see another war in his reign, mark my words.’
And then they would fall to talking more generally of the kingdom. Their beery conversation evoked splendid visions in Adelko’s mind: of lush green meadows and tilled hedgerows, grand castles and manor houses, and decorated knights tilting at one another in lavish tournaments beneath sunny skies. To hear the grown-ups tell it, such things were commonplace in the Dominions.
As they went on talking of the wider world, or what little they knew of it, and Aunt Madrice poured them more ale and Adelko’s brothers snored beside him, he would shut his eyes and dream of a life of far-flung journeys and high adventure.
A year after his mother’s death, his nightly prayers to the avatar Ionus, patron saint of travellers, were unexpectedly answered by a calamity.
Old Balor, one of Narvik’s three headmen, was suddenly possessed. The local perfect, a timid priest who preferred a life of simple prayer and gentle extortion from his parish in the form of Temple donations, could do nothing. Word was sent to Whaelfric, their local clansman, and a rider was despatched to Ulfang Monastery to summon an Argolian to perform an exorcism.
A tenday passed before he arrived. During that time Balor worsened. An unearthly strength seemed to possess the old man, and he howled like a banshee through the night as he strained at the chains Arun had been forced to put on him. After performing this unenviable task, Adelko’s father had drunk twice the usual amount that night, and staring grimly at the fire had said nothing to anyone until the following day. Once only had he glanced over at his three sons and sister, eyeing them blankly as if they were strangers.
Adelko never forgot that haunted look in his father’s eyes. It excited his curiosity. What could strike such fear into the hearts of the adults he had looked up to all his life? Something in him longed to know.
He never forgot his first impression of Horskram either. His future mentor had cut an imposing figure when he arrived at the village. Dismounting from his chestnut rouncy he formally greeted Malgar and Radna, the husband and wife who formed the other two thirds of Narvik’s not-so-mighty triumvirate of headmen. His dark grey habit, worn by all journeymen and adepts of the Order, matched the colour of his hair and trimmed beard.
But it was his eyes that really stood out, hard and blue like a pair of sapphires. Set in a chiselled, aristocratic face they sparkled with a keen intensity the boy had never seen before. Malgar, who had seen fifty winters, seemed like a green youth next to him.
Intoning a prayer the monk made the sign of the Wheel, touching his forehead reverentially before placing the palm of his hand flat across his chest, fingers splayed to represent the spokes on which the Redeemer’s limbs had been broken a thousand years before. Producing his circifix, he entered the hut and did not emerge again until the following morning.
The spirit had fortunately proved to be a lesser entity of the Other Side, one of the many anti-angels of Gehenna. After a night-long struggle Horskram had cast it out, sending it back to cluster about the Fallen One’s throne of obsidian in his City of Burning Brass, the words of the Redeemer ringing in its ears.
Drained as he was by his psychic travails the monk was persuaded to rest a while at Malgar’s dwelling. By the time he awoke it was mid-afternoon, and the villagers had arranged a celebration feast to give thanks to the Almighty, with Horskram as guest of honour.
Poking idly at the fire again Adelko smiled as he recalled that momentous evening. Being summer, it had been warm enough by highland standards. The villagers had set up a small pavilion and a ring of rough stools and tables on a sward of grass overlooking the valley just outside Narvik. The last harvest had been kinder than the one before, and most were happy enough to bring provender to the feast.
As the sun lowered in the skies Ludo Sharpears the goatherd and his two brothers began to strike up a merry ditty on lute, flute and fiddle as the womenfolk began bringing salted meats, cheese, turnips and gourds of ale to the table.
The villagers knew they would have to tighten their belts for the next few weeks to make up for the night’s extravagance, but given the occasion most agreed it was worth it. The notable exception was old Valgrit Sourtongue, who muttered disconsolately that no good would come of such wantonness – but then such miserable remarks were typical of him and nobody listened.
As the sun gradually slipped out of sight beyond the Hyrkrainians and more villagers gathered, Adelko helped his aunt with putting lanterns on the tables and lighting them.
His duties brought him to the table of honour where Horskram sat talking with Malgar and Radna. Lighting another lantern, Adelko looked up to find his eyes meeting the monk’s. He flinched. It felt as though the old adept was looking directly into his innermost thoughts and feelings, as if his soul were under scrutiny.
> ‘This is young Adelko, Arun the blacksmith’s youngest.’
Malgar’s voice broke the spell, and Adelko found himself blinking and looking at the three of them, feeling slightly foolish – though he wasn’t sure exactly why.
‘He’s an adventurous lad – we call him the Wanderer on account o’ his roaming! Always roaming around the place and getting into trouble, eh lad?’
Without waiting for a response Malgar went on: ‘Like the time he went on one o’ his wanderings, and got lost in the Rhotang Passes half a day from here and slipped down a ravine – his poor mother thought ‘e was a gonner, Reus rest her soul!’ The headman gave an avuncular beam. ‘Ah but we found him in the end, didn’t we Adelko? Still e’s a good lad, bright as a button too! Make a fine smith one day he will – if only he can settle down and stop his wandering!’
Adelko felt his cheeks flush crimson in the flickering yellow lantern light. He was well used to Malgar’s chiding – as village headman it was his duty to cajole him into wiser ways – but right now this was the last thing he needed.
Here was an outsider, an interesting stranger – a learned man, with powers to boot. What must he think of Adelko now?
But the monk simply smiled at him, before turning to address Malgar: ‘The Almighty forgives an impetuous spirit, when it is wedded to a good heart. I am sure young Adelko will make his father proud yet. And a keen mind, they say, is a great gift from the Unseen.’
Turning back to Adelko he fixed him again with his penetrating blue eyes and asked him: ‘How many summers have you seen, lad?’
‘Ten, including this one,’ the boy stammered back.
The monk smiled again. ‘I’m sure the next ten will reveal much about you, young Adelko. And the blacksmith’s trade is an honourable one to follow.’
Adelko’s heart sank. Things had been going so well, but now it looked as though all the mysterious friar was telling him to do was accept his fate and be glad about it.
