by Damien Black
At a feast held to celebrate the twin blessings of a decent harvest and the return of Horskram, Adelko had been reintroduced to the adept. He had questioned him closely on his studies before dismissing him with a curt nod.
Adelko remembered thinking that he looked considerably older than before. It was more spiritual than physical – the intervening years had given him a few more grey hairs and wrinkles, but beyond this Adelko thought he sensed a peculiar ageing of his soul. There was something in his demeanour that had not been there before: he had the look of a man who had confronted some great evil, or perhaps seen too much of it throughout his long life.
On the day of Horskram’s departure Adelko had been summoned to the Abbot’s room after dawn prayers. Entering he saw Horskram standing by the window, gazing out across the wheat fields into the deep green valley beyond.
Adelko had found himself in that chamber more than once, for the Abbot used it to prescribe punishments for misdemeanours and offer praise for outstanding performance among novices. Adelko qualified on both counts – fine student though he was, he was also just as fond of high jinks as his mischievous circle of friends.
On this occasion he had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly why he had been summoned, and was just about to offer some feeble excuse to allay punishment and perhaps avoid humiliation in front of Horskram, when the Abbot cut him off.
‘Adelko, you have been tested by Brother Horskram here, and after some confabulation on the matter we have decided that further instruction would be beneficial to you.’
The corpulent abbot’s voice was impassively neutral, his jowly face the same.
The novice felt himself flushing. He thought he had answered the adept’s searching questions the other night fully enough. Had he overestimated himself? Horskram had not turned from the window.
The abbot was staring at him. Clearly a response was expected.
‘I… I had not realised my knowledge was so wanting, Prior Sacristen,’ he stammered, bowing his head deferentially. This already felt worse than being upbraided for pinching ale from the scullery storehouse – being criticised for his lack of prowess at the lectern hurt his pride far more. Not that good Palomedians were supposed to feel pride.
To his bafflement, a broad smile suddenly split the abbot’s pudgy face.
‘Wanting?’ he beamed. ‘Oh no, my dear novice, on the contrary – your knowledge to date has been found to be exemplary. After just four years at Ulfang you already know more than most novices your age – and quite a few who are older than you for that matter. What remains to be seen is how your spiritual fortitude will measure up in the coming months.’
Sacristen was still staring at him. Only now his eyes were twinkling. The smile had not left his face.
‘Spiritual fortitude…’ Adelko repeated dumbly. He still couldn’t fathom where this was going.
‘Why yes,’ replied the abbot, a note of seriousness entering his voice. ‘For that is precisely what will be tested most rigorously over the next year. Brother Horskram has asked my leave to take you on as his second, and after due consideration I have given my consent. I trust this decision pleases you, Adelko.’
Adelko blinked. Had he walked into a dream weaved for him by the Archangel Oneira, celestial wife of Morphonus? He barely noticed as Sacristen told him to ready his things and make haste to the stables where a saddled rouncy awaited him.
The adept still had not turned from his contemplation of the wheat fields, but at last it sank in.
He was Brother Horskram’s second – an honour far beyond his expectations.
It was hardly unheard of for novices to be seconded to a journeyman or adept. Only in the test of spiritual combat – confronted with the madness of possession or the terror of a real-life haunting – could an Argolian’s mettle be truly determined. The Order’s history abounded with tales of those who had excelled at the lectern only to turn to lunacy before the Fallen One’s servants.
What was so surprising was how soon he had been singled out – he had only just come of age, and he had joined the Order later than many.
He could still barely believe his senses when he rode out of the monastery’s main gate with Horskram an hour later, the envious looks of his best friends etched on his mind and their words of farewell ringing in his ears.
That had been nearly half a year ago. During the first couple of months Adelko and his new mentor had travelled continually – though not as widely as he could have wished, and not in the direction he yearned for.
For rather than heading south to the Lowlands, of which the snatched tales of his childhood had painted such bright pictures, Horskram took them deeper into the Highlands. At least its remote dells and isolated dwellings abounded with minor hauntings and lesser manifestations – Adelko soon had a few juicy tales stored up to tell his friends back at Ulfang.
By the time the onset of winter had forced them to hole up at a mountain priory for the Year’s End Festival, he had criss-crossed the rugged peaks of his homeland several times. The austere beauty of its stark landscape pleased his highland spirit, but even so he hankered after something different. Dialects aside, one mountain village was much like another, the people and customs little different to his own.
Throughout this time Adelko found himself thinking of the library at Ulfang, with its centuries-old maps and treatises on strange and foreign lands. The desire to broaden his travels burned more strongly than ever within him. He wasn’t done with praying to St Ionus just yet.
The fire was burning low in the dell as Adelko’s thoughts returned to his village. He couldn’t deny the thought of it made him feel a little nervous. So much time had passed – what would his family make of him now?
He didn’t even know if they were still all alive. His father had occasionally sent his best wishes via the odd traveller or friar that happened to pass through Narvik on the way to Ulfang – but that hadn’t happened for at least a couple of years now. He supposed Arik had married Silma, they must surely have children as well by now, Reus willing. Maybe Malrok would be courting somebody too.
At this thought Adelko felt a pang of longing strafe his youthful body – that was one thing he would never know, for the monks of the Order could love the Almighty and no other. A sigh escaped his lips, frosting up the brittle night air before him. Yes he was different, he supposed – but still he’d be glad to see them all.
Narvik lay between Rykken and their next destination, another village where Horskram wanted to check on a malicious Terrus, an earth spirit he had banished the previous summer. Terri were one of the four Elementi, the other three – Aethi, Saraphi and Lymphi – corresponding to air, fire and water respectively.
Terri could return to spots they had previously visited and had a tendency to wreak havoc, digging pits that swallowed huts and villagers whole and ruining crop fields with their mischievous antics. They weren’t really evil, not like the devils that served the Fallen One, but they certainly weren’t good either. After they were done with the earth spirit Adelko hoped they would continue south into the Lowlands he longed to explore.
Suddenly his mentor looked over at him and broke his long silence: ‘Well, Adelko, it’s getting late and the fire is nearly spent. We should both get some rest, for it’s been a long day and we still have quite a journey ahead of us.’
Adelko looked at the adept. In the dying firelight his face looked haggard and mysterious. ‘Well, I suppose so – but my village isn’t far from here. We should reach it by dusk tomorrow, I think.’
Horskram glanced back over at the embers. ‘Yes well, I’m afraid we aren’t going to Narvik anymore. We’re going back to Ulfang.’
Adelko was tired, and it took him a few seconds to register Horskram’s words.
‘What!? But... I thought you said...’
Horskram huffed irritably and brought his fingers up to the bridge of his nose, squeezing tightly.
‘Adelko, if you’ve learned anything these past four and a half
years you will know that most exorcisms are performed within a day or two by experienced adepts such as myself – especially if they are accompanied by an assistant,’ he said. ‘This one took nearly five, and no wonder – Belaach is no archdemon, but he’s certainly no lesser spirit either. Such manifestations are rare – that’s why I was so shocked to learn his name. High-ranking demons do not tend to visit the mortal vale unless summoned by a powerful black magician. That’s also why I had to be sure of Gizel’s character.’
Adelko frowned. ‘You don’t mean you suspected the girl - ’
‘Of being a black magician?’ his mentor finished for him. ‘Heavens no. But curious peasants have been known to fall in with the wrong kind of people before, especially if they are young or foolish. That said, if there really was an accomplished warlock practising in these parts, I’m sure I would have heard about it before… which leaves only one other possibility.’
His mentor broke off, rubbing his hand over his beard absent-mindedly.
‘But, we won...’ said Adelko. ‘I mean, we beat it – didn’t we?’
His mentor sighed heavily again. ‘Yes, we did, but that isn’t the point, Adelko. The bigger the rent, the more powerful the spirits that can pass through it – you know all this perfectly well.’
‘Yes, of course Master Horskram – but, I still don’t under - ’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Adelko, use your reason!’ Horskram snapped. ‘I didn’t pick you out of that mountain lair of goatherds and crop-shearers so you could plague me with stupid questions! What causes a bigger rent? Witchcraft – that’s what! We’ve just fought with every ounce of our strength to banish a demon of the Third Tier, which means that someone somewhere is practising some damnably powerful Left-Handed magic! They may not have summoned Belaach directly – but they’ve been using magic for other purposes, somewhere in this vicinity. We have to go straight back to Ulfang because I need to tell the Abbot about this right away – he will probably sanction a divination to try and determine the sorcerer’s location.’
Adelko looked sheepishly at the ground, feeling foolish for having provoked his mentor.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t realise. I just wanted to see my family, that’s all.’
Horskram looked at his apprentice with kindlier eyes – always quick to anger, his temper subsided just as rapidly. ‘I know, lad. If I could change things I would – but this is a serious matter. You know the rules of the Order. Now, in Reus’ name, let’s get some rest!’
They unrolled their pallets and lay down to sleep, wrapping themselves tightly in their cloaks and blankets. As he drifted off, Adelko could not help but wonder if the change in plan wasn’t a reminder from the Almighty – he’d chosen his path, and the Order was his family now. His childhood suddenly seemed very distant.
CHAPTER III
The Quixotic Knight
‘Again! One more time!’
Bringing his steed around, Vaskrian levelled his spear again and waited for the two attendants to reposition the target. It was a cold morning, and most of the castle nobility would only just be stirring in the keep. The leaden skies matched the colour of the grimy bailey walls, but the squire had eyes only for the quintain before him.
This was a tall stout pole with a smaller horizontal beam attached to a swivel mechanism mounted on top of it; a battered torso-shaped board of wood dangled from it by a chain on one side, on the other hung a sack filled with dirt.
Spurring his courser into a gallop, he hit the target dead centre, sending the beam swinging around and bringing the sack hurtling towards his back. He ducked in the saddle just in time and it glanced his shoulder as it flew past.
The blow wasn’t strong enough to hurt him through his brigandine, but it did force him to clutch the reins more tightly and bring his steed up early. Vaskrian glowered at the quintain, still lazily turning from the aftershock of his charge.
That was the third time in a row he’d hit the target perfectly but failed to avoid the counterpunch. At least it hadn’t unhorsed him on any of his tilts – he was improving daily.
He was about to tell the attendants to reposition the target when he heard a familiar throaty voice yelling at him across the courtyard: ‘Vaskrian! In Reus’ name what are you playing at? I told you to pick up my sword from the smithy more than an hour ago! We were supposed to leave at daybreak!’
Sir Branas, a stout hoary knight of about fifty winters, came trudging through the mud, his tatty hauberk jingling. The attendants, fearing the well-known shortness of his temper, tugged their forelocks and made themselves scarce.
The ageing knight drew level with his squire and glared up at him.
‘Your saddle bags aren’t even on! And I daresay that means mine aren’t either! Too busy tilting when you should be squiring, as usual!’
‘But you said I could use the castle facilities to practise,’ protested Vaskrian. ‘And I have packed the other horses – they’re all ready, the sumpter’s doing most of the carrying and I just wanted to keep mine unburdened so I could –’
‘Enough!’ roared the old knight. ‘I said you could use the castle facilities to practise whenever it didn’t conflict with your duties! Now in Reus’ name go and collect my blade! We’re late enough as it is!’
Suppressing a sigh, Vaskrian nudged his courser towards the gatehouse where the laden sumpter and his master’s charger were being looked after by a bored-looking page boy. Dismounting, he made his way over to the armourer’s forge on foot.
By now the castle courtyard was stirring into life as its resident craftsmen began their daily labours, along with the husbandmen who looked after the animals that provided for the Jarl of Hroghar’s broad tables. The familiar reek of stale sweat, refuse and burning cinder greeted him as he pushed his way through the dirty gaggle of commoners and beasts. It didn’t bother him all that much, he was used to it.
A smile played across his lips as he remembered his mother Aletha’s words: ‘A castle looks a fine thing when you see it from a distance, but inside it stinks worse than a town square on market day!’
She’d died of food poisoning six winters ago – castle life meant you ate better than most, but sometimes eating your fill could kill you as sure as starvation. A simple washerwoman, she’d been as honest a soul as any. That meant he’d see her again in the Heavenly Halls, when his own mortal span was done.
Likewise the dull ache that permeated his limbs from constant practice during the winter didn’t trouble him over much: a knight was supposed to endure hardship with fortitude after all. The shoulder injury he’d sustained in his last sword bout had healed up nicely too, though the fracture had been painful enough at the time.
Not nearly as painful as the broken jaw he’d left his opponent nursing, mind. Practice bouts weren’t supposed to be lethal – but even a blunted sword was a heavy piece of metal, and armour didn’t always protect. He’d come at Dorik fast on the counter attack, knocking him senseless. The other squire had had a prolonged spell in the castle infirmary after that, and Vaskrian hadn’t seen much of him since.
The forge lay in the shadow of one of the castle bailey’s five towers, in a sturdy lean-to made of brick that jutted out of the wall. Ereth the armourer was there as usual, working up a sweat.
Vaskrian’s heart surged briefly as he stepped into the forge’s fiery precinct. Its steely smell tanged pleasantly in his nostrils after the grimy courtyard. All about him hauberks, helms and weapons in various states of manufacture and disrepair hung from hooks in the walls or lay piled up in corners.
Ereth looked up from the mail shirt he was working on and smiled broadly at Vaskrian. A stocky, muscular man covered head to toe in soot, his blackened hairless head resembled the anvil he worked on.
‘Well, if it in’t young Vaskrian,’ he grinned. ‘I thought you’d never show up! Been tilting in the yard again, I’ll warrant.’
Vaskrian flushed, trying not to think of the royal bollocking he’d just earne
d himself. ‘Always!’ he said brightly, shrugging off his chagrin. ‘Do you have the guvnor’s sword then? He’ll probably use it on me if I keep him waiting much longer!’
Ereth chuckled good-naturedly, wiping the sweat off his brow and laying down the shirt.
‘Of course! Had it ready first thing this morning! Here we are...’ Reaching behind him he took it down off the wall and handed it to Vaskrian: his master’s sword, sheathed in a leather scabbard bound with iron. Drawing it, he paused to inspect its keen edge in the light of Ereth’s forge.
‘Should be good as new,’ said Ereth, returning to work on the mail shirt. ‘I’ve taken all the notches out of it and sharpened the edges. Some of the binding on the hilt had come loose as well – I wound a new one on.’
Vaskrian nodded, only half listening, his eyes fixed on the glinting blade. He owned a sword too: it had belonged to his father, but it wasn’t as well made – it was less long and broad, and the balance wasn’t quite as good.
Stepping back outside the smithy, he took a couple of swings with it for good measure. He loved the feel of the weapon – if only he had one like it, he’d be an even better swordsman than he already was. He’d show all the bluebloods in Hroghar what he could do with a blade then.
‘Still dreaming the impossible dream are we, Vaskrian?’’
Vaskrian whirled to face the speaker, his heart sinking as he recognised the voice immediately. Sat on coursers just before the smithy were Sir Rutgar, his nemesis, and two of his cronies, Sir Marten and Sir Bors. He hadn’t heard them approaching above the din of the castle. They were kitted out for a day’s hunting in the woodlands overlooking the nearby River Warryn. Behind them rode their own squires with bows, spears and other equipment. He felt painfully aware of his own worn apparel – as a squire to a landed vassal he was reasonably well outfitted, but Branas refused to have his clothing replaced more than once a year.
