Devil's Night Dawning: The First Book of the Broken Stone Series

by Damien Black

  The top and other sides were covered in engraved quotations from scripture: Adelko’s studies had not rendered him familiar with these passages, but he could make out that they invoked the Redeemer’s protection against some great evil. That didn’t surprise him. As he stood beside his master nervously fingering his own circifix the residual presence of that evil seemed to heighten, battening keenly on his psyche.

  The casket was empty, although as his master passed the light to and fro above it the novice could see that the engravings continued on the inside.

  After inspecting the casket Horskram drew himself up and intoned a final blessing. As he sprinkled holy water on the iron casket it smoked slightly, giving off a resentful hissing noise. Both monks made the sign before Horskram turned to Adelko.

  ‘We have seen everything that there is to see – our work here is done. Let us make haste and return below, before the Abbot faints in the dark.’

  Horskram’s grim humour did little to dispel the novice’s feeling of trepidation, although precisely what he feared would happen he could not say. The two monks returned below, to where the Abbot was still muttering psalms. Horskram was last to descend, closing the trapdoor behind them.

  ‘Well, it’s as bad as you said it was,’ said Horskram laconically as he drew level with Sacristen. ‘We had better go back to your study and talk this over.’

  Taking the candelabrum that had so changed the course of Adelko’s night from Horskram, the Abbot led them back over to the stairwell. As he did so the novice caught sight of one of the old books, momentarily illuminated by a flaring candle. It was made of a strange-looking hide, and on its cover were inscribed bizarre symbols, the like of which he had never seen before. Something about the alienness of them made Adelko feel even more uncomfortable.

  ‘And you are quite certain it is but two nights since it was stolen?’ Horskram’s face looked graver than ever. They were back in the Abbot’s study. The older monks were sat on chairs with the novice squatting beside them on a thin rug that did little to keep out the cold from the stone floor.

  ‘Quite sure,’ the Abbot said. ‘And, unless some of our brothers have unnaturally keen eyesight, no one else at Ulfang knows about it... although some of the adepts may have begun to sense all is not as it should be.’

  Horskram nodded absently. He was deep in thought.

  Presently he spoke again: ‘Something’s afoot, that’s clear enough. A greater spirit manifests itself in an innocent host displaying no vice or wickedness, while at the same time some other infernal entity makes off with one of the most dangerous artefacts to survive the Breaking of the World. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Horskram, you cannot be sure of that!’ Sacristen’s voice sounded tremulous. Adelko had an inkling he was trying to convince himself that all would be well.

  ‘Why else would somebody try to take the fragment?’ said Horskram. ‘Its potency is well known to all who take an interest in such things... and only a warlock of considerable repute could harness such powers of the Other Side as we have seen here displayed.

  ‘The spirit that possessed the girl Gizel could easily have got through the rent between worlds while our unknown antagonist was conjuring up whatever fiend it was that stole the fragment. And then there were Belaach’s own words… the Five and Seven and One would return, he suggested. That would correspond to the Five Tiers of Gehenna, led by the Seven Princes of Perfidy and the Fallen One himself! And our hellish “prophet” who will supposedly bring this about would be our Left-Handed warlock, presumably.’

  Sacristen made the sign. ‘Horskram, we cannot trust the words of devilspawn! They are designed to mislead!’

  ‘Perhaps… or maybe our devilish antagonist couldn’t resist crowing at us to assuage his defeat at our hands. Fallen angels are by their very essence fallible. Look, I can’t be sure of anything right now, Sacristen, but the scenario I’ve just described seems plausible enough to me!’

  ‘Well who do you think could be behind it? Do you think it’s...’

  ‘Andragorix? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself. This deed bears all his hallmarks, that’s for sure. If only I had slain him when I had the chance!’

  Adelko was shocked by the vehemence with which his mentor said this. He had no idea who Andragorix was, but this was the first time he had ever heard the adept talking about wanting to kill someone.

  ‘Do not chastise yourself for holding to your vows, Horskram,’ replied the Abbot in soothing tones. ‘Those who keep their troth shall never be counted sinful in the eyes of the Almighty, as the Redeemer sayeth.’

  ‘Aye, Sacristen, and he also said that sometimes a lesser evil must be done to avert the greater. Would that I had done such three years ago.’

  But the Abbot shook his head. ‘There is little use now in crying over spilt milk – or unspilt blood, in this case. Reus fashioned us from the celestial clay and gave us free will, to choose our paths in life as we see fit. We must do that now, for it falls to us to decide what to do next, not rake over the past and might-have-beens.’

  ‘You’re right of course,’ said Horskram with a deep sigh, though the blank look had not left his eyes. ‘The first thing we must do is take counsel with the rest of the adepts, then hold a divination to see – ’

  ‘No, Horskram! That would be folly!’ exclaimed the Abbot. ‘The fewer people know of this, the better! If the adepts learn of it, sooner or later the rest of the chapter will know and then... who knows who else? We must guard this secret closely – many in the Order do not even know the Headstone fragment was being kept here!’

  The light had come back into Horskram’s eyes, and he was staring keenly at the Abbot now. ‘So what do you propose we do? Sit on this and do nothing!? Sacristen! You should know better!’

  The old Abbot shook his head. He looked tired and confused. It was certainly late. Adelko guessed it must be approaching the Wytching Hour.

  ‘No... no. I’m not suggesting that,’ replied the Abbot in subdued tones. ‘But... Horskram, you of all people should appreciate what could happen to us if the Temple learns of this, after everything we went through with them before! In Reus’ name, you were one of the – ’

  The Abbot cut himself off abruptly, glancing at Adelko again. The novice noticed a pained look cross his master’s face, which he immediately suppressed.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said the latter evenly. ‘But we can’t deal with this alone – and the mainstream perfects will find out eventually. But perhaps you’re right. It might make sense to keep this to ourselves for a while – at least until we have a better idea of who’s behind it and what they’re up to.’

  He paused then, and the three monks sat silently, all of them deep in thought. Presently Horskram spoke again.

  ‘We must tell Hannequin. If we can keep it secret for a while from the rest of the Order and the Temple at large, there’s no keeping it from him. It was stolen from a chapter belonging to the Order, so technically it’s his responsibility.’

  The Abbot nodded, albeit reluctantly. Adelko could fathom why: Hannequin was Grand Master of the entire Order, every Argolian chapter across the Free Kingdoms ultimately answered to him. Though he was only just beginning to get his head around what was going on, the novice guessed that Hannequin would not be pleased by what had transpired at Ulfang.

  ‘I suppose you have the right of it,’ replied Sacristen. ‘Though Reus knows what he’ll say when he learns of this!’

  ‘Yes, well, you leave me to worry about that.’

  The Abbot blinked and looked at Horskram in surprise. ‘You’re going? To Rima?’

  ‘Well who else is going to make the journey there to tell him?’ replied Horskram testily. ‘We’ve both just agreed to keep this a secret, and I can’t see you travelling hundreds of miles to do it. When was the last time you even sat on horseback?’

  Sacristen’s eyes fell to the ground, a look of shame crossing his corpulent face. ‘Horskram, though I am prior of
Ulfang, you truly humble me. What would the Order do without you?’

  ‘It would muddle along, I suppose,’ replied Horskram, his voice not completely devoid of humour. ‘No, it falls to me in any case – if Andragorix is behind this then I am as responsible as anyone for what has happened. And travelling to Rima makes sense – to get there we must pass by Graukolos Castle in Vorstlund, and we’d do well to look in and check that the fragment kept there is still safe. As for the others... well, Rima wasn’t built in a day, so to speak.’

  The Abbot nodded again. ‘When will you leave?’ he asked.

  ‘At daybreak,’ replied Horskram. ‘And that being established, it’s time we got some rest. Adelko! Come along – tomorrow we begin a very long journey, I hope you’re in the mood for riding. Oh, and I think you can spend what’s left of this night in my cell... oath or no oath, I don’t think returning to the dormitory to be surrounded by your garrulous friends is a good idea. Come now, lad, look lively! You wanted to see more of the world – well, by Reus, you shall!’

  Sacristen ushered the pair of them out of the sanctum, pausing only at the threshold of the cloister to embrace Horskram and bestow his blessing on both of them for the long road ahead.

  The thought of it made Adelko’s head spin. The Pangonian capital lay many leagues to the south; to get there would be a journey of weeks, taking them across lands he had read about but never seen.

  Adelko felt a feeling of euphoria welling up inside him at the thought of it, and he struggled to get to sleep in Horskram’s cell despite all the rigours of the long day. He thought of his favourite icon in the refectory smiling down on him with its delicate stone lips and smiled gladly himself – at last, his prayers to St Ionus had been answered!

  Overjoyed at the prospect of his new adventure, Adelko could have no inkling of the danger into which he had unwittingly propelled himself.

  CHAPTER VI

  The Dreaming Damsel

  From her chamber on the highest floor of the inner ward’s south-west tower Adhelina could see many things.

  If she chose to look south-east, across the battlements of the castle she had been born in, she could see the silvery waters of the Graufluss, and the barges bringing trade to Merkstaed from the Free City of Meerborg. If she chose another window she could look upon Merkstaed itself, a prosperous town for many generations, simultaneously blessed with the river trade and the protection afforded by Graukolos. Look to the south-west, and she could just about make out the green line of the Glimmerholt, where her father loved to hunt – or had done until he became too fat to sit a courser. Spread out in a verdant canvas between all of these lay the green fields of Dulsinor, the realm her ancestors had ruled for nearly three hundred years.

  On a sunny day – which this was not – it was a vista that would take the breath away if seen by fresh eyes.

  But the eyes of Lady Adhelina of Graukolos, sole living child of Wilhelm Stonefist, Ninth Eorl of Dulsinor, were anything but fresh. The splendid view only reminded her of how confined her world really was. Privileged as she was, Adhelina often felt she would trade places with any of the low-born bargemen and passing merchants on the river below.

  ‘Milady, come quickly! You’ll want to see this!’

  Sunk in her jaded reverie, Adhelina barely registered the words spoken by Hettie, her lady in waiting and best friend.

  ‘Will I?’ she asked languidly, turning from the window and absent-mindedly laying a hand on the book she had been reading. It was a compendium of the Lays of King Vasirius and Queen Mallisande by the Pangonian poet Gracius. She’d read them a dozen times, but unlike the view outside the walls of Graukolos, they never seemed to tire her. The world evoked by Gracius seemed so much more just and elegant than the one she occupied.

  Had Pangonia really been like that once? She often wondered. She had only ever heard her father’s vassals talk about the people of that realm disparagingly, although it was still undeniably the most powerful of the Free Kingdoms.

  But then that was probably half the reason her Vorstlending kinsmen despised their southern neighbours. Vanity and envy seemed to be the principal virtues of most of the knights she knew.

  ‘No really, Adhelina, you’ll want to see this!’

  Hettie’s insistent tone roused Adhelina from her gloomy thoughts – her lady in waiting only used her given name when she really wanted to get her attention.

  Looking up from the book she saw Hettie peering out of the north-west window of the chamber. That overlooked the main courtyard, located in the middle ward along with the feasting hall, armoury, barracks and other essential buildings. Beyond that lay the outer ward, where the horses were stabled and the resident craftsmen and artisans pitched their stalls during the day.

  That could only be of interest for one reason – unexpected visitors.

  Leaving her book Adhelina lifted her white samite skirts as she walked across the room, inwardly cursing the impracticality of the garment. Usually she rebelled, defying her father and choosing to wear a shorter gown that allowed more mobility. Mostly she succeeded in defying him, for she was every bit as headstrong as he was, but on special occasions and feast-days – when she would be on show as his heir – he would put a broad foot down and insist in a thundery voice. Even Adhelina knew better than to oppose him in such a mood.

  ‘So, Hettie, tell me,’ said the damsel with a wan smile as she moved slowly over to join her by the window. ‘Who comes to dine with us at the feast tonight, and regale us with his tales of hunting, warfare and tourneying? Surely not someone I might actually find interesting for more than five minutes?’

  ‘No, it’s Lord Hengist!’ replied Hettie, stepping aside to let her mistress have a clearer look.

  The middle and outer wards were divided by a crenelated wall and gatehouse, but unlike the outer fortifications of the castle these were less than ten men tall. From her lofty chamber window, the heiress of Dulsinor could easily make out the new arrivals in the outer courtyard.

  Adhelina recognised Hengist’s banner instantly – a coiled silver serpent on a deep purple background.

  She even hated his coat of arms – just who did those Lanraks think they were, taking a royal colour for their emblem? And as for the snake – well it positively echoed the heathen adherents of the Faith, and weren’t good Palomedians supposed to be fighting a crusade against that lot?

  The Herzog was accompanied by ten armed knights, each one attended by two squires.

  Such extravagance! Wasn’t one apiece enough? Together with the other servants he had brought there must have been a good forty of them assembled in the courtyard, making a great fuss and clamour. She supposed her father was meant to feed and shelter all of them – as if he didn’t have other important guests coming tonight.

  Now she could see Berthal, the seneschal, striding over to meet the dismounting lord and his pack of toadying sycophants.

  Adhelina’s heart went out to the old steward. He had always spoken kindly and respectfully to her, treating her like the intelligent person she hoped she was, and she was genuinely fond of him. Hengist would have the unfortunate septuagenarian running around after him for the next hour at least.

  She hadn’t seen the loathsome Herzog since the last feast, when he had behaved abominably, groping every passing serving wench and becoming hideously drunk – even by Vorstlending standards. Things had finally come to a head when he had tried the same thing with Hettie at the dance – Adhelina had had a thing or two to say about that, and if her father had not intervened things might have turned ugly.

  ‘What in Reus’ name is he doing here?’ exclaimed Adhelina in a disgusted voice. ‘After last time... my father should know better than to invite such a boor to our table!’

  ‘I can’t disagree with you there, milady, but then I suppose Hengist is our neighbour, and a very powerful baron at that...’

  ‘Oh Hettie!’ exclaimed the damsel again, stroking her friend’s brown tresses affectionately. ‘Don’t worry �
� I’ll make sure he doesn’t come within a country mile of you this time!’

  Hettie smiled, her eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘With all due respect, milady, I doubt you’ll need to bother – I don’t think he’ll even remember meeting me, state he was in, and I’ll certainly know better than to come within a country mile of him!’

  Adhelina smiled back, flicking a stray tress of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘How right you are,’ she replied in a knowing voice. ‘Well, let’s see to it that he doesn’t come within a country mile of either of us! If I never have to speak with him again I’ll consider it a blessing from the Almighty Himself!’

  The day drew on and gradually more guests began to arrive in the outer courtyard, vassals and their ladies from the demesnes of Dulsinor come to pay fealty and feast with their liege lord. In that time Adhelina had forsaken Gracius to tend the abundance of herbs and plants she cultivated in her chamber.

  One could scarcely move for all the hanging baskets, as Hettie pointed out continually. All in vain, because Adhelina loved growing things.

  Since her youth she had plunged herself into the study of herb lore, visiting the Marionite monks at Lothag Monastery nearby to learn all she could from those masters of the healing arts. At twenty summers she had already attained a knowledge approaching the learned disciples of St Marius, amassing an abundant supply of all the necessaries used in chirurgery: King’s Wort for infected wounds, St Marius’ Weed to expedite the healing of injuries, Linfrick’s Node for the easing of abrasions and armour rash.

  At the library and gardens of Lothag she had learned to prepare other kinds of simples too: St Alfias’ Herb for the melancholy sickness, Morphonus’ Root for inducing sleep, Luviah’s Teet, a powerful aphrodisiac... these and many more herbs and roots were clustered about her chamber, hanging up to dry or in various stages of growth or preparation.

  Her father had not discouraged her from taking up the healing arts – the presence of a gifted healer in the castle carried obvious benefits – but had he known about all the other things she was growing he might have felt inclined to put his broad foot down again. Not that there was ever any danger of that – Lord Wilhelm knew about as much of herb lore as he did of scripture.