by Damien Black
Thule and the rest of the southern baronies had lain quiescent since Freidheim crushed them at Aumric Fields fifteen years ago. In an act of characteristic generosity he had even allowed the traitors’ sons to inherit, so long as they had been too young to take an active part in the rebellion. Krulheim had been among them. He had kept a very low profile since coming into his title several years ago – who could have guessed he was up to such treachery?
Sir Torgun supposed he wanted to avenge his father. Then again, perhaps he was just being naive thinking that – Hjala had always said he was naive.
Thinking on the lissom princess he had once called lover brought mingled feelings of desire and guilt. He pushed the thought of her away as they filed out of the Great Hall.
The days went by and the castle courtyard became a daily bustle of activity. Everyone was drilling in earnest now – not just the knights but the regular men-at-arms and bowmen who also served the Order. Castle servants scurried to and fro, and Staerkvit’s blacksmiths, armourers, bladesmiths and ostlers had work aplenty.
Sir Tarlquist, commander of the company that Torgun, Aronn and Wolmar served in, supervised their redoubled training with vigour. His bearded face was set grim – a scarred veteran who had seen more than forty winters, he’d followed King Freidheim to war against the Old Pretender, as they were already calling Krulheim’s father Kanga.
The men respected him, and none more so than Torgun. He was married to his aunt Karlya of Vandheim, but that had little to do with why he liked the older knight – Sir Tarlquist was a staunch fighter who had spent his life in loyal service. That made him a man Torgun would have been proud to call uncle, if pride weren’t an unknightly virtue.
His sister’s marriage to the King’s son meant his house was also tied to the royal family – and that meant he was connected to Sir Wolmar too, albeit distantly. That he didn’t feel good about.
But there’d be no further reckonings where the princeling was concerned – not for a while anyway. With the impending war all personal grievances had been set aside. Tarlquist had told Aronn none too subtly to save his anger for the battlefield, and rumour had it even the High Commander had found time to have a few choice words in his unruly son’s ear.
News had slowly filtered back to Staerkvit: Krulheim had rejected the King’s last attempt to make peace and war had been declared. Krulheim had been officially attainted and stripped of his title – not that he cared one jot for being called Jarl anymore. Only force would stop him now.
That had been a week after the first news of his treason reached the castle. Since then there had been worse. Krulheim had led his forces in a lightning strike across the Thule, laying siege to the Jarl of Salmor’s castle. That had come as something of a surprise. No one had expected Thule to act so quickly. Besides that, he had two other armies on the move – even now these were harrying the southern reaches of the King’s Dominions while Salmor Castle was pinned down under siege.
‘The Pretender’s been planning this for a while, that much is obvious,’ Sir Aronn had muttered at board the day the news reached them. The sturdy trestle tables had been abundant as ever with roast meats, thick loaves and hard cheeses: the White Valravyn didn’t believe in marching on an empty stomach. All the same, the usual cheer had been largely absent from the assembled knights.
‘The King is mustering an army of his own and he has the White Valravyn on his side,’ Sir Torgun had replied, taking a mouthful of watered wine. ‘We’ll soon put a stop to Thule’s madness.’ His pewter trencher had a rather more modest helping of food on it than Aronn’s – the Code specified that good knights shouldn’t eat or drink to excess, though it was a stipulation many struggled to obey.
‘Not as soon as you’d like,’ Aronn had growled in between mouthfuls of braised pheasant. ‘It’ll take weeks before the muster is complete, and Krulheim won’t dawdle in the meantime. The Young Pretender’s well and truly stolen a march on us!’
Optimistic as he was by nature, Torgun hadn’t had it in him to gainsay the older knight. Though Aronn’s prowess fell short of his own, he’d lived through the War of the Southern Secession. He knew what he was talking about – a modest knight should know when to bow to superior experience. The serious faces of some of the other veterans sat near them told the younger knight that they were thinking much the same thing as Aronn.
That only made Torgun more determined to give the coming war his utmost. Thule was a traitor who had to be stopped at all costs – even if that meant all loyal knights dying to a man.
But other, stranger, rumours had begun to filter northwards since then. It was told that the self-styled Prince of Thule rode with a mysterious foreigner in tow, an imposing figure who dressed in robes the colour of the sea and carried a trident of similar hues. Some of the rumours claimed he was a sorcerer, a pagan priest from the Frozen Wastes who had taken up with the Southron rebels – for what purpose, Reus only knew.
There was a palpable aura of tension in the garrison when Sir Tarlquist marched into the barracks one morning and addressed his company as they were donning their armour for another day’s training.
‘All right, sir knights, look lively!’ said Sir Tarlquist, his normally stern face cracking a broad grin as he addressed his company. ‘We’ve a mission! You will all have heard that Lord Kelmor is sorely pressed at Salmor. It will take the King some weeks before he can raise an army of his own, especially if the Wolding barons drag their feet as usual!’
A few curses were uttered at this. The Woldings were universally resented by all and sundry, and with good reason. Torgun was too courteous to voice his thoughts out loud, but he thoroughly agreed with the blunter knights in his company. He’d fought and killed enough of them to know what they were like.
Tarlquist went on: ‘But the White Valravyn is always ready for a fight! That’s why our company has been chosen to join a sortie – we’re heading south, gentlemen, to rescue Salmor if we can. The High Commander wants a hundred ravens down there on the double – we’ll be sore outnumbered but we should have the advantage of surprise on our side. If we can take them unawares and harry them enough we should hopefully inspire Kelmor’s lot to sally forth and join us. Then, Reus willing, we can lift the siege. It’s a mad plan, it’s a bold plan, it’s a raven’s plan – what say you, sir knights!?’
‘AYE!!!’ More than twenty throats roared their approval as one.
Torgun felt excitement welling up in him again. This was perfect. If the preliminary reports they had heard were true, they’d be outnumbered at least ten to one. But then not all of the enemy would be knights. And none of them were ravens. This was the kind of heroic undertaking he’d dreamed of when he first joined the Order.
‘I’ll see you all in full panoply of war in the courtyard in one hour – King Freidheim II and old Northalde forever!’ bellowed Sir Tarlquist, before turning on his heel and marching out of the barracks.
As he finished buckling on his armour, Sir Torgun barely noticed that he was grinning like a village idiot.
CHAPTER VIII
An Ancient Curse
The sun rose weakly on a pale grey day. Horskram and Adelko did not join the rest of the Order in dawn prayers, but busied themselves requisitioning supplies from the scullery for their long journey. Sholto was there on duty, regular as clockwork, already barking orders at his hapless assistants.
Sholto was well over seventy and almost entirely bald. His skin was white like alabaster and peeled off him in flakes: an ailment that even the apothecary Lordqvist had been unable to cure. But his most striking feature was his cloudy eyes, their colour long obscured by cataracts.
As his master bade him good morning Adelko felt a surge of guilt at the thought of the previous night’s antics, followed by shock at the realisation of where they had led him.
Of all this Sholto could have no inkling as he responded to Horskram’s greeting in his rasping, irritable voice: ‘So, Brother Horskram comes to pay me a visit on this fine morni
ng, doubtless to make my life even more difficult with some tardy last-minute request for victualling – as ever!’
Horskram offered a placatory smile. ‘Sholto, for years you have nourished the Order’s capacity to do good,’ he replied, ‘for as the Redeemer sayeth not even an army blessed by Reus can march on an empty stomach!’
‘Pah! Flattery is the honey-coated poison of the Fallen One’s agents!’ retorted the irascible old monk. ‘Don’t bandy Scripture with me, Horskram – I was in the Order studying it when you were still clad in mail fighting the so-called holy war! Now, be quick about it and tell me what you want – for I’ve four hundred monks and four fat merchants to feed this morning!’
Adelko glanced sidelong at his mentor, whose face betrayed a flicker of anger. He’d known Horskram was once a knight, long ago – after all, he was of noble birth – but he’d had no idea he’d been a crusader too. That shouldn’t sit well with most Argolians, given their stance on the Pilgrim Wars. And yet his mentor was highly regarded within the Order.
He thought back to the previous night, when Horskram had talked about wanting to kill the mysterious Andragorix... Adelko was fast beginning to appreciate that grown-ups had a history just as complex the countries he had read about.
‘We need as much as you can spare,’ Horskram replied, keeping his composure. ‘We’ve a very long journey ahead of us... so we need plenty of food that will keep. Biscuit and hard cheeses will do, and any dried fruits you can spare. Some water from the well would be useful, too.’
Sholto did his best to fix Horskram with a scrutinising glare. ‘Oh, a “long journey” eh? Brother Horskram, off wandering again! And just where is he wandering to this time, eh? Doesn’t care to disclose, I’ll be bound... Well, let’s see what we can fix up for you, I’m sure as you imply it’s the Redeemer’s good work you’re going about... Urk! Where are you, you scoundrel?’
Urk, a slight lad of about eleven summers, rushed over from where he was helping to cook a great iron pot of soup. He looked flustered enough already but Sholto showed him no respite as he bellowed: ‘Well don’t just stand there gawking – go to the storerooms and fetch biscuit, cheese and dried fruits for the two friars! They’ve a long journey ahead of them too, so make sure you give them stuff that keeps, you barnacle! And when you’ve done that you can go to the well and fetch them some water – then you can get back to helping with the soup! Get to it boy, on the double!’
The hapless Urk bounded off like a hunting dog set off the leash. Sholto turned back to face Horskram, continuing to ignore Adelko.
‘Well, Brother Horskram, that concludes that. Bring your horses over here and you can pack your victuals yourself if you don’t mind – in case you hadn’t fathomed yet, I’m rather busy right now.’
‘Of course, Brother Sholto, and thank you again for all your help. Adelko, come along.’
The two friars trudged over to the stables, Horskram muttering under his breath so only Adelko could hear: ‘That irascible old fool would test the patience of the Redeemer. Twenty years in charge of the scullery and he thinks he’s a saint!’
Yudi had taken good care of their steeds, which were fed and watered and had a fresh supply of oats. Taking their horses the two monks returned to the scullery, where they loaded the food Urk brought them into their saddlebags while he scampered off to fetch them a pail of water.
Adelko couldn’t help but look at the iron bucket with some bemusement as Urk brought it back and used it fill their gourds to the brim. If he hadn’t needed to use it, he wouldn’t have spotted Horskram at the Abbot’s window, and then… the Almighty used curious instruments to shape the destinies of His children.
Slinging their quarterstaves across their backs and mounting their steeds they rode towards the main gate. A thin drizzle had started to fall. Not a very auspicious start, Adelko thought as he pulled his cowl over his head.
There was no one to see them off. The Order would be finishing prayers before heading over to the refectory for breakfast. As his stomach rumbled painfully Adelko realised he hadn’t seen his friends since dashing off from the dormitory to return the pail.
There had been no time for goodbyes, and yet he did not know when he would see them again.
Despite the rain they made fair progress, following the mountain trail and striking south towards the Brenning Wold. As the day drew on the high crags about them gradually began to decline into hill-lands, their swardy tops dotted with trees. The drizzle came and went, hardening into a downpour during the early afternoon and prompting them to stop for food and shelter under an old yew tree.
Though he was famished, Adelko thought it a miserable meal, and already he was missing the broad tables of Ulfang and his friends’ urbane chatter, both so briefly rediscovered. He knew he would get little of the latter for the time being, for his master was in one of his taciturn moods, and stared grimly across the rugged landscape with eyes that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
As they were preparing to set off again a hoarse cry alerted the novice to a raven, which had been perched silently above them throughout their meagre lunch. Watching it take flight on ebony wings through the driving rain, Adelko felt uneasy: long regarded as a harbinger of doom in the lands of the North, the raven had sounded the death knell for many a hero down through the centuries.
The most well-known of these was the Northlander, Søren, who had heard the cursed creature’s call no sooner than he had slain the warlock Ashokainan on his sixth and penultimate Deed. That got him thinking of the Thraxian troubadour Maegellin’s Lays of the Seven Deeds of Søren, which he had read countless times in the library at Ulfang. They told how, standing triumphant over the wizard’s corpse atop the fractured summit of the Watchtower of Mount Brazen high in the Great White Mountains, Søren had felt his blood run cold and seen his victory turn to ashes at the sound – for no one who heard the raven’s call in their moment of triumph could expect good fortune to last long. The great Northlandic warrior had proved to be no exception.
Thinking of that tale and its sad conclusion made Adelko feel even more uneasy, although he couldn’t fathom why.
Presently the rain stopped, although the skies stayed stubbornly overcast. By the time the sun was setting behind its blanket of cloud the two monks had almost left the Highlands behind, for the trail Horskram had taken them on had steadily meandered downwards. Rounding a bend the pair came upon a cave. Horskram gave a curt nod – this was where they would spend the night.
Dismounting, Adelko paused to gaze across the gently rolling hills of the Brenning Wold in the fading light. They looked little less bleak than the Highlands, but even so he felt a sense of excitement at the prospect of expanding his horizons at long last. To his right he could see the western ranges of the Hyrkrainian Mountains, their silhouetted peaks just visible against the darkening skyline.
They tethered their horses to a nearby ash, which also provided them with plentiful firewood. They soon had a crackling blaze going as they tucked into their second and last meal of the day. As luck would have it, young Urk had provided them with some cured rashers of bacon, probably owing more to flustered incompetence than any designs of generosity. Nevertheless Adelko was more than grateful as he tucked into a couple of strips along with another slab of hardened cheese and some tough bread. He was also glad of the shelter the shallow cave afforded them, for a keen northerly wind had begun to blow, bringing with it an unseasonable wintry chill.
The cave’s depth was little more than a man’s length, so the two friars did their best to huddle back out of the wind on their thick woollen pallets, the fire between them.
Presently Adelko’s master spoke: ‘Well, we’ve made good progress despite the weather, though I daresay it may worsen tomorrow.’
Adelko nodded, saying nothing. He felt curiously subdued.
Horskram continued: ‘If we make sufficient haste, we should be able to sleep under a roof a few nights from now. There’s an old crofter who lives on the Wold calle
d Landebert whom I’m on friendly terms with. He’ll shelter us.’
Adelko was a little surprised and disappointed – when his master had mentioned sleeping under a roof he had immediately hoped for something more salubrious than a peasant farmer’s dwelling.
‘But what about the Wolding barons?’ he queried. ‘Or one of their knights? Aren’t you on friendly terms with them too?’
‘Not as many of them as you might like to think, young Adelko – for as you probably well know, the Wolding nobles are on the whole an ungodly lot. I do know one or two good apples among them as it were, but it won’t do. A landed knight or a lord would ask too many questions, especially of wayfarers travelling through their fiefdom. Landebert is a shrewd but simple soul – he won’t pry where it’s none of his business to pry. Would that others had such virtue.’
Horskram was staring pointedly at Adelko now, and the novice felt himself wilting under his piercing gaze. His cheeks, already warmed by the fire, flushed a deeper red. By the rigorous standards of the Order, his conduct the previous night had indeed been shameful.
‘I’m sorry for what I did, Master Horskram,’ he said quietly as he stared at the flames. ‘I suppose if it wasn’t for the Abbot’s forgiveness I would have been expelled.’
‘Prior Sacristen did exactly what I wanted him to,’ replied Horskram testily. ‘Of course the decision was his to make – that’s why I deferred to him in the matter – but the outcome was never in doubt.’
Adelko blinked and looked up. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
Horskram rolled his eyes. ‘Oh for Heaven’s sake use your wits, Adelko – you’ve been privy to a secret that could gravely jeopardise the Order! Do you think Sacristen was going to expel you summarily so you could go straight back to Narvik and tell everybody what you’d heard? No, far better to swear you to secrecy and keep you closer than ever, to make sure your tongue doesn’t wag.’
