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

by Damien Black

  When Hengist learned that Jaelis would not even receive a flogging, he took his ranting up to a new pitch. Thankfully at that moment Baalric started up again, this time accompanied by a hired band of wandering minstrels.

  Jaelis, who had retired to his own small table in the corner, looked decidedly nervous, and was slugging back the wine as liberally as his master. Adhelina tried to catch his eye, to give him a reassuring look to tell him all would be well.

  Her heart went out to him, even as it was filled with rage at the thought of the Lanraks and all their haughty arrogance – people she would soon be bound to for life.

  It took another flagon of wine to finally persuade the Herzog to rejoin the feast.

  Adhelina felt her body tense as he lurched back over to his seat. Slumping into it he called rudely for more drink in a voice already thick with the stuff.

  He said nothing by way of apology. Adhelina ignored him pointedly.

  The rest of the nobles continued their revels with a gay abandon that papered over a palpable sense of relief. Vorstlendings hated angry scenes during feasts – food and drink time was practically revered in her country, a joyous occasion.

  The wine continued to flow freely as serving wenches brought out platters laden with roast boar drenched in apple frumenty, quince pies and jellied eels, braised lamb shanks and boiled haunches of venison garnished with roast vegetables, and grilled trout encrusted with herbs and drizzled with garlic sauce.

  Adhelina ate sparingly, washing her food down with a couple more goblets of Mercadian dry white to steady her nerves. Berthal found time to go and whisper a few words in Jaelis’s ear, which seemed to improve his nervous state.

  If only my fears were as easily assuaged, Adhelina thought sadly.

  Her sinking heart reached rock bottom when her father stood during a dessert of honey and almond cakes fashioned to resemble forest fruit to formally announce the occasion.

  The rest of the celebration was an ugly blur. When her father’s speech declaring the formal unification of houses by marriage was done, Father Tobias stood and wrapped a binding cloth around their joined hands, intoning scripture and pronouncing them betrothed in sight of the Almighty.

  Her future husband was barely able to stand throughout the ceremony, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head as he struggled to maintain his composure and retain some awareness of his surroundings. His hand felt clammy beneath hers – Adhelina tried unsuccessfully to repress a shudder at the thought of sharing a bed with this man for the rest of her life.

  And then, just like that, the pre-nuptial ceremony was done. Her father sealed it with a toast, announcing that the marriage would be held in the house of the bride, as custom dictated, on the next moon.

  One more month of freedom, thought Adhelina with a cold horror. Not even that.

  Hengist stumbled back into his seat, calling for more wine. Adhelina stood and stared as knights and ladies got up to let the servants clear the hall for dancing, her ears deaf to the change in tempo as Baalric and his troubadours took the music up a notch.

  Her eyes briefly caught Hettie’s and the smile died on her oldest friend’s face as she saw how unhappy she was. Berthal came over and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, whispering in her ear: ‘There now, my lady, the worst part is over with – you won’t even have to dance with him now.’

  Looking over she saw it was true: her future husband was keeled over the side of his chair, his oversized head lolling to one side. He was snoring loudly enough to be heard over the music. On the table before him the contents of his spilled goblet were dripping steadily into his lap.

  The celebration would continue long into the night, but Adhelina excused herself after dancing perfunctorily with her father, Berthal and Urist.

  She would gladly have danced with Agravine too – just to spite her unconscious fiancé and send a message to her father that she still loathed the match body and soul – but the dashing young knight was too busy seducing a comely serving wench.

  Well, let him have his fun, she thought bitterly. After all, he was a man: even a lowly bachelor could enjoy freedoms she never would.

  That night she cried herself to sleep. She who prided herself on rarely shedding a tear. Hettie reached over to console her, but she shrugged her away.

  She wanted to be alone with her grief.

  The pale morning found her staring out of a window blankly at the green fields of Dulsinor. Or should that be Stornelund-Dulsinor? It mattered little – she might have been staring at the fire-scorched plains of Gehenna for all it mattered now.

  Turning back to the bed they shared in times of cold weather, Adhelina saw Hettie was still sleeping off the wine.

  That was good. What she had to do, she must do alone.

  She had to act quickly too, before the castle got too busy. Graukolos normally held some five hundred inhabitants – the knights, squires, men-at-arms, farriers, cooks, servants and other menials privileged enough to call its mighty walls home. What with all the guests and their own squires and servants, nearly a thousand souls had gone to sleep or passed out beneath its watchful aegis last night.

  Her father had not reigned for so many years by being careless, and the night’s watch would have been stronger than usual to compensate for his lack of sober knights and guarantee protection for so many honoured guests.

  But even so, there would be fewer people up and about than usual. Most if not all of the bachelors would still be sleeping off their wine. That just left the men-at-arms – but they were commoners, and commoners could be cowed by authority. Unless Brigmore, the captain of the guards and a notorious stickler for form, was on duty.

  Chances are he was – but what other choice did she have? She had to try now, this might be her only opportunity to escape. She would make her way down to the stables, take her favourite horse and ride out of the front gates... It would be a daring escape, just like in the romances.

  She barely thought about what she was doing as she hastily donned her riding clothes, swaddling herself in a thick cloak and exiting the room quietly while Hettie snored softly.

  Halfway down the tower the absurdity of the idea hit her. She pressed on regardless.

  As she stepped into the flagstoned courtyard of the inner ward, absurdity became futility.

  She had no supplies, no food, no ready money. No idea where she was going. No idea what she was doing.

  Taking in a deep breath and letting it out, she stopped in her tracks and pressed a pale hand to her forehead, shutting her eyes tightly to compose her thoughts.

  It was when she opened them that she noticed something was amiss.

  On the other side of the courtyard, Brigmore and Tobias were engaged in an animated conversation. The captain looked perturbed and not a little bit angry, shaking his head continually. But the perfect looked like a man who had just seen a ghost. His face was white, and he was extremely agitated.

  They were standing just outside the entrance to the private chapel on the north side of the ward, where the Markward family and their most senior retainers heard prayers – the rest of the castle went to temple in the outer ward.

  Tobias was pointing towards the chapel entrance and babbling frantically. They were too far away for her to hear what they were talking about.

  Adhelina frowned. She was indifferent to Brigmore, a loyal servant to her father, but she disliked Tobias. She had long grown weary of his pompous aphorisms and sententious maxims – most of which centred around his disapproval of her headstrong and unladylike behaviour.

  All the same, some instinct told her that this time he had a good reason for being upset. But what could be troubling him? Below the chapel was the Werecrypt, where the bones of her ancestors and their loyal seneschals had been laid to rest for generations. Being located directly below a consecrated chapel it was unlikely to fall victim to a haunting –

  Her heart stopped as she remembered.

  There were no ghosts in the Werecrypt. There w
as something much worse.

  She was just reminding herself that she was supposed to be escaping and that Brigmore’s distraction was a good time to try when he suddenly broke off and began striding towards the gatehouse leading to the middle ward. Catching sight of her he detoured swiftly and drew level with her. He was a short, stocky man, with a bulldog face and thinning grey hair.

  ‘Milady,’ he said, bowing stiffly in his immaculate mail armour. ‘I must say it is a surprise to see you up so early after your pre-nuptial feast. May I offer my congratulations - ’

  ‘Yes, yes – thank you,’ said Adhelina, cutting him off with a wave of the hand. ‘What was all that about, Brigmore? Father Tobias seemed very anxious just now.’

  The perfect had disappeared back into the chapel. Glancing over his shoulder Brigmore licked his lips nervously and refused to meet her eye. ‘Begging your pardon, milady, but I’m afraid I can’t disclose that until I’ve spoken with your father.’

  This was annoying, but typical of castle protocol. Her mind working quickly, Adhelina said: ‘Please don’t let me hold you up, Brigmore, I was... just going for a ride, to clear my head after last night’s revels. It was indeed a mighty feast.’

  She hoped she sounded casual. But Brigmore barely seemed to be listening. He wasn’t moving either – and he was blocking her way to the gatehouse.

  He licked his lips again. ‘Ah, milady, I’m afraid that won’t be possible this morning. I’ve to speak with the Eorl right away and no one is to leave the castle.’

  Adhelina felt her anxiety increase. She knew what was below the Werecrypt, better than the uneducated Brigmore did.

  She pressed him for details. ‘Brigmore, if I can’t go out riding when I please there had better be a good reason for it. Tell me.’

  ‘I only know what the perfect told me,’ said the captain. ‘You know... you know the men won’t go into the Werecrypt, not for a while now.’

  Adhelina nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, I know – some superstitious nonsense about a haunting, of all things!’

  Brigmore shuffled his feet nervously as he replied: ‘Well now, this has to stay just between you and me, you understand – I’ll catch it from His Lordship if he finds out you heard first.’

  Adhelina forced a smile and did her best to sound soothing. ‘If it’s as dramatic as you and Tobias seem to think it is, everyone will find out about it soon enough. I think I can keep a secret for a few hours.’ Had it been considered proper to do so, she would have laid a hand on the commoner’s shoulder to reassure him.

  Brigmore nodded. He already had one eye behind Adhelina, anticipating the long journey up to the Eorl’s private chambers in the painful knowledge that he was the bearer of bad news.

  ‘Well, Father Tobias seems to think there’s been some kind of break-in,’ he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Don’t see how that could have happened, seeing as the Werecrypt is several men’s height underground and surrounded by stone and earth on all sides. But whatever’s beneath it that we were supposed to be guarding – it’s gone.’

  Mumbling an apology, Brigmore stepped around her and hurried into the ward.

  Adhelina was too shocked to say anything else. Gone? After all these years? The chilly morning suddenly felt colder.

  No wonder Brigmore was nervous – as captain of the guards, keeping watch on the Werecrypt was his responsibility. Not that he hadn’t tried to do his job – but that had become next to impossible of late.

  Adhelina paused to consider her next move. Brigmore would be a while waking up her father and telling him – she still had time to make her escape. But then with the castle in a state of high alert they’d soon come after her. They might even think she’d had something to do with the theft.

  And her idea had been a stupid one anyway. Running away on the spur of the moment like that, without any supplies, any planning – what had she been thinking? Life was not a romance, much as she hated to admit it. It must have been the wine from last night, clouding her head and affecting her judgement.

  Heaving a sigh, she turned to retrace her steps. She would have to resign herself to her fate. Perhaps what she had just learned put it into perspective, if only a little.

  As she trudged back up to her chambers her keen mind was already turning towards the theft and what it might portend. Opening the door quietly and tiptoeing across the room so as not to wake Hettie, she removed her travelling clothes and scanned her bookshelves until she found the volume she was looking for.

  Sitting next to the window she had been gazing out of, Adhelina settled down to a morning of brushing up on her ancient history, and began once again to read of the breaking of the tablet that had so nearly put the world in its grave.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Turn for the Worse

  The friars caught their first glimpse of the Warryn shortly after noon. The portion of the Brekawood they had exited straddled a higher swathe of hills, and as they headed south-east these descended gradually. As they rounded a bend to face due south Adelko saw that the hills declined steadily before dropping sharply and flattening out altogether into rolling plains on which he could make out the river, its bright waters sparkling in the sunlight.

  He knew from the maps he had looked at that the Warryn flowed east for leagues before draining into the Bay of Belhavern and thence the Wyvern Sea. That thought stirred him – he had seen rivers before during his highland travels, but his young eyes had never yet looked upon the churning waves.

  Horskram took them south-east again, intending to rejoin the main highway where it descended from the plateau that separated the southern reaches of the Wold from the plains below. Approaching its edge they found themselves looking down on the river, now barely more than a mile away. To the left the highway snaked down an incline towards the plains before meeting a stone arched bridge fording the Warryn.

  Directly before the bridge on either side of the highway were clustered what looked like ten or fifteen horsemen, it was hard to be sure of the number at that distance.

  Adelko glanced at his mentor. The old monk had a suspicious look etched on his weatherworn features.

  At his behest they struck out directly east, skirting the lip of the plateau but stopping short of rejoining the highway, instead turning south again to follow an outcropping that stretched towards the river. Clambering up a chalky hill at its very edge they found themselves almost directly overlooking the bridge.

  The outcropping they were now perched on was no more than thirty or forty yards from the highway, and the two monks crouched behind a straggly bush to observe the riders unseen.

  There were about a dozen in all, dressed in travel-worn clothes and clad in mail shirts. All were armed. Their flaxen hair was long and braided, as were their beards. With their burly frames and threatening demeanour they reminded Adelko of the freeswords he had seen with the merchant party at Ulfang.

  Only these men looked even nastier. There was a raw wildness about them he hadn’t seen before. As he took in their warlike bearing he felt a conviction growing within him that such men could not mean them well.

  His mentor was clearly forming the same judgement, for just then he muttered: ‘Well, it seems as though the most direct route to Kaupstad is barred to us, for I do not think we should chance a meeting with these gentlemen.’

  ‘Are they highwaymen?’ whispered Adelko, ignoring his master’s irony.

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised, in this lawless region. All the same, there’s something else that doesn’t quite add up... but never mind that for now! Our first priority is to get across the river – come! We must retrace our steps, let’s tarry here no longer.’

  His heart sinking at the probability of another missed meal and yet more hard walking without a proper rest, Adelko struggled along beside his master as they began retracing their steps.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked breathlessly.

  ‘Back into the Brekawood,’ replied Horskram without stopping.
‘The river runs through it – if my memory serves there’s a natural ford of stepping stones about a mile or two in. If we cross there we can make our way through the lower forest on the other side of the Warryn and approach Kaupstad from the west – I doubt we’ll encounter any brigands on that route, it’s rarely used nowadays.’

  The afternoon was drawing on by the time they re-entered the Brekawood, closely hugging the river as it carved a path through its verdant canopy. The going was slow, for Horskram could not risk abandoning the river for a trail and missing the crossing point, but by late afternoon he was pointing triumphantly through the trees.

  Peering ahead Adelko could make out a jumble of crude rocks bisecting the river about a hundred yards ahead. To reach this they had to scramble down the rocky plateau, with only a few side-growing trees and the odd bush for hand-holds. Adelko navigated this obstacle with as much confidence as his master – he wasn’t naturally as sure footed as other mountain lads but his childhood excursions as the Dreaming Wanderer had paid off. Besides that four years of torturous attention from Udo had improved his footwork somewhat, although he would not be thanking the crusty old monk for that in a hurry.

  As they reached the bottom he felt his confidence drain away. Earth was one thing, water quite another. The river was wider at this point than where it crossed the bridge further downstream.

  ‘We’ll need both hands free to navigate the stepping stones,’ said Horskram. ‘The trick is to clamber across – don’t walk upright, or as like as not you’ll slip and take a tumble!’

  As the roaring river all but drowned out the old monk’s words, Adelko felt an anxious feeling gnawing at his insides.

  ‘Um, how deep is the river here, Master Horskram?’ he asked in a small voice. He couldn’t see very far beneath the surface of the water, which churned up into a froth as it coursed over the lumpen rocks stretching before them like the spine of a dragon.